by David Gilman
‘Do you hear the swarm outside the walls, Thomas?’ she said. ‘Discontent will soon become a roar.’
Blackstone wondered if she had seen him approach but realized she could not have from where she sat. Glancing around at the colonnade he realized that al-Hakam’s voice might have carried along the corridors when he told Blackstone where she was. But that was unlikely given the distance. No matter how he tried to explain the woman’s abilities to himself the answer always came back to her having second sight. She turned and smiled. The garden was half shaded as the sun settled lower in the sky. He looked up at the double storey walls surrounding the courtyard. The garden was a refuge from both heat and cold. In the height of summer the colonnade and walls would give shade and in winter the sun would bless the enclosure with warmth.
He walked to where she sat. ‘This is my private place. I bathe here in summer. I swim naked while he watches.’ She raised her face to the window on the upper storey.
‘You tease him?’ said Blackstone.
‘I allow him the pleasure,’ she answered.
Blackstone crouched next to her. She showed no sign of concern at the threat from the city. ‘We cannot become trapped here, Velasquita. The King is in a violent rage. Portugal has abandoned him and his treasure has been seized by the admiral of the fleet, who has gone over to Trastámara. Don Pedro seems determined to die here. I cannot allow that but I am not the one to convince him to leave.’
‘There is no man in the kingdom who can convince him. No matter how powerful, strong, loyal or intelligent, not one of you can persuade this King what to do. Not one of you can calm him. Only a woman can do such a thing. And I am the only woman who can enter the royal quarters when he is so violent.’
‘Why do you think I’m here?’
‘Not to seduce me?’
The thought that she knew Ranulph de Hayle interrupted the moment. It was important to appear as if he still desired her. ‘There isn’t time.’ Her look told him there was. Yet there was nothing more he needed from her except to prise the King out of Seville. ‘The enemy is close and the door we escape through is closing.’ She looked unperturbed. Did that mean she knew the outcome? ‘What is it you see?’ he asked, acknowledging her link with the unknown forces that hover between heaven and earth.
‘Then you believe me and yet you are not afraid of me?’
‘I deal in reality. I face whatever – or whoever – is trying to kill me, not distorted dreams or visions. But you were right about the King betraying me here – intending to escape and leave me and my men to defend the palace. Well, now his escape is blocked. If you want Don Pedro to live and reclaim Castile then you must get him to agree to ride north. There is no time. We must leave the city at first light.’
She picked up her sandals and rose to her feet. He stood next to her. She went on tiptoe and kissed him. Her smile was followed by a sigh. It was as if she was regretfully bidding him farewell. She turned and walked along the colonnade, suddenly merging into the shadows. Blackstone looked where her wet footprints had touched the hot clay tiles; they had already evaporated, as if she had never been there. Blackstone blinked in the glare but could not shake the sensation, questioning whether she had.
CHAPTER SIXTY-TWO
Álvaraz rode down the line of horsemen before bringing his men alongside the Moors ready to lead the King out of the Alcázar. Mobs had formed at the front gates, bellowing their rage, hurling stones and insults. Whatever Blackstone had done to get the King to agree to leave his beloved city, the Spanish captain was grateful. The King of Castile was leaving his palace through the back gate like a common labourer.
Don Pedro sat, stiff-backed, upright, staring directly ahead, boxed in the middle of the column for his protection. His glazed eyes appeared to be those of a man in a trance. They had abandoned everything of value. The supply horses carried only food; the King had with him just some clothing and personal jewellery. His reign was in tatters, as down at heel as the rough-looking Englishmen who had vowed to escort him to freedom so he might gather support and invade his own country from beyond the Pyrenees. When he had first arrived in the vast courtyard where the men waited, he commented to his High Steward that he had not remembered granting the horses to Blackstone’s men. The High Steward lowered his voice so that no one could hear his reply, but whatever it was made the King look surprised but say nothing more.
Velasquita rode alone behind the King, flanked by neither courtiers nor cavalry. Blackstone had watched Don Pedro being guided to his horse and then helped to mount with the aid of a servant. Blackstone glanced at Velasquita, who stared back and then smiled. He knew the King’s calm demeanour meant only one thing. She had drugged him.
