by David Gilman
‘And this seals the wound and stops the poison?’ asked the apothecary.
‘We don’t know. We have seen barber surgeons on the battlefield use it. They soak the wound with turpentine to keep the flesh from rotting and then pack it with clay.’
‘Very well,’ said the old man. ‘I am no surgeon, all I can offer is to try and subdue his pain.’
‘Few men can stand this agony,’ said Blackstone. ‘Whatever you administer make it a draught that will keep him asleep throughout.’
The apothecary hesitated. ‘There is only one mixture of herbs I can give him now. I have a preparation of three parts black henbane, one of ground poppy seeds and one of hemlock. If he survives he will remain unconscious for three days, perhaps more. The potion itself is dangerous.’
‘Get it,’ said Blackstone. ‘He’ll die anyway.’
Will Longdon boiled his silk thread over the kitchen stove and Meulon stood ready to use his strength to hold the young man down should the apothecary’s mixture not take hold soon enough.
‘You have brought a curse on this town!’ one of those in the growing crowd called. ‘And pain and death will be inflicted in return.’
Blackstone and the others looked to see who had cried out but the shuffling crowd hemmed in whoever had cursed them.
‘Get back to your homes,’ Renfred ordered.
‘How many of us will you kill before we obey?’ a woman snarled.
‘How many will die before you run?’ said Killbere. ‘Get back to your rat holes, you vermin, or I will come among you.’
Renfred signalled for some of his men to move in on the crowd, who quickly dispersed before any violence could be inflicted on them.
Blackstone pulled the butcher to him. He took the meat cleaver and the saw from him and placed the bone saw on the table. ‘It needs a clean cut. If you hack the bone it will splinter.’
The man nodded dumbly as he looked down at the young man who sweated and shivered on the table. Will Longdon raised the infected leg and placed a block of wood beneath it. He tied cord above and below the wound.
Blackstone pulled free the butcher’s knives and examined them. The paring knife had the keenest blade. ‘When you pare a pig’s haunch you cut through skin and muscle and pull the skin back?’
The butcher nodded.
‘Then, when you remove the bone there is enough skin remaining so that a cook can pack herbs and spices before threading with string and cooking.’
‘Yes, my lord,’ said the butcher feebly.
‘Then that is what you will do here. Leave enough flesh to stitch over the cut bone,’ said Blackstone. ‘Keep your hand steady, saw cleanly.’
The men gathered around the stricken Frenchman. Each had a role to play. The apothecary lifted Alain’s head and poured wine mixed with the opiate liquid between his lips. ‘I am uncertain how much to administer,’ he said. ‘Too much and I kill him before you begin to cut, too little and the pain will not be sufficiently blocked.’ He stepped back and nodded at Blackstone. ‘I dare not give him more.’
Alain de la Grave’s breathing and tremors eased. Blackstone nodded to Meulon, who leant his strength against the lad’s shoulders. Blackstone stood opposite the butcher and held the broken, infected leg. The butcher licked his lips nervously. A moment of calm settled as everyone waited for the cutting to start. A sudden flurry of crows fluttered from the château’s roof, their cawing alarm startling everyone. A bad sign.
‘Do it,’ said Blackstone to the frightened butcher. ‘Put your mind to it. And cut.’
‘Where?’
Blackstone touched a hand’s breadth above the swollen, pus-filled wound and poisoned tendrils, and a finger’s width below where Longdon had tightened the cord.
The butcher hesitated, took a deep breath and bent to the task. Alain’s unconscious body bucked slightly as the curved blade found nerves. The man cut with the expertise a butcher learns over the years. A bucket on the floor at the end of the table caught the blood that quickly swamped his hands. The butcher looked startled for a moment, being more used to butchering dead animals.
Blackstone saw the look of alarm as he raised his eyes. ‘Quickly now. The bone,’ said Blackstone.
