by David Gilman
‘We are aware,’ said the Dauphin with what seemed to be genuine regret, ‘that when you escorted our sister into safekeeping from Meaux your absence was used by an assassin to murder your wife and child.’
No matter how often Blackstone had tried to banish the image of his butchered daughter and wife, it lurked in his tortured memory. Any word spoken of Christiana and Agnes scraped the wound like a blunt knife blade and made the picture rear again like a harpy.
‘And I put an arrow through him, and our horses trampled him into the dirt. He screamed as every bone broke,’ said Blackstone.
The Dauphin nodded. ‘We understand such grief and desire for vengeance. And in gratitude for your service to our family and your saving the life of this child, and many others, we wish you to have the information that has come into our possession. Those who sent the assassin are in the court of the Visconti.’
Bucy was barely able to suppress a smile of success.
The rat trap was sprung.
PART FOUR
THE SCENT OF BLOOD
CHAPTER FORTY-TWO
Blackstone told Killbere and the others little of the mission he had been charged with – to Killbere’s frustration – so the journey back to Chartres was full of speculation and anticipation among the men. Blackstone’s own thoughts had grappled with everything the Dauphin and Bucy had told him. The insistence that he take Henry to Milan to accompany the Princess flagged up a warning. They could both be killed once they were in the grip of the Visconti. To slay the father and not the son would risk leaving a desire for revenge when Henry became old enough to inflict it. Blackstone had Henry brought forward to the front of the column as they neared the English camp.
‘When we were at Meaux you told me that you had nothing to do with the royal family and now, years later, you and the Princess are friends and you’re her petit chevalier. How much time did you spend with her?’
‘I worked with the other pages and took water to the women and children but one day I was sent to the royal chambers and she spoke to me.’
‘Why? You were little more than a servant to her.’
‘You suspect something, Father?’
‘I suspect everything that the French do and say. They lay a trap for us, boy. I need to see why they are using you as part of it.’
Henry shook his head. ‘I don’t know. She spent a lot of time on her own and one day she asked me if I could speak and read Latin because she was at her studies and I helped her.’
‘Then why didn’t you tell me that?’
‘It was only on two occasions that she asked me. Maybe three. I think.’
‘You think?’
‘I don’t remember, Father.’
‘Then why does she call you her little knight?’
‘She was frightened, and one day when I took the water to their rooms I could see she had been crying because she was so scared of the Jacques. I told her that I wouldn’t let anything happen to her.’
‘And you didn’t think this was important enough to tell me when I asked you at the time?’
‘No, Father.’
Blackstone thought on it for a while. The reason behind the French demand that Henry go with them was probably that innocent and nothing more should be read into it. Perhaps a young princess simply needed reassurance. However, it did land them both in the Visconti’s grasp. ‘All right, go back to John Jacob.’
‘Is it true that the Visconti sent the killer?’ said Henry.
‘I don’t know. But we will find out,’ Blackstone told him, his tone gentle, because the boy had shown no sign of anger at the thought of those responsible for murdering his mother and sister. ‘We’ll find out,’ he said again by way of reassurance.
*
The mud slurped beneath Blackstone’s boots as he made his way through the camp towards the cathedral at Chartres. When he had returned from Paris he had reported to the King and the Prince of Wales what was expected of him and why he had been summoned by the Dauphin. King Edward had said little and asked that he meet with Father Torellini the next morning. But first he sought out Aelis.
She was putting the small glass bottles into her satchel and as she raised one to eye level to check the contents she saw Blackstone approaching.
‘Sir Thomas, you have returned safely, I see,’ she said.
‘As you knew I would,’ he answered.
‘Nothing is certain,’ said Aelis. She settled the bottles carefully and then fastened the satchel’s straps.
‘Magic potions?’ said Blackstone. ‘More alchemy to distort a man’s mind?’
‘Think of it what you will. Some of them ease pain, others heal and still others help a man slip away into the darkness when the angels abandon him.’
