Shadow of the Hawk
Cover
By David Gilman
THE LAST HORSEMAN
NIGHT FLIGHT TO PARIS
THE ENGLISHMAN
Master of War series
MASTER OF WAR
DEFIANT UNTO DEATH
GATE OF THE DEAD
VIPER’S BLOOD
SCOURGE OF WOLVES
CROSS OF FIRE
SHADOW OF THE HAWK
Dangerzone series
THE DEVIL’S BREATH
ICE CLAW
BLOOD SUN
MONKEY AND ME
SHADOW OF THE HAWK
David Gilman
Copyright
First published in the UK in 2021 by Head of Zeus Ltd
Copyright © David Gilman, 2021
The moral right of David Gilman to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act of 1988.
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without the prior permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book.
This is a work of fiction. All characters, organizations, and events portrayed in this novel are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.
A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.
ISBN (HB): 9781788544986
ISBN (XTPB): 9781788544993
ISBN (E): 9781788544979
Head of Zeus Ltd
First Floor East
5–8 Hardwick Street
London EC1R 4RG
Dedication
For Suzy
Contents
Welcome Page
Copyright
Dedication
Character List
Map
Epigraph
Prologue
Part One: Death of an Archer
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Part Two: Hunting the Beast
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Chapter Twenty-Five
Chapter Twenty-Six
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Part Three: Betrayal
Chapter Thirty
Chapter Thirty-One
Chapter Thirty-Two
Chapter Thirty-Three
Chapter Thirty-Four
Chapter Thirty-Five
Chapter Thirty-Six
Chapter Thirty-Seven
Chapter Thirty-Eight
Chapter Thirty-Nine
Chapter Forty
Chapter Forty-One
Part Four: The Devil’s Mistress
Chapter Forty-Two
Chapter Forty-Three
Chapter Forty-Four
Chapter Forty-Five
Chapter Forty-Six
Chapter Forty-Seven
Chapter Forty-Eight
Chapter Forty-Nine
Chapter Fifty
Chapter Fifty-One
Chapter Fifty-Two
Chapter Fifty-Three
Chapter Fifty-Four
Chapter Fifty-Five
Part Five: The Prophecy: Death of a Legend
Chapter Fifty-Six
Chapter Fifty-Seven
Chapter Fifty-Eight
Chapter Fifty-Nine
Chapter Sixty
Chapter Sixty-One
Chapter Sixty-Two
Chapter Sixty-Three
Chapter Sixty-Four
Chapter Sixty-Five
Chapter Sixty-Six
Chapter Sixty-Seven
Chapter Sixty-Eight
Chapter Sixty-Nine
Chapter Seventy
Chapter Seventy-One
Chapter Seventy-Two
Chapter Seventy-Three
Chapter Seventy-Four
Chapter Seventy-Five
Chapter Seventy-Six
Chapter Seventy-Seven
Chapter Seventy-Eight
Author’s Notes
About The Author
An Invitation From The Publisher
CHARACTER LIST
*Sir Thomas Blackstone
THOMAS BLACKSTONE’S MEN
*Sir Gilbert Killbere
*Meulon: Norman captain
*John Jacob: captain
*Renfred: German man-at-arms and captain
*Will Longdon: veteran archer and centenar
*Jack Halfpenny: archer and ventenar
*Meuric Kynith: Welsh archer and ventenar
*Beyard: Gascon captain
*Aicart: Gascon man-at-arms
*Loys: Gascon man-at-arms
*Bascon Gâsconay: man-at-arms
*William Ashford: man-at-arms, captain
*Tom Brook: man-at-arms
ITALIAN CLERIC
*Niccolò Torellini: Florentine priest
ENGLISH MERCENARIES
*Ranulph de Hayle/Ronec le Bête
Sir Hugh Calveley
Walter Hewitt
William Latimer
Matthew Gourney
BRETON NOBILITY AND COMMANDERS
John de Montfort: English-backed claimant to the Duchy of Brittany
Charles de Blois: French-backed claimant to the Duchy of Brittany
Lord of Mayenne: Breton regional lord
Bertrand du Guesclin: Breton commander
Olivier de Mauny: nobleman and Bertrand du Guesclin’s cousin
Jean de Beaumanoir: lord and ally of Charles de Blois
ENGLISH ROYALTY
Edward of Woodstock: Prince of Wales and Aquitaine
ENGLISH OFFICIALS
Sir John Chandos: Constable of Aquitaine
Sir Nigel Loring: the Prince’s chamberlain
FRENCH ROYALTY
Charles V: King of France
