by David Gilman
‘No, no,’ Torellini said, raising his hand to halt any further discussion of who might help them. ‘We travel on alone. We are only days away from safety in Avignon. We must look to ourselves. The boy is of value to someone and we must just pray that his presence is not discovered going into France. He is cursed with his father’s name.’
‘But he is blessed with his parents’ courage,’ said Fra Foresti. ‘He sleeps in a place that held his family captive years ago when he was a boy. His father killed the Savage Priest here.’
At the mention of the murderous killer’s name, Torellini crossed himself. ‘I had forgotten. Of course. I had not given this place any thought.’ He tugged the fur collar of his cloak tighter around his neck. It was a draughty castle despite the fire. The thought flitted through his mind that it might be more than the invasive wind, and there might still be malevolent spirits who clung to the place of death.
A shaft of moonlight beamed down from a high window. Montferrat glanced up at the clear sky. ‘A raw night. The wind will hold and the snow will fall further north. You should take your chances tomorrow.’
* * *
They left the high citadel as the sun struck its walls. Fra Foresti led the way, his horse going forward uncertainly into the knee-deep snow as they followed the mountain guide. The sharp crunch of the broken surface hung in the still air. Henry followed, and behind him the man who had held his father’s near-dead body before the boy was born and who was determined to see the son safely delivered to his father’s side. They stopped at the frozen skeletal remains that still hung, tied with wire, the shield’s blazon weather-beaten. The alpine wind and glacial temperature had turned what was left of the man’s skin into blackened leather. Henry jumped down from his horse and wiped a gloved hand across the stone slab that rested below the gibbet. The words of warning as to who had killed this vicious murderer and the promise that all men like him would die had been chiselled by his father and would remain long after the Savage Priest’s blackened flesh finally flaked from his bones.
‘I saw him die,’ said Henry as he climbed back into the saddle. ‘And I was glad of it.’
He smiled at Fra Foresti. He had laid the ghost to rest.
CHAPTER FIFTY-THREE
Beyard, the Gascon captain had travelled as far south as the bridge at Pont-Saint-Esprit, the walled town twenty miles north of Avignon. He had gathered men from disparate groups of routiers with promises of serving a legend of war who would grant them control of conquered towns and districts. That meant profit from patis, protection money, from the towns and villages, enough to keep a band of men in food and comfort year in year out. The men were mostly Gascons, troops who had served and were still loyal to the Captal de Buch, and once these men knew that their lord’s captain rode with Blackstone it made easier their desertion from the coalition of brigand forces that controlled the lower Rhône Valley. Thousands of brigands in bands of varying sizes, some less than a hundred, others several hundred strong, were scattered across Provence and Bas-Languedoc, a shifting mass that nudged the Mediterranean coast and sought refuge in the mountains. If they ever came together they would amass an army of five or six thousand. Many of these routiers had tried to fight in Spain but once the truce had been called between its warring princes they had drifted back and were already edging their way up the Rhône Valley, wary of being trapped between two French armies that hunted them.
Beyard’s proposal was not welcomed by all the mercenaries. Many were footsoldiers, unemployed now that war had been abandoned between France and England, their ranks swelled by archers and criminals, penurious knights and minor lords who had lost their lands. Their view was that Blackstone did the English King’s work hounding routiers out of towns that had been ceded, which meant he was an enemy of the brigands. Beyard skirted trouble – all he needed was a few hundred men he considered trustworthy enough to fight at Blackstone’s side. There were many more who came forward to offer their services but were rejected, their crimes too great for Blackstone to have accepted them. It was already a negotiated part of the agreement with those Beyard had recruited that they would be granted a pardon by Pope Innocent for their part in the destruction and killing that had gone on throughout the south of France. Other mercenaries who drifted from band to band sought leaders who would give free rein to their lust for plunder and rape; such fighters drifted into the mountains where men of ill repute gathered like-minded followers; the Bretons were recruiting further north after their recent defeat, as were routier commanders like John Amory and John Cresswell, Englishmen who already held garrisons in more than a dozen towns. Others had drifted even further north and found refuge with the Welshman, Gruffydd ap Madoc.
