Shadow of the Hawk

by David Gilman

  ‘That and as much wine as he wants. Dissent between those who share a secret will spew out the truth better than a knife at the throat. They’ll show their hand soon enough.’

  CHAPTER FORTY

  One by one the captains listened to Blackstone’s plan. It was an unhurried conversation, seemingly innocent to anyone who walked past the men being briefed. Ariz watched Santos press between the tethered horses. As one of Beyard’s men helped him on with his mail, Ariz kept an eye on the king’s guide. Santos was dipping his hand into his saddle satchel. Ariz pulled on his surcoat and buckled his sword belt, watching as Santos pulled free his hand, bent low and skulked into the bushes.

  Ariz checked he wasn’t being watched himself, and then rolled his blanket and food sack and walked without haste to his own horse. He secured the blanket roll, keeping an eye out for any of the captains approaching. They were busy. Some were speaking to Killbere, others to John Jacob. Meulon bent a knee and spoke to the Gascon, Beyard. No one was looking in his direction. He ducked below the tethering reins and pushed aside the bushes. A movement caught his eye. He pressed forward to where Santos squatted on his haunches drinking from a leather flask. The moment the tavern brawler saw the Navarrese fighter, he rolled to one side and crouched, knife in hand.

  Ariz looked quickly behind him, ensuring none of the men were any closer. ‘What are you doing?’ he hissed.

  ‘Keep your distance, you whoreson. I’ll gut you and leave you to rot here. It’ll be self-defence, and the Englishman will believe me. He trusts me now. Not you. You scum.’ Spittle rained from his toothless gums.

  ‘Keep your voice down. What’s happened, you old fool?’

  ‘Fool, is it? Blackstone told me what you said about me.’

  ‘Put down the knife and we’ll talk,’ Ariz told him, stepping closer, hand outstretched.

  ‘No! Stay where you are. You told him I was drunk, but he’s no fool. He thinks you took the lead on the path. I am not to blame. Not me.’

  Ariz sighed; his arm lowered, he took another step. ‘You are an old fool,’ he said without malice. ‘Blackstone is playing with you. He was trying to find out if we lied.’

  ‘I kept my mouth shut! I said nothing! You blamed me.’

  Ariz’s innocent gesture of opening his palms to appeal to the old man brought him another step closer. ‘There is no blame. Don’t you understand? He is testing you. Us. I have not spoken to him. He has not asked me anything.’

  A cloud of doubt shrouded Santos’s eyes and in that moment Ariz lunged, seized his wrist and clubbed him with his fist on the side of the head. The drunkard’s legs folded. Ariz held the older man with little effort, knee pressed into his chest, the old man’s knife seized and held at his throat. Santos, the wind knocked out of him, wheezed and spluttered from Ariz’s weight. Once he saw the older man was incapable, Ariz raised his weight from his chest. ‘Tell me everything Blackstone said to you.’

  Santos propped himself against a tree and related Blackstone’s instructions.

  ‘Then he hasn’t changed the route?’ said Ariz.

  Santos shook his head and coughed the phlegm from his wheezing chest. ‘Not until we clear the track, then we go across to the mountains.’

  ‘Then we’re safe. All Blackstone did was to put the fear of God into you in case you had been drinking. He used words I never said to provoke you. He’s a sly bastard, the Englishman. See it for what it is: he was searching for lies and never found any.’

  ‘But if anything goes wrong I die first. I am the one who’s leading them into the ambush.’

  ‘You’ll be safe enough. You know the place: you stop and tell them you need to check the road ahead. Now that Blackstone is halving his force we will be safer. Tibalt and de Hayle’s men will overwhelm them.’ Ariz stood and tossed the knife down next to Santos. ‘Hold your nerve and we live to spend our money.’

  ‘Just kill the boy,’ said Santos as he got to his feet. ‘Kill him and then ride hard for Tibalt.’

  ‘And what proof could I offer? You think they would take our word for it? Besides, I’d have a dozen arrows in my back if I made a run for it. Just do what you’ve been paid to do. By tonight the boy will be in de Hayle’s hands, Blackstone might even be captured and if he isn’t then there’ll be a reward for taking his head to the French.’ He picked up the fallen flask and poured its contents into the dirt. ‘You can drink yourself to death when it’s done.’

