Shadow of the Hawk

by David Gilman

  ‘We’re losing Sayyid al-Hakam and his men. They’re going to cross the river to fight,’ he told them.

  ‘They’ll kill a few hundred but not enough,’ said William Ashford.

  ‘And we’ll hold our ground and stop the French at the top of the riverbank,’ Blackstone said, pointing out the key areas along the river for his men to make their stand ‘They’ll breach our lines eventually. When they do we fall back across the horse traps we’ve dug.’ He drew lines showing how the archers should withdraw to the cliff face while the men-at-arms formed a shield wall.

  ‘They’ll batter us down, Thomas,’ said Killbere.

  ‘Not before we make them bleed,’ said Blackstone. ‘Will, Jack, when you and your lads are down to half your arrows, use slings to buy time so we withdraw from the flanks. Then get behind us, form up and wait for my command. Once we’re hard pressed we lower shields and you shoot.’

  Will Longdon ground a finger in his ear, examined the congealed wax and wiped it on his hose. ‘A half-dozen arrows is all each man will have left so we’ll kill the first few ranks but they’ll swarm over the bodies.’

  ‘The dead will form a stumbling block, and those that live will be more exhausted than us. They’ll have had to run several hundred yards, get across the river, up the bank and then stumble across their own dead.’

  ‘And then?’ said Renfred. ‘If any of us survive?’

  Killbere hawked and spat. ‘Then we get as many of those who are still alive up the track and away, rejoin Don Pedro and reach the coast.’

  It was a grim outlook for Blackstone’s men but fighting against overwhelming odds added strength to a man’s sword arm.

  *

  The captains broke off and went to their men. Meulon cursed quietly to himself. The ground between the river and the cliff was too soft for men to drive stakes into. All they could hope for was that the rocks and fallen trees they had dragged from the river and laid across its bank would slow an enemy riding hard across the shallows. The staggered slit trenches they had dug were a foot deep, wide enough for a man’s boot or horse’s hoof, sufficient to make a horse stumble if they got ashore. If the French had learnt their lessons from the past, then they would abandon their mounts and attack on foot. It made no difference: men on foot or horses would have to scramble over the traps before Blackstone’s men killed them. Enemy dead would block the bridge once Will Longdon’s archers had wreaked their violence but Meulon knew, as did every other man, that the weight of numbers would drive the routiers through their defences. Meulon’s right flank and Ashford’s left would push the attackers’ centre onto Blackstone’s arrowhead formation. Those routiers splashing across the shallows who survived Will Longdon’s archers would face the lines of the men-at-arms, where they would be drawn in and smothered. The enemy’s superior numbers would eventually drive Blackstone’s ranks back and as they were diminished they would draw closer together to form a last pocket of resistance, backs against the cliffs, guarding the quarry entrance so that a handful of them could escape and warn Don Pedro. Someone had to tell the Prince of Wales that Thomas Blackstone and his men had died obeying his command at the Field of the Fallen Eagle.

  They had faced overwhelming odds before and there was always a time to die. Meulon spat and kicked a stone. Godforsaken places were where fighting men found their courage. He dismissed any thought of defeat. Will Longdon and his archers were settled by their fires, using the light to check and fuss their arrowheads and fletchings. Every man had river pebbles and stones piled next to him.

  The centenar looked up as Meulon loomed over him. ‘Will, you’ll be on my left so tell your men to keep their aim true because if we have to fight the skinners at the riverbank I don’t want an arrow up my arse.’

  Will Longdon passed him his wineskin. ‘You keep your big arse out of my lads’ way and you’ll have no cause for complaint.’

  Meulon drank and nudged his toe against the centenar, who had begun checking his arrows again. ‘You take heed from what Sir Thomas said. If they overrun us you and your bowmen get back to the cliffs. That’s your best chance.’

  ‘Sword and buckler is the last chance any of us archers have.’

  ‘Aye, well, if it comes to that the rest of us will be dead.’

  ‘I can do without your good cheer, you oaf. Look to yourself and your lads and I’ll do the same with mine. With Renfred on one side and you on the other it’s best you don’t get in our way. Your men-at-arms lumber around like bulls in a field looking for cows to mount.’