FRENCH OFFICIALS, NOBLEMEN, MERCENARIES AND MEN-AT-ARMS
Jean de Grailly, Captal de Buch: Gascon lord
Lord de Graumont: French regional lord
*Godfrey de Claville: captain of Villaines
Simon Bucy: counsellor to the French King
Gontier de Bagneaux: confidential secretary to the French King
Jean de Bourbon: Count de la Marche
Le Bègue de Villaines: French nobleman
Arnoul d’Audrehem: Marshal of France
Eustache d’Aubricourt: Hainault mercenary
SPANISH ROYALTY
Charles, King of Navarre: claimant to the French throne
Don Pedro I: King of Castile and León
Blanche de Bourbon: Queen of Castile and León
Henry of Trastámara: Don Pedro’s half-brother and claimant to his throne
SPANISH OFFICIALS
Iñigo Ortiz de Estúñiga: guard commander for Blanche de Bourbon
*High Steward to King Don Pedro
Gutier de Toledo: commander of the royal bodyguard
SPANISH MEN-AT-ARMS, VILLEINS, SERVANTS, MERCHANTS, SURGEON AND CLERICS
*Garindo: heretic priest
*Velasquita Alcón de Lugo
*Lázaro: Queen of Castile’s servant
*Halif ben Josef: Jewish surgeon
*Ariz: man-at-arms
*Saustin: man-at-arms
*Tibalt: man-at-arms
*Elias Navarette and Salamon Bonisac: Jewish merchants
*Andrés: guide
*Santos: guide
*Pérez of Burgos: merchant
*Álvaraz: Castilian army commander
Gil Boccanegra: Genoese Admiral of the Castilian Fleet
Suero Gómez: Archbishop of Santiago de Compostela
Peralvarez: dean of Santiago cathedral
*Gontrán: fisherman and pilgrim
NASRID MOORS
*Sayyid al-Hakam
*Abid al-Hakam
*Najih bin Wālid
*Indicates fictional characters
Map
Epigraph
A noble man must either live a good life or die a noble death.
Sophocles
PROLOGUE
King Pedro’s Palace Burgos, Castile, Spain
The darkened room bore no sign of evil incantation, even though some deemed the practice of astrology to be against Divine Law. Garindo knew the risks he took if he edged closer to the abyss of necromancy and witchcraft – and it was easily done: the thirst for greater knowledge of the universe could lead a man to embrace the dark arts. However, his own religious convictions kept him on the side of righteousness, even though he had been charged with heresy by the Pope for practising astrology.
The heretic priest blinked in the near darkness. He had been studying for hours and the candles had burnt low. His predictions had come to fruition and he now feared another whose powers were greater than his own. She was Satan’s mistress.
He had begged the King to rid himself of this witch, who was always at his side. She lived behind the veil of darkness. So far his own skills had kept her at bay. But for how much longer? Heresy or witchcraft? Who would prevail?
It was God who permitted the devil to exist, cast down from heaven to test men and women, to allow them to choose whether to fight the demonic possession offered by the devil or succumb to its temptation. Garindo’s skills came from the great books of the East, from Sanskrit, Greek and the learned writing of the Arabs, the study of which was itself considered a sin, for it implied a forsaking of the belief that it was God who guided and determined men’s lives and the fortunes of kings.
The old man sighed, resigned to defying divine power. He would use his skill. He did not like what he saw in the chart that lay beneath his hand. Whom to fear the most? God, displeased that he tampered with men’s fate? Or the devil’s mistress, who vied for the King’s favour? He feared the threat of divine justice less than the magic of the practitioners of witchcraft, whose spells were so powerful they could kill a man. His terror of them overpowered his belief that God would protect him. There were times when God let the devil rampage through men’s hearts. Perhaps that was a test of faith.
