by David Gilman
‘How much longer are you going to stand there, boy?’
The crunch of a footfall behind him signalled Henry Blackstone’s startled reaction. The boy had been standing as quietly as he could fifteen feet away from Killbere, waiting for the appropriate moment to approach him. He had remained silent, his breathing controlled, but still the old fighter had known he was there. ‘Sir Gilbert, may I speak to you?’
‘When have I ever denied you?’ Killbere answered.
Henry Blackstone moved around Killbere and stood watching the veteran fighter attend to his task at hand. He said nothing for a few moments and then, ‘You have always sharpened and cleaned your own weapons, Sir Gilbert.’
‘That’s because we belong to each other. They fit my hand and they know exactly what it is I expect of them.’ He laid down the dagger and looked at the nervous boy. ‘I have a duty towards them. I honour them because they are my salvation. They deny me meeting God.’
Henry nodded. ‘I understand, Sir Gilbert.’
‘You do?’
‘When John Jacob instructs me to sharpen and clean Wolf Sword, then I… I feel… I don’t know… It whispers to me.’
Killbere gazed at the earnest young Blackstone. It was no time to deride what the boy was stumbling to express. What a fighting man felt for a weapon was something seldom shared. He smiled. ‘What you feel, Henry… it is a gift.’ He paused and wiped his hands on a well-used piece of torn linen. ‘Your father has already decided.’ He looked at the dumbfounded boy. ‘I know what you want and you cannot have it.’
Henry’s startled look betrayed him.
Killbere got to his feet. ‘You want to know who is to go into Lord Babeneaux’s stronghold. Who takes his life in his hands and convinces them to ride out. You wanted to go – is that it? And for me to speak to your father on your behalf. You’re too late. LaFargue. Gabriel LaFargue. He’s going.’
Henry saw the chosen man’s face in his mind’s eyes. Five years more than Henry’s fifteen. One of Meulon’s spearmen. Strong. Tested and chosen by Meulon and accepted by Henry’s father. His mind flitted across the chosen man’s features. Not as tall as most. Sturdy and broad-shouldered with strength to stand his ground and face a charging enemy. Aggressive too. Not known to back down in an argument.
‘He can read and write and he’s got the heart for it,’ Killbere said, clambering to his feet and pulling on his jupon.
Henry regained his composure. ‘I am the better choice, Sir Gilbert. It is a mistake not to choose the one who is better suited to a task.’
‘Oh? You think you have more courage?’
‘No. Gabriel is a good fighter. But he is not convincing as a pilgrim. He will argue and not take the taunts that a man such as Lord Mael will surely throw at him. I speak, read and write Latin. I can play the role with more conviction. Besides, Gabriel’s arms are the size of a man’s thigh and his calloused hands speak of a fighting man.’
‘Or a man used to using a scythe on late summer grass, or laying hedgerows. A peasant seeking salvation.’
‘I would be in your debt, Sir Gilbert, if you would speak to my father and tell him what I have said.’
Killbere gathered his weapons. ‘You think you are man enough for such an adventure?’
Henry nodded.
‘Then tell him yourself.’
*
The men’s horses were tied onto a line of rope stretched between trees. They kept the bastard horse separate from the others. Blackstone stroked the horse’s back, feeling the ripple of its muscles beneath his hand. He had always thought, as the years passed, that the brute might warm to him but even now as his calloused palm caressed its withers it tried to twist its head, yellow teeth snapping. The rope halter restrained it and Blackstone, knowing the beast’s habits, stepped quickly aside as an iron-shod hoof lashed back.
Despite its animosity Blackstone knew they were well suited, and he had desired no other horse. They were as scarred and belligerent as each other. Having heeded the warning, he moved forward and laid his palm onto the horse’s cheek. ‘I will not give you the satisfaction of denying me my own sense of comfort,’ he whispered. ‘I care as much for you as I do my men and now I must risk sending one into harm’s way.’
The beast remained docile for a few subversive moments and then headbutted Blackstone’s chest. He stumbled back a couple of strides and grinned. ‘If I had the strength, I would do the same to you.’
