Shadow of the Hawk

by David Gilman

  Meulon strode across the square. ‘Will, you see who our neighbours are?’

  Will Longdon squinted through the glare at the distant speckled colours on the far side of the vast yard. ‘Moors.’

  ‘And on the other side Álvaraz’s men. It’s a place where tempers could flare. We need to keep the men in check. And your lads, especially the pagan Welsh, will fight if a fart carries on the wind.’

  ‘My pagan Welsh archers can out-fart any of them bastards. Let them worry.’

  ‘Merciful God, you don’t see it. They carry bows. If a fight starts for any reason, their arrows will kill English and Welsh archers and this place will be a bloodbath.’

  ‘Bows?’ said Will Longdon, peering again into the distance. ‘They have bowmen?’

  ‘They’re practising at the butts in the far corner,’ said Meulon. ‘Just keep your men in check. Feed and water them and bed them down with the horses.’ He glared at the stocky archer. ‘Keep your men away from them.’

  ‘Aye, well, you tell William Ashford to keep his cut-throats in check. And Renfred and Beyard. Don’t come here telling me how to control my men.’

  ‘You’ve as much sense as a pig’s arse. Where do you think I’ve been? Sir Gilbert had me tell all the captains.’

  ‘Then consider your job done and let me get about my business.’

  Meulon’s scowl could sour milk. Will Longdon grinned. ‘Meulon, you told me so I’d go over and make their acquaintance.’

  Meulon glanced over his shoulder to check if Blackstone would hear him, but he was standing over two hundred yards away. He lowered his voice. ‘They shoot fast. Quicker than you.’

  Will Longdon’s eyebrows arched. ‘You bastard. You taunt me on purpose.’

  Meulon’s teeth appeared behind the heavy dark beard. ‘Thought you might learn something.’ He clapped a heavy hand on the archer’s shoulder and sauntered to where Blackstone stood with Killbere and Álvaraz.

  ‘Jack?’ Will Longdon called to Halfpenny, who was sitting with his men as they checked and repaired arrow shafts. The young ventenar looked up.

  ‘Bring your bow,’ said Longdon.

  *

  Thirty Moors stood at the butts beyond the courtyard’s far corner. A dozen archers stood in line pulling back on their curved bows while their companions waited their turn and fussed with their bow cords and fletchings, behaving no differently than Will Longdon’s men. Archers nursed their weapons as tenderly as any mother caring for a child. Will Longdon and Jack Halfpenny stood watching until someone finally noticed them.

  ‘All right, lads?’ said Longdon with a smile. ‘Me and Jack here thought we’d come and teach you how to shoot.’

  Two of the Moors stepped towards them and said something. Their words weren’t accompanied by a smile.

  Will Longdon pulled a face and gestured, showing he did not understand. The Moors, now watched by their companions, talked to each other, glancing at the two rough-looking Englishmen. In contrast to the belted, robed Moors, Longdon and Halfpenny looked like vagabonds with their grease-streaked leather jerkins and grubby linen cowls.

  ‘Give them something, Will,’ said Halfpenny. ‘They’re the most miserable bastards I’ve seen all year. I’ve seen happier dead Frenchmen than this lot.’

  Will Longdon rested his bow against his chest and rummaged in his jerkin. He came out with a small piece of dark meat and a half-eaten apple.

  ‘You can’t give them pig,’ said Halfpenny. ‘Their kind don’t eat pig. Like the old Jew.’

  ‘It’s smoked boar meat,’ said Will Longdon.

  ‘That’s the same as pig. It’s swine. They don’t eat swine. Give them the apple.’

  ‘It’s my last one.’

  ‘Don’t matter. Give it to them.’ Halfpenny pushed forward Will Longdon’s hand holding the apple. ‘Smile. Tell them it’s a gift.’

  ‘I don’t speak their language.’

  ‘It’s how you say it. Pretend you’re paying a whore.’

  ‘Then I’d have a face on me as sour as last week’s latrine bucket.’

  Halfpenny smiled at the fierce-looking tribesmen and nodded for them to take it. The two men accepted it and nodded their thanks, glanced at each other, said something and one pulled a fig from his robes. He freed a wicked-looking knife from his belt and cut the fig in half; then he then offered it to Longdon and Halfpenny, who studied the dark fruit.

