by David Gilman
Caprini ran forward into the darkness, quickly going down onto one knee in case another silent enemy was waiting, but there was no further attack.
Torchlight bobbed towards them from the ambush site.
‘Sir Thomas?’ called John Jacob.
‘Here, John.’
Jacob and the surviving soldiers strode quickly towards them, illuminating the killing scene. De Marcouf’s men turned back and forth, torches high, ready for another assault. The Norman’s blood-streaked sword glistened in the reflected light.
‘Assassins. They bear no coat of arms, they serve no lord,’ he said.
‘Five men,’ said Jacob. ‘Three bows. They should’ve used more of them; they’d have brought us all down.’
‘Four here,’ said Blackstone. ‘Nine men. Perhaps they were only expecting the three of us.’
John Jacob spat, and toed one of the bodies. ‘Still wouldn’t have been enough,’ he said. And in the devil’s firelight Blackstone saw his captain grin.
*
Sounds of the fight had alerted the castle guard and Blackstone heard men’s feet thudding across the narrow wooden bridge straddling the castle moat that led to the pointed archway of the postern gate, the castle’s side entrance to the town. They bore torches which gave enough light to see where the houses ended and the meadowlands began and the belly of a river curving around its one side. A great tower loomed up in the darkness from where sentries would have seen and heard the attack in the streets. Once through that gate and in the confines of the castle there would be no escape. If there were any chance of freedom then being in a place unknown to him would make evasion from a determined enemy more difficult. Rivers often denoted boundaries and they in turn revealed landowners and loyalties.
‘Wait,’ said Blackstone as de Marcouf strode towards the stronghold. ‘What river is this? Where am I?’
The Norman stopped and faced him.
‘It is the Lea. And this is Hertford Castle. North of London, Sir Thomas. You have been summoned here with as much secrecy as possible. It was my duty to protect you and I thought I had taken sufficient measures. I offer you my apologies.’
Blackstone was none the wiser as to where he had been brought, but he knew of the knight who had escorted them. ‘Lord de Marcouf. Your demesne was east of Paris and you supported Charles of Navarre rather than your French King. I remember your name mentioned by my friend Jean de Harcourt. Are we to be imprisoned here?’
De Marcouf looked at Blackstone and the two men who flanked him either side. A part of him was grateful that there would be no conflict between him and the hardened fighters who stared him down.
‘Follow the command sent to you,’ he said. ‘Men should not question a royal summons.’
‘Not all men are outlawed,’ said Blackstone. ‘And I have already been attacked more than once.’
De Marcouf and his escort faced the three men. The older man was senior in rank and Blackstone was being impertinent.
‘You were escorted safely across France by my doing and commanded so by those who summoned you. Even an outlawed knight must show some gratitude by extending his trust,’ said de Marcouf irritably. Bad enough that a man of his age had spent so long in the saddle and then been forced to fight at close quarters within spitting distance of the castle, now this bent-armed, scar-faced barbarian was questioning him.
Blackstone dipped his head in respect and acknowledgement, then followed the column of torchlight through the castle grounds. He had little choice but to go where his fate took him. The bailey inside the curtain wall had timber-framed buildings built closely together – most likely used by officers of the court, he thought, and somewhere in that labyrinth were the royal apartments. This place overwhelmed any lord’s manor that Blackstone had previously known. It was a King’s country palace and comprised all that went with it: chapel, great hall, kitchens and offices, everything the sovereign would need when hunting away from London. Despite the poor light his mason’s eye saw enough of the stone and flint walls to know they were several feet thick. And, like a cage door trapping an unsuspecting wolf, the imposing walls of the gatehouse held the portcullis. Blackstone’s trepidation gnawed at him. Being brought halfway across Europe to meet the King in a castle away from London meant it was to avoid the prying eyes of his court. Father Torellini had warned him that the King would usually send a summons through his Chancellor, so had he been brought here as a safeguard against conspirators? If so, it had not worked. Nine men lay butchered in the dark streets as proof.
