Viper's Blood

by David Gilman

  ‘Yes. And they propose peace. The Dominican was Simon of Langres, a Frenchman favoured by the Pope. He is harsh in his demands but we will not yield to him. He’s too blunt and has not the finesse needed to bring a king to the negotiating table. The old man was Hugh of Geneva; he has spent more than sixty years talking to kings and listening to God. He fought at my side back in ’39 in the Low Countries. I made him our Lieutenant in Gascony. He is forthright and honest in his opinions. Like you. You told our son that we should abandon Rheims and that Paris could not be taken.’

  ‘It was an impertinence, my lord.’

  ‘No, it was practical advice echoed by Lancaster. Plain talk and understanding cut through the shroud of doubt. You were right to say it. And Lancaster and Hugh have both advised that we now throw ourself into peace as we did into war. It is our final chance to agree a treaty. The storm was a sign of the Almighty’s displeasure. More than a thousand dead men; three, four times as many horses. We take heed of God’s voice. He punished our pride and the slaughter of the innocents. We acknowledge divine providence.’

  ‘Then… then we will no longer fight?’ said Blackstone.

  The King looked benignly at his troublesome but favoured knight. ‘No longer. The reality does not suit us, Thomas. We do not govern for our own selfish needs: we do so for the people. Our belligerence demands we continue to inflict violence on those who oppose us, but we are father to our people and must now bring stability and prosperity to our nation. We crave the cessation of a war that began more than twenty years ago.’

  Blackstone felt the weight of the cathedral’s arched ceiling fall on him. He had known nothing but war since a boy, had been baptized at its high altar. In that moment it seemed little consolation that there would always be a place for him to fight – Florence still held his contract to defend it against its enemies. But the great battles were over.

  The hand of God had done what no French army could have achieved – it had swept aside the pious King’s ambitions.

  Silence laid itself over both men until the King spoke gently. ‘Thomas, you saved our son’s life at Crécy and that makes you dear to us. Our mother entrusted the Prince’s safety to you before she died. You are held in great esteem but this peace comes at a price to us both.’

  ‘How so, my lord?’

  ‘There was another priest who journeyed with the Pope’s envoys.’ He turned and raised a hand.

  Blackstone’s instincts had not failed him. There had been another man in the gloom. As the figure emerged from beneath one of the great windows, sunlight speckled its colours across the floor and the older man who trod across it.

  ‘Father Torellini,’ Blackstone whispered disbelievingly as the Florentine priest emerged from the sparkling light. The man who had cradled his savaged body at Crécy and since shadowed his life embraced him.

  ‘Thomas, my heart glows at seeing you again.’

  Blackstone almost laughed aloud. It was a joy to meet his friend again. The last time he had seen the trusted priest had been in Italy when he’d brought news that had taken Blackstone back to England.

  ‘Thomas,’ said Torellini, his hands still gripping the knight’s arms, his eyes intent upon impressing the importance of his words on Blackstone. ‘Once again you are in danger.’

  Blackstone grinned. ‘Father, I’m always in danger.’

  Torellini looked to King Edward, who nodded his assent.

  ‘You are about to be delivered to your enemy,’ said Torellini.

  ‘How so?’ said Blackstone, looking at the stern faces of the two men.

  ‘As part of the peace negotiations the Dauphin demands that you are delivered to him in Paris,’ said the King. ‘You and your son.’

  CHAPTER FORTY

  ‘He throws you to the dogs!’ hissed Killbere. ‘You can see what this is, Thomas. In God’s name, tell me you can see it? The French will kill you and Henry and make sure the Blackstone name dies with you.’

  The two men squatted in the shelter of the barn; the fire’s smoke smudged the air. Killbere pushed aside the chicken that Will Longdon had cooked when Blackstone had returned from the cathedral.

  ‘Perhaps not,’ said Blackstone, taking a mouthful of the chicken leg. ‘The King said he would insist on my safety.’

