by David Gilman
‘The summer.’
‘And you will ride at his side?’
‘I go where I must.’
‘And will I see you again?’ she asked.
‘That’s not in my hands.’
Her hand rested gently on his chest. It was as intimate a gesture as could be tolerated in public. ‘And what of you, Thomas? Are you to stay fighting until you are killed or crippled? Your Italian priest has influence. Come to Avignon.’
Blackstone graciously raised her hand to his lips. The scent of rosemary still clung to her skin. ‘Goodbye, my lady. A few more days and you’ll be safe. I owe you an apology for any harsh words. My heart is not free even for a beautiful woman like you. Forgive me.’
‘I would share my domain, Thomas. Two are stronger than one.’
‘My duty and my future lie elsewhere.’
Her smile of regret was genuine. There had always been a flicker of hope that Thomas Blackstone would change his mind. ‘Then don’t abandon your son, Thomas. You send him to a place of learning but he must hide behind his mother’s name.’
‘It’s something he understands. My name draws blood.’
She watched him join Killbere, John Jacob and Will Longdon. He placed a hand on his son’s shoulder. The boy nodded at whatever words of encouragement his father said to him. The four men rode down the cobbled yard to the gates.
She willed him to turn in the saddle for a final glance.
Blackstone didn’t look back.
She could not know that he never did.
*
Von Plauen had watched the exchange between Blackstone and Cateline. He swallowed the bile on his tongue. Confusion clouded his thoughts. Was she a common whore sent to ensnare whoever could be drawn into her web? Was she as vulnerable as he thought her to be, and was that why she had once yielded to a common man like Blackstone – if camp gossip was to be believed? He would wait, he decided, until Avignon, and then he would approach her when a suitable moment presented itself. He would offer himself and ask for her hand in marriage. He was poor but could give her the protection she needed. Her lands would be a suitable place for a disgraced Teutonic Knight.
Fearful that his comrades could read his thoughts, he turned to look where they were practising the slow deliberate movements of their sword skills. What he intended meant abandoning the brotherhood and his vows. God would surely punish him. But not before he had supped from the devil’s chalice.
CHAPTER FIFTY-TWO
Several days after Blackstone reached Dome, a coach’s iron-rimmed wheels jolted across the paved Grand’Rue in Paris. Steam plumed from the brace of horses hauling the carriage bearing a worried Simon Bucy. France was slipping into dangerous times again. The peace treaty with King Edward brought little hope of what was once the greatest country in Christendom ever reclaiming its rightful status in power, learning and culture. The French King had courage but not wisdom. He preferred peace to war and had fought bravely but not skilfully enough. The warrior King Edward had bled France and his son and the wolves who fought for him had ripped out her soul with their savagery. When the Teutonic Knights had sought the Englishman, Bucy thought the Germans with their single-minded desire might succeed where the King, the Dauphin and he had failed to destroy the scourge. News had reached Paris that Sarlat had fallen. He had been pleased when the assertive Gaillard de Miremont had taken matters into his own hands and rooted out the self-serving Gisbert de Dome right under the nose of the English seneschal, William Felton. What had gone wrong? The English had regained the town and reinstated Gisbert de Dome. The French court could not lodge any protest because of the treaty but at least for a moment French defiance and courage had retrieved its honour. So who had killed de Miremont? No one knew. Mercenaries most likely. Gisbert de Dome had sided with them before and it was likely he had sided with them again, but how reliable was the rumour that it was Thomas Blackstone? The nagging doubt lay heavily on Bucy’s mind like the mist blanketing the Seine. If it was Blackstone, what was he doing south of Poitiers? The English were still caught up in the Breton war. Thomas Blackstone should be in the Breton marches supporting John de Montfort. South? What was south of Brittany that might draw Blackstone there? Bucy could find no reason to believe it was Blackstone who had released Gisbert de Dome. But unless a traitor behind the walls of Sarlat had opened the gates to mercenaries who else would have dared?
