by David Gilman
Blackstone lay in the dying light, forcing his mind to calm his rasping demand for air. He slowed his breathing and let the pain from his wounds envelop him, embracing it to spur his desire to survive and to find a way to strike back.
CHAPTER SIXTY-THREE
Galeazzo Visconti sat staring blankly at his advisers. His was a more formal court than his brother’s, and matters of state and the running of his part of Milan were usually handled in the first instance by council officers among this retinue, but now his chancellor had delivered news that threatened the stability of his family’s future. He had dismissed all those present except the chancellor. Galeazzo showed no sign of anger, nor muttered the vile curses that coursed through his mind. The celebrations were going well. The ambassadors and the noble families and wealthy merchants who had poured into the city were being entertained in the most lavish manner and they had no idea of the threat that had now crept into the heart of the Visconti family. What was important was that this threat be countered quickly and with the minimum of fuss, but with an end result that enhanced Galeazzo’s side of the family in their pursuit of ultimate power. His heart beat quickly as he fingered the document that his chancellor had delivered.
‘Can there be any doubt?’ said Galeazzo.
‘My lord,’ his chancellor said with sufficient remorse in his voice, ‘I fear not. The boy has a favoured relationship with the Princess and he was accompanied by a Knight of the Altopascio. The Princess confirms the story that she fell ill in Chambéry and that the woman who saved her has now been taken into your brother’s palace. It appears that the woman who administered the poison has a daughter who serves in Antonio Lorenz’s household.’
Lorenz. Merciful God. He was the one who had instructed the assassin to go against Blackstone and his family. That killer had been their most efficient but still not good enough to escape Blackstone’s wrath. Bernabò had chosen that lithe murderer because he was another of his illegitimate offspring. Another. The word stung because Bernabò’s bastards were scattered across the whole of Lombardy. Damn! Lorenz and Bernabò, hand and glove. How would Bernabò not be implicated?
‘The poisoner?’
‘Dead. But the boy’s story that an ambush was laid to kill Isabelle has been corroborated by the men we questioned who entered the city with Thomas Blackstone. My lord Bernabò is holding them in the cells beneath the city. They are all wounded, my lord, but Sir Thomas is not among them. One of them is an English knight, Sir Gilbert Killbere, and he gave a full account of what happened. The other men gave the name of the brigand who laid the ambush. He is known to Lord Bernabò, and the conclusion will be drawn that it was he who also made an attempt on her life.’
‘Conclusions are not proof,’ Galeazzo said, knowing there was a hollow ring to his words. It was likely that his brother had tried to halt the marriage by killing the child and in so doing preventing Galeazzo’s closer links to European royalty. Galeazzo fingered the royal warrant from the English King that declared Sir Thomas Blackstone be granted safe conduct. The boy had approached the Princess and she had summoned Galeazzo’s closest adviser to inform his master of what had happened. Bernabò had not only defied the English Crown but could be implicated in the attempt on Princess Isabelle’s life. The indictment was the most damning since he and Bernabò had murdered their brother Matteo years before. And now the mad bastard Bernabò had thrown all caution to the wind and had moved against the family. But could Galeazzo prove it?
‘My lord?’ said the chancellor. ‘What will you have me do?’
Galeazzo needed time to think. How to act against such a provocation? How to challenge the mad bastard? A direct confrontation with Bernabò could escalate into internecine war. His chancellor waited.
‘Do nothing,’ said Galeazzo. ‘Yet,’ he added.
*
Guards dragged Blackstone from where he was held. His hands were bound behind his back and they showed no concern as they shoved a shaft of wood behind his arms, forcing him to walk bent over and giving the dozen men who had been sent to escort a chance to subdue him should he try and escape despite his wounds and lack of clothes. They led him through a long underground passage lit by burning torches and then forced him painfully up stone steps into Bernabò’s upper rooms. Bright daylight shone through the windows reflecting across the marble floors, causing Blackstone to squint. The guards kicked his legs away, forcing him down onto his knees, one of them keeping his hand firmly pressed against Blackstone’s neck, so that all he saw was the veined marble. Blackstone heard a door open and the soft padding of bare feet approaching. A signal must have been given because the guard grabbed a handful of Blackstone’s hair and yanked his head upwards so that he stared into the face of his captor, Bernabò Visconti. The big man was dressed in a loose silk gown and looked as though he had just crawled out of bed. He looked down at Blackstone and grinned.
