Shadow of the Hawk

by David Gilman

  The Moor fought the temperamental horse. He was eager to argue but the size of the man he confronted and the look from his archers told him all he needed to know. He dug his heels into his horse’s flanks and returned to his men.

  ‘It would be easier to kill them before we start on the French,’ said Will Longdon.

  ‘It would have been easier for the Prince not to have sent us in the first place,’ said Blackstone.

  They waited amid the cracking of cloth as the wind whipped the flags and pennons.

  Blackstone turned in the saddle. ‘Will? What distance can you give me?’

  ‘Three hundred and fifty yards, and with help from the wind another thirty.’

  ‘When they draw up, send up one shaft, just one, and shoot it as close to them as you can. Then they’ll know where they will die.’ Blackstone heard his centenar send the order down the line to his bowmen as he urged the bastard horse twenty paces forward with John Jacob at his side bearing his unfurled banner. Thirty yards away Álvaraz did the same with his flag bearer. To all intents and purposes they looked like a disciplined army of men led by captains of renown, backed by archers and supported by hundreds more on the hill. If luck favoured them, then the approaching men would not identify the varied colours of the silk and dyed cloth banners that flapped tautly towards them.

  The routiers spilled over the far hills, a breaking wave of ill-disciplined men intent on slaughter. The only visible banner was that of Bertrand du Guesclin, whose ransom had been paid by the French King so the Breton captain could lead the routiers into Spain. A lone trumpet sounded from the centre of the swarm where the banner tugged hard against its staff. At first the front riders did not hear the clarion call, but when it was blown again they slowed and halted. The banner carrier nudged his horse aside, which revealed that the man riding next to him was du Guesclin. Five hundred routiers stopped several hundred yards away and then edged their horses slowly forward. When they reached 430 paces in front of Blackstone Will Longdon bent his back, hauled on his bowstring and loosed a yard of ash high in the air. It reached its zenith, was carried and then flattened by the following wind and struck fifty-five yards to the front of the approaching men. The warning was clear.

  The routiers’ horses’ blood was up from their strenuous journey, making their riders hold them on a tight rein, no one wanting a bolting horse to take them into the lethal storm that awaited. The nervous beasts fought their riders but kept their distance. Du Guesclin rode his horse forward another ten yards and then stopped. He squinted against the low sun; then he raised an arm in a peaceful gesture. Blackstone rode to him.

  ‘Sir Thomas, we met on the field at Auray.’

  ‘And you have gained your freedom.’

  ‘A generous king has made Sir John Chandos a wealthy man.’

  ‘The French monarch is playing a deceitful game. He sends you and others to dethrone Don Pedro when in truth he seeks to put a French army at my Prince’s back.’

  Bertrand du Guesclin was a swarthy, short man, well muscled with a pugnacious face. His smile did not soften the features. ‘What do we know of politics?’

  ‘You know about tactics. Your reputation is well earned.’

  ‘And yours.’

  The Breton eyed the skyline again. He was still a good distance away, which made him less certain as to the men half obscured by the crackling banners.

  ‘A hundred of Don Pedro’s lords sent men,’ said Blackstone. He paused. ‘There are more.’

  Du Guesclin scrutinized Blackstone. ‘Behind the hill? Waiting to surprise me if I break through – which I surely will?’

  ‘Where would you place hidden men?’

  ‘You’re bluffing.’

  Blackstone shrugged. ‘My archers are few but they’ll bring down enough of your men and horses to cause chaos. Then you have to get past me and the Spaniards. Then fight uphill to those who hold the high ground. And then... then you will know if I am bluffing.’

  Du Guesclin grimaced. ‘You tempt me, Sir Thomas. By God, I believe you are anxious to engage with me, as few as you are.’

  The bastard horse swung its misshapen head and bared its teeth at the Breton’s horse. Du Guesclin fought the rein. ‘Your beast takes exception.’

  ‘He’s a belligerent curse on my enemies. He suits me. Is Ranulph de Hayle among you?’

  ‘Le Bête? No. I saw him and a few men ride south.’ The routiers’ commander looked quickly at the men waiting to kill his own. ‘Hugh Calveley waits for me at Burgos. Another time, Sir Thomas.’

