The turmoil within Don Pedro exploded. He bellowed, fuming with incoherent anger. The High Steward levelled his staff of office, keeping the servants out of harm’s way as the King swept aside the contents of the table, the silver goblets and plates clattering across the floor. Servants retreated as he snatched at the nearest and beat him with his fists until blood spewed from a broken nose. The High Steward’s eyes widened in horror as Blackstone strode across the room and restrained the King.

‘Out!’ the High Steward commanded the servants: an act that saved their lives. Don Pedro would never allow them to live had they witnessed the assault. The King stood quivering with doubt and fear as Blackstone pressed his weight against him, face to the wall, arms locked, his mouth close to the King’s ear urging him to calm.

Don Pedro surrendered to Blackstone’s quiet command, then shook himself free. He looked at the ashen-faced steward. ‘Who witnessed this?’

‘None, sire. I banished them from the room.’

‘You will suffer the consequences for what you did,’ he said to Blackstone.

‘I restrained a king ready to commit murder. I saved you, highness, not the servant. My Prince would not tolerate such an act. I serve you in his name.’

A tense silence fell between the two men. A moment later the King nodded, regained his composure and calmed his breathing. Don Pedro smoothed his gambeson and resettled his belt.

‘We are less than a day’s ride to Corunna where there will be a ship to take you and your family to Bayonne. From there it’s only a few hours’ ride to Bordeaux,’ Blackstone said. ‘We are close to securing your safety and with my Prince’s support the throne of Castile.’

Don Pedro glared at Blackstone. ‘Enough has been said. Emotions are high. We have both suffered great loss of one sort or another. I will let what happened here pass.’ He nodded to the High Steward, who summoned servants back into the room to re-lay the table and bring more wine. Ignoring Blackstone, he lifted the goblet to his lips. It was a simple dismissal. Blackstone turned on his heel and returned to his men.

As soon as the door closed there was an edge to the King’s voice. ‘This matter cannot go unpunished.’

‘Blackstone, sire?’ said a nervous High Steward. ‘He is the Prince’s favourite.’

‘No, the Archbishop. Where is Velasquita?’

No sooner was the question asked than it was answered. The woman seemed to appear from nowhere. A simple explanation: she had been standing in the doorwell’s deep shadow all along, but nonetheless her sudden appearance provoked a frisson of fear in the superstitious. The High Steward crossed himself.

‘Out,’ said Don Pedro.

The steward ushered away the servants and followed them out of the room. She waited and then pulled the hood of her cloak back from her face.

‘You heard?’