by David Gilman
‘Sir Thomas, I am Bernard de Chauliac, captain of the royal guard.’ He bowed his head. ‘We are sent to escort you and your son.’ He hesitated and glanced at Killbere and John Jacob and the two huge bearded men who loomed behind them on horseback. ‘You and the boy alone. As agreed.’
Blackstone nodded at the captain and spoke quietly to Killbere. ‘Camp well away from these gates. Find a place in the forest so you can watch the road. There’s a leper colony behind us. Choose your ground well in case the Dauphin betrays us and sends men for you. They won’t venture into the place of lepers so you can trap them on the road.’
‘If they cross us, Thomas, we will wage war on them with or without our King. I hope that pagan goddess of yours is wide awake.’
Blackstone eased the bastard horse forward with Henry a couple of strides behind so that the belligerent beast would not turn its head and snap at the lesser horse next to it. Bareheaded, Blackstone entered the city and saw the gathered crowds who thronged the great boulevard. For once he was glad of having French troops near to him, for without the royal guard he and Henry would have been torn from the saddle and beaten to death. As it was the crowd vented their hatred for him by yelling abuse and shaking fists. None dared hurl missiles or weapons when the guard rode escort but it was plain to see that the Dauphin had ordered them to ride along the length of the Grand’Rue, through the heart of Paris, so that Blackstone would have to endure the population’s abuse.
‘Do not meet their eyes, Henry,’ said Blackstone. A mob could form quickly and if anyone did not fear the royal captain’s sword then there was always the chance of the Dauphin’s command of safe passage being ignored. Blackstone kept his own eyes straight ahead. A sudden surge would swamp them but the swaying crowds did not encroach onto the wide boulevard. What was it that held them back, other than the passing escorts? He turned and looked at the faces nearest him. Eyes flared back, mouths baring blackened teeth as they shouted. And then he saw the reason why. As his gaze fell on them their courage failed. Their eyes lowered. Fear of Blackstone controlled the mob.
‘There,’ said Blackstone. ‘That’s Les Halles. It’s the city graveyard. I found your mother there when we were being hunted. After I chiselled my initials in their new wall we escaped past soldiers through a breach.’ He glanced at the boy who kept his back straight and shoulders square. ‘This place must hold no fear for you, Henry. Your mother ran at my side. She was a woman of great courage.’
Henry Blackstone glanced at his father. The baying crowd frightened him, but he nodded.
‘Let them howl,’ said Blackstone. ‘They cannot harm us. They have every right to hate me. I killed many of their countrymen.’
*
Simon Bucy stood with the Dauphin watching from one of the high windows that showed the Grand’Rue’s straight line from the palace’s bridge across the river to the north wall. It was thronged with bystanders whose roar could be heard even from that distance. Bucy’s mouth salivated. The Englishman was getting closer. Part of Bucy wished the crowd would disobey and tear him apart but his cold-hearted and rational side relished the fact that it was he who would soon send Blackstone to certain death. He felt aggrieved that he could not decide which option was the most satisfying. He closed his eyes. The Dauphin’s ceaseless pacing had begun to wear on his nerves. If Bucy felt conflicted about Blackstone’s fate then the Dauphin was positively racked with nerves at the prospect of meeting Blackstone face-to-face. Peace was at hand but that did not mean that retribution could not be meted out to a blood enemy.
‘Sire,’ said Bucy. ‘Would you prefer that I deal with this matter alone?’ He spoke with considered calmness, although he did not relish facing the Englishman either. Did Blackstone know that it was he who had unleashed the Savage Priest on him and his family years before? He must know. He must, he told himself.
The Dauphin stopped and thought about the offer and then shook his head. He had to face Blackstone. It was a matter of honour – before he sent the Englishman to his death.
‘We are not afraid of one man, no matter how violent his anger towards us and our father. And Edward has our word that he will not be harmed.’ He paused. ‘Here, that is. We must extend sanctuary to him and then we can use his violence to our benefit. It is you who have planned his death, Simon. We have agreed to arrange the means of it, so as to leave ourself as the innocent party. Let him come.’
