The High Steward stepped forward nervously. ‘My lord, news has reached us that the English are close.’

‘An army? Edward sends troops?’

‘No... no, sire. He sends his Master of War.’

Don Pedro’s eyebrows rose. ‘Oh,’ he said with flagrant mockery. ‘One man? Is that all he can spare? Then our concerns of being overwhelmed are banished.’

‘And... er... men with him. We are uncertain how many but... but at least... eighty. Probably a hundred. Or even more. We have no news except that they are close,’ he repeated lamely.

Don Pedro glared. Blood seeped up his neck, veins throbbing, face flushed. He squeezed closed his eyes to lock in his rage. And failed. ‘Get out! All of you!’

Spittle sprayed the steward. Tears of frustration welled in the King’s eyes. He wiped them away and leaned on the wine-soaked table. Castile lay before him. Its borders too wide to defend. He had written to the Portuguese on his western border in case he needed to run for his life and seek sanctuary; Portugal was his mother’s country of birth, which allied them to him, but they had not yet replied. He needed a plan and none was forthcoming. He had vowed to put on his armour and lead his troops against the invaders. Except he had few troops to lead. He depended on the Moors. It was not enough.

‘I told you he could not predict events,’ said Velasquita, who had appeared unnoticed through the curtained door in the room’s corner.

Don Pedro looked at her with a mixture of desire and fear. ‘Did you kill him?’

‘No. I knew you wished no harm to come to him. So I did not,’ she lied effortlessly. She looked out of the window down into the courtyard as the girl she had paid handsomely to be in the priest’s room – and threatened with eternal damnation if she confessed to the subterfuge – was escorted to the main gate. ‘But I warned you, my lord. You should strike hard against those who harbour your enemies. Garindo advised you against such an action. He knew I was right. He did not have my ability to see events.’

He calmed. She hadn’t moved, staying exactly where she entered the room, making no approach to entice him with her body – an intimacy he found increasingly difficult to resist when turmoil surged around him. He nodded. ‘I considered everything you told me and I did as you suggested. The Moors ride to the border. They will kill without mercy.’ He poured a fresh glass of blood-red wine then stared into its opaqueness for a moment. ‘You said a man of death was coming.’

‘He’s close.’

‘To cause me harm?’

‘No.’ She paused. ‘He will die in Spain. He will sacrifice his life to save you.’

*