by David Gilman
‘Clean whores!’ shouted Killbere.
‘Milan welcomes us with shaven cunnies!’ cried Perinne.
The men laughed as had the French.
‘It’s meant as an insult,’ called Renfred the German man-at-arms, who was riding behind Gaillard and Meulon. ‘I’ve heard of it. Something to do with a war long ago. They call this the “door of the shaving lady”. They say she exposed herself on the city walls when they were under siege.’
‘Let’s hope there are others who feel like insulting foreigners,’ Meulon said.
The men’s laughter reverberated along the curved walls and then died away as they entered the city. Faces peered from upstairs windows; the broad street ahead coiled like a sleeping serpent. Colourful signboards hung over shops identifying the wares they sold; shopkeepers stepped back into their doorways, some crossing themselves when they saw the scar-faced Englishman. They might not have known who he was, but he and the fighting men he led looked formidable and frightening. Shields on their arms, these unsmiling men gazed down on them from their large horses, forcing those less brave citizens to avert their faces. Blackstone’s stonemason’s eye swept across the tall buildings, their rich hue warm from the sun’s rays. Master builders had built a fine city, declaring its wealth as brazenly and gloriously as a silk-threaded banner. Doves fluttered high across the walls. There were no swallow-tailed crenellations here like the battlements in Florence or Verona; Milan’s history had dictated square, no-nonsense merlons. It was a formidable city and Blackstone knew that to escape from it when the killing was done might be an ambition too far.
Alleyways and side streets snaked away from the main street. Sulphur fumes from blacksmiths working at their forges hovered, trapped in the narrow passageways. De Chauliac had been met by the city watch commander and led off down one of the lanes. Blackstone followed until streets later they came to an enclosed cobbled yard. It was broad enough to accommodate three times the number of his horsemen, who now came to a halt. To one side were stables built into the walls and it was obvious from the cart laden with straw and hay there would be no problem feeding and bedding down the men-at-arms’ horses. Stable-boys ran out, fifty or more of them ready to aid the riders. The stabling and the ostlers alone were enough to express a show of wealth. Curtain walls blocked any view beyond the courtyard, but beyond them Blackstone and the men could hear the baying of hunting hounds. He realized they must be on the lower fringes of one of the palaces. Tiered terraces rose up on the opposite side from the stabling and trees and bushes were visible in roof gardens. Several levels up faces peered down at them and he guessed they were members of the nobility because the speckled colours of their clothing denoted wealth. Blackstone eased the bastard horse around and saw that it would take very little to entrap them in the arena that this courtyard seemed to be. He assumed that beyond the curtain walls where he could hear the dogs barking there would be similar courtyards with kennels and exercise yards.
‘Walls are low enough to breach, Sir Thomas,’ said John Jacob, gesturing towards the curtain walls, and then, glancing up at the terraces, ‘but we’d have eyes on us if it came to that.’
While the French had dismounted and handed their reins to the stable-hands, Blackstone’s men had done as he had done and looked around them. They were few and they had all fought in city streets before now. They spoke quietly among themselves. A doorway here, an alley there. Low walls and doors that could be kicked down. They would need a way out when the time came.
‘Sir Thomas,’ de Chauliac called as he approached. ‘We are to be billeted down there at the far side of the square. There is food and drink waiting for us. Give your horses over to the ostlers.’ He pointed to a half-dozen Visconti footsoldiers and their commander, who waited to escort them. ‘The city watch have handed us over to them.’
‘Are there others?’ asked Blackstone. ‘Hidden perhaps in any of these yards or alleys?’
‘I doubt it.’ De Chauliac smiled. ‘Don’t look so worried, Sir Thomas, the Visconti will not harm us – at least not when we are together. They would not dare risk causing harm to the Dauphin’s guard.’
The bastard horse snatched its head, trying to bite the Frenchman, who stood too close. De Chauliac stepped back quickly even though Blackstone held a tight rein.
‘It’s nothing personal,’ said Blackstone. ‘Where’s the Princess and all those peacock noblemen?’
De Chauliac sighed. ‘I don’t know. Over there somewhere,’ he said, looking beyond the rooftops. ‘I will be summoned later so that she can instruct me on what to tell the Dauphin.’
