by David Gilman
‘Sire?’ said Bucy.
King Charles V gazed at the elder statesman with a tolerance that bordered on affection. Bucy had made his choice to support him when he was Dauphin rather than the King who had not wanted war, a man burdened by the English treaties, a monarch who suffered personal humiliation eight years before when he was captured by the Prince of Wales at Poitiers. Edward of Woodstock now held the duchy of an enlarged territory in Aquitaine and resided in Bordeaux, one of the great cities of France. His very presence taunted the nation. Bucy, the man before him, reflected the past as clearly as a mirror.
‘Sire,’ Bucy repeated. ‘Heralds came from Brittany with news of Charles of Blois.’
‘What?’ said the King, his reverie broken by Bucy’s comment.
‘Brittany, sire. Charles of Blois.’
‘Yes?’ Irritability already looming. ‘You intend to keep us in suspense?’
‘I regret to tell you, highness, that Lord Charles is dead. He has lost Brittany.’
Bucy waited for an outburst. There was none. Only the King’s eyes betrayed his sense of loss.
‘Where did he fight?’
‘Auray, sire.’
The King frowned. ‘Auray?’
‘A small town on the Brittany coast, sire,’ Bucy added quickly. ‘It was under siege by John de Montfort, a vital port for the duchy.’
Charles nodded. ‘We understood Blois’s forces outnumbered those of John de Montfort.’
‘So they inform us.’
‘And yet he lost.’
‘Sir John Chandos took command, sire. Had it been otherwise de Montfort would have failed – I am sure of it.’
‘Chandos. Yes. We can see how he had the skill. A pity. De Montfort? Did he survive the battle?’
‘Yes.’
The King fussed with his cloak. The courtiers who gathered behind Bucy waited for their new King to express his intent. Scribes sat at small knee desks at the back of the room, quills already scratching across parchment.
‘Then, Simon, he is cradled in the arms of the English and we will deal with him in a generous manner. We will draw him to us through kindness. He has won the right to be called the Duke of Brittany so we will welcome him as such. He is a young man with little experience in politics or diplomacy. We will lure him away from the manipulative Prince of Wales and the King of England.’
‘An excellent strategy, sire.’
‘Simon, do not flatter us. There is no need. We know our strengths and how to employ them. There is more, is there not? We can tell when you have news that will grieve us. We have had your company over the years and know discomfort when we see it.’
‘Quite so, sire. You know me too well. There is another matter. The chamberlain has an Englishman who seeks an audience.’
‘An Englishman. Here? Do we know him?’
‘We do not, highness. He arrived at the city gates with sixty or more men. They are English and Breton routiers. He came in the wake of the news from Auray.’
‘What purpose?’
‘A private matter. I have questioned him.’
‘And you think we should grant him an audience?’
‘I regret to usher such a vile man into your presence but I feel it is important.’
The King nodded, sniffed into his perfume-laced handkerchief and waited as the chamber’s great doors were opened on Bucy’s signal.
Simon Bucy turned to meet the man-at-arms, who bent his knee, head down until Bucy told him to stand.
‘You came from Auray?’ said the King.
‘I did, your grace.’
‘You have further news of Sir John’s victory over Lord Charles de Blois?’
‘Chandos, sire? No, it was not John Chandos who led the battle. It was Thomas Blackstone,’ said Ranulph de Hayle.
CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE
The news brought by de Hayle – that Blackstone had led the attack against the French favourite in Brittany – inflamed an already aggrieved heart. That, and the story the mercenary recounted about the boy who’d witnessed the death of Charles’s cousin Blanche de Bourbon three years before, shook Charles, but his keen mind saw an opportunity. He did not act rashly but spent the following weeks with his advisers. He listened as some outlined an act of war against Don Pedro of Spain, others insisting it better to blockade his ports – a foolish notion given that the Castilian galleys outnumbered those of the French. It was similarly poor advice that had weakened his father but it was not yet time to sweep the court clean of the men whose aim was only to please him. He dismissed them all except for Simon Bucy.
