The Lord Edward had immediately recognised the man: a mad prophet who had been stalking round the walls of the palace for the last few days. The fellow claimed he came from the Devil's Anvil, the hot burning sands which lay to the south of the Middle Sea; his dirty and rag-attired figure now stood motionless though his eyes flamed like burning coals.

'I bring a warning!' the prophet boomed. 'A warning of death and disgrace. A warning against the soft perfumed flesh of the whores who lounge on feathered beds and bawl of their lust!' The fiery eyes flashed again; one sinewy arm was raised in quivering anger. 'You bawds who gulp wine from deep-bowled cups, be warned! This age will be cleansed by Death himself! Mark my words, he lurks in these sombre forests. He mounts his pale horse and soon he will be here. Be warned, you strumpets and whores!'

The group of silk-clad courtiers behind the Prince simpered, laughed softly, and turned away. The mad prophet searched out the tall, blond figure of the Prince as he slouched on his horse under the blue and gold banner of England. The prophet's eyes narrowed.

'Repent!' he hissed. 'You young men who lust after each other's flesh and seek comfort in forbidden love!'

The Prince grinned and, raising one purple-gloved hand, touched his smaller, darker companion.

'He talks of us, Piers.'

The young Gascon's expression grew harsher though it was nonetheless a girlish face with its smooth olive cheeks, perfect features, and neatly cropped, dark red hair. Girlish, innocent, except for the eyes – a surprisingly light blue like a spring sky fresh washed by the rain. These were hard and empty.

'I do not think so, My Lord,' Gaveston rasped. Prince Edward shook his head and took a silver coin out of his purse.

'A wager, Piers. The fellow is bound to be speaking about me.' He stroked his moustache. 'Let's be frank. I am the only one here worth talking about.'