by David Gilman
The road served Meulon and Gaillard better than it did those who attacked. Blackstone’s men bestrode the broadest part of the track where the road bellied out, which gave them the opportunity to strike Grimo’s men from the sides as they were forced to ride into the fray barely three abreast along the narrow road. Horses and shields clashed but the routiers had no power to drive through. Riders from the edge of the broad part of the road curled in on them in death’s embrace.
Meulon parried Grimo’s strike with his shield, waiting for the desperate man attacking him to deliver the blow that would expose an unguarded part of his body. Gaillard had already driven forward into the mêlée. Grimo’s men were jammed together, yanking their terror-stricken horses’ reins this way and that and spurring the beasts’ flanks, cursing as their lumbering mounts could do nothing more than heave and push against the ones next to them, desperately fighting their riders. Snared like fish in a net, Grimo’s men fell beneath a savage onslaught. Horses trampled those who went under their hooves and then broke free, tearing open the cluster of routiers, giving Blackstone’s men the advantage as they forced their mounts into the gaps left by the panicked beasts.
Grimo grunted with effort, yet could make no impression against Meulon. He tried desperately to force his way past the big man, to where freedom lay, down the road towards the mountains. Sweat stung his eyes. He swung his sword wide with as much force as he could, but the shock of the strike against Meulon’s blade shuddered up his arm. And then the big man moved so quickly Grimo failed to raise his guard in time and the massive blow from Meulon’s shield knocked him backwards in the saddle. His feet slipped from the stirrups and his balance was gone. He tumbled to the ground. Avoiding flailing hooves he saw that there were fewer than half a dozen of his men still alive and they were being hacked to the ground. He staggered to his feet again, knowing there might be a chance to escape if he could run free into the forest where horses were unlikely to follow.
He shouldered past a riderless horse and for a moment thought fate had favoured him. And then a dismounted Meulon stood in his way. Grimo lunged; Meulon easily sidestepped. He swept his knife beneath Grimo’s raised face. The pain came a breath later. A gurgling, choking, desperate inhalation of blood into his lungs. He fell to his knees, hands to his severed throat, eyes locked on the big bearded man who gazed down at him, bloodied knife in hand.
‘Now you know,’ said Meulon.
*
Henry Blackstone had not regained consciousness and the blood-soaked bandage, torn from the dress he had been obliged to wear before the fight, bore witness to his wound. Blackstone and the men gathered around the fallen boy. John Jacob held Henry’s shoulders in his lap as Will Longdon unwrapped the cloth and inspected the wound.
‘It’s a gash is all,’ he said, puckering the split scalp with his bloody fingers. ‘Perinne, spill some wine on it.’
‘Vinegar’s better,’ said one of the archers who had crowded around to see how badly hurt the boy was.
Killbere kicked him. ‘This wine’s vinegar at the best of times. Get yourself back with the others. You keep an eye out in case there’s any more of those skinners lurking.’
The man scurried away as Will Longdon poked a finger in the wound. ‘Can’t see bone, and can’t feel nothin’. No bits of cracked skull sticking out. Ah, the lad’ll be fine. Here, pour it here,’ he instructed Perinne, who poured red wine over the wound. ‘Who’s got the needle and thread?’ One of the archers leaned into the throng of men proffering a curved needle like a fisherman’s awl, its eye threaded with silk. Longdon took it and studied the length of silk whipping unwound from an arrow shaft. ‘Perinne,’ he said, holding out the thread. Perinne duly dribbled wine over it. ‘Right, now let’s give the lad a decent scar,’ said Longdon, holding the flaps of scalp ready for the needle. When the stitching was done and the boy’s face bathed clean of blood another bandage was tied round. The men had bickered among themselves whether the slash should be packed with manure as were most battlefield wounds, but Blackstone remembered how he had been cared for by the royal physician when critically wounded as a boy after Crécy, and of how Aelis had cleaned and treated Killbere’s wound. His decision to leave the wound dressed only with the torn cloth had been grudgingly obeyed. Blackstone watched as the unconscious boy was eased onto the litter. A stab of fear and guilt made him place a hand on Henry’s chest. The slow but steady beat of his son’s heart assured him that the lad’s courage lay deep within him despite his youth.
