Scourge of Wolves_Master of War

by David Gilman

  ‘And now your men will rape and plunder,’ she said sullenly. ‘You have already lain with me so whose turn is it next?’

  ‘None of that will happen,’ said Blackstone. ‘The weather has turned against us so we will stay a few more days. The citizens of Felice can bury their dead and you will stay here in your rooms. Your bailiff and ladies can attend you.’ He turned to John Jacob. ‘Build up the fire, John. Then we’ll drag these bodies onto the landing outside the rooms.’ Blackstone stepped closer to Killbere and the Countess. ‘Your servants can be summoned to wash away the blood from the floor. Shall I fetch the apothecary to treat the bruising on your face?’

  ‘I want to address my people and for them to see that even I could not escape your brutality.’

  ‘And have you claim I raped you?’ said Killbere. ‘No, my lady, you will stay here in these rooms until we leave Felice.’

  The fire crackled in the hearth and the flames quickly flared. Killbere stayed with Countess Catherine as John Jacob and Blackstone bent to the task of dragging the first of the guards’ bodies through the rooms and onto the landing, leaving a track of blood soiling the floor.

  ‘I will send your servants at first light and have them bring hot water for you to bathe and fresh reeds for the floor,’ said Killbere as the second body was heaved away. He undid the bindings on her wrists and ankles. ‘You see, Countess, you tried to kill the wrong man. Thomas Blackstone is in command here, I simply misled you into thinking I was.’

  ‘So that I might take you to my bed believing you were the one who would protect me.’

  ‘Believing I was the man you were going to kill,’ said Killbere. ‘We both played our parts.’

  She turned her face away.

  Killbere picked up her undershift from the floor and handed it to her. ‘Clothe yourself, my lady. You will cause no harm tonight.’

  Blackstone and John Jacob stood in the doorway as the Countess clutched the gown about her. As they left her chambers Killbere followed them to the bedroom door. He lowered his voice. ‘Your passion does your beauty justice. I have never loved a woman as I have you.’

  For a moment it seemed she was going to answer him for a smile played on her lips, but then she spat vigorously at him.

  He grinned. ‘Though I have been with whores who could spit further. And should we have a child what shall we call him?’

  ‘Get out!’ she screamed.

  Killbere closed the door and turned to face Blackstone and John Jacob. He shrugged. ‘You never know, my offspring might one day rule Felice.’

  * * *

  The men were back on the walls by dawn the next morning. The respite of even a few hours’ sleep had strengthened them. The rain had stopped but a bitter wind barrelled down the valley. As daylight broke and the townspeople ventured out the wailing sound of grief rose up. Blackstone’s fighters had released the town priest from where he had been locked up by the militia before they started their attack the previous night, and Blackstone had ordered him and the bailiff to round up townsmen to begin clearing the bodies from the muddy streets. Handcarts were needed so Blackstone allowed men to be brought in from the village outside the walls to help. There was little point in Blackstone addressing the townspeople to tell them that they had brought the carnage upon themselves and he suspected that word was already making its way to Paris that Thomas Blackstone had invaded and slaughtered the innocents of Felice.

  ‘We’ll stay here until this storm eases,’ Blackstone told the captains. ‘It will get colder; there’ll be snow again on the mountains. Keep the fires burning so that men can stay warm when they come off duty.’

  Perinne limped into the square with Ralph Tait and three of his men. Perinne raised Cade’s severed head. ‘Where do you want this?’

  ‘On a pole at the far end of the causeway so that those who enter the town will see it. Have a notice made that it is William Cade: a routier lackey of King John.’

  Tait turned and told his men to set the pole where Blackstone wanted it. ‘Do we feed Cade’s body to the pigs?’

  ‘Throw it in the river. Why poison good pork?’

  The men grinned as the dead man’s opaque eyes gazed up at the man who killed him.

  Blackstone made his way to the old apothecary’s house, doubtful that the young Frenchman would have survived the night. He was admitted by a tired-looking servant who had been charged to keep watch over the injured man. The servant huddled by the kitchen fire as the apothecary greeted Blackstone. Alain’s head was propped up by a small cushion, his body covered with a blanket.

