Santiago de Compostela was a spectacle to rival any bustling city. Pilgrimage was big business. Foot-weary and exhausted travellers had to eat and sleep somewhere and the citizens took full advantage of religious fervour to supply both food and bed and more besides. They sold scallop shells as tokens of successful completion of the arduous journey; silver and metal guilds employed smiths making bowls and other commemorative artefacts. Not every traveller’s purse was empty, or soul bereft of hope for salvation. The wealthy travelled in comfort until the city was in sight and then piously walked the remaining few miles. Mostly, though, it was the poor who sought solace at the saint’s tomb and a communal blessing in the cathedral from the Archbishop.

Blackstone, Killbere and John Jacob entered the fortified walls. Blackstone told the gate commander that he came to see the Archbishop in the name of the King of England and the Prince of Wales and Aquitaine. Killbere’s questioning look once the lie had escaped Blackstone’s lips earned him a shrug in reply. The closer they got to the cathedral the more street merchants and pilgrims jostled them. Their escort of soldiers cleared their passage.

They were led around the cathedral towards the Pórtico de la Gloria, the arched main gate into the cathedral entrance where lines of pilgrims were kept either side of the entrance, their garbled voices a pottage of different languages. Stewards and monks stripped the pilgrims of their clothing and tossed what were little more than rags into large braziers, handing every traveller a clean set of clothing.

‘We need a safe place for our horses,’ Blackstone told the escort.

‘There is an alley beyond the plaza, lord. I will have my men guard them until your return.’

‘Keep this horse separate,’ he said, patting the bastard horse’s neck. ‘He is sent to test men’s faith in God.’

The soldiers’ eyes widened, but they nodded obediently.

‘John, go with them. You handle my horse and then join us inside.’

‘How will I find you?’ said John Jacob as they dismounted.

‘You’ll hear the wailing of angels when men such as us enter a place such as this,’ Killbere said.

*

Blackstone and Killbere followed their guide through the three arches, heavy with sculptures glorifying God and threatening the sinful with images of demons tearing out sinners’ tongues. A monk greeted them and led them on.

‘Makes you think, Thomas, a place as glorious as this,’ Killbere whispered.

‘Of what? Our lies and whoring?’ Blackstone answered quietly.

‘No, of how much they spent on it. They could have built a hundred taverns just from what those arches cost, and a more pleasurable place for a man to spend his time. These places are always so cold.’

‘You never complain when you’re shriven before battle.’

‘Aye, well, that’s different. My thoughts can’t see my soul but my soul sees God. Better to be safe.’