by David Gilman
*
Blackstone made a slow, cautious approach. Once they left the cover of the trees they would be seen, even by any devout monk who went about his work with his head full of prayer. Movement was a concealed fighting man’s greatest weakness. He held the men at three hundred paces, the tree shadows making their numbers indistinct to anyone below. One of the monks raised his head from hoeing the stony ground and shielded his eyes from the low sun. His voice carried as he called to his brother monks.
‘Armed men.’
Other monks appeared, carrying implements from the buildings and the fields behind the tower. They made no attempt to come together; there was no sense of them standing shoulder to shoulder as brothers who shared a sacred and remote hilltop religious cell. They stayed where they were.
‘Fra Caprini,’ Blackstone said. ‘Go forward, tell them we mean them no harm. Once they see your blazon they’ll know it’s the truth.’
The Tau knight nodded. ‘If I am uncertain of our reception I will call you in with my right hand. Otherwise the left.’ He spurred his horse forward, leaving Blackstone and the men waiting.
John Jacob brought his horse alongside. ‘Seems safe enough,’ he said, letting his eyes sweep across the plateau and broken hills to snow-capped mountains beyond.
‘So it seems,’ said Blackstone, unable to keep a nagging doubt from his voice. Most of those below had moved towards the shelter of the buildings. Others had gone inside. A natural fear of armed men approaching was understandable.
Gaillard and Meulon eased around in their saddles to look at Blackstone.
‘Good place for dismounted men to be at a disadvantage once we get down there, Sir Thomas,’ said Meulon. ‘Those low walls and livestock fences could hinder a fight when we’re on foot.’
‘Or be used to hide an ambush,’ added Gaillard.
‘I see that. And something else. Will?’ he called, bringing the archer forward. ‘Put your eye past those hillside walls. Up the slope, past those boulders.’
A bird of prey curved high in the sky, using the mountain air to gain its height.
‘What do you see?’ Blackstone asked.
‘The ground is scuffed, as if men and horses have gone up,’ said Longdon.
‘Donkeys or goats, perhaps?’ Jacob asked.
‘Perhaps,’ said Blackstone. ‘I see one donkey fenced and a goat tethered. Poor monks won’t have more livestock than that.’
‘Can you see the ground birds?’ said Will Longdon. ‘Further still. Way beyond. Raven or crow. I can’t be certain.’
‘I can’t see them,’ Jacob said.
‘Look beyond the slope, and the rocks, the ground falls away into a dip and then rises to the right, and falls away again, like a wave. In the curl of the wave there’s movement.’ He looked to Blackstone, who nodded in confirmation. An archer’s eye was keener than most.
‘Carrion feeding. A bird of prey in the sky. There’s little food to be had this time of year. A few spring rabbits? A deer that’s fallen to its death?’ Blackstone said, knowing it was unlikely.
‘They would be in the forest. Might be a dead bear or wolf though,’ said Jacob.
‘Then there would be more birds,’ said Longdon.
‘Could also be dead men,’ said Meulon.
Blackstone watched Caprini speak to the monk in the distance. There was still only one of them doing the talking: the one who had called out at their approach. The others had gone back inside the buildings or were standing near doorways or alongside a pig pen or wood store. Chickens clucked in the hen house.
‘It’s been a slow journey. If word has got here before us that this was our route, this is the last chance our enemies would have to stop us.’ He turned in the saddle. ‘Will, take Halfpenny and Thurgood. Ease the horses back. Dismount, and in case they can see you make it seem that you think one of the horses is lame. Walk one of them back, around that corner out of sight. Tether him and the three of you move downhill through the trees and find a place to cover us.’
‘Aye, Thomas,’ Will Longdon said and turned back.
‘We’ll ride in then?’ said Jacob.
‘Soon as Caprini signals. Let’s not make it obvious that we doubt who’s down there. We are weary travellers, exhausted by the journey. Gaillard, slump forward, you’re sick. Tell the men. Be ready.’
They waited and then Caprini turned in the saddle and waved them in with his right hand.
Danger.
