by David Gilman
Blackstone knew that Killbere had every right to be wary. Amadeus, the Count of Savoy, was one of the transalpine princes. The twenty-six-year-old was the sworn enemy of the Marquis de Montferrat whose territory lay across the Alps and who was allied to Florence; and Montferrat and Florence were bitter enemies of the Visconti of Milan. Montferrat was also Blackstone’s ally and held the mountain pass where Blackstone had slain the Savage Priest years before. But the route through the mountains that Blackstone and his men knew well and which took them into the safety of Montferrat’s territory was denied them. Instead the Princess and her escort of French troops and Blackstone’s men would travel south to the city of Chambéry, held by Amadeus, and then through the pass at Mont Cenis before the winter snows.
‘He formed an alliance with the Visconti,’ said Blackstone. ‘The Pope wanted him to side with him. But the treaty between the Lords of Milan and the Count strengthens the territories they each hold. And it keeps Montferrat in check.’
‘And leaves us sticking out like a whore’s nipple on a winter’s day,’ said Killbere. ‘Vengeance is one thing, Thomas, but suicide is another. These men follow you in good faith and affection. You’re their sworn lord. They won’t desert you because you’ve a mind to inflict misery and death on those who sent an assassin to tear your heart apart.’ Killbere drew breath and spat. ‘They’ll die for you. But it needs to be a fight worth fighting. That’s all I’m saying.’
‘Much more and we’ll have you giving morning prayers. You’ve become a preacher in your old age, Gilbert.’
‘Dammit, Thomas. I’ll not be mocked. When men die their blood is on your hands.’
Blackstone knew Killbere was right and he decided that when the time came he would give all his men the option of going into Milan or staying outside the walls. Before he could answer Killbere a shout went up.
‘Riders!’ yelled a voice from the front. Blackstone drew the column to a halt and watched as a troop of horsemen, a hundred or more, pennons fluttering, emerged from the forests that smothered the rolling foothills in the near distance. Killbere signalled Perinne and the outriders to rejoin Blackstone. By the time they had reached Blackstone the approaching knights and men-at-arms had divided and formed two columns. The knight who led them wore a green silk tabard over his breastplate and two ostrich feathers dyed the same colour were attached to his helm. His horse’s caparison was embroidered with green patterns.
‘They flank us, Sir Thomas,’ said John Jacob. ‘Though the way they’re dressed they look as though they’re going to a tournament.’
Will Longdon had already ordered the archers into extended line and Gaillard and Meulon had gone left and right with their men behind Blackstone. What had appeared to be a lethargic moving column only minutes before was now a spearhead of fighting men. Only the French troops remained static and readied themselves for a charge. No wonder they kept losing battles, Blackstone thought fleetingly.
‘Come on, John, let’s see what this popinjay wants,’ said Blackstone and spurred the bastard horse forward.
Killbere stayed at the head of Blackstone’s men, sword drawn and ready.
Blackstone reined in a dozen paces from the extravagantly dressed knight. His visor was open and Blackstone saw that the man was somewhere in his twenties.
‘You are Sir Thomas Blackstone,’ said the knight cheerfully. ‘Wonderful! I am honoured to meet you. I recognize your coat of arms and its challenge: Défiant à la mort. And from what I have heard you have defied death on many occasions.’
Blackstone remained stony silent, giving the ebullient man no cause to think him friendly or agreeable. Then: ‘You have a hundred men at your back. If you’ve a mind to fight my archers will have you dead where you stand and my men-at-arms will finish the job. You’re blocking the road.’
Blackstone’s curt response punctured the flamboyant knight’s enthusiasm and his demeanour became more solemn.
‘Ah, yes, I can see how so many heavily armed men would cause you to be wary, especially with such a precious cargo,’ he said.
‘Your time runs short,’ said Blackstone. ‘My archers use me as their mark and you and your men as targets. State your intent.’
‘Everything I have heard about you is true. You are rude, ill mannered and spoiling for a fight.’ He laughed. ‘All the qualities one needs to escort my sister-in-law. I am Count Amadeus of Savoy and I thought the child should be greeted with the honour she deserved.’
