Shadow of the Hawk

by David Gilman

  ‘I see no reason for her to do that.’

  ‘Thomas, there’s a malevolence about her beauty. It’s as strong as the scent she wears and which rubs off your skin. We all lust for women but she... she curdles a Christian’s heart.’ He studied his friend. ‘We will ride to our deaths if we ride with her and the malicious King. I feel it, Thomas. Do you not? Our Prince has cast us down into the serpents’ pit.’

  Blackstone did not make light of his friend’s discomfort. He had felt the tingling mix of lust and what might have passed for fear – an uncertainty when he pressed his flesh to hers. The moment had startled him, for the woman’s fragrance had lulled him as if it drugged him, and he had slipped into an almost dreamlike state. It unsettled him, despite the shared pleasure. He had been careless – he should be so no longer. ‘I’ll take heed of what you say about the woman, Gilbert, but our Prince chose us for a reason. If our orders are to take the King to him, then that’s what we will do.’

  Killbere uncorked his wine flask. ‘And the Queen’s assassin?’

  ‘We protect Lázaro. Nothing more than that. Whoever killed her is not here.’

  ‘He hasn’t seen the King yet.’

  ‘He will.’

  Horses clattered into the yard. Blackstone and Killbere stepped out as the Moors returned from their patrol. Sayyid al-Hakam strode to meet them. He listened to what his patrol leader told him, raised his head and stared directly at Blackstone.

  ‘He knows,’ said Killbere.

  ‘He can’t prove it,’ said Blackstone.

  ‘He has a torn surcoat in his fist,’ said Killbere, hiding his words behind the wine flask he raised to his lips.

  Sayyid al-Hakam walked to where the two men stood. ‘Dead Englishmen lie beyond the walls. They are Ranulph de Hayle’s men.’

  ‘How do you know that?’ said Killbere.

  The Moor’s face creased. He touched his chest where a hobelar’s blazon would be. ‘His mark.’

  ‘And how would Sayyid al-Hakam, master of Don Pedro’s cavalry, know the blazon of an English routier?’

  The Moor had been prepared to challenge Blackstone. He faltered but held his nerve. ‘I have seen him.’

  ‘Here?’ said Blackstone.

  Once again al-Hakam hesitated. ‘No. Outside the walls. We gave chase once when he raided a village.’ He tossed the torn surcoat bearing Blackstone’s blazon on the floor. ‘You killed those men. How did you get past my guards? Or Álvaraz’s men? I must report to the King.’

  Killbere picked up the bloodstained surcoat. ‘This means nothing. We fought de Hayle’s men days before we got here. Some of our men died; those of de Hayle who escaped could have taken this as a trophy. Last night we slept in the stables. Who would go out into a storm and try to find routiers?’

  Sayyid al-Hakam looked from one to the other. ‘You dry your clothes.’

  ‘The roof in the stables leaks and some of the men are washing their shirts to keep the lice at bay,’ Killbere answered without missing a beat.

  The Moor studied them a moment longer and then turned his back and returned to his men.

  ‘Do you believe him?’ said Killbere. ‘About how he knew they were de Hayle’s men?’

  ‘No. He is the King man and we know de Hayle was here before setting out to search for Lázaro. That’s how al-Hakam knows de Hayle’s blazon. He and Pedro are conspiring to kill the only witness.’

  Killbere swilled some wine and corked the flask. ‘My God, Thomas, life was simpler when all we had to do was kill the French.’

  CHAPTER FIFTY-FIVE

  When the gates of Burgos opened, its citizens cried out at being abandoned. Don Pedro rode at the head of the column with his flag bearer at his side. His daughters and their servants followed. Five paces behind the small royal entourage Velasquita rode alone, flanked by al-Hakam and his Moors. It was hard to determine whether it was she who commanded the Moors or whether protocol demanded they ride further to the rear of the royal party. Even so, it made Velasquita look regal.

  Álvaraz followed with his contingent as Blackstone and his men rode to one side, skirting the half-dozen boys who ran alongside every fourth pack horse bearing the King’s treasures, their scrawny hands, tough and sinewy, grasping the horse’s cheek strap. One boy rode the front horse, tethered by rope to those that followed. There were only six pack animals bearing the merchants’ cloth and spices, easily controlled by their rope halters, and led by a single mounted soldier from Álvaraz’s contingent.