They eased their horses down the gentle slope towards the monks, hunched in the saddle like men who had been riding for days without sleep. Men who might be lulled into thinking they were safe.
Caprini understood. As Blackstone pulled up his horse a dozen paces away he touched the monk’s shoulder. ‘The brothers here are a silent order. But he will speak on their behalf.’
Blackstone considered the monk’s appearance. Dirt-caked habit, hands calloused and grimy. If the other monks were as lean and strong as this monk appeared to be, then it showed that their life here was hard and demanding. The man’s face was stubbled and his tonsure had not been shaved for days. Perhaps so remote a place made the act of washing less important. Caprini turned to the monk and gestured to Blackstone. ‘These men are exhausted, Brother. They need nothing more than sleep and food for the night.’
Gaillard slumped across the saddle’s pommel. Without the monk seeing, Meulon jabbed him in the ribs making him groan. John Jacob’s eyes widened. Not too much acting, he was trying to say. Meulon shrugged.
‘And I have a man sick,’ said Blackstone.
The monk nodded. He showed no trace of concern at the arrival of the armed men. No sign of nervousness that these riders were not pilgrims of Christ. ‘All are welcome here. But...’ and as he hesitated Blackstone saw his eyes shift like a stallholder bargaining a piece of cloth, ‘...we are poor recluses. Some payment, no matter how small, would be welcome as a charity.’
Caprini glanced backwards as Blackstone as the others dismounted. Blackstone stayed where he was, head bowed into the cowl of his cloak.
‘We have gold florins and enough silver coin to pay for a king’s hospitality,’ said Caprini. ‘We carry funds from Florence to the Marquis de Montferrat so that he might keep the pass through the mountains safe.’ He carried the lie well. He lowered his voice so that only the monk could hear him. ‘They will cause no harm. Drunk and tired men sleep the sleep of the dead. This was the safest route I could find for them.’
‘Then you are welcome,’ said the monk. ‘How many men?’
‘There are six of us, Brother,’ said Blackstone, looking at Caprini, whose eyes quickly scanned the dismounted men. Will Longdon and two others were missing. Perinne was already dismounted, fussing at his saddle strap, his eyes searching the compound for any untoward movement that might warn of a trap.
Caprini nodded to the monk. ‘As you can see. Six.’
Blackstone hoped that when he sent Longdon into the trees they had been far enough away from the sanctuary not to have been noticed. The monk looked at the weary men, but also let his gaze go past them up the track and across the treeline. There was no sign of movement. He seemed satisfied. ‘Then we will accommodate you as best we can. Here in this remote place we seldom see travellers. One, perhaps two, at a time. But we shall do what we can. Two men can sleep in the dormitory, another in the stable. The sick man should be taken to the kitchen for warmth. We will do what we can for him.’ He pointed to the three different areas where the men should tether their horses, then turned and gave a barely noticeable nod to one of the other monks near the woodshed. A tip of the chin that John Jacob noticed.
‘Monks, my arse,’ he whispered to Blackstone as they walked their horses towards the shelter. ‘They’re separating us. Easy pickings, Sir Thomas.’
He and Blackstone led their horses where they were instructed. A warning look from Caprini was acknowledged. The horses jostled; the Tau knight muttered: ‘Be cautious. This man’s dialect is not from these parts.’<
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The uncanny silence of the mountain foothills was broken only by the horses’ shifting weight and the screech of the raptor high in the sky. Even the chickens had fallen silent, perhaps because of the hunting bird’s distant threat. In the stillness the men tied off their horses and eased the saddles from their backs. Each man knew that Blackstone and John Jacob were already positioning themselves for an attack that might come from behind the low wall or the building’s darkened doorway. They appeared unconcerned yet eyes and ears sought out the moment that they knew must come. They were vulnerable – but alert.
Meulon made a fuss of getting Gaillard down from his horse, easing his friend so that he sat, back against the wall, but with his spear laid at his side. Then Meulon took his time untying the panniers, looking across his horse’s withers to where one of the monks had stepped out of sight.
It took six heartbeats before the attack started.
