Gate of the Dead

by David Gilman

  She had spoken quietly, as if not wishing others in the shadows to hear, or notice the roughly dressed man who had entered the brothel.

  Blackstone listened for any intrusion from the street, but the gang of malcontents had passed by. ‘Where am I?’ he asked the woman.

  She raised an eyebrow and glanced to where a middle-aged man lay on a narrow bed with a woman straddling him. The dim light caught the sheen of sweat on his balding head and the dewdrop of sweat from her breasts.

  ‘I know what this place is, but where am I in the city?’ he said.

  ‘A stranger? Up to no good? Are you a cut-purse or do you have business on a farm stall?’ she answered, taking a step back, her voice taunting him.

  She faltered at Blackstone’s silence; his gaze frightened her. She pulled the drape across her breasts, holding it at her throat. ‘You are beneath the walls of the ancient city.’

  ‘How close am I to the church that shows Christ with the angels?’

  She almost sneered. ‘You’re a pilgrim? And you end up in here? We can show you paradise, stranger.’

  Blackstone snatched her arm and pulled her to him; the silk fell noiselessly to the floor. She was close enough now to see his scarred face. ‘Where is it?’ he whispered. Oil lamps were being lit, the cellar becoming brighter and the shadows more threatening as others realized there was an intruder.

  She gave in quickly, her arrogance crushed by fear. ‘The Church of San Frediano is the only one... I think...’ she muttered.

  ‘Where?’

  She seemed confused. Men of God, or those who sought His comfort in a church, were usually more meek than threatening. ‘Follow the streets opposite... to the right... and then you will see the city walls... then keep going to your left. It’s there.’

  He released his grip; she stepped back fearfully and bent to pick up the silk drape. When she raised her head he was gone.

  *

  Blackstone sensed he was nearing the church that gave sanctuary to the priest. He used the shadows and alleys like an animal wary of danger that could leap out at any corner but he was unaware of the black-cloaked figure who had followed him since he entered the city. The cloaked man’s fist rested on his sword’s hilt.

  As the sun arced its way across the clay-tiled roofs and its rays sought out the darkened squares, Blackstone stepped into the brilliance of a broad piazza. Stallholders clung to its edges as crowds jostled to buy food from their tables. Men and women dressed in fine clothes of colourful silk, some escorted by two or three personal bodyguards, strolled along another street that bisected the square. Beggars came and went among the crowds. Occasionally coins were dropped into the outstretched palm of one sprawled in a doorway. Charity was a fine thing. The rich only paid beggars so that their own sins in this life could be accounted for by the poor in the next. Those Lucchese with money gazed at the shops cut into the walls, the T-shaped narrow doors, flanked on each side by an unglazed window displaying their wares. A shopkeeper stood back in the cool shadows, hands clasped in gratitude as one of the wealthy citizens entered the doorway.

  Blackstone stayed in the narrow alley at the corner of the piazza, taking in all that went on before him. Nothing seemed out of place, but it was the perfect ambush site. Across the piazza the gleaming white limestone church stood squarely before him. Above its pillared entrance was a magnificent mosaic façade, rich in hues of gold and blue, that spanned the upper width of the church. It showed the Ascension of Christ flanked by two angels and beneath his feet the twelve disciples.

  It was two hundred arrow-long paces to the church’s door.

  He waited.

  A man at one of the stalls bent down to lift a copper pot. With barely a tilt of his head his eyes looked in Blackstone’s direction. When he straightened, his gaze went past the woman customer extending her hand with money.

  Blackstone glanced left.

  Two men stood examining pockmarked pewter plates. But their faces had turned away the moment their glances met. Hands reached beneath cloaks. These were the professionals. They would have paid others less able to strike first.

  It was a trap. It needed no prediction from his friends. He expected it.

  Three, then. Were there more?

  Christ’s eyes gazed down with benevolence. Reach out and ascend to the glory of my Father’s house, he seemed to implore.

  Blackstone kissed the silver goddess.

  If there were more assassins waiting he could not identify them.

  Cut a clear path through the crowd, he told himself. Halfway, sidestep to the right; the copper-pot stallholder was the closest.

