Shadow of the Hawk

by David Gilman

  Tibalt pushed the elderly man back into the house.

  ‘You have something of value,’ said de Hayle forcing ben Josef into a chair.

  ‘No, there is nothing here. Whatever money I had I gave to my servants. They had not been paid.’

  Tibalt slapped him hard, whipping his head aside. His lip split, trickling blood into his grey beard. De Hayle’s routiers ignored him and began tearing apart the house.

  ‘You’re a Jew. You have money. And something else I want.’

  ‘Take whatever you find, but spare my servants.’

  ‘Too late for that, old man. The women were crones, so they evaded rape, and only two of your men tried to fight.’ He glanced outside. The screams fell silent. ‘The wheel burned quicker than I thought.’

  Ben Josef looked past the mercenary leader and appealed to Tibalt. ‘I saved your life. I tended to you.’

  ‘And took my arm.’

  The routiers ripped apart the floorboards and chopped holes into clay-lined walls.

  The noise of his home being destroyed about him tore into ben Josef’s heart. ‘Had I not you would have died a lingering death.’

  De Hayle beckoned to one of the men. ‘Tie him up.’

  The routier went into the bedroom and returned with a sheet. He ripped it into strips and bound the old man to the chair. Tibalt stretched out ben Josef’s arms so they could be secured to the armrests. De Hayle tried tugging off the physician’s two rings, but was unable to get them past his knuckles, so he cut off the two fingers. Ignoring ben Josef’s screams, he pulled the rings free over the bloody stumps.

  ‘There’s nothing!’ one of the destroyers said. He strode to ben Josef, snatched at his beard and shouted: ‘Where’s the gold? Jews hoard gold.’

  Tears spilled into his beard. He could barely mumble through his pain. ‘I have no coin, no gold, no silver. Out there... the grapes... that is my wealth.’

  ‘Keep looking,’ said de Hayle. He grabbed ben Josef’s slumped head. ‘Where is the boy?’

  Ben Josef looked uncertain. ‘Boy?’

  ‘I caught up with Tibalt after they ambushed us. He said that when he met Santos on the road with Aziz and Saustin, Santos said he’d heard you talking to Blackstone about the boy. That he would come here to be with you. He’s worth money. Where’s Lázaro? Where’s he hiding?’

  ‘He’s not here. I swear it. You’re mistaken.’

  ‘Santos heard you!’

  ‘Yes, yes, but the fool misunderstood. Lázaro is with Blackstone. It was another lad who was to return here. A peasant boy. He acted as a guide for Blackstone.’

  De Hayle jerked upright as if someone had slapped him.

  One of the routiers saw the mercenary leader’s reaction. ‘What?’ said the skinner. ‘What did he say?’

  De Hayle recovered and smiled. ‘The stupid old drunkard got it wrong. The boy’s not here.’

  ‘We did all this for no reason?’ said the routier, lifting a rundlet from the floor and forcing the small barrel’s lid free with his knife.

  Ben Josef shook his head. ‘Sir Ranulph, Tibalt, all you will find here are sweet peppers and meat in brine. Stored for winter months. Smoked river fish in the smoking shed and salted goat in the barn. We have nothing else. Nothing. Take the food, I beg you, and do no more harm. The people in Estella will see the flames. The militia will come.’

  The routier plunged his arm into the brine and came out with peppers. He abandoned the barrel and went into the bedroom, tipped over the bed and began tearing up more floorboards.

  De Hayle looked around the ruined house. The two rings he clasped in his fist were a poor recompense for tracking down the old physician, and an equally poor substitute for Lázaro, a prize worth delivering whether alive or not.

  Ben Josef trembled from shock. Blood dripped from his severed fingers.

  ‘There must be more, old man,’ said Tibalt. He pulled a fighting axe from his belt and in frustration smashed its honed blade into a spindle chair. ‘The King paid you to go with the Captal de Buch. What treasure did he give you? What precious stones?’

  ‘The only thing precious to me are the rings you cut from my hand. They were my wife’s,’ ben Josef gasped through his pain.

  One man strode in from the night’s conflagration. He gripped a terrified Andrés.

  ‘Is this the boy we seek?’ said the routier.

