by David Gilman
‘Priests torture witches and non-believers. The Inquisition will burn a man’s soul from his body. What more is there to understand? I’ll have the men cover them up.’ Blackstone paid no more attention to the Italian’s concerns and turned away.
‘Do not condemn the Church because of these vile creatures,’ Caprini called after him. ‘These men were sarabaites, the most detestable of monks. They are loyal to the world and without an abbot to shepherd them they pen themselves in the fold of lust and wantonness. They affront God with their tonsures. They follow no Holy Rule, only whatever strikes their fancy. Better that we should stay silent than speak of them.’
‘Then you can offer prayers for those they betrayed and slaughtered. I’m happy knowing I cast them into the fires of hell.’
*
The naked bodies of those who had once made vows of holy orders lay in a ragged line. Meulon pointed at them. ‘There are no battle scars on any of them. There are a few healed wounds. Nothing that a farm tool couldn’t inflict. Did you find anything up there?’ he said.
‘Murdered pilgrims. These bastards cut their throats or smashed in their skulls.’
Gaillard crossed himself. ‘Shit.’
‘John, call in Will and the others,’ he said to Jacob. ‘What of those who came from behind us?’ he said to Meulon.
‘They’re fighting men all right. Scars on their backs from whippings...’
‘Or penance,’ said Gaillard.
‘Gaillard, for Christ’s sake. They’re brigands, probably deserters. If Sir Thomas is right then these men worked with the monks. Chances are we came on them before they had time to organize themselves,’ said Meulon and looked to Blackstone. ‘Am I right?’
Blackstone nodded.‘These buildings yield nothing but what you would expect from dirt-scraping monks, but if they’re deserters they’re Visconti deserters,’ he said, showing them a couple of the bloodied jupons that bore the faded viper patch.
‘Planned, do you think? Or chance?’ said Jacob.
‘Can’t be planned,’ said Blackstone. ‘How would they know which path we took?’
‘Unless they put men across them all?’ Jacob said.
‘Perhaps,’ admitted Blackstone. He threw the jupons down. ‘Search everywhere. Find their booty. Then drag them into that byre,’ he ordered.
*
By nightfall their horses had been sheltered and fed. Fresh water had been drawn from the well and the men had washed themselves, combing the blood from their wet hair and then gathering at the fire that Jack Halfpenny and Thurgood had built up. Will Longdon had boiled eggs then slaughtered and plucked half a dozen chickens. He had roasted and seasoned them while the others had torn apart the monks’ dormitory and found a cache of coins, gold rings and silver trinkets. Not all pilgrims were penniless. Meulon and Gaillard spilled everything onto a blanket and carried it out to where the men now sat around the fire.
‘And there’s wine,’ said Longdon as he and Thurgood put down clay jugs and settled themselves to eat and drink.
‘Some of it was off,’ said Thurgood. ‘Tasted like piss and vinegar.’
‘Didn’t stop him from drinking it, though,’ said Halfpenny. ‘He’ll be shitting a sword’s length by tomorrow.’
‘No,’ said Perinne. ‘He has a copper-bottomed gut. I’ve seen him drink laundry water with scum on it.’
The others laughed and grunted in agreement, quickly silenced by the chicken’s soft flesh on their teeth. A clear sky glistened with stars that blessed them and the hot food eased away the aches and pain of minor wounds from the day’s killing. There was an added benefit of the cold night air: it kept the dead bodies chilled and slowed decomposition.
Stefano Caprini hovered at the edge of the circle of men. Blackstone also stood to one side. He had eaten barely enough to satisfy his hunger, but it was enough that he had not lost a man to the ambushers – and that satisfaction had quelled his appetite. The food was good and every man licked fingers and sucked bones from the tasty fowl. Will Longdon was a good man to have riding with you. He could provide food better than most men. If there was a bird to be snared or a deer to be brought down, Will would find it. Always had. And when he cooked there was never a man who did not enjoy his offering. His whore mother had abandoned him as a child and a washerwoman in a village had taken pity – and his mother’s shawl as payment – and fed the boy. She must have been the one who taught him to cook, Blackstone thought, though he had never known for certain. Who among them knew the story of their own family? His own was vague – a French mother who softened the heart of an English archer and died giving birth to another son. Each and every man had his own story. One day they might even discover what they were.
