Scourge of Wolves_Master of War

by David Gilman

  Time passed and his thoughts settled. There was no denying that the solitude of the monastery and its natural surroundings created a calmness within him. Such feelings could lull a man into carelessness when in enemy-held territory. He grunted to himself: You will not seduce me. He kissed the silver-wheeled goddess at his throat and then tucked her away. Better to let the small crucifix he wore next to her be visible in such a place.

  The porter reappeared, beckoned and waited for Blackstone to join him. ‘The prior will see you, Sir Thomas,’ said the monk, now that he was allowed to break his silence.

  The prior stood before a window that showed an elevated view of the valley below. He was younger than Blackstone expected, a man most likely to have seen forty years of life, but not the venerable sage that so many monasteries had at their head. He extended the folded document that identified Blackstone.

  ‘I am Prior Albert. You are welcome here, Sir Thomas. I have arranged for our armourer to give your men quarters in our dormitorium.’

  ‘Thank you, Father. We will pay for the care and feed of our horses.’

  ‘I am grateful. We are self-sufficient but contributions are welcome, as are you and your men. Routiers have been slowly cleared from these valleys by levies of the Seneschal but the threat is always there and I hope you are here to attend to those who remain. Levies are not experienced fighting men.’ His eyes noted Blackstone’s stature. ‘Unlike you and your men. You are here to sweep away those who still blight this region?’

  Blackstone tucked the document into his jupon. ‘I have orders to reclaim towns in the name of my King,’ he answered. ‘I have sent one of my captains south to recruit more men. I have given this monastery as the place they should return to.’

  A frown creased the prior’s brow. ‘I doubt we have sufficient food to cater for the men you have now; if they increase in numbers then we will certainly not have enough supplies.’

  ‘A meal a day for my men for two days will be ample, Father. I have bowmen with me who can hunt and bring in fresh meat, which we’ll willingly share—’

  The prior raised a hand. ‘We follow the Rule, Sir Thomas. We do not eat the flesh of four-legged beasts. Fowl, yes, but nothing more. You are aware of this, surely?’

  ‘Indeed, but I see you have a misericord. Does that not mean you allow your monks to eat meat or cooked offal on the non-fasting days? The refectory remains your sanctuary for the strictness of the Rule.’

  Prior Albert smiled. ‘Your eyes are as sharp as your knowledge of our discipline. And you are familiar with some of our weaknesses.’ He shrugged. ‘Yes, we allow meat on certain days but not partaken in the refectory. If you wish to hunt then we will accept your offering.’

  So, Blackstone thought, there it was. The monks bent the Rule of their founder, that was common enough. What else might influence them to be less strict about their behaviour other than their desire to taste meat? Could they be bought by routiers? Is that what kept them unmolested? ‘I have asked myself why you have been spared any assault from the routiers.’ Blackstone’s tone challenged the prior.

  The prior nodded. ‘It is a fair question.’ He raised a hand to gesture towards the distant view. ‘You saw the ruined houses when you rode here?’

  ‘We did. Which is why I asked. If they raided and burned the villages then they would have stormed these walls and seized anything of value. You and your monks would be dead.’

  ‘It was not routiers, my son, it was the pestilence. It swept through these valleys a year ago. No more than two days’ journey on foot was a Franciscan priory. Not one of the thirty friars survived.’

  Blackstone sensed the Benedictine monk was not too distressed by the death of those from another order.

  ‘Most of the stones from their buildings were put to good use,’ said Father Albert. ‘Here,’ he added in what appeared to be an apologetic tone. ‘To strengthen our walls. Just in case of attack.’

  ‘But you were not harmed by the plague. You and the brothers,’ said Blackstone. ‘So you stayed here… in safety. Did you not help those who needed it?’

  ‘Those who left the safety of these walls to help the infected died the same agonizing death. I ordered the houses boarded up, and where the pestilence was most virulent I had the houses burnt.’

  ‘With those infected inside?’

