by David Gilman
John Jacob knew better than to question Blackstone, even as Killbere raised an eyebrow at the boy being brought into the open. Blackstone hauled bales of straw to where they sat by the grinding wheels. Men’s clothes and blankets were already strung out to dry. The scene was no different from where any fighting men rested. The area was of no importance to the King, courtiers or officials. Only castle and palace servants who might mix with the fighting men came there, and then only to barter food for coin. A servant’s life was worse than any soldier’s.
Beyard ushered out an apprehensive Lázaro. Blackstone placed a reassuring hand on the boy’s shoulder as his eyes darted back and forth to the preparations going on in the yard. ‘Lázaro, sit here.’ He guided him onto one of the straw bales. ‘Can you stitch clothes?’
‘Lord?’
‘Mend clothes. Did your Queen’s ladies ever show you how?’
The boy nodded.
‘Good, I want you to sit here and stitch my shirt. There is no hurry. No one in the yard is interested in a servant sewing a shirt. Understand? No one will be looking over here.’
‘I must just sit here? And sew your shirt?’
‘You sew and you watch. You look at the people who go in and out of the palace doors. They come down the steps and go about their business.’
The boy looked from Blackstone to his protector.
‘Watch for anyone who was at Medina Sidonia,’ said Beyard. ‘Do you understand?’
‘Yes, I will look and see if there is anyone who caused my Queen harm.’
‘And Beyard and others are around you. See? Men sharpening their weapons, attending to saddles and bridles. We’re all sitting out here in the sun’s warmth and no one is interested in us. You’re safe.’
Lázaro smiled. It was true. These harsh-looking men had become his friends and he felt secure among them. ‘I will sew the shirt and I will watch,’ he said.
*
Blackstone followed the merchants of the city into the palace. If unrest were to flare up then the King’s life would be in danger. His bodyguards were few and most of the Moorish cavalry were engaged on border raids. Blackstone and his men might be the only line of defence if the city rose up. He passed the guards and strode down the corridor to where a dozen armed men had secured the corridor. Raised voices echoed under the vaulted roof. Álvaraz stood with his men.
‘Sir Thomas, I heard men were killed outside the walls last night,’ he said, looking at the cut above Blackstone’s eye and the bruising on his cheekbone.
‘So I’m told,’ he answered.
‘You know anything about it?’ he asked, pointing to the same place on his face as Blackstone’s wound.
Blackstone smiled. ‘I walked into a stable door when I was drunk.’
Álvaraz didn’t believe a word of it. ‘I don’t know who those men were but I’m guessing they’re routiers.’ He paused, letting Blackstone’s unlikely explanation go. ‘Probably fell out with another band of brigands.’
‘Most likely,’ said Blackstone.
Álvaraz was no fool, nor inclined to play the game. He stepped closer. ‘There is a sentry at the tunnel entrance.’
Blackstone knew there was little point in continuing the charade. ‘Not last night.’
Álvaraz blinked twice. ‘Someone with authority removed them.’
‘And you will never know who because the guard would be well paid or dead.’
‘Then they were routiers?’
‘They were. Three came into the castle, most likely to reconnoitre its defences,’ said Blackstone, obscuring the truth. ‘I and some of my men followed them back.’
‘Then there is a traitor.’
‘It could be anyone. Someone who serves the High Steward or even a merchant willing to buy their safety,’ said Blackstone and glanced at the door. ‘Like they’re doing now. I need to be in that room.’
‘You have no authority to be in there, Sir Thomas. The council and the merchants are discussing the city’s fate with the King.’
‘Álvaraz, if there’s an insurgency here you and I will be all that stands between the mob and the King. I need to know. And so do you.’
The Spanish commander looked uncertain but then nodded. He turned and opened the door wide enough for Blackstone to squeeze through without his entrance being obvious to those in the hall.