Some of de Chauliac’s men had succumbed to their wounds and his losses now totalled eleven men. A small price, given they had been so outnumbered. Blackstone had lost four men and two others would not reach Chambéry alive. The dead would be buried by the Count’s priest in the city’s churchyard. Blackstone and the men rode back towards Chambéry, past the dead routiers brought down by Jack Halfpenny and his twenty archers who had waited to cut off any escaping survivors. They recovered what arrows they could from the scattered bodies and dragged the corpses to one side of the road; then they did as Blackstone had done at the ambush site and strung up the bodies from trees along the road. Eighteen bodies swung in the breeze, as did another thirty by way of example along the valley fringe. Meulon had rammed Grimo’s severed head on a shaft and left it at the bend of the road along with his mercenaries’ corpses strung from the trees. De Chauliac had protested. Merchants would travel this route between Lombardy and Paris and such barbaric gestures of victory would simply tell them they were entering a lawless land.
‘Not so,’ Blackstone insisted as he watched the last of Halfpenny’s kills being hoisted. ‘They show the merchants they are safe. At least when my men are around. Any routier will think again before he lies in wait on Count Amadeus’s territory.’ He studied de Chauliac for a moment. He and his men had accounted themselves well. They were a long way from the comfort and privilege of the royal palace. ‘I send a message the only way I know how to these killers. You forget, de Chauliac, they came here to murder the Dauphin’s sister, your King’s daughter. We should have kept the wounded alive and had them drawn and quartered, but time is not on our side. Besides, by the time you return home from Milan this encounter will be known at court and your part in it declared a victory for the Dauphin. They’ll honour you. Might even give you a reward. And you can tell them that you and your men did most of the fighting. I don’t care.’
De Chauliac bristled. ‘I would claim nothing that was not true.’
‘Aye, I didn’t think you would. You’re a loyal and honourable man,’ said Blackstone. He turned his horse for Chambéry and the hope that the Princess had not died of the poison that had been administered. Otherwise his men would have died for nothing.
‘The boy was at our side, Sir Thomas,’ said John Jacob. ‘It’s my fault he was injured. I should have kept him out of it.’
Perinne shook his head. ‘John’s right about the lad’s courage, but he wasn’t to blame. We were both fighting when it happened. Young Henry ducked and weaved after stabbing the bastard and the skinner was determined to have him.’
Blackstone turned to the two men who had fought alongside him over so many years. ‘I hold no one responsible. You both know how a man needs luck to get through a fight. He’s been blooded before; he’s no stranger to the killing. You’ve both held my life and his in your hands before now. If you had not been there in good time he would have died. I owe you thanks. There’s nothing more to be said on the matter.’
The men nodded and fell back to ride with the litter.
‘If the lad’s as thick-skulled as his father he’ll be all right,’ said Killbere. ‘I’ve seen you take bareheaded blows that would kill men wearing iron helms. Though I suspect so many lumps might explain why you’re such a mad bastard in a fight.’
‘Only in a fight?’ said Blackstone.
‘I was being generous,’ answered Killbere, and then drank thirstily from his wineskin.
CHAPTER FIFTY-TWO
By th
e time Blackstone and his men were within a day’s ride of Chambéry, Henry Blackstone was awake and complaining bitterly to John Jacob.
‘He says he won’t ride in the litter like a girl. A knight doesn’t ride in a wagon or on a mare, he tells me,’ said Jacob, reporting to Blackstone.
Blackstone smiled. The lessons from the boy’s childhood had stayed with him. ‘Get him a horse, John. Tell him if he falls off because of his wound we leave him behind.’
‘The lad will tie himself to the reins,’ said Will Longdon. ‘But I’m ready to surrender my aching arse to a hot bath and a serving girl to wash my back and vitals.’
Killbere squirmed in the saddle to look back at the grinning archer. ‘Your damned vitals are barely enough to serve as bait for a river eel, let alone a serving girl.’
Longdon grinned. ‘No serving girl will want to let my river eel slip from her grasp when it squirms, Sir Gilbert.’
