by David Gilman
Ranulph de Hayle took a threatening step towards the tough-looking mercenary. ‘I pay you well. You don’t get to choose.’
‘Someone else can go under the walls. I’ll take my chances and fight Blackstone in the open. Whoever goes in there and gets caught will be dragged in front of the mad bastard King. I won’t face him. He’d gut a man and hang him from the battlements while he still lives. No. Not me. And if you don’t like it then I’ll ride and sell my sword to Hugh Calveley.’
De Hayle stood his ground but his voice softened. ‘You’re right, we’re being held to ransom by the woman but our reward will be a sack of gold and then we need never sell our swords again. So now there will be more for the rest of us.’ His hand swept up, driving his knife under the man’s chin and into his brain. He dropped. De Hayle turned on his heel, bloodied knife threatening the startled men. He stooped, plucked the dead man’s purse and then threw it in among the men. Hands grabbed for it.
‘You fight when I tell you to fight and you will crawl on your bellies through shit if that is what’s needed. Now, whoever goes inside and sees if the lad is with Blackstone I will pay three times what I have in my purse.’
The sour-faced men, knowing the risk, shuffled uncertainly. Tibalt watched them. ‘If I could go I would, but a one-armed man does not clamber easily through passages.’
Three of the men stepped forward. ‘Pay us now,’ said the one.
‘If we are to die, then we die richer than we lived,’ said another.
De Hayle bargained: ‘Half now. Half on your return with news.’
They considered the offer and then agreed. They would sneak beneath the castle walls and locate the boy. They would do nothing more than identify him and then return for payment.
*
Blackstone’s men slept. The stench of horses relieving themselves offered comfort rather than disquiet. Men and horses spent their lives together. Worn leather, horsehair and sweat mingled in a man’s clothing and never left his nostrils. The men grunted, farted and coughed in their sleep. The cresset lamps flickered and died, their oil exhausted, the pungent smell of burnt wicks blanketing the stables. The castle’s night watch went about their duty, moving across the yards, maintaining lanterns, changing guard with those on the walls. The moonlight had fled behind the clouds, the castle sucking what light remained into its massive walls. The darkened landscape concealed any movement beyond the cliff’s overhang.
Three men ran for the old siege tunnel entrance. Once inside, the damp air hampered their flints from lighting the reed torches. None of the men liked the dark tomb and they cursed at the reluctant sparks – and then cursed with pleasure when the torches flared. The torchbearer led the way up the steps that took them behind the curtain wall and into the yard. One man peered out of the trapdoor into the darkness. A group of four men, one of them holding aloft a lantern, strode across the far side of the yard and disappeared through a turret door.
‘Night watch moving around,’ said the man. ‘We stick together and if anyone challenges us then that’s who we are. We make no sound; we need no damned conversation as to what’s what. It’s a simple job. Look among the sleeping men and identify the boy.’
His companions nodded their understanding. The torchbearer stepped past the man at the door and led the way. ‘Stables run the length of the wall,’ he said. The men stooped as they hugged the dark wall, unconsciously seeking invisibility. They reached the stable opening, raised the torch, checked no one was in the yard and stepped inside. The arched roof bounced the flames several yards into the stables. Horses on one side, sleeping men on the other. They crept along the walkway with one hand on their sword hilts, stopping only to check if it was a youth who lay sleeping rather than a bearded man. If the boy was here, his lack of whiskers would betray him. They reached halfway. A brute of a horse, its mottled hide looking like burnt cinders, was roped alone, a clear space either side of it. The stalls opposite held one man, asleep. They stepped behind the horse; a hind leg lashed out, narrowly missing the second man. He stumbled as he avoided the strike but was grabbed by his companion behind him, who saved him from falling onto the sleeping man. They were sweating. How long before a man woke to relieve himself or heard a startled horse? They quickened their pace, dipping the torchlight over the sleeping men. They reached the end of the stable and turned back into the night. They needed no words as they quickened their stride towards the entrance to the siege tunnel.
