The clanging of the gong echoed through the Black Castle. It was time for the feast. Dressed in gleamingly white tights, a red-and-green doublet with a frill that at least offered some level of cover below his hips, James was escorted from his room by the scarred man-at-arms, Brioc.

‘No rapier for me?’ James asked, eyeing Brioc’s weapon.

‘Not a man-at-arms, are you?’

‘No, but I am a lord.’

Brioc shot him a look of disdain. ‘Come on. Wouldn’t do to keep His Majesty waiting . . .’

As James followed the hordes of guests heading into the Great Hall, Brioc suddenly paused and bowed. ‘My Lord,’ he said, addressing a tall, hard-faced man who James immediately recognized as his ancestor, the twelfth earl.

‘Who have we here, Brioc?’ The earl asked.

James pushed down a quick stab of fear. He could feel instinctively, and see from the look in the man’s eyes that this wasn’t one of the useless de Courcy earls. This man was a red-in-tooth-and-claw warrior, and he looked as if he’d have been quite happy to lunge at James with the rapier that hung from his waist.

James gave a slight bow. ‘I am Lord James de Courcy. Of Château Clermont.’

The earl’s eyes widened and he subjected James to a quick and ruthless scrutiny. His eyes came to rest on James’s hand. He reached out, grabbed it, turned it palm up.

He reached out his finger, traced it over James’s signet ring. And froze. He opened his mouth to speak but his words were drowned out by a sudden peal of trumpets, followed by shouts:

‘The king! The king!’

The earl let go of James’s hand and bent to whisper something into Brioc’s ear. Whatever it was could not have been good. James felt a flash of fear as the man-at-arms turned and gave him a ferocious look.

Then all eyes turned to the king, to Henry VIII as he processed surrounded by his entourage of men-at-arms into the hall. He was draped in velvets and furs, shoulders gigantic, glittering with gold chains and jewelled rings.

The Countess de Courcy appeared and together with the earl, led the king to the largest table, seating him between them. The countess wore a gown of rose-gold silk and velvet, heavily embroidered, fitted tight over her waist to show off her youthful figure. She was adorned with the de Courcy rubies.

James’s heart was hammering. Now! Get out, now . . . He began to turn, found himself flanked by Brioc and Cranog who had suddenly materialized.

‘Wrong way, Lord James. Forgetting our etiquette, aren’t we?’ whispered Cranog. ‘When His Majesty sits, we sit.’

Together the men-at-arms herded James towards one of the two long tables, furthest away from the king, talking, smiling all the while as if it were nothing more than a magnificent social occasion. They took their seats on either side of him. James felt trapped.

Once the king had reached for his first bite of peacock leg, Brioc and Cranog tucked in. The table groaned with meats. There was venison and lamb and chicken but there were also what looked suspiciously like swans. James had no appetite, but he forced himself to eat.

The dining hall fell silent as the king pushed to his feet.

‘I would like to thank my gracious hosts, the Earl and Countess de Courcy,’ he declared. He paused, turned, offered them regal smiles. ‘We have had a successful few days hunting. We speared two dozen boar and a score of those wretched Welsh Mountain ponies that corrupt the breeding of my war horses.’

There was an eruption of cheers and claps and shouts of approval. James looked around in disbelief. He thought of Merry’s ancestor, wondered if some of those ponies might have belonged to him.

Then the king opened his mouth to speak and, as if a spell had been cast, everyone fell silent once more. ‘Even the fickle Welsh weather has been kind to us, and now this magnificent feast. To offer the smallest reciprocation, I declare a tourney to be held, two days hence.’ More roars from his minions, more clapping and clashing of goblets.

‘We shall have jousting, we shall have pitching the bar, we shall have archery. This part of the world is famed for the prowess of its bowmen. I look forward to seeing it with my own eyes.’ The king turned to the earl and exchanged what James could only call a conspiratorial look with him.

‘On behalf of my hosts, I issue a summons,’ he declared, his voice booming around the hall. ‘I call upon the Owen family of Nanteos Farm to send forth a fit and able longbowman. He must enter my contest. He must acquit himself with distinction. He must honour the pledge made by his forebears to the Black Prince.’

James felt his heart thudding. The trap for Merry had been set.

The king sat down to tumultuous applause. Guests clapped, and banged the table with fists or pewter tankards, slopping liquid over the wood. The earl was banging the hilt of a dagger against the table, eyes shining with triumph. Then he turned in James’s direction, and gave a slight nod to Brioc.

Brioc’s hand closed on James’s arm.

‘I think you had better come with me,’ he said grimly.

‘Why?’ asked James with all the belligerence he could muster.

‘Because thieves have no place at the king’s feast, Lord James.’