Gate of the Dead

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Gate of the Dead Page 11

by David Gilman


  What was also plain to see was that there were too many bad omens connected to this matter, a common opinion held by Blackstone’s captains. Nor was Blackstone immune from superstition. On his way to Lucca that day to meet the priest, a flock of crows had settled to peck grit from the roadside. These grey-backed harbingers of doom differed from the birds in England or France. Theirs was no cawing cry, but more of a growling warning. It gurgled in their throats, like a witch’s cackle. It was a warning he had heeded and his guard had been up. Now storm winds blew hard. By nightfall the lash of hail beat against the clay roofs.

  ‘I for one will be happy to leave this place,’ said Killbere, easing a log into the fireplace as the others sat around the long plank table eating their supper. ‘We’ve become little more than paid whores to rich merchants. We no longer fight an enemy, we skirmish and kill other whores who are paid by other rich bastards. There’s no glory to be had. There’s no sovereign to serve. Thomas, we should wrest ourselves from here. Be gone. Look how many administrators we are obliged to carry now. Tell the coin-counters and the bookkeepers and the clerks and the victuallers that they no longer have us as little more than names in their ledgers!’

  ‘Are we to take nearly a thousand men to England?’ John Jacob asked.

  ‘No, we are still contracted to Florence,’ said Blackstone.

  Killbere pushed himself back onto the bench, elbowing Elfred along. ‘A contract is only worth the paper it is written on. Our word and our loyalty lie with the King and if he has called for you to return then the way is clear. God, King and country, Thomas.’

  ‘I have no country, Gilbert. I am outlawed.’

  Meulon, who rarely offered an opinion, spoke up. ‘Sir Thomas, those of us here would not wish to be left behind if you think to go alone.’

  It was obvious he spoke for all at the table.

  ‘Gilbert, are there men in your opinion who could command in our absence?’ Blackstone asked.

  ‘A dozen or more. If any of us fell they would step forward. Ask anyone here – they will say the same. A captain dies and another must be able to take his place. It’s how we trained them.’

  ‘And if I take a hundred men, how many will desert?’

  The men looked among themselves.

  ‘No more than a few,’ said Longdon. ‘I have a handful of archers who would sell their souls. Each company has like-minded men.’

  ‘Pay them off and pay them well. Then choose thirty archers, and each captain ten men of your choice. Promote your best men to command those who stay. Our contract will not be forfeit.’

  ‘You’ve a plan for us then, Sir Thomas?’ Perinne asked, knowing there was no need for an answer.

  *

  Oliviero Dantini sat and waited for Blackstone’s proposition to be set before him. Father Torellini watched his nervousness, offering no sign of comfort or understanding of what he had endured. The hanging of the dwarf had been a terrible sight and he could easily see himself suffering the same plight if he was not circumspect about what he said and did. A deal was to be made, that had been clear when he was summoned from his quarters.

  ‘I’ve learnt that you not only commission ships for your trade from Pisa, but also from Genoa, who is their enemy,’ Blackstone said.

  ‘Of course; it is business,’ he answered nervously. ‘The Genoese sent mercenary crossbowmen to fight your King, Italian ships paid for by the French, but trade finds its own route.’

  ‘I want a hundred men taken to France. The Florentines cannot commission ships without alerting my enemies. You will pay for ships from Genoa.’

  Dantini swallowed hard. That would require a great outlay of money. His mind toyed with the options that were open to him. The Englishman could kill him without hesitation, but what purpose would that serve? So it was likely that if he could make a deal then he would live and might even make a profit. It would not be wise to agree and then betray Blackstone’s plans, because then the day would come when a knife would find his throat. Hire the ships then, use these men to escort a valuable cargo, because that would ensure his wealth would be protected. And then Torellini would send word secretly to the English court that the merchant of Lucca had not only saved the life of his messenger but also helped Blackstone and his men to return. A profit would be made and his reputation enhanced.

  His eyes flickered with the thoughts.

  ‘You know how this would benefit you,’ Father Torellini said.

  Had it been that obvious? He nodded. ‘I do. You and one hundred men,’ he said to Blackstone.

