by David Gilman
‘That is my purpose. To confound, to contest and to defeat my King’s enemies.’
‘But not to break a treaty made between the Bretons. A treaty endorsed by our King. A treaty that now threatens to be torn apart.’
‘Babeneaux? He was an enemy of John de Montfort. He held an unassailable castle. He captured a child whose mother will declare her territory for de Montfort. Edward can have no complaint about that. Nor should you. We have crushed a powerful Breton lord who held a strategic fortification not four days from here. Now it will remain deserted until someone is brave enough to defy the myth of what happened there. I ask you again: I need food and quarters and physicians for my men. They need women and drink and a place to nurse their wounds, so attend to them. Everyone will be paid for their services. My men have money in their purses.’
‘And knives in their belts. Your men are mongrels that would as soon start an alehouse brawl as jump into a bear pit. I’ll have no murder committed here.’
Blackstone reached out a restraining hand to stop Killbere taking a fatal step forward. The veteran knight looked as though he was going to strike the seneschal. ‘My men have bled for the Prince and given the King a stronghold. They deserve more respect,’ Blackstone said, an edge to his voice. ‘You were glad of them back in March at le Garet when we defeated the Bretons. You took the honour for that fight but you would have been left face down in the mud were it not for my archers and Sir Gilbert’s defence of the hill. You do not command my men. I will bring them into the city and they will take their pleasures where they find them and if any of your men try to stop them they will face me first and it will be on your head if murder is committed.’
For a moment the King’s Master of War and the seneschal glared at each other. It felt as though Felton might summon the guard there and then and have Killbere and Blackstone arrested. But he knew better than to instigate such a provocation. The rush of blood to his face cooled. ‘Very well. They will not carry their swords into the city. That is the ordinance here. Knights excepted. The constable and the night watch are empowered to arrest.’
Blackstone knew it was not an unreasonable demand. London prohibited the carrying of swords within the city limits. Such a restriction might not stop alehouse brawls but it stopped any escalation. ‘Accepted.’
‘Then you have my permission and I will send a physician to you but you must pay him. There are quarters in the garrison, but I would urge caution of your men mixing with garrison soldiers.’
‘I agree,’ said Blackstone. It would not be the first time that men confined to garrison duties felt themselves inferior to fighting men. A challenge made could cause more bloodshed than any tavern fight. ‘We’ll camp outside the city.’
‘Good. Then much of our business is settled. I will arrange what supplies I can for you.’ Felton returned his attention to the documents awaiting his attention. It was a dismissal.
Blackstone and Killbere exchanged glances and turned to leave. Before they reached the door, however, Felton said, ‘What of the woman who accompanied you? This Lady Cateline Babeneaux? What will you do with her?’
‘Do?’ said Blackstone. ‘Nothing. Her intention was to seek your protection and hand over her domain to the King.’
‘And what of her then?’
‘She wanted an escort to take her son to Avignon and the Pope.’
‘Pope Innocent is dead.’
Neither Killbere nor Blackstone had heard that news. ‘Then who’s taking his place?’ said Killbere. ‘Let us hope it’s an Italian. Someone more favourable to the English Crown.’
‘No, it’s a Frenchman,’ Felton said. ‘A Benedictine monk, Guillaume de Grimoard. I have no intention of giving her an escort to the south. I shall arrange for her to return home. Her son is not my concern.’
‘Then that’s how it is,’ said Blackstone, surprised at his own concern, determined not to show it. His hand reached for the door lever.
‘Sir Thomas, your late arrival has caused an inconvenience to another. He’s been waiting a week. You’ll likely find him in the Église Sainte-Radegonde.’ He knew Blackstone would be unfamiliar with the city. ‘One of the clerks downstairs will instruct you.’ A final jab of authority.
*
The leaden sky trapped the late autumn humidity. Rain threatened as Blackstone and Killbere trudged along the cobbled streets north towards the river and the Bourg Sainte-Radegonde.
