Shadow of the Hawk Read online

  ‘If we make a run across, those deer will bolt, and if de Hayle’s men are close by then we’ve lost any surprise we might have,’ said Blackstone. They were still downwind from the trees across the open ground but he kept his voice low. Sound travelled a long way in the stillness.

  ‘Let’s wait until dark. Their fires will show up,’ said one archer.

  ‘No. We’ll get lost in those trees. We need to move before they settle for the night,’ murmured Will Longdon.

  ‘We don’t know how dense it is in there. We’ll get entangled and then we’re the ones fighting for our lives,’ said Blackstone, his voice still a whisper.

  The men remained motionless, patiently waiting for the deer to move on. A belly roar startled the crows from their roost as a stag pushed through the undergrowth and trotted towards his harem. The hinds ran as one and then settled again fifty yards on as the stag went among them, sniffing for those hinds in season.

  ‘Now’s a good time to get across,’ said one of the men.

  John Jacob put a restraining arm out in case the man raised himself. ‘Wait. Look there. See him, Sir Thomas?’

  One of de Hayle’s men stepped into the clearing, sword in hand, looking up and down the open expanse. The crows cawed and fought before settling again. The man studied the treeline, and then watched as the stag mounted a hind. He appeared to be satisfied that the stag and his herd had disturbed the birds rather than any human intruders.

  ‘Now we know where they are,’ said Blackstone. ‘The moment he’s out of sight we run. Will, make your way down to the end of the woodland. Bring down anyone escaping and kill any horses that bolt without a rider or they’ll make their way back to de Hayle’s camp and he’ll know his men are dead. Then he’ll send even more to seek us out. Ready?’ Blackstone lunged into the open ground with John Jacob and the men-at-arms at his heels. Will Longdon slipped away into the trees to take up his cut-off position with the archers.

  Blackstone outpaced the others. He plunged into the undergrowth, eyes searching for an enemy who might have pickets beyond their camp. The forest became darker the deeper he looked through the trees. No challenge was made; no sudden movement of panic came from an outlying sentry. John Jacob and the others crouched and slowed their breathing, listening hard for any sound. The men needed no instruction from Blackstone; they were all experienced fighters used to closing with an enemy. They crept forward, following Blackstone’s lead, careful where they trod, choosing leaf mould wherever they could to cushion the sound of their approach. Fingers of light still filtered in from the edge of the trees.

  Blackstone moved slowly now. It made no sense to be overeager in hunting the man. Blackstone’s killer instincts bore all the hallmarks of a predator. His senses were alert, and he was rewarded by hearing a sound that was out of place in the forest. It was the low murmur of men’s voices. Like a stalking wolf, he smelt the air. There was no scent of food or woodsmoke, which meant these men were prepared to sleep rough and eat cold food. The dull light meant he had no chance of seeing them. He raised a hand to stop the men behind him and turned his face into the breeze. The soft scent of leaf mould and forest plants wafted over him, as did the pungent smell of horses. The enemy was close. He pictured them in his mind’s eye. If he were leading a scouting party, he would have each man lie under his blanket apart from the others in a perimeter, so that if one man was set upon the others could quickly react. These men he stalked had already proved they were experienced. They would lay less than twenty feet from the edge of the forest so that if there was a surprise attack, they had a quick escape route.

  Blackstone crouched, gesturing the men to move closer.

  ‘I can smell their sweat. They’re close,’ he whispered, showing the direction. ‘No more than thirty paces. If they’re seasoned fighters they’ll be spread out. If we push forward we’ll stumble on one or two of them. We need to move around them. If they escape they’ll go for open ground and then it’s up to Will and his men.’ He pointed to each man and showed where he wanted them. ‘If for any reason they’re alerted I’ll draw them and you attack.’

