Cross of Fire

by David Gilman

  As he reached the top floor he heard women’s voices.

  ‘Is she asleep?’ said Cateline’s voice from one of the chambers.

  A woman’s respectful voice answered. ‘She is, my lady.’

  Blackstone rested his hand on the sword hilt so it made no sound as he walked slowly towards the voices.

  ‘Where is my son?’

  ‘I do not know. He said he would look for the boy who saved him.’

  ‘Then when he returns make sure I am not disturbed. I will be sleeping.’

  ‘My lady.’

  Silence. The oil lamps spluttered. There was steam in the air. He heard the gentle sound of water splashing. A door closed somewhere in the distance. He reached a heavy door, half ajar, warm light filtering through the gap. He bent forward and peered. A copper bathtub reflected the shimmering light from a handful of candles seated in dribbled wax. Cateline wore only her linen undergarment as she luxuriated in the water. The material clung to her. Sweat speckled her face and her hair was pulled back and held with a comb. Blackstone’s throat tightened; he tasted lust on his tongue. Surely his thudding heart would echo down the corridor? Guilt made him glance quickly down the passage but he was alone. He looked back and Cateline was staring directly at him. His head snapped back.

  Mother of God. He had been seen. Caught like a teenage boy peering through a brothel window. His heart beat faster. Without thought words of apology stumbled from his lips.

  ‘There is no need, my lord,’ said Cateline. ‘The door was not locked.’

  Her husky voice drew him like a riverbank poacher reeling in his catch. He pushed the door open. She smiled. ‘Now close it, my lord.’

  He turned and dropped the latch and now that he was in the chamber saw the large bed and its canopy, crisp sheets exposed from laid-back covers. He turned to face her. She stood without shame, the shift clinging to every crevice and rise. Blackstone’s mail chafed the nicks and cuts. His boots were leaden. She smiled, reached out her arms. The fragrance. Was it a magical potion that befuddled his thoughts but aroused his body? He unbuckled his sword belt, peeled off his jupon and kicked free his boots. He bent, letting her pull free his mail and the sweat-soaked shirt beneath it. She gazed at his scars and injuries, the raw arm wound, the weals and bruises. Loosening the cord on his breeches she eased them down his hips and they fell to his ankles. As Blackstone stepped into the water she pressed close to him, her musk more enticing than the scent in the water. She raised her arms to let him peel the wet cloth from her, and as it freed her hands she unclipped the comb, letting her hair fall. They settled in the deep bath. She soaped and washed the dried blood from his face and hair, then bathed his wounds and kissed his calloused hands that had wielded a sword in her defence. Their passion was kept in check like a shield wall denying a surging enemy. And when the water cooled and the dirt and tiredness was washed away, he lifted her onto the bed. The chill autumn breeze tingled their skin.

  The shield wall yielded.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  Killbere watched Blackstone stride across the yard towards him. He looked refreshed. And scrubbed.

  ‘You slept?’ said Killbere.

  ‘I did.’

  ‘You stink of something. A woman’s scent.’

  ‘It will wash off in time.’

  ‘I hope so. If we ride to Poitiers with you smelling like a brothel-keeper’s daughter, Sir William might ask you to marry him instead of giving us the supplies and replacement men we need. So? What did she say?’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘God’s blood, Thomas. Take your brain out of your balls. You were to ask her why she had not mentioned Hell’s Gate.’

  ‘I forgot.’

  ‘I wonder why.’

  Blackstone ignored the veteran’s sarcasm. ‘The men?’

  ‘Ready.’

  ‘Good. Scour every building and send any servant away from here. Empty the grain store. Fill our sacks and distribute the rest. Did he have any horses we can take?’

  ‘Very few. I had the men exchange any poor or lame mount we have for theirs. The others are rounceys, not worth exchanging. I set them loose. They’ll find their way to the villages and end up beneath a plough harness or in the pot.’

  ‘Did we find his gold?’

  ‘A chest full of mixed coin, florins, livres, gold and silver, even a bag of Edward’s leopards.’

