Gate of the Dead

by David Gilman

  Cracknell slipped in and out of consciousness and begged that word be sent to Father Niccolò Torellini in Florence. Dantini’s words soothed and comforted his distress until finally the man admitted he was a messenger from the English court. No thief then, Dantini realized. The man had travelled several hundred miles to bring word to a friend of England. Who knew? Perhaps even a friend of the King.

  Others would be on the same journey. One man with a letter would not be the only one bearing such a message. Others perhaps by land. Or by another ship. If he, Dantini, were to contact the Florentine then he would have the opportunity to ingratiate himself with those who had influence with the English King. On the other hand Lucca was an enemy of Florence and allied to Pisa. Where was the profit and loss in this situation? Christian duty had been fulfilled, but commerce and politics made other demands that had to be served.

  There was also the danger that the authorities in Lucca would discover that the man he harboured was not simply an injured traveller who might have been waylaid and wounded by brigands.

  Why, he had asked Cracknell, did he need Father Torellini? But the Englishman fought the pain and shook his head. He refused to succumb to the infected injury that was slowly sucking his life away, or the persuasive questioning of the merchant who leant close to his face and lowered his ear to listen for a whisper of explanation. ‘Father Torellini’ were the only words he murmured as he slipped in and out of consciousness.

  The fever caused by his wounds would soon kill him and the merchant knew he had to make a decision quickly. Checks and balances. Dantini never made less than 150 per cent profit on any deal. Influence was a desirable commodity that could be traded.

  He watched as the physician did what he could to ease Cracknell’s pain. He dressed the wound and bled him, then eased drops of hemlock between his lips. If Dantini had not spent time in Bruges, had not conversed in the English courts with other merchants, had not understood and spoke English, he would have let the wounded man die without another thought. But then his fever made him ramble and Oliviero Dantini heard him mutter: Torellini... find Torellini... and... Sir Thomas... Blackstone.

  The mention of the Englishman’s name made him catch his breath. A mixture of fear and excitement dried his mouth.

  He knew the risk was worth it. Florence and Blackstone’s sword were blessed by the Pope. The great divide between the city republics meant loyalties shifted as soon as one alliance was dropped and another formed. Lucca had Pisa’s protection. To have saved King Edward’s messenger and delivered the man’s sealed orders to the influential priest – that would give him greater access to the English court. And Edward was known to reward those who showed loyalty. Like any business transaction, this situation required some thought – and guile. Those in Pisa and Milan would be generous. The English condottiere was a prize that could be better than gold and someone had already tried to claim the reward in the piazza. Who it was he did not know but it had been a brutish and clumsy attempt.

  The trick was to kill Thomas Blackstone, but without being seen to be involved.

  *

  Blackstone waited with Torellini until the priest finally unclasped his hands. He had twisted and held them in a rare sign of anxiety during the telling of what he knew about the Englishman now sheltering in Dantini’s house. The light was fading; they would soon be in darkness.

  ‘I was fearful that when I sent for you I was drawing you into a trap, which is why I asked Stefano to watch for you.’

  ‘Who knew I was coming into the city?’

  Father Torellini shook his head. ‘This merchant made no mention of your name, only that the King’s messenger had a document for me. I knew, as did Stefano.’

  ‘Then this Dantini seeks reward for the service.’

  Torellini nodded. ‘The merchants of Lucca have houses in Bruges. They travel the courts – England, France and Spain, the Holy Roman Empire – they take news of who says what to whom and what alliances seem fragile. They speak many languages; it’s how the likes of Edward learn what is happening in the world.’

  ‘It’s unlikely the men in the square were simple cut-purses. I had nothing they could want except my life.’

  The priest reached out and touched Blackstone’s shoulder. ‘Are there any of your men who would betray you? Anyone?’

  ‘Not one,’ Blackstone said, barely able to keep the irritation from his voice.

  ‘Thomas, I understand. But a new man perhaps? A woman you lie with?’

  Blackstone shook his head. Only those closest to him knew of the clandestine meeting.

  ‘Your dwarf,’ Blackstone said. ‘You sent him to me. He knew.’

