Cross of Fire

by David Gilman

  ‘I see no sign of defence,’ said von Plauen. ‘Are you certain this is where he is?’

  ‘I saw Blackstone ride out with the supplies and the men who stood on the walls were routiers,’ Gunther von Schwerin insisted. ‘He is here.’

  ‘Gunther, there is no way to assault this bastide,’ said von Buchard.

  ‘I have no intention of trying to,’ said his comrade. ‘We cloak our surcoats and ride in seeking hospitality.’ He shrugged at their looks of surprise. ‘We are travellers and routiers’ greed makes them perfect hosts. They will expect to rob and kill us.’

  Von Ansbach pulled his cloak on. ‘Gunther is right. Let us get inside and put them to the sword.’

  ‘Without knowing their strength?’ said von Plauen.

  ‘It’s that or sit here until they move out, and who knows when that might be? They could be behind those walls for winter.’

  The argument ended. The four men covered their white surcoats. They spurred their horses into a canter and slowed when they approached the town’s gates. Gruffydd ap Madoc’s men watched as the four riders drew up their horses outside the walls. Von Plauen called out for hospitality. The routiers on the walls seemed barely able to suppress their delight at welcoming men wearing fine woollen cloaks and riding quality horses. They called down for someone to open the gates and the four knights spurred their horses forward. Gunther von Schwerin looked at the few men who lingered in the courtyard. There were barely a dozen routiers watching their arrival and only six men who lingered on the walls behind them. This was not the force of men that von Schwerin had witnessed.

  ‘Too few,’ he said quietly.

  They dismounted. Four of the routiers stepped forward to take their reins. The others approached the travellers but stopped when von Plauen looked from one to the other. ‘Where is Gruffydd ap Madoc?’ he asked.

  Their frowns of concern turned into wolverine grins. ‘You know our Welshman?’ one of them said.

  ‘He has business with the Englishman Thomas Blackstone,’ said von Plauen.

  The men took a cautious step closer. ‘And what business is that of yours?’

  ‘We are riding south with Sir Thomas and he has sent us to speak further with ap Madoc. We are to buy more sacks of grain. We have the money with us.’

  One of the routiers spat and placed a hand on the knife at his belt. ‘Your Englishman has taken enough supplies, but he didn’t pay a damned sou. Ap Madoc left the same day. Blackstone knew that. They struck a deal.’ He unsheathed his knife. ‘So you don’t belong here. But your money does.’

  The man stepped purposefully forward as his companions wrenched the horse’s reins. The Teutonic Knights showed no sign of fear as the beasts jostled behind them. Rudolph von Burchard was closest to the knife-wielding mercenary and in one swift movement his hand emerged from beneath his cloak. His knife took the routier under the chin, the rapid slash cutting his throat. The sudden action caused the mercenaries to falter for a vital few seconds as the four men cast aside their cloaks, exposing their identity. Gruffydd ap Madoc’s men were street fighters and no stranger to using a blade at close quarters but the speed and expertise of the Teutonic Knights caught them flat-footed. Three of the men holding the horses’ reins died before they could draw their swords. The sudden rush of men across the square played straight into the knights’ hands. With no need for a command they formed a four-man defensive square and let the assault come to them. As they broke the routiers’ attack, Gunther von Schwerin stepped clear of the formation and felled two more routiers who had turned to run. Three others retreated to the gate and turned and ran for their lives. Sibrand von Ansbach quickly remounted and spurred his horse after them. Von Plauen held one man beneath his sword point. ‘Where is ap Madoc?’

  The man shook his head. ‘South, is all I know. I swear.’

  ‘Why? Whom does he join?’

  ‘I don’t know. They’ve contracted him.’

  The sword point drew a trickle of blood. ‘A woman!’ the man gasped. ‘A noblewoman pays him. He took the men with him. We are to hold this place until he returns.’

  ‘When?’ von Plauen demanded.

  ‘My lord, I know nothing more than that.’

  ‘Then you are of no further use,’ said von Plauen and killed him.

  The other knights had searched the buildings. ‘There’s no one else,’ von Buchard said, stepping around the dead routiers in the yard. ‘Ap Madoc’s fled.’ He looked from von Schwerin and then to their leader. ‘Wolfram, it is time we separated. I have spoken to Sibrand. We wish to pursue the Welshman and now we know he rides south then I think we should track him down.’

