by David Gilman
‘The weather will turn,’ said John Jacob. ‘Álvaraz’s men say the storms come into the mountains from the sea.’
‘Then we won’t stay long before leaving to catch up to him – just give the men time to rest and eat. We’re eight or nine days from Santiago at a steady pace, less if the going isn’t hard. And neither Hugh Calveley nor Bertrand du Guesclin will come after us now.’
‘And then?’ said Killbere.
‘Make sure Don Pedro gets on the ship for Aquitaine and leaves us to make our own way home.’
‘I was thinking more about the woman, Velasquita,’ said Killbere.
Blackstone looked across the idyllic meadow, the broad-leafed trees whose soft rustling accompanied the sound of water over rocks. A brief moment of tranquillity in the fighting men’s lives. ‘I wasn’t,’ he said.
CHAPTER SIXTY-NINE
The route to Santiago de Compostela meandered through valleys and deep forests, waterfalls tumbled from the heights and the further north they rode the more the sun’s warmth diminished. They had gifted half the horses to the people at Puebla de Sanabria. They were good horse stock from a king’s stables and valuable to trade. The remaining horses Blackstone’s men trailed with them as replacements, not knowing what hardship might lie ahead and take a toll on their mounts. They were close now to the final days in their mission to secure passage of the deposed Spanish King to the safety and support of Edward, Prince of Wales.
They found Don Pedro’s camp in a village three miles from Santiago de Compostela. Álvaraz rode out to greet them.
‘Sir Thomas, you held the bridge,’ he said, respect and surprise mingling in the compliment.
‘At a cost,’ said Blackstone.
Álvaraz looked at the riders and saw their depleted numbers. ‘And al-Hakam?’
‘The Moors took the fight to the French and fought like lions. Not one survived. They had more courage than most. I hope Don Pedro honours them.’
Álvaraz grimaced. ‘All is not well, Sir Thomas. He refused to stay at Puebla de Sanabria for fear that the English and French mercenaries would find a way past you.’
‘Your men who led us here told us,’ said Killbere. ‘What is it now? Does he have a fistula up his arse?’
Álvaraz smiled; he had missed the inherent disrespect the English held for those in authority. ‘Sir Gilbert, the Archbishop has refused him entry to Santiago.’
‘Galicia is loyal to the King,’ said John Jacob.
‘And the Archbishop is loyal to the Pope,’ Álvaraz said. ‘You know Don Pedro was excommunicated when he defied the Pope after aligning himself with the Moors.’
‘Is that all? An archbishop can’t stop him riding into the city,’ Killbere said.
‘Santiago throngs with pilgrims. People come to pray at the tomb of St James; they undertake an arduous journey to pray for loved ones who are stricken and for their own misdeeds to be forgiven. They come to request and behold blessings and miracles. The Archbishop can turn the city troops and militia against Don Pedro. How easy would it be to incite a mob, many of whom have committed violence in their lives? Don Pedro’s own violence and acts of murder are well known. They will not permit him to ride into the city.’
Blackstone felt the weight of this King’s reputation oppressing on him. ‘God’s tears, Álvaraz, I cannot wait to rid myself of this man.’ He heaved a sigh. ‘Very well, take us to him.’
Álvaraz laid a restraining hand on Blackstone’s arm. ‘Sir Thomas, his temper flares at the slightest mishap, the slightest. At any moment he could order every man in the room to be slain. The Moors would have done his bidding but my men will not carry out the orders of a man close to losing his reason. I will protect him as I must, but nothing more. He needs a strong hand now, Sir Thomas, a guiding hand that will not tolerate his excesses. A firm hand.’
*
No banners flew over the impoverished stone buildings where the King of Castile had taken refuge. They had not abandoned all comforts: a fire blazed, a table was laden with food. The High Steward looked as though he had spent a lifetime standing at his lord’s shoulder. His face was more gaunt than when Blackstone last saw him, and it was obvious the journey had been arduous for the elderly man. Blackstone handed a folded banner to a servant. ‘Your standard can fly again. Henry of Trastámara’s forces never seized it. We held it safe.’
