Cross of Fire

by David Gilman

  It was unlikely that an enemy would dare to attack the Bardi mansion but until he learnt more Torellini would increase the guards on the house. The storm thundered as his staff ran from window to window locking the shutters and Torellini watched the dancing rain leap from the marble-paved courtyard. No matter how hard the summer rains scourged the city it would never wash away its intrigue and violence.

  *

  Gunther von Schwerin spent the hours in an empty chapel drawing its dim light and stillness to him until the storm gave him the cover he needed to make his way to Lady Cateline’s house. He was impervious to the soaking rain and relished the relief from the oppressive heat. He was soaked when he reached the house and when he stepped into the open entrance he immediately saw the servant and child. He checked their still warm bodies, drew his knife and ran up the stairs. At the top of the first step he saw the servant’s shoe and the raised threshold between stair and landing – the wooden slat had lifted, tripping the servant, plummeting her and the child to their deaths. The bedroom door was open, revealing Lady Cateline’s sprawled body. Someone had broken her neck. Von Plauen’s cloak, surcoat and weapons were on a chair. The scene confirmed his suspicion that the months confined in Avignon had corrupted his devout friend and comrade. Gathering up the weapons, he wrapped them in the cloak, quickly checked the other rooms and, seeing there was no sign of her son, made his way back into the swirling rain. Water gushed down the gutters, ridding the city of its detritus as the pounding rain also kept the citizens off the streets. Von Schwerin pulled up his hood and stood looking around the nearby buildings. His comrade had run, but to where? A crackle of lightning illuminated the tower of a small suburban church. From murder to penitence was only a few hundred yards.

  The heavy wooden door was ajar. The Teutonic Knight pressed his shoulder against it and slipped into the darkness. He waited, listening in the silence that surrounded him now that the beating rain was kept at bay. A lone candle burned near the altar and as the shuddering light from a crash of lightning reached through the high window, he saw von Plauen’s kneeling figure. His shirt was plastered to his skin halfway down his back. The upper part and shoulders streamed with blood from a self-inflicted whipping. A knotted rope lay at his side.

  Gunther walked quietly behind his tormented friend. ‘Wolfram,’ he called gently. There was no reply; the man was deep in prayer and despair. He stepped around him so that the candlelight illuminated his comrade’s tear-filled face. Mucus trickled from his nose into his beard above tightly clasped hands pressed into his chest. Von Schwerin reached out and covered the clenched fists with his own. Von Plauen’s lips stopped reciting the prayer of contrition. His eyes opened as if awakening from a deep sleep. He recognized von Schwerin, and bowed his head in shame. ‘Leave me, Gunther. I am lost. I am beyond saving now.’ Realization struck him. ‘You have been to her house?’

  Von Schwerin nodded.

  ‘It was an accident. I had no intent to kill her. I struck out blindly. God forgive me but I… I loved her. You can never know what that does to you.’

  ‘We are brothers-in-arms, Wolfram. The Order binds us. I understand love.’

  Von Plauen wiped a hand across his face and shook his head. ‘No, my friend, the power of what I felt did nothing but destroy. I did not kill the servant and child.’

  ‘I saw what happened. She tripped,’ said von Schwerin.

  The once devoted Teutonic Knight still seemed dazed at the turn of events. ‘What must I do?’

  Gunther studied the man with whom he had served from when they first knelt before the Grand Master in their youth and swore their act of obedience. His heart ached for the downfall of a great knight and champion. ‘You have to leave the city. You have money in your purse? Enough to buy food?’

  Wolfram’s hand instinctively touched his belt. ‘Enough.’

  ‘Then we must get you to the stables before the dawn breaks.’ He extended his hand, and the defeated man allowed his comrade to pull him to his feet. Von Schwerin tugged the rain and blood-soaked shirt over the lacerations. Wolfram made no complaint as the rough shirt snagged his wounds, and then his friend eased his cloak over him. ‘I’ll keep your sword and knife until we get there.’

  Von Plauen nodded and then heaved a great sigh. ‘Gunther,’ he whispered, ‘I have betrayed the Brotherhood. I have shamed it forever.’

  His friend put his arm around the man’s waist and guided him towards the door. ‘We will think of a way to obscure what has been done,’ he said.

