‘Is this pleasure worth dying for?’ she whispered, leaning down against him.

A tear trickled down his face. He begged God to forgive him. His thudding heartbeat deafened him. His throat pulsated. A fragment of his mind, a mind ever devious, taunted him that at least he would be given release. His face felt on fire. Blood surged. A pain began in his chest. Deep. A wound as sharp as a knife blade. It travelled into his neck and down his arm, an arm that still couldn’t be raised.

‘Please,’ he begged. He saw her eyebrows rise. ‘Please... let me...’

She knew what he wanted. His flushed face, his gasping mouth, spittle clinging, eyes bulging in desperation. ‘No,’ she said. ‘You will not have the pleasure of release.’ She raised herself from him and stood back, watching his final strangled convulsion.

The fire’s shadows flickered over her naked body.

The devil’s imps dancing for joy.

CHAPTER FORTY-FOUR

The morning brought cries of alarm resounding through the corridors when servants found Garindo’s body. The bailiff dragged a half-naked girl found cowering in the priest’s room to the Mayordomo mayor, the High Steward, and he reported the circumstances of the death to the King.

‘A girl?’ said Don Pedro. ‘How old?’

‘No more than fourteen years, your grace.’

‘How did she get into the palace and – more importantly – into Garindo’s quarters? If he was fornicating, then it must have happened more than once. Who is she? Does she serve my daughters? There are no women servants here except in their chambers.’

‘Sire, she is from the town. She is a gatekeeper’s daughter. She claims the priest seduced her some weeks ago.’

‘Garindo? The old man could barely take a piss, let alone bed a girl.’

‘Sire, it appears she had the desired effect of arousal. Your physician says his heart gave way.’

The distressed King slammed a fist onto the table. A glass of wine fell and spilled across a map of Castile Don Pedro had been studying. A servant darted forward.

‘Leave it!’ He pushed back his chair. ‘Let it stain,’ he fumed. ‘It soaks into parchment as blood seeps into my kingdom.’ He turned his back on his steward and the clutter of courtiers who hovered in the background. A confused sea of thoughts fought one against the other inside his mind. Invasion and defeat stared back at him as he looked across the sweeping landscape. His half-brother, the bastard Henry of Trastámara, was gathering his forces on the border, supported by the Pope, backed by the French and driven by the King of Aragon to dethrone him. He faced the anxiety-ridden men. ‘He didn’t predict this, did he? He did not say to me, “Sire, I will die fornicating the gatekeeper’s daughter”!’

No one answered. Don Pedro glared. ‘Say something! You are my advisers! Advise me!’