Shadow of the Hawk

by David Gilman

  No sooner had Lázaro spoken than Velasquita came out of the room followed by Ranulph de Hayle, bloodied sword in hand, four of his men behind him. The routiers stopped in their tracks as they saw Beyard and the two armed Gascons. Lázaro was pointing at Velasquita. She glared, caught unawares.

  ‘It’s her, my lord. She killed my Queen.’

  Velasquita, face to face with the witness to the murder, did not hesitate. She pointed at the boy. ‘Kill him.’

  Ranulph de Hayle attacked. Lázaro encumbered Beyard by clinging to him. The Gascon captain pushed Lázaro behind him and struck at de Hayle as Aicart and Loys fought the men who accompanied him. Beyard blocked and parried, drew his knife with his free hand and slashed de Hayle’s arm, forcing the mercenary back as Beyard took the fight to him.

  Thick smoke from the charcoal-burning censer smothered the transept as de Hayle backed away under Beyard’s onslaught. The Gascon saw past him into the room where the Archbishop and another man sprawled in blood. There was no doubt they were dead. De Hayle was hard pressed by Beyard, whose years of fighting at Blackstone’s side gave him a single-minded focus on inflicting extreme violence on an enemy. Loys, still weakened from wounds sustained at the bridge, went down under two of de Hayle’s men’s swords. Aicart killed one of them, but another stabbed and slashed at him, wounding him. Despite his wounds Aicart rammed his blade into his attacker’s throat. The two remaining routiers hurled themselves at Aicart. Beyard saw the fight had turned in de Hayle’s favour.

  Lázaro screamed. Beyard half turned and saw Velasquita drag a knife across the boy’s throat. Beyard roared with grief and anger at the smiling woman and the startled look of surprise on the boy’s face. And then Beyard’s heart lurched. In the moment’s distraction de Hayle had rammed his sword into the half-turned Gascon’s back. Beyard reeled, twisted and struck hard. Aicart couldn’t hold the others back.

  ‘Go! Get Sir Thomas! Tell him! Tell him, Aicart!’

  The loyal soldier held off two men a moment longer before, with a final, agonizing glance at the man he had followed for so many years, he turned to the side door and ran back into the square as Beyard fell under the blades of de Hayle and his swordsmen.

  Beyard and Lázaro lay sprawled, their blood mingling on the cathedral floor.

  CHAPTER SEVENTY-FOUR

  News of Archbishop Suero Gómez’s murder and that of his dean spread faster than the pestilence. Blackstone, Killbere and John Jacob rode hard once Aicart reached the King’s camp. Santiago’s stricken commander had his troops push panicked travellers away from the narrow streets and ushered Blackstone into the cathedral, now cleared of pilgrims. The incense and smell of acrid charcoal failed to disguise the stench of gore. Their friend’s bodies lay where they had fallen. Smeared blood showed where the slain Archbishop and dean’s bodies had been removed.

  ‘Witnesses say your man here surprised the killers,’ said the guard commander. He pointed to the bloodied footprints that led from the antesacristía to where Beyard and Lázaro lay in their congealed blood. The Gascon soldier Loys had fallen nearer the room’s open door. ‘I have sent for the bishop, who is visiting one of the outlying churches, but while we wait for his return, our priests will prepare for Peralvarez and the Archbishop’s funeral.’

  ‘My men and the boy...’ Blackstone faltered. Losing Beyard and the boy was tearing at him; he felt no shame at the tears that fell. He bent and reached for Lázaro’s hand and eased away the written pass that had brought them to their deaths. Blackstone looked at Killbere and John Jacob, their grief shared as they stood by helplessly. Blackstone wiped an arm across his tear-streaked face. He needed to think.

  ‘We will take the bodies of our men and this boy to the monastery and bury them side by side.’

  The city’s guard commander saw the depth of the men’s loss. ‘I will have them made ready for you. Sir Thomas, do you know who did this?’

  Blackstone shook his head. He didn’t want a manhunt to deny him his revenge. With a final look at his fallen friends and their savage death, he turned away. John Jacob went to follow. Killbere put a hand out to stop him. ‘No, John, let him be.’