  Once back in the streets von Schwerin guided his friend towards the city walls where the narrow alleys entwined into a labyrinth. ‘I should join the brigands. That is all I can do now,’ said von Plauen.

  ‘Then your guilt will be obvious,’ said von Schwerin. ‘They will find the bodies at dawn and they will search for you. You will not get through the gates unless you leave now. They will seize you, Wolfram, and they will hold you for murder.’

  The stark truth penetrated von Plauen’s mind. He stared at his friend as if hearing him for the first time. There could be no escape.

  ‘You will not be beheaded like a common criminal. They will sew you into a sack and throw you in the river.’

  ‘Then there is no redemption and the shame will stain the Order forever.’

  ‘Not if it is thought that a gang invaded her house and that you gave chase. Then your honour is restored and the Order unblemished.’

  ‘Gave chase beyond the walls?’ said von Plauen. He studied his friend. ‘An act of cowardice and untruth.’ His panic calmed. ‘I cannot. And we both know it.’

  They stopped, the rain soaking their beards, von Schwerin’s tears mingling with the droplets. His friend understood.

  ‘I gave chase and I was robbed and killed when I found them.’

  The two men stood silently. Von Plauen pulled on his surcoat and then tugged free the purse from his belt and pressed it into von Schwerin’s hand. He cupped his friend’s face and kissed each cheek. ‘Find Blackstone. He will lead you to the Welshman. I thank God for our friendship.’

  ‘I too, dear friend,’ said Gunther von Schwerin and plunged his knife into his comrade’s heart.

  CHAPTER SIXTY-NINE

  The rain eased in Avignon, the glistening sheen of the pavements and cobbled streets reflecting a new day and the illusion that the storm had swept the city of its sins. Torellini sent a servant to Jocard’s mother’s house to assure her that her son was safe. The news of her death on the servant’s return shocked the household. Giving the servants strict instructions not to discuss the tragedy, he drew Henry to one side and shared the news. What concerned Torellini was the cause of the three deaths in Lady Cateline’s house. Had the assassin thought Jocard to be Henry Blackstone and at some point followed him to Lady Cateline’s lodgings? It was unclear what had occurred. The Teutonic Knight von Plauen had been found dead in the streets. It appeared he had pursued the attackers and met his own death. His purse and weapons were missing. Was that a robbery committed by Alparuches which had turned to murder? That would be the more acceptable explanation: a gang on the rampage. Such scum were known to invade houses if there were fewer people on the streets to assault at night. If that were not the case it meant assassins were still at large, perhaps aware that they had still not found Thomas Blackstone’s son.

  Father Torellini decided to seek out the woman he suspected of having the connection to Blackstone. He would contact the Marshal of the Court. He was highly placed and the most corrupt of officials, and he would know about the socializing the noblewomen undertook.

  ‘You and young Jocard are to stay here in the safety of the Bardi house,’ he instructed Henry. ‘The servants will not mention the death of his mother and sister on pain of dismissal but a slip of the tongue or an overheard whisper cannot always be avoided. I shall tell the boy before I leave, but…’ His words drifted away. His hesitation was easy to understand.

  ‘I’ll tell him,’ said Henry.

  ‘
I am grateful,’ Torellini told him, relieved. ‘Remember, do not leave here under any circumstances. I do not know who has been alerted by your name being mentioned.’

  He left the house accompanied by two servants. Strong men who would cut a swathe through the crowded streets.

  Henry took Jocard to his room. ‘We need to talk,’ he told the boy.

  Lady Cateline’s son hunched his shoulders as he sat on the edge of the bed. ‘If I am to be chastised for what I did, I understand. I am sorry, Henry. I tried to keep whoever was asking about you away from our meeting place.’

  ‘I know that. This is about something else.’

  Jocard raised his head, uncertain.

  ‘I have known the pain of losing my mother and my baby sister,’ said Henry. ‘They are wounds that never heal.’

  ‘I don’t understand. Mother and Jehanne are close by.’ He suddenly looked startled. ‘Are you sending me away from here? Is that my punishment? Henry, I beg you, do not. I will make amends to you, I swear.’

