by David Gilman
‘You swore an oath to take me to Canterbury.’
The two men stared at each other. The older man shook his head and pulled down the stirrup strap.
‘Do not play with words, Sir Thomas, they can cause more wounds than that sword of yours.’
Blackstone placed a hand on the man’s arm as he gathered the reins. ‘I don’t know where Canterbury is,’ he said. ‘Go with God – and I’ll follow in your footsteps. That should get me back to England.’
Caprini thought about it without answering Blackstone and then unfastened the saddle straps. ‘Canterbury,’ he said in little more than a whisper. ‘An oath is an oath.’
Blackstone walked back into the night. The Tau knight was a strange creature, a man who yielded little of himself, as if the dark cloak shielded his secret past. And what man didn’t? thought Blackstone. Caprini may have fought well, but Blackstone did not yet trust him. Better to have the devil you know at your side, he told himself.
*
The men gathered at dawn as the mist tried to escape the forest’s embrace. Caprini and the other men waited respectfully as Blackstone’s lone figure stood by the graveside of the young man who had sacrificed his life less than two years before. Time, and the passing of it, was a concept beyond Blackstone’s understanding – but the lingering ache of separation was real enough. He missed his wife, his daughter and his son, and still mourned the loss of this boy who had tried to protect his family.
He had chiselled the memoriam with his own hand.
This stone marks the resting place of Master Guillaume Bourdin, esquire to the English knight, Sir Thomas Blackstone, cruelly slain in defence of the helpless by Gilles de Marcy, the Savage Priest.
A scaffold held the remains of the man Blackstone had killed that day. His skin, as taut and blackened as weather-beaten leather, clung to the skeleton that was spreadeagled in warning. The dead man’s dark shield still hung from his neck, held by wire that bit deep into bone. Words Blackstone had etched on it still gave warning to those who passed.
Here hangs the body of this cruel murderer, killed in single combat by Sir Thomas Blackstone. So will all evil perish.
Blackstone spurred the horse and heard the rumble of hooves behind him. Ahead lay England and a King who had summoned him. The mist whispered away on the breeze, but the ghosts in that place lingered.
Part 2
Tournament of Kings
25
Blackstone had never been to London; in truth, before going to war he had seldom travelled beyond his own village. Since then the streets of Rouen and Paris had been his only experience of big cities. He didn’t like either, and his recent journey into Lucca confirmed everything he felt about being confined within a city’s walls. He had no idea where Canterbury was in relation to London; it remained a place that existed only in his imagination and in stories – no doubt exaggerated – told by those who had been to the great place of pilgrimage.
They had travelled across France day in and day out, with long hours in the saddle, but often walking across difficult terrain, caring more for their horses than themselves. The further north they rode the more familiar the landscape became. He was close to home, or what had once been his home. Normandy was as blighted as the rest of the country by the roving gangs of routiers. Since King Jean le Bon had been captured at Poitiers his son had failed to heal the bankrupt nation. The Estates General in Paris had risen up and Charles of Navarre was a spectre that still haunted the Dauphin. Each lord’s house that sheltered Blackstone told the same story: France was in tatters and King Edward was sucking the marrow from its bones with his ransom demands for the French King. Knights fortified their manor houses; others had moved their families into the walled towns or cities. Blackstone asked all those who gave him hospitality if they had heard of his wife Christiana and the Countess Blanche de Harcourt, who sheltered his family.
‘The routiers are off down the Rhone valley from what we’ve heard. I pray they take their blight to others, as unchristian as that seems,’ said one old knight, still loyal to King Edward’s desire to rule France, who had offered them a frugal meal. ‘The de Harcourt family is still divided. The Countess dispersed her band more than a year ago. She had torched the King’s villages in revenge for what he did to her husband. Then...’ He shook his head in weary despair at Blackstone and Caprini, who shared the honour of his table. ‘Then, like the rest of us, she returned home to try and save what she could. As far as I know she went to her fief in Aumale. Safer up there. Wish I could get my people somewhere like it. But in truth there’s been trouble everywhere. The Dauphin is losing what little control and support he has. No one knows what will happen. I’m sorry, Sir Thomas, I don’t know where your family is.’