  Tibalt snatched at the lad’s hair and pulled back his head. How well did he remember Lázaro? He had been delirious in the cell with Beyard and the others and by the time they reached Pamplona he had already deserted Blackstone.

  ‘It must be him,’ he said, though there was doubt in his mind.

  Andrés fell to his knees begging. ‘I am nobody, lord. Nobody.’

  ‘He’s not Lázaro,’ said de Hayle.

  ‘That’s right. He’s a peasant boy I brought to Blackstone. Remember your time at Blackstone’s camp. You must have seen the boy there.’

  ‘This is not Lázaro?’

  ‘No. He came here to help me on his way home. His name is Andrés. He is not the lad you seek. Sir Ranulph knows it.’

  The routier holding Andrés grinned and hefted a money purse. ‘He had this. It’s enough for drink and whores in the next town.’

  De Hayle looked down at the terrified boy, and then glanced at the routier. ‘The three years since the boy ran from the court would blur anyone’s memory.’

  ‘Leave him, I beg you,’ said ben Josef.

  The mercenaries looked at each other, Tibalt and de Hayle letting their thoughts follow the same route.

  ‘Providing he didn’t blab his true identity,’ said Tibalt.

  De Hayle nodded. ‘We’ll deliver his head and see if it’s convincing enough.’ He gestured towards the oak table. Andrés screamed. Ben Josef cried out. The boy struggled; the routier hit him with his fist and then dragged him across the width of the table, pressing his weight onto the boy’s back as Tibalt snatched at Andrés’s hair, tugged hard and then struck down with the axe.

  The head severed, the boy’s body convulsed. Blood poured onto the floor. Ben Josef wept aloud, cries to God, cries of animal pain. He moaned and sobbed, chin pressed hard into his chest, eyes squeezed tightly closed to avoid looking at Tibalt ramming the boy’s head into the rundlet’s brine.

  The routier grinned and tossed aside the corpse. ‘Let’s get out of here. The old man’s right. The militia will come up from the town.’ He thumped the rundlet’s lid closed and hefted the barrel.

  De Hayle called to one of the others. ‘Burn it. We ride for Burgos.’ He went back into the night as the man smashed an oil lamp and sprinkled it across the bedding and furniture. He kicked free the burning logs from the fire and spread them onto the oil. After a few moments the oil caught, tongues licking across the floor, catching the muslin window covers.

  Ben Josef’s anguish turned to anger. ‘I saved you! I saved your life!’

  Tibalt looked at the stricken man. ‘You took my arm. That’s what saved me. Perhaps it will do the same for you.’

  He swung hard and fast and severed ben Josef’s arm at the elbow.

  The elderly man gasped and vomited. He slumped unconscious. Flames raced across the floor and caught his gown.

  ‘The debt’s repaid, old man. You saved me from the pain of a slow death. I do the same for you.’

  CHAPTER FORTY-SIX

  Velasquita stood high in the castle, looking out of her window. The sound of horses’ hooves drifted up the steep streets. Satisfaction glowed within her. Her heartbeat raced. She had seen a vision of the future and now the final journey would take place. The King would flee, his enemies would be victorious and she would use the killers she had drawn to her to wreak more havoc. The missing witness was her only concern. Where was the boy Lázaro? Had de Hayle found him? The fool had gone against her wishes and sought out the man sent by the English Prince. She had warned him. She had seen the unfolding slaughter. But de Hayle had survived. She knew it as surely as
if she had been at the battle and witnessed it. However, not everything was clear. At times, as in a misted mirror, she could not see what lay behind the veil. The boy. He eluded her. He was too well hidden. Perhaps already dead.

  The men rode into sight. The resolute figure of their leader projected his strength ahead of him. Look, her thoughts commanded. Up here. I am waiting for you. I have already felt your sweat on my body. I already know when and where it will end. Look, here.

  Blackstone raised his face to the high turret.

