Standing silent among them, I felt my stomach clench; for the first time since his mailed fist had scarred my face fifteen years before, there before me stood the devil duke. He was garbed all in black as I remembered him but, instead of armour, he wore a magnificent flowing houppelande gown edged with sable and liberally patterned with the bizarre personal emblem that so eloquently declared his vaunting ambition – a carpenter’s plane. Here was a man determined to shape the world to his own design. Working themselves up to a frenzy of excitement, the crowd began to chant his battle-cry – ‘Jean sans Peur! Jean sans Peur!’ – and he raised an arm in salute like a victorious general. An elaborate turban-hat added inches to his stature so that he dwarfed the shrunken figure of the king, who scuttled into the hall a fraction ahead of him wearing a gold coronet slightly askew and a blue ermine-trimmed gown, which seemed to have been made for someone much larger. I noticed the duke’s hand go to the king’s elbow, a gesture which appeared to offer deferential support, but actually ensured that the feeble-minded monarch did not stray from his new protector’s side.
