by David Gilman
‘Is Lord Robert here?’
‘He is,’ one of the ladies answered.
‘Then we must hurry. He has travelled a long way and it would be ungracious to keep him from a well-earned rest.’
*
Robert de Marcouf was a Norman lord with lands in England and, like Isabella, with spies in France. He was only a few years younger than the dowager Queen, but age and the damp weather of Normandy and England crept into his joints and found the old injuries sustained in a half-century of fighting. He was one of the few great knights of his generation still active: many others were ailing – or dead. His generation had seen the last of the huge pitched battles, but not the intrigue that often caused them. He waited patiently in an antechamber where a fire burned in the grate with a woven rug spread before it. There was but a single piece of furniture in the room: a wooden stool. He had ridden through the night and his limbs ached with fatigue, but the stool was not for his comfort. He bowed as Queen Isabella entered the room and sat on the simple stool, her back straight and her eyes unwavering, while her attendant ladies moved back against timbered walls that displayed paintings done, he had been told, by Italian artists. He knew she was ill; it did not take much to discover the truth when one had influence. She was a woman in her sixties who had never been anything but a queen. He knew she must be in pain, but she sat with her back straight as a blade as she watched him.
‘What news, my lord?’
A servant approached him with a tray that held a glass of deep red wine. He could hardly wait to bring it to his lips and gulp its invigorating warmth. He shook his head at the servant, who retreated. It was always a test of wills with Isabella.
‘Blackstone sent men by ship from Genoa. It was a feint. He went north alone with a handful of men,’ said de Marcouf. ‘He will use one of the passes.’
‘Then he is on his way. What else?’ she said.
‘There are those at court who believe Thomas Blackstone has been summoned as an assassin to kill the Prince of Wales, given the animosity between them.’
Isabella showed no emotion, but her mind’s eye saw how easy it would be for a determined lone knight accompanied by a few men to slip past those who wished to stop him.
‘Is our grandson aware of this?’
‘No.’
She considered the news carefully. ‘Once he gets into France he would be nearly impossible to find. Killing him here in England would be easier. Can he be stopped?’
The Norman did not answer. Who could know? A legend could be killed as easily as a common footsoldier. One arrow. One knife thrust.
‘Do you believe he will get through?’ Isabella asked.
‘Thomas Blackstone does not always use that sword of his to beat an enemy. If that was the case he’d have been dead years ago. He is not a blunt instrument like a poleaxe, highness. He uses his brain. That’s what makes him so dangerous.’
24
Fifty men waited in the trees that flanked the defile beyond the castle. The brutish Gascon who had threatened Brother Bertrand sat in plain sight on his horse for anyone approaching to see. Behind him fourteen others sat astride their horses so that no one could approach from their rear. The track, the hillside and the way forward were effectively blocked. And those who held the citadel in de Montferrat’s name, barely five hundred yards away, would cause them no trouble.
They had waited on horseback since first light and if the guide had been as good as he said he was then he would have Blackstone through the pass before the sun’s rays reached the snow-capped peaks. How many rode with Blackstone was unknown, but word had it that there were fewer than a dozen. The cold made the Gascon’s nose drip. He snorted and spat away the moisture. Fewer than a dozen men following a man with a price on his head. Christ, how had he managed to get this far, let alone expect to reach England?
Horses shifted their weight, their muscles having stiffened as they stood still. The damned cold would seize a fighting man unless he could move – and to move might give away the positions of those in the trees. It occurred to him that Blackstone might even have an advantage. If he had been riding since before dawn then horse and man would be warmer than him and if Blackstone perceived any threat awaited him then the Englishman would try something. The last thing he wanted was Thomas Blackstone taking his own men by surprise. He swore beneath his breath. Perhaps this hadn’t been such a good idea after all. Better to have let them ride through the defile and onto the plateau. God, it was cold sitting and waiting. A man’s mind could wander.
