by David Gilman
The tunnel’s fetid air washed over him as the man smiled in friendly invitation beneath the cloak’s hood; but his expression became a grimace as Blackstone held the blade beneath his throat.
‘Sir Thomas, your legend precedes you and yet… 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…’ He waited a moment for his words to convince Blackstone that he neither offered nor brought any threat. ‘I am not here to cause you harm.’
‘You’re Father Torellini’s informant,’ said Blackstone, easing the blade away.
The old man nodded. ‘Indeed my tired old eyes are those of Father Torellini in this city.’
‘Who are you?’
‘I am Bernabò Visconti’s chamberlain. That knowledge places my life in your hands.’
‘It will never be revealed,’ said Blackstone.
The old spy sighed. ‘Let us hope not, but under torture… well, we must offer prayers that such a day never comes. My time is short: my lord’s household is not yet awake, and I fear this may be the only opportunity we have to speak. How may I help you?’
‘Father Torellini said he would try and find out who controlled the assassin who slew my wife and child.’
The man’s face wrinkled. ‘Impossible to know. This family’s power is smothered in secrecy.’
‘I believe it to be Antonio Lorenz.’
The old chamberlain’s eyebrows furrowed. ‘Why so?’
‘A woman poisoner gave me his name in exchange for my promise to rescue her daughter from his household.’
‘Her name?’
‘Cataline.’
‘Ah.’ The chamberlain sighed, his head bowed. After a moment he whispered: ‘She is dead, Sir Thomas. She was a victim in one of my lord’s orgies. Indeed it was Antonio Lorenz who killed her for his sexual gratification.’
‘Then I am even more convinced that he is the man I seek.’
‘Yes. More than likely. Lorenz slips between the shadows.’
‘Where do I find him?’
The old man shook his head. ‘Impossible to say. One of several houses, rooms within palaces – he never stays long in one place. No one can be sure, not even his father – you know that he is Lord Bernabò’s illegitimate son?’
‘Yes. I must find where he is and then kill him.’
‘Be warned if you do find him that he is a renowned swordsman. He will not be an easy man to overcome.’
‘I’ll find a way,’ said Blackstone.
The old man ruminated a moment longer. ‘I will try to throw light on this shadow for you but… in a city such as this… I don’t know. He was at my lord’s palace but now… Sir Thomas, I will do what I can but until such time as I have any information you are on your own and if we are unfortunate enough to meet under more… difficult circumstances I implore you not to show me any recognition.’
‘You have my word.’
‘Then God be with you. Now, go back to your men.’
Blackstone stepped back into the brightening dawn and the door closed behind him.
*
The first of the three days’ festivities had already started as Blackstone ate with his men in the courtyard. In the west of the city trumpets and drums heralded the tournament where the Milanese would be treated to jousting, horse races and a fair with jugglers, acrobats, musicians and bear baiting.
‘I would welcome some entertainment,’ said Killbere as he cut a slice from the round of hard cheese onto a piece of bread. He filled his cheeks, the bread’s burnt underside crumbling onto his beard as he spoke. ‘Some bear baiting and dog fights enliven a man’s day. We have already sat around here too long.’
Blackstone related what had happened earlier but made no mention of the informant’s status within the Visconti palace.
‘Then we are none the wiser as to which hole this rat crawls into.’ Killbere glanced across the yard. ‘Let’s hope these two have some news.’ Blackstone had sent half his men out onto the streets to gauge the layout of the city and to try and find where Antonio Lorenz lived.
Blackstone spooned pottage as John Jacob and Perinne joined him and Killbere. ‘Anything?’ he asked.
‘There are two passageways that lead to the palace’s lower entrances. They’re guarded but there are other houses for members of the family. We won’t get into the palace. But there’s no word that he’s even in there.’ Perinne accepted the plate of food offered by Killbere and took a mouthful. ‘I spoke to a saddler. Lord Bernabò has few court officers, unlike his brother, so he attends to the administration of his part of Milan with only a handful of courtiers. If we could find where Lorenz is he might be vulnerable enough for us to reach him but John’s right about trying to get into the palace: we’d never make it. But Lord Bernabò rides out and hunts most days.’
