by David Gilman
* * *
Le Stinche, the municipal prison, had stood for sixty years and the place reeked. Putrid vomit and excrement assailed Henry’s nostrils as he and his police escort approached downwind along the Via del Luvio. Men, women and children were separated inside the prison walls and he was grateful that he was placed in a single cell. There was barely enough light to see the scuffed straw on the floor that served as a bed or the wooden pail for his ablutions. Cries of agony punctuated with screams of excruciating pain echoed around the damp walls. He shuddered. Torture was a daily occurrence in Le Stinche and no matter how hard he tried to block out the terrified sounds he could not. He found a prayer to recite until the monotony of his whispered words made him fall asleep.
He awoke in darkness, so black that he could not see his hand in front of his face. It had to be night. He rolled into the straw and curled in on himself. Whatever the outcome of his arrest he suspected he would need his strength – it was a lesson learnt from his father – so he let himself sleep once more.
A key turned in the lock and the heavy door opened. He blinked awake without any idea of how long he had slept. A dark-cloaked figure pressed past the jailer. It was the same man who escorted him to Florence, one of the hospitaller order, the Knights of the Tau, who were sworn to offer protection to those travelling between places of worship on pilgrimage. If Fra Pietro Foresti was here, Henry knew, then it had been Niccolò Torellini who had sent him.
‘Come,’ said the cloaked figure and without waiting for any reply turned away from the door.
Once they reached the street Henry blinked in the sunlight. The Tau knight strode ahead along the northern side of the prison walls onto the Via del Palagio, past vegetable sellers on the other side of the street who were crying out, enticing shoppers to buy their wares.
‘My school’s not down here,’ said Henry.
‘Did I give you permission to speak?’
‘No, but this is the wrong way.’
Fra Foresti ignored him.
‘May I speak, Fra Pietro?’
‘You’re an educated boy. Had you employed that education and spoken to those who attacked you, your circumstances might not be as they are.’
Henry Blackstone kept pace with the striding hospitaller.
‘Well?’ said Fra Foresti. ‘Rats chewed your tongue in Le Stinche?’
‘You had not given me permission to speak,’ said Henry.
Fra Foresti slapped him across the back of his head. It stung. Henry winced. Fra Foresti had not broken stride. ‘You’re insolent.’
‘I meant no offence,’ said Henry. Although the boy had appeared disrespectful, the opposite was the truth. Another of the young Tau knight’s order had died trying to save Henry’s mother and sister just over three years before. ‘They were intent on wounding me, perhaps more. Words would have been of no use, Fra Pietro.’
‘A civilized man only kills when every avenue has been explored.’
‘There was no avenue,’ said Henry. ‘They blocked it with their knives.’ He cast a glance at the Tau knight. He felt certain he saw the corner of his mouth twitch in what might have been the beginning of a smile.
As they walked past a merchant’s house Fra Foresti suddenly grabbed Henry’s collar and pushed him into the doorway. He glanced up and down the street, nodded to someone unseen in the crowd behind them and then pushed open the heavy, ornately carved door. A servant ran from the cool interior of the house. From what Henry could see the servant had been expecting them and with a gesture urged them to follow him. They strode across marble tiled floors beneath a vaulted portico, then stepped into a colonnade bordering a fragrant garden with the comforting sound of a gurgling fountain. Henry saw that there was a gallery on each of the two floors of the house and silk curtains swayed in the breeze; there was little doubt that the dwelling belonged to a wealthy Florentine merchant. They followed the servant up the wide steps to the first-floor gallery. A door was opened and they stepped inside. A man in his sixties, his clothing denoting his status and wealth, bowed in greeting and respect to the Tau knight. Then he turned on his heel and left the gallery through another door. The room extended across the windows and the Tau knight stepped around the room’s dividing wall and looked back at him. Henry stepped forward and saw Father Niccolò Torellini sitting in a chair in front of the open window, the delicate silk blinds moving gently from the breeze.
‘Father Torellini,’ said Henry, bowing.
‘Henry, we thought you had been involved in a street brawl but it appears there was more to the attack than we thought.’ He gestured to a table that held food and drink. ‘Eat.’
Fra Foresti stepped to the window as Henry reached hungrily for the tray of cut meats and flagon of wine. He forced himself to refrain from stuffing his mouth like a starving man. As desperate as he was to eat and drink he knew he was being observed by the influential bankers’ priest.
‘Since you came to Florence under my protection I have had you watched and followed. The incident that took place yesterday seemed at first observance to be nothing more than rival youths fighting among themselves. You moved so quickly through the crowds the man I had following you lost sight of you. No matter, you are unhurt and another’s blood has stained the pavement. We traced the other three boys. They were persuaded to confess.’
Henry washed down the meat with a mouthful of wine. Being persuaded to confess meant only one thing. He imagined the screams he had heard in prison belonging to those boys.
‘The boy you killed was Filippo Bascoli. He came from a poor family, like the other three, and had been paid by a stranger to attack you. They intended to kill you.’
‘Who paid him?’ said Henry. His stomach had knotted and the food stuck halfway in his gut. If someone had been bribed as an assassin then others would follow.
