Shadow of the Hawk

by David Gilman

  Unyielding determination forced him to his feet. He banished the creeping fatigue and lengthened his stride. The uneven ground made it hard going; his ankle went from under him. He steadied himself, shaking away the sweat stinging his eyes. When he had covered half the distance, he stopped to gather his breath and drink more from the stream, lifting his heavy head again towards his goal. De Hayle and Velasquita had still not turned. They appeared to be in no hurry, confident perhaps that they would not be pursued by a man stricken with poison and who, if he still lived, was unlikely to get past a crossbowman.

  Blackstone saw the sea beyond the cliff’s edge. The vast expanse of horizon made him light-headed. He was in no condition to fight. Defeat settled over him like a coastal fog, seeping deep inside him. Like a drunk, he argued aloud with himself. Cursing his exhaustion. Berating his lack of defiance. Blackstone squeezed his eyes tight. He fled into the past, a fugitive from his own weakness. He saw the horde at Crécy; heard the cries of terror as man and horse fought and died; remembered how as a sixteen-year-old archer he had smashed and clawed his way through the tide of killing to try to save his brother. Voices in his memory from Poitiers cried out of the driving urge to kill the French King. The images fought to gain the upper hand. His mind swirled. He burst into the room at Meaux and saw his slaughtered wife and child. Blackstone stood still, blood and recollection surging through him. He raised his face to the sky and bellowed his rage.

  He was downwind from those he pursued but de Hayle turned and saw him. The woman snarled, perhaps in surprise that Blackstone was still alive. She said something, her words snatched away by the wind. De Hayle unsheathed his sword and waited, a broad grin on his face that told the approaching Blackstone the routier was ready to kill his weakened opponent and would do it quickly.

  Blackstone could not run. His legs refused to go any faster but he lengthened his stride to close with the murderous de Hayle, his determined approach showing he wanted nothing more than to gut the man from crotch to chin. Blackstone’s foot caught a tuft of heavy grass. His leg almost gave way, but he recovered quickly. He heard de Hayle laugh.

  ‘Come on, Blackstone, you’re like a drunk who’s spent a night in a whorehouse,’ he taunted. ‘I’ll kill you quickly and then we can be on our way. I have a purse full of gold to spend.’

  Blackstone concentrated on the man’s face. It was a target to carry him forward over the tussocks. When he was twenty yards from the mercenary, he drew Wolf Sword. He looked at the woman, who stood unmoving thirty paces beyond de Hayle.

  ‘You cannot live, Thomas,’ she called. ‘The poison is already in you. I’m surprised you made it this far. The more you labour the quicker it works. I should have given you a stronger dose. There is no need for you to suffer the humiliation of defeat or feel the pain of his blade. Sit by the stream and let the poison take you gently.’

  Blackstone gripped Wolf Sword, wrapping his free hand over his fist, squeezing every bit of strength into both hands. He staggered, shaking his head to clear his blurred vision as he looked from one to the other.

  De Hayle sneered. ‘Over here, Blackstone. No good looking at her.’ He opened his palm and waggled his fingers. ‘Your Jew had fingers like a woman. I gave her his rings.’ He took a couple of paces forward, weaving deliberately to distract Blackstone. ‘I tried to give her the boy. Took his head to her. I thought that would have been the end of it.’ He spat phlegm aside. ‘Now it is.’

  Blackstone thought of the gentle Halif ben Josef and the young guide Andrés. He squared his shoulders and called to Velasquita. ‘When I’ve killed Ranulph de Hayle for the atrocities he committed, I will see you meet your unholy benefactor. I’ll send you back to Satan.’

  ‘For Christ’s sake!’ said de Hayle. ‘Enough!’ He strode forward, surefooted, sword in the high guard. Blackstone saw a bloodied rag tied around his left forearm. No doubt Beyard had caused his killer to bleed. If Blackstone did not have the strength to parry the blow, de Hayle would cleave him from neck to breastbone. De Hayle was a big man with a strength born from a lifetime of fighting. Fatigue would not come quickly to him.