Blackstone glanced at Killbere, who shrugged.
‘We’ll not stand a chance accosting him in the streets, Thomas.’
Blackstone wiped a sleeve across his mouth. The yard and outside kitchen did not demand the etiquette of a dining hall. ‘It might be our only opportunity. John, did you find out where Antonio Lorenz lives?’
‘Perhaps a grand house somewhere near the palace but no one seems to know which one or when he is there. He’s going to be difficult to find.’
‘The saddler was making a silver bridle for him in his workshop,’ said Perinne, ‘but Lorenz never comes down into the streets. I spoke to half a dozen people in a tavern and they couldn’t even describe him. He’s a shadow.’
‘Then we keep looking until we find where he steps into the light,’ said Blackstone.
One by one the men drifted back from the streets to share what they had learnt, each describing the layout of the area of the city they had reconnoitred. Postern gates might be used for escape, but the broad streets that led to the main gates carried a lot of day-to-day traffic. Whether they attempted to evade capture using side streets or main thoroughfares the city’s vibrant commerce would slow them and militia could halt their progress long enough for Visconti troops to attack.
‘Sir Thomas,’ said Gaillard, tearing a chunk of bread and dipping it into the pottage. ‘To get away from this place we would need a hostage. Someone important enough to stop them attacking us.’
There was a murmur of agreement among the men.
‘There’s no one important enough to stop the Visconti from killing us all, including any hostage,’ said Blackstone. ‘If we are to get out alive then we must do it by stealth. Let us all think on it because time is against us. Be alert because it’s my belief they will strike at us soon. From what I have heard Bernabò Visconti is an impatient man.’
Killbere looked across to the far side of the courtyard where de Chauliac and his sergeants were striding towards them.
‘There’s my food spoiled,’ said Killbere. ‘Today might have been bearable without having them scurrying around like damned alley rats.’
De Chauliac bowed his head in greeting. ‘Sir Thomas, I was summoned by the Princess so that I might give her report to the Dauphin when I return to Paris, but I have information which might be of value to you.’
Blackstone and the men stared and waited. If the captain of the royal guard expected any gesture of enthusiasm from the hardened fighters he was disappointed. Blackstone’s men were thankful that the French had fought well in the valley and aware that if the Visconti thought them to be allies then the Dauphin’s men aided their safety – at least until they left the city to ride back to Paris. It was then that the Visconti might make their move, once there was no chance of the Frenchmen being caught up in the killing.
‘Well done, captain,’ said Blackstone. ‘I’m grateful. Tell us.’
De Chauliac allowed himself a brief smile of success. ‘I discovered where Antonio Lorenz lives and how to get inside his house.’
He was gratified to see that this information caused some interest among the gathered men.
> ‘How?’ asked Killbere.
‘A narrow set of steps between buildings. They lead to a walled garden and from there the house can be entered.’
‘Guards?’ said John Jacob.
‘I am uncertain but from what I have been told there are very few men at the house. A handful patrol in the grounds but he does not feel under threat; he’s just another of Bernabò’s bastards. He has no official rank or status within the family.’
Killbere picked the food from his teeth and studied the captain. ‘And how did a captain of the royal guard in an unfamiliar city come by this information?’ he said.
‘I gave my word that I would not divulge the man’s name but he is a Frenchman who serves in the palace.’
‘And what have you promised him in return for this information?’ Blackstone asked.
‘To take him back to Paris.’
Killbere leaned into Blackstone’s shoulder. ‘A good story, Thomas. But that is all it might be,’ he whispered.
Both men remained expressionless.
‘When are you leaving Milan?’ asked Blackstone.
‘In a few hours,’ de Chauliac answered. ‘I am preparing my men now. But I will lead you to the steps and have twenty men cover your back.’
‘Why would you do that?’ asked Killbere.
‘Because I owe Sir Thomas my life,’ said de Chauliac.