He closed the thick wooden door behind him. The lock turned laboriously from the weight of the iron key. He wanted his bed. Sleep had eluded him these past days as he studied the charts. The candle he held spluttered and wax stung the back of his hand, but he ignored it. He was deep in thought, seeking the words he must use when he gave his findings to the King, knowing how the man’s rage could flare at bad tidings. His shoes scuffed the uneven tiled floor, his old knees complaining from sitting too long at his deliberations. His breath caught as the darkness ahead shifted. His heart tried to burst from his chest, its beats thudding in his ears. He rasped out a challenge: ‘Who is there? Show yourself.’
There was no response. He shivered and crossed himself, asking the Almighty to protect him. His spine crawled at the fear of what might lie ahead. Silence. Perhaps it had been a scurrying rat. He listened. The low-burning candle would soon plunge him into total darkness. If he did not move his fear might strangle him. He stepped forward, his hand stroking the wall to guide him and offer comfort.
A cool breeze brushed his face.
A door or window had been left open. Had it allowed night spirits to enter the palace?
He recoiled as something rubbed against his leg. He kicked and heard one of the feral cats screech. He laughed nervously at his own foolishness and shuffled towards his bedchamber, unaware that the darkness moved again behind him. Unaware that the king’s favourite was watching.
And waiting.
Everything he had foretold had come to pass. But he had not seen his own death.
PART ONE
DEATH OF AN ARCHER
CHAPTER ONE
France, North of Bordeaux 1364
The rider was frozen dead in the saddle. Snow, and then bodkin-tipped frost driven into bones by a snarling wind, had torn away the man’s soul. But it was not the hand of God that led him to Blackstone’s encampment. A hardy monk returning on foot to the safety of Blackstone’s protection at the Abbaye Notre-Dame de Boschaud had come across the exhausted man, who with his final breaths had gasped for help to find the English King’s Master of War. The monk, seeking refuge from the bitter winter that was killing man and beast across the land, had plodded on towards the fortified abbey, deep in prayer and leading the man’s suffering horse.
Strong arms, fingers clawing in the biting cold, reached for the dead man, cutting the reins to free his frozen grip. Blackstone saw the satchel bearing the Prince’s seal. The messenger’s clothing creaked when they eased him from the saddle. The horse faltered, head low. Men guided it towards the stable with a gentleness reserved for a beast with a courageous heart that deserved to be saved. Blankets, deep, soft straw, boiled oats and warmth from the other horses would aid its chances of survival.
They settled the dead man onto a stool, propping his back against the wall. Blackstone looked into his blue eyes. The Prince’s messenger had fought against his own death in his determination to deliver the contents of the satchel. Blackstone reached out to close the man’s eyes but the lids were frozen open, gazing out from eternity at the gathered men. Some crossed themselves.
‘Shall we put him close to the fire?’ said Blackstone’s centenar Will Longdon.
‘Sweet Jesus, you idiot, you want him rotting?’ the veteran knight Gilbert Killbere said. ‘Get him down to the cellars. He needs to be kept cold until the thaw and then the monks can bury him.’
The veteran archer shrugged. ‘We’ll put him in the cheese room – then we won’t notice when he starts to stink.’
‘You’re a disrespectful godless wretch,’ said Killbere.
Blackstone turned to the gathered men. ‘As are many of us, Gilbert, but we will treat this man with respect. The rigor in his muscles will ease. Have the monks wrap him in linen and lay him somewhere close to God.’ He turned to his squire. ‘John, speak to the abbot, make my request known to him. Ask for a side chapel and prayers to be said.’
John Jacob nodded and gestured to the men to bear the messenger away. As they bent to their task, he glanced at the satchel. ‘I’ll wager that’s bad news, Sir Thomas.’
Killbere closed the door behind them and pushed more wood into the fire; then he tugged his heavy cloak around him. Like the others, he wore strips of cloth wrapped over his boots to help ward off the bone-cracking cold of the stone floors. Monks were not lords of a manor who placed fresh reeds beneath their rugs.
