Shadow of the Hawk

by David Gilman

  The soldiers’ eyes widened, but they nodded obediently.

  ‘John, go with them. You handle my horse and then join us inside.’

  ‘How will I find you?’ said John Jacob as they dismounted.

  ‘You’ll hear the wailing of angels when men such as us enter a place such as this,’ Killbere said.

  *

  Blackstone and Killbere followed their guide through the three arches, heavy with sculptures glorifying God and threatening the sinful with images of demons tearing out sinners’ tongues. A monk greeted them and led them on.

  ‘Makes you think, Thomas, a place as glorious as this,’ Killbere whispered.

  ‘Of what? Our lies and whoring?’ Blackstone answered quietly.

  ‘No, of how much they spent on it. They could have built a hundred taverns just from what those arches cost, and a more pleasurable place for a man to spend his time. These places are always so cold.’

  ‘You never complain when you’re shriven before battle.’

  ‘Aye, well, that’s different. My thoughts can’t see my soul but my soul sees God. Better to be safe.’

  The monk led them the length of the nave, the austere granite columns soaring to the high ceiling, belittling mankind’s stature before the Almighty, but offering sanctuary to the very poor who could not afford lodgings at any price. They huddled to sleep along the side walls and in the upper gallery, while others lined up to confess their sins. The dull chanting of Latin echoed through the vast space as pilgrims sought indulgences.

  They heard John Jacob’s quick footfall behind them. ‘A wonderment, isn’t it?’ he said, impressed by the spectacle, his face flushed from catching them up.

  ‘Now that’s a wonderment,’ said Killbere as across the transept before them a silver censer, the size of a modest church bell, streamed forth incense. Eight robed men hauled a pulley and swung the heavy object back and forth at speed. Blackstone tapped the monk on the shoulder and pointed to the rapidly swinging censer, his look asking the question his lack of Spanish could not.

  ‘Botafumeiro,’ said the monk. Accustomed to those who travelled the French route into Spain, he went on in stumbling French: ‘Charcoal and incense. It masks the pilgrims’ stench and kills disease.’

  ‘If it ever comes off that pulley it’ll kill more than disease,’ said Killbere.

  ‘I told you there was no need to wash your shirt,’ said Blackstone as they turned along the right-hand side of the transept, where the monk gestured for them to wait. The three men watched in quiet fascination, well clear of the hurtling censer, as hundreds of pilgrims knelt in prayer, or pressed their backs against the wall as the thick incense cloaked the pillars.

  ‘Sir Thomas?’ Blackstone turned when beckoned. The monk gestured for him to enter the room off the transept. Blackstone signalled Killbere and John Jacob to stay where they were. As he stepped inside the room, he saw it was the antesacristía. There, a man who appeared to be of some importance stood waiting while an older man in more elaborate ecclesiastical robes was being helped to dress for mass. The latter Blackstone guessed was the Archbishop of Santiago de Compostela.

  Blackstone waited at a respectful distance, ignored by the Archbishop.

  ‘I am Peralvarez, the dean here.’

  ‘And I beg an audience with the Archbishop. I have travelled a great distance on the orders of the English Prince of Wales and Aquitaine.’

  ‘Your name?’

  ‘Sir Thomas Blackstone.’

  ‘On request from the Prince?’ said Peralvarez as if confirming the truth. ‘His grace is soon to give the Most Holy Sacrifice of the mass. There is little time if you are here to seek indulgences or confession.’

  The older man, who stood a few yards behind the dean, allowed his attendant to fuss over his vestments. ‘I am Suero Gómez, Archbishop. What is it that brings you here?’

  ‘Your grace, my Prince – who has the love and support of his father, Edward, King of England – has tasked me to save a man’s life. The man whose bastard half-brother usurped his divine right to the throne of Castile and León.’

  Archbishop Gómez looked up sharply. ‘Don Pedro?’

  Blackstone bowed his head in answer.

  ‘I have ruled on this matter.’

  Blackstone waited a moment before answering: ‘The English King and his Prince are pious men who accept that it is God who has given them victory in battle. It is an ungodly act that the French have brought an army and mercenaries into Spain to seek and kill Don Pedro. They do this not to punish a man who has sinned but to put a bastard on the throne and an enemy at my Prince’s back.’