  Henry knew the stark reality of what had happened the previous night was best dealt with the way barber-surgeons cauterized a wound. The pain was sharp, but the injury healed more quickly. ‘Someone went into the house last night. Your mother was attacked and killed and her servant died with your sister,’ he said gently.

  Jocard’s mouth opened and closed, a look of wild disbelief in his eyes. His lip trembled until he could no longer hold back the tears. He fell weeping to his knees, hands covering his face. Henry let him sink into his agony until he was exhausted. When Jocard slumped back on his haunches, Henry soaked a cloth and bathed the boy’s face. ‘It’s all right, Jocard. Let the pain take you: it will strip you of your grief soon enough. The tear in your heart will burn for years to come but you will live with it and accept what has happened.’ He brushed his hand through the boy’s hair, lifting it from his forehead. ‘From this moment on, you will grow stronger.’

  Jocard looked blankly at the older boy. ‘Were they looking for you? Did they think I was you? Did they die because of what I said?’

  ‘No. Father Torellini thinks a gang attacked the house and that von Plauen went after them but they killed him as well.’ He helped the boy to his feet. ‘It was nothing to do with you,’ he said. He knew where the truth lay but was unwilling to add guilt to the lad’s grief.

  Jocard began to fasten his tunic. ‘I must go to them, Henry.’

  ‘No, you can’t. We must be careful.’

  Jocard looked up, his trembling fingers struggling with the buttons. Henry reached forward and did them up it for him. ‘If we must be careful,’ said Jocard, ‘then it might have something to do with them thinking I am you. A man was looking for you. So…’ He blinked, his thoughts attempting to unravel what might have happened. ‘So… there could be a connection.’

  ‘Perhaps,’ Henry admitted.

  ‘I must still go to her. My mother’s locket. It was all she had from my father. Gravediggers will strip her body of her jewellery.’ He tried to push past Henry, but he gripped Jocard’s arm.

  ‘You will stay here. You will be master of your mother’s estates now. You must embrace that responsibility. Father Torellini will help you and my father will extend his protection until you are of age. Do you understand?’

  Jocard nodded and sat down again. ‘Forgive me, Henry, I have brought a great threat to your life.’ He smiled bravely. ‘I will do as you say. Do you think the servants would give me some wine?’

  ‘Of course. I’ll get it.’ He went to the door and looked back. ‘We must wait until Father Torellini returns and he will arrange an escort for you. I’ll come with you. We’ll go together.’

  *

  Henry instructed the servants to take two beakers of wine and some bread to his room. He led the servant upstairs but when he opened the door, the window was open and the boy was gone. Henry ran and looked to the street below. A drainpipe descended close enough for a lithe boy to clamber down. Henry turned and ran down the stairs, pushing past the house staff and out through the small rear gate he had entered hours before. Jocard couldn’t be more than a few minutes away and heading for his mother’s house. Henry barged people aside, earning curses, feet skidding on the slippery wet cobbles and pavements as he pounded through the streets. Where was he? There was no sign ahead of anyone being jostled aside. He skirted down a less choked side alley, knowing it would loop around to Lady Cateline’s house. The city walls loomed close by, the stench of urine telling him he was where beggars and thieves congregated at night. Now, though, there was only the sound of shouts of alarm. Two women appeared, followed by a handful of men running in panic. At first he thought the men were chasing the women but then saw that others were also running towards him. Away from a commotion at the next corner. Screams echoed around him. He saw a hooded figure bent double, swinging his arm back and forth. Blood spilling from a ragged body as loose and lifeless as a child’s rag doll.

  The assassin had found the boy he thought to be Blackstone’s son.

  Henry bellowed. A raw animal sound. The killer turned. A pockmarked face snarled at him. A face without fear. It was a man he had never seen before. A killer who could be lost in a crowd. Henry slowed. The assassin braced himself, the bloodied knife in his hand wet with slime. Henry was in a daze, uncertain what was happening, and then realized he had drawn his own knife. He faced the crouching man. He knew it was already too late to save Jocard.

