Gate of the Dead

by David Gilman

  ‘Go when you can,’ Blackstone said quietly, hoping she might understand his intent even if she did not comprehend the words he spoke. He made a child-like gesture of his first two fingers walking.

  She caught her breath and then quickly took the purse from the tray.

  Dantini puffed his way to the landing. ‘You don’t care for wine, Sir Thomas?’ he said. ‘Or... anything else?’

  ‘Nothing.’

  ‘Of course. As you wish. I am here to serve,’ he said and waved the girl away, unable to avoid watching her buttocks clench and sway as she moved downstairs. He smiled apologetically at Blackstone, who gave no sign of sharing the moment of pleasure.

  The door opened. The merchant stepped aside, allowing Blackstone to bend beneath the door frame and enter the room, which had a cot, a pitcher of water and a bowl, and the wounded man who lay half raised on the pillows. His linen shirt was bloodstained, his left arm bound in a sling. Cracknell held a knife in his good hand; sweat ran into his eyes. He blinked and shook his head, his hair flicking the sweat away. The air was oppressive. It stank of urine and infection – a stench that was no stranger to Blackstone.

  ‘He was unconscious. I prayed for him and bathed his face, and no sooner did he awake than a knife was in his hand,’ explained Torellini, who turned and raised a hand to calm the wounded man. ‘I am Father Niccolò Torellini, my son. We have found you. You are safe.’

  Cracknell gave an audible sigh of relief and lowered the knife.

  Blackstone looked at him. He had seen poison creep into men from their wounds, and this man was no different, with his pallor and palsy, and his struggle for breath. He knew they had reached him with barely enough time before he died. And die he would. No physician could cure whatever happened to the blood and heart of a wounded man. It needed good luck and God on your side. And both, it seemed, had abandoned the King’s messenger. It was only his courage and duty that had kept him alive this long.

  Blackstone eased the merchant from the room, pushing the inquisitive but obedient man onto the landing, then closed the door behind him. Whatever was said in the dying man’s room was for Father Torellini and Thomas Blackstone.

  ‘What is your name, my son?’ asked Torellini.

  ‘I am Samuel Cracknell. I have... a document that... must... reach... Sir Thomas. Only... he can read it. I have your word, Father?’

  ‘I will not give it to him...’ Torellini said quietly and smiled at Cracknell’s sudden uncertainty. He laid a comforting hand across the man’s. ‘He is here. He has come to see you himself. You can give him the document with your own hand.’

  The priest moved away from the bedside and took the branch of candles from Blackstone, who pulled the footstool closer to the dying man’s cot.

  Cracknell peered through the shadows that played on Blackstone’s face. Was he ready to give the vital message to this man dressed as a commoner?

  ‘You’re Sir Thomas?’ he asked uncertainly.

  Blackstone nodded, turning his face so that his scar might be seen more clearly. Like a doubting child Cracknell raised an uncertain finger and traced the scar without touching Blackstone’s face.

  His eyes narrowed as a moment of indecision intruded on his fevered mind. Battle-scarred veterans were ten a penny. ‘You once knew a King’s messenger, did you not?’ he asked, determined to make sure that Blackstone was who he said.

  ‘I did,’ answered Blackstone. ‘Some years ago. A good man. I sat with him as I sit with you. And he was taken by the French King’s men in my place.’

  ‘And you would remember his name?’

  Blackstone remembered it well enough from back then, when the Norman lords teetered on the edge of rebellion and Blackstone was taught the art of killing with the sword. Normandy, a dozen years before. Christiana his wife-to-be, Henry and Agnes his children yet to be born. Names, and the feelings that came with them, crowded his memory like a winter forest, skeletal boughs reaching out to scratch his conscience.

  ‘His name was William Harness. A brave, good man who was wounded by French villagers. I made sure they paid for their viciousness to him.’

  Cracknell sighed, as if releasing a great weight. ‘We know that story well. Every man who rides into foreign fields... for... the King... knows it... as will their children.’

