by David Gilman
‘Let them come to us,’ said Killbere. ‘I’m too old to attack them.’
Blackstone glanced at the blood-splattered veteran. ‘You could always stay here.’
‘You taunt a man to his own death, Thomas. Damn you,’ he said.
‘Stay or not, they’ll kill us,’ said Blackstone. ‘This day had to come.’
He turned and looked at his men, who glared past him at their enemy.
‘Better to die on our own terms. Better to let them remember it,’ said John Jacob.
‘It is what it is,’ said Blackstone and smiled at his friends.
Killbere hefted his shield closer to his body and fell in step, and then, like the others, broke into a run as Thomas Blackstone roared in defiance and threw himself into the enemy ranks.
CHAPTER SIXTY-ONE
Henry Blackstone had slipped away from Fra Foresti in the night. It had been easier than he had imagined to enter through the western gate into the city. He had stabled his horse outside the walls along with many others belonging to those who had come for the wedding celebrations and joined the local traffic travelling in and out of the city through the postern gate. No one paid any attention to a boy carrying a bedroll across his back. His cloak concealed his sword and the hood his face.
He was jostled as he made his way through the busy streets. His stomach growled with hunger but he ignored the food sellers and bakers who touted their wares. The few coins he had would be needed the longer he stayed in the city. Ignore the stomach pangs, ignore the fear of uncertainty was what the voice in his head told him, but his stomach yearned for nourishment and his heart for courage. Handcarts trundled past him laden with firewood, others with bolts of cloth. Some carried heaped food, crops brought in from the surrounding countryside. Along each side street he turned into the beckoning call of stallholders and shopkeepers selling their wares rose above the jumbled voices of passers-by. Other than the tradesmen and labourers those who milled in the street were dressed differently than he had seen in France. The women seemed more beautiful and carefree, their heads without veils or hoods, hair tied and plaited; their gowns were as colourful as the hose and short jerkins of the men, who wore caps that seemed to balance precariously on their heads. Henry felt like a survivor washed up on a foreign shore. He was shouldered and barged, and some muttered insults and curses as he wandered lost among the crowds. How would he find his father and the men? His plan to enter the city had been accomplished but Milan was more vast than he could have imagined. With an increasingly sinking feeling he knew he should have thought through what he would do once he was here. He knew his father had travelled to the far side of the city and that meant going east, but it suddenly seemed a stupid idea to try and find him. What could he achieve? Love for his father and the friendship of the men who rode with him had spurred him to make a rash decision. It had not felt rash at the time but now the city overwhelmed him. He needed sanctuary and a place to escape the hubbub of the busy streets so he could think through his foolishness. He scoured the rooftops searching for the basilica’s dome but the curved tiles of buildings’ roofs around him simply rippled light and gave strutting pigeons the vantage point he needed. In desperation he approached a mendicant monk and asked directions. The old man’s tonsure had not been shaved in days and his face was pockmarked with grime like the hands that grasped his begging bowl. The monk gazed at him longer than was comfortable. Perhaps Henry’s Tuscan dialect identified him as an enemy of the Visconti; perhaps he had not been as diligent in his studies as he thought. The monk thrust forward his begging bowl.
‘A coin and I will take you.’
The thought of sacrificing one of the few coins in his purse made Henry falter. He would not be able to deny himself food for much longer. He shook his head. The mendicant turned away. In panic Henry grabbed his arm and nodded his assent. He opened the purse stitched and embroidered years ago for his birthday by Countess de Harcourt in Normandy. It still bore her fine needlework and as his fingers touched the coin he remembered her giving him the gift. The memory tinged his thoughts with sadness but he quickly banished the past and dropped the offering into the bowl.
The mendicant turned on his heel and padded his way down a cobbled alley. Henry kept pace with the old man who moved quickly through the crowds. Perhaps, Henry thought, he was trying to lose him. He followed doggedly, ignoring the complaints of those that he now shouldered aside. And then as the passageway ended he stepped into the broad square and faced the basilica. The monk neither turned nor gestured and was quickly swallowed by another darkened alley.
