Shadow of the Hawk

by David Gilman

  ‘Legends are stories, my lord, and stories are for troubadours and minstrels. Fighting men seize the best opportunity they can to slow down and defeat an enemy. Do not let whispers from the past make us fearful of what must be done now. The Romans left a better legacy. They built a bridge across the river so we will hold it. Once the French arrive, English routiers will be on their heels, and if the French haven’t slaughtered us by then, then Hugh Calveley will cage and chain you and drag you through the streets and then your half-brother will have your head on a pole and your limbs severed and placed at crossroads. I warn you. We cannot beat the host that rides towards us, so you must not stay.’

  Blackstone watched the bravado slip away from the King of Castile. He was already humiliated from the loss of his beloved Seville and the occupation of Burgos, and then the loss of his treasury. Physical degradation would be too deep a wound to contemplate. But then, to Blackstone’s concern, he raised his head.

  ‘I would rather die standing with my men than keep on running. I will fight at your side, Sir Thomas. I do not fear death.’

  Álvaraz looked worried and stepped forward. ‘Highness, the church at Puebla de Sanabria will give you sanctuary. It is only a day and a half ride on the far side of the river. If we hold the bridge long enough, then you will have a clear passage to Santiago and Corunna. Days, highness, only days and you will be with the English Prince.’

  ‘No. I have run far enough.’

  Velasquita took a pace forward. ‘The King has a right to die where he chooses,’ she said.

  Blackstone and Álvaraz had not expected her to support Don Pedro.

  ‘Woman, this council is no place for you,’ said the High Steward.

  ‘It is no place for those who are not prepared to face death. Are you?’ she answered.

  The taunt made the High Steward stand tall. ‘As God wills.’

  ‘Brave words, but when blades eviscerate you and you hold your innards watching your life ebb away, that is when we will test your courage.’

  The King raised a hand to stop any further argument between the soothsayer and the steward. ‘Velasquita, where shall I die? Tell me what you see so I may know the place and prepare myself.’

  ‘My lord, I have seen your return to glory. I have seen your people rejoice. You will not die tomorrow or the next day or for many more thereafter, so you must not challenge Fate. Let others leave their blood in the sand. You must reach the English Prince. That is what I have seen. You have no choice. Spain is waiting for your victorious return.’

  Don Pedro thought on it. He nodded. ‘Very well. Puebla de Sanabria it shall be, and then on from there.’

  ‘A wise choice, my lord,’ said the High Steward with a hint of relief.

  ‘God willing that bridge is held, Sir Thomas,’ said Don Pedro.

  ‘We will buy you time,’ said Blackstone as Velasquita faced him, careful that no one else could see her raised eyebrows and triumphant smile. ‘You take Álvaraz and your Spanish troops and Sayyid al-Hakam’s men. We’ll hold the bridge.’

  The Moor lifted his sword blade an inch and slammed it back into its scabbard, enough to make everyone turn towards him.

  ‘My Lord Pedro, we cannot do as Sir Thomas suggests,’ he said. ‘The French and their mercenaries must think you are among us. We should keep your pavilion and your banner and I and my men will stay behind with the English. The enemy knows that where we are then so too are you. Better that Álvaraz and his men ride as escort.’

  ‘Master al-Hakam, you have light cavalry,’ said Blackstone. ‘You’re ill equipped to fight so many.’

  ‘And you, Sir Thomas, have even fewer men and yet you will stand your ground. Do you not see the truth? Where the King’s royal guard is, then that is where the King would be. We stay.’

  CHAPTER SIXTY-FOUR

  Velasquita refrained from showing she had any association with Blackstone. The King’s jealousy would have made him defy her advice, and then his desire for death or glory, whether imagined or real, would have made him stay and fight the fast-approaching Bertrand du Guesclin and his army.

  It was an hour’s ride from their camp to the River Esla and, as they clattered across the Roman bridge, she slowed her mount while the King and the courtiers galloped on. Blackstone drew alongside. Her cape’s hood fell back from her face.

  ‘Thomas, remember your promise and come to me.’

  ‘If I live.’

  ‘You still don’t believe me, do you?’

