by David Gilman
‘Come here,’ he said, unrolling the parchment. It was a crudely drawn map but easy enough to understand. ‘I have been told there are already early falls of snow. It will soon become difficult for the child to travel if we wait too long. These men are here,’ he said, pointing to a place on the map that showed forests and foothills. ‘When you leave this is the route you will take. The valley of Maurienne turns sharply south at Saint-Pierre d’Albigny; you then follow the arc eastwards to the pass at Mont Cenis; once in the pass you will have left any chance of attack from routiers far behind. They will not venture further than the mountains to pursue you. On the other side you will be in the Val di Susa and soon after you will reach Ivrea. I have mountain guides waiting at the pass who are my vassals and in my debt. And I will send messengers to my sister so that she can tell Galeazzo of your departure from here. Once he sends his men out to escort you from Milan, Bernabò, if it is indeed he who wishes to harm the Princess, will not be able to reach her.’
*
Blackstone and Killbere left the grand hall and made their way to where Gaillard and Meulon had gathered the men.
‘A galloping bull’s bollocks would be less noticeable than us riding at a snail’s pace,’ said Killbere. ‘We have to hit these skinners hard and fast before we take up the journey again. Several days to the pass and then if we’re lucky another ten over the top until we reach Milan.’
‘If we’re lucky,’ agreed Blackstone, ‘and for once I’d be happy to see Visconti troops riding out to escort us.’
As they walked across the yard de Chauliac, the French captain of the Princess’s guard, and two of his sergeants cut across their path.
‘Sir Thomas, one of the ladies-in-waiting fell from the window. Is the Princess all right?’
‘She’s recovering from a fever. She’s doing well.’
‘This woman who fell: she had served her highness. Such an accident will be upsetting for her, but Count Amadeus has his men posted and I cannot even approach the room.’
‘Those who nurse her haven’t told her about the accident. The child needs rest. She’s in good hands and she will soon be well enough to travel. You have your orders from the Dauphin, captain. You will follow them.’
‘Of course, but when do we leave?’
‘Soon, but you will escort her without me and my men until you reach the pass.’
The soldier reacted with despair. ‘I have a hundred men and she has twenty servants with her who slow us more than a baggage train. If there is trouble I doubt I can protect her without your men, Sir Thomas.’
Blackstone eased the man aside from his sergeants. ‘Captain, your discretion is important if we are to safeguard the Princess.’
‘I understand,’ de Chauliac said.
‘There are men waiting in ambush. We cannot delay our journey much longer and the Count has barely sufficient men to protect the palace so he can offer no further help.’
‘Better we ride together, then,’ said the captain.
‘No, better that you stay back and we will root them out and kill them. You are needed here for the Princess, that’s what you are charged with,’ said Killbere, barely concealing his obvious disdain for the French.
‘Sir Gilbert, I have fought the English on the field of battle and served my King on crusade. We know how to fight,’ said the man, insulted. ‘We were defeated but we fought hard.’
The last thing Blackstone needed was dissent among the men who rode to protect Princess Isabelle. ‘All right, de Chauliac, you shall help us. Keep half your men here and the rest of your men will ride out bearing the Princess’s litter, and I and my men will snap shut the trap.’
The man looked confused. ‘Use the Princess as bait? I cannot.’
Killbere sighed. ‘Holy Mother of God you dimwitted oaf, not the Princess, just the damned litter! Can’t you grasp even the simplest deception?’
Abashed, the captain bore the slur and bowed his head to Blackstone. ‘I await your orders, Sir Thomas.’
‘Stay silent on this matter, captain. Say nothing to your men or anyone else. Not yet. Understand?’ said Blackstone.
‘Even I am not that stupid,’ he said with an ill-concealed venomous look at the veteran knight.
‘I wouldn’t wager on that,’ said Killbere as they watched him stride back across the courtyard to where the French troops were quartered. ‘Thomas, these men’s thinking is more rigid than the planks on my bed. They’ll cause us trouble in the fight.’
‘No, they’ll serve a purpose, Gilbert: they’ll take the skinners’ eyes off us. I should have thought of it before.’
