Gate of the Dead

by David Gilman

  ‘The Jacques would have the devil of a job reaching us in this stronghold, my lord,’ said Killbere.

  ‘I like to plan ahead,’ said de Hangest. ‘I have the royal household to protect and fewer than twenty men to do it with. There are damned near three hundred women in this place now. The garderobes stink, there are not enough servants to cater for them, no one bathes, except the Dauphin’s wife and a few of her ladies. We’ve kept the meat for the women; we men eat pottage, cheese and bread. A siege would see us finished and a concerted attack would make this place a charnel house.’

  ‘You think they can fight through the townsmen and still reach you?’ asked Caprini. ‘The mayor has sworn his loyalty.’

  ‘Good Fra Caprini, you hospitallers have an unquenchable belief in a man’s word. My own grandfather fought with the Templars, much good it did him, and your brotherhood of Saint James will no doubt one day be destroyed by lords and kings who once offered you protection.’ He slammed the empty beaker on the table to emphasize his point. ‘Men are lesser creatures than incorruptible angels.’ He turned his gaze back to Blackstone. ‘Your archers. Can we use them?’

  ‘No,’ Blackstone said.

  ‘You refuse?’ de Hangest said disbelievingly.

  ‘They are useless to you, my lord. The battlements are high; there are only rooftops beyond the bridge. The only place to stop an assault is on the small square on the other side of the river and that’s close to a bow’s range.’

  ‘If the peasant army attacks, and I do not believe they would breach the city walls, but if... then they must be stopped before they reach the portcullis,’ said de Grailly.

  ‘My lord, these are English archers. Their bows are near seven foot long; they would not be able to angle them over the walls. They could blindly loose arrows high and try to bring them down on any assault, but they would not be enough to stop an attack of thousands.’

  ‘But they would cause enough fear and terror to make the bastards think again,’ said de Hangest.

  ‘Aye, my lord,’ said Killbere, ‘those yard-long shafts will put the fear of God into any who hear their release, but our archers have precious few arrows to fly. We took back what we could from the dead at Clermont, but there’s not enough.’

  The men in the room fell silent.

  ‘We must hope the Dauphin returns in time to sweep clean the countryside,’ said de Hangest.

  De Grailly said brusquely, ‘He won’t. He wants Paris before Navarre gets there. These ladies’ safety is in our hands. We will make the best of it, when the time comes. Thomas, see to your men and what can be done.’ He raised the beaker to his lips, his eyes across its rim looking directly at Blackstone. Just in case, they seemed to urge.

  Blackstone and the others acknowledged the two feudal lords and turned for the door. ‘Is there any word of my wife and children?’ he asked, turning at the door held by the squire.

  ‘They were in Picardy?’ de Hangest asked.

  ‘Yes. Somewhere... I don’t know where. My boy’s a page to one of the local lords... I think. Christiana is her name. My boy is Henry and my daughter Agnes.’

  ‘There is no one bearing your name, here. I’m sorry, Sir Thomas,’ said the older knight.

  *

  Christiana had settled Agnes with the other children. A hierarchy had been established within the various rooms of the stronghold. The Dauphin’s wife, the Duchess of Normandy, with her daughter, and his sister, the Duchess of Orléans, were kept away from the other noblewomen, many of whom were wives who had these past few days become widows of knights loyal to the French Crown. The rooms could accommodate no more than thirty or forty women and children and so the corridors were also utilized for dormitories. It was here, with an opportunity to have light and air from the courtyard below, that Christiana chose to sleep with Agnes. The women possessed only the clothes they wore and cloaks for warmth; some of the more fortunate had blankets, but none – other than the royal family – had any bedding.

  She had not seen von Lienhard since they had arrived and, although Henry had been put to work, she had glimpsed him occasionally in the yard below and called his name; he had looked up, searching for her, and then waved. He was all right. The boy was working hard and he would soon be tasked with bringing leather pails of water into the corridors for the women to drink; she could question him then. Knights and squires talked among themselves and Henry was intelligent enough to listen for any clues that might tell when the Dauphin’s army would return, or where next the Jacquerie had swarmed.