  Kill him first.

  The others would rush him. The crowd would scatter. Chaos. Go down on one knee and strike upwards. Gut the second man low. Hamstring the third. Panic would do the rest.

  Blackstone had to reach the Church of San Frediano and its sanctuary.

  He strode into the piazza and felt the sun’s warmth. The glare from the pale stonework creased his eyes. He gripped his knife, holding it down at his side.

  There were five assassins waiting to kill him.

  6

  Blackstone eased himself through the milling crowd, edging his shoulder towards the stallholders on the right-hand side of the piazza. The heavy church door was open to allow the citizens of Lucca access to pray. The darkness that lay within might conceal those wishing to cause him harm, but it was more likely that the killers would ply their trade outside the sacred place.

  Out of the corner of his eye he saw the furthest two men ease their way into the crowd from his left-hand side, and the man who had pretended to sell the copper pot was already less than six paces away, his eyes intent upon his victim. That alone marked him as an amateur, unused to killing with stealth. A common thug hired to do a butcher’s work.

  The other two assassins still had to negotiate the shuffling crowds, but Blackstone knew the moment he killed the first man they would rush him – but that too would aid him. They would be forced to push people aside and be hindered by them – and he would kill them easily.

  The first man bared his teeth, his body turned slightly, left shoulder forward, ready to strike upwards with the knife held low in his right hand. Blackstone turned his back on the other two men and pushed himself into his attacker. His left hand grasped the man’s wrist in a crushing grip before he could strike, and in the instant before he plunged his knife into the man’s ribs, piercing lungs and heart, he saw his eyes widen in surprise that his attack had been foiled and in pain as the bones in his hands cracked from the strength of the man he had come to kill. A stonemason’s grip.

  Blackstone embraced the body, letting the dying man slip onto the ground, and then twisted to meet the rush of the attack coming from behind him. For a few moments there was no reaction from the crowd: a man had fallen; another eased him to the ground. They stepped around Blackstone and the dead man; it was only when the other two killers began to push their way through that people called out in alarm and warning. By then Blackstone was on one knee, letting the first man stumble over him as if caught by undergrowth. Blackstone lunged, slashing the man’s hamstring; he crumpled to the ground screaming in agony as he dropped his weapon and clutched at the wounded leg. His shrieks were quickly silenced as Blackstone’s knife went into the hollow of his throat.

  Now those immediately around Blackstone realized that there was killing being done. Cries and shouts of panic spread across the square as people milled, not knowing which way to turn to escape. Blackstone was already pulling a woman aside as the second man swept down his sword. He had used both hands, a high guard above his right shoulder, but the momentum that carried him forward made his strike clumsy. Blackstone sidestepped, his knife now in his left hand, and, as the man passed him less than an arm’s length away, let his blade and the man’s own momentum do their work. The man’s throat was cut, blood spurted; he dropped the sword and grasped the pulsing wound as he staggered and fell and then squirmed, gurgling, gazing
upwards, seeing the vision of Christ beckoning him.

  The chaos spread like the plague. Blackstone moved towards the church. He made no attempt to run, as he had no desire to alert any witnesses to his escape. He suddenly caught a glimpse of a gaunt-faced man who swirled past him feet away – his black cape billowing with an embroidered blazon on its back that looked like the symbol of an axe with a pointed shaft. He checked his stride, turned and saw the cloaked man wield his sword. Beyond him, a burly man, leather apron pulled tight across his broad body and the look of a blacksmith about him: thickset bare forearms; face pitted with soot; a gnarled hand clutching a falchion raised ready to strike, its short, curved cutting blade a weapon to hack and maim. He was less than six paces away and, had the swirl of the cape not caught his eye, Blackstone’s back would have been towards the assailant.

  The gaunt man braced, drew back his sword on the barrel-chested man. It was a simple killing. The blade rammed into the man from below his heart, the sudden agony throwing back his head, eyes wide, falchion clattering onto the paved square. Blackstone’s mystery saviour quickly withdrew his blade, turned to Blackstone. His eyes darted over Blackstone’s shoulder in warning. Blackstone spun, instinctively sidestepped and saw the fifth assassin. He was little more than a youth and fear and desperation creased his face. His clothes were threadbare; the long-bladed knife he wielded might have been fine for slicing meat for the stew pot, but useless in a struggle. Then Blackstone fell heavily, his feet slipping in blood. The boy slashed down, yelling to give himself courage as Blackstone twisted away.

