Gate of the Dead

by David Gilman

  Beyond the Prince’s helm Blackstone saw a stripe of blurred colours that resolved into those on the dais who leaned forward in anticipation. The fury that possessed him to fight would be his undoing. The thought of his family lay beyond a distant horizon. He saw his adversary and only him. Nothing else mattered. But then, as if the pagan goddess had reached into his heart, a glimpse of Christiana flashed into his mind. Her beauty caught him off guard. As it always had. She was calling to him. Taking a half-pace backwards he deliberately raised Wolf Sword in defence rather than attack. Seizing the moment the Prince struck hard and fast, delivering a swinging blow that shuddered against Blackstone’s helm. A lesser man would have been brought to his knees. Blackstone tasted the blood in his mouth and with a gesture allowed his head to drop in submission and his arms to splay in surrender. The bitterness he tasted was not due to blood alone.

  Both men stood heaving with exertion. Prince Edward pushed up his visor; sweat glistened on his face and Blackstone saw that he too had bitten hard on his tongue, blood running from the corner of his mouth. Through heaving breaths the Prince made his demand. ‘Show yourself.’

  Blackstone ignored his aching body and cumbersome armour and knelt before Edward. ‘I am here to serve you, my Prince, not cause you harm,’ he said and extended Wolf Sword towards him in a gesture he knew the Prince would recall from the day at Calais when he gave Blackstone his coat of arms – the sword, held like a crucifix, grasped by a gauntleted fist.

  The Prince’s eyes widened.

  Neither man spoke. Blackstone cut free the leather covering from his shield, exposing his coat of arms. Then he pushed back his visor. What he saw was a seething anger held in check.

  ‘Your defiance has no bounds. You defy us, you return marked as an assassin, and you defy yourself in order to allow us to best you.’

  ‘No, my lord. You took advantage of my hesitation. I gave you no quarter. You won.’

  Edward spat blood from his mouth. ‘Get up, damn you! Show your colours to our father.’ The Prince bowed his head towards the royal dais. ‘Sire! The day is over. We have been victorious. We beg permission to retire from this field.’

  King Edward smiled, raised a hand in a small gesture of permission, and as the Prince walked towards the end of the lists, rousing cheers acknowledged his success. The King’s eyes fell on the man who had come so close to beating his son. Who would have beaten him had he not yielded. Blackstone turned his shield. And bowed his head. There was no need for the King to see the scarred face that was hidden beneath the helm. The warrior King was less aggrieved than his son to see Blackstone and he allowed him an indulgent smile.

  ‘Sir Thomas Blackstone,’ he said, enjoying a hidden delight as the French King at his side flinched from the Englishman’s name. ‘You dispel the lies we hear about you and confirm your bellicose defiance. Défiant à la mort. We have a thought to see you arrested but your efforts here have pleased the crowds,’ he said, then paused. ‘And we hear you are a champion of the common man. It befits us to be merciful.’

  Blackstone raised his