At the edge of the sanctuary seven armed men broke cover, their feet pounding into the damp earth like a war drum that signalled several things to happen at once.
The tethered goat jerked at its restraint, alarmed as a monk stepped from behind a wall and swung an axe at Meulon. He parried with his spear shaft and Gaillard went quickly onto one knee and rammed his spear point up through the man’s lungs and heart. Meulon put his boot into the gasping man’s chest as Gaillard pulled his haft free. The two Normans recovered quickly, turning as screams suddenly echoed from the running men being cut down by Longdon and his archers in the forest. Three armed men broke through, turning the corner of the furthest building, swords raised, their faces contorted with fear and disbelief that their own ambush had failed, knowing that there was no escape. They attacked with the desperate belief that all fighting men carry with them: that they will not die – not this day. John Jacob caught sight of the Italian knight as he squared himself to face the oncoming attack.
‘He needs help,’ he grunted as he and Blackstone shouldered their horses aside, forcing the animals between themselves and the armed monks who suddenly appeared from the doorway. The bastard horse objected and swayed its weight against Blackstone, throwing him off balance and making him step back. A crossbow bolt whipped through the air where he had stood a moment before. One man carried a fighting axe in each hand, the other a sword, and as the crossbowman threw aside his now useless weapon he snatched up a spear that had been hidden at the corner of the building. They lunged – aggressive men who made no sound; who kept their eyes on their intended victims. John Jacob was at Blackstone’s shoulder to help block the swordsman, which hampered the double-handed axeman.
Blackstone ignored Jacob’s words. Caprini would have to deal with his own attackers. The stocky Perinne hacked down a monk who wielded a falchion, swinging his blade with such force it cut through the man’s heavy clothing, its keen edge slicing into ribs, lungs and heart. Blackstone and Jacob parried blows from wild-eyed assailants. Madness; men of God attacking with such violence. Fleeting thoughts flashed through Blackstone’s mind. A planned ambush to stop him reaching England or fighting men disguised as monks to rob exhausted pilgrims? Every man was battling for his life.
Caprini stood his ground. He caught the first man’s strike on the crosspiece of his sword, turned and slashed his knife hand across the attacker’s face. Blinded, he fell squirming, ignored by the Tau knight, who altered his stance, dropped to one knee and took the second man in the groin. The charging man’s weight forced Caprini down with him, but by then Meulon and Gaillard were at his back. Meulon’s spear hooked into the attacker’s collarbone and the screaming man was hoisted like a fish snatched from a stream. Meulon kicked down onto the man’s neck, cracking bones, and wrenched his spear shaft free. The other man had faltered in his attack. The two giant men shielding the Tau knight were a terrifying sight and the man’s courage failed him. He turned and ran. He did not see the three archers emerge from the trees and bend their backs into their war bows. The hiss of the arrow shafts through the air was unmistakable. The fleeing man turned, desperately seeking the arrows in the sky in a vain attempt to avoid them. By the time he saw them, two had pierced him: one through the chest, one the thigh. The third thudded into the ground less than half a shaft’s length away. He squirmed, muscles contorting, a shattered body trying to deal with its agony. By the time the archers reached him he was dead.
As Blackstone killed the third man he looked across at Caprini. The moment was held like a stitched tableau. Figures lay dead; the Tau knight stood over a writhing monk and then rammed his blade into his chest to strangle a final terrified scream.
‘So much for them being a silent order,’ John Jacob said, smiling as he wiped his blade clean on a handful of straw.
The archers finished off two or three men who lay in the dirt, arrow shafts embedded in them.
The killing had taken less time than it would to toll the bell a dozen times.
Blackstone’s men stood their ground. Were there others?
‘Will?’ Blackstone called.
‘No more down here!’ Longdon shouted.
Blackstone turned to where the two Normans stood with bloodied spears. Both shook their heads. ‘It’s finished, Sir Thomas.’
‘No one inside. This was all,’ said Perinne.
Nine monks lay dead. Seven more bodies lay sprawled. These men were dressed little differently than Blackstone’s own men. Fighters. Brigands perhaps.