He wiped the cold tears from his eyes. Something moved in the distance. He peered through blurred vision, and swore, wiping them again with a rag pulled from his jacket. A lone horseman came forward at the walk. The misshapen head of his horse swayed as it snorted, pluming air like some kind of damned demon beast. It looked as malevolent as the man riding it, who rode without a sword in hand. Had he been the only one to survive? The Gascon looked behind him, and then to the trees. No one could have got round them.
The rider stopped and pulled off his helm, dragging fingers through his neck-length hair. Pulled back the hair so he could be identified. The Gascon peered but could not see the rider’s face clearly enough. Damn! He wiped his eyes again. Whoever it was, he hadn’t moved – just sat there and waited. The Gascon tentatively urged his horse forward at a walk.
The horseman raised a hand. That was plain enough to see and then he called across the hundred or more yards that separated them.
‘No further! Come closer and you’ll die.’
The Gascon stopped, uncertain now as to whether this horseman was indeed Blackstone. Would such a renowned knight ride a horse that looked like that? Take nothing for granted, his own sworn lord had taught him since boyhood. His horse snorted nervously, its ears pricked. Something was wrong. It involuntarily took another pace forward, and another before he reined it back – and as he did so a rushing sound made him look to the sky. He knew that sound. He jabbed spurs into the horse’s flanks and yanked the reins, moving it no more than four strides from where it had stood. Three arrows thudded into the ground where moments before he had been.
Sweet Jesus. It was Blackstone without doubt and he would kill the leader of any group of armed men before asking questions and that would make it easier to draw out the others. Blood of Christ! The Englishman might have slipped fifty archers into those rocks without his knowing it.
‘Sir Thomas! Hold! I am Beyard! A captain to my Lord de Grailly, sworn men to your King! We mean you no harm!’ he shouted, his voice echoing across the rockface.
He settled the skittish horse as Blackstone beckoned him forward. ‘Come alone!’ he called, recognizing the Gascon accent. De Grailly, the Captal de Buch, was one of the greatest knights and, like his ancestors, held the hereditary title of Master of Gascony; he was sworn to Edward.
Beyard spurred his horse. If Blackstone did not believe him he would be dead in the next minute. When he got to within twenty yards he drew back on the reins and pulled up the horse. Now he could see the scarred face. He glanced left and right. There was no sign of anyone else. Where were those damned archers?
‘You bear his arms?’ Blackstone asked. The man had no shield by which to identify him.
‘I do.’ He pulled back his riding cloak and showed the blazon of five scallops set against a black cross that were stitched on his jupon’s chest. ‘I have been here a week, Sir Thomas. More men have been at the next two passes. We’ve been waiting for you. No one thought you would risk going further north through Visconti territory, so we chose the lower three routes.’
‘How many men in all?’ asked Blackstone. ‘This pass and the route to the coast.’
‘Near enough two hundred.’
If the man was speaking the truth then Blackstone knew such a sizeable escort would get him through without being slowed by caution. ‘And where did you think I was going?’ he asked, making sure the man knew enough to be trusted.
‘You have been summoned t
o England, Sir Thomas. That’s all I know. But you’re in danger. There are those who wish to stop you.’
‘The Visconti’s men?’
‘Perhaps,’ said Beyard. ‘Men will fight for those bastards either side of these mountains, but no – I believe it is other Englishmen.’
Since Lucca, Blackstone had known that Englishmen were involved in trying to kill him, though there was no evidence that they had been sent from England. Perhaps they were mercenaries wishing to claim the prize?
‘Call down your men from up there,’ Blackstone told him, glancing up at the forests.
Beyard realized that Blackstone must have remained hidden since before dawn, watching the deployment of his men. He signalled and the horsemen eased their way down and made their way into the open ground where they could all be seen.
‘Are they all my Lord de Grailly’s men?’
‘Most. Some Provençal.’
‘And your Lord de Grailly?’