  ‘Perhaps at the end of today I will.’

  She smiled. ‘We will be at the Iglesia de Santa María del Azogue. It’s the only church there is.’ She gathered her reins. ‘I won’t pray for you.’ She heeled the horse and rode off to catch up with the King’s retinue.

  Blackstone watched men stream across the bridge to where a legion had made their last stand. They guided the pack horses up towards the rocky cliffs. The Romans had built their bridge in one of the few accessible places. Elsewhere the craggy cliffs made the gorge too difficult even for Rome’s engineers. This bridge spanned three hundred yards and Blackstone looked back to the far bank where the shore broadened into an open space above the high bank. The route leading away from the shoreline went east to the valleys that would bring the enemy from Burgos. Riverside shrubs, underwood and trees softened the breadth of the opposite shoreline. The river’s current was strong enough to slow horsemen attempting to cross the shallower parts of the riverbed. Blackstone’s captains were already dispersing the horses, leading them into protected shelter behind a cliff face that had been dug out and quarried, perhaps by these same Romans who used the stone to build the bridge. Time had not weakened their efforts and the bridge’s several arches looked to be as strong as when first built.

  ‘You looking at the masons’ skill or being weaned from the witch?’ said Killbere.

  ‘Thinking how we’ll stop them before they get to us. We can’t destroy it and we can hold it for only so long. The French can’t go up or downriver and outflank us because the cliffs are too steep. The cliffs at our backs protect us,’ Blackstone pointed at the water breaking over rocks revealing shallower water. ‘If they ford there, either side of the bridge, then we’re outflanked.’

  ‘Will and his lads can bring enough of them down to slow them but we don’t have many arrows, Thomas, and they’ll be hard pressed to hold the bastards back with sword and buckler.’

  ‘We’ll put al-Hakam’s archers to good use,’ said Blackstone, ‘but even if we slow the skinners at the bridge, then we still need to stop them getting ashore from the shallows.’

  Killbere studied the ground. They had five hundred yards from the river to the cliffs at their backs. Al-Hakam’s men were erecting the King’s pavilion and flying his banners. To an approaching enemy it would look like Don Pedro’s camp. Men went about preparing the deception, gathering bundles of dry kindling and firewood. There would be a hundred campfires lit that night dotted across the broad riverbank. If the French routiers were as close as Blackstone thought, the twinkling firelight would draw them like a moth to a flame. By dawn the enemy would be across the river.

  ‘Time is against us, Thomas. Best we get to what needs to be done.’

  *

  The quarry was the strongest place to defend should they have to fall back but it could also be a death trap if Blackstone’s men were overrun and their enemy scaled the cliff face and shot down into them. Blackstone secured the bastard horse’s reins. Lázaro led his own and Beyard’s horse into the quarry. The boy had become an untiring ward of the Gascon.

  ‘Lázaro!’ Blackstone called.

  The lad changed direction and met Blackstone as he strode towards him. ‘My lord?’

  ‘You know to keep clear of my horse?’

  ‘I do, lord.’

  ‘Good. Where has Beyard instructed you to be when the fight comes?’

  ‘Here with the horses. Some will not be used to sound of battle so I will calm them as best as I can.’

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nbsp; ‘Not mine, remember.’

  ‘I would not wish to go near yours, Sir Thomas.’

  Blackstone stroked his hand down Beyard’s horse’s face. ‘Lázaro, you have travelled the length of France and across Spain with us and your courage has been noticed.’

  The lad shrugged. ‘I am with brave men, lord, how could I not feel strong? But I still fear Ranulph de Hayle. Is he one of the men coming to fight?’

  ‘I don’t know.’

  ‘He will seize or kill me if he finds me. It is the person who killed the Queen who wants me. I cannot tell you who that person is, Sir Thomas. But I fear I will still die.’

  ‘He won’t get to you, Lázaro. If he is with the French and if every man here dies in battle, you can run. You go over that mountain and find any town or village and seek refuge. Take whatever you can carry. You have Beyard’s blessing and mine to save yourself.’

