Gontrán nodded, encouraged by the compliment. ‘I reached the outskirts of the city and heard the news that assassins had slain the Archbishop and others. Murdered them in cold blood. I turned away from that sacred place because I could not bear the thought of such violence being committed in a place of love and forgiveness. I was planning to return home but then I remembered seeing riders’ – he shrugged – ‘a few men, no more, cloaked and riding hard towards where I had journeyed from. Towards where I live. It is not a place people go to with any ease. Once through the valley and forests there is no place for horses. The cliffs are too steep; you have to go on foot. But to where, I asked myself? There are coves along the coast from my village where men smuggle. So I was frightened of returning in case these were the people who did the killing and were making their escape.’ Gontrán seemed lost in a reverie as he put the pieces of his journey together. ‘I prayed at a roadside shrine for the souls of the dead and begged to be kept safe and I swear’ – he looked again at the attentive men – ‘I swear when I opened my eyes the hawk was sitting on top of the shrine and glared at me. Have you seen a hawk’s stare? It’s as if it’s ripping into your heart.’

Blackstone kept his eyes on the fisherman. He saw others cross themselves. He glanced at Killbere, whose concerned look told him he felt the same apprehension as himself.

Gontrán’s voice lowered, reflecting his sense of awe at what he had seen. ‘It flew low along the open path and then soared high. As if waiting for me. I turned my back on the way home, followed the path and into the forest. I kept hoping it would fly off, that my grief at the murders had twisted my mind. But every time I faltered, the hawk appeared.’ He looked up at the silent men. ‘And led me here, but I do not know why.’

CHAPTER SEVENTY-SIX

Blackstone thanked Gontrán, put coins in his calloused palm and told him to go into Santiago as he had intended, because it would be the prayers of the pilgrims who would restore the spiritual faith of the city.

Blackstone checked the bastard horse’s girth, ever wary of it swinging its head and snapping with those yellowed teeth.

‘No, Thomas, this is madness. You cannot go alone,’ said Killbere.

Blackstone busied himself. ‘The men are ready, Álvaraz knows the way, it is your job to protect Don Pedro and get him on that ship and then wait for me.’

‘God’s tears. Not one man will let you ride after the bastard de Hayle and the devil’s whore alone. Not one of us!’ Killbere’s voice rose in a mixture of desperation and anger.