‘Then what is your preference? Let Álvaraz die outnumbered and alone or risk upsetting my Prince?’

Don Pedro examined and then savoured a piece of fruit. ‘Since when does a King concern himself with what a Prince thinks?’

*

Blackstone went back into the night. Firelight from the scattered campfires cast shadows of huddled men and horses. On the horizon a sliver of sky showed itself. The cold wind was picking up. Tomorrow it would be at their backs, sweeping down from the high snow-covered mountains. Blackstone smelled the earth and the fragrance of the brush and pine-scented forests carried on the wind. And something else. Sandalwood.

He turned into the darkness, letting his senses find the direction. Fifty paces beyond the church and the firelight the night became blacker still. At first glance he saw what looked like a rock outcrop, but Blackstone knew it was the small barn. As he came closer a soft light flickered and then disappeared and then appeared again. He realized it was candlelight behind a cloth over an opening and the wind was lifting the material exposing the flame. Without haste he eased the covering aside. The inside lacked the luxury of the King’s quarters; here candles and incense burned and it was their sandalwood aroma he smelled. There was no sign of Velasquita. He stepped further into the barn. A brazier heated the chilled expanse. An unrolled mattress lay on the ground, covered with richly woven blankets, their deep dyed colours adding to the sensuousness and comfort of the sleeping quarter. Food and wine stood untouched.

A fluttering in the beams drew his attention. A bird found a hole in the clay tile roof and flew free, showering down a sprinkling of dust. It had diverted his attention from the room but instinct made Blackstone lurch aside as a cloaked figure appeared at his shoulder. His rapid reaction and the speed at which a knife appeared in his hand meant Velasquita had no time to avoid the sweep of his hand. Blackstone took a step back, letting the knife strike die in the air between them. She hugged the cloak tightly and then lifted her chin and smiled. She seemed fearless. Or was it she embraced fear and that inflamed her passions?

‘You could have killed me.’

‘You shouldn’t sneak up on me.’

She shrugged, smiled again and, stepping to where the food lay on a linen-covered tray, nonchalantly teased away a segment of orange and sucked its juice, some of which trickled down her chin. ‘If I did not sneak up on you, then I couldn’t surprise you.’

‘And risk death,’ he said, staying where he was, resisting the urge to untie the cord at her neck and let her cloak fall because he knew, he did not know how, that she was naked beneath the mantle.

‘I will die long after you, my English knight. Death does not frighten me.’ She paused and watched him.