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Back Winter Pilgrims
Chapters (55)
  1. Cover
  2. About the Book
  3. About the Author
  4. Kingmaker: Winter Pilgrims
  5. Dedication
  6. Though the Lancastrian Claim comes from Edward III’s THIRD son, it relies on a) possession and b) that the crown can not pass through a woman – Philippa Mormer – so must fall to the next male in line. The Yorkist Claim relies on their descent from Edward III’s SECOND son, and says it can pass through Philippa. The Tudor Claim ignores the fact of passing through a woman – Lady Margaret Beaufort – or that John, Earl of Somerset, was born illegimate.
  7. Factions in the Wars of the Roses
  8. Prologue
  9. PART ONE
  10. 1
  11. 2
  12. 3
  13. 4
  14. PART TWO
  15. 5
  16. 6
  17. 7
  18. 8
  19. 9
  20. 10
  21. 11
  22. 12
  23. 13
  24. PART THREE
  25. 14
  26. 15
  27. 16
  28. 17
  29. 18
  30. 19
  31. PART FOUR
  32. 20
  33. 21
  34. 22
  35. 23
  36. PART FIVE
  37. 24
  38. 25
  39. 26
  40. 27
  41. 28
  42. 29
  43. 30
  44. 31
  45. PART SIX
  46. 32
  47. 33
  48. PART SEVEN
  49. 34
  50. 35
  51. 36
  52. 37
  53. 38
  54. 39
  55. Acknowledgements

He is holding two pairs of brown leather boots. They slide them on and stand in them. She stares down at herself. She can hardly believe what she sees.

‘Good God!’ Thomas says. He is wriggling his toes and smiling broadly. She smiles too. The pleasure is almost too much to bear. Warmth begins to thaw her feet and though the boots are too long, so that they smack the cobbles as she walks, they are not half so bad as the clogs she is used to, not half so bad as going with one foot bare.

‘Thank you, master,’ she says. ‘Thank you for all your kindness.’

‘It is nothing more than my duty as a Christian soul,’ the pardoner replies, ‘but perhaps we had better not linger.’

Two friars are hurrying across the marketplace, and there are many more behind, spilling from one of the churches.

‘Your hat,’ the pardoner murmurs to Thomas. Thomas pulls it on, quickly covering the patch of shaved skin. Katherine can feel herself stiffening as they pass. She realises she is holding her breath. One of them is ruddy-faced, a drinker, with eyes that linger on Katherine’s crotch, and she feels horribly naked, and steps behind Thomas.

When the friars have passed, the pardoner takes them to find the mule, and when he has paid the boy off, they pass down a narrow road to a grey sweep of sea-slimed stone staithes. Ahead is the sea, under a huge stretch of pale sky, and boats and ships of every imaginable size bob in the puckered waters.

It takes her breath away.

‘Dear God,’ she murmurs.

All along the quay men are busy among the stacks of sarplers and bales, the casks of wine, piles of logs, coils of thick ships’ rope and canvas-covered heaps of only the Lord knew what. The smell is a mixture of salt and fish guts and something else.

They walk along the quay a little way until they come to a quiet spot by a pile of conical wicker baskets leaking green water back to the sea.

‘Look to the mule,’ the pardoner instructs, ‘while I find the harbour master, and, Thomas, you’d better cut our sister’s hair so that she looks less like a Katherine and more like a Kit.’