Cross of Fire

by David Gilman

  CHAPTER FORTY-THREE

  The captain of the guard escorted them into Sarlat’s guildhall’s outer chamber, long and broad enough for thirty or more burghers to await an audience with the mayor and city council. Blackstone and John Jacob were left alone in the corridor once the captain pushed through carved chestnut doors into an inner chamber.

  ‘Step outside and see that Henry is watching,’ said Blackstone.

  John Jacob turned back for the entrance as Blackstone went to the far end of the antechamber. The half-panelled room had long benches along each wall. If they had walked into trouble, there was no door to allow an escape other than the one opened by their escort. John Jacob’s boots scraped the uneven flagged stone floor.

  ‘He’s across the way. He looks as wretched as any pilgrim I ever saw.’

  ‘He has a sweet tooth and no money to satisfy it,’ said Blackstone. He had deliberately given Henry only enough money to buy bread and, if he bargained hard enough, a hot meal. For a pilgrim to have any more in his purse meant he could fall prey to thieves.

  The heavy doors creaked open. The captain of the guard stood aside, allowing Blackstone and John Jacob to enter a large room that was empty except for an ornate chair, and, beyond it, a door on either side. A robed man was seated in the chair with a man-of-arms standing behind him. The bearded knight was stocky with a belly pushing against his broad sword belt. There was no doubt he was a fighter. A scar ran across his forehead and a piece of his scalp was missing, leaving a red welt. His gnarled hands and flattened knuckles showed that he was unafraid to use his fists, and he lacked two fingers on his left hand.

  Blackstone knew the man-at-arms would have no role to play in Sarlat’s governance. The masters of the various city guilds elected the mayor and his council. It was a contract between the city and the Lord of the domain in which the city fell and knights and clergy were excluded from serving. The merchants needed people allied with their own interests on such councils. There were charters in place that guaranteed freedom from feudal obligations, allowing cities to raise their own taxes and operate courts of justice. Blackstone realized Gisbert de Dome must have fallen foul of someone or he would have been there to greet them.

  ‘I am squire to my lord, Sir Thomas Blackstone, who is here on the King’s business,’ said John Jacob, bowing his head in deference to the dignitary’s office.

  ‘Sir Thomas,’ said the seated official, ‘I am Raymond Villon, elected councilman.’ He raised a hand without turning. ‘This is Sir Gaillard de Miremont, Lord of Sauignac, whose service to this city is gratefully acknowledged.’

  ‘Sarlat has declared for the English Crown but you have a French knight standing with you. I see no evidence of the Seneschal Gisbert de Dome,’ said Blackstone.

  ‘Who, since the declaration, threw in his lot with English brigands,’ said Villon. ‘They raided Cahors, seized churches and wreaked havoc across vast tracts of land. He was dismissed from his position. Three of his lieutenants were hanged; two were drowned.’

  ‘Where is he?’ demanded Blackstone. Gisbert de Dome was not only responsible for holding the city for the English King but Blackstone had counted on his help to escort Torellini and Cateline.

  ‘What is your business with him?’ said the French knight.

  ‘It does not concern you,’ Blackstone answered dismissively. ‘This city is no longer held by the French Crown. You have no place here.’

  ‘He serves to protect us where the English cannot,’ said the mayor.

  ‘I will determine who protects this city,’ said Blackstone. ‘Is he alive?’

  ‘Imprisoned,’ said de Miremont. ‘Awaiting confirmation that he is to be either pardoned or sentenced.’

  ‘Take me to him,’ said Blackstone.

  ‘You must surrender your arms,’ said the French knight.

  ‘I will disarm you if you make that demand again,’ Blackstone threatened.

  De Miremont bristled from the insult but the Mayor raised his hand to stop the altercation. ‘Sir Thomas will see him. Arrange it,’ he instructed.

  The French knight strode from the room. Blackstone heard him summon the captain of the guard. ‘Was there an assault against the city? Did you have sufficient men?’ asked Blackstone, an innocent enough question that would tease out how many armed men were in the city.