‘You cannot take this,’ Caprini said, meaning the booty on the blanket.
Meulon looked up at him, but turned away and devoted his attention to the succulent chicken leg.
‘Cannot?’ said John Jacob. ‘Or should not?’
Thurgood and Halfpenny looked blankly at the other men. Thurgood’s nose had been bent out of shape by many an alehouse brawl; now it became as pinched as the rest of his features as he tried to understand what challenges were being laid down. The Italian knight seldom spoke. Jacob tossed chicken bones on the fire and glanced towards Blackstone.
‘My men killed those who tried to kill them,’ said Blackstone.
‘It is tainted with blood,’ insisted the Tau knight.
Will Longdon snorted. ‘And my hands are dripping in chicken grease, but I’ll lick my fingers and taste the dirt from the ground and the blood of those men. It’s what comes to us from our efforts.’
Blackstone watched his men’s reactions. For an outsider to come between them and their reward could turn into a dangerous situation and his rank would not help him. They were no longer in any king’s army; they were company men who chose their own commanders.
Gaillard got to his feet, his size looming even larger as his shadow was cast by firelight. He faced the Tau knight, but then turned away, muttering, ‘I need a piss.’
Blackstone understood his men. Gaillard was agreeing with Caprini, but did not wish to break ranks.
‘We are travelling fast,’ said Meulon. ‘This is no time to start carrying extra weight. Another fight like this and the next thing you know we’d need a pack horse. Best to leave things as they are.’
The Norman might have been talking about the weather. He did not seem to be criticizing Will Longdon for wanting to take the booty.
‘Hang on,’ said Thurgood. ‘You agreeing with the Italian? That what you’re saying? I did my share of killing today, and reburying the poor bastards murdered by them monks. A few coins and trinkets won’t weigh me down.’
It was John Jacob who spoke the truth plainly. ‘It’s tainted with pilgrims’ blood, lad. We’ll give it to a church when we next come to one.’ It was said in a manner that brooked no argument.
Longdon saw the look in the man-at-arm’s eyes. He barely spared a glance in the archers’ direction.
‘Why not?’ said Longdon. ‘Let’s play the Good Samaritan and give to the poor bastards who really need it, eh?’ The centenar knew his duty. Allowing dissent to fester was how a battle line could yield. Blackstone had taken a gamble giving Longdon a hundred archers to command in the company, and now even with two chosen men, they had been selected by him. He was still a rogue who would steal a pair of shoes from the dead, like any of them, but he would not allow one of his archers to cause discord, especially in such a small group of men whose objective was to get their sworn lord back to England.
‘What? No. A pig’s arse!’ said Thurgood.
Longdon licked his fingers. ‘Besides, your arrow was wide of the mark when those men made their run.’
‘I used my knife!’ said Thurgood defensively. Every archer knew when his strike was good or not. ‘I sliced as many throats as any man here.’
Longdon got to his feet and gathered the corners of the blanket. ‘You’re not her
e to use your knife, lad. Any arsehole swordsman – other than them among us, of course – can do that. You’re here to put your man down with an arrow. To make sure we don’t have to go round cutting throats.’ It broke the tension. By the time he had delivered his admonition the blanket was gathered and taken to Caprini.
Thurgood looked confused. It was true he had missed – once. But was that a good enough reason to be denied a share of the spoils? He looked from man to man who either smiled or shrugged. The matter was closed.
Blackstone stepped forward and threw his chicken bones into the fire. ‘We’ll let the Italian carry the extra weight. That’s only fair, wouldn’t you say, Robert?’ he said, laying a comradely hand on Thurgood’s shoulder.
The question made the archer clear his confused dissatisfaction quickly. ‘Aye... I suppose it is, Sir Thomas.’ Then, with a more definite assertion that he had made the correct decision: ‘It’s only right.’