  The black cloak smothered his vision as the Samaritan stepped over him. Blackstone saw the blade strike the boy, heard a pitiful whimper of pain that was a final exhalation of breath.

  Blackstone stood and faced the stranger who had saved his life. The man’s wiry frame belied his strength and agility. Gaunt cheekbones projected below brown eyes of a piercing intensity. Whoever this man was he was older than Blackstone, closer in age to Killbere. Fighters who had angels at their back had either the devil or God in their hearts.

  ‘Hurry,’ the man said and turned for the church.

  *

  The small door into the church gave way to a cavernous, vaulted interior. The piazza’s glaring heat and the blood that flooded across the pale stones were banished. The cool embrace of the ancient church suddenly chilled Blackstone. Stools and benches were few. Prayer here meant that most worshippers would feel the hardness of the flagstones on their knees. Penance was delivered with ease. The gloom gave way to darkness in the side chapels from which the altar’s muted light beckoned. The church was empty except for an elderly woman who knelt in prayer. When she heard the scuff of boots and the closing of the door, she turned, saw the two men, made the sign of the cross and, pulling her shawl further over her face, shuffled away, leaving Blackstone and his Samaritan alone.

  Blackstone’s saviour unclipped his scabbard and prostrated himself full length before the altar. Blackstone could now clearly see the emblem blazoned on the cloak, but still did not recognize the woven double-bladed axe with its pointed shaft. He waited, still wary, letting his eyes adjust. From slashing assault to a house of sanctuary was little more than a dozen paces. Was anyone waiting in the shadows, knife in hand, willing to risk excommunication for the mortal sin of murder in a church?

  The black-cloaked swordsman got to his feet and stepped away towards a marble font. He waited, scabbard point to the floor, hands resting on the pommel of his sword, like a tomb’s guardian. His eyes, though, stayed on Blackstone.

  No sound of movement reached Blackstone. He wiped the blood from his hands across his tunic; then he took a dozen paces from the entrance where he knelt and crossed himself, glancing at the silent Samaritan. He would not prostrate himself – to kneel before the unseen God was humility enough when assassins lurked. From the darkness someone whispered his name. Blackstone turned and saw the familiar figure of Father Niccolò Torellini emerge from a side chapel beyond the pillars.

  Torellini was the proof that Fate had entwined an English King, a French lord and an Italian priest with influence. Blackstone had learnt, years after the event, that this had been the same man of God who had cradled his mutilated body on the field at Crécy. After the battle Blackstone had been given into the care of Jean de Harcourt and trained as a man-at-arms, and then he and his family had been hunted by mercenaries led by Gilles de Marcy – the Savage Priest. It was Torellini who had given Blackstone’s family safe passage to the Pope at Avignon, and in return Blackstone accepted the task of warning the Prince of Wales that he and his exhausted army would stand alone against the might of the French King. Much good it did the French. Sir Gilbert Killbere, Elfred, Will Longdon and the others had stood at Blackstone’s shoulder and, despite the odds, defeated the French at Poitiers.

  ‘Thomas,’ the old man whispered again, a sigh of both gratitude and relief. He barely came up to Blackstone’s chest, but he took the Englishman’s arms and Blackstone lowered his scarred face to be kissed on each cheek.

  ‘I knew you would come,’ he said, and led Blackstone further into the cool shadows. The silent guardian followed twenty paces behind.

  Father Torellini eased Blackstone onto a bench.

  ‘Here, sit here, Thomas. I prayed for your safety.’ His eyes settled on the silver image of the figure with outstretched arms that hung around Blackstone’s neck. ‘You still pray to a pagan goddess,’ he said, though not as a criticism.

  Blackstone smiled. ‘I see her as one of God’s angels.’

  ‘Good answer. One day I will believe you,’ said Torellini and waited for Blackstone’s inevitable question.