The butcher wiped his bloody hand on his apron and picked up the bone saw. Blackstone reached across and tugged back the flap of skin, exposing the bone, giving the butcher a clear view of what had to be done. The saw moved back and forth. The pain must have reached deep into the young man’s unconsciousness because despite the opiate he suddenly bucked and tried to rear up. Meulon and Blackstone held him down but a low cry of agony reached out to them all. And then he fell back.
‘Finish it,’ Blackstone commanded the butcher as the apothecary placed a hand on the lad’s chest and then placed his face close to his mouth.
‘He still lives.’
The leg came free. Killbere reached for it and dropped it into an empty wood basket. Will Longdon shouldered the butcher aside; the man was dazed from his experience. The veteran archer swabbed the gaping wound with turpentine and then, as Blackstone raised the stump to ease the bleeding, quickly stitched the flaps of skin over the cut. The apothecary’s servant stepped forward with the pot of malleable clay. Blackstone dipped his hand into the pot and spread the contents thickly and evenly over the wound. The apothecary then placed a piece of clean linen over the clay and bandaged the leg. If they had been at prayer in the church and watched the marked candle burn down they would have known that it had taken less than two minutes from the moment the first cut had been made.
The men stood back from their efforts.
A lone crow dropped silently from the roof and settled near the basket, its crippled gait taking it closer to the severed leg. Killbere moved so quickly that the bird had no time to escape. His sword slashed down and the bird fell dead.
‘We’ll have no bad omens hovering near the lad,’ said Killbere. ‘Have the leg taken to the blacksmith and burnt,’ he instructed Tait, who in turn ordered one of his men forward.
‘Meulon, take him back to his cot. Master Apothecary, you and your servant stay with him a while,’ said Blackstone. ‘Butcher, you will be paid for your work here today.’
The butcher bowed his head and gathered his knives and saw. As Meulon lifted the unconscious Frenchman from the table, one of the men sluiced it with a bucket of water.
Killbere spat out the foul taste that the stench from the poisoned leg had left in his throat. ‘I’ll go and kick the priest’s arse and have him light a candle and offer up prayers.’
The men filtered away as Blackstone turned his face to a freshening breeze that blew across the lingering smell of blood and disease. The sooner they could leave this place the better. He felt a tinge of regret. He had failed to tell Alain that his true father still lived and it was from him that he gained his courage. Was it going to be too late? It seemed unlikely the lad would live. And if he did? What use could he be? There could be no employment as a soldier. What was left? A life of poverty begging on a vermin-infested street in some town? Regret struck him. Why had he not let the boy die? He knew why. Because it had been his intent to avenge another youngster that had brought them to this murderous place. If a life could be spared from the slaughter that had occurred here, then it should be saved.
Blackstone kicked the crow’s bloodied remains into the courtyard below. Let it rot there on the blood-soaked ground.
CHAPTER FIFTY-FIVE
Blackstone went into the château and the room he shared with Killbere. He was covered with gore from when Alain’s heartbeat had pumped blood across him as the leg was taken. He stripped off his jupon and shirt and used the washbowl to sluice the blood from his hands, face and body, and rinsed water through his hair. As he turned to take a bolt of cloth to dry himself he saw Countess Catherine in the doorway. Her dark hair had been curled and plaited and the bruise on her face was covered with pale make-up, but she was dressed more simply than when he had first seen her. Still, her plain
attire could do nothing to hide her beauty. She was barefoot and wore no rings on her hands or bracelets on her wrist. For someone like the Countess it appeared to be an act of penance. She had approached so silently that he had not heard her and he wondered whether she had a hidden knife. But the tightness of her gown would have made such concealment impossible.
‘You’re confined to your quarters. I had your doors locked,’ he said.
She stepped into the room but did not approach him. ‘There is more than one key,’ she answered. ‘And more than one door.’
‘What is it you want?’ he said without any warmth in his voice. He would not accord this woman any clemency that might still linger in his heart.
‘Does the boy live?’
‘Why should you care?’