‘Strip them!’ Blackstone ordered.
19
There was no need for Blackstone to order the others to take up a defensive position. Will Longdon placed Halfpenny and Thurgood where anyone approaching could be ambushed as Jacob searched the buildings. Meulon, Perinne and Gaillard stripped the monks as the Tau knight accompanied Blackstone to where the carrion crows had been spotted.
The two men rested a moment, catching their breath in the cold air, then looked back to where the slaughter had taken place. The naked corpses quivered like maggots as Blackstone’s men dragged them into the centre of the killing field.
‘Could they have been monks?’ Blackstone asked.
‘It is possible. Men have been known to lose themselves when they live such isolated lives,’ Stefano answered. He paused for a moment. ‘Who among us has not experienced madness?’
Blackstone remained silent, but the remark struck home. Ram a bodkin-pointed shaft into a man’s chest and the shockwaves of pain tear through his body. As did the knowledge that when he fought he was possessed. Of what... he was uncertain.
‘And you?’ he said, looking carefully at the Italian knight, whose gaze had not left the bloodstained sanctuary.
‘I have been in that place. And I swore to Our Lord Jesus that if he delivered me from it I would serve pilgrims and those who fought for Him.’
‘Then why help me? I’m no pilgrim. I wear a pagan goddess at my throat.’
Caprini smiled. ‘You are a man of reputation. Others fear you. Not I. You are unknown to me as a man. But when Father Niccolò Torellini asks that you be helped, then I know you to be a deserving man who must be in the service of God.’
Blackstone continued uphill. ‘I do not know God. I serve my King and my men. Have no expectation of me other than that,’ he said.
Stefano Caprini sighed with the comfort of knowledge. ‘You are as Father Torellini predicted. But whether you know it or not, there is a goodness within you that can only come from suffering torment of the soul.’
Blackstone turned and pointed a finger at him. ‘Do not preach to me about who I am. Do not think you understand what I do or why I do it. I kill. And I do it well. That is all you need to know about me.’
The two men faced each other for a moment longer, and then the older man dipped his head in acknowledgement. He was not cowed by the younger, stronger man, but his own code of behaviour demanded he make amends. ‘I apologize. It is not my place to speak of such things.’
Blackstone had no doubt that this knight had fought his demons and won, but his own would
always shadow his life. They made him who he was.
He held them close.
Like old friends.
*
Shallow graves had been turned and picked at by scavengers. Wild beasts had torn the earth back and feasted on what remained of the men buried there. Bones were separated from torsos, a few – thigh bones and ribs – lay scattered across the alpine grass. There was little depth to the soil for burial so rocks had been placed over the corpses in an attempt to protect their sanctity, but they were inadequate against the wild creatures.
There were no markers or headstones.
‘Why would anyone bring their dead up here?’ Caprini asked, looking at the place, which probably held twenty or thirty graves. ‘They have a graveyard near the sanctuary.
‘To hide them from visitors,’ Blackstone said, tugging at an exposed piece of cloth and easing out its remains.
‘Then these are the bodies of monks murdered by brigands who took their place to kill pilgrims.’
What was left of the dead man’s skin beneath his threadbare clothing barely concealed his bones. Blackstone eased a skull aside with the toe of his boot. The matted mass that was once the man’s hair slipped away. He bent down and poked at the remains with his knife.
‘Look for yourself,’ said Blackstone and went to another grave, one that was better covered with stones. He pushed aside the rocks and scraped away the dirt covering.
Caprini looked up from where he was examining the skeleton. ‘That grave is sacred.’
‘Not up here,’ said Blackstone, exposing the skeleton’s skull. This corpse had the remains of a cap and wispy strands of hair that clung to it. He flicked away the head covering with the tip of his knife. ‘These are not monks. They’re pilgrims, slaughtered by monks.’
Caprini looked in disgust at the graves. Blackstone was already walking past him.
‘Men of God who were placed here to give sanctuary to those on the journey to Canterbury and Rome, murdering innocent pilgrims,’ said Caprini, as if the shame was his own.