Before Killbere could say anything more a servant swung open the doors, revealing a vast chamber decorated fit for a king or prince even though the castle at Agen had only been a temporary residence. Richly coloured tapestries hung from every wall. Ornate designs of swans with women’s heads hung each side of a centrepiece, black with emblazoned silver ostrich plumes. It was the Prince’s duty to administer the Duchy of Aquitaine and every man and woman who had the honour to be in his company loved and admired him. After the privations of years of war, the Prince’s extravagant feasts and entertainment had become a byword, serving the dual purpose of impressing those who needed to be impressed and uplifting the spirits of a nation that had endured great hardship. Blackstone knew that this room was where the Prince had governed the duchy over the past months and had accepted the allegiance of a thousand lords. Edward’s warmth, conviviality and largesse had brought disparate leaders and their fiefdoms under his control.

Now the Prince stood, one arm leaning against the high mantel above the log fire as he gazed into the flames. Rugs and fresh reeds smothered the stone floor; a table, long enough for two men to lie head to toe, showed an unfurled map in front of the Prince’s upholstered chair. Another door led off from the far corner, used no doubt by Navarre to leave the room. Did protocol demand the arrogant aristocrat avoid meeting the scar-faced knight who had been essential to his success years before when he had defeated the peasant uprising?

Blackstone and Killbere bowed.

The Prince, smiling, turned away from the flames and the thoughts that consumed him. ‘Thomas, time has healed your wounds?’

‘Thank you, highness, yes, I am well. Your physicians were most attentive.’

He faced the Prince whose destiny had been entwined with his own since boyhood, when they had fought at Crécy and Blackstone had saved Edward’s life. Their journey thereafter had been fraught, through turbulent years of defiance and disagreement, until finally time and circumstances had healed the rifts. Despite it all, the years had solidified Blackstone’s iron-hard loyalty until once again, at great risk to his own life, he had saved the Prince from the assassination attempt at Bergerac the previous August. The attempt resulted in Blackstone suffering near fatal wounds when he fought an old ally. A friend who had become an enemy.

Those events had made the Prince of Wales genuinely concerned for Blackstone’s wellbeing. ‘I thank God for his blessings, Thomas. We had prayers said for you. So too our father.’

‘I am grateful, my Prince.’