Blackstone dismounted. ‘Wait for us. We stable our own horses and then we’ll join you.’
The royal captain turned back to his waiting troops.
Blackstone’s men had followed his example and led their horses towards the stables. Killbere eased alongside. ‘I smell dog shit from the kennels but there’s bread and meat in the air as well.’
‘Aye, we’ll be fed and no doubt given dry straw for a bed under a roof. They’ll suckle us like babes in arms and hope to lower our guard.’
‘I wouldn’t mind a bit of suckling myself,’ said Killbere as they took the horses into the gloomy half-light of the stalls. ‘Food and wine will do for now but a fat kitchen girl to serve it would at least give a man pleasure.’ He glanced at Blackstone. ‘Missing the witch?’
‘She’s no witch and you know it.’
‘All women cast their spells,’ Killbere said. ‘Though I thought she might have lingered a while longer at your side. Women never know when they’re lucky enough to have the favour of a good man.’
‘She owed me nothing,’ said Blackstone.
‘Well, you could have passed her along, Thomas. I would have liked to see if the reality matched the dream when I thought I was humping my nun.’
‘Gilbert, it’s possible neither of us will ever lie with a woman again.’
‘Aye, you’re right. But she was good, was she?’
‘Keep your memory,’ Blackstone said and tugged the bastard horse into a stall.
The inner stables ran the full length of the courtyard. Every stall was boxed with chestnut planks, gated and secured. Deep straw covered the floor and troughs of water were placed every twenty paces so that the stable-hands had an easily available supply of water for their mounts. Sacks of oats sat off the ground on sturdy shelving, free from mould and rat infestation. Killbere had shouldered his mount into the neighbouring stall and tied off its trailing rein.
‘I doubt even our King has such grand stabling,’ he said, allowing a stable-lad to enter and begin unsaddling his horse.
Another boy, younger than Henry, waited as Blackstone lifted free his own saddle.
‘It is my duty to care for your horse, my lord,’ the boy said.
‘Not this one,’ said Blackstone. ‘You keep the halter on him and the rein secure. He’ll bite off your hand if you don’t. Be wary of him: he’ll try and kick you through the wall. Understand?’
The boy’s eyes widened but he nodded and, grabbing a feed bag, bravely entered the stall.
Up and down the stable’s aisle the men closed the gates on their horses.
‘All right,’ said Blackstone, ‘let’s share a table with the French and watch our backs with the Italians.’
CHAPTER FIFTY-NINE
Bernabò Visconti stood alongside his brother gazing down on the courtyard. The Princess had been received by the city fathers and Galeazzo’s chancellor had shown her to her quarters. It was inappropriate to meet a royal princess the moment she had entered the city and so soon after such an arduous journey. By now she would have been fêted by noblemen and ambassadors and would have been dressed by her ladies. She would expect her future father-in-law to welcome her to his palace, which was why Galeazzo was dressed in his finery. A pearl- and jewel-encrusted tunic and an ermine-lined cloak, dyed in the richest blue, set off his features, more refined than those of the man next to him. Galeazzo usually wore his
red-gold hair long in braids but today it rested on his shoulders in a silken net.
‘It’s time we left to greet Isabelle,’ said Galeazzo.
‘Not yet. I want to see the Englishman,’ Bernabò answered, watching the group of men far below being led through lanes that meandered through the courtyards.
‘Have you thought of what to do?’ said Galeazzo.
‘I told you before: I’m going to kill him. I haven’t decided how yet. Perhaps I’ll put him in an iron cage and roast him alive.’
It was no idle threat. Bernabò had inflicted such torture on the Pope’s delegates in the past. The stench of roasting flesh and the sizzle of the victims’ fat dripping into the flames had left a stench that lasted for a week.
‘And what of Antonio?’ said Galeazzo.
‘No. He stays out of it.’
‘You should use him.’
Bernabò shook his head, keeping his eyes on the men far below as they were taken through another alley towards their quarters.
‘Don’t do anything without discussing it with me first, Bernabò.’
‘I don’t need your permission, brother. I rule half this city.’
