Dedicated to my children: Demetrius, Vincent, Aelindis, James, Samuel, Rhydian, Edythe, Garsenda, Bertrand and Summer.

In loving memory of my husband Aleyn, buried these three years hence in Iffley churchyard. May the gods guard his soul. Perhaps not Boniface.

As I sit in my garden, looking over the construction site which is the city of Oxford – they’re expanding that new University – it dawns on me these may be the last tales I get the chance to tell. Therefore, gentle reader, remember me when I am gone, and please ask the originals whose early lives feature in this volume if I got their stories right. Most are still with us.

Mummy – did you just ask thousands of readers to go and pester your friends about all the nefarious things they did in the past?

Yes, Summer darling. Lahav will be flattered, Stanley will relish the opportunity to be dashing and mysterious, Thomas will try to explain for the hundredth time that he didn’t mean to ask his granny to drown all those villages, and High King Samuel will try and fail to explain why he went on an extended date with the monster that killed his ancestor.

Mummy – do you write lais in order to get your friends in trouble?

No, darling. I write them because I cannot refuse to write. If I sit still too long my hand will start moving on its own. And because these people deserve to have their stories told.

So everyone who is remembered throughout eternity is remembered because of you?

Yes, love. Yes.