‘And so the sport begins,’ he said and turned towards the broad terrace outside the room. The guards needed no orders to drag Blackstone to his feet and follow the Lord of Milan. Blackstone was held against the low parapet and for a moment he thought he might be flung to the yards below: the dog pens which he and his men had skirted before the fighting in the street. As one of the houndsmen made his way down the side of the yard the dogs sensed his presence and began to howl.
A servant offered a gold tray and goblet to his master and Bernabò took a mouthful of wine before turning to face his prisoner.
‘When you fought de Chauliac, some of my dogs were released. Eleven were slaughtered; another eight needed to be killed because of their wounds. My men identified the one who smashed free the lock.’ Bernabò’s voice became more subdued, the pain of losing some of his beloved hunting dogs apparent. ‘You will pay for my loss, Blackstone.’
Bernabò raised a hand to signal someone below that Blackstone couldn’t see and then six of Visconti’s soldiers dragged a bound Gaillard out. Even that great bear of a man could not fight those who held him. He was dressed in boots, hose and shirt, and his wrists and ankles were bound. He was forced to lie face down in the compound; guards held him at spear point while one of them cut his bonds. The guards quickly retreated out of the cage yard and slammed the gate closed behind them as Gaillard got to his feet.
Blackstone’s stomach lurched. ‘You vile bastard. Harm that man and I swear I’ll slaughter your vermin offspring. I’ll send you the head of your son Antonio Lorenz. I crushed to death your assassin who killed my family. He screamed and begged but I killed him slowly.’
Bernabò slapped him across the face, Blackstone spat blood back at him. ‘Lorenz will know my blade across his throat. The whole of this city will hear your screams when I and my men destroy what you cherish.’
The threat made no impression on Bernabò. They were useless words from a condemned man. Bernabò nodded to the houndsman who made his way to the bolted kennel door.
‘Gaillard!’ Blackstone yelled. The man turned and looked up. There was no mistaking the look of fear on his face. Gaillard had been at Blackstone’s side since the English archer was sixteen years old. Blackstone felt the tears sting his eyes and the words choking in his throat. ‘I will avenge you, my friend. I swear it!’
‘Vengeance has not served you well, Blackstone,’ said Bernabò. ‘Vengeance has brought you here, and look at you, hours away from your own death, and moments away from his. No, Blackstone, you will avenge no one for anything.’
Blackstone struggled against the guards in a vain attempt to lunge at the sneering Bernabò, but there were too many and they held him pressed against the parapet. His tears came and he summoned the strength to call down to the condemned man.
‘Kill! Gaillard, use your strength and kill what this Visconti loves the most!’
His friend and companion raised his face to Blackstone again. ‘Our time together is ended, Sir Thomas. I serve you still!’ Gaillard reached down and tugged an undiscovered knife from his boot and brandished it up towards Blackstone and the man who stood
at his side. It was too late for Bernabò to stop the gate being opened.
Bernabò cursed and flung aside the goblet. ‘No!’ he bellowed.
But the dogs were released and swarmed at Gaillard, who slashed left and right and then embraced one of them that leapt onto his chest. The animal squealed with pain as it died. The knife cut into others but the dogs clamped their bone-breaking jaws onto his legs. Gaillard went down. The pain- and rage-filled cries of a fighting man meeting his death echoed upwards. Suddenly it was over and his body disappeared from view as the snarling beasts tore into him. He had slain four of the hounds and mortally wounded three more before they ripped him apart.
Any look of pleasure had been wiped from Bernabò’s face as he stared disbelievingly at the loss of more of his beloved dogs.
The crushing grip on Blackstone’s heart lodged in his chest. ‘Kill me now because as long as I am breathing I will find a way to come for you and the corrupted spawn that is your son.’