  ‘Paolo? No, no, he has served me for thirty years. I sent him to you when I left Florence. He never came here; he would know no one. I was told to come to this church, and when I got here the local priest gave me the name of the man I must seek out.’

  ‘Whoever is responsible will show his hand again. Are we to stay here for the night?’ Blackstone asked.

  ‘No, we go to the house.’

  ‘We can’t stumble around without torches, and the city patrols will be on us.’

  ‘No need for torchlight. There is a man being sent who can see despite the darkness.’

  *

  By nightfall the city was so dark Blackstone could not see his hand in front of his face. When night fell the Lucchese shut down their looms as master and servant alike went to bed. Candles were expensive and used sparingly.

  Blackstone held the guide’s rope as he stumbled along uneven streets; behind him Father Torellini took his length of rope, as did Stefano Caprini at the rear. The only sound in the narrow streets was the tap-tapping of the blind man’s stick as he led the three men through chiassi known to him since childhood. Each brick and stone on the building’s flanks told him where he was in these narrow passageways, some barely wide enough for Blackstone’s shoulders to pass through.

  Blackstone could hear Father Torellini’s laboured breath and then, as they made their way beneath the black cowl of an archway, Blackstone sensed they had stepped into a small piazza. The moonless, heavily clouded night sky was a different shade of darkness and the black shadows loomed upwards like malevolent giants gazing down on the intruders. The blind beggar stopped and the men behind him stumbled into each other.

  ‘Thomas, what is it?’ the priest whispered.

  Blackstone made no reply and eased his arm against Torellini in a gesture of assurance. The old beggar grunted and Blackstone heard his hand rasp against the stone wall. And then he struck the wall three times so that the sound echoed around the open space. He paused and then made the same signal again. No one spoke. Then, in the building opposite, Blackstone heard what sounded like a large piece of canvas being moved followed by the creaking of shutters as a first-floor window opened. He could make out a figure lowering a ladder into the street below. The scrape of timber against stone and the final dull sound as it touched the ground made the old beggar grunt again, this time in satisfaction.

  No instructions were needed. The blind man tugged the rope free from their hands and tapped his way into the darkness.

  ‘We’re here,’ Blackstone said.

  8

  Oliviero Dantini sat in a darkened corner of his apartment that spanned the breadth of the townhouse. Below him were two floors of looms standing silent. If he secured the trust of the Florentine priest, then betrayed his Englishman later, it would place sufficient distance between him and the act. Had he not put himself at huge risk? he would tell the English Court. Had he not done as much as he could? He would kneel before the priest, expressing his humility, and the priest would bless him. And the first step of his new journey would be taken not only with the English but here in Lucca.

  He could rise to the office of podestà: there was power and influence to be wielded as chief magistrate. God knows he had lent the city enough money over the years, and his influence with the farmers and peasants in the contado would grow �
� though how anyone could choose to live beyond the city walls was a mystery to him. He had extended the hand of financial friendship to the drapers’ guild, and helped to provide cheap cloth for the market. Becoming chief magistrate would allow him to settle scores with rival families. He might even be able to exert influence on communal councils and shape the rural statutes that protected local interests. Lucca was a city-state, its people bovine creatures cosseted by the city walls since Roman times; as the city grew, more walls were built and financial inducements ensured Pisa’s protection. Now that trade with England and Flanders demanded even more silk, Dantini could already see himself in the palazzo della podestà, wearing the chief magistrate’s magnificent gowns. Or perhaps not? Doubt entered his mind. Power should not be seen but rather felt. No, he decided, the common populace would respect the show. And he could build more wealth, and wealth would buy title, and then he could pay for his own condottieri. A small army outside the walls exerting their strength...

  His thoughts were interrupted by his servant’s announcement.

  ‘The priest is here, master.’

  ‘Then allow him to enter. Does he need help?’ he answered impatiently.

  ‘There are two other men with him,’ answered the servant.

  Fear suddenly stripped away all ambition. He waved a hand impatiently. ‘Be certain it’s the priest. Make sure! If it is... then... lower the ladder fully. Bring him to me. Go. Go!’

  He touched his fingers to his brow. It was a cool night but the sweat glistened. He dabbed his face and waited in the half-lit room as he heard the outside curtain being drawn and the shutters opened.

