Garindo saw the King’s chin tilt, head raised, her words firming his resolve.

‘Sire,’ the astrologer said, desperation in his voice. ‘Your enemies will come tenfold if you commit such an atrocity.’

Velasquita tore the chart in two. ‘Your prophecy is weak.’ She faced Don Pedro once more. His eyes widened with the expectation of a lover about to see the object of his desire naked before him. Her black eyes held his.

‘Do what you must,’ she whispered. ‘And do it quickly. A man of death rides towards us.’

CHAPTER FORTY-THREE

Garindo shuffled along the winding corridors, his way lit by cresset lamps. He pulled his cloak around him, head down, deep in thought yet watching where he trod on the uneven stone floor. Footfalls had scuffed the passageway over hundreds of years. Common men and holy priests had skulked and connived their way through history down these corridors of power, bending the will of kings, influencing their weaknesses and embellishing their strengths. Garindo had spent too many years in unheated rooms: his body ached. His sixty-three years were as sixty-three crosses to bear. At least now his rooms were furnished with carpets and a canopied bed to keep the chill from him at night. The feather mattress and bolsters were a luxurious gift intended to ease the fatigue of his old age. All in all he had done well for himself ever since Don Pedro had learnt to trust his astrologer’s prophecies and had elevated him to a position as adviser at court.

Garindo knew that cleaving himself to the Castilian King meant there was little chance of the Pope absolving him of the charge of heresy, even though the pontiff had not excommunicated him as he had Don Pedro. He saw the future unfold in conflict. Everything the old astrologer saw in his charts for the year ahead indicated the kingdom would soon be lost. He had tried to dissuade the King from further acts of aggression but had failed to inform him of the impending defeat. There were times it was better to let Fate’s decrees unfold in her own time.