Blackstone thought he heard John Jacob curse under his breath at their bad luck – they had threatened a nobleman – but he chose to ignore it. ‘My lord,’ said Blackstone and bowed his head. ‘You’ll forgive my ignorance and ill manners but I am sworn to protect Princess Isabelle and anyone who approaches poses a threat.’
‘And it would be a foolish man who sought to cause her harm while she is under your protection. I am here to personally escort you into Chambéry where you are to be made welcome and to dine at my table and share with me stories of your exploits. I am keen to be entertained, Sir Thomas.’
‘I would be honoured, my lord,’ said Blackstone with as much enthusiasm as he could muster, hoping that his despair at the thought of being in the Count’s company would not be noticed. He turned his horse. He winced when he caught John Jacob’s gaze. Insulting and challenging a transalpine prince was a poor start.
CHAPTER FORTY-FOUR
They were within half a day’s ride of Chambéry when they saw black smoke mushrooming in the distance.
‘Is there fighting here?’ said Blackstone.
The plumed Count shook his head sombrely. ‘No, Sir Thomas, we have had an outbreak of the pestilence. It is another reason why I chose to ride out and meet you: to ensure you did not stumble into the diseased villages. The plague is one enemy that could strike you silently. We burn every place that has been stricken.’
Thought of the death sweeping through the countryside made Blackstone fearful. ‘And in the city?’
‘So far it has not reached us. And I have banned from entering anyone who shows signs of fever. The sentries at the city gates check everyone. The markets are closed until the pestilence moves on.’ He glanced at Blackstone. ‘The danger will not end here, Sir Thomas. It is across the Alps in Lombardy as well. We will offer our prayers for you and the Princess.’
Bad enough, Blackstone thought, that there were those who wished to see him butchered, now the great pestilence had cast its barbed net across the land waiting to snare unsuspecting travellers. No matter how forewarned they were, even a chance encounter with anyone infected would inflict an excruciating death. He instinctively turned in the saddle and looked back to where Aelis rode with the captains. She returned his gaze without expression. Just how much did she see of the future? he wondered.
He watched the smoke struggling to rise in the cold mountain air and sensed the stench of burning flesh it would carry. He pressed Arianrhod to his lips and, as the silver goddess caught the light, he saw Count Amadeus glance his way.
‘Perhaps, Sir Thomas, you will need more prayers than most.’
*
The pale stone castle loomed over the roofs of the town that spread out from beneath its walls. Killbere pushed open the shuttered window and looked down the sheer walls of cut stone. There were no places for a grappling iron to find purchase and no hand- or foothold. He had a sheet wrapped around him that absorbed the water from his body. A brazier burned in one corner adding its heat to the room, already heavy with steam from the two large wooden bathtubs.
‘This place is impossible to escape from, Thomas. Look how high we are. Almost as high as the damned mountains.’
Blackstone luxuriated in the hot water. Count Amadeus had been extravagant in his hospitality. And that raised immediate suspicion. ‘He won’t cause us harm but his welcome is more generous than expected. He wants something, but I don’t know what.’
‘Listen, he’s a strange one, and riding around like a parrot on a horse, all feathered and drap
ed in silk over armour. Makes me think he’s a bit touched.’
‘He told me it’s what he wears for tournaments and he wanted to greet the Princess in all his finery.’
Killbere unwrapped the sheet and stood naked in front of the brazier. His body was as scarred as Blackstone’s; some of the wounds were deep and the skin puckered. He scratched his balls as he warmed them. ‘One thing it tells us is that a man who dresses like that is a good enough fighter to put an end to anyone who mocks him for it. We must be careful when we go to this dinner tonight. It isolates us. I wish we could have stayed with the men.’
Blackstone’s captains and John Jacob had been billeted next to the stables, the French troops separated from them by inner curtain walls, effectively reducing his fighting force. Meulon and Gaillard would have already seen where they could make a stand if cornered by a duplicitous Amadeus, and Will Longdon and Jack Halfpenny would, by now, have decided how best to defend the men-at-arms if an assault came. Fighting at Blackstone’s side over the years gave every man the knowledge and instinct to survive. They would be ready.