‘On crusade in Prussia. A messenger was sent. My sworn lord would have been here himself; there’s no doubt about that. He holds you in high regard, Sir Thomas. I brought what men I could.’ He paused, still unable to see where Blackstone’s archers where. ‘Your archers, Sir Thomas? I don’t see them, so how could they see me?’
‘You went into position too early, Beyard. We watched where you stood. An archer knows his distances. You were one hundred and thirty-eight paces from where I intended to halt. They fell back another eighty. They knew exactly where to aim. You invited them to kill you.’
Beyard flushed with anger at his own stupidity. He had fought at Poitiers; he knew what English and Welsh bowmen could do. Blackstone rode up as behind him three archers ran from beyond the rocks. They came fast, running hard to be at Blackstone’s side, carrying their bows in their hands, ready to stop and shoot again if so commanded. Behind these three men five mounted men spurred their horses. They came on almost silently and Beyard noticed for the first time that the ugly beast that Blackstone rode had muffled hooves, as did the others. Nine men. That’s all Blackstone had brought with him for this perilous journey. At the rear came a floundering figure, his habit caked with dirt, his feet wrapped in sacking.
‘He betrayed me, then,’ Beyard said, nodding towards the figure of the monk whose flailing arms seemed unlikely to propel him along any quicker.
‘Not really. The devil betrayed you.’ Blackstone smiled at the Gascon’s confused look. ‘He tasted sex and he wants more,’ he said as the breathless Bertrand reached the men.
‘God’s blood! Send him to Avignon then,’ said Beyard. ‘Priests and nuns there go at it like rabbits.
‘No,’ said Blackstone, nudging the bastard horse forward next to the Gascon’s. ‘Says he doesn’t want to be a monk after all. Wants to be a fighter.’
‘God help us. We had best warn the men. I don’t want any trouble from them with the women.’
It was Blackstone’s turn to be uncertain. Beyard gathered his reins. ‘The whore said Bertrand had no experience – that he shot faster than an arrow. But he’s hung like a donkey. There’ll be a line of whores stretching from here to the coast to sample his pleasures. I doubt the rest of us will have much luck and I’ll wager he’ll not do much fighting.’
*
The Gascon bodyguard had secured the plateau so that no intruder would be able to strike at Blackstone. He accepted the hospitality offered by the allied castle and next morning would lead the men towards the safe havens across France prepared by Lord de Grailly’s household. There would be little chance of attack now – not with the Gascon lord’s protection to Calais.
Now that he was back on French soil he felt the pull of his family even more strongly. All he knew of them was that they were somewhere in the north, close to Christiana’s guardian and friend, Blanche de Harcourt. Blanche had written to him – four letters in eighteen months. Four sheets of paper. The family was well. His son, Henry, placed with a knight of good standing to serve as a page. His daughter growing more beautiful every day. No mention of the bastard child, the result of his wife’s rape, which by now must have been born. Barely a word about Christiana. Had she taken a lover? Did she still speak of the deception that Blackstone had kept hidden from her during their years of marriage? Fate had twisted a knife into their hearts when the truth was finally revealed. He had been a young archer when he had flanked the French ambush in Normandy that day years ago. An arrow shot and an old knight dead. A knight whom he later discovered was Christiana’s father. The truth had finally burst like a boil from the plague. There was no mention of her demanding a divorce in the letters. Four letters was all he had. The words conjured their images in his mind. He had wanted nothing more than to live free from war on his Norman demesne. It had been almost perfect until the King of France had set a rabid murderer after him and then the secret that he had borne for so long had been exposed.
Blackstone shuddered as his thoughts chilled him, emotions clawing his innards. Anger and despair ignited a longing for his family. It was this bleak place that brought the memories flooding back. He had inflicted his revenge here, had lost his wife here and gone through the Gate of the Dead to Lombardy with no expectation of ever returning. But somewhere in France was everything that he held dear.