To Bucy’s lawyer’s mind this was not proof that it was Blackstone, but Bucy’s instincts had helped him survive during the uprising in Paris and many years in the French Parlement. And at times instincts were more reliable than logic. He gazed out at the Paris streets, less crowded now that the winter air clung to a man’s beard and clothes like moss to a tree. December was almost upon them, heralding a harsh winter and months of biting winds along the Seine. Bucy tugged his cloak tighter around his neck, yet it was not the cold that gnawed at him. His reputation as an authoritarian had marked him to be killed when the insurrection had taken place less than five years before and the chill of fear had never left him. Losing his suburban mansions at Vaugirard, Issy and Viroflay had cost him a fortune and he had never again trusted the population of Paris and the surrounding countryside. Since the terror he had ridden in a coach to and from his new mansion. Inclement weather and court duties were convenient excuses for him both to stop riding openly and to mask his fear. The guards who rode on the carriage were hand-picked. They would protect him should a disgruntled peasant be prepared to throw his life away by attacking the King’s trusted senior adviser. That cushion of safety was his daily comfort. Matters of state, however, caused him greater concern.
These days the King was seldom in Paris; since his return from Avignon he spent most days at his country palace at Vincennes. The sharp-witted Dauphin – who had denied the English King a crushing military victory by staying safely behind the city walls when his father was imprisoned in England and had bargained hard when they drew up the treaty – now seemed more interested in his plans for the future of the Louvre as a royal palace. So Bucy had shouldered many state decisions he felt unnecessary to take to the King or the Dauphin, and that was why he had not told either about the Teutonic Knights and their desire to hunt down Blackstone and the Welsh mercenary. He had heard nothing more of the Germans but had prayed fervently that the pagan-slayers had stumbled upon the scar-faced Englishman who had wreaked havoc on the kingdom. He sighed: so much was beyond his control. The exception being the benefits from his influential position at court.
The previous week he had attended a dinner at a wealthy merchant’s house and had been fed more than fine food. The Crown needed the support and money of the city’s richest, and the wealthy desired patronage. Informality was the key to favours gained and granted. And information. Traders, clerics and pilgrims who travelled the highways across France collected intelligence that was of value. Knowledge could be as powerful as a killer’s sword. Or an assassin’s dagger. And it was word of an assassination that had been confided to Bucy. A killing planned by a woman. What the merchant had heard from the south confirmed a nagging concern that Bucy had had for some weeks about a noblewoman who had repeatedly tried to gain access to the court. Officials had informed him about a woman who had tried hard to gain favour by selling information. She wanted a hearing, had begged an audience with the King, but officials had turned her away. She had persisted in seeking a meeting with the Dauphin and was denied again. The governance of France had more pressing matters than another aggrieved widow, women who were as common and numerous as roadside weeds. Yet it was her name that had chimed. Bucy knew it, but at the time could not place it and so gave it no more thought. Until now when the merchant had passed on the information.
And as a heavy key turns in a lock until the tumblers mesh it all fell into place. He knew who she was. A frisson of anxiety rippled through him. Whom was she going to assassinate? And where?
CHAPTER FIFTY-THREE
Beyard the Gascon captain watched the four horsemen ap
proach across the open ground. He had waited a week, knowing there was no more he could do to aid Blackstone. Behind the walls of the bastide 376 men were camped. Most were Gascons; others from Navarre and Castile had filtered down from the mountains and sought employment with the promise of booty. He hoped the weather would hold long enough for them to fight before storms swept across the land. Blackstone’s reputation for fighting through the winter when others stayed behind city walls was well known but it took its toll on men’s strength and if any of these men Beyard had recruited thought it too arduous, then they would desert even Blackstone.
Blackstone rode through the gates with John Jacob and Will Longdon. The bastide’s small square was cramped but the gathered men stood when they saw him.
‘Beyard, it took me longer to reach you than I thought. Any trouble keeping them here?’ said Blackstone, dismounting and tying off the bastard horse whose ears pricked and head reared at the closeness of the crowds of men.
‘A few fights. One man dead. I hanged his killer; he wasn’t a Gascon so nothing more took hold.’