‘Wait for us while I discuss this with my men,’ Blackstone told him.
De Chauliac and his sergeants stepped away. Blackstone waited until the Frenchmen were far enough away across the yard.
‘Sir Thomas,’ said Meulon, ‘he stinks of lies, this Frenchman. He serves the Dauphin. Let us not trust him.’
‘That was never my intention, Meulon.’ He looked to each man. ‘If he’s lying we will soon know. If it’s a trap then we expect it. But if he is speaking the truth then it might be the chance we need to strike quickly. This is my vendetta, not yours. No man need follow me, you know that.’
Perinne threw the contents of his bowl into the gutter. ‘Sir Thomas, we have followed you since you were a boy. If we turn our backs now we would be men without cause or honour. Let us kill these bastards who inflicted pain on you and young Henry.’
‘Aye,’ said John Jacob. ‘Take their heads and toss them to those hounds.’
The men grinned in anticipation and picked up their weapons, tucking mace and fighting axe into their belts. With sword in hand they would be as well armed as they could be.
‘All right,’ said Blackstone, looking from man to man. ‘We’ll follow them. Sir Gilbert and I lead, then Perinne, John, Renfred, you and the others at our back, Meulon and Gaillard protect our rear.’
The men stood readying themselves. Meulon and Gaillard hefted their pikes. The ten-foot-long shafts would be too unwieldy to use in the narrow streets but would be effective enough as a rearguard weapon to hold an enemy at bay for a time.
Killbere raised a hand. ‘If it goes badly we fight and hold the ground and let Thomas find his way to the murdering scum.’
There was a murmur of agreement, and then they were ready. Blackstone lifted his shield onto his arm and strode across the yard to where de Chauliac and his guard waited.
*
The royal captain led the way through the narrow passageways running alongside the caged courtyards that held the hunting dogs. As the men moved slowly in the narrow confines, barely wide enough for three men abreast, slavering dogs howled and snarled and leapt against the cage’s bars. Blackstone saw that a hundred paces ahead the narrow alleyway widened into a passage. From where they stood terraces loomed out from the upper storeys of the building where he had seen the two men gazing down, suggesting that if Antonio Lorenz lived in one of the grand houses nearby then the steps that led up to the house might be close. As they passed the gate where Blackstone had cut the man’s throat de Chauliac halted and turned to face Blackstone.
‘A few minutes ahead are the steps that lead up to the gardens. There are narrow streets that intersect and once we are there I will keep my men at the crossroads until you have taken your men up.’
Blackstone looked ahead and saw that there was an increase in pedestrian traffic with handcarts being hauled along and shopfronts being set out to display their wares. The marriage celebrations were going on outside the walls but this vast city still throbbed with the noise of those going about their business. People would choke those narrow streets and if the city watch or the Visconti guards confronted Blackstone’s men then the congestion might work in their favour. Or, he realized, stifle any attempt to move back the way they had come.
Blackstone looked back. His men were bunched but alert and ten paces behind followed twenty of the French guard. Blackstone’s men bore their shields but their swords were still in their scabbards, which, Blackstone hoped, would avoid creating alarm among those on the streets when he and his men passed through them. If they held weapons that would have caused panic and brought Visconti guards down on them. Why then were the French armed? Were they nervous?
De Chauliac extended his hand to Blackstone. Both men clasped the other’s. ‘Sir Thomas, I offer my hand in gratitude and friendship and wish you success.’
In that instant Aelis’s words struck him. A life owed. The hand of friendship ready to betray him. And in that same moment de Chauliac realized that the Englishman saw the betrayal. He tried to yank free but Blackstone’s grip tightened.
De Chauliac cried out: ‘Now!’
Blackstone rammed his shoulder into the captain’s face and he fell, mouth bloodied, as behind them the French guard attacked. Meulon and Gaillard locked shields and thrust their pikes forward. Perinne and Renfred turned to lend their weight to the two big Normans. Dogs howled and barked. The first of the advancing guard went down, spear points in their throats. The odour of blood sent the hounds into even greater frenzy. Perinne and Renfred protected the spearmen as French attackers tripped and stumbled over the bodies. The two men-at-arms slashed and stabbed as Meulon and Gaillard thrust their pikes into the attackers again.
