by David Gilman
‘Why would they think you knew where I was?’
‘I am close to your King, and he has honoured you. They seek you out. They looked to be angry men. I denied all knowledge of where you might be.’
‘If they came through Paris, then that’s where they got the information about you. The King and the Dauphin will never miss a chance to see me killed.’
Father Niccolò Torellini bent into the stairs and stepped towards the light. ‘Be careful, Thomas. They will be somewhere on the road ahead.’
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
Killbere stood with one foot in a bucket of water and the other, already washed, on a piece of sacking. He wore only his breeches and a linen shirt that would have welcomed a scrubbing. They had camped with the men outside the city limits. The tents were in no particular order: the haphazard way of how they were pitched would give little help to an enemy should an unsuspecting attack take place. Killbere and Blackstone shared the same quarters, which did not differ from any of the others. They had set aside a secure area for the men to leave their swords before being allowed into the city. An older man wended his way through the tents; a younger man trailed behind, bearing a heavy leather satchel on his back.
‘He’s no tinker,’ said Killbere.
‘It’s the physician,’ Blackstone said.
The man reached the two knights, pulled free his skull cap and wiped a sleeve across his sweating brow. ‘They have sent me to speak to Sir Thomas Blackstone. I am Roland de Souillac, physician.’
‘I’m Thomas Blackstone. You’re too late, Master Roland.’
The man’s anguished look was more a concern at losing his fee than losing a patient. ‘They have died from their wounds?’
‘They have gone into the city. I bound their wounds and the drink will ease their pain. Come back tomorrow – your skills will be in greater demand after tonight’s drinking.’
‘Tomorrow?’
‘Aye,’ said Killbere. ‘And bring herbs and ointments and a sharp needle for stitching.’
The ageing doctor nodded and turned on his heel, the faithful bearer following in his footsteps.
‘If he survives the climb up the hill, I’ll wager his hand will tremble too much to stitch even a tear in my breeches,’ said Killbere. ‘Which reminds me: I’m leaving my dirty clothes with the washerwomen in the town square so don’t let me forget to collect them because when I leave the tavern my mind will be on other matters.’
Blackstone sat on an upturned wooden bucket, tapping the King of England’s letter on his fingertips. ‘Don’t give the washerwomen your braies, by now they must be as deadly as the pestilence.’
Killbere scowled, wobbled free of the bucket and stamped his wet foot onto the sack. ‘You worry too much about what women think of you, Thomas. If I did not give these women dirty clothing they would have no work. They would not have a sou to feed the children. I am doing them a kindness. And a pair of arse-stained braies is nothing compared to what Edward has handed you in that letter.’ Killbere rubbed his foot dry and tugged on his boots. ‘He casts us into the shit pit. The Count of Foix is as difficult a nobleman as you would wish. He will not take kindly to any interference from us. And I do not relish the thought of riding to the foothills of the Pyrenees this close to winter.’
Blackstone unfolded the letter for the hundredth time and gazed at the scribe’s neat hand and the seal’s impression at the bottom of the text. ‘Edward demands a lot, but we must honour it and see it’s done before the Prince arrives next summer.’
Killbere finished dressing and tightened the broad leather belt around his waist. ‘The Count of Foix, the Prince of Wales and Sir William Felton. I’d rather take on those Teutonic Knights.’
‘Not if they seek some kind of retribution. They have influence and can call on their brothers-in-arms if we cause them trouble. And who knows what comfort the new Pope will offer them. If he sides with them, then I have already set him against me. And if he is against me he is against the King.’
Killbere tugged and fussed his clothing, straightening his jupon. ‘That’s true. I pray to God that whoever these Teutonic Knights are that they don’t have their heads up their arses blinking in the light as they peer out their own backsides like every other damned fanatic. I have served on crusade with them and I have no wish to take on that particular brotherhood.’ Killbere dragged his fingers through his beard, untangling the congealed hair. ‘They kill in the name of God, which as far as I’m concerned offers no benefit if you’re their victim. We must take care on the road and see where it leads us.’ Killbere rubbed a finger over his teeth, swilled his mouth with wine and swallowed. A final act of preparation. Eyebrows raised, he looked at Blackstone, the unspoken question seeking confirmation as to his readiness.