The men in the stable waited and then threw back their blankets, swords already in hand. Blackstone had warned them to make no move. That whoever had parlayed below ground would come in the night. Meulon and Ashford gathered their men and followed Killbere into the yard. The remainder guarded the stable entrances. Three figures ran across the yard from the wood store on the opposite side: Blackstone and Beyard shepherding Lázaro between them.
‘We let them pass through,’ said Killbere. ‘Your bastard horse nearly gave the game away. One of the men damned near fell on top of me.’
Blackstone checked the twenty gathered men. Any more than these would be difficult to move quickly down the siege tunnel with any haste. ‘Lázaro, go back to the stables with Beyard. The danger has passed now.’
Beyard pressed a hand onto the boy’s shoulder and guided him back to safety.
‘We must hurry. We depend on their torchlight,’ said Blackstone, taking his shield from John Jacob. He led the way, hugging the outer stable walls towards the narrow entrance where a man the size of Meulon would struggle to squeeze through. When Blackstone had briefed the men, he’d told the throat-cutter he should stay, but Meulon had refused. Blackstone came up to his shoulder and if Blackstone could squeeze through, then so could he.
*
The river cushioned the sound of their footfalls and the occasional scrape of shield against rock face. The biting wind moaned through the underground chambers like trapped souls in hell. It had increased in strength, blowing across the hills from the distant high mountains, heightening the sound of the gushing water.
De Hayle’s men doused their torches and quickened their pace. They were two hundred yards beyond the castle walls when Blackstone and his men emerged into the night. Their eyes scanned the half-darkness ahead, looking for the men. Had they lost them? Meulon ran forward, clambered onto a boulder and looked beyond the broken ground. The veil of clouds flattened the moonlight, showing the three shadows running. Meulon signalled and Blackstone’s twenty men gave chase.
An hour later they skirted a ravine that obscured a narrow valley, well hidden from those travelling the road to Burgos. At first it appeared to be a dry riverbed but the churned ground told Blackstone it was a herder’s route. At the far side a campfire tucked between the boulders sparked as someone pushed more wood into the embers.
‘We have them,’ said Killbere, catching his breath. Sweat dribbled down the men’s backs. Their mail and shields had made the fast-paced pursuit hard going.
‘Down there,’ said John Jacob, pointing out an animal track in the hillside. ‘The rocks will hide us until we reach the bottom.’
‘And then it’s a fast run across open space,’ said Meulon. ‘Let’s hope they have no crossbowmen.’
William Ashford glanced at the sky. ‘There’s a storm coming – fast.’
Killbere’s flask spilled wine down his chin. ‘He’s right, Thomas. That ground will suck up rain like a child at a mother’s teat. It’ll be a damned quagmire. Let’s get this done.’
Blackstone looked at the men behind him. They had exerted themselves. It was a good thing they had. Their blood was up.
‘Sir Thomas,’ John Jacob said. ‘It’s de Hayle. I saw his blazon.’
Blackstone looked to where his squire pointed. De Hayle’s men were breaking camp.
‘They didn’t find what they came for so now they’ll look elsewhere,’ said Killbere. ‘God have mercy on any poor soul who gets in their way.’
‘God sleeps tonight, Gilbert. There’s no mercy to be
had,’ said Blackstone.
He drew Wolf Sword and ran down towards the valley floor to kill Ranulph de Hayle.
CHAPTER FIFTY-TWO
Ranulph de Hayle had cursed his three men when they returned from the castle. He demanded twice over that they repeat everything they saw. They were adamant. No boy slept among Blackstone’s men. If Lázaro rode with him, then he was elsewhere in the castle. That wasn’t likely, de Hayle retorted. No boy would have better quarters than the men and their horses and Blackstone would not risk letting him be seen inside the walls. The three insisted they were right, and demanded their payment. De Hayle had no choice. He was reaching into his saddlebags when the storm broke. The horses panicked: mounts broke loose and careered into the scrubland and forest.
Thunder rumbled across the mountains. Swirling clouds overcame the peaks, surging past the sentinels, seeking an easier passage. Blackstone’s men’s lungs heaved as they ran hard across stubborn ground, turning their shields half across their chests as they fought the increasing wind, letting the buffeting glide across the shield’s face.
