Viper's Blood

by David Gilman

  ‘John,’ Blackstone called to John Jacob. ‘Perinne and Halfpenny are to join the captains in here. This is where we’ll camp. Henry, you help Will Longdon cook us a meal. Half a dozen of those chickens and some eggs will make a start.’

  Blackstone led the bastard horse to a stall at the end of the barn and unsaddled it. The others knew to keep their distance.

  ‘Lancaster will take this as an affront,’ said Killbere.

  ‘I’ll take his gratitude and food, but we look after ourselves. You’re right, being so close to nobility is never a good thing. Have the woman in the house boil water. I could do with a bath as well.’

  ‘And me,’ said Meulon.

  ‘Aye, be good to scrape the last week’s filth away,’ said Gaillard.

  Killbere glared. Sharing his King’s dirty water would never have happened, but allowing the men he fought with to share his bath was another.

  ‘You’ll wait your damned turn,’ he growled. ‘I’ll test the water first and then Sir Thomas can follow.’

  ‘Be careful of the woman of the house, Sir Gilbert,’ said Will Longdon as he dumped his blanket and saddle panniers. ‘If she puts mustard seed in the water your cock will boil and your arse will squeal.’

  ‘And if we used the bathwater as broth it would taste better than anything you’re likely to sacrifice in the cooking pot,’ said Killbere. ‘Get about your damned business and wring some chicken necks and try not to think of your own puny cock when you’re doing it.’

  The men turned away, smiling; even Will Longdon knew there was no venom in the veteran knight’s words.

  ‘And you?’ said Killbere to Blackstone.

  ‘I’ll go and check on the men outside,’ he answered.

  Killbere grunted. ‘The men. Ah. If you lied as well as you fought we’d be better for it. The woman will be with the baggage train if she survived the storm, and I wouldn’t be too sure she didn’t cause it.’

  Was it so obvious? thought Blackstone as he turned for the gate, feeling Killbere’s stare boring into his back as sharp as a bodkin.

  *

  Blackstone picked his way through the tents and pavilions and the scurrying servants who ran back and forth to attend to their lords’ requirements and comforts. The common soldiers and men-at-arms looked worn and exhausted. Many sported injuries from the storm but armour and mail was being cleaned, weapons sharpened and fires blazed with dry kindling that had probably been requisitioned from city merchants’ houses. The smell of herbs wafted from the steam on cooking pots but it was poor fare. The kitchens had been destroyed in the onslaught of the storm, cooking utensils devoured by the mud; there was no tentage for the common soldier – along with saddles and arms they had also been lost. The men stank of rancid sweat. Unwashed clothing clung to bodies pockmarked with sores and chafed skin. Horses were lame, weak from lack of fodder, broken down from the weight of armoured men and their weapons. The army stank: it reeked of death and another stench that was more powerful than that of the latrine pets. Defeat.

  Perhaps Killbere was right, Blackstone thought as he watched squires honing their knights’ swords on grinding stones and blacksmiths who had already fired up the coals on the mobile forges that had survived the journey. The rhythmic beating of hammer against anvil meant that iron horseshoes were being replaced. It seemed to Blackstone’s eye that despite the army being flayed by the storm that Edward was preparing for battle. One last time.

  It took Blackstone fifteen minutes to find the baggage train and the pitifully few wagons that had got this far and which bore the barber surgeons and apothecaries. There were at least eighty wounded men, victims of the great storm, lying in rows on the ground ready to be treated by the surgeons. Blackstone noticed that most of them were archers who wore the green and white colours of Cheshire men. They had formed the main body in the centre of the column and had obviously been caught in the open without any chance of running for cover in the forests or clambering beneath the heavy timbers of the supply wagons as many others had done. They had broken arms and legs; bones protruded but the men’s muted agony was testimony to their grim determination not to cry out. Many had suffered head wounds and were unconscious. If they survived the barber surgeons’ treatment they would be counted as lucky, given the swathes of bodies that still lay out on the open plain. Unless the sergeants-at-arms could find churches and monasteries in the area and pay the priests and monks enough to cart away the bodies and bury them in their own churchyards, King Edward’s men would be left to village dogs, crows and wolves. The horse carcasses would already be bloating and the stench would soon follow the King’s retreat from Paris.