  Earlier she had heard horsemen clatter into the yard, but there were so many women who crowded the windows she was unable to see out. There was a sense of disappointment from the women, who soon turned away, complaining that it seemed to be a band of ruffians, most probably routiers here to sell their services. Their souls were already sold to the devil, one of the women said, garnering agreement from those around her. Back and forth the women complained. What they needed were knights like the Captal and his cousin the Count of Foix. Thank God de Hangest had been left to guard the royals. But a bodyguard was sufficient only for personal protection. The Dauphin could not have known that dissent and rebellion would rise so quickly. A scorched earth lay beyond the city walls. Abandoned they might be, but they were safe – for now. And tears were shed again and again as the women recounted the savagery inflicted upon their husbands and children. Stories of escape inflamed each group as women comforted each other, while others took children to their skirts, refusing to yield to their grief in public, each embracing what was perhaps the only survivor of her family. Children had been raped, tortured, butchered, and more than once a woman’s memory caused an inconsolable cry of despair to shatter the stifling, airless rooms.

  Christiana watched Henry carrying two pails of water from the well; a brief glance up and a smile as he balanced their weight, stepping quickly towards the entrance below. She saw men emerge from around the corner where the horses were stabled and a lurching surge of hope forced its way from her chest to her throat. Half a dozen hobelars were walking towards the well, two big dark-bearded men with them, and ahead were four bantering archers, their war bows bound and protected in their linen bags slung from their shoulders, but still with their few arrows held in their belts. Fletchings uppermost, bodkin points down. These archers had a swagger to their muscled gait. Cocky bastards, Thomas had always called them. Cocky hounds of war, tails up and ready to fight. She knew these men. They were the curse of the French. Loathed and hated by every noble house because almost every family had lost a loved one beneath their arrows. And the women who sheltered behind her would soon be screaming abuse when they saw them. But not her. One of the men had helped rescue her from the alpine fortress eighteen months before and his face was as clear now as it had been then. Will Longdon.

  She raced along the open gallery, trying to stay ahead of the ambling men far below, so she could see their faces more clearly. The two bearded men were the Normans, Meulon and Gaillard. The others she did not know. These were men who had followed Blackstone into Italy and now they were here. Thomas! Her heart raced from a mixture of fear and excitement, confusing her. She had lied about her name, used her father’s, and now it did not matter. Uncertainty gripped her. Was Thomas even here? Longdon and the others were Fortune’s men. Perhaps the women were correct – they were routiers. She lost sight of them as she ran into the stairwell. Three young squires struggled up the steps, slopping water from the pails. At the far end of the long passageway de Hangest and three other men stepped out of a room, its thudding door echoing down the wooden-planked floor and stone walls. It was a long, gloomy passage – small windows barely giving light to see; it was where the knights were quartered – an area kept free of women. The men walked briskly towards her, faces still in the gloom, cloaks billowing, their weight creaking the boards. She could feel the vibration shudder through the planking. At de Hangest’s left shoulder was a thin, angular man with close-cropped dark hair and beard, and
a black cloak that seemed too big for him. On the opposite side was a man, almost bow-legged, with wisps of grey in his beard caught by the light, creaking mail and huffing breath, as if quietly complaining at the length of corridor. Behind all three, but head and shoulders above them all, was the shadowed figure that she knew bore a scar from hairline to chin and more elsewhere on his body.

  Feet scuffed and armour rattled below the pageboys who had thirty more stairs before they reached the landing. At the turn of the steps below them two knights emerged, their gaze catching sight of Christiana.

  ‘My Lady de Sainteny!’ von Lienhard called, his voice echoing.

  Henry turned fearfully, pressing his back against the wall as he waited for the Germans to pass. Christiana looked from them to her husband, who had heard her name called and pushed past the others, striding towards her. The bitter memory of their parting was banished in that moment of relief at seeing him. Some part of her wanted to scream ‘Murderer!’ at von Lienhard, who had faltered on the steps, sensing something had happened, but completely unable to fathom what it was. He saw her pull back the thick russet hair from her face.