  ‘There is no need for concern, Sir Thomas, and no need to send word to Sir William Felton. There was no attack here and we have the militia and levies, few in number but enough to man the walls, and we have enough food and water. It was Gisbert de Dome’s siding with the routiers that led us to arrest him. We wish only for peace,’ said the mayor. ‘Gisbert de Dome was the instigator of his own downfall.’

  ‘And what of de Miremont’s men?’

  ‘Garrisoned in the city. No more than twenty men-at-arms but enough to lead our militia.’

  ‘Then it seems you have done all you could do,’ said Blackstone, in a deliberately conciliatory tone to flatter the Mayor.

  The door opened and de Miremont beckoned them. ‘We will take you to him.’

  The Mayor dipped his head in farewell to Blackstone. He and John Jacob turned away. ‘If they attack us it won’t be here,’ said Blackstone. ‘It will be once we are in the prison.’

  Sir Gaillard de Miremont waited in the outer chamber with the escort. A curt nod indicated Blackstone and his squire should follow him. The escort fell in behind. As they stepped out into the street Blackstone searched for Henry. His back was turned to the guildhall as he gazed down at a pie seller’s wares. Blackstone could almost hear the boy’s stomach rumbling. If Henry didn’t raise his head soon he would miss them.

  ‘Sir Gaillard,’ Blackstone called, raising his voice, so that Henry was alerted. ‘Is the prison far?’

  The belligerent French knight kept walking. ‘No.’

  Blackstone saw Henry turn, panic written on his face, a mouthful of pie spilling from his lips. Blackstone glared at him. A warning to stay alert.

  De Miremont pushed people aside as he strode through the streets. The citizens of Sarlat dared not raise their faces and show their contempt for him but Blackstone and John Jacob saw their resentment towards the nobleman.

  ‘If we got word to Sir Gilbert and William Ashford to bring Torellini and the woman to the gates seeking sanctuary, and have our men riding as escort, we would have all the men we need to seize the walls,’ said John Jacob. ‘It looks as though de Miremont and his men are unwelcome guests invited by the Mayor.’

  ‘As soon as we see this renegade that Chandos paid off we’ll make a move,’ Blackstone said.

  The Frenchman led them on a circuitous route to the abbey’s church, the cathedral of Saint Sacerdos. Blackstone scanned the terrain. To the east lay the monastery’s cloisters and vaults. Blackstone knew they were close to the cemetery at the rear of the church and the lantern of the dead by the low wall. Blackstone’s demand he be taken to the prisoner had helped guide Henry to where he needed to be in case trouble flared up. De Miremont led them through the vast doors. The dark church smelled damp, and lacked enough light to illuminate the gloom-filled recesses on either side. Their footsteps echoed. ‘In the crypt,’ said the Frenchman. It was not unusual for a city to keep prisoners awaiting sentencing or execution in a church crypt.

  Blackstone looked behind him. Their escort guarded the door. He knew John Jacob shared his unease.

  ‘We’re in God’s hands now,’ said his squire, staring through the half-light towards the altar and crossing himself, following the Frenchman’s example by bending his knee. Blackstone gazed up at the column that bore the hewn wooden figure of Christ on the cross. He raised Arianrhod from the leather thong around his neck and kissed the archers’ talisman. Despite the darkness, the image glared down at him, brown-painted eyes filled with pain and pity. Blackstone lifted his wife’s small crucifix that shared his journey with the Goddess of the Silver Wheel and pressed its cold metal to his lips. There were times a fighting man needed
all the blessings he could muster. Beyond the altar a brazier burned to either side of the crypt’s steps. De Miremont lifted an oil-soaked torch, held it to the flame and led the way down.

  At the bottom of the steps the low ceiling almost touched the top of Blackstone’s head; curved supporting arches disappeared into darkness. Centuries ago, a hermit had lived in the crypt and from the sickly odour it seemed as though he was still there. Twenty more paces and the overpowering stench of human waste and the low groan of an injured man reached them. The flickering torch spread a gossamer web of smoke into the curved roof, its light revealing men huddled in chains behind a cage. Fifteen or more at first glance. The Frenchman stood to one side.

  Blackstone approached the iron grille. ‘Gisbert de Dome? Where are you?’

  One figure roused himself with the clank of a chain running through a walled eyelet. ‘Who wants to know?’ said a defiant voice.

