by David Gilman
‘No, my lord.’
‘The English?
‘Yes.’
The Breton’s eyes never left Henry’s face. ‘The abbey? All is well?’
‘I stayed only a few weeks, lord. I was put to work to earn my keep but I travel to Avignon and the Pope.’
‘The abbot told you to journey there?’
‘I never saw the abbot. I stayed with others in the dormitory.’
Lord Mael signalled someone behind him in the darkness: a priest, clothed in black, a moving shadow that flitted quickly to where Henry could make out a sideboard, heavy oak with locked doors. The priest reached in and pulled out a large black book. He returned and handed it to Mael and stood as obediently as the pet mastiff. The priest raised his face to gaze at Henry, a cruel, sallow face that glared at him from beneath the cowl. Henry’s stomach tightened. Was this place nothing more than a pit of darkness inhabited by malevolent beings?
‘I was given this by the Abbot of Tiron because I serve both the monastery and the memory of my daughter granted shelter there many years ago,’ said Lord Mael. He placed the large bible on the table and opened it without caring what page his fingers found. ‘You are educated?’
‘Some, my lord.’
‘You must have been in the scriptorium then? What? Sharpening quills? Mixing the colours?’
Henry’s heart thudded. He did not know whether the monastery even had a scriptorium. Skilled monks able to illuminate manuscripts were difficult to find, and many were trained from when young. He glimpsed a page and saw a flash of rich blue and red. A block of colour at the top of the page. It followed then that if the bible had been given to the Breton lord for his patronage and that there was an illuminated page then there must be a scriptorium.
‘I have been in it, yes, my lord.’
‘Then you will know the colours on the wall. They are not as drab as many would think. What colour, boy?’
Henry’s mouth dried. He was desperate not to reveal his ignorance. He shook his head. ‘I cannot say, Lord Mael. I could not work with the monks there because I cannot see colour. My world is without it. I see only grey.’ He said a silent prayer that the boy he had known when studying in Florence and who claimed to have the same affliction had been truthful.
Babeneaux studied him a moment longer. ‘I have heard of this,’ said Mael. ‘All right, boy. Read for me.’
Henry stepped towards the table and gazed down at the Latin script where the Breton lord’s finger rested. They were lines from the Old Testament. Henry faltered. The text was faded. He concentrated and then read. ‘“And I will draw unto thee to the river Kishon Sisera, the captain of Jabin’s army, with his chariots and his multitude; and I will deliver him into thine hand.”’
Lord Mael looked to the priest, who nodded. It was obvious that Mael could not read Latin and that his priest was his gatekeeper to its mystery. He gestured Henry to return to where he stood.
‘And I will deliver my enemies into the jaws of hell,’ said Mael. He let the threat hang. ‘You are well taught and your mother must have placed you in the care of monks at an early age. What work did you do at Tiron?’
‘I attended to the Lantern of the Dead.’ Henry prayed that the information given by Lady Cateline was accurate. Such small domed towers, pierced with narrow openings, emitted the light from a raised lantern that signified a monastery’s graveyard. The towers and their light were symbolic, providing guidance for the souls that travelled from earth to heaven.
‘And you intend to travel on the Via Francigena?’
‘Aye, my lord, once I can find my way safely to Avignon. The route is too far east for me until then.’
‘The roads are clear in my domain.’
Henry had deliberately kept silent about his father and men, trusting that when questioned Lord Mael would expose the truth for himself. To do otherwise would have made his story less plausible. ‘Not so, my lord. I came across routiers and they chased me. I feared for my life, which is how I came by these cuts on my face. I ran hard through the forest where their horses could not pursue me.’
He saw the information had had its effect.
‘How many men?’
‘No more than twenty. I stumbled on their camp.’
‘You saw their blazon?’
‘I think so, lord. Their clothes were dirty but their jupons bore a fist curled around a sword’s hilt. The man who led them was big, as tall as you, my lord, and he bore a scar down the side of his face. It was he who ordered his men to chase me. I think he was afraid that I had seen too much of where they camped.’