  Blackstone walked along the rows of wagons searching for Aelis, and then quickly stopped when he saw her less than fifty paces away bending down to tend an injured man. Her cloak’s hood was pulled back, revealing her dark hair, which had already grown to smooth the hacking it had suffered at Balon. Blackstone took a step backwards and used the tattered flap of one of the few pavilions to shield him as he saw her stand when beckoned by one of the surgeons. He stayed a while longer watching as she obeyed the surgeon’s instructions. Her face glowed from the cold air and Blackstone could see that she was being put to good use despite the obvious lack of supplies. She seemed tireless, going from man to man helping wherever she could. After a few minutes she directed the servants to carry some of the injured closer to the blazing fires for warmth. Perhaps they were soon to die and she was offering them moments of comfort, Blackstone thought, or they were the ones who might have a chance of survival. Either way it was Aelis de Travaux who had issued the orders. Perhaps she had already proved her worth to the surgeons and apothecaries and they had begun to trust her judgement.

  Blackstone felt a sense of satisfaction that he had spared the woman’s life. She had already repaid the gift by saving Killbere and now she was giving relief to men-at-arms and archers who otherwise would have received nothing more than rough-and-ready treatment from the surgeons. He also felt, he acknowledged to himself, a sense of relief that she had survived the storm, though he did not know why that mattered to him as much as it did. He suddenly felt conspicuous standing among the pavilions; those going about their business had already given him the occasional questioning glance. It was time to leave. He hesitated a moment longer and observed as she ducked into a tent and then emerged a moment later without her cloak but wearing a jerkin that gave her more freedom of movement. So that was where she slept, he noted, and for a brief moment thought of Robert Thurgood making his way through the night to try and lie with her. A young archer not understanding his own heart or the strength in his arm when he struck Collard. The warning was plain. The woman could entice a man by her presence alone.

  Blackstone meandered back through the encampment, moving closer to the great flying buttresses on the side walls of the cathedral that sheltered sentries patrolling their stations. Blackstone skirted the soldiers and reached the cathedral’s front doors. An escort waited in the broad open square in front of the sacred building: squires held a half-dozen saddled horses, draped in trappings and obviously meant for men of rank and importance. Something was happening inside. He gazed up at the great rose window in wonderment, awed by the skill of those masons centuries before who had created such a magnificent tribute to God. Below the carved lintels three portals remained closed; of these three heavy wooden doors it was the larger centre one that began to creak open. Men stood up to get a better view from where they tended their fires; knights of the King’s retinue stepped out of their pavilions to see who would leave the church. A procession of heralds and squires led out three papal legates; they were accompanied by the Prince of Wales and the Duke of Lancaster, who escorted them towards the waiting horses. The first of the Pope’s envoys wore a black cloak over his white habit. He was gaunt-looking; his demeanour befitted the Dominicans’ reputation. One of the men next to Blackstone spat in disgust.

  ‘Black Friar. One of the Hounds of God, Sir Thomas,’ he said
quietly. The Dominicans insisted the sobriquet denoted their obedient service to the faith, yet it suited, too, their dedication to the pursuit of heresy. It meant the same thing to common men.

  ‘Aye, and they’ll sniff out sinners like us,’ said Blackstone to reassure those around him that he was no different than them. ‘Who else is here, do we know?’ he asked as the two other envoys stepped towards the horses.

  ‘No idea,’ said one of the men. ‘But they’re dressed fit to be kings. Sumptuary laws don’t mean much to these holy men. Reckon they’re from Avignon and the Pope is trying to convince our good King to stop killing the French.’