An agitated Don Pedro nodded to the servant to take away the standard of Castile and León as if it was of no importance.
‘Lord, that is your kingdom’s blazon,’ said Blackstone.
‘I no longer have a kingdom. I am deposed!’ He threw a half-eaten apple into the fire. ‘How much must a king endure? My personal wealth seized from my ships and then condemnation from the Archbishop here. I needed the plate and gold to secure my family’s place in Aquitaine and it was imperative the Archbishop gave me his blessing as the rightful ruler of Castile. How can I return if my wealth is gone and the Archbishop himself declares me undesirable? All I have left of value is my name. Without that I am truly a pauper.’
‘Greatness rears like the phoenix from the ruins of a man’s misfortune, sire. My Prince recognizes you as the true King of Castile; no other authority is needed. No archbishop or thief can take that away. Ignore what has happened and ready yourself and your family.’
Don Pedro sulked. ‘I expected you here sooner,’ he said.
The vein in Blackstone’s neck throbbed. Killbere knew the signs. To have lost so many men and then be treated with such contempt and self-pity put the King in danger. Killbere stepped forward and bowed before Blackstone could insult or, worse, threaten the King.
‘There was a small matter of holding off a few thousand mercenaries and their French commanders,’ said Killbere.
‘Did they turn and run?’
‘My lord?’ said Killbere, uncertain if the King really was implying that the battle had been less fierce than their losses suggested.
‘They were routiers. Paid to kill. If they saw their efforts were not worth what the French promised, then men like that run. Your losses, Sir Gilbert, might be because of your own poor fighting skills. Am I to grieve for not seeing for myself how the battle was fought?’
Killbere’s fierce grip on Blackstone’s arm could not stop him from breaking free and striding forward so rapidly he reached the King’s table. Don Pedro recoiled. ‘Guards!’
Killbere drew his sword and kept Álvaraz and two of his men at the entrance. Killbere shook his head at them. ‘Leave it be, Álvaraz. It will only be the King’s pride that will be wounded.’
Álvaraz shared the Englishmen’s disdain for the man he served and was grateful that Killbere’s blade at his throat made it look as though he was helpless to assist his master.
Blackstone slammed his fist on the table; beakers of wine spilled and food trembled. As did Don Pedro, but he reacted quickly and instinctively drew his knife. Blackstone’s fist closed over the hand holding the blade and rammed it with such force into the table that half its length penetrated the wood. The sudden act of violence left Don Pedro speechless. The High Steward bravely took a step forward but Blackstone’s glowering look halted him. Blackstone faced the King, who nursed his bruised hand.
‘Six hundred of the bravest men I have ever seen in battle took the enemy head on. Sayyid al-Hakam’s name should be honoured and remembered. He slowed the enemy so we could defend the bridge. I lost archers more precious than your jewels and men-at-arms more valuable than your damned kingdom. So I suggest you ride now for Corunna and the ship to Aquitaine – for that is the only place you will find salvation.’
The young King recoiled from Blackstone’s assault. His breath came hard, sweat speckled his face, his speech faltered, disbelief and shock constricting his throat, swallowing the words. He lisped some kind of mumbled threat, and then slowly gathered his wits and his composure. Don Pedro did not lack intelligence. He knew his life and the future of regaining his kingdom rested squarely with the English King’s Mast
er of War. He steadied himself and swallowed his pride.
‘I will honour the dead. I swear it. And I spoke hastily and without proper thought to those who defended my crown. I will offer prayers and beg forgiveness at the next church on our journey.’ He spoke carefully so that his words calmed the threat that still hovered in the room. ‘But,’ he said, daring to take a step closer to Blackstone. ‘It would be better for my act of contrition to be made in the cathedral at Santiago.’
‘The place is unimportant,’ said Blackstone.
‘But the pilgrims who throng the city and the citizens of that revered place would acknowledge my piety once they see my standard flying again.’
‘And see through it for what it is.’
Don Pedro’s confidence grew. ‘Sir Thomas, your fighting skills are beyond question, but politics is more than a blade with courage behind it. Galicia is the last province loyal to me. I must ride into its capital and receive the blessing and sacrament from the Archbishop and the acceptance of its people. It is better for me to meet your Prince knowing I have a province that will support and honour me because if we are to return in force and reclaim my throne then it might be through Galicia.’
