Álvaraz laid a restraining hand on Blackstone’s arm. ‘Sir Thomas, his temper flares at the slightest mishap, the slightest. At any moment he could order every man in the room to be slain. The Moors would have done his bidding but my men will not carry out the orders of a man close to losing his reason. I will protect him as I must, but nothing more. He needs a strong hand now, Sir Thomas, a guiding hand that will not tolerate his excesses. A firm hand.’

*

No banners flew over the impoverished stone buildings where the King of Castile had taken refuge. They had not abandoned all comforts: a fire blazed, a table was laden with food. The High Steward looked as though he had spent a lifetime standing at his lord’s shoulder. His face was more gaunt than when Blackstone last saw him, and it was obvious the journey had been arduous for the elderly man. Blackstone handed a folded banner to a servant. ‘Your standard can fly again. Henry of Trastámara’s forces never seized it. We held it safe.’

An agitated Don Pedro nodded to the servant to take away the standard of Castile and León as if it was of no importance.

‘Lord, that is your kingdom’s blazon,’ said Blackstone.

‘I no longer have a kingdom. I am deposed!’ He threw a half-eaten apple into the fire. ‘How much must a king endure? My personal wealth seized from my ships and then condemnation from the Archbishop here. I needed the plate and gold to secure my family’s place in Aquitaine and it was imperative the Archbishop gave me his blessing as the rightful ruler of Castile. How can I return if my wealth is gone and the Archbishop himself declares me undesirable? All I have left of value is my name. Without that I am truly a pauper.’

‘Greatness rears like the phoenix from the ruins of a man’s misfortune, sire. My Prince recognizes you as the true King of Castile; no other authority is needed. No archbishop or thief can take that away. Ignore what has happened and ready yourself and your family.’

Don Pedro sulked. ‘I expected you here sooner,’ he said.

The vein in Blackstone’s neck throbbed. Killbere knew the signs. To have lost so many men and then be treated with such contempt and self-pity put the King in danger. Killbere stepped forward and bowed before Blackstone could insult or, worse, threaten the King.

‘There was a small matter of holding off a few thousand mercenaries and their French commanders,’ said Killbere.

‘Did they turn and run?’

‘My lord?’ said Killbere, uncertain if the King really was implying that the battle had been less fierce than their losses suggested.