  *

  King Pedro I of Castile received Blackstone and Killbere in a sumptuously decorated hall where banners and tapestries vied for attention. It was a room to impress, to show the English King’s Master of War, sent by a Prince of Wales known to be as extravagant as his father, that the Spanish knew a thing or two about luxury and flamboyance. Twenty or more courtiers crowded together at the rear of the hall, Spanish ballesteros, wearing cuirass and mail, armed with sword and spear, reinforced the gaggle of peacock courtiers. There was one Moor present, a tall, robed man who bore the look of a commander. None of his men were in the room despite the Moors being Pedro’s main force. It seemed to Blackstone that the few Castilian guards were more for show than fighting. There was one burly Spaniard, dressed as a fighting man. His studded black gambeson had seen better days, as had his face. The High Steward waited, tall and dignified, layered dark-hued robes sweeping the floor, a staff of office gripped as tightly as any pikeman’s weapon, unyielding in gaze and stance. To one side half a dozen young women stood, modestly dressed, cleavage covered, unlike the Prince of Wales’s wife, Joan, who set the opposite trend in fashion. There was only one among those present the Princess would have admired for challenging courtly modesty. The woman in question revealed the enticing cleft of her breasts covered only by a black lace veil. It was the dark-eyed woman Blackstone had seen at the window.

  The King sat, resplendent in layered silk gowns beneath brocade and pearl-encrusted robes. The High Steward stepped forward, bowed and bent to speak to the King. The two men engaged in muted but earnest conversation. Blackstone and Killbere were at the far end of the hall waiting until summoned. They were far enough away that anything said between the King and his steward would not be heard.

  ‘Thomas, all we do, it seems, is to be brought before princes and kings. I cannot bow any lower, and my knees creak like Will Longdon’s war bow. Does any more royalty await us on this journey?’ said Killbere quietly, without turning to face Blackstone.

  ‘No, God willing. The burden of keeping my tongue in check is like having the bastard horse’s bit between my teeth.’

  Killbere sighed. ‘Is he taking our measure or wary of us approaching because we stink?’

  ‘He’s being a king.’

  ‘I need a piss.’

  ‘Then hold it. You cannot puddle a royal carpet. Take your mind off it.’

  ‘I try but when a man reaches a certain age, the bladder takes on a life of its own. What about those women? His concubines, you think?’

  ‘By the look of their dress they’re his daughters. I’m supposing the others are their ladies-in-waiting.’

  ‘Ah. Perhaps. Do you notice how their noses are snub, like a pig’s snout? And their skin is bad. Pock-marked and pimpled. If those are their faces imagine what their arses must be like. You promised me beautiful women.’

  ‘The one in black has a certain beauty,’ said Blackstone, glancing towards Velasquita.

  Killbere studied her a moment. ‘I’ve seen women like that before. She’s a man-eater.’

  ‘Perhaps she has not yet found the right man to tame her.’

  ‘And I suppose you have desires in that direction.’

  ‘Come forward!’ the High Steward called before Blackstone could answer.

  ‘Merciful Christ, if he loses the crown in the coming fight we might all be saved from wet-nursing him back to the Prince,’ said Killbere through gritted teeth, disguised as a smile.

  They bowed.

  ‘Your highness,’ said Blackstone. ‘My noble lord, Edward, Prince of Wales and Aquitaine, sends his warmest regards and prays each day for you to retain your rightful place.’

  ‘Yet he sends you and a handful of men,’ said Don Pedro.

  ‘Men who have fought in every great campaign, and who stopped a mercenary force only days ago. Men who will fight for you and your family and escort you to safety in Bordeaux.’

  Don Pedro’s head jerked back. ‘Leave Spain?’ He laughed. ‘They’ve sent you on a fool’s errand. I am ready to face my bastard half-brother on the field. It is why I am here in Burgos. Henry of Trastámara will attack from Saragossa in the east. We are blessed with God’s own defences, the Sierra de la Demanda stretches from the north to Valencia on the Mediterranean in the south-east. The terrain and the snow already sweeping down into the passes will make invasion near impossible. I am ready.’

  There was a murmur of support for the young King from the gathered courtiers. He was playing to the gallery. They might as well have been minstrels eager to garner favour and play any tune the King demanded.

  ‘No sire, that is not true,’ Blackstone said.

  ‘I will not be contradicted. I have spies. I have troops on my border. I have that information. Navarre has closed his borders. My enemies cannot strike from the north.’

  Blackstone looked past the King. Those men had the standing to advise and insist on a course of action. If their own lives were at risk, and their private wealth threatened, they would soon clamour to escape. He raised his voice so those at the back and the sides of the hall would hear. ‘Navarre has closed his borders so you might not escape through the Pyrenees and into Gascony. It was your shortest route to safety.’