  ‘Thomas Blackstone.’

  The mention of his name made the man step more quickly towards the light. He raised a hand to shield his eyes from the unaccustomed brightness. He wore breeches and shirt, both stained with blood and dirt. His matted beard and hair had not seen water for some time.

  ‘Sir Thomas,’ said Gisbert de Dome. ‘Thank God. You’ve brought an army with you to hang this wretch who seeks to line his pocket at the city’s expense?’

  ‘I’m alone except for my squire.’ He was close enough to see the man’s brow furrow. His face creased in disappointment.

  Blackstone turned to de Miremont. ‘I wish to speak to him alone. Give the torch to my squire and leave us.’

  The French knight offered no argument, handed the burning torch to John Jacob and made his way back up the steps. ‘You betrayed John Chandos and took up with skinners,’ said Blackstone.

  ‘I needed money. I have to pay and feed four hundred men in Dome. It’s a stronghold that needs a garrison. You know that. It commands the heights on the Dordogne, which is why my men are there and not here. And the English charged me with governing Sarlat. I would have kept my side of the bargain but Villon conspired to withhold taxes. One by one he imprisoned the council.’ He turned his head to show the men lying in misery on the cold stone floor. ‘Three are dead in their chains. Others soon to follow.’

  Blackstone looked more carefully at the chained prisoners and saw that they were all older men. ‘These are city merchants? Councilmen?’

  ‘Aye. A gaggle of low-caste men on his payroll voted Villon for mayor. They impart justice in the city. Five of my lieutenants were executed. He cannot kill me yet, not until he is certain news of my death will not reach Sir William’s ears. Though I fear the bastard has already poisoned the well as far as Felton and me are concerned.’

  ‘I came from Poitiers. Sir William made no mention of your plight. Had he known he would have told me.’

  ‘Then I am as good as dead. Villon and de Miremont must be parlaying with King John.’

  Blackstone studied the man for a moment. ‘Don’t lie,’ he said. ‘You could have appealed to the English for help.’

  Gisbert de Dome held Blackstone’s gaze, and then he smiled sheepishly. ‘All right, so I saw a chance to make money. And most of the merchants in the city tried to stop me being promoted to Seneschal of Périgord. I owed them nothing. When Chandos knocked on the gates because Sarlat was to be turned over to the English I saw several opportunities present themselves. The routiers came down from the hills; I went with them.’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘Bertucat d’Albret and Gruffydd ap Madoc were among them.’

  ‘The Welshman rode through here?’

  ‘Yes. South. He’ll claim a bounty from any towns, to spare him attacking them. Like I said, money to be made.’

  ‘If I get you out of here, and the merchants with you, you will swear allegiance to me and allow the council to stand again.’

  ‘I will,’ said the Lord of Vitrac with sudden hope.

  ‘And I want half your men.’

  ‘Agreed! Do this thing, Sir Thomas, and you will know the safety and hospitality of Dome.’

  He extended a grimy hand through the bars. Blackstone took it. A bargain struck. Blackstone turned away. John Jacob raised the light to show the way. Halfway up the steps they saw de Miremont and his men blocking them. There were more than the three-man escort: these were de Miremont’s own men-at-arms.

  ‘Surrender your arms, Sir Thomas. There’s no escape.’

  Blackstone drew Wolf Sword; John Jacob freed his own blade. Both men pressed forward with such aggression that the first rank of men fell back into those behind them. John Jacob swept the torch, forcing those in the front to raise a protective arm. Blackstone maimed and killed four before de Miremont’s men could retaliate. John Jacob jabbed low. The men above were at a disadvantage. Hamstrung men fell, floundering in their agony, but their wounds served de Miremont’s cause. They tumbled down the steps, writhing bodies hampering Blackstone and his squire. No sooner had Blackstone lost the advantage than de Miremont and his men forced their way down. The two men had no choice but to give way until they once again reached the floor of the crypt. The Frenchman suddenly halted the attack. In less time than it had taken for him to descend the stairs he had lost half a dozen men. Blackstone and John Jacob pressed their backs against the iron bars. Several crossbowmen clattered down the stairs behind de Miremont.

