Cross of Fire

by David Gilman

  ‘He will not stay at the Bardi house in Avignon; he will rent a room like any other scholar. All I ask of you is that you secure him and the Jocard lad a good tutor in a school that will test him. Henry needs to be challenged. If no one knows who he is, then he is no different to any other boy given the privilege of a good education. If he does well, he can attend university in Prague or somewhere else.’

  ‘Then you are not asking for a Knight of the Tau to be his shadow?’

  ‘No. There is less risk if he stays anonymous.’

  The priest spread his hands. ‘So be it.’

  The agreement was made. Blackstone bade farewell to the loyal emissary. Lighting a lantern he made his way down the spiral staircase where he saw Lady Cateline’s woman servant curled in the doorway of a room three floors below Father Torellini’s quarters. Most servants slept where they could, ready to be summoned at any time. Indentured since childhood, women like her knew no different life. She was frail from poor nourishment, a sparrow of a woman, and the threadbare blanket that covered her as she lay on the stone floor would barely keep a feral dog warm. He thought of the woman who slept behind the door. Imagined the heavy rise and fall of her breasts as she slept. The quilts and blankets pushed aside because of their warmth. He fought the urge to push open the door and take a blanket from her bed for the servant. Such an act of compassion would simply make her employer accuse the woman of theft. And besides, if he went into the room Cateline’s scent would draw him ever closer until his lust forced aside any pretence of not desiring her.

  He stepped over the servant. Legendary knight and humble servant: perhaps they were both slaves to the Lady Cateline.

  PART THREE

  THE RAVEN AND THE CROSS

  CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

  The alehouse fight resulted in minor wounds, some of which the men attended to themselves, but there were a few who needed the physician’s attention from the previous conflict against Babeneaux. The old man plied his skills happily; he would earn more in the few hours’ work here than he would in a week attending to the burghers of Poitiers. Killbere made his way through the men towards Blackstone who stood talking to Henry.

  ‘It’s been agreed, Henry. I have spoken to Father Torellini. It would be a courtesy to visit him this morning and see what he requires of you.’

  ‘He requires my obedience, Father.’

  ‘Aye, well, that might cause a change in the weather should that ever happen. You don’t need to fight me, Henry. I am not your enemy.’

  ‘You don’t trust me, though.’

  ‘I would trust you with my life, as did your mother and sister.’

  ‘I couldn’t save them.’

  Henry had misunderstood Blackstone’s words. Taken them as a criticism. Four years before Henry had defended his mother and sister, had killed to save them, but a hidden assassin had defeated the best of men and slain them anyway. ‘No one could have saved them. How many times must I tell you that their death is not on your shoulders? They are on mine. Another year and you will be of an age when you can fight. Now strengthen your heart and sharpen your mind. You carry my love with you and the memory of your beloved mother and sister. You are a man, Henry. Behave like one.’

  Killbere slowed his pace, observing father and son. It was difficult for a boy desperate to live up to a legendary father. Killbere wished Blackstone would keep the lad close and between them bring on his fighting skills. Henry glanced his way, said something to his father and walked towards the city. Killbere timed his arrival so that the boy was out of earshot. ‘He looks as though he’s just been tasked with cleaning out a latrine with his bare hands.’

  ‘He’s going to Avignon. Now he must pay his respects to Father Torellini.’

  Across the field where the horses were tethered, ostlers attended to the men’s mounts. Grain and fodder had been delivered. Farriers had shod them. He looked to where the men were being treated. ‘How many were hurt last night?’

  ‘No more than those who attacked us.’

  ‘For Christ’s sake, Gilbert, I am already short of men and must scour the streets looking for archers and men-at-arms,’ he said testily. The combination of a recalcitrant son and suppressed desire had shortened his temper.

  Killbere had no wish to make it worse but the news he brought was going to create more anger. ‘Several of the men are wounded. The physician knows what he’s doing – I’ll give him that. Better than the damned barber-surgeons. Some wounds from when we fought at Lord Mael’s castle are festering. If the physician draws out the pus and treats them, they’ll be ready to fight again in a few days.’