He heard the same answer many times over the month it took the men to make their way to the coast. At every hamlet he was reminded of the life almost lived with Christiana and the children and the villagers who had depended on the strength of his sword arm. Every turn made him wonder if his family were close by.
Blackstone parted company with Beyard three days south of Calais with thanks for the Captal de Buch’s captain’s protection. ‘I have sent word ahead, Sir Thomas,’ said the Gascon. ‘The boat waits for you at Le Havre. Go cautiously. I cannot tell who waits for you on the other side.’
Blackstone and the others rode on, sleeping rough so that no one could identify his coat of arms, or remember the scar-faced knight. When he caught the scent of the salt marshes on the wind, Blackstone took leave of his captains.
‘Gaillard and Meulon, you both know Calais. You and the others take lodging outside the city and wait until Sir Gilbert arrives. John and Fra Stefano and I will take a ship to England.’
‘Good luck on the crossing, Thomas,’ said Will Longdon. ‘We’ll find a priest and have him pray for calm sea and fair wind.’
‘Then pay him double, Will,’ said Blackstone, ‘or there’ll be more of me on the sea bed than arrives ashore.’ The men laughed. Sea crossings were the devil’s realm.
‘We’ve Fra Stefano to help calm the waters,’ said Jacob. ‘The Lord won’t ignore us.’
‘I should you warn you, I am still paying for the sins I committed,’ said the Tuscan knight. ‘You would need to build a cathedral to find favour with God on my behalf.’
Blackstone embraced his men in farewell with an admonishment that Bertrand be allowed only one whore a week and for the rest of the time be kept from the brothels. His training in looking after equipment and horses was to continue and he was not to be given any other clothing than the habit he wore. It might prove advantageous to have a monk who could sniff out information in the town.
He would sniff out more than that, Will Longdon had suggested.
They watched as their sworn lord and his companions rode out of sight.
‘I always thought Fra Stefano was as stiff as a monk’s cock in a monastery. I never knew he had a sense of humour,’ said Will Longdon as they turned for Calais’s protection. ‘I’d have warmed to him more had I known.’
Meulon eased his horse across a stream, heeling the uncertain beast into the shallows. ‘There was no humour in him, Will. When we crossed the mountains, the seneschal at the castle said he had heard of an Italian by that name. A man from Tuscany who once murdered and raped his way across Italy. He made the Visconti look like children torturing a cat for fun at a village fair. He had more sin than all of us put together before he turned to God and good deeds.’
Longdon crossed himself. ‘Sweet Jesus, you never thought to tell Thomas?’
‘He knows,’ said Meulon. ‘Why do you think he’s made him go to England? A man like that seeks redemption every day of his life. He’s God’s shield for Thomas.’
*
They were blessed with a southerly breeze and a gentle swell long before his men paid any priest. Near-darkness smudged the English coast and it was night by the time they landed and guided their horses uphill through the fishing port towards the burning
torches held by the men who waited for them. Blackstone’s hand rested on Wolf Sword’s grip. A voice cried out: ‘Do as this man commands – no harm will befall you!’
John Jacob tugged his horse forward. Blackstone said quietly, ‘Whoever sent these men is the same who sent Samuel Cracknell.’
‘Maybe so, but I’d feel better if we knew who they were.’
‘It would do us no good,’ said Blackstone. ‘They could give us any name they wanted. He must be close to the King, otherwise he couldn’t know what was written.’
Blackstone moved closer to the torchlight to see the face of the man who had called out. There was little to be seen beneath the open-faced helmet and the man’s greying beard. He offered no hand of welcome or friendship and his eyes showed no fear as Blackstone’s shadow fell across him. His authority, Blackstone reasoned, was probably sufficient to give him such an unwavering gaze. Rank and privilege. Men whose authority would not be challenged. The six men who accompanied him did not seem anxious to draw their swords, so there was no threat intended. Not yet at least. The man’s cloak was held with a silver clasp at his throat beneath its fur collar and he pulled it back so that Blackstone could see the cross of St George on his padded gambeson.