  Christiana smiled at him.

  And then Thomas Blackstone stepped into view and embraced her.

  Von Lienhard felt his breath punched from his lungs and staggered back a step as the boy next to him dropped the pails of water and cried out:

  ‘Father!’

  43

  The knights were gathered in the great hall, seated in a half-circle, having listened again to Christiana’s accusation against Werner von Lienhard and his fellow German knight, Conrad von Groitsch. She had levelled the accusation the moment Blackstone pressed his hands into her arms and pulled her to him. She had breathed in his smell of stale sweat and woodsmoke as if it were an elixir, reigniting the lust she felt for him. Her strength returned, banishing the burden she had carried for so long.

  De Hangest, Killbere and Caprini had stepped into the void as von Lienhard had lunged up the steps, sword half-drawn and a curse spitting from his lips. Killbere had blocked his attack, and de Hangest had commanded his obedience as Caprini’s sword was already in hand.

  Lord de Hangest and Jean de Grailly were the senior men in the room, but de Grailly and the Count of Foix held the highest rank. It was de Grailly who spoke to Christiana standing in front of them.

  ‘You have brought a damning charge against the men who saved you and your children. We have heard of the enmity between Werner von Lienhard and your husband Thomas Blackstone. We must consider that you make such accusations against him because of this bad blood.’

  Despite her tiredness from the previous days, Christiana braced her shoulders; she knew full well her own life was now in danger. She looked directly at the Captal de Buch. ‘I have sworn an oath of what I saw that night at Sir Marcel’s home.’

  ‘Why wait until now?’ the Count of Foix asked.

  ‘I was a woman alone without protection, not daring to challenge the man who threatened my child with harm if I spoke out.’

  ‘No one heard this threat,’ said de Hangest.

  ‘No words were needed, lord,’ she answered.

  ‘You could have approached any knight in this room,’ said de Grailly.

  ‘And who would have been my champion?’ said Christiana a little too fiercely.

  De Grailly broke the embarrassed silence. ‘I would have defended your honour, as all knights here defend the women caught up in the terror,’ he said, not unkindly.

  She bowed her head. ‘I spoke too hastily, my Lord de Grailly, but it seemed to me that the threat outside these walls took precedence over my own misfortune and judicial combat is to the death. How could I expect anyone to bear witness for me?’

  ‘But now you place yourself above such a threat,’ said de Hangest. ‘Come along, Lady Christiana, what’s all this? Admit you’re wrong and let’s get about the business at hand and see to our defence. For God’s sake, woman!’

  Christiana refused to be cowed, and Blackstone half wished she would show some restraint, keep her head bowed, act as though she was contrite, and still keep the accusation in place. But that was not Christiana. She stood as defiantly as had he on many occasions.

  The Count of Foix smiled at de Hangest’s impatience. ‘We must let words define our actions, my lord. We sit as a judicial court.’

  The older knight grimaced. He had been sucked into a conflict between this woman and the German knight, and he had no wish for it to be prolonged any further. His duty was plain enough: protect the royal family. He cooled his irritation. ‘You lied about your name, so why should we take this accusation to be anything than another falsification?’

  ‘My father was Guyon de Sainteny. I sought protection in his name as I had done before...’ She hesitated, barely managing not to glance at Blackstone. ‘...he was killed defending France. My husband has many enemies and I had enough trouble at my door. There were others who rode at the back of the villeins but it was that knight’ – she raised her arm and pointing accusingly at von Lienhard – ‘who helped murder Sir Marcel and it was he and two other knights with him who took the silver from the chapel.’

  ‘And who returned it to the Bishop here,’ said de Hangest. ‘In a true and Christian gesture towards the Church.’

  ‘I am certain there is other booty hidden,’ she said. ‘The third man rode away before we reached here.’

  ‘Von Lienhard’s denial is corroborated by his companion knight, Conrad von Groitsch,’ said de Grailly carefully. ‘Their word against yours. This places you in a fearful situation, my lady. Think hard and recant before this matter goes beyond the necessity of a simple apology for mistaken identity.’

