Álvaraz rode down the line of horsemen before bringing his men alongside the Moors ready to lead the King out of the Alcázar. Mobs had formed at the front gates, bellowing their rage, hurling stones and insults. Whatever Blackstone had done to get the King to agree to leave his beloved city, the Spanish captain was grateful. The King of Castile was leaving his palace through the back gate like a common labourer.

Don Pedro sat, stiff-backed, upright, staring directly ahead, boxed in the middle of the column for his protection. His glazed eyes appeared to be those of a man in a trance. They had abandoned everything of value. The supply horses carried only food; the King had with him just some clothing and personal jewellery. His reign was in tatters, as down at heel as the rough-looking Englishmen who had vowed to escort him to freedom so he might gather support and invade his own country from beyond the Pyrenees. When he had first arrived in the vast courtyard where the men waited, he commented to his High Steward that he had not remembered granting the horses to Blackstone’s men. The High Steward lowered his voice so that no one could hear his reply, but whatever it was made the King look surprised but say nothing more.

Velasquita rode alone behind the King, flanked by neither courtiers nor cavalry. Blackstone had watched Don Pedro being guided to his horse and then helped to mount with the aid of a servant. Blackstone glanced at Velasquita, who stared back and then smiled. He knew the King’s calm demeanour meant only one thing. She had drugged him.

Blackstone’s men had seized the best horses from the King’s stables. The bastard horse was as belligerent to the newcomers as it had been towards the old. Blackstone steered it clear of the column, accompanied by Killbere and John Jacob. The men had slept little, readying equipment and supplies throughout the night after Blackstone told them their route and what to expect.

Sayyid al-Hakam led four hundred cavalry and two hundred mounted archers through the narrow gate. Will Longdon called out to the two bowmen he had befriended.

‘Salam, at the pace we’ll be riding that nag will die under you and you’ll be vulture bait. Before they pick your bones can I have your bow?’

The Moor smiled and raised a hand in farewell, unable to understand the archer but willing to believe his words were spoken in friendship.

‘There, you see, Jack, that’s how a man gets himself a souvenir.’

Halfpenny cleared his throat and spat. ‘You’re a thief in the night, Will Longdon. The poor bastard doesn’t stand a chance with you around.’