He recoiled as something rubbed against his leg. He kicked and heard one of the feral cats screech. He laughed nervously at his own foolishness and shuffled towards his bedchamber, unaware that the darkness moved again behind him. Unaware that the king’s favourite was watching.

And waiting.

Everything he had foretold had come to pass. But he had not seen his own death.

PART ONE

DEATH OF AN ARCHER

CHAPTER ONE

France, North of Bordeaux 1364

The rider was frozen dead in the saddle. Snow, and then bodkin-tipped frost driven into bones by a snarling wind, had torn away the man’s soul. But it was not the hand of God that led him to Blackstone’s encampment. A hardy monk returning on foot to the safety of Blackstone’s protection at the Abbaye Notre-Dame de Boschaud had come across the exhausted man, who with his final breaths had gasped for help to find the English King’s Master of War. The monk, seeking refuge from the bitter winter that was killing man and beast across the land, had plodded on towards the fortified abbey, deep in prayer and leading the man’s suffering horse.

Strong arms, fingers clawing in the biting cold, reached for the dead man, cutting the reins to free his frozen grip. Blackstone saw the satchel bearing the Prince’s seal. The messenger’s clothing creaked when they eased him from the saddle. The horse faltered, head low. Men guided it towards the stable with a gentleness reserved for a beast with a courageous heart that deserved to be saved. Blankets, deep, soft straw, boiled oats and warmth from the other horses would aid its chances of survival.

They settled the dead man onto a stool, propping his back against the wall. Blackstone looked into his blue eyes. The Prince’s messenger had fought against his own death in his determination to deliver the contents of the satchel. Blackstone reached out to close the man’s eyes but the lids were frozen open, gazing out from eternity at the gathered men. Some crossed themselves.

‘Shall we put him close to the fire?’ said Blackstone’s centenar Will Longdon.

‘Sweet Jesus, you idiot, you want him rotting?’ the veteran knight Gilbert Killbere said. ‘Get him down to the cellars. He needs to be kept cold until the thaw and then the monks can bury him.’

The veteran archer shrugged. ‘We’ll put him in the cheese room – then we won’t notice when he starts to stink.’

‘You’re a disrespectful godless wretch,’ said Killbere.

Blackstone turned to the gathered men. ‘As are many of us, Gilbert, but we will treat this man with respect. The rigor in his muscles will ease. Have the monks wrap him in linen and lay him somewhere close to God.’ He turned to his squire. ‘John, speak to the abbot, make my request known to him. Ask for a side chapel and prayers to be said.’