Cross of Fire

by David Gilman

  Blackstone lowered his head and stepped aside. Chandos scowled at him as he opened the door; the retinue of courtiers bowed as the Prince made his way briskly down the passage to where his wife stood. She looked even more alluring than her reputation. Her tight-fitting dress and low-cut neckline trimmed with silk and ermine was daring. Precious stones and pearls laced into her hair sparkled and glowed. The staid wives of feudal lords could not hope to follow her fashionable trend. And any woman other than the sensuous Princess would not have the style and charm to carry it off. Blackstone waited as the finely dressed entourage descended to the lower landings and then through the doors that would lead to the ornate rooms where the Prince and Princess would receive the lords and dignitaries. He looked to one side where Killbere leaned against the balustrade, watching the procession snake away.

  ‘Are we still free men?’

  ‘He thinks he’s safe.’

  Killbere pulled a face. ‘Not with his wife dressed like a routier’s whore,’ he said quietly.

  ‘God’s tears, Gilbert, keep those thoughts to yourself. Secure the entrance and the side passages. Chandos has enough men on the street. We’ll guard the hallways down there and make sure there’s no one in the shadows. If I was going to kill him I wouldn’t do it out there. The confines of a building give him nowhere to run.’

  ‘Beyard arrived two hours ago with ten Gascon men-at-arms. I had them fed and put them at the entrance in the street. It was the Gascon lords who wanted the Prince in Aquitaine so their presence bearing Jean de Grailly’s blazon made sense.’

  Blackstone and Killbere went down the stairs and past the guard on the first landing’s door. Beyond that the stairs descended to the main entrance hall. A familiar face smiled up at them.

  ‘Sir Thomas,’ said William Ashford.

  Blackstone welcomed the King’s sergeant-at-arms. ‘William, we missed you at Launac.’

  ‘And that was my misfortune. My men and I wished nothing more than to stand at your side but they summoned us to the Prince instead. My men are under Sir John’s command.’

  ‘Did you see my son before you left Avignon?’

  ‘Yes. By all accounts his studies go well.’

  It was small comfort. William Ashford had left Avignon weeks ago and anything could have happened since then. ‘We’ll talk later, William. Keep your men alert. There’s a threat against the Prince.’

  ‘He knows about this?’

  ‘He does but he will change nothing. He leaves for Périgueux tomorrow and there can be no delay.’

  ‘All well and good,’ said Ashford, ‘but if they carry out the threat then we’ll have a war on our hands.’ He nodded and turned to rejoin his men.

  Blackstone and Killbere made their way to the hall where the Prince and Princess would be received. The room was full. Men and women jostled for a look at the legendary Prince but perhaps too the opportunity to see the renowned beauty of the Fair Maid of Kent, whose reputation was as scandalous as her husband’s taste in luxury. The room stank of sweat from the pressed bodies. Open windows above where the royal couple were seated afforded some air on one side of the room. On other side an enclosed balcony allowed those not important enough to be invited into the great hall to view the proceedings.

  ‘We’ll circle the room. You go left; I’ll go right. Chandos has a cordon of men around the Prince. See what’s being said. If there are whispers of trouble, we get them out of the room.’

  They separated. Speeches were being made. The Mayor of Bergerac’s voice urged the gathered lords and dignitaries to bless the day that the Prince now ruled Aquitaine. The praise went on long enough for Blackstone to circle half the room, stopping and listening to the muttered comments by those who no longer had any choice but to swear fealty. A knot of Breton lords stood together. Men who had fought for Charles de Blois against the English favourite, de Montfort. Their faces were sour with bitterness that a truce had been declared between the warring parties for the succession of Brittany. That they had been summoned to attend and put their seals to the document was to them little more than public humiliation. The men craned their necks over the crowd to see the Prince and Princess as Blackstone eased behind them. One of the lords, Jean de Beaumanoir, led the faction of Charles de Blois and a man at his side was whispering loud enough for Blackstone to overhear.

  ‘So, Jean, now we have seen the Princess, will you dress your wife differently and have her cast aside those drab clothes of hers?’