  Archbishop Gómez studied the tall, battle-scarred man who stood apparently obediently in front of him. ‘So it is for fear of an enemy at your Prince’s borders that you and your Prince plead for this murderer. A man who allies himself with heathens to fight other Christians; who murdered his Queen, his brother, his general. Don Pedro allows Jews and Muslims in his city only to usurp their wealth for his assaults on others. And you ask for this vile man, this excommunicate, to receive my blessings?’

  ‘I do, your grace, for the sake of Spain. My Prince has demanded he take a Christian wife, turn his face to the Church and relent. And when he does these things he will return here with an army. Galicia is loyal to him.’

  ‘Then let the peasants and the lords of the provinces be his friend. I will not.’

  Blackstone knew he could make no further appeal on Don Pedro’s behalf. ‘I am grateful to you for allowing me an audience.’

  ‘Pass my goodwill to your Prince. He is, as you say, a pious and devout man and he will need the Lord’s strength and wisdom when dealing with Don Pedro.’

  The audience was over. Blackstone bowed but did not leave the room. ‘I have one more request.’

  The look of irritation on Peralvarez’s face was quickly dismissed by the Archbishop. ‘Let him speak. This man is a loyal servant to his King, and I suspect has sacrificed many of his men to bring Don Pedro this far.’

  ‘Your grace,’ said Blackstone, ‘when Queen Blanche was murdered there was a boy witness, a servant she took to her heart. She saved his life by hiding him.’

  ‘He saw the killer?’ Archbishop Gómez said hopefully, stepping closer to Blackstone.

  ‘He did not see who was responsible, but he has travelled with us from northern France and across Spain in trying to identify those responsible. This boy has great courage: he has suffered hardship and lived in fear.’

  ‘And your request?’

  ‘The Queen gave him her crucifix moments before she died, and now he wishes to bring it here, receive your blessing and place the crucifix on St James’s tomb.’

  The Archbishop’s compassion was plain to see. ‘Tomorrow. Bring him through the Puerta de las Platerías.’ He gestured to the right of where they stood. ‘It is closest to here. I will receive the child and give thanks for his courage. He shall have his wish.’

  ‘Your grace, he is guarded and cared for by my Gascon captain Beyard. Is it acceptable that he brings the boy to you?’

  ‘Yes. What is this child’s name?’

  ‘Lázaro.’

  CHAPTER SEVENTY-TWO

  Álvaraz stood by the King’s quarters, watching Blackstone and his companions return from the city. The Englishman’s first duty should have been to attend the King; instead he sought one of his captains and the boy servant. Whatever he said to them caused the boy to bend his knee to Blackstone, who gently raised him up and put a hand on the boy’s head. The smiling lad turned away as Blackstone continued to talk to the Gascon and finally strode towards the King.

  ‘Is there news?’ he asked Blackstone.

  Blackstone shook his head. ‘I might as well have told the Archbishop I was bringing plague into the city.’

  Álvaraz’s heart sank. ‘Sir Thomas, I have served this King all my life. He is a bold and fearless fighter; he suffered when we abandoned you at the bridge. He did not wish others to fight his battles
for him. Since then he has become increasingly torn in himself. I am not here to defend him, but he is still young and they have seized everything that is rightfully his. He has nothing. The Archbishop’s approval was his last hope of recognition for his kingdom.’

  ‘I can’t help how he feels. I’m here to get him back to Aquitaine: beyond that I care nothing for him.’

  Álvaraz had the look of a defeated man. ‘He’s had too much wine,’ he warned.

  ‘I don’t give a damn. We leave for Corunna tomorrow,’ said Blackstone. ‘I’ll tie him to his horse if I have to. Stay here.’

  Blackstone stepped into the King’s room. There was enough evidence of copious wine having been drunk and Blackstone saw no reason to disguise bad news with good manners. Without formality he told Don Pedro the result of his meeting with the Archbishop.

  The turmoil within Don Pedro exploded. He bellowed, fuming with incoherent anger. The High Steward levelled his staff of office, keeping the servants out of harm’s way as the King swept aside the contents of the table, the silver goblets and plates clattering across the floor. Servants retreated as he snatched at the nearest and beat him with his fists until blood spewed from a broken nose. The High Steward’s eyes widened in horror as Blackstone strode across the room and restrained the King.

