Scourge of Wolves

by David Gilman

  The torture of the captured men went on for days, each morning bringing more pain and suffering. The German was hanged, drawn and quartered. His screams silenced the crowds who gathered to watch him die. Snarling dogs darted forward to snatch at his entrails and turned on each other as they fought over the offal. The blood was sluiced and then the next man to die was dragged out, screaming for mercy. But the Countess had no mercy. Her acts were as callous as those committed by any routier.

  William Cade’s men were a means to an end for the Countess. Mercenaries had slaughtered her family two years before and she had sworn eternal revenge on routiers. Inflicting cruel death on those captured gave her a twisted pleasure. She paid Cade and his men to entice other routiers to their deaths. Cade received an extra bounty but he knew there was always the threat that he would one day be seized and put to death by her. He was a turncoat. The English mercenary had sold his sword to the French Crown two years before, and had been sent by the Dauphin to help gather taxes. Countess Catherine had offered him the opportunity to earn more money and his master the Dauphin had liked the idea of routiers being entrapped – and an Englishman was the perfect tool. As a reward the Dauphin had forgiven the Countess the tax she owed. Let her spin her web, Charles had decided, and whomever she ensnared meant one less mercenary flaying the land.

  Cade spat and gestured his men to join him. There was still one caged prisoner waiting to die and before the Countess came to watch his agonized death there was time enough for Cade to have some sport with him.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

  Sir John Chandos stood before King John and the Dauphin Charles. The King sat on an ornate gilded chair; his son was similarly seated but a half-pace behind his father. Bucy and a handful of senior counsellors fanned out behind them. The chill in the great hall at the royal manor at Vincennes was eased by a roaring log fire. Chandos was no longer dressed as a fighting man but presented himself as the diplomat he was, wearing his cloak bearing the blazon of a Knight of the Garter. The English King’s representative was known for his negotiating skills, empowered to make the demands on the French necessary for Edward’s territories to be secured under the peace treaty but without causing offence. Despite earning the respect of all who had dealings with him, Chandos, in the eyes of the French Crown, represented the hubris of victory over them. He had fought at every major victory – Crécy and Poitiers – and King Edward had given him the stronghold at Saint-Sauveur, once belonging to the Norman traitor Godfrey de Harcourt. Chandos not only had the right to demand the speedy delivery of the ceded towns, but he also held the key strategic castle that would allow another English invasion through the Cotentin peninsula.

  ‘We have heard that you have gained the loyalty of our subjects in Poitou due to your even-handed treatment of them,’ said the King. ‘That we should bear their loss is painful enough but to hear that you appear to have treated them more kindly than our own Seneschal had done causes us further grief.’

  ‘Sire, it was not I who gained their affection, it was your concern for them. All I did, highness, was to guarantee them the privileges that you had already bestowed upon them.’

  King John gave a rueful smile. The loss was no more bearable but Chandos’s words were diplomatic and offered a modicum of healing balm to a monarch stripped of wealth and swathes of his country.

  ‘And now you continue to pluck the fruits of France and lay bare our orchard,’ said the King. ‘Our cousin Edward is determined to see us beggars at his door.’

  Simon Bucy winced. It would serve no purpose to antagonize Sir John. He was the King of England’s voice in France. There were already difficulties with some of the French towns refusing to swear loyalty. The strategic port of La Rochelle was due to be handed over to Edward but the citizens had made additional demands to protect their privileges. They seemed less concerned with the territorial gains of Edward and more with their own wellbeing. King John had been obliged to send Marshal Arnoul d’Audrehem to placate them before he took the army south to deal with the routiers. It was, thought Bucy, as if the French were fighting a fire on different fronts.

  ‘Sire,’ Chandos continued, ‘Edward wishes only for the peaceful transition of the towns and territory ceded to him. I am charged with securing—’

  ‘And what else are you charged with, Sir John?’ the King interrupted, unable to restrain his characteristic rage at anyone opposing his will and inflicting theirs on him. ‘We have heard that Englishmen have defeated a Breton army. Your men, Sir John? William Felton and the last of the de Harcourt traitors, Louis?’