Blackstone cast a critical gaze over his friend’s attire. Killbere quickly stopped any comment. It was bound to be barbed. ‘Never mind,’ he sighed.
The evening gloaming settled across the hills. Sentries stalked the city walls as the sound of fiddle and drum from the alehouses escaped over the high parapets. ‘I owe Will Longdon a woman. I will honour my promise.’ Killbere bundled up his dirty clothes for the washerwomen. ‘Are we to be graced with your presence? Or are you seeing the husband-hunting woman tonight?’
‘I dine with Father Torellini and then I’ll find you. Tell the men again that Sir William’s night watch have the power to arrest and if they resist, then it will go more badly for them. I want us out of this place as soon as we find replacements.’
‘Don’t worry, Thomas. I’ll be with them.’
‘Now I really am worried.’
Killbere’s wolfish grin needed no further comment.
Blackstone watched his closest friend make his way towards the city gates. The camp was quiet, other than the sound of pots clanging together and a blade being sharpened. He went towards the sound. John Jacob sat on an upturned bucket outside his tent, his sword blade singing from the whetstone; a piece of meat cooked slowly over the low fire before him.
‘John.’
The squire made to rise but Thomas rested a hand on his shoulder. ‘Are you for the alehouses and taverns tonight?’
‘I think not. I prefer some hours of quiet. And where alehouse whores are concerned there’s always trouble.’ He lifted a wineskin. ‘Lord Babeneaux had good wine in his cellar. It would be a pity for it to go to waste.’ He handed the skin to Blackstone, who swallowed some of the warm liquid. Wiping his mouth, he nodded his agreement as to its quality and handed it back. The taste of the wine and the smell of the juicy meat made him feel nostalgic for simple times and simple pleasures. No burden of command. Time spent travelling with Christiana, sleeping under the stars and lovemaking in the scented pine forests. South. Near Avignon. Before her death. He shook his head to rid himself of the dark part of the memory and the horror of her murder.
‘Is Henry behaving?’
‘He’s chastised. I am less strict with him now. I… we… must not crush his spirit – if you’ll forgive me for saying so.’
‘You have always spoken freely. I depend on it. And I agree. But I am torn.’
‘He was speaking to the Breton lad on the ride here. There’s a friendship between them. I know he talks of more learning.’ John Jacob turned the meat. ‘Or… it’s time he took his place in the line with the men. He has the strength and his skills improve. But he does not yet have the ability to focus the rage it takes to kill. And, if I’m honest, Sir Thomas, without that he will go down in a mêlée.’
The steady clank of rattling pots made their way through the clustered tents. Henry Blackstone had been down to the bottom of the hill and the river. He glanced up, saw his father and his squire and lifted his chin, determined not to be seen crestfallen at the menial tasks he had to perform.
‘My lord, Master Jacob.’ Henry maintained the formality when speaking to his father in another’s company. ‘I met the physician on the way. He told me the men have already gone into the city.’<
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‘Your work is done?’ said Blackstone.
‘It is.’
‘I am dining with Fra Torellini. Would you care to meet him again tomorrow once we have dealt with what needs to be discussed privately?’
The boy seemed uninterested despite the affection he felt for the Florentine priest. ‘Perhaps another time, my lord.’
Henry’s answer caught Blackstone by surprise. Normally any promise of being in Torellini’s company would have the boy’s enthusiasm spilling over. ‘He has tutors going to Avignon. There’s a new Pope.’
John Jacob glanced up at the news. Blackstone nodded in confirmation. And it caught the boy’s attention. ‘Perhaps there’s a teacher who might offer you guidance into law or medicine. It’s what you want, isn’t it?’
‘You would let me go to Avignon?’
‘I would consider it if that was your earnest wish.’
