He had always been confident in his disguise, no one would suspect that this greasy-haired, shabby, unshaven individual was a trained clerk of the Royal Exchequer of England, Edward I's highly trained spy sent to Paris to collect and send back information. Poer had moved easily around the city, crossing skilfuUy from the underworld on the left bank of the Seine to the slovenly splendour of the royal household in the Louvre. Poer had, in recent weeks, been excited by what he had discovered. The French king, together with his brothers, Charles and Louis, was planning another move against Edward of England. Something breathtaking, a Grand Design, so an usher of the court had assured him when deep in his cups: Poer believed he had to discover what it was yet recently he had become afraid.

He was certain he was being watched, trailed as he made his way down the alleys and runnels of Paris. Earlier in the day he had been in the great square before the Cathedral of Notre Dame, watching a mountebank eat fire while his sons juggled with coloured baubles and there, Poer experienced the same feeling of dread which had assailed him a few days earlier. Someone was following him and though he had turned and twisted, never once did he catch a glimpse of the malicious watching eyes. This evening, as he made his way back to his lodgings in the garret of a mercer's house, Poer's disquiet had grown; the gentle slither of leather over wet cobbles, shadows deep in doorways, the soft clip-clop of a trained war-horse but, when he looked, there was nothing.

Poer finished his meal and slowly gazed round the dingy tavern room, he had sought sanctuary here, hoping his pursuers would show themselves, but he had been disappointed. Only an old beggar, his legs cut off at the knees, had hobbled in, the wooden slats fixed to his hands and the stumps of his legs clattering like drum-beats on the tavern floor. He watched the man eat like a dog lapping its bowl and scrabble out as Poer rose, wrapped his cloak about him and slipped out into the icy streets. Poer turned and made his way down the narrow alley, the timber and wattle houses stretching high above him, each tier jutting out above the other so the roofs of the houses closed in like conspirators locking out the frozen sky.