‘Too many people in too small a space,’ said Killbere as the press of people in the narrow streets parted for the two fearsome knights. Merchants and travellers jostled; shouts and ribald laughter spilled from an alehouse. A man staggered outside, barged unwittingly into another and was promptly thrown aside by a burly citizen. The drunk made no complaint and lay where he fell. ‘And rats turn on themselves if you cage them.’ Tradesmen at their stalls raised their heads at the two knights, men who looked no different from brigands. The citizens of Poitiers had no choice but to agree to be governed by the English and Killbere saw the resentment in their eyes, which were quickly lowered when his own met theirs. ‘We could be ambushed here and Felton would put it down to a robbery. A man would struggle to swing a sword in these streets.’
‘You think he would arrange such a thing?’ said Blackstone, stepping around a helmet maker who reached out, shouting for the two men to inspect his work.
‘I would put nothing past him. You are a thorn in his side. No!’ Killbere shouted as a tailor ran out of his shop holding up a tabard. Another barged his competitor aside and brandished a bolt of fine cloth. Killbere’s arm swept him aside, leaving the two tradesmen to bicker their way back into their shops. ‘Mother of Christ, Thomas, is this what people do here all day? Go from stall to stall and spend their money?’
‘What else can city people do?’ Blackstone pointed, ‘There, Gilbert, the road widens. There’s the church.’
The throng of people and stallholders gave way to a square and the church’s tower as they skirted the ancient city’s inner walls. As they turned into the square four armed men appeared suddenly from around the side of the old abbey and blocked the entrance. They wore mail beneath their surcoats, which were belted with swords. Hard-bitten men with unyielding eyes, they glared at the approaching knights, feet braced, two men forward, two slightly behind. If they were attacked they had already formed an effective defence.
‘Trouble,’ said Killbere, his hand resting on his sword hilt as they stopped. If the men were hostile they had chosen an open area to attack which meant there could be others waiting in the alleys and side streets to encircle the two Englishmen.
‘No,’ said Blackstone, ‘I don’t think so. Look at their blazon.’
Killbere squinted, focusing on their jupons. ‘Edward’s men,’ he said.
‘And what are they doing here?’ Blackstone called out to the men who had not moved: ‘Declare yourselves.’
The man nearest them took a pace forward. They were still forty paces distant. ‘We are escort to protect a traveller who prays within.’
‘God’s tears, Thomas,’ Killbere muttered. ‘You don’t think the Prince of Wales is in there, do you?’
‘If he were the square would be filled with servants, and another two hundred armed men with pennants flying. He likes to put on a show.’ Blackstone and Killbere strode forward another ten paces. ‘I am Thomas Blackstone, sent by Sir William to this place. I will not ask again. Who are you and why do you challenge me?’
The man who seemed to be in charge stepped forward to greet Blackstone, his voice now more deferential. ‘Sir Thomas, I am William Ashford, sergeant to the King. You are the man our charge has been waiting for.’ It was obvious that he was not prepared to reveal the identity of the man he guarded – or had been ordered not to do so.
‘Then take us to him.’
The sergeant turned on his heel and led the way to the church entrance. The three other men bowed their heads respectfully as Blackstone and Killbere passed. Ashford pushed open one of the h
eavy double doors. They stepped into deep gloom. There was barely enough light to see the threatening grotesque faces of carved creatures on the capitals. More armed men stepped forward from the shadows. Ashford’s voice echoed across the high-arched ceiling. ‘I am instructed to take only Sir Thomas beyond this point.’
Killbere pulled a face. ‘I shiver in this damp, Thomas. I fear God requires a prayer of contrition and I dislike being this close to the Almighty. I’ll wait outside.’
Blackstone nodded. The chill air outside was preferable to the stone floors spreading their cold upwards through the sole of his boots. An ancient abbey like this would entomb many souls. He stamped his heel to defeat the superstition. Keep your ghostly clutches to yourselves.
‘This way,’ said Ashford. He halted as they reached steps leading to the choir that rose either side of the entrance to the crypt.
‘Up there?’ said Blackstone, gazing at the soaring pillars.