  ‘Does he live?’ asked Blackstone.

  ‘The fever broke,’ the apothecary said and bathed Alain’s face with a damp cloth.

  ‘His leg?’

  ‘Another day or more until we know,’ he said as the young man’s eyes opened.

  ‘Until you know what?’ said Alain sleepily.

  Blackstone grinned and placed a hand on the boy’s arm. ‘Until we can see whether you’re able to ride or not,’ he lied.

  ‘Sir Thomas…’ he said weakly, ‘where am I?’

  ‘We took the town, remember?’

  ‘Oh… yes.’ He tried to raise himself. ‘My leg?’

  Blackstone put an arm beneath his shoulder and lifted him gently. ‘It is set and bound. We did all we could do. And the apothecary gave you enough potion to fell an ox. But here you are, stronger than my bastard horse.’

  He grinned. ‘Then I shall soon be able to rejoin you.’

  ‘Soon,’ Blackstone assured him. ‘While you slept we fought William Cade and the townsmen. There’s much to tell you and there’s no hurry.’

  ‘And Cade?’

  ‘Dead.’

  ‘By your hand?’

  ‘Yes.’

  Alain sighed. ‘I wish I could have seen it.’

  ‘You’ll see his head on a pole. Now, I and the men need some rest. I’ll have you moved to a room in the château where this good man can attend to you when needed.’

  The answer satisfied the young man and he lay back down and closed his eyes. The apothecary gave Blackstone a look that told him the young Frenchman was not yet out of danger. As Blackstone stood at the door he pressed a gold mouton into the old man’s hands. His eyes widened and he shook his head.

  ‘I cannot accept this much,’ he quietly protested. ‘You must realize that the boy might still die and at the very least that he is most likely to lose the leg.’

  ‘Keep it. You kept the pain from him and you will have to buy more medicines. I am grateful for your efforts. I’ll send men to have him taken to the château.’

  The apothecary bowed his head in gratitude. ‘Then I will also prepare ointments for your wounded men. That dried dirt in your hair shows a scalp wound. It should be stitched.’

  ‘I’ll have my centenar attend to it. I’m sure he’ll take pleasure in pushing a needle through my scalp.’

  The door closed behind him. John Jacob had placed men there once dawn had bled into the night sky. By whatever means these things happened the townspeople would likely know that the young Frenchman was not a monk sent by Prior Albert but that he was of the men who had slaughtered so many of their kin. Until the lad could be moved to a safer place then two men would guard the apothecary’s house.

  Blackstone was obliged to step over and around some of the crumpled bodies that littered the narrow street. Women sobbed as they identified their husbands or sons. The town had paid a high price and the hatred behind their stares as he walked past them stabbed at him like a dagger point. John Jacob dogged his lord’s footsteps, walking three paces behind, hand on his sword hilt, watching that the hatred did not boil over into an attack. Blackstone regretted their grief. He too knew what it meant to lose loved ones. Also, these villeins’ lives were hard and the lack of a man meant additional poverty and hardship. He raised his face to the wind and thought he sensed snow in the air. He hoped not. He wanted to escape from Felice in good time and meet up with the Gascon captain,
Beyard, who he hoped had gathered more men to ride with them. The fighting here was over but he had no doubt that a greater conflict awaited them if William Cade had not lied. If it was true the Dauphin and perhaps the French King had decided to order their army to kill Blackstone should he cross their path, then he would be obliged to try and defend himself. The fact that he had already fought Marshal of the French Army d’Audrehem’s men-at-arms in a skirmish meant that King Edward might also abandon him. It would be seen that Blackstone had broken the treaty.

  His thoughts were interrupted as a woman cried out when she turned over a body. Dirt half covered the face of a boy, probably no older than Blackstone’s own son, he realized. The woman cleaved the child to her, pressing him to her chest. The lad’s arm had been hacked off and he would have died from the shock, loss of blood and the previous night’s bitter temperature. Yet it made no difference what finally killed the lad: the woman’s son was dead. She bared her teeth at Blackstone, cursed him with such fury as only a grieving mother could and then began throwing mud at him. John Jacob stepped forward to stop her but Blackstone held out a restraining hand and let the mud splatter him until the woman’s venom abated.