  ‘Then we have enough to pay for men and supplies instead of being dependent on Sir William’s favour should he deny us. If he gives us what we want then we have money to engage fresh men-at-arms. How many of Babeneaux’s men survived?’

  ‘Eleven. Six died from their wounds in the night. What do we do with the living?’

  ‘Give them enough food for a week’s journey. They’ll make their way to another Breton lord and offer their services. They will tell what happened here. That we slew the strongest ally of Charles of Blois and the French King.’ Blackstone grinned. ‘Devils from the underworld. Now, let’s get barrels of pitch and burn down the keep and tower.’

  *

  Blackstone and the men stood back in the meadow watching the pyres billow black smoke high in the sky. It was a still day but the clouds on the horizon threatened darker days and storms to come. Lord Mael’s castle was bereft of life, the gates barred, the keep and tower burnt like the devil’s horns. They rode through the nearby villages but the doors stayed closed, and windows covered. Word had already reached the villeins of the slaughter that had taken place. Blackstone’s men dropped bags of grain at the crossroads for the villagers but kept the more valuable sacks of salt.

  Henry rode in his usual place behind John Jacob. Lady Cateline’s son rode alongside his new-found friend. Henry was glad of the companionship because neither his father nor John Jacob had relinquished their displeasure with him. Jocard looked back along the column of men. His mother was caring for his sister as they rode on the supply cart.

  ‘Your father spent the night with my mother. Did you know?’ Jocard whispered, not wishing anyone else to hear.

  Henry snapped a look at the younger boy. Jocard nodded in confirmation. Neither looked pleased. Henry had never thought of his father being with anyone else other than his mother and the thought tormented him. Surely he still honoured her memory? ‘How can you be sure?’

  ‘When I left you in the yard last night I went back to my old room. Jehanne was crying in her sleep so I went to her but Melita was with her. She has been my mother’s servant since I was born. Once I saw that Jehanne was settled I said I wanted to see my mother and tell her how many men were killed. But Melita stopped me and said she was sleeping. It was early. My mother would never go to bed so early.’

  ‘She might, having spent a frightening day with the men. And she would have been worried about you before they found you,’ Henry said, hoping what he said was true

  ‘I went past her room. I heard them.’

  Henry’s stomach squirmed. ‘You’re wrong,’ he whispered. ‘My father was with the men. I saw him with Sir Gilbert.’

  Jocard shook his head. ‘Henry, you saved my life. You gave me courage. I am forever in your debt, so I would not tell you this unless I was certain. You are like a brother now.’ He hesitated. ‘My father and your mother are dead. Do you think—?’

  ‘No!’ Henry said too loudly, clenching his teeth to stop the words spilling out for all to hear. His father would never marry Jocard’s mother. Never. His own mother and sister had been murdered. His father would never replace them. It was an impossibility.

  John Jacob glanced behind him. ‘You speak when you are not spoken to, Henry. Is there something you wish to share?’

  ‘No, Master Jacob.’

  ‘Keep it that way,’ said the squire. A page needed to be kept in his place. An added discipline that Henry Blackstone had still not learnt. Yet the boy had shown initiative and courage and he hoped the father would soon allow him to be less harsh. His thoughts remained unspoken to Blackstone, however.

 
; *

  It would take three days to reach Poitiers, and by the second night Blackstone had not yet made any approach to Cateline. He had ignored her. As Henry gathered sufficient wood for the night’s fire and then attended to Blackstone’s horse, Killbere sat on a log by their fire honing his knife blade.

  ‘I’ve been thinking,’ said Killbere.

  Blackstone was lost in a reverie, gazing at the flames. Killbere’s words prodded him. ‘Thinking can be bad for you.’

  ‘Which is what you have been doing since we left the castle. You have barely spoken a word.’

  ‘Idle conversation has never been to my liking.’

  ‘And idle thoughts? What preoccupies you? Poitiers? Sir William’s ire at our late arrival? The Prince? No, it is the woman. She gazes like a mooning cow your way, hungry for the bull in the next field to mount her. And you have not uttered a word to her. You have not approached her to ask if she and her youngster are comfortable. You have sat in the saddle and stared beyond the horizon and at night contemplated the flames as you sit and scratch your balls. You should face the facts.’