  ‘Well, he would, wouldn’t he?’ said his companion, and turned to Blackstone. ‘Don’t you reckon, Sir Thomas? A French Pope will side with those who bred him.’

  ‘A whelp knows its bitch,’ said another.

  Blackstone moved away as the Prince and Lancaster bade farewell to the envoys. The great doors closed with an echoing thud. A treaty was still being discussed although the last time the envoys met, the English took up the sword to convince the Pope’s legates and the Dauphin that Edward would settle for nothing less than the treaty that had already been settled and had since been reneged on.

  If the look on the delegates’ faces was anything to go by, Blackstone thought as he skirted the cathedral walls, Edward would need to loose his men on every town between here and Paris and scorch his royal seal on French souls.

  As Blackstone strode on a sentry turned to relieve himself in the corner of a buttress and Blackstone saw that another twenty paces beyond him a small side door was left unguarded. Drawn to see for himself the glory that had been hewn by stonemasons, and with a quick glance to make certain he was not observed, Blackstone reached the door and tested the heavy iron latch. It turned. Stepping into the near darkness of a small entranceway he quietly closed the oak door behind him.

  It smelt like a crypt. The dank, heavy air clung like a damp shirt but within two strides he was free of the entrance porch and thoughts of the dead lying beneath his feet were forgotten. He stared up at the vibrant colours of the immense stained-glass windows. Like a child at a country fairground mesmerized by an unfamiliar spectacle he walked into the vastness of the interior. There was a blue within the glass that made these gifts to God unlike anything he had ever seen before. They pulsed with light and for a moment he stood beneath their glow as if being caressed by an unnatural power.

  Vast circular pillars soared a hundred and more feet into the curved ceiling; coloured light flooded the transept and the choir. Wings fluttered somewhere high up: a bird trapped in this sacred place. Silence bore heavily down on him as he stepped through the shadows, but somewhere ahead he heard a softly muffled rustling that sounded like cloth against stone. A murmur hung in the air, barely a whisper, softer than the darkness beyond the broad pillars that guarded the expanse of the nave. Blackstone stepped around one of the pillars and saw a man dressed only in shirt and breeches, barefoot, arms outstretched, lying prostrate on the cold stone floor. Blackstone blinked. The figure of a humble monk stood half-in half-out of the shadows cast by the pillars. His hands were clasped in prayer, his head bowed, what light there was barely illuminating his tonsure.

  The prone man on the ground was still sixty-odd paces from where Blackstone stood transfixed. Suddenly the figure rose to his knees and began to shuffle in a circular direction. It made no sense for a few moments until Blackstone realized that there were markings on the floor. He looked hard, blinking in the poor light. It was a great circular labyrinth laid into the stone that covered the floor of the nave and the shuffling man appeared to be doing penance.

  Blackstone was drawn to the shuffling figure whose soft murmurings resolved into the familiar sound of prayer. It was Latin and though Blackstone did not understand the words the man’s humility and devotion were obvious. And then, once he was within twenty paces, the man turned within the labyrinth’s curve. Blackstone saw the weather-beaten features draped with long fair hair and beard and realized with a cold stab of fear why sentries had been posted around the cathedral to stop any intruders. They had not only been for the meeting that had taken place.

  The man on his knees who now stared at Blackstone was the King of England.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE

  Blackstone dropped to his knee and kept his head bowed, silently cursing himself for encroaching where he was clearly not meant to be. He heard the sound of the King getting to his feet and a moment later his unmistakable voice.

  ‘On your feet, Thomas,’ he commanded, his words unhurried and without rancour. His voice was gentle, perhaps because he had spent time in prayer.

  Blackstone obeyed. A hand clapped in the shadows, resulting in a scuffle of feet. Blackstone’s hand was on Wolf Sword. He relaxed his guard when three of the King’s servants arrived bearing his clothes. With practised ease the men quickly dressed their master, buttoning his embroidered jerkin and fastening a silver-buckled belt around it. A dagger’s handle was visible from its black leather sheath.

