Shadow of the Hawk

by David Gilman

  Something slithered against his leg. It was not unpleasant, yet his sleep-fogged mind told him it was a snake and panic interrupted a dream about those first summers and the heat of Castile. He tried to roll away from whatever now pressed against his side but his body would not obey. His eyelids remained heavy, the dreamlike state holding him captive. He imagined he saw the firelight dance across the ceiling. And then he felt the joy of sexual arousal as warmth crept into his groin and massaged his cock. He gasped. How many years had it been since he had enjoyed the charms of a novitiate nun? Or an alehouse whore pleasuring him in exchange for absolution? He reached for his cock, but his arm would not move. It lay as if pressed beneath the weight of a stone slab. But still the blood pulsed through his groin. He was nowhere near release but the heightened pleasure became almost too much to bear. The years fled by. He saw the alehouse whore lift her skirts and pull free her breasts as he plunged into her. Merciful Christ. The joy. The tang of lust on his tongue. He thrust his hips but again was held by an unknown force. A breeze brushed his ear. It carried the scent of a woman. The soft cool air urged him to open his eyes. He tried, God how he tried, but they were held fast by the dream that imprisoned him. Then, slowly, as if released by a spell, they lifted and he saw the aroused brown-encircled nipples that swayed close to his face. He tried to raise his head to suckle but the force held him fast. His eyes focused as the woman leaned back. She straddled him, her face in shadow. His pleasure was beyond everything he remembered from before – more than twenty years had passed since work and age had robbed his body of any sexual desire. His heart thudded. Although he did not, could not, move, the gift of sexual union excited him beyond measure. And then the dream broke. He saw her face. Heard her whisper.

  ‘The poison will only work when your heart is forced to beat faster and faster.’

  ‘No,’ he gasped. ‘I am dreaming. There can be no poison... there... cannot.’

  She kept moving, rocking gently, rising slowly and then pressing down again, raising the pitch of his excitement at every thrust of her pelvis.

  ‘Old fool. Who else would brush dust from bottles of wine as they made their choice? It was easy to pierce a cork as you pierce me now.’ She smiled and leaned forward, placing a hand on his chest, fingers wide, as if she could pull his heart from within. ‘You are paralysed and I am here to see you die.’

  He gasped for breath, his mind tormented by the witch’s hold over him. The King had sworn he would protect him. That no harm would come to him.

  ‘Is this pleasure worth dying for?’ she whispered, leaning down against him.

  A tear trickled down his face. He begged God to forgive him. His thudding heartbeat deafened him. His throat pulsated. A fragment of his mind, a mind ever devious, taunted him that at least he would be given release. His face felt on fire. Blood surged. A pain began in his chest. Deep. A wound as sharp as a knife blade. It travelled into his neck and down his arm, an arm that still couldn’t be raised.

  ‘Please,’ he begged. He saw her eyebrows rise. ‘Please... let me...’

  She knew what he wanted. His flushed face, his gasping mouth, spittle clinging, eyes bulging in desperation. ‘No,’ she said. ‘You will not have the pleasure of release.’ She raised herself from him and stood back, watching his final strangled convulsion.

  The fire’s shadows flickered over her naked body.

  The devil’s imps dancing for joy.

  CHAPTER FORTY-FOUR

  The morning brought cries of alarm resounding through the corridors when servants found Garindo’s body. The bailiff dragged a half-naked girl found cowering in the priest’s room to the Mayordomo mayor, the High Steward, and he reported the circumstances of the death to the King.

  ‘A girl?’ said Don Pedro. ‘How old?’

  ‘No more than fourteen years, your grace.’

  ‘How did she get into the palace and – more importantly – into Garindo’s quarters? If he was fornicating, then it must have happened more than once. Who is she? Does she serve my daughters? There are no women servants here except in their chambers.’

  ‘Sire, she is from the town. She is a gatekeeper’s daughter. She claims the priest seduced her some weeks ago.’

  ‘Garindo? The old man could barely take a piss, let alone bed a girl.’

  ‘Sire, it appears she had the desired effect of arousal. Your physician says his heart gave way.’

