Shadow of the Hawk

by David Gilman

  The Gascon captain came into view, saw Blackstone standing with the boy and raised a hand. Lázaro broke free of Blackstone and ran downhill to Beyard, who opened his shield arm and held the lad to him. It reminded Blackstone of an eagle protecting its young beneath a wing.

  And then another thought. Of his own son, Henry, far away, without his father’s protection or a mother’s love. Blackstone caught John Jacob’s eye. His squire nodded. He knew and he understood.

  Men’s voices called out, captains shouted orders, and the moment passed.

  *

  Blackstone moved his men several miles away from the town. Despite their fatigue they rode alert for any counter-attack but none came. Then a warning arrived from Renfred’s scouts. A large body of men appeared on the distant hilltop. Blackstone drew up the men and placed the prisoners in front so they would be the first to die in any attack.

  The riders advanced in extended line and then slowed, one man riding ahead of the others. Blackstone kneed the bastard horse forward. ‘It’s Hugh Calveley,’ he told Killbere. ‘Keep the men ready. He fights for the highest bidder.’

  Blackstone reached the centre ground. The Cheshire knight grinned. ‘Thomas, you find trouble even on your return to the Prince. Those are de Hayle’s men you have.’

  ‘Some of them. He’s elsewhere.’

  ‘And their fate?’

  ‘Hanging. I’ll execute them on the road so that every traveller from Paris and Rouen going towards Poitiers will know that I kill routiers who commit atrocities. Do you ride to Bordeaux with us?’

  ‘No, I have a contract with the new French King. He pays well now his father is dead, and he has what’s left of the ransom money they collected to pay Edward for his release. We ride south. I thought you might join us. The fighting’s done with up here; we’ve played our part, now we need to earn money. What do you say?’

  ‘I cannot, I’m sworn.’

  ‘Aye, well, a man’s word might be his honour but facing a pauper’s future should make him reconsider.’ He grinned. ‘I had thought of seizing Charles of Blois’s body when they took it for burial at the Franciscan monastery at Guingcamp. His widow is wealthy enough.’

  ‘But you decided against it because if there was a delay in payment you’d have a rotting corpse on your hands,’ said Blackstone.

  Calveley laughed. ‘That’s the measure of it, Thomas. Come with us. There’s even more money to be made than the ransoms you took at Auray and what the King pays you.’

  ‘My men and I are paid fairly and we have money banked in Florence. We take booty from fights like Auray, and there’ll be others.’

  Hugh Calveley admitted defeat. ‘I thought you’d turn me down, but it was worth asking because I can use you. I’m short of a hundred men or more and I need bowmen, and you’ve some of the best. Can I not tempt you? I’ll make it more than worth your while.’

  ‘I’m wanted back in Bordeaux by the Prince. He’ll be vexed enough as it is given my slow return.’

  Calveley gathered the reins. ‘Fair enough, but if he gets so damned vexed that he disowns you again then you come and find me. I sell my sword, Thomas, you know that. I hope we do not find ourselves on opposite sides.’

  ‘That is my wish as well.’

  ‘So be it. And unlike those unfortunate wretches I’d not let you hang any of my men.’

  ‘Then let us hope they do not commit rape and murder of women and children.’

  ‘Not while I lead them.’

  Blackstone gripped Calveley’s extended hand. ‘God go with you, Hugh.’

  ‘Aye and you, Thomas.’

  He turned his horse and cantered back to the waiting men. Blackstone watched Calveley’s men fall in behind him and make their way across the hills until they were out of sight. A part of him rode with them, free to roam where they wished and choose their own cause. It was a fleeting vision. He had earned his honour from the King of England, his men were honed and he had made a vow years before to keep the Prince of Wales safe. That was enough ambition for any man.

  *

  When the sun rose higher in the sky behind the veil of clouds, he turned the men deep into a forest and found an open glade where a narrow tributary spilled across a shallow bed. They made camp as men took it in turn to bathe and wash blood and grime from their bodies, shirts and braies, while those who waited kept watch and organized a meal and a place to sleep. Lázaro worked diligently, helping Beyard, eager to please the fighting men and their captain. He carried water and prepared food for the Gascon. Men came and went, alternating in their duties until most were washed and fed. Blackstone had gone among the men, checked that Halif ben Josef was allowed to treat any wounds needing attention and the prisoners were secure. Ariz and Saustin, two of the Navarrese fighters rescued from the prison, had fought well. Their companion, Tibalt, had suffered a grievous wound. Halif ben Josef confirmed the young man’s shattered arm needed to be amputated. Blackstone looked at the wound.