  Sir John Chandos did not avert his gaze. ‘Sire, the Bretons were routiers. The very scum we both wish to defeat.’

  The open sore that was Brittany seeped poison. Bucy knew that Chandos’s reply was a veiled challenge. The French King was fighting a proxy war against the English for Brittany and for him to openly admit to Edward’s representative that he was funding routiers would inflame the ongoing tribulations that beset France. Chandos had trapped him.

  Bucy quickly stepped forward in an effort to deflect the King from making matters worse, but the Dauphin leaned forward, a raised hand cutting off Bucy’s reply to Chandos. ‘Sir John, the defeat of the Breton routiers came as a surprise to us all. We had heard there were too few English and Gascons to challenge their journey north. That Felton and Louis de Harcourt were successful was no mean feat. I wonder if you employed routier captains to help you achieve this success. Men like… Thomas Blackstone.’

  ‘Your highness, Sir Thomas is no mercenary captain. He is tasked by Edward to aid me and others in securing the towns. That is his role.’

  ‘Was he there, Sir John? Did he fight?’ insisted the Dauphin.

  ‘He was there and, yes, he fought.’ Chandos was obliged to answer truthfully. The animosity between the House of Valois and Thomas Blackstone would always cause friction in the ongoing negotiations.

  The Dauphin leaned back, satisfied that he had been able to put Sir John on the defensive but more importantly that he had found out where Blackstone was.

  Bucy felt caught between the King and his son. It was important to change the subject away from another defeat and the Dauphin’s obsession with Blackstone.

  ‘The transfer of the towns according to the treaty is of prime importance,’ he said.

  ‘And, with respect, it has been going too slowly,’ said Chandos.

  ‘Sir John, there have been delays, of that we are aware. His highness has done all he can to give his blessing and assurances to our people but Marshal Boucicaut has been confined to his sick bed. There are inevitable delays.’

  The French commissioner for the transfer of the towns, Boucicaut, had lain sick for weeks and Chandos had said little. The time had been well spent raising troops to defeat the Bretons but now that there had been some success he would apply pressure. ‘I am aware of his illness but now we must press forward. He must accompany me or we shall request a new commissioner.’

  ‘Must?’ fumed the King.

  ‘Sire,’ said Chandos, ‘it is your highness’s honour that I fear for. Boucicaut’s illness might be seen as delaying tactics. It is possible that it is his loyalty to you that makes him drag out his debilitation.’

  Bucy barely kept the exasperation from his voice. Chandos had diplomatically deflected the King’s anger. ‘We are grateful for your concern, Sir John. We will do everything we can to assist you.’

  The King suddenly stood. The Dauphin got to his feet. The angry scowl on the King’s face seemed to herald an insult to Sir John, but he turned on his heel and left the room, followed by his advisers. Only Bucy and the Dauphin remained.

  ‘Our father has returned to a ruined, land, Sir John. Like a man entering his home to find that thieves have stripped everything of value. It is a difficult time,’ said the Dauphin.

  Chandos bowed. ‘I understand, your grace.’

  ‘We will adjourn,’ said Bucy, ‘and await the King’s pleasure.’

  Sir John bo
wed again, and made his exit.

  The Dauphin waited until the heavy doors closed behind the English envoy. He turned to Bucy. ‘You see, Simon? Blackstone is still used against us. You cannot dismiss his continuing interference in our lives.’

  ‘He plays a small part,’ said Bucy.

  ‘Do you not hear what the people are calling him? Wolf of the North. He strikes fear wherever he goes. How does a man gain such a reputation other than by inflicting humiliation and terror on our citizens? The plague savages France but we are flayed by a scourge of wolves. Ravening beasts led by the likes of Thomas Blackstone.’

  Bucy’s allegiance still hovered between the King and his son. If Blackstone was snared and killed as the Dauphin had previously intimated, that might give succour to the King. Was trying to seize Blackstone a path worth pursuing when France was being ravaged by brigands and seized by the English King? His every instinct told him that it was not worth considering. All their previous attempts to kill Blackstone had ended in failure. The men who followed Blackstone were few, and his violence was directed against the Bretons and mercenaries who stood in Chandos’s path. But there was always the chance that the Dauphin could deliver a victory against Blackstone. It would diminish King Edward and raise the spirits of the French and their monarch. As he pondered, Bucy realized that, without him being fully aware of it, he had actually made the decision to align himself closer to the Dauphin. But his deep-seated loyalty to King John died hard.

