Blackstone felt blood-lust surge through his body. He clenched Wolf Sword, raised it and faced his men. The wind swept them and their battle cry away. He laughed. The poison’s delusion had given him the means to win. He charged de Hayle, who was taken aback by his ferocity and suddenly forced on the defensive. Blackstone rained blows so hard that the routier took a dozen strikes on his weakening blade before regaining his strength. He fought back. Blackstone’s head swirled. By luck the strike from de Hayle caught the side of Blackstone’s head with the flat of his blade. It rattled Blackstone’s teeth. He went down, rolled clear from the follow-up strike, snatched a handful of grass and hurled its muddy clod into de Hayle’s good eye. It blinded the mercenary. He threw up his free hand to wipe the mud and grit away. Blackstone lunged from the ground with his last measure of strength and rammed Wolf Sword below de Hayle’s breastbone. The force of the strike carried the blade through his chest and out the back of his neck. De Hayle dropped with the hardened steel embedded in bone and muscle.

Blackstone staggered. The killing had drained him. He slumped, then crawled towards the stream, desperate for its ice-cold shock. He was so weakened he could not cup his hands for water. Easing his chest over the shallow bank he sucked water like an animal. The current caught his shoulder and pulled him into the stream. He rolled, desperately keeping his head above water. His feet struck low rocks in the narrow stream bed and the force of water nudged him against the low sandy bank, his head resting on a smooth boulder. A place to slumber. A time to die.

He watched her approach. Velasquita looked down at him. She tossed aside her cloak, tugged at her dress and waded into the stream. He saw her draw a slim-bladed knife from her belt. He tried to move but could not. His fingers attempted to reach his archer’s knife. He wedged his left shoulder slightly higher against the bank. Grunting with effort, he forced his left arm free but could raise it no higher to defend himself or deflect the knife blow he knew was coming. Her prophecy was true. His death was not a vision of the past when he lay in the river beneath Bergerac. And this time there was no Teutonic Knight to step out of the shadows and save him.

She bent at the waist to look at him. ‘Thomas, no one has ever survived my poison before. Your strength brought you this far. You are dying now. Your exertions have helped me kill you. You die by your own efforts.’