Shadow of the Hawk

by David Gilman

  They stood and gazed at the night shadows. ‘Six or seven days from Seville to Salamanca. How many from Burgos?’ said Blackstone.

  ‘The same,’ said Álvaraz.

  Blackstone put himself in Calveley’s place. ‘They’ll crown Henry King. He’ll strip the city merchants and what’s left of Pedro’s wealth and pay off the skinners. So that buys us a few days. Three maybe. They’ll be drunk and their purses will be heavy. Perhaps even four days.’

  ‘The question is, would they come after Don Pedro? Is there any need?’ said Álvaraz.

  ‘His bastard half-brother would rather see him dead, that’s one reason. Another is the French would like to see me dead with him.’ Blackstone tossed away the stone. ‘They’ll come.’

  CHAPTER FIFTY-NINE

  Velasquita watched Blackstone’s men go about their duties. They still looked no better than brigands but their swagger and contempt for pain and discomfort set them apart from other men. They often seemed close to brawling among themselves and she did not understand the insulting taunts they threw at each other, which often ended in laughter rather than violence. They were unlike the other Englishman, Ranulph de Hayle, a man easily bought, whose violence simmered skin deep, easily restrained through fear of the unknown. And to him, she was the unknown. That was not the case with Thomas Blackstone. His was a controlled violence that wielded ruthlessness when necessary.

  She had used her guile to tempt him but it was Blackstone who had been the master in bed. She feared he could look into her as she did with others. He tempered his passion when they lay together, a man used to taking the lead in all things and whose relentless nature saw where and when to strike a floundering opponent. He was no different with her. When she thought she had heightened his pleasure and controlled the release of his passion, Blackstone held back and it was she who succumbed to the overwhelming tide that rendered her momentarily helpless.

  She trembled. What caused her tremor? Was it the thought of his scarred body lying next to hers or the rising excitement as the vision of his death became ever clearer? To kill a man like Thomas Blackstone was no easy feat, but the devil had gifted him to her. She needed no soothsayer to interpret her dream’s scattered images; the vision was as obvious as wiping steam from a window pane and seeing what lay beyond. It would not be long until Blackstone shuddered in death, helpless from her poison. Until then there were others who would die. When her journey with the King ended, Ranulph de Hayle would continue to do her bidding. She had already planned her escape. The final twist of fate that entrapped Blackstone and made him pursue her to his death had not yet been revealed to her. But that was just a small detail.

  She noticed an urchin boy, a servant with one of Blackstone’s men. De Hayle had told her that Blackstone was protecting the witness to the Queen’s murder, but when de Hayle had searched the stables at Burgos, there had been no sign of the boy he’d captured when he fought the Bretons. So who was this lad she watched fetching and carrying? She turned to one of the King’s servants.

  ‘That boy. Do you see him?’

  ‘My lady,’ said the servant, acknowledging her.

  ‘Do you know him?’ she asked.

  ‘He was with the English when they arrived at Burgos.’

  Velasquita studied the boy a while longer. She had no recollection of him in her mind’s eye. When de Hayle had delivered the severed head, she’d known immediately that it was not the witness. Could this be the boy? The one de Hayle had spoken of? Could he have missed him when he checked Blackstone’s men in the stables at Burgos? If the boy they sought had been with Blackstone when de Hayle searched then he would have recognized him and reported to her. He had not. And yet something stirred in her. An unease.

  ‘Go to him. Ask where he is from and when he joined the Englishmen.’

  The servant scurried away. She watched as he tracked the boy doing his chores and then engaged him in conversation as he carried water to the men-at-arms. The servant returned.

  ‘My lady. His name is Tello. He is from Pamplona. An orphan beggar. One of their soldiers took pity on him and made him a servant.’

  She dismissed the informant with a curt nod. The ghost witness evaded her even as the King’s flight was almost over. Don Pedro would soon be a pauper, his wealth stolen. He would make the journey to the English Prince as much a beggar as that boy. That much she knew. And then there would be another war, one that would ultimately destroy the English Prince. All of this knowledge had been gifted to her by a power even she did not understand. But if the witness could still be found and killed then suspicion would always be focused on the Spanish King: that it was he who murdered his wife. It would eat into the heart and soul of those who felt obliged to help him and weaken his cause. Suspicion was a slowly released poison. And who knew more about poison than Velasquita Alcón de Lugo?