*
Henry moved through the whisper-quiet nave of Sant’Ambrogio basilica towards the side cloisters. It was bitterly cold inside despite the many candles that threw shadows into the high wishbone ceiling whose ribs curved down onto ornately sculpted pillars. It felt as though he had been swallowed by Jonah’s whale. He searched out a place in the shadows where he could think more clearly about what to do next. He kept a watchful eye on who was moving through the aisles as he skirted the walls. There had been no sign of anyone bearing the Visconti blazon when he had slipped into the basilica but his momentary sense of awe at the scale of the building had been quickly dissipated by the echo of a slamming door somewhere in the church. There were a few worshippers crossing the vast nave but only one or two glanced at the solitary boy who did not seem to belong among the well-dressed Milanese.
Henry found a corner in the cloisters and hunkered down for warmth. Lions, rams and horses – sculptured creatures on the pillars’ capitals – glared down at him as if challenging an intruder’s presence. Tortured with doubt, he felt the determination to fight at his father’s side ebb away. It was not courage that he lacked but the means of achieving his goal. For a brief moment self-pity engulfed him. He was abandoned in a place of God, bereft of a murdered mother and sister and soon perhaps to be orphaned by his father’s intent to avenge their deaths. It was as if fate had cast them all into this vipers’ pit. Shadows squirmed as if confirming that even this holy place writhed with serpents.
He wiped the silent tears from his face and the self-pity from his thoughts. He got to his feet. He had already been banished to the classrooms of Florence, and there was no doubt his father would banish him again, but if he could at least find a way to save his father’s life, years of study would be a small price to pay. He stepped around a pillar and did not see or sense the sudden movement of the shadow that struck him. The blow across the back of his head sent him sprawling, stunned, onto the stone floor. His head whirled; his ears rang. He tried to get onto his hands and knees but his strength seeped into the floor like spilled water. His final thought before darkness claimed him was that his mission to find his father was over. He had failed.
*
The cold stone floor pressed against his cheek and as he opened his eyes he saw the boots beneath the black cloak of the blurred figure who sat on a stone sill a few feet away. Henry groggily pulled himself up and sat with his back against the wall. The man opposite him was in almost complete shadow. The small knife in his hand sliced an apple and fed the pieces into his mouth. Henry’s vision cleared and he gazed at Fra Foresti, who casually spat out the pips.
‘You disobeyed me, boy, and your father. I am responsible for your safety. You deserve a thrashing and I’ve a mind to give it to you. Are you hurt?’
Henry’s head throbbed, and the stone floor had grazed his forehead. He felt as though he had been kicked by his father’s bastard horse. He shook his head.
‘Liar,’ said Foresti.
‘I’m sorry, but I could not abandon my father.’
The Tau knight grunted. ‘Well, you are under my care and I will not have you running off again. So, you give me your word or I will tie you like a dog and drag you to Florence.’
Foresti got to his feet, towering over the boy, who shakily stood, bracing himself against the wall until the strength returned to his legs. Henry lifted his chin defiantly. ‘I cannot give you my
word because I intend to find my father. So you will have to tie me like a dog.’
Fra Foresti sighed. ‘You are your father’s son and I half expected such wilful disobedience.’ He gazed into the cavernous basilica. ‘For a while we will be safe. The city is full of travellers, and my order of hospitallers is respected, so it would not be unusual for one such as myself to have escorted a pilgrim here, but it would only take one suspicious city watch commander to ask an awkward question and that might lead to difficulties. So, what are we to do, Master Henry?’
‘Help me find my father.’
‘For what reason?’
‘So that I can be with him.’
‘And why do you think your father wanted you to be taken to safety in Florence? Do you not see how foolish your action and desire is? If for any reason you are seized by the Visconti’s men you will be used against your father. Your very presence jeopardizes his life.’
