‘They’ve called Parliament,’ a man said beside them. ‘That’s the reason for the delay. They are passing a law in a hurry which says that no-one else can be proclaimed king. No value in beheading a king if another springs up to take his place, is there? And we have one of his sons in England and another two of them in France, and his nephew hanging round like a dog at the door of an abattoir. We’ve princes enough for pass-the-crown to go on forever. We have to break them of the habit now. So they’re making a law to say that no king can be proclaimed in England ever again.’

That sentence shocked John out of his absorption. ‘No king can be proclaimed in England ever again,’ he repeated.

‘Yes,’ the man said. ‘It has a ring to it, doesn’t it? It makes you feel that it’s all been worth the struggle. We are free of them forever. There will never be another man to set himself high above all others. There will never be another family who think themselves better than the rest of us by virtue of the bed they were born in. Any masters we have in the future will have to earn their place. They will have to be men that we choose to serve because they are wiser or better or even richer than us. But not because they are born to it. This is Charles the Last. After him there will be freedom.’

‘Charles the Last,’ John repeated. ‘Charles the Last.’

The clocks had struck twelve and then one and then two before there was a stirring among the soldiers which was quickly caught by the crowd, and then a shout: ‘He’s coming.’

John did not move. He was still and silent as he had been all day. The crowd around him jostled fiercely but John gripped his hands on the railing before him and held tight. Alexander saw that his knuckles were white; but so were his hands, his face, his whole body was bleached by cold and distress.

A window in the Banqueting Hall was open and the king stepped out on to the platform. He was simply dressed in black again: a black cape, a tall black hat, black breeches and a white shirt. The Order of the Garter was a blaze of colour in dramatic contrast. He looked out at the crowd, John felt that sombre, dark gaze pass over him and wanted to raise a hand, to catch at recognition for a moment. He kept his hands and his head down.

The king took some notes from his pocket and spoke quietly to the men on the platform. John, straining his ears, could hear only tantalising snatches of speech; only the last few words rang clear: ‘I am a martyr to the people.’