  *

  Blackstone took Father Torellini and the Tau knight to his men. ‘There are French and English knights and squires among our company. The men will vote on who shall lead them. Sir Gilbert knows of my plans. He will sail from Genoa to Marseilles and then ride on to Calais with a hundred men.’

  ‘My lord? And you?’ said Meulon.

  ‘I go overland,’ Blackstone answered, knowing his own misery at being aboard a turbulent ship would never be repeated if there was a choice to be had. ‘You and Gaillard will not be going to England.’

  Meulon’s bearded face crumpled. ‘You would leave us here?’

  ‘No. You travel with me and meet up with Sir Gilbert when I cross to England.’

  The Norman slapped the table. He could wish for nothing more.

  ‘Safer for two Normans to be in France and await my orders with the others,’ said Blackstone. ‘Fra Caprini will also ride with me, and John Jacob, and Will.’

  ‘North through Visconti territory? And then the Alps?’ Elfred said, unable to keep the doubt from his voice. What Blackstone proposed was almost impossible. ‘Most of the passes will be closed.’

  ‘The monks at the abbey will get us through, just as they did when they brought us here,’ Blackstone said.

  ‘Sir Thomas, that was autumn. Now, after the winter snows, it will be hard going.’

  ‘It can be done,’ Father Torellini said. ‘The monks keep the route clear. There are ropes spiked into the rock. If a man does not freeze to death he can get through.’

  Will Longdon forced a grin. ‘I don’t mind boats, Sir Thomas. A few bowmen might be useful aboard ship.’

  ‘The risk is great either way,’ Sir Gilbert told them. ‘Storm or blizzard, both can kill you just the same. And I’ve seen you flounder across many a river from the day we went into France. You have never yet learnt to swim. Your death is only of value if it’s in the service of your sworn lord.’

  ‘I don’t much like the cold, is all I was saying, Sir Gilbert,’ Longdon replied.

  ‘And you say too much too often,’ said Killbere. ‘You’ll go where you’re sent and you’ll keep your bow cord dry and your fletchings covered from the snow. God help Sir Thomas and those who travel with him, but your hunting skills might be all that stands between them and starvation.’

  ‘And Will can poach with the best of them,’ said Elfred.

  ‘And get himself hanged for it one day,’ said John Jacob.

  Caprini rolled out a map and laid his finger along a curving line that snaked through mountains and plains across the border into France. ‘The Via Francigena is the pilgrim route from Rome to Canterbury.’

  The men gathered closer to the map. Some of the territory they knew from their patrols and fighting with Florence’s enemies, but the route that Caprini traced was not familiar. It meandered along valleys and skirted towns, through deep forests and across what looked to be narrow ravines. Some of the place names they had heard of, particularly further north where the route would take them between mountains and sea.

  It would be an arduous journey. A laden army might travel twenty miles a day with a good road and plenty of sweat; a King’s messenger ninety if there were fresh horses every twenty miles or so. A pilgrim on foot could manage twelve miles or more a day. The men knew without asking that Blackstone would push them to cover the distance back to England in a month with good fortune on their side. It was sixty miles from Lucca t
o Aulla, and that would take them far enough north for the turn west and the hundred more to take Blackstone past Genoa through the mountains.

  ‘We separate at Genoa,’ said Blackstone. ‘Sir Gilbert takes the main force by ship to France; I’ll go through the mountains with half a dozen men and Fra Caprini as my guide.’

  ‘The fratelli of Tau are sworn to protect pilgrims on their journey,’ Father Torellini said, explaining to the others. ‘They know every turn. Sir Thomas could not be in safer hands.’

  Will Longdon snorted. ‘Aye, but if the Visconti hear of it Sir Thomas will be trapped on a mountain pass. Half a dozen men? What chance then?’

  ‘The fewer the better,’ Blackstone told him. ‘And there’s a rumour, already being whispered by servants of a certain merchant in Lucca, that one of the Englishmen killed in the piazza might be an outlaw called Blackstone. His body and that of other unnamed men who died that day have already gone into a communal grave, smothered in lime. It might hold off those still interested in my death, but they will watch those boarding the ships at Genoa.’

