by David Gilman
A cheer rose from Blackstone’s men.
Wolf Sword’s tip hovered at the squirming man’s throat, a foot pressed hard into his chest. Von Plauen snatched at his throat strap to release his helmet and try to breathe. He spat blood, eyes glaring at the man who was about to kill him.
‘Spare him!’ Gunther cried.
Blackstone ignored the cry for clemency and gently pressed the tip of his blade into the fleshy part of von Plauen’s neck. A small rivulet of blood trickled.
Von Plauen gasped. ‘I yield.’
Blackstone did not release the pressure. ‘This is the second time today I have spared your life. You are in my debt. You will honour that debt.’
Von Plauen dared not risk nodding his head lest Blackstone’s sword press further into his throat. ‘I will honour it. I swear it. My comrades bear witness,’ he spluttered through his bloodied mouth.
Blackstone glanced at the other Teutonic Knights who, hands on sword hilts, looked ready to attack were it not for Gunther’s extended arm stopping them.
‘We bear witness,’ said Gunther von Schwerin.
Blackstone hesitated a moment longer and then stepped back. ‘You will guard the Lady Cateline and her children until she releases you from your duty.’
Von Plauen’s men went forward to help the beaten man to his feet as Blackstone slid Wolf Sword into its scabbard, pulled free his helm and walked to where Killbere stood waiting to offer him a beaker of wine. Blackstone drank thirstily.
‘You see, Thomas. Listen to me and you won’t go wrong.’ Killbere beamed and placed a hand on his friend’s shoulder. ‘But there were a couple of moves you didn’t get right.’
Blackstone’s sweat-streaked face scowled as wine spilled down his chin.
‘I’ll explain later,’ muttered Killbere. ‘When your belligerence has cooled.’ He raised a finger in admonishment. ‘But I still think you should have killed him.’
‘He is beholden,’ said Blackstone, wiping an arm across his mouth. ‘And now he will serve her.’
Killbere shook his head. ‘Death is preferable to a wounded pride. Now he is twice as dangerous.’
CHAPTER FORTY-ONE
Blackstone’s journey south to meet Gaston Phoebus, Count de Foix et Béarn, was taking longer than planned. He had not counted on being guardian to a woman and her children, a woman whose emotions cleaved to him like an infant to a breast. Her hold on him had not yet been released. The battle and then the fight against the Teutonic nobleman had given Lady Cateline no opportunity to approach him. And Blackstone had avoided her. His wounds and bruises made him feel like a flagellant monk but the pain was nothing compared to his desire for her. And it was not mere lust. It was a desire to lie against her soft, fragrant skin and experience a long-lost tenderness. But it was not to be. He had reasoned it all out. Once in Avignon she would find a rich merchant to marry. Someone who provided gold, silk or spices to an indulgent priestly class. A wealthy man, older by some years, who would buy her beauty and satiate himself each night in her bed and turn over, grunting from feeble exertion, leaving her unsatisfied. Blackstone wondered if she would turn to a physician to deal with the unfulfilled gratification or take another lover. He told himself he didn’t care.
Having the Teutonic Knights riding with him was an added complication – and one he had mixed feelings about. They were honour-bound to him now and that at least gave him some assurance they would not attempt to assassinate him in the night. The Germans had lined up and then knelt in front of him, each man giving his name and pledge of obedience. Rudolf von Buchard, Gunther von Schwerin, Sibrand von Ansbach and von Plauen himself. Blackstone had let them kneel long enough for them to understand that it was he who demanded their obedience. The second man, von Schwerin, met his gaze squarely. His blue eyes did not reflect defiance but rather an understanding. Was it a sign of respect or was he searching Blackstone’s scarred face for a deeper clue to his character? It made no difference, Blackstone decided. That they were now obliged to protect Lady Cateline meant they stood between him and his unwanted desire for her.