  He heard a murmur of concern.

  ‘Ten thousand and more routiers are coming under the command of Sir Hugh Calveley, Bertrand du Guesclin, Matthew Gourney – these names are known to you, your grace. The Count of la Marche, le Bègue de Villaines, Arnoul d’Audrehem – I could name a dozen others. Men of France, Spain and England, destroying everything in their path because they seek your death and are being well paid for it. They want your gold, silver and treasure. This man who stands with me is Sir Gilbert Killbere. He has fought at our King and Prince’s side and he is a veteran knight who knows what these men plan. I prize his experience beyond all measure, as do our King and Prince,’ Blackstone said, boosting Killbere’s status in one easy breath. ‘If you will not believe me then let him speak.’

  Don Pedro did not notice the slight flexing of Killbere’s shoulders as Blackstone laid on him the burden of persuading the King. The monarch looked as though he needed no more convincing but he nodded, the misery of the looming truth already creasing his features.

  ‘Sire,’ Killbere bowed again. ‘One group has already cut off Granada and turns north towards you. Hugh Calveley will not try to come through the mountain passes: he travels the same route we did, through the valley of the Ebro. We crossed the river at Miranda de Ebro. Thousands of men are less than one hundred miles away. If they ride slowly to save their horses, they will be here in four days or less. Once he reaches here, he will join up with those from the south. They will encircle you.’

  Killbere’s information had the effect Blackstone desired. The King sprang to his feet. The collective groan from the courtiers and the shocked look on the women’s faces meant they finally understood the imminent threat to their lives. Blackstone watched Velasquita. She showed no sign of surprise or panic. She glanced quickly at him, catching him by surprise as if she knew he had been watching her. She smiled. Blackstone felt the visceral chill plunge from his chest to his gut. Ice cold. The chill felt moments before battle.

  And then the warmth of arousal.

  Blood pounding, welcoming the fight ahead.

  CHAPTER FORTY-SEVEN

  They summoned Blackstone to attend the King in the solar. He instructed Killbere to organize the men in their quarters and then followed the clerk who led the
way to the upper room above the great hall, which was smaller and less ostentatious, although there were still significant signs of wealth with the bejewelled gold and silver reliquaries, candlesticks and various ornaments on display. Don Pedro had shed his finery and now wore a padded gambeson, quilted and silk-embroidered with the lions and castles blazon, the royal crest of Castile and León. A broad leather belt held an ornate dagger. Blackstone thought the man was likely to be capable in a fight and guessed he was no coward in battle. His weakness was his temper and cruel streak that undercut the affability a ruler needed to employ in convincing others to do his bidding when they doubted the wisdom of a proposal. Don Pedro’s manner was like a flanged mace rather than an Italian stiletto.

  The only woman present was the one whose smile had sent a shiver into his belly. Her black dress was adorned with a tear-shaped enamelled pendant that nestled in the delicate hollow of her throat. She stood against the wall as the High Steward and the Spaniard Blackstone took to be the King’s commander flanked their monarch, who leaned against a broad table gazing down at a wine-stained map of the Iberian Peninsula. The tall Moor kept a respectful distance behind the King.

  ‘Come closer,’ said Don Pedro to Blackstone.

  Blackstone obeyed and stood on the other side of the table. The King traced a finger over the stained map. ‘We will abandon Burgos and go to Seville. There we are closer to our allies in Granada. If what you say is true, then we can hold there long enough to regroup and then take sanctuary in Portugal. My daughter Beatriz is betrothed to the King’s son. We will be welcome there.’

  Blackstone glanced at the Spanish commander, who remained silent. The High Steward made no comment either and the woman who stood behind them appeared to have no authority. The King looked at Blackstone. ‘You will escort us while my army and my allies from Granada hold back the approaching mercenary forces.’

  The two advisers remained silent. It was obvious neither man was prepared to contradict him.

  ‘That’s a risk too far,’ said Blackstone. ‘You will be slow-moving. You will be riding directly into the enemy approaching from the south. If you wish to sign your death warrant, sire, that is the quickest way to do it.’