Cross of Fire

by David Gilman

  He waited obediently in the magnificent room. Despite the layers of carpets and tapestries on the walls the dampness in the royal palace still made his ageing bones ache. No matter how much the fireplace was fed the stone walls retained their chill. Perhaps that was why, Bucy thought idly, the Dauphin planned to create the Louvre as a more welcoming palace. His idle thoughts were quickly dispelled by the Dauphin’s snorting into a lace handkerchief and then dropping it without a thought. A servant darted forward, retrieved it and quickly returned to his station against the wall. The Dauphin settled into a padded armchair. Another servant tucked a finely woven blanket across his legs.

  ‘Some months ago a noblewoman sought an audience. Did you know about this?’ the Dauphin asked, gazing at the flames. It seemed a casual question but anything the Dauphin asked always had a serious intent. And this question caused Bucy to hesitate, mind racing. His heart felt the squeeze of uncertainly. His own investigation into the woman’s intentions had drawn a blank and the unsettled affairs of state had pushed any thoughts of her to the back of his mind. She had simply disappeared from Paris. The threat of an unknown assassination had faded. No one had been injured. No attempt made. It was likely to have been an idle threat from a wronged woman. If every grievance that blossomed into a threat of violence bore fruit the dead would be lying ten deep on the palace steps. But Bucy knew he was just looking for an excuse for not having pursued the warning. Had anyone of importance died?

  ‘Highness, many seek an audience. It is impossible to grant such requests without them being dealt with by your officials. They then pass those with merit to me and your other senior advisers for final assessment,’ he said calmly.

  The Dauphin’s body hunched. ‘When Thomas Blackstone killed Lord Mael Babeneaux de Pontivy, it fanned deeply embedded embers of revenge. Those embers now burn brightly.’

  Bucy remained silent. The mention of Mael Babeneaux’s death struck a chord of deep concern as his lawyer’s mind rapidly sifted through connections between that killing and the woman in question. It had not done so when the courtiers had turned the woman away.

  ‘You know that Pope Urban has granted a payment of ninety thousand écus towards our father’s ransom?’ said the Dauphin, changing emphasis, deflecting Bucy’s thoughts.

  ‘Yes, highness.’

  The Dauphin sniffed, more in disgust than from his affliction. ‘Avignon is a sewer. Turds float in varying hues of ecclesiastical robes. And when the Holy See declares a payment from its treasury, then those with vested interests scurry like sewer rats to thwart such an expenditure.’

  Bucy dutifully kept listening, though he had no idea what the Dauphin was alluding to. Turds and priests? Meaning what? ‘Highness,’ he muttered as if he understood.

  ‘The woman is in Avignon. She arranged shelter there. She plans her schemes in the papal city. When the ransom amount was declared she endeavoured to entice one of the cardinals in the treasury to spill a significant amount from the Holy See’s purse for her own purposes. She has already struck a bargain with a mercenary captain to commit murder. The Cardinal does not know his name, but it seems this man is close to Blackstone. And such an additional amount would ensure not only murder but a massacre of noble households. The Cardinal in question seeks favour and passed this information to us through our ambassador in Avignon. Such vile considerations sicken us.’

  Bucy’s hand trembled. Then the rumours all those months ago had been true. She planned an assassination. That it had not yet occurred meant the woman had taken her time, and planned the killing without haste. Cold logic overcoming the heat of the emotional desire for revenge. He put his arms behind him in case the Dauphin noticed his nervous palsy.

  ‘May I beg to know the name of the woman in question?’ he asked, a spark of hope that it might not be the same woman whose name the merchant had given him the night of the dinner.

  ‘Lady de Sagard.’