Blackstone’s men had seized the best horses from the King’s stables. The bastard horse was as belligerent to the newcomers as it had been towards the old. Blackstone steered it clear of the column, accompanied by Killbere and John Jacob. The men had slept little, readying equipment and supplies throughout the night after Blackstone told them their route and what to expect.
Sayyid al-Hakam led four hundred cavalry and two hundred mounted archers through the narrow gate. Will Longdon called out to the two bowmen he had befriended.
‘Salam, at the pace we’ll be riding that nag will die under you and you’ll be vulture bait. Before they pick your bones can I have your bow?’
The Moor smiled and raised a hand in farewell, unable to understand the archer but willing to believe his words were spoken in friendship.
‘There, you see, Jack, that’s how a man gets himself a souvenir.’
Halfpenny cleared his throat and spat. ‘You’re a thief in the night, Will Longdon. The poor bastard doesn’t stand a chance with you around.’
Longdon watched the horsemen trot past. ‘Young Salam, he’s a good lad. A bit wet behind the ears but he’s an archer and a half and if he ends up as maggot food then I’ll have myself a nice war bow to trade with some tavern keeper in Santiago.’
Meulon and William Ashford drew up alongside as they led their men forward in the column. ‘Santiago de Compostela is a place for the righteous. Even the taverns have daily prayers. There’s little wine and plenty of callouses on your knees,’ Meulon said.
‘No tavern keeper in his right mind would do that,’ said Longdon with a troubled look.
‘Aye, I’ve heard that as well,’ confirmed Halfpenny with a straight face.
‘And thieves like you are beyond redemption,’ the throat-cutter told him. ‘So you’re fucked. No wine or ale and damned as a sinner and a thief. That’s Santiago for you.’
William Ashford took pity on him. ‘Will, don’t listen to them. They’re squeezing your balls.’
Longdon grinned self-consciously. ‘I knew that, William.’
‘Once we ride into Santiago, the priests come into the street and question the captains and ask for their worst sinners so they can serve the pilgrims in the cathedral – you know, wash their feet like Our Lord did. Sir Thomas has told us it would be good for your soul if we all chose you.’
Before Longdon could close his gaping jaw and spit out a reply, Meulon and Ashford rode on, their laughter coming back to taunt him.
‘You’ll be laughing out your arse when you need us archers, you donkeys!’ he yelled.
Meulon raised himself in the stirrups and bent his back, showing the centenar his backside.
Jack Halfpenny looked as bemused as his friends.
‘And you watch yourself, Jack Halfpenny, or I’ll give you a dozen of my Welsh archers to command. Those pagan bastards will drive a man to forsake drunkenness and whoring and beg to join the priesthood.’
Halfpenny slapped him on his shoulder. ‘In that case, Will, you’re a candidate for the Church yourself. I’ll look for you having your head shaved and your arse kissed.’ He spurred his horse away to join his men.
Killbere followed Blackstone and John Jacob as they trotted past towards the gate. ‘Will! Then get those pagan Welsh bastards in goo
d order and join the column. This isn’t a damned invitation,’ he said.
Will Longdon curled the reins around his fist and turned in the saddle to face his archers. ‘You’re pagan bastards right enough, but you’re my pagan bastards.’
He heeled his mount and followed the column out of the Alcázar, now abandoned to the mob and the enemy.
CHAPTER SIXTY-THREE
Blackstone pushed man and beast hard. On clear nights, when the moon rose and cast its light on the way ahead, he drove them long into the night. Don Pedro regained his temper and irritability by late on the first day but Sayyid al-Hakam stayed close to his master and his assurances assuaged the King’s anger at having little recollection of being convinced to leave his beloved Alcázar in Seville.
The way to Salamanca and beyond was unknown to Blackstone and as a gesture he turned to the King for advice, but in reality depended on the Moor and the Spanish captain. He confirmed their suggestions of what route to take by sending out Renfred and his men to scout.