  Blackstone eyed the veteran fighter. His report had been given too easily. ‘And?’

  Killbere shrugged and sighed. ‘Jack Halfpenny is missing.’

  ‘For God’s sake. He was with the men, wasn’t he?’

  Killbere nodded. ‘After the brawl we ran for home when the watchmen got close. Jack took a knife cut, but it wasn’t a mortal wound. The alleys are narrow and as black as a cat’s arse so he might have taken a wrong turn or stumbled on the cobbles. Will Longdon and a couple of the lads have gone back into the city to search for him. He might be lying in a doorway. The men drank enough to keep ordinary men pissed for a week.’

  ‘We’ll join the search. Take Beyard with you – he can speak to any Gascons. I’ll take John Jacob and Renfred should we find Germans to question. Meulon stays in charge of the camp. I’ll not lose Jack Halfpenny, Gilbert. Search every tavern and alehouse. Brothels as well. With luck, he is bedded with a whore.’

  *

  The city awoke slowly. Farmers brought in their daily supplies of fresh food and set up their stalls while the merchants laid out their wares in their shop fronts. Few people clogged the streets this early in the day but those who needed to be about their business moved aside as the tall, scar-faced knight and his companions forged their way through them. The twisting narrow streets led Blackstone and his companions around the ancient walls. The German captain and John Jacob went into every church they came across in case Halfpenny had crawled inside to sleep off the excesses of his drinking. The bells for the third hour of prayer rang out, bringing the faithful and the fearful into God’s place of worship, keeping the streets empty enough for the three men to continue to make their way unhindered by crowds. Renfred led them to where the fight had taken place. Smears of dark blood had dried. The gutter in the middle of the street still held small pools of gore. The alehouse was closed but John Jacob beat his fist against the door until a window opened above. A sour-faced woman gazed down at them.

  ‘There was a fight here last night,’ John Jacob said. ‘We’re looking for any of the men involved.’

  ‘You’re no watchmen,’ she said. ‘Revenge, is it? Men died outside here and we don’t want more trouble. You soldiers have caused enough. Now move your arse before I empty my piss pot over your heads.’ She disappeared for a moment but then quickly reappeared and flung the contents of her bedpan down anyway. The three men danced back.

  ‘Bitch takes the men’s money, waters down the ale and wine and then complains that it’s Englishmen paying her. Her husband is the one who provoked the fight,’ said Renfred, ‘and then the other alehouse over there emptied onto the street. The sooner we get back into open countryside the better, Sir Thomas. The French will never forgive us for winning the war.’

  ‘Or for giving Aquitaine back to the Prince,’ said John Jacob.

  ‘I don’t have time to go begging at every door,’ said Blackstone. ‘Stay here.’ He took three long strides and kicked in the alehouse door. This time the woman’s husband peered out of the window.

  ‘You bastards will pay for that! I’ll send for the provost and…’

  His curse was cut short by the woman’s scream as Blackstone yanked the alehouse owner out of sight. Cries for mercy echoed down the alley. John Jacob and Renfred looked left and right in case any concerned citizens dared venture out of their houses at the commotion. Blackstone q
uickly returned.

  ‘The provost’s watchmen took John. He’s rotting in a cell.’

  ‘If men died here last night, then they mean to make an example of him and hang him,’ said John Jacob.

  *

  The disturbance in the corridor outside his office caused Sir William Felton to bellow for his chief clerk. The door swung open revealing Blackstone and a gaggle of robed clerks fussing at the intrusion. One of them stumbled over an apology but Felton waved him aside and told him to close the door.

  ‘You do not behave in this manner, Sir Thomas. It is not acceptable.’

  ‘I made an urgent plea to see you but some arsewipe downstairs insisted I make an appointment. You’re holding one of my men.’

  Felton’s irritation was immediately soothed. Once again he held sway over Blackstone. ‘The archer? Yes. He killed three men. The magistrate has already declared his guilt.’

  ‘I want him back. He’s my ventenar. My men were not blameless but even Sir Gilbert will testify that armed men from the slaughterhouse and tannery attacked them. It was self-defence.’