  ‘Well... I still foresee trouble,’ argued Will Longdon uncertainly. ‘A hundred men leaving without their sworn lord?’

  Gaillard looked pitifully at him. ‘Your brains are too near your arse. If Sir Thomas had been killed in Lucca then perhaps some of his men would return to France and England.’ He looked hopefully to the knights, trusting he was correct.

  Killbere gestured at Longdon. ‘It’s a fine day when a Norman has to explain a simple matter to an English archer.’

  Longdon bristled. ‘I understood it all, Sir Gilbert. Sometimes it’s important to see that others grasp it as well.’

  Caprini rolled up the canvas map. ‘We will not visit any town or village on this journey. We will rest and be fed at monasteries and abbeys along the way. There is more than one route on the Via Francigena. And I know them. I have sworn to take Sir Thomas through the mountains and across France to Canterbury.’

  Blackstone said, ‘We will not go north of Aulla on the Via Francigena. That takes us too close to the Visconti. Our enemies will be watching, but they wouldn’t dare strike against Genoa. Once past the city we will shadow the same road that brought us here using another pilgrims’ route. When we reach the Alps the Marquis de Montferrat will give us safe passage. And if my enemies believe I still live, then when a hundred men set sail they will think I am aboard.’

  Killbere tapped the map. ‘Gascony is ours, Calais is ours. Once Sir Thomas is in England we will wait under English protection for our orders.’

  Blackstone looked at each of his captains. He saw their concern for the venture, but they had never been unwilling to go forward into danger. It was not possible for such men to refuse.

  *

  Father Torellini blessed them as they prepared to leave. Saddle panniers, blanket rolls and personal weapons were all they carried. Each wore a cloak over his tunic and a helm and shield strapped to his horse’s pommel. Those who would travel beyond Genoa and across the mountains took no pack mules for provisions. With favourable roads and a relentless journey Blackstone and his escort should reach Calais in little over a month’s time – if he was not discovered. Now that Dantini had agreed to engage the ships he would be taken with Killbere as surety for the ship’s commission. Blackstone had permitted the dwarf’s body to be taken down and buried and now his business at Cardetto was almost finished. The captains were chosen; Elfred would remain as master of archers. He made no objection to being left behind. He could still draw a war bow along with the best of men, gristle and muscle had not deserted him, but he was better suited for command now that old wounds and age hampered him from making a strenuous journey. There was to be no man taken who would slow their pace.

  Father Torellini took Blackstone aside. ‘Thomas, you will arrive in England not knowing why you have been summoned. Englishmen have already tried to kill you here – who knows what alliances have been formed or who wishes to claim your death?’ He looked across at the gathered men who waited for their sworn lord. ‘You have often survived because God has willed it. And no doubt you believe your pagan goddess has shielded you from greater harm. But you have always looked forward and seen the lie of the land and then chosen your place to fight. Now you must look to the future because your enemies will be hidden from you and you must find a way to kill them before they kill you.’

  Blackstone ruffled the donkey’s ears; the sturdy beast would carry Father Niccolò home to Florence. He gathered the reins for the priest. ‘They will make themselves known one way or another. If it is in combat I will have a chance; if it is an assassin I may not.’

  Torellini took the reins and placed his hand on Wolf Sword’s hilt. ‘Thomas, when you were close to death at Crécy you clutched this sword to your chest. None could prise it from your grip. Now the years have run by like the wolf mark etched on its blade. The half-cut silver penny pressed into its pommel is a memento of your wife – these are unyielding strengths that you carry, but your sword may not be enough to save you in the future. Perhaps now is not the time, but you must look to those who serve you, those who are closest to you, and ask yourself who might be prepared to betray you as I was betrayed.’

  Blackstone looked uncertainly at the priest, and then to his escort. Meulon and Gaillard, oxen of men in battle and hard with loyalty. John Jacob fought fiercely and had helped save Blackstone’s wife and children, as had Will Longdon that day on the alpine pass when Blackstone slew Gilles de Marcy, the Savage Priest.

  ‘Those men carry my life with them, Father.’