They crossed the Roman bridge at Salamanca, taking on more supplies from the city loyal to the King. Blackstone’s men rode along the sandbanks below the bridge’s several arches, screened by trees and brush, ensuring that the columns’ full complement went unnoticed by the wary citizens who, despite professing their loyalty, might be tempted to pass such information to the King’s enemies. The fewer men seen might help attract a smaller attack force when word of their numbers reached Bertrand du Guesclin, which it surely would.
‘We skirted Salamanca, Thomas, but when the men returned with supplies, there were enough peasants with their hands out for silver to tell the French where we are,’ said Killbere as they hunched over their small fire and dipped stale bread into the cooking pot simmering with pottage.
‘They won’t need to be told, Gilbert, they’ll know. I’ll wager du Guesclin is close. My prayer is that the King will do what we tell him.’
Killbere squinted through the fire’s smoke towards the King’s tent. ‘He’s been docile enough now that they have stripped him of his wealth and denied him sanctuary in Portugal.’
‘Better for us if we could have crossed the border, but we need him to be elsewhere when the fight comes. If he’s with us when the French strike we’ll all die where we stand.’
The two veteran fighters fell silent. Killbere ran his tongue around his mouth to clear the saturated bread. ‘You’ll have to bed the woman again, you know that.’
Blackstone’s quizzical look drew no smile from Killbere.
‘Gilbert, I’ll not deny I enjoyed it but there’s no need for me to creep into her tent. I have my suspicions about her and that’s enough.’
‘You’d deny her her prophecy? It’s not a bad way to die, y’know, Thomas. I can think of a worse death.’
Blackstone tossed the rest of the crust into the pot. ‘You believe such nonsense?’
‘Were it me I’d keep on testing what she said.’ He wiped his greasy hands on his jerkin. ‘You can’t just stop seeing her; she’ll think you suspect her. Best to stay close to an enemy.’ He grinned. ‘Closer the better.’
‘I’ll send you.’
‘Oh no, my friend, I’ll bed down whores and nuns and tavern maids, but witches need a braver man than me.’
‘And I don’t believe in twisted dreams that pass as prophecy so there’s no need to crawl beneath her blankets again.’
‘Thomas, if we are to fight the French then only she can make Don Pedro be elsewhere. He has death or glory written all over him and, like you said, when they come they’ll come hard. We’ll pay the price and it’ll be costly to save his murderous skin but that’s what they task us to do and we must do it no matter what. Let us not forget that by now Henry of Trastámara is crowned King of Castile. He’s an enemy at our Prince’s back. We must look beyond this arse-cracked arid place and get the bastard back to Aquitaine. So swallow your pride and bed the witch again and have her drug Pedro or fondle his balls or do whatever she has to do. We cannot win if he is in our midst because he will take command. He’ll get in the way of the fight. We need to do what we do best.’
Blackstone knew his old friend spoke sense. ‘It’ll be me they’ll want, Gilbert.’
‘Aye, but they’ll have to get past me and every captain and their men to reach you.’ He grinned. ‘The Frenchies won’t like those odds.’
*
Stones from a tumbledown goat fold lay scattered on the hard ground. A canopy stretched across the half-walls gave Velasquita shelter from the chill wind. Servants had prepared a fire, cleared a place for her bedroll and served her food. She was, as always, separate from the King and his courtiers and distant enough from the common soldier to remain private. The remains of the stone walls were enough to keep the night air at bay as the breeze swirled around the firelight. She lay half propped against her saddle, her cloak wrapped around her as blankets and bedroll softened the harshness of what would otherwise be an inhospitable resting place. With or without the comfort of the bedroll, blankets and canopy, it would have been an enticing encounter with the sensuous woman. She gazed up at him.
‘I thought you had abandoned me, Thomas. I’ve been cold in my blankets these past nights.’
Blackstone made no attempt to lie next to her but stood on the other side of the fire, letting it dance across her face. He saw the devil’s smile emerging from the flames. ‘You have the comfort of the souls of the dead, Velasquita. You draw them to you whenever you wish.’ He paused, although the lure of the woman’s passion was enticing. When the shadows danced across the ruin, it was easy to succumb to their illusion and let them draw him to her. His resolve kept him where he stood. ‘I owe you a debt. You brought the King out of Seville.’
