by David Gilman
Blackstone’s eyes widened. Killbere shrugged.
‘To seek out a decent fight, Thomas. We defended the Pope against the Visconti. Why not do more?’
‘We fought for Florence against the Visconti. Don’t confuse the two things, Gilbert.’
Killbere rubbed his feet, warming to the idea. ‘But, Thomas, think of it. You have several hundred men still under contract to Florence. Master Elfred still commands them; they’re still being paid. The bankers in Florence would back you. Then Edward would smile graciously in our direction and give us more men and, who knows, perhaps more money. We could ride to warmer climes and fight the Moor. It’s an idea worth considering.’
Blackstone got to his feet and laid a hand on his friend’s shoulder. ‘First let’s do our duty, then we retrieve the King’s gold. In the meantime I shall check the perimeter and you keep an eye on the boy there,’ he said, meaning de la Grave.
Killbere’s tone softened. ‘We lost a good lad, today, Thomas. This Frenchman is no archer. It’s a poor exchange.’
‘But he has courage,’ his friend answered and stepped towards the darkness.
* * *
There was enough light from the moon behind the clouds to see the dark shape of the walls and the forest beyond the clearing. Blackstone went up onto the walkway. He could see shapes moving beyond the walls and the snuffling told him wolf and boar had come from the forest to feast on the dead. The corpses in the village and those slain here at the manor house would feed the scavengers for weeks to come. The crows had already pecked the soft flesh. Eyes jabbed from sockets and tongues plucked out. The carnage was nothing compared to a battlefield but the gentle beauty of this lush countryside deserved life. He stood still and let his vision grow more accustomed to the near-darkness. Sentries patrolled their posts, their cloaks pulled tight. Night spirits flittered through the forest seeking out the souls of the dead. He could sense them, felt their cool touch on his cheek. It was no breeze that caressed him or drizzle that settled on his beard. It was the tears of those damned to half-life between earth and heaven. He kissed the silver goddess.
‘Sir Thomas?’ said an approaching shadow.
‘Will. You should be with the others. Get some sleep.’
‘I’ve done the rounds,’ said Will Longdon. ‘Didn’t much feel like sleeping yet.’
‘Your head?’
‘Thudding like a drum. All stitched. Meulon did it. Christ, his hands are like bloody hams. I swear I’ve more cord in the back of my head than on my bow. And he’s stitched me so tight I’ve a permanent grin on my face.’ He sensed Blackstone smile in the darkness.
‘He’s changed since we lost Gaillard back in Milan,’ said Blackstone.
‘Aye. He’s more ready to kill, if that’s possible. Give him half a chance and he would go after the Welshman alone. Maybe we should let him.’
‘In good time,’ said Blackstone.
They fell silent as they walked the walls.
‘I should have saved young Garland,’ Longdon said after a while. ‘I tried, Thomas. I got us away from Cade’s men, cut his rope, but then I had a fight on my hands. Didn’t think they’d catch him.’
‘There’s no telling what happened. We lose a man and we go over it a hundred times. But no amount of flogging ourselves brings them back. We go on. Carry them with us.’
The two men passed a sentry. It was one of Meulon’s men-at-arms. Blackstone greeted him. There was nothing to report from his post other than the scurrying shadows from the forest and the unsettling sound of night creatures crunching bones.
‘Go and rouse a half-dozen men. Bring torches and drop them over the walls where the bodies are. Let’s give the dead some peace for the night.’ The man hesitated. ‘Go, Will and I will stay at your post until you’re back.’
The man went down the steps into the yard and set off towards the hall.
‘Talking of hams, Meulon went through the cellars and found some food and drink for the lads,’ said Longdon. ‘The murdering scum who did the killing here had missed it. I’ve left a smoked ham and wine with Sir Gilbert. He’s sharing it out now with the men.’
‘Good. Make sure they keep some for the sentries when they come off.’
‘Already done.’