  ‘It’s not an apple, and it’s not an orange,’ said Halfpenny.

  ‘Might be dried horse turd,’ said Longdon, looking uncertainly at the smiling Moor who gestured for him to eat.

  Halfpenny took a bite. ‘It’s good. Try it.’

  ‘I’ve never like foreign food. I sucked one of their oranges back in Burgos and my gums stung for a day.’

  Halfpenny shoved what was left of the fig into his mouth and nodded his thanks to the two men who watched his greed. The one muttered something, but his companion admonished him. Halfpenny made light work of Will Longdon’s half.

  Will Longdon pointed to one of the Moor’s bows; after a moment’s hesitation the man handed it to him. Longdon tested the pull. It was easier than the hefty pull on his own bow.

  ‘Short range. Eighty, maybe a hundred yards,’ he told Halfpenny, handing it to him so he could feel the pull weight.

  Longdon bent his bow, nocked its cord and handed it to the Moor. The man studied its length – the bow was taller than him – and then he tried to pull it back, but managed only halfway despite his obvious strength. By now others had gravitated towards the four men. They passed Will Longdon’s bow among them. A couple of men almost managed to pull its cord to their chest.

  ‘A hundred-and-sixty-pound pull weight,’ said Longdon, warming to their failure. ‘Most of the lads have about a hundred and twenty or thirty, but me and Sir Thomas, we can pull the heaviest bows. I can pull more, truth be told.’

  Halfpenny looked askance. ‘You know damned well Sir Thomas could pull more than any of us.’

  ‘They don’t know that, do they? You told me it’s how I say it that matters. Well, this is how I tell a yarn in an alehouse after a few jugs and everyone believes me, so they’ll get the idea.’

  They handed back his bow and beckoned the two archers to join them. The Moors became more animated and told their companions to draw and shoot at the targets eighty yards down the butts. The length and breadth of the square targets measured the same as an ash arrow with a bodkin point, a square yard fastened on a straw dummy the size of an average man.

  ‘He’s got that wrong,’ said Halfpenny. ‘Look how he’s nocking his arrow.’

  ‘Get that grin off your face, Jack, let’s not make them look more foolish than they are,’ Will said under his breath as the archer let the arrow settle on the wrong side of the bow. ‘I reckon these aren’t archers; they’ve been given these bows and told to learn to shoot.’

  Both men were stunned into silence as the archers loosed three arrows in rapid succession, so fast that the action was a blur. All the targets had three arrow shafts sticking in them.’

  ‘That don’t make no damned sense,’ said Halfpenny.

  The Moors stood and waited.

  ‘Do that again,’ said Will Longdon and then gestured for the nearest man to shoot again. Longdon studied him. ‘I’ll be damned,’ he said as the archer loosed another accurately aimed arrow. ‘He uses his thumb instead of his fingers to pull back the cord. I see it now. You understand, Jack?’

  Halfpenny shook his head. Will Longdon had gone to war with his bow since he was a boy. He knew how shafts flew in various weather conditions, understood distance and wind and his keen eye had shown him these expert bowmen’s skill and technique. Had they been village idiots back in England and laid their shaft on the wrong side of an English longbow the arrow would have wavered and fluttered away like a broken-winged crow.

  ‘They rest the shaft on the right-hand side of their bow and when they loose the cord with their thumb, it throws the arrow left. It�
��s something to do with how the thumb twists the cord.’ He stepped forward and lifted his war bow. ‘Look here, lads, this is how we do it,’ he said, ignoring the fact they didn’t understand him. He waited until the men gathered closely around him and Halfpenny. He pulled an arrow from his belt, gripped the bow and laid the arrow left of the shaft on the top of his curled fist; then he showed them the first three fingers of his right hand, before laying them on the bowstring where the arrow’s notch embraced the cord. The men muttered and grunted as the Englishmen showed their shooting technique. The Moors stepped aside and motioned for him to shoot at the targets. Will Longdon studied the yard-square targets then turned his back and walked towards the distant wall at the far end of the butts.

  ‘Come on, Jack, let’s show these heathen bastards how an Englishman shoots a war bow.’

  When they reached 230 yards they could go no further because of a drainage ditch where water flowed from one yard to another. ‘This’ll do. One target together.’

  ‘The middle one,’ said Halfpenny.