  He wheeled the horse and spurred it back to the waiting men. Blackstone watched as the Breton raised his arm and gave the signal to turn away, but one group of men, twenty or so, ignored the command. Perhaps they believed that if they broke ranks, others would follow. Their horses lunged forward under pressure from raked spurs. Bertrand du Guesclin bellowed a command to stop them but was ignored. Blackstone raised a hand restraining Álvaraz from riding forward. Moments later the unmistakable sound of Will Longdon’s archers drawing back and loosing their arrows ripped through the air. The cross hatch of falling shafts felled most of the men. Horses whinnied in their agony and crashed to the ground as the two survivors careered towards Blackstone, unable to stop their terrified beasts. Behind them du Guesclin and his captains screamed at their men to hold.

  Blackstone did not need to dig his heels into the bastard horse. Ears up, it fought the bit, gathered its strength in its haunches and reared forward. Blackstone cursed but had half expected the temperamental beast to take the fight forward. It barged the first horse, forcing its rider to sway in the saddle. The man’s guard lowered. Blackstone swung Wolf Sword and cut deeply into the man’s neck. Before he tumbled from the saddle Blackstone was already past him to face a more determined mercenary, who controlled his mount, swung hard into Blackstone, hammering down with a spiked mace towards the bastard horse’s head, intent on blinding or maiming the great war horse. Blackstone pressed his leg into its side. It responded instantly and changed direction. The blow missed. The attacker’s arm swung low between the two horses; with his body protected by his shield the man immediately curved the lethal mace upwards, intent on catching Blackstone’s exposed side. He put too much effort into it, mistiming the wild strike. His arm was now level with his shoulder. Blackstone rammed Wolf Sword’s hardened steel into his ribs. The mercenary roared with pain, tried to stay in the saddle but lost control. He slumped; his mount swayed uncertainly as it faced the line of horses. John Jacob rode forward to meet the wayward horse and swung his battleaxe into the mercenary’s face guard. The blow spilled the man from his saddle, his horse galloping clear.

  The mêlée was short but Blackstone saw the madness had stirred others from du Guesclin’s company to surge towards the lightly armed Moors on their flank.

  ‘Will!’ Blackstone shouted.

  Longdon and the men nearest to him pivoted, bent their backs and shot. A dozen arrows sped across Álvaraz’s front ranks. So accurate was the volley that the attackers died only yards from the Moors, who fought to hold their horses still at the sudden enemy onslaught. The brief attack was over.

  Bertrand du Guesclin called out to Blackstone. ‘I will find you again and next time I will choose the ground.’

  ‘You’ll need more men,’ Blackstone answered.

  ‘Then I will have them.’ He yanked the reins and the horsemen rode off, abandoning their dead and wounded.

  The Moors’ leader urged his mount towards Blackstone. ‘You send your arrows so close you nearly kill my men!’

  ‘Your men were safer with my archers than the Frenchmen. Either get back to your position or run home to al-Hakam and tell him how fearful you were when English and Welsh bowmen shaved your beards. Decide!’ There was a short silence as the Moor fought to control his fury. Blackstone continued: ‘Stop your damned bleating – you sound like a goat being dragged to slaughter. Or next time I will leave you to the wolves.’

  Álvaraz nudged his horse tow
ards Blackstone as his men went among the fallen to kill any badly wounded men and horses. ‘They will not be fooled again, Sir Thomas.’

  ‘They don’t have to be. If we’re lucky, the King’s route ahead is safe now.’

  ‘Then we ride back to the King. What of the villagers?’

  ‘Let them keep the silk and cloth,’ said Blackstone. ‘It’s a small payment for their courage. If they head west, they have a better chance. Du Guesclin rides for Burgos to join Hugh Calveley. The routiers are behind us. They won’t stay at Burgos long. They’ll soon be on our heels and at the gates of Seville. Don Pedro lives another day but by nightfall he will have lost the crown. They will declare Henry of Trastámara king in the cathedral.’

  Álvaraz looked miserable. ‘I would be in your debt if you told him. If I deliver the news they will leave my body hanging at the next crossroads.’

  CHAPTER FIFTY-EIGHT

  They caught up with Don Pedro and Killbere two days later as they camped for the night before entering Seville the following day.