  His hand grasped Blackstone’s wrist to help him half turn and reach beneath the mattress. He pulled out a document, folded twice vertically, its thin ties wrapped around and crossed. At its crease was a dark red globule of dried wax, its heart pressed with the royal seal. The parchment had a greasy sheen to it, and a smear of blood had dried into its grime.

  ‘One thing more, Sir Thomas. Use your knife... and cut away the stitching that holds the cord for my hose... here...’ Cracknell said, touching his waist beneath his shirt.

  Blackstone carefully lifted the cloth, felt the cord in the man’s waistband. His fingers touched a coin stitched into the seam. He carefully separated a few stitches and eased out a gold coin. Cracknell nodded.

  ‘I was told... that should also... be placed in your hand.’ He grimaced in pain, his breathing now more laboured. ‘My duty is done, Sir Thomas... Don’t... don’t linger in this... place. You are in danger, my lord.’

  Blackstone dampened the cloth rag in the bowl of water and wiped the man’s brow. ‘I’m always in danger, Master Cracknell.’

  9

  Footfalls scuffed the wooden stairs into the tower. Blackstone eased Father Torellini aside and gripped his knife. Whispers filtered through the door frame, followed by a gentle tap. Blackstone opened the door and saw that there were two men, both dressed similarly to Stefano Caprini. Cloaked Knights of the Tau.

  ‘We should take him from this place, Sir Thomas,’ Stefano said. ‘I sent word to my brother monks. Our hospital is close enough and no one will question us.’

  Blackstone glanced at Cracknell – the man was close to death.

  ‘Even so,’ Stefano said, understanding the Englishman’s thoughts, ‘he will be under the hospitallers’ care...’ He lowered his voice to barely a whisper, ensuring the dying man did not hear him. ‘...until he dies, and then we will bury him in our graveyard. Has he fulfilled his duty to you?’

  Blackstone nodded.

  ‘Then you can do no more for him, Sir Thomas.’

  ‘Stefano is correct, Thomas. Let me administer the sacrament,’ urged Father Torellini. ‘Now that he has done his duty the will to live will slip away from him.’

  Blackstone looked back at the royal messenger who had clung to life so that he could carry out the King’s wishes. He nodded. ‘You and Stefano attend to him, Father,’ he told them and eased opened the document, tilting the parchment to the candlelight and read the neat script: Do as this man commands – no harm will befall you.

  Ten words that demanded Blackstone’s obedience.

  *

  ‘Wait,’ he said and pushed between the priest and the knight. He quickly knelt at the cot and shook the dying man. ‘Master Cracknell.’ He shook him again but there was no response.

  ‘Thomas. He is beyond words now,’ said Father Torellini.

  Blackstone kept shaking the man, his free arm stretched back to give the document to the priest so he could see for himself. ‘I need his words, Father. He’s the voice of the King.’

  Cracknell’s breath was slow and heavy, easing him away from the flickering shadows. Blackstone gripped the man’s shoulder and squeezed the wound. Cracknell’s breathing faltered.

  ‘Thomas. In God’s name, mercy,’ Father Torellini said, stepping forward to restrain Blackstone, but was in turn held back by the Tau knight.

  ‘Pain awakens a man from the darkest places,’ said Caprini.

  Once again Blackstone pressed into the injury. Cracknell groaned. Now Blackstone forced his fingers into the suppurating wound itself, and the man gasped in agony, his eyes staring wildly, as his upper body curled from the cot. Blackstone held him, easing him gently back onto the pillows, and press
ed a beaker of water to his lips.

  ‘Sir Thomas...?’ he whispered, uncertainly.

  ‘Master Cracknell, listen to me. You have information I need. What were you told, that you should pass on to me?’

  Cracknell’s eyes focused, his mind searching for an answer. ‘Nothing, my lord. No instructions for you.’

  ‘I am to follow your command,’ Blackstone said. ‘Did you not know what was written?’ he asked, already aware that no messenger would be privy to the contents of what they carried, but hoping that a personal message from the King to the outlawed knight might be an exception.

