Gate of the Dead

by David Gilman

  Blackstone drank the last mouthful of wine and pushed the stool away from the table. ‘My thanks for the horses and supplies. We’ll leave after matins.’

  ‘Thomas, you have made it this far; whoever wants you dead will have to wait until after you pass through the mountains. Because now they will know that you did not leave with your men at Genoa.’

  Montferrat toyed with his eating knife. He could make money from informing Blackstone’s enemies where he was going. But then he ran the risk of losing the Pope’s largesse. And then, who knows, he thought, they might even use Blackstone to take back the citadel, pour thousands of brigands through the pass and lay siege to him.

  ‘Your intentions are safe with me,’ he said.

  ‘I never doubted it,’ said Blackstone. But the Marquis was uncertain, from the Englishman’s smile, whether he meant it.

  *

  Snow whirled in turbulent vengeance against those who dared to trespass through the mountains. It sought out the ravines and rock faces, punishing guides trying to cross the divide as they pushed and pulled wicker sledges carrying their passengers. The Italian villagers earned good payment for taking travellers through the pass, but it was the monks from the monastery on the French side of the mountains who had served pilgrims for a hundred years and knew every handhold, and it was they whom Blackstone would trust to take his men back to where they had journeyed two winters before.

  ‘The villagers’ greed has already killed many this past week,’ the leather-faced monk told Blackstone as they waited in the lee of the mountain. The monk looked younger than Blackstone’s twenty-eight years, but Blackstone could not tell his age as he watched him coil a hemp rope in a great loop that he tied off and slung across his body. These monks could be twice the age they looked – perhaps the high mountain passes brought them closer to God’s domain and He blessed them for their piety and courage. He had told them his name was Brother Bertrand, a novice, born and raised in the mountain villages and taken as an orphan into the monastery when still a child. Now he added that the pass was icy on this side of the mountain because of the north wind that swept down from the higher peaks. Once they reached halfway it would be easier and the downhill approach would cause them less difficulty.

  Blackstone studied the young man. He had a foolish grin stitched across his face. Did that indicate that he was in the hands of an idiot? Blackstone wondered. Young, old or idiot – did it matter? He was a mountain guide. The monk’s wiry frame could mislead an untrained eye as to his strength – indeed, a life of fasting and prayer might weaken some men – but if he had climbed and travelled these mountains since going into the monastery, then his slight body would be as supple as a English archer’s yew bow. A trustworthy guide to lead them back.

  ‘You will do nothing, Sir Thomas, until I tell you. And then you will obey every word I say until we reach the other side,’ said the monk. ‘If a man falls he is in God’s hands, not ours. We do not stop on the path. You remember it?’

  Blackstone did remember. It was one of the most difficult passes to traverse, but when he had led several hundred men into Italy in fair weather it had been less challenging. He had lost fewer than half a dozen men during that journey. The ground had been dry, the autumn winds not yet gathered behind the peaks. The sun broke through that day like a divine light showing the way through the Gate of the Dead.

  Not so now. The unpredictable gusts of wind could lift a man the size of Meulon and cast him down. There was no argument from Blackstone or those who had previously made the same perilous journey with him.

  As the wind buffeted the mountainside the men kept as close as possible to the rock face. Their horses were blindfolded and weapons secured to the saddle pommels. Meulon held the reins of his horse tightly, his bare hand comforting its muzzle. Like the others it was hobbled so that its strides were restricted. Despite the horses being sturdy beasts and used to such difficult conditions, it was better to control any skittish behaviour. Horses were dumb beasts whose erratic behaviour could kill a man. Only once they had traversed the worst the pass had to offer would the hobbles be untied.

  Each man wrapped sackcloth around his horse’s hooves and his own boots for purchase. Those who wore their hair long tied back its length with cord and then pulled their helmets tightly onto their heads and tightened the straps or bound them beneath their chins with a strip of linen. Debris from a rockslide could stun a man and to lose your footing meant a frightened horse and a long drop into oblivion.