  ‘Better to fight hand to hand, you humped-back dwarf, than sling stones that irritate no more than wasp stings.’

  ‘I’ll kill any man at forty yards with a sling and so too will my lads, so when you’re being beaten senseless by a French bastard who takes a dislike to your ugly face then give a signal and we’ll favour you with our aim.’

  Meulon wiped his mouth and corked the wineskin, tossing it to the archer. ‘Your wine’s turning sour.’

  Will Longdon grinned. ‘That’s why I gave it to you.’

  Meulon belched. ‘I shall keep you at my back when the fight starts so I can repay you with my farts.’ He walked towards his own men, stepping around the archers’ campfires.

  Jack Halfpenny hunkered down as Meulon went on his way. ‘What did he want?’

  Will Longdon watched the departing man. ‘To wish us luck,’ he said without rancour.

  *

  Blackstone and Killbere walked the length of their defences. They spoke to their men, who, like the archers, were busying themselves preparing for the following day’s battle. None of them grumbled or bemoaned their fate at being where they were. Their insults towards each other were tinged with the silent acknowledgement that the man they were taunting would be at their shoulder the next day. Killbere traded a few choice slurs himself with those he had known for years.

  Renfred, the German captain, stood nonchalantly whittling a piece of wood. ‘Sir Thomas, did you tell the Moors the French will be here soon after dawn?’

  ‘I did.’

  ‘You know they’re fools to strike at them across the river. They’ll kill a few hundred, if they’re lucky, but they’ll go down under French hooves.’

  Killbere looked across the river. ‘They sacrifice themselves for their honour, Renfred. They serve the King.’

  ‘We all die for those we serve, Sir Gilbert, but honour? That’s hard to find.’

  ‘Did you or your men see any sign of Hugh Calveley?’ said Blackstone.

  Renfred shook his head. ‘He will come a different way, I think. No, it was du Guesclin’s advance party we saw. They bristle like a leafless forest.’

  ‘Then we’ll need to be woodcutters tomorrow,’ Blackstone said.

  The German looked at his whittled figure and then tossed it into the river. The carving was of no value; it had served its purpose, allowing the hardened man-at-arms and scout to concentrate his mind on the fight ahead.

  Blackstone watched the scarred piece of wood float away in the moonlit current. ‘Honour is standing firm to the man next to you,’ he said. He clapped a hand on Renfred’s shoulder. No more words needed.

  When Blackstone and Killbere came to William Ashford’s men on the far flank of the river one of them stood. ‘Sir Thomas,’ said Tom Brook, a man who had joined Blackstone’s men when Ashford had been assigned to the Master of War. ‘May I speak, lord?’

  ‘Every man may speak if they are words worth listening to,’ said Killbere, eyeing the fair-haired younger man.

  ‘And even if they’re not,’ Blackstone added. ‘We have time to hear them.’

  The younger man, clearly not lacking in confidence, scratched in the dirt and pointed them out as being the battle lines. ‘If we had a few mounted men at the quarry, they could hold there and when we are pushed back, they could then sweep across the skinners. That could give the lads on foot a chance to regroup or run for the quarry.’

  Tom Brook looked no older than Blackstone’s
son, but he was already a veteran at twenty-two.

  ‘And who would be the best men to do this?’ said Blackstone.

  Brook looked across to where al-Hakam’s men camped. The Moors went without blankets on the cold night, draping them instead across their horses, keen for their mounts not to have stiff muscles when first light came and when, soon after, they’d ask them to drive hard at the enemy. ‘They’re horsemen like I’ve never seen before. I watched them back at Seville. They’re tough and they’re fearless. If they would give us twenty or thirty men on this side of the river it could turn things in our favour.’

  ‘You make a good point, Tom,’ said Killbere. ‘But the Moors will not reduce their ranks for us.’

  ‘Then will you ask Master Ashford if I can take a dozen men and lead them?’