  ‘Remember, John, I know what it means to lose a child to violence.’ He wiped the mud from his face and walked on, bringing the silver-wheeled goddess Arianrhod to his lips. He would go to the church and light a candle to honour the memory of his murdered wife and daughter and to give thanks that his son was safe in Florence.

  PART THREE

  BROTHERHOOD OF THE SWORD

  February 1362

  CHAPTER FIFTY-TWO

  The Florentine bankers, the Bardi, had wealth, which gave them influence and favour in the court of the English King, but their priest, no matter how hard he prayed, Torellini, could not influence the Almighty. The Marquis de Montferrat, allied with the Pope, friend of Thomas Blackstone and trusted by Florence, had entertained Torellini and his charge long enough for the snowstorms to blow clear of the mountain passes. The rain that swept the valleys on the far side of the mountains coated the crevices and routes in a blanket of snow. Although these routes were kept open throughout the year, those that travelled from Italy into France, or those who took the pilgrim’s way on the journey to Rome, depended on the knowledge of the mountain village guides and their strength and skill in traversing the treacherous passes. Father Torellini had separated the pilgrim party that had set out from Florence, sending the genuine pilgrims and their Knights of the Tau escort further north towards the Brenner Pass, which would take them across the trade route to Lyons, a pilgrimage that would be noticed by the Visconti. And if the Milanese lords had planned Henry Blackstone’s assassination they might already know that the attack in Florence had failed. If that were the case then this group of pilgrims escorted by their protectors would draw their attention. The Marquis de Montferrat had been waiting north of Genoa to take them through the lower passes to Avignon. But even here where the snow was not as deep as on the higher passes the weather demanded they stay with Montferrat in one of his castles until a safe route could be determined. Once Montferrat had been made welcome by the fortress’s commander and Torellini had been ushered into the great hall to share wine, a blazing fire and the promise of safety, Henry had slipped away from his escort and climbed the steps to the walls.

  Braziers with half-cupped iron guards on one side of their baskets shielded the flames from the wind, but the buffeting snow had passed and a blue sky streaked across the mountain peaks and scattered its diamond-bright light across the meadow that lay below the castle.

  ‘Boy? You know this place?’ said Fra Foresti when he traced Henry’s whereabouts. He had seen the look on the lad’s face when they arrived. For once he did not reprimand his young charge for absconding from his care, realizing that ghosts from the past might haunt the high plateau and that Blackstone’s son might have seen them.

  Henry Blackstone knew it only too well. Knew it and dreaded it the moment they had arrived. His body trembled as he steadied himself and dared to step closer to the parapet in a test of his own courage. His eyes squeezed shut and then he opened them and gazed down to the ground far below. He knew exactly where the skeletal remains of the killer would be. The air stung tears into his eyes. He wiped them away in case the Tau knight mistakenly thought him weak. He had not realized that the young guardian hospitaller had moved quietly to his side, had not heard the crunch of his boots on the snow or the rustle of his cloak.

  ‘Henry?’ said Fra Foresti quietly.

  Henry’s gaze stayed fixed on the treeline that edged the snow-covered meadow. ‘Before snow comes there are Alpine flowers here. They cover the meadow like coloured snowdrops. There’s a lake behind us. Its water is cold enough to snap a man’s bones but men once forded it to rescue my mother, my sister and me.’ He dared a step closer to the edge. ‘The man who imprisoned us held Agnes and me over the edge. He asked my father which of us should die.’

  ‘Your father was here?’

  ‘Down there. He fought three men and then… You remember John Jacob and Will Longdon?’ he asked, turning to his guardian, who nodded in assent. ‘They swam the lake and climbed up the wall with their men and attacked. And saved us. Yes, I know this place. There was a great battle here. The flowers were watered with men’s blood. My father’s young squire was butchered near here and the man who killed him was slain by my father in single combat. His body was spreadeagled and left as a warning. There,’ he said, turning his gaze towards the plateau’s edge. ‘Somewhere. I can’t see it. But it’s there.’ He looked up at the Tau knight. ‘And here,’ he said, touching his temple. ‘I see it all. I always do.’