Galeazzo exercised patience. A misunderstood word could send Bernabò off into a rage whose consequences could prove disastrous. ‘Of course you do not need my permission. But we rule together for the benefit of our name. There’s much at stake. The French King holds out his palm for us to fill with gold. He’s ours but we cannot risk harming either his men or antagonizing Edward by cutting down Blackstone in the street. Lure him into a false sense of security.’
‘Hot food and a warm bed won’t do that. He’s a fighter.’
‘Think, Bernabò. Let the desire for his death within you quieten. Lure him is what I said. Offer him bait. Bring him into the palace.’
‘What?’
‘Bring him to court.’
‘A condottiere like him? In our court?’
‘Your court, brother. I have a royal princess to entertain.’
‘Why would I bring him inside my walls?’
‘Because then you get the measure of the man and you offer him the chance to serve us. To command an army.’
‘He would never accept – don’t be stupid.’
‘And if his anger is as volatile as his passion for revenge then he will try and strike. And then you can kill him in good conscience.’ He readied to leave. ‘In the right place at the right time with justification.’ He eased a fallen hair from his cloak. ‘Think, Bernabò. Use your brain instead of your balls.’
Bernabò grabbed his brother’s arm as he turned away. Galeazzo knew immediately that he had provoked him.
‘Curse you,’ said Bernabò between gritted teeth. ‘You bought yourself a virgin princess for your boy so go and welcome her. I have my own welcome for Blackstone down there.’
Galeazzo snatched free his arm. He did not fear his brother. Both could inflict violence without a second thought but it was he, Galeazzo, who stopped to think things through. He placated his brother. ‘All right. Let’s not argue. It’s an historic day for our family and we are expected at my palace.’
‘Wait,’ insisted Bernabò and gestured to the yards below. A man had been dragged out of a building by guards. His voice was raised begging for mercy. He was less than twenty paces from the French and English men-at-arms who were being escorted to their quarters past the pens for the hunting dogs. Each of the yards held thirty to fifty animals, lean, sturdy, muscled mastiffs with crushing jaws that could bring down a boar and teeth that could tear into its hide. The dogs were fed sparingly; carcasses of freshly killed deer were usually tossed into their yard every few days. The dogs’ taut skin bore witness to their hunger and their slavering jaws left little doubt as to the hounds’ power. There was no need for Galeazzo to make any enquiry as to the man’s crime or punishment. The first question would not have mattered; the answer to the second obvious.
*
Blackstone and de Chauliac were halted by their escort as they reached the struggling man. The half-walled dog pen was topped with iron railings, high enough to stop the dogs from jumping over but low enough for them to be seen and fed. As the guards had approached the latched cage door the dogs had erupted into a snarling pack. Two of the condemned man’s guards lowered their pikes to stop Blackstone and Killbere from moving forward.
‘Mother of Christ,’ said Killbere. ‘They mean to feed him to the dogs.’
He took a half-step forward, hand on his sword hilt, but Blackstone’s arm stopped him. ‘Wait. They mean to provoke us. It’s for our benefit. He’s condemned whatever we do.’
As he spoke his warning one of the dog handlers appeared on the far side of the pen to draw the dogs away from the gate and allow the guards to throw the man inside. As the handler whistled the confused dogs turned and in that moment one of the guards opened the iron gate. The man fought without success, his screams rising above the dogs’ baying. In that instant of struggle and watching for the precise moment to fling the man inside, the guards’ attention was distracted. Blackstone sidestepped one of the lowered pikes as Killbere grabbed the other, forcing its blade down. In a couple of strides Blackstone was an arm’s length from the desperate man. A sudden gush of blood splattered the guards as his archer’s knife slashed the man’s throat. Blackstone quickly stepped back so the guards understood he was not attacking them. The dead man slumped, shuddering in his death throes. The Visconti men cursed and threatened to advance on Blackstone but their commander shouted an order and they slung the body into the pen. The dogs turned from their handler’s distraction and fell on the corpse. For a moment there was a stand-off between Blackstone and Killbere and the disconcerted guards who thrust their spiked shafts towards them. Their commander demanded his men raise their weapons and they backed off. As they retreated he glanced over his shoulder towards the high terraces. Blackstone followed his gaze and saw two indistinct figures step out of sight as the dogs’ noses buried themselves into the torn carcass, their macabre snuffling savagery holding everyone’s attention – except Blackstone’s. That fleeting glance was enough to tell him that he had finally laid eyes on his enemy.
