Gontrán shook his head, extended his hand for the flask again and nodded his thanks when Meulon obliged. ‘North-east. Rugged country!’ he emphasized. ‘Corunna is too busy. Too many ships. My people know the meaning of a day’s work.’

Blackstone crouched by the fire so he was level with the old man. ‘If you came from that direction then you would have been on a direct route to Santiago and if you know the route well enough, you would not have missed the city.’

‘You think I don’t know that? I’m old but I’m not an idiot.’ He glared defiantly at the men around him as if it were they whose minds were as flimsy as the forest mist.

Blackstone’s instincts sensed there was more but the old man was reluctant to tell them.

Gontrán shrugged. ‘I didn’t know whether I was being brought into danger. There are villains who rob pilgrims.’

‘And why do you say you were brought here?’ Blackstone said. ‘Who brought you?’

The men looked past him towards the forest but there was no sign of anyone else.

Gontrán hesitated, glancing around at the hard-faced men who stared at him. ‘If you mock me, then I will leave with thanks for the warmth of the fire and food and for not causing me harm.’

‘We will not mock you,’ Blackstone assured him gently. ‘What was it that brought you here?’ he insisted.

‘What? That hawk,’ Gontrán said cautiously. ‘It frightened me, I don’t mind telling you. We are superstitious people in these parts.’

Blackstone saw the same look cross the faces of the gathered men. ‘We have seen them circle high above us before battle. They can bring good fortune or bad, but that is every man’s superstition,’ he said. ‘Now tell us why your courage brought you here.’

Gontrán nodded, encouraged by the compliment. ‘I reached the outskirts of the city and heard the news that assassins had slain the Archbishop and others. Murdered them in cold blood. I turned away from that sacred place because I could not bear the thought of such violence being committed in a place of love and forgiveness. I was planning to return home but then I remembered seeing riders’ – he shrugged – ‘a few men, no more, cloaked and riding hard towards where I had journeyed from. Towards where I live. It is not a place people go to with any ease. Once through the valley and forests there is no place for horses. The cliffs are too steep; you have to go on foot. But to where, I asked myself? There are coves along the coast from my village where men smuggle. So I was frightened of returning in case these were the people who did the killing and were making their escape.’ Gontrán seemed lost in a reverie as he put the pieces of his journey together. ‘I prayed at a roadside shrine for the souls of the dead and begged to be kept safe and I swear’ – he looked again at the attentive men – ‘I swear when I opened my eyes the hawk was sitting on top of the shrine and glared at me. Have you seen a hawk’s stare? It’s as if it’s ripping into your heart.’