Regent but not king! Yet the land needed a firm ruler. The French were plundering the southern coats. The Scots were massing on the northern borders. The peasants were surly, demanding an end to incessant taxation. And the Commons, led by their speaker, were abusive and strident when they met in the chapel of St Stephen's at Westminster. Gaunt stroked his neatly barbered moustache and beard. Could he take the step? Would he? He chewed his lip and considered the possibilities. His younger brothers would resist. The great lords of the council, backed by the soft but powerful bishops, would take up arms and call down heaven's anger on him. And Richard – pale-faced, blue-eyed Richard – what would happen to him? Gaunt shivered. He remembered the old prophecy – that when the old cat died, the mice must not rejoice for the new kitten would grow into an even more dreadful monster!

Gaunt, who feared nothing, admitted his silent, grave- faced nephew held special terrors for him, as if the age-old eyes in that ten-year-old face read and understood his most secret thoughts. The Commons, too, would watch him and Gaunt had been careless. He had tried to raise money and the proof was there for the asking. The Sons of Dives had him in their clutches. The secrets they held must never be revealed.

Gaunt shifted in his chair. What was he frightened of? The demons in his own private hell stirred and rose from the black pit of memory. Murder! He stared around. The long chamber was deserted, only shadows danced silently against the arras-covered walls. Assassin! The accusation seemed to leap from the flames and Gaunt broke into a cold sweat. The demon rose, twisting in his heart, and the duke gulped greedily from his wine cup, hoping its purple juice would drown the demons in its heavy vapour. Gaunt was right to be wary. After all, Murder was no stranger to London. It stalked the streets, its eyes blind as night as it sought out its hapless victims.