  Killbere growled in disbelief, keeping his voice low because Blackstone had not yet told his men what had happened. ‘And the bastard Dauphin agreed of course. He’ll not let a soldier kill you – it will be an assassin in the crowd. A crossbow bolt in the back. A dozen butchers rushing you with meat cleavers.’

  ‘I don’t think he would risk the peace negotiations by killing us. Not yet at least.’

  ‘Not yet at least,’ Killbere repeated. ‘Do you think it makes a difference as to when he kills you? You ride into Paris, he creates a situation, you lose your temper. The next thing you know you’re at the Place de Grève with your head on the block because it will be made to look as if you’ve brought about your own downfall. It won’t be worth a nun’s tits to the peace negotiations. You are not that important.’

  Blackstone sat quietly chewing the chicken, gazing across the garden to where Henry sat and ate with John Jacob. ‘They wouldn’t kill Henry,’ he said after some thought. ‘That would be a step too far.’

  Killbere scrubbed a hand across his beard and slapped the dirt. ‘You are blind, Thomas Blackstone. I did not give you my protection all those years ago for you to turn out to be a king’s fool. They could behead you and then poison him, or make his death appear to be an accident. You swore to kill the King of France and threatened his son. The Dauphin’s balls will be tighter than horse chestnuts at the thought of luring you into Paris.’

  Blackstone smiled. ‘Perhaps I’ll get the chance to kill him first.’ The look of despair on Killbere’s face made him relent. ‘Gilbert, I won’t even try. Not when Henry is with me. Father Torellini –’

  ‘The Italian priest always brings trouble to your door,’ Killbere interrupted.

  ‘He’s the King’s confidant and my friend.’

  ‘I’m your friend, Thomas, but I don’t send you into the jaws of hell.’

  ‘You’re right, I usually follow you there.’

  Killbere shrugged. ‘I like to fight the French and if I get ahead of you in the battle I apologize.’ He made a final solemn plea. ‘Thomas, say no. If you go in there alone with the boy we can’t help you.’

  ‘The King desires peace, Gilbert. I’ll play my part.’ He reached for Killbere’s half-eaten food. ‘Do you want this?’

  ‘My appetite has deserted me. Take it.’ Killbere sucked on a piece of chicken bone. ‘Peace is no good to the likes of us, Thomas. If they let you live what then?’

  ‘We still have our men outside Florence. We can go back there.’

  ‘The winters are cold. We could go to the King of Naples – I hear the weather is better down there.’

  Blackstone tossed what was left of the chicken leg to an emaciated cur that had been lying hopefully a dozen paces away. It snatched the offering and scurried away. ‘We take what scraps are offered, Gilbert. Florence still holds our contract. After that… we’ll see.’

  ‘I should ride with you into Paris. Me and John Jacob. Squire and companion knight,’ Killbere said hopefully.

  ‘The way you antagonize the French?’

  ‘I will stay silent,’ he said, raising a hand in oath.

  ‘You would test God’s patience once too often,’ said Blackstone. ‘If I end up with my head on the block it will be because of what I do, not you. Once we reach Paris you stay outside with the men. They need you, as they always have. You taught me that our word was our honour, Gilbert. And I swore to protect the Prince and serve the King. I have no choice in doing as he asks. You know that.’

  Killbere nodded reluctantly. ‘I taught you well. I pray I don’t live to regret it.’ He gathered straw under his blanket and reached for a leather flask of wine. ‘God’s tears, Thomas, no more war. I think I’ll drown m
y misery.’

  *

  Blackstone said nothing to Henry; it would serve no purpose. Let the boy get a night’s sleep and then next morning he would ride back to Paris and they would enter the city together. The King and Torellini would begin negotiations with the French ambassadors and Pope’s envoys. It would be heralded with all the pomp that the English could muster, with renowned noblemen in attendance. The Duke of Lancaster would be at one of the King’s shoulders, the Prince at the other. It would be a show of force and pageantry. Hundreds of servants and bodyguards would be present, flags and pennons would be raised and the royal standard unfurled. The English might agree to the peace treaty but they would let it be known that they were the overwhelming force and that they could still wage war. The great English King would bring the long-running war to a close and return home in triumph, but would secure the right to inflict his wrath on the French should they dare renege again. Edward would renounce his claim to the French crown and the vast territories that he had demanded previously but he would hold Aquitaine as a sovereign independent state. History, Blackstone realized, was being made and he still had a part to play.