  Gunther listened and glanced at von Plauen, who appeared torn at the suggestion. ‘I am obliged to stay,’ von Plauen told them.

  ‘And that is why we should go on without you. It is regrettable, Wolfram, but we must act,’ said the younger man.

  ‘There’s no telling where he’s gone,’ Gunther said.

  ‘We are closer than we have ever been. We have dogged his trail this far; we will find it again. God willing,’ von Buchard insisted.

  ‘God willing,’ said von Plauen. ‘Gunther? You must go with them.’

  Von Schwerin looked about him. ‘No, let Rudi and Sibrand go after him. I am still of the opinion we will hear something in Avignon. It’s a place of rumour and gossip and the truth sometimes resurrects itself after being buried under the lies. And then we will need the two of us to go after him.’

  ‘Winter is at our throats. Ap Madoc might go into hiding and if we discover where, then we have him,’ said von Buchard.

  Von Plauen nodded in agreement. ‘We will go our separate ways.’

  ‘And the priest’s escort, Ashford?’ said von Buchard.

  ‘He has no interest in us. If two of us have decided to leave the column he won’t care,’ von Plauen told him. ‘Let’s make sure the Welshman has nowhere to return when the time comes. Burn this place down.’

  Gunther von Schwerin tipped lantern oil onto straw. ‘Blackstone forced a duty upon you, Brother Wolfram, but it might be the hand of the divine that places us in Avignon. The entire world passes through its gates. Word of ap Madoc’s whereabouts is bound to reach us there.’ He struck his flint, and the spark ignited. Flames quickly took hold.

  Von Plauen wiped his blade. He took consolation from his comrade’s words. Perhaps it was divine intervention that had brought him to the woman. He watched the fire devour the tinder-dry timbers. The flames were as voracious as his desire. To find the Welshman and possess the woman would take patience. It would take Avignon.

  *

  From his vantage point Henry Blackstone saw one of the knights pursue three running men who separated in their attempt to escape. He recognized von Ansbach, who methodically killed each man in turn. By the time he had dismounted to ensure each man was dead, smoke plumed from the bastide. Flames took hold and flared into the sky as von Ansbach’s companions rode out to rejoin him. Henry could not know how many men they had fought behind the gates that now blazed along with the buildings but they had done it quickly. He watched the four knights embrace and then split up. He turned his horse. Perhaps Father Torellini would know why the Germans had killed these men.

  He returned to the column before the Teutonic Knights and reported what he had witnessed to Torellini, who offered no explanation until he had considered the possibilities of recent events.

  ‘Your father needs men to fight and he intended to seek out Gruffydd ap Madoc. These knights are sworn to kill the Welshman for the murder he has committed. One of them must have followed your father. But if you say there were only a handful of men, then ap Madoc was elsewhere. And now two have gone to search him out.’

  ‘Should we warn my father?’ said Henry.

  The Italian priest shook his head. ‘He knows what he’s doing, and we must press on to Avignon.’

  Henry looked across to where the Teutonic Knights had rejoined the column. ‘Those men are indebted
to my father but when the Lady Cateline dismisses them their pledge is cancelled. If they believe he has aligned himself with the Welshman then he becomes their enemy as much as ap Madoc.’

  ‘That’s possible. But that is in the future and has no bearing on your father’s duty now. What you cannot know is that he embarks on a mission of great importance for your King and for your Prince. You must obey his wishes. Your safety under your mother’s name in Avignon eases his burden of worry about you.’

  Torellini pulled his cloak tighter. The cold wind bit his flesh as sharply as the devil’s imps. Thomas Blackstone’s task required persuasion, courage and the means to fight an enemy who would gather in greater force than Blackstone could muster even with the help of the likes of Gruffydd ap Madoc. And no matter how often Torellini comforted himself with his belief in Blackstone’s skills, he knew, deep in his heart, that the battle soon to take place could overwhelm even the bravest and noblest of fighting men. And if Thomas Blackstone did not survive then it was up to Niccolò Torellini to ensure that his son did. For then he would claim his name and the inheritance of its legend.