  ‘If you want to live, it has to come off,’ he told the Spaniard. ‘I’ve seen lesser wounds turn black. You’ll be dead in a week if we don’t cut it off.’

  The young man swore vehemently as his friends held him down. It made no difference that Blackstone did not understand. A curse sounded the same in any language.

  ‘Get a blade heated. The wound will need searing. Master Josef, I leave you with the wounded.’ Blackstone left the stricken man and continued walking through the camp. His clothes stuck to him and he yearned for the cool embrace of the river to wash away the stench and dirt.

  Halif ben Josef placed a hand on the man’s forehead. ‘I have herbs to put in wine that will make you sleep. The cut will take less time than it takes a man to mount a horse. It is quick. Accept life, my friend.’

  The wounded man shook his head vehemently. His comrade, Ariz, put a knee in his chest. ‘Choose. Live or die. It’s not even your sword arm. We have fought together many times, Tibalt, but I will cut your throat now if it is death you want because we have all seen men die, blackened with poison and in agony. See the cut as a blessing in disguise. The whores of Saragossa will take pity and charge you half-price.’

  ‘Fuck you, Ariz,’ he said without malice. He stared at ben Josef. ‘Jew, do it quickly or I swear I will shave your beard and whip you all the way to Navarre.’

  Ben Josef sighed. ‘My friend, if I were lying where you are and you were in my place, I would speak more sweetly to the man with the knife in his hand. That way he would administer the potions that would take away my pain.’

  Saustin leaned over the man’s sweating face. ‘Tibalt, you arse, you should be grateful. The Jew is no barber-surgeon. I have heard how he helped Blackstone’s men. You should not abuse him.’

  Tibalt glared at ben Josef. ‘Save my arm and I will reward you.’

  ‘You would not live long enough to do that, my young friend. It is time to choose.’

  The Spaniard sucked in a lungful of air and breathed out, releasing his fear. He nodded.

  ‘Very well,’ said ben Josef. He gestured Saustin to pass the small bottle from his satchel. ‘You will sleep and I will quickly cut, and then I will cauterize the wound. I will wrap it in linen and I will change that dressing every day until we reach Spain.’

  *

  Blackstone and Killbere stripped off mail and gambeson and walked to the sandy bank to bathe and wash their shirts.

  ‘Do you think Beyard will take him as a servant?’ said Killbere. ‘With training he could be a page.’

  Blackstone shook his head. ‘Beyard is a Gascon. The day will come when he’ll return to Lord Jean de Grailly and they have enough men serving them. He’ll protect the boy until he’s strong enough to go off on his own. And before then the lad will tell us why he’s being hunted.’

  Clouds broke free and sent spear shafts of light onto the water. Blackstone and Killbere stripped naked and lay in the cold water, heads back lazily watching the contest between sun and clouds.

  ‘I woul
d prefer a copper tub of hot water scented with a whore’s cheap perfume, but given the past few hours I will let that thought settle until we come across the next decent-sized town.’

  Blackstone rubbed the dirt free from his hair. ‘When my father taught me to hunt, we sat in a glade like this once. We watched a fox carry a stick in its jaws and paddle out into the water until we could only see its head. It turned his back to the current so the water lifted its fur. We saw a swarm of fleas smother his head as they tried to escape drowning; then they went onto his muzzle and then onto the stick. The fox let the stick go, came out of the river, shook himself and went back into the forest.’

  Killbere knelt on the sandy riverbed and vigorously rubbed his crotch. ‘In truth, Thomas, nature teaches us all. I have an idea to rid myself of these damned lice. I’ll lie facing the current and clench a stick between the cheeks of my arse. When my arse itches like a demon’s fingernail from scurrying lice I’ll fart and blow them all downriver.’

  Blackstone stood and scraped fingers through his hair, squeezing out the wet. ‘I’ll remember never to take drinking water downstream from you.’