Caprini nodded his thanks to Longdon as he took the tied blanket from him.
‘You’re bloody lucky Thomas is here, sir knight. Me? I’d have had the trinkets round my neck, the coins in my purse and the rings on my fingers,’ said Longdon barely above a whisper.
Caprini showed no concern. ‘But an English archer needs to hold his war bow and draw an arrow without impediment. To wear rings on your fingers would make you less effective. Surely?’
Will Longdon turned away and sucked his teeth. Smart-arse knights. They were all the same, wherever they came from.
*
By the time the morning sunlight touched the valleys, the men were ready to ride. The donkey and the goat were tethered behind one of the horses. Two more days would take them to the monks at the pass. The livestock would serve as a contribution for their help, along with the booty, which was now tied onto the donkey’s back. Thurgood had been persuaded that a donkey was better suited to carry it than the Tau knight, who was needed to guide them. The men’s safety was still in the knight’s hands, it was argued. And look what that had brought them, Thurgood had moaned. Then all the more reason to make certain that the monks who would guide them through the pass should feel sufficiently rewarded, came the argument in answer. Thurgood tethered the goat and the donkey on a trailing rein behind his horse.
‘And when we thirst, you can milk the goat for us,’ said Halfpenny.
‘That’s if he can tell the difference between donkey and goat,’ said Will Longdon.
As the men’s humour jibed back and forth, Blackstone stood in the byre with John Jacob. The dead had already been thrown unceremoniously inside, their bodies covered with anything that would burn – mattresses, benches and stools and then finally armfuls from the woodpile – then tallow and oil was smeared and spilled.
Blackstone looked at the carnage. Two of the men waited outside with burning torches. Jacob gathered a handful of the brigands’ clothing.
‘You’ve seen these, Sir Thomas,’ he said, pulling aside the cloth so that the stitched, though faded, badge on its left breast could be seen. ‘Visconti men.’ He did the same with another. ‘But this livery I don’t know. It looks German or Hungarian.’ He rubbed his thumb across the raised colours, more bloody than the others, and even less distinct. ‘These were men fighting for the Visconti. Now, why would they be here? In this godforsaken place? Killing pilgrims was the monks’ business. If anything they got in these men’s way.’
He tossed the clothing onto the pile. ‘If they were after you they must have had men in place along the main routes of the Via Francigena. This must have been the last place they would have expected you to travel, but a good site for an ambush, expecting our guard to be down. From here we’re moving into de Montferrat’s territory. The Visconti have no cause to love him, but they’re not likely to send men that far west on a hunting expedition for you. It’s either coincidence – or these men here were waiting for you.’
And that meant betrayal.
‘Burn them,’ said Blackstone.
*
By the time they rode across the ridgeline the funeral pyre’s black smoke had risen high into the sky, a signal to anyone beyond the horizon that if this had been a planned assassination, then whoever had tried to have Blackstone killed had failed. It would take days for the information to reach the men’s paymasters. From hermit monk to itinerant pilgrim word would go through village and hamlet until it reached condottiere patrols. The truth would become rumour and then legend. Thomas Blackstone, the scourge of his enemies, would be seen as the English knight who slaughtered innocent monks who had offered him shelter and respite.
20
There were twenty-three passes through the Alps. Transalpine princes controlled those that led into their territory, routes that had been established when man first questioned what lay beyond the next mountain. Great warriors such as Hannibal had achieved the seemingly impossible and the legions of Rome had tramped beneath the great snow-capped sentinels. To the north was the St Gotthard, used by the Milanese to extend their influence – wealth, goods and banking – into the land of the Germans. Further south the Brenner gave the Venetians and Florentines access across France towards Flanders and England. Even in mid-winter people and carts could get through the passes using sledges. However, the underbelly of the Alps was the route Blackstone had secured when he fought ‘La Battaglia nella Valle dei Fiori’ and tore the citadel that guarded the route from the grip of one of the Visconti’s captains. It was a treacherous pass that made men cleave to its ice- and snowfields. When the thaw came, the monks who guided travellers across those narrow paths would try to retrieve the bodies, but more usually the mountain held them close.
