by David Gilman
‘Who?’ he asked. The need to know was painful.
Through her sadness a rueful smile creased her tears. ‘The hand of friendship betrays you. I cannot see him, Thomas. I cannot save you. All I see is your blood.’
PART FIVE
THE DEVIL’S SON
CHAPTER FIFTY-THREE
Five houndsmen each held a half-dozen mastiffs on long leashes, the muscled dogs pulling them along Via Manzoni; each man needed all his strength to keep them under control. The dogs’ powerful gait meant their handlers were obliged to run in order to keep up with their pace. A houndsman’s life was short if unforeseen injuries befell any of his charges due to neglect or an accident that could have been averted. And now it was becoming more difficult to restrain the slavering beasts. Bernabò Visconti had more than five thousand such dogs billeted in the city. Hunting was one of his greatest passions and it was said his love for his hounds surpassed even his love for his wife, Regina. Bernabò’s life was one of orgy and self-indulgence; his many mistresses and numerous bastard children were spread across the territory he had taken by force. Yet his beloved wife was his lodestone and she could restrain his wild fits of temper and rage; and despite his cruelty, murder and avarice being known far and wide, so too was his diplomacy with foreign rulers. Everything this contradictory man did was aimed at one day achieving complete power. Milan was mostly left for him to govern while his brother, Galeazzo II, spent more time in his castello in Pavia to the south of the city where he indulged himself planning great places of learning and building a bridge across the Ticino. It was a good arrangement. The brothers tolerated each other but Galeazzo found living in the same city as Bernabò exasperating. So while they shared control of Milan, it was Bernabò who saw himself as its true lord. He and Galeazzo had agreed long ago who would control which parts of the city. The city was divided. Of the eight gates into Milan Galeazzo held the western portion: Comasina, Vercellina, Giovia and Ticinese. Bernabò held the eastern side of the city-state and the Porte Nuova, Romana, Tosa and Orientale, all of which gave him access to the eastern territories and their cities he had conquered. But no matter which gate Bernabò chose to use when hunting, when the baying hounds ran through the streets Milan’s inhabitants pressed back to give them right of way. And when their self-declared God on earth, Pope and Emperor rode through the streets everyone was obliged to bend the knee.
With so many of Bernabò’s hounds to house some of Milan’s citizens were given one or two of his dogs to care for and feed, and the strict enforcement concerning the animals’ welfare applied as much to the householder as to the houndsmen. Sometimes the dogs were taken to the hunt in cages that held twenty at a time, but today they were running ahead of their master, whose horse cantered behind the baying packs as they caught the scent of the countryside beyond the city walls where they would soon be unleashed to drag down deer or boar, whichever creature the beaters flushed out first.
A handcart lurched out of a side alley. The iron-rimmed wheels could cause injury to even the strongest of hounds. Citizens scattered from the paved streets as one of the houndsmen bellowed a warning. The cart was quickly turned and the dogs ran past without harm. The Lord of Milan reined in his horse. Those who pushed the cart knelt. Bernabò was a striking figure: his height and strength were impressive, even when he wasn’t on horseback – enough to make any man cower, even if he had not been their ruler. Behind him ran a retinue of courtiers and footsoldiers and now they too stopped, lungs heaving as their lord gazed down at the handcart and the dead man it bore.
‘What killed this man?’ Bernabò demanded when he saw the broken body. His rule of fear meant that Milan was probably the safest of cities. No thief or murderer would risk the terrifying punishment Bernabò would inflict on any convicted criminal yet the man’s bloodied corpse looked as though he might have been the victim of an assault.
‘He fell from a scaffold, my lord,’ said one of the men without raising his eyes.
‘Then where are you taking him? He’s beyond help from any physician. Why isn’t he buried?’
‘My lord, we were going to dump him in the river. His family do not have enough money so our priest refuses to bury him.’
Bernabò inclined his head to one of the courtiers who waited behind his horse. It was sufficient as a gesture to have one of them step to his side. ‘Give this man coin for the burial,’ he said, and then to the cart handler, ‘Look up, man. Who is your priest?’
