by David Gilman
She knew the King was aware of the payments she made to couriers who travelled back and forth between her and Charles of Navarre and others who were embroiled in the violence in the country of her birth. Information could be used either for or against Navarre, depending upon how she saw the great game changing.
‘You have your ear close to the ground,’ Edward said.
‘I have it close to the hearts of those who are threatened,’ she answered. Always quicker, always sharper, always better informed.
‘John’s family is his concern. His duty, as laid down by God, is to protect his country,’ said Edward testily. ‘Where he fails I shall succeed.’
Isabella gazed at her son, letting her eyes rest on him. He was the greatest King England had known and she had played her role in making it so. She answered with genuine tenderness. ‘You are a benevolent King. You are gracious and kind and you curb your anger towards your enemies when you have them on their knees. If your family were hunted by the mob what would you wish?’
She watched his face change from one of attentiveness to that of a man who could well imagine the horror of his own children being slaughtered. Then his face hardened.
‘I am not John’s keeper. I have yet to wear the crown of France. Let the Dauphin find the means to protect his own family.’
Isabella rallied her waning energy. ‘And you believe his fear will not influence his judgement in the treaty? He will try to strike a bargain. To buy time. I would ask you to save John’s daughter and his son’s wife and family. Benevolence will be met with gratitude. Your treaty will be less argued over. And King John will regain control over his son and Navarre – and his country. Thanks to you.’
Edward remained silent. He knew as well as the Prince that Blackstone could have beaten him, but had not. The rumour of his being an assassin had turned out to be just that – false accusation. Isabella had brought him to the tournament to prove his loyalty and thrust him to the fore – thrust him down the Prince’s throat, more like. And the devil would play advocate between King and Prince, father and son, when the time came, because Thomas Blackstone was a thread that ran through all their lives. So now Edward knew what Isabella wanted. Whether she was correct he could not know. Not yet.
He stood, annoyed that he was being manipulated. A small, albeit temporary, victory was needed over Isabella.
He beckoned his chamberlain. ‘Arrest Sir Thomas Blackstone.’
*
Like everyone else, Werner von Lienhard had been eager to watch the King’s son fight. The avid crowds bellowed their approval of the anonymous knight who showed no colours and who had nearly unhorsed the Prince of Wales, their great English hero. Von Lienhard had pushed his way to the front and watched the contest. By the time Blackstone revealed his identity to the King, the Visconti’s champion knew he could beat the scarred-faced Englishman: Blackstone’s fury could be subdued by cold-hearted skill learnt over the years from the best swordmeisters in Germany.
As Blackstone and the others picked their way clear of the pavilions towards the darkened meadows eight armed men moved out of the shadows. Each was a knight who had no compunction about slaying Englishmen – especially as they were being paid by von Lienhard. Conrad von Groitsch and Siegfried Mertens were two knights who were close friends of von Lienhard. Each came from landowning families, but when their wealth had been squandered by an incompetent father or stolen by an older brother they had been forced to sell their fighting skills to those who paid the highest. For these three men the Visconti of Milan had been a generous benefactor. Others in the group had suffered humiliation on the lists or on battlefields. They were Germans and Frenchmen, and all were prepared to transgress the code of chivalry demanded by the St George’s Day tournament.
Blackstone had been distracted by the coat of arms that glared down at him. At no time since the slaughter at Crécy had he had any interest in knowing whom he had slain. Wolf Sword was his through victory, but now he realized it might be someone else’s by birthright.
