Cross of Fire

by David Gilman

  Guiscard had not yet lit his kiln. The rider appeared in the clearing as he was laying the cut seasoned logs into a circle, building it with an expertise born of a lifetime’s practice. The stranger was not one of the men Guiscard and his friends had seen riding past their forest two days before and who were now camped a few miles away. Those men looked like brigands; this rider looked as though he might be a man of importance. The black cross on his grey mantle denoted authority. A priest? Guiscard’s crippled leg would not allow him to go down on his knee. He bowed as deeply as he could.

  ‘My lord?’

  Hartmann looked around the clearing. The kiln’s sod roof retained the acrid smell of burnt wood from previous fires. There was no one else in sight. Caution made him circle his horse around the bent man. A lone man-at-arms in a dark forest could be brought down from his horse and slaughtered by a pack of villeins for the value of his weapons and horse. Satisfied that there were only the two of them in the clearing, he halted his horse before the subservient peasant.

  ‘Stand up.’

  Guiscard raised his head but kept his eyes averted from the horseman’s face. To gaze directly at a man of such importance could provoke a beating. If he was a priest why was he travelling alone? And no monk or priest Guiscard had ever seen bore arms. He tried to clear his muddled thoughts. A knight then.

  ‘My companions await my safe return. If there are any in your hovels who would seek to cause me harm, you would fall under my comrades’ blades. Understood?’

  Guiscard nodded. Arrogant bastard. But he accepted it. Why would anyone show a villein respect? ‘We are but few, my lord. We work the forest. Trap, hunt. Burn wood for—’

  ‘Quiet. Your life is of no importance,’ Hartmann interrupted. ‘We are seeking Englishmen. Men who might have passed this way. Who has come through the forest?’

  ‘None, lord.’

  ‘There are tracks around its edge.’

  ‘Aye, lord, but they did not come through, they went around.’

  ‘And they are close?’

  Guiscard shrugged. He dragged a sleeve across his dribbling nose. Information was always worth something.

  Hartmann was under orders to bring a guide to his companions so there was no point in berating the woodcutter. He spilled out a few deniers from his purse and threw them at the man’s feet. As Guiscard scrabbled in the dirt, Hartmann tugged his reins. ‘My comrades are waiting. You can walk unaided?’ he said, pointing to the bowed leg.

  Guiscard’s grin revealed gums stubbed with blackened teeth. ‘Lord, for money I can run.’

  CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

  The monastery nestled close to a broad river. Forests surrounded the warm-coloured stone buildings and the thickets and hedgerows had grown since Blackstone had instructed the monks to let nature act as a deterrent to brigands. The winding road allowed no more than two men abreast to approach. As Blackstone led the column towards the monastery gates, he glanced at the graveyard.

  ‘More in the ground than the last time I was here,’ he said.

  ‘Pestilence?’ said Killbere. ‘Should we find out if the place is safe? It carries on the wind, Thomas. And they say even birds can carry it and those crows in the treetops look like harbingers of death.’

  ‘Gilbert, the birds don’t carry it. If they did, why don’t we see them dead on the ground?’

  ‘There are some things you can’t be too careful about. For all we know crows have a special place to go and die.’

  ‘The graves are old like the monks. Men die, Gilbert. Their hearts stop and they die. It is nature’s way.’

  ‘Then you knock on their door. And let us pray it is not a Friday because I need meat in my belly tonight and a straw mattress to lie on. I’m no monk to be offered fish soup and a plank bed and one of the droning brethren reciting a lesson while I eat. That’s enough to make any man’s heart stop. What these monks need for a long life, Thomas, is more meat and wine and a nun in a feather bed to share their nights. It’s the damned hardship that kills them.’

  ‘I’ll see if there’s more than pottage and stale rye bread on offer and I’ll try and get you a bed of your own so you don’t have to share with any visiting leper.’

  The Rule of St Benedict exhorted that all travellers be offered lodging and food. Father Torellini was the more honoured guest among them and would be housed with the abbot. They would give Lady Cateline and her children rooms in the modest guesthouse reserved for travellers.