  ‘Tom, we need every man in the line,’ said Blackstone. He looked across the open ground; he could see how the assault would take place and Tom Brook’s idea had merit, but it would be costly to those who undertook its execution. ‘I’ll speak to William and ask him to choose a dozen of his best men. You will fight with me, and when the time comes I’ll send you back to ready the horsemen. We’ll have need of you, Tom, but I’ll not think badly of you if you see it’s too great a risk.’

  ‘A greater risk than anyone else will take, Sir Thomas? We’ll cut a wound into the bastards’ hearts and they can choke on their own blood.’

  *

  The sky cleared. It appeared to be so close a man could lie in his blankets and reach up and seize a lifetime’s wealth from the jewel-infused heaven, even as the accompanying night’s chill seeped through men’s clothing, burying itself deep in muscle and bone.

  Beyard watched Lázaro murmur in his sleep, back pressed close to the river boulders edging the fire, which radiated warmth. Then he looked up from sharpening his knife. ‘Hello, John. Doing your rounds?’

  ‘Aye. Sir Thomas always goes among the men before a fight. You care for the blade as much as you do the boy,’ said John Jacob, who had stepped next to Beyard’s fire.

  Beyard tested his thumb against the blade; then he slipped it into its scabbard. ‘We look to him.’

  ‘As Lázaro looks to you. The lad’s come a long way.’

  Beyard glanced again at the curled figure by the fire and tucked the blanket up around the boy’s neck. ‘He’s found his voice and his courage over the months. How must it be for a lad his age enduring what he’s gone through?’

  ‘And tomorrow, where will he be?’

  ‘With the horses.’

  ‘Best place,’ said John Jacob. He gazed across the camp. Both men were subdued. ‘We need to kill ten of them for every one they kill of us.’

  ‘It will be a long day,’ said Beyard.

  CHAPTER SIXTY-SIX

  The dark blue sky began its slow retreat. The moon was chasing another night in another place as the first blade of a blood sun edged across the horizon. Men’s breath whispered into the cold pre-dawn air. Blackstone’s men had watched in silence as the Moors bent in prayer. Ignorance of the Muslims’ customs did not impede their sense of respect for men bowing down in humility before going to their death.

  The Moors went quietly to their horses, stroked their faces and blew gently into their nostrils as they murmured soothing words to them. Then they eased their blankets off them and one by one led their mounts across the ancient stone bridge. The gathered cavalrymen each waited on foot for their turn to go across the river. Sayyid al-Hakam watched a dozen of his archers carrying baskets of their arrows as they accompanied his brother to where Will Longdon stood. The man known to the centenar as Salam carried his own offering. They stopped in front of Longdon, and Sayyid’s brother spoke.

  ‘I am Abid al-Hakam. It was you who saved my life. I pray Allah will protect you this day.’

  Salam and the men with him placed the baskets down in front of Longdon and Jack Halfpenny.

  ‘My archers will have no need for more than half of their arrows. You understand?’ said al-Hakam.

  Will Longdon faced the men and knew they spoke of their own death. Their quiet courage and acceptance of their fate touched him and the battle-hardened archer felt tears sting his eyes. He nodded.

  ‘This man,’ said Abid, turning to Salam, ‘his name is Najih bin Wālid. He wishes you to know this.’

  Will Longdon’s coarse life of soldiering served him well in this rare moment of emotion that he could not explain. He suppressed the inexplicable sadness he felt by plucking an arrow and examining it.

  ‘These are fine arrows,’ said Will Longdon, ‘and we will kill many enemies with them.’ He looked at the archer. ‘And tell him I am glad to know his name and that it will be remembered.’

  Abid al-Hakam told the man at his side.

  ‘English,’ bin Wālid said; he placed his hand across his chest in salute, and smiled.

  They turned away.

  *

  By the time the Moors had led their horses across the bridge the sun had peeked over the distant hills. Sayyid al-Hakam was the last man to step onto the bridge. His men had formed up on the opposite bank in plain sight so that an approaching enemy could identify them, but their archers had filtered away into the trees on the left flank. Blackstone stood with the Moor as he looked back at the King’s pavilion and Castile and León’s standard next to Blackstone’s banner.