  Some citizens ran half a mile beyond the gates, still begging for the King and the men to return. There was no sign of the merchants.

  ‘A common man has nothing to barter with when the enemy walks into the city,’ said John Jacob.

  ‘Their cries will soon turn to cheers when they welcome the man who’ll become their King,’ said Killbere. ‘The merchants will try bribery with what they have left but I’ll wager Hugh Calveley’s men and the other routiers will take no heed of what they say. If they haven’t got their most valuable goods cached, they’ll be ripped from their homes.’

  Blackstone had waited with Beyard and Lázaro as the King’s entourage filed through the city gates. Blackstone wanted to see if Lázaro recognized the King as being in the castle when the killer put his Queen to death. Once again the boy shook his head. The Queen’s assassin remained a mystery.

  ‘Perhaps the lad was so terrified his mind has erased those responsible,’ offered Killbere.

  ‘He remembers the ballestero who held the Queen while the assassin poisoned her,’ said Blackstone.

  ‘And who do we know in the court who knows about poisons? For God’s sake, Thomas, she wears a potion at her neck to save the King.’

  ‘And Lázaro didn’t recognize her as being with the killer,’ countered Blackstone.

  ‘Then perhaps she gave the poison to a hireling.’

  ‘Gilbert, in our time we’ve come across many who understand poisons. Physicians and barber-surgeons ply us with their pain-killing potions each time we’re wounded. For all we know, the court physician killed her.’

  Killbere remained silent; then he glanced back at Lázaro who rode with Beyard. ‘We should let the boy find a home. He’s too young to be riding with us, Thomas. If he has identified no one from the court, and by now he’s seen all of Don Pedro’s people, then surely there’s no longer any threat against him.’

  ‘You’re forgetting Ranulph de Hayle. He still seeks the boy, and that means he is being paid by someone to do so.’

  Killbere cleared his throat and spat. ‘Thomas, we ride with a murderous, excommunicated King who employs pagan Moors, robs his citizens and keeps a demon witch at his side and likely in his bed. If this adventure does not drag us down into the bowels of hell then I will forsake women for a month by way of thanks.’

  ‘Gilbert, such an act is against nature and would unleash unknown forces.’ He spurred his horse. ‘Better we fight in hell.’

  *

  The servants were hard pressed to keep up the pace but on that first day it was important to put as much distance as possible between Burgos and the enemy approaching the abandoned city. It was already dark when torchbearers, riding ahead under a leaden sky, bereft of moonlight, reached a small town. Servants prepared the King’s quarters in the church and secured a farmer’s barn for Velasquita. Everyone else pitched tents, lit fires and posted sentries. Blackstone walked through the camp, seeing that his captains and men had the food promised by the High Steward. As he circled the camp, looking out into the darkness where an enemy might approach, he sensed rather than saw a movement in the depth of shadows beneath a cliff’s overhang. Wolf Sword was in his hand when he challenged the unseen figure.

  The sky’s dull glow was sufficient for Blackstone to make out the features of Sayyid al-Hakam as he stepped forward into the night.

  ‘As-salāmu alaykum,’ said the Moor, keeping distance between him and Blackstone should the Englishman lunge forward with his blade.

&nbs
p; ‘I don’t speak your language,’ said Blackstone.

  ‘I greet you in peace, Sir Thomas.’

  The Moor had made no attempt to draw a weapon and Blackstone’s instincts told him the man was alone. He sheathed Wolf Sword. ‘You lurk in shadows like your mistress.’

  ‘I serve the King.’

  ‘You do as you are bid by those who do the bidding.’

  The Moor’s teeth flashed white in the darkness. ‘And you serve your own desires, Sir Thomas. The King would not take kindly knowing you sleep with the woman who also offers him comfort.’

  ‘If it were true then you should tell him,’ said Blackstone. ‘And see what comfort that brings you.’

  Al-Hakam dipped his head. ‘I see you know that Don Pedro does not like to hear bad news.’

  ‘And I see you desire to keep your head on your shoulders.’