  ‘The King rides with the Moors and ignores us,’ said Killbere.

  Blackstone handed the bastard horse’s reins to John Jacob and then plunged his hands into the bucket of water that Lázaro had carried to him when he saw the men return. Blackstone sluiced the grime from his face, running fingers through his hair. ‘The damned French are giving chase.’

  ‘Du Guesclin?’ said Killbere.

  ‘And five hundred men.’ He glanced to where Álvaraz waited before going to the King’s tent. ‘There was a skirmish but I’ll tell you later. We need to push harder, Gilbert, and I need to tell the King.’

  ‘He did listen to you – he rides late into the day and breaks camp early.’

  ‘Then he needs to listen more.’ Blackstone beckoned Álvaraz and strode across the camp to where the King’s tent stood apart from the men. Killbere watched them go.

  ‘Will?’

  Will Longdon turned from where he was addressing his archers. ‘Sir Gilbert?’

  ‘How close was it?’

  The centenar walked over and shook his head. ‘They would have trampled us to death in the first charge.’ He told Killbere how Blackstone had used the retreating villagers to fool du Guesclin. ‘Mark my words,’ said Longdon, ‘we looked into the face of death as certain as I am facing you.’

  Killbere nodded. Will Longdon’s creased grimace said it all. ‘And there was another bloody hawk. My guts churned. I thought it heralded bad tidings, but Thomas said different, didn’t he? Said it was there to help. And by God no sooner had the damned thing screeched like a castrated cat than the villagers swarmed out of the forest. Truth is without them we would have been crow bait. That and a few bolts of silk.’ He hawked and spat. And then he grinned. ‘Balls of iron and a few well-aimed arrows saved the day.’

  *

  Moors guarded the King’s tent. They raised a hand to stop Blackstone from entering and called out for the High Steward. When his voice from inside gave Blackstone permission to enter, the sentries stepped aside.

  Don Pedro was studying a map; the High Steward stood to one side. Al-Hakam was pointing out a route to the King when the two men stepped beneath the tent flaps.

  ‘Sir Thomas?’ said the King, without looking up. Only the High Steward and al-Hakam gave the two men their attention.

  ‘My lord,’ answered Blackstone. He was not prepared to deliver what news he had until Don Pedro was obliged to raise his eyes. Blackstone’s silence did the trick.

  ‘Well,’ Don Pedro said. ‘You have returned, which means something happened, or you saw the enemy. Which is it?’

  ‘There were hundreds of villagers retreating from the routiers—’

  ‘I have no interest in them,’ the King interrupted. ‘What of du Guesclin? Did you see him?’

  ‘Saw him and was ready to engage, highness,’ said Álvaraz.

  ‘Ah, but you are alive, Álvaraz, so you did not engage. That makes me think you betrayed me.’

  ‘No one betrayed you,’ said Blackstone. ‘We avoided a fight.’

  ‘The great Master of War refusing to fight?’ Don Pedro smirked.

  ‘We fooled them into thinking our numbers were greater than they were,’ said Álvaraz. ‘Were it not for Sir Thomas they would have massacred our small force and slain the villagers.’

  Don Pedro settled into a chair the High Steward positioned in place. A brazier burned nearby. The King stretched out a hand to its warmth. ‘Your orders were to draw the routiers away from here.’

  ‘There was no need,’ Blackstone said. ‘If du Guesclin had fought us, it would have slowed them down by only a few hours.’

  ‘And those hours are vital to me,’ said the King.

  ‘You would have lost Álvaraz and his men as well as mine and you will need every man who will rally to your cause. They were riding for Burgos. Calveley is already there.’ Blackstone paused. ‘So too your half-brother.’ He let the news sink in. ‘By morning you will no longer be King of Castile. They will crown Henry of Trastámara.’

  Whatever demons lurked in Don Pedro’s heart, they ate into him slowly. He swallowed the news like a man chewing maggot-riddled meat. And then he retched, spewing whatever food and wine he had consumed across the tent floor. He wiped a hand across his mouth, got to his feet and flung the chair across the breadth of the tent. The High Steward stepped nimbly aside. Perhaps, Blackstone thought, he was well versed in dodging things thrown by his master.

