Once again Blackstone felt that slithering chill which ran from gut to groin. He desired her. The heat in the room mixed with the heady fragrances of candles and incense.

‘Does death frighten you?’ she asked.

Neither she nor Blackstone had moved. Her attention was on the orange segments, the conversation about death seemingly incidental.

‘No. I will die in battle. That is the way of my world.’

She faced him. ‘No. You will not.’

‘You cannot know my destiny.’

‘But I do,’ she said matter-of-factly. ‘I see men’s lives. It is a gift. And a curse. Lives are an embroidered tapestry. I will be there and I will hold you in your dying moments. You will drown and your body will be swept away.’

Blackstone felt a moment of uncertainty. When the Welshman Gruffydd ap Madoc made the assassination attempt on the Prince at Bergerac, Blackstone had chased him into the city’s underground river chambers. Wounded, Blackstone had plunged into the current and had come close to drowning. The story of him saving the Prince’s life and coming close to his own death was well known. Travellers spread tales. Perhaps it had even reached Spain.

‘What you think you see is the past, not the future,’ he told her.

She threw the discarded peel into the brazier. It flared. Blue flames crackled. She watched them settle and then turned to face him. ‘No. You will die in my arms. It is foretold.’

Blackstone took three strides to her, undid the cloak’s tie and let it fall. Her nakedness was no surprise, only a delight. He lifted her onto the mattress.

‘Then let’s find out if it’s tonight.’

PART FIVE

THE PROPHECY: DEATH OF A LEGEND

CHAPTER FIFTY-SIX

In the hour before dawn Blackstone strapped on Wolf Sword and readied himself to brief his men before accompanying Álvaraz to draw away the approaching enemy. Velasquita lay beneath the covers watching him. He looked at her. ‘I live to fight another day,’ he said.

She stretched and half turned, pressing her face into the pillow. The brazier had gone out in the night and the cold air made her tug the covers up to her neck. She was barely awake. ‘Take care, the King will betray you,’ she murmured drowsily.

Blackstone barely caught the whisper. Was it a genuine slip from the woman close to the King? If so, it had value for him and the safety of his men. ‘How?’ he said, matching Velasquita’s low tone of voice. He stepped closer to her. Two empty bottles and spilled wine from overturned beakers were testament to the night’s drinking and intimacy. There was no answer, her breathing slowing. ‘How will he betray us?’ he asked again.

‘Seville,’ she said, hardly audible. Blackstone lowered his face to hers. ‘He abandons you... in Seville.’