Blackstone stayed on the other side of the thick door. His presence went unnoticed as the inflamed passions of the city fathers bore down on the seated Don Pedro. Sayyid al-Hakam stood behind the chair, two Moorish soldiers with him. There was little doubt in Blackstone’s mind that if the emotions became any more heated the temperamental King need only nod at the Moor for these merchants to be massacred. One man raised his arms and called for the others to settle down. His voice became more strident and the men finally quietened. From what Blackstone could see by the men’s dress they were a mixed group of Muslims, Jews and Christians. Their businesses and wealth a common faith.
The High Steward nodded, giving permission for the man to speak.
‘Most gracious lord,’ the spokesman said, bowing low, arms extended. A Muslim trader wearing silk robes beneath his woollen cloak. ‘Your ships carry our goods from the river at Seville and the ports of Castile to and from the Islamic world and Christian Europe. We trade from Cairo to Cordoba. As we speak, lord, I have a cargo waiting in Cordoba to load on my galley on the River Guadalquivir. I have news the vessel has been seized on your command. Friends here: men who have camel trains loaded with silks and spices from the East dare not bring them to Seville or any other city for fear of what approaches. We are, merciful lord, in your hands. We beg you, do not abandon the city. There is money enough here to pay an army. We sell Sudanese gold to merchants travelling to Tunisia and Sicily and beyond: it can pay men like those who are already in the city. The Englishman can find more men like himself. Why would Castile abandon its riches? And its people?’
Another man pushed forward. ‘Sire. You know me. Pérez of Burgos. You asked for a contribution to the cathedral. I and the other Christian merchants gave without question.’ He made the sign of the cross. ‘God bless our beloved and merciful saviour who died for us. Let others die for us now. If you abandon us, we all know Henry of Trastámara will not protect our fellow citizens, the Muslims and the Jews. They live here under your protection. And neither will being Christian mean anything to these hordes that will sweep across our city like a plague. We will die if you leave the city.’
Another merchant tried to speak, but the King raised his hand and silenced him. ‘The galley was seized because the royal coin and plate from Almodóvar is being taken by my treasurer. He will sail for the Atlantic and join me in Portugal. I cannot stay here. Your homes and lives are in your own hands now. Welcome the mercenaries and the bastard they serve and buy your lives with your wealth.’
The merchants’ wails rose higher. The High Steward slammed down his staff of office but it did not quieten the men’s fury. Blackstone felt the door give at his back. Álvaraz had heard the commotion. ‘Guard the entrance and stairs. The King has just thrown a fox in the henhouse,’ Blackstone told him.
Don Pedro got up and left the room. For one moment it looked as though the merchants would surge forward. Sayyid al-Hakam half drew his sword. His two men did the same. The threat was enough. The disgruntled merchants turned to leave.
The door was already open. Blackstone had slipped away. He needed an audience with the King.
*
Sayyid al-Hakam and the King went up the stairs to his quarters, followed by the two Moors. The High Steward turned away, heading for a different part of the palace. Blackstone followed the King, waiting until his escort turned a corner before moving closer. They walked down a long passageway turning left and right and Blackstone realized he was getting closer to where he had followed the unidentified figure from the underground tunnel. He turned another corner and the two Moors faced him, swords drawn. Beyond them the King was ushered away withou
t a backward glance.
Blackstone kept his hands away from Wolf Sword.
‘You speak English?’ he said, ‘Or French?’
One of the burly Arabs said something in a harsh voice and put the point of his sword onto Blackstone’s chest as a warning. Blackstone’s instincts were sharper than the blade. No sooner had its point touched him than he pivoted, swept aside the sword and slammed the Moor into the second man. They fell heavily but despite their size quickly recovered; however, before they clambered to their feet Blackstone had Wolf Sword at the first man’s throat. No words were needed. He took a step back and sheathed the blade. Point made. The Moors gathered their weapons and remained uncertain what to do next. A door opened somewhere behind them before they could decide and Velasquita stepped into the corridor from a side passage. She was barefoot and wore a linen shift. She said something to them that Blackstone did not understand. They obeyed without question and retreated to where the King and Sayyid al-Hakam had gone.
‘You fight the King’s bodyguard?’ she said.