‘He’s aligned with the Visconti: he won’t deny them the pleasure of having me in their clutches. We’re safe enough. For now.’
Killbere grunted. His nose wrinkled; he raised an armpit and sniffed. ‘There’s perfume in the water, Thomas. I swear we have fallen into the hands of a brothel keeper.’
*
The great hall was decorated with colour-washed walls and tapestries; the fireplace had bundles of stacked kindling the size of a man’s body on one side and wood on the other that would be laid across the iron grate. Oil lamps and candles threw their warmth and light into the room as big as any Blackstone remembered from the time he lived at Jean de Harcourt’s Norman castle, except this nobleman had richness and comfort rather than unyielding austerity surrounding him. The Count approached them from the far side of the table, which was adorned with silver plate overburdened with meat, bread and fruit tantalizingly within reach of the hungry men.
‘No sign of dried fish, thank God,’ whispered Killbere.
‘Your stomach growls. We are at a nobleman’s table,’ Blackstone said quietly in admonishment.
‘I greet you with an unreserved welcome, my honoured guests. Sit, here and here. Close to me so we may speak without raising our voices across the length of the table,’ said Amadeus effusively.
Blackstone and Killbere sat either side of the Count. Servants poured wine and then discreetly stepped away.
‘I am in a joyous mood. Not only do I play a part in bringing the Princess into a marriage with the Visconti, an act that has far-reaching consequences for all concerned – a cessation of war, a ransom paid and an alliance between the Lords of Milan and the French – but our beloved lady wife gave birth a few months ago to a son. Our first. After five years of waiting the good Lord finally blessed us.’
‘Sir Gilbert and I offer our congratulations, my lord.’
Killbere nodded in agreement.
‘My thanks. Now, your men are quartered under cover because even at this time of the year our summer can carry a chill wind from the Alps, and they and your horses are fed. Your son and squire are quartered above the stables with my master of horse, and your woman has been sent to your quarters and bathed with one of my wife’s ladies-in-waiting in attendance.’
Blackstone was about to protest that Aelis was not his companion, but the look Killbere shot across the table quietened him. It served no purpose to offer lengthy explanations. The Count raised a hand and the servants stepped forward and laid meat and bread on each of the men’s plates. Blackstone remained silent, agreeing that the Count’s presumption was best left uncontested. At least he knew where she was and that she had been kept away from the French troops. It took little imagination to see how an incident could escalate. Perhaps this resplendent Lord of Savoy should be credited with anticipating trouble before it began.
‘All of which we are grateful for, my lord. We are undeserving of such hospitality.’
The younger man pulled his fingers back through his hair, and as if his hand had swiped away his pleasant expression he suddenly became sombre.
‘I have the blood enemy of the French royal house at my table, a man who tried to kill their King. You have been helped in the past by my own enemy the Marquis of Montferrat who controls the pass you used when you fought your way in and out of Italy. I should find it repugnant but we are all cursed at some stage of our lives with an overwhelming desire for justice. I know your story, Sir Thomas. I know what you were and what you have become through your own honour. Alliances are made and lost. Times change. Enemies become friends and brothers become enemies.’ He smiled and shrugged as he brought the silver wine goblet to his lips. ‘It is what our good Lord determines. Now, enough of my pretence of knowing how God’s world works. Let us eat and talk about the great battles seen across this ravaged land.’
For the next few hours they ate and drank but it was Killbere who spoke about how they fought at Crécy and Poitiers with exaggerated gestures that became more animated as more wine was consumed. The young Count was a receptive audience and laughed with gusto as Killbere used the room as his stage. The veteran knight finally finished his performance to applause from Amadeus. Blackstone had made little mention of the times he had faced danger alone, and as the storytelling faded to a satisfied ending it was obvious to him that the Count had not drunk as much as it appeared. Killbere’s head settled on his chest as he gave in to fatigue from the day’s travel and excess of wine. There was no shame in it and Blackstone reached across and eased the goblet from his hand and then placed his arms on the table and his head to rest on them.
