They had left Killbere and the King’s main group half a day’s ride back. Blackstone and John Jacob rode with their men behind Álvaraz’s column, letting them gain distance as they trailed the pack horses bearing the merchants’ goods. As they left the camp a detachment of ten Moors drew their lithe horses alongside. Seeing their approach, Álvaraz reined back and rode to Blackstone, who faced the fierce-looking horsemen. Their lances bore the King’s pennon.

‘The King and Sayyid al-Hakam send us,’ said their leader.

‘What is your name?’ said Blackstone.

‘There is no need for you to know it.’

Blackstone and Álvaraz glanced at each other. The cavalryman’s aggressive tone suggested they were not there to support the English and Spanish. Blackstone shrugged. ‘They have not equipped you to fight a battle. You’re skirmishers. If we meet the routiers in force, you’ll be the first to die. Are you to be sacrificed for any particular reason?’

‘We are not here to fight; we ride with you to make sure you and the Spaniard do not steal the merchants’ wealth. It is the King’s wealth now and must be protected.’

Álvaraz cursed, but Blackstone raised a hand to stop him reacting violently. ‘If it tempted us to steal we would have done so already,’ Blackstone said.

‘Get back to that savage bastard al-Hakam and tell him we will not be insulted,’ said Álvaraz.

‘You have no say in the matter,’ said the Moor.

Álvaraz’s hand went to his sword but Blackstone reached out an arm and restrained him. ‘Let them ride with us. An insult is not worth fighting over.’

‘They dishonour us,’ Álvaraz said.

‘They are men following orders. The King commands al-Hakam: he instructs them. If we are to argue it will be with the King.’ Blackstone eased the bastard horse between the two antagonists. ‘And I don’t have the time.’

Álvaraz had scouts riding ahead and Blackstone had sent Renfred and his men in a wide looping search for routiers. The land opened before them as they descended from the contours of the foothills onto the valley’s plain.

‘A long day in the open,’ said John Jacob.

‘We’d be better on the higher ground,’ said Blackstone, ‘but the tracks twist and turn too much for all these pack horses.’

‘Look there,’ said John Jacob, pointing to the shadow in the sky. A hawk rode a thermal, tail fanned out, and then a dip of a wing let it drop lower over the woodland. Its keening call carried across the sky. Blackstone saw the look of concern on his squire’s face.

‘Remember when we fought de Hayle? A hawk warned us. It’s a good omen, John.’ But Blackstone also felt the unease. The memory of the hawk on the windowsill of Velasquita’s room was as firmly etched as the woman’s nakedness. Some images lodged as deeply as a bodkin-tipped arrow shaft.