*
A thousand candles, each the thickness of a man’s arm, burned brightly from a hundred gold candlesticks and chandeliers that lit the great hall as Princess Isabelle de Valois was escorted by her ladies-in-waiting towards the raised dais where Galeazzo and his wife Bianca stood with their young son waiting to greet the royal bride-to-be. Bernabò, already bored with the fanfares and baubles, stood to one side with his wife and a chosen few of the many children he had sired. Antonio Lorenz was not on the dais but stood behind his father against a wall. As he looked out at the gathered nobility he realized that when Thomas Blackstone had cut the condemned man’s throat before he was thrown to the dogs the Englishman had betrayed his own weakness. He would not allow a man to suffer unnecessarily. Such compassion could be exploited. He stifled a yawn as the trumpets heralded Isabelle’s advance towards the dais. On both sides of the aisle diplomats and ambassadors, noblemen and rich merchants jostled shoulder to shoulder to catch a glimpse of the child-bride. The hall’s blue and gold ceiling had been painted by Giotto, one of the greatest Italian artists, and the pictures on the walls represented a mixed collection of historical and mythical heroes. Over the years the Visconti had employed many accomplished artisans and renowned sculptors and created vast gardens with fishponds and fountains of animal heads gushing water. Surrounding the palace were courtyards of menageries full of animals foreign to Italy that included lions and monkeys and a vast aviary filled with chattering songbirds. The extravagance reflected the grandeur of the Lords of Milan.
The Archbishop’s mitre bobbed as he chanted a prayer, and all present lowered their heads, except Bernabò. And the woman who stood behind the ladies-in-waiting, their features pinched in earnest worship. Of all the hundreds in the hall only she and the Lord of Milan had their faces raised. He gazed down at her and s
he stared back defiantly. He was suddenly pleased that he had been obliged to attend the ceremony. The woman’s black hair peaked below her headdress and the tightly clinging dress pushed up her breasts. The moment passed when the woman averted her eyes and looked straight ahead towards Galeazzo and his family, who made the sign of the cross as the Archbishop ended the prayer. Bernabò convinced himself that he saw a smile tweak the corners of the woman’s lips. As the droning voice of Galeazzo’s chancellor delivered the formal welcoming speech he willed the woman to look his way again. But she did not. Bernabò’s wife, Regina, heavily pregnant with their seventh child, glanced up at him, aware that he was studying the young woman in the Princess’s entourage. No words were needed between man and wife; she knew that by that night the woman would be in his bed, willingly or not.
CHAPTER SIXTY
Despite being in the warmth and safety of the stables, Blackstone had ordered his men to stand watch. The nearby kennels had quietened as night had fallen and although the hunting dogs would have picked up movement and warned the sleeping men of approaching soldiers he relied on his own men to ensure their own safety. Other than the usual sounds of the city at night and the screeching of a catfight in an alley the hours of darkness passed without incident.
It was pre-dawn when Blackstone stood alone in the courtyard. His men were not yet free of their blankets but he saw that the sentries he had posted at the far corners of the yard were awake and alert. As he walked along the length of the men’s quarters an iron-studded door in the wall he had thought to be bolted creaked slowly open. Thoughts of an attack raced through his mind and his hand reached for Wolf Sword but the figure revealed in the near-darkness of the tunnel made a small gesture at him to remain calm and then brought a finger to his lips. It was an old man with a white beard, dressed in a quality cloak, who beckoned him. Blackstone glanced at his distant sentries: they had not seen or heard the intruder. He stepped closer and the man took a pace backwards to accommodate his presence in the tunnel. Wary that this might be a ploy to entrap him Blackstone palmed his archer’s knife. There would be no space within the narrow confines of the tunnel to wield a sword but the knife would give him a chance in a close-quarter fight.