  ‘I don’t need a lecture, Gilbert.’

  ‘You need a kick up the arse. You are bewitched by the woman. See it for what it is. For God’s sake, take her into the trees and have her again, and soon the attraction will wear off.’ He wiped the oiled blade on his sleeve, satisfied with its sharpness. ‘Be careful, Thomas. She seeks a husband.’

  Blackstone looked up sharply as Killbere got to his feet.

  ‘And I know you have not yet released Christiana and Agnes from your heart,’ Killbere added gently.

  Blackstone relented. ‘You cannot know how Fate torments me. It holds a mirror to my past. Before you and I fought at Poitiers back in ’56, I sent Christiana and Agnes to safety in Avignon. What I have never told you is that Christiana was raped on the journey by one of the King’s guards. Henry was only a boy, but he tried to stop it. It was John Jacob who killed the man and took Henry under his wing. I didn’t know what had happened until later when the Prince banished me and I fought the Savage Priest. Christiana took the children and left me because I refused to accept her bastard child. I fear the worst if I allow Cateline to draw close.’

  Killbere made no reply. He placed a hand on his friend’s shoulder. ‘I will make no mention of this to anyone. Henry and John will never know you’ve told me. Let your heart guide you.’ He turned away and left his friend alone.

  Blackstone felt the blood rush to his head. The pulse in his neck beat from the memory of his wife’s ordeal. Killbere’s words had found their mark. He stood and made his way through the men to where they had settled Cateline and her servant for the night. The servant woman was preparing food for her mistress in a lean-to shelter a few feet away as Jehanne sat safely behind her playing happily with two small clay dolls retrieved from her room at the castle. Cateline was rubbing oil into her hair; its raven-wing sheen glowed even in the dim light. She reached out a hand to Blackstone, drawing him down to where she sat on a blanket. Blackstone went on one knee.

  ‘Thomas,’ she said, still with the huskiness he remembered from their night of passion, and held out the comb. ‘Will you help?’

  ‘I am no servant to do your bidding, Cateline. Nor am I a love-struck puppy eager to please.’

  Her expression hardened. ‘I do not expect to be spoken to like that, Thomas. I thought we… I thought we had drawn close.’

  ‘We were drawn by lust, nothing more. Don’t make it out to be anything more.’

  ‘You insult me,’ she said, suddenly embarrassed, glancing left and right in case any of the men heard their exchange.

  ‘You have everything you need. Your servant, your daughter is safe, you are now twice widowed and will benefit from Babeneaux’s estate once Sir William attends to the legalities. I saved your son. I have nothing more to offer you.’

  ‘That’s not true, Thomas. I know what we shared.’

  ‘We coupled because we were lonely and desired one another. You will get nothing more from me.’

  ‘Then I have been used.’

  ‘As you seem to use others. Your husband no sooner cold in the grave than you accept Lord Mael; you despair of him and his desire to control your domain so you take his guard commander as your lover. Every man who shares your bed dies.’

  A look of pain crossed her face as she lowered her gaze. ‘That is so hurtful,’ she said in a whisper. She raised her eyes. ‘You say cruel things. I am a woman with no one to protect me. I have children to raise. I have the right to live as I should by my own title – and I fight for that right.’

  ‘Don’t look so wounded, Cateline. You will never starve and there will be men you will attract who will not wish to seize what is yours by inheritance and right. But I am not that man. Why didn’t you tell me about Hell’s Gate?’

  The sudden question caught her off guard. She recovered quickly and busied herself putting away her comb and oils. ‘It was a place of terror. No one ever ventured into the caves. They barred the way in. I could not have known where it would come out or that they could even enter it.’

  ‘When planning an attack a soldier needs to know everything so it can be considered or discounted.’

  ‘I am not a soldier. I was asked what I knew, and I told you. I didn’t hide anything from you. My son’s life was in danger. Why would I not mention something that might benefit him? Why are you being so harsh?’