  CHAPTER FIFTY-SEVEN

  Blackstone, Killbere and John Jacob rode towards a broad rocky outcrop that rose hundreds of feet from the valley floor. Its flanks supported crenellated walls protecting the castle’s towers. The soaring heights of the snow-buffeted Pyrenees ran like a broken spine down the long valley beyond the stronghold. It was a formidable castle held for centuries by the Counts de Foix.

  ‘I hope he’s amenable,’ said Killbere. ‘Those towers give crossbowmen a clear killing field. So too the loopholes in the walls.’

  ‘He’s arrogant enough to swat us like a fly if he so chooses,’ said Blackstone. ‘John, unfurl my banner. Let them see who approaches.’

  John Jacob dismounted and cut a stout low branch from a bare tree and attached Blackstone’s blazon.

  ‘If he’s belligerent, we could end up in a dungeon in one of those towers and in this cold weather my arse will freeze,’ Killbere said. ‘He might have blades in his piss if our beloved Prince has upset him.’

  ‘If he agrees to meet me, then we can put the Prince’s case to him. He’s ripe for persuasion. It’s King John who’ll turn his piss to ice water,’ said Blackstone.

  Killbere wiped a hand across his dribbling nose. ‘Well, the good thing is he’s Jean de Grailly’s cousin, and the Captal de Buch spoke for you when we fought the Jacquerie at Meaux. That must count for something.’

  ‘Gilbert, he’s a nobleman from one of the most distinguished families in France. He is a feudal Lord of two Pyrenean principalities. It counts for nothing.’

  ‘And you’re here on the English King’s business and there’s no greater nobleman than him. Don’t worry, Thomas, I’ll keep my mouth shut and my arse clenched and try not to fart when I bow.’

  John Jacob remounted and as the wind caught the banner it unfurled, showing the cruciform image of the sword gripped by a gauntlet-clad fist and the declaration Défiant à la Mort. They spurred their horses forward. The clear blue sky would not bless them with its glittering light much longer. In the distance the suburbs of Foix had a dusting of snow on their tiled roofs. Smoke fled the chimneys as flurries of snowflakes danced across the rooftops.

  The houses clinging to the lower slopes gradually gave way to the winding road that led up to the barbican. Blackstone, Killbere and John Jacob were a hundred yards from the gates when they swung open without challenge.

  ‘They saw us coming,’ said John Jacob. ‘They know who you are, Sir Thomas. Damned right too.’

  ‘Respect where it’s due,’ said Killbere. He straightened in the saddle and pushed out his chest. ‘Let them see who we are, John. Count Gaston Phoebus of Foix might be a mighty nobleman but he’s still a Frenchie. Ride ahead. Lead us in.’

  John Jacob spurred his horse forward. Its iron-shod hooves clattered on cobblestones. An outer courtyard and pathways laid in stone denoted wealth. No mud would cling to the sole of this feudal lord’s boots. Stable lads appeared as two men strode forward to greet the new arrivals. The sturdier of the two, dressed and armed like any man-at-arms, stood a pace behind his older companion, who wore a dark woollen cloak and tunic. The rich clothing told the world that this was a man of importance in a wealthy man’s domain.

  ‘Sir Thomas,’ said the elder, dipping his head respectfully. ‘I am Alphonse, my Lord Gaston’s steward. Master Gregory here serves as his bailiff. He will attend to your horses and arrange food and lodging for your squire,’ he said, indicating John Jacob: the assumption borne from years of identifying a lord and those who served them. ‘I will escort you and your companion to my master.’

  Blackstone and Killbere exchanged glances. It was a mark of respect that the most senior servant in the household had been sent to greet them, someone likely to be from a local noble family. The three men dismounted. ‘My squire will attend to my horse; it has a temperament.’

  The steward nodded and smiled, perhaps suppressing a tantalizing thought that horse and rider shared common tendencies.

  Blackstone and Killbere followed the steward up steps to a guarded portal that opened into a broad passage. The dim light seemed to add to the sudden chill of the stone walls, colder even than outside. He struck his staff of office on the tall doors and without waiting pushed them open into a great hall where a fire blazed in a grate large enough for a dozen armed men to stand shoulder to shoulder. Gaston Phoebus was a renowned hunter, and the walls displayed the stuffed creatures from his sport. Between the richly woven tapestries were the spoils of the hunt: deer and boar heads; mounted wild birds scattered in flight across a wall as if flushed from cover by the mounted wild boar on a plinth. A bear as tall as Blackstone glared with glass eyes as it stood half raised in a cleverly exhibited pose across a fallen log and ferns. Gaston Phoebus’s domain offered him sport in mountain, forest and river and he excelled at it.