Blackstone shielded the candle flame as he walked along the line of men settling themselves into the empty horse stalls. Blackstone’s men would take the castle’s hospitality while Beyard’s men stayed vigilant outside. Now that he had passed safely into their care, no sneak attack from his enemies would catch them off guard.
‘We should get drunk tonight,’ said Will Longdon as he threw down his blanket.
John Jacob kicked straw into an acceptable pile, toeing aside horse manure. ‘Will’s right, Sir Thomas. Some decent ale after the food they gave us would warm the bones. There’s a chill to this place.’
‘Aye, John, I know. But it’s more than a chill from these stone walls that creeps into us,’ Blackstone said. Jacob and Will Longdon had scaled the slippery fortification above the lake at the back of the castle when they fought for his family’s lives the year before last. ‘No drink, though,’ he said. ‘We start early. And ale won’t drive this kind of cold from your bones.’
There was a truth to the superstition that lost souls clung to places they had known when they were taken suddenly from life and Blackstone had been part of a great slaughter here. If only prayer and a thick cloak was enough to give some warmth to those who had done the killing. Blackstone promised himself that he would offer thanks to his guardian goddess, the naked figurine bathed in the candle glow at his throat. He moved along to where the horses were stabled and found the corner stall where the darkness held his own horse. Where others stood lifting a hoof as they slept, ears back and eyes closed, his horse faced him, ears pricked forward, eyes glaring through the flickering light. Did it ever sleep? He stood before the great beast, saw in his mind’s eye the brand on its right leg and remembered the day it took a dozen men and ropes to hold it long enough so the mark could be made. Like all horses contracted to the Italians it was obliged to be branded. Right leg for stallion war horses and coursers, left for palfreys and mules. Everything was accounted for so payment could be made for its loss – horse and man each branded in his own way.
He reached out for the animal to take his scent and snuffle his palm. Its yellow teeth snapped, making him snatch his hand back in time to save his fingers. It was a beast of war that gave no favour unless it felt inclined.
Blackstone understood it perfectly.
As he went across the yard to his quarters he saw the dull candle glow from the chapel. His own candle was spent and the following wind urged him towards the chapel. That and something else drew him to its flame.
Caprini knelt in prayer, but turned quickly, knife in hand as the door creaked open. Blackstone saw the blade and the man relax when he was recognized.
‘Forgive me,’ said Blackstone. ‘I didn’t know anyone was here.’
Caprini crossed himself and got to his feet, tugging the cloak around him. He glanced at the crucifix and then back to Blackstone. ‘I’ll leave you to your prayers.’
‘No need,’ said Blackstone, ‘I doubt He would listen.’
‘Every prayer is heard,’ said Caprini. ‘Do not blaspheme, Sir Thomas. You may stand a hair’s breadth from the devil’s grasp but you have not been snatched into his lair. Not yet.’
‘I have laid waste towns and slaughtered all those who resisted me. I have left widows and orphans across the breadth of two countries and their screams would drown out any prayer of mine.’
‘Then pay a priest to say them for you.’
‘There isn’t enough money,’ said Blackstone.
‘Then you live without salvation.’ Stefano Caprini nodded curtly and walked out of the chapel.
Blackstone glanced at the burning light and the shadows it threw across the silver-inlaid crucifix on the small altar. How many men had prayed here before battle for their salvation? He could never know – but he had sent many of them to meet it.
*
Caprini tightened the belly strap on his horse. ‘You have no further need of me now,’ he said to Blackstone, who had seen the black-cloaked figure slip away from the castle’s chapel to the stables. He was going to leave as silently and mysteriously as he had arrived in Lucca.
‘I have every need of a man who can fight as well as you,’ Blackstone told him. ‘And these men need spiritual comfort. A fighting man close to God’s heart. We only have a horny novice with us now who has renounced his vows. He won’t be much good for prayers.’
‘Sir Thomas, you have been brought safely through the mountains. In three weeks you will be in England.’
‘And will need men I can trust at my back.’
‘I have sworn an oath to help those on pilgrimage.’