  He threw the empty flask at Santos and went back towards the camp.

  *

  Blackstone randomly picked men to be in the first group to follow him. He plucked Ariz from Beyard’s command and told him to act as translator in case Santos spoke to anyone on their route and to ensure what they said was accurate. The Navarrese was already suspicious of Blackstone’s intentions but had no choice but to obey. When Blackstone rode out of sight Killbere signalled the remaining captains. Andrés reined in his horse next to Beyard, who spoke Spanish.

  ‘It will be a hard ride, lord. Will the boy keep up?’ he said, glancing at Lázaro.

  ‘He’s under my protection and when we are in position, you will stay with him and the horses.’

  The boy nodded and heeled the horse.

  ‘What did he say?’ said Killbere.

  ‘A hard and fast ride, Sir Gilbert,’ Beyard answered.

  Killbere grunted. He glanced at the fearful boy whose life was in their hands. William Ashford and his men were waiting. ‘Keep Lázaro close.’

  Will Longdon and Jack Halfpenny’s archers rode behind the lead troops with Beyard’s men protecting their rear. Andrés waited and when Renfred signalled him to go his horse lurched forward.

  Halif ben Josef was halfway down the hill on the way to his vineyard. He turned and saw the men spur their horses. His heart beat a little faster. He had ridden with Jean de Grailly and been captured at Cocherel. Then sold and held prisoner until Thomas Blackstone strode into his life and gave him his freedom. He was glad not to be caught up in the fighting and death that would surely come now that Blackstone was using himself and his men as bait. If Ranulph de Hayle was waiting in ambush on the plateau known as El Talo then Blackstone would be caught with a narrow track behind him, a cliff on his right flank and the rising broken ground on his left. The old physician watched a blade of sunlight cut through the low clouds and settle on his rows of vines. It was a good omen. He was happy to be home.

  *

  Ranulph de Hayle and his men were silent. A hundred and seventy-eight men squatted next to their hobbled horses, pressed back into the trees on the edge of the El Talo, the broad plateau. A quick tug to free the leather rein securing the horse’s fetlocks gave them a fast mount and attack. The moment Thomas Blackstone and his men entered the open ground they would be on the defensive and would force those that survived the initial assault over the cliff edge. The craggy hillside rising to the right offered no escape: its steep broken ground would stop any horseman. It was a good plan that had taken days to put into place once Ranulph de Hayle had accepted Tibalt’s betrayal. The one-armed man had promised Blackstone’s guide could be bought. One of de Hayle’s Navarrese men had met secretly with Tibalt in Pamplona. It did not take long to establish that the boy was still under Blackstone’s protection. It came as a shock, though, because he’d thought they might have left the lad in Bordeaux with the Prince.

  De Hayle chewed on a piece of dried meat and picked his teeth with a grubby fingernail. He looked at the men down the line. French money paid their wages, but it would be Castilian gold that would make de Hayle a wealthy man once the boy was delivered. He didn’t know why the lad was so valuable to those who wanted him. It made no difference. The pursuit of the boy had come full circle, and the prize was about to be handed to him. And when he took Blackstone’s head back to the French King, then he would be showered with even greater rewards.

  ‘There,’ said a man at his shoulder.

  De Hayle looked to where the man pointed. A hawk, its grey-striped
underside blurring as it sped across the sky; it spiralled upward, circling on a thermal, and gazed down on the men. Its sudden urgent cry drew the men’s attention.

  ‘Bad luck,’ said the man and crossed himself.

  Ranulph de Hayle spat out the sour taste of old meat. ‘It’s an omen,’ he said. ‘A good one. It’s telling us they are close by.’

  The man did not look convinced and, shaking his head, returned his attention to the narrow gap where the track entered the open ground.

  De Hayle licked his lips. Whether or not it was an omen, it would feed on the dead by nightfall.

  *

  ‘Did you see that?’ said John Jacob as they edged around the bend of the track. ‘The last time I saw one of those it heralded Perinne’s death at Brignais.’

  ‘A French sword heralded his death as he saved my life. Ignore the superstitions, John. If we’ve seen the hawk, then so have de Hayle’s men. Let them think it presages their deaths.’