  Thurgood cast a glance at his friend, Halfpenny. This pass was more dangerous than he had imagined. The two archers had come into Lombardy by a more northern route after they found their services as archers no longer needed after the English victory at Poitiers. Drifting with many others they had joined one of the routier companies and plundered southwards until they heard that Sir Thomas Blackstone had a few hundred men under contract for Florence. They were young men, easily swayed by the attraction of a good wage paid by Italian city-states, and the chance to share plunder when the company’s terror was unleashed on the unsuspecting. Rape and murder suited them. However, they found it was different with Blackstone. They had to prove their worth. By good fortune they were accomplished archers and experienced fighters, who wore an English soldier’s belligerence like a coat of arms. And their animal instincts soon understood that Blackstone’s command was little different than being in the King’s army. Ill discipline was not tolerated. Rape of the innocent was punishable by hanging, and looting a church could lose a man his hand.

  There were enough women among the camp followers who would spread their legs, provided they were paid, and Blackstone’s captains saw to it that they were. Any fighting between soldiers over a woman that ended in a killing was judged on the circumstances. There were still those who would die over a whore. A drunken condottiere’s knife attack meant Blackstone’s company lost a fighting man, so whoever did the killing was well advised to have a good enough reason or he would feel the weight of Blackstone’s justice.

  ‘North was better,’ Thurgood said to Meulon. ‘A decent road and space for cart and horse. This is too narrow.’ He squinted into the white flurries that buffeted around the weather side. ‘And too high.’ He looked at Halfpenny. ‘Shit might freeze, Jack, but if I fall I’ll not be stuck like a turd on a rock for everyone to see. Put an arrow through me and knock me off my perch. Will you do that for me?’

  Halfpenny’s cap was bound around his head and chin. Before he could answer through gritted teeth, Meulon muttered his own reply. ‘I could put my spear up your arse now and save us all the trouble later.’

  Halfpenny’s gagged laugh through the binding sounded like a dog being strangled.

  ‘Piss off, Jack,’ said Thurgood. ‘And you, you French bastard,’ he said, pointing at Meulon, ‘can kiss my English arse.’

  ‘Norman bastard,’ said Gaillard. ‘We’re Normans. And you forget Meulon is one of Sir Thomas’s captains.’

  ‘And my centenar is Will Longdon. That’s who I take my orders from.’

  Meulon grinned. ‘But you are travelling behind me today so you will do as I do and watch for my command.’

  Will Longdon made his way down the line of stationary men and horses, muttering instructions as he passed each man. ‘Sir Thomas says to tighten the girths, bind loose clothing, secure weapons.’

  Thurgood snatched at his arm. ‘Will, am I to follow Meulon? He farts like a horse. I’ll be over the edge with his stench.’

  Longdon snatched free his arm. He was in no mood for bleating men. ‘Is your bow covered and tied?’

  ‘Aye, but—’

  ‘And the cords are stored and dry?’

  ‘Of course,’ said Thurgood, aggrieved a fellow archer was not standing up for him.

  ‘Then cease mewling and get ready to move. Do what Meulon says. He’s too mean and ugly to argue with.’

  Longdon turned back. His limbs were already seizing up in the cold. He steadied himself against horse and
man as the intemperate wind whipped a flurry of snow against him.

  ‘In half a day the track widens, but if you can’t hold onto your fear until then, I’ll tie a rope around you and drag you along like a dog,’ said Meulon.

  Halfpenny stepped quickly between his friend and the Norman. Thurgood was handy with a knife and he was lighter on his feet than the big man. ‘You wouldn’t want that, Meulon, you’re as big as a tree and he’d end up pissing on your leg.’

  Halfpenny and Thurgood had only been with Blackstone’s company for less than a year and wielded no influence over any of the captains, and they only had Will Longdon to vouch for them. It was the veteran archer’s standing with Blackstone that brought them so close to this bodyguard of men. That and their skill.