  John Jacob came towards him from the trees, carrying Blackstone’s spare linen shirt. ‘Sir Thomas, Beyard says the boy is able to speak more easily now. And he has a story to tell.’

  *

  Blackstone and Beyard settled Lázaro by the fire. At first he only muttered beneath his breath. Beyard urged him to find his courage and tell Blackstone his story, as he had promised. He gave him wine and pressed his arm to reassure him. There was no one close by, and no one would interrupt: John Jacob would see to that.

  The boy’s nervous stammer eased and his voice grew stronger but he kept his eyes lowered. He had been a five-year-old orphaned urchin on the streets of Pamplona when officials of the Castilian royal household, making their way south through Navarre to Castile, found him. They had been scouring the slums for children to work in the stables and kitchens. Garderobe buckets needed emptying, floors swept and pampered dogs’ excrement cleaned from reed floors: the urchin learnt fast and soon began to anticipate the needs of those who wielded power before they made their demands. Two years of back-breaking work ended when the young Queen of Castile turned down a wrong corridor in the labyrinthine castle at Burgos. The boy’s willingness to please and angelic looks touched her heart. Who would deny the lonely Queen a child that had engaged her affections? The boy was gifted to the isolated bride, and he faithfully served the mistress who elevated him from his lowly position.

  The memory halted Lázaro’s telling. He raised his eyes to Beyard and Blackstone, confirming to himself that it was at last safe to recount what he had witnessed.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

  Medina Sidonia, Southern Spain Three years ago

  It was a death foretold.

  Terror stalked the castle’s corridors. The woman’s screams echoed as the relentless killer followed her retreat. There was no need for the assassin to hurry. The prey had nowhere to run. No escape. No doors could be bolted. No lock held a key.

  The young Queen had been confined in various fortresses since her marriage eight years before so that the King could live with his mistress. In recent months she had been sent to the castle at Medina Sidonia. The child bride was Blanche de Bourbon, niece of King Jean II of France, cousin to the Dauphin, married for political convenience when she was fourteen years old to King Pedro of Castile and abandoned by him once treaties were signed. Eight years of near solitude except for attendant women and in latter years a boy taken under her wing. There were to be no witnesses to the murder: the killer had strangled her servant women.

  The boy scurried after his mistress until she could go no further. He slammed closed the door and dragged a heavy bench across it. Blanche reached the open window and stared down at the rocks a hundred feet below. To jump or face the assassin?

  ‘Hide!’ she told the boy.

  The nine-year-old flung himself into her arms. He felt her heartbeat. Rapid, thudding against the brocade dress. She calmed him. ‘God bless you, child. Now, Lázaro, you must hide. It is over,’ she said, and then lifted her crucifix over his head. ‘Do not be afraid,’ she said. ‘Pray to God for my soul and live according to His will.’ She pulled a thin, plain ring of gold and pearl from her finger and pressed it into his hand. ‘Find a money changer and this will buy you life.’ She bustled him into the garderobe and pulled closed the curtain.

  The boy held his breath and smeared tears from his face as the pursuer pushed aside the heavy bench. Peeping through the curtain he saw the burly assailant stride into the room. The young Queen found her courage and faced him. He forced her onto a stool, embracing her from behind in a vice-like grip. Then a second man, hooded, stepped inside and stood for a moment staring at the helpless woman. This was the assassin. A nod to the burly man and he forced the Queen’s mouth open. Her killer took a step forward and spilled the contents of a small phial into her mouth. Blanche struggled. She coughed and choked as the poison sent her body into a spasm. The man holding her stood back as she fell to the floor.

  Her lips turned blue. Blanche de Bourbon, twenty-two years old, Queen of Castile, wife of Pedro the Cruel, stared lifeless towards the boy trembling behind the curtain.

  *

  When the killers left, panic seized him; he ran, careering down the spiral stairs, pressing his back against the rough stone walls as voices echoed upward: the killers as their horses galloped away. Part of him yearned to return to his dead mistress, to cradle her, hope rising that she was not dead. But he brushed it aside. He was so close to her when she fell that he’d seen her life slip away from her eyes. Pulling his shirt and jerkin higher to obscure the rosary, he waited at the stairwell. There was a small gate nearby; he would use that for his escape – but where to go? When the assassins realized that one of the Queen’s servants had survived they would look for him. There were no sentries. The castle seemed deserted. The main gates remained open. Venturing into the courtyard he ran for the gate, but horsemen thundered on the approach road from the town. He recognized Iñigo Ortiz de Estúñiga, the captain who had devotedly guarded the queen. The boy ran but was easily caught. He struggled, but the soldiers held him with ease.