‘Simon, you have remained silent these past weeks.’
‘Your grace, I had affairs of state needing attention. Better that I do what I can while these circumstances demand your time.’
The King looked pensive. He stared across the Paris rooftops and the hive of activity on the city streets and barges on the River Seine. ‘Our France is becoming prosperous again. We have lost much but we will regain it all, of that we are convinced. God will look kindly on our Christian endeavours.’
Bucy had heard the same words being uttered for years but no action had followed to make them a reality. And a council advising war had not yet convinced the young King. No warrior spirit lurked beneath his ermine-lined robes.
‘Sire,’ said the old lawyer: the only word he could muster.
‘Duties aside, you are not usually shy in giving your comments, yet not a word from you, Simon.’ Charles was gracious enough to smile at the old man. ‘The evidence about the death of our cousin Blanche sounds believable to us. Despite Don Pedro’s protestations to the contrary, she was murdered and now we find there is a witness.’
‘Is the ring proof enough, highness?’
Charles nodded, turning the ring in his fingers. ‘I know it. It is plain. A gift that is not ostentatious. It reflects the innocent child she was. She had no craving for precious stones and jewellery. I believe it was that humility which led to her death, so her husband could fornicate with his lewd mistress without further criticism.’
Bucy gave an unconscious shrug and regretted it when he saw the King take notice.
‘You doubt it?’ said Charles.
Bucy did his usual trick of pausing long enough to make the King believe he was giving the matter much thought. How was he to tell the King that the truth was more likely to be the lack of the dowry promised by the old King to Don Pedro when he offered the child bride to cement their alliance? The non-payment from a French King broken by English demands had prompted Don Pedro to abandon Blanche de Bourbon for his lover. ‘Your grace, the ring is evidence enough that it was given, or... taken by someone. Ranulph de Hayle’s story sounds believable. He tells us Don Pedro commissioned him to find the boy. How Don Pedro knew there was a witness has not been explained. It might be that he wishes to lay blame on the King and that it was one of his couriers who commissioned him. The man seeks recompense. He sells his story to you and returns the ring to the royal family. Now he will ride back to Spain and tell Don Pedro, or the King’s agent, that Blackstone holds the boy witness. He will be paid again.’ He shrugged to emphasize that there was some doubt in what the routier had told them. ‘But...’ He sighed. ‘Blackstone. His presence yet again that none could anticipate.’
‘When he was not seen at Cocherel you and every other counsellor thought he had turned from our border back to Gascony. And yet now he has defeated our favoured claimant to Brittany and holds the witness to our cousin’s murder. You’re right. How does he appear yet again in our life? We have a nation to rebuild and yet Blackstone turns up time and again like the pestilence.
‘However,’ Charles continued, ‘if Fate smiles kindly on us and Ranulph de Hayle does as we expect and returns to Don Pedro, then he will advise him that the last time he knew of the boy’s presence it was with Thomas Blackstone. How will the treaty between Castile and the English Prince fare, knowing his Master of War holds the boy?’
‘It is a complication to be
welcomed,’ said Bucy. ‘It makes Don Pedro suspicious of any help extended by the Prince.’
‘Exactly. A welcome outcome that is in our control. We must create the circumstances that will drive Don Pedro from his throne.’
‘Forgive me, highness, but whatever animosity you harbour towards Don Pedro, I urge you not to go to war. Do not be drawn into conflict or hope to entrap Blackstone. If he is involved in this matter, we have no way of knowing how, or where he will be in the future.’
Charles dabbed his nose. ‘He will go to Spain.’
Bucy could not hide his disbelief.
‘Did you think we would declare war?’ The King laughed and settled himself in a chair. A servant darted forward and poured wine into a silver goblet. ‘It is a game of chess between us and the Prince of Wales.’
