'I will not be gaped at!' the king muttered. Across the sanctuary lay-brothers and servants of the cathedral were lifting de Montfort's body onto leather sheeting to take it out into the nearby sacristy. The king rose, turned and snapped his fingers at Corbett.

'Follow me.' He turned. 'My Lord Surrey.'

John de Warrene, Earl of Surrey, the most competent and loyal of Edward's barons, sighed and got up. The king walked across the sanctuary and past the altar, knocking aside the staring servants, priests and others still stunned by the tragedy. The king pushed under the carved-oak rood-screen, pulling aside the heavy blue velvet arras, and entered the chapel beyond, Corbett and Surrey following. The latter, white-haired and red-faced, was stroking his goatee beard. He looked as anxious and frightened as Corbett and the clerk could understand why. They had both heard the king's short but violent exchange with the archbishop and knew de Montfort's death would not help the king's cause in raising taxes from the Church. Edward walked across the empty chapel and leaned against the tomb of some long-buried bishop. Corbett, attempting to calm his mind, tried to think of the name, Erconwald, that was it! Some Saxon priest. The king, resting against the white stone sarcophagus, took deep breaths, his massive chest heaving with the strain. He glared across at his chief clerk, one of the few men he really trusted.

'I hate this church,' he rasped, looking up at the soaring roof. Corbett stared above the king at the great rose window now suffused with every colour of the rainbow as a weak sun struggled through the snow clouds.

'I hate this church,' the king whispered again. 'Here the Londoners met when they pledged their support to Simon de Montfort. Do the ghosts of Evesham dwell here?'