Shadow of the Hawk

by David Gilman

The chatter of voices from the occupied rooms, the clang of a cooking pot and slamming of a door from the breeze or by human hand initially obscured the sound of another coming up the stairs, but now he heard footsteps pounding towards him. He looked back up the winding staircase. Too late now to retreat. He stared into the gloomy stairwells and saw the shadow flit across the turn in the stair. Whoever it was they were determined to reach his attic room. Thoughts raced through his mind. He would surrender the satchel without a fight. Then decided he could not. The satchel was his life. Without it he might as well be dead. A lifetime of knowledge and learning was held in small bottles that skilled apothecaries had helped him create. The thud of boots came closer. He saw the figure emerge from the unlit staircase.

  ‘Lázaro! You frightened me,’ he gasped.

  ‘Maestro Halif, I beg your forgiveness. Maestro Beyard sent me to help you. The men are waiting. Let me take that for you.’

  Ben Josef was happy to be relieved of its weight. The youth was strong despite his frail appearance. He tucked the bulky satchel under one arm and extended the other to let the old Spaniard lean on it. ‘You are travelling home to Navarre, Maestro Halif. Your family will welcome you.’

  ‘I am an old man with no wife or children, Lázaro. You and I, we are alone in the world except for the watchful gaze of God.’

  The boy’s voice had become stronger since telling Blackstone his story. ‘He did not help my Queen. There are places in Castile where even He does not venture. I have seen a raven land on a cow’s back and curdle its milk.’

  ‘The mind conjures fear, my boy. It takes pleasure in fooling you into seeing something that is not there. I know, I have been afraid for most of my life and at times I feared dark forces had seized my mind.’ They reached the lower stairs. ‘But the benevolent warmth of the Almighty, no matter what name we call Him, that sunlight penetrates the darkness and lifts a man’s spirits.’

  Lázaro helped him down the final steps into the passageway. ‘There is evil in Castile and I wish Sir Thomas would leave me here. I don’t want to go back.’

  Halif ben Josef followed the boy towards the beckoning daylight at the end of the passage. ‘Here? What safety is there among the French? The English Prince rules but cannot protect you here. He has hundreds in his court so even if he gave you shelter, you would still not be safe. Anyone can be bribed. And if not in the palace where else? There are street urchins who will slit your throat for those clothes Beyard purchased for you. My advice is stay with your protector. Captain Beyard is your shield and Sir Thomas is your sword.’

  They stepped into the day’s glare. Blackstone and his men were waiting. The bastard horse swung its head and glared at him. Ben Josef felt its displeasure.

  ‘We thought you had fallen asleep,’ said Killbere.

  ‘I lost track of time,’ said the old man.

  ‘You can manage a horse? There’s no wagon. We ride at a pace.’

  One of the men strapped the satchel securely to the horse as Lázaro cupped his hands as a stirrup for ben Josef.

  ‘Once I am wedged in the saddle, Sir Gilbert, I am as unmoving as Moses when he held aloft his staff and parted the Red Sea.’

  Killbere gathered his reins. ‘Aye, well, if you have any such influence you can part the tide of our enemies who wait ahead.’

  *

  They rode south towards Navarre, the narrow pocket of land lying between the coast and the eastern border of Aragon. Blackstone had to travel through the kingdom north of Castile to reach the beleaguered Don Pedro across the Pyrenees. When they crossed the River Ardour at Bayonne the broken peaks appeared closer than they were, a trick of the light making their passage onward seem more daunting. They reached Saint-Jean-Pied-de-Port and turned their backs to the ocean. The steady climb through the wooded foothills and defile through the pass at Roncevalles was where they made the most time once the road widened and Blackstone could urge the bastard horse forward at the trot and canter. The defensive mountain peaks allowed few safe passages through the high-sided passes and as they climbed higher the fall to the gorges and rivers below became more precipitous.

  ‘What do we do with the boy when we get to Pamplona?’ said Killbere. ‘Leave him with the old man?’

  ‘I don’t know, Gilbert. It might be the safest place for him. No one knows his true identity or what he witnessed but you know how slippery Navarre is. He might root out the truth and sell the boy to gain favour with Don Pedro or even Aragon. The boy’s testimony has value to them all. I’ll decide when we get there.’

