One of the burly Arabs said something in a harsh voice and put the point of his sword onto Blackstone’s chest as a warning. Blackstone’s instincts were sharper than the blade. No sooner had its point touched him than he pivoted, swept aside the sword and slammed the Moor into the second man. They fell heavily but despite their size quickly recovered; however, before they clambered to their feet Blackstone had Wolf Sword at the first man’s throat. No words were needed. He took a step back and sheathed the blade. Point made. The Moors gathered their weapons and remained uncertain what to do next. A door opened somewhere behind them before they could decide and Velasquita stepped into the corridor from a side passage. She was barefoot and wore a linen shift. She said something to them that Blackstone did not understand. They obeyed without question and retreated to where the King and Sayyid al-Hakam had gone.

‘You fight the King’s bodyguard?’ she said.

‘I was challenged. I answered.’

‘You’re bleeding,’ she said and turned back to her room.

Blackstone’s hand touched the skin above his eye. The fracas had opened the cut despite Will Longdon packing the wound with astringent witch hazel. He followed her. Her door was open. More welcoming than their last encounter. He stepped inside. She was busy preparing something in a pestle and mortar. She didn’t look up when he entered and closed the door behind him. A hawk stood on the windowsill, tearing apart a small rodent. Blackstone was superstitious enough to wonder if it was the same hawk that warned them of de Hayle’s ambush on their way to Burgos.

‘You draw birds to you?’ he said, watching her grind whatever it was into paste. She added drops from a small green bottle.

‘I feed them. They come,’ she said and then turned to face him. ‘I live in the high tower. I see the world below. I understand them.’ The light behind her showed the shape of her body through the linen. ‘Sit,’ she told him.

Blackstone looked but other than a stool on the other side of the room saw only the bed. He squatted awkwardly on its edge, his scabbard making it impossible to do anything but half sit. He loosened his belt and laid aside the sword. She watched him for a moment, waiting until he was ready, then stepped closer and dabbed a piece of clean linen on the wound. He could not place the alluring scent of her perfume.

‘It’s sandalwood and rose,’ she told him as if reading his mind. His chin lifted in surprise at the immediate answer to his thought.

‘Keep still,’ she said. ‘Have you been to al-Andalus?’

‘No.’

‘Arabs bring sandalwood oil from North Africa. Don Pedro embraces their culture. You will see, he fashions the Alcázar in Seville after the Moors’ palaces. This will sting.’