by David Gilman
‘Is it because I fought his troops and won? Is it because I do not bow my knee as my brother does?’
‘Again, my Lord Bernabò, it is not for me to speak for the Pope. But your generosity cannot be denied.’
‘And yet you refuse to bury one of my subjects?’ Bernabò asked, and for the first time the hint of approaching danger in his voice made the priest falter.
‘I had other duties, my lord. I was obliged to attend those who needed my ministrations,’ the priest answered.
‘Not the whorehouse on Via San Damiano?’
The man’s jaw gaped and it took a few seconds before he could find an answer. ‘I do not attend such places, my lord.’
‘You should. I recommend it.’ He grinned but the priest remained solemn. ‘Ah, but I’ll wager you have obliged some of the nuns at Santa Maria d’Aurona convent to spread their legs. They’ve a reputation, those nuns. No, Father Stefano, you had no other urgent business. You denied a working man a Christian burial. These people are mine to protect and yours to pray over and to help pass into the next world. Their poverty should not deny them your blessing. You must embrace the common man,’ said Bernabò and turned to his escort of footsoldiers. ‘Help Father Stefano achieve more humility.’
Soldiers quickly stepped forward. They grabbed the frightened priest and threw him into the grave. His body slammed into the corpse and he cried out in fear and disgust, trying to get to his feet. His habit entangled him but then, using the walls of the grave, he found his footing. He gazed up at the men as Bernabò gestured to his soldiers.
‘Bury him.’
‘No, lord, no! I beg you!’ Father Stefano cried, but the soldiers were already shovelling the loose dirt into the pit. Soil clogged the priest’s eyes and mouth. He spat and floundered and raised a hand to try and protect his face from the dirt that poured down on him. He choked, fell to his knees, clambered back to his feet, but soon he was waist-deep in dirt. His spluttering cries for mercy faded.
Bernabò Visconti watched dispassionately as the man’s face finally disappeared; an outstretched disembodied hand clawed at the air, but then that too vanished beneath the mound. Bernabò eased the horse aside. ‘Make a marker,’ he told the cowed men. ‘Name the man who died and say that he lies embraced by a man of God.’
Bernabò heeled his horse away. No one would dare try and rescue the priest by digging him out. The Lord of Milan had delivered justice.
CHAPTER FIFTY-FIVE
The nearer Princess Isabella’s retinue got to Milan the more the numbers of the escort swelled as they were joined by the local lords who were tasked to accompany her in a manner fit for a king’s daughter. Every nobleman bore his banners and pennons proclaiming his status, not only to impress the French Princess but also to show Galeazzo Visconti that they had obeyed his command. Outriders from the city had been sent to report on the bride-to-be’s progress and the day before the entourage rode triumphantly into the city Thomas Blackstone and his men had fallen to the rear of the column. The Italian noblemen would form the escort ahead of de Chauliac and his royal guard.
One of Galeazzo Visconti’s heralds sent from the city held back as he watched the slow-moving procession make its way across the flat landscape. He made note of the Dauphin’s royal guard, but it was the men who followed that held his interest. In previous years Visconti troops had been outfought and killed by English condottieri and now, as the light faded on the day before the convoy entered the city, the herald realized who it was that would soon ride into his master’s domain. He turned his horse and spurred it for home.
*
The night’s crisp, cold air settled on the encampment. Sparks from the fires flew upwards, quickly extinguishing themselves in the night chill. Blackstone’s men had camped a quarter of a mile beyond the pavilions and tents erected by the Italian noblemen. De Chauliac was still close escort to the Princess and shielded the child from the constant flow of regional lords who wished to impress on her their joy at her marriage. Court jesters tied on a rope, Killbere had said when he saw the puffed-up, brightly dressed aristocrats standing impatiently in line during the preceding days, each vassal keen to ensure his name would be remembered and perhaps, if the Princess were generous enough, to mention their good wishes to the Lord of Milan. Blackstone’s men had eaten and then set about sharpening their weapons. Blackstone huddled with his captains around the fire. Perinne pushed wood into the flames and its shadows caught the men’s gaunt features. Like many times before when going into battle they each pondered what might befall them. But now no great conflict awaited: any fighting to be done would be at close quarters as in all likelihood they would be forced to fight their way through narrow streets, a battlefield that had them at a disadvantage. An unknown city favoured their enemy.
