De Craon sucked in his breath, trying to calm his rage, and stared up at the sky. The day was now drawing to a close. A slight chilly wind snapped and fluttered the banners carried in front of the Prince. De Craon shivered and pulled his cloak tightly about him: with his sharp, pointed features, russet hair and goatee beard, the Frenchman looked like some inquisitive fox watching his prey approach. Great God, he fumed, how he hated Gaveston! The Gascon was no more than the son of a jumped up yeoman farmer and a witch from the English province of Gascony; indeed, a convicted witch who had been burnt alive, chained to a barrel in the middle of Bordeaux marketplace. What should he do about Gaveston? de Craon wondered for the umpteenth time. Before he had left Paris his master, Philip IV, had taken de Craon into his velvet-draped, secret chamber in the Louvre Palace and explained his mission. They'd sat at a table, bare except for the candle flickering in its stand.
'Always remember, de Craon,' the French King had remarked, 'the Duchy of Gascony is in the hands of Edward of England. By rights it should be in mine!' Philip had grasped the candlestick. 'It nearly was,' he continued, 'but His Holiness the Pope intervened. Now Edward has Gascony and I have a peace treaty.'
De Craon had watched Philip closely.
'However,' his master hissed, 'I intend to have Gascony, the peace treaty, and much more. According to the Holy Father's dictate, Edward I of England was to marry my sister and he is welcome to her, but his feckless Prince of Wales is to wed my beloved daughter, once she is old enough for this marriage to take place. Now, if that happens, one day my grandson will sit on the throne of England whilst another becomes Duke of Gascony. So, in time, that province and perhaps England itself will be absorbed under the French crown.' Philip had paused, licking his bloodless lips.