  De Beaumanoir grimaced and Blackstone thought if the room had not been so crowded he would have spat in disgust. The Breton turned his face to his friend so his words could not be heard too clearly by those straining to listen to the Mayor’s droning speech. ‘The Prince shows no embarrassment at his wife’s shameful display. Is the court of Aquitaine to take on the appearance of a brothel? My wife is an honest woman. Dignity and self-respect would allow none of our wives to dress so scandalously.’

  Blackstone stepped to his shoulder. ‘Take care, my lord,’ he said quietly. ‘There is a pledge to be signed. Insulting the Princess might cause the ink to take longer to dry.’

  Jean de Beaumanoir and his fellow Breton lords glared at the tall man who intruded on their group but the faded blazon on his chest identified him and forced them to restrain any desire to argue.

  ‘I see what I see,’ de Beaumanoir muttered.

  ‘Then let such observations remain unspoken,’ said Blackstone. He moved away through the crowd, satisfied the disgruntled Bretons posed no threat. He rejoined Killbere at the door.

  ‘I heard nothing more than a desire to be a part of the new court,’ said Killbere. ‘If there is any killing to be done it’s between those courtiers wanting the Prince’s favour.’

  ‘Then let’s be thankful we face a more honest enemy when we fight.’

  Blackstone pushed open the doors into the entrance and the steps that led down into the street. Crowds thronged in the sunlight. Jean de Grailly’s blazon caught Blackstone’s eye.

  ‘Beyard!’ he called to his Gascon captain, who stood vigilantly with his ten men-at-arms on the steps leading into the building.

  Beyard smiled when he saw Blackstone and stepped quickly to him. ‘Have we ever seen such a day? It does the people good to have a royal prince and his wife visit. I’m pleased to see you are recovered.’

  ‘It took time but we are all well. I thought Lord de Grailly would have sent you north with the King of Navarre? That man will never learn his lesson. The French will defeat him again. It’s good to have you back with us.’

  ‘It is indeed, Sir Thomas. Lord de Grailly extends his good wishes to you. I and my men’s return is a gesture of his friendship.’

  ‘I hope he doesn’t get caught up with the political ambitions of Navarre. Did the Welshman make amends with him?’

  ‘Ap Madoc? He wasn’t there.’

  ‘He went to make his peace with your master,’ said Blackstone.

  ‘He was never there. I saw him less than an hour ago.’ Beyard turned and pointed to one of the side streets. ‘Down there with some of his men. I thought you had him guarding the side streets.’

  The Welshman’s lie betrayed him. He had asked Blackstone to get him close to the Prince. Now Blackstone knew the assassin’s identity.

  CHAPTER SEVENTY-ONE

  The stifling heat cooled as Blackstone and the others entered the broad corridor. The smooth limestone slabs beneath their feet bore witness to the centuries of men and women passing this way to attend great occasions in the palatial hall, a fitting place for a prince to receive oaths of fealty. The corridor’s arched roof channelled whispers and muted silken rustling across the stone as distant voices paid homage. Passageways went left and right, swallowed by darkness. There were too many to search but without knowing if they led back to where the Prince would leave the great hall Blackstone had to try. He gestured to three of them. ‘John, there. Meulon, take that one, Beyard, the other. Gilbert, with me.’

  ‘Sir Thoma
s, an assassin would strike where the Prince is least guarded,’ said John Jacob. ‘His entourage will take the main stairs to his rooms. That’s where his courtiers will leave him. When I served the King as his sergeant-at-arms at Windsor, his bodyguard stood at the end of the corridor that led to his chamber. He demanded privacy with the Queen. Would the Prince not do the same with his lady?’

  ‘We would catch the killer like a rat in a trap. A narrow corridor serves no purpose for an assassin – he can kill but he cannot escape,’ said Killbere.

  Blackstone nodded. ‘Gruffydd ap Madoc will not act alone. They would make more than one attempt in case the first failed. There are guards on every floor. Who would get past them without the alarm being raised?’

  ‘Unless the killer was already in the Prince’s chamber,’ said John Jacob.

  ‘John, search the passage. Gilbert, guard this route from the great hall. I’ll go up.’ Blackstone ran for the stairs.

  Killbere ordered the men into position. Blackstone’s footsteps receded into the heights of the palace. He took the stairs two at a time. He reached the vaulted verandah on the next floor and saw the first of the prince’s guards at the studded oak door that led to the main rooms and staircase beyond. ‘Has anyone passed this way? Any servant? Any man-at-arms?’

