by David Gilman
‘Not yet. It will be someone privy to my sending Master Cracknell. I will find out in due course. I always do.’
‘Who holds the seal that you used, highness?’
‘I hold it. Had I used my own, Father Torellini would have known immediately it was I who summoned you.’
‘I think he knew anyway,’ said Blackstone, trying not to look too obviously into the Queen’s eyes, but as determined as her to seek out the truth or catch any fleeting glimpse of lies.
‘But he did not divulge it to you, because why would you trust a disgraced Queen? An old woman who stays in the shadows?’
Torellini, you devious old bastard, Blackstone thought. There were confidences shared between the Florentine priest and the English throne that he would never know. ‘The assassins? Who were they?’ he asked.
‘The King pardoned and released many criminals when he went to war. They are known to his advisers. It is not difficult to find men who kill for money, Sir Thomas. You are such a man yourself.’
‘I’m no assassin.’
‘A distinction that will not be considered when they discover that it was I who sent for you.’
‘They think that you would kill your own grandson?’
‘There are those who believe I had my own husband murdered. What difference in their minds between killing a King and a Prince?’
For the first time Blackstone realized that the Queen of old was obliged to vie for power with those close to her own son. How much trust had been lost over the years? How much affection remained? ‘Then you will be under suspicion.’
‘Yes,’ she said matter-of-factly. ‘And you will be killed when they discover you are here.’
They had tried and failed so far but he knew that once he showed himself in the open, defenceless without his men or any other protection, then they would have him. ‘I’m in a bear pit, aren’t I? What do I do?’
She turned her wrist in a small gesture of distraction, twirling one of the gold bracelets that was loose on her thin arm, as if considering her answer.
‘My lady. I’m a common man, but I’m no fool. You have not brought me this far, to this moment, without knowing what is to be done.’
He saw the truth in her eyes as clearly as the written message that had been sent to him.
‘You go into the lists and beat the Prince in combat.’
If she had planned to catch him unawares she succeeded.
‘I cannot! I’ve seen bravery in men, but the King and my Prince are the lions of England. I cannot challenge them. In battle men stepped forward into an overwhelming enemy because of them.’
She saw the anguish on Blackstone’s face – his admiration and love for the King and the Prince was genuine. But she made no concession to his feelings. ‘You will yield when he knows you have beaten him. There is no need for him to suffer humiliation but he will know when the better fighter has won the day.’
Defeat squeezed Blackstone’s chest. ‘I cannot.’
‘This is the only way your name can be cleared and the journey I plan for you be completed. I will be able to convince the King that what I see lying ahead is to his benefit. His and England’s.’
Blackstone stood, as something more fearful than facing any enemy gnawed at him. ‘My lady, when I fight, I fight to kill. There’s no other way I know. My fury unleashes itself without my knowing it. I cannot do it,’ he said, as if confessing a mortal sin to a priest.
‘Cage your demons, Sir Thomas, grasp them by the tail and do not let them loose.’
‘There is no control of them once they are set free, my lady. They slip their bonds and carry me into the fight.’
Isabella turned her eyes away from the scarred knight. His loyalty was beyond question. She understood that no command of hers would ever force Blackstone to fight. It would take more. ‘Then you may never see your family again,’ she said quietly.
Blackstone felt as if a mace had struck him. He blinked. ‘My family? Where are they?’
‘Safe for now. But only as long as you do as I command.’
Defiance edged his voice. ‘Tell me and I’ll do as you wish.’
‘You do not bargain with a Queen!’ she bit back. ‘You bend your knee and offer thanks that she gives you the chance to save their lives.’
Blackstone went down on his knee and bowed his head. A surge of hope for his family was beaten down by a sudden distaste for the woman who manipulated him. He would do anything to save Christiana and the children.
Even defeat a King’s son.
28
‘I’m in a shit pit,’ said Blackstone to John Jacob. ‘I’ve never used a lance. Never trained with it.’
‘I thought your Norman lord taught you the use of arms,’ said Jacob.
‘I refused the lance. You know as well as I do they’re useless in battle, except for ramming into the ground and spearing horses. Tournaments are for show, not for killing.’