Henry’s bravado faltered yet again. ‘I had not intended to be captured and I didn’t know how big the city was or how many people were on the streets, but there must be a way for me to find him,’ he said hopefully, ‘and with your help that’s what I want to do, Fra Foresti.’ He stared at the young Tau knight and then added: ‘Even if you and my father give me a good beating.’
For a moment Foresti said nothing, as if mulling over the options that lay before him. ‘We need a place of safety, and then we must find someone with influence who can discover where he is, or what has happened to him.’ He deliberately left the statement unanswered and looked at Henry, whose mind raced quickly to the answer.
‘The Princess,’ he said.
CHAPTER SIXTY-TWO
A thousand pincers stung Blackstone’s body. He opened his eyes not knowing whether he was in heaven or hell. If what seared his flesh was from Satan’s imps, then he had descended into the underworld. His eyes adjusted to the near darkness and the shadows that flickered. Above him angels swirled, flying through clouds to heaven where a benevolent God waited with extended arms. He was lying flat on his back: he tried to move but couldn’t. The last thing he remembered was hurling himself into the fray and being overwhelmed by a dozen blows as he cut down the Visconti’s men. The screams of the dying and the bellowing rage that spurred on his men were now a memory. Except for his own breathing the eerie silence lay heavily. And then as he became more aware of his surroundings the soft spluttering of candles intruded into the near silence. He half raised his head. He was in a bow-roofed cellar or crypt whose brick ceiling’s ribs curved this way and that. The plastered roof above him bore a painting of God and his angels and, like the Divine’s crucified son, Blackstone’s arms were outstretched and bound, as were his ankles. He was naked except for his braies and he could see that trickles of blood from a dozen wounds or more had dried on his torso. It was, he realized, the multiple cuts and cold air that stung his skin. He licked his dry lips, and felt the desperate need for water. There was no give in the bonds that held him and all he could see as he turned his head left and right were the walls of the cellar. There was no window to let in daylight or any sign of implements of torture. An iron-caged door was the only way in or out. Blackstone coughed congealed blood from his mouth and a moment later a light appeared on the other side of the door. A jailer raised a lantern and peered towards him. Then the man turned on his heel and took the light with him.
He had no memory of being brought to the ground during the fight. Killbere had been at his shoulder, so too John Jacob. It had been an act of defiance to attack such overwhelming odds, and he thought it likely that most of his men must have died in the street. There seemed to be no chance of escape from where he was being held so his only chance would be to try when they took him out for execution. Would they do that soon? he wondered. More likely, he reasoned, that they would not kill him publicly while the marriage was being celebrated. What he didn’t know was how long he had been held captive. Judging by the wounds on his body it could only be a few hours. The thought comforted him. If that was the case it was likely he had a couple more days to live and in that time he would will the strength back into his body.
Time was swallowed by the candlelight and the nagging pain from his wounds but then as the flames began to falter and die he heard voices in the distance and the scuff of boots on stone followed by the jangle of keys. Two men emerged from the shadows. He twisted his head. Their dress identified them as noblemen. They stood over him: one a big man with a beard and the other a younger man with neatly trimmed facial hair and a slight but muscular body, who grinned. More of a wolf’s snarl, thought Blackstone as the bigger of the two men held a burning torch over his body.
‘Thomas Blackstone, you are mine now to cause hurt. I am Bernabò Visconti and the pain you have caused me in the past will be as nothing to what will be inflicted on you over many days until you beg for mercy and death.’
Blackstone said nothing. He wanted to sear the two men’s features into his memory for when he escaped. The belief shone in his eyes. Bernabò laughed. ‘Antonio, look at the beast. He’s trapped and faces death and he still thinks he can reach our throats.’
Blackstone stared at the younger man. So this was the man behind the assassin and the killing.
