Blackstone’s men slept. The stench of horses relieving themselves offered comfort rather than disquiet. Men and horses spent their lives together. Worn leather, horsehair and sweat mingled in a man’s clothing and never left his nostrils. The men grunted, farted and coughed in their sleep. The cresset lamps flickered and died, their oil exhausted, the pungent smell of burnt wicks blanketing the stables. The castle’s night watch went about their duty, moving across the yards, maintaining lanterns, changing guard with those on the walls. The moonlight had fled behind the clouds, the castle sucking what light remained into its massive walls. The darkened landscape concealed any movement beyond the cliff’s overhang.

Three men ran for the old siege tunnel entrance. Once inside, the damp air hampered their flints from lighting the reed torches. None of the men liked the dark tomb and they cursed at the reluctant sparks – and then cursed with pleasure when the torches flared. The torchbearer led the way up the steps that took them behind the curtain wall and into the yard. One man peered out of the trapdoor into the darkness. A group of four men, one of them holding aloft a lantern, strode across the far side of the yard and disappeared through a turret door.

‘Night watch moving around,’ said the man. ‘We stick together and if anyone challenges us then that’s who we are. We make no sound; we need no damned conversation as to what’s what. It’s a simple job. Look among the sleeping men and identify the boy.’