  The distressed King slammed a fist onto the table. A glass of wine fell and spilled across a map of Castile Don Pedro had been studying. A servant darted forward.

  ‘Leave it!’ He pushed back his chair. ‘Let it stain,’ he fumed. ‘It soaks into parchment as blood seeps into my kingdom.’ He turned his back on his steward and the clutter of courtiers who hovered in the background. A confused sea of thoughts fought one against the other inside his mind. Invasion and defeat stared back at him as he looked across the sweeping landscape. His half-brother, the bastard Henry of Trastámara, was gathering his forces on the border, supported by the Pope, backed by the French and driven by the King of Aragon to dethrone him. He faced the anxiety-ridden men. ‘He didn’t predict this, did he? He did not say to me, “Sire, I will die fornicating the gatekeeper’s daughter”!’

  No one answered. Don Pedro glared. ‘Say something! You are my advisers! Advise me!’

  The High Steward stepped forward nervously. ‘My lord, news has reached us that the English are close.’

  ‘An army? Edward sends troops?’

  ‘No... no, sire. He sends his Master of War.’

  Don Pedro’s eyebrows rose. ‘Oh,’ he said with flagrant mockery. ‘One man? Is that all he can spare? Then our concerns of being overwhelmed are banished.’

  ‘And... er... men with him. We are uncertain how many but... but at least... eighty. Probably a hundred. Or even more. We have no news except that they are close,’ he repeated lamely.

  Don Pedro glared. Blood seeped up his neck, veins throbbing, face flushed. He squeezed closed his eyes to lock in his rage. And failed. ‘Get out! All of you!’

  Spittle sprayed the steward. Tears of frustration welled in the King’s eyes. He wiped them away and leaned on the wine-soaked table. Castile lay before him. Its borders too wide to defend. He had written to the Portuguese on his western border in case he needed to run for his life and seek sanctuary; Portugal was his mother’s country of birth, which allied them to him, but they had not yet replied. He needed a plan and none was forthcoming. He had vowed to put on his armour and lead his troops against the invaders. Except he had few troops to lead. He depended on the Moors. It was not enough.

  ‘I told you he could not predict events,’ said Velasquita, who had appeared unnoticed through the curtained door in the room’s corner.

  Don Pedro looked at her with a mixture of desire and fear. ‘Did you kill him?’

  ‘No. I knew you wished no harm to come to him. So I did not,’ she lied effortlessly. She looked out of the window down into the courtyard as the girl she had paid handsomely to be in the priest’s room – and threatened with eternal damnation if she confessed to the subterfuge – was escorted to the main gate. ‘But I warned you, my lord. You should strike hard against those who harbour your enemies. Garindo advised you against such an action. He knew I was right. He did not have my ability to see events.’

  He calmed. She hadn’t moved, staying exactly where she entered the room, making no approach to entice him with her body – an intimacy he found increasingly difficult to resist when turmoil surged around him. He nodded. ‘I considered everything you told me and I did as you suggested. The Moors ride to the border. They will kill without mercy.’ He poured a fresh glass of blood-red wine then stared into its opaqueness for a moment. ‘You said a man of death was coming.’

  ‘He’s close.’

  ‘To cause me harm?’

  ‘No.’ She paused. ‘He will die in Spain. He will sacrifice his life to save you.’

  *

  Blackstone and his men h
ad followed the Río Arlanzón and saw the city of Burgos as they rounded the low hills rising from the valley. The walled city nestled on the lower slopes of the hills that rose to where the pale stone of the castle’s rounded turrets caught the light. The same light bathed the horsemen along the skyline who had been shadowing them since sunrise.

  ‘Here for trouble, do you think?’ said Meulon.

  ‘Doubtful. They’re Moors. More likely to be seeing who we are. They have been there for hours but now that they are closer it is easier to identify them.’

  The riders wore flowing robes of various hues, belted with sword and knife; each carried a steel-tipped spear that glittered in a wave of light and a double ellipse shield across their backs. Their horses were small compared to those Blackstone’s men rode.

  ‘Light cavalry,’ said Killbere. ‘No use in a major battle. They’re used for skirmishing raids.’