Blackstone had thought Father Torellini’s journey would be safe from attack as he and his escort were travelling through English-held territory, but it appeared that Sir William Felton’s authority did not yet extend into all the areas he administered: Blackstone needed to find more safeguards for their journey. He was stripped to the waist as Killbere wrapped a clean bandage on his wounds.
‘Sarlat changed hands so many times I don’t know who commands it now,’ said Killbere. ‘French or English? Routiers or regulars?’
‘Gisbert de Dome, Lord of Vitrac.’
‘I thought him sworn to the French King.’
‘He was, but when he was nominated as Seneschal of Périgord the regional consuls and citizens of Sarlat denied his confirmation. He tried to take the city by force but his attempt failed so he started raiding in the area. He’s greedy for power and money.’
‘What damned nobleman isn’t,’ said Killbere.
‘And he has a vindictive temperament. I can turn him to suit our needs,’ said Blackstone. ‘He brought routiers down from the hills and tore apart the countryside. Seize enough of a city’s harvest and decisions can be quickly overturned. He became seneschal after all.’
‘Then we can’t trust him.’
‘Chandos bought his loyalty when we were reclaiming towns last year. Gisbert de Dome will be useful to us, providing he hasn’t been strung up in the city square by the merchants and guild members. Privately he declares for the French Crown, publicly he is ours. We must use his letters of authority besides the King’s to give Father Torellini and the woman further safe conduct. They must reach Avignon safely. We shall delay sending them south until we’ve secured more men to ride with them.’
‘And Henry.’
Blackstone stood and tugged his shirt on. ‘Don’t try to convince me otherwise. Henry is going to Avignon, and that’s the end of it.’
Killbere threw the blood-dried bandages into the fire. ‘Thomas, we are few in number and you now propose we place our lives in the hands of a traitorous Frenchman. And then there’s von Plauen. He may have sworn to honour your conditions for saving his life but he will turn like a rabid dog. I know it. And how far can you trust the Lady Cateline? A spurned woman is the most dangerous creature of all.’
Blackstone didn’t answer. There was little choice in the matter.
‘I’ve been ambushed before in narrow streets,’ said Killbere. ‘And there are five or six thousand people in Sarlat. It would be like fighting through reed beds hacking away at so many.’
‘When we reach Sarlat you’re staying outside the walls. I’m going in with John Jacob.’
‘And if they arrest you, how are we supposed to rescue you?’
‘You don’t. Stay with Torellini as far as you can. John Jacob and I will find a way to rejoin you.’
Killbere watched the blood on the used bandages splutter in the flames. He grunted and kept his thoughts to himself. Thomas Blackstone spent his life walking through fire. This mission, spurred by the orders of the King, might still consume them all.
*
Two days later Blackstone and the men looked down from the high ground onto the walled city. The standard fluttering over Sarlat-la-Canéda was not that of the English King.
Killbere turned in the saddle to face Blackstone. ‘Whose flag is that?’
Blackstone shook his head. ‘There’s only one way to find out.’
‘Thomas. Let us ride on.’
‘We need more men with us and he has them. You stay here.’ Blackstone gathered the reins. Killbere reached out his hand and gripped Blackstone’s arm.
‘Thomas, this is foolish. Let William Ashford take the Italian priest and the others south on the main road. There are towns and monasteries along the way who will give them shelter and safety.’
‘And let their journey announce their presence to every routier who has not obeyed our King’s command to
lay down their arms? I thought this area was clear of skinners. Damned if Felton hasn’t kept his own domain safe and left the rest to fend for themselves.’
‘Then take Henry with you,’ Killbere insisted.
‘What?’
Killbere pointed towards the abbey’s tower. ‘Next to the church, you see the cemetery? Take Henry and if anything happens to you and John Jacob, Henry can get along the city walls and into the graveyard. There’s a lantern of the dead. He lights that and we know you need help.’
‘I said go on without me,’ Blackstone insisted.