‘That might not be true after today,’ said Jacob.
‘Your faith in my death is touching.’
Jacob shrugged. ‘All I’m saying is the Prince and whoever fights with him are well practised in the use of every weapon and have been trained since childhood. You wouldn’t expect them to be a skilled stonemason or archer. I don’t think a shit pit is deep enough.’
The two men remained silent. Blackstone was unafraid of combat but fearful of being injured through his lack of skill with a lance. And if he could not beat the Prince and prove his worth then Christiana and the children were at risk.
‘If you go down will she speak for you?’ asked Jacob.
‘Isabella? I doubt it. She’ll wash her hands of us. I’ll be the assassin everyone says I am. You keep yourself well away, John.’
‘Running from a fight isn’t something I care for.’
‘If I’m beaten, you’re taken. Get down to the river and try to reach Calais. Tell Sir Gilbert what happened and ride back to Italy.’
‘As much chance of that as a whore giving herself for free,’ he said keeping his attention on the armour that had been brought for him to strap onto his sworn lord. Every knight of worth had his armour fitted to his body. Ill-fitting plate chafed and slowed a fighting man’s skills, which was another disadvantage for Blackstone. Damned near eighty pounds of uncomfortable armour and a belligerent horse unused to riding in the lists seemed to be an insoluble problem. Jacob rubbed a piece of frayed strapping on the armour’s breastplate between finger and thumb. ‘All those who saw us safely across France will be used to hunt us down. No, Sir Thomas, for everyone’s sake you’ve got to see this through.’ He tossed the old armour to one side in disgust. ‘And whatever you do, hold back enough so you don’t kill him. Even your pagan goddess won’t save us then.’
A cloaked figure stepped from behind a tree. Jacob’s knife was quickly in his hand making the approaching man stop.
‘Master Jacob,’ said Caprini as Blackstone laid a hand quickly on Jacob’s arm, recognizing the shadow’s form. ‘I wish to return to my bedroll.’
The Tau knight had moved remarkably close to both men without being seen or heard. Blackstone and Jacob exchanged a brief look.
‘Fra Stefano,’ said Blackstone, ‘the ground’s wet tonight; you should have stayed at your prayer.’
Caprini came closer to the small fire and helped himself to a spoonful of pottage. Jacob cut a piece of bread and offered it.
‘I am grateful. Thank you,’ Caprini said. The firelight from the pavilions faded across the meadow. ‘The trees drip unpleasantly; we should have brought a tent. The trouble with England is that God must see it as a garden that needs constant watering.’
‘A dribble of rain down a man’s neck is barely a problem worth considering,’ said Jacob as the Tau knight ate slowly, chewing each morsel as if it might be his last meal.
‘I heard what you were talking about. Your Prince will only fight at the end of the day when the last two men have fought; then he will take to the lists. Three tilts of th
e lance for each challenge unless the challenger is unhorsed.’
‘How do you know that?’ asked Blackstone. No one had told him the order of the contest.
‘May I?’ Caprini asked, extending his hand for another slice of bread. ‘I know this because I am a foreigner. Because I am ignorant of this ritual. And I ask a man called Roger Mortimer—’
‘The Earl of March? You spoke to him?’ said Jacob, interrupting his bread-cutting. The man was no older than Thomas Blackstone, but held one of the highest ranks in England. ‘He’s to proclaim the jousts. You don’t just walk up and ask him. He’s the Marshal of the Army.’ Jacob look disbelievingly from the Italian to Blackstone, who looked bemused at the hospitaller’s lack of formality.
‘But I did because when I was at prayer I saw him with others going to their own chapel. Men who pray, Master Jacob, share the same joy. A Knight of the Tau is not unknown in this country.’
‘I beg your pardon, Fra Stefano. I meant no disrespect.’
‘How could any be taken?’ he answered gracefully and then spoke to Blackstone. ‘Take the blow on the first pass and go down. Why take three tilts? Sooner or later he will unseat you. Once you’re on your feet he’ll be obliged to dismount and face you.’
‘He’s as strong as I am. And if the fall doesn’t knock me senseless he soon will after I tumble.’
‘All right. Take the strike, and then knock him down,’ said Caprini.