‘If it was the King who wanted us dead, Sir Thomas, our heads would already be on the end of a pole,’ said John Jacob quietly. ‘But we might still get a bird’s eye view over these walls by morning.’
‘No doubt it’s a fine view,’ said Blackstone as they ducked below a low arch into a darkened passage.
The chapel bell rang for matins.
It was morning.
Forty-nine days since they had tried to kill him in Lucca.
26
Isabella the Fair wore the plain garments of the Franciscan Poor Clares beneath her velvet dress, the simple linen, dry against her skin, denying the comfort and sensuality of better cloth. She had watched them take Blackstone into the antechamber and now gazed through the screen’s latticed woodwork as he stood without moving while de Marcouf paced back and forth. Both men showed the signs of a hard journey and she knew about the ambush. Her life had been spent watching men, and hers was a calculating intellect that saw through the hubris so many carried like a battle flag. Some were devious enough to be used to undermine an enemy or to gain power. She had once fallen for a man as strong as Blackstone and together they had seized the crown from her husband, the second King to bear the name Edward. His chivalrous attributes had been admirable and he had been a lover of music, poetry and art, but it was she who had the steel in her blood. Her husband had had strength enough but there had also been uncertainty in him, which some took to be timidity; his tenderness meant he had failed to grasp the importance of waging a war and securing peace on terms that suited the conqueror. The steel had been inherited by her son, the third Edward, and how willingly he had wielded it, snatching back his rightful crown from his regent mother and her lover, who had paid the price with a mutilated death while she was banished from court. Twenty-eight years had passed since that fateful day. Now there was no passion, only age and pain – and a mind that could still reach into men’s lives and manipulate their destiny.
Blackstone had still not moved. A sentinel guarding the gates of an unknown land. It was time to bring this warrior knight into plain sight.
The potion she had taken eased the pain that was so insistent these days, but her poise did not desert her as she sat on a high-backed chair, supported by cushions, warmed by the fire in the grate. She had prayed, as she did several times during the day and night, and, looking at the man who bent his knee before her, wondered if Sir Thomas Blackstone was the answer to some of those prayers.
She let him stay on his knee longer than would normally be required. Behind him de Marcouf had already been given permission to stand. The old knight would have knelt on broken glass had she demanded it, but loyalty needed to be rewarded with gentleness. She waved away her chamberlain, the constant companion who saw to it that all was as it should be in the Queen’s household. What was needed now was privacy, and God knew there was precious little of that rare commodity to be had.
‘All right, enough of that,’ she said, without any hint that gentleness might still find any refuge in her. ‘What took you so long? Were you waylaid with whoring and theft?’ she added in a bitter accusation.
Blackstone stood before her. The morning light softened her features, brushing away age, letting his imagination see how beautiful she must have been in her youth. John Jacob was outside and Caprini had gone to pray, while he, after three hours, had been ushered in to await the dowager Queen’s presence. More bells rang out for prayer. A thought delayed his answer – if figh
ting men had to spend so much time on their knees there would be no time for war, and then what use would any of them be?
‘Highness, I travelled as quickly as I could, thinking I was summoned by the King,’ said Blackstone, daring to probe for an answer to Isabella’s presence.
‘Don’t fish with me, Sir Thomas. I’m no toothless lamprey to take your meagre bait. You do so at your peril. I am a pike that devours others in this murky pond.’ She saw that her rebuke cut through his dogged fatigue. ‘You thought the seal to be that of your King,’ she said.
‘I did.’ He paused. ‘And then it was shown to me that it belonged to his father.’
‘By the good priest Torellini, no doubt.’
‘Yes, my lady.’
‘An eye as keen as his brain. A trusted go-between. So a dead King summons you and you came. Why?’
‘A King’s seal is enough. I thought my lord might have wished to disguise the summons,’ Blackstone answered as simply as he could. There was no point in trying to offer clever answers. Not to this woman. But he could not resist trying once again to see what her connection was to him being brought to this place. ‘I serve the King,’ he said.