  The men nodded their understanding and slipped away. Blackstone waited, letting his men creep as silently as they could to encircle de Hayle’s skinners. Instinct was everything. When to move. When to melt into the forest. And instinct warned him he would have to move sooner than he wanted. He felt the breeze on his neck. It had veered. If the routiers were not alert enough to sense it then the horses would be. He felt the comfort of Wolf Sword’s hilt in his grip and his archer’s killing knife in the other. He was already moving forward before his thoughts considered the options. Better to be closer to the horses that would soon raise the alarm than wait, hoping forest smells might obscure his men’s scent.

  Ten, fifteen strides and he was at the horses, their chestnut colour blending them into the trees. They swivelled their heads and whinnied, tugging at their tied reins. Blackstone was lucky. Had he hesitated any longer the mercenary who was already on his feet would have landed a fast blow from his sword. There was no need for the man to raise his voice in alarm; his companions were already free of their blankets. Blackstone’s lunge into the camp and the nervous horses had alerted the men. They had been where he thought they would be, lying around the perimeter. Six men turned on him. John Jacob and the others would attack now the alarm had been raised but vital seconds would pass before then. Six fighters came at him hard and fast. Blackstone parried the nearest man’s strike. The second man came in on his flank. Two more closing: yards away, snarling faces, swords raised, legs pumping hard to reach him. The fifth man was no threat. Not yet. He had further to travel. The sixth man stumbled in his desire to reach his comrades, slowing his own advance. Six men. Blackstone killed the first, and pivoted onto the second, who thought he had the advantage until the knife in Blackstone’s other hand came out of nowhere and rammed into his throat. Six men. Instinct tormented him. Something was wrong. And then he knew. There were seven horses.

  John Jacob and the others burst out of the trees, their yells turning Blackstone’s attackers away from their target. As Blackstone’s men fought the routiers Blackstone’s sixth sense made him drop down. A blade whispered through the air where, a heartbeat before, his head had been. The seventh man struck from the blind side. Out of sight of the others, on the far edge of the perimeter. Blackstone pivoted, arcing Wolf Sword’s blade to take away the man’s legs, but he danced away, an experienced fighter who lunged down, his sword tip biting dirt seconds too late. Blackstone rolled, kicked out his legs and caught the man, who stumbled, buying Blackstone time to get to his feet. Out of the corner of his eye he saw one of his men go down, bettered by de Hayle’s mercenary. John Jacob was too late to save him but thrust his blade beneath the man’s armpit. Two of the routiers ran, leaving John Jacob and his remaining fighter to battle against the survivor’s stubborn resistance. There was chaos as the two riders crashed their mounts through the camp. Low branches snapped back. Blackstone’s man was barged aside and the skinners broke free.

  It all flashed past as Blackstone felt his opponent’s strength. The fury of his attack meant Blackstone had little choice other than to parry. He sidestepped but the flurry of blows was unabated. The man’s strength matched Blackstone’s; his skill did not. Blackstone eased his grip, letting the man’s blade feel the give. Seducing him. Feeding his confidence. It was a lesson Blackstone had learnt when he’d fought a Teutonic knight. The mercenary stepped in for the killing blow but Blackstone had feinted. Wolf Sword dropped low as the man’s weight forced down the blade. Blackstone was already turning his shoulder. The archer’s knife struck beneath the man’s chin with such force it was wrenched from Blackstone’s grip when the routier fell.

  Blackstone bent, yanked the knife free, ignoring the man’s wide-eyed gaze as he writhed, choked on blood, and then slumped into death. The camp was silent except for men’s heavy breathing as they gulped air from their exertions. John Jacob and Blackstone’s other
man had clubbed the last routier to the ground. He continued to fight but Blackstone’s squire hit him again. Between them they hauled the unconscious body to the remaining tethered horses as Blackstone pushed through the undergrowth to the open grassland. Four hundred yards away, where the strip of land narrowed, two horses and their riders lay dead. Blackstone raised his arm to signal the all clear. Will Longdon and his bowmen stepped out of the woodland and returned the gesture and then went forward to check the dead and retrieve what arrows might be used again. John Jacob handed Blackstone a horse’s reins. The unconscious routier and Blackstone’s dead man-at-arms were tied over another. When they reached Will Longdon, the rest of the men doubled up on the routiers’ mounts.