  Merciful God. Bucy’s throat tightened. It was the very same. Her name harked back years ago to when he and the King had sent the Savage Priest to ensnare Blackstone. A friend of Blackstone had been used as bait and imprisoned in Sir Rolf de Sagard’s castle. Blackstone had stormed the castle and found his friend tortured. Flayed alive. And that had cost Rolf de Sagard his life and cast his widow and children into the insecurity of near poverty. Blackstone would have saved them all the inheritance of revenge if he had slain the whole family, wife, daughter and son. But he had not. Bucy wished Blackstone were more ruthless about considering the future of his actions when he showed such mercy. He had saved Lady de Sagard from the indignity of entering a convent and letting others raise her children. The intervention and financial support of her brother Lord Mael Babeneaux de Pontivy kept her from poverty. A woman who had status and wealth now reduced to a beggar at her brother’s door. The final act of humiliation and grief visited on her by Thomas Blackstone.

  ‘My Prince, they had not made Lady de Sagard’s grievances known to the court. I had no dealings at all with her, and shall look further in the matter,’ he blurted, implying he would deal with the lesser courtiers. ‘But now she seems intent on securing routiers to attack and kill Blackstone then surely that plays well for us? Reports that reach us say Blackstone is still weak and injured from Launac. The Count of Foix has him under his care. Does she intend to strike now? Highness, if she has the means to kill him, what better time? His men are few now.’ Bucy’s hopes rose. He took a couple of steps closer to the Dauphin, his voice rich with the possibility that presented itself. ‘Highness, this bodes well. Her intent puts distance between us. If she kills Edward’s Master of War, it weakens the English and it rids us of a ravening wolf who has torn the kingdom apart for years. But our hands remain clean. We are not in breach of the peace treaty inflicted upon us.’

  The Dauphin averted his eyes from the devouring flames and settled on Bucy’s eager face. ‘Her son lived with his uncle. Mael Babeneaux was teaching him the skills he would need to become a page and then a squire. He died in Blackstone’s attack. Lady de Sagard learnt that Blackstone’s son is in Avignon. She intends to kill him.’

  Bucy saw the logic in that and his thoughts followed it through. ‘Then use an intermediary to get word to Blackstone and draw him into Avignon. They will not permit him to take his men inside the walls. She has him trapped. Sire, it has its merits.’

  The Dauphin rose from the chair. Servants ran forward to remove the blanket. Charles, the future King of France, shrugged them away. ‘She uses his son as bait to draw Blackstone away from the Prince of Wales. The Prince is her target.’

  Bucy’s heart thudded more desperately than it had ever done. His jaw dropped in shock.

  ‘Simon,’ said the Dauphin gently. ‘Send word and warn Thomas Blackstone. He might sacrifice his son, but a prince does not kill a prince.’

  PART FIVE

  DEATH IN AVIGNON

  CHAPTER SIXTY-FIVE

  Avignon had changed under the newly elected Pope Urban V. His ambitions lay not in gaining more personal wealth like the cardinals, blinded by the power and influence of their red robes and an insatiable desire to furnish their palaces with exotic animals and tapestries from distant lands. His uncompromising desire was for the papal city to become a place of education and restraint. His first act had been to refuse to lead the mounted procession. Gone were the parades of white horses, silks and jewels with a canopy of woven gold threads above the pontiff when he rode through the streets. The new Pope was an unwavering Benedictine who endowed colleges and universities. He wore a simple monk’s robe and slept on hard boards without a mattress. He was a man of contemplation and prayer, a theologian who had already swept corrupt bishops back to their dioceses. He banned priests’ illegitimate sons from assisting them at the altar; he condemned debauchery and drunkenness in the clergy and forced the priestly classes to rid themselves of hunting dogs and falcons. And his strictness did not apply only to men of the cloth. He burned all pagan art and sent religious inspectors bey
ond the walls of Avignon with the whip and thumbscrew to correct infractions. Yet he was only one man, and despite his repressive measures he could not halt the inherent corruption, which was as rife as any plague and reached from the highest to the lowers orders of society. In winter, the bitterly cold Mistral wind kept heads down and shoulders hunched until it abated; now, in high summer, when the citizens raised their eyes once again they were no longer blinded by the dust and detritus but chose instead to close their eyes to venal cardinals and city officials.