Bucy kept his eyes on the approaching escort. They clattered across the bridge and between the guards flanking the palace entrance. Blackstone dismounted and a stable-hand from the royal stables ran forward to take his horse’s rein but the mottled beast yanked back and kicked out. Two of the escort’s horses reared in defence. The stable-hand fell, but Blackstone quickly brought the horse under control and then helped the stunned boy to his feet. Bucy saw the Englishman tip a coin from his purse and hand it to the shaken lad. The captain of the guard said something and pointed towards the royal stables and Blackstone led the big horse forward followed by a boy of about eleven or twelve years of age.
Every step closer dried the spittle in Bucy’s mouth.
‘He’s here,’ he told the Dauphin.
*
There were only about two hundred officials serving the royal household, a corps of royal administrators often there through marriage or patronage, men who could be trusted and controlled. All strove constantly for higher office but the hierarchy in which they served meant that they were dependent on each other for their success. And that gave Bucy almost complete authority over them. He had the ear of the King and, being the dominant member of the Prince Regent’s council, influence over the Dauphin. The one thing Bucy was certain of was that there would be no dissent from those officials when he brought their King’s enemy into the beating heart of France. A heart that now pounded with anticipation. Simon Bucy had made his plans, but still he felt the fear of impending violence.
He had been raised in lowly circumstances, so far removed from the wealth and influence he now held that it was almost impossible to recall his family’s penury. His father had been a humble legal clerk, obliged to work by the half-light of a candle, his eyesight fading, his body hunched in an unheated, windowless room. One day a rat had found its way under the floorboards and its scurrying became so intrusive that Bucy’s father laid a trail of breadcrumbs into a box whose lid was propped with a stick. He held his young son behind his desk and, with a finger to his lips, pointed. The rat took the bait and the trap was sprung. Bucy’s father leapt forward in victory and battered the helpless rodent to death with a brass candlestick. Bucy remembered that moment only too well. He had vomited from the sight of it and his distaste for physical violence had never left him. The vision of his mild-mannered father relishing the kill reminded him of his own loss of control on the city walls when he saw Blackstone fight. Now he had carefully laid an enticing trap of his own for the Englishman and he prayed his own intemperate desire to see the man dead did not betray him.
The Dauphin sat and waited, his embroidered silk-cushioned chair raised on a dais. Beyond the chamber’s ornately carved oak doors lay a long passage of pillared arches, an entrance grand enough to subdue any man’s hubris. Footsteps echoed closer and then halted. Bucy glanced back at the Dauphin. He seemed unconcerned about who was about to step into the room. A sword’s pommel was struck against the wood. Bucy stood between the Dauphin and the doors as they swung open. The royal captain of the guard and his men flanked a man who stood head and shoulders above them and who stared at Bucy, and then at the Dauphin. The Englishman’s presence seemed to fill the room. And what was it in Blackstone’s gaze, Bucy tried to determine in those seconds, that created such a tremor of fear in him?
The captain of the guard requested Blackstone relinquish his weapons and the Englishman unbuckled his belt and wrapped it around Wolf Sword’s scabbard, which he then handed to the captain. The boy at Blackstone’s side followed the knight’s example and handed his belt and sword to one of the guards
.
Bucy squared his shoulders and set his face. An air of authority was essential. He dragged his eyes away from the hulking, weather-beaten Blackstone and spoke to the captain of the guard. ‘The boy stays outside for now. He will be summoned in due course. See that he is seated by a fire for warmth and given whatever food and drink he desires,’ he said and, with a glance at Blackstone, added, ‘Father and son are our gracious Dauphin’s guests.’
Blackstone did not look at Henry and neither did the boy seek any assurance from his father. Blackstone stepped into the chamber accompanied by the captain and half a dozen of his men, who flanked the walls, far enough away not to impinge on the Dauphin’s presence but near enough to rush Blackstone if he made any attack against him. The doors closed heavily behind them. Bucy moved to one side, which suggested to Blackstone that he was required to move further towards the Dauphin Charles. He stopped twelve paces from the raised dais. The French Prince and the English knight stared at each other for a moment and then Blackstone dipped his head. Bucy noticed the Dauphin’s eyebrows rise. Surprise that Blackstone had not knelt before him or, Bucy wondered, because the Englishman had at least dipped his head in respect? After a few moments during which the Dauphin and Blackstone studied each other, Blackstone broke the silence and the protocol of waiting for the royal prince to speak first.