  ‘Navarre holds the key to Castile. We have to get through those passes before early snowfall. Bad enough now with rockfalls. Thomas, I fear the Prince sends us on an unwelcome mission. We are risking ourselves for a half-crazed Spanish king.’

  ‘Navarre or Don Pedro?’

  ‘Both.’ Killbere spat dust from his throat. ‘Goddamn peacocks, the lot of them. Remember when we fought the Jacquerie and Navarre was there with his knights? It looked like a damned coronation with all that pomp.’

  Blackstone indulged him. ‘You’re right. They’re both tyrants. But I think you will like Spain.’

  ‘I will?’

  ‘It’s like Italy without the Visconti. Don Pedro is a lesser tyrant.’

  ‘Oh, that’s comforting. I can see why I would warm to the place.’

  ‘Their women are as beautiful, their wine is as rich and the weather is agreeable.’

  ‘Unless we are caught on the mountain passes in winter.’

  ‘That aside.’

  ‘So we will rescue King Don Pedro of Castile with our few men against thousands of routiers paid for by the Pope and the King of France, keep the boy Lázaro with us if Navarre is inhospitable, ignore the fact that Pedro has Moors riding for him, that he has been excommunicated, murdered his wife, executed his closest advisers and is rumoured to be in league with the devil… but all of this is agreeable because the women are beautiful and their wine is good.’

  ‘It could be worse.’

  ‘I don’t see how.’

  ‘The wine might have soured in the barrel or the women less attractive.’

  ‘A woman lying at your side needs no beauty, Thomas, she needs enthusiasm. The wine, though, that is a concern.’

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE

  There were days when the black-capped peaks hurled wind and rain at the huddled riders but the hardened men bore the stinging assault without complaint. Killbere taunted Blackstone with his false promise of fine weather. When the mountain gods saw their efforts did not turn back the determined strangers riding into the high peaks, they relented, allowing sunshine to bathe them as they descended into the fertile valleys.

  They reached the Navarrese capital before nightfall on the fifth day after the Prince gave Blackstone his sealed letter for the King of Navarre. Blackstone held up his men a mile from the city gates. Pamplona lay in a wide valley against a backdrop of the mountains. The fortified walls had been built on an escarpment whose cliffs dropped to a broad meandering river, the opposite bank lined with tall poplars, meagre in height compared to the distant mountain spires.

  ‘Shall we camp in or out?’ said Killbere. ‘I think I would rather have the open valley than the confining walls.’

  ‘We’re guests, not beggars. They can feed us for a night and a day. Skulking outside Navarre’s walls demeans the Prince.’ He spurred the bastard horse forward. Before he had come within four hundred yards, the parapets began to bustle with soldiers. Blackstone pulled up in front of the main gate.

  ‘State your business,’ a sentry called.

  ‘Tell him we’re here to pillage the city, seize their women and burn it to the ground,’ Killbere muttered. ‘Stupid bastards. They can see our blazon.’

  ‘Perhaps that’s why they ask,’ said Blackstone. He raised his voice to the men on the walls. ‘I am Sir Thomas Blackstone, sent by Prince Edward of Wales and Aquitaine, seeking permission to bring my men into the city. I have a letter for the King.’ />
  ‘Wait!’ called the sentry.

  ‘Wait?’ Killbere groaned. ‘Does the man think we intend to lay siege out here? Merciful God, we should be rulers of the world you and I, Thomas. Think how much better we would manage events.’

  ‘You would spend the taxes on women and wine.’

  ‘Better than squandering it on war.’ He raised himself in his stirrups and shouted at the men on top of the walls. ‘There’s respect to be paid to the King of England’s Master of War! Sir Thomas Blackstone does not like to be kept waiting!’ He turned to Blackstone. ‘You don’t, do you?’

  ‘Not when you ride with me, Gilbert.’

  The gates creaked open.

  ‘There, you see, Thomas. A firm word is all that’s needed.’

  *

  The King of Navarre paced back and forth across the room, the majestic Pyrenees framed in the large opening to a balcony. The austere King had no hanging tapestries or carpets to soften his echoing footsteps in the sparsely furnished stone hall. His palpable agitation was echoed in the nervousness of the midday church bells ringing out across the city, each a heartbeat behind the other, their clangings a procession of hesitant disharmony.