  This was a world Father Torellini understood. While Henry applied himself to his studies, the priest went about his business of negotiating loans, securing favours and buying information on behalf of the Florentine Bardi banking family whom he served. Some of his informers were beggars on streets; others served in palaces; still others attended cardinals. It made Niccolò Torellini invaluable not only to his patron but also to the English monarch to whom the Bardi bank had loaned vast sums for his war against France. And Torellini had not neglected his role as an unofficial ambassador bearing the goodwill of King Edward towards the Pope and Curia. Alliances were being built for the future.

  Torellini’s duties in Avignon also allowed him to watch over Henry de Sainteny, who now bore his mother’s name. There was never a mention of the name Blackstone and no one knew of Henry’s identity except some of those who had travelled with him and they had sworn in God’s name, kneeling before a crucifix, never to reveal it. The months had passed quickly, immersed as Henry was in scholastic endeavours, and living in the city had become an unexpected pleasure, even jostling through the weight of people in the overcrowded streets. At first he’d thought the crowds to be a threat, easily concealing anyone who might wish him harm, having discovered his true identity, but as the weeks turned into months he began to feel a sense of security. What fear remained lingered from the year before when close to twenty thousand had died from the plague in an overcrowded Avignon. Henry was not aware that Torellini’s network within the city watched over him. The Italian lived in the comfort of the Bardi mansion but Henry de Sainteny was housed in a modest attic room elsewhere in the lower town and fed by the landlord and his family. Unbeknown to Henry, Torellini paid the family to report back on the boy’s hours of study and behaviour.

  It had been three weeks since Torellini had last spoken to the lad; now he waited for him in the enclosed courtyard of the Bardi house. The priest had taken refuge by the cool fountain for the mid-July heat could be as uncomfortable as the winds in the winter, and here sweet-smelling flowers perfumed the air, their fragrance defeating the odours from the city streets. And the local habit of wine being infused with a slight mixture of fragrant resin helped subdue the unpleasant stench too.

  Torellini knew exactly where Henry was and how long it would take for someone to summon the boy. He was in the luxurious new palace that had supplanted the austere old château fort built by one of the earlier Popes, where he spent a few hours a week examining the frescoes in its many chapels. Henry had failed to understand why such study was needed until his mathematics tutor explained the need to balance science with art for a better understanding of geometry and a broader appreciation of the world around him. Henry, however, was less interested in the frescoes than in meeting Lady Cateline’s son. In the months since they had left Dome Jocard had grown in strength and despite their age difference the two boys liked nothing more than wrestling in the walled chapel garden thinking they were out of sight from inquisitive eyes.

  ‘Did you think I was unaware of your absence from your studies?’ said Torellini when Henry stood before him.

  ‘I don’t do it often, Father Torellini, only when I am bored, and looking at frescoes bores me.’

  Torellini gestured him to sit at the table with its white cloth, gold cutlery and plates of food. Students ate sparingly in their lodgings and Henry was no exception. A servant had brought him in the back gate of the house from a rear alley so it would appear to a casual onlooker that they had summoned the boy to undertake some kind of service. Henry sat obediently and waited for permission to eat. His stomach growled. Torellini held him in check.

  ‘You see Lady Cateline’s son regularly.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘And his mother?’

  ‘Sometimes. He takes me back to her house and her servant feeds us.’ He glanced at the plate before him. ‘Not as good as this, though,’ he said.

  ‘His mother meets other noblewomen?’ said Torellini, concerned one of them might pose a threat. Women widowed by the war would hate the English, and they might have the means to hire assassins if they discovered by chance that a renowned Englishman’s son was here under a different name. A name that would not save him if a slip of the tongue inadvertently revealed his true identity. It was important that Torellini discover whether Blackstone’s son knew the circle of noblewomen that Lady Cateline Babeneaux had been drawn into.

  Henry nodded. ‘I don’t know who they are. They’re women who meet and gossip, I suppose.’

  Torellini gestured to the plate of food. ‘Eat,’ he told him. He watched as the young man ate hungrily. After a moment he said, ‘Do you know whom she meets?’

  Henry shook his head, and then swallowed. ‘She visits different places in the city. Jocard says she’s still waiting for Sir William Felton to declare her domain legal and in her name.’