The two men gazed across the shadowed land, both silent now. Their journey together had been a long one. As long as Sir Gilbert Killbere had been with them. Since the beginning. Half a dozen torches flickered from the great hall as the men ran across the yard towards the ramparts. Blackstone turned to Will Longdon. The approaching flames cast light across his face. Will Longdon felt something tighten in his chest, a tension that was not from the beating he had taken.
‘Will,’ said Blackstone quietly. ‘When we reach Sir John you choose the archers that he offers. Find me hard men, the best there are. I want gristle and muscle behind those bows. I want men who will use every arrow in their bag and then follow us with sword and archer’s knife in their fists. I am going to rip the heart out of every mercenary company I find. I will give no quarter to these murdering scum. And when we have done that I will find Gruffydd ap Madoc and William Cade and kill them.’
This was no simple threat or desire for revenge, Will Longdon realized. It was as devout a promise as a man who submitted his soul to God and became a priest. It was a pact being made with heaven or hell and the veteran archer was uncertain which it might be.
‘Sir Gilbert wants a crusade. I will give him one,’ said Blackstone.
CHAPTER TWENTY
The peacocks at the royal manor at Vincennes screeched. King John the Good smiled with delight as they entertained him with a flourish of colour. The dismal weather was as depressing as the blanket of grief that settled over his kingdom. How had the greatest nation in Christendom been trammelled by the barbaric English? How, indeed, he wondered, could he and his fellow hostages, many of whom were still held in London, have been so well and kindly treated by Edward, but returned to such desolation? It was not dissimilar from the torture that he had inflicted on his enemies. One foot in a cold bucket of water, the other in scalding. Soon it was only the cold water that was required to break the victim. This chill of despair he felt now was like the plunge into the cold water.
‘Highness,’ said Bucy. ‘You sent for me.’
‘We are melancholy, Simon. We were thinking a moment ago of how cosseted we were by our cousin Edward in England, how here there is nothing but discomfort and waste. The English stroke us with a velvet glove on the one hand and scourge us with the other.’
Simon Bucy stood nonplussed. Matters of state needed to be attended to. An army of several thousand had been raised in the south and Bretons were gathering in force in the south-east to challenge the English-backed John de Montfort. The Breton mercenaries worked in King Jean’s favour. Brittany was not part of Edward’s treaty and the fiefdom was to all purposes controlled by Charles of Blois, supported by the French King.
‘Sire, I am grieved to hear that, but the Bretons will pose a threat to the English and Brittany will at least still be held for us. Meanwhile, the English are securing the towns laid down in the treaty while routiers destroy others. Sir John Chandos will be soon be here with his commissioners and he will require the final handover to the English Crown of those towns that remain.’
King John nodded, but Bucy could see that his attention was elsewhere. He was gazing across the vast walled courtyard. Over the years Vincennes had been fortified and if one was not behind the safety of the walls of Paris the royal manor was perhaps the next best place to be. The building work had continued over the years and it was the King’s desire that the royal family and the retinue of advisers and servants could all be accommodated.
‘The fountain does not seem to flow with the same power,’ said the King.
‘Sire?’ said Bucy, looking towards the centre of the courtyard where a fountain spurted.
‘Do you not see?’ said the King impatiently.
Bucy’s age and long e
xperience serving the King and the Dauphin had schooled him in the art of showing no reaction to their capriciousness. The fountain was fed from the nearby suburb of Montreuil and a lake had been built at Saint-Mandé to feed it. It was just one of many extravagances the King had demanded. No different perhaps than the keep that was still being constructed whose four connected towers would stand a hundred feet and more above the château. A place a threatened king might retreat into at a time of war. Or a place to be incarcerated when madness finally struck. The truth, Bucy knew, was that the huge edifice was being built to accommodate the Dauphin’s art collection. Perhaps the madness was already upon them.
‘Highness, the weather is freezing and perhaps one of the clay pipes has cracked. I will have workmen investigate it.’
‘Good. We take some pleasure from it and there is little of that to be had these days.’
‘My lord, you sent for me. Was it to attend to the fountain?’
‘Are you becoming senile? There are other issues to hand. We must consider our army’s standing in the south and I intend to journey there.’