  ‘You will stay inside the walls?’ Torellini asked Blackstone as the gatekeeper escorted them to the abbot. John Jacob followed them with Lady Cateline and her children.

  ‘Sir Gilbert has ambitions for a meal and a bed. I’ll stay with the men in the outer courtyard and stables.’

  ‘Thomas, the abbot will invite any knight and those of the nobility to eat with him. They would see it as a mark of disrespect to ignore such an invitation.’

  ‘Father, I saved this monastery. The abbot would never consider my actions disrespectful.’

  They reached the abbot’s door. Monks, heads bowed, hands clasped beneath their habit’s sleeves, shuffled past them as the bell for vespers sounded. Torellini gestured towards the silent monks. ‘You should join us for prayer. It eases us from the troubles of the day into the calm of evening. How long has it been since you knelt in humility before the cross and asked God to ease your heart’s burden?’

  Blackstone smiled and lifted the Silver Wheel Goddess Arianrhod on the chain around his neck.

  ‘An archer’s talisman does not hear your anguish, Thomas, nor offer the balm our souls need in this harsh world.’

  ‘I find her good enough company for me, Father.’

  Torellini pointed his finger at the talisman’s chain. ‘And yet you still wear the crucifix that belonged to your wife. You’re only half pagan, Thomas.’

  Blackstone pressed Torellini’s satchel into the arms of the waiting monk who served the abbot’s lodging. ‘Then you can pray for that half of me, Father.’

  He turned back towards the gate that led to the stables and outer courtyard. John Jacob had delivered Lady Cateline and her children to the guesthouse and stood waiting for him.

  ‘Is she settled?’ he asked his squire.

  John Jacob nodded. ‘Her boy asked where Henry was sleeping. His mother said he could stay with him if he wanted.’

  ‘The lad serves a purpose more than being my son’s friend, John,’ Blackstone said.

  For a moment his squire did not understand, but then Blackstone’s smile gave him the explanation.

  ‘Well, Sir Thomas, she’s an attractive woman and if she yearns for you and wants to know your plans then sending her boy to be close is a good enough ploy.’

  ‘I am already too involved. We have trouble waiting for us on the road ahead, John. She will not distract me.’

  They reached the stables. It could accommodate only a dozen horses; the others were hobbled and tethered in the yard where the men would sleep. Blackstone and John Jacob stepped into the humid warmth of the stalls. Torellini’s mount and those of his escort had priority but the bastard horse needed its own stall away from the others. Henry had cleared a corner storage area and tethered a leading rein from its bridle to an iron ring in the wall and was turning straw for the horse’s bedding. As Blackstone cautiously approached, the brute lashed out with an iron-shod hind hoof that would cripple a man if it struck.

  ‘God’s tears, Sir Thomas, I don’t know how the lad manages to be in the same stall,’ said John Jacob.

  ‘My horse permits it for some reason. If it was me, it would take a piece of flesh with those damned yellow teeth.’ He skirted the rear of the stall. ‘Henry, make sure you put a restraining pole across the back of the stall. I don’t want an innocent monk being sent to the infirmary or to heaven.’

  ‘Aye, my lord. I had planned to do just that,’ Henry answered, without stopping.

  John Jacob lowered his voice. ‘He knows his duty, Sir Thomas. He thinks it thr
ough.’

  ‘I know. John, find us a place to sleep. The men will have to feed themselves. If I am to avoid the abbot’s table Sir Gilbert and I will be obliged to eat in the refectory. And acquaint yourself with William Ashford, the sergeant in charge of Father Torellini’s escort. Not that many years ago I came across you in a monastery like this when you were escorting our Italian friend to Avignon.’

  John Jacob looked grim at Blackstone’s reminder. ‘The days of the Savage Priest and a time that still weighs heavily on me.’

  ‘No, John, what happened to Christiana was fate. It could not be avoided. But now history puts another in charge of taking Father Torellini and a woman and her two children to Avignon. Does it not strike you that the stars are aligning in the same manner?’

  ‘You’re concerned about the woman?’