  ‘We must make haste,’ said Blackstone. ‘Du Guesclin and Calveley will join forces at Burgos and turn south. Du Guesclin knows you must head for Seville. Where else would you go on this route? They’ll attack in force.’

  Don Pedro leaned on the table and beat his fist several times. ‘I am hunted. Wolves chase me down.’ He straightened. ‘I have six hundred Moors in Seville and Portugal will give me sanctuary and a thousand men to escort us to safety. Once there, I will plan my counter-attack.’

  No one in the tent spoke. A drowning man slipping beneath the waves draws a final deep breath and then succumbs. Don Pedro, King of Castile for a few more hours, looked to be such a man. Blackstone decided it was not worth arguing that the King was a spent force and instinct told him there would be no help from Portugal. If the offer to send a thousand men had been genuine the advance party would already be riding across the hills to offer the King the reassurance he needed. There had been no sighting of such a troop.

  Don Pedro ignored them and bent down over the map again. Blackstone and Álvaraz bowed and left the tent. Once outside, Álvaraz lifted a lantern and turned to the Englishman. ‘You stand between me and Don Pedro. I offer my gratitude. You spare me grief at his hands.’

  ‘Álvaraz, we will soon have a battle on our hands. I think we’ll reach Seville in time, but you said we cannot defend it.’

  ‘We cannot. If they catch us there, we will soon be dead.’

  ‘They’ll come in force. Three, perhaps four days if we are lucky. Most of my men need fresh horses.’

  ‘The King’s are the finest in Spain. There is a place outside the city where they are bred. He will not part with them. They are his wealth and his pride.’

  ‘Then I won’t ask,’ said Blackstone. ‘I’ll take. You’ll show me where?’

  Álvaraz grinned. ‘With pleasure, Sir Thomas.’

  ‘Good. Then we’ll do as he asks and run for the Portuguese border and strike south for an Atlantic port. We must convince him to return to Aquitaine. The sooner I see the back of your King the better I’ll like it.’

  Álvaraz studied his boots for a moment, considering whether he should share his doubts. ‘Sir Thomas, I do not think we will be riding for Portugal. The tide has turned against Don Pedro. Portugal will not be drawn into a conflict that sweeps across the whole of Spain.’

  ‘You believe this? Despite his family connections?’

  ‘I do.’

  Blackstone knew that if Álvaraz was correct, then they were about to be surrounded
by the French- and English-led routiers. ‘Is there anywhere that remains loyal and holds their ground against them?’

  ‘Only one place. The north. Galicia.’

  ‘What route would we take?’

  Álvaraz shrugged. ‘If the Portuguese deny him, then we cannot ride in safety within their border. On this side there are towns defended by loyal troops. I do not know if Calveley and du Guesclin will give chase, but if we can reach Santiago de Compostela, then we are only hours from the coast.’

  ‘How far to Santiago?’

  Álvaraz sighed. ‘Eleven, twelve days.’

  ‘And in between?’

  ‘If we can get beyond halfway – say, Salamanca – then we will have a chance.’ He handed the lantern to Blackstone and, crouching, drew an outline of Spain in the dirt. He marked Seville and then scratched a line north and marked it with a stone. ‘Salamanca holds out. Seven days from here, so it will be four or five days beyond that.’ He placed another pebble near the northern coast. ‘To Santiago. I do not think the routiers will follow us into Galicia. It is a difficult terrain of forests, mountains and rivers. No army would choose to fight there.’

  Blackstone looked at the scratched dirt. ‘We were only a few days from Corunna when we were at Burgos. Your King has damned us, Álvaraz. Can you see what will happen?’

  Álvaraz looked at his crude map and shook his head.

  Blackstone placed a stone north-east of Salamanca, and then another the same distance again. He pointed at the last stone he laid. ‘Burgos.’ He touched the first stone. ‘Valladolid is halfway between Burgos and Salamanca.’ He picked up the stone Álvaraz had laid down for Salamanca. ‘Bertrand du Guesclin and Hugh Calveley will not pursue us south here to Seville, they will ride west from Burgos and strike us at Salamanca. They’ll cut us off and array their men on open ground before we reach Galicia.’

  Realization dawned on Álvaraz. ‘Mother of God, Sir Thomas, we cannot get past them in time.’