  ‘Not according to witnesses.’

  ‘Since when do you take a Frenchman’s word over an Englishman’s?’

  ‘I am the seneschal, charged with governing, in the Prince’s name, a ceded city of burghers, mayor, council, magistrate and court. A city where I must keep good order and appease those who have been wronged – those who, if denied, would rise up on the streets. More than that, I govern beyond the city. Aquitaine is the jewel that must be held in trust for the Prince’s crown.’

  ‘I’ll pay reparation.’

  ‘No, Blackstone, they want to see an Englishman hang. I have signed the warrant given by the provost and magistrate who found him guilty.’

  ‘It’s barely past terce. The bells are still echoing around the damned streets. No court will have convened yet.’

  Felton lifted a document from the desk. ‘The provost brought him in after curfew. They roused the magistrate from his bed. And then I had to confirm the sentence. You bring trouble to my door. I want you and your scum gone from my city. Imagine the ill feeling that will greet the Prince when he arrives if I do not carry out the sentence. Innocent or not, I will sacrifice him for the sake of peace.’

  Blackstone lunged forward, slamming his fist onto the desk. Felton involuntarily stepped back, despite the broad-planked top forming a barrier between the two men. ‘I have my own damned piece of paper and it’s signed by a higher authority than you.’ He tossed the King’s letter in front of Felton. Felton looked down at the seal and carefully unfolded the parchment. His eyes scanned the King’s command that Blackstone be given whatever he needed. After a moment he refolded the letter and tossed it back.

  ‘It does not usurp criminal justice. You cannot have him. He’ll hang from the old city walls tomorrow in the marketplace.’

  The pulse in Blackstone’s neck throbbed. The table might have been made of solid chestnut and take four men to lift it but in that moment he had the strength to hurl it through the window. Instead, he calmed his breathing. ‘Let me see him. You cannot deny me that.’

  ‘I can,’ said Felton and then, after a deliberate pause: ‘But I will not.’

  *

  Blackstone met up with Killbere and Will Longdon and they made their way to the castle. Their accompanying guard gave the jailer permission to allow the two knights inside. The squashed-face jailer nodded his understanding. Perhaps he was mute, Blackstone thought, because his grunted acknowledgement did not resemble speech. Lifting a lantern, he led the way along a stone-walled corridor and then down a spiral stairwell, the turns so tight there was no chance of a fighting man wielding a sword. The lower they descended the heavier the smell of damp. Water trickled down the walls. A dirt-floor corridor led to a cage. The jailer lit a second lantern and handed it without a word to Blackstone, then turned and made his way back the way he had come. Blackstone raised the flame and saw the crumpled figure lying on the cold floor.

  ‘Jack?’ he called.

  Halfpenny stirred at the sound of his name. Turning to face the light, he raised a hand. ‘Sir Thomas? Is that you?’ he said, his dry throat croaking.

  ‘There’s no water here,’ said Killbere. ‘The bastards mean him to suffer.’

  Halfpenny crawled to the cage bars. His face was swollen from a beating and a dried line of encrusted blood scored his jupon. ‘I fell in the alley, Sir Thomas. The night watch found me. They say I killed three men – I swear to you I did not. We fought a mob determined to see us die. We acquitted ourselves well, did we not, Sir Gilbert?’

  ‘That we did, lad.’

  ‘Jack, they’re going to hang you in the morning,’ said Blackstone.

  Halfpenny’s head dropped to his chest for a moment, absorbing Blackstone’s words. Then he raised his face and pressed close to the cage. ‘Can you do anything to save me?’ he asked quietly. ‘I’d rather die with my father’s bow in my hand than at the end of a Frenchy’s rope.’

  ‘I will do everything I can to save you, but if I fail, you must make your peace and be ready.’

  Jack Halfpenny smiled bravely. ‘Then my life is in your hands, Sir Thomas, and if you ask me to give it, I will do so gladly.’

  Blackstone and Killbere trudged back up the dark steps to the prison entrance, glad to be free of the fetid conditions in the cells. A few deniers pressed into the jailer’s hand ensured Halfpenny would receive food and water, and if the financial inducement wasn’t enough, the threat given with it ensured Blackstone would be obeyed.