  Blackstone hesitated. Was ill fortune tempting that bitch Fate? ‘I don’t know, John. Do events mirror themselves so closely? I pray not.’

  ‘Perhaps we should bend the knee in the church and ask for their safe delivery.’

  Blackstone placed a hand on his squire’s shoulder. ‘You have served me well since those days and if William Ashford and his men are like you then I would welcome them to ride with us. We need to know the character of the man and those under his command.’

  ‘A friendly conversation, then, with a man whose duty I once undertook.’

  ‘Yes.’

  John Jacob turned back into the courtyard as Blackstone watched his son rub down the bastard horse with handfuls of dry straw. It snorted, dipped its head and swung it towards the boy at his shoulder. Instead of snapping at him it snickered, a sound that might be thought of as contentment.

  ‘I know, I know,’ Henry whispered gently, absorbed in his care for the war horse.

  The boy’s impending absence already tugged at Blackstone’s heart.

  As did the thought Cateline Babeneaux might face the same terror as Christiana on her journey to Avignon.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR

  The gentle rain settled like a fine mist over man and horse. The men had pressed themselves close to the monastery’s wall seeking protection from the elements like any soldier used to sleeping rough. By morning their blankets would be wet and their beards speckled with dew-like droplets. Horses stood, heads bowed, eyes closed, half asleep, hobbled close together in the courtyard. One shifted its weight, its hoof catching a stone, the muted crack of iron against rock barely audible but enough to wake Blackstone. Senses alerted, he half raised himself, hand already on his knife hilt. Despite the yard being in darkness there was enough night light to see the sleeping figures next to him. Gossamer shrouds cobwebbed Killbere’s beard. Blackstone freed himself from his blanket. Something more than the horseshoe strike had woken him: a sound that had intruded into his unconsciousness.

  ‘What?’ whispered Killbere, opening one eye, staying hunched in his blanket.

  ‘Nothing.’ Blackstone picked up his belt and scabbard and stepped away from the sleeping men through the tethered horses. Crossing the yard to the stables he peered into the gloom. The outlines of the horses loomed in the darkness. Beyond the stables the gatekeeper’s room showed no light. The gates were firmly closed. No sound of intruders reached him. The horses would have whinnied if they had caught the scent of men they were unused to. Raising his face to the soft rain he dragged a hand through his hair. The bell for compline had long since rung – the last prayer of the day where men could examine their consciences and offer their actions of the day to God – which meant monks would not be roused from sleep until the call to night prayer at matins. Blackstone walked towards the cloisters. The abbot’s quarters were unlit, like the rest of the monastery. So that faint, almost imperceptible sound had not come from there. It was probably nothing, he decided. Most likely a monk making his way to the latrines. He walked across the inner courtyard, past the herb garden and the subtle aroma of marjoram and thyme. His mind searched for the image created by the sound he had heard. He gazed at the church door. The heavy latch. It could have been the sound of metal meeting metal as the iron lever was carefully laid to rest. As he stepped to one side, he saw the faintest change in the door frame. A sliver of light, only a hair’s thickness, momentarily caught the gap between frame and door. At this time of night any monk wishing to pray would be on his knees on the cold stone floor next to his cot. No need to stumble through rain and darkness when they could wait until matins sounded and lanterns were lit.

  He went to the door, gauged the lever’s weight in his hand and raised it slowly. The monks had greased the hinges so that those already praying would not be disturbed by a late arrival and a creaking door. He stepped inside and saw the dim light beyond the pillars towards the altar. There was a movement. A shadow from a candle’s flame. The open space was cold. Congregations prayed standing; the chapel did not afford even the infirm the luxury of a bench. Going onto your knees was the most relief a supplicant could hope for. Blackstone angled himself across the floor and at the transept saw the huddled figure in a cape, back pressed against the pillar, a half-burnt candle set in its spilt wax at her side. Lady Cateline’s hood obscured her face; her head was bent, her shoulders rocking gently from silent tears. Her hands were clasped in prayer, pressed against her lips. Blackstone’s chest tightened. A wave of pity washed through him. He stopped himself from instinctively reaching for her. It was too late to retract all he had said. Too late to reverse his decision to deny his desire for her. This was no time for regret. As silently as he had approached he turned on his heel and stepped away. He had taken four strides when her voice whispered across the cold stone floor.