‘Archers,’ said Killbere, and then spat. ‘They think they’re God’s gift to kings and whores.’
‘That’s because we are,’ said Blackstone, siding with his bowmen.
‘Here’s my arrow shaft!’ called Jack Halfpenny. ‘Stand ready, girls!’
‘Nock, mark and loose!’ Will Longdon and others chimed in, bursting into laughter.
Killbere glanced at Blackstone riding at his side. ‘And you grinning like a priest in a brothel only encourages these cocksure peasants,’ he said.
‘And I know you would have it no other way,’ said Blackstone.
Killbere shrugged. ‘As long as I get to the serving girl first.’
*
News of the killing had already reached Count Amadeus by the time Blackstone and de Chauliac led their men through the city gates. The wild boy Girard had witnessed everything and ran tirelessly back to his master like the half-creature he was. After the Count had questioned Blackstone he acknowledged that everything pointed to Bernabò Visconti being behind the attack but, he argued, there was no proof. The Vipers of Milan writhed with deceit and intrigue and using a man’s name to blacken his reputation was common currency. The child Princess must be delivered to them and now that one attack had failed it was unlikely whoever was behind the assault would risk another, especially after the royal party crossed the mountains and entered Visconti territory. Blackstone and de Chauliac would ride into Milan but they would be shadowed every step of the way by the bridegroom’s father’s troops.
Back in the yard Blackstone sluiced water across his torso, scrubbing the blood from his stubbled face.
‘Will he now give us men to strengthen our escort?’ said Killbere.
‘No. He’s not even convinced it was Galeazzo’s brother who arranged the ambush.’
‘Damned idiot. Meulon had it straight from the horse’s mouth. That skinner whoreson told him to serve Bernabò Visconti.’
‘And that might have been a name to hide behind.’ He tipped the bucket of cold water away and rubbed himself down.
‘You’ll not wait for the water to be heated?’ said Killbere as Blackstone dressed.
‘I don’t want to see the Princess with blood on me.’
Killbere’s eyebrows rose. ‘The Princess,’ he said flatly. ‘Uh-huh. You stink of sweat no matter how hard you scrub with cold water and soap. Now, a hot bath, a fresh shirt and a comb through that rat’s nest of hair, that would be fitting for a princess. But’ – he grinned – ‘the woman Aelis, she will no doubt embrace your stink.’
*
Blackstone climbed the stairs past Amadeus’s guards to the Princess’s chamber. There were voices inside. He stepped in and saw Henry on the stool at the child’s bedside while Aelis stood watching. The Princess was propped up on pillows and seemed none the worse for the poisoning. The ladies-in-waiting stood diligently in the background.
He glanced from his son to Aelis. She smiled.
‘Your grace,’ Blackstone said, bowing his head to the child Princess. ‘I see you are recovered.’
‘I am, Sir Thomas. And it is thanks to your lady here. And mon petit chevalier has been telling me of a great fight. Have you seen his wound? It is terrible.’
‘It is nothing, highness,’ said Henry with a guilty glance towards his father.
‘Nonsense,’ said the Princess. ‘I would have felt a great responsibility had you been mortally injured. And my good lady Aelis has examined the wound and tells me it was stitched by a good hand.’
‘Did my son explain why we fought?’
‘To ensure our path across the mountains was clear,’ said the girl.
Blackstone breathed a sigh of relief. It would have served no purpose had Henry blabbed about any suspected attack commissioned by one of the Visconti. But the boy had kept his mouth shut and the information to himself.
‘Exactly right,’ said Blackstone. ‘Henry, time to leave the Princess to rest now. No more stories of violence to disturb her sleep.’
‘No, no. I asked for him to be here,’ said Isabelle. ‘He will tell me about the battle and how you killed your enemies and then he will read to me.’ She laid a hand on Henry’s shoulder. ‘I am grateful for such courage.’ She glanced at Aelis, the ladies-in-waiting and Blackstone. ‘Leave us.’
