In the middle of the Great Middlesex Forest, on a spring day in the year Cnut acquired England’s throne for the second time, a swineherd climbed a tree. He had not attempted such a feat before; his job had been to round up hogs and usher them to the beechmast that would fatten them. Pigs did not climb and the forest was so dense that scaling a tree offered little extra visibility. His climb was a solemn one. He had chosen the tallest trunk that had branches which he could grab hold of, working his way up like a rugged stair; an oak whose yellow flowers hung like tiny streamers. The man’s feet slipped but he did not care, his one desire to go higher, as high as the tree would allow him. A mother starling squawked from her nest, flapping her wings at him, but he cared not whether she fled or fought. Higher. He looked down, the ground now a great distance from him and the sky showing more of its light. Hand over hand, he edged his way along a branch which began to bow under his weight. Closing his eyes, he let go, leant backwards and fell. The sound of men’s voices brought him round, four faces looking down at him and one with his head on his breast, listening. Coppicers who had been working in the woods nearby and heard the thud.

“He’s alive!”

Questions followed. Did he fall? Why had he climbed? Who were his people? He thanked them, but without cheer and they wondered at a man who might have died, yet took no joy in living; who simply walked away shaking his arms and rotating his hips a little, back along the road to Westminster.