‘Then you’re becoming as dull-witted as the French. I despair for you. No wonder you’ve needed me at your side all these years. This whoreson Bernabò and his bastard might not be able to harm the Princess once we kill these skinners,’ said Killbere, ‘but after you’re inside the walls of Milan you’re at the mercy of a man who would strip the skin from your bones before he kills you.’
‘Then I’d better find him before he finds me,’ said Blackstone. ‘Now, let’s think on how we kill the routiers. They aren’t blind or stupid; they’ll see how horses walk carrying an empty litter. She has to be in it and they need to see her before they attack. Let’s get the bait dressed.’
CHAPTER FORTY-NINE
Two days later Meulon and Gaillard led thirty of Blackstone’s men-at-arms along the route towards the mountains. They were five hours ahead of the royal escort, but a full day behind Blackstone, Killbere and Will Longdon’s archers. They too had been split into two groups, with a rearguard held by Jack Halfpenny and his twenty bowmen, but there was no sign of Blackstone on the road. Meulon and Gaillard’s men had taken unmarked shields from the Count’s armoury and their rough, makeshift clothing made them appear just like any other band of roving brigands seeking opportunity now that the war was over. They rode under a clear blue sky, the chill wind from the snow-capped mountains funnelling down into the foothills. They travelled at a steady, unhurried pace across the valley that bellied out from the forests before the road narrowed a mile further on into a highway wide enough for a wagon and two outriders on each side. Halfway across the valley was a small stone-built shrine, big enough for one person to kneel before the makeshift altar and the modest crucifix fashioned from wood. It guaranteed the icon’s safety from theft. Were it made of silver or gold it would have been stolen by heretic mercenaries. The faded fresco painted into the plaster inside was of the Madonna and Child and might have been there a hundred years.
‘It would be here,’ said Gaillard as they moved across the open meadow. ‘This makes a good killing ground. They’d attack from over there.’
Meulon studied the ground. The forest, 350 paces to the left, was the obvious choice for anyone lying in ambush. To their right, the rising ground was embedded with boulders and twisted tree roots clinging to the uneven terrain. There could be no retreat up there.
‘Ahead,’ said Gaillard as he saw horsemen filter out from the treeline half a mile in front of them. A group of riders sixty or more strong eased their mounts across the narrowing meadow to block their way.
Meulon turned to the men riding behind him. ‘Be ready, but remember what Sir Thomas told us. We’re not looking for a fight.’ He turned to Gaillard. ‘Let us hope that if there are Englishmen among them they don’t recognize any of us.’
They slowed their horses as they approached the waiting men who, like themselves, wore a mixture of armour and mail and whose shields, slung on their saddles, displayed the scarred blazons of various French and German lords. These were fighting men who had abandoned those who had once rallied them to war. Those blocking Meulon and Gaillard’s route posed an initial threat that Meulon and Gaillard could deal with despite being outnumbered two to one. The greater threat lay with the rest of the brigand’s force hidden in the forest. The leader of the men who blocked their route raised a hand to stop Blackstone’s men.
Meulon and Gaillard waited as the mercenar
ies eased their horses forward. ‘This road is guarded,’ said their leader.
‘It’s a road into Lombardy. We don’t pay tolls; if we were prepared to do that we would go south into Montferrat territory. We need to pass,’ said Meulon.
‘In good time,’ said the mercenary. ‘We need to know your business.’
‘It’s ours to know,’ answered Gaillard. ‘If it’s trouble you want, we’ll oblige.’
‘Steady, stranger. We make no threats. Tell us who you are and where you’re going and there’ll be no trouble.’ He had eased his horse closer to observe the men and cast an eye on the shields slung on their saddles. ‘You wear no blazon. You serve a lord? Amadeus, perhaps?’ The man eased his horse around them. ‘No blazon, no lord. Are you routiers? You’ve booty perhaps?’