  As darkness fell the dead lay gazing at the heavenly moon whose silver cloak bathed the dew-laden grassland in a field of glittering jewels.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

  Darkness protected Blackstone’s camp. No enemy would attempt an uphill attack at night and when Blackstone returned Killbere ordered the fires to be rekindled and torches lit. The long shadows of the returning men with their prisoner stretched across the hillside, looming giants stalking the fearful boy. Beyard saw his dread and put him to work building the fire. The primal comfort of watching flames lick the darkness, sparks rising to the heavens, offered warmth and banished menace.

  They laid the dead man-at-arms, bound in linen, on the back of the wagon away from any opportunistic wild animals. They tied the prisoner, hands behind his back, the rope looped around his throat. John Jacob lowered a flaming torch close to his belligerent face.

  ‘Be done with it, you bastards,’ he said, throat hoarse from the tightness of the rope. Men needed courage to face death as often as they did during violent times and his contempt for his captors was evidence that he understood his fate.

  ‘Save yourself,’ said Blackstone. ‘If you tell me what I want to know I’ll set you free without weapons or horse but you will find food and sanctuary within a day’s walk.’

  ‘And without a flint or fire the night beasts will take me if I don’t find sanctuary before darkness.’

  ‘Then you’ll have to walk quickly,’ said Killbere.

  ‘What is your name?’ said Blackstone.

  ‘What difference does that make?’

  ‘You’re an Englishman riding with a murderer for profit. I don’t like killing Englishmen but if I have to it’s good to know who they are. Humour me.’

  ‘Fuck you.’

  Killbere delivered a swift kick to the man’s ribs.

  ‘And fuck you too,’ he said to Killbere.

  John Jacob slapped him hard enough to split his lip. ‘It’s a simple question, scum. An answer spares you more pain.’

  He spat blood. ‘Geoffrey of Dover.’

  ‘So, Geoffrey of Dover, where is Ranulph de Hayle?’ said Blackstone.

  ‘What good will it do to tell you even if I knew?’

  ‘It will make your death quick.’

  ‘Death is death.’

  ‘Not when I roast you on a spit over that fire,’ said Blackstone, pointing to a blazing campfire.

  That caught the man’s attention: being burned alive was a terrifying prospect; but then he challenged the scar-faced man looking down at him. ‘I know your reputation, Thomas Blackstone. You kill as much as any other man but you do not torture. Hang me and get it over with.’

  ‘We have Navarrese soldiers among us. They survived Cocherel and de Hayle’s stinking dungeon. They saw their comrades taken out each day and butchered by the man who calls himself the Beast. They do not share the same reservations that I have about torture. Where is le Bête?’

  The threat was enough for the doomed man to try to save himself. ‘I cannot be certain. We were to ride until we found your tracks and then return towards La Fontaine. De Hayle does not stay in one place. He would find us. I swear he could be anywhere by now.’

  It was a convincing enough answer. ‘You were searching for me because you knew we had the boy.’

  Geoffrey of Dover flinched. So, this was no straightforward interrogation. Its purpose was to find the truth about their interest in the fugitive child. ‘Aye, he wants the lad. But I don’t know why.’

  ‘Who pays de Hayle?’ said Blackstone.

  ‘Whoever needs his services the most.’

  ‘And who is it that wants the boy?’

  Geoffrey shook his head. ‘I do not know, that I swear. We rode from Spain. Someone in power wants the boy dead. I am not privy to who pays de Hayle.’

  ‘Then why keep the lad alive in the prison?’

  ‘Le Bête sent word to Paris. He said the French King might pay more for him than the Spanish.’

  ‘Why would King Charles of France have any interest in a Spanish urchin?’

  ‘I don’t know.’

  ‘Who in Spain shares that interest?’

  The man shrugged. ‘If I knew I would save myself by telling you but I don’t.’

  Blackstone studied the man a while longer, then, satisfied, he nodded his acceptance. ‘Then tonight you remain tied and at dawn I’ll set you free.’