  Nothing more was said as the horses resumed their hobbled steps. Meulon glanced back at the belligerent Englishman, and the thought passed through his mind that for once he did not want an archer at his back.

  21

  Oliviero Dantini had journeyed with Sir Gilbert Killbere, a man who spoke little to him, even though Dantini could converse freely in English and French. They had placed him in the centre of the column of the hundred men to ensure his safety should any attack be made upon them. Dantini had already sent his commission to the Genoese for the ships needed to take these condottieri across to Marseilles. The silk merchant lived in the city, but his trade depended on prevailing winds and he knew that Thomas Blackstone had chosen a good time to send his men across the water. Had it been thought through, he wondered, or did the hulking Englishman understand the vagaries of weather? He had been treated with respect by Killbere and these mercenaries, but he had never longed so much for his home. His sensibilities were continually offended by their presence, for he was a refined and cultured man, used to the courts of England, Flanders and France, and being taken and held prisoner by Blackstone had scarred him as if scalded with molten lead. These men of war frightened him every step of the way and their surrounding him made him feel like a lamb being taken to slaughter. At night he found it difficult to keep warm despite the quality of his cloak and bedroll. Maggots of fear ate away at him beneath his skin so that he trembled like a carcass being devoured from within.

  Not that he was given much time to rest, because the English knight set off before dawn and rode beneath moonlight until darkness forced him to stop. Dantini was exhausted, but the older man showed no sign of fatigue. They were racing against time, eager to be in France. Dantini felt dirty and unwashed and yearned for the softness of his bed and one of the slave girls who would do his bidding. In these desperate moments he even felt affection for his wife, whose unwavering duty towards him and their children did her great credit, but whose conformity and piety meant there was little pleasure to be had from sexual union with her. Despite these conflicting emotions his dignity forbade him to yield to his fear, and he was proud of that. He placed himself in the hands of God to whom he prayed each night. Killbere assured him that once the men were aboard the ships and his note of commission had been witnessed and executed legally then he would be given an escort home to the gates of Lucca. There was nothing for him to fear, other than his own timidity, Killbere said.

  Timidity? More like disgust at the company he had been forced to share. Their word had been kept; he had not been robbed or injured in any manner and Blackstone’s bond to him had not been violated. Was this a code these creatures lived by, or another layer of fear, greater than his own, of Thomas Blackstone’s intolerance of disobedience? Argument filled his mind, a conversation with himself that was as confusing as these men’s behaviour. There was nothing about them he admired. He saw them through disdainful eyes as ignorant, brutal killers who inflicted savagery for payment, though he confessed in his prayers before God to the contradiction that he was grateful to have fallen into the hands of the Englishman, Blackstone. And as the journey reached its end he knew that the powers in Florence would let the King of England know of his service to the Crown. That thought, at least, gave him comfort. Once home he would make immediate arrangements to travel to Flanders and from there let it be known that he wished to visit the English court. King Edward’s reputation went beyond that of warrior king – he was renowned for refinement and opulence. Money could buy culture, not like these barbarians, who took their blood money and bought women and drink, who thought themselves men of significance because they had purchased a house with a vineyard and a woman to bed them. A sovereign such as Edward was a benefactor, a great, cultured man whose library was renowned, who appreciated art and music and who held those who served him in Italy in great affection.

  When Dantini saw the billowing sails carrying the men’s ships away, he commanded his escort to ride for Lucca. He denied himself sleep in his urgency to feel the safety of the city. Once he’d entered through the portal of San Donato he let his escort return to their mountain lair. The city troops closed the great gates behind him, the strongest bodyguard he could wish for. He left his horse and saddlebags with the ostler at the gates, having no desire to wait while a message was sent to his house for servants to come and attend him. They could get the bags tomorrow. He was saddle-sore and his body felt as though it had been on the rack. Even so, as he got closer to home he could barely keep himself from running along the Via del Toro towards the comforts that awaited him. He could almost smell the fragrance of the warm bath that would be drawn for him and then the smooth skin of the young slave girl as he commanded her into his bed – and then he would offer thanks for his deliverance in prayer. It was nearly curfew and he praised God that he did not have to spend another night beyond the gates of his beloved Lucca.