Henry looked at John Jacob and then back to his father. Why the hesitation? A tent flap caught by a swirl of the night breeze beat like a wing. The pungent smell of the horses tethered on their picket line reached him. ‘I am happy here. I want to fight with these men. And with you and Master Jacob. I have tried to prove myself to you but you don’t give me a chance. That’s why I went into the castle.’
Blackstone listened to the unemotional words. Simple facts. A desire to be with the men – easily understood. ‘Henry, no one among these men doubts your courage. Time and again you have proved it to them. And to me. I could not be more proud of you and John holds you close to him. You know that. Much has passed between the three of us. It binds us.’
Henry waited. There was more. ‘But?’ he said.
‘But you are not ready to fight in the line with the men.’
‘You cannot know that.’
‘We do. You are skilled. You are intelligent. You have contained your fear and known the closeness of a violent death, but that is not standing in a wet field with rain dribbling down your neck facing charging men on horseback who must carve you apart if they are to survive themselves. That brings fear of a totally different kind. Another year perhaps. But now… I want you to attend to your studies. You may find there is a better life to be had.’
‘Then you wish to banish me to Avignon?’
‘No, I want you to find the truth in yourself. And if it is to become more learned, to have the privilege of furthering your education so that your life is enriched and enables you to help others without a sword in your hand, then it is an offer you should consider.’
‘Or stay here and serve as a page?’
‘Yes.’
Blackstone saw the dark cloud of anger rise. The boy contained it. ‘May I speak freely?’
Blackstone nodded.
‘Are you keeping Lady Cateline at your side?’
The implication was obvious. Henry knew about them sharing a bed.
‘No. She is to go to Avignon with her son. Father Torellini has an escort. He’ll take them. If you go then you will use your mother’s name, de Sainteny. There must be no association between us or your life is forfeit.’
Henry’s voice dropped to barely a whisper. ‘Let me fight. I beg you.’
‘No.’
Blackstone’s son nodded his understanding. He looked at the pot he still held in his hand. ‘I’ll go to Avignon, then.’
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
It was, as John Jacob predicted, a fight over an alehouse whore. Though not at first. An argument broke out when Will Longdon questioned the quality of the wine being served. In England an alehouse and tavern would have their cellar doors open so that the marks on the barrels could be inspected if someone made any complaint against the quality. The French owner thought it would be a personal insult to allow any inspection from a wine-soaked savage Englishman who, with other bastards, had seized his King and defeated his countrymen on the field at Poitiers years before. His wife wagged a finger and spat enough curses to flay a cat. A drunken Jack Halfpenny bent his back, raised his arm and showed how a bowman had slaughtered the French that day and others. It was the whore who really started it. She smashed the earthen cup across his head and the woman resting comfortably on Will Longdon’s lap lunged and hit her because what she’d done might stop the Englishmen paying for their pleasures. The two women fought like alley cats. Blood flowed, hair was lost and screams and grunts filled the tallow-lit room. Men bet which woman would win. When the betting started to involve personal insults against the less attractive whore, the men who supported her took exception. Will Longdon hit a Gascon, Meulon felled two Hainaulters, and by the time the women lay exhausted on the ale-sluiced floor, the fight had spilled out onto the alley.