  Blackstone raised an arm and the column halted. Santos rode on oblivious that the men were no longer following. Blackstone glanced at Ariz, who looked uncertain. ‘Let him ride ahead alone for a while,’ he said. ‘Just in case.’

  Ariz nodded. There was nothing he could do. He eased one hand from the reins as the stationary horse shifted its weight. He patted its neck by way of a distraction and then returned his hand to his belt, letting his hand curl around the knife there. If Blackstone suspected an ambush, then Ariz would slash and run. Blackstone watched the hawk a moment longer. He thought he glimpsed its yellow eyes glaring at him. It was a trick of the light, he decided. The hawk was too high but such a bird liked to hunt in forests and if there was woodland around the bend in the track on the other side of the plateau, then that’s where de Hayle’s men would be.

  Santos finally realized that Blackstone was no longer following him. He turned in the saddle and the waiting men saw the look of alarm on his face. Confused, he hesitated. As Santos looked back and forth, Blackstone knew his instincts were correct. He lifted his shield onto his left arm, and his men followed his lead, all except Ariz, who knew their plan had been foiled.

  ‘Did you expect me to follow you and Santos to my death?’ said Blackstone.

  Ariz swept the knife towards Blackstone’s face. Meulon, a yard behind him, struck him with his mace. Ariz slumped across his horse’s withers; the horse shied, tumbling him to the ground. Panicked, Santos spurred his horse away.

  ‘Drag him off the path,’ shouted Meulon, turning in his saddle towards two of the men.

  ‘Let’s flush them out!’ Blackstone said and spurred the bastard horse. There was a heave of saddle leather and jangle of horse bridle in a gathering surge of energy as horses’ hooves clattered on the stony path. Blackstone pulled Wolf Sword free, raised it high, ready to strike the moment they swept around the corner and charged into the men waiting to kill them.

  CHAPTER FORTY-ONE

  Ranulph de Hayle saw the panicked Santos pound around the corner. He knew at once what had happened.

  ‘Mount!’ he bellowed. Caught unaware, they had only moments to untie their horses and ride into the clearing. Barely half the men were in the saddle when Blackstone and his men charged into sight. There was near enough five hundred yards for Blackstone to cover. Men cursed as their horses fought the rein when they tried to mount, startled by the sudden appearance of the other riders. As Blackstone’s men spilled into the open ground, de Hayle saw how few they were. He spurred his horse forward. Santos was halfway across the clearing when he saw the horsemen appear from the trees; he yanked the reins too hard and his horse stumbled. He pitched forward, landing heavily on the unyielding ground. He lay still.

  Le Bête’s men broke free of the trees in extended line. Blackstone would soon reach the centre of the plateau. De Hayle’s swarm of men would dictate the fight. The mercenary grunted with satisfaction. Blackstone must intend to strike hard at de Hayle’s centre. It would suck them into the fray and then his men would encircle the foolhardy Blackstone and crush him.

  ‘We have them!’ he bellowed, waving his sword to signal the encircling command.

  No sooner had de Hayle’s men broken left and right than Blackstone’s men halted, heeling their horses into defensive ranks, shields raised. If de Hayle’s men punched through from any flank, front or side, Blackstone’s men could isolate and kill them. It was too late for de Hayle to halt his own manoeuvre; his men were peeling away, now as uncertain as himself. Blackstone’s sudden change of tactic made de Hayle pull up; the men who rode with him were now scattered across the plateau, wheeling horses away from the attack.

  A screeching call reached them. De Hayle looked up. The raptor flicked a tasselled wing tip and swept away as the sky darkened. A whispering breeze broke the still air as arrow shafts arced and fell, followed by another deadly swarm. Blackstone had not moved but de Hayle’s men were exposed. Most had not seen the sky darken. The sudden impact of arrows an inch thick, tipped with three-inch-long bodkin points, ripped into them. A third flight of arrows inflicted more heavy casualties. Man and horse screamed in pain. Riders fell, pierced through their backs; others had thighs pinned to their saddles. Horses fell too, crushing wounded riders, causing panic, forcing others to veer and stumble. Unseated men staggered in disarray. The relentless thud of iron-tipped shafts sowed a death crop across the field. Where once le Bête had had an overwhelming advantage, he now had a third of his men down. At least. Bodies lay everywhere: skulls pierced, some with more than one arrow in their backs, others crushed by dying horses that still whinnied in agony. De Hayle looked to the direction of attack and saw as many men as Blackstone had on horseback clambering down the broken ground on foot. The first ranks were already forming up to deliver the killing attack that would surely be coming.