  *

  When their friends’ bodies had been taken to the monastery, Blackstone, Killbere and John Jacob, weeping no longer, sat huddled in the soft rain as clouds dragged from the forested mountains by a freshening breeze shrouded the city. No one tried to pass these hard-looking men who blocked the narrow passage, the rúa led to the monastery’s side door and whatever business they had for being there it was their own and would go unchallenged. They squatted on the steps of a tavern, closed because of the Archbishop’s murder but obliged to open and surrender a bottle of brandy to the insistent men who hammered on its doors.

  ‘The King would not order the Archbishop’s death,’ said John Jacob. ‘It would be madness. Álvaraz is loyal but he would not permit this to happen.’

  ‘Ranulph de Hayle has followed us across Spain and the bitch has been the one paying him,’ said Killbere.

  ‘I failed to convince the Archbishop to give the King his blessing, so Don Pedro sent her. She had de Hayle waiting,’ said Blackstone, ‘and Beyard and Loys died trying to defend Lázaro. I’ll cut the King’s throat myself.’

  Killbere drew breath before answering. Blackstone had retreated to a depth of anger he had not witnessed since an assassin had murdered his friend’s wife and child. The cold manner in which he spoke hid the gathering storm within. And Killbere knew Blackstone was more than willing to kill a king no matter what the consequences. Years before, the French King John had come within a few determined strides from Blackstone and Wolf Sword’s killing blow.

  ‘Do that and we will have failed the Prince and dishonoured the men who died attempting to get him to Aquitaine,’ Killbere said.

  Blackstone drained the dregs and tossed the bottle into the gutter. ‘We will bury and pray for our dead and I will have the truth from the bitch.’

  *

  The light was fading when they returned to the camp.

  ‘Where is Don Pedro?’ Blackstone asked the Spanish captain.

  ‘At prayer,’ said Álvaraz with undisguised contempt.

  Killbere cursed. ‘This bastard seeks redemption while our friend and the boy lie slain and cold in a grave.’

  ‘The King was in a quiet mood,’ said Álvaraz. ‘I was pleased to have him gone. I cannot share your pain, Sir Thomas, but I have lost men close to me and I offer my prayers for your friends.’

  Blackstone saw the High Steward watching from the King’s quarters. He raised his voice. ‘And did you see or hear anything of who might have committed these murders?’

  The High Steward answered by lowering his eyes.

  ‘Neither sees nor hears,’ said Álvaraz. ‘No royal steward ever would.’

  Blackstone dismounted, his men gathering as he tied off the bastard horse. Aicart was with them, limping. The men were arguing how best to find the killers, emotions running high.

  ‘Quiet, damn you,’ Meulon bellowed. ‘Sir Thomas is the only one to speak.’

  Blackstone faced his chastised men. ‘Beyard, Lázaro and Loys have been buried in the monastery in Santiago. They had gone for a blessing and found death instead. I have paid the monks to pray for them, and our grief and tears for them must now be cast aside.’ He reached out to Killbere, who handed him a belted sheathed sword. ‘Aicart, you served Beyard before either of you joined us. It is only right that you bear his sword now and remember the fortitude and courage he showed when it was in his hand.’

  Aicart’s eyes stung with tears. Renfred placed a hand on his arm and helped him step forward.

  ‘I need no sword to remember him, Sir Thomas. It was you who put strength in his arm when he fought. These men know that as well as I do, but I thank you for the honour and I will wear it with pride.’

  Blackstone addressed them. ‘No man here is greater or lesser than the man next to him. We have shown that time and again. And now we are a day�
�s ride from Corunna where we will deliver King Pedro of Castile and León to the ship that lies waiting to take him and his family to our Prince. We are honour bound to do this.’

  ‘And when we get this King on his ship, what then?’ said Will Longdon.

  ‘Then we turn our backs on this place and we go home.’ He looked from man to man, saw their uncertainty, anger and despair.

  ‘And those who killed our friends and Lázaro?’ said Jack Halfpenny.

  ‘I will find them,’ Blackstone said. ‘I swear it. No matter how long it takes.’

  Blackstone gave them time for their spirits to lift. They were battle-weary, having fought the length of France and then Spain. ‘Make ready. Draw supplies. One day more, lads, only one more day and our duty is done.’