‘You have changed, my lord, since I last saw you at Rouen. Then you were a boy.’
The Dauphin’s mouth opened and closed with uncertainty, a frown furrowing his brow. ‘Rouen?’
‘Back in ’56. You sat with Jean de Harcourt and the Norman lords before your father burst into the room and accused de Harcourt, my sworn and loyal friend, of treason and then had him butchered.’
The memory of the event caused the Dauphin to lurch in his seat. His body bent forward, arm outstretched. ‘You were there?’
‘In the gallery. I had gone to try and warn him, but a traitor got there before me and betrayed them all. I heard you, my lord, plead with your father not to harm your guests.’
‘And when de Harcourt was beheaded –’
‘Butchered,’ Blackstone repeated.
The Dauphin allowed the impertinence. ‘– that was when you swore vengeance and tried to kill our father at Poitiers.’
‘I was within five strides and a sword stroke.’
These recollections of the past upset the Dauphin. He stood but kept distance between himself and Blackstone. ‘And I was in the wave that attacked you before I was withdrawn from the field. We saw you defending that gap in the hedgerow. That was a day that changed our world.’
‘And mine,’ Blackstone acknowledged.
The Dauphin returned to his chair. ‘There will always be bad blood between us, Sir Thomas.’
Blackstone glanced at Bucy, who held his robes close to his chest, gripping the material for comfort. An obvious sign of anxiety and most probably guilt. ‘Especially because your father set the Savage Priest on me and my family,’ he replied.
The Dauphin nodded. ‘He was a vile creature who was at my shoulder at Poitiers, charged with protecting me… and killing you.’
Blackstone smiled. ‘His remains hang in a mountain pass. And the corpses of those sent recently to kill my Prince disguised as Englishmen lie in an open field as carrion. Another vile act of dishonour.’
The Dauphin lowered his head. Blackstone’s taunt had struck home.
‘Why am I here?’ Blackstone demanded.
Simon Bucy took an involuntary step forward to chastise Blackstone. ‘You will be told in good time,’ he said.
‘Who are you?’ said Blackstone, setting Bucy back on his heels. ‘Was it you who advised your King to set the Savage Priest on me? And you who advised your Prince to send men dressed as Englishmen into our ranks?’
Bucy’s face drained of colour, but he kept his air of authority intact. ‘I am your enemy as you are an enemy to France. I would do anything to protect my King, my Prince and my country.’
‘And your fine clothes and status, I’ll wager,’ said Blackstone.
‘Enough,’ said the Dauphin. ‘It was never our intention to cause your Prince harm by sending those men.’ He glanced at Bucy. ‘No matter how ill advised the act might have been.’
‘My lord,’ said Blackstone. ‘You have me and my son at your mercy just as my King has the crown of France at his.’
‘We are not defeated,’ snapped the Dauphin. ‘It is your King who has agreed to the truce and a treaty.’
‘He could still destroy Paris and take what he wants,’ Blackstone said, knowing this action would never be taken, but happy to antagonize French royalty and pride. ‘He is a great and pious king, my lord, but if you harm my son, no matter what happens to me, he will bring his wrath down upon you.’
The Dauphin blew his nose and dabbed his eyes. Was it from anger or the chill that crept up from the Seine? Blackstone wondered.
‘We have brought you here…’ The Dauphin’s voice trailed away, and it was only after he glanced at Bucy that he managed to finish the sentence. ‘…to thank you.’
It was Blackstone’s turn to feel the blow of incomprehension. And the Dauphin saw it.
‘Yes, your enemy thanks you. When France endured the Jacquerie uprising you fought to save the women and children at Meaux. Our father’s family and our own wife and infant were there and your actions saved them. You have our thanks.’
Blackstone sensed the Dauphin’s gratitude was genuine. ‘My lord, it was not only my actions.’