‘Worst winter I can remember and this is already spring,’ said Killbere, squatting on a stool, pushing his swaddled boots towards the flames. ‘Snot drips and freezes like damned icicles. We hack wine casks open and melt chunks of wine over a fire. It’s too cold to fight even if we could find a Frenchman to raise a sword against and not a whore or a nun in sight to embrace beneath the blankets. It’s not just the cold wind that makes your eyes water. It’s the ball ache. We should go back to Italy. South. Naples or somewhere.’
Blackstone held the unopened satchel containing orders from the Prince of Wales. He felt the leather stiff beneath his fingertips. ‘Knowing the Prince, he’ll find something to warm us.’
‘Then open it. It’s time we left this place.’
Blackstone took out the folded parchment and broke its wax seal. A loyal messenger had sacrificed his life to deliver the summons. What was so important that he should pay such a price? His eyes followed a clerk’s neat hand. Killbere waited, eyebrows raised, questioning.
‘Agen,’ said Blackstone, his mind’s eye placing the ancient city halfway between Bordeaux and Toulouse in the south-west. Close enough to the northern Spanish kingdom of Navarre. ‘We travel to meet the Prince and Charles of Navarre.’
Killbere poked the fire in disgust. ‘That popinjay. We saved his bastard arse when we fought the Jacquerie. These damned noblemen. Peacocks on the battlefield. All he’s fit for is killing peasants. What does he want now?’
Blackstone shook his head and passed Killbere the letter. ‘All we know is that the Prince summons us.’
‘Two days’ ride in this weather,’ said Killbere. ‘At least. I tell you, Thomas, the King of Navarre is up to no good. I’m not joyful at the thought that we’ll be dragged into a fight to help him.’ He tossed the folded document onto the table. ‘God’s tears, our King and our Prince won the damned war thanks to men like ours shedding their blood; if this upstart has ambitions beyond his ability then let others ride to their deaths on his behalf, not us. He should stay in that sliver of land he calls a kingdom.’
The Abbaye Notre-Dame de Boschaud nestled in the heart of Aquitaine between the Prince’s palace in Bordeaux and the seneschal at Poitiers. If routiers or the French struck, Blackstone was well placed to retaliate. What prompted this summons south? Defence or attack?
‘You wanted a fight, Gilbert, perhaps we are being given one.’
*
Below the castle walls Agen’s honey-coloured brick buildings glowed in the day’s late sun, rays of gold enriching the great river that served as the city’s trading route and defence. Blackstone’s hundred iron-shod horses clattered up the cobbled approach to the castle as guards peered down from the high walls. The Prince’s banner furled in the clear air above the white-slaked landscape stretching to the far horizon and Navarre’s Pyrenean kingdom.
‘Even colder up here,’ said Will Longdon. ‘I hope there’s meat and wine waiting for us. My arse aches and my stomach growls.’
‘Pottage and Gascon wine if we’re lucky,’ said his ventenar, Jack Halfpenny.
Killbere half turned in the saddle. ‘If you’re lucky enough to be fed you keep your bows with you. We’ve a Spanish lord and his men inside these walls and what they can’t take as a trophy in battle they will steal. An Englishman’s bow is a prize.’
‘And a Welshman’s,’ called Meuric Kynith, Longdon’s other ventenar.
‘Any damned bow, you heathen Celt,’ said Killbere. ‘Any archer loses his bow to a scab-arsed Navarrese thief, I’ll have him flogged.’
Blackstone glanced at the veteran knight at his side. ‘Gilbert, our archers wouldn’t relinquish their bows even in the grip of death. There’s no need to lecture them. Think of the years we have fought together. Not once have we seen any of them cast aside or lose a hemp cord, never mind their bow.’
‘They’ve been wintering these past months, Thomas. You kept them busy, I’ll grant you; building walls and exercising horses keep a man’s muscles taut, but it softens their brain. They need a kick up the arse every once in a while.’ He looked over his shoulder. ‘Especially archers.’
‘And you kicked my arse often enough when I was a lad and pulled a bow for the King,’ said Blackstone.