‘Turn your eyes away, Englishman. Or I will dig them out with my knife.’ Antonio Lorenz prodded a bejewelled finger into a wound. Blackstone’s body flinched involuntarily but he made no sound or complaint. Antonio’s eyebrows rose. ‘No?’ he asked and then jabbed his finger deeper into the gash, turning it so the encrusted ring tore more flesh. Blood seeped. Antonio raised his hand and looked at the blood dribbling down his hand. ‘The warrior’s blood looks no different from any other man’s. We thought you immortal. You’re no god or demon, Blackstone, you bleed and hurt. That’s good. We will have pleasure hurting you even more.’
Blackstone remained silent but he defiantly held the man’s gaze.
‘Look away!’ Lorenz demanded and slapped Blackstone hard across his face. A ring caught his cheekbone and blood trickled. Bernabò placed a restraining hand on his son’s impetus to strike again.
‘You are alive because we ordered our men not to kill you, no matter what cost to them,’ said Bernabò. ‘The same with your men. Wounded and beaten, but alive. Torture offers more satisfaction than seeing bodies in the street. Anyone can die in the gutter but to be served up on the breaking wheel with hot irons and burning pitch is the measure of a man. We offer great sport for our people: they will be able to watch you die slowly. You do not come into the serpents’ nest without being entwined, crushed and devoured, Blackstone.’
‘I have a bill of safe passage from the Prince of Wales. Harm me further and you will answer to him,’ said Blackstone. He knew his words, as an attempt to stave off more punishment, were futile, but they might buy him some time.
Bernabò leered and tugged out the parchment bearing the blood-red wax seal from his tunic. It was the pass Blackstone had given de Chauliac in a gamble that had failed. The seal had already been broken. Bernabò raised the pass towards the light and read the script.
*
‘Know all that we, the Prince of Wales, have given leave and command safe passage, on the day of the date of this instrument, to Sir Thomas Blackstone, one of our trusted knights, to go to Milan as escort for the Princess Isabelle de Valois. In witness of this we have caused our seal to be placed on this bill. Given at Louviers 15th of May in the year of grace 1360.’
*
Bernabò raised his eyes above the document and looked at Blackstone. ‘Such protection is worthless.’
He held the document in the flame and then waved it over Blackstone’s body so the seal wax melted into his wounds. Blackstone flinched. ‘The Frenchman betrayed you because he wished to gain favour with the Dauphin. The King’s snivelling son is no warrior but he had enough cunning to bait a trap for you. And you could not resist the opportunity. When de Chauliac offered me this safe conduct he was sacrificing you for the cause of France. I order
ed him to lead you to my men. I believe he knew I was sending him to his death.’
Blackstone spoke in barely a whisper, wanting them to lower their heads in order to hear him. ‘Your vile corruption will stain the earth when I kill you. And when you die you will have my face close to yours.’
Within a heartbeat Bernabò’s rage erupted. He grabbed Blackstone by the throat and throttled him. ‘Whoreson! I’ll break every bone in your body as you did with my son after he killed your bitch wife and daughter.’
The words penetrated Blackstone’s mind as he gagged for breath. The assassin had been another of Bernabò Visconti’s bastard sons. At least he had already inflicted some misery on the Lord of Milan.
Blackstone’s body bucked as his windpipe was squeezed and his lungs denied air. Lorenz tried to pull his father off but he was violently cast aside. Bernabò’s face was as purple with rage as was Blackstone’s with lack of oxygen.
‘My lord!’ Lorenz cried. ‘You’ll kill him! And then there’s no sport!’
Black spots exploded in front of Blackstone’s eyes; his swollen tongue was forced between his parched lips. As Blackstone began to fall into unconsciousness Bernabò finally released his grip. He was sweating with rage and spittle flecked his beard but he deliberately stepped back a pace as if to stop himself inflicting more pain. He glared at the anxious-looking Antonio standing a few feet away. When Bernabò Visconti went into one of his rages no one dared confront him and that Antonio had done so meant it was possible his father would plunge a dagger into his own son’s heart. However, Bernabò grunted acceptance of Antonio’s admonishment. The Viper of Milan turned for the door, quickly followed by Antonio.