  A shadow fell across him. Halif ben Josef stared down at the wretched man. ‘That charm you wear around your neck belonged to the wife and mother of a family who showed compassion to a stranger. A man who, like you, was once a prisoner.’

  Geoffrey looked from one to the other. ‘Who’s this? I won it in a tavern years ago.’

  ‘No, you took it from a woman raped and murdered in Villaines. I know because I gave it to her after she treated me with kindness. You looted it when you slew her family. And what of her daughter? She was no older than twelve. Did you rape her too, before attacking her mother? And why did you steal it? It is a worthless stone. A trinket for a woman who had nothing but calloused hands and barely enough food to feed her family.’

  Blackstone tugged free the leather cord that bore a small, dulled and scratched brown-red stone. He handed it to ben Josef, who looked at it and nodded.

  ‘I fight, I get paid,’ said Geoffrey. ‘We take what is there to be taken. What difference is there between us, Sir Thomas?’

  ‘You ask what difference there is between us?’ said Blackstone. ‘I hang rapists and murderers.’

  *

  They broke camp soon after first light. They buried their comrade and shared his clothes and arms among those closest to him. They abandoned the wagon because Blackstone needed to travel fast. Halif ben Josef rode with a pack horse to carry his satchel of medicines while Lázaro rode at Beyard’s side. The boy showed no sign of recognizing the prisoner and remained as silent as the day they had rescued him, yet Beyard sensed there was a change coming over him. He trembled less and he didn’t seem so sullen when he attended to his duties; nor did he show any sign of trepidation when Blackstone spoke to the men around him. Beyard watched Lázaro as they rode past the hanged man. The boy displayed no emotion but when he turned his gaze away from the corpse Beyard noticed the tell-tale sign of a smile.

  Hours later Blackstone beckoned Renfred to bring the routier’s horse to the front of the column. La Fontaine was less than ten miles from where they stopped. It raised its head and sniffed the breeze.

  ‘Let it go,’ said Blackstone.

  Renfred slapped the horse’s rump. It trotted across the open grassland, veering after a few hundred yards to follow its instincts and the scent on the wind that would take it back to de Hayle’s horses.

  ‘There’s no saying where de Hayle is hiding,’ said Killbere. ‘Do we follow or wait until he sends out another scouting party?’

  Blackstone beckoned the captains to him. ‘Renfred and a scouting party will follow the horse. We’ll go in two groups. I’ll lead; Sir Gilbert will follow. If we ride into an ambush, he can cover us. Will, the boy and ben Josef stay back with your archers. You’re our rearguard. If we sight them and are forced back you’ll cover our withdrawal and then you kill as many as you can before we turn and make our stand. Questions?’

&
nbsp; There were none. It was a simple plan. Find and kill the enemy or draw them back to Will Longdon’s archers. They returned to their men.

  ‘Gilbert?’ said Blackstone. ‘Is there a better way?’

  ‘It’s exactly what I would do,’ said Killbere. ‘Except...’

  Blackstone waited.

  ‘I would eat first.’

  *

  Beyard armed himself, allowing Lázaro to help him tug on his mail and then strap on his sword belt. Tears welled in the boy’s eyes but he held them back. When a dog has spent a life being beaten any act of kindness is rewarded with an undying loyalty and it seemed no different with the boy. He was frail for his age, his spirit broken. Now the signs of his recovery looked to be threatened again.

  ‘I must fight for Sir Thomas. You understand that, don’t you? Just like he fought for us when we were rescued?’

  Lázaro nodded.

  ‘Then you know that there is no choice and we must find our courage.’

  The lad stammered, his words blockaded by fear. ‘I... do not... want you... hurt, my lord.’

  ‘I have good men with me. We have fought together for many years. We are like brothers. You’ll be safe here. Master Will Longdon and Master Halfpenny are the best of comrades. They are men of strength and bravery. You must find such things within yourself. Halif ben Josef will be your companion when I am gone. I will ask him to tell you tales of cities and places that you have never been.’