Bernabò’s bulky frame moved quickly and Blackstone was unable to avoid the swinging clout across his head. He went down from the force of the blow to avoid further assault, and knew he was lucky that the barefooted tyrant could not kick him to death. Bernabò turned back inside the palace, leaving Blackstone face down. He pressed his face into the spilled wine and sucked its moisture before the guards hauled him to his feet. The pain in his body receded. His mind cleared. The memory of his wife and child and the cruel sacrifice of his friend forced strength into him. Death beckoned, but for now would be denied.
CHAPTER SIXTY-FOUR
The guards brought him food and water after they returned him to the vaulted cellar. They said it was to help him endure the punishing quaresima, the forty days’ torture that awaited him. His wounds were festering and he could feel their poison beginning to claw at his strength. They no longer bound him and he paced the dank cellar using the weak light from the burning torch to search out any loose brick that might allow him to break through one of the walls. His grudging respect for the skill of the masons’ work offered no comfort. A voice carried down the passageway and then a muffled argument, and after a few moments the sturdy gate was opened. Guards levelled their pikes to keep Blackstone at bay as two others came in and placed lanterns on the floor. The light reached up to the arched ceiling and the beckoning hand of God to his angels. As the men backed away Blackstone stared in disbelief at Aelis, who stepped into the warm glow.
‘Are you sure, my lady?’ asked one of the nervous guards.
Aelis turned. ‘I told you, Lord Bernabò has sent me. Defy him at your peril. Now leave us.’
The guards looked uncertainly at each other and then obeyed her. Who were they to argue with their lord’s woman?
Blackstone made no attempt to go to her. They stood facing each other. She was carrying her satchel and her concern for Blackstone was obvious. ‘Thomas, you’ve more scars to bear.’ She kept her distance, sensing his suspicion.
‘Are you with the Princess?’
‘No. I am with the Lord of Milan.’
‘You whored yourself to him?’
‘I did what was necessary. I am who I am.’
‘And are you here to poison me?’
‘I am here to treat your wounds,’ she said and opened her satchel.
‘He sent you?’
‘He doesn’t know I am here.’ She sat on one of the two benches that had been laid out in the form of a cross and which had held Blackstone. ‘There’s not much time. Let me help you.’
The wrench of seeing Gaillard killed and now the shock of Aelis being in the same room and mistress to his enemy made him falter. The memory of her touch was too recent and he yearned for such tenderness again. Yearned for it but rejected it.
‘I don’t need your help, Aelis.’
‘Our lives are still entwined, Thomas. You will need strength and those wounds weaken you. And your pride will stop you from fulfilling your destiny. Yield, Thomas, for once in your life.’ She lowered her eyes. ‘I beg you.’
He could not resist the gossamer spell she still cast over him. He sat next to her. She dabbed lotion on his wounds and he immediately felt the sting leave them as the cooling liquid soothed his torn flesh.
‘These balms and lotions here,’ she said, her fingers touching the bottles in the satchel, ‘these are what will close the skin and heal.’ After a few moments she began wiping the dried blood from his face. He saw her dark eyes were filled with tears. Her voice softened, as if with regret. ‘I saw it all, Thomas, did I not?’
He nodded. ‘The hand of friendship. Yes. De Chauliac betrayed me.’ He studied her for a moment. ‘As have you.’
She made no effort to deny his accusation. ‘I knew where I would be at the end, Thomas. All of this is out of our hands,’ she said as she cleaned and bound a deep wound on his arm whose split flesh was grimy with dirt and yellow pus already congealing. A knife wound had slashed the muscles in his thigh. She soaked and bound a strip of cloth around it. There were so many nicks and cuts on his body that she could not treat them all. But the most threatening had been attended to. She closed her satchel.
‘It is not yet over.’ She put her lips against his and he tasted her tears. ‘You wear your wife’s crucifix and the goddess of the silver wheel at your throat. Women protect you. Goodbye, Thomas, and thank you for my life.’
Before he could answer she got up and called for the guard. The gate opened and clanged closed behind her. Alone in the silence he suddenly felt bereft of all that he had held dear: wife, daughter, lover and friends. He gazed up at the beckoning Almighty. Blackstone almost went down on his knees to pray, but did not. He would live or die on his own terms. God would not help him now.