‘Father Stefano,’ said the man.
‘Fetch him and have him wait here,’ he commanded. ‘I will see this man buried before nightfall.’ He spurred the horse forward. His hounds were already baying in the distance for their quarry. Bernabò grunted with anticipation. The day was set to be one of gratuitous pleasure. There would be blood on the ground soon enough, and it would not be long before news reached his brother that the French Princess had died on her journey from Paris. Poison or waylaid by brigands? he wondered. Which had snatched her away from the promise of marriage and a French alliance with Milan? Which of the two plans had been successful? Nothing had been left to chance. Soon he would feign regret at the child’s death while concealing his satisfaction that the arrangement to share the rule of Milan with his brother would remain intact a while longer. He acknowledged the satisfaction he felt at his own cunning in stifling any future power and influence the proposed marriage between his nephew and the French King’s daughter would have brought. Thinking ahead to the day when he held absolute power meant long-term planning.
Sparks flew from his horse’s iron-shod hooves as he drove the beast towards the Porta Nuova and the hunting forests beyond. Impatience was his greatest enemy. News of the child’s death should have reached him by now. Urging his horse into a gallop he saw his mastiffs loosed. The quarry’s scent was in the air and the half-starved dogs wanted the taste of flesh and blood. And Bernabò was no different. Why hadn’t he heard? Why? What could have gone wrong? His blood was up and he wanted to feed his passion for the hunt. And more than anything he wanted to be victorious.
*
Count Amadeus had sent his wedding gifts of silver plate and armour to add to the burden of Isabelle’s slow-moving column. The first early snows had fallen on Mont Cenis’s high pass but the Savoyard mountain villagers, exempted from paying taxes for their service, had been waiting to guide the party across the Alps. They were dressed in woollen caps and mittens and wore spiked boots to give them purchase as they pushed and hauled the Princess and her ladies-in-waiting safely along the slippery route on ramasses, large wicker sledges. Their passengers were covered for warmth with animal furs and the French commander and a half-dozen of his men gripped the side of each sled and did their best to keep up, much to the amusement of the Princess, who found the sight of her escort slithering at her side a distraction from the great height. Blackstone had let de Chauliac have the honour. If the damn sledge went over the edge taking him and his royal cargo with it, then no blame would fall on Blackstone or his men. As they approached the highest point the going became ever more uncertain and he instructed the French to do as his own men had done and bind their horses’ hooves with sackcloth for grip and pull hoods over the animals’ heads to stop any panic as they edged along the precipices. It was a blessing they had not been obliged to pass in winter. A year before northern Italy had been smothered in deep snowfalls. Further east, Bologna had been covered in thirty feet of snow, and although these trade routes across the Alps were kept open by villagers and monks, merchants and soldiers who travelled between France and Italy had suffered more fatalities than usual and the frozen bodies of those who died were often only recovered in the thaw.
Henry Blackstone gaped in amazement at the majestic scenery. Where the child Princess giggled with excitement and joy, Blackstone’s son felt the power of the place awe him into silence. Great waterfalls plummeted thousands of feet down through pine-clad mountainsides. Rocks, hewn as if by a giant stonemason, were etched against the blue sky. And w
hen the wind gathered and swirled, dust clouds of snow from the mountaintops danced through the air stinging their faces. Nothing could be more beautiful or humbling than these mountains, he determined.
‘Close your mouth, Henry, or you’ll have icicles hanging from your teeth,’ said Will Longdon as he guided his hooded horse in line with the others. They were all walking by their mounts, no one daring to risk a horse losing its footing and plunging to the valley below.
‘I didn’t know it could be so beautiful,’ said Henry.
‘Aye, well, you watch where you’re going. If the man in front stops your head’ll be up his horse’s arse, and then you’ll see how beautiful it looks when you go over the edge,’ said John Jacob.
