John Jacob nodded and gestured to the men to bear the messenger away. As they bent to their task, he glanced at the satchel. ‘I’ll wager that’s bad news, Sir Thomas.’

Killbere closed the door behind them and pushed more wood into the fire; then he tugged his heavy cloak around him. Like the others, he wore strips of cloth wrapped over his boots to help ward off the bone-cracking cold of the stone floors. Monks were not lords of a manor who placed fresh reeds beneath their rugs.

‘Worst winter I can remember and this is already spring,’ said Killbere, squatting on a stool, pushing his swaddled boots towards the flames. ‘Snot drips and freezes like damned icicles. We hack wine casks open and melt chunks of wine over a fire. It’s too cold to fight even if we could find a Frenchman to raise a sword against and not a whore or a nun in sight to embrace beneath the blankets. It’s not just the cold wind that makes your eyes water. It’s the ball ache. We should go back to Italy. South. Naples or somewhere.’

Blackstone held the unopened satchel containing orders from the Prince of Wales. He felt the leather stiff beneath his fingertips. ‘Knowing the Prince, he’ll find something to warm us.’

‘Then open it. It’s time we left this place.’

Blackstone took out the folded parchment and broke its wax seal. A loyal messenger had sacrificed his life to deliver the summons. What was so important that he should pay such a price? His eyes followed a clerk’s neat hand. Killbere waited, eyebrows raised, questioning.

‘Agen,’ said Blackstone, his mind’s eye placing the ancient city halfway between Bordeaux and Toulouse in the south-west. Close enough to the northern Spanish kingdom of Navarre. ‘We travel to meet the Prince and Charles of Navarre.’

Killbere poked the fire in disgust. ‘That popinjay. We saved his bastard arse when we fought the Jacquerie. These damned noblemen. Peacocks on the battlefield. All he’s fit for is killing peasants. What does he want now?’

Blackstone shook his head and passed Killbere the letter. ‘All we know is that the Prince summons us.’

‘Two days’ ride in this weather,’ said Killbere. ‘At least. I tell you, Thomas, the King of Navarre is up to no good. I’m not joyful at the thought that we’ll be dragged into a fight to help him.’ He tossed the folded document onto the table. ‘God’s tears, our King and our Prince won the damned war thanks to men like ours shedding their blood; if this upstart has ambitions beyond his ability then let others ride to their deaths on his behalf, not us. He should stay in that sliver of land he calls a kingdom.’