She turned her head, straining to hear. Surely there was another sound, not just the creaking of the stairs? Someone was outside. She heard the slither of footsteps along the gallery. Surely they were approaching? Lady Eleanor looked at the door. Good, the key was turned in the lock. She patted her hair and pulled up her hood. She wished Dame Agatha was here. Perhaps it had been foolish to dismiss her. Again the sound. Lady Eleanor stood transfixed. She watched the latch of the door go down Suddenly she panicked, but too late! She heard the soft knock and knew she would have to answer.

Lady Eleanor was in the minds of other people that day. Edward, Prince of Wales, and his favourite, Piers Gaveston, had once again quarrelled violently about her and then become reconciled, swearing they would divert themselves by a hunt. They had left Woodstock Palace with their soldiers, grooms, huntsmen and retainers. A gaudy, colourful masque, their horses sleek and well fed, resplendent in their scarlet and blue dressings and silver-gilt saddles and housings. Amidst shouts, the bray of silver trumpets and the glorious fluttering of gold-encrusted banners, the royal hunting party made its way down the dusty tracks of Oxfordshire which wound around the great, unfenced cornfields where the stocks were piled high as farmers laboured to bring the harvest in.

The sun was still brilliant in a light blue sky. The grass on either side of the track was alive with the sound of crickets and the scurrying of mice and voles fleeing from the harvesters. Above them a lark soared, singing for sheer pleasure, whilst in the distant trees, blackbird and thrush trilled their hearts out. Suddenly, a darkened scarecrow of a man seemed to step from nowhere on to the track, his long hair black as night, flapping like raven's wings around his gaunt face, his clothes more like bandages around his emaciated body. Prince Edward lifted a hand and the cavalcade stopped.