She studied him. The clenched sword of defiance stitched onto the bloodstained jupon, grime on face and hands and his scar cutting a valley across a stubbled face. She could imagine him in battle, remembering the stories told to her of how he had thrown himself into the fray, an action that saved her own grandson. She ignored his statement of loyalty. ‘And the coin?’
‘A fine talisman, highness. Its inscription blessed my journey.’
‘And I’ll wager our friend Torellini translated that as well. Your lack of education serves you badly, making you depend on others,’ she said, her gaze as unrelenting as her criticism.
‘I am no stranger to my own shortcomings, my lady,’ Blackstone answered respectfully.
‘Are you not? Then you share the same understanding with the rest of the world,’ she answered, her voice laden with sarcasm. ‘Which of my messengers reached you?’
‘Master Samuel Cracknell, highness.’
She considered his answer for a moment. At least one had got through then. ‘And what of Master Cracknell?’ she asked.
‘Dead of his wounds, but he clung to life long enough to deliver his message.’
Isabella blinked and looked away for a moment and it seemed to Blackstone that news of Cracknell’s death was not something she cared to hear.
‘That saddens me,’ she said as if to herself, confirming Blackstone’s instincts. ‘He was a favoured sergeant-at-arms. His family will be rewarded for his courage and loyalty and you shall give a full account later. My command went beyond words on parchment. Did you realize that? Did he?’
Blackstone was no closer to finding out why he was standing before a Queen who had once seized the crown, and who still seemed to have great influence. ‘St George’s Day,’ he said. ‘I had to get here before then.’
She smiled. Blackstone had seen beyond the simple message. Her instincts were still as sharp as a blade and she had been correct in choosing him.
‘We are both exiles, you and I, but I am a daughter, sister, mother and widow of Kings. I was a child when I was betrothed; a young woman when I seized the crown to make this country strong. I choose men carefully, Sir Thomas, and I have chosen you.’ She stood and Blackstone bowed. ‘And in serving me you will serve your King.’
Isabella the Fair left the antechamber flanked by her ladies-in-waiting. Once out of sight her resolve gave way and she faltered; her ladies stepped forward quickly to support her arms. There was little hope for her own future, but bringing the outlawed knight home might well serve that of her country.
*
Blackstone and his two companions were taken to rooms much better than a common dormitory for soldiers. Their clothing was taken by washerwomen and they were fed meat and pottage, with white bread whose burnt base had been cut away. Guards were placed at their door – which remained unlocked – who were there, said de Marcouf, for the men’s safety. The Norman knight made no attempt to have them disarmed and instructed the men to sleep before they left for Windsor and the great tournament.
‘We’ll find you armour,’ he told Blackstone.
‘I don’t fight in tournaments,’ he answered.
De Marcouf was as tired and irritable as a man could be who lacked sleep and was exhausted by the journey back from the coast, yet was still expected to await Isabella’s command. ‘You will do as she instructs,’ he said edgily.
Blackstone tore off a chunk of the bread and soaked it in the thick pottage, then sucked the moisture from it until the mush squelched in his mouth, but he kept his eyes on the older man. It would be too dangerous to antagonize such trusted confidants.
‘With respect, my lord, she did not summon me all the way here to fight in some extravaganza that has no meaning and value to anyone other than the King and his noblemen. It’s a damned party piece and I have no interest in being part of it.’
De Marcouf glared at him, but knew the argument would be lost if he continued. No one could force Blackstone to take part. And the fighting man was correct – it was an expensive piece of showmanship.
‘Get some sleep,’ de Marcouf told them and pushed past the sentries, who closed the heavy door behind him.
John Jacob took a slice of meat. ‘The food’s good,’ he said, ‘and the mattresses look as though they have enough straw in them to settle a horse. We’re being cared for, Sir Thomas. You’re going to piss them off, so we should eat and sleep while we can, before they throw us into a damp cell.’