  ‘None, Sir Thomas,’ said the sentry.

  Blackstone looked down into the floor below. Some of the local merchants gathered at the balcony window that opened onto the ceremony. They were jostling to hear what was being said in the great hall as the civic dignitaries finished proclaiming the Prince’s letters of commission, followed by the regional lords and eventually the bishop confirming their oath of loyalty. There were too many gathered at the lower windows. ‘Where is the next sentry?’

  ‘A floor above and another on the other side of this door,’ the man answered.

  Blackstone studied the throng of people below him. It would not be impossible for a crossbow to be used through the open window. ‘Get below and clear the area. There are too many people there. Close the windows. Guard the entrance. No one is to enter.’

  The soldier didn’t hesitate and ran for the stairs. A bronze lion’s-head door handle, the size of a dinner plate, glared at Blackstone. He turned the iron ring clamped in its jaws and heard the latch lift. As he pulled the door open the man-at-arms on the other side spun around, his sword already half drawn. He stayed his hand when he saw who it was.

  Blackstone took in the broad half-landing. The staircase was lit by glass lanterns; the balustraded steps dog-legged down to where another man stood guard in the flickering light. ‘Has anyone come up those stairs and gone up to the Prince’s rooms?’ he asked the guard at the door.

  ‘Only a girl with fresh bed linen.’

  ‘No one else? No manservant or anyone from the Prince’s entourage?’

  ‘No, Sir Thomas.’

  ‘And there is no other way to his rooms? No servant’s staircase?’

  ‘None. The guard commander checked. Anyone who needs to reach the Prince’s floor must pass by on this staircase.’

  ‘Were his quarters checked after he went down to the ceremony? Could anyone have stayed behind?’

  A puzzled look crossed the man’s face. ‘One of his courtiers or attendants, you mean? I don’t know. Maybe a house servant.’

  ‘Bolt the door. No one enters from the outside.’ Blackstone was already striding to the next flight of stairs when he heard the thud of the latch being driven home. On the top floor three rooms led off from the broad landing. Of the three doors, two were on opposite sides while the third, the Prince and Princess’s quarters, was at the end of a corridor twenty paces long. Blackstone checked each of the rooms on the landing. They were not furnished for a nobleman but were comfortable and clean, kept for those in high office who accompanied the Prince. A woven carpet covered much of the planked floor; there was a soft mattress on a bed base and a washbowl stand and jug in the corner. The window opened onto the street three floors below. Satisfied that no one could scale the heights and gain entry, he strode quickly towards the Prince’s rooms. As he pushed open the door, a startled servant girl jerked upright from fussing with the bed. She bent her knee in deference but Blackstone ignored her as he checked the room. These quarters were more sumptuous than the others. Tapestries hung on the walls and richly coloured silk cloths adorned the dark wood-carved furniture. Blackstone checked the two similarly well-furnished anterooms where the Prince and Princess would be attended to. He pulled back the curtain covering the garderobe. There was no threat in the room and no access other than what the sentries had explained.

  Blackstone studied the room. The maidservant stood unmoving, frozen in the presence of the tall scar-faced knight. She trembled. Blackstone saw nothing unusual in the room and had turned to leave, when the sunlight streaming through the window onto the bolstered bed caught his eye. The slanting rays showed barely noticeable damp spots on the two pillows. He hovered his hand across them, touched his palm onto the feather-filled covers and raised his hand to his nose. There was no smell. He glared at the servant, who bowed her head and stepped towards the door. Her hands were sweating, and she dropped a small glass bottle. As it clattered to the floor, she ran. Blackstone snatched at her, caught her wrist but what had been a demure servant girl was now a snarling wildcat whose free hand slashed at Blackstone with a short-bladed dagger. As he parried the blow, he saw that her hands were soft and unblemished. She was no servant. He cuffed her behind her head with the flat of his hand. It knocked the fight out of her.

  ‘Poison?’ Blackstone said, easily forcing the knife from her hand.

  ‘Leave me! Leave me!’ she spat.

  Blackstone twisted her arms; pain creased her face, tears filled her eyes, she gulped air like a drowning woman.

  ‘Who are you?’

  ‘Kill me or let me go. I beg you. Do not give me over to torture.’