‘I used a potion in his wine. Any man can be misled, Thomas, when his mind is befuddled.’
Was that what had happened to him? he wondered. He decided to play her game. Flattery was simply a sweet-sounding lie. ‘My wine was not drugged, but my senses were overtaken with passion for you.’
‘And you regret that?’
‘How could any man?’
‘Then lie with me tonight.’
‘No. I must see to the King’s safety tomorrow as well as yours. The French are close. My scouts have seen outriders. Another day and they’ll be on us.’ He stepped around the fire and crouched next to her, taking her hand to his lips. If he could convince her he was sincere, that he did not suspect her of knowing Ranulph de Hayle, then she would do as he asked. ‘Velasquita, our time together is not ended but I must make you safe. You and the King must leave at dawn. Puebla de Sanabria is a day’s ride, two at the most, north of here. A castle stronghold is there if you need it.’
She sat up. ‘You abandon us, Thomas?’
‘I hold back the French who expect us to run for the Portuguese border. We’ll join you when the fight’s over and then we ride for Santiago. The routiers won’t follow us into Galicia. He’ll be safe. Will you convince him?’
‘Only if you ride with us.’
‘I cannot. You know that.’
She laid her trap carefully. ‘But afterward?’
Blackstone sensed her web enfolding him. He had no choice if he was to use her influence with the King. ‘Then I’ll come to you.’
*
A brazier warmed the King’s comfortably furnished pavilion. He sat on a chair on an unfurled carpet with a side table of food close to hand. Despite the need to escape Seville in haste, Blackstone had not been able to convince the steward that pack horses should only carry essential supplies. A King does not sleep on stony ground or eat from a soldier’s cooking pot was the response. More was the pity, Blackstone thought; a fighting man like the Prince of Wales would forsake comfort when a battle loomed. Sayyid al-Hakam and Álvaraz stood behind Don Pedro.
Álvaraz greeted Blackstone with a nod. The Englishman’s tactics had prevailed so far and if there was any hope of success, then the Spaniard knew that it rested with Blackstone. The King glanced u
p and immediately lowered his head to his food again; but when the tent flap opened and closed once more, he raised his eyes. He wiped his mouth and smiled and nodded for Velasquita to come closer. She bent, kissed his proffered hand and allowed herself to be eased next to him to stand at his shoulder. Álvaraz scowled but Blackstone gave a gentle shake of his head. Stay quiet.
‘Well?’ said Don Pedro. ‘We run like alley cats from feral dogs. Are you here to humiliate me further?’ He wiped his hands on the linen cloth presented by the High Steward and waved away the food tray. A dutiful servant stepped forward and removed it.
‘Your death is close, my lord,’ said Blackstone.
Don Pedro’s jaw dropped. Blackstone’s words struck a shocked silence in the pavilion.
‘You threaten or warn me?’ said the King.
‘Tomorrow the French routiers will swarm down the valley from Valladolid, south of Zamora, north of Salamanca. Once they see your banner they will keep coming until we are dead or captured.’
‘Then it is time for me to make my stand,’ said Don Pedro.
‘It is time for you to be gone before we sight them. I have spoken to your captains: Álvaraz and al-Hakam. Bertrand du Guesclin and Hugh Calveley’s routiers will expect us to have our backs to them as we run for the Portuguese border. Instead, we will have our backs to the mountains and stand across the river on the west bank of the Esla.’
The King looked at Álvaraz. ‘Did you choose that place?’ hissed the King.
Álvaraz did not cower before the King. ‘I did.’
Don Pedro refrained from chastising his Spanish captain. He turned to Blackstone. ‘And did Álvaraz tell you what that place is called?’
Blackstone saw no point in discussing geography. ‘It makes no difference,’ he said.
‘El Campo del águila caída. In your language it means the Field of the Fallen Eagle. A thousand years ago a Roman cohort died there, trapped against the cliffs, slaughtered by tribes they sought to conquer. I am a superstitious man, Sir Thomas. Legends of the past are useful: they serve to inform us.’