  ‘It is in a good place, far enough back for the French and their savages to fight through you, Sir Thomas.’ He glanced at the sky. ‘There is no wind now, but it will be here in an hour. You smell that? The breeze brings the scent of wild sage. The flags tremble. The wind will be at your back from the north-west. We will feel it and let it drive us into them. We kill as many as we can before they get past us.’

  ‘You could still take a stand with us here. Several hundred men shoulder to shoulder stand a better chance,’ Blackstone said.

  ‘Sir Thomas, we are watched over by your God, our Rabbul Alamīn, He is the Nameless One who decides when it is we die. Now is our time. We choose how we die and we die as horsemen.’

  Al-Hakam tugged the horse’s trailing rein to lead it across the bridge. ‘Fight well, Sir Thomas.’

  ‘And you.’

  The Moor took a couple of steps and then turned back. ‘Don Pedro ordered me to protect the woman, Lady Velasquita, the night she met an English mercenary. This man, he showed her the head of a boy, but it was not the boy they hunted. Be careful. She is known to the devil, and he holds her close.’

  Blackstone nodded his thanks and watched Sayyid al-Hakam take the long walk across the bridge as his men raised their voices to honour him. The Moor’s final words had been offered in friendship between men who served and obeyed. The warning tarnished the woman further and strengthened Blackstone’s suspicions. Whether she acted at the behest of Don Pedro or on her own volition, it meant Velasquita was involved with or party to the Queen’s murder. He turned to where his men stood in position, listening to the Moors’ voices reverberating against the cliffs.

  ‘Beyard!’ Blackstone beckoned the Gascon, who strode forward.

  ‘Sir Thomas?’

  ‘Who stands with you? Loys and Aicart?’ he asked, naming two of the Gascons who had fought throughout Blackstone’s campaigns.

  ‘They command their own men at my side as always.’

  ‘Will they stay with Lázaro? If the French overrun us I don’t want him falling into their hands in case de Hayle rides with them.’

  Beyard hesitated. His two men commanded loyalty among those they led. ‘They would obey but I need them. I have told Lázaro to take my horse if the French break through.’

  Blackstone knew it had been an unreasonable request. He recanted. ‘So be it. The lad must ride for his life if the time comes. Tell him...’ Blackstone had no proof Velasquita was the killer. Had she wanted the witness dead by the King’s command or to protect herself? ‘Tell him he must not trust the Lady Velasquita. Better to seek protection from Álvaraz the Spanish captain. If they
defeat us, then Lázaro is abandoned again. I have brought him to great danger and we can no longer protect him.’

  Beyard’s concerned look reflected less the likelihood of them dying in battle than that Velasquita might be the Queen’s murderer even though the boy had not identified her. ‘I’ll tell him.’

  ‘Do it now before du Guesclin gets here.’

  Beyard hurried towards the quarry entrance.

  ‘Gilbert?’ Blackstone called.

  As always Killbere had staked his place to fight at Blackstone’s shoulder, he on one side, John Jacob on the other. ‘The lads are ready, Thomas.’

  ‘The Moor tells me the wind will pick up. Get the men to build fires on the lip of the riverbank. As many as can be done in time. When al-Hakam’s men can no longer hold the skinners, we stand upwind and let the smoke smother them. Do it now, Gilbert. Every other man in the line will have a torch ready. Use the night’s fires for kindling. Have them readied. Take those blankets al-Hakam’s men left. Smother the wood with them. When they’re lit, the smoke will choke the river.’

  Killbere cast a doubtful look at the unblemished sky. ‘And if the wind doesn’t come?’

  ‘It doesn’t matter. It’s one more obstacle for them to get around and horses panic when flames reach them. I should have thought of it before now.’

  Killbere grinned. ‘You must be getting old and forgetful.’

  ‘If we live through today, I’ll be grateful for that.’

  Killbere strode away as Blackstone raised a hand to William Ashford, who stood with his men in formation. ‘William, you are down the line at my left with Tom Brook behind me. You must protect Jack Halfpenny and his archers who stand between us.’

  ‘Aye, Sir Thomas.’

  ‘We must give Tom and those you’ve chosen time to get back to the horses.’

  Ashford pointed to ten men who stood ready with shields. ‘If God favours us and they live long enough, they’ll cover Tom back.’