‘Are you abandoned?’ he said. ‘You have the sight and I wonder if it’s a curse? Perhaps from the dark angels.’
‘Or a blessing from God,’ she said calmly.
‘How did you know? About Henry and me?’
‘It is not something I understand. It is given to me.’
‘Do you see anything else? Now? The future? What will happen to you?’
‘I am in the Prince’s hands now. His protection will end when the treaty is signed. He will go back to England and I will go from town to town and offer my skills to those who want them.’
‘Or get burned as a witch,’ he said.
‘That’s not how I will die,’ she answered, and the way she said it made Blackstone sense she knew the truth of how her own life would end.
‘Then you are abandoned,’ he said.
‘I am.’
‘And I see the future more clearly than you,’ said Blackstone. ‘You were right: there are mountains to be crossed and danger to be faced. You are going to come with me.’
She slung the heavy satchel over her shoulder and smiled at him. ‘I know,’ she said.
Her words lingered in his mind as he stepped into the cathedral. The rainbow light streamed from the windows and he saw stretcher-bearers carry the wounded to lie in their glow. Speckled colours flickered across the men as a dozen monks went among them and ensured each man was made comfortable. Father Torellini stood to one side observing the monks’ activity. He saw Blackstone emerge from the shadowed pillars across the nave.
‘Thomas, walk with me. We have much to discuss,’ said the Italian priest when Blackstone reached him.
‘What’s this?’ Blackstone asked, looking at the wounded men.
‘Healing light,’ said Torellini. ‘This is a sacred place of pilgrimage and it is believed that the light from the stained glass holds magical properties. The blue glass is rare, Thomas, it is the Lord’s colour. Artisans grind lapis lazuli, which only comes from Afghanistan, and use it in the glass. It is more valuable than gold.’ He glanced up at Blackstone. ‘Perhaps you should bathe in the light and let it heal the pain that you carry in your heart.’
‘We all bear scars, Father. Mine are no deeper than those of other men.’
Torellini smiled and shrugged. ‘So you say. I think not. I wonder why we have been brought to this place, and why the King was led here. Look at the colours that decorate these walls. These pigments are there for a reason; those who built this place were trying to bring a vision of heaven to this squalid world. The windows unfold stories for the illiterate so that they understand more of the richness of the angels and Our Lord.’
‘I didn’t come here for a lesson in architecture or the working of the scriptures,’ said Blackstone, barely able to keep the irritation from his voice.
‘You would deny even the beauty of God’s comfort to those desperate for it?’
‘A stonemason’s chisel and men’s sweat built this place. Nothing more. There’s no religious magic to be had from men’s back-breaking labour. How am I to get to the Visconti and do what I must?’
‘Which of the Visconti will you kill?’ Torellini answered. ‘Galeazzo or Bernabò? They are the Lords of Milan. Which of them sent the assassin to inflict the horro
r on you? There is no knowing.’
‘I will kill both of them if I have to.’
‘And die trying.’
‘The French have given me the information about them so they may rid themselves of me. Do you expect me not to go?’
‘It is a condition of the peace talks. The King knows what’s being asked of you.’
‘Then is it true? Did the Visconti send the assassin?’
They reached a side chapel and Torellini sat on a bench gazing at the gold cross on the altar before them.
‘It is so rumoured,’ he admitted, persuaded by the holy icon to admit what he knew.
‘Father, I’m about to take my men into the den of the beast. Rumour?’
‘Listen to me, Thomas. I have spies and informants in the court at Milan. It is hearsay, no more than that. Yes, the order came from Milan, but from whom we cannot say. You were an enemy and you were brought down, which is exactly what they wanted. They killed Christiana and Agnes and you were cast into the pit of drunkenness and despair.’
‘But I am back.’
Torellini nodded. ‘And they know it. So what do we make of it all?’
‘I don’t know. That’s why I need you to tell me, and if you can’t then I need you to find out.’