‘We serve no one except ourselves, and if you don’t clear the road we’ll shed blood and be gone before the men you’ve got hiding in that forest can put their arses into their saddles. Then you’ll see who has the right of way,’ Meulon growled at him. He studied the man’s pockmarked, broken face: bones badly set from past fights. The hands holding the reins were similarly scarred. He would be unafraid of grappling and fighting a man close in, Meulon thought as the routier’s eyes glared at him.
‘You think we’ve men in the forest?’ said the mercenary.
‘You’d be a damned fool to ride out to challenge us if you didn’t,’ said Gaillard.
The man grunted. The men he faced were obviously experienced fighters.
‘We’re skinners,’ said Meulon, ‘and if we’ve taken from the lord you serve then bad luck to him. Whatever we took we’ve spent in taverns and whorehouses and now there’s nothing left in this godforsaken country so we’re riding to the Visconti. They need fighting men and they pay well.’
The man grinned. ‘Brother, we ride the same road. I am Grimo. You have heard of me? Grimo the Breton.’
Meulon looked at Gaillard. ‘Have you heard of a foul-breathed shortarse who goes by the name of Grimo?’
The mercenary scowled as Gaillard shook his head. ‘I heard of a butcher’s dog called Grimo when we rode with the Savage Priest years ago.’
‘Hey, that’s me! The butcher. You rode with de Marcy? Merciful God.’ The mercenary leader crossed himself. ‘That priest could put the fear of Christ into the devil himself.’
‘The Savage Priest was the devil.’ Meulon grinned, drawing the man in, gaining his confidence, having insulted him as any routier with self-respect would have done, damning the consequences.
‘Butcher’s dog, eh? Well, maybe he honoured me,’ said Grimo. ‘I had a reputation back then for fighting like a bear-pit dog.’
‘And what’s your reputation now? A toll collector?’ said Meulon.
Grimo laughed. ‘Yes! Why not? I serve Visconti. I collect heads as a toll for the Viper.’
The man’s bragging confirmed what Blackstone had told his men about Visconti’s plans to lay an ambush for the Princess.
Grimo considered the two men. He too was playing the game that dangerous men played. ‘Are you all Frenchmen?’
‘No, there are English and Germans among us.’
The mercenary turned and called to one of his men who then came forward.
‘Bring one of your Germans up,’ said Grimo.
Meulon called to the men behind him. ‘Renfred! Come here!’
The man-at-arms spurred his horse forward to where Grimo waited with his chosen man. Grimo hid his face with the back of his hand and whispered something. The routier nodded and called out in German to Renfred. Neither Meulon or Gaillard understood what was said.
Renfred glanced at Meulon and Gaillard, and then nodded, and answered back.
Grimo’s man seemed satisfied. ‘He says these two are men who should not be challenged. They are killers. They rode with the Savage Priest right enough and they fight for whoever pays the most. Now they ride to Milan to offer their services to the Visconti. One is known as the throat-cutter and has a bounty on him.’
Grimo was satisfied. Men at the back of the column that faced him would not have heard him questioning their leaders at the front. The men’s story needed to reflect each other’s.
‘You could do worse than stay here, with us,’ said Grimo to the two big men.
‘We don’t know you,’ said Gaillard. ‘What can you offer us that the Visconti cannot?’
‘We’re waiting for a prize to come our way. She will be under escort. I’m going to take her head and when I drop it at the feet of the man who’s paying we’ll have enough gold florins to keep us through the winter and beyond.’
‘She’s special, this woman?’
‘No woman, a girl. She’s royal blood.’
‘Then she’ll have an escort,’ said Gaillard. ‘You’ll need more than the men you’ve got here. And I don’t like being on the losing side. I’ve had enough of that thanks to the whoreson English.’
‘Every sword helps,’ said the mercenary, ‘but I’ve got damned near three hundred men back there in the forest. And every traveller who makes their way across the mountains stops and prays at the shrine. It will be an easy kill. Stay. We’ll ride on to Milan together when it’s done.’
Meulon made as if to consider it, and then shook his head. ‘Count Amadeus already has men looking for us. He has a treaty with King John and the Dauphin. We’re safer in Milan. Perhaps we’ll see you there.’