  The city looms had fallen silent. Doors slammed closed as people went home, leaving only stray cats and ghosts to flit through the darkening streets. The household would not be expecting him. He raised the great iron door knocker to strike against its plate, three strident blows of authority that would have the house servant running downstairs, flustered and bewildered as to who it could be at this time of night. Church bells rang, the door opened and Oliviero Dantini stepped into hell.

  For a moment he was about to chastise the servant for lighting an expensive oil lamp so early in the evening, but before he could utter a word he was yanked into the entrance hall where he fell heavily. As confusion turned to terror another man grabbed him and hauled him to his feet. The man had the strength to lift him bodily from the floor, even though his legs refused to support him. The shadows moved and from somewhere a hand slapped him across the face with such force that he saw lights burst from the pain behind his eyes and tasted blood in his mouth. The next thing he knew he was being forced up the steps into his living quarters. He tried to say something, but his teeth had been loosened and his tongue cut from the force of the blow. He whimpered, begging to know who they were and why they were doing this to him.

  He realized the intruders were not dressed as commonly as the condottieri. Reality deserted him momentarily as he noticed with an almost detached expertise that the men’s clothing was of high quality. They hauled him into his wife’s bedchamber and he saw that she sat upright in bed, propped by pillows, with the children under each arm. In the dull glow from the candles in the room he could see there was a grotesque smile on each of their faces as they lay against the crimson bedding. He knew somewhere in the recesses of his mind that his wife had never purchased anything but the finest-woven, embroidered linen sheets of pure white. And then he understood that their smiles were gaping wounds in their throats. He gagged and vomited and felt the tears sting his eyes. The men let him lie in his own mess and then one of them kicked him over and threw the contents of his wife’s piss pot into his face. He spluttered and wiped his face with his sleeve. One of the men bent down holding the oil lamp so that he could see his face and watch his lips move in case the blow had deafened him and so that he understood why he was being punished.

  ‘Your slave girl, the one who ran, she was picked up and taken north.’

&nb
sp; North. This killer was talking about Milan.

  The man with the fine cloth jacket nodded, seeing that the fool understood. ‘My Lord Bernabò Visconti does not allow disloyalty to go unpunished. Lucca is beholden to Pisa and Pisa has an alliance with Milan and Milan is Visconti. You helped his enemy escape. This is your reward. Every living creature in this household is dead.’

  Oliviero Dantini fainted.

  The men carried his body to the top of his tower slapped him back to consciousness so he could know what was to happen – and then threw him into the street below.

  By the time Killbere and the men lost sight of land as a following wind eased them towards France and Blackstone reached the first of the passes that would lead him home, the self-satisfied citizens of Lucca awoke to the slaughter.

  No bounty paid for protection could ever be enough to stop the Visconti’s wrath.

  22

  There was to be no respite from the clawing cold that scratched its way through their clothing. Brother Bertrand, however, seemed impervious to the weather and every few hundred paces turned to see that the tall figure of the Englishman followed faithfully in his footsteps, and behind him the Tau knight and the rest. The monks who led men across these dangerous passes lived in the monastery on the other side of the pass. It was a beneficiary of the Englishman’s strength and courage; thanks to him it flourished. Those who passed through the citadel that guarded the pass on the far side were seldom enemies of the Pope, and those that were, were stopped by the soldiers in the stronghold. This safe passage meant the guides were not threatened. There were whores in the villages, but the god-fearing lord of the area, Marazin, forbade fornication and the women had been forced to move further away into the ravines and rocky defiles that scarred the foothills where – to his mind – they gathered like a pestilence. Soldiers who sought employment in Italy camped beyond the citadel and the women would come down to share their tents while their husbands took the soldiers’ payment.