The Italian priest opened the palms of his hands in a gesture of acceptance. ‘And so we must discover the truth. The English King desires peace and a ransom. The first cannot be achieved without the second. Galeazzo, the Lord of Milan, pays the ransom and buys the Princess to marry his son. The Visconti gain immediate prestige and an alignment with France that will protect disputed territories. And a bonus. The opportunity to have the man who killed their assassin in their hands. Moreover, now the treaty with France is to be signed, you are still a danger. You still hold a contract with Florence against them. Another reason for them to try to kill you. But who? Galeazzo or his brother Bernabò? Both? Or someone who serves them? Someone who was rewarded by them for sending a killer after you who murdered your family? Whom did he serve, this man who controlled the assassin? The clever Visconti or the mad one?’
Blackstone looked away. The puzzle could not be answered. After a few moments he turned to the older man who had shadowed his life since the day he lay a whisper away from death at Crécy. ‘By the time I get to Milan, I have to know who it was, Father.’
Torellini sighed and his chin settled on his chest for a moment. ‘Both brothers are formidable. They are men of strong passions and violent character. Galeazzo is the greater statesman. He extends his power and influence by negotiation and diplomacy, although you should have no doubt of his ability to inflict violence; however, he favours the English. One day he will reach out to our own King for alliances. Bernabò is less predictable. He is physically strong, as tall and broad as you. He leads his men in battle. He’s fearful of neither man nor God. He rejects the Pope where his brother courts him. You can see how, between them, they rule. Bernabò’s ruthlessness is feared but respected. He is not simply a violent thug, Thomas. He is educated and that, combined with ruthlessness and a volatile temper, makes him the more dangerous. His punishments are savage, but the citizens of Milan are grateful. Their streets are free from crime; officials do not take bribes. You will find no one there who would cross the Visconti to offer you refuge or help should the need arise. As to who paid the killer of your wife and daughter: I will send word to those who spy for me in Milan to find the answer, but if I cannot discover it in time then it is more than likely that you and your son will die there.’
‘No, I won’t take Henry into Milan. Once we have escorted the Princess across the Alps I will send him to Florence and place him in your care. I killed the assassin who murdered Christiana and Agnes, and now I will kill the one who sent him.’
‘If he can be found, Thomas,’ said the priest. ‘And if he is found then you must declare vendetta. It might give you a chance. No city-state in Italy will deny the legitimacy of it: their law recognizes and sanctions private justice.’
‘I’ll burn Milan to the ground if I have to. Not even God will save the man I aim to kill,’ said Blackstone.
He took his leave of the priest and walked through the cathedral, stepping across the glittering veil of light cast down from one of the windows. He stood for a moment and raised his face to the healing beams, letting himself bathe in the brightness. Nothing happened. The pain he bore would be eased only by vengeance.
CHAPTER FORTY-THREE
Simon Bucy gathered the ermine-collared cloak around his neck. Blackstone had agreed to go to Milan and the Visconti were not even aware of the prize being laid at their city gates. He and the Dauphin had not dared to let the information reach the Visconti: to have told them could have jeopardized Isabelle’s safe arrival. What if the mad bastard Bernabò threw caution to the wind and ambushed the Princess’s retinue in order to kill Blackstone? What chance then of the French King returning home? No, better to deny themselves the satisfaction of telling the Lords of Milan in order to secure the child’s safe passage and the ransom. He allowed himself a moment of self-congratulation. In no small way, he believed, he had been the saviour of France. Within days the arrangements for the signing of the treaty had been decided and he was to attend as representative of the Dauphin and Jean le Bon, King of France. It was momentous. Of course there were others who would preen themselves in the same mirror of success: the Count of Tancarville had been released as a hostage from England and he would think himself more important because he was a soldier who had accompanied the King into imprisonment. But he could be managed with judicious flattery. The irritating and at times insufferable French Chancellor, Jean de Dormans, would no doubt soon whisper in Bucy’s ear that it was he who had finally secured the terms of agreement. Bucy mentally chastised himself for the foul language that crept from his thoughts onto his tongue. When the King came home he would know whom to reward. Bucy had held the Dauphin in check, had arranged the meeting between the Prince Regent and his blood enemy; had prepared him, tutoring him how to behave and respond when facing the scar-faced Englishman. And he had banished Blackstone from the kingdom by throwing him poisoned bait. Sending him right into the jaws of that madman Bernabò Visconti.
