Sayyid al-Hakam took a step closer. ‘What would it achieve to have both our heads on a pole? Who would protect the King then?’

‘What do you want?’

‘As you say, I do the bidding of those who send me.’

‘The lady sends for me?’

‘Why would she do that if you say you do not lie with her?’ Once again the Moor smiled. ‘It is the King who summons you.’

*

Al-Hakam led Blackstone through the torchlit church to where Moorish sentries stood guard outside a curtain of silk screens, three paces behind which hung another layer: soft barriers to be pulled aside before reaching the King. Don Pedro’s quarters looked little different from the finery at the palace. Servants had turned a corner of the barren church into a warm enclave of opulence. Don Pedro sat eating from a silver plate. The High Steward stood to the rear, eyes focused on Blackstone. The King had not raised his eyes from his food or the map that lay spread before him.

‘Closer,’ said the King.

Blackstone stepped forward. The King flicked the map away from him. It landed at Blackstone’s feet. Blackstone looked at the High Steward, who barely hid the smirk on his face. Obviously, Blackstone was expected to stoop and pick it up. An act as subservient as the bending of a knee. The King had not yet raised his eyes. He, like the steward, was waiting.

Blackstone did not try to pick up the discarded document. He looked down and saw the contour lines, realized that the marked cross was where they had stopped for the night and saw that it matched the approximate distance he reckoned they had travelled from Burgos.

‘A fine map, highness,’ said Blackstone.

Don Pedro glared at him. ‘There are reports of enemy activity to the south and east.’

‘As I told you, they are closing the door on help from Granada. And by now those from the north-east will be at the gates of Burgos.’

A servant offered a small bowl and cloth for the King to rinse his fingers. ‘We must hasten for Seville.’

‘Why?’ said Blackstone.

The High Steward’s gasp at Blackstone’s impertinence was loud enough for the King to raise a hand to stop his trusted servant from berating Blackstone.

‘It is my preferred city. I have Moors there. The city is strong. I can regroup.’