  ‘Lázaro,’ said de Estúñiga, ‘Look at me.’ He grabbed Lázaro’s shoulders, forcing him to cease struggling. ‘We could not stop it but I refused to be a part of it. I defied the King.’

  Tears of anger and grief choked the boy.

  ‘They will find out they left you alive. I will help you escape. You must run and never stop running and you must tell no one what you know.’ He rubbed a thumb across the boy’s face to clear away the tears. ‘Did you see who did the killing?’

  Survival instincts tightened every sinew in Lázaro’s body. He shook his head. His fist curled around the Queen’s ring.

  For a moment it seemed the young nobleman doubted the boy’s answer. ‘Good. We will get you to the coast and then... then we will face our destiny. I will pray the Virgin Mary protects you.’

  Years of servitude had conditioned Lázaro to answer respectfully. ‘And I will pray for you, my lord.’

  Iñigo Ortiz de Estúñiga smiled. ‘Bless you, child. I am protected by my family’s standing and will return to their estates but you must understand, Lázaro, you in comparison are nothing more than a fly to be squashed by the King. Better to cut out your tongue than ever speak of this. I save you only because the Queen held you in as much affection as I did her.’

  ‘It’s time, my lord,’ called one of his men. ‘They’ll soon be here under the pretext of finding her.’

  The Queen’s guardian climbed into the saddle, extended his hand and pulled the servant boy up behind him; then he spurred his horse down into the dry grasslands towards the coast and Cadiz. Lázaro turned his head to look for the last time at the castle of Medina Sidonia sitting high on the hillside. It was the one place he had found happiness. Now all that lay ahead was the promise of being hunted and, one
day, when he failed to watch the shadows, being killed.

  PART THREE

  BETRAYAL

  CHAPTER THIRTY

  The battle at Cocherel was won the day before the twenty-six-year-old Dauphin was anointed King of France in the cathedral at Rheims. The elaborate ceremony masked how diminished a country France had become. The English had humiliated his late father. The country was torn apart by routiers’ claws. So little remained of what had been the greatest nation in Christendom, beaten to its knees and humiliated: the Dauphin Charles was determined to seize it back and destroy the English hold on his beloved France.

  He was radiant. The rays of sunlight embraced him. His coronation robes glowed as if the Almighty had touched him. As if God himself had beatified him. It was the rebirth of France. The newly crowned King, the pious Charles V, was a man of culture who loved art and literature and who schemed with the instinct of a foraging sewer rat.

  *

  Weeks later, when the joyous celebrations had waned, Simon Bucy, the late King’s senior adviser, a man who had once led the French Parlement, stood waiting to be acknowledged. The young King seemed not even to see that he was in the same chamber, but that was little different from when Charles was Regent, ever distracted by teeming thoughts clamouring for his attention. Bucy knew that over the years the young Charles’s mind had squirmed with intrigue. He was a thinker. Not like his father, who reacted emotionally to events. No, Bucy thought, Charles would always look as far as the horizon and see what road they should take to reach it.

  Bucy had given his undivided loyalty to the Dauphin, as he was then, as he tried to rule France during his father’s imprisonment in England. However, the elder statesman never revealed his feelings. Inscrutability was the key to holding onto whatever influence he had. He had wavered in his loyalty to the old King when Jean had weakened and the Dauphin had shown that he had a mind like a mantrap. Bucy had chosen well. Like the astute lawyer that he was, he saw the strengths and weaknesses of those around him. And now the calculating lawyer in him warned him to tread carefully. Charles, the sickly youth, had grown into an equally illness-ravaged, twenty-six-year-old man. He was no soldier. He could not even ride a horse. But despite his weakened body he had a general’s strategic mind. It was rumoured that the loss of his hair and fingernails was due to him being poisoned as a boy by the King of Navarre. Victory at Cocherel had finally rid the nation of any threat from the odious Navarre and his attempt to claim the crown. But bad news always followed good.