Ashford plucked a half-burnt candle from its holder and offered it to Blackstone. ‘Down there,’ he said, gesturing to the tomb-like crypt.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
Blackstone descended. The dank smell of decay reached up to embrace him. Once in the crypt he saw columns of low arches offering gateways to the darkness deeper within. The candle spluttered in the suffocating air. A raised stone tomb stood in the middle of the floor. He waited and listened. A soft shuffling sound whispered its dull echo deep in the blackness. A shimmering candlelight far back in the depths threw shadows towards him. Blackstone raised his own candle, his sword hand resting on the hilt, ready to draw and strike. A cowled apparition in white merged from the dark, the candle glow serving only to light the way. Blackstone took a pace back, keeping the raised tomb before him and the figure.
‘Thomas,’ said the voice from beneath the cowl. ‘Surely you do not fear old friends?’ The elderly priest Fra Niccolò Torellini smiled as he pulled back his hood. The man who had once held Blackstone’s mutilated sixteen-year-old body at the Battle of Crécy raised an eyebrow and stepped closer.
Blackstone returned the warmth of the man’s greeting. They embraced. ‘You float like a ghost from a crypt. It’s enough to turn any man’s blood to water.’
‘Ah, my boy, if only I could float. My knees ache and my hand trembles. And I wear my order’s cassock out of respect for the saint who lies entombed here.’ He rested a hand on the sarcophagus. ‘Time binds you and me together, Thomas. Time and events. Look what this woman achieved. Saint Radegonde founded this abbey church. It is not as grand as others in the city but it reflects her modesty. This crypt has been her resting place for eight hundred years and here we are meeting again in a place of death. She no longer feels the chill, but I do. It would be a kindness if you put my cloak around my shoulders.’ Torellini gestured to the shadows behind Blackstone where a fur-collared garment lay on a bench. Blackstone propped the candle onto a pediment and settled the woollen cloak on the old man’s shoulders. ‘Thank you. You can see how a humble man of God like myself could not wear such finery out of respect. But now I ache with cold so enough of this humility.’
Blackstone suppressed his smile. Torellini served the Florentine Bardi family whose bank sustained the English King’s wars. He was the English King’s most trusted messenger between Florence and England, and Torellini had connections and spies everywhere.
Torellini lit another two candles from his own and then settled down on the bench. Now that there was sufficient light Blackstone saw that the man who had been a thread throughout his life since he had first gone to war looked no different from the last time he had seen him. ‘And why are you waiting in this dank place for me?’ said Blackstone.
‘This place has no doors, no cracks in the walls for servants to listen against. No spies linger down here. The dead do not pass on information.’
‘You came from Florence?’
Torellini shook his head and cupped his hands to his warm breath. ‘I travelled from the King at Windsor to Calais, then to Chartres and now here on my way south.’
‘The new Pope?’
‘Ah, you heard.’
‘Sir William told me. So, it’s another Frenchman.’
Torellini sighed and gave a characteristic shrug. ‘It is out of our hands. Pope Innocent made many mistakes. He was a weak man who reigned for nine years, eight months and twenty-five days. I am obliged to know such trivial information so I can speak with authority when I acclaim his non-existent achievements. The new Pope was not the cardinals’ favourite. Bargains were struck. Who knows how long he will last?
‘Edward won’t be pleased.’
‘And that’s why I journey to Avignon. He had hoped for an Italian or an English cardinal to be honoured, because the French like to favour their own King; the new Pope must see Edward to be generous in his goodwill towards the appointment. They will name Guillaume Pope Urban V. He is a Benedictine. Perhaps that will make some difference. If he abides by the Rule and lives simply and honestly, then that might curb the excess and affluence of those in Avignon. Simony, usury, prostitution and the life of luxury for the cardinals might soon be curtailed.’ Torellini spread his hands. ‘He’s different. He might succeed. He has even threatened to excommunicate anyone who persecutes the Jews.’
‘I think I’ve heard of him. Before I went to Milan and faced the Visconti an Abbot Grimoard had been there some time before trying to subdue Bernabò Visconti’s excesses.’
‘The same man. Yes, he failed. Bernabò made him eat the letter he carried, and its wax seal. If he had not, then he would have been killed. But it proves the man has courage.’