‘Thomas, we will not. Take the lad. He’s no threat to the city’s watchmen, he can slip into a crowd, he can see how you are received. You can’t take someone like Jack Halfpenny or Will Longdon: they might as well carry a sign saying they are English bowmen. Take Henry. Let him be your guardian. And the walls are low enough next to those graves for us to get inside with a scaling ladder.’
Blackstone considered his options and while he thought it through Killbere quietly insisted: ‘You are the King’s man, Thomas. There is a battle yet to be fought. You need to start thinking about your importance to Edward and what he asks of you. If you are taken, if this Lord of Vitrac is a pig with his snout in the trough of opportunity snuffling for gold then you cannot remain a captive if they seize you. You’ll need us.’
Blackstone could not argue.
And Killbere knew it. ‘When you were a callow sixteen-year-old stonemason using your muscles instead of your brain and they arrested you along with your brother, you both faced the hangman’s noose because they charged him with rape and you were his guardian. Who was it that told you to use your wits and intelligence in your defence?’
Blackstone sighed.
‘Exactly. Listen to me and you will avoid the hangman’s noose time and again.’
Blackstone wheeled the bastard horse. ‘I listened to you and I was sent to war.’
‘And I take full credit for your success.’
Blackstone called out: ‘John, send Henry to me.’
CHAPTER FORTY-TWO
Blackstone had instructed Meulon to find the most worthless rouncey for Henry to ride. Once again the boy would play the role of a pilgrim but rather than keep up with Blackstone and John Jacob on foot a broken-down horse served its purpose: Henry rode subserviently behind. By the time the city gates hove into sight the cheap saddle and the horse’s stumbling gait had the lad wincing.
‘I will sell this nag to the nearest butcher,’ he complained. ‘My arse feels as though it has been scrubbed by a river stone.’
‘You remember everything I told you?’ said Blackstone. ‘Is your brain less bruised than your backside?’
‘I know what to do,’ Henry replied churlishly, the tone of his voice earning a disapproving look from John Jacob. ‘My lord,’ Henry added.
‘And stay out of trouble,’ Blackstone warned him.
Henry made no reply. They had given him barely enough money for a pauper’s meal. Any chance to drink in an alehouse and get involved in trouble was beyond his means.
They had descended from the low hills approaching Sarlat’s south-western gate. The city rose up before them, the abbey’s bell tower peeking above the rooftops to the east. Blackstone turned in the saddle. ‘You see it, Henry?’
‘Aye, my lord.’ The ground fell away as the walls to the south-east dipped and rose along the undulating land. If a breach was to be made they would do it beyond the abbey and the walls that skirted the cemetery.
A gaggle of people pressed at the gates but Blackstone waited until they had been ushered through into the city.
‘Market day,’ said John Jacob. ‘I can hear the cackle of voices from here.’
Blackstone drew the bastard horse to a halt in front of the city walls and main gate. They were beyond crossbow range. If there was to be an unfriendly welcome, they needed a chance to turn and run. Sentries stood on the city walls above the portal and challenged the travellers.
‘I am Thomas Blackstone. I serve the King of England.’
‘Your business?’ one of the sentries called.
‘The King’s business!’ John Jacob bellowed. ‘Open the damned gates and bring your captain of the guard.’
There was a hurried discussion between the soldiers. One ducked out of sight.
‘You’ve got to exert authority with the French, it’s the only language they understand,’ said John Jacob in answer to Blackstone’s querulous look. John Jacob shrugged. ‘That or a sword point up their arses.’
‘Let us hope words are better than blades today,’ said Blackstone.
A third man appeared on the walls. ‘Sir Thomas, I am the captain of the guard. I beg forgiveness, lord, but the mayor and burghers have instructed us to question armed men who seek entry. Routiers have plagued us since the city yielded to the English.’
‘Do you see marauders at my back?’ Blackstone answered.
‘No, lord, only the boy,’ the captain acknowledged.