The gods of war, desiring to see the men’s efforts, threw spears of lightning across the storm clouds. The flashes of light allowed Ranulph de Hayle’s men to see the night fighters racing towards them. De Hayle realized they had followed his men. He shouted over the storm to alert his followers. Those who hadn’t time to find or fight over a horse ran towards Blackstone’s fast-approaching men.
‘They’ve seen us,’ said Meulon, his great strides already pushing him ahead of the others.
‘Meulon! With me!’ Blackstone shouted.
The big man slowed to run next to Blackstone, ready for the two of them to act as a battering ram as they charged towards the disorganized routiers.
Killbere fell back into the main body of men, spat the excess phlegm from his mouth and sucked more air into burning lungs. Two more men went past his shoulder. God’s tears, he was getting too old to run into battle; he needed to be there already waiting for an attack not lumbering like a three-legged hare. He ran on, pacing himself, knowing he needed to conserve enough strength to wield his sword. He silently cursed Blackstone for going at such speed and then himself for thinking he could still run as hard and fast as he had years before. He comforted himself that the enemy had turned to face them and were sprinting towards them. There would be a shorter distance to go now.
John Jacob was at Blackstone’s shoulder. ‘There are many more than us. We’re outnumbered,’ he said, glancing at Blackstone, who turned his head.
‘Whenever are we not? Stay close, John. William! Go left! Gilbert?’
Killbere snarled from his exertions. He was close enough to hear Blackstone and knew how he would strike. ‘I’m here damn you! I’ll go right!’
Seeing how few of Blackstone’s men there were, De Hayle’s men set themselves into a defensive position, shields at the ready to take the shock wave about to strike them.
They didn’t know the power of men the size of Meulon and Blackstone.
The impact rattled men’s teeth. The attackers struck the routiers’ shields with such force that a half-dozen men fell back into their comrades. It was a wound opened in their ranks and the ferocity of the two men who led the assault scythed into them. Blackstone’s men flanked left and right, suffocating de Hayle’s, hemming them in so they could not break free. Rats in a trap with no escape. The bellowing cries of violence forced strength into men’s sword arms. Killbere’s right flank held fast, striking against men determined not to die. Kill and stride forward. Kill and move again, trampling over the fallen, pressing boots into necks and torn wounds, ramming sword points down to still the squirming men.
Cold, hard rain hurtled down from the mountains, flaying men’s faces, blinding the attackers, who ignored the discomfort. Swords raised and fell. Shields slammed into men’s faces, bones broke, teeth and blood were spat free of mouths gulping for air. Blackstone and Meulon’s strength had forced more men aside. They turned back to back, covering each other. Meulon and Blackstone slashed through de Hayle’s men while John Jacob stooped low, shield high, jabbing below men’s raised arms or sweeping his sword across hamstrings. Blackstone’s men executed a cruel but efficient slaughter. Men cried out, wallowing in the churned mud, weeping in pain; someone in the mêlée’s midst cried out: ‘De Hayle! Help us! Where are you?’
Blackstone looked through the lashing rain. Blood trickled into his eye from a cut above his eye. Rain washed it clear, stinging the small gash. They were caught amidst the heaving men, their legs entangled in the dying. They saw horses rear as lightning streaked down into mountaintops, booming thunder slapping the air with immortal power. The gods of war’s drumbeats urging on the butchery.
Blackstone couldn’t see de Hayle. If he was among the horseman attempting to escape, he was out of sight. The wind shifted. It swirled the stench of blood towards the riders, who already struggled to keep their mounts from bolting at the overhead thunderclaps. Once they smelled the blood-letting, they would panic still further.
‘On me!’ Blackstone yelled. The half-dozen men nearest to him kicked and slashed their way clear. If Blackstone could reach the panic-stricken horses, he could kill de Hayle.
