Blackstone nodded his thanks and watched Sayyid al-Hakam take the long walk across the bridge as his men raised their voices to honour him. The Moor’s final words had been offered in friendship between men who served and obeyed. The warning tarnished the woman further and strengthened Blackstone’s suspicions. Whether she acted at the behest of Don Pedro or on her own volition, it meant Velasquita was involved with or party to the Queen’s murder. He turned to where his men stood in position, listening to the Moors’ voices reverberating against the cliffs.

‘Beyard!’ Blackstone beckoned the Gascon, who strode forward.

‘Sir Thomas?’

‘Who stands with you? Loys and Aicart?’ he asked, naming two of the Gascons who had fought throughout Blackstone’s campaigns.

‘They command their own men at my side as always.’

‘Will they stay with Lázaro? If the French overrun us I don’t want him falling into their hands in case de Hayle rides with them.’

Beyard hesitated. His two men commanded loyalty among those they led. ‘They would obey but I need them. I have told Lázaro to take my horse if the French break through.’

Blackstone knew it had been an unreasonable request. He recanted. ‘So be it. The lad must ride for his life if the time comes. Tell him...’ Blackstone had no proof Velasquita was the killer. Had she wanted the witness dead by the King’s command or to protect herself? ‘Tell him he must not trust the Lady Velasquita. Better to seek protection from Álvaraz the Spanish captain. If they defeat us, then Lázaro is abandoned again. I have brought him to great danger and we can no longer protect him.’

Beyard’s concerned look reflected less the likelihood of them dying in battle than that Velasquita might be the Queen’s murderer even though the boy had not identified her. ‘I’ll tell him.’

‘Do it now before du Guesclin gets here.’

Beyard hurried towards the quarry entrance.

‘Gilbert?’ Blackstone called.

As always Killbere had staked his place to fight at Blackstone’s shoulder, he on one side, John Jacob on the other. ‘The lads are ready, Thomas.’

‘The Moor tells me the wind will pick up. Get the men to build fires on the lip of the riverbank. As many as can be done in time. When al-Hakam’s men can no longer hold the skinners, we stand upwind and let the smoke smother them. Do it now, Gilbert. Every other man in the line will have a torch ready. Use the night’s fires for kindling. Have them readied. Take those blankets al-Hakam’s men left. Smother the wood with them. When they’re lit, the smoke will choke the river.’

Killbere cast a doubtful look at the unblemished sky. ‘And if the wind doesn’t come?’