Shadow of the Hawk

by David Gilman

  ‘I will,’ said Killbere, ‘and gladly because you will likely be strung up by your ankles wearing your balls around your neck.’

  *

  Blackstone led; John Jacob followed, guiding Meulon’s litter; the stragglers came behind. Blackstone stopped fifty paces from the town gates and waited. If the command was given for the crossbowmen to loose they were dead.

  The gates opened and a stocky man-at-arms strode out, flanked by six more. He stopped thirty paces from Blackstone. It made sense. Standing there, he would not be struck by the lethal bolts.

  ‘You are Sir Thomas Blackstone,’ he said. ‘I recognize your blazon. I am Godfrey de Claville. I am captain here. State your business, Sir Thomas.’

  ‘We came across two villages attacked by routiers. We saved these villeins and my man here was wounded while killing many of the skinners single-handed. He’ll die if I don’t find him a surgeon – and these people will die if they are left without protection. I seek help and hospitality.’

  The man-at-arms stepped forward, raising a hand to stop his companions from following. The bastard horse dipped its head, ears pricked, hoof scraping the ground. De Claville stopped. ‘Your horse is wary, Sir Thomas. I will approach no closer. I’ve no wish to startle him further and cause any of my men to panic and loose their arrows.’ He waited for Blackstone to answer but the scar-faced man made no response. ‘We are enemies. You come here expecting me to help you? That I might offer to save one of your men? Why would I – even if I had a barber-surgeon? And why would I take in more mouths to feed? In fact, why would I not seize you now and hold you to ransom?’

  ‘You and your men would die by my hand before your bowmen could loose their bolts. You serve the Lord of Mayenne. This territory is yours to command. Take in these people and offer your protection. Set them to work on the land and they will pay their hearth tax, which enriches your lord. And that raises you further in his estimation. There is a band of routiers raiding this domain, and that is why you have every man you can muster on the walls. And there are scarcely enough to defend the town so you do not have the men to hunt down the skinners.’

  Godfrey de Claville swept an arm across the horizon. ‘His name is Ranulph de Hayle. He masquerades as Ronec le Bête, a Frenchman, and he is protected by your great knight Sir John Chandos.’

  ‘You’re wrong. I know Sir John. He’s the most honourable of men. He would not allow it.’

  ‘I cannot stop Ronec because I dare not leave the town undefended. His men kill without mercy. And sooner or later he will come here and he outnumbers us. Villaines will fall but we will die defending it.’ He looked up at Blackstone. ‘Perhaps you wish to use the pretext of trying to save a wounded man so that you can get behind our gates.’

  ‘I would ride into Villaines and risk my life. I would be at your mercy. You fought at Cocherel,’ he said.

  De Claville looked puzzled as to how Blackstone knew; then, when he glanced at the abandoned wagons, he realized.

  ‘You defeated men who were my friends, some who served with me in the past. Your part in the victory has already brought you credit and honour. If you gave your word for my safety and that of my squire, I would accept it. I have no desire to cause harm to anyone under your care.’

  Godfrey de Claville looked past the villeins to where Blackstone’s men were spread out across the meadow. He had too few men to withstand a sustained attack and Blackstone knew it. He could hold off an assault against the low walls and defensive ditches for a short while, but these men would keep pressing until they were within the town. No matter how hard the militia and townspeople fought, Blackstone’s men would win.

  ‘I give you my word,’ de Claville said.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  Godfrey de Claville ushered Blackstone and John Jacob through the gates. The barricades in the streets would have slowed any assault but Blackstone knew that a determined attack would have broken through. They dismounted in front of a broad-fronted building as de Claville’s men pressed curious onlookers aside. There were fewer houses than in many other towns but the streets twisted and tangled along one side and then flared into an open space where sheep and goats grazed. Blackstone saw women drawing water from two different wells and a priest hurrying head down, either in prayer or in hope that the savage-looking men who had come into the town were not harbingers of doom. Perhaps, Blackstone thought, he was in a hurry to hide his brass candlesticks. Blackstone handed the bastard horse’s reins to John Jacob as de Claville beckoned men to lift Meulon’s great frame from the litter. It took six of them.

  ‘In here,’ said de Claville.