In an instant the beast’s head twitched, its ears perked, a wary eye looking past Blackstone, whose self-same survival instinct had turned him on his heel, knife quickly drawn. Half-crouching, he sidestepped ready to strike whoever had made the near-silent footfall he and the bastard horse had felt rather than heard.
Henry Blackstone was still ten paces away on the animal track. There had been no rustle of fern or fallen leaf beneath his foot. He had approached slowly, uncertain whether his father would welcome the intrusion. He was as startled as he had been minutes before with Killbere. The two men’s sixth sense was as honed as their blades.
Blackstone let his guard drop when he saw his son. ‘Henry. God’s blood, lad. You must never sneak up on me like that.’
‘I was not sneaking, Father. I did not wish to disturb you.’
The horse snorted, dipping its head.
‘May I approach, Father?’
‘Of course, boy, of course.’ Blackstone sheathed his knife as his son skirted the horse and then laid the palm of his hand against its nose. Its lips caressed his hand. Henry pulled free a piece of cut turnip and offered it. The yellow teeth bared and quickly crunched the dry offering. Henry smiled, looked at his father and stroked the horse’s face.
‘He likes a treat. I always bring him one. He remembers.’
‘I swear you are the only person who can get that close and not lose your fingers.’
‘I don’t fear him and he trusts me.’
‘Aye, well, I trust him with my life but the beast would take a piece of my flesh if he had the chance.’ Blackstone laid a hand on the boy’s shoulder. ‘What is it, son?’
‘Father, you have entrusted me to John Jacob’s care, and he has taught me well, but I am old enough now to be of more use to you.’
‘You serve John and me well enough. What more would you wish? I won’t have you stand shoulder to shoulder with the men in a fight. You are not yet trained for that. Your life is too precious to me.’
‘You will not let me fight and you will not let me go to university to further my studies.’
‘You were sought out by French assassins when you were in Florence. They tried to kill you.’
‘Then let me go to Avignon. There are teachers of law there. Fine scholars. I want to learn – they will feed my craving.’
‘And when they discover your name someone would betray you to a killer for hire.’
‘I would use Mother’s name – de Sainteny.’
‘No. You stay here and serve your time as a page to John Jacob. When the time is right and when you are sufficiently skilled, then you might fight.’
‘I am the same age as when you fought at Crécy.’
‘Nearly the same age. And where I came close to dying of my wounds. No man has skill enough to avoid Fate. It awaits him at every turn.’
‘Then my fate is already decided.’
‘It is destined but a man’s decisions can take him left or right at any crossroad and that can make the difference between life and death. We all die in the end, Henry, but we try to avoid the Reaper. We do what we can to avoid unnecessary danger. If we cannot then we summon more violence than our opponent and send them into death’s embrace.’
Henry thought for a moment. ‘When I was in Florence under the guidance of Fra Pietro, he told me a story about death waiting to claim a man.’
‘A story is just that.’
‘No, Father, it was exactly what you are saying.’
Blackstone sat on a fallen tree and indulged his son. ‘All right. Let me hear thi
s fairy tale spun by a man of God.’
‘A devout man had a vision when he was praying,’ said Henry. ‘The angel of death visited him and told him it would take him the following day before the church bell in his town rang out for prime. He gathered what possessions he could and rode hard to the next town safe in the belief that he had avoided his own death foretold. When Death arrived at his village, disguised as a travelling monk, he asked the burghers if they knew the man’s whereabouts and was told he had left for another town. Death smiled and said that was good because he had an appointment there with him later that night.’ Henry paused for breath and waited for a response.
‘And this means exactly what I told you,’ Blackstone said.
‘It means, Father, that whatever turn you take you cannot avoid that meeting with Death.’
‘Henry, I do not see the point of this conversation and my stomach tells me it is time to eat.’
‘Gabriel is the wrong man to send. I should go,’ he blurted out.
Blackstone looked at his son, weighing up what to say. He shook his head. ‘No. Gabriel was my choice.’
‘Father, he is a fighting man and he will not take kindly to any taunt that would test his resolve. He does not have the heart of an educated man.’