Lord Mael’s demeanour hardened. ‘Thomas Blackstone. They were English.’ It was not a question but Henry answered anyway.
‘They were,’ he said. ‘English devils,’ he added for good measure.
Babeneaux pushed back from the table so urgently the dog yelped. The priest retreated into darkness. Mael turned to his captain. ‘Sixty men. Leave before daylight. The boy here will tell you where. Bring Blackstone alive if you cannot bring me his head.’
Henry’s heart thumped so hard he feared his pulsing neck would give him away. Babeneaux was not leading the attack. If the lightly armed archers were caught in the open the sixty men-at-arms would overwhelm them. And there were less than half that number of hobelars under his father’s command. Even if they triumphed over the ferocious-looking captain the Breton lord was still behind his walls with enough men to fight off any attack. And if any of the captain’s men survived and reported back to their sworn lord he would know the pilgrim beneath his roof had lied about the strength of Blackstone’s force.
Henry Blackstone was trapped.
CHAPTER TWELVE
Henry slept fitfully. Lord Mael had retired to his chamber but the dog had slunk back to the kitchen where there was warmth. The stench of the dog’s farts and the stale sweat of the cook and the servants made the fetid air worse than sleeping rough with his father’s men. He eased himself free of the blanket and his threadbare cloak. The autumn chill slithered beneath the outside door and unfurled down the stone walls from the narrow window. The dog raised its head, a low growl in its throat. Henry stepped carefully over the snoring men and cut a slice of meat from the spit. The dog stood and licked its lips. Henry laid two generous cuts on the floor and when the dog bent its head he crept silently from the kitchen.
Only one tallow candle remained flickering on the table, which gave sufficient light for him to cross the room and climb the stairs. At the top a half-landing plunged him into darkness and he regretted not peeling the candle from its split wax and using it. He had been frightened that someone would notice shadows playing on the walls but now he thought it might have been worth the risk. Like a blind man he extended his arms forward, palms pressing against a wooden door. His fingers found the turning handle. It creaked as he tried it but the door was locked. He stood in the darkness, annoyed with himself for not realizing the boy would be held as a prisoner. He would need to be fed and that meant the cook held the key. He pressed his ear against the door and a moment later heard floorboards creak. He held his breath. He was certain someone was mirroring his action on the other side of the door.
‘Jocard, are you there? I am a friend.’
Henry heard the intake of breath; a fingernail scratched against the door. ‘Yes. I am here. Who are you?’
Henry bit his lip, almost spilling his true identity. ‘That doesn’t matter. Your mother is safe.’
He heard the intake of breath. ‘Can that be true? And my sister?’
‘Yes. Both were saved from Lord Mael’s men.’
There was a silence and then he heard doubt creep into the boy’s voice. ‘How do I know you are a friend? You might be one of Lord Mael’s men sent to gain my trust.’
‘Your sister’s name is Jehanne,’ Henry whispered.
‘That means nothing. Everyone here could know that.’
‘Jocard, listen to me. My life is in danger being here. I came to rescue you. There
are men beyond the walls who will come for us but I need your help. Where is the postern gate? I couldn’t see it when I arrived.’
Again there was silence. And then: ‘You’re trying to trick me. If I tell you, you will tell Lord Mael and I will be beaten. Show yourself to me when they bring me food tomorrow morning. Only then will I believe you.’
‘How can I do that?’ said Henry.
‘That’s your problem. If you are who you say you are, you will find a way.’
Henry’s voice hardened. This was no time to try and persuade. ‘Listen to me. My father killed men to save your mother and I tended her and your sister throughout the night. My life is forfeit if my identity is revealed. Now, help me. Where is the postern gate?’
He heard the boy’s breathing, his face close to the door. ‘Across the yard. Past the well.’ The voice paused. ‘Thank you.’
The floorboards creaked again as the captive boy retreated.