  The boy listened attentively. He touched the crucifix. ‘My Queen prayed for my safety and her prayers were answered. I have prayed for my Lord Beyard and for you, Sir Thomas. You will win this fight and we will all go home together.’

  A sharp screech echoed down into the quarry from the sky above. The horse shied but Lázaro held it easily enough. The hawk circled and then stooped away out of sight.

  Lázaro smiled. ‘You see, Sir Thomas, the hawk watches over us. She is our angel in the sky.’

  Blackstone let the boy lead the horses away. Angel or demon? They would soon know.

  *

  ‘Salam!’ Will Longdon called as Moors dragged dead wood from the river to impede horses clambering up the shallow bank. The Moor stopped and dropped the bleached tree trunk.

  ‘English,’ he said, addressing Longdon the only way he knew how.

  Will Longdon looked across the open ground to where the Moors had hobbled their horses. They had nosebags tied on and stood compliant as the men worked around them. The archer was uncertain why the Moors’ horses were not in the quarry. While his mind fought to find a way of asking, Salam pointed to the heaped river stones being placed by his bowmen.

  ‘Stones,’ said Longdon. He picked up a smooth rock and gestured for the Moor to watch him as he acted out what he was trying to say. ‘Here and there, see?’ He walked to where one archer had marked his place to fight. Arrows were jammed into the ground next to the river pebbles. Longdon held the rock in his fingers so his audience could see what he was doing and embellished his story with overwrought facial gestures. He plucked an arrow with one hand and held the stone with the other. ‘Arrow – stone,’ he said, showing each to the bemused Moor. Three more of his companions eased their efforts and watched the English archer. ‘Arrows soon gone. Poof. See? Finished.’ His gestures became more comical. The Moors were grinning at the unfolding act. ‘Big fight. No more arrows. Stones. So you must gather.’ He drew his arms together as if bundling sheaves of wheat. ‘No arrows ’cause they’re sticking in a skinner’s gut. So with no arrows we have to kill them another way. Yes?’ The ramble made no impression. Will Longdon looked at his bemused audience. Tucking the arrow behind his back so it was out of sight, he laid open his palm to show the rock again. ‘Kill them with these.’

  The man he called Salam spoke to his comrades to try to understand what the English archer was trying to tell them. There seemed to be some agreement. Salam bent, picked up a rock and hurled it towards the river to where their common enemy would attack.

  ‘Rock,’ he said.

  ‘Yes, yes. Rock,’ Longdon repeated, nodding happily. But then he shook his head. ‘No throw. Not throw. See?’ He tugged a slingshot from his belt, unfurled its arm-length cords, slipped his forefinger through the loop on one end and held the knot tied on the other end between his fingers. He pointed to a clump of rushes tall enough to be a man in the shallow part of the river fifty yards away. He placed the rock into the sling’s pouch and then swung it rapidly. The stone swished through the air and tore into the target.

  It impressed the Moors.

  Longdon was frustrated. He wasn’t showing his skills with a sling only to impress them; he was trying to tell them that the fight would be desperate and hard won and the Moors needed to adopt the same strategy.

  Salam stepped forward, smiled and placed a hand on the Englishman’s shoulder. He nodded, as if understanding all that had not been said. With a look of what could have been regret he looked to where their horses were. His voice was low, his meaning clear. They would die with their horses in the attack. The Moor turned back to his tasks, leaving Will Longdon with a premature sense of loss.

  *

  ‘They’ll get slaughtered if they ride out,’ Will Longdon told Blackstone. ‘And the way Salam looked I reckon that’s their plan.’

  ‘Speak to the Moor, Thomas,’ Killbere said.

  Blackstone nodded. If his centenar’s suspicion was correct, he was about to lose six hundred fighting men being led away from the battle lines. ‘Will, you’ve got your lads ready?’

  ‘Aye. They’ll stand their ground as always.’ He glanced behind him at the rugged cliffs. He grinned. ‘No place else to go.’ He walked away to join his archers, who were already in their ragged formation, ready to stand between the men-at-arms, and to join the fight when their arrows were exhausted.