‘What month and day is it?’ Blackstone asked.
‘The day after tomorrow is St Anselm’s Day.’
April. They had reached England in time for the tournament on the twenty-third. Perhaps now the meaning of the King’s command would become plainer.
‘We ride through the night,’ the man said. He glanced at Caprini. ‘You’re a pilgrim’s comforter?’ he asked gruffly, barely able to disguise his disdain. ‘The Italian?’
‘My companion,’ said Blackstone as Caprini gave no sign of answering. Scratch a scab and it will bleed. Scratch a man with Caprini’s pedigree and God’s servant or not, he might take offence at such a dismissive question.
‘And him?’
‘John Jacob. My captain. He served the King in London and was trusted to take an emissary to the King’s son before Poitiers. An Italian emissary. Held in high regard by the King. Trusted with secrets. As I trust these men.’
Blackstone’s answer seemed satisfactory. Nothing more was said as the men mounted their horses. ‘Forward!’ the man commanded the escort who rode ahead to light the way.
‘How well do you know London?’ Blackstone said to John Jacob.
‘Barely. I went across its bridge once – the big one with the houses on it – and I served at Windsor for a while. Then I was sent to France. You’ll know when we’re there. You’ll smell it. The Thames is a sewer.’
*
They rode at a steady pace on country roads, alerting cur dogs as they passed hamlets and villages, but nothing more. No challenges were made and no horseman lunged from the forests. White-edged clouds slipped across the sky, then blanketed the moonlight, casting them back into darkness. Pockets of rain swirled across the land, lashing down and then scurrying away once man and horse were soaked. They reached the edge of the town whose castle dominated the landscape. The low-roofed houses were lowly subjects to its grandeur. A toll-bridge cottage yielded a man carrying a stave in one hand and a burning torch in the other. He seemed uncertain as the horsemen clattered towards him.
‘Stay clear!’ one of the front riders shouted, barely slowing his horse. The man stubbornly refused to move out of the way, forcing the horseman to halt.
‘I answer to the Constable. This is the King’s road and there’s a toll,’ he insisted. ‘There’s an ordinance and I must obey it.’
By the look of him he was little more than a local villein granted the privilege of minor authority. However, a small man with any kind of authority could cause a problem and if the knight who led them thought his rank would be obvious then he was mistaken. The tollgate keeper peered into the gloom, trying to see who it was that forced his horse through the body of riders.
‘A penny a cart, a farthing a horse,’ he recited. ‘Each way, that is.’
The cloaked man rasped out a command. ‘Stand back now!’
The man’s voice had the desired effect. ‘My Lord de Marcouf!’ he gasped, and bowed his head quickly, obviously recognizing the threatening tone. And no man of rank or wealth ever paid a toll. That was for the poor.
De Marcouf turned in his saddle and glowered at Blackstone. Now his identity was known and Blackstone understood. A Frenchman sent to escort Blackstone home. A King’s messenger to Italy and Gascon and Frenchmen to get him to wherever this place might be.
‘Sir Thomas,’ said John Jacob. ‘I don’t know where we are, but this isn’t London.’
‘Nor Canterbury,’ said Caprini as he slipped a knife into his boot.
*
Despite the distance they had travelled, the castle gates stayed closed and de Marcouf made no attempt to have them opened. A sentry would challenge them at this time of night and might even raise an alarm. Clearly de Marcouf wanted their arrival to be kept as quiet as possible.
Men ran from a stable yard as they dismounted.
‘We go through the postern gate,’ said de Marcouf, handing his reins to one of the men. Others began to lead horses away into covered stalls where oats and hay bags were already prepared.
‘They’ve been expecting us,’ said John Jacob.
‘But keeping it quiet,’ said Blackstone. He handed the bastard horse’s reins to one of the stable boys. ‘He bites and kicks. Keep him away from the others and don’t beat him or I’ll beat you.’
The boy’s eyes widened. ‘Yes, lord,’ he said.
