‘At such a price,’ John muttered. ‘He agreed to every demand the Scots put to him, and betrayed men who had fought for him in the Highlands for years. Your old hero, Montrose, was captured and executed, and the king dining with the Kirk, his old enemies, looked out of the window and saw Montrose’s hand nailed to the door. He said nothing. He went on with his dinner.’

‘He does what he has to do,’ Johnnie said staunchly.

Once they had rescued the pick of the specimens, and rummaged in the cold soil of the courts for forgotten bulbs, they declared a general sale of plants in Weybridge. The town crier called out the news and it spread from one manor garden to another, from one cottage to another, until everyone in Surrey wanted a flower from the king’s garden.

On Saturday John set up a stall on the very front door of the palace and let people come with their own spades to choose, and then dig up their choice. He and Johnnie inspected the booty and set an instant knock-down price on the trees which marched past them, on the little pots of pansies and herbs, on the trailing creepers, torn from the walls, on the endless scarlet-budding roses.

It was a melancholy business to see the garden walking away down the drive, as if even the plants had gone into exile, and John was sorry that he had exposed his son to the sight. He had thought that the work would have given them a project to complete together, that Johnnie would see that the garden was finished, that the palace was destroyed, that the king and kingship were gone forever. But instead there was a powerful sense of loss invoked by the sale. More than one man or woman stopped at John’s table, gestured to their purchase and asked reverently: ‘He did love these, didn’t he? Can you remember if he ever picked a flower from it? Did he touch it?’

John realised that only half of the people were buying plants cheaply; the other half were buying relics, honouring the memory of a dead king, planting a little bit of his martyrdom in their own gardens.

All the cold grey day Johnnie priced, took money, answered questions with endless easy patience. But John, watching him, saw how his head drooped as the light faded from the sky.

‘You’re tired,’ he said gruffly at five o’clock as the winter twilight closed around them. ‘And chilled too. I know I am. Let’s go down to the ale house and get ourselves a good dinner. I’d like to leave the money in the goldsmith’s keeping anyway. I don’t want to keep it here.’

Johnnie’s face was pale. ‘Yes.’

‘Are you sick?’ John asked.