  He crossed himself and muttered a prayer. If his worst fear was realized, the priest was bringing a dark angel into his house.

  *

  Father Torellini identified himself and was beckoned to climb the ladder.

  ‘I’ll go first,’ Blackstone told him and shuffled forward with the priest’s hand on his back for guidance; as he reached the ladder he palmed the knife in his hand. To go through the darkened window into an unknown room was to accept an assassin’s invitation. He clambered up and then, readying himself for violence, felt the tension ease from his shoulder as a muted, warm glow seeped from the room. Against the far wall stood a servant holding a candle with his hand shielding the light, casting everything else in the room into shadow. Blackstone could see that behind the servant stood a man, clearly the master of the house, who held one hand across his chest, gripping the folds of his cloak. The figures were barely recognizable, their features almost hidden in the soft light. Blackstone quickly took in what little of the room he could see. It was large and almost devoid of furnishings. Broad planks formed the floor, stout beams the ceiling. There were wall hangings, but he couldn’t make them out. He stepped over into the room and, without taking his eyes from the servant and his master, extended his hand through the window.

  ‘Come on up,’ he said quietly, and heard the creak of the priest’s weight on the ladder below.

  When the two men joined him in the room the servant passed the candle to his master, who still seemed nervous of the strangers in his house. The servant quickly pulled up the ladder, and then drew an outside canvas covering, held across the opening on an iron rod. He closed the wooden shutters, trapping what little light there was in the room.

  The merchant stepped forward nervously. Here was the man so many had tried to kill. The shadows heightened the merchant’s fear. The dimness served to accentuate Sir Thomas Blackstone’s fearful aspect. Thank Christ the Lord Almighty and the blessed Virgin Mary that he had not been involved in the killing in the piazza because who else could know of Blackstone’s association with the priest, or that the Florentine was in the city or that the Englishman would come to Lucca? That Dantini protected the English messenger would surely convince Torellini and Blackstone that he was uninvolved in that attempt. Italy swarmed with paid mercenaries to protect city-states. Some were greater than others. But this condottiere who protected Florence was taller than he imagined. This was no squat, muscled man like other thugs and killers he knew of; his height alone gave him authority. Dantini realized that he had involuntarily stepped forward, raising the candle holder so that he could see the tall man’s face. The stubble clung to the running scar like scrub on the side of a dusty road.

  ‘Sir Thomas,’ he said in almost a whisper, flustered for the moment; his hand trembled, making the feeble light flicker. He bowed, keeping his eyes averted longer than necessary, desperately hoping that the killer in his midst would not savage him or his family. ‘I did not know you would be with Father Torellini,’ he managed to say without too much hesitation.

  ‘Someone did. I met them in the piazza,’ Blackstone answered.

  Dantini raised his face – his innocence in the matter must be seen. ‘Terrible news, Sir Thomas. Terrible.’

  ‘For them. And whoever paid them,’ said Blackstone, staring down the merchant.

  Before Dantini answered, Torellini stepped forward. ‘I am Father Torellini, and these men serve as my protection.’ He spoke with the authority that Church and State gave him. ‘You take a great risk.’

  Dantini sighed with relief, thankful that the priest seemed to be on his side. ‘I do, yes, indeed, that is true. A great risk...’ he said, almost stumbling over the words, uncertainty suddenly clouding his thoughts again. All his skills of negotiation in trade, of buying cheap and selling dear, all his years of usury and cunning fraud, seemed to desert him. How many times had he watched men less able than himself succumbing to his skills? The wealth of the Lucca silk trade gave him power over those who desired it. Be they kings or queens, upstart noblemen and their whores or common wool farmers, Oliviero Dantini had outsmarted them all.

  He recovered his composure and gestured to the doorway that led to another room.

  ‘I will wait by the window,’ said Caprini. ‘Best to see who else might be in the streets at this time of night.’