  ‘Those shields won’t help them against English arrows if they ever tried,’ said Will Longdon.

  ‘North African shields,’ said Beyard. ‘They’re called adargas.’

  ‘I don’t care what they call them: they’d be useless in a real fight,’ said Longdon.

  ‘You should hope you don’t face such men,’ said Meulon. ‘They look as though they can ride like the wind and you couldn’t hit a baggage train wagon at three hundred paces if it was moving as slow as a legless leper.’

  ‘At three hundred paces I and any of my men could trim your damned nose hairs.’

  ‘Which is a useless skill. We don’t need archer barbers.’

  Killbere twisted in the saddle. ‘What we need is for the two of you bickering washerwomen to look more closely at men who could be our enemy before nightfall.’

  Meulon spat one side, Will Longdon the other. ‘Thomas,’ said Longdon. ‘Remember when we first landed in France and you were as green as young oak? I teased you into pulling your father’s war bow and you killed a crow high in a tree.’

  ‘I remember,’ said Blackstone. ‘And I felt Sir Gilbert’s slap around the back of my head for wasting an arrow. My ears still ring.’

  ‘And Will Longdon will feel my boot up his arse if he thinks I’ll put up with archers wasting shafts.’

  ‘I see no harm in bringing down that hawk to show them what an English archer could do.’

  The men looked up but there was no sign of the raptor.

  ‘It was there. I swear it,’ said Longdon.

  ‘Now you are blind as well as stupid,’ said Meulon.

  Will Longdon searched the sky. If the hawk had been there, it had clearly flown from view, but how it had done that so quickly he did not know.

  The men fell silent as the Moors spurred their horses forward off the sloping hill, riding into the valley a half-mile ahead of Blackstone.

  ‘They might test us sooner than we think,’ said Ashford.

  ‘They ride fast. Did you see how quickly those horses stretched out? I would like a horse like that, one that moves as fast as a snake strike,’ said Meulon.

  ‘You need a carthorse with the size of your arse,’ Longdon said.

  Killbere’s voice was calm enough to be heard by the men behind him. ‘Be prepared, Will. Ride left and dismount on command. Captains, we ride in phalanx.’

  As Blackstone maintained the pace of their approach, watching as the Moors effortlessly formed up across their route, his captains eased their men either side of Blackstone, John Jacob and Killbere, who now formed the point of an arrowhead formation. If the Moors attacked, they would suffer heavy casualties from the archers long before their horsemen reached Blackstone. When they were four hundred paces from the Moors, Blackstone called a halt. The two sides faced each other. Suddenly the Moors yelled a blood-curdling challenge and spurred their horses. In no time at all the small Arabian horses were at full gallop.

  ‘Damn,’ said Killbere. ‘Ready yourselves. Will, stay where you are. They’re too fast for you to get into position.’

  ‘No one move!’ said Blackstone.

  ‘Thomas, they’ll be on us soon!’ said Killbere.

  Blackstone turned in the saddle. ‘Sheath your swords. Hold your nerve.’

  ‘What?’ Killbere said.

  ‘They haven’t lowered their spears, they have no swords in their hand and they have not brought their shields to bear. Hold fast!’ he called again.

  At eighty yards the Moors reined in hard. By the time the fleet-of-foot horses pulled up they were at fifty. Blackstone’s men saw dark faces break into wide grins, spears raised, the warriors ululating. Their ranks parted, allowing Blackstone’s men to ride through the fierce Moorish cavalry.

  ‘My balls tightened so much they’re at the back of my throat,’ said Will Longdon.

  ‘Which is where I always thought them to be,’ said Meulon.

  The Moors fanned out as escort at a respectful distance either side of Blackstone’s men. The approach to the city took them past farm buildings where peasants pulled free their cowls and bowed. Sheep grazed, grain barns were full and men gathered firewood, watching the procession of horses trotting on the road to the city. Thousands of men waging war needed feeding and the rich heartland of Castile offered enough food to support them. If the bastard usurper was not careful, the routiers would strip his new-found kingdom.

  The closer Blackstone came to the city walls the fewer the buildings. Burgos was a strong defensive city, and it was plain to see why Castilian kings had favoured it as their main fortress palace.