  Blackstone found firm ground and let him come. De Hayle roared and swept down his blade. Blackstone half turned, blocked it and felt the strike reverberate through the hardened steel into his weakened muscles. De Hayle was fast; with a quick change of stance, he put his weight on his left foot and, spinning on his ankle, he was already sweeping his sword low and fast towards Blackstone’s legs. Blackstone could not parry the strike and blocked it by ramming Wolf Sword in the dirt; he clamped both hands on the pommel and felt the strike clang into his blade. Now de Hayle was off balance, the shuddering halt of his blade sending shock waves into his hands. Blackstone pulled Wolf Sword free but did not try to use its honed cutting edge. De Hayle was still half bent from his low strike. Blackstone took a step sideways and slammed the pommel into his face. Bone cracked. Blood spurted. It rocked De Hayle back on his heels. He spat blood but ignored the pain from his broken nose. He recovered his balance, one foot set well back against the other, sword sweeping through the air towards Blackstone’s unguarded head. Blackstone ducked. The blade whispered through his hair: a finger’s breadth lower and his skull would have split in two. The exertion had made him dizzy. He stumbled, legs failing.

  De Hayle bore down on him with savage, unrelenting blows. It was all Blackstone could do to block them. He gripped the end of Wolf Sword’s blade with his free hand and blocked the assault. The man’s strength forced him back. Blackstone could barely stand now. He blinked. Sweat stung his eyes, blurring the relentless figure of de Hayle. His mind went blank. His ears rang from the clashing steel. He slipped and fell backwards. It took de Hayle by surprise but he rammed his blade towards Blackstone’s face. Blackstone twisted, the blade’s edge so close it nicked his cheek. The forward thrust forced de Hayle off balance again. He dropped forward, knees ramming Blackstone’s chest. Pain shot through Blackstone but he kept Wolf Sword’s blade across his chest.

  ‘I’ll kill you with my bare hands,’ de Hayle spat, grabbing Blackstone’s throat.

  Blackstone bucked but could not throw the man clear. He choked. The stench of the man’s fetid breath was nauseatingly close. Blackstone squirmed, found freedom with his right arm and shoulder, forced a half-roll and rammed Wolf Sword’s cross piece into de Hayle’s left eye. He screamed, released his hand and rolled clear. Blackstone clawed to his knees, sucked air into his belly and let de Hayle stumble a few paces away to retrieve his sword. Blackstone was desperate for respite. The poison was now racing through his body. De Hayle found his sword and wiped blood from his blinded eye.

  Blackstone staggered uncertainly to his feet. He heard someone call his name. He looked left and right but there was no one. He was hallucinating. Thomas! Come on, you lazy-arsed bastard! Be done with him! We have a battle to attend. Blackstone turned and saw Killbere astride his horse not a hundred yards from where he fought. Blackstone’s captains were with him in front of their men. John Jacob, Beyard, Meulon, Renfred, Jack Halfpenny and Will Longdon. Shall I put a shaft of English ash through him, Sir Thomas? called the archer.

  Blackstone’s puzzlement got the better of him. He shook his head. ‘No. I can take him,’ he muttered, but his grip barely held Wolf Sword. The strength had gone from his arm and hand.

  ‘Blackstone!’ De Hayle’s sharp retort made him turn to the routier. ‘Your mind has gone. Your strength with it. Throw down your sword and I’ll finish it.’

  Blackstone looked again to where the host of his men waited. He saw the army behind his captains. It was every man who had followed him into battle and fought at his side. Banners fluttered. Drums beat out their rhythm and trumpets blared. Killbere raised himself in the saddle. Never yield! Rise up and carve a path to glory, Thomas. We’ve a fight on our hands. Rise up! The men’s roar thundered so loudly Blackstone took a step back. RISE UP AND FIGHT! came the bellowing chorus.

  Blackstone felt blood-lust surge through hi
s body. He clenched Wolf Sword, raised it and faced his men. The wind swept them and their battle cry away. He laughed. The poison’s delusion had given him the means to win. He charged de Hayle, who was taken aback by his ferocity and suddenly forced on the defensive. Blackstone rained blows so hard that the routier took a dozen strikes on his weakening blade before regaining his strength. He fought back. Blackstone’s head swirled. By luck the strike from de Hayle caught the side of Blackstone’s head with the flat of his blade. It rattled Blackstone’s teeth. He went down, rolled clear from the follow-up strike, snatched a handful of grass and hurled its muddy clod into de Hayle’s good eye. It blinded the mercenary. He threw up his free hand to wipe the mud and grit away. Blackstone lunged from the ground with his last measure of strength and rammed Wolf Sword below de Hayle’s breastbone. The force of the strike carried the blade through his chest and out the back of his neck. De Hayle dropped with the hardened steel embedded in bone and muscle.