  Her cowl fell free, loosening fair hair. Blackstone eased his grip on her wrists. She had succumbed quickly to fear and spent what violence she had.

  ‘You sprinkle poison on the pillows. Why kill the Prince? Who paid you?’

  She shook her head and slumped further onto the floor. Blackstone released his grip. There was no escape for her. She wiped an arm across her face to clean her tears. ‘I beg you. Do not let them put hot irons on me,’ she said, raising her face to him.

  ‘You tried to kill a prince of the realm. I cannot save you. Answer my questions and I will ask they give you a quick death.’

  ‘Garrotted in the main square tied to a stake? Or beheaded?’ She shook her head. ‘I don’t have the courage to face that.’

  Blackstone went down on one knee and gently lifted her chin. ‘Listen to me, child, whoever paid you to do this threw your life away the moment they pressed gold into your hand,’ he said tenderly. ‘You are no servant. Your hands are soft. Are you the daughter of a gentlewoman who has fallen on hard times?’

  She pushed back the hair that had fallen across her face. She couldn’t have been much older than his son. ‘I did not do this for payment. My family are your sworn enemies. We vowed to seek revenge against you and the English Prince who honours you.’

  Blackstone had never seen the girl before. Even so, there were many families who would wish Blackstone dead. ‘Then why not kill me?’

  Her face became a picture of calm innocence. What he imagined an unsullied angel might look like. ‘You must live so you may suffer.’

  ‘You make no sense, girl.’

  ‘I was in Paris when you invaded my father’s castle and killed him. My mother swore she would see you suffer and dishonoured. You cast her and my young brother and sister into poverty. My sister died in the plague and were it not for the kindness of my uncle I would have had to serve a noblewoman as little more than a servant. I would have been shamed. My brother was raised by my uncle and died with him when you attacked him.’ She smiled again. ‘You cannot protect your Prince. He will die. I have failed, b
ut the others will not.’

  Blackstone realized it was not the look of an angel but of someone possessed with an unswerving desire to cause him harm.

  ‘Where does the Welshman intend to strike?’ he demanded.

  She shook her head. ‘If my poison did not kill the Prince, then a blade will. Remember who it is who brings you down. Let your heart ache forever to know we dishonoured you because you did not protect your Prince and we revenged ourselves with the death of your son.’

  Blackstone wrenched her to her feet. ‘Who are you?’

  ‘Sir Rolf de Sagard was my father. Lord Mael Babeneaux de Pontivy was my uncle.’

  The girl sprawled as Blackstone threw her back down. The family who had helped the Savage Priest flay alive Blackstone’s friend. The friend he had killed in mercy. The sneering creature in the shadows of a man’s mind was Fate. Ever present. Waiting for the moment to bring retribution for Blackstone having killed the girl’s father. And this was only one attempt on the Prince’s life in case a more direct assault failed. Blackstone grabbed her. ‘Where will the assassins strike?’

  Blackstone had not seen her retrieve the small bottle from the floor. She threw back her head and tipped it to her lips. She choked and then shuddered. Her eyes rolled back. She fell as gently as a silk scarf being dropped to the floor.

  The cathedral bells rang out. Others joined in from across the city. A joyous celebration of the English Prince being honoured.

  Blackstone knew it could also herald the Prince’s death.

  CHAPTER SEVENTY-TWO

  Blackstone hurtled down the stairs; his leg protested but he ignored its demand for him to slow down. If the Welshman was going to strike it would be when everyone was celebrating, when all eyes would be turned to the Prince. Cheering crowds would flatter a prince’s vanity, erasing any thoughts of danger. The Prince’s sense of occasion, the grandeur that was a reflection of the English Crown, was a deliberate show to lift the spirits of the populace plagued so long by war and pestilence. One hundred paces. Slow-moving. His entourage behind him, soldiers either side keeping back the throng. Soldiers who would stop at the entrance and block the cheering crowds from entering. The assassins would not make an attempt on his life in the street when he left the great hall and turned to walk the short route towards the palace entrance: the risk of failure was too great. But once inside, it would be only the Prince and his bride and the courtiers. Sir John Chandos would follow a respectful ten paces behind the Prince. That’s where they would try to kill him. In the confines of the entrance hall before he reached the stairs.