  The prior showed no sign of regret. ‘Sir Thomas, when the boils burst the stench is beyond description. We burned every corpse. Two hundred people died in this valley, including eight of my fellow brothers.’ He gazed out across the ruined hovels. ‘We left the ruins in place and marked their doors with the sign of the plague and no routier dared venture near us.’

  ‘We saw no red crosses on any door when we rode in.’

  ‘They are there, my son. Faded, perhaps, but there. And the news of the plague that killed every living soul in this place spread as quickly as the pestilence itself. We have been left in peace ever since. And, as I told you, we are blessed that there are those in these valleys who kill routiers for the vermin they are. I suggest you rest here for a few days; time passes slowly here and we find it gives men a chance to pray and reflect. See the week out. We have sufficient food. You would be most welcome and I would be pleased to share a meal with you and to hear how the peace treaty goes. I beg you, do not deny me the pleasure of your company.’

  ‘Your gracious invitation is most welcome, Father Albert,’ said Blackstone. Good manners always helped an invitation to be extended and gaining the trust of the prior might yield more information.

  ‘Excellent,’ said the Prior. ‘And once you and your men are rested and have enjoyed the succour of mass then you can acquaint yourself with those who share your intent to rid us of those devil’s sons.’

  ‘And where would I find them?’

  ‘Two, perhaps three days’ ride from here you will find Countess Catherine de Val.’

  ‘And her husband?’

  ‘Dead. Killed by routiers.’

  ‘And she has soldiers to protect her?’

  ‘Yes. At the Château de Felice.’

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE

  ‘It’s not a woman’s name, Gilbert, it’s a château. And she has armed men behind the walls,’ Blackstone said.

  ‘William Cade?’ asked Killbere as he and Blackstone hunched over a plate of food, along with their men, in the guesthouse. A flickering candle on the rough table between them dripped wax onto the scrubbed tabletop.

  ‘I don’t know,’ said Blackstone, toying with the melting wax. ‘I questioned the prior and found the route. We leave at first light.’

  ‘We’re going to assault a castle?’ said Killbere, wiping his plate with a piece of torn bread and then cleaning his eating knife on his sleeve.

  ‘I don’t know what we’ll do until we get there, but if good fortune has smiled on us then Cade might also fall into our hands. And if we find him we find ap Madoc and the gold and then we avenge Peter Garland.’

  Killbere glanced around the refectory. ‘They’re meagre with their servings here.’ He winced, and his belly growled. ‘If I could find one of the lay monks he might be persuaded to grace my plate with more food. Would they be offended if I asked for more? Anyway, it makes no sense William Cade going to a place that has kept brigands at bay.’

  Blackstone pushed his plate forward. ‘Finish this.’

  Killbere happily obliged. ‘I know you, Thomas. When your hunger deserts you it means impatience rules your belly not your head.’

  ‘We need to rest the horses but I’m tempted to leave now.’

  Killbere eased a piece of food from a tooth. ‘As I feared. A day’s rest hurts no one. Neither man nor beast. Did you ask about whether they would permit us to eat meat? This pottage is little better than Will Longdon’s fare and my knife barely cut the cheese. Why not stay a few days, let him and Jack go and hunt? Put strength back into us. Some of the men still carry wounds; they may be slight but they can irritate a man in a fight, and if you’ve a mind to
go scaling walls and street fighting, then we’ll need every man here. And if Cade is there then we need to find out more.’

  Killbere watched his friends who seemed distracted. ‘Thomas, you’re already planning an attack. I can see it.’

  ‘Not yet, Gilbert. Not until we see what we’re facing. Did you see any plague crosses on the doors of those ruined hovels when we rode in?’

  ‘Most of them didn’t have doors, just wicker shutters. But on the others? I didn’t notice. Why?’

  ‘Prior Albert said the plague killed everyone around here and that it kept the skinners away.’

  ‘Understandable, Thomas. If we had known then perhaps we would not have come this way.’

  ‘Yes. Perhaps.’ Blackstone appeared distracted. ‘Something’s not right. We’ll stay two or three days, get some fresh meat and rest.’

  Killbere knew his friend well enough to realize there was more to Blackstone’s change of mind other than resting men and horses. ‘And?’