  She turned and felt a hammer blow in her chest. Blackstone stood watching her not ten paces away. Her thoughts had been too focused on the boy to be aware of his presence. She recovered her composure.

  ‘You startled me. I didn’t hear you.’

  He had still not smiled in greeting and the thought came to her that if Thomas Blackstone did not want an enemy to hear his approach then it was likely that enemy would die.

  ‘You were deep in thought,’ he said. ‘I didn’t want to interrupt. Thinking of me, were you?’ At last he smiled.

  She went to him and laid a hand on his face. ‘As a matter of fact, I was.’

  ‘Good thoughts?’

  ‘The future.’

  ‘Ah, you mean where I die in your arms.’

  ‘Is there a better way to die?’

  He thought a moment and settled his stare on her. ‘Killing my enemies.’

  Once again she felt a mailed fist closing around her heart. If she was the devil’s mistress, then was Thomas Blackstone his ill-begotten son? Did the Englishman have powers she had not bargained on? If he saw into her mind and heart, he would kill her and her prophecy would evaporate like campfire smoke into the night air. The devil only embraced those who did his bidding and succeeded in doing it.

  He smiled again. ‘After we have made love.’

  Relief made her laugh.

  ‘But first I must bathe.’

  She placed a hand on his arm. ‘There is no need.’

  *

  Lázaro reported to Beyard that one of the King’s servants had questioned him. It had not happened at Burgos and no one had approached him on the journey. He assured Beyard that he had given the name Tello as had been agreed should any stranger ask.

  ‘Then why now?’ Beyard said when he told Killbere.

  ‘He’s been noticed by someone close to the King. It might have been innocent but we treat it otherwise,’ said Killbere. ‘The lad gave the false name and story as we told him?’

  ‘He did.’

  ‘Does his nerve hold?’

  ‘He’s been with us long enough to grow strong. It’s second nature for him to be on his guard.’ Beyard looked at the men settling down for the night. ‘A servant talked to another servant – I don’t think there’s any danger. If there is they will seek him out once it’s dark. They’ll send more than one man to take him if they suspect anything.’

  ‘Then we do nothing to draw suspicion. Carry on as usual. Keep him close. Warn your men someone was asking questions. I’ll have Meulon and Renfred bring their men nearer to where you sleep.’

  ‘Will you tell Sir Thomas they questioned the lad?’

  ‘In good time. He’s busy.’

  *

  A trickle of sweat crept down into the hollow of Velasquita’s throat. Her skin, flushed with exertion and passion, welcomed the cool night breeze. She steadied her breathing, widening her eyes to focus on where she was, and then turned her head to where Blackstone lay on his side facing her. Her thumping heartbeat dislodged the pool of sweat, nudging it to trickle into the cleft of her breasts. Her loss of control from his lovemaking had once again alarmed her. T
hose final moments when passion cast her into a small death-like place, where she was aware of nothing except the acute spasm of her body which heightened the pleasure and lifted her from the living world. The lapping warmth of her emotions blunted her usually acute senses.

  Blackstone placed a finger on her lips. She took it into her mouth and tasted his sweat, sucking on it like a child desperate for the teat. The desire to draw him into her, to consume him, eased when he blew gently onto her cheek. She took his hand and placed it on her breast.

  ‘You possess me,’ she whispered hoarsely.

  ‘We find comfort together,’ he said with a caress.

  She sighed. ‘I knew you would come into my life long before you arrived. I knew we would share moments like this. I was impatient for you.’

  They lay face to face, the sweet scent of wine-perfumed breath brushing each other’s lips. ‘You know so much,’ said Blackstone. ‘And yet you reveal so little.’

  ‘I have nothing to tell other than what I have already told you.’

  Blackstone yawned lazily and pulled her to him so that she snuggled closer and half straddled him. He tugged the blanket across her lower back. He showed scant interest in his gently probing question or for her innocent reply. Her head nestled in his chest; his hand stroked her hair. ‘But you know everything there is to know about the King and his court. So who do you think met Ranulph de Hayle the night before we left Burgos?’