‘Henry!’ Blackstone interrupted. ‘You are no better than any man here because you have been protected and given the opportunity to further your knowledge. I allowed that to appease your mother’s wishes. Gabriel was raised by devout grandparents after his own died in the pestilence. He can answer any question put to him by Lord Mael about serving in a monastery. He is my chosen man. Let that be an end to it.’
Blackstone turned his back on his son. His reprimand masked the desire to protect the boy and keep him out of harm’s way while in his heart he knew the boy spoke the truth. But Gabriel knew enough scripture to convince Babeneaux.
‘Father!’
Blackstone turned. He expected to see anger flushed on his son’s face. Instead, he saw contrition.
‘I beg you then to let me sit with Gabriel and Lady Cateline when she explains everything he must learn about the castle. And then I will also help him with a few Latin words that a novice would know which would stand a pilgrim in good stead.’
Blackstone studied his son, searching for any hint of artifice, but the offer was heartfelt. ‘Very well. Help tutor him. It will serve you both well. He will gain a better understanding and you will learn humility.’
CHAPTER NINE
Henry Blackstone and the men waited patiently, ready to move as soon as word came of where they would ambush Lord Mael’s men. Horses saddled, arms and equipment readied, they remained alert should anyone be foolish enough to attempt an attack through the dense forest. Henry had sat with Gabriel LaFargue as he listened to Lady Cateline describe the inner wards of the castle in detail. If her son was anywhere, he would be in the keep, and once Lord Mael took the bait, he would still leave twenty men to guard the walls and gate. If LaFargue were to reach the postern gate undetected to allow Blackstone and his men to enter, it would need to be before nightfall.
‘We must time everything carefully,’ said Blackstone. ‘Does Lord Mael adhere to the times of prayer?’
Cateline nodded. ‘But only prime and vespers.’
‘Then dawn and evening is when we must plan. Gabriel, you will seek refuge soon after vespers. With luck, Lord Mael will ride out soon after morning prayers and hope to catch us sleeping. Once he is beaten then we will take the castle.’
‘And if I reach the postern gate I need to signal you that all is well,’ said Gabriel.
‘We must time everything B I need to signal you that all is well,’ said Gabriel.
‘My lady?’ said Blackstone.
‘The stables are on the far side of the courtyard. Winter feed is stacked there, under cover. Burn that and you will see the smoke.’
‘And it will draw men from the walls to put out the blaze,’ said Blackstone. ‘Then that is the signal we will wait for. Until we see the smoke, we will not attempt to reach the postern gate.’
‘Understood, my lord,’ said Gabriel.
‘My woman servant still serves Lord Mael in his private quarters. I beg you, see that she comes to no harm.’
‘We are not here to kill women,’ said Blackstone and turned away.
‘Her name is Melita,’ Cateline called. ‘Please, tell your men.’
Blackstone nodded and strode to where Meulon and the others waited. ‘Sir Thomas. John Jacob has returned,’ said Meulon.
Blackstone grinned, slapped Gabriel on the shoulder. ‘I hope you have learnt your lines well; our success depends on you.’
‘You can depend on me, Sir Thomas,’ said the eager volunteer.
Blackstone strode towards John Jacob and the waiting men. ‘Make ready,’ he commanded.
Gabriel LaFargue whispered to Henry. ‘Master Henry, I cannot remember the Latin you told me. It’s the one thing that worries me.’
Henry gave a reassuring smile. ‘Ride by my side. Between here and where we fight, I will instruct you.’ He had been right to think the brave fighter would be vulnerable.
*
John Jacob and Renfred had found a good site to lure Mael towards. It was an open meadow of rising ground already scythed for winter silage. The top of the gently sloping land levelled out and then dipped slightly, dead ground that unsuspecting men might think gave them cover out of sight when they camped from an approaching enemy. Two hundred paces either side of the meadow the forest buttressed the open ground where a ditch crossed horizontally. The approach from the castle would lead naturally to the bottom of the meadow and it would take an overcautious man to hold back an attack when he saw how few men were encamped there. And Lord Mael Babeneaux was a warrior who, by all accounts, did not hold back.