  He felt the surge of violence rise in him. His eyes blurred. His hand trembled with rage. And fear. Then it calmed. He entered the world his father had spoken of and gathered its power. Striding forward, he feinted; the killer tried to stop a strike that had already curved away and slashed his free arm. Shock creased his face. Henry sidestepped and parried the man’s rapid response. His blade cut low, its tip catching Henry’s thigh, a flesh wound that threatened to slow him down, but the stinging pain had no effect on his attack. The man was thrown off balance and raised his wounded arm to halt the blade that jabbed at his throat but Henry grabbed his wrist and yanked the arm down. It pulled the killer onto his toes. Henry rammed his knife up below the man’s sternum. He was close enough to smell the stench of the man’s breath as he exhaled. Henry clasped him close.

  ‘I am Henry Blackstone,’ he spat.

  The man’s eyes widened. He choked, but had the dying strength to ram his knife into the back of Henry’s shoulder. The pain shot through him, forcing him to drop the man’s weight. Henry staggered back against the wall, his strength slipping away. Using the wall for support, he tried to reach Jocard’s savaged body but his legs no longer supported him. He slid down the wall and settled into pools of blood. He thought of his father. And the inheritance that was now his.

  CHAPTER SEVENTY

  Sir John Chandos escorted Blackstone to the Prince’s dressing room. He dismissed the various servants. There was no sign of Joan, the Princess of Wales. Edward was dressed for the impending ceremony. He wore long robes, his circular cloak held at the shoulder with four large jewelled buttons. His fair hair was trimmed to below his neck and Blackstone was as impressed as any onlooker at his striking figure.

  ‘Our barber says my beard better suits my face this way. What do you think, Thomas?’

  Blackstone had expected admonishment, not to be asked to give an opinion on the finer points of the Prince’s looks. They had denied him an audience until Edward was settled in his quarters and the dignitaries had paid their respects before the planned reception. Blackstone had to bend on one knee, his recent injury tugging at the muscles. He gazed up at the imperious man whose life had been so intricately woven with his own. The long fair beard was shaped below the chin into a point. The comparison between the two men could not be more stark. Both were of similar height and age but Blackstone’s battle-worn clothes, despite the best attempts of the washerwomen, made him look like a pauper compared to Edward’s grandeur.

  ‘The beard is fine, highness,’ said Blackstone.

  ‘Get to
your feet, Thomas. The ability to flatter still escapes you.’

  ‘You have enough people around you to do that, my Prince.’

  Edward fussed the cuffs on his gown. ‘And we have you as our tormentor.’

  Blackstone remained silent.

  ‘We ordered you to Bordeaux and you disobeyed us.’

  ‘My men were recovering from their wounds. The Count of Foix gave us time to heal. Beyond that, there was no time to reach you. I wanted to ensure that Bergerac was secure for your arrival.’

  ‘And they tell us you too were injured.’

  ‘I am recovered.’

  The Prince glanced at Chandos. ‘Are they ready below?’

  ‘Yes, highness.’

  ‘Then we will discuss the matter further after the ceremony, Thomas.’

  ‘I gave Sir John information, my lord. There is an assassin on the loose. You cannot walk the streets without an escort.’

  ‘Cannot?’

  Blackstone ignored the reprimand. ‘We do not know who the assassins are. All manner of men cram the city.’

  ‘Sir John has lined the streets with our escort. He has everything under control. We suggest you confine your own men to their quarters should their roughly dressed demeanour lead them to be mistaken for brigands.’

  The Prince stepped towards the door but Blackstone had the temerity to move in his way.

  John Chandos came forward quickly but the Prince raised a hand.

  ‘There are rival factions from Brittany down in that hall,’ Blackstone insisted. ‘Their hatred for us will not be eased by the truce. Who knows how many routiers are out there in the streets? A Breton lord bends the knee and strikes with a knife and the city burns, your wife is a widow and the King lays waste to France. Caution, I beg you. Let me stand close to you.’

  The Prince’s eyes blazed with anger but he refrained from castigating his father’s Master of War. Blackstone always had more leeway than most. The scar-faced knight’s defiance had often delivered victory and had once saved his life. He relented. ‘I take the Dauphin’s warning seriously. He sent word to you – even your most bitter enemy trusted you to protect us, although no messenger survived the journey to us at Bordeaux. Very well. Stand in the wings. Put yourself among the Bretons. Move through the crowds as you wish. Do not disrupt the proceedings.’