The knights’ sudden appearance alarmed the horses, making Blackstone and the others instinctively grab their reins. Before he could pull Wolf Sword from its scabbard that was secured to the saddle’s pommel, the horse had ducked its head, throwing him off balance. Its rear hooves lashed out and the heavy thud of iron shoes meeting mail-encased flesh and bone was plain to hear. Caprini had swung his horse between himself and the attackers and quickly engaged the first two men who struck at him. Blackstone released the reins and within moments he and John Jacob stood close enough together to deter the attacking men who wore mail but no surcoats, their open bascinets enclosing snarling faces. Without shields or armour Blackstone and the others were at a grave disadvantage. They parried a quick surge of attack, edged towards Caprini, and quickly formed a defensive wedge like a broadhead arrow, back to back. The horses ran loose, then settled beyond the first line of pavilions. Von Lienhard attacked Blackstone, a man with him at each side, forcing Caprini and Jacob to flatten their defensive line. Sword blades clashed and clanged, but then Blackstone took two strides forward, caught one of the men as he made a clumsy strike, and rammed Wolf Sword into his thigh. As the man fell Blackstone lowered his weight with him, keeping the blade rammed into muscle. The man dropped his sword and clawed at Wolf Sword’s blade, to no avail. Blackstone had seen fighters make the mistake of withdrawing a blade too quickly, allowing their adversary to regain his feet and strike a low blow that could gut a man. Strong and violent men could withstand such agony as their hearts pumped energy and hatred into their muscles. In the seconds it took to press the blade firmly another of the attackers caught Blackstone across the back of his head and shoulder with a flat-bladed blow deflected by his mail. Fireflies danced behind his eyes and he felt his knees give way. Wolf Sword fell from his grasp. As he staggered to one side the wounded man lunged with a knife, but John Jacob kicked him in the face and then pushed Blackstone away as another struck downwards with a blow that would have cleft Blackstone from collarbone to hip. The Tau knight rammed his blade from a low angle, forcing it upwards through the man’s raised armpit, its honed blade cutting through muscle and bone and out through his lower jaw. Blood and tiny fragments of bone sprayed from his head. The shattered jaw, in the throes of death, emitted a final vomiting retch.
Four of the attackers were sprawled, writhing in pain from deep wounds, the fifth was dead and, as Blackstone clawed himself to his feet, von Lienhard bent and picked up Wolf Sword. His eyes were held by the running wolf etched on the blade below the crossguard. In that moment a memory struck him as firm and violent as a mace. The sword was his elder brother’s, ten years his senior, given by his father when he had come of age. He had carried it when he rode with the King of Bohemia at Crécy. Those who bravely charged the English that day gave their account of his brother fighting towards the Prince of Wales. He was within paces of killing the heir to the throne when he fell. Butchered by a common archer. An ignominious death at the hands of an unknown, low-born man – who now carried the sword.
The shock of it held him too long. Blackstone took a few quick strides and as von Lienhard looked up from the etched blade Blackstone’s fist clubbed him behind the ear. It felled the German to his knees as Blackstone seized Wolf Sword. The three defenders turned to face von Lienhard’s remaining men. Three against two. The night should have been theirs, but the fight had caused a commotion and squires from the surrounding pavilions had armed themselves with flaring torches and swords. Tent flaps were thrown back as half-dressed knights emerged to see what was happening. They were not concerned. What they – mistakenly – saw was three ruffians fighting knights, who would be dealt with by the squires and the constable when he was summoned.
Von Lienhard was on all fours, shaking the dizziness from his head, unable yet to stand, as the two surviving attackers held back while Blackstone and his companions readied themselves for an attack from the gathering attendants. It was obvious that the Englishman and those with him w
ould not dare face down so many and, seizing their chance, they dragged a groggy von Lienhard away from the fray.
‘Shit pit again,’ said John Jacob as the three of them circled, readying themselves for a rush from the gathering men. Caprini slipped off his cloak and twirled it around his shield arm as four of the older squires warily nudged their torches closer.
‘It’s Sir Thomas Blackstone!’ one of them cried, his West Country accent, broad and gentle, carrying across the pavilions. Blackstone realized he must have been a senior squire among them because he half turned to address the others behind him – a gesture of trust that Blackstone would not take advantage of. ‘Lower them swords! It’s not Sir Thomas as would start this.’