  Blackstone half turned so he could watch the swordsman. The man remained expressionless, but Blackstone’s instinct told him that if a shadow moved or a breath of air touched his cheek, the sword would be in his hand.

  ‘Who is he?’ Blackstone asked.

  ‘His name is Fratello Stefano Caprini. He is here to ensure that you live long enough to embrace your destiny.’

  ‘He saved my life. There were two assassins I hadn’t seen. He’s your man? A soldier of Florence?’

  ‘He’s God’s man. A warrior of the Lord. You saw his coat of arms?’

  ‘The axe? Yes,’ Blackstone answered, though there was a nagging memory that he had seen it before.

  ‘It is not an axe, Thomas. It is the Tau. A symbol of the letter that was the first word of Christ. He is one of the Cavalieri del Tau. A military order of hospitallers. These fratelli care for pilgrims and the sick.’

  ‘And outlawed Englishmen,’ Blackstone said. Then he remembered a time when he and his men had come across a dead Franciscan monk found after a routiers’ raid, butchered and staked to a tree. Around his ankle was a piece of twisted hemp that bore a small wooden cross similar in design. It had been of no significance to the killers, but Blackstone had noticed it when they buried him. He nodded in thanks to the swordsman, but got no response.

  ‘Why did you send for me?’ asked Blackstone.

  7

  Samuel Cracknell lay hidden in a room of a merchant’s house in Lucca. He had sailed from England several weeks earlier, bound for Genoa, from where he would be given safe passage to Florence. There he was to seek out Father Torellini who served the Italian banker, Rodolfo Bardi, friend and lender to the English Crown. The priest would ensure that word reached Sir Thomas Blackstone and Sergeant-at-arms Cracknell would then deliver the message whose wax seal bore the arms of Edward, King of England.

  The ship, an unwieldy cog, almost foundered, but the ship’s master saved his vessel, only to lose it when two enemy Pisan ships appeared. The feud between Pisa, Florence and Genoa was an ongoing conflict and although Genoa traded with the world, Pisa ruled the southern waters of the Tyrrhenian Sea. Cracknell had thrown his cloak and tunic, bearing the insignia of a messenger from the court of Edward III, King of England, into the churning sea when the ship was seized west of Genoa. By a miracle his captors did not
find the folded parchment he carried or the gold coin sewn into a hem. Cracknell lied to save his life, telling them he was a servant to an English wool merchant, travelling to Genoa to secure a contract and that his letters of authority had been lost in the storm. He bore no emblem or ring of office; he displayed no obvious signs of wealth; he was worth no ransom. It was a grave risk, but one that had to be taken. Had he admitted his true status they would have tortured him and discovered that he carried a letter for the English condottiere contracted by Florence who secured the mountain roads between Florence and Pisa. He risked death because he was worthless to them, unless they sold him into slavery. Every minute he still drew breath would offer him a chance to escape.

  The ship’s master knew his identity and could have traded the secret for his own safety, but when his captors decided Cracknell was worthless – and moments before they pulled a knife across his throat – the seaman cursed the sons of whores who lived like sea lice feasting on unarmed merchantmen and head-butted the nearest Pisan guard. It cost him his life but it gave Cracknell the chance he needed. He leapt overboard and made good his escape. The crossbow bolt that struck his shoulder was a lucky shot; falling at the end of its trajectory and weakened by the distance, it penetrated his shoulder muscle but lacked the force to shatter bones and sever vital arteries. Desperation drove him inland, where finally his wounds and exhaustion left him crumpled by the roadside.

  The vagaries of fate might have left him to die where carrion crows would soon feed on him, but he was found by devout Christians, servants of a Lucchese merchant travelling home, who dressed his wounds and took him to their master.

  The silk merchant, Oliviero Dantini, faced a dilemma. He found the sealed message, wrapped in a pig’s bladder to keep it dry, stitched into the man’s clothing. His fingers barely resisted the urge to slit open the folded parchment and violate the royal seal. But a lifetime of deliberation stopped him. He fingered the shiny document, smelling its musk of sweat and salt and the subtle aroma of ink.