  ‘We watch and we listen. I’ll go out with Will, and I’ll take John and Meulon with me. Stay alert, Gilbert; these monks are too content.’

  * * *

  Blackstone and those with him left the monastery before nightfall with a blanket roll and dried food. There was no sense sleeping when his instincts had alerted him. They trudged back up the hills towards the ruined houses. Each of them checked the markings on the doors. It appeared that the prior had spoken the truth: there were faded red crosses but they were only visible close to.

  ‘Will, you and Meulon find one of the houses on the lower path. John and I will stay here and keep watch on the track across the ridge. We hunt tomorrow.’

  ‘What are we looking for, Sir Thomas?’ said Meulon.

  Blackstone shook his head. ‘I don’t know but I don’t like the idea that these monks have remained untouched by routiers. One of us sleeps; one stays awake.’

  ‘Meulon’s snoring will wake the valley,’ said Will Longdon.

  ‘And your farting will sound like rolling thunder,’ answered the throat-cutter.

  ‘Then clench your buttocks and tie up your jaw,’ said Blackstone.

  ‘And what about the dead?’ said Longdon. ‘Are their spirits clinging to these ruins? I’ve no wish to wake in the night and feel the chill of a spectre. A man would be hard pressed not to cry out.’

  ‘The chill you feel will be the metal of my knife jabbing you to allay the stench, fool,’ said Meulon, tucking his bedroll beneath his arm.

  ‘Aye, treat this with irreverence, you Norman oaf, but it is known that those unshriven souls dragged from their bodies cling to the last thing they knew in this mortal world.’

  ‘If they start to haunt us then I’ll bend you over and point your arse in their direction. That will cleanse the place of any evil spirits better than a priest with a cross.’

  ‘All right,’ said Blackstone. ‘Enough. We stay silent through the night unless something unusual occurs.’

  Will Longdon grabbed his blanket and war bow. ‘Like damned ghosts,’ he muttered.

  ‘Like damned ghosts,’ said Blackstone. ‘Or those who might wish us to join them.’

  * * *

  Killbere beckoned Alain de la Grave to him.

  ‘You’re familiar with a monastery?’

  ‘My father took me on his travels when he patrolled his lands. We rested in a monastery.’

  ‘Good. Go to the scriptorium, admire the monks’ work. Be humble. The Benedictines like humility. After a while express interest in what it means to be a monk, tell them that being so young and not suited to a life of indulgence in a wealthy household you have often considered taking up the life. Tell them that you venerate such a place as this that has stood for hundreds of years and ask if you might see the chronicle of the monastery.’

  ‘Why would I do that, Sir Gilbert?’

  ‘Because you’re an idiot and well suited to the life.’ Killbere sighed. ‘Because, boy, no monk, prior or abbot ever keeps a journal of their own lives when living in a place like this but a record is kept of events that affect the monastery. See what’s been written. If there are those who are patrons, remember their names; if travellers are given accommodation see when they came and who they were. What we are after, lad, is anything that will tell us more about this place. Understand?’

  ‘Yes, Sir Gilbert.’

  ‘Off with you then, and if the bell rings for compline see if you can avoid being persuaded to go with them because night prayers drone on until a man has no choice but to fall asleep.’

  The young Frenchman nodded and left. Killbere looked down the length of the dormitory. Some of the men had rolled into their blankets; others tended their wounds, helped by Jack Halfpenny and Perinne. Killbere tapped Perinne on the shoulder. ‘Leave Jack to see to that for now.’

  He turned; Perinne followed him to the door. ‘Perinne, I want night guards posted. Nothing obvious. Find places where we can watch for anything suspicious.’

  ‘Are you expecting trouble?’

  ‘No, but Thomas wants an eye kept open. He’s not happy about this place. More than that I don’t know.’

  ‘Then we should have men in the stables to protect the horses in case there’s trouble.’

  ‘Yes. And when Jack has finished tell him to seek out places where the archers might be effective. They need range and an open place to shoot. Don’t put the men there, but have him determine where it should be. Just in case.’