Blackstone knew it was an argument to be considered. If the Prince of Wales put a rightful king back on his throne, no matter how unlikeable the man, he would have to bring an army either through the Pyrenees and the Kingdom of Navarre, which by now would have sided with the French and Henry of Trastámara, or land at a northern port in Galicia.
‘King Edward’s Master of War and the Prince’s choice to save the Kingdom of Castile and León might hold sway with the Archbishop,’ said Don Pedro.
The King had manoeuvred Blackstone into a corner. ‘And if he still won’t agree?’
‘Then you have tried and I will ride to Corunna.’ He paused for a moment, turning to warm himself at the fire. ‘And by the time we return to Spain there might be another archbishop more willing to offer his support and blessings.’
CHAPTER SEVENTY
While Blackstone’s men established camp their captains arranged food, clean cooking water and wine from the villagers. Once his men knew that he was to make an appeal to the Archbishop many wanted to ride with him. The cathedral gave them all a chance to be blessed and shriven in one of the most venerated places in Europe. Blackstone denied them their sudden desire for religion. Allowing war-weary, battle-hardened men into a city the size of Santiago de Compostela with its inns and prostitutes, merchants and money changers was a risk too far now that Blackstone was an emissary of the King.
Blackstone bathed as John Jacob attempted to clean his gambeson, cloak and hose.
‘John and I will come with you, Thomas,’ said Killbere. ‘Religion has a strange way of slipping like sweat off a pilgrim’s back when they see a knight who looks as though he carries a full purse.’
‘Gilbert, this is no time for whoring and drink. What I told the men goes the same for you. We are there to seek an understanding.’
‘And I give my word to stay at your side. Ride in, say what we must, and then ride out. I too want this business finished. I’m weary of it. If you can effect a reconciliation then I will be as thankful as the next man.’ He scratched his armpit. ‘If I’m to ride back to France then we’ll need fresh clothes, so it might be worth buying fresh shirts in Santiago.’
It was obviously a roundabout attempt to spend time on the streets, spend money with merchants and ease into brothels and taverns.
Blackstone finished dressing. ‘The village crones have a bathhouse for passing pilgrims. They’ll wash your shirt and braies and scrub your back with fresh straw while you sit in a wooden tub of bathwater used by fifty travellers.’
Killbere shrugged. ‘Then I shall itch in front of the Archbishop and apologize that I stink.’
‘Why do you think they burn incense? It suffocates the stench of the unwashed and devours any disease carried in the air. You’ll come back smelling sweet and disease free. I want to be back before nightfall and talking takes time.’
Killbere surrendered and walked to his tethered horse. ‘The night is for witches,’ he said with a suggestive smile.
Blackstone ignored him. He had not seen Velasquita since they arrived at the King’s camp. There had been no time. And since Sayyid al-Hakam had told him she met a routier that night at Burgos he was even more cautious of her. That man had been Ranulph de Hayle, who would surely not lose sight of his prey. If Velasquita knew where he was then Blackstone would stay close to her.
Beyard walked towards him with Lázaro in tow. ‘Sir Thomas, a word?’
Blackstone nodded for John Jacob to go to the horses; then he glanced towards the King’s quarters and lowered his voice. ‘Beyard, is everything all right with the boy? Has he remembered something?’
‘Oh no, nothing, Sir Thomas, but he wants to ask a favour from you so I said I would bring him to you.’ Beyard ushered the reluctant boy forward.
‘Lázaro, what is it you ask?’ said Blackstone.
‘My lord, my Queen told me of this great place Santiago de Compostela, with its cathedral and the tomb of St James. She revered the place so much that she said one day she would undertake a pilgrimage here and allow me to go with her. I would beg you to let me go with you so I can pray for her and leave her crucifix on the saint’s tomb. That way I will know that at last she has made her pilgrimage.’