Torellini nodded as if he had read his thoughts. ‘They failed this time. None of the boys knows who approached their dead friend. He gave them a small payment to go along with him. We are faced with a dilemma, Henry. If a rich man’s son whom you might have injured in sport, or insulted, sought to cleanse his wounded pride by paying these young men, then we do not know whether the death of the antagonist will stop him from doing so again. If it is an extension of the vendetta from the Visconti against the Blackstone family, then assuredly they will try again.’
‘I could continue my studies in another city. Would they find out?’
‘You are right, that might serve the purpose and secure your safety. I have sent for your clothes.’
‘And my books?’
‘And your books,’ Torellini said smiling. ‘But we will not take the risk of relocating you. The fratelli of Tau are sworn to protect pilgrims and as it happens a small party are due to travel to Canterbury. Four of the Knights of the Tau safeguard their journey along the Via Francigena. I too will travel. We go to our ally the Marquis de Montferrat in Lombardy, a friend to your father, and his guides will take us across the pass in the Alps. Then we will ride to the Pope at Avignon. The Bardi have a house there where you and I and Fra Foresti will stay.’
‘I remember that house, Father Torellini. You once took my mother and us children there when the Savage Priest hunted us.’
‘Quite so, Master Henry. Well remembered. It seems that the name of Blackstone will always draw those seeking death to your family. For now we are guests of a friend. We are safe and I have men watching the street. I have arranged for you to bathe and sleep here and then we leave at first light. Our party will separate until we are beyond the city walls. Each group will leave by different gates in case there are people still looking for you. We will use the Porta della Giustizia.’ Torellini saw the significance of the east gate cross Henry’s features. It was where criminals were hanged. ‘Yes, Henry, you will see those who attacked you hanging from the gibbet. They attempted murder and had they been allowed to live they would have spoken of your survival. That news will be known soon enough, no doubt, but we must delay it reac
hing the ears of those who commissioned the crime. The harshest sentence was passed on them. They were hanged this morning.’
Henry felt a twinge of regret for the three boys. They had been bribed to accompany the killer and now they had paid the price. Boys from poor families dying for a few pitiful coins in their purse.
‘Will I stay at Avignon and continue my studies?’
‘No, Henry. I doubt that even there you are safe. There is only one place where you will be. Once we arrive I will find out where your father is and deliver you to his side.’
CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR
Blackstone knew that finding the woman called Felice was a near impossibility. They would question villagers and itinerant travellers as they rode further south and perhaps that fickle bitch Fate would bless him with the information he needed. William Cade and Gruffydd ap Madoc had obviously separated and the hordes of mercenaries that were known to be gathering in the south would soon be confronting the French army. After Guillouic’s men had been killed Beyard had left to ride south to try and recruit other Gascons to join Blackstone. Distances proved hard to predict accurately and Blackstone’s intended week’s ride to the monastery at Saint-André-de-Babineaux took twelve days once they had rested after killing Guillouic and his men. Their route crossed broken ground, coarse grassland and boulders that made the going hard, and rivers that flowed in strength, which meant the men took longer to find a ford. They had to be careful in the mountains and forests to find a route that did not place them on narrow tracks where an ambush could be sprung. The vast Auvergne wilderness could not be policed easily by the French and was a favoured retreat for routiers when conditions became difficult in the lowland areas. Once gathered in strength they would use the mountainous terrain to sweep down into the Loire valley and beyond. But the routiers were not completely invulnerable. Food and supplies were short in this harsh landscape, which meant they could be isolated and hunted down by local lords and their militia.
Alain de la Grave had remained sullen during the slow trek south and bore the brunt of John Jacob’s temper when he failed to attend to his duties in an efficient manner each night the men camped. John Jacob said he wished Henry was still with them as his page rather than the self-centred French boy. Blackstone had said little to Alain but he could see that resentment still burned in the boy. Killbere’s advice to kick his arse was ignored. Young men needed time to wrestle with their grief. Anger was Alain’s response to it, Blackstone told him.
By the time Blackstone and his men sighted the monastery at Saint-André-de-Babineaux it seemed the boy had accepted his lot. As Blackstone’s men approached the widening valley they rode through scattered hamlets, with small timber-framed houses hugging close together and tumbling downhill boulder-like: a handful on the approach; a dozen more further on within the valley, on left and right. Most of these small hovels had fallen thatch roofs. Some were burnt out; others had collapsed through neglect. There was no sign of life. The wicker pens that had once held livestock were broken down or rotten. Forlorn doors swung half open on snapped leather hinges.
‘Skinners have been here, Sir Thomas,’ said Meulon. ‘A while back, but they left nothing.’
‘Except the monastery,’ said Will Longdon, pointing towards the honey-coloured stone buildings in the distance that had been built into the lower craggy slopes. Some of the cloistered buildings bore grey slate roofs, others warm terracotta tiles. A four-storey tower rose up beyond its small church. Other buildings sat in a regulated square design around the central courtyard. The monastery had a fine view across the valley floor and was bathed in the southern light and warmth for much of the day.