‘It makes sense, Sir Thomas,’ Jacob said, adding his weight to the argument. ‘This armour is so poor it may come apart after the first hit. I’ve seen the power of two horses at full tilt. Use that horse of yours to barge him. It’s a foul beast at the best of times. In fact, I’ve never seen a creature so keen to meet the devil on his own terms.’
29
The Visconti’s man, Werner von Lienhard, had insisted on a hot bath before being dressed for the tournament by his esquires. Servants had boiled water for hours, but their sleepless night had earned them no gratitude. His pennant fluttered above his pavilion, joining those of other knights from across Europe who had been given safe passage to attend and fight in the tournament on St George’s Day. Hundreds of English, German, Gascon and Flemish knights put aside old enmities and pitched their tents and pavilions next to each other within sight of the royal standard and the dais where the King and Queen would sit with their honoured guests. Now, as the contest began, a dazzling array of blazons milled around as knights and their squires paraded the lists to the cheers of hundreds of spectators. Knights rode their caparisoned tournament horses, wearing ornate plate armour, emblazoned with their arms. Crested helms and pennants vied for attention like peacocks showing off to the ladies of varying ranks dressed in their finest bright colours and jewelled garlands. They watched each other, a knowing look in their eyes, because a feast of adultery would be committed over the next few days and nights.
Von Lienhard had already identified three or four women he would sleep with before the tournament ended. There would be time before the royal warrant of protection ran out, forcing him back to the Visconti. There was prize money to be had as well as women but the Visconti offered random slaughter, which suited his tastes more. Such killing would be denied him during this friendly tournament where lances would be capped and fatal blows forbidden. Prowess would rule the day and von Lienhard was determined that he and the other German knights would ride home victorious from this spectacle. Friendly jousts or not, men died or were injured and he had sworn to the Visconti that, given the chance, he would kill Thomas Blackstone – if he appeared. He had asked others whether the Englishman had made himself known, but no one knew of Blackstone being present. Perhaps, he speculated, Blackstone had not survived the mountain pass.
*
The cheering crowds of spectators were silenced as trumpeters heralded the Earl of March’s announcement that each combatant would fight on horseback and on foot armed with any weapon of attack and defence except for devices of evil design or those enchanted with charms of spells that were forbidden by God and the Holy Church to all good Christians. On the cloth-of-gold-draped dais Edward and his Queen sat with the French King and other noblemen, as Isabella was fussed over by a lady-in-waiting. Blackstone watched the tender expression on his King’s face and admired the difference between his demeanour with his family and his rousing aggression with his troops on the battlefield. His sharp features were softened by his berry-brown hair and beard and he was dressed far more richly than when Blackstone had seen him go to war. A design of wildfowl and falcons with open wings was embroidered in coloured thread into his tunic and gown, and his belt was stitched with drakes and ducks that cowered from the hovering falcons.
When Blackstone had been first brought before Isabella her clothing was modest in its decoration. He paid little attention to women and their dress, but today Isabella could not be ignored. She was the grandest of queens. Blackstone had seen enough precious jewels, seized from Italian merchants unfortunate to be on the wrong side of the conflict. They brought a good price to help feed and arm his men over and above their contracted payments. Today, however, it looked as though Isabella the Fair could pay the French King’s ransom simply by donating her jewellery. Alms to the poor. Her gold chaplet was studded with diamonds, rubies, sapphires and pearls and these precious jewels were repeated in her slender gold crown that glistened in the light. Isabella the Fair outshone King Edward and his Queen and all the richly clothed nobles and guests in the royal stand.
‘No wonder we are peasants,’ said John Jacob. ‘Not all of us, perhaps,’ he added quickly, looking at the Italian.
‘Do you see any finery on me? My own rosary is as plain as black peas. I was a soldier before I became a hospitaller,’ he said. ‘Only kings and nobles have the right to wear such luxury. I am happy with plain woven cloth. Who among us needs anything more?’
Jacob grunted. ‘True enough. I’d feel like a court jester dressed in woven colours,’ he muttered.
‘Perhaps we’re all the King’s fools, John. We don’t need fancy dress to make us so.’