  Cracknell shook his head.

  ‘You were given nothing for me?’ Blackstone repeated, knowing there was little else to be asked.

  ‘Nothing,’ came the answer.

  Blackstone felt the frustration squirm within him. Cracknell must know something.

  ‘Think of when the document was handed to you. The royal clerk, the Chancellor, whoever it was, what did he say?’

  ‘To... Genoa... and then Florence... under escort... and safe passage to Florence and... Father Torellini.’

  ‘More than that. You carry a command for me but you do not yet know it. It lies in the words that were spoken to you. Father Torellini would have sent for me had you reached Florence and there I would have questioned you as I question you now. Clear your mind and think.’

  Cracknell’s eyes darted through the layers of pain and time, searching desperately for the answer, seeing the royal clerk place the folded parchment into his hand. Watching his lips, hearing his orders.

  ‘I was to board ship... at Portsmouth... from where you first... sailed to war... but... was commanded to return before... the King’s tournament...’

  ‘The King holds a tournament many times a year,’ Blackstone repeated. ‘Those are his pleasures.’ It seemed a mystery he could not unravel. Was there any meaning in those instructions?

  Cracknell smiled, as if finally understanding the subterfuge that had been his to carry. ‘There can be only one... at Windsor... St George’s Day, Sir Thomas... it can be no other...’

  Blackstone laid the palm of his hand on Cracknell’s face, as he would on a child’s. ‘It can be no other,’ he said gently.

  *

  Blackstone waited out the night. Sitting in the high tower’s darkness, watching the late-risen moon come and go behind clouds, throwing shadows from the city towers across the rooftops. Here and there in the distance a dull glow seeped upwards from the darkened alleyways as the night patrols of armed young men went about their business. Fireflies who sought out the living.

  He heard muffled whispers from Torellini and the Tau knight and then the weary footfall of the older man as he climbed the night-black stairs.

  ‘Thomas?’

  ‘Here. By the window.’

  A cloud shifted and the moon briefly illuminated the unshuttered opening. The priest sighed. ‘I see you.’ He sat on the top step. ‘Cracknell has died, his soul cleansed by absolution. The cavalieri are swaddling his body. At first light they will take him to their graveyard. When the city gates are opened they will accompany a handcart carrying his body. You will pull the cart, Thomas – no soldier will question us then.’

  Blackstone nodded, even though Torellini could not see his response. Where in this labyrinth had he been betrayed, and by whom? A wounded man washed ashore and by chance brought to a merchant’s house. Who knew of the meeting? The merchant, Father Torellini, and the dwarf who had ridden with the message to Blackstone.

  ‘Why does an English King use you?’ he asked the priest.

  ‘Edward has always had strong links with us,’ Father Torellini answered.

  ‘Because the bankers of Florence fund his war chest? It’s more than that.’

  Blackstone sensed the hesitation in the priest’s answer.

  ‘There is a history between us, Thomas. It goes back further than you can imagine. Before you were born. I serve one of the greatest men in Florence, and before him others served King Edward’s father. It goes beyond the business of lending money.’ He paused, evidently reluctant to continue.

  The darkness was Blackstone’s friend. Like a confessional it eased men’s souls and loosened their tongues. He remained silent, listening to the priest’s breathing.

  ‘There is a Genoese family, the Fieschi. Cardinals and diplomats, used by the King’s father,’ Torellini said. ‘And, like them, there are other Italians, such as my master, Bardi of Florence, whose family have been confidants of both royal father and son. The King has strong ties with us. His physician was Pancio de Controne, who helped the King open dialogue with other Italian bankers. Edward appointed Nicholyn of Florence to the royal mint. We share a—’

  A lifetime of vows suddenly silenced him.

  Blackstone listened to the old man’s intake of breath, as if catching himself on the brink of an indiscretion.

  ‘A secret?’ Blackstone suggested.

  ‘Yes. An intimacy of trust.’

  It was obvious that was all the priest was going to say.