  ‘Out!’ the High Steward commanded the servants: an act that saved their lives. Don Pedro would never allow them to live had they witnessed the assault. The King stood quivering with doubt and fear as Blackstone pressed his weight against him, face to the wall, arms locked, his mouth close to the King’s ear urging him to calm.

  Don Pedro surrendered to Blackstone’s quiet command, then shook himself free. He looked at the ashen-faced steward. ‘Who witnessed this?’

  ‘None, sire. I banished them from the room.’

  ‘You will suffer the consequences for what you did,’ he said to Blackstone.

  ‘I restrained a king ready to commit murder. I saved you, highness, not the servant. My Prince would not tolerate such an act. I serve you in his name.’

  A tense silence fell between the two men. A moment later the King nodded, regained his composure and calmed his breathing. Don Pedro smoothed his gambeson and resettled his belt.

  ‘We are less than a day’s ride to Corunna where there will be a ship to take you and your family to Bayonne. From there it’s only a few hours’ ride to Bordeaux,’ Blackstone said. ‘We are close to securing your safety and with my Prince’s support the throne of Castile.’

  Don Pedro glared at Blackstone. ‘Enough has been said. Emotions are high. We have both suffered great loss of one sort or another. I will let what happened here pass.’ He nodded to the High Steward, who summoned servants back into the room to re-lay the table and bring more wine. Ignoring Blackstone, he lifted the goblet to his lips. It was a simple dismissal. Blackstone turned on his heel and returned to his men.

  As soon as the door closed there was an edge to the King’s voice. ‘This matter cannot go unpunished.’

  ‘Blackstone, sire?’ said a nervous High Steward. ‘He is the Prince’s favourite.’

  ‘No, the Archbishop. Where is Velasquita?’

  No sooner was the question asked than it was answered. The woman seemed to appear from nowhere. A simple explanation: she had been standing in the doorwell’s deep shadow all along, but nonetheless her sudden appearance provoked a frisson of fear in the superstitious. The High Steward crossed himself.

  ‘Out,’ said Don Pedro.

  The steward ushered away the servants and followed them out of the room. She waited and then pulled the hood of her cloak back from her face.

  ‘You heard?’

  She smiled. ‘Of course.’

  ‘I cannot be associated with what we must do. Suspicion will fall on you and the Englishman you use, de Hayle. You cannot return to me. Not yet.’

  Her answer further eased his agitation. ‘I will arrange a boat elsewhere. No one will know. You are free of all guilt. There will be no blemish on you. We have found no witness to the Queen’s death. The way ahead is clear of all impediment.’

  Don Pedro felt the authority of his birthright return; her soothing words had lulled his uncertainty. ‘In time I will return to Castile with the English Prince’s help. Be patient and come to me then.’ He watched her; her demeanour was quiet, yet unsettling. ‘And it would do no harm for Blackstone to become a martyr to his Prince,’ he whispered.

  She touched his face as a mother would comfort a child. She nodded.

  ‘How?’ he asked.

  ‘As it is foretold.’

  *

  Velasquita slipped out through the servants’ door where the High Steward waited dutifully to be summoned back to the King’s presence. His gaunt features shrank as she stepped closer to him. He backed against the wall.

  ‘The King will soon leave for the coast. You will arrange the supplies for the men.’

  ‘Those who do my bidding attend to those matters.’

  ‘And you are devoted to the King?’

  ‘I am.’

  ‘You have served him from the start.’

  ‘I have.’

  ‘He is an imperfect man, but he is king by divine right.’

  The High Steward nodded. His mouth was dry.

  ‘Whom do you love more? Our Lord Jesus or the devil?’

  ‘Our blessed Lord, of course,’ he answered, his voice so fearful it was barely a whisper.

  ‘And whom do you fear the more?’

  ‘The devil,’ he whispered, crossing himself.

  She held a thumb-sized leather-encased bottle in front of his face. ‘The devil waits for you if you do not do as I tell you.’

  The steward’s throat constricted. He gasped out the words: ‘I will cause no harm to the King.’