  Blackstone followed him inside to a cool room with a vaulted roof. The sweet smell of spring grass wafted through an open window. A long table, scrubbed clean, with benches either side, dominated the room.

  ‘My men eat here. There are kitchens in the next room.’ De Claville gestured for the litter-bearers to lift the unconscious man onto the table. They heaved him up and were then dismissed to return to their duties at the wall.

  Blackstone put a hand against Meulon’s forehead, its pallor and his shallow breathing telling him that his friend’s life might be forfeit by nightfall.

  ‘I have sent for the barber-surgeon,’ said de Claville.

  Blackstone nodded. The room would have barely seated thirty men. So that was the town’s strength, apart from the town’s militia, which would be pressed into service when the need arose. ‘You took prisoners at Cocherel?’

  ‘A few. I captured a handful of men and was awarded most of their supplies. We are a small town. It was a generous reward that added to our grain stores.’

  ‘I am looking for a man called Beyard. A Gascon. He fought with de Grailly. I was told a Breton lord captured him.’

  ‘I took no Gascons, only Navarrese. I’ll ransom them when the time is right.’

  A dishevelled man, his drab cloak stained with what looked to be dry blood, came into the room. He pulled back his cowl with one hand and gripped a rolled cloth to his chest with the other. ‘I was pulling teeth,’ he said by way of explanation to de Claville, his eyes on the wounded man. ‘And him?’

  ‘Wounded with a knife blade. We cleaned the wound and packed it with herbs,’ said Blackstone.

  ‘Waste of time. Herbs cause harm, didn’t anyone ever tell you that?’ said the barber-surgeon. ‘Cow dung is what you need to seal a wound.’

  Blackstone knew differently. He had seen the curative effects of herbs on his men’s injuries, but he remained silent. A battlefield surgeon could act with speed and efficiency if he was the right kind of man.

  ‘Tell me what you plan to do before you do it,’ said Blackstone.

  The surgeon pulled back his sleeves. His grubby fingers probed Meulon’s wound. Meulon’s body recoiled. ‘I feel the metal,’ he said. ‘All right, what I’m going to do to him will wake him up. Get men in here to hold him,’ he told de Claville and unrolled the bound cloth, exposing cutting knives, pliers and a saw. Their pitted blades were chipped and dull. Cleaner knives would be found in a badly run kitchen. ‘I cut here,’ he said, showing a lateral and horizontal cut across Meulon’s side. ‘He’s a big man but getting in deep enough and pulling out a shard of a blade, I don’t know. I might cut into his rib. I am not responsible, you understand. The body holds many secrets that we do not understand. He’ll bleed like a pig,’ he said matter-of-factly and reached for a knife.

  Blackstone grabbed his arm. ‘You will not go near my friend. I would have my own men treat him before I let you rip him apart.’

  The surgeon trembled. The man towered over him, threatening violence. ‘My lord, he will die anyway. Better that I try.’

  Blackstone took a handful of the man’s cloak, marched him to the door and threw him into the street. He turned to de Claville. ‘He’s a butcher. I’ve seen men die on the battlefield because of men like him. Is there no monk or nun who knows how to heal? An apothecary?’

  Godfrey de Claville was no coward but wh
en Blackstone had lifted the surgeon’s feet off the ground and tossed him aside as if he were nothing more than a bundle of cloth, he had pressed himself against the wall. ‘Sir Thomas, there is no monastery or convent less than several hours from here, but we have a priest who will make sure your friend is shriven before he dies.’

  ‘Merciful Christ,’ said Blackstone. ‘This man’s life is precious to me. Find me someone to help him and I swear to you I will give you whatever you wish – if it is within my power.’

  Godfrey de Claville saw the pagan symbol around Blackstone’s neck. ‘You were an archer, Sir Thomas. I see you wear the Silver Wheel Goddess. Arianrhod protects English bowmen who kill good Frenchmen, but you wear a crucifix as well.’

  ‘Good Frenchmen mutilate archers when they are seized. They need all the protection they can get. The crucifix is my wife’s.’

  ‘And which power holds sway over your soul? The pagan goddess or the symbol of everlasting life?’

  ‘I make my own destiny. And I will pray to whoever I damned well please. I made you an offer.’