  Blackstone nodded and followed the others as the servant quickly ran forward and opened the ornate carved doors that led to a more sumptuous apartment where furnishings and carpets softened the broader-planked floors and stone walls. All the windows were shuttered, and Blackstone realized that without a ground-floor entrance, access to these tower houses with their interconnecting rooms was possible only by a ladder lowered into the courtyard. Those that had towers attached, like this merchant’s house, were well-defended strongholds in a city plagued with family rivalries. Blackstone had taken an instant dislike to Dantini. There was a slyness about him. His posture kept changing: one moment he was gesturing with his arm as they strode across the luxurious apartment as if about to tell them of its wealth and finery; the next his shoulders slumped like a whipped servant as Blackstone demanded, ‘Where is the King’s messenger?’

  Another room. A bed, woven carpet and drapes, a woman who cowered in nightgown and cap. As old as the merchant himself, and fatter. The wife of a rich man in a sumptuous bed surrounded by drapes. She looked defiant, but made the sign of the cross and lowered her gaze when she saw Father Torellini.

  ‘Yes, yes. Blessings, sister,’ Blackstone heard the priest mutter tiredly behind him.

  Oliviero Dantini led them to a central staircase that ascended into the tower. Another candle was lit as the servant went ahead and cast light up into landings with oppressively dark chestnut beams and flooring.

  ‘I had the best physician. Trustworthy, I assure you. I paid him well,’ Dantini said breathlessly as he took the steps, eager to let it be known that he had spared no expense despite the citizens of Lucca’s reputation for miserliness. ‘Here. A safe room. He is here,’ he added as the servant waited at the next landing by a doorway. He gestured impatiently for the man to open the door.

  ‘Let me speak with him, first, Thomas. Who knows what delirium he may suffer,’ said Torellini.

  Blackstone stepped back and let him go into the room. Dantini shifted nervously, but his anxiety calmed as a servant gi
rl stepped forward carrying a tray of wine glasses. The girl was no more than fourteen or fifteen years old, but composed and self-assured. Her eyes were lowered respectfully, Blackstone thought, in obedience to a master who probably took such a beautiful girl to his bed. Her plain linen dress showed her slender neck and shoulders; her fair hair and blue eyes gave her an almost angelic air.

  Dantini took a glass of wine and noticed Blackstone watching the girl, who remained unmoving, waiting until her master’s guest took his wine.

  ‘Georgian,’ Dantini said, leering over the rim of the goblet. ‘From the Black Sea. A better choice, I have always thought, than the Tartars they bring in. Such ugly creatures. Beauty, Sir Thomas, should always be at the centre of a man’s desires. In all things. Don’t you agree?’

  ‘Does she speak?’ asked Blackstone, ignoring the question.

  ‘No, no. They have a foul guttural tongue. They learn quickly enough to remain silent with a strap laid to their backs. Cheaper than hiring Italian servants. Why pay exorbitant wages when you can buy a slave for fifteen florins?’

  A woman’s voice called from the lower floors. ‘My lord? My lord?’ An exclamation of concern.

  Dantini winced. ‘My wife. Forgive me, Sir Thomas, I must assure her that no harm will befall us this night.’

  For a moment he considered dismissing the servant girl, but changed his mind, thinking that she would amuse the Englishman. Perhaps he might even offer to buy the tender-looking girl and in that instant he regretted telling Blackstone that she had cost fifteen florins at the Pisa slave market. He scurried downstairs to attend to his wife’s anxiety.

  Blackstone gently lifted the girl’s chin. She looked at him defiantly. He understood that look and the feelings that lay behind it. Her breasts looked firm, their nipples pressing through the undershift and linen dress. It was not difficult to understand how such innocence could be desired. Though by now, of course, innocence had long since fled the girl. He laid a hand on her shoulder and with the lightest of touch turned her so that he could see the nape of her neck and the smooth skin between her shoulders. The tips of flat welts, new and old, criss-crossed her back. He knew the full strike of the belt would go down to her buttocks. Somewhere on that tender white skin would be a mark burned into her flesh to denote her slavery. Probably no bigger than a small coin, it would pucker in a pink eruption. Either her thigh or her breast, he thought. It made no difference. The flesh healed, but slavery was death to the soul. He turned her to face him again. He took the purse from his belt and placed it on the tray. The girl’s eyes widened, but Blackstone smiled and calmed her fear. Dantini’s footsteps echoed up the stairs.