‘We enter the city tomorrow. We are protected by the Prince of Wales’s command and his flag but once we are behind the walls his letter of safe passage may be worthless,’ said Blackstone. He turned to his centenar, Will Longdon. ‘You’ll keep the archers on the road to Florence; only the captains and a dozen men-at-arms will enter the city with me. The smaller the force inside the walls the quicker we can move.’
‘Thomas, you ride into a vipers’ nest. They can strike you at any time. The more of us the better your chances,’ said the veteran archer.
‘Your bows are of little use in the city streets,’ said Killbere. ‘Thomas is right. He needs you outside because if we have to escape we will be pursued and you and Halfpenny will need your hands off your cocks and your wits about you to cover us.’
Will Longdon looked at the other captains. The English bowman was always treasured by the fighting men. There was no point arguing. ‘We’ll be ready, Thomas, you can count on us.’
‘Stay alert, Will. The Visconti would like nothing better than to kill English archers. The men-at-arms who remain with you will serve to cover your flanks should any attack be made against you,’ said Blackstone. ‘If the Visconti strike at us before we find the man we seek, they will come for you soon after.’
‘At least there’ll be no threat for the three days of celebrations,’ said Gaillard.
‘You’re wrong, my friend,’ said Meulon. ‘If I wanted to kill my enemy what better time than when others are distracted? Am I right, Sir Thomas?’
‘Yes,’ said Blackstone. ‘Whatever happens it will be in the next few days.’
‘And we don’t start any trouble,’ added Killbere. ‘No whores, no fighting in taverns, no matter if we are provoked. They will look for any excuse to imprison us and rid themselves of the protection we have from our Prince.’
Blackstone gave a final glance at the men around him. Who among these friends would survive the next few days? All of them were prepared to follow him without question even though the desire to avenge the death of his wife and child was his alone. Fourteen years of comradeship had brought them to this place together. He prayed he could get them out of the city alive.
Perinne rubbed a hand across his close-cropped head. The crow’s-feet scars on his scalp were white against his weather-beaten skin. ‘I say we get as drunk as monks when this is over,’ he said.
The men murmured their agreement.
‘Aye, but only if Sir Gilbert pays for it,’ said Will Longdon.
The archer waited for the usual rebuff from the man he had known even longer than Thomas Blackstone. But none came.
‘If any of us get out of this alive I’ll buy the drink and the whores but I suspect I’ll need few coins in my purse,’ said a pessimistic Killbere.
*
Blackstone walked back to his tent. A few hundred yards away a glittering swarm of fireflies twinkled in the darkness. These were no night insects, but the torchlight from the Princess’s encampment. His own camp’s burning torches afforded enough light for his men to find their beds and stand their sentry duties. Being within a day’s ride of Milan put Blackstone on guard in case of a surprise attack. Cooking fires flickered here and there as braziers
gave warmth to small groups of men. As he made his way through the encampment conversations paused for the men to acknowledge their sworn lord. In the distance he saw Aelis open the flap of his tent and pull it closed behind her. Since they had left Chambéry their lovemaking had been no less passionate, but had been restrained because of the closeness of the men around them. Such constraint had made it more intense. Aelis had made no further mention of what might lie ahead but he sensed a slow withdrawal of her feelings for him. As though she was already preparing to mourn his death.
Two shadows emerged from between the tents; Henry led a man towards him. ‘My lord,’ said Henry, ‘this man has been sent by Father Torellini.’ The boy’s anguish was plain to see even in the half-light. Father and son would soon be parted. And Blackstone had not yet embraced the boy or explained in more detail his wishes should he not return from his vendetta.
The man was dressed in a cloak that Blackstone recognized. He knew that if the man turned his back there would be a symbol that looked like an axe but in reality was the sign of the Tau. The man who stood before him bowed his head. ‘Sir Thomas, I am Pietro Foresti. I have information for you.’