‘We know,’ said the Dauphin, ‘but there is more than our gratitude that needs to be offered.’ The Dauphin nodded at Bucy, who in turn gestured to a servant who stood next to a side door of the chamber. The servant opened it and another entered carrying a small ornate cushioned chair. He placed it close to the Dauphin and then went out of the same door. No sooner had he left the chamber than a girl that Blackstone took to be about ten or eleven years old came in, followed by two ladies-in-waiting. The quality of her clothing and the fact that she sat on the chair provided meant she was of the royal household.
‘Our sister, Princess Isabelle. You escorted her to safety from Meaux after the fighting.’
‘I did,’ said Blackstone, remembering the brief glimpse he had had of her after the siege, the memory also serving to remind him of the circumstances of his wife and daughter’s death. The child stared at him without any sign of fear and then turned to the Dauphin. Her voice was gentle and barely raised above a whisper, so Blackstone could not hear what she said. The Dauphin smiled and nodded and addressed Blackstone.
‘She asks where her petit chevalier is.’ Without waiting for Blackstone to comprehend the Dauphin raised a hand and the chamber’s doors opened again. After a moment Henry Blackstone was brought into their presence. Blackstone caught his son’s glance as he quickly bowed before the Dauphin and then, deliberately, to the Princess, who smiled in recognition.
‘My little knight,’ she said.
‘Highness,’ said Henry. ‘I am pleased to see that you look well.’
Blackstone struggled to keep the look of a fool from his face.
‘And I have not forgotten your kindness,’ said the Princess. ‘You served me well.’
The Dauphin raised a finger to his lips to silence her. His kindly smile soothed the girl’s urge to say more.
‘Boy,’ said the Dauphin and gestured Henry to him. He stepped forward as the Dauphin raised a hand to a servant who stood against the wall. ‘Our sister tells me that when you were at Meaux you expressed a love of reading.’
‘Yes, sire,’ said Henry.
‘Good. To read creates a greater understanding of the world. I have a library containing many books and manuscripts here.’
The servant approached carrying something wrapped in a purple velvet cloth. He unwrapped a book which he presented to Henry.
‘It is a book of chivalry,’ said the Dauphin with a glance across to Blackstone. ‘And honour.’
‘Thank you, high
ness,’ said Henry and stepped back to stand at his father’s side.
‘Sir Thomas, you serve your King loyally,’ said the Dauphin.
‘My sword is his,’ said Blackstone.
‘Then now is the time for you… and your sword… to serve him still. Your King continues to demand a great deal from us to release our father from captivity in England. We are soon to sign a treaty but the amount required is… exorbitant. To secure the three million gold écus for his release a marriage has been arranged between Isabelle and the Visconti of Milan’s son, Gian Galeazzo. This marriage confers great prestige on the Visconti and serves to secure the payment for your King.’
‘I don’t see how this involves me, or my son,’ said Blackstone.
‘It is our wish that you and your men escort our beloved sister to Milan.’
‘Milan?’ Blackstone said. ‘My enemy? I defended Florence against them. I have killed their captains. They would like nothing better than to have me fall into their hands.’ He looked at Bucy, who remained inscrutable. ‘A plan to rid yourself of your sworn enemy without dirtying your hands and keeping the peace treaty intact with my King.’
Bucy stepped closer. ‘Sir Thomas, the Prince Regent’s gratitude to you is an honest expression made in good faith. His sister, when she was told of the arranged marriage, asked if her petit chevalier might accompany her. It seems that your son served her well at Meaux.’
‘I will not take either of us into that vipers’ nest,’ said Blackstone.
Bucy played his part well. He glanced with regret at the Dauphin, who nodded his understanding. Would the nose-dripping youth play his role with equal skill? he wondered. The Dauphin raised a hand, as if to stop Bucy from saying anything further.
‘We understand, Sir Thomas. But your reputation is such that if you agreed we feel that our sister’s safety would be guaranteed. And that in turn would secure your King’s ransom.’ He dabbed his nose with the lace handkerchief, then chose his words carefully. This, Bucy knew, was the bait that had to be dangled perfectly.