  De Claville saw no reason to antagonize Blackstone further. ‘There is a man. They captured him in the baggage train with Jean de Grailly’s retinue. But if you are fearful of a Christian God or your man here fears for his soul, then I will not bring him.’

  ‘Speak in plain words, man. Who is it? You bring a sorcerer? If he can help, fetch him. A friend who lives is better than one dead and his soul and mine have long since been ransomed to the devil.’

  De Claville turned to the guard outside the door. ‘Fetch the Jew!’

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  Godfrey de Claville’s guards ushered in a man older in years than anyone else in the room, who wore a robe that reached below his knees, covered by a hooded dark tan cloak held by a brooch. He seemed to be someone of importance as his shirt was silk and his shoes, although scuffed, were of a quality leather. His cloak and clothing were, however, grubby: witness to his incarceration although there was no sign that he had been injured. Flecks of grey sprinkled his beard, and he was slightly built, his hands as slender as a woman’s. He carried a leather satchel and a rolled-up oilskin. He glanced at Blackstone, settled his baggage on the long table and gazed down at the injured man. He did not touch the wound or examine the patient they had summoned him to attend. Satisfied with what he saw, he raised his eyes to Blackstone.

  ‘I am Halif ben Josef. I served Lord Jean de Grailly at the behest of my lord, Charles of Navarre. I am a Jew.’

  Blackstone looked him up and down. ‘You wear no mark.’

  ‘Yet I am a Jew. My lord, Jews in Navarre are given more latitude than elsewhere in Spain. Your man will die unless I attend him but they do not permit a Jewish doctor to treat a Christian.’ The man’s gentle voice bore no malice.

  ‘You attend Jean de Grailly,’ said Blackstone. ‘He’s Christian.’

  ‘Even so, I am obliged to ask permission. As we talk your man is dying.’

  ‘Then stop talking,’ said Blackstone. ‘You have it. There’s a broken piece of knife blade in his side.’

  Ben Josef dipped his head and turned to Godfrey de Claville. ‘I will need two bowls of hot water and clean linen to bind the man’s wound.’

  De Claville hesitated for only a second as he glanced at Blackstone and then ordered the men at the door.

  ‘Sir knight,’ said ben Josef, ‘you will help me.’

  ‘To do what?’

  ‘Lift his shoulders. I must remove his tunic and shirt.’

  It was obvious no one else had the strength to lift Meulon’s weight. He stepped forward but ben Josef raised a hand.

  ‘No. Not on the same side as his wound. Your clothes are rank with sweat and dirt. We must take all precautions: the wound is already poisoned. Do it here on the opposite side.’

  The surgeon gave his commands with no sign of deference. He was in control. Blackstone did as instructed and the smaller man tugged free Meulon’s garments. The huge man, groggy from pain, groaned and tried to rise. Blackstone’s strength held him still.

  ‘Meulon, it’s me. I’ve found help for you.’

  Meulon gritted his teeth and allowed Blackstone to ease him down again.

  Two men came into the room carrying the water and linen the Jew had requested.

  ‘Put them here,’ said ben Josef, undoing the straps on his satchel and exposing a case full of dark glass bottles. He selected four and laid them side by side, pouring measured amounts from each one into a small glass. Loosening the ties on the oilskin, he unfurled the rolled cloth. Slender instruments of polished steel nestled next to each other. They were burnished from persistent cleaning. Halif ben Josef appeared to mutter a prayer before unclipping the brooch that held his cloak. He pulled off his robe and rolled his sleeves above his elbows. He soaked his hands, twisting and turning them, releasing their grime. When he was satisfied they were clean, he wiped them on a piece of linen and then cast it aside so it would not be used again.

  ‘What is that?’ said Blackstone, pointing to the small glass of liquid.

  ‘It is a combination of poisons that can kill but tempered with plants that will balance them and render your man unconscious. A man of his strength and size will need a strong potion. I will inflict great pain on him.’

  ‘My men use herbs for their wounds. I’ve used henbane before,’ said Blackstone.

  ‘Yes, lord, but there is opium in this mixture. We physicians learn from the Arabs. There are no constraints on sharing knowledge of healing.’ He gestured Blackstone to raise Meulon again and then put the glass to the wounded man’s lips. He drank without resisting. Ben Josef nodded, satisfied that the potion would soon do its work. ‘Lie him down,’ he told Blackstone. ‘And then bring me that candle.’