They stood well back from the swirling colours that seemed even brighter against the grey sky. Painted lances and fluttering pennons added to the spectacle. It was obvious to Blackstone that the King still showed favour to his treacherous mother. He reached for her hand and kissed it and then waved aside the lady-in-waiting as he settled her cloak comfortably about her, nestling her cloak’s fur collar snugly into her neck. Had time healed her treason, Blackstone wondered, or had she never been committed it? Perhaps, as she had told him, she cared only for England in everything she did and let nothing stand in her way. Not even Blackstone’s family. They were the means to make Blackstone yield to her will. He gazed long and hard at the russet-haired, unsmiling French King who sat, square-jawed, next to Edward and his Queen. Edward was showing off. Splendour such as this was costly and was being paid for by the French – from taxes raised from ransoms paid for Edward’s prisoners. King John was indirectly paying for Edward’s party; no wonder the English King laughed and cheered as loudly as any commoner.
For the better part of the morning Blackstone and the others kept their distance, denying themselves the spectacle in case any of them was recognized. They kept their cowls over their faces and busied themselves like servants cleaning Blackstone’s weapons and adjusting the old armour. Roars of appreciation or despair soared and dipped as favoured knights won or lost their contests. A mêlée of horsemen staged a thrilling assault of sword and mace that saw the Duke of Lancaster fall wounded, and as others were beaten and yielded the crowd’s excitement rose, muting the trumpets and drums. Blackstone edged his way around the lists feeling the same apprehension he experienced before battle. Most men felt it. All kept it hidden. And Thomas Blackstone was no different. Whatever it was that drove men into the turmoil of war became their friend when steel clashed and the desperation to survive gave them strength. It was the waiting that churned a man’s stomach and let the sweat trickle do
wn his spine. But, Blackstone chided himself, this was to be no fight to the death. It was a spectacle in which knights and squires who loved the contest showed off their prowess – little more than a training session – and his family’s safety depended on his waging a convincing fight. However, if the Prince fought as hard as Blackstone had witnessed on the battlefield then there was a chance that Blackstone could be beaten. He spat out the stale taste that crept into his mouth. It was not the conflict that troubled him, but rather that he would once again be within striking distance of the French King.
Blackstone carefully edged along the rear of the crowd and studied the man he had sworn to kill. The French monarch half rose from his seat as a Burgundian knight unseated a Gascon. Any small victory for the French over an English ally was a cause for rejoicing. King John clenched a fist in victory. Had he done that when his executioner hacked off Jean de Harcourt’s head? Blackstone wondered, remembering the moment when he had called across that Field of Mercy and sworn vengeance. As the Gascon yielded beneath the Burgundian knight’s assault amid more muted cheers than would have gone up had the Gascon won, King John glanced across the crowds and in that moment Blackstone felt a shudder. His own archer’s eyesight was keener than most and he saw the French King’s eyes narrow for a second. Had their eyes met fleetingly? Blackstone dismissed the thought. He was too far away to be recognized, but he saw the King’s face as clearly as the day he had cut his way through the field at Poitiers and got within ten paces of killing him.
The moment passed. The French and English Kings applauded. Drumbeats and whinnying horses demanded attention.
A deafening roar of voices swelled over the tournament field. A pair of knights stood like gatekeepers at each end of the lists, barring entry through the gates to anyone not fighting. They held lances down across the entrance as behind each of them the next two fighters came to the mounting benches. A herald’s voice was suffocated by the wave of excitement as the Prince of Wales’s pennon was shown at one end. There was no need to announce who was next to joust. His horse was swathed in a black trapper that bore the Prince’s tournament colours of three white ostrich feathers. A friendly tournament such as this meant his royal coat of arms would not be displayed. The same three ostrich feathers were blazoned against a black background on his shield. His helmet was adorned with the boiled-leather crest of a lion. In the centre of the lists the tournament marshal raised his arm, readying the combatants. As if on command, the crowd fell silent – so silent that the snorting horses and the snap of closing visors sounded loudly. Attendants held the horses’ bridles, aiding each rider to control the power that now demanded to be released, and handing each man his shield. The marshal’s arm dropped as his voice carried the command to let the horsemen go.