Bucy waited, his thoughts chasing possibilities. The King would surely not dare take to the field against the routiers. Did he still crave glory? Had not the English tarnished such endeavours? ‘I see, your grace. A journey,’ he said flatly.
‘If our army has secured the south then we have it in mind to travel to Avignon. To the Pope.’
Pope Innocent VI was a Frenchman and looked kindly on John but to Bucy’s mind there was no cause for the King to travel across what was still a war-torn France to see the Pope, no matter how successful the French army might be.
‘Avignon? Twenty thousand died of the pestilence. They say it has passed, but there is still a risk,’ Bucy said.
‘It has passed,’ said the King. ‘Now we must see the Pope.’
‘The Pope,’ Bucy said, keeping his voice free of censure. ‘For a blessing, sire?’
‘Of a kind.’
Bucy waited. Since the King had returned from being held prisoner in England he had seemed incapable of finding the means to begin rebuilding France. Was it because the English King’s demands were still being met, that his ransom had not yet been paid in full? Was that what stripped the volatile King of France of his energy?
‘We have been at prayer and reading the prophecies of the Franciscan,’ said the King.
Bucy’s thoughts stumbled in the face of the King’s fecklessness. For years John had schemed and planned and brought both high emotion and cool logic to his single-minded desire to rid France of the English, but now he was talking of fountains and a Franciscan monk. There were no Franciscans in Paris. None at Vincennes.
‘De la Roquetaillade,’ said the King, annoyance creeping into his voice at Bucy’s dull look of incomprehension.
Merciful Christ, Bucy almost whispered. Back in ’56 a troublesome monk had been cast into prison in Avignon, just before the great battle at Poitiers. He had railed against the corruption of priests and predicted that France would be brought down by tyranny and brigands. Was the King interpreting this to mean that Edward was a tyrant? Bucy wondered. But there was no denying that after the battle routiers had swept across the countryside. And still did, as prevalent and deadly as the pestilence itself. The Franciscan’s mind might have been afflicted by starvation and privation but he had also proclaimed that the lowly would rise up against the great. That had certainly come true. The Jacquerie uprising had slain thousands. And then Bucy thought he understood.
‘The Anti-Christ,’ he said. ‘He predicted the pestilence and the Anti-Christ. Do you believe, sire, he meant Thomas Blackstone? We had news that there had been a skirmish between him and d’Audrehem’s men, who were forced to retreat, though we are uncertain whether their attack was deliberate or he was mistaken as a routier. He serves Edward but—’
‘Blackstone? A common killer? He is beyond our concern or our interest,’ the King interrupted. ‘And a court fool could predict pestilence. Are we to relegate you that role, Simon? Do you have no comprehension? De la Roquetaillade predicted – after the chaos and poverty, once our chastisement had been endured, and against all known custom – that the King of France would rise to power again and be elected as the Holy Roman Emperor. To rule as the holiest monarch since the beginning of time. Such an emperor would cast out the Saracens and Tatars from Europe and would convert the Muslims, Jews and all other heathens. Simon, heresy would be conquered.’
Anxiety gripped Bucy. Was the King of France losing his mind? Prophecy was one thing but to conjure reality from it another. Events swept across a nation and it was easy to attribute superstition to such times. ‘Highness, I do not understand why you would need to visit the Pope. If our merciful Lord Jesus Christ meant to bestow such a blessing on… you,’ he faltered, the incredible thought slowing his speech, ‘then surely the Pope would… know. Would he not? A king rules by divine providence but a pope is God’s representative in this world.’
‘Even a king cannot force the hand of God, Simon,’ said John. ‘One must exercise patience. For some time now we have been a widower. And such grief is not unlike experiencing the death of France.’
‘Sire, France lives. She is wounded but she can be healed by your hand.’
‘Wounds heal slowly, Simon. We thought that we should bring together France and Provence. Do you see? Slowly but surely we will ready ourselves for the future.’
