‘Pero da Covilha, I demand satisfaction!’
Pero felt his gut clench. There was only one man he had offended gravely enough to demand a fight. Such a man as no one but a feral dog would agree to duel him.
But what choice did he have?
Already mutters spread through the market square as people turned from the stalls, searching for the source of the challenge. He was hard enough to miss, a great tower of muscle with flowing auburn hair. The challenge’s recipient proved more difficult to locate.
‘Who did he say?’ they whispered. ‘Pero da where?’
Did nobody recognise his name? Pero had thought a squire of the king himself might deserve some fame, but no…
‘That’s him, I’m sure of it. Alvaro Cavalero, the Lance of Lisbon.’
‘What’s he doing, calling out some nobody?’
‘Rip him apart, Alvaro! He’s here!’