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his pocket for urchins and beggars while his right
found a way of distracting his companions from the actions of his soft heart. His stepson still mourned him, but it was a sad truth that Marguerite’s death had dislodged this lesser grief
from its proper place.
    At the sound of the king’s laughter, Benoit lifted his head. His fists closed on the spar. For one long, never-ending year that laugh had rung throughout their house, morning, afternoon or
night, whenever the king chose to visit. Closeted alone with Marguerite in her chamber, his bark would be echoed by her merry voice. And then by a silence so full of meaning that Benoit could not
stay in the house, but would slam his way out of the door, off to the docks, or the dunes.
    Around this time he and his mother began to argue, Benoit accusing her of prostituting her child, and she deflecting him with bemusement. ‘Are we so hard up ye need sell her body?’
he roared. ‘Ye are aware, aren’t ye, that she is only one a many? That when he has tired of her, she will be kent as his cast-off?’
    ‘You don’t understand, mon cher, they are in love,’ his mother cried, as if the louder the words, the truer they would be. ‘In love! James told me that, lui-même.
And Marguerite – ’ she smiled up at her son as if begging him to share her joy: ‘I have never seen her so happy, so jolie. How can you begrudge her that?’
    ‘Begrudge her?’ Benoit sank onto the settle, his head in his hands. ‘Maman, maman.’ He drew breath, to steady himself. ‘D’ye ken how dangerous a game
you’re playing? The sorts of things folk are saying about Marguerite?’
    But the mother who all his life had indulged him, cosseted him, and protected him from even the hint of a cross word from others, seemed suddenly deaf to his meaning. She was determined, it
seemed to him, to set Marguerite on the road to high-class ruin.
    Benoit softened his tone. ‘Imagine the day when he has finished wi’ her – when the Church or maybe the queen herself begs him no to stray from hame – what kind of
reputation do you think she’ll have left? Whit man will marry her then? She will be like one of the king’s poor nags, driven so hard its only fate is the knackers’
yard.’
    ‘The king, he is a generous man,’ said Mme Brenier, her bosom swelling at the prospect of wealth. ‘So say everyone. If ever he and Marguerite part – and many kings keep
their amours for as long as their wives, you know – then he’ll likely thank her well. Look what he did for Janet Kennedy! They say she has a castle of her own. A new robe every season.
He has been gracious to other lady loves too, I’m told. None of them is cast off. None of their enfants, their love children is abandoned.’
    She glared at Benoit, roused to fury by his look of horror at the idea of a king’s bastard born in their home. ‘You are far too severe, mon fils. Don’t you see what a good turn
this is for our family? When Davy died, I was in despair, absolument désolée. I thought we’d lose this house; be paupered. Now my prayers have been answered.’ She crossed
herself, and bobbed towards an imaginary altar.
    Benoit’s face blackened. ‘Ye think it God’s will that Marguerite earns a living by servicing the king? That velvet skirts and earrings can repay her for the loss of her virtue?
She is far, far too decent for him, as we both ken; but she’s no jist sweet and gentle. She’s completely innocent. Nothing more than a wean. And you shouldae protected her.’ He
ran a hand over his face. ‘Mairlikes I shouldae protected her.’ His voice dropped. ‘It’s as much my fault as yours, maman. And now she’s no much better than the
half-naked lasses you sneer at on the street. We ken she loves James; and we ken she’s no in it for money. But we also ken that everyone else will be calling her a hoor.’
    ‘You are crude, Benoit,’ said a quiet voice. It was Marguerite, drawn downstairs by his shouting.