  The Moors stood between the Englishmen and the targets. None of them moved. To shuffle clear would show cowardice.

  Will Longdon and Jack Halfpenny nocked an arrow and in unison pulled and loosed. The inch-thick ash ripped through the cooling air and struck the target a heartbeat apart punching through the square target on the straw man.

  The Moors raised their voices in appreciation.

  *

  Blackstone, Álvaraz and Killbere turned from where they stood several hundred yards away as the roar sped across the enclosed courtyards.

  ‘Trouble?’ said Killbere.

  Meulon grinned. ‘I told Will the Moors were better archers. He’s either convinced them otherwise or they’ve got his head on the end of a pole.’

  Killbere grunted. ‘It’ll need to be a thick pole.’

  CHAPTER SIXTY-ONE

  Will Longdon beckoned the two Moors to follow him over to where Blackstone stood with Killbere. Álvaraz was walking towards one of the Alcázar’s entrances. The two knights waited as Longdon ushered the men forward, despite their reticence.

  ‘Thomas, Sir Gilbert. These are two of their archers. They’ll benefit us. They don’t drink, which makes friendship difficult, but we’ll drink for them.’ He pointed to the first man, who clasped his hands respectfully and bowed. ‘This is Salam Lakum and I think this is his brother.’ The second man followed his companion’s gesture.

  Blackstone addressed them. ‘As-salāmu alaykum.’

  The men dipped their heads and spoke in unison. ‘Alaykum as-salām.’

  Will Longdon looked from the men to Blackstone. ‘You know them?’

  Killbere lowered his voice. ‘You damned village idiot. Tread carefully with these people. That’s their greeting. You wish them peace and they do the same.’

  ‘Well, you didn’t see them shoot. Peace isn’t their trade. We need Salam and his brother standing in line with me and the lads.’

  Blackstone and Killbere stood in silence, unable to communicate with the two Moors. A man strode quickly towards Blackstone. It was the Moorish captain who had been saved by Will Longdon’s arrows when they faced du Guesclin’s routiers. His snapped orders had the two Moors retreat towards the butts.

  The veteran archer called after them: ‘I’ll see you later. You can try some of my lads’ bows.’ The men didn’t turn around. Will Longdon looked at Blackstone and Killbere and the hawk-faced Moor who stood, hand on sword hilt, glaring at the stocky archer.

  ‘It is not permitted to go among my men,’ said the Moor.

  ‘Oh, aye?’ said Longdon, stepping aggressively forward, pointing a finger close to the man’s chest. ‘Then next time some routier bastard is going to shove his sword down your arrogant throat I will not permit my archers to save your sorry arse.’

  Killbere put an arm between the two men. Provocation often put a sword or knife in a man’s hand.

  ‘What do you want?’ said Blackstone.

  The Moor took a step back when Blackstone faced him. ‘My lord,’ he said respectfully. ‘You have asked to see the King. I am to escort you to him.’

  *

  Blackstone followed his escort through the voluminous corridors and ornate double archways towards the Lion’s Gate entrance and the Hall of Justice. An angry swarming buzz carried on the breeze: a murmur of discontent from beyond the walls, exaggerated by the tiled floor and walls. His guide led him deeper into the cool chambers. The sound of trickling water from a rill echoed across a vast mosaic-decorated hall. Footfalls scuffed across the smooth floor as a delegation of three men, one man leading, two in attendance, crossed their path. The man who led them glanced at Blackstone. His finery told Blackstone he was someone of importance and the men’s hurried pace made it obvious they were keen to leave the Alcázar as soon as possible. Blackstone’s escort turned into a passage and was blocked by Sayyid al-Hakam, who gave him a curt nod. The escort obeyed the silent command and walked away.

  Sayyid al-Hakam stood six feet away from Blackstone, close enough that he could smell the Moor’s breath, sweetened with the scent of something he had recently eaten or drunk.

  ‘Go no further, Sir Thomas,’ said Pedro’s bodyguard.

  Blackstone looked past the heavyset man; there was no one else in the shadows. If al-Hakam intended to challenge Blackstone, it would be a test of strength. He stared at the Moor. ‘I’m to meet the King. You’re in my way.’