Killbere had dined at a tavern and was turning down the alley with a woman on his arm when he stepped into a mêlée of ten men being attacked by twice their number. He edged along a wall, keeping the woman close, and cursed at the aggressors. But when a Spaniard spat in his face and said something he did not understand, Killbere hit him. Only once, but the man tumbled into the dirt. Two attackers snatched away the woman on Killbere’s arm, pressed her against the wall and lifted her skirts. Jack Halfpenny, seeing Killbere tussling with them, pulled one of them away. The man suddenly had a knife in his hand and slashed out at Halfpenny. The blade swept beneath his raised arm, sliced into his jupon and scored a mark across his ribs. Killbere wrenched the man aside, heard the sickening crack as his arm broke and then threw the whining assailant to the ground. Women screamed; men spat blood, grunted and – perhaps following that intangible instinct known to a fighting brotherhood – sought strength by forming a defensive line across the street. By some quirk of movement it was Killbere who headed the assault as more men spilled out from another alehouse, bargemen, merchants and slaughterhouse workers whose leather aprons were stained with animal blood. The odds against Blackstone’s men had increased threefold. The slaughtermen gave no thought to the law, their only desire, fuelled by drink, was to kill Englishmen who took their women and had money to spare from their thieving ways. Tanners with their unmistakable stench produced wicked-looking curved blades used for scraping the flesh off hides. The packed alley surged; Meulon held a bench in front of him and pressed the first line of attackers back. They cursed and spat, sweeping their arms forward to slash him. Will Longdon and the others drew their archers’ knives as Killbere jabbed his sword into men’s thighs, disabling them without killing them. Strong arms that could hold a bull and slit its throat were rendered lame. Slaughtermen screamed as their tendons were severed. They fell squirming, those behind stumbling over them, blocked from pressing home the attack. Killbere bellowed an order.
‘Forward!’
Years of discipline made every man take a stride forward. Forward, slash, and forward again. Knives deadly in their hands. They trampled over the fallen, heel-kicked gaping mouths, broke teeth and jaws. Necks snapped. The haze of drink lifted; now it was blood lust that gave them strength to press on relentlessly. Those who’d sought to punish Blackstone’s men turned and ran. Killbere halted the assault. A dozen attackers lay sprawled in the bloodstained dirt; at least two of them were dead, their heads twisted at an awkward angle. Others attempted to raise themselves, hands clutching at wounds.
Further down the narrow streets torchlight shimmered against the walls.
‘It’s the night watch, lads,’ said Killbere. He looked around at the men; his woman had gone, but one whore screamed at them from the alehouse door, cursing them for not paying. Killbere threw a handful of coins at her feet. She scrambled for them.
Will Longdon wiped his sleeve across his bloodied nose. ‘I favoured that one, Sir Gilbert, but her friend took exception to Englishmen.’
‘I might have known you’d started this.’
Longdon spat blood. ‘Lucky for us you came along and finished it, Sir Gilbert.’
Shouts of alarm reached them. Their beaten adversaries had stumbled into the night watch. ‘And I kept my bargain. I paid your whore.’ Without another word Ki
llbere led the men away from the approaching watch. The twisting narrow streets swallowed them.
*
The guest quarters for visiting dignitaries stood close to the palace’s great hall. Father Niccolò Torellini, the English King’s emissary and representative of the Florentine banker Rodolfo Bardi, was one such honoured guest. Blackstone looked out of Torellini’s tower window. Lights twinkled in the darkened alleys as torchbearers moved towards the dimly lit alehouses. The distant unseen clamour had reached this place of safety and comfort.
‘Thomas?’ said Torellini.
‘It’s nothing. A street fight somewhere.’ In his heart he knew there was a likelihood that his men were involved. He turned back to where the Florentine priest sat at the table, the scraps of food pushed to one side on their platters. Torellini poured another glass of wine for them.
‘You could leave Henry here. There are a dozen grammar schools. You have the money to pay for a good education and Sir William would offer him protection.’
‘No. He either stays with me or hides in safety using his mother’s name. He has a fine mind and I know he is torn. He will make a strong fighter one day but if his thirst for knowledge exceeds his desire to fight, then he will have a future that neither his mother nor I could have imagined.’
‘Thomas, you cannot rip the tendrils from someone’s heart. They go as deep as any oak tree’s roots. He will defy you if the urge to fight is in him. How many times must he prove himself to you?’
‘I cannot lose him, Father. I cannot. It would be too hard.’
‘And from what you have told me he has already disobeyed you and placed himself in mortal danger. Don’t forget, Thomas, when he was with me in Florence we thought it likely that it was the French who tried to kill him. And after you saved him at Brignais, you swore to hold him close.’