  By the time all these thoughts had passed through his mind he had reached the barber surgeons’ wagons. There was no sign of Aelis. The night’s chill would soon be upon the wounded; the clear sky already held the promise of a bright moon and crystal-clear stars. Everyone relished the dry cold; anything was better than the saturating rain which they knew would soon return.

  A surgeon told him that the wounded had been taken inside the cathedral on the King’s orders. Aelis was with them, administering her potions and balm. Blackstone made his way to the great door on the west portal and eased through its half-open gap. The chill still seeped from the stone floor but he could make out the injured men lying on blankets with coverings over them beneath one of the rose windows. For a moment he was once again held by the rich hues despite the failing light outside. Candles had been lit and their warmth softened the depth of the church’s shadows.

  Aelis had her back to him, grinding something in a pestle and mortar. Her hand stopped; her head raised, sensing a presence. She turned. He was barely a dozen paces behind her.

  ‘I have been waiting for you,’ she said.

  Blackstone went to her. ‘I had no reason to come here,’ he lied, knowing full well the attraction she held for him.

  She showed no regret, and she spoke matter-of-factly. ‘Then why are you here now?’

  Blackstone couldn’t find a satisfactory answer: he would not openly admit his desire for her.

  ‘It is because I called to you,’ she said. ‘I could not leave my place here and find you, so I put you in my thoughts and beckoned you to me.’

  ‘I came here of my own accord,’ he insisted. ‘I do not hear your voice in my head; I do not see images of you in the shadows luring me like a siren. I came to see that you were not being mistreated. Nothing more.’ Another lie, yet close enough to the truth to satisfy his own uncertainty. He realized he was standing too close to her. Her back was pressed against one of the pillars. He felt foolish and half turned, determined not to give in to whatever pull she exerted on him. ‘But I see you don’t need my concern.’

  She quickly reached out and gripped his arm and this time her voice was urgent, barely above a whisper. ‘You must take me with you.’

  It took him by surprise but she did not let go of him. ‘Am I going somewhere?’ he said.

  ‘Yes. Across the mountains.’

  Blackstone knew she could not have spoken to Killbere, and none of his men would have gossiped about the future, idly wondering what was to become of them after the war which had to end sooner or later.

  ‘Who told you this?’ he said.

  She shook her head. ‘It comes to me. These feelings. They are not conjured with magic. They are given to me. And all I know is that I must come with you. You… and the boy,’ she said finally as if surprised to realize the full extent of what lay ahead. Her hand dropped from his arm and she touched his face. Fear made him step back. A witch’s touch could poison a man’s heart and seize his soul. He brushed her hand aside.

  ‘Leave me be,’ he said.

  ‘I cannot,’ she answered. ‘You saved my life and I am indebted to you. We are bound together until that debt is repaid. I do not ask for what I am given or what must be done.’

  He glanced away. Darkness had settled. The night had drawn in quicker than he had realized – unless, he reasoned, she had held him in a spell and the night’s mantle that now cloaked the church’s chambers was part of it. Neither spoke but he still could not step away from her.

  ‘There is no debt between us. You saved Sir Gilbert; that was enough. Who has told you about Paris?’ he finally said.

  ‘Paris? No one. There are no mountains to cross going back there.’

  He could not shake the uncertainty from him. Finally, reason returned. ‘You hear gossip and rumour around the camp. You imagine mountains where there are none. I am going to Paris with my son and after that I do not know where.’

  She accepted his rejection without apparent rancour and turned back to her pestle and mortar. ‘After that you will face betrayal and death.’ She gave a backward glance: there was pity in her face. But he was already making his way through the moonlit veil of colour shimmering from the north rose window that glorified the Virgin Mary with the child Jesus on her knee. Perhaps, Aelis thought, the surrounding pear-shaped droplets of multi-coloured glass represented the twelve apostles? Their glow might protect Blackstone, but she felt certain that the dove of peace that appeared to flutter within the glass would never bless the Englishman.