‘Tell him about when we came over last time. Merciful God, Henry, Sir Thomas brought us across a pass ten times worse than this,’ called Perinne from two horses to the rear. ‘Blizzards, ice, couldn’t see a hand in front of your face, which was just as well being as high as we were.’
‘And we didn’t have no sledge to ride on. Look at them things. Bigger than a lord’s bed,’ said Will Longdon. He hawked and spat from the exertion of keeping a tight rein while powering himself up the incline. ‘Worse going down. Hit ice beneath the snow and you’ll go arse over tit and be the first at the bottom.’
Those who could hear the banter added their voices. Renfred, the German man-at-arms, called out, ‘Notice how much space we give Sir Thomas and that beast of his? It loses its head and we could all go over the edge.’
‘And if the damn thing farts we’d have an avalanche,’ added Gaillard, half turning to look back at them from where he led Will Longdon’s group.
‘As long as you don’t break wind,’ said Longdon. ‘I’ve heard they have earthquakes in these mountains.’
The men’s chatter went on a while longer, but Henry closed out their crude jesting and let his eyes drink in the sights that rose around him. Books he had read told him that armies had crossed these mountains; the great Carthaginian general Hannibal had taken elephants over these passes. He looked beyond the horses’ rumps in front of him and saw his father leading the men. His height and breadth set him apart from the French escort, and for a moment the boy felt a renewed admiration. Perhaps, he reasoned, his father could also be a great general one day, given an army by the English King and told to go out and conquer lands, to make England an even greater nation than it was already. And then, as a brusque wind swept up the path and found its way through his clothing, he shivered. Ever since he was a child his father had taught him to ignore the privations of the weather but this chill was different. It was fear. His father’s shield, like his men’s, was tied across his back so that no breeze could lift it from its usual place strapped to the saddle. The defiant blazon heralded his father’s intention never to yield and now they were travelling into the Visconti stronghold, to the men whom his father believed had sent the assassin who had slain his mother and sister. How could his father avenge them? The men who rode at his back were too few to assault the great city-state of Milan. He felt panic rise in his gorge. His father was sending him to Florence when they reached the great plains of Lombardy. Sending him away so that the Visconti could not use his presence at his father’s side against him. He would sit in a classroom while his father and his men fought what might be their last battle. A fight they could not win despite their defiance. In that moment Henry Blackstone vowed that he would give his escort to Florence the slip and find a way into Milan.
CHAPTER FIFTY-FOUR
Men cried out in fear and warning as the hulking beast of a boar ran directly at its tormentors. It stood as high as a man’s chest and weighed as much as a small horse. Four of Bernabò’s beloved dogs lay eviscerated on the forest floor along with two of his beaters. One of the dog handlers bravely tried to spear the beast in an effort to save his dogs. The boar turned surprisingly quickly. Its tusks caught the handler inside his thigh and tore upwards, ripping the man’s taut stomach muscles and spilling his innards to mingle with the gore from his dogs. His scream was brief and death took him quickly and then the charging boar scattered the hunters. Those on foot plunged into thick brambles while others tried to scramble up trees. Half a dozen horsemen shared the hunt with Bernabò: three of their mounts reared and plunged out of control with their riders clinging desperately as they bolted through the forest. Two of Bernabò’s crossbowmen shot the boar. It barely registered the impact of the steel-tipped bolts.
One of the remaining hunters launched his spear into the charging animal, which brought it down onto its snout, its razor tusks tearing into the dirt. But such was its power and perhaps its hatred for man and dog who had invaded its domain that it quickly found its footing and ran forward again, but its strength had been diminished. Another half-dozen dogs leapt at its throat and hocks. Their teeth clamped into sinew and artery; the boar’s blood spilled over its flanks and the dogs who hung from it. The great beast swung its head and dislodged one dog, trampling it beneath its cloven hoof, but the hounds had done their job and slowed it so that another two men could leap forward and plunge their spears into its flanks, narrowly missing the blood-crazed hounds.