Beyard left his men on the far side of the River Rhône and requested entry through the gates of Avignon. The walls had been reinforced and there were more soldiers on the battlements, men who had heeded the call from Pope Innocent to help protect the papal city. He would have been denied entry were it not for his service with the Captal de Buch and the warrant given to Thomas Blackstone by Sir John Chandos. The document was scrutinized by various guard commanders as he was conducted deeper into the city sanctum, past the luxurious palaces belonging to the cardinals and the bustling streets that thronged with courtiers and tradesmen. Soldiers jostled shoulder to shoulder with bankers and court messengers. The wealth in Avignon consumed vast supplies of luxury goods. Food was in abundance, court officials sported fine clothes of silk and velvet, their cost easily explained as courtiers vied with petitioners in bribing the officials to be heard. Beyard began to yearn for the more simple dishonesty of fighting men rather than those in this money-grubbing city. He was given a cot and a mattress in a guard commander’s quarters while he waited to be summoned for his petition for clemency and forgiveness to be heard for those men who would join Thomas Blackstone. He would never be granted an audience with Pope Innocent himself but he hoped that the liberal use of Thomas Blackstone’s name and the knight’s association with King Edward of England would help speed through the suffocating bureaucracy of Avignon.
After three days he had heard nothing and drifted into a brothel for distraction and pleasure. On the fourth day, as he made his way back to the bleak, dismal rooms that were his quarters, he saw a man approaching through the crowd and despite the distance between them he sensed the cloaked figure was making his way towards him. The man had glanced once or twice in his direction and caught his gaze, then turned away, easing his shoulder through the herd of people. Beyard’s hand went to the pommel of his sword but the crowd pressed him, which would make it difficult to draw the blade. He shifted his hand to the knife at his belt. The cloaked figure had ignored him and gone past him, nudging people aside. Beyard scoured the crowd ahead in case the cloaked figure was a decoy to draw his attention away from an assassin or a thief. It was likely there would be men here who harboured ill will towards Thomas Blackstone and those who sided with him, and of course he had mentioned freely that he served the scar-faced Englishman. His attention was held by a rough-looking villein who carried stacked baskets on his back, a rope that bound them together across his forehead. His curt, gruff voice called out for the crowd to make way as he forged through the press, opening up a passage ahead of him. A perfect ploy to suddenly ram a blade between a victim’s ribs. The distraction was Beyard’s downfall as a man’s iron grip clutched his knife arm and a whispered warning from the cloaked figure behind him told him to do as he commanded or the blade that he felt pressing in his lower back would leave him dead on the ground. The knife point nudged him quickly away from the busy street and Beyard knew the chances of twisting free from it were too slim to risk making the attempt.
The man’s pace quickened as they went this way and that. Beyard stayed silent, looking for any opportunity to turn and fight, but found none, so determined was his assailant’s determined stride along alleys whose narrow walls seemed to have been chosen to make it impossible to resist. Finally Beyard was pushed into a wider
corridor of marble floor and religious frescoes that colour washed the walls high into ornate ceilings. A courtyard beckoned through soaring arches as the cloaked figure guided him through a gilded door and into a scented garden where a rill trickled water from a gently spurting fountain. For a moment the contrast between where he had been quartered these past few days and this luxury distracted him. Then, with a firm push in his back, he was shoved further into the sunlight that streamed into the enclosed garden. He turned, ready to fight, but the cloaked figure pulled back the hood of his cloak and stood ready sword in hand. Beyard would be dead before his blade left its scabbard.
‘You use Sir Thomas Blackstone’s name with abandon,’ said the figure.
Another voice came from the far side of the garden. ‘And that means you are either a charlatan or are trusted.’
Beyard turned. Despite the winter sun’s rays that reached into the garden the old man was dressed in a pale cassock beneath a fur-edged cloak for warmth.
‘I am the Gascon Beyard. I serve the Captal de Buch, but I fight with Thomas Blackstone. If there is disagreement between you then I will stand in Sir Thomas’s stead and defend his name. But if you wish to murder me then be done with it.’
