‘Do you know him?’ she asked.

‘He was with the English when they arrived at Burgos.’

Velasquita studied the boy a while longer. She had no recollection of him in her mind’s eye. When de Hayle had delivered the severed head, she’d known immediately that it was not the witness. Could this be the boy? The one de Hayle had spoken of? Could he have missed him when he checked Blackstone’s men in the stables at Burgos? If the boy they sought had been with Blackstone when de Hayle searched then he would have recognized him and reported to her. He had not. And yet something stirred in her. An unease.

‘Go to him. Ask where he is from and when he joined the Englishmen.’

The servant scurried away. She watched as he tracked the boy doing his chores and then engaged him in conversation as he carried water to the men-at-arms. The servant returned.

‘My lady. His name is Tello. He is from Pamplona. An orphan beggar. One of their soldiers took pity on him and made him a servant.’

She dismissed the informant with a curt nod. The ghost witness evaded her even as the King’s flight was almost over. Don Pedro would soon be a pauper, his wealth stolen. He would make the journey to the English Prince as much a beggar as that boy. That much she knew. And then there would be another war, one that would ultimately destroy the English Prince. All of this knowledge had been gifted to her by a power even she did not understand. But if the witness could still be found and killed then suspicion would always be focused on the Spanish King: that it was he who murdered his wife. It would eat into the heart and soul of those who felt obliged to help him and weaken his cause. Suspicion was a slowly released poison. And who knew more about poison than Velasquita Alcón de Lugo?

She turned and felt a hammer blow in her chest. Blackstone stood watching her not ten paces away. Her thoughts had been too focused on the boy to be aware of his presence. She recovered her composure.

‘You startled me. I didn’t hear you.’

He had still not smiled in greeting and the thought came to her that if Thomas Blackstone did not want an enemy to hear his approach then it was likely that enemy would die.

‘You were deep in thought,’ he said. ‘I didn’t want to interrupt. Thinking of me, were you?’ At last he smiled.

She went to him and laid a hand on his face. ‘As a matter of fact, I was.’

‘Good thoughts?’

‘The future.’

‘Ah, you mean where I die in your arms.’

‘Is there a better way to die?’

He thought a moment and settled his stare on her. ‘Killing my enemies.’