  ‘I look forward to hearing how you plan his capture and death,’ said Bucy.

  The Dauphin sniffed, blew his nose into a handkerchief and then discarded it. A servant stepped forward and retrieved it; another of the Dauphin’s staff offered a fresh one. ‘When a wolf approaches a trap,’ said the Dauphin, dabbing his nostrils, ‘he is wary. He will often avoid poisoned bait because his unerring instinct tells him to do so. Offer a ravening beast choices, ultimately it makes no difference which one he decides to take. The trick, Simon, is to be the one offering them.’

  Bucy was none the wiser. He was still not being told what the plan was. Bucy wondered whether the Dauphin’s idea to seize Blackstone was so beyond the realm of likely success that he did not wish to divulge it.

  ‘When will you tell me, your grace?’ Bucy said.

  The Dauphin’s watery gaze studied him. ‘Our thoughts are not for our father’s ears, Simon.’

  There was the test of loyalty again. The tug that would yank him clearly into the Dauphin’s confidence and make certain that Bucy gave him his full support. He could back out now, excuse himself, tell the Dauphin that it should be discussed once Sir John Chandos had left Vincennes. To buy time to consider the best action to take as he went between father and son. But then, he suspected, he would never know. Would never be embraced. And Bucy had once before experienced that visceral taste of lust on his tongue when it seemed Blackstone would be slain. The emotion repelled and excited him simultaneously.

  ‘He will never hear those thoughts from me, your grace.’

  The Dauphin’s parchment skin stretched into what passed for a smile as he bared his yellowed teeth. Spittle gathered at the corners of his mouth. It was the face of a cunning rodent about to feed. ‘Very well. The Visconti have still not produced in full the money owed for our sister’s betrothal. That money is needed to finish paying the ransom for our father into the grasping hands of the English King. There was a vendetta between Bernabò Visconti and Thomas Blackstone. It is thought to be settled. Perhaps it is. Time has passed. There has been no threat. No attempt. But we know the Italians, Simon: they brood; their feuds fester. So who is to say that the Viper of Milan has not sent agents into Florence to seek out Blackstone’s son?’

  Bucy managed to stop his mouth from opening and closing like a beached fish. Had the Dauphin commissioned the assassination of the boy?

  ‘Sire? To what purpose would you have Blackstone’s son killed?’

  ‘If I cannot snare and kill Blackstone here in France then we must at least rid ourselves of him. If his boy dies at the hand of an assassin Blackstone will believe it to be the Visconti who have reached beyond their walls and had the boy slain. He will go to Florence. He will then wage war against the Visconti. He will be gone.’ The Dauphin smiled at Bucy again. ‘Simon, we have laid traps and one of them will snare him. And if he slips the noose of one then he will find himself in another.’

  CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

  The vendetta between Bernabò Visconti and Thomas Blackstone had been settled on the killing ground outside the walls of Milan little more than a year before, when Blackstone slew Bernabò’s bastard son. The swordsman had arranged the assassination of Blackstone’s wife and daughter and justice had been delivered by Wolf Sword’s honed steel. The bad blood between the Lord of Milan and the scar-faced Englishman had been settled. Blackstone’s act of revenge had allowed his son Henry to take up his studies in Florence under the watchful eye of Niccolò Torellini. The Florentine banking family, the Bardi, supported King Edward’s conquest of France and fate had drawn the banking family’s priest, Torellini, ever closer to the English King. The Italian acted as a go-between for the English Crown and his master, and he delivered information from his spies who moved in the shadows of the courts of Paris and Milan.