  ‘Sire, I apologize. I meant no disrespect or intrusion.’

  The King’s servants finished their duties, finally reaching for his cloak, which lay across a bench, and securing the gold clasp that held the ermine-collared garment. Edward raised a hand and the servants melted away. He signalled the monk to leave also. As Blackstone watched the monk disappear from view, his shuffling footsteps fading into the darkness, he thought he could see another figure in the deep shadows, but the light played tricks and made him uncertain.

  ‘You always appear where least expected, Thomas,’ said the King. ‘Even here in this venerated church of pilgrimage.’

  ‘I was drawn to this place, highness. I have never seen anything like it.’

  The King adjusted the clasp on his cloak. ‘Built to the glory of God. A reflection of God’s creation. Do you know your scripture, Thomas?’

  ‘A little, sire.’

  ‘I doubt there’s great need for such studies when you fight as well as you do,’ said Edward. ‘But a king is divine and must be versed in all that is holy, even though we defer to Mother Church and God himself for guidance. Did you know that God is considered a geometer and that creation is a mathematical act?’

  ‘No, my lord. My master mason was learned enough in Latin but it was practical geometry that guided us in our skills.’

  ‘Then, as a stonemason, you would have seen plans drawn and buildings raised so you will understand the words of St Augustine when he wrote: “Thou hast made all things in measure, number and weight.”’

  ‘The creation is beyond my understanding, sire. I live day to day as best I can in service to you and the Prince.’

  ‘And we are glad of it. But all are joined to the Almighty, Thomas, even you with your pagan goddess at your throat whose outstretched arms within her silver wheel embrace the small crucifix that you also wear. You confound us as well as God,’ said the King, stepping towards one of the vast pillars. ‘Masons and builders who labour over a place such as this to mirror God’s mathematical creation of the universe are co-creators with Him. Sacred geometry was understood by the Greeks and God is worshipped through man’s labours.’ The King smiled. ‘Thomas, every time you chiselled a block of stone for chapel or church you were honouring Our Lord.’

  Blackstone bit his tongue. Every time he had chiselled stone as a young man it had been to earn a few pennies to keep starvation from the door and the master mason’s switch off his back.

  The King gazed up at the stained-glass windows and pointed them out to Blackstone. ‘They dispel the myth that we are victim to the wheel of fortune. Every window shows us the glory of the creation and the story of Christianity. No words are needed: these windows are for the common man to understand. Pilgrims come here to sleep beneath their glow. It is said they heal a man whether he is sick in body or spirit.’

  Edward studied Blackstone for a moment, then appeared to think of something and gestured him to come closer. He la
id a palm against the hewn stone. ‘Feel that,’ he said.

  Blackstone let his palm slide across the surface. He felt something etched under his fingertips.

  ‘Look closely,’ said the King, ‘and you will see a stonemason’s mark. Every man who followed those before him left his mark. This place took centuries to build. First it was a druid place of worship, and then Roman and then Christian. It is a kingdom built upon a thousand years of faith.’

  Blackstone had little idea why the King was sharing this knowledge, but he had not been scolded for his intrusion and the King seemed calm and his mood indulgent.

  Edward stared across the voluminous cathedral’s nave. The labyrinth on the floor encircled them like an arena. ‘We built a kingdom, Thomas. England. It was laid over the foundations of our father and his father before him and they in turn imposed the power of their rule over those who had gone before them. We abase ourselves before God and we pray that when we fight it is a just war. Our bishops and archbishops declared this war to be just. That we had God’s blessing to bring our army here and to take what was rightfully ours.’

  ‘And you will succeed, sire.’

  The King sighed. ‘Those envoys who were here were from the Pope. One of them was the Abbot of Cluny. He uses many fancy words but he is unworldly and lacks negotiating skills. The other two men, did you see them?’

  ‘I did, sire,’ said Blackstone. ‘They looked to be venerable men. One was aged – was he not full of wisdom?’