  ‘We should speak to the Italian,’ said Killbere. ‘He has influence.’

  Blackstone shook his head. ‘We cannot. Sir William’s reasoning is correct. The city needs to see what they believe to be justice done. There’s too much at stake for the Prince. Once a city’s blood-lust is aroused it has to be quenched.’

  ‘We can’t let Jack hang, Thomas. Merciful Christ, our own men will tear this city apart.’

  ‘And you and I would lead them. I know, old friend, it’s a sacrifice too far. But we have to give Felton what he demands.’

  Killbere grabbed his arm. ‘You’re going to let them hang him?’

  ‘I’m going to do what needs to be done.’

  CHAPTER THIRTY

  Blackstone made his way through the narrow streets. The deeper he went into the heart of the old city the narrower the alleyways became. He knew exactly what he was looking for. The gloom-laden passages yielded little but the noise and stench of people living in cramped conditions. He heard the screams before he saw the sign declaring the occupant’s profession. Pushing through the door, he saw a man being restrained in a chair by a barber-surgeon’s two assistants, who were pushing broken bones back into place in his patient’s arm. They glanced up from their labours as the man passed out from the pain; the barber-surgeon quickly bound the arm tightly with a wet bandage and wound a strip of leather thong over it to keep bone and bandage in place. He turned to Blackstone.

  ‘My lord,’ he said, knowing the man who stood before him must be a man of some authority. ‘How can I help you?’

  ‘You serve the people in the poorest part of the city.’

  ‘I do, as you can see from this wretch. He was injured by masonry falling from a poorly built wall.’

  The two assistants were slapping the man’s face to rouse him. As he came around, they lifted him to his feet and took him back onto the street.

  ‘Who among the people you know have lost all hope?’

  ‘Of life or the chance to rise above their destitution?’

  ‘Either.’

  ‘Begging is forbidden, so look down any alley rank with the stench of piss and you’ll find them. They come to the city hoping to find work. They would be better staying in the countryside where at least they can grow their own food. Here, without work, they starve. Then they get ill when disease sweeps through their hovels. The children die first and then the men and women.’

  ‘I’m l
ooking for paupers I can help. A woman close to the edge of despair whose children are starving, whose husband lies rotting away with some disease.’

  ‘There are many such people, my lord.’

  Blackstone fingered a florin from his purse and presented it to the barber-surgeon. ‘Then take me to them.’

  The fifth hovel Blackstone visited yielded what he searched for. The stench of the place caught in his throat. The man inside was racked with disease; he coughed blood continuously. The woman held an infant to a withered breast as three others with little more than a year separating them clung to her skirts. Did such outcasts ever dream of salvation? Blackstone wondered. Such conditions condemned them and their children to poverty for the rest of their miserable lives. The hollow-eyed man listened carefully to what Blackstone told him. Then he gathered what possessions they owned – nothing more than a cooking pot and a few threadbare blankets – and followed Blackstone and the barber-surgeon back through the twisting passageways to a boarding house known to the barber. The owner agreed to offer the paupers a room to sleep in and a place to cook. Money changed hands along with the dire threat that if anything happened to the destitute family then Blackstone would return and kill everyone under the boarding-house roof before setting it ablaze so that the whole street burned down. Blackstone took the woman across the yard and settled her children onto the one narrow bed. Her husband stood in the doorway like a beaten dog, head down. Raising his eyes to her, he nodded in farewell and then followed Blackstone back to the city. No tears were shed. They had none left. The woman pressed the infant closer to her, tightly clutching the purse Blackstone had given her.

  *

  ‘You cannot do this,’ said Sir William Felton.

  ‘It’s done. Paid for and agreed in full. The man is near death. He will take Jack Halfpenny’s place dressed in his jupon.’

  ‘You would hang an innocent man to save an archer?’

  ‘I would hang you to save an archer,’ Blackstone told him with no hint of humour. ‘I gave his family money and a place to live. His children will survive now. He is of no use to them. He knows that. His death gives them life and gives me back a valued bowman.’