‘I took him to my bed. I enjoyed his youth. I did not wish to see such a beautiful body broken.’
Blackstone pulled on his shirt. He had no wish to linger in the same room as this temptress – because that was surely what she was. And he could not deny the same urge he felt towards her as he had done in the beginning.
‘He’s likely to die. The broken bones poisoned his blood and we were forced to cut off his leg.’
She showed no sign of remorse. ‘It is your actions that have resulted in his misfortune and brought death to my people,’ she said matter-of-factly. ‘We are both to blame, Sir Thomas. I for wishing to avenge my own family by luring routiers here and killing them, and you for seeking the same vengeance on William Cade. I am no pious woman, as you know, but these circumstances were surely governed by God’s hand.’
‘God favours no one in a battle. We all cry out His name to bless us and to keep us safe. He is deaf to our entreaties. It was not God who brought us together; there are other spirits of misfortune that punish us. I wanted only William Cade. I was going to leave this place without harm but you have a lust for killing that is even more than your lust for sex.’
‘And you condemn me for it.’
She had taken another step closer, like an animal approaching a trap. Cautious but daring to test the danger of what lay ahead. Blackstone did not move, sensing creature instincts were at play. Was she laying poisoned bait for him?
‘You know you will be hunted now. Those who escaped from Felice will have carried word of what you have done here.’
‘Being hunted is nothing new to me or my men.’
‘Your enemies increase every year you roam like a dispossessed ghost. You should stop and find a place that grants you safety and a way to feed and clothe your men and to make money with ease. There would be no need for you or your men to die when the French King or another routier leader finally traps you.’
Blackstone gazed at her. He could not take his eyes from the hollow of her throat where a rhythmic pulse beat. It had increased in its intensity and a warm glow had seeped into her neck and face. He realized she was offering herself to him.
‘You wish me to stay here?’ he said.
She stepped yet closer. ‘I am a widow who must defend this town and this fiefdom. You have killed my garrison and many of my militia so I cannot offer my people safety any longer. I need a man no one would dare challenge and if that man had his own soldiers then it would prove an agreeable arrangement.’
‘And you would wish me in your bed,’ he said gently, lowering his voice to match her inducement.
‘I would welcome it,’ she said. ‘And you would become Lord of Felice.’
He could smell her scent as she came within arm’s reach. She was offering him lust and power and yet she stood before him like an innocent. A virgin bride demure before her husband.
‘And I would have money?’ he said, already tasting his desire for her.
‘I have enough gold and silver coin and more will come in patis once you offer your protection here and beyond,’ she said, her voice almost like a whisper from a lover.
‘I would have to leave while I looked for the Welshman I hunt. I don’t know how long that would take.’
He could feel her breath on his face. It smelled of sweet-scented herbs. He bent his lips to hers and touched them lightly. Like a huntress she had drawn him in and slowly she tightened the noose on her prey.
‘Not long… not long… Thomas. He’s in the mountains south of here. He camps at La Roche. Cade told me. Kill him and come back to me.’
Without haste her tongue sought his and for a moment he embraced her. So slow was the kiss, so delicate her tongue, it took little imagination to know how sweet the lovemaking would be.
He held her a heartbeat longer, she raised her head and looked up into his smiling face, and then Blackstone tipped the jug of water over her.
Drenched, she shrieked and shuffled back. Shock etched her face. She snarled and hurled herself at him but he easily wrapped her arms around her and her thrashing kicks had no effect on him.
‘Be quiet or you will be hurt,’ he warned her.
Her cries brought Meulon and two of his men to the door.
‘Do as I say,’ he insisted, ‘or I give you to my men.’
Her head sank as her struggles eased. He pushed the bedraggled woman away from him. She fought the men who grabbed her arms but she was easily held. She spat at Blackstone as he pulled on his jupon. ‘You are a bastard, scar-faced Englishman. You are a plague on France and I wish to God that I could have hung your body in my courtyard.’