  There was an imperceptible moment as she held her breath. But she could not disguise it. Blackstone knew that to ask her straight out would yield no reaction. Her eyes would not flicker, her brow would not crease in feigned ignorance. She would lie cold and unemotional, giving nothing away. But now, pressed against his chest, he felt the brief hesitation and the brush of her eyelashes on his skin. Seduced, her guard was down for a heartbeat.

  ‘Who?’

  ‘An English routier who wishes me dead,’ he said, keeping nothing but idle curiosity in his voice.

  ‘I don’t know him.’

  ‘No, of course you don’t,’ he said as if believing her, ‘but if anyone would know who it might have been then it would be you.’

  ‘I don’t,’ she said without moving. An easy lie.

  Blackstone kissed her forehead. A tenderness that said it didn’t matter. That his idle thoughts were unimportant after their passion. She had expressed no surprise that a routier had been at Burgos, didn’t ask why he wished Blackstone dead. Natural questions. Blackstone sighed. A deep sigh that signalled contentment, to ease any suspicion she might have about his gentle questioning.

  His breathing settled as he drifted into sleep. There was no doubt in his mind. She was the enemy.

  CHAPTER SIXTY

  Blackstone had gathered his captains before they struck out for the ride to Seville. He shared his conviction that Velasquita was a danger to Lázaro. Blackstone believed she had had contact with Ranulph de Hayle. There was no direct proof, but he knew she had lied when asked.

  ‘And we slipped a coin to the servant who questioned Lázaro. It was the witch who instructed him,’ said Killbere.

  It was evidence enough for everyone to believe it implicated her in the King’s killing his wife.

  ‘Maybe de Hayle was involved from the start?’ said Killbere.

  ‘If she was the one who met him that night at Burgos then what was she planning? Or was she sent by the King?’ said John Jacob.

  ‘If the King uses her to contact a killer like de Hayle, then he keeps his hands clean,’ said Blackstone. ‘What we cannot know is whether Don Pedro used de Hayle to kill his wife.’

  ‘The King, the witch and the bastard,’ said Will Longdon, chewing a strand of dry grass.

  ‘But Lázaro did not say de Hayle was in the room when the Queen was murdered,’ said Blackstone.

  ‘It makes no sense to me why de Hayle is still around. He ambushed us and now he’s where? He can’t strike at us now that we have joined the Spanish and the Moors.’

  ‘Will’s right for once,’ said Killbere. ‘The bastard has no business with us now. He tried and failed to kill us. He searched for the boy and didn’t find him. There’s no reason for him to be here.’

  ‘He might not even be close to us any more,’ said Renfred.

  Blackstone couldn’t find a reason either. He scuffed the dirt with the toe of his boot. ‘If he still thinks we have the witness to the Queen’s murder then that’s the only explanation. But she’s involved, I’m sure of it.’

  ‘Not in the Queen’s killing, though. Lázaro didn’t identify her being anywhere near her murder.’

  ‘She’s a go-between,’ said Meulon. ‘The King and de Hayle.’

  A murmured agreement among them: they could find no other solution to Blackstone’s suspicions.

  ‘We make no changes to Lázaro’s duties. His false story stands. But we keep watch. Ranulph de Hayle will not dare risk entering Seville. They would see him for what he is, a routier in the wrong place.’

  Will Longdon spat out the grass. ‘Aye, well, we’re all likely to be in the wrong place if a few thousand skinners catch up with us.’

