‘He had said his prayers,’ Katherine lies, ‘and was given absolution by a priest.’

Again the woman nods.

‘I thank you for bringing the news,’ she says. ‘If there is something . . .?’

Katherine feels the blood rise to her cheeks.

‘No, no,’ she says. ‘We are in search of no reward. It is no more than our Christian duty. But – he left only this.’

She gestures to Thomas, who hurriedly removes the ledger and offers it to her. Mistress Daud makes no move to take it.

‘A book,’ she sighs.

‘He seemed to think it was of great value,’ Katherine says.

Mistress Daud gestures to those stacked on the tables.

‘He thought all books were of great value.’

There is a long silence. A cart rumbles by outside: the cry of the carter, the plod of his horse’s hooves.

‘It is a book of names,’ Katherine goes on. ‘No more than a list, really.’

‘Keep it then,’ Mistress Daud says. ‘I have no use for it. Master Daud never taught me to read.’

There is another long silence.

‘You do not even recognise it?’ Thomas asks.

She shrugs.

‘He was going to France, he said, to sell something of great value to the King there. At least that is what he told us. But he was always planning to sell things of great value. He had three crossbows belonging to the witch Joan.’

More silence.

‘But these books—’ Thomas begins, gesturing.

‘Are nothing to me. They serve to remind me of my late husband and that is all.’

‘May I look at them?’ Thomas asks.

‘I am your servant,’ Mistress Daud says. ‘They will all be gone soon. I will have to marry again, and my husband-to-be is no lover of books. Maria will show you out.’

With that she turns and leaves the room. Maria follows. Katherine glances at Thomas. He puts his empty cup of wine on the tray, pours himself another, drinks it, and then starts wiping the dust from the bindings of the books. Katherine says nothing. She realises how cold the room is, even on a warm day.

‘Thomas,’ she says. ‘Let’s go.’

‘He has everything here,’ Thomas says. ‘Look.’ He holds up a book. ‘A psalter,’ he tells her.

‘As fine as yours?’

‘It is a copy of the Utrecht Psalter, you see? Illuminated by a genius. Look. Beautiful. And here, a Life of Julius Caesar.’

He opens the front, made of some hardwood and decorated with gold lace. He sniffs, inhaling the mixed smells of leather, wood, vellum and glue. He turns a page.

‘Look at that,’ he says, gesturing to an ornately designed letter Q in the loop of which men in madder cloaks are harvesting plump grapes with golden knives.

‘It is finer than our ledger,’ Katherine agrees.

‘I wish Mistress Daud had given us this instead,’ Thomas says. ‘It is exquisite. Almost beyond belief.’