“Queen Margaret of Anjou watched the battle from Mucklestone Church Tower. She proved to be a powerful woman. The ambush of the Yorkist Army at Blore Heath originated with her, not King Henry. Upon Lord Audley’s death, she understood the Yorkists would seek her out. Fortunately, the local blacksmith, a supporter of Lancaster, quickly put the Queen’s horseshoes on backward. When the Yorkists followed her horse’s hoof marks, they never found her. And that, ladies and gentlemen is how Margaret lived to fight another day.” Gillian sat down.


A beat of silence fell before the hall erupted in applause—then rose to its feet.


The standing ovation didn’t stem from politeness. It proved to be real.


Gillian Sutton’s presentation proved a great triumph. Delegates liked the way she brought the Wars of the Roses alive. She ranked as an expert. 


“I never considered the blacksmith’s role in the escape,” said Dr Haldane of Oxford, slipping her his card. “You’ve made the small things matter.”


Gillian smiled, modestly but sharply. “It’s the small truths that make history breathe, isn’t it?”


Gillian Sutton had gained the respect of all the members of the Philadelphia Historian’s Convention.


By contrast, in hushed side-conversations over coffee urns and canapé trays, the subject of Marianne Maclauren kept surfacing—with rolled eyes and tired sighs.


“The Monks of College Fields is rubbish.”


“A Benedictine monk would never be involved in a romantic conspiracy with a miller’s daughter?”


“Pure fantasy wrapped in medieval robes.”


“She’s not even a member of the Society.”


“The public loves it, but it’s not history. It’s dressed-up nonsense.”


Gillian said nothing, though a slight smirk tugged at her mouth as thoughts raced through her head. The Monks of College Fields displayed flair in its writing—however, it treated sources carelessly, blending invention with conjecture. Marianne Maclauren might win hearts in airport bookshops, but she would never be invited to speak at a podium like Gillian had done.


One of the delegates said, “It’s no wonder the public are confused. That book is a bestseller, but it’s misleading nonsense. Someone ought to say so publicly.”


Then a voice closer to her ear—measured, persuasive.


Dr Amanda Keene, a well-known media historian, said, “Gillian, would you ever consider going on television?”


“Who, me?” Gillian looked at Amanda.


“Breakfast With Richard are looking for someone reputable to comment on The Monks of College Fields. To explain what it has got wrong—and why it matters.”


There was a pause. Not long. Half a breath.


Gillian gave the faintest of smiles. “I’d be happy to.”


The group murmured their approval.


“She’s perfect,” someone said.


As the conversation moved on, Gillian stood still for a moment, her heart thudding beneath her silk blouse. She focused on the weight of the coffee cup in her hand, the clink of teaspoons, the hum of overhead lights.


She had just agreed to go on television and publicly humiliate Marianne Maclauren and boost the sales of her own book. 

If only life were that simple. 


The headlines had already circled the UK, and her name was no longer her own:

Barmaid Brainbox! crowed The Sun.

Alehouse Scholar Astonishes Historians, declared The Telegraph.

Brit Barmaid’s Brain Stuns America, shouted The Mirror.

From Behind the Bar to History Star, sighed The Daily Mail.

Even the Financial Times had weighed in: Barmaid’s Breakthrough Rivals Top Academics.


Gillian was famous. But how could she protect her secret?


***


Adrenaline had carried her through the conference. It was hard work; the panels, the interviews, the constant swirl of new admirers and old colleagues. It felt as if she’d been awake for days, her mind drifting between sharp focus and a dull, weightless fog.


Her watch displayed the local time in Philadelphia. It read 1:04 am, though her body had long lost track of the time. The invitation to appear on live television had come only hours earlier, during a break when she’d barely managed to finish a cup of weak coffee. 


Amanda Keene’s suggestion sounded as though it were an ordinary question, not the push that had sent her spinning into this strange, gleaming orbit of attention.


Gillian entered the television facility and reported to the receptionist. “My name’s Gillian Sutton. I’ve come to be interviewed for Breakfast With Richard.” Her speech was slurred with tiredness.


“Oh yeah, Miss Sutton, we’ve been waitin’ on you.” The receptionist grabbed the phone. “Yo, Gillian Sutton’s here.”


Maya Franklin, the floor manager, entered the reception area within seconds. She wore black jeans and a utility jacket, her headset slightly askew. She moved with practiced ease as she led Gillian into the studio. Her dark hair was pulled back in a loose ponytail, and a lanyard swung at her side as she gave quiet instructions. She caught Gillian’s eye with a quick smile — calm, focused, completely in control.


Gillian was able to relax during the next half hour as Maya’s team buzzed around her like bees to a hive. They applied make-up, freshening up her face. They gave her coffee to combat her tiredness. They fitted her with a microphone. They chatted and joked, putting her at ease.


Maya would announce how many minutes to transmission in a calm, matter-of-fact way. It was just another day at the office. Gillian would not see the millions of faces watching her, just the studio crew.


“Nah, you ain’t gonna see Richard,” Maya said. “But you’ll hear him on the speaker, and Caroline Venn’s gonna be with him.”


“Caroline Venn, oh I’ve read her books - she’s good, but like Marianne Maclauren she embellishes history.”


“I’m kinda surprised they didn’t get Marianne. Y’know, I don’t think I’ve ever seen a picture of Marianne Maclauren. You?”


Gillian glanced away from Maya. “No I don’t think I have.”


“She probably’s got some kinda speech thing or somethin’. Don’t do public stuff.”


“Yeah, yeah, most likely.”


“One minute, studio!” Maya adjusted her headset. “And just so you know, Gillian — the sound from London’s comin’ through a satellite, so if you ask Richard somethin’, it’ll take a sec for him to answer.”


Gillian was quietly confident that she could make a good show without revealing her innermost secret. She was glad it would be Caroline with Richard. If they had insisted on Marianne being there, her secret would have been out.