  *

  Blackstone and his men crested the hills and gazed down onto the Guadalquivir. Ships swayed on their moorings on the curving river beyond the semi-circular walled city of Seville. Others turned into the wind to anchor. At this distance their sails were little more than fluttering butterfly wings. An ancient Roman aqueduct signalled the city’s heritage. Don Pedro summoned Blackstone to ride alongside him as they approached the city, following Sayyid al-Hakam’s Moors, who cantered forward either side of the road. The city’s Moorish guards, bearing shields and spears and clothed in richly dyed robes as colourful as any knight’s pennon, held crowds back thirty yards and more. The crowd’s roar swept across the King’s procession. Blackstone glanced left and right and saw the warriors pressing back the surge. The citizen’s faces and raised voices seemed a less than warm welcome. But it was what lay at the end of the road that transfixed Blackstone. The Alcázar of Seville was breathtaking. Blackstone had never seen such architecture. Hundreds of arches divided by thin bands of green tiles fronted the walls. Ornamental stucco in interlacing arches gave the impression of a screen, extending forward of the main walls.

  ‘We build on history, something your King Edward understands,’ Don Pedro said, gesturing to the walls that stretched across their approach. ‘Hundreds of years ago the Romans built their stronghold here and then the Moors and the Spanish continued. The Moors called it al-Qasr al-Mubarak; it means Palace of Good Fortune.’

  Blackstone had never seen the Spanish King so animated or enthusiastic in his desire to share his knowledge.

  Pedro turned to Blackstone. ‘See there? We’ll enter through the Lion’s Gate. Even your great King has no palace like this. We have courtyards and gardens and cool pools of water. I am rebuilding and extending the façade. You see?’ he repeated, pointing to the wooden scaffolding teeming with labourers, who dared to stop work and watch the King’s arrival. He waved a hand across the imposing walls. His voice lowered as if in awe of his own achievements. ‘I am humbled every time I come here.’

  Blackstone restrained the mocking smile that threatened to insult the King of Castile. For a moment Pedro did genuinely appear humbled. Blackstone raised his eyes to the heights and realized there was a difference in the alternating Arabic texts inscribed between the first-floor doors and second-storey windows.

  ‘What do those words mean?’

  Pedro pointed at one inscription and then the other. ‘“The empire for God.”’ He crossed himself and kissed his fingers. ‘And there it says, “There is no Conqueror but God.”’

  Blackstone saw the obvious sense of satisfaction on Pedro’s face. It beamed with pride. Whatever fleeting moment of humility the King had experienced was gone.

  ‘Built by Moors and Christians and peasants’ sweat,’ Blackstone said. The gentle rebuke made no impression on the King.

  ‘And artisa
ns,’ Pedro emphasized, thinking Blackstone’s comment was complimentary. ‘Artisans the likes of which the Christian world have not seen unless they travel to Granada.’ He smiled. ‘And here.’ They clattered under the vaulted entrance. Pedro pointed at the overhanging eave of wood. ‘We call this muqarnas. It is Arabic. We honour Islamic architects who brought such beauty to a harsh world.’

  Blackstone did not understand what the Arabic word meant but he appreciated the skill required to create the geometric decoration beneath the overhang. The King spurred his horse, eager to return to his most beloved of palaces: the Alcázar of Seville, a place whose magical name resonated with the promise of indulgent luxury.

  Blackstone reined the bastard horse free from the procession. Álvaraz rode past. ‘Follow me and my men. Our quarters lie in the courtyards beyond the gardens.’

  Blackstone waited for Killbere and John Jacob.

  ‘Did you see those crowds?’ said Killbere. ‘That was no joyous welcome for the King.’

  ‘If a mob is forming they’ll have to get past the Moors,’ said John Jacob.

  ‘If the city rises up they won’t hold them,’ said Blackstone. ‘Álvaraz said the city can’t be held if it’s attacked. What he didn’t consider is how quickly it will fall if there’s an uprising. There’s no love lost between the King and his people. We should find our quarters and then prepare to leave Seville. And keep watch for the Lady Velasquita. Sooner or later she will try to cause us harm.’ He spurred his horse deeper into the vaulted entrance. Such splendour could foster a man’s vanity, lulling him into self-deception. If Don Pedro thought himself safe in this palace, then it would become the grandest tomb in Spain – unless Blackstone could convince him of the imminent danger.

  *

  Will Longdon had the archers billeted between William Ashford’s and Meulon’s men. The vast courtyard’s green fringe of blossoming bushes and flowers was as luxuriant as a nobleman’s embroidered cloak. Longdon wasted no time in having the men check their weapons. From what Blackstone had said they were not staying long.