  A pair of live hooded falcons gripped their perch and several hunting dogs of various shapes and sizes stood ready at the knock on the door. The absence of a master of hounds suggested that these dogs were the nobleman’s favourites.

  A couple of the dogs sauntered forward and sniffed Blackstone and Killbere. The wire-haired wolfhound that snuffled Killbere’s clothing sneezed.

  Gaston Phoebus remained seated. The men’s footfalls across carpets laid on fresh rushes crunched underfoot. Blackstone and Killbere bowed to the nobleman whose tanned features complemented his luxuriant blond hair.

  ‘Sir Thomas and Sir Gilbert, you are welcome. I pray God has blessed you both with good health since we last met?’

  ‘Aye, my lord, and we wish such blessings on you,’ said Blackstone.

  Gaston Phoebus studied them a moment longer and gave a barely imperceptible flick of his eyes to the steward, who stepped forward quickly with two stools. Blackstone and Killbere sat down.

  ‘Master Alphonse will have food ready for you once we have spoken of matters that concern us.’ He nodded to the steward, and they heard the door close behind them. It was to be a private audience. The Count leaned forward. His gentle demeanour from moments before was now tinged with acrimony. ‘It is presumptuous for Edward and the Prince to interfere in my affairs. I do not need help. I will not be obliged to offer fealty.’

  ‘No, my lord, that is not the intention of us being here,’ Blackstone said.

  ‘You are no politician, Sir Thomas. Your reputation opens doors that would otherwise remain closed. Our chance meeting at Meaux four years ago allowed me to take your measure. Your exploits since then have enhanced your standing further but if negotiations were to take place, an alliance formed, then your King would have sent Sir John Chandos. Not you. You are a fighter not a negotiator. Edward would not have you act as his emissary if there was not a military advantage to be had. Somewhere.’ He cocked an eyebrow at Blackstone. ‘For either him or me. Which is it?’

  Blackstone waited a moment before answering. The Count de Foix and he w
ere of a similar age and Blackstone understood fighting men could be easily insulted. The young Count had fought hard and well at Meaux against the Jacquerie and before the uprising had been on crusade in Prussia. An accomplished, battle-hardened fighter needed no lecture from a mere knight, even if Blackstone was Edward’s Master of War. What was said next needed to be spoken with care. The threat of a rancorous dismissal was a breath away.

  ‘My Prince of Wales and Aquitaine has vowed to bring peace and prosperity to southern France. I well know your father and his father’s loyalty before him to the French Crown. Before we, the English, fought at Poitiers there was an undertaking between you and my Prince that there would be no harshness expressed between you. During his great chevauchée before the battle he made no attack on your domains. Your people went unharmed. His regard for you is beyond doubt. The insult now levied against you by the French King distresses him. We know King John has favoured the Count of Armagnac and that you will fight to restore your honour. I am tasked to serve you.’

  Gaston Phoebus listened attentively, one hand draped over the arm of his chair, fingers stroking a dog’s head. He remained silent. His hand ceased stroking the hound; it nuzzled him, demanding more attention. An irritated flick of his wrist sent the dog quickly skulking away. Blackstone’s heartbeat quickened. He had raised the fact of the de Foix dynasty’s loyalty to the French Crown and the previous understanding between the present ruler and the English Prince. Would Gaston Phoebus see it as a taunt followed by an insulting suggestion that he knew whom to side with to protect his principality?

  Pulling his fingers through his hair the Count stood and faced the fire. Blackstone and Killbere got to their feet. Finally, de Foix turned and faced them. ‘When we met last your brashness was, to say the least, irritating; now you speak in a manner that serves your King and Prince with dignity. You are correct. Family loyalty has counted for nothing. I have known it for years but I have balanced it with the desire of retaining the independence of my principalities. You say your King and Prince have sent you here to serve me. How will you do this?’