Blackstone and Killbere stood in the corridor outside the great hall waiting to be beckoned inside. The Prince always travelled with an entourage and his presence in Agen was as well attended as ever. He had been in the city since November, not only to have homage paid to him by Gascon lords but to meet the Pyrenean rulers. It was Charles of Navarre who now commanded the Prince’s attention.

Killbere muttered out of the side of his mouth. ‘Navarre is odious, despicable and treacherous. Let’s be careful, Thomas. This wheedling bastard will have us shed blood for him if we are not cautious. The Prince values us yet we are but pawns in his grand scheme.’

‘What scheme is that?’ Blackstone whispered back, glancing at the court officials, aides and clerks who jostled along the corridor, any of whom would be eager to hear a note of dissent and report it to their superiors. It was how courtiers gained promotion and favours.

‘How in God’s name am I to know the mind of a prince? My bowels tell me this meeting will place us in jeopardy. There were two hundred men-at-arms preparing to move in the outer ward. Their horses looked fresh and so did they.’

‘They’re not troops readying for war, Gilbert, they’re the Prince’s entourage. I saw William Ashford and his men. I think the Prince is soon to return to Bordeaux.’

A flurry of activity caused a rise in the hubbub of voices. Blackstone was tall enough to see over the surge of courtiers and glimpsed a nobleman wearing an adorned cloak. He came out of a room further along the passage and turned away, followed by his personal retinue.

‘What?’ said Killbere.

‘Navarre. He’s just left.’

‘Are you sure it was him?’

Blackstone nodded. The man’s haughty bearing would have picked him out in a crowd even without the fur-collared embroidered robe.