  In the city of fifty thousand souls a dog barked, others took up the challenge and then fell silent again. Blackstone knew little of King Edward’s life. He had been a village stonemason who could read the sheriff’s proclamations; an archer arrayed for war; a man-at-arms blessed with the strength to harness the rage within him. A King was divine.

  ‘He trusts you to reach out to me,’ said Blackstone.

  ‘Did you understand the message?’

  ‘I think so. I can’t be certain. But I believe I am being summoned to England before the final week of April when Edward holds his tournament on St George’s Day.’

  Torellini was silent for a moment. ‘I have heard that the King has granted a pardon to those who travel to the tournament. Foreign knights and princes are to be welcomed to fight there.’

  ‘Not for me, Father. No pardon is granted to a man exiled by the King’s son. But this message must have something to do with it.’

  ‘Then it’s nothing more than guesswork.’

  ‘It’s all I have.’ He felt the embossed coin between his fingers. ‘And Cracknell was told to give me this.’ He reached across the wall opening, the brightness of the moon showing the gold coin held between finger and thumb.

  ‘A double leopard,’ said Father Torellini when he saw the embossed coin.

  ‘Worth all of six shillings when it was in use. Why send me a coin that can’t be traded except to be melted down?’

  Father Torellini teased the coin in his fingers. Why indeed? A coin taken out of circulation many years before and now sent to a fighting man who had enough money to buy passage home, a condottiere whose contract with Florence meant that if the King needed Blackstone’s men at his side then the Florentines would risk engaging ships and crews for them to be transported to England. But no such request had been sent to Florence. No, the gold coin was a symbol of royal authority showing two heraldic leopards crouched each side of King Edward on his throne. It was a deliberate reference to the throne of King Solomon described in the Old Testament. The image that told his subjects that theirs was a wise King.

  ‘Ah...’ Torellini sighed. ‘I knew there was something wrong.’

  Before Blackstone could question him, the priest gathered his garments and turned on the stairs. ‘We need candlelight, Thomas. Come!’

  Refusing to explain, Torellini scuttled down the stairs as quickly as he could, with an air of anticipation verging on excitement. ‘Be patient, be patient,’ was all he would say to Blackstone’s questions.

  *

  When they descended to the first floor Father Torellini instructed the merchant to provide a dozen candle holders. Eager to please, Dantini hurried his servant, quietened his wife’s protests and ushered Blackstone and the priest into his private chamber. The outer curtains were drawn and the shutters closed, sealing the light of a dozen candles within the room. Torellini dismissed the merchant and arranged the candle holders on a tabl
e, and then unfolded the parchment.

  ‘The document you received is not what you think.’ He brought the royal seal into the light. ‘Do you see?’

  Blackstone studied the seal’s imprint. A monarch on horseback, a crowned helm, shield and sword. The horse’s forelegs raised, the King posed as if his sword arm was ready to strike.

  ‘I do not,’ said Blackstone. ‘It’s the King’s seal. I’ve seen it before on an archer’s leave of absence from the battlefield.’

  ‘A king’s Great Seal is broken when a new monarch is crowned,’ said Torellini, biting a knuckle as he worried about his explanation and whether his thoughts could even be true. ‘This’ – he tapped the document – ‘this seal shows the King with crowned helm and three lions on the horse’s caparison. Edward’s seal does not. Edward’s shield is quartered with the fleur-de-lys; his father’s was not.’

  ‘I’ve seen the seal before,’ Blackstone insisted. ‘This is the King’s seal.’

  ‘No, Thomas, this is his father’s seal.’

  Blackstone remained silent for a moment. Neither man spoke.

  ‘I don’t understand,’ said Blackstone. ‘If his father’s seal was broken when Edward took the crown, then how can this be his?’

  ‘A copy is always held by the Chancellor of the time,’ the priest said, ‘and, Thomas, if the King wished to send you a personal message, he would not use the Great Seal. He would hide such a message from his advisers. He would use his signet as a secret seal for such a private document.’