  Blackstone staggered. The killing had drained him. He slumped, then crawled towards the stream, desperate for its ice-cold shock. He was so weakened he could not cup his hands for water. Easing his chest over the shallow bank he sucked water like an animal. The current caught his shoulder and pulled him into the stream. He rolled, desperately keeping his head above water. His feet struck low rocks in the narrow stream bed and the force of water nudged him against the low sandy bank, his head resting on a smooth boulder. A place to slumber. A time to die.

  He watched her approach. Velasquita looked down at him. She tossed aside her cloak, tugged at her dress and waded into the stream. He saw her draw a slim-bladed knife from her belt. He tried to move but could not. His fingers attempted to reach his archer’s knife. He wedged his left shoulder slightly higher against the bank. Grunting with effort, he forced his left arm free but could raise it no higher to defend himself or deflect the knife blow he knew was coming. Her prophecy was true. His death was not a vision of the past when he lay in the river beneath Bergerac. And this time there was no Teutonic Knight to step out of the shadows and save him.

  She bent at the waist to look at him. ‘Thomas, no one has ever survived my poison before. Your strength brought you this far. You are dying now. Your exertions have helped me kill you. You die by your own efforts.’

  The small tear-shaped pendant that swung free as she bent over him held his gaze, its enamelled green and gold polished stones catching the sun’s dying rays. She paused as if in regret. ‘I will embrace you and cut the vein in your neck and then you will drown and the prophecy is fulfilled. My blade will make sure you can no longer fight what tries so hard to kill you.’ She smiled. ‘Even legends die, Thomas.’

  She bent lower, her arm reaching out with the blade. He saw the rings on her fingers. Anger lent strength to his arm but it was not enough to strike her. The hawk spiralled high above, its keening screech beckoning his soul, warning of imminent death. Velasquita looked up. The hawk distracted her as he forced his free hand to snatch at the hem of her dress. A surge of water gushed beneath his left leg, lifting the archer’s knife within reach. She stumbled forward onto the blade, which slashed into her side. She fell across him, hands clutching the gash. Blood spiralling away in the eddies. She lay across his chest and right shoulder. Her face was so close he could have kissed her.

  ‘I... did not see this,’ she said, her face creased in pain. ‘So I know I… will not die here,’ she whispered and began forcing herself free of his feeble grip and the weight of water.

  The pummelling undercurrent swept away the knife; using the stream’s power to lift his shoulder, he rolled, finding hidden strength in his arm and hand. The bitterly cold water put iron into his fist. Clutching her throat, he forced her head beneath the clear water, saw her gasping, his hand tightening. Squeezing the life from her. Her eyes widened in panic. She fought him, but the thought of her victims gave him strength to hold her fast. She choked until she lay still. Lips parted in a macabre smile. Eyes wide, staring at him. Eyes never leaving his face.

  He forced her neck between rocks and snatched at the pendant. Blackstone pressed his thumbnail beneath its cap and raised the small phial and whatever it held to his lips. He swallowed the bitter liquid and let the pendant be swept away. Was it the antidote or a final trick played by the witch? Was her prophecy fulfilled?

  He lay, head resting on the boulder for how long he couldn’t tell, but as the sun settled close to the far horizon, he felt warmth creep into his chest and then his arms and legs. He dragged himself free of the rushing water and tested his strength. From all fours on the bank, he stood and, as he heaved Wolf Sword from de Hayle’s chest, he knew his power had returned. He kicked free the woman’s trapped body. The current dragged her away. His watched her bob and slide through the water, nudged by boulders, until she disappeared to fall to the rocks below.

  He walked to the cliff edge and looked down at Velasquita’s shattered body. The dark-ruffled sea began to consume the sun’s ball of fire. A ship’s sails caught the wind and eased away from the shore.