*
Henry stayed awake until the first signs of light lifted the darkness. It would be a clear day. Mist lay across the low ground, skirting the forests and villages beyond the castle. It would be a good time to launch an attack on the castle if such an assault were possible. He imagined his father and Sir Gilbert suddenly appearing from the mist with an army at their backs, and siege engines and scaling ladders; instead, reality was the chapel bell clanging out. The summons to dawn prayer would attract some of the household but not Lord Mael’s captain, who had gathered his men-at-arms in the courtyard below in the darkness an hour or so before. Henry pulled open the kitchen door. The dog snapped up its head but did not growl at the boy who had served him meat the previous night. It stood and shook itself and stretched.
‘Boy!’ the cook called, roused by the creaking wood. ‘You’ve work to do.’
‘Lord Mael said I could attend prayer,’ Henry lied, knowing it unlikely the cook would ever dare raise the subject with his master.
Cook grunted. ‘Pious little bastard. Get yourself back here when the praying’s done.’ He didn’t wait for an answer but threw aside his blanket and dragged a piss pot from beneath the preparation slab. The dog barked, willing Henry to take him. ‘Quiet!’ the cook demanded, but the dog persisted. ‘Christ’s tears, he’ll have the household awake. Take him, dammit.’
‘He won’t be able to get down the ladder.’
‘Don’t be a damned simpleton. The main door! Tell the sentry I said you were to go that way. Now piss off and take that brute with you.’ He raised his head, and sighed as he relieved himself.
Henry wasted no time and beckoned the dog. He swung open the keep’s main door and was faced with one of the sentries, who blocked his way. The man stood back when he was told Henry’s instructions. The man swore at the dog, who slavered and growled, but Henry went quickly down the steps, the dog at his heels, descending into the dank morning’s shadows in the courtyard. He ignored the chill, alert to where men moved as they took up their stations and servants began pitching hay in the stable. The castle was awakening and the bell fell silent. With his new companion at his side, Henry searched for the postern gate. Its narrow passageway would lead from the outer wall into the first courtyard between the curtain walls but Lady Cateline said that it gave access to the inner yard below the keep. Where? The keep’s walls curved into the Breton lord’s quarters, five floors of private rooms. How many people were inside? Henry had seen armed men wearing a different blazon. If there were seigneurial lords visiting then the private quarters is where they would be housed. There were other areas of the castle grounds restricted to him and for all he knew there were even more of these visiting men-at-arms swelling the castle’s ranks.
The dog lowered its nose, sniffed here and there and then cocked its leg. It loped towards a sheltered area where stout poles supported a thatch covering; it was an open-fronted storage area that ran along the wall for thirty long paces. The mastiff sniffed the stacked barrels and timber, cocked its leg again and went on, enticed by the scent of animal and man. The barrels and timber blocked an entrance. Henry quickly got his bearings. The sun was casting a dull glow over his shoulder. The postern gate lay in the west wall. This was it. He quickly checked to see that the awakening soldiers and servants were paying him no attention and then ran to the planked and studded door almost concealed behind the barrels and timber. It would be impossible for him to clear the gate. Despair quickly turned to panic. The sun would soon rise and then his father would be attacked.
And Henry knew in that heart-squeezed moment that he had failed.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
Roparzh and his men, all veterans of the Breton civil war and – because of Lord Mael’s alliance with the French – men who had fought the English, waited patiently for the first glimmer of light to stretch up from the horizon. The riders huddled against the morning chill beneath their cloaks. They had travelled slowly because of the pre-dawn darkness and mist, but knowing the land as they did they rode without torchlight, letting the moon’s glow guide them to where they could strike at Blackstone’s encampment.
They stood back from the lower slope, obscured by a treeline as they watched the faint wisps of smoke curl from the top of the plateau. Roparzh gazed back into the trees. Woodcutters had thinned them and brambles and thorns entwined themselves around stumps and felled timber.
‘They’ll be sleeping,’ said one man at his side. ‘Their horses will catch the scent of ours. Shouldn’t we strike at them before it alerts them?’
Roparzh glanced at the smoke. He shook his head. ‘The breeze is in our favour. It’s blowing left to right across us. Neither their horses nor ours will alert the English.’ He took his time looking across the meadow. The trees either side were dense, too choked with undergrowth to make a flanking attack. ‘What wolves lurk in those trees, do you think?’