  ‘Lay siege to this place and you could live off the land and starve them out,’ said Killbere.

  ‘Which is why we have to convince him to abandon the city,’ Blackstone said.

  ‘A man protected by such walls and castle will not believe he can be defeated if he stays where he is,’ said John Jacob.

  ‘Convincing him is not the only problem, Sir Thomas,’ Beyard told him. ‘Castilian kings rule with the favour of a council.’

  ‘When they know how close Hugh Calveley is with the French routiers, then he will see how fragile those walls are. Without men to fight there is no battle to be won.’

  They rode uphill to the fortress-like city gates of Arco de Santa María. The double iron-studded doors swung open. As they trotted into the paved streets, crowds of citizens pressed themselves against the walls, watching the strangers’ arrival in sullen silence. Houses were boarded up; merchants’ stalls abandoned. The horses’ clattering hooves echoed up the high walls and along the narrow streets. An unmistakable death knell for the city.

  ‘Welcome to Burgos,’ said Blackstone.

  CHAPTER FORTY-FIVE

  Once Blackstone and his men had taken the mountain path, Halif ben Josef returned to his beloved home and farm. The scent from his lemon orchards was a seductive reminder that he had abandoned the second love of his life. His wife had died in Pamplona years before and had never enjoyed living on a remote hillside while her husband cultivated his vines, caring more for them, she would claim, than he did for her. An untruth not worth contesting. Ben Josef’s country house was a modest affair: stone and timber walls with a reed roof cut from the riverbank. The isolation was not absolute. There were three smaller houses, two for the six servants, another for the overseer. The wells were deep, the water plentiful. On his return the servants prepared food and drink, and a cauldron was lit so their master could bathe once he had toured the farm and assessed what needed to be done before the season deepened.

  Ben Josef’s servants had done their best to keep his vineyard in good order under the watchful eye of his overseer – the grapes in the drying sheds had not been lost and the lifeblood of the vineyard, the Arabic waterwheel, was in good order – but the physician saw to his dismay that the work he had instructed be done while away on campaign with Jean de Grailly had fallen behind. Wages for the farmworkers had not been forthcoming as promised by the King of Navarre, a condition of service that had placed the skilled physician with the Gascon lord. Consequently, many of the labourers had left an
d sought employment elsewhere.

  ‘I could not help it, Master ben Josef,’ the loyal overseer told him. ‘I have worked without payment these past months so that the servants had enough to buy food.’

  ‘I am grateful.’ He handed over the purse Blackstone had insisted on pressing into his hand before riding to meet whatever fate awaited him on the road to Burgos. ‘See that everyone is paid and recruit more labour,’ said ben Josef.

  *

  Andrés returned a day after the battle and told him of the slaughter. The boy, flushed with success and reward for his part in taking the veteran knight, Killbere, behind Ranulph de Hayle’s lines, had been gifted the horse. That, together with money Blackstone had generously given him, meant his family would not face hardship that year or the next. ‘I will stay and help, Master Josef. I will return to my family in a few days,’ the boy insisted, eager to share what he’d seen of the battle and how the English knight had defeated the greater odds.

  Ben Josef readily agreed. Andrés would share the overseer’s room and eat with the servants and, when ben Josef had finished his evening meal, then the boy could tell him everything that had happened since he’d returned to the vineyard.

  It was a homecoming to be celebrated.

  *

  Screams and the flickering light through the muslin coverings on his bedroom window woke Halif ben Josef. Gripped with fear, he grabbed his robe and pushed open the front door. The drying shed was ablaze, but the screams came from the burning waterwheel. Two men, one of them his overseer, were strapped to the wheel being burnt alive. Bodies lay in the yard and striding towards him, silhouetted against the flames, was Ranulph de Hayle and a one-armed man.

  ‘Tibalt! Why do this? Why?’

  Three others followed the Navarrese fighter, and ben Josef saw half a dozen more ripping the meagre furnishing from the servants’ quarters. The sudden onslaught sharpened his senses. The bodies lying in their blood were of the women and men who served him. There was no sign of Andrés.