Blackstone gave them time for their spirits to lift. They were battle-weary, having fought the length of France and then Spain. ‘Make ready. Draw supplies. One day more, lads, only one more day and our duty is done.’

The men drifted away and Blackstone walked to where Álvaraz and his meagre escort of twenty men waited. ‘Are your men ready to move?’

‘Yes, Sir Thomas.’

‘Be prepared to abandon your horses at Corunna. There won’t be enough room on the ship.’

‘When we reach the coast, I will secure the King’s wellbeing and those with him, and then I abandon him. We will no longer serve him – and besides, I have no wish to live in Aquitaine and be told what to do by a King in exile and an English Prince who lavishes hospitality on him. I will find service for me and my men with an honourable lord.’

‘Then I offer my thanks for standing at our side. Tell the High Steward to have the servants ready to move at first light.’

*

Blackstone went into the King’s quarters where two servants stood patiently waiting against the far wall. A lantern hung on a hook and chain from the ceiling.

‘Get out.’ Blackstone’s calm command made them scurry out of the back door. Blackstone heard a voice raised and then the High Steward entered, pushing the fearful servants back into the room. He recoiled when he saw the huge man standing in the room without permission, and quickly backed away when the King came in.

Don Pedro was unperturbed by Blackstone’s presence. Blackstone made no move, did not bow, made no sign of honouring the rightful King of Spain.

‘I was at prayer,’ said Don Pedro, indicating he wanted wine. The steward poured and once more retreated as far back as he could.

‘Get out,’ said Blackstone again.

The frightened steward nearly tripped over himself in his attempt to escape. A look of alarm creased the King’s face.

‘Do not call for Álvaraz; he won’t hear you,’ said Blackstone.

Don Pedro was a seasoned hunter. He knew that when a predator fixed its attention on its prey, the way Blackstone looked at him, then it was as good as dead. ‘I was offering prayers for the souls of your friend and the boy,’ he said, keeping the edge of panic from his voice.

‘You were praying for your miserable soul. Where is she?’

‘You insult me? You have already dared to lay violent hands on a king.’ His challenging tone was only momentarily that of a ruler; beneath his words was the fear of a man alone facing imminent violence.

‘When you reach my warrior Prince you can whimper your misfortune to him and relate my disgust at sacrificing the best of men for you. Where is she?’ Blackstone said again.