King Pedro I of Castile received Blackstone and Killbere in a sumptuously decorated hall where banners and tapestries vied for attention. It was a room to impress, to show the English King’s Master of War, sent by a Prince of Wales known to be as extravagant as his father, that the Spanish knew a thing or two about luxury and flamboyance. Twenty or more courtiers crowded together at the rear of the hall, Spanish ballesteros, wearing cuirass and mail, armed with sword and spear, reinforced the gaggle of peacock courtiers. There was one Moor present, a tall, robed man who bore the look of a commander. None of his men were in the room despite the Moors being Pedro’s main force. It seemed to Blackstone that the few Castilian guards were more for show than fighting. There was one burly Spaniard, dressed as a fighting man. His studded black gambeson had seen better days, as had his face. The High Steward waited, tall and dignified, layered dark-hued robes sweeping the floor, a staff of office gripped as tightly as any pikeman’s weapon, unyielding in gaze and stance. To one side half a dozen young women stood, modestly dressed, cleavage covered, unlike the Prince of Wales’s wife, Joan, who set the opposite trend in fashion. There was only one among those present the Princess would have admired for challenging courtly modesty. The woman in question revealed the enticing cleft of her breasts covered only by a black lace veil. It was the dark-eyed woman Blackstone had seen at the window.

The King sat, resplendent in layered silk gowns beneath brocade and pearl-encrusted robes. The High Steward stepped forward, bowed and bent to speak to the King. The two men engaged in muted but earnest conversation. Blackstone and Killbere were at the far end of the hall waiting until summoned. They were far enough away that anything said between the King and his steward would not be heard.

‘Thomas, all we do, it seems, is to be brought before princes and kings. I cannot bow any lower, and my knees creak like Will Longdon’s war bow. Does any more royalty await us on this journey?’ said Killbere quietly, without turning to face Blackstone.

‘No, God willing. The burden of keeping my tongue in check is like having the bastard horse’s bit between my teeth.’

Killbere sighed. ‘Is he taking our measure or wary of us approaching because we stink?’

‘He’s being a king.’

‘I need a piss.’

‘Then hold it. You cannot puddle a royal carpet. Take your mind off it.’

‘I try but when a man reaches a certain age, the bladder takes on a life of its own. What about those women? His concubines, you think?’

‘By the look of their dress they’re his daughters. I’m supposing the others are their ladies-in-waiting.’