  ‘Of course they do but...’ The priest brought his hands to Blackstone’s shoulders and faced him squarely. The scarred face gazed down at him, and Father Niccolò Torellini made his point again. ‘Think of battle. What you know of your enemy’s intentions brings victory. Let my words be your companion for the future. Who among these men might betray you? Because your enemies already know your intentions.’

  17

  The two surviving Visconti brothers, Galeazzo and Bernabò, Lords of Milan, were separated by two years in age. The dynasty had spread across swathes of northern Italy and these inheritors of ruthless ambition were more determined than their ancestors to increase their power further.

  Guile, cruelty, avarice and murder were the tools they used to further their ambitions and these Vipers of Milan barely needed protective walls around their cities, so great was the terror they inflicted. Galeazzo, the elder of the brothers, was a man who appreciated art and culture and encouraged it when not devising slaughter and war. Debauchery was left mostly to his brother Bernabò. A mad bastard. A dangerous and insane bastard, according to those who dared to whisper the truth. Galeazzo held a dozen towns to the west and south; the more violent Bernabò much the same to the east, but his raiding parties, consisting of the most vicious mercenaries he could find, patrolled wherever they pleased within their vast tracts of territory. Occasionally Bernabò’s men overstepped the mark in Galeazzo’s lands and the two brothers would argue bitterly, threatening each other with death, until finally Bernabò would trade his men’s trespass for gold and gifts and take pleasure in a week-long torture of those who had transgressed – a mere sideshow of impatient entertainment, given that both brothers were renowned for the quaresima, when they tortured victims for forty days.

  And now they were arguing again. As his brother ranted Galeazzo felt unsure whether his life was being threatened.

  ‘You ignore our inheritance!’ Bernabò spat. ‘You squander it! I embrace it!’ he bellowed. ‘It is not written in any document but we have it in our blood, so don’t lecture me, brother! I will get dressed when I am good and ready. Sex and violence embrace me as I embrace them.’ Bernabò had invited his brother to a banquet to celebrate a moment that might allow them some advantage in their war against the papacy, yet had failed to appear at his own dining table. Galeazzo had sent a nervous servant to search out his brother, but the man had returned bloodied and so he had taken
it upon himself to go up to Bernabò’s bedchamber. The sight of the half-dozen naked women who lay across cushions and bedding told him the preceding days had passed in orgy. Bernabò stood equally naked in the middle of the room, a bottle in one hand, the other scratching his balls. His beard was matted with food and wine and now flecked with spittle as he pointed an accusing finger at his brother. The incoherent rage built to dangerous levels and the deranged lord’s roaring was made more frightening when some of his hunting mastiffs raised their howls from the yards below. Bernabò kept hundreds of the beasts. Many were savage beyond control and would be set loose on helpless villagers when Bernabò rode out. And woe betide any houndsman who allowed one of the beloved dogs to be injured. The offending houndsman was tortured to death.

  Galeazzo was not prepared to be insulted but he had come to his brother’s palace with fewer guards than usual. To fight his way clear would be futile. Especially if the dogs were set free. Three years before the two men had killed their brother, Matteo – whose vile behaviour exceeded even their own – when his actions threatened the Visconti empire. Better to cut away the diseased limb than have it infect the body. Was this a ploy for Bernabò to murder him or just a ranting taunt from a man whose excesses could not be sated? Galeazzo was even-tempered, which made him the more dangerous, but he had been no stranger to the same excesses in his own youth. He had once fornicated with his aunt and several other lovers at the same time and that drunken week was still a blur. The only clear memory he had was that she murdered her husband before he killed her.

  ‘We need a proper war! A real war against the fucking Pope!’ Bernabò yelled. ‘We took Bologna from him, we should take Florence! Take those Tuscan bastards and burn them over coals. Burn every last fucking brick down.’

  Galeazzo threw a silk robe to his brother. He was safe. It was to be an overweening rant, something that he had calmed and controlled before. Bernabò had indulged in such displays since the Pope had threatened to excommunicate them. Such a threat made little difference to Galeazzo: he had bargained away his soul years before. But Bernabò’s hatred was greater.

 

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