The cloaked figure sheathed his sword and stepped in front of Beyard as the old man beckoned Beyard forward.
‘You seek a pardon for fighting men. I can arrange that. This is the house of the Florentine banker, Bardi. I am his servant. And God has looked kindly on me because I cannot go much further. You are the man we are looking for,’ said Niccolò Torellini.
CHAPTER FIFTY-FOUR
After several days the town of Felice was still mourning the death of those who had served in the militia and the married men of the garrison troops. The town was occupied by foreign fighters led by the Englishman, Thomas Blackstone. The curfew was strictly enforced but church services were permitted. Resentment festered but no one had dared raise more than their voice against Blackstone’s men who patrolled the walls and streets. The outlying villagers had been brought in with their handcarts to help take the dead to the graveyard. The ground was still hard but Blackstone allowed the town priest to take as many of the townsmen as he needed to dig graves. Felice’s carpenter fashioned eighty-three crosses but after the attack Blackstone refused to pay for them and instead instructed the Countess’s bailiff to recompense the carpenter. Countess Catherine de Val, still confined to her quarters, was allowed a servant to attend her.
‘How much longer are we staying?’ said Killbere as they gazed across the landscape beyond the village roofs. ‘The weather comes and goes but we should take advantage of these clear spells.’
‘I want to be rid of this place. It reeks of treachery and death. But Alain is not yet ready to travel,’ said Blackstone.
‘There are still a half-dozen towns that need to swear allegiance. That will take us into summer and by then we should decide where to go. We cannot linger because of the lad’s wound. We have to leave word for Beyard so let’s take him back to the monastery. We can make a litter for him and leave him in the care of the monks in their infirmary. They won’t cause him harm. Not now. And we can meet up with Beyard as he makes his way towards us. We could do with his reinforcements.’
Blackstone nodded. ‘I also thought we should do that. If we stay much longer who knows who will come over those hills? Word will have reached the French King by now and unless Chandos can be convincing enough then the French will want us dead. The Countess and William Cade were in their pay.’
‘It will make no difference,’ Killbere said, looking down at Cade’s head on its spike outside the main gates. ‘The French don’t need an excuse to come after you but doing Edward’s bidding has shielded us so far, and I’ll wager Chandos won’t defend us unless he is put into a corner.’
‘We gave him victory over the Bretons. He won’t abandon us. Even so, the French won’t need to excuse themselves to him or Edward should we be killed.’
‘And this place can be defended, but we would be starved out if they laid siege. And if they bring enough men, then, well… they might throw themselves at us like plague dogs. We’ve been here too long.’
Blackstone knew Killbere was correct but he had been holding on hoping that the young Frenchman would recover from his injury. ‘Talk to the men, Gilbert. We will leave tomorrow; there’s no point in waiting any longer. We will give the Countess back her town.’
‘You’ve spoken to her today?’
‘No. I avoid her.’ He glanced at Killbere. ‘You’ve not tried to bed her again, have you?’
Killbere snorted. ‘Mother of God, Thomas, I performed heroically that night. I was the old stallion in the herd. I rose magnificently to the occasion. I will be honest and say that I have not known a woman before with such appetite and vigour for the act of coupling. Her knife attack aside, she damned near killed me.’ He grinned.
‘Good to know you raised the flag for England,’ said Blackstone, smiling back.
‘It was a battle standard!’ said Killbere.
‘Then best you stay clear of her. If she finds you that irresistible we can’t have her following us across France.’
* * *
As Blackstone went down the steps from the parapet, his shadow John Jacob fell in beside him. As they walked up towards the apothecary’s house windows and doors slammed closed. Since they had buried their dead the townspeople avoided any contact with the man they held responsible. Once they had collected the apothecary John Jacob took the old man’s satchel of medicines and they slowed their pace to suit him as they walked up to the château. Perinne sat in the warmth of the winter sun on the terrace. He got to his feet as Blackstone approached. It was obvious the man’s wound was still painful and he wore his jupon open over the loose linen shirt.