‘You’ve done well, my friend. Keeping these men behind the walls like rats in a sack was bound to cause violence. Did you find the Welshman?’
‘I did. He wouldn’t come here, said the place was too easy to breach. He trusts no one.’
‘It’s what I expected,’ said Blackstone. ‘Do we know where he is?’
‘A few miles from here.’
‘Good. We need him. You have news of Armagnac?’
Beyard took out a piece of folded parchment tucked under his belt. It was grubby and ink-stained. ‘My scouts have been shadowing him for days. When they reported back I had a scribe write the names of whose pennons they saw. I thought you might need it when you get to Foix. Armagnac’s drawn a multitude to his cause, Sir Thomas.’
Blackstone looked at the list of feudal lords who had rallied to the Count d’Armagnac’s side. A quick calculation of how many men each knight would have with him made it plain they were outnumbered by a significant number. ‘How many archers do we have?’
Beyard grimaced. ‘A handful. Welsh mostly. Belligerent bastards. They rode with ap Madoc and didn’t like his discipline. They deserted him and joined others on the road. I found them with some Gascon men raiding south. They like the sound of money in a purse as much as their own voices. Whores and wine quieten them down and keep them poor. But I must tell you, Sir Thomas, there’s a hard bastard among them who raises his voice and causes trouble.’
‘Take me to him after I’ve spoken to the men.’ He strode up a couple of steps that led to the wall and turned to face the crowded square. A murmur rose from the crowd. They quietened.
‘You men have fought hard for lords, princes and kings. When the war ended so did your usefulness. Some of you are sworn men to the Captal de Buch and because of it you have answered my call. Others have sold their swords because that is the way a fighting man survives. I fought for Florence against the Visconti: perhaps we faced each other once as enemies. Now we fight the French. Again. This is no skirmish. A battle looms against thousands of men and you will stand shoulder to shoulder with men of Foix, with Gascon, English, Castilian, Navarrese and—’
‘You place us Welsh below the standing of Navarrese?’ a voice interrupted from the crowd.
Laughter rippled through them; anger blossomed from others.
‘A country so insulted should look to where I place Englishmen. Neither above or below but at the core of proud fighters. Have I have eased your sense of offence?’
‘A barber-surgeon can heal a wound but an insult, well, I’d say that takes money.’
A cheer of support rose from the men.
Blackstone raised a hand and quietened them. ‘I have promised you payment in the King’s name. I have his writ. But we can seize a greater wealth. The Count of Armagnac brings his vassals to the fight. Fealty lords, families of great wealth. Monlezun, Frezensaguet, d’Aure, de la Barthe and a dozen more besides. The noble Lords Terride, Falga and Aspet. Every one will have his own men with him. Every one will beat the drum in their attempt to send terror into your heart. Their banners and pennons will fill the sky. They will outnumber us but they do not have the urge to kill us as much as we wish to kill them. Defeat them and the ransoms and booty will send you back to your farms, families or whorehouses with more money than you can spend in a lifetime.’
A roar boomed through the bastide. A flock of crows cawed in alarm and flapped away. Blackstone stepped down to the cheers of the gathered men.
‘There’s that much plunder?’ said Killbere quietly as they followed Beyard through the crowd that parted.
‘How would I know? They’re noblemen, aren’t they? Do you think these men will fight as hard if there’s no reward?’
The crowd broke up and by the time Beyard led Blackstone and the others into one of the long buildings the Welsh archers were already inside. Cooking fires burned; blackened iron pots hung suspended over the embers. There were no windows and the only light came from torches hooked into iron holders on the walls. The room stank of sweat and smoke and damp straw used for bedding. The Welshmen’s bows were encased in their wax bags and given more care than the scurvy-looking archers. The bags were laid on unused apple racks.
Blackstone picked his way through to where a broken-faced man as big as himself stood. His cloak was almost rags; he had a blanket over his shoulders. He spat through his matted beard when he saw Blackstone walk towards him. He was the man who had jeered in the square. The archer’s knife in his hand was ripping open a sack to tie to his worn boots. Its scraped edge showed its razor sharpness.