‘He’s a pilgrim we found on the road. We offered him our protection. The mayor will receive me and I will disclose my business to him.’
‘Aye, my lord, as you wish,’ said the captain. The city gates creaked open, manhandled by four men, which showed Blackstone how heavy they were. Any assault on Sarlat would need a body of men and machines. They rode beneath the archway as the captain came down the steps from the parapet. ‘Lord, I will escort you.’ He beckoned three of his men to accompany him.
Blackstone and John Jacob followed his lead as the gates closed behind them. They were led into a broader street than many of those that went off to the side. Both men considered the difficulty of having to engage an enemy in the narrow streets that twisted this way and that throughout the city of several thousand. The lanes’ pebbled surfaces gave sure footing on a dry day but iron-shod horses would falter on the uneven surface if obliged to move at anything more than a walking pace as they did now. If men were forced to fight in alleyways and streets where four men could barely stand shoulder to shoulder then they risked being easily contained by a determined militia or roused citizens.
The bustling alleyways were pressed with people. The coloured tunics of artisans mingled with housewives in gowns, their hair covered in wimples. The wealth in the city lay with the merchants, those who wore fur-trimmed coats, who jostled through the crowds like any commoner. Tradesmen carried baskets of their wares, crying out impatiently to those shuffling more leisurely as they stopped to examine a stallholder’s goods. Filthy urchins, barefooted and dressed in little more than rags, darted through the crowds, palms extended for a morsel of food. The captain of the guard and his three men shouted their authority and cleared a path for the three horsemen behind them and geese and chickens honked and clucked, wings fluttering as they scuttled away from the horses’ hooves. Villeins and merchants alike pressed themselves back as the towering horse and scar-faced rider rode by.
The captain gestured towards a side street where horse dung was being swept up by stable lads in accordance with the city ordinance forbidding horses fouling the streets. ‘There are stables here for your mounts.’ He whistled and called a couple of names and two grubby lads ran into view from the stable yard. The bastard horse raised its ears and stopped. Blackstone knew it would be useless to spur him on. It would likely lash out and kill one of the frail-looking boys.
‘The pilgrim will repay our kindness by stabling my horse. Show him where to keep the beast away from other mounts. Understand?’ said Blackstone, quietly thankful that he had brought Henry into the city walls. His presence now served a double purpose.
The captain nodded as John Jacob and Blackstone dismounted. Henry’s horse drooped its head as docile as a beaten dog and he handed the reins to one of the stable hands, then stepped quickly to where Blackstone avoided a sudden snap of yellow teeth from his own horse. Blackstone swore under his breath. The captain looked uncertain. ‘He takes a dislike to some. Not all,’ he explained as Henry took hol
d of the reins and let the big beast snuffle his hand. It shook its great misshapen head and allowed Henry to walk it forward into the yard as the urchin boys followed, tugging the other two horses.
‘This way,’ said the captain.
‘Where are you taking us? Blackstone demanded.
‘The guildhall, my lord. On the main square. It’s not far,’ the captain answered, not realizing that Blackstone had elicited the information for Henry’s benefit so he could follow as soon as he and the stable lads had attended to the horses.
Blackstone and John Jacob could see that the deeper they went into the labyrinth the more dangerous it became. The streets twisted and curled like a nest of vipers and stallholders narrowed the lanes even further. Only when the streets broadened out into the town square was there easier passage. In the centre of the cobbled area three bodies hung from a gibbet. Their clothing was already torn by crows, and what flesh was visible had been stripped by strong, eager beaks and stones hurled by children who competed to see who could strike a hanged man’s face.
‘Thieves?’ said Blackstone.
‘No, my lord,’ answered the captain without giving further information.
Blackstone and John Jacob exchanged glances. Who else would be hanged in the square if not thieves? Routiers perhaps? It was obvious the dead men had been a threat. No doubt they would soon find out.