  Sayyid al-Hakam took a step closer. ‘What would it achieve to have both our heads on a pole? Who would protect the King then?’

  ‘What do you want?’

  ‘As you say, I do the bidding of those who send me.’

  ‘The lady sends for me?’

  ‘Why would she do that if you say you do not lie with her?’ Once again the Moor smiled. ‘It is the King who summons you.’

  *

  Al-Hakam led Blackstone through the torchlit church to where Moorish sentries stood guard outside a curtain of silk screens, three paces behind which hung another layer: soft barriers to be pulled aside before reaching the King. Don Pedro’s quarters looked little different from the finery at the palace. Servants had turned a corner of the barren church into a warm enclave of opulence. Don Pedro sat eating from a silver plate. The High Steward stood to the rear, eyes focused on Blackstone. The King had not raised his eyes from his food or the map that lay spread before him.

  ‘Closer,’ said the King.

  Blackstone stepped forward. The King flicked the map away from him. It landed at Blackstone’s feet. Blackstone looked at the High Steward, who barely hid the smirk on his face. Obviously, Blackstone was expected to stoop and pick it up. An act as subservient as the bending of a knee. The King had not yet raised his eyes. He, like the steward, was waiting.

  Blackstone did not try to pick up the discarded document. He looked down and saw the contour lines, realized that the marked cross was where they had stopped for the night and saw that it matched the approximate distance he reckoned they had travelled from Burgos.

  ‘A fine map, highness,’ said Blackstone.

  Don Pedro glared at him. ‘There are reports of enemy activity to the south and east.’

  ‘As I told you, they are closing the door on help from Granada. And by now those from the north-east will be at the gates of Burgos.’

  A servant offered a small bowl and cloth for the King to rinse his fingers. ‘We must hasten for Seville.’

  ‘Why?’ said Blackstone.

  The High Steward’s gasp at Blackstone’s impertinence was loud enough for the King to raise a hand to stop his trusted servant from berating Blackstone.

  ‘It is my preferred city. I have Moors there. The city is strong. I can regroup.’

  ‘You won’t get there in time,’ said Blackstone. ‘If Burgos falls then Hugh Calveley will bask in the glory offered by your bastard brother. A day, perhaps two. Your army stretched across the eastern border will have been defeated. Toledo will have fallen. Next will be Seville. Riders to the east will be the French. They are closing in on you. You should slow them. They won’t know your route. Send a diversionary force. Even a day will make a difference. Spur your horses and ride longer hours. If the moon blesses you, then ride through the night.’ Blackstone cast a critical look around the comfortable quarters. ‘Setting up accommodation fit for a king takes time. Valuable time lost.’

  Don Pedro’s temper flared. He kicked a stool; the plates and a goblet of wine crashed onto the floor. Servants ran forward to clear up the mess. The King stepped closer to Blackstone, who stood as unmovable as a rock.

  ‘Your reputation for insolence precedes you.’

  ‘My reputation for winning battles is what you should care about, my lord. I am not here to let you be blinded by those who seek your favour or fear your displeasure. I am here to save you. Break camp before first light. Let the boys ride the pack horses instead of running next to them. Give everyone who serves a chance to live.’

  Don Pedro stood his ground. His eyes gleamed with anger. Blackstone knew a dangerous moment when he saw it and realized that if he was going persuade the violent King to follow advice that would lead him to the Prince’s safety in Bordeaux, then he needed to restrain his own insistence. He bent and picked up the map. ‘This tells its own story, sire. You go one way and send a diversion another.’ Blackstone did not need to look at the map. ‘South and east around the hills and escarpment. If du Guesclin is closing in, then they will burn villages and towns. Your people will run from them. They won’t be able to run fast enough. They’ll be butchered on the road. A group of men between them and the French will buy them and you time.’

  Blackstone’s words appeared to calm the King. After a moment he nodded. ‘I am sending Álvaraz and twenty men at first light.’

  The King raised his eyes to look at Blackstone, as if wanting agreement.

  ‘I will split my force and accompany him. Sir Gilbert and the rest of the men, with most of my archers, will take Álvaraz’s place and ride with you.’