  He heard the flutter of goose-feather fletchings and ducked instinctively. An arrow struck his horse’s neck, the force of it punching through the thick muscle. His horse bellowed and fell. De Hayle rolled clear. He hit the ground hard. Winded, he clambered to his knees and saw Blackstone’s men spur their horses forward. The fight would be over before it had started. The mercenary snatched at a loose horse’s reins and hauled himself into the saddle. Any dream of taking Blackstone’s head from his shoulders vanished with the bitter taste of defeat and dust on his tongue.

  As the clash of steel reverberated above men’s curses, he wheeled the horse away from the fight.

  *

  Killbere, Beyard, Renfred and their men held their line at the foot of the hill. While de Hayle’s men turned this way and that to escape the assault, Sir Gilbert and his companions hacked horse’s legs from beneath them, struck limbs from their riders and, when a man fell, plunged blades into face, chest and stomach. Savagery was the fighting man’s most important weapon. Will Longdon’s archers were coming downhill, halving the distance from where they had shot from their vantage point. There was no need for them to shoot again. De Hayle’s men were dead and dying. Some had broken free from the slaughter, followed de Hayle into the forest and escaped. Most could not.

  Blackstone’s men struck at the pockets of men who came together to strike their leader down. Men who fled on foot were pursued and killed. Meulon’s men fighting with Blackstone wheeled and blocked horsemen trying to escape down the ongoing track, entrapping them between himself and Blackstone. Those who raised arms in surrender barely drew their last breath before being slain. There was no mercy given for the likes of these men.

  Killbere and the others advanced on foot. Every flank was closed off to the survivors. Blackstone carved a path through the gaggles of men desperately trying to fight their way clear. The battle shifted as men fell back, others advanced and the flanks closed in. They had yet to be counted, but it looked as though eighty of de Hayle’s men had died, sixty had escaped through the forest and down the mountainside with de Hayle, and the remaining thirty-four survivors were surrounded. The fighting ceased as the encircled men turned this way and that trying to
find a weakness in Blackstone’s men. There was none. Blackstone edged forward.

  ‘You men fought well, but I cannot let you live. Ranulph de Hayle paid you to inflict terror. I will offer you the rope or you die where you are.’

  One of de Hayle’s captains glared at Blackstone, then looked at the surviving men around him.

  ‘A slow strangling death kicking our life away? Pissing our breeches? No rope! We’re fighting men. We’ll die but we’ll take enough of you with us.’

  Blackstone turned and nodded to the men. They parted, exposing Will Longdon and Jack Halfpenny’s archers, arrows nocked, ready to kill without further injury to Blackstone’s men. Will Longdon bent his war bow; his archers followed as one.

  They loosed.

  *

  Blackstone’s boot turned one of the dead. The man’s face was contorted in agony. Beyard and his men clambered back up the hill to retrieve the horses and Lázaro then followed Andrés down a goat path to the killing ground.

  Killbere cleaned the blood from his sword blade. ‘De Hayle escaped, Thomas. Him and fifty or more of his men with him.’

  ‘No matter, Gilbert. We finished him this day.’ He looked up at the sky.

  ‘The hawk’s cousins are here now,’ said Killbere.

  Vultures circled.

  ‘Saves us burying them,’ said Blackstone. ‘Meulon?’

  The hulking man was striding towards them. ‘Seven of our own dead. Others wounded. Mostly nothing we cannot attend to but two of my men have lost a great deal of blood and their wounds are deep.’

  ‘We could ride back and fetch ben Josef,’ Killbere suggested.

  Blackstone shook his head. ‘Six hours there and back? Even if we took the badly wounded with us, they would not survive even half that time.’

  Meulon understood. ‘I’ll get Will to stitch them. He has herbs and potions from the Jew.’

  Blackstone called as the throat-cutter turned away. ‘Meulon, only for those who have a chance. What we have is precious. It’s not to be wasted. Give them wine and theriac for the pain. If the wounds are bad, they won’t last the night.’