  Prince Edward’s letter lay unfolded on the room’s only table. He stopped prowling, picked up the letter again as if to ensure he had understood the Prince’s request. There was little to understand. Give the King’s Master of War unhindered and safe passage into Castile.

  ‘You are familiar to me,’ said the King, the letter fluttering from his hand onto the table.

  ‘We met briefly, highness, when we fought the Jacquerie those years ago,’ said Blackstone.

  ‘Ah,’ said the King, not remembering. He glanced at the letter. ‘It would appear that your Prince sees me as a vassal of Aquitaine. Be under no illusion: I am not.’

  ‘There has been no such suggestion,’ Blackstone said, eager to soothe ruffled peacock feathers.

  The defeated usurper ignored his assurance. Keen to impress King Edward’s trusted knight, he went on: ‘I am the rightful heir to the throne of France. My mother was King Louis X’s daughter and yet I am spurned and now defeated and condemned to live my life here. Had your beloved Prince aided me in my fight at Cocherel I would be more inclined to agree to his request. I am not in so generous a mood. You can find your own way. I care not. Feed and rest your men and horses for a day and be gone.’

  It was a dismissal. Blackstone ignored it. ‘With respect, my lord. Prince Edward gave your army free passage through Aquitaine when Jean de Grailly led your troops against the French at Cocherel. I took their flank and kept the French from attacking their march. My Prince expects a similar courtesy.’

  ‘Expects? His request feels like a demand,’ said Navarre as he fingered the letter again. ‘I will give it my consideration.’

  It was another dismissal. Blackstone ignored that as well. ‘Sire, I rescued three Navarrese solders and a Jewish physician who accompanied Lord Jean de Grailly. I have returned them to their home here in Pamplona. One lost his arm but would have lost his life if it weren’t for the Jew. I can’t use a man with such an injury but will keep the other two with me if you have no objection.’

  ‘It is of no concern to me. Pay them if they wish to stay with you.’ He barely kept the self-pity from his voice. ‘I have no need of soldiers now. The French have released de Grailly from imprisonment at Meaux so that he can attend to their terms of surrender on my behalf. What your Prince desires with Don Pedro has nothing to do with me.’

  ‘But you are allied to Castile, my lord.’

  ‘I need no reminder of my responsibilities, Sir Thomas!’ He paused and reconsidered. ‘Rest your men. Take the pilgrim’s route south-west to where Don Pedro hides in his fortress at Burgos. I will give you a guide. That is all I am prepared to do.’

  The King turned his back and strode from the room. Blackstone and the King’s courtiers bowed. Navarre blew hot and cold. If he was discussing terms of surrender and renunciation of his claim to the French Crown Blackstone’s presence might be a problem. Giving the English King’s Master of War safe passage might leave the duplicitous King no means to protect himself from the French and their desire to see Don Pedro’s half-brother on the throne of Castile.

  Guards opened the door behind Blackstone. He glanced at the Pyrenees. If a guide deliberately took them on a dangerous route through the mountains and tragedy befell them the Prince could not blame Navarre, but the French might reward him.

  *

  The sun’s glare reflected from the cluttered buildings. Blackstone stepped through the palace’s porticos into the square where John Jacob and William Ashford waited. He had ordered his men to stay close to their quarters and when purchasing supplies to go through the streets in groups of no less than three. No man was to venture out alone and all taverns were banned. Blackstone did not trust Navarre; it would take only a small incident to escalate. A spark soon became a fire if the tinder was dry, and Blackstone’s presence might be seen as fuel. The King of Navarre had been wounded by his defeat even though he had never left his castle when he sent Jean de Grailly and his men to fight at Cocherel. He would lay blame for his defeat on others but that festering wound would take more than time to heal. Bending the knee to France was inevitable now. The English Prince and King were close to losing an ally.

  ‘Sir Gilbert has quartered the men,’ said Ashford.

  ‘And we’ve bought enough smoked meat to last a week,’ said John Jacob.

  ‘I want the horses attended to before the men sleep tonight,’ Blackstone told them. ‘We’re leaving tomorrow. The King doesn’t want us here and I have no desire to outstay his meagre welcome.’