Blackstone studied the flat area. ‘Build three fires here. Four men with me. Meulon, pick your men for your position. John Jacob and I stay here in the centre.’ He beckoned Will Longdon. ‘Will, you and Halfpenny place your archers as I told you. Make your marks on the open ground. Know your shooting distance or we’ll fall under your arrows. We’ll draw him in and snap shut the trap. Gilbert, choose your ground.’
Killbere drew his sword and struck it into the ground. ‘This is where I will be when they come.’ He pointed to one of the mounted men, Ralph Tait. ‘Get the horses to the flank for those of us acting as bait. Keep them saddled. Post three men to guard them.’
‘Aye, Sir Gilbert.’
‘And a dozen men to gather wood. Dry wood and green fern. We need to dampen the fires so they smoulder till first light and fool the bastards.’
Within minutes they had deployed the men. Blackstone, Killbere, John Jacob and four other men would huddle around the fires soon to be lit while the archers and the rest of the men would spend a chill night huddled in their positions waiting for the expected dawn attack.
‘Gabriel!’ Blackstone called, beckoning the spearmen to him. The young man quickly dismounted.
‘You know what you have to do,’ said Blackstone.
‘I do, my lord.’
‘Take only a blanket roll and a small sack of provisions. Strip off your mail, weapons and jupon and wear that cloak Henry found for you. It’s threadbare enough to belong to a humble pilgrim.’
‘I have not seen Henry since we arrived here, my lord. I have no cloak.’
Blackstone looked among the men as they moved into position. His heart lurched. ‘Henry!’ he called. There was no response. Blackstone strode away from LaFargue. ‘Henry!’ he bellowed again.
Meulon reined in his horse. ‘Sir Thomas, he dismounted and went into the trees. Said he had to relieve himself.’
‘He’s not pissing up against a tree, I’ll wager that,’ Killbere muttered, barely able to hide his grin. ‘God’s tears, he’s taken Gabriel’s place.’
Blackstone cursed. ‘John, find him! Go left.’
John Jacob spurred his horse.
‘Meulon,
search the track at the bottom of the meadow. See if he’s turned back on himself. He knows we’ll follow him so he’ll lay a false trail. He’s wily enough to do that.’ Blackstone turned to Killbere. ‘I’ll thrash him, Gilbert. I swear I will. I’ll lock the disobedient whelp in a monastery and throw away the key.’
Killbere snorted. ‘Aye, and end up with a sodomized scribe with snot permanently dripping as he wastes his life hunched over a manuscript. No, Thomas. The lad has courage. And if he survives, then we should let him fight at our side. It’s time for that.’
Blackstone fought the anger at his son’s disobedience. He felt the pulse in his neck slow. ‘If he survives,’ he murmured.
*
Henry Blackstone ran hard. He had several miles to cover before the bell rang for evening prayer. Cateline had described the castle in fine detail and he knew Babeneaux had a chapel within the walls and a priest to lead prayers and administer the sacraments. Henry’s blanket roll was tied with rope across his back and he carried a small sack of provisions, as would any pilgrim. He pushed through the undergrowth; a low branch caught his face and he felt its cat’s claw scratch across his cheek. That too would serve its purpose when he was questioned. Animal tracks criss-crossed through fern and bramble and he chose a narrow path not wide enough for forest boar and trusted his knowledge of forest lore which told him he was heading south and east. Lichen clung to one side of the trees and low light filtered through the branches over his shoulder. He stopped, gathered his breath and listened past the thud of his heart in his ears. He half turned his head, closed his eyes and let the woodland sounds settle in his mind’s eye. Far behind to one side was the unmistakable sound of a horse crashing through the undergrowth. It was moving away from him. Had he run directly east then the rider would have already been on him but he had traversed in a wide loop, deliberately heading in the wrong direction. His breathing settled, he crouched, looked through the trees in the fading light and let his eyes focus on the trees twenty paces ahead; then he shifted his gaze another twenty, and another, and so on until his eyes penetrated the forest more than a hundred paces ahead. The way was clear. The animal track would take him beyond the trees where he hoped to find a cart track. The villagers must have a route from the cut meadow to their hamlet and from there he would be close to the castle.