‘And has the good sense to know when to back down,’ said Blackstone. ‘What does any of this have to do with me?’
Torellini tugged his cloak’s fur-lined collar into his neck. ‘King Edward needs to offer reassurances to the Pope. He must gain as much support as he can for the future. The routiers who went to fight in Spain are returning to France. Avignon might once again be threatened. That is bad enough but those who should protect the Pope in the area, the Counts of Armagnac and Foix, are at war. Gaston Phoebus has sworn to destroy Armagnac.’
Blackstone nodded. ‘They’ve been at each other’s throats for years.’
‘It is not only the newly elected Pope that Edward needs to impress, Thomas. The Prince will arrive in Bordeaux in the next few months and Edward must secure the territory beyond Avignon.’
‘The south has already pledged allegiance. The Gascons wanted the Prince there.’
‘But now they have made him Prince of Aquitaine they must repeat their pledge. Every lord must come forward and swear allegiance personally. The Prince will travel from Bordeaux to Bergerac then Périgueux, all the cities, until he gets here to Poitiers. The Count of Foix is important not only as a potential ally but as a source of men and equipment to keep the routiers at bay. Edward sees a dual benefit to be gained. Securing loyalty from Gaston Phoebus and giving assurances to the new Pope. It’s politics, Thomas, and Edward has ever sought the advantage.’ Torellini rested a hand on Blackstone’s arm. ‘You fought at Gaston Phoebus’s side at Meaux against the Jacquerie.’
Blackstone had a questioning look on his face. ‘What? You think I should help the Count of Foix? He has always supported the French King.’
‘Ask yourself this. Who has been Gaston Phoebus’s most bitter enemy? Over generations it has always been the Count of Armagnac. They made Armagnac the French King’s Lieutenant of Languedoc and then adviser to his successor. He used that power and authority to undermine his old rival Phoebus. King John has made a tactical error, Thomas. He has thrown his weight and support behind Armagnac. And that has enraged the Count of Foix. It is a betrayal of his loyalty to the French Crown. Both men are recruiting mercenaries. Armagnac has the upper hand. If Gaston Phoebus does not raise enough men, cannot find the money to pay them, he will lose. And so now Edward sees the chance to bring him over to his side. Help him defeat Armagnac and then drive a wedge between the
routiers who threaten Avignon.’ He tugged free a folded document and held it in front of Blackstone’s face. The red wax bore the unmistakable privy seal. ‘For you. By royal decree. You take whatever you need from whoever you need to take it from.’
Blackstone felt the parchment between his fingers. He nodded. There was no choice to do anything else but to follow his King’s orders. ‘My men need rest. Then I’ll go south. But I have a favour to ask in return. A titled woman needs safe conduct to Avignon for herself, her daughter and her son. She wishes him to be educated there, and she seeks sanctuary. She’s a Breton and they will return to their conflict no matter what talk there is of a truce.’
‘My escort is well chosen; they’ll offer her protection. It is fortuitous that the boy goes there. The new Pope has pledged to increase education. He plans more schools and universities across France and the Holy Roman Empire. There is to be a flowering of knowledge, Thomas. I have recommended scholars from Florence to teach there.’
‘More spies, Father?’
‘Let us say, educated men who have a keen eye for what goes on.’ Torellini got to his feet. ‘Let’s get into the fresh air. We’ll dine now I have attended to the essential business in private.’ He reached the steps and looked up towards the light and the King’s escort who waited for him. ‘There is one matter I must share with you, Thomas,’ he said, hesitating. ‘You killed the Bohemian knight at Crécy whose sword you now carry; you slew his kin at Meaux. You haven’t been killing any more Germans, have you?’
‘Not that I know.’
‘Ah.’
‘Why do you ask?’
‘When I was at Chartres some Teutonic Knights approached me. Eight or nine of them. Two more travelled with them: half-brothers – I saw they wore grey livery beneath the black cross and were armed with crossbows, each trailing a horse carrying supplies. I suppose they serve the knights and hunt for fresh food. But all these men looked as though they had travelled a long way. They asked if I knew where you were.’
