Álvaraz greeted Blackstone with a nod. The Englishman’s tactics had prevailed so far and if there was any hope of success, then the Spaniard knew that it rested with Blackstone. The King glanced up and immediately lowered his head to his food again; but when the tent flap opened and closed once more, he raised his eyes. He wiped his mouth and smiled and nodded for Velasquita to come closer. She bent, kissed his proffered hand and allowed herself to be eased next to him to stand at his shoulder. Álvaraz scowled but Blackstone gave a gentle shake of his head. Stay quiet.

‘Well?’ said Don Pedro. ‘We run like alley cats from feral dogs. Are you here to humiliate me further?’ He wiped his hands on the linen cloth presented by the High Steward and waved away the food tray. A dutiful servant stepped forward and removed it.

‘Your death is close, my lord,’ said Blackstone.

Don Pedro’s jaw dropped. Blackstone’s words struck a shocked silence in the pavilion.

‘You threaten or warn me?’ said the King.

‘Tomorrow the French routiers will swarm down the valley from Valladolid, south of Zamora, north of Salamanca. Once they see your banner they will keep coming until we are dead or captured.’

‘Then it is time for me to make my stand,’ said Don Pedro.

‘It is time for you to be gone before we sight them. I have spoken to your captains: Álvaraz and al-Hakam. Bertrand du Guesclin and Hugh Calveley’s routiers will expect us to have our backs to them as we run for the Portuguese border. Instead, we will have our backs to the mountains and stand across the river on the west bank of the Esla.’

The King looked at Álvaraz. ‘Did you choose that place?’ hissed the King.

Álvaraz did not cower before the King. ‘I did.’

Don Pedro refrained from chastising his Spanish captain. He turned to Blackstone. ‘And did Álvaraz tell you what that place is called?’

Blackstone saw no point in discussing geography. ‘It makes no difference,’ he said.

‘El Campo del águila caída. In your language it means the Field of the Fallen Eagle. A thousand years ago a Roman cohort died there, trapped against the cliffs, slaughtered by tribes they sought to conquer. I am a superstitious man, Sir Thomas. Legends of the past are useful: they serve to inform us.’