  The men drifted away and Blackstone walked to where Álvaraz and his meagre escort of twenty men waited. ‘Are your men ready to move?’

  ‘Yes, Sir Thomas.’

  ‘Be prepared to abandon your horses at Corunna. There won’t be enough room on the ship.’

  ‘When we reach the coast, I will secure the King’s wellbeing and those with him, and then I abandon him. We will no longer serve him – and besides, I have no wish to live in Aquitaine and be told what to do by a King in exile and an English Prince who lavishes hospitality on him. I will find service for me and my men with an honourable lord.’

  ‘Then I offer my thanks for standing at our side. Tell the High Steward to have the servants ready to move at first light.’

  *

  Blackstone went into the King’s quarters where two servants stood patiently waiting against the far wall. A lantern hung on a hook and chain from the ceiling.

  ‘Get out.’ Blackstone’s calm command made them scurry out of the back door. Blackstone heard a voice raised and then the High Steward entered, pushing the fearful servants back into the room. He recoiled when he saw the huge man standing in the room without permission, and quickly backed away when the King came in.

  Don Pedro was unperturbed by Blackstone’s presence. Blackstone made no move, did not bow, made no sign of honouring the rightful King of Spain.

  ‘I was at prayer,’ said Don Pedro, indicating he wanted wine. The steward poured and once more retreated as far back as he could.

  ‘Get out,’ said Blackstone again.

  The frightened steward nearly tripped over himself in his attempt to escape. A look of alarm creased the King’s face.

  ‘Do not call for Álvaraz; he won’t hear you,’ said Blackstone.

  Don Pedro was a seasoned hunter. He knew that when a predator fixed its attention on its prey, the way Blackstone looked at him, then it was as good as dead. ‘I was offering prayers for the souls of your friend and the boy,’ he said, keeping the edge of panic from his voice.

  ‘You were praying for your miserable soul. Where is she?’

  ‘You insult me? You have already dared to lay violent hands on a king.’ His challenging tone was only momentarily that of a ruler; beneath his words was the fear of a man alone facing imminent violence.

  ‘When you reach my warrior Prince you can whimper your misfortune to him and relate my disgust at sacrificing the best of men for you. Where is she?’ Blackstone said again.

  Don Pedro knew the Master of War might forsake his duty to his Prince and kill him if he remained loyal to Velasquita. ‘I do not know. I do not control her actions. She fled. I don’t know where,’ he lied. ‘I swear it.’

  ‘You ordered the Archbishop’s death, and the bitch used the Englishman Ranulph de Hayle to do the killing.’

  ‘I have no association with him. They cannot hold me responsible.’ Don Pedro suddenly realized the one person who could implicate him in the murders was already far away. He smirked. ‘You have no proof.’

  Blackstone leaned on the table. Don Pedro was tall, he had fought and killed at close quarters, but the size of the man who towered over him squeezed the breath from him.

  ‘You are not my King. You are not worthy of being honoured as one. I should scrape you off my boot and let your bastard half-brother deal with your stench, but I promised my Prince to rescue you. You will be ready to ride for the coast at first light or by God I will deliver him your carcass.’

  He turned for the door. ‘Get back on your knees and pray I don’t change my mind.’

  CHAPTER SEVENTY-FIVE

  Blackstone slept badly. The cold penetrating his bones beneath his blanket was more than the night’s chill. He turned on his side, gazing into the fire’s embers, seeing distorted images of death in their shifting colours. The figures of Beyard and Lázaro, lying together as if they were father and son, stung him. A searing reminder of his own wife and daughter slain by an assassin years before. The pain of the memory made him resolve to seek a closer relationship with his son and settle any differences between them. Thoughts of how they would reconcile calmed him and he drifted into a fitful sleep.

  The biting morning air settled a fine down of mist on beards and cloaks. The men saddled their horses and made preparations for the final day’s journey to the coast. The men’s sullenness at the murder of their friends would cause others grief if for any reason Blackstone’s men were attacked on this last leg of their journey.

  In the distance a raptor screeched below the swirling mist and then flew out of sight.

  Blackstone felt that same stab of uncertainty. ‘The King had no falcons or hawks with him,’ he said.

  Álvaraz looked skyward. ‘No. It’ll be a peasant laying bird or squirrel traps scaring it from its high branches. I’ll see to my men.’