Blackstone stepped forward as de Chauliac writhed on the ground, eyes wide with fear, spitting blood and teeth. Blackstone pushed Wolf Sword into his chest. De Chauliac bucked, his hands grasping the hardened steel. Agony from the embedded blade. Blood. The life you saved is yours to own, Aelis’s voice whispered as Blackstone pushed his boot into the man’s neck to thwart de Chauliac’s last desperate attempt to rise. He was already dead by the time Blackstone withdrew the blade.
The weight of the attacking Frenchmen began to bear down on Blackstone’s men.
‘Go on,’ shouted Killbere. ‘We’ll hold them.’
Before Blackstone could answer or take another stride the ambush tightened. Thirty men bearing the Visconti blazon spilled from the narrow alleys. They had sprung their trap at exactly the right place. De Chauliac’s betrayal had halted Blackstone’s advance and given Visconti’s men the chance to cut off any escape.
‘Hold!’ Blackstone yelled.
Twelve against fifty. Assaulted from both sides. Killbere and Blackstone took the Visconti attack head on. John Jacob was a pace behind and with him the others. Meulon, Gaillard, Renfred and Perinne battled the French guard. Blackstone’s men were boxed in. They had no choice but to fight their way clear.
Meulon turned and saw the ambush close in on them. He desperately sought a way to fight back the way they had come but the French were scrambling over their dead and would soon overwhelm them.
‘The gate!’ Gaillard yelled over the shouts of men and howling dogs. ‘The gate!’
Meulon looked over his shield rim. Help was at hand if they could reach the gate in the dog cage.
‘Push them back!’ Meulon shouted. ‘Five paces! Five paces! Back to the gate!’
He and Gaillard leaned into their shields as Perinne and Renfred heaved their body weight into the big men’s backs. Sheer brute force, stabbing spears and slashing blades bought the five long strides Gaillard needed. As t
hey reached the iron gate into the dog pen he held the weight of the French attackers with his shield and slammed at the locked bolt with his mace. It snapped free. Yanking the iron bars he pulled the gate’s hinges open towards him. It blocked the Frenchmen’s attack in the narrow passageway as the dogs were set loose.
The French faltered as the savage beasts leapt at them. They slashed at the animals, severing limbs as the dogs snarled and bit. Blood from man and dog sluiced the path, making it difficult for the French to hold their ground. They slithered in gore and fell, and the half-starved hunting dogs tore into them. Jaws ripped flesh and muscle, crunching limbs.
‘I’ll hold the gate,’ Renfred shouted. ‘Help Sir Thomas!’
The German’s strength held the iron gate fast, safe from the snapping jaws on the other side as the French retreated behind it from the dogs’ attack. Meulon, Gaillard and Perinne turned and brought their weight to bear behind their comrades. Blackstone had brought down the first four Visconti men and Killbere another two. John Jacob hacked his way forward at their side. They fought in a seemingly unhurried manner. Brace, turn, stride forward. Strike, parry, thrust and kill. It was a deadly momentum of slaughter. Sweat stung their eyes, but now, with Perinne and the two big Normans, they formed a fighting wedge and slowly but surely pushed back the attacking Milanese. Howls from the rear told them that men were still dying viciously under the weight of the pack of dogs.
‘The street and then left!’ Blackstone called. If they could reach the crossroads they might have a chance to sweep in a great circle back to the stables and try to escape. Vengeance would wait another day.
They had carved their way through the Visconti men with such ferocity that Blackstone’s men were less than fifty paces from where the streets met. Then thirty paces. And then the crossroads became a death trap. More Visconti men came from left and right. Like a sudden, gasping breath for life the fighting stopped. The surviving Visconti fell back to join the fresh troops. Blackstone and the others stood their ground, sucking air into their lungs, wiping sweat from their eyes. The groups faced each other, neither moving.