  Once his orders had been given Killbere found himself a deep sill and propped his back against the stone wall from where he could see the central courtyard and some of the cloisters where monks sat and contemplated whatever it was that monks contemplated when not on their knees or bending their backs. He had scavenged another piece of cheese and bread and watched as crow-shuffling monks hunched their way towards the church. The bell for vespers rang out and two or three monks started lighting the night lamps in the dormitory and latrines. He would forsake his bed tonight and watch from this vantage point because there was one thing he had learnt over the years: Thomas Blackstone’s instincts needed to be listened to.

  Killbere had nodded off but Perinne poked him. He awoke without a sound, hand already on the knife at his belt, but Perinne’s fist closed over it. No sense risking being stabbed by a veteran whose reflexes had kept him alive longer than most fighting men. The dull glow from the cresset lamps cast their shadows over the monastery. He stared into the shadows where Perinne pointed. He saw nothing. Then a monk scuffed his way towards the church. Killbere looked at Perinne with a questioning look. Perinne shook his head and made a small gesture for him to be patient and stay looking at the shadows. Nothing moved. Then the dull clanging of the bell sounded again. Vigils. It was midnight. The monks made their way into the cloisters from their dormitory and after a few more chimes the bell fell silent. Perinne eased his arm forward to where a shadow was changing shape. Moments later two monks skirted the wall; they kept their profiles away from the light but their movement made the darkness shimmer. Killbere followed them until they reached the porter’s gate. The gatekeeper stepped out quickly in a practised movement, eased the gate open just enough for the two men to pass through, and for the spluttering night light at the porter’s lodging to show that both men carried bedrolls tied across their backs. The gate closed.

  ‘Anything else?’ Killbere whispered.

  Perinne shook his head. ‘They might be going on a pilgrimage. Need to set off early,’ he said quietly.

  Killbere grinned. Which was as likely as breakfast being served with the boiled haunch of a pig.

  * * *

  The high ground and forests muted the monastic bells. The pinprick of lights from the areas lit behind the monastery’s walls flickered like distant stars. The path leading down towards the monastery was a black tongue leading to the gaping mouth of the valley. There was sufficient light in the night sky for Blackstone to see two bent figures begin their climb up the steep track. He pushed the toe of his
boot into John Jacob, who lay curled with his back pressed against the wall of the house where they were keeping watch. His squire made no sound of complaint but got quickly to his feet and followed Blackstone’s gaze. The monks made good progress, their life of physical labour and, no doubt, their journeys across the hills allowing them to make good time. As they drew closer Blackstone could hear their laboured breathing. They were not big men. No monk was ever as well muscled as a fighting man, but there was sufficient night light for him to determine by their progress that they were wiry and agile. As they drew level Blackstone and John Jacob stepped out. The shock of seeing them caused the two monks to cry out. They stumbled, but Blackstone had already brought his fist down on the side of one monk’s head. John Jacob quickly assaulted the other, a hard blow to his stomach bringing the man down onto his knees. Two more dark shapes were quickly making their way up the track.

  ‘These are the only two,’ said Meulon as Will Longdon wheezed behind him in an attempt to keep up with the big man’s strides.

  ‘Bring them inside,’ said Blackstone.

  Meulon and John Jacob manhandled the two monks into the derelict house.

  ‘Bind them, put them in that corner and between us we watch them until morning. It will be first light soon.’ With a final look out into the night, he found a piece of ground less strewn with rubble and threw down his blanket. The night chill caused no discomfort. He closed his eyes and was soon asleep.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX

  It was close to mid-morning when Blackstone led the others back into the monastery. Meulon carried a small deer carcass across his shoulders, brought down soon after dawn by one of Will Longdon’s arrows. Men greeted them from where they loitered seemingly relaxed, but Blackstone noted that they had been placed strategically either to kill any monk attempting to attack them or, should an enemy approach from outside the walls, to easily seize a vantage point.

  Blackstone beckoned one of the monks. ‘Take my man to the kitchen. He’ll butcher the deer and give you the offal to cook. We will share the meat. Prior Albert has given his permission.’