  ‘Don’t go.’

  He stopped and faced her. She had turned her head and looked around the column, the hood slipping free from her face.

  ‘Please.’

  *

  When the bell for night prayer rang the monks who shuffled in to pray saw only the puddle of melted wax next to the column. Long before they had arrived Blackstone had lifted Cateline from the stone floor and carried her along the darkened cloisters to her room. The modest quarters housed her daughter in a bed encased in a cubbyhole. The second mattress belonging to her son was empty. To one side there was a prayer niche for those who wished to kneel and ask forgiveness for any transgressions. Neither Blackstone nor Cateline had any such regret. She had quickly closed the curtain separating the sleeping chambers. With silent urgency they stripped each other. Blackstone lifted her onto the mattress. He never felt the hot wax that spluttered from the bedside candle onto his shoulder. Her fingers curled into the hair on the nape of his neck urging him closer, her legs wrapping around him, demanding him. His weight smothered her, adding to her passion. By the time the ghostly shuffling of monks returning from prayer passed the window they lay embraced, spent from their lust. Unrepentant in the holy place.

  Fear had driven her to the altar. Night terrors had loomed out of the darkness in the monastery’s eerie silence to claw at her. She had begged for the Almighty’s help. Prostrated herself. But the merciful Lord had turned His back on her. He had remained silent. Her transgressions – her lust – had cut the wick that had once burned bright with belief.

  The statue of the Lady Mary, Mother of the Church, cradling her infant had gazed pitifully down at her. Mary, Mother of God. She knew the torment. She of all people understood what it meant to have a child’s life endangered. Yet there was still nothing, no blessed understanding, no solace for Cateline’s heart. The burden of protecting her daughter and of ensuring her son lived long enough to claim his inheritance almost overwhelmed her. Now she had declared for the English King in the Breton civil war her reputation was tainted; her betrayal of the Bretons would not be forgotten and there would be those who sought revenge. If they killed her and her children her domain would become a battleground. She should have inherited Babeneaux’s castle and lands but she had forfeited that right when she broke for freedom with her lover.

  Now there was another man
in her bed. And despite his desire for her she knew he distrusted her. But if she did not yield to desire how else could she secure a man’s strength to protect her and her children? Blackstone stirred beside her as she gazed unsleeping into the darkness. A glimmer of light from the dying candle caught the hilt of Blackstone’s sword propped against the wall. The pommel bore two half-coins pressed together. Although she didn’t know what it meant, instinct told her it had something to do with his dead wife. How could she bring this man’s heart to her own? Her son had formed a genuine bond with Henry Blackstone, but that was not enough to bind Blackstone to her. And desire could be as fleeting as clouds passing across the moon. Her mind twisted and turned. She might not know the answer now but even if Blackstone rode on without her, she would find it in the end. She knew Thomas Blackstone would prove to be her salvation.

  Her daughter whimpered in the next room. A dream. A fearful one. Her anxiety as a mother redoubled. She and her children must survive. Then she gasped at the thought that reared unbidden from her mind. Would she go that far? She shook her head at her own question. She laid a hand on the broad muscled back of the man who lay sleeping beside her. Yes, she convinced herself. She would go that far. If she had no other choice. She would betray him.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE

  By the time the men awoke Blackstone was washing in the water trough, ignoring the chill breeze that swirled across the courtyard. The drizzling rain had passed in the night. Killbere hawked and spat and swallowed a mouthful of wine.

  ‘You slept well?’ he said as he splashed water on his face.

  Blackstone glanced at him. The meaning was clear. His absence in the night had not gone unnoticed.

  Killbere grimaced. ‘I had a stone under my hip. And then the damned bells. Monks shuffling like ghosts in the night. It’s enough to make a man want to sleep with wild beasts in the forest. And today we lead the Italian and Henry to make their way south.’ He dragged his fingers through his hair. ‘And Babeneaux’s widow,’ he added innocently. ‘Did she sleep well?’