  Don Pedro had calmed his temper and in cold contrast he stared at Blackstone. ‘If reports are accurate of the number of French-led routiers, then you are likely to die on the road.’ He shrugged. ‘Álvaraz is expendable. If you die, then the Prince will be unhappy I let you go.’

  ‘Then what is it your preference? Let Álvaraz die outnumbered and alone or risk upsetting my Prince?’

  Don Pedro examined and then savoured a piece of fruit. ‘Since when does a King concern himself with what a Prince thinks?’

  *

  Blackstone went back into the night. Firelight from the scattered campfires cast shadows of huddled men and horses. On the horizon a sliver of sky showed itself. The cold wind was picking up. Tomorrow it would be at their backs, sweeping down from the high snow-covered mountains. Blackstone smelled the earth and the fragrance of the brush and pine-scented forests carried on the wind. And something else. Sandalwood.

  He turned into the darkness, letting his senses find the direction. Fifty paces beyond the church and the firelight the night became blacker still. At first glance he saw what looked like a rock outcrop, but Blackstone knew it was the small barn. As he came closer a soft light flickered and then disappeared and then appeared again. He realized it was candlelight behind a cloth over an opening and the wind was lifting the material exposing the flame. Without haste he eased the covering aside. The inside lacked the luxury of the King’s quarters; here candles and incense burned and it was their sandalwood aroma he smelled. There was no sign of Velasquita. He stepped further into the barn. A brazier heated the chilled expanse. An unrolled mattress lay on the ground, covered with richly woven blankets, their deep dyed colours adding to the sensuousness and comfort of the sleeping quarter. Food and wine stood untouched.

  A fluttering in the beams drew his attention. A bird found a hole in the clay tile roof and flew free, showering down a sprinkling of dust. It had diverted his attention from the room but instinct made Blackstone lurch aside as a cloaked figure appeared at his shoulder. His rapid reaction and the speed at which a knife appeared in his hand meant Velasquita had no time to avoid the sweep of his hand. Blackstone took a step back, letting the knife strike die in the air between them. She hugged the cloak tightly and then lifted her chin and smiled. She seemed fearless. Or was it she embraced fear and that inflamed her passions?

  ‘You could have killed me.’

  ‘You shouldn’t sneak up on me.’

  She shrugged, smiled again and, stepping to where the food lay on a linen-covered tray, nonchalantly teased
away a segment of orange and sucked its juice, some of which trickled down her chin. ‘If I did not sneak up on you, then I couldn’t surprise you.’

  ‘And risk death,’ he said, staying where he was, resisting the urge to untie the cord at her neck and let her cloak fall because he knew, he did not know how, that she was naked beneath the mantle.

  ‘I will die long after you, my English knight. Death does not frighten me.’ She paused and watched him.

  Once again Blackstone felt that slithering chill which ran from gut to groin. He desired her. The heat in the room mixed with the heady fragrances of candles and incense.

  ‘Does death frighten you?’ she asked.

  Neither she nor Blackstone had moved. Her attention was on the orange segments, the conversation about death seemingly incidental.

  ‘No. I will die in battle. That is the way of my world.’

  She faced him. ‘No. You will not.’

  ‘You cannot know my destiny.’

  ‘But I do,’ she said matter-of-factly. ‘I see men’s lives. It is a gift. And a curse. Lives are an embroidered tapestry. I will be there and I will hold you in your dying moments. You will drown and your body will be swept away.’

  Blackstone felt a moment of uncertainty. When the Welshman Gruffydd ap Madoc made the assassination attempt on the Prince at Bergerac, Blackstone had chased him into the city’s underground river chambers. Wounded, Blackstone had plunged into the current and had come close to drowning. The story of him saving the Prince’s life and coming close to his own death was well known. Travellers spread tales. Perhaps it had even reached Spain.

  ‘What you think you see is the past, not the future,’ he told her.

  She threw the discarded peel into the brazier. It flared. Blue flames crackled. She watched them settle and then turned to face him. ‘No. You will die in my arms. It is foretold.’

  Blackstone took three strides to her, undid the cloak’s tie and let it fall. Her nakedness was no surprise, only a delight. He lifted her onto the mattress.

  ‘Then let’s find out if it’s tonight.’