  Blackstone could barely answer the question for himself. The woman had touched something in him he had not experienced since his wife’s death. It confused him and his defence against it was to push her away with barbed comments. He restrained his desire to reach out and pull her to him. The smell of her skin and the memory of her breasts against him were almost irresistible.

  Blackstone stood. ‘Get your woman to attend to you. And look after your daughter. She needs her mother’s affection, not a servant’s.’

  ‘So you’re turning your back on me,’ said Cateline.

  It was too late in the year for fireflies and yet Blackstone saw two of them alight from the warmth of the forest’s ferns. They glowed and danced and came closer: disembodied spirits caught between heaven and earth. Children’s souls, some said; others believed them to be the souls of those cruelly slain, seeking a host body so they could re-enter the world. Ignorant superstition. And yet? He watched them rise and enthral him with their light. So close he could reach out and touch them. Appearing as they did the moment he thought of Christiana and Agnes. Murdered mother and child. Beloved wife and daughter. Do not forget us. And then they were gone.

  Blackstone looked at Cateline. ‘You bear no pain. Your men are dead but you turn your back on them. I carry my grief still. I am not ready to relinquish it. We will be in Poitiers tomorrow and then you will be free from my protection. And harshness.’

  Blackstone turned away. Lady Cateline Babeneaux was the keeper of Hell’s Gate. The entrance to Blackstone’s heart.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

  Poitiers. One of the great political centres in France, built on a series of hills rising above the rivers Boivre and Clain and surrounded by streams on three sides, it was one of the country’s key defensive cities. The Gallo-Roman walls still protected the ancient centre. It was a thriving commercial hub with its markets and shops, and mills and tanneries along the Clain. It was also the northernmost city of the Duchy of Aquitaine whose territory was vastly increased now that King Edward had signed the peace treaty. Encompassing a dozen counties including Poitou, Aquitaine covered almost a third of France from the Loire to the Pyrenees. Its furthermost boundary north of the great city struck like an arrowhead into the French King’s territory. And his heart. The Seneschal of Poitou, Sir William Felton, governed in the name of the Prince of Wales and Aquitaine. A man gruff in manner as unrelenting as the Northumberland countryside he hailed from.

  ‘You were expected sooner,’ he snapped.

  Blackstone and Killbere stood in a room with vaulted ce
ilings where light streamed in from long, high windows. The room overlooked the city towards the river. A dominant view appropriate for the man who could decide a man’s fate.

  ‘We took half a day to get through all the damned clerks and lackeys you have scuttling around downstairs,’ said Killbere. ‘Are we to be kept waiting like beggars at the door?’

  ‘I control the city. It requires officials. A treasury, a night watch, a committee of thirteen citizens and their mayor. Taxes need to be levied and collected, traders to be granted permission. You are treated no differently than any other.’

  ‘Then we damned well should be. You were once a fighting man, I’ll grant you that. Slow and stubborn to react but when you got off your arse and bent to the fight, you were a worthy ally,’ said Killbere.

  The mixture of insult and praise momentarily slowed the Northumbrian’s response. Then, recognizing the insult was the more pertinent of the two, he slammed the palm of his hand on the heavy wooden table. ‘You will show this office the respect it demands!’

  ‘And you show Sir Thomas Blackstone some damned respect! He is Edward’s Master of War who keeps you and your cronies safe in this glorified brothel.’

  Blackstone raised a hand to stop the argument escalating. ‘Sir William, I need supplies and men. Farriers for our horses. Grain and fodder. We have suffered losses and once this matter is settled Sir Gilbert and I would like to bathe and wash the stench of combat and travel from us. My men need food and drink and a place to rest.’

  ‘I will do what I can.’

  ‘What you can?’ spluttered Killbere. ‘We are on the King’s business. You are obliged to accord Sir Thomas every courtesy.’

  ‘We have limited supplies ourselves. But’ – Felton’s voice took on a more conciliatory tone – ‘I will do everything I can to facilitate your requests.’ He subdued his irritation as he occupied himself for a moment fingering through the neatly laid out documents fanned across his desk. ‘You have caused problems, Sir Thomas,’ he said, brandishing a document.