The 'old beggar' pulled himself clear, his hands scrabbling behind him as he loosened the straps which pulled back his legs, the wooden slats were jerked from his knees and he straightened up. One glance at the fallen man showed there was no need to hurry, his victim was still unconscious. The beggar whistled quietly and was answered by the clip-clop of a great black war-horse which came out of the mist like some phantom from the gates of hell. Its rider, muffled in a dark cloak and hood, dismounted and walked over to the prostrate man, others joined him out of the darkness to form a threatening circle round the unconscious body.

'Is he dead?' the rider asked, his voice dry, devoid of any emotion.

'No,' the beggar muttered. 'Only unconscious. Is he to be questioned?' The leader shook his head and gathered the reins of his horse.

'No,' he replied. 'Sew him in a sack and throw him into the Seine!'

'It would be a mercy to cut his throat,' the beggar pointed out. The leader mounted and savagely jerked at the reins to turn his horse.

'Mercy!' he commented drily. 'If you had failed or lost him, I would have shown you such a mercy. He is a spy! He deserves none. Do as I say!' He turned, and soon both horse and rider were hidden by the cloying mist.

TWO

Edward, King of England and Duke of Aquitaine, was furious. In the council chamber near the royal chapel at Westminster, he was indulging in one of his passionate regal rages. Swathed in robes, his council sat and meekly witnessed the royal drama, some closely studied the red-gold tapestries covering the whitewashed walls, others scuffed their boots in the rush-strewn floor trying to rub the cold numbness from their legs and feet.