Blackstone placed a hand on his son’s shoulder. ‘Henry, attend to your duties with John Jacob. My jupon and shield need to be cleaned. See to it.’
‘Yes, my lord,’ said the boy, obeying without question. He would plead to stay with his father after his intended escort to Florence had delivered Father Torellini’s message.
Blackstone guided the Tau knight to the edge of the camp. The man’s clothing was mud-splattered and his hair was matted from dry sweat. He had obviously been riding long and hard to reach him.
‘What news do you have for me from Father Torellini?’
‘Sir Thomas, there have been whispers within Bernabò Visconti’s court that he knew of a plan to harm the Princess Isabelle.’
‘Your news comes too late. We already discovered such a plan when we were at Chambéry. They tried to poison her but they had also set an ambush. Both attempts failed, as you can see. Is there proof that Lord Bernabò ordered her death?’
The man shook his head. ‘No, only that he knew of it. Lord Galeazzo would have had no role to play. But in the matter of the death of your wife and child Father Torellini believes that it could have been either of the brothers who sent the assassin. Perhaps both were in agreement to try and kill you. But there is a third man involved. It is thought the Visconti shield themselves behind him. It is one of their household or family. Nothing is certain.’
‘No name given to you?’ said Blackstone.
‘A name, Sir Thomas, but no evidence of his guilt. He is a man who stands back in the shadows and does the Visconti’s bidding.’
‘Is it Bernabò’s bastard son, Antonio Lorenz?’ said Blackstone, hoping that the man who had planned the Princess’s death might be one and the same as he who had sent the assassin.
He saw Foresti’s look of surprise. Blackstone smiled. ‘He commissions assassins on behalf of the Visconti but this time he is involved in trying to kill King John’s daughter. That knowledge is valuable.’
‘Father Torellini instructs me to tell you that if you get close to Lord Bernabò there is a servant who spies for Florence and who will know your name and will do what he can to help you. His risk is great because should he be discovered a terrifying death awaits him, so he will be cautious in his approach.’
‘What’s his name?’
‘Only Father Torellini has that knowledge.’
‘Then whom do I trust?’
‘No one. If he has information or wishes to identify himself he will approach you and use these words: Worldly fame is nothing but a breath of wind which blows now from one side and now from another, and changes its name because it changes direction…’
‘That’s all?’
‘It’s from a poem, Sir Thomas, but they are words that can be spoken in conversation without suspicion when the time presents itself.’
‘Very well. I know nothing of poetry but if that is how I recognize him, then so be it. Now, you must rest and I’ll arrange food for you, and then we can discuss you taking my son to Florence.’
‘I have already been instructed by Father Torellini in that duty. Sir Thomas, we have met briefly once before. You would not remember but two years ago in Lucca when we took the English messenger’s body from the merchant’s house, I was one of those who carried him. I served Fra Stefano Caprini then. He accompanied you when you returned to England.’
Blackstone remembered the night when the English courier had brought the command for him to return and serve the Crown. But he had no recollection of the man’s face. ‘Fra Caprini gave his life trying to save my family, but he was killed by the same assassin who was sent by the Visconti. I will avenge my family and your master.’
*
Blackstone held close the feeling of anticipation. The Visconti were his enemy and he sensed their nearness. They were protected by walls, moats and canals, and Milan’s labyrinthine streets twisted and turned like the snakes’ nest the city was, but the urge to finally kill the man responsible for his family’s death surged through him. It would take more than desire, though; he would need clear thinking and luck. He raised the crucifix that nestled next to Arianrhod. The small gold cross had once sat in that small dip at the base of his wife’s throat. He kissed the slender symbol, and then did the same with the silver wheel of the Celtic goddess. Thoughts of how to kill and escape with his life, and the lives of the men who would accompany him, refused to leave him. It served no purpose to die in Milan. His son needed him and there was still his pledge to protect the King of England’s son, even though the Prince of Wales rebelled at the duty inherited by Blackstone. But for now all pledges made would stand behind this one act of vengeance. Like a wolf relentlessly chasing down its prey, he had finally caught the scent and his senses were alert and his blood was up.