‘My lord?’ said a servant as Bucy cast a final eye over his attire and adjusted his mink hat. ‘It is time.’
Bucy nodded and waved the servant away. He had eaten a good breakfast, his clothing was appropriate for the occasion and his mood could not be better. The great noblemen and knights who were close to the King of England would represent the English monarch: the Duke of Lancaster; the Earls of Northampton, Warwick and Suffolk; Cobham, Burghesh, Walter Mauny. Legends on the field of battle. They would see themselves as the victors. Let them delude themselves. The ransom would soon be paid and France would have her King returned. And Blackstone would soon be dead.
It was, at last, a day to bask in the warmth of his triumph.
*
The preparations for the royal journey south took many weeks, a period that gave Blackstone and his men time to rest and recruit. King Edward had given him and his captains the pick of men to replace those who had died on the campaign. It had been a hard-fought selection for those who desired to ride with him. Hard fought because he and his captains had made them face each other in hand-to-hand contest and chose only those who withstood the ordeal, but now Blackstone had a hundred men at his back.
The royal litter swayed gently between the two big pack horses, chosen for their strength and endurance. At least, Blackstone thought, the litter was not as cumbersome or as slow as a carriage. The Princess’s servants rode behind the litter, ready to administer to the child’s needs. The disparity between them was an act of God. When Henry was her age he had been fighting for his life at his mother’s side. And yet there the boy was, at the Princess’s request, riding alongside the litter. If a King and his offspring were divine, chosen by the will of God, then what use did God have for the rest of them? To serve, was the answer his thoughts gav
e him. To serve and die if necessary. They had a hundred leagues to travel and every step along the way could pose danger, Torellini had warned him. But from whom? The Visconti wanted the child-bride; the routiers who roamed the hills would not dare snatch the King of France’s daughter. It made no sense to Blackstone. The Visconti wanted their revenge on him for killing their assassin as much as he did on them for sending the killer.
‘What?’ said Killbere at his side.
Blackstone looked quizzically at him.
‘You were muttering and sighing like a drunkard,’ said Killbere. ‘Is the boredom driving you to holding private conversations with yourself? Merciful God, this is a journey we should have refused. We’ve been riding for ten days. Damned near three hundred miles of arse-aching monotony. We should have taken ourselves off on a crusade or gone back to Florence to fight the Visconti. They won’t be going anywhere. Why do we wet-nurse this child?’
‘It gets us into Milan under Edward and John’s protection.’
‘Aye, and much good that will do us,’ answered Killbere. ‘If your Italian priest doesn’t get the information to us in time we will be drawn and quartered and parts of us seeing Milan the other bits won’t.’
Blackstone grinned. ‘They would need more than hardened steel to separate your stubborn head from your body.’
‘Thomas, don’t jest with me. I’m serious. We have no say in any of this. The route is not ours. We play into others’ hands. They can do with us what they will. This handful of French troops who ride with us wouldn’t put fear into a gang of street urchins. And Amadeus? Merciful Mother of God, he’s no friend of yours. He’s got noblemen with knights and men-at-arms at his beck and call. Who’s to say he won’t surround us once we get down to Chambéry? He’s the Visconti’s brother-in-law by marriage,’ said Killbere, pointing towards the litter, ‘and uncle to the Visconti’s brat that she’s going to marry. He’s got hundreds of cavalry under his command and do you see one of them here? No. Not one. It’s a pig’s arse, Thomas. And it smells like one.’