Don Pedro knew the Master of War might forsake his duty to his Prince and kill him if he remained loyal to Velasquita. ‘I do not know. I do not control her actions. She fled. I don’t know where,’ he lied. ‘I swear it.’

‘You ordered the Archbishop’s death, and the bitch used the Englishman Ranulph de Hayle to do the killing.’

‘I have no association with him. They cannot hold me responsible.’ Don Pedro suddenly realized the one person who could implicate him in the murders was already far away. He smirked. ‘You have no proof.’

Blackstone leaned on the table. Don Pedro was tall, he had fought and killed at close quarters, but the size of the man who towered over him squeezed the breath from him.

‘You are not my King. You are not worthy of being honoured as one. I should scrape you off my boot and let your bastard half-brother deal with your stench, but I promised my Prince to rescue you. You will be ready to ride for the coast at first light or by God I will deliver him your carcass.’

He turned for the door. ‘Get back on your knees and pray I don’t change my mind.’

CHAPTER SEVENTY-FIVE

Blackstone slept badly. The cold penetrating his bones beneath his blanket was more than the night’s chill. He turned on his side, gazing into the fire’s embers, seeing distorted images of death in their shifting colours. The figures of Beyard and Lázaro, lying together as if they were father and son, stung him. A searing reminder of his own wife and daughter slain by an assassin years before. The pain of the memory made him resolve to seek a closer relationship with his son and settle any differences between them. Thoughts of how they would reconcile calmed him and he drifted into a fitful sleep.

The biting morning air settled a fine down of mist on beards and cloaks. The men saddled their horses and made preparations for the final day’s journey to the coast. The men’s sullenness at the murder of their friends would cause others grief if for any reason Blackstone’s men were attacked on this last leg of their journey.

In the distance a raptor screeched below the swirling mist and then flew out of sight.

Blackstone felt that same stab of uncertainty. ‘The King had no falcons or hawks with him,’ he said.

Álvaraz looked skyward. ‘No. It’ll be a peasant laying bird or squirrel traps scaring it from its high branches. I’ll see to my men.’

Blackstone watched the mist’s veil rising from the trees down the valley. The breeze veered, the clouds forced to abandon their tenacious hold on the treetops.