  Father Niccolò Torellini knew that the will of the Almighty had placed him in a position of guardianship over Thomas Blackstone, and now his son Henry. What other reason could there have been for Torellini to be the one summoned by the English King to give Thomas Blackstone the last sacrament when he fell near mortally wounded at Crécy? The years had passed and fate had entwined their lives. And so it was that when the vendetta had ended Henry, now in his fifteenth year, had been sent to Florence to continue his studies. He was safe in Florence and the privilege of study was his greatest joy. Henry Blackstone’s intelligence indicated that as soon as he completed his secondary schooling and entered university he would continue his studies in Latin so that he might be considered for training in one of the professions, perhaps a notary or lawyer. Father Torellini had been as much a guardian as well as mentor and there was mutual respect between the priest and Henry’s father. The boy wished never to bring shame on his father’s name and even though his classmates’ jibes about his heritage were sometimes barbed, like any teenager’s hot-headed, thoughtless words, Henry Blackstone let them wash over him. What were words when he had faced violent death? He avoided trouble and never spoke of the terror and savagery in his past, nor of the time he had been obliged to kill to save his mother and young sister. Those experiences had matured him and resilience was embedded beneath his modest demeanour. What Henry Blackstone did not realize was that Torellini’s influence ensured that there were those who shadowed him as an added precaution against his father’s enemies. A precaution that proved necessary.

  Three weeks ago, after his regular class, Henry Blackstone had left his secondary school and visited his tutor. Commune schools were notorious for rowdy students. When the incident that nearly cost him his life occurred it was thought to be a simple act of aggression on the part of youths from another district. Florence was divided into four quarters and as he was hurrying back from his lessons for a game of football with fellow classmates, Henry ran through a piazza in the Santa Croce quarter, then ducked along a narrow street, a well-trodden path home. District pride was flaunted by each quarter displaying its own banner and if violence broke out between one neighbourhood and another the banners would flutter and street gangs would draw blood. It took little to cause offence and even an unintended insult that damaged another’s pride could spark a fight. Such umori, erupting into running street fights, were not uncommon. And Henry Blackstone’s school had recently beaten another commune school from Santa Croce in a wrestling match, with Henry playing a part in his team’s success.

  He had been cornered by four youths, older, taller and stronger than him. They taunted him for being an Englishman, then threatened him for crossing their district, something he
had done on numerous occasions without incident as he went back and forth to his tutor. He had tried to talk his way out of a situation that he knew could quickly turn dangerous but the youths’ leader struck out. Henry took the first blows and tasted blood; then he half turned and used the aggressor’s weight to help wrestle him to the ground. With a surge of strength he delivered a blow to the youth’s throat. Choking for breath, the youth writhed as Henry rolled clear. His defence had momentarily surprised the other three but their disbelief ended quickly when one of them unsheathed a dagger. Henry snatched at the knife in the fallen youth’s belt and crouched, blade held low, ready to strike. Everything he did was instinctive; fear honed into grim determination, no less than when he had been forced to kill years before. Then he had been in the company of men who knew the real meaning of violence. He had shared danger with English bowmen and seen his father lead men into battle. This attack was little more than a feeble reflection of what he had experienced.

  He made no sound. He issued no challenge. His eyes locked onto the most determined of the three who danced forward, jabbing and slashing. The other two held back. The attack was ineffective and it was obvious the youth lacked the skill needed. He had only bluster backed by strength. Henry dodged again, head tucked in, feet dancing left and right, looking for an opening. Enraged at his lack of success his attacker threw himself forward with what he thought would be a killing strike. Henry Blackstone saw it coming and allowed the blade to stab forwards, then sidestepped and rammed his own knife into the youth’s groin. The boy’s screams echoed through the colonnades as blood pumped in squirts with every heartbeat. He sat in his own pool of blood, hands clasped to his groin. Henry stood ready for the other two to attack but when they saw the result of their friend’s attempt they turned and fled along with their leader. Henry looked down at the youth, who was slipping into unconsciousness, his body tilting as if falling into sleep. The boy tried to say something but his life was already slipping away. Henry knew the alarm had been raised and that the state police, the Eight of the Guard as they were known, would soon arrive. He threw down the knife, wiped the blood from his hands, then gathered his fallen books and sat on the colonnade’s steps. His hands trembled; shock from the sudden violence arrived before the police. He breathed slowly and deeply and calmed himself. In the few minutes it took to regain his composure he watched his attacker die.