  Blackstone watched the mist’s veil rising from the trees down the valley. The breeze veered, the clouds forced to abandon their tenacious hold on the treetops.

  The apparition of a man emerged from the ghostly forest, a branch fashioned into a staff giving him support along the stone-laden track. He was wet and looked as though he had walked far. He was several hundred yards away. He stumbled, perhaps weak from hunger, but recovered and continued to make his way towards the camp.

  ‘Jack?’ Blackstone called. Halfpenny looked to where he pointed. ‘An old man. A pilgrim. Looks as though he’s lost. Going the wrong way if he’s looking for Santiago. He’s not on any pilgrim’s route. Go and help him.’ He whistled to draw Will Longdon’s attention. ‘Have one of your lads stoke a fire and ready hot food.’

  By the time the men had tightened saddle girths and readied themselves to leave, daylight was creeping wider across the mountains. The old man sat by the comfort of a fire. He had said nothing but grunted hungrily as he slurped the bowl of pottage. He wiped a sleeve across the snot running from his nose. His home-sewn clothes were thick with moisture from the forest and his gnarled hands told them he was a man who knew hard labour. Blackstone allowed the man to finish the hot food ladled from the blackened cooking pot. Will Longdon, Halfpenny and the other captains watched him, asking questions: where he had come from? Why he was lost? Where he was going? He remained silent until the last mouthful, ran a palm across his beard and stared at the gathered men.

  ‘I am grateful for your hospitality even though I am not on the Camino. My name is Gontrán.’

  ‘Were you trying to trap food in the forest?’ said Blackstone. ‘You look hungry enough to eat the bark off a tree.’

  ‘Hunt? No. I am a fisherman. Do I look like a hunter?’ he said with a hint of self-mockery at his wiry body and tattered clothes.

  ‘We saw the hawk rise up,’ said Blackstone. ‘Thought you might have tried to seize its breakfast. Raw rabbit or squirrel can keep a man going.’

  Gontrán seemed an amiable fellow and gratefully accepted Meulon’s wine flask. He swallowed and sighed with pleasure. He waved a hand in front of his face as if brushing away a fly. ‘No, no, forests and wild animals: these are things a man must endure when he seeks redemption and pilgrimage, but I am no hunter, nor scavenger of carrion.’

  ‘But you’re a long way from the sea and the wrong direction from Santiago
,’ Renfred said.

  Gontrán pointed vaguely away. ‘I journey from the coast every year. You see those scallop shells they give to pilgrims? Eh? You know about them? I’m one of the fishermen who take them to the city every year.’

  ‘Then you’re from Corunna?’ said Will Longdon.

  Gontrán shook his head, extended his hand for the flask again and nodded his thanks when Meulon obliged. ‘North-east. Rugged country!’ he emphasized. ‘Corunna is too busy. Too many ships. My people know the meaning of a day’s work.’

  Blackstone crouched by the fire so he was level with the old man. ‘If you came from that direction then you would have been on a direct route to Santiago and if you know the route well enough, you would not have missed the city.’

  ‘You think I don’t know that? I’m old but I’m not an idiot.’ He glared defiantly at the men around him as if it were they whose minds were as flimsy as the forest mist.

  Blackstone’s instincts sensed there was more but the old man was reluctant to tell them.

  Gontrán shrugged. ‘I didn’t know whether I was being brought into danger. There are villains who rob pilgrims.’

  ‘And why do you say you were brought here?’ Blackstone said. ‘Who brought you?’

  The men looked past him towards the forest but there was no sign of anyone else.

  Gontrán hesitated, glancing around at the hard-faced men who stared at him. ‘If you mock me, then I will leave with thanks for the warmth of the fire and food and for not causing me harm.’

  ‘We will not mock you,’ Blackstone assured him gently. ‘What was it that brought you here?’ he insisted.

  ‘What? That hawk,’ Gontrán said cautiously. ‘It frightened me, I don’t mind telling you. We are superstitious people in these parts.’

  Blackstone saw the same look cross the faces of the gathered men. ‘We have seen them circle high above us before battle. They can bring good fortune or bad, but that is every man’s superstition,’ he said. ‘Now tell us why your courage brought you here.’