‘My men and the boy...’ Blackstone faltered. Losing Beyard and the boy was tearing at him; he felt no shame at the tears that fell. He bent and reached for Lázaro’s hand and eased away the written pass that had brought them to their deaths. Blackstone looked at Killbere and John Jacob, their grief shared as they stood by helplessly. Blackstone wiped an arm across his tear-streaked face. He needed to think.

‘We will take the bodies of our men and this boy to the monastery and bury them side by side.’

The city’s guard commander saw the depth of the men’s loss. ‘I will have them made ready for you. Sir Thomas, do you know who did this?’

Blackstone shook his head. He didn’t want a manhunt to deny him his revenge. With a final look at his fallen friends and their savage death, he turned away. John Jacob went to follow. Killbere put a hand out to stop him. ‘No, John, let him be.’

*

When their friends’ bodies had been taken to the monastery, Blackstone, Killbere and John Jacob, weeping no longer, sat huddled in the soft rain as clouds dragged from the forested mountains by a freshening breeze shrouded the city. No one tried to pass these hard-looking men who blocked the narrow passage, the rúa led to the monastery’s side door and whatever business they had for being there it was their own and would go unchallenged. They squatted on the steps of a tavern, closed because of the Archbishop’s murder but obliged to open and surrender a bottle of brandy to the insistent men who hammered on its doors.

‘The King would not order the Archbishop’s death,’ said John Jacob. ‘It would be madness. Álvaraz is loyal but he would not permit this to happen.’

‘Ranulph de Hayle has followed us across Spain and the bitch has been the one paying him,’ said Killbere.

‘I failed to convince the Archbishop to give the King his blessing, so Don Pedro sent her. She had de Hayle waiting,’ said Blackstone, ‘and Beyard and Loys died trying to defend Lázaro. I’ll cut the King’s throat myself.’

Killbere drew breath before answering. Blackstone had retreated to a depth of anger he had not witnessed since an assassin had murdered his friend’s wife and child. The cold manner in which he spoke hid the gathering storm within. And Killbere knew Blackstone was more than willing to kill a king no matter what the consequences. Years before, the French King John had come within a few determined strides from Blackstone and Wolf Sword’s killing blow.

‘Do that and we will have failed the Prince and dishonoured the men who died attempting to get him to Aquitaine,’ Killbere said.

Blackstone drained the dregs and tossed the bottle into the gutter. ‘We will bury and pray for our dead and I will have the truth from the bitch.’

*