‘I have never heard him talk as much,’ he said kindly. ‘He’s a fighting man, my lord, and one of the best I have ever seen. No one I know has as much courage. He has been guardian and friend since I was a boy.’
‘Then you are more fortunate than most,’ the Count said.
‘I am, lord. I have the best men at my back. I could wish for nothing more. Loyalty is everything.’
A servant quickly charged their goblets and was then dismissed from the room. The Count and Blackstone were alone, and Killbere slept. The Count eased his drink aside and leaned forward to Blackstone. ‘You and your men are riding to certain death in Milan. And I…’ He hesitated. ‘…do not wish to see it.’
‘We fight on opposing sides, my lord,’ said Blackstone. ‘If I die then it would spare us having to face each other across a muddy field one day. And that is something I would not wish. You’ve been a gracious host to a common man.’
‘I have my own selfish motives. You serve Florence and they fight for the Pope. The Visconti are of the anti-papal league. Two years ago the Pope asked me to align myself with him. I did not. It did not suit me at the time. There are matters of self-interest and territories to be secured and of course I have family connections with the Visconti. It’s politics. Agreements that can undermine a man’s true self. One day, in a few years, when I have what I want from these alliances, I will take the cross and serve the Pope on a crusade against the Turks and Saracens. That is a worthwhile fight. And if you live then perhaps you and your men might join me.’
‘Perhaps, my lord.’
‘Very well. This is what I know. Routiers pour down the Rhône valley. Their strength is increased by men released from the English army now that a treaty is signed. There is a possibility they may descend on the Pope at Avignon. I do not send troops to accompany you into Lombardy for good reason. Firstly, the Pope may call for the lords of the region to help him against these mercenaries, and secondly if the Visconti know you are accompanying the Princess then perhaps they will use mercenaries to attack and kill you and I cannot have my men slain trying to protect you.’
‘That’s if the Visconti know I am part of the escort. The Dauphin gave me information so that I might strike at those who caused my family harm. I seek revenge.’
‘Then does it not follow that th
e Visconti know of it and would wish to strike before you reach Milan?’
‘I don’t know, lord. It’s possible. But they would not risk causing harm to the Princess just to get to me.’
‘Let us suppose they lie in wait: I suspect they would use routiers to attack you. No blame can then be laid at the Visconti’s door. Your men and some of the royal escort would be killed, the routiers would make a pretence of ransoming the Princess and you would be delivered with your son to the Lords of Milan. Helpless, without any of your men at your back. And as much as I warm to your company, Sir Thomas, I would be unable to help you.’ The young Count smiled without malice.
‘Where would they attack if such a plan existed?’ asked Blackstone.
‘They could not do it on the pass, and they would not risk doing it on the other side and have Montferrat come to your aid. So it will be this side of the mountains. I will find out what I can.’ He smiled. ‘And if either of the Visconti brothers are responsible for your family’s deaths and you kill him, then so be it.’ He raised the drink to his lips. ‘Who knows, it might even be beneficial to my own future.’
The carefree attitude had been brushed aside and a calculating provincial lord exposed. It made no difference to Blackstone. Whatever help he could get to reach the Vipers of Milan he would welcome it.
Amadeus pushed back his chair. ‘It will take a few days but I will do what I can to find out more. Until then you stay as my guest. Goodnight, Sir Thomas.’
‘Goodnight, my lord.’ Blackstone watched the Count of Savoy leave the room; then he reached forward and plucked at the cluster of grapes. He sucked their sweetness to ease the sour taste of the wine left on his tongue. Or was it, he thought, to ease his distaste for the connivance of noblemen?
Killbere lifted his head. ‘I thought he’d never leave,’ he said, none the worse for the drink. ‘I suspected he might blab about something of use to us and would only want you to hear it. Now we know. He’s as big a bastard as the next lord only he enjoys himself and laughs a lot more.’ He reached for the green glass wine decanter, half covered in leather embossed with the Count’s blazon. ‘And he is no beggar when it comes to his wine. It’s from the best grape.’ He grinned at Blackstone. ‘I heard what you said about me, Thomas. My heart was warmed by your generous words.’