  ‘The Savage Priest,’ said Fra Foresti, suddenly realizing where they were. ‘La Battaglia nella Valle dei Fiori.’

  Henry nodded. ‘Why would I come to this place again? Why would I be brought here?’

  ‘It is coincidence. Or God’s will. You must decide.’

  Henry remained silent. The memory of the place held him. To revisit it was to be assailed with the fear he had known back then. The thoughts of his dead mother and sister were as haunting as the eerie sound of the wind across the rock face. His hand touched the sword pommel at his belt. It had been his father’s squire’s sword, given to Henry by his father when its brave young owner was butchered. It had been given to honour Henry’s courage.

  ‘Memory can trespass on a man’s heart,’ said Fra Foresti. ‘But it can also serve to strengthen his resolve. You have walked a stony path over the years but I see in you a strength that is unique for a boy your age. Those mountains are hidden by the snow just as you are clothed by a generous spirit. Both disguise an unyielding stubbornness not to be conquered.’

  Henry shivered and then did as his father had always taught him and calmed the urge in his body.

  ‘Let us eat and find some fireside warmth,’ said Foresti. ‘And then we can pray in the chapel. Will you join me?’

  The wind hurried the clouds away exposing Alpine peaks that soared into the blue. Henry nodded. He had passed this way once before and now he would turn his back on the grim fortress that held his memories captive. The guardian mountains beckoned.

  * **

  The moon glowed across the vast snowfields peppered here and there with the distant glimmer of small mountain villages. The untrammelled crystal carpet glistened as far as the eye could see, its sweeping curve of downhill contours would lead Niccolò Torellini down into Provence and then the papal state of Avignon.

  Henry Blackstone slept wrapped in his blanket, back turned towards the burning logs in his room’s fireplace while below in the great hall the reality of what lay ahead was discussed by the three men who were responsible for his safety.

  ‘Provence has been swept with routiers these past months,’ said the fortress commander. ‘This castle guards the way for those who go and fight in Italy. But it is impossible to say what you will find down there. No routier has ever respected a pilgrim.’ He gestured aw
ay the servant who had poured wine for his lord and his guests. The boy bowed and left them to the warmth of the fireplace.

  ‘And they will not change their murderous ways now,’ agreed Torellini. ‘We must pray for good weather so that we may reach Avignon as quickly as we can.’

  Niccolò Torellini knew it was because of him that they had only made slow progress along the Via Francigena and then into the mountains. He was getting old and his back ached from the horse’s gait and the mountain’s dampness caused his bones to grumble. But he made the declaration in such a manner that no one would question his ability to keep up at a faster pace.

  ‘I can go no further,’ said the Marquis de Montferrat. ‘Provence belongs to the Queen of Naples and she would not welcome my presence. And Savoy is on their northern border. If that peacock Count Amadeus hears of my incursion then I and my men would be trapped on the wrong side of the Alps. You will have to go unaccompanied from here.’

  Torellini nodded. ‘I knew as much and did not expect your protection any further, my dear Marquis. I am grateful you shielded us from any attempt by the Visconti to cause us harm.’

  The grizzled Piedmont lord poured another beaker of wine. ‘You cannot be certain they are responsible for the attempt on the boy’s life. If they were I believe we would have had a fight on our hands no matter how carefully we travelled.’

  Fra Foresti considered their ongoing journey. ‘Count Amadeus of Savoy allowed Blackstone and his son to travel through his territory when they took the French Princess to Milan. Perhaps he could be called upon to offer us protection once we reach the lower plains?’

  ‘Who’s to say he is as benevolent now? A lot can happen in two years and he is still aligned with the Visconti,’ said Montferrat.

  ‘But he serves the Pope, which goes against their wishes,’ said Foresti.