  ‘God’s tears, Thomas, we will lose good men in this fight. More men than before, I reckon,’ said Killbere. ‘I’ll fill my belly tonight and spend an hour at the latrines at dawn. Then I’ll be ready for that arrogant Breton bastard. Damn the snivelling French King for paying his ransom. I pray scabs form on him and peel him to the bone.’

  ‘Gilbert, if your curses could save our day then the battle would already be won.’

  ‘My curses? Merciful Mother of God, we need the damned witch to put a curse on these ravenous bastards that come for your head.’

  ‘Then – with your help – I shall try and keep it.’

  Blackstone made his way to where al-Hakam was speaking to some of his men. The Moor dismissed them when he saw Blackstone approaching.

  ‘I had a mind to place boulders and anything else on the bridge to slow them. And when we kill them their bodies will hinder others. You have your horses being fed in the open. I’m no fool, Master al-Hakam, you intend to be across the river, don’t you?’

  ‘We kill those we can and once they get past us they will have little choice but to use the bridge. And there you can inflict many casualties on them,’ said the Moor’s commander. ‘I have four hundred men with spear and sword and another two hundred archers. We fight on horseback, not like you English who stand and wait for the enemy to come to you.’

  ‘Then you throw away your lives. Bertrand du Guesclin will have two thousand and more men with him. Hugh Calveley another thousand. You will die a useless death. Bring your men with mine. Stand next to us. We need you and your archers. We’ll kill hundreds before they get across the bridge. They’ll fall back and when they come again, we will kill them again. By the time their swords meet ours they will be weary from the effort. That is the best chance we have, al-Hakam. We have won many battles like this against even greater odds.’

  ‘Sir Thomas, we know our fate. The treaty with the Emirate of Granada and this foul King is not of my doing. I am a soldier who follows orders. Don Pedro deserves to die in the gutter with his throat cut, but I am obliged to protect him because Allah is all-knowing and I am not. I cannot question why I die here. It is my destiny. As perhaps it is yours.’

  Blackstone felt he had already lost the appeal. ‘A warrior’s duty is to kill the enemy and live so he may fight again and kill those who wish to kill him or those he serves. I beg you, stay on this side of the river. We are already heavily outnumbered.’

  Sayyid al-Hakam looked around at the broad expanse of open ground between the cliffs and the river. ‘You have chosen well, my friend. You will hold here long enough for Don Pedro to escape far enough into Galicia so as not to be followed. Your service to your Prince does you honour. Do not let me dishonour myself.
’

  ‘You would not.’

  ‘The enemy would expect the royal bodyguard to stand between the King and his enemies. If we are to buy him time and convince them he is here so they do not ride upstream and find a crossing and pursue him, then they must see we are in their way. Then they will believe that Don Pedro is here with you.’

  Blackstone saw there was no chance in changing the Moor’s mind.

  ‘I am a Nasrid Moor, Sir Thomas. Our blood will soak into the same soil as our ancestors who conquered this land. We die with honour. I will strike at them five hundred yards beyond the bridge. By the time they fight through us they will have their bodies and ours to slow them down.’

  ‘I saw writing on the wall of the Alcázar: “Wa la ghaliba illa Allah” – “Here is no conqueror but God”.’

  Al-Hakam extended his hand. Blackstone grasped it.

  ‘Peace be upon you, Sayyid al-Hakam.’

  ‘And on you, Sir Thomas Blackstone.’

  CHAPTER SIXTY-FIVE

  Blackstone brought his captains together. The ground they would fight on was a crescent-shaped riverbank stretching five hundred yards from the bridge to the cliffs at their backs. Each flank was closed by a rock face that tumbled down onto the water’s edge. The shallows in parts of the river were the most dangerous places for their enemy to storm across and it was there, once the routiers discovered the shallower water, that the archers had to kill as many of their attackers as possible. Once the assault across the bridge had been stopped then du Guesclin’s men would have no choice but to attempt a river crossing. Meulon would hold the right flank, William Ashford the left. Between each of the men-at-arms, left and right, Will Longdon and Jack Halfpenny would sawtooth their archers. Blackstone scratched out the positions in the soft ground. He would position himself as the point of an arrowhead formation with Killbere and John Jacob at his shoulder.