The men who followed did as the older man instructed. There was enough light now for everyone to see the three beleaguered men clearly. There were many squires, mature in years, eligible for knighthood, but who either did not care for the responsibility or did not have the means to support all that knighthood demanded, and Blackstone reasoned that this squire might be such a man.
‘There are wounded men who need attention,’ said Blackstone, ‘and one who is beyond help.’
‘Aye, my lord, it’ll be seen to. I am Roger Hollings. I serve my master, Audley.’
Blackstone stepped forward. ‘Our greatest knight,’ he said, remembering the honour Sir James Audley had gained at Poitiers.
‘Finely spoken, Sir Thomas. A great knight indeed.’
‘He’s here?’
‘At the castle. He’s an honoured guest of the King.’
‘And rightly so,’ said Blackstone, thankful that Audley’s squire had been on hand.
Von Lienhard and the surviving knights stood their ground warily, knowing the moment for their success had passed.
‘And these good gentlemen?’ Hollings asked. ‘Is there business to be settled?’
Before Blackstone could answer a murmur of voices carried from beyond the men. Twenty torch-bearing guards led by a sergeant-at-arms pushed their way through the crowd.
‘Sir Thomas Blackstone?’ the arresting officer said, moving close to Blackstone, unafraid of any violent response against the King’s command. ‘You will surrender your sword.’
There was no need for Blackstone to ask on whose authority the command had been issued. He turned Wolf Sword’s bloodied blade away and offered the hilt to the sergeant-at-arms, who took it and passed it to another at his shoulder. Caprini and John Jacob followed Blackstone’s example.
‘I do not think this will end well,’ said Jacob.
‘Have faith,’ said Blackstone, placing an arm on his friend’s shoulder.
‘We must hope that the good knight here can pray on our behalf as well as he fights,’ Jacob answered, looking to the Tau knight, who unfurled his cloak and covered his shoulders, making the distinctive symbol plain for all to see.
‘I pray better than I fight, Master Jacob, but it can take time for prayers to be answered.’
‘Then I’ll not hold my breath – while I still have it,’ said John Jacob as the three men were ushered away.
32
The King had spent little time at his dinner, sufficient only to play the gracious host to the French King and his honoured guests. Now that Isabella had involved herself yet again in affairs of state he needed time to deliberate how best to indulge her while considering her advice, knowing that her political and diplomatic skills had always been astute. He decided to approach one of his most trusted advisers, and under the guise of discovering how the Duke of Lancaster was recovering from the injury he had sustained in the tournament, he visited his close friend, who was now confined to his quarters under the care of the King’s personal physician.
Henry of Grosmont, Duke of Lancaster, had been Edward’s closest friend for more than twenty years. He was one of England’s greatest knights, who had fought and won battles and sieges that had brought fame and glory to his King. Lancaster was a man of impeccable integrity and for the past five years had been Edward’s chief negotiator in his search for peace with the French, even dealing, against his will, with the duplicitous Charles of Navarre. Now this great-grandson of Henry III lay confined to his bedchamber, sweating with pain from his injury.
Lancaster had dismissed his attendants when the King had entered his chamber and now Edward wrung out a wet cloth and tenderly laid it on his friend’s fevered brow.
‘Do not shame me, sire,’ said Lancaster, ‘I am your servant, you are not mine.’
In the company of his close friends, the earls of England who had helped him achieve success, Edward was able to relax the formality his crown demanded. ‘We soothe the brow of a friend and we serve loyalty. And require the counsel of a man who has a common touch.’
Lancaster relented, letting him wring out the cloth again. He sighed. ‘Ah, my lord, because I always preferred the embraces of common women to those who were more refined means rather that I prefer their common touch. They were more willing.’
Both men smiled, and Edward rested his hand on his friend’s shoulder, fussing his nightshirt at his neck. ‘You have always dressed well, drunk the finest wines and loved music and dance. You have always known what road to travel.’
‘In my youth. I am now too pious for the joys of life.’