Like watching a stonemason turn a rock in his hand to fit it correctly into a drystone wall Bucy saw a piece of the puzzle fit. The Pope and Avignon were in the territory of Provence, which was ruled by Countess Joanna, Queen of Naples. And Naples was a fief of the papacy. If King John wished to marry the Countess then he would need the blessing of the Pope. And that seemed unlikely. The Pope would see Provence being absorbed into French territory as a threat. The King would also, Bucy admitted to himself, need the hand of God to protect him. Joanna had already been twice widowed and (rumour had it) by her own hand.
‘A marriage and also to take up the cross and fight the Saracens. Money and honour,’ said Bucy as if thinking aloud. ‘But, highness, how does that help France if you are not here to rule?’
King John the Good looked at his trusted counsellor. ‘When France rises from her sick bed and breathes freely again I will lead her to glory.’
Bucy felt the grip of fear clutch at his bowels. The King was going to abandon France to her fate. He bowed. ‘I will begin to look into the journey, highness.’
He turned quickly on his heel, fist clutching his cloak to his chest, desperately trying to keep his pounding heart from escaping. Only the Dauphin had the cunning and the foresight to save France. And if he had such plans then Bucy would heed the advice given to him earlier. The Dauphin would one day take back what the English had seized and Simon Bucy would side with him. And if the Dauphin had a plan to stop Thomas Blackstone then he would embrace that as well. The way ahead was clear. Now there was hope.
PART TWO
THE VALLEY OF SIGHS
January 1362
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
Blackstone and the men left Sainte-Bernice and followed the churned earth left by the brigands who had slaughtered the villagers and the lord of the manor along with his wife and every living thing within its walls, except for Alain de la Grave. Blackstone had the boy’s parents buried despite the hard ground, and covered the shallow grave with rocks to keep the predators from digging up their remains. The creatures that came out of the forest had enough to feed on.
The torn earth led Blackstone and his men across the steepening ground for two days until the tracks were swallowed by woodland. In the distance mountains peeped above the miles of dense trees. It would have been madness for so few men to follow the killers. With another day’s ride eastwards they smelled the smoke of campfires before they crested a rise and saw the host gathered by Sir John Chandos. There were a few banners snapping in the bitter wind, and the smoke was lifted and carried away quickly.
Here and there tents were pitched for those lucky enough to have them. Makeshift rails had been made to tether horses and Blackstone saw that Chandos had secured the rising ground to his advantage. Sentries huddled in groups rather than single men at various posts. If a surprise attack were made by the Bretons these groups would quickly form up, a fact quickly demonstrated as Blackstone and Killbere rode across the skyline and a company of men levelled their pikes and locked their shields. A cry went up. ‘Riders!’
Blackstone kicked the bastard horse side-on so that the shield slung from his saddle was seen by the sentries. One of the men lowered his shield. ‘It’s Sir Thomas!’ The others followed his example. Their faces, deep-etched with tiredness and campfire smoke, creased into grins. The man who had recognized Blackstone stepped forward. He was sturdy, thickset and full-bearded. He looked to be a veteran. His clothing, mail and weapons – the knife and battleaxe tucked easily to hand in his broad belt, snug against his torso – proclaimed a man comfortable in the field of conflict. His was a hard-worked body, used to long days without food and, Blackstone thought, steadfast and efficient in a fight.
‘My lord, we heard you were coming. A man of your rank and reputation is welcome.’
‘I’m as common as any man here,’ said Blackstone.
‘Aye, my lord,’ said the man, ‘that may be, but these sons of whores are what you would scrape off the bottom of your boot. They stink, rank with sweat and dry hog shit from sleeping rough. Were it not for our King’s payment most would be off looting. You might be common, Sir Thomas’ – the man grinned – ‘and I dare say your stench is no better than ours, but believe me, my lord, you might as well be the Archangel Michael compared to this lot.’
He turned to the ragtag bunch of fighting men behind him. They jeered with good humour. Blackstone was reminded of the vast army that he and the others had once been a part of and how the men, insolent and ribald, gave no man their respect until he had earned it. Blackstone grinned at them.