The one-armed Tibalt strove to mount and control his panicked horse at the same time. His strength failed him in the wet. He tumbled below its thrashing hooves, tried to roll clear but de Hayle had not yet calmed his own rearing horse. Tibalt screamed, his one arm raised to ward off the lethal iron-shod hooves. De Hayle paid him no heed and yanked the reins, the bit cutting his mount’s tongue and mouth as Tibalt’s head was crushed. De Hayle bellowed for his men to form up. Blackstone was fighting on foot and had so few men that horsemen could trample them to death. De Hayle’s twenty riders and those that were still fighting would, this time, overpower the arrogant Blackstone who must think himself invincible.
So what was it in those vital moments that stopped him from attacking? The lightning slashed across the sky. Boulders exploded on the distant hills. Burgos Castle loomed high on the escarpment, its turrets unyielding against the storm’s force. Velasquita’s words struck him again. He would know when the moment came. When Blackstone was so weakened, he could slay him. De Hayle saw Blackstone raise his head, shake free the blood and rain, bellowing over the howling wind, his words swept away but his intent as lethal as sheet lightning. De Hayle knew this was not the time.
He yanked the reins and galloped into the night followed by those who could. Leaving those who could not to their fate.
*
Velasquita stood at the open window in the high tower. Buttresses shielded her from the wind shear sweeping around the walls. A wailing banshee that was her friend. The rain soaked her linen shift; the wind moulded it to her body. She raised her face to the storm. She had seen the shadowed men in the distance once they had cleared the castle walls, soon to disappear into the night. So few of them. She let her mind ride the tempest. It showed her blood and death but little else. This was not the night Blackstone died. There was still work to do. They had not yet found the boy. The cold gave her gooseflesh. A shiver across her skin. No, not just the cold. Anticipation. The final killings had not taken place. She had yet to take him to her bed.
CHAPTER FIFTY-THREE
The men were drenched and weary from the fight and the biting cold, but Blackstone had not lost a man. What wounds they sustained were not fatal and by the time they returned to the stables the enemy dead were food for wolves. The storm broke by dawn. The clear skies revealed the night’s snowfall on the high peaks blurred in part by the specks of mountain vultures circling over the place of death.
Blackstone and those who’d taken part in the fight looked as though they had been in a tavern brawl. Cuts, bruises and a closed eye for William Ashford bore testimony to the hand-to-hand violence. Blackstone’s men sat outside the stables sharpening weapons as they watched the castle bustle into activity. Moorish cavalry rode out to investigate the dead as the High Stew
ard’s officials prepared the King’s departure to Seville. A delegation of city merchants swept across the yard.
‘These people have money,’ said John Jacob. ‘Their clothes alone are testament to that.’
‘And they’ll want the King to stay. If he doesn’t, their fate is uncertain,’ said Will Longdon, sitting with Jack Halfpenny and their archers as they checked the fletchings on their sheaves of arrows.
‘This place could withstand a siege for a year,’ Killbere said, carefully running his finger along his blade’s edge. ‘In fact, he might have a better chance staying here.’
‘And that’s not what the Prince wants. If Don Pedro’s half-brother camps outside for two years the result is the same. Don Pedro will be dead and the French have their man in place and that leaves the Prince vulnerable. Henry of Trastámara will be crowned King of Castile no matter what we do. We have to get Pedro out of Spain and back to Bordeaux even if he plans to do otherwise because then the Prince will raise an army and we’ll be coming back.’
John Jacob looked at Killbere, who shrugged.
‘You don’t like it, John, I know,’ said Blackstone.
‘An excommunicated King who abandons Christianity, Sir Thomas. A murderer. A man who would slay young Lázaro if he were ever discovered.’
‘And us for shielding him,’ said Killbere. ‘Thomas, John’s not wrong. We give aid to a vile man. When he came to power, he murdered his father’s mistress; he’s slain his Queen and his young brother. And there are men and women and children being slaughtered in villages as we sit here and plan to help him escape.’ He spat into the dirt. ‘We have no business being here.’
Blackstone watched the scurrying burghers go into the palace. ‘We do the Prince’s bidding. That is where our loyalty lies. John, tell Beyard to bring Lázaro here.’