Bernabò heeled his horse clear of the carnage and tightened the reins in his left hand with such force that his horse’s head was pulled up high, eyes rolling in terror as the boar swept past it. Bernabò stood in the stirrups and with all his strength plunged his spear beneath the boar’s shoulder. It was a fatal blow and the crippled animal staggered to a halt. Two huntsmen dared to run forward and plunge their knives into the beast’s spine, and then it went down. Houndsmen whipped the frenzied dogs away from the kill and secured them onto their leashes. The blood spoor through the forest told the story of the long chase. Bernabò bellowed out a roar of satisfaction at the kill. Men and dogs had hunted bravely and they would be rewarded: the men with good food and extra wine and the dogs with a haunch of the dead animal. Once the head had been taken as a trophy the boar would be spit-roasted.
Sweat stung Bernabò’s eyes and he drank thirstily from a wineskin as the yelping dogs, denied their victim, lunged on their leashes, held tight by exhausted handlers. Those of the retinue who had scurried away returned, scratched and bruised from their desperate efforts to avoid the enraged boar. Bernabò dismounted – his reins were quickly taken by a servant – and stepped towards the dying animal. As he ran a hand over the prickly head its eyes rolled and it tried to slash sideways, but its energy was gone and its life was slipping away. The last thing the lord of the forest beasts saw was the Lord of Milan sliding his knife across its throat.
*
The hunting party journeyed back, blood-streaked and weary, through the north gate, but the city’s lord showed no sign of fatigue. He sat upright in the saddle, smiling at those citizens who stepped aside and cheered his name. Not even seeing how the city was being inundated with Galeazzo’s guests for the wedding dented his good humour.
A thousand or more thronged the city, renting houses, filling inns and taverns and keeping the brothels busy day and night. Three days of festivities to celebrate the marriage had been planned, great pavilions had been set up outside the walls, food and drink on a huge scale had been arranged and tournaments would be held to entertain the guests. It was to be an ostentatious display, a vibrant tableau to show every noble house just how wealthy the Visconti were. Jewels, silk and the most expensive raiments had been sent from throughout Italy. They had bought a French princess: a humiliation for France, a victory for Milan. But when the Princess failed to arrive because of her untimely death the celebrations would turn into a great mourning. Galeazzo would be reduced in his ambitions and then only his brat of a son would stand between Bernabò and his gaining full control of the city-state and the income it generated.
By the time he was halfway down Via Manzoni he saw the figures of the men with the handcart, and now there was a priest standing with them. The joy of the hunt had caused him to forget his earlier command that they await his re
turn.
‘Success, my lord?’ asked one of the men gathered around the handcart as Bernabò reined in his horse.
‘Yes, he gave a good account of himself,’ said Bernabò as the boar was carried past and he waved the courtiers to continue on to his palace. ‘You’re Father Stefano?’ he asked as the priest bowed his head.
‘I am, my lord,’ he answered.
‘Uh-huh,’ grunted Bernabò. ‘And the grave is now dug?’
‘It is,’ said the priest.
‘Then I will accompany you and these good citizens and see that all is as it should be.’ He gestured for the men to turn the cart and the priest led the way down the cobbled street. The slow jolting twitched the dead man’s body in a final jig before the confines of the earth embraced him.
Less than three hundred yards down the narrow street the cortège turned into the suburban graveyard where the men lifted the corpse from the back of the cart and carried it towards the freshly dug grave. Bernabò stayed mounted and watched the proceedings. Finally, when the benediction had been muttered, he addressed the priest.
‘Who was it that built this church?’ he said.
‘It was your grandfather’s father, my lord,’ the priest answered.
‘And who furnished it with gold crucifix and silk altar dressing?’ said Bernabò.
‘You did, my lord. And your brother Lord Galeazzo furnished the new bell for the belfry.’
‘Are we not generous to you?’
‘More than generous, my lord,’ said the priest.
‘And yet the Pope calls me Son of Belial. If I am the devil’s son then why am I so generous?’
‘I cannot answer, my lord.’