“Can they really force the king to give everything up?” Alys asked her mother as they went down South Street towards the road to Sealsea Island.

“I don’t know,” Alinor replied. “I suppose so. Since he’s in their keeping. But perhaps you can’t keep a king in prison.”

“My uncle says the king should be tried for treason. For starting the war again and calling in the Scots. That was treason against the people of England.”

“Easy to say,” Alinor observed, “but other people say that a king cannot be wrong, since he is the king.”

“Who thinks that?”

Alinor thought of the man she loved. “Some people say it.”

“Well, it’s rubbish!” Alys declared stoutly.

The two walked home, taking it in turns to carry the sack of wool and the bags of salt. A carter on his way to the tide mill overtook them on the road, and let them sit in the back of his wagon on the sacks of grains. The sky was golden with the afternoon light as the wagon turned down the lane to the mill. The waters were lapping at the quay, a breeze picking up the waves in the haven, making the waters look like shirred gray silk.

Alys jumped down to open the yard gate for the cart, and then walked ahead of him into the yard. The sluice gates of the millpond were open, the tide pouring in to fill up the pond, the little birds darting around the pond edge, feeding from the incoming waters. Mr. Miller came out from the barn at the sound of wheels on the cobbled yard and Mrs. Miller came from the kitchen door to see Alinor climbing down from the wagon.

“Here you are,” she said to Alinor. “And home without the trouble of a walk, thanks to one of our customers.”

“Yes,” said Alinor. “We were lucky.”

“Oh, there’s always some man ready to help you out,” Mrs. Miller said.

“Well, we were lucky today,” Alinor agreed. “And look what I bought for you.”

The miller and the wagoner unloaded the sacks of corn, piling them at the foot of the granary doors, ready to be hoisted upwards when the pond was full and the water released to turn the wheel and work the hoist. Alinor handed over the package of lace and watched Mrs. Miller unroll it.

“Now this is very fine,” she said with rare satisfaction. “Very good. Never tell me that you got all this for three shillings?”

“I did!” Alinor said with pleasure. “I hoped you would think it a good bargain. I believe that it really is. Look at the delicacy of the pattern!”

“Chichester market!” Mrs. Miller said. “Who knew there was anything as good as this to be found at Chichester market! I would have thought to go to London for such work.”

“She was an old lady. She was lace making, sitting on a little stool in the middle of the market. She didn’t even have a table,” Alinor said. “But all her things were beautiful.”