The prophet must have heard him.

'You, Edward, Prince of Wales!' he roared. 'Son of a greater father, bearer of his name but not his majesty. Yes, I warn you, you and your grasping catamite, Gaveston, son of a whore!' The prophet's voice fell to a hiss. 'Son of a witch, you come from the Devil and to the Devil you will go. Be sure, Prince Edward, you do not go with him, for all of Satan's army bays for Gaveston's sin-drenched soul!'

Prince Edward nodded solemnly.

'Most interesting,' he commented. He smiled and stretched out a hand. 'Your silver, Piers.'

The Gascon, grumbling with rage, handed it over.

'Your Grace,' Gaveston muttered, 'let me kill the bastard!'

'No, Piers, not now. You will only alarm the hawks and spoil the hunt.' He stroked the Gascon's dark hair. 'Don't be a scold, Piers,' he whispered. 'You are becoming more like Father and the Lady Eleanor every day.'

The Lord Edward urged his horse forward as the prophet slipped off the road. Gaveston turned and, crooking a finger, summoned closer the captain of the guard.

'Kill the bastard!' he muttered. 'No, not now. But before he's a day older.'

The sun had hardly moved in the heavens when the mad prophet's body, his throat slashed from ear to ear, was dumped in a scum-rimmed marsh deep in the forest and sank without trace. An hour later the mercenary captain rejoined the royal party as they sat on their horses amongst the thick, rich weeds of a slow moving river. The soldier nodded at Gaveston, who winked back, smiled, and slipped the hood off the falcon which stirred restlessly on his wrist, the bells of its jesses tinkling a warning of the death it would bring to this soft, green darkness.

'Now I have drawn blood,' Gaveston muttered to himself, I can enjoy the hunt.'