  ‘And the knight, von Plauen?’

  ‘Stays in servants’ quarters. He accompanies her on the streets. Sometimes she almost misses curfew.’

  Torellini knew that one Teutonic Knight, Gunther von Schwerin, had sought lodging in the monastery, and that von Plauen was not yet been released from his duty by Cateline. It was like having a bull-baiting dog on a chain so why should she dismiss him? What male protection was available other than a husband or kin? He was the perfect bodyguard, especially if she was careless about curfew. The streets of Avignon were perilous at night but having a highly trained armed man at your side would deter even the most daring Alparuches, gangs that dressed as animals or demons and committed rape, murder and robbery. Avignon’s shame was that these gangs were often made up of students and young noblemen as well as the rabble. The municipal marshal and his constables attempted to keep order at night but were fighting a losing battle.

  Whispers from the neighbourhood were that von Plauen had become Lady Cateline’s lover, but so far they were unproven. If true the lovers were discreet to the point of absolute secrecy. Even servants in nearby properties bribed by Torellini’s spies could offer no confirmation. The only possibility was that they went elsewhere for their assignations, and the fact that they risked missing curfew suggested to Torellini that they had a room somewhere in the city. Torellini had hoped that Henry’s friendship with Lady Cateline’s son might have yielded clues. She would not risk damaging her reputation and possible loss of the right to her domains. Should von Plauen’s denial of his vows be discovered, it would result in harsh punishment – possibly even death if his companions learnt of it. In a city of thirty thousand it was easy to remain anonymous, Henry Blackstone was proof of that, but it also meant that Torellini could not have the eyes of his informers everywhere.

  ‘You do not break curfew?’

  ‘I wouldn’t,’ said Henry. ‘Too dangerous.’

  Torellini smiled. He believed him. He did not tell him that his spies reported that the second knight, Gunther von Schwerin, followed the boy frequently. The only conclusion Torellini could reach was that von Schwerin believed a connection still existed between Thomas Blackstone and the mercenary Gruffydd ap Madoc and if any secret meeting were to take place then they might use Henry as a contact.

  ‘You’ve heard from my father again?’ said Henry. News of the battle last December had taken days to reach Avignon and it was then more than a month before he and Torellini learnt of Blackstone’s wounds. The extent of his injuries remained unknown to the boy. All that Henry had been told was that his father and his men had won the battle at Launac and had
wintered at Castle Foix. Torellini decided that telling the boy the truth would have been a mistake. Had he learnt that his father was badly wounded Henry would have left Avignon and gone to him. It was difficult enough to impress on Henry that he must show no sign of celebration of his father’s victory, given his anonymity in the city. The battle had been the culmination of bitter rivalry between two aggrieved noblemen and their armies. Now Gaston Phoebus was one of the richest men in France and had recruited and paid for his own army. It was rumoured that nearly four thousand men now enjoyed regular payment under his banner. Torellini thanked God that Blackstone had not only survived, but had secured victory. Now the young Count would pledge his fealty to the Prince of Wales and vast swathes of Aquitaine from west to east were safe from insurrection.

  ‘William Ashford and the King’s escort were ordered to Bordeaux. The Prince landed there two weeks ago. Ashford is a good man who hoped to join your father but a King’s man has no choice where he serves. There was a great ceremony in the cathedral where many lords pledged their fealty. ’

  ‘And you didn’t tell me?’ said Henry.

  ‘It was a royal occasion but only for the invited guests.’

  ‘I would love to have seen him. Did my father go?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Surely he would have been invited?’

  ‘Not only invited but expected. He is the King’s Master of War. His victory has earned him great praise.’

  ‘Then why didn’t he go?’

  ‘I have no idea.’

  ‘I would like to go and see my father. Can you send word and ask him?’

  ‘The Prince is travelling through Aquitaine to receive fealty from all the lords of the region. Sir Thomas has a responsibility to ensure the Prince’s journey is unimpeded by protest or violence. He is duty-bound to the Prince. He’ll send for you when he’s ready. ’

  ‘I hope so,’ said Henry as he finished eating and pushed his plate away.