Bucy shook his head. Was he becoming so feeble-minded that he could not keep up with the young King’s rapid thoughts? ‘I... I fail to understand the connection.’
‘We made our decision weeks ago when de Hayle was paid for his story. We sent de Bagneaux south to negotiate with the King of Aragon’s chamberlain.’
Bucy’s mind raced. Sending his confidential secretary Gontier de Bagneaux to open negotiations with Castile’s enemy, Aragon, had required such secrecy that they’d kept even him in the dark. But to what end?
‘Your dismay is plain to see,’ said the King. ‘Have no qualms. We wanted you here close to us. You were correct in thinking affairs of state needed attention when our efforts were needed elsewhere. We had to be seen to be doing something, which is why the counsellors were engaged. No one knew.’
‘How do the Prince of Wales and Blackstone fit into this, highness?’
Charles watched servants stack more wood onto the fire. The flames leapt. He huddled in his cloak. He was cold all the time. His frailty was a concern to the likes of Bucy, but where the body faltered the mind’s projection was as sharp and true as a well-aimed arrow. ‘We have the Englishman Hugh Calveley and his men waiting in Languedoc with our brother Louis.’
‘Was he not contracted to fight other routiers in the south?’
The King nodded. His thin lips showed yellowed teeth. Bucy saw the sewer rat’s cunning. His voice fell to barely more than a whisper that seethed with energy. ‘I have made plans over these past weeks, Simon. Hugh Calveley will not ride against the routiers, he will lead them.’
Bucy broke protocol and stepped rapidly towards the King, drawn by his explanation that suddenly filled the old man’s heart with hope. The future opened before him. This bold, calculated act was the beginning of France’s resurgence. ‘And... and the Prince of Wales will do what?’ he asked himself and then answered his own question. ‘It is already too late to form an army, but he will need to protect Don Pedro. He will send his Master of War, Thomas Blackstone.’
‘And if good fortune smiles on us, Simon, we rid ourselves of him at last.’
CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO
Bordeaux, capital of the mighty principality of Aquitaine, offered red wine fit for a king. A man ought to savour its sun-blessed richness on his tongue, though most quaffed it with a determination suggesting it might be their last mouthful. Brothels were plentiful but controlled by the city fathers; bathhouses kept its citizens and itinerant soldiers cleansed of lice. It was a city alive with merchants and travellers and a new hope bred by the Prince’s presence. Blackstone’s men had yet to enjoy what the city offered. There were no street entertainers or dancing bears where they were confined. Narrow alleys stank of piss and excrement. Pigs ran freely, snuffling household waste, and men’s voices echoed through the labyrinthine passages as they caroused or fought.
Blackstone and Killbere sat huddled in the corner of a tavern. Weeks had passed since their arrival in Bordeaux. They had expected a warm welcome from a grateful Prince; instead their men were kept on the far reaches of the city, encamped beyond its walls. Merchants and stallholders feared the fighting men’s presence within the city walls and had petitioned the Prince’s chamberlain, who had granted their wish. Blackstone had refused to allow the city officials to separate Halif ben Josef from them and went with him to Mont Judaïque, the hilltop Jewish quarter. They found a room for him at Arrua Judega and, after ensuring his comfort and safety among his own people they camped a short distance away close to one of the gates to the city at Port Judaea. Their horses were stabled and fed but the men were allowed only to the taverns where whores plied their trade. There had still been no sign of the Prince, nor any summons to the palace.
‘Whores, Jews and fighting men: we are all outcast one way or another,’ said John Jacob as he put three large clay jars filled with wine on the table.
‘Is he in bed with his Lady Joan, do you think, Thomas? He has the sexual appetite of a goat despite his Christian piety,’ said Killbere.
‘I don’t know why we cannot gain an audience with him. If Chandos is right and he’s ill then we need to know. A weak Prince leaves Aquitaine exposed and if I am to protect him and the duchy, then I should be told,’ said Blackstone.