*
Galeazzo rode under escort to the cells beneath Bernabò’s palace. He had sent no word of his impending visit to his brother, wanting instead to see Blackstone’s captured men for himself and to hear from their mouths the bitter truth of what had been relayed to him. Fifty armed men flanked him as he demanded entrance and before any of Bernabò’s guards could escape to warn their lord, Galeazzo’s men blocked their way. Torches were lit and lanterns raised as he was taken along the pitch-black tunnel to their cell, which had been built more than a hundred years before. Water ran down the walls and rats scurried across the dirt floor at their approach. The stench of confined men told him that they were close. A jailer put an ancient key into a door lock and two of Galeazzo’s men stepped inside holding aloft their burning torches. Galeazzo covered his nose with a perfumed handkerchief. Straw had been scattered across the floor; a bucket served as a latrine. He glanced at the bedraggled-looking men who shielded their eyes from the light. All seemed to be wounded. Some had torn their shirts for bandaging and bound their wounds. Four of Galeazzo’s men crowded in behind him, swords in hand.
‘Which of you is Sir Gilbert Killbere?’ said Galeazzo. His eyes scanned the men and then one of them, using the wall for support, stood. His beard was matted with dried blood, and he nursed one arm. A torn strip of cloth was bound around his thigh.
‘My lord?’ said Killbere, respectfully acknowledging the finely clothed man. ‘Have you come to throw me to the dogs?’
‘What?’ said Galeazzo.
‘Your guards took one of us and threw him to the hounds.’
Galeazzo looked at these men as one by one they got to their feet. Despite their wounds they looked ready to fight. One of the guards behind Galeazzo took a pace forward but Galeazzo raised a hand and stopped him.
‘I know nothing of your comrade. I am Galeazzo, Lord of Milan. You witnessed an attack on the Princess Isabelle. I want to hear about it from you.’
Another man, so tall he was obliged to stoop beneath the low ceiling, spoke up. His untidy black beard was matted and his thick hair tied back with a leather cord. ‘Led by a man called Grimo. Before I cut his throat he offered me work with Lord Bernabò Visconti.’
‘Three hundred men lay in wait for the French royal guard a
nd the Princess. They would have slaughtered them all were it not for Sir Thomas Blackstone. Where is he? Have you killed him?’ said Killbere.
‘I have not,’ said Galeazzo dismissively. ‘Prove to me that these men were not waiting to ambush your sworn lord. He is our blood enemy.’
Killbere stepped closer so that the light fell clearly on his face. ‘We dressed a boy as the Princess as bait and came up behind the routiers. They wanted her dead and we stopped them.’
‘Three hundred men? You slew them all?’
‘And hanged their bodies as warning,’ said another of the prisoners, a stocky man with crow’s feet scars on his head.
‘Your son would be without a bride were it not for Sir Thomas,’ said Killbere.
Galeazzo glanced at the men once more and then turned on his heel. Darkness fell as the door slammed closed with a final jangle of keys and the sound of the lock being turned.
*
Aelis lay across the silk sheets as Bernabò raised himself from her. He was sweating from his exertions as she reached for the carafe of wine. She poured two goblets and handed one to him. He looked at her warily.
‘Only a trusted servant pours my wine,’ he said.
‘I am here to serve you, my lord.’
‘You are here to obey me,’ said Bernabò and pushed his goblet into her hand, taking hers in its place. ‘Drink.’
Without hesitation Aelis drank a mouthful of wine.
‘All of it,’ said Bernabò.
She did as he demanded.
‘All right,’ he said and quaffed the wine back, spilling it down the side of his mouth into his beard. ‘More. Pour more,’ he commanded. She stepped closer and took his goblet, but he snatched her wrist. ‘I will be done with you and then you can go back to the Princess, but while you are in my bed you are here for my pleasure, you do not defy me by visiting the Englishman. Did you think I wouldn’t hear of it?’
Aelis winced with pain as his grip tightened. ‘Forgive me, my lord, I went to put balm on his wounds because you said he would be tortured. If he was weak from them he would die quickly. I thought only to please you.’