‘Wolves?’ said the perplexed rider. ‘None. Their packs hunt beyond us.’
‘Aye, so you say, but I have fought these bastards before and we lost too many riding into such a place. Those trees either side are too dense for horsemen to fight among easily and the way ahead invites us to go forward, but I have seen English archers step out from woodland and slay us where we stood.’ He squinted at the sky. ‘If they are expecting us, then they mean for us to ride from here on that rising ground.’ He tugged his horse’s rein and turned to face his men. He spoke quietly. ‘Pass the word. We go back and use that woodcutter’s track we passed and attack them from above.’
The sun had still not risen by the time the sixty armed men gathered on the top of the hillside. They dismounted fifty paces behind the crest of the hill and, daring to edge forward, gazed down to where twenty bedrolls clustered around three dying fires, men huddled in their blankets seeking to keep the chill from their bones. Roparzh raised and lowered his arm. His men crouched. One of the Englishmen below had thrown off his blanket and groggily stood to relieve himself over the lip of the plateau, his back towards the men waiting for the signal to attack. The man’s sword was stuck into the dirt, the breeze catching its blade, making it sway gently, as gently as the old man who rocked slowly side to side as he pissed into the cool morning air. He stretched, turned and climbed back under his blanket. Roparzh grinned. The stupid old bastard was content to sleep until the warmth of the sun reached him. He signalled his men to move down the slope towards the unsuspecting Englishmen.
*
‘They’re here,’ said Killbere as he climbed back under his blanket and feigned sleep.
‘I heard them,’ Blackstone answered from one of the bedrolls at the next fire. ‘Be ready,’ he ordered loud enough for the few men who shared the danger to hear, his voice carried away from the approaching men by the breeze. Despite the distance between Blackstone and the advancing men, the sound of boots finding their grip on a downward slope, of men’s breath coming fast as they readied themselves to kill, of creaking leather and of buckles jangling against mail was unmistakable – and it was coming closer. Halfway. Eighty paces. The slop
e made the Bretons move slowly for fear of slipping and warning the sleeping men below. Blackstone waited. Watching through half-closed eyes. Listening for any attempt to outflank his position. Another fifty paces and he and the men who baited the trap would be overwhelmed. Throwing aside the blanket he leapt to his feet and faced the startled attackers. The half-dozen men with him abandoned their blankets. Blackstone saw the surprise of the attackers when they realized the few men who stood facing them were all that slept there. The other sleeping men were nothing more than mounds of ferns. The shock tore through Lord Mael’s men. It was a trap; but where were the other Englishmen? Their momentum stalled. They hesitated as Blackstone raised Wolf Sword above his head. ‘Now!’ he bellowed.
His voice swept down across the open meadow to the treeline where Roparzh had first stopped; the undergrowth came alive. Fern and grass, forest detritus used for concealment, fell away. Rough-clothed men emerged and quickly formed a line, bent their backs and unleashed a withering storm of yard-long arrows onto the men halfway down the slope above Blackstone’s position, arrows that found their targets. Men turned to run, clamouring for the safety of the ground above them. Blackstone saw their leader bellow a threat. The man knew what he was doing. Attack! The closer they got to their enemy the less able the archers would be to shoot into them.
Another whispering hail fell, but they struck fewer as the men leapt downward in desperation for their lives and eagerness to kill the man who had trapped them. They took heart. There was only a handful of men below and no more than a couple of dozen archers beyond who would not be able to fight them when they swept through the few defenders. The cry went up. Kill! Kill!
Blackstone, Killbere and the others raised their shields, quickly forming a wedge. The attackers emptied their chests of fear, bellowing hatred, driving strength into their legs and raised sword arms. They clashed. The wall held. The attackers’ momentum carried them a few yards beyond Blackstone; then, hearing cries of men behind them they turned to face more Englishmen swarming down the hill, led by a bearded giant. Roparzh’s sixty were now less than forty but their enemy was still weaker.