‘The great Lord Blackstone,’ said the man sarcastically.
Blackstone punched him square in the face. The blow rocked him off his heels and threw him against the wall. The blow flattened his hooked nose; blood poured into his beard. Dazed, his eyes tried to focus on the man who loomed over him.
‘Don’t interrupt me when I speak,’ said Blackstone. He turned to the men, who had recoiled from the sudden violence. ‘Get him up.’
Those men nearest quickly obeyed but the burly archer pushed them away and clambered upright. He stood trembling with rage at the humiliation.
‘The next time I’ll kill you,’ said Blackstone. ‘Understood?’
The archer looked confused but then nodded. Thomas Blackstone was not a man to challenge.
‘Your name?’
‘Meuric Kynith,’ he said, and then quickly added, ‘my lord.’
Blackstone pointed to Will Longdon. ‘This man is my centenar. He is Master Will Longdon. He fought at Morlaix, Sluys, Crécy and Poitiers and every other conflict with me. You will show him respect. He will command all my archers. My ventenar is Jack Halfpenny.’
‘And who will command the Welsh among us, my lord?’ said Kynith.
‘You will be their ventenar even though there are over twenty of you.’
Kynith’s chin tilted, the honour not lost on him. ‘Aye. We will serve you well, Sir Thomas.’
‘You deserted Gruffydd ap Madoc,’ said Blackstone. ‘I know him. We fought at Crécy together when I was a boy. This man is Sir Gilbert Killbere; he went under a French warhorse fighting at ap Madoc’s side. I will have no ill will between you and ap Madoc.’
‘The ill will comes from him, my lord. He did not pay us; we live in rags and without a denier to buy nourishing food. An archer needs his strength. He threatened to have his men slaughter us if we complained further.’
Blackstone pulled his purse from his belt and tossed it to the ragged man. ‘His debt is now mine.’
Meuric Kynith went down on one knee; the archers followed his example. ‘Thank you, Sir Thomas.’
‘Don’t thank me yet: my archers need more courage than most. I ask much of them. And many of you will die in the battle. If you are too drunk to fight I will flog you. If you kill each other over whores I will hang you. Such men are of no use to me. I value my bowmen and I will not lose one throu
gh drunken excess. Understand?’
A murmur of assent rippled through the kneeling men.
‘And why have archers not killed for the pot?’ said Blackstone.
‘There’s no game, my lord,’ said Kynith. ‘The men who swept ahead of us have slaughtered every creature that walks or flies and raided every grain store in every village. Gruffydd ap Madoc hordes supplies.’
Blackstone turned to Beyard. ‘What do we have here?’
‘Enough for a few days.’
‘Distribute it to all the men. Get them fed. We must travel hard and fast.’
‘Sir Thomas, what of the journey ahead?’ said Beyard.
‘Do as I say. I’ll get supplies.’
Blackstone and the others turned back through the archers and as he passed each one they dipped their head and spoke his name respectfully.
CHAPTER FIFTY-FOUR
Gruffydd ap Madoc spat out gristle from the meat he was chewing and then wiped the back of his hand across his mouth. Animal fat smeared his beard.
‘You are an intensely irritating man, Thomas Blackstone. You come into a man’s home and insult him at his table. And you, Killbere, you goat-smelling old bastard, you still stand at his side.’
Blackstone and Killbere, with John Jacob and Will Longdon, had followed Beyard to where the Welshman held court on the high ground in a hilltop town half a day’s ride from the bastide.
‘A hovel more than a home, you uncouth son of a whore. And your table manners are worse than a wild pig snouting through the forest,’ said Killbere.
‘Gilbert, I should have left you under that horse in the mud at Crécy. Now, Thomas, you make demands on a man who has settled himself for winter and who is thinking again about the proposition you sent.’
‘You have what I need, you knew I was coming, so I ask for it.’
Ap Madoc picked meat from his teeth and grunted. ‘Still, I have waited patiently. I was promised money. You have it?’