  ‘It was I who sent for you, Sir Thomas. And I used the one man I trust to bring you here. The King is inflamed with temper. You must not go close to him. Years ago he killed his brother while in such a rage. When it’s unleashed we cannot tame his violence. If you go to him now one of you will die. And I know who that will be.’ He paused and glanced over his shoulder. ‘Your Prince would not look kindly on you killing a king.’

  The confession surprised Blackstone. Loyalty to the King seemed absolute yet al-Hakam, the man closest to Don Pedro, had summoned him, using the King’s name, to warn him. It was a grave risk the bodyguard had taken. He would know that if Blackstone told Don Pedro al-Hakam had warned him of his master’s violence, then it would be the Moor’s head on a spike.

  ‘What has caused such rage in Don Pedro?’ said Blackstone.

  ‘He sent his treasury by ship down the Guadalquivir but it has been seized by his admiral, Boccanegra. The Portuguese ambassador delivered the news that the King’s daughter’s betrothal has been rejected and they will not offer him sanctuary. They are blockading the Guadalquivir. No reinforcements from Granada can reach us and if there was ever a chance to escape by ship that is no longer a possibility.’

  No wonder the delegation Blackstone saw scurrying away looked so nervous. A King crazed with fury had nothing to lose by killing messengers who bore bad news. They had run for their lives.

  ‘You’ve seen his temper before: how long before we can talk sense into him?’

  ‘Days. Now he insists on defending Seville.’

  ‘If he does that, he’ll die here. You hear that?’ he said, meaning the rising sound beyond the walls. ‘That’s a mob. They know his half-brother’s men are on our heels. Think about it. They storm the Alcázar and they gift the city to the skinners. You know what I mean by skinners? Mercenaries?’

  ‘I understand,’ al-Hakam said, ‘but no one can enter the King’s chambers. Not yet.’

  ‘Where is Álvaraz?’

  ‘He is guarding the entrances with my men.’

  Blackstone nodded. ‘He knew we would be trapped here.’ Blackstone saw the danger that could soon swamp them. Leave it too late and the people of Seville would blockade the palace. It would take a bloodbath for an army to kill a whole city and make a fast escape. And Blackstone had no army. It was time to risk trusting the Moor. ‘Álvaraz gave me men to go with my own and bring fresh horses.’

  ‘The King’s?’

  Blackstone nodded. If such grand theft stirred the royal bodyguard’s sense of duty, then he would or
der his men to stop Blackstone’s.

  ‘And now you also steal his wealth.’

  ‘I use his wealth to save his life. We need fresh mounts. How will they be brought into the Alcázar?’

  Al-Hakam hesitated. He and Blackstone were now conspirators together. He knew there was no longer any choice how best to serve Don Pedro. ‘They’ll bring them through the rear gates; they’re narrow, easy to defend, and open to the farmland. I will see to it. It is a long ride north to the coast and that’s now our only hope to deliver Don Pedro to your Prince.’

  ‘We must persuade him, and quickly,’ said Blackstone. ‘I believe Bertrand du Guesclin will ride from Burgos and cut us off near Salamanca. Another army stands between us and the south.’ He let the news sink in. ‘You cannot get back to Granada and if you ride north with us, there is no place for Moors in northern Spain. You’ll be hunted down. You and your men should stay here in Seville and strike a bargain with Henry of Trastámara. He will use you to negotiate a peace with Granada.’

  ‘Sir Thomas, my people conquered and ruled Spain hundreds of years ago and when the Christian armies came together they pushed us south to the sea. My Lord Don Pedro already has a treaty with the Emirate. I am proof of that. Many of us will die for this King.’ He smiled. ‘Would it surprise you to know that you were to be abandoned here while we led him across the Portuguese border and then back into Granada? You were to fight the rearguard and die while we escaped.’

  Blackstone remembered Velasquita’s prophecy. ‘What makes you confide in me now?’

  ‘The man I sent to bring you here is my young brother. You saved his life that day against the French. We are both in your debt.’

  ‘Then see the horses get safely to my men. Tell Sir Gilbert to ready them and we’ll ride north and take this King of yours to safety whether he wants it or not.’

  ‘How?’

  ‘Where is the Lady Velasquita?’

  *

  Blackstone made his way into the Patio del Yeso through the intricately carved arches of the colonnade. The small courtyard’s gardens flanked a rectangular pool where Velasquita sat dangling her feet in the water. She did not turn around when Blackstone entered beneath the arches and stood watching her for a moment.