‘I was challenged. I answered.’
‘You’re bleeding,’ she said and turned back to her room.
Blackstone’s hand touched the skin above his eye. The fracas had opened the cut despite Will Longdon packing the wound with astringent witch hazel. He followed her. Her door was open. More welcoming than their last encounter. He stepped inside. She was busy preparing something in a pestle and mortar. She didn’t look up when he entered and closed the door behind him. A hawk stood on the windowsill, tearing apart a small rodent. Blackstone was superstitious enough to wonder if it was the same hawk that warned them of de Hayle’s ambush on their way to Burgos.
‘You draw birds to you?’ he said, watching her grind whatever it was into paste. She added drops from a small green bottle.
‘I feed them. They come,’ she said and then turned to face him. ‘I live in the high tower. I see the world below. I understand them.’ The light behind her showed the shape of her body through the linen. ‘Sit,’ she told him.
Blackstone looked but other than a stool on the other side of the room saw only the bed. He squatted awkwardly on its edge, his scabbard making it impossible to do anything but half sit. He loosened his belt and laid aside the sword. She watched him for a moment, waiting until he was ready, then stepped closer and dabbed a piece of clean linen on the wound. He could not place the alluring scent of her perfume.
‘It’s sandalwood and rose,’ she told him as if reading his mind. His chin lifted in surprise at the immediate answer to his thought.
‘Keep still,’ she said. ‘Have you been to al-Andalus?’
‘No.’
‘Arabs bring sandalwood oil from North Africa. Don Pedro embraces their culture. You will see, he fashions the Alcázar in Seville after the Moors’ palaces. This will sting.’
She pressed the paste into the wound. Blackstone didn’t flinch.
‘Men were slain outside the walls last night.’
‘So I’m told.’
‘You look as though you could have been in a battle.’
‘If I left the city, I would have been reported by the guard commander at the gate.’
‘Perhaps you did not go through the gate.’
‘Perhaps I did not go at all.’
‘Perhaps.’
She smoothed the paste. He felt the skin harden as it rapidly dried and formed a hard covering. She wiped her fingers clean on the cloth. But she did not move away. The swell of her breasts pushed against the linen. The enamelled pendant at the base of her throat caught the light. He stared directly at her. Neither spoke but the beat of the pulse in her neck quickened. He placed two fingers on the beating hollow, and then let the palm of his hand flatten against her breast, feeling the seductive beat of her heart. She raised her arms to lift free the shift and the action pushed her breast more firmly against his hand. Blackstone clasped her waist, pressing his lips to her breasts. She pushed down onto him, her mouth hungrily seeking his own.
A moment before her hair fell forward to smother his face, he caught a final glimpse of the hawk ripping apart its victim.
Held in talons and devoured.
CHAPTER FIFTY-FOUR
Twenty pack horses fitted with linen nosebags filled with fodder were loaded with the King’s possessions: jewellery and fine silks strapped in bundles or baskets and secured on the hardy beasts of burden. Álvaraz’s men saddled their horses on the far side of the yard as Blackstone returned to the men.
‘The morning has gone. Do not tell me you have been discussing strategy with the King, or troop deployment with Álvaraz. He came over here looking for you.’
‘I was waylaid,’ said Blackstone.
‘Thomas, you reek worse than a wet horse blanket. Was it the woman?’
‘It was.’
‘After all the warnings from de Hayle’s men about her being a witch?’
‘Álvaraz warned me as well.’
‘And still you risk lying with her?’
‘There wasn’t much lying, Gilbert. Getting close to someone who might pose a threat is how we discover their intentions.’ Blackstone smiled but Killbere wasn’t amused.
‘And you think she is not doing the same to you? For God’s sake, Thomas, she already draws you into her web. One venomous sting and you are no longer a threat to her.’
‘And what threat am I now? We’re here to get the King to safety.’
Killbere spat in disgust. ‘We are preparing to flee the city and you’re fornicating with a whore witch. You’re a damned fool.’
‘As you so often remind me, old friend. What would I do without your admonishment?’