‘We need to take a look at your back,’ said Blackstone. ‘I don’t want anyone unable to ride because of their wounds.’
‘I’m healing well,’ said the sturdy man. ‘No need to fuss over me as if I were a feeble woman.’
‘All well and good,’ said John Jacob. ‘But there’s at least one woman in this château who would inflict another wound on you for saying it.’
Blackstone gestured. ‘Let us see it now.’
Perinne sighed and tugged free his coat and shirt, then bent his back muscles so that the ugly welt could be examined. The searing-hot iron had blistered the skin and when his muscles were flexed the gash looked ready to split. The apothecary ran his fingers down each edge of the wound. He nodded to himself and then bent to open his satchel.
‘Keep the wound dressed.’ He handed Perinne a small hessian sack of herbs. ‘Can you make a poultice?’
Perinne dropped his shirt and nodded.
‘This is comfrey,’ said the apothecary. ‘Let the poultice cool and then cover the wound. Bind it with fresh linen every day for as long as the herbs last.’ He turned to Blackstone. ‘He must not be put to physical work or raise a sword in anger until the time comes. If the wound splits…’ He shrugged. Who knew what might happen.
Perinne looked from the old healer to Blackstone. ‘Do as he says,’ said Blackstone and placed a hand on the apothecary’s shoulder. ‘Now the youngster.’
They went past Tait and his hobelars, who guarded the kitchen and main door into the château, and on into the lower rooms. In one with a south-facing window, which allowed the sunlight to stream in, Alain lay covered with a fur-lined cloak with two blankets on top. The boy shivered despite the warmth from the fire. Tait sat with him, keeping a moist flannel on the boy’s forehead.
‘Has he slept and eaten today?’ said Blackstone.
‘I got some broth down him a few hours back. But he is neither awake nor asleep. The fever came on him a few hours ago,’ said the nursemaid hobelar. ‘Master Apothecary gave me ground fennel liquid for his fever. I dribbled some into him but the fever has not reduced, my lord.’
Blackstone acknowledged Tait, who then shuffled past the three men to wait outside.
John Jacob pulled back the bedclothes and he and Blackstone wrinkled their nose at the smell. The apothecary lifted the long linen shirt to above the young Frenchman’s knee. The leg was swollen. Pus and crusted skin gathered along the stitched wound. Angry red fingers clawed up Alain’s leg into his thigh. The wound had festered. The apothecary lifted the lad’s shirt higher. Blotches, some as big as the palm of a man’s hand, had formed and peeled on the skin of his stomach and thigh. Pustules clung to the bare flesh.
John Jacob crossed himself.
‘I thought we had held back the poison, Sir Thomas, but it’s gone from his wound into his blood. For these past days I have bled him but I have no cure for this.’
‘If we take off his leg? Will that stop the poison spreading?’ said Blackstone.
‘Now there is no choice, Sir Thomas. It is his only chance.’
‘John. Fetch the butcher.’
* * *
Perinne watched the shadow circle high in the sky. The buzzard was mocked by high-flying crows but the raptor ignored their determined attempts to chase it away. It lingered, soaring higher. Gazing down. Waiting for the next man to die.
They carried the young Frenchman into the brightness and warmth of the winter sun. Blackstone summoned Ralph Tait to fetch Will Longdon, whose wound-stitching skills would be needed, and then had his men who guarded the château’s door carry the heavy kitchen table outside. Some of the townspeople gathered in the courtyard below where only nights earlier other blood had been spilled. As three or four people at a time stopped to observe what was about to happen, John Jacob hurried the butcher before him. He wore a belt of pockets that held his cutting and paring knives and clasped a saw and a cleaver in his fist. This was the second time he had been summoned to the ailing Frenchman and once again he was sweating more from fear than the rush through the streets.
Meulon strode alongside them carrying a small pail and an earthenware jar. ‘This is better than hot pitch. Clay and turpentine will seal the stump. I took these from the carpenter and the potter,’ he said, placing his cargo to hand near the supine body.