Except for hot food and a change of horses for his men, Blackstone declined further hospitality offered by the Marquis de Montferrat. Fresh mounts were given freely to the men, though Blackstone’s war horse had the stamina and strength to continue. It was a creature like its master – able to ignore privation and the harshness of nature. They were well suited.
‘Stay,’ de Montferrat said. ‘The snows have slowed travel this year. Even the monks have lost some of their own to icefalls. There are women here for your men – and it is paid for.’ He smiled because he was making good revenue thanks to Thomas Blackstone and the Pope. When Blackstone had fought the Battle of the Valley of Flowers at the border and seized the citadel it gave de Montferrat control over a key route into Lombardy. The papal chamber and the city of Genoa paid the Marquis a hundred thousand florins to allow mercenaries through the mountains to inflict terror and destruction on the Milanese rulers and their German mercenaries. Genoa, like the Pope, was the Visconti’s enemy.
‘And I take tolls for those troops to pass by the castle you seized.’ He raised a glass of wine in salutation. ‘You need never pay for anything in my territory, Sir Thomas.’
Blackstone realized that the harsh weather that had swept across the north that winter might have claimed any other of the King’s messengers – had they been sent. Samuel Cracknell had sailed from England, his ship clinging to the coastline. Misfortune had struck when it was blown off course and into the hands of the Pisans.
‘Have you heard of anyone from England coming through the pass these past weeks?’ he asked.
‘Other than handfuls of routiers and foolhardy merchants thinking this was a land ripe for exploitation? None.’
Blackstone watched the Marquis’s response. There was no guile or deceit in his answer. Perhaps there had been only one messenger after all.
‘Only merchants, then,’ said Blackstone.
Montferrat laughed. ‘By the Holy Cross, you would think they’d know the Italians are masters at making deals. Those poor bastards haul themselves through the passes. They come to make money, and they are culled by disease and war, just like you mercenaries.’ He paused. As much as Blackstone had studied his host, so too had de Montferrat watched his guest. Both men were paid for the services they provided to their paymasters. Why was Blackstone turning his back on Florentine money? �
�No one goes back through that pass, not at this time of the year. Why else is it called the Gate of the Dead?’ he said. ‘Not from this heavenly land. Stay here and die here.’
The meaning was not lost on Blackstone. Italy’s republics might be at constant war, but it was nothing like the ravaged country of France.
Montferrat picked remains of his food from a silver plate and tossed it to the dogs that lay gazing intently in the hope of scraps. ‘You risk a great deal coming this far north. How you survived in Tuscany these years I don’t know. The Visconti would like nothing better than to hang and gut you. You think the Hungarians are cruel bastards? Nothing compares to those brothers.’ He kicked one of the hounds from beneath his feet. It yelped and slunk away. Montferrat leaned forward to make his point. ‘When the Pope threatened to excommunicate Bernabò he had four nuns and a monk stripped and put in a cage. He roasted them alive. He hates the Church. And those who fight for it.’
‘And you,’ Blackstone said.
‘And me. Though I’m little more than a gatekeeper these days.’
‘You’re a Piedmontese nobleman. You have influence and that gives you information,’ said Blackstone.
Montferrat shrugged. ‘A little,’ he agreed, his attempt at humility fooling no one. He relented, knowing what Blackstone was asking. ‘The word came that you had left the service of Florence and were returning to France, or at least those that were interested thought it to be France.’
Blackstone gave nothing away. How difficult could it be for rumour to spread like a plague?
‘Or perhaps not France?’ Montferrat said.
‘Who knew?’
He shrugged again. ‘I heard you were taking ship at Genoa. And if I heard then your enemies heard.’
‘And who was interested?’
‘The Visconti. The Germans. The Hungarians. Other company captains. French noblemen dispossessed by you. Italian merchants robbed by you. Those with a vendetta against you. The Virgin Mary, for all I know. You didn’t crucify her son, did you, by any chance?’