‘Live longer.’ Killbere picked up his weapons and turned for the stables.
Blackstone felt his friend’s genuine anger. Perhaps the encounter with the woman had been foolhardy, but it had been satisfying. He glanced at Beyard, who was sitting with the boy. ‘Has Lázaro recognized anyone?’
‘He’s been as attentive to those coming and going as he has sewing this,’ said Beyard, handing Blackstone the shirt as the High Steward came down the steps on the far side of the yard and approached Álvaraz. Moments later Velasquita followed him, her cloak’s hood on her shoulders revealing her face. Neither looked across to where Blackstone’s men sprawled along the stable wall.
Blackstone saw Lázaro look intently at her. His heart thudded. Had the boy seen the assassin? ‘Lázaro?’ he said. ‘Do you recognize anyone?’
Lázaro nodded. ‘The woman and the man.’
‘The soldier?’ said Blackstone.
‘No, the older man.’
‘He’s the High Steward. Where have you seen them before?’ Blackstone said, suppressing hope of anyone who had been with the assassin being identified. And if it was Velasquita? He did not answer his own question. What was it he hoped for? Her guilt or her innocence in the murder?
Lázaro slunk down onto the floor to hide behind the draped clothing drying in the winter sun. ‘When I went with the Queen to serve her at Medina, the man and the woman came into my lady’s room. She was there with her servants. The man told my Queen that she was never to leave the palace grounds.’
‘And the woman?’
Lázaro shook his head. ‘She stood back. It was the man who instructed her. It was the King’s order, he said.’
‘And later, when the Queen was killed, did you see them again? Were they in the room?’
‘No, lord. The killer had his back to me and his hood pulled high. The ballestero who held her – I never saw him again. And I have not seen him here among the men.’
Blackstone looked across the yard to where the High Steward and Velasquita stood with Álvaraz. If they were not involved in the murder then the unidentified assassin was still on the loose and might still, if he recognized the boy, strike without warning. Blackstone took pity on the boy’s fear and nodded to Beyard.
The Gascon placed a protective arm around the boy’s shoulder ‘Lázaro, come, let�
��s attend to my horse. We have a long journey ahead of us tomorrow.’
Blackstone watched as Álvaraz appeared to argue with Velasquita and the High Steward; then, as the other two turned away, Álvaraz looked across to where Blackstone stood. He waited while Velasquita and the steward walked towards the palace entrance and then strode across the yard to Blackstone.
‘We are to seize goods from the merchants,’ said Álvaraz. ‘A distasteful task, given their support for the King.’
‘And one which will throw them into the arms of his half-brother. Is this not enough for him?’ said Blackstone, gesturing to the laden horses. ‘Is he mad? If we’re attacked, they’ll seize everything.’
The Spanish commander glared. ‘No, Sir Thomas, I and my men are being sacrificed. We are to draw away any enemy attack while you and his Moors ride hard for Seville. If it comes to a fight, then we are to try to buy our way out with what we seize from the merchants. He loses nothing. The merchants and my men risk everything.’ He looked to where the High Steward and Velasquita had re-entered the palace and then turned back to Blackstone. ‘You must have friends close to the King. You were supposed to cause the diversion and draw away the routiers. My men are loyal, as am I, but now we are asked to throw away our lives.’ He studied Blackstone. ‘How did you take my place at the King’s side? Did you bed the witch?’
Álvaraz turned on his heel. Blackstone knew that it was Velasquita who had changed the King’s mind. ‘Álvaraz!’
The Spaniard turned.
‘I’ll not let you be sacrificed. If the routiers come, I’ll be at your side.’
The noble gesture was not lost on the seasoned fighter. He bowed his head and returned to his men.
*
Blackstone returned to the stables where he found Killbere rubbing goose fat into his saddle.
‘Gilbert, the woman favours us. We ride with the King.’
Killbere wiped his hand across his jerkin, adding to its sheen. ‘Your whoring serves us well. I believe she means to keep you close so when the time is right she can cause you harm.’