  Blackstone reached for the burning candle as ben Josef swabbed Meulon’s wound with the clean linen, discarding each bloodied piece until satisfied that the exposed wound was dirt free. ‘Here,’ he said, beckoning Blackstone to bring the flame closer. Blackstone allowed him to guide his arm until the candle was exactly where he needed it. He placed a hand over Meulon’s lower ribs above the wound. ‘It is here,’ he said without looking up. ‘I feel the metal. It is lodged here. Now I must remove it without cutting into the rib.’

  He chose one of the instruments laid out on the oilskin. It was tendril slender, a pair of blunt-ended scissors with flattened ends. The small finger holes were barely large enough to accommodate ben Josef’s hands. He bent to the task, using his free hand to ease a finger into the wound and get a sense of where to guide the thin forceps. He probed deeply. Blood drained from the wound and he swabbed it with more linen. Meulon flinched. Ben Josef stopped, waiting to see if the pain had penetrated the opiate potion. The big man’s breathing settled. Blackstone realized his own breath was held tight in his chest as he observed the Jew’s tender skill.

  ‘There is no sign that the blade cut his intestine. God has been merciful: the layers of muscle deflected the blade, but once I secure it, then we must offer a prayer I do not cause damage when I pull the shard of metal free.’ Ben Josef glanced at Blackstone and saw the two symbols at his neck. ‘God hears prayers no matter to whom you pray.’

  Blackstone raised the Silver Wheel Goddess to his lips.

  Halif ben Josef staunched a flow of blood and then drew back the blunt-edged clamp slowly.

  ‘It catches,’ said ben Josef. He stopped. ‘If it is a sharp or ragged, it will tear his intestine or another organ. He has been lucky so far. I tell you this because I cannot be certain what will happen if I continue.’

  ‘Do what you must,’ said Blackstone. ‘If you leave it in there he’ll die anyway.’

  The man’s delicate hand drew back the blunt instrument and with a gentle turn of the wrist withdrew the metal shard. He examined it against the light. ‘I do not think it pierced his intestine. I see no sign of it.’ He placed the metal and the clamp onto a piece of linen and after washing his hands again packed the wound with absor
bent herbs, threaded a curved needle and stitched the wound. Blackstone recognized the man’s expertise. The swift and efficient closing of the wound made Will Longdon’s usual attempts seem like a man stitching a coarse shirt.

  ‘Now I shall make a poultice and bind him. He must not ride for five or six days. More if possible.’

  ‘I’ll be lucky to keep him out of the saddle for a day,’ said Blackstone.

  ‘Then my work might have been in vain.’

  ‘Can you keep him drugged?’

  ‘For a day or two, yes.’

  ‘Then I can ask no more of you, Halif ben Josef. You have my thanks. I am in your debt.’

  Ben Josef smiled and applied the dressing. ‘I am sworn to heal. How can there be debt?’

  ‘Then how can I repay you?’

  The physician wiped his hands and considered Blackstone’s request.

  ‘When I was captured these men took two rings from my hand. They were my late wife’s and I treasured them with a sentiment only an old man who has enjoyed a long marriage can understand.’

  ‘I am not an old man but I understand, Master Josef. You shall have them returned to you.’

  Halif ben Josef bowed his head in thanks. ‘That is not all that was taken. Before the battle at Cocherel I was not in servitude nor held under contract. I was a free man.’

  The request was a simple one. Blackstone nodded and stepped outside with Godfrey de Claville. ‘Give me a small wagon and horses and a straw mattress and I’ll pay the Jew’s ransom and that of any other prisoners you hold.’

  De Claville shook his head. ‘The half-dozen others are not worth much but he’s worth a lot, Sir Thomas. The King of Navarre will pay to have such a skilled surgeon returned to him.’

  ‘There’s a battle coming between those who wish to rule Brittany. Armies are already gathering, you know that. You serve the Lord of Mayenne and he’ll call on you. I will give you two things. A ransom paid and a promise that if I see you on the battlefield I will not fight you. I cannot promise you your life in battle but give my word I will not take it.’