  ‘It was him,’ she insisted.

  ‘It was dark, madam. There were hundreds of peasants in the attack and the horsemen would have been some distance from you,’ said de Grailly, trying to give Christiana a way to change her mind, even to show doubt. ‘You risk death if this accusation is proven false.’

  ‘The moonlight could not hide him. He wore no helm and urged the rabble to slaughter. He placed the stake for them to burn a good Christian knight to death while he still lived. You have heard of the horrors told by other women; mine is no less terrible. These vile men provoked violence. The peasants tore a child from its mother’s womb! Do you not wish to see those who countenanced this action brought to justice? These men are dishonoured!’ Christiana’s voice had grown intemperate, blood flushed her face, and Blackstone knew that her fiery spirit would not be controlled much longer.

  De Hangest scowled and pointed a finger, about to discipline her, when Blackstone spoke quickly, delaying the moment.

  ‘My lords, when we faced the peasants on the plateau at Mello, I fought a knight who bore von Lienhard’s arms. The harpy blazon cannot be mistaken. He rode with the Jacquerie.’

  Von Lienhard responded quickly. ‘You attacked a man who bore my shield. Who is to say it had not been taken foully by another? For all I know my kinsman had gone to help Charles of Navarre – it is possible a brigand slew him and took his armour. Blackstone attacked this man believing it was me!’ he said brusquely, mindful of keeping the semblance of a respectful tone in front of his peers.

  Jean de Grailly stared at Blackstone. He could not show any favour in this matter, knowing as he did that von Lienhard was a master swordsman. Blackstone drew strength from the fury that lay within him when he fought, but the German was known to be cold-blooded in his ability to kill.

  Werner von Lienhard could beat Blackstone.

  ‘Thomas?’

  ‘Yes, I thought it was him. As this court has already been told, my King denied him judicial combat at Windsor. And he and this knight who stands with him attacked the Italian Caprini, John Jacob, who is my captain, and me. The third man was also at his side that night. Von Lienhard has no honour, my lord,’ said Blackstone, driving home the accusation.

  The German was in danger of losing his composure. ‘Blackstone slew my broth
er at Crécy – the sword he carries bears the running-wolf mark. A brave knight treacherously slain by a common archer! I should be given the chance to retrieve my family honour,’ von Lienhard insisted.

  ‘And that was twelve years gone,’ de Hangest reminded him.

  ‘And honour is not bound by time,’ von Lienhard answered quickly.

  There were murmurs of agreement from the other knights.

  De Grailly spoke calmly, sensing that the hearing might cause dissent among them at a time when they needed to stand as one. The peasants were swarming towards the city and every man would be needed. ‘Sir Thomas’s actions were witnessed by noble knights and the royal Prince at Crécy, and he was justly rewarded. This other issue bears the gravest of consequences. If you are proven to be dishonoured you will die; if Lady Christiana is lying then she will be hanged.’ De Grailly sighed with the displeasure of the situation. ‘All right. Bring in the boy.’

  Von Lienhard took a step forward, eager to press his case. ‘The boy will protect his mother!’

  ‘Stay silent. There must be no intimidation directed towards him,’ de Hangest instructed.

  A squire brought Henry Blackstone into the hall. He looked uncertainly at the great knights who sat in a half-circle, his mother stood before them in the middle of the room, his father to one side of the lords, the German and his kinsman on the other.

  De Hangest beckoned the boy forward so that the accuser and the accused were behind him.

  ‘We know the terrible events that occurred at your master’s house and your part in saving your mother and sister from the slaughter. There is only one question we have for you.’ De Hangest’s gaze went quickly from son to mother and then back to the young pageboy. ‘Did you see this knight’ – he pointed – ‘bear arms with the peasants and commit atrocity against your master or his family?’

  Henry Blackstone looked uncertain. His answer could save or condemn his mother. He dared a glance at his father, who showed no sign of encouragement but looked sternly at him. He hesitated again. All eyes were on him. He tried to find the courage he knew had been with him that night – disguised fear that had given him strength.