‘You deserved it. And it did you no harm. I take pride that my boot and the flat of my hand kept your senses sharp. How else would you have become the King’s Master of War?’
‘How else?’ Blackstone smiled as the gates opened.
CHAPTER TWO
Blackstone and Killbere stood in the corridor outside the great hall waiting to be beckoned inside. The Prince always travelled with an entourage and his presence in Agen was as well attended as ever. He had been in the city since November, not only to have homage paid to him by Gascon lords but to meet the Pyrenean rulers. It was Charles of Navarre who now commanded the Prince’s attention.
Killbere muttered out of the side of his mouth. ‘Navarre is odious, despicable and treacherous. Let’s be careful, Thomas. This wheedling bastard will have us shed blood for him if we are not cautious. The Prince values us yet we are but pawns in his grand scheme.’
‘What scheme is that?’ Blackstone whispered back, glancing at the court officials, aides and clerks who jostled along the corridor, any of whom would be eager to hear a note of dissent and report it to their superiors. It was how courtiers gained promotion and favours.
‘How in God’s name am I to know the mind of a prince? My bowels tell me this meeting will place us in jeopardy. There were two hundred men-at-arms preparing to move in the outer ward. Their horses looked fresh and so did they.’
‘They’re not troops readying for war, Gilbert, they’re the Prince’s entourage. I saw William Ashford and his men. I think the Prince is soon to return to Bordeaux.’
A flurry of activity caused a rise in the hubbub of voices. Blackstone was tall enough to see over the surge of courtiers and glimpsed a nobleman wearing an adorned cloak. He came out of a room further along the passage and turned away, followed by his personal retinue.
‘What?’ said Killbere.
‘Navarre. He’s just left.’
‘Are you sure it was him?’
Blackstone nodded. The man’s haughty bearing would have picked him out in a crowd even without the fur-collared embroidered robe.
Before Killbere could say anything more a servant swung open the doors, revealing a vast chamber decorated fit for a king or prince even though the castle at Agen had only been a temporary residence. Richly coloured tapestries hung from every wall. Ornate designs of swans with women’s heads hung each side of a centrepiece, black with emblazoned silver ostrich plumes. It was the Prince’s duty to administer the Duchy of Aquitaine and every man and woman who had the honour to be in his company loved and admired him. After the privations of years of war, the Prince’s extravagant feasts and entertainment had become a byword, serving the dual purpose of impressing those who needed to be impressed and uplifting the spirits of a nation that had endured great hardship. Blackstone knew that this room was where the Prince had governed the duchy over the past months and had accepted the allegiance of a thousand lords. Edward’s warmth, conviviality and largesse had brought disparate leaders and their fiefdoms under his control.
Now the Prince stood, one arm leaning against the high mantel above the log fire as he gazed into the flames. Rugs and fresh reeds smothered the stone floor; a table, long enough for two men to lie head to toe, showed an unfurled map in front of the Prince’s upholstered chair. Another door led off from the far corner, used no doubt by Navarre to leave the room. Did protocol demand the arrogant aristocrat avoid meeting the scar-faced knight who had been essential to his success years before when he had defeated the peasant uprising?
Blackstone and Killbere bowed.
The Prince, smiling, turned away from the flames and the thoughts that consumed him. ‘Thomas, time has healed your wounds?’
‘Thank you, highness, yes, I am well. Your physicians were most attentive.’
He faced the Prince whose destiny had been entwined with his own since boyhood, when they had fought at Crécy and Blackstone had saved Edward’s life. Their journey thereafter had been fraught, through turbulent years of defiance and disagreement, until finally time and circumstances had healed the rifts. Despite it all, the years had solidified Blackstone’s iron-hard loyalty until once again, at great risk to his own life, he had saved the Prince from the assassination attempt at Bergerac the previous August. The attempt resulted in Blackstone suffering near fatal wounds when he fought an old ally. A friend who had become an enemy.
Those events had made the Prince of Wales genuinely concerned for Blackstone’s wellbeing. ‘I thank God for his blessings, Thomas. We had prayers said for you. So too our father.’
‘I am grateful, my Prince.’
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