*
‘For once a royal command served me well,’ said Blackstone as he and Aelis lay entwined in the sweat-creased linen sheets. They had returned to his quarters and no sooner had the door closed behind them than Blackstone pulled her to him, his hand cupping her breast, his mouth smothering hers. The aftermath of the fight still seared his blood, and tenderness was abandoned as she met his demands with equal desire. By the time darkness fell their passion had finally been quenched. He no longer felt any sense of betrayal or guilt as his wife’s ghost passed through the shadows of his mind. Sinking into the deep river of darkness that drowned a man in passion, he almost called Christiana’s name, but another face emerged, that of the woman who had bewitched him. He had dragged himself back from those depths and shaken himself loose from the abandonment of his climax. She felt it immediately but said nothing. Aelis’s body was scarred from the torture she had endured, as was his from battle. Each had touched and kissed the other’s wounds, but when she caressed his face and the scar that was now little more than a thin line her heart caught a beat. She closed her eyes for a moment and then looked at him.
‘That is where your life started,’ she whispered. ‘The life you live now. I can feel the terror of that moment. So many of those you knew died that day but there was one who was special. Someone you guarded. Someone of your own blood.’
The image of his brother being slaughtered at Crécy formed in his mind’s eye. He shuddered, not only from the memory but also from the unease that squirmed within him. Superstition was a constant companion for any man who faced the ebb and flow of battle. Wariness about luck and the fates that determined it crept inside every fighter’s heart. A prayer, a false promise to the Almighty, or a blatant disregard for danger was every man’s shield. Blackstone saw nothing but his enemy in front of him when he fought. His animal-like instinct and the Celtic goddess at his neck were what kept him alive. She could nudge a man this way or that, place him where an arrow fell or a blade sneaked under his guard. It was fate when she decided the time for him to fall; until then she protected him. But those like Aelis who professed to see behind the veil of a man’s life – they could frighten the bravest of men and he was no exception. Did she talk to the dead or did God in heaven whisper in her ear?
She saw the shadow of doubt pass across his eyes. ‘Do not fear me, Thomas.’
‘Why shouldn’t I? You recount my past as if it were written by a scribe on parchment. You speak as if you were at my shoulder over the years. No wonder they wanted to burn you.’
‘There are no words I can ever say to convince men that I would not do them harm. I am no witch.’
‘You put the fear of Christ into men because you can poison as well as heal and you were prepared to castrate those who violated you. You
are capable of causing harm, Aelis. You look beyond the grave to see the ghosts of men who are not yet dead and predict what you see.’
‘There are times I am taken by surprise, especially when my heart is touched. Perhaps that’s what brings on the second sight,’ she said as he gathered his clothes. ‘You’re leaving me? Because of what I said?’
He quickly dressed. ‘I heard a rider in the courtyard. I should see if there’s more news of our journey.’
She extended her arm to him, beckoning him back. ‘You have captains to do that.’
He hesitated. ‘You’re beginning to know too much about me, Aelis. You could use it against me.’
She was shocked at the accusation and threw aside the sheet, kneeling forward so that her breasts swayed. Her nipples hardened in the cold air. His eyes fell on them and he tasted the spittle of desire again, despite her making no effort to seduce him. Not that much effort was needed.
‘I am drawn to you, Thomas Blackstone. I cannot say why. You saved me and for that I am grateful, but I do not share a bed with you out of gratitude. If I see that you suffer or know that you are facing a danger that you are unaware of I cannot stop myself from sharing what I see.’
He had taken a step back into the shadow that lay on the edge of the candlelight. The further away from the tantalizing sight of her nakedness the better. There was another temptation that beckoned him now. Milan and the Visconti tyrants.
‘You once said I would be betrayed. How do I know it won’t be you?’
Despite the soft light he saw her expression change. She dropped her head. He felt the shock. She knew! In a couple of strides he was in front of her and tugged her short hair, raising her face to the light. A single tear from each eye trickled down her cheeks. ‘Who?’ he asked again, his voice barely a whisper.
‘Someone who is at your shoulder,’ she said quietly. ‘Someone who owes you his life.’
He waited. The look of regret on her face spurred panic inside him. He and his men had fought shoulder to shoulder over the years. Could she mean one of them? Killbere? Meulon? Gaillard? Will Longdon? All of whom were like the brother he had lost at Crécy. All of whom had shed their blood for him.