Over their beer, the boatmen are dreaming of cargoes and chances.

Shrove Tuesday, the chancel becomes a cockpit, the rector holds the stakes and the church rings with shouts and jeers.

Henry rides with the hunt, watched from the tower by the women of the court. One of them loses a dress pin, which will only be noticed later as she prepares to feast and dance with the best of England.

A monk in a habit of white, undyed wool. Candlelight flickers round the church, wax the colour of warm honey straight from the hive burns odourless and pure.

William I wants to assess his new territory – how good is the land? What resources can it support? How much tax can he raise? Who lives there?

At the crossroads of Watling Street and the Icknield Way, where the Roman Empire meets Prehistoric Britain, an ape clambers amongst the amphorae of wine and olive oil, of dried fruit and pungent fish paste.