John Jacob settled down on the bench and nodded towards two men-at-arms who shared a table with their women. ‘I was speaking to those two—’
‘The whores?’ interrupted Killbere. ‘I thought you were choosy about that kind of thing, John.’
‘The men with them, Sir Gilbert: they were saying the Prince had a great tournament here. Hundreds took part. There were thousands of horses and he paid for it out of his own purse.’
Killbere scowled. ‘And they treat us like lepers.’
‘He took part, but he fell when he was dismounted. Rumours were a piece of a lance had pierced him. But word is that he didn’t seem to be hurt.’
‘There’ll be a reason,’ said Blackstone. ‘But it won’t be a fall from a horse. He’s fought in tourneys before and the lances would have been crowned. No, it’s something else that keeps us from him.’
‘As long as he doesn’t think we pissed in his wine barrels. Thomas, the wait is too long. We’ll have trouble with the men, mark my words. Keeping us confined here is too frustrating. There’s a city waiting to be enjoyed.’
‘I know. It worries me as well. And there are no walls to build to keep the men busy and no forays into the hills looking for brigands.’ Blackstone’s own frustration was obvious.
‘Perhaps if we had brought some of those you ransomed at Auray, Sir Thomas, they’d have let us further into the city,’ said John Jacob. ‘There’s a thriving business in Bordeaux of selling and exchanging prisoners and armour. The Prince has no issue with it; in fact from what I’ve heard he encourages it.’
‘He’s a soldier’s soldier; he likes the world we live in. He let Navarre cross through Gascony without hindrance and he has little love for him – I think it was partly because his heart went with him to fight the French. He’ll rejoice in our victory when the feasting starts again. Our success is his glory. Where’s Lázaro?’
‘With Beyard. He’s teaching him how to serve a man-at- arms. He bought the lad new clothes and boots today. He found a Jewish stallholder who brought clothes back to the quarter.’
‘Well, we’re wasting time. Gilbert, you and John have the captains check on the men. I want no trouble here. If there are arguments over women, then pay them. I’ll not give the arse-clenching officials any excuse.’ He swallowed the last of the wine and pushed the heavy table away from him.
‘Where are you going?’ said Killbere, saving his wine from spilling.
‘To insist on seeing the Prince.’
Killbere groaned. ‘Thomas, in God’s name say nothing untoward.’
‘I want a commission, Gilbert. We’re not garrison soldiers. If I don’t get these men into a fight soon, then half of them will end up with ropes around their necks. And if it came to that my own would be in a noose.’
Killbere nodded. ‘Like I said, Thomas, watch what you say. He’s as hot-tempered as you. We might all be hearing the creak of the rope’s song.’
&nbs
p; *
Sir Nigel Loring, the Prince’s chamberlain, stood ramrod straight in the great hall of the Prince’s palace at Bordeaux. His sallow features reflected many hours trapped in dimly lit rooms poring over documents of state. Loring was a man of influence but it was an unhealthy price to pay for such power, Blackstone thought as he waited for the Prince to enter. They had kept him waiting for far too long since his return from Brittany. A sure sign that something Blackstone had done displeased the Prince. Blackstone’s stomach growled. He had been standing for two hours. No food had passed his lips since yesterday and now that the wine had cleared from his head, insisting on an audience with the Prince had begun to feel like a bad idea.
‘He will not be pleased at your demand,’ said the chamberlain.
‘I’m not too pleased myself. My stomach thinks my throat has been cut, my head is thumping from Gascon red and the coating on my tongue is rough enough to tan a cow’s hide. I am at my Prince’s convenience but I am not a beggar at the door. Getting past your petty officials and gown-clad clerks who are more familiar with their quills than their cocks is worse than fighting through French lines. He knows I’m here?’
‘Your manner is unbecoming,’ said Loring.
‘I am holding my manner on a tight rein and observing the protocol of this place, my lord chamberlain, but beyond these walls and this city, there is a world of misery and my men have endured it.’