Blackstone nodded. ‘And had you succeeded your King and his son would have rewarded you with anything you had asked for,’ he said evenly. ‘I admire a woman who will fight for justice. I’ve known women like that. I respect their courage. But you are not one of those women. At first I thought you were. You are twisted in heart and soul and surely it will be that same God you proclaim who will condemn you. I do not. I despise you.’
She screamed a torrent of abuse at him. Meulon clamped his broad hand across her face until she gagged and quietened.
‘Don’t smother her. Let her breathe.’
No sooner had Meulon’s hand released her than she drew breath and cursed Blackstone again. The throat-cutter went to strike her but Blackstone stayed his hand.
‘She’s a creature who won’t be silenced until the devil takes her back to his fold. It’s time we left this place of misery.’
How many more nights would they have to spend here before Alain was able to travel? He had once thought Felice to be the name of a woman but in reality it was a place of torture and death ruled by a voracious she-wolf. Cade was dead and Gruffydd ap Madoc would soon be found. He nodded at Meulon. ‘Keep men at her door, search her servants each time they enter. She has keys of her own. And there’s another door. Look in her bedchamber. Block it. She is to be kept inside.’
‘I will curse you, Thomas Blackstone, every day you live,’ she said.
‘And your voice will join the multitude of others.’
‘I swear I will be there when you are caught and your limbs are severed from your body and your ugly, scarred head is on a spike at the gates of Paris,’ she hissed through bared teeth.
‘Be sure that my eyes gaze on you, Countess. I would want to see the withered hag that you become. Old, bent and crippled, your wanton life will wither you, your shrivelled skin and toothless gums will give flight to what beauty you have today.’ He smiled. ‘I have no such journey to make. My face will never be my fortune.’
CHAPTER FIFTY-SIX
Dank mist clung to the countryside around Vincennes. The Seine seemed to suck the grey air down to its surface as if reluctant to relinquish its smothering blanket. The Dauphin sat hunched in an ermine-lined robe, his feet pushed towards the blazing fire. No matter how warmly he dressed the chill would not leave his bones. He ached and his nose dripped. His watery eyes gazed at the blurred flames and he craved the warmth that summer would bring, knowing he would be happy to endure the suffocating heat. But this was only the middle of February and the trees stubbornly refused to leaf and herald the approaching spring. The French army had made progr
ess, sweeping aside some of the routier bands; the army’s ranks had swelled to four thousand after extra taxation had been imposed by the King. Men from the eastern provinces had been united under Jean de Tancarville’s command and they had begun their march south while those under Arnoul d’Audrehem’s command scoured the Rhône Valley, digging the mercenaries out of their rat holes and destroying them. The routiers would soon be crushed between the two armies.
Simon Bucy entered the room and bowed. He was breathless.
‘You wheeze like an old crone, Simon. This weather will put us all in an early grave.’
‘Sire,’ he said as if agreeing; and then: ‘The King—’
Before Bucy could complete the sentence the Dauphin arched upright in expectation. ‘He is ill?’
Was that a note of hope in the Dauphin’s voice? wondered the King’s counsellor. ‘No, sire, the King is well.’ He hesitated, expecting at least a sign of relief from the frail son. There was none. Charles remained passive and, if anything, appeared to be irritated by the intrusion for anything less than his father’s imminent collapse. The King had gone to claim Burgundy and he had stayed in Dijon.
‘No, highness, but I am instructed to advise you of news that he has received.’
‘From Florence?’ the Dauphin asked, again hopefully.
‘No, sire. Nothing has been heard from there. Messengers have reached us about an attack on Château de Felice.’
The Dauphin looked nonplussed. ‘Where?’
‘Countess Catherine de Val. Count Henri’s widow.’
‘What concern are they to us?’
‘Count Henri was a loyal nobleman, highness. He was slain by routiers two years or more ago. You allowed the Countess relief from taxation because she entrapped routiers and for using—’
‘William Cade.’
‘Exactly, highness. Now Cade is dead.’