‘And you have fought more bravely than any other.’
Edward related what Isabella had done and her reasons for acting as she had. King and friend eased into a comfortable silence as Lancaster considered what Edward had told him and, despite his discomfort, thought clearly of the events that were unfolding across France. ‘Thomas Blackstone might be a sign of the divine presence. Were it not for him you would be denied your son and heir. Isabella is right.’
Edward sighed. ‘Dammit, how often has she been wrong? An infuriating woman, our mother.’
Lancaster smiled. ‘It does not matter who lives and dies in any of this, only who decides it,’ he answered. ‘And that is your prerogative. Blackstone can be more use under your command. He has proved himself. And his loyalty,’ he added in a whisper, his throat rasping from dryness.
Lancaster eased himself on the pillows at his back and allowed Edward to help him sip wine. As the King eased his friend’s head back, Lancaster placed a hand on that of his sovereign lord. ‘Blackstone would not willingly go against the Prince. She made him. She holds something over him.’
Lancaster’s exhaustion was evident. His wounds and the sleeping potion the apothecary had put in the wine lowered him into sleep and, as his eyes closed, the King of England tenderly drew the fur-lined bedclothes over him.
Isabella the Fair had seen it all clearly. The King, and England, could only benefit from Blackstone’s attempt to rescue the French family. And if God willed it, he might even succeed.
But Edward had sent many men to their deaths in his time. If Thomas Blackstone needed to be sacrificed so that his treaty was seen to be negotiated in good faith, then so be it.
*
Stefano Caprini was treated no differently from Blackstone and John Jacob. His devotion to God and to His pilgrims meant little to his jailers. It would not be the first time that a hospitaller had turned to violence, and even though they knew nothing of his background they had heard of others who followed the Order of St James who led mercenaries. The three men were held in an antechamber near to where the King was undertaking renovations to the castle. Scaffolding and stonework lay nearby and Blackstone had run his eye over the masons’ work. The skill was apparent and a part of him wondered whether, had he not been arrayed for war, he too might have found work as a skilled stonemason. But twelve years of fighting and war had given him different skills and had assuredly earned him more money. Builders, no matter how good they were, would see many a cold winter without a fire in the hearth. Work was hard to come by. Fighting was not.
De Marcouf was their jailer, flanked by half a dozen armed men. His orders were not to shackle the prisoners, but to keep them under spear and sword point – and
under no circumstances was Thomas Blackstone to be harmed. Through the low doorway was a passage leading to another chamber from where Blackstone could hear the muffled voices of a man and a woman, but the thickness of the wall and the stoutness of the door made their words indistinct.
Caprini eyed the Norman knight. ‘You served as our guardian and now you hold us at sword point. We are unarmed and yet you fear us. If we were to be harmed your sergeant-at-arms had enough men to wound us. Are we such dangerous beasts?’
‘I am not here to engage in conversation with you, Fra Caprini. If a messenger comes through that door and tells me that you are to be slain then it will be done without question,’ said the Norman.
A wooden latch slid back and the door was opened by one of the King’s attendants, who nodded at de Marcouf.
‘Sir Thomas,’ de Marcouf said and gestured with his sword for Blackstone to go through the doorway.
Blackstone turned to Caprini. ‘I have not yet heard a prayer uttered.’
‘We pray with our hearts, Sir Thomas,’ said the Italian.
‘Little comfort for others,’ Blackstone answered. ‘Try moving your lips.’
*
Blackstone stooped through the low archway, de Marcouf at his back, the light from the cresset lamps and the attendant leading him to the next chamber. No man could go before his King and not be humbled. Battlefield exhortations to strengthen courage as he rode along their ranks were as close as most common men got to their sovereign lord. The blessing for the English was that Edward was a warrior king and knew how to reach out and seize their loyalty. He had fought at close quarters and put his own life at risk. A soldier’s heart understood why men killed and it was a King’s divine right to bless them for doing so.