The moment Blackstone stepped inside the tent he smelled the musky odour of the woman who was unlacing her dress. She turned to face him as she held the loose garment at her shoulder. A candle burned, its warm glow making her all the more enticing. He glanced down at a silk dress and chemise that had been laid neatly across a small chest. A cloak with a fur-trimmed hood hung from a corner of the tent pole and shoes, fit for a lady, were tucked neatly below.
‘It looks as though you’ve been courted by one of the Italian noblemen,’ said Blackstone, his throat already thick with desire for her. He loosened his belt and dropped his jerkin onto the floor.
‘Are you concerned?’
He feigned indifference. ‘It’s your life, Aelis.’
‘No, Thomas, it’s yours. The life you saved is yours to own.’
He stripped free of his shirt. The cool, bracing air added to his desire to feel her warm flesh against his. He pulled off his breeches and tossed aside his braies. ‘I told you, I don’t own you. You do what you wish.’ He waited for her to drop her dress but she kept herself covered.
‘Aelis, it’s cold. I shrink by the minute.’
She glanced down at his manhood. ‘So you do. Soon there will be nothing left of any use.’
He took a step towards her, eager to release her dress. She stepped back and gave him a warning look. ‘No, my lord, I am not yours for the taking. Or so you have just said.’
Exasperated and impatient, he cursed. ‘Christ’s blood on the cross, Aelis, do you want me or not? I’ve a fight on my hands tomorrow. I don’t have all night.’
‘Sleep then. You’ll need your rest.’
‘Should I go out and sleep on the ground with my men?’
‘If they can offer you the same comfort as I can.’
He grinned. ‘All right. You win. I’ll be patient.’ He settled down onto the blankets and pulled the fur covering across him. ‘But not for long.’ She turned her back on him and dropped the dress, which settled in a pool around her ankles. A shadow drew a curve from the fullness of her buttocks that swept down to
her thighs. Most of the scars and blemishes from her mistreatment at the hands of the witch hunters had faded, but some still showed the puckered welts. ‘The clothes?’ he said, watching as she stepped free of the fallen material, each movement gently shifting her contours.
Picking up the silk dress she turned, holding it to her, ignoring the chemise. ‘They are a gift from the Princess for my service. Her ladies-in-waiting were made to show me their best wardrobe and I was given freedom to choose.’ She bent forward to step into the dress. Her eyes staying on him. Her breasts falling forward. Blackstone was held. She pulled up the dress, which settled below her breasts, its low cut almost forcing them free of the fabric. It was a tightly fitted gown with a low waist and a wide, scooped neckline. ‘It is silk woven on the finest loom,’ she said and sat down with her back to him, exposing her shoulder. ‘And silk, Thomas,’ she said, turning to face him as he pressed his lips against the warm fragrance of her skin, ‘could arouse a monk sitting in prayer on a cold mountain pass.’
She eased back into his embrace and kissed him; then she pushed him back onto the blankets and pulled back the fur covering.
‘I’m no monk,’ said Blackstone.
‘And I see you are no longer cold,’ she answered, straddling him.
CHAPTER FIFTY-SIX
The most powerful city in northern Italy had dominated Lombardy for a thousand years. It boasted paved streets and more fountains than the renowned city of Paris – six thousand of them supplied drinking water for more than a hundred thousand citizens. The population had long spilled over Milan’s ancient Roman limits and the outer walls, built centuries before to defend against invaders, cocooned suburbs and their churches and hospitals. Ten thousand monks from all denominations offered religious comfort while fifteen hundred lawyers applied the rule of law. Workshops housed artisans who helped create the city’s great wealth. A hundred armourers manufactured the legendary Milanese armour: swords, helmets and mail for knights of Italy, Provence, Germany and more distant lands. The Milanese mint struck over twenty thousand silver pennies a year. More than three hundred public ovens gave each district fresh bread daily, milled from wheat grown on the vast plains around the city irrigated by numerous rivers and canals.