‘They won’t cause us harm. Not yet, at least. Perhaps when we’ve served our purpose; not before,’ said Blackstone.
Caprini ate delicately, choosing the lesser cuts and slicing the bread where the top crust was browned darker from the oven – a humble man who allowed others to eat better than himself. ‘What purpose could there be for your presence here?’
As yet there was no answer being offered by anyone. Blackstone shook his head. Jacob worried a piece of bread in his fingers. ‘Do you think the King’s son is behind this? Maybe using his grandmother to get you here? He’s the one who exiled you and took everything from you. A man carries a grudge long enough and it grows bigger every day. A trap can be sprung in a dozen different ways.’
Before Blackstone could answer Caprini asked, with a quizzical look at him: ‘The Prince holds a grudge against you?’
‘Sir Thomas tried to kill the King of France,’ said Jacob. ‘At Poitiers.’
Caprini’s hand faltered before the bread reached his mouth. ‘The King of France will be at the tournament. He is a royal prisoner of the King of England, an honoured guest.’
In his desire to reach England it had not occurred to Blackstone that the man he had vowed to kill would be present, but the Italian knight was correct. Caprini leaned forward, elbows on the table. ‘I have heard that King Edward keeps lions and leopards in the Tower of London. Perhaps, Sir Thomas, you have been lured here to fight like an ancient gladiator.’
‘Perhaps, Fra Stefano, it’s time for you to go on to Canterbury and prostrate yourself at the place where Thomas Becket was slain.’
‘And miss such a spectacle? I think I will stay with you. Someone will have to pray for your well-being or bury what scraps are left of you.’ For the first time in the long journey to England, Caprini’s face broke into a grin and the three men laughed. Blackstone raised the goblet of wine in a toast.
‘Lions and leopards,’ he said. ‘Long may they reign.’
*
The air was dry and light, high clouds veiled the sun’s glow when Blackstone was escorted next morning across the bailey towards the postern gate. The castle yards buzzed with activity as liveried servants and household staff made final preparations for the journey south to Windsor. From what Blackstone saw in the confines of the yard there must have been a hundred or more coming and going, all to serve Queen Isabella. He
had known Norman lords to show their wealth by having households of servants, but now that daylight had come to Hertford, valets, huntsmen, grooms, squires, clerks and stewards scurried like rats in a hay barn. Isabella’s wagon carried her standard of a shield divided bearing on one side the arms of England and on the other the fleurs-de-lys of France. A hierarchy of servants fussed silk cushions embroidered with flowers and birds into a day-bed arrangement and tied back woven curtains behind a voile drop to afford Isabella privacy on the road. Soldiers attended their horses as sergeants-at-arms barked orders. Blackstone looked at the activity and thanked God that when he rode anywhere it was just him and the bastard horse.
De Marcouf and the escort strode across the footbridge towards the meadow where a dozen or more courtiers hovered like marsh flies around the King’s mother, who sat on a cushioned chair. Her huntsmen stood to one side with a brace of dogs as her falconer gazed up, pointing something out to Isabella. Blackstone’s eyes found the fast-moving silhouettes against the sky’s white veil as the raptor found its target, and when it struck the hapless pigeon Isabella slapped the arm of her chair in triumph. By the time Blackstone was escorted to her the hunting bird had been retrieved and settled back on the falconer’s arm.
‘Sir Thomas,’ Isabella said, ‘you slept well?’
A crispinette held her hair neatly, balancing the beauty of her face and the make-up that accentuated her cheekbones and the red stain to her lips. Like the veiled morning sun, she projected a muted glow of health. Her cloak was open despite the morning chill and she seemed in good spirits.
He bowed. ‘In great comfort, highness.’
‘Good. We have two days on the road, but I could not resist an hour’s pleasure. Falcons are my indulgence and I am spoiled with gifts of them from my son and those who still profess to admire me.’
‘I am certain that your highness has many admirers who are genuine in their affection for you.’