‘Tether him and let him feed. Groom him, clean his hooves and make sure there’s fresh bedding straw for him. Clean. Not swept of dung and reused, you hear?’
The lad nodded and coaxed Blackstone’s horse away. Blackstone watched. The fellow knew how to deal with the big horse, bringing his shoulder in close to his neck and jogging forward making the horse stride with him, but keeping his hand and face well away from its yellow teeth.
*
The escort had carried extra reed torches for the night ride, but now even those spluttered with exhaustion. More were taken from the ostler and once again Blackstone and his companions were obliged to follow de Marcouf. One man went ahead as the others flanked Blackstone, Jacob and Caprini. The men set off, striding quickly through the darkened houses towards the castle walls and the meadow that lay beyond it. The town’s houses snaked this way and that, a mixture of cob, thatch, wood and stone. Unpaved streets, muddy from the rain, clogged the men’s boots, but the escort was intent on moving as quickly as they could through the darkened passageways. As they turned into a wheel-rutted path a cart blocked their way.
Instinct put Wolf Sword into Blackstone’s hand. If this was the street that led to the postern gate then it was the most obvious place for an ambush. A scuff of a boot made John Jacob push his shoulder against the nearest soldier, the sudden action alerting everyone to the attack from the darkened street to the left. Crossbow bolts struck down three of the soldiers, their torches falling into the dirt, throwing a flickering light into the alleyway.
Blackstone saw that John Jacob had read the ambush perfectly and shouted a command to the startled de Marcouf. ‘Go with him!’
The Norman was no stranger to reacting quickly and as Jacob grabbed one of the fallen torches and ran into the side street Blackstone broke to the right, finding purchase in the stony dirt, hunched, ready to ram anyone that lurked, waiting to attack. The first volley of quarrels and the narrow confines of the street and its darkness told him there would be little time for their attackers to reload their weapons. John Jacob and the others would kill quickly.
Caprini was already at his shoulder. Behind them curses and shouts of pain rang out as steel struck steel from Jacob’s counter-attack. Blackstone threw a burning torch into the darkness and saw the glint of flame catch men’s faces as they jostled towards him. They had chosen unwisely. These narrow streets meant only three men could fight abreast and th
ere were four of them. In the dancing shadows Blackstone let the first two men attack, one a pace behind the other. They had created their own fatal disadvantage. Blackstone held the blow on Wolf Sword’s crossguard and took a half-step back, letting the man’s momentum put him off balance. He grunted, knees buckling, hand outstretched, sword arm useless. Blackstone twisted Wolf Sword, rammed it down into the man’s spine. It pierced mail, grating the links, shattering bone. There was no cry as the man could not draw breath to utter one.
The weight of his body released the blade and Blackstone yanked it upward, letting the pommel strike into the second attacker’s face. It struck him on the cheekbone between open helm and face. The force of the blow threw the man back on his heels, floundering as pain blinded him and stripped the strength from him. Blackstone followed through; he stepped across him, forcing the sword into the man’s gullet. Caprini had moved quickly and lightly in a cold-blooded exercise in killing. Efficiently and almost without effort he parried the third man’s strike and then opened his guard momentarily, letting his attacker think that the older man could not sustain the fight. Caprini blocked the blow that immediately came, held it at head height and rammed his knife into his assailant’s exposed armpit. The man’s gasp of pain shuddered from him, his knees sagged, but he had not yet gone down – stubbornly, desperately gripping his sword, fighting through the wound that had not yet killed him. Caprini supported the man’s weight on his sword and then twisted the knife, tearing deeper inside the assassin’s body. He sighed as if reluctantly letting life slip away from him. Caprini stepped aside and let him fall dead into the darkness.
The fourth man hesitated, snatched the fallen torch and used it as a weapon against the hulking shadow that came for him. In desperation he threw the torch towards the scarred face but Blackstone’s arm flicked it aside; the sparks and embers from the spitting tallow flared – a fatal distraction. The man’s eyes involuntarily followed them, allowing him only two more breaths of life.