All around them benches were quickly filling with ladies in silk gowns, giggling and chattering, who clutched velvet cushions to their bosoms as they simpered past the young men eyeing them. These gallants, with hair long and curled, and jerkins dripping pearls, proved to be raucous and strident. Cranston was merry, but some of these young men were already far gone in their cups. Athelstan ignored the lustful glances directed at Benedicta, trying to curb the sparks of jealously which flared in his heart.

Once they were seated, he looked round, studying the tournament area. The field, a great grassy plain, was divided down the centre by a huge tilt barrier covered in a black and white canvas. At the end of this barrier were the pavilions, gold, red, blue and scarlet, one for each of the jousters. Already the contestants were arriving and around each pavilion scuttled pages and squires. Armour glinted and dazzled in the sun; banners bearing the gules and lozenges, lions, wyverns and dragons of the noble houses, fluttered in the faint summer breeze. A bray of trumpets stilled the clamour, their shrill so angry the birds in the trees around Smithfield rose in noisy protesting flocks. The royal party had arrived.

Cranston pointed out John of Gaunt, Duke of Lancaster, his face cruel under blond hair, skin burnt dark from his campaigns in Castille. On either side of him stood his brothers and a collection of young lords. In the centre of the group, with one of John of Gaunt’s hands on his shoulder, stood a young boy, his face white as snow under a mop of golden hair, a silver chaplet on his head. Cranston nudged and pointed again: beside the royal party Athelstan glimpsed Chief Justice Fortescue in scarlet, lined with pure white lamb’s wool, Sir Richard, Lady Isabella, the priest Crispin, Master Buckingham, Dame Ermengilde, and others of their household. Athelstan was sure that they all looked his way but again came the shrill bray of the trumpets. Gaunt raised his hand as if welcoming the plaudits of the crowd. There was clapping from the claque of young courtiers around him but the London mob was silent and Athelstan remembered Cranston’s mutterings about how the expensive tastes of the court, coupled with the military defeats against the French, had brought Gaunt and his party into disrepute.

‘Our quarry’s in sight!’ Cranston whispered to the friar, though his voice carried for yards around them. Athelstan looked sideways at Benedicta and his heart lurched. She had turned slightly, staring coolly back at a young, dark-faced gallant, resplendent in red and white silks, who lounged in his seat with eyes for no one but Athelstan’s fair companion. Cranston, sharp enough under his bluff, drunken exterior, caught the friar’s pained glance. He leaned over and tapped Athelstan on the arm.

‘The tournament is about to begin, Brother,’ he said. ‘Watch carefully. You may learn something about combat.’