‘As you wish. We’ll be the ones camped outside the walls with all the whores and with food and wine in our belly,’ he said. ‘Mention my name to the Visconti. He’ll welcome you.’
‘Which one? There are two of them. We know neither Lord of Milan,’ said Meulon.
Grimo’s lips parted like a wolf already tasting its prey. ‘Tread carefully and show respect otherwise he’ll break you on the wheel or throw you to his hunting dogs. You seek out the one known as Bernabò; he’s possessed, but he has power and gold and he will kill for pleasure.’
‘Then we are right to enter Milan without you because if you don’t kill this girl we could all be thrown into the pit. Good luck to you,’ said Meulon and edged his horse forward.
Grimo pulled back his horse and his men parted allowing free passage for Blackstone’s men. ‘Which one of you is known as the throat-cutter?’
‘There’s only one way to find out,’ said Gaillard.
Grimo chuckled. ‘Good answer, my friend. Who’s to say I would not have turned him in for the bounty?’
As Meulon’s horse eased past he looked into the man’s broken face. Blackstone had briefed the men well: the lies told had carried them through the routiers’ ranks. When the time came he would seek out Grimo the butcher and acquaint him with his knife blade.
CHAPTER FIFTY
Girard Goncenin could neither read nor write. From the moment he could walk his life had been spent in the forest, scavenging for plants and snaring rabbits to help feed the family. When he was six his father, a belligerent drunk who had been mutilated for poaching on Count Amadeus’s father’s domain, almost killed him. Later, when his mother and father died of pestilence, he ran away from home, preferring to let his two sisters and younger brother fend for themselves and to die if they could not. Over the years villagers told the story of a wolf boy, who ran with the pack and brought down deer, who snarled when cornered and lived as a beast. None of it was true. Girard could smell a wolf from half a mile away, that was the truth, and he could trap any living thing. But like the mountain bears that came down into the forests when the snow smothered their food, he favoured wild mushrooms and berries. He no longer spoke, and had almost forgotten how, but his mind recorded every leaf on every tree and he knew where the creatures of the forest lived. His small cave was set deep into a hillside and he had known nothing but self-reliance until he was caught by the Count’s men.
It had been his own fault. The Count, who had by now inherited his father’s title and lands, had been hunting and foolishly rode ahead of his party in pursuit of a wound
ed deer. The animal had collapsed deep in the forest, its last heartbeats pumping blood from the arrow wound, blood whose scent was easily caught on the air by not only Girard, but also by a hungry brown bear. The Count’s horse had reared and thrown him and Girard, who had been keeping well away from the boisterous hunting party, saw the massive bear rise up to its full height, its muzzle already bloodied from the dead deer, and turn angrily on the human intruder who threatened its spoil.
The bear charged at the young Count, throwing down his mount, its great claws disembowelling the horse. The Count was momentarily helpless but Girard sprang forward and struck the eight-foot-tall beast with a fallen sapling, stinging its snout, forcing it to turn on him. But then his foot became entwined in the undergrowth and he fell, trapped, as the enraged bear came down on all fours and charged. Girard closed his eyes and pictured his cave and the safety and warmth it offered. He could not imagine death: he had not been told of salvation or damnation by any priest, he just knew that when animals died their eyes closed and their hearts stopped beating. And he would be no different. It was the way of the forest. Girard heard the bear bellow in pain and opened his eyes to see the young Count on his feet thrusting his spear into the animal. He jabbed and jabbed again, and then others were there cornering the bear that had only wanted to escape hunger and was now being stabbed by a dozen men. Girard’s eyes filled with tears and he wept for the great beast’s death.
Saving the Count’s life changed Girard’s. He was taken in, cleaned and fed, clothed and given a bed by the master of horse. He was visited daily by the Count, who spoke kindly to the boy, and after several weeks Girard began to talk again, but only to the man who had saved him. His room in the stable was little different from his cave and many a day he could not be found. He came and went, returning whenever he wished to the forest, but when the Count hunted, the boy, as if by some animal sense, was always ready to lead him to wolf lair and boar bramble.