John Jacob rang the bell at the entrance. Moments later a leather- faced monk opened the viewing hatch. John Jacob declared that Sir Thomas Blackstone, King Edward of England’s envoy, requested hospitality for himself and another knight and their men. He passed through the document bearing the orders given to Blackstone by Sir John Chandos. The King’s seal would give the prior sufficient assurance that the men at his walls offered no threat. The hatch closed and the men waited as the sound of sandals scuffing the stone floor retreated. It seemed that no sooner had they gone than they hurriedly returned.
‘Told to get his arse back to the gate and let a King’s envoy be given shelter,’ grunted Killbere. ‘I need a hot bath and meat on my plate. Benedictines are a sour lot but if they have a misericord then at least they’ll break the rules and eat meat.’ He suddenly looked concerned. ‘There’ll be meat, d’you think? I didn’t catch any stench of livestock.’
‘Gruel most likely,’ teased Blackstone as the gate was opened and the monk gestured them towards the stables and dormitory. ‘Gruel and sore knees. We’ll be expected to pray for our supper.’
‘Then I shall pray they let us kill a pig or have a ham already prepared in their smoke house,’ said Killbere as they dismounted in front of the stables. John Jacob took Blackstone’s horse’s reins and quickly led him into a far stall away from the others.
‘Captains, see to the horses – we’ll pay for feed. Then bed down in the dormitory. Tait,’ Blackstone called, ‘in case you and your men haven’t been guests at a monastery before, we do not drink ourselves into a stupor, we do not fight and we attend prayers at vespers and matins. We are under the prior’s roof and we behave accordingly.’
‘Aye, Sir Thomas. Understood,’ said the hobelar.
The porter monk stood back, waiting for Blackstone to join him. ‘I’ll pay my respects,’ said Blackstone. ‘Coming?’
Killbere’s face crumpled. He glanced around at the monks in their black habits who tended their vegetable gardens. ‘I am never comfortable surrounded by scurrying crows pecking away in the dirt. I’ll stay with the men.’
‘As you wish,’ said Blackstone and followed the gatekeeper monk.
‘Thomas,’ Killbere hissed, putting fingers between his lips indicating food. ‘Don’t forget to ask about the meat.’
* * *
Blackstone followed the porter past a wood yard and vegetable plots where a dozen monks bent at their labours. Some were lay brothers, not tonsured, and used mostly for labour to alleviate the burden on the monks whose time would be better spent in study and prayer. Most likely local men who had sought sanctuary from the threat of brigands and who wanted little more than a dry bed and a meal each day. They dared to raise their cowl-covered heads, giving the tall fighting man a sideways glance before quickly returning to their tasks. Opposite the stone-laid path that Blackstone trod was an arched entrance leading to the church and cloisters and beyond that the quickening breeze told his nose that there was livestock. He went through the arch and saw goats, sheep and cows penned in the distance and protected by walled enclosures. A number of two-storey buildings extended beyond one side of the church, and opposite these were the granary, bakery and workshops. He guessed that there would be near enough forty monks and a prior living there. They were self-sufficient with vegetables, livestock, milk and cheese, and honey if they had hives out on the edge of the trees that ran alongside the soft meadow valley beyond the walls.
The weathered porter moved quickly into the cloisters. The dull light was still bright enough to expose the column’s capitals; carved grimacing faces stared blindly at Blackstone as he went deeper into the shadows. Blackstone’s stonemason’s eye admired the skill of the craftsmen who had cut and laid the walls hundreds of years before. The old monk stepped aside, ushering Blackstone into a bare room with a boarded corner that served as a bed, and gestured silently for him to wait. The monks indulged in speech only after midday prayers and the bell for sext had already started its steady clanging. Blackstone looked through the small window. The monks had abandoned their tools and were washing their hands in a water trough before hurrying to prayer. Other monks in ancient times had planned these buildings carefully, he thought. A tributary that tumbled down from the forested hills must feed their well. It was a mystery to him why such a place had not been pillaged for t
he wealth of its food if not for any silver in its chapel. There would be reliquaries and plate and most likely relics of saints that could be plundered.
Blackstone ran a hand across the bare-planked bed nook. The walls were boxed with the same wood. At least that would offer some warmth from the chill of the stone walls. He had shared a room similar to these in another monastery a lifetime ago with his wife and children. They had been pursued by a vile enemy then but had escaped. Almost. Blackstone had been obliged to abandon Christiana and she had been raped. It had been John Jacob who had rescued her and saved Blackstone’s son Henry. The room suddenly pressed in on him. He stepped outside, ever wary of a situation that seemed normal in violent times. Could these monks be something else? Disguised routiers? Did they draw outsiders in and kill them in their sleep? He cursed himself for having such thoughts. Better to concentrate on where he and his men might make a stand if this place were attacked. That series of small stone houses that were, he guessed, given over to retreat or meditation? Each had a walled garden so anyone attempting to strike hard and fast would have sufficient obstacles in their path. If his own men were caught in the open during the coming days this monastery could serve as a stronghold. All these inner walls would make it a good defensive position.