Blackstone treated the boy’s innocent simplicity and belief with heartfelt tenderness. ‘Lázaro, I believe you to be the bravest boy I have ever known. Your Queen loved and trusted you and gave you her crucifix to protect you, but I am afraid I cannot take you with me today. This day is for the King’s business.’
Lázaro’s chin dropped, but he nodded his acceptance of Blackstone’s ruling.
Blackstone lifted the boy’s chin. ‘But your courage and devotion should be rewarded, so I will speak to the Archbishop and ask if he will give you his personal blessing.’
The lad’s eyes widened at the prospect.
‘If the Archbishop agrees Beyard will take you tomorrow.’
Lázaro’s joy overwhelmed him and, just as when he was first rescued and crushing fear made it difficult for him to speak, he could only stutter his gratitude.
Beyard’s hand ruffled the boy’s hair. ‘Now, Lázaro, there is no need for your voice to desert you. We have spoken about this. Let your thoughts find the words and then your lips speak them.’
The boy’s grin was a joy to behold for the men who cared for him. He calmed his stutter. ‘From my heart I thank you, Sir Thomas.’
‘And from mine I wish you joy and a long life in the service of this great captain. Now, I had best get to the Archbishop and arrange that meeting for you.’
Blackstone strode to where John Jacob and Killbere waited with the horses beneath a clump of trees. He untied the rein from the hitching post; the bastard horse’s ears pricked forward, raising his head so quickly it took Blackstone by surprise. It did not, as expected, bare its yellow teeth and attempt to tear flesh from bone, but snuffled its soft muzzle against his shoulder.
Killbere and John Jacob were as startled as Blackstone.
‘I’ll be damned. If I didn’t know better, I’d say that was a sign of affection,’ said John Jacob.
‘My arse,’ said Killbere. ‘Too much sweet grass and not enough oats is making it soft in the head. No different from us, John. Not enough meat in a man’s belly and you see how quickly he starts simpering. Fighting men and their beasts need a diet that gives them strength and vigour.’
Blackstone turned the bastard horse. ‘A leaf fell on my shoulder; it was after the berries.’
John Jacob laughed. ‘For a moment there I thought there was hope.’
Killbere spat. ‘Hope? John, that was washed away when our mothers sluiced us from their belly.’ He spurred his horse onto the track leading to Santiago.
Blackstone and John Jacob followed. ‘One day, Sir Gilbert will find some joy in his life,’ sa
id the squire.
‘Oh, he has that already,’ said Blackstone. ‘He’s a happy man when he’s killing the French.’
CHAPTER SEVENTY-ONE
Santiago de Compostela was a spectacle to rival any bustling city. Pilgrimage was big business. Foot-weary and exhausted travellers had to eat and sleep somewhere and the citizens took full advantage of religious fervour to supply both food and bed and more besides. They sold scallop shells as tokens of successful completion of the arduous journey; silver and metal guilds employed smiths making bowls and other commemorative artefacts. Not every traveller’s purse was empty, or soul bereft of hope for salvation. The wealthy travelled in comfort until the city was in sight and then piously walked the remaining few miles. Mostly, though, it was the poor who sought solace at the saint’s tomb and a communal blessing in the cathedral from the Archbishop.
Blackstone, Killbere and John Jacob entered the fortified walls. Blackstone told the gate commander that he came to see the Archbishop in the name of the King of England and the Prince of Wales and Aquitaine. Killbere’s questioning look once the lie had escaped Blackstone’s lips earned him a shrug in reply. The closer they got to the cathedral the more street merchants and pilgrims jostled them. Their escort of soldiers cleared their passage.
They were led around the cathedral towards the Pórtico de la Gloria, the arched main gate into the cathedral entrance where lines of pilgrims were kept either side of the entrance, their garbled voices a pottage of different languages. Stewards and monks stripped the pilgrims of their clothing and tossed what were little more than rags into large braziers, handing every traveller a clean set of clothing.
‘We need a safe place for our horses,’ Blackstone told the escort.
‘There is an alley beyond the plaza, lord. I will have my men guard them until your return.’
‘Keep this horse separate,’ he said, patting the bastard horse’s neck. ‘He is sent to test men’s faith in God.’