Bordeaux, capital of the mighty principality of Aquitaine, offered red wine fit for a king. A man ought to savour its sun-blessed richness on his tongue, though most quaffed it with a determination suggesting it might be their last mouthful. Brothels were plentiful but controlled by the city fathers; bathhouses kept its citizens and itinerant soldiers cleansed of lice. It was a city alive with merchants and travellers and a new hope bred by the Prince’s presence. Blackstone’s men had yet to enjoy what the city offered. There were no street entertainers or dancing bears where they were confined. Narrow alleys stank of piss and excrement. Pigs ran freely, snuffling household waste, and men’s voices echoed through the labyrinthine passages as they caroused or fought.

Blackstone and Killbere sat huddled in the corner of a tavern. Weeks had passed since their arrival in Bordeaux. They had expected a warm welcome from a grateful Prince; instead their men were kept on the far reaches of the city, encamped beyond its walls. Merchants and stallholders feared the fighting men’s presence within the city walls and had petitioned the Prince’s chamberlain, who had granted their wish. Blackstone had refused to allow the city officials to separate Halif ben Josef from them and went with him to Mont Judaïque, the hilltop Jewish quarter. They found a room for him at Arrua Judega and, after ensuring his comfort and safety among his own people they camped a short distance away close to one of the gates to the city at Port Judaea. Their horses were stabled and fed but the men were allowed only to the taverns where whores plied their trade. There had still been no sign of the Prince, nor any summons to the palace.

‘Whores, Jews and fighting men: we are all outcast one way or another,’ said John Jacob as he put three large clay jars filled with wine on the table.

‘Is he in bed with his Lady Joan, do you think, Thomas? He has the sexual appetite of a goat despite his Christian piety,’ said Killbere.

‘I don’t know why we cannot gain an audience with him. If Chandos is right and he’s ill then we need to know. A weak Prince leaves Aquitaine exposed and if I am to protect him and the duchy, then I should be told,’ said Blackstone.

John Jacob settled down on the bench and nodded towards two men-at-arms who shared a table with their women. ‘I was speaking to those two—’

‘The whores?’ interrupted Killbere. ‘I thought you were choosy about that kind of thing, John.’

‘The men with them, Sir Gilbert: they were saying the Prince had a great tournament here. Hundreds took part. There were thousands of horses and he paid for it out of his own purse.’

Killbere scowled. ‘And they treat us like lepers.’