  CHAPTER FORTY-ONE

  The rolling clouds felt as though they touched the top of the city’s walls. Men swore the darkness they brought was a portent of ill tidings and when they smothered Notre-Dame some said that God had abandoned them. The English horde had melted away days before but they lurked somewhere like the plague. Now a handful of Englishmen, no more than a hundred, waited beyond the north gate and at their head was the man who had sworn to slay their king. Rumour spread that he was there to challenge the Dauphin to mortal combat and it was only when town criers had gone from square to square declaring a truce had been agreed with the English King that the mood of despair changed to one of hope and joy. No longer would the city dwellers have to eke out their food; no longer would wine be so expensive that a man could not share it with a friend. Fear had held them in its grip for too long despite their certainty that they would resist – and prevail – if the English stormed the city. The scar-faced Englishman who waited at the Porte Saint-Denis for escort through the city was an envoy of the English King. He had been summoned by the Dauphin. And the Dauphin had been obeyed. Power was back in the hands of the French. Or so they were told.

  Blackstone and his men had travelled back across the plain still scattered with the dead. The fallen men’s clothing had been stripped by scavenging villagers and their flesh by crows and beasts. The charnel house was no different from any battlefield except this time the violence had been inflicted by the Almighty.

  ‘The King has sent us into the heart of our enemy,’ Blackstone had told Henry. ‘We do not know why. Perhaps it is to inflict humiliation onto us.’

  ‘Or kill us,’ said Henry.

  ‘Have you been speaking to Sir Gilbert?’

  ‘No, Father. But they are your sworn enemy and you theirs. It would make sense for them to claim you as a prize of war. But I know you will not let that happen.’

  Blackstone didn’t know whether to be impressed by the boy’s logic or fearful that he did not comprehend how dangerous it would be inside the city walls.

  ‘Mother told me how you once rescued her in Paris, and that you fooled the sentries at the gates by telling them that you were a mason working on the walls,’ said Henry.

  ‘That’s right. We were running for our lives.’

  ‘She said that you cut your initials into one of the
blocks that went into the new ramparts they were building.’

  ‘I did.’

  ‘Do you think we will be able to see it?’ said Henry, his air of excitement plain to see.

  ‘Son, I will be happy if we ride in and out of Paris without catching a chill in our bones let alone an arrow in our backs. Stay alert at all times. Our lives may depend on it.’

  They waited in front of the great gates. Somewhere beyond the walls they heard the sound of clattering horse hooves.

  ‘You think they’ll attack us?’ said John Jacob. ‘If them gates open and French men-at-arms come at us we don’t have much defence out here.’ He turned in the saddle to look back to where Will Longdon and Jack Halfpenny stood with their archers a hundred paces to the rear. ‘Even with Jack and Will at the ready.’

  ‘There’ll be no killing today, John. This is the King’s business we’re on.’ Blackstone smiled. ‘Still, no harm in having archers at the ready. Just in case.’

  The gates opened and the royal captain of the guard, de Chauliac, rode out ahead of his men. Forty of them flanked the Grand’Rue behind him that reached down through the throat of Paris.

  ‘Sir Thomas Blackstone?’ said the captain.

  Killbere muttered his remarks aside. ‘Well, they look very pretty, Thomas. I’ll wager the only conflict those clean surcoats have seen is at the hands of a laundrywoman.’

  Blackstone’s men had ridden hard through the muddy fields the past three days and their splattered horses and clothing made them resemble vagabond brigands. Unshaven and dirty, hair matted with sweat, mail coifs pulled back from bare heads, they looked like the bunch of fearsome men they were. Which was what Blackstone had intended.

  ‘I am,’ Blackstone answered the captain.

  De Chauliac’s eyes gleamed for a moment. He had witnessed the fight against the sixty French knights from the walls. He’d felt a sense of relief he had not been chosen to go out against this murderous-looking knight. Respect, though, was due.