  The three men made their way across a square confined by tightly packed houses before turning into a suffocating alley. As they shouldered their way through the jostling crowd, the unmistakable figure of Meulon appeared ahead of them, head and shoulders above the rest. He was unaccompanied; his size alone would make any disgruntled Navarrese hesitate before acting aggressively towards the black-bearded fighter.

  ‘Sir Thomas. Halif ben Josef asked me to fetch you.’

  ‘Is there trouble?’

  ‘No, I don’t think so. He’s waiting for you in a safe place. Safe enough for now, that is.’

  ‘William, John, return to the men. Tell Sir Gilbert I’m going with Meulon. And make sure we keep the boy with Beyard and out of sight. There’s unease in the city and if the lad lets slip where’s he’s from then it opens the door for questions to be asked.’

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX

  Meulon led Blackstone into the Jewish Quarter. There was little difference from the other streets of Pamplona. The size and strength of the two men meant the shoppers and street hawkers quickly parted.

  ‘In here,’ said Meulon, opening an inconspicuous door in the house’s sun-bleached wall, as pockmarked and crumbling as those around it. Blackstone stepped into a cool, dim corridor. Meulon’s frame blocked out the light at the far end. They reached a small courtyard where a lemon tree grew in the centre of the tiled floor. There was a wicker chair with a brightly striped cushion beneath its shade-giving branches. Meulon did not stop but entered another passage that soon broadened into a large room with honey-coloured bricks arching across the entrance. A single high window beamed a shaft of dust-speckled sunlight into the gloomy interior. It was only when Blackstone stepped further into the room and turned that he saw light flooding walls as tall as any town’s church.

  ‘I have never seen such a place before now,’ said Meulon.

  The unexpected volume of what appeared to be a hidden building within the city was as much a surprise to Blackstone’s stonemason’s eye as it was to Meulon. Below the vaulted wooden ceiling, colonnettes supported arches around the wall with intricate patterns of leaves, flowers and tendrils, above which were letters that Blackstone did not recognize. ‘What writing is that?’ Blackstone said aloud to himself, not expecting to be answered.

  ‘They ar
e quotes in Hebrew from my faith and also from the Bible and Qur’an,’ said Halif ben Josef.

  Blackstone turned to where rows of cushions and mats lined the end wall on which hung large silk tapestries. The Jewish physician sat with two other men. By the look of their fine clothing Blackstone guessed they were merchants. Ben Josef beckoned him.

  ‘Sir Thomas, come and meet two friends of mine who have important news that you need to hear.’

  ‘I’ll guard the entrance,’ said Meulon and turned back towards the courtyard.

  The three men stood when Blackstone reached them. Halif ben Josef introduced his companions. ‘Sir Thomas, these are good and trusted friends, Elias Navarette and Salamon Bonisac. I have told them how you rescued me.’

  Blackstone nodded to the two distinguished-looking men. ‘Master ben Josef saved my friend’s life. It pleased me and my men that he chose to ride with us.’

  Ben Josef gestured for the men to sit so Blackstone could face them. ‘Elias is a silversmith, Salamon a weaver. They travel far and wide, including in Italy, France and the Holy Roman Empire, to secure the materials they need. Both have returned these past few days. Elias across the eastern borders, Salamon further south.’ He nodded to the older of the two men. ‘Salamon, tell Sir Thomas what you told me.’

  The weaver unconsciously ran a smoothing hand across the silk sash holding his robes. ‘A large army approaches. Men of war, paid to fight. They have broached the south-eastern border of Castile and laid waste to town and village. They are led by English and French captains. They were riding south for Granada but they have turned north towards Santa Elena and Cordoba. Seville will be threatened.’

  Blackstone saw the importance of the attack. As did Halif ben Josef. ‘They are blockading Granada, denying Don Pedro any reinforcements and any chance of escape to a friendly country. Yes?’

  ‘Yes,’ said Blackstone.

  ‘There is more. Elias, tell my friend what you saw in the east.’

  ‘I came close to being attacked by mercenaries. Fortunately, we knew the route and evaded them. They seized two of our Navarrese escorts. They butchered one; the other escaped and rejoined us. He learnt they were riding towards Burgos where Don Pedro has what few men he commands.’