  ‘But you will save the King and your soul if you put this into the Englishman’s wineskin before they leave for the coast.’

  CHAPTER SEVENTY-THREE

  The dean had written a pass for Beyard and Lázaro, granting them access to the Archbishop, and they were accorded the privilege of an escort. They wound their way through the crowded streets accompanied by Beyard’s Gascons, Aicart and Loys, eyes peeled for thieves in the crowds of pilgrims. Blackstone’s gift to Lázaro, his own pilgrimage to the cathedral, was a reward for a resolute and loyal servant rescued all those months before. He had grown in confidence and his future was now more certain than it had ever been. Beyard had promised to find him service with his own powerful and influential lord, the Captal de Buch. Just as Jean de Grailly, the Captal, had gifted Beyard to serve Blackstone, now Beyard was ensuring the boy could serve one of the greatest lords in Gascony. Their journey would soon be at an end. Once they left Don Pedro at Corunna their ride along the coast would take three or four days and then they would be in Gascony.

  Lázaro barely contained his excitement. ‘And Sir Thomas spoke to the Archbishop himself? To ask him for a blessing?’

  ‘Not just a blessing but a private one. Sir Thomas honoured you.’

  ‘My lord, if God has seen fit to let me live despite what I witnessed then I will serve Him and your Lord de Grailly for as long as I live. Will I see the botafumeiro?’

  ‘If luck favours us. Sir Gilbert said it was a thing of wonder.’

  They approached the cathedral gates and watched pilgrims being given new clothes as their own were burnt. ‘Must we undress?’ said Lázaro.

  ‘No, we are not pilgrims who have travelled for hundreds of miles; we ride with the English King’s Master of War. You bathed, didn’t you, as I told you to?’

  ‘I did, and I put on a clean shirt.’

  ‘Then you are free from lice and disease and we will be welcome. You have your Queen’s crucifix?’

  Lázaro nodded; his smile faded as he tugged it free and kissed it.

  Beyard laid a comforting hand on the boy’s shoulder. ‘She would be proud of you. Ask the Archbishop to bless that as well.’

  Their escort took them to the
Puerta de las Platerías, forcing aside street hawkers selling silver trinkets. ‘Through here to the antesacristía,’ he explained. ‘The dean will greet you. Your horses will be here.’ Beyard led the way from the plaza’s entrance and then through the double-arched door beneath the carved figures representing heaven and hell. The boy stopped, his gaze fixed on the figures shown on the tympanum. A half-dressed woman with a skull in her hands sat on two lions. A moment of fear stabbed at him.

  ‘Lázaro?’ said Beyard.

  The boy drew his attention away, uncertain why the woman’s image had made his heart jump a beat. He stepped into the cathedral’s cool interior. He heard the undulating voices of hundreds of people in the nave but he and Beyard, with the Gascons, were in the transept’s side entrance some distance from the clamouring pilgrims. Beyard held Lázaro back as the great censer was about to be swung in front of them.

  ‘Lázaro, look, boy.’

  All four stood transfixed by the censer’s ever-increasing speed. Ropes creaked as it gained momentum, spewing clouds of burning incense. Lázaro gaped as it soared high, then flinched as it swooped so low it seemed it would strike the congregation.

  ‘Come, we mustn’t be late,’ said Beyard, and ushered the boy along to where they would meet the Archbishop.

  Aicart and Loys were almost at the antesacristía’s door when they heard voices raised in anger and then cries of pain.

  Beyard pulled Lázaro behind him as Aicart drew his sword and eased the half-open door. Loys stood to one side, sword already in hand. The door swung fully open but there was no one in sight. The room was too gloomy for those outside to see what was happening within. But then a woman’s voice said clearly, ‘It is done.’

  Lázaro clutched Beyard’s arm. Fear struck him dumb. He mouthed something. Beyard, caught between the sinister cries that had emanated from the chapel and the boy’s terror, turned his attention to Lázaro.

  ‘What?’ he hissed, shaking the boy. Lázaro stared at the man who protected him.

  He found his voice. ‘The assassin. The assassin,’ he repeated. ‘I heard those words when they killed the Queen. I remember now. It’s what the killer said. I remember. It is her voice.’