Terror stalked the castle’s corridors. The woman’s screams echoed as the relentless killer followed her retreat. There was no need for the assassin to hurry. The prey had nowhere to run. No escape. No doors could be bolted. No lock held a key.

The young Queen had been confined in various fortresses since her marriage eight years before so that the King could live with his mistress. In recent months she had been sent to the castle at Medina Sidonia. The child bride was Blanche de Bourbon, niece of King Jean II of France, cousin to the Dauphin, married for political convenience when she was fourteen years old to King Pedro of Castile and abandoned by him once treaties were signed. Eight years of near solitude except for attendant women and in latter years a boy taken under her wing. There were to be no witnesses to the murder: the killer had strangled her servant women.

The boy scurried after his mistress until she could go no further. He slammed closed the door and dragged a heavy bench across it. Blanche reached the open window and stared down at the rocks a hundred feet below. To jump or face the assassin?

‘Hide!’ she told the boy.

The nine-year-old flung himself into her arms. He felt her heartbeat. Rapid, thudding against the brocade dress. She calmed him. ‘God bless you, child. Now, Lázaro, you must hide. It is over,’ she said, and then lifted her crucifix over his head. ‘Do not be afraid,’ she said. ‘Pray to God for my soul and live according to His will.’ She pulled a thin, plain ring of gold and pearl from her finger and pressed it into his hand. ‘Find a money changer and this will buy you life.’ She bustled him into the garderobe and pulled closed the curtain.

The boy held his breath and smeared tears from his face as the pursuer pushed aside the heavy bench. Peeping through the curtain he saw the burly assailant stride into the room. The young Queen found her courage and faced him. He forced her onto a stool, embracing her from behind in a vice-like grip. Then a second man, hooded, stepped inside and stood for a moment staring at the helpless woman. This was the assassin. A nod to the burly man and he forced the Queen’s mouth open. Her killer took a step forward and spilled the contents of a small phial into her mouth. Blanche struggled. She coughed and choked as the poison sent her body into a spasm. The man holding her stood back as she fell to the floor.

Her lips turned blue. Blanche de Bourbon, twenty-two years old, Queen of Castile, wife of Pedro the Cruel, stared lifeless towards the boy trembling behind the curtain.

*