Blackstone and his men crested the hills and gazed down onto the Guadalquivir. Ships swayed on their moorings on the curving river beyond the semi-circular walled city of Seville. Others turned into the wind to anchor. At this distance their sails were little more than fluttering butterfly wings. An ancient Roman aqueduct signalled the city’s heritage. Don Pedro summoned Blackstone to ride alongside him as they approached the city, following Sayyid al-Hakam’s Moors, who cantered forward either side of the road. The city’s Moorish guards, bearing shields and spears and clothed in richly dyed robes as colourful as any knight’s pennon, held crowds back thirty yards and more. The crowd’s roar swept across the King’s procession. Blackstone glanced left and right and saw the warriors pressing back the surge. The citizen’s faces and raised voices seemed a less than warm welcome. But it was what lay at the end of the road that transfixed Blackstone. The Alcázar of Seville was breathtaking. Blackstone had never seen such architecture. Hundreds of arches divided by thin bands of green tiles fronted the walls. Ornamental stucco in interlacing arches gave the impression of a screen, extending forward of the main walls.

‘We build on history, something your King Edward understands,’ Don Pedro said, gesturing to the walls that stretched across their approach. ‘Hundreds of years ago the Romans built their stronghold here and then the Moors and the Spanish continued. The Moors called it al-Qasr al-Mubarak; it means Palace of Good Fortune.’

Blackstone had never seen the Spanish King so animated or enthusiastic in his desire to share his knowledge.

Pedro turned to Blackstone. ‘See there? We’ll enter through the Lion’s Gate. Even your great King has no palace like this. We have courtyards and gardens and cool pools of water. I am rebuilding and extending the façade. You see?’ he repeated, pointing to the wooden scaffolding teeming with labourers, who dared to stop work and watch the King’s arrival. He waved a hand across the imposing walls. His voice lowered as if in awe of his own achievements. ‘I am humbled every time I come here.’

Blackstone restrained the mocking smile that threatened to insult the King of Castile. For a moment Pedro did genuinely appear humbled. Blackstone raised his eyes to the heights and realized there was a difference in the alternating Arabic texts inscribed between the first-floor doors and second-storey windows.

‘What do those words mean?’

Pedro pointed at one inscription and then the other. ‘“The empire for God.”’ He crossed himself and kissed his fingers. ‘And there it says, “There is no Conqueror but God.”’

Blackstone saw the obvious sense of satisfaction on Pedro’s face. It beamed with pride. Whatever fleeting moment of humility the King had experienced was gone.

‘Built by Moors and Christians and peasants’ sweat,’ Blackstone said. The gentle rebuke made no impression on the King.