  ‘You’re worth a ransom, Blackstone, but I will not hesitate to kill you. Yield or die,’ he demanded.

  John Jacob bristled. Blackstone sensed he was going to drive forward to give Blackstone a chance to fight his way clear. The distance was too great. They would be dead before they reached halfway.

  ‘No, John. We must live to fight another day,’ he said gently, a restraining hand on John Jacob’s sword arm. His squire understood and let his blade drop to the floor.

  Blackstone threw down Wolf Sword.

  De Miremont stepped forward with his men. They stripped Blackstone and John Jacob of their knives. The Frenchman’s fist smashed into Blackstone’s face as others held blades at John Jacob’s throat, rendering him helpless. Blackstone’s head whipped aside, his cheek split, but his knees did not buckle.

  ‘I’ve seen a milkmaid squeeze a cow’s teat harder than that,’ he said.

  Both men took a beating and were then thrown into the cage.

  PART FOUR

  THE ROAD TO WAR

  CHAPTER FORTY-FOUR

  Henry had followed his father and John Jacob to the cathedral. Once they’d been escorted inside, he stepped into the gloom but was stopped and turned away by one of the soldiers guarding the door. He waited and minutes later saw the French knight step outside and give an unheard order to one of the escorts. It wasn’t long before more than a dozen armed men ran into view. It was obvious from their blazon they served the barrel-chested Frenchman. Fear squirmed in Henry’s stomach when he saw several of the men ready their crossbows. When they stormed into the abbey behind their leader Henry got as close as he could to the entrance. Voices raised in anger and pain echoed through the vast church. He peered into the half-light. Figures clustered around the top of the steps to the crypt. It was obvious the confined space was hampering the attackers. And there was no doubt in his mind whom they were attacking. Instinctively he stepped forward to help his father but then realized he was unarmed. Common sense made him falter. If his father and John Jacob lived, then they needed help, and that was the purpose for which they had brought him into the city. A voice commanded those in the street to move aside. It was the provost and his men, running towards the abbey. Henry ducked out of sight behind the nearest building with a clear view of the church entrance. Soldiers dragged bodies clear. Henry felt a wave of relief; these were men his father and John Jacob had killed. Others hobbled from their wounds. The provost ordered the wounded taken to the infirmary and Henry heard the burly Frenchman instruct the provost that the crypt and the church door be manned day and night. He knew his father was alive when he
heard the Frenchman tell the provost that the Englishman was worth his weight in gold.

  It was still hours until darkness when he could signal Killbere. Reason dictated that he should try to discover the enemy’s strength. He forgot his pangs of hunger as he set off to follow the Frenchman who had led the attack against his father. By the time an hour passed he had followed him around the mile-long walls and watched men positioned, braziers prepared and weapons placed ready. His spirits lifted when he saw the quality of the men being posted. The men-at-arms were split up, paired and placed with levies and militia. It was obvious that the men of Sarlat had little experience in fighting and needed those who did to command them. Fear of invaders would make the weakest man defend his city and home, but if an enemy launched a determined attack it needed more courage than many possessed to stand their ground. Professional fighting men would threaten death for any man who deserted his post. Fear always played a part.

  Henry made his way back towards the cemetery along a narrow raised path behind the abbey. Below him the graves were laid out neatly behind the church. The path continued past the thirty-foot-high domed structure, a lantern of the dead different in size and shape than any he had ever seen. Henry sat on the low wall and tugged free the remains of the pie from inside his jerkin. He looked no different from any other poor traveller stopping to nourish himself. Henry was more interested in the building than the cold pie. He looked around him. The path was far enough from the city streets not to attract casual passers-by. Cramming the last of the pie into his mouth, he stepped into the building. The chill air made his skin crawl. Death clung to the walls. The circular room was a place of prayer for the dead, built to signal their passing. Did spirits seep from the walls and haunt the graveyard by night? Henry crossed himself. His father and John Jacob were held in darkness barely three hundred yards away below ground in the ancient church’s crypt. As good as dead. Buried alive. He checked outside, saw no one, and clambered up the steps counting every tread, the numbers focusing his mind. Forty steps. Narrow. Steep. Up into darkness.