  ‘Legends never die,’ he told the dead witch. ‘Not until the wine barrels run dry.’

  Killbere and the men were waiting. Blackstone turned for home.

  He looked heavenward.

  The hawk had flown.

  Author’s Notes

  The War of the Breton Succession had raged for years between the French-backed claimant, Charles de Blois, and his adversary John IV de Montfort. Much of the Duchy of Brittany had been controlled by Edward III since 1342 when John de Montfort had been taken to England as an eight-year-old child as Edward’s ward. Over the years Charles de Blois had fought hard to retain control of the duchy and when he was wounded and captured in June 1347, organized opposition to the English in Brittany was led by his wife, Jeanne de Penthièvre, who struggled with few resources in order to conserve what little power she had. Edward’s main interest lay in denying the French a presence in western Brittany that could sever communications between England and Bordeaux and Gascony. Turmoil and poor governance continued for years and loyalties from regional lords changed sides during and after English success at Crécy and Poitiers. Various treaties followed and Brittany was legally a fief of the King of France, governed by Edward III in his ward’s name.

  When John de Montfort came of age in June 1362 Edward relinquished the duchy to him, but in practice it remained an English protectorate. When the King gave his son, the Prince of Wales, the Duchy of Aquitaine to govern, the Prince and the young de Montfort’s close relationship and Brittany’s geographical importance to the English Crown made it seem inevitable that the duchy would be secured for England and the decades-long civil war brought to a satisfactory conclusion. When Charles de Blois raided across Brittany assisted by French captains, he successfully divided the duchy in two. The fuse was lit and de Montfort, no doubt with the King and Prince’s encouragement, turned to English routiers for help.

  Sir John Chandos and Sir Hugh Calveley were leading figures who joined de Montfort and formed the Anglo-Breton army. Prior to the battle, Charles de Blois and Breton lords who supported de Montfort tried to negotiate a peace but such was the English insistence that battle commence, any hope of reconciliation and division of the duchy was swept aside. When John de Montfort laid siege to Auray, Charles de Blois, well supported by French and Breton lords and mercenaries, hurried to trap de Montfort with his back to the sea, but on the day of the battle many of his Breton mercenaries deserted. When Charles de Blois was killed, and the battle won, it is recorded that English and Breton men-at-arms stuck their pennons and lances in a hedge and stripped off their armour and mail to cool down.

  The Prince of Wales and Aquitaine needed safe borders for the Duchy of Aquitaine. He had charmed Gascon lords with his banquets and tourneys and when King Don Pedro I of Castile and León in Spain was threatened by a mercenary invasion led by French, Breton and English mercenaries, he knew the stated aim of waging a crusade against the Islamic Emirate of Granada, alli
es of Don Pedro lying south of Castile, was a pretext. The French intended to place Don Pedro’s half-brother, the bastard Henry of Trastámara, on the throne. This French puppet would give the recently anointed French King, Charles V, a strategic advantage by placing an enemy at the Prince’s back across the border. The duplicitous King of Navarre eventually played along with the French and closed his border to Gascony, which cut off any chance of Don Pedro escaping and avoiding death at his half-brother’s hand. Don Pedro’s reputation was one of a licentious adulterer, a vicious King who slew hundreds, who embraced friendship with the Muslim South and was accused of having his young French bride, Blanche de Bourbon, murdered.

  Don Pedro sent his Moors to slaughter his enemies with the threat that if they did not bring back their victims’ heads, they would lose theirs. Despite such ruthlessness the Prince of Wales believed he was the legitimate King of Castile and that a bastard should not rule. Once Don Pedro had been denied sanctuary by his ally, the King of Portugal (his daughter’s betrothal to the King’s son was cancelled), Don Pedro had no choice but to escape to Aquitaine and beg assistance from the Prince of Wales. After fleeing to Seville he made his way to the province that remained loyal, Galicia, and then to Corunna, Galicia’s northern port, where he took a ship to Bayonne. There is no record of what motivated him to murder the Archbishop of Santiago, Suero Gómez, and the dean of Santiago cathedral, Peralvarez, but I thought it reasonable to assume that as Don Pedro had already been excommunicated by the Pope that the Archbishop had made the King unwelcome and refused him entrance to the city and permission to attend communion.