‘They were routiers. Paid to kill. If they saw their efforts were not worth what the French promised, then men like that run. Your losses, Sir Gilbert, might be because of your own poor fighting skills. Am I to grieve for not seeing for myself how the battle was fought?’

Killbere’s fierce grip on Blackstone’s arm could not stop him from breaking free and striding forward so rapidly he reached the King’s table. Don Pedro recoiled. ‘Guards!’

Killbere drew his sword and kept Álvaraz and two of his men at the entrance. Killbere shook his head at them. ‘Leave it be, Álvaraz. It will only be the King’s pride that will be wounded.’

Álvaraz shared the Englishmen’s disdain for the man he served and was grateful that Killbere’s blade at his throat made it look as though he was helpless to assist his master.

Blackstone slammed his fist on the table; beakers of wine spilled and food trembled. As did Don Pedro, but he reacted quickly and instinctively drew his knife. Blackstone’s fist closed over the hand holding the blade and rammed it with such force into the table that half its length penetrated the wood. The sudden act of violence left Don Pedro speechless. The High Steward bravely took a step forward but Blackstone’s glowering look halted him. Blackstone faced the King, who nursed his bruised hand.

‘Six hundred of the bravest men I have ever seen in battle took the enemy head on. Sayyid al-Hakam’s name should be honoured and remembered. He slowed the enemy so we could defend the bridge. I lost archers more precious than your jewels and men-at-arms more valuable than your damned kingdom. So I suggest you ride now for Corunna and the ship to Aquitaine – for that is the only place you will find salvation.’

The young King recoiled from Blackstone’s assault. His breath came hard, sweat speckled his face, his speech faltered, disbelief and shock constricting his throat, swallowing the words. He lisped some kind of mumbled threat, and then slowly gathered his wits and his composure. Don Pedro did not lack intelligence. He knew his life and the future of regaining his kingdom rested squarely with the English King’s Master of War. He steadied himself and swallowed his pride.

‘I will honour the dead. I swear it. And I spoke hastily and without proper thought to those who defended my crown. I will offer prayers and beg forgiveness at the next church on our journey.’ He spoke carefully so that his words calmed the threat that still hovered in the room. ‘But,’ he said, daring to take a step closer to Blackstone. ‘It would be better for my act of contrition to be made in the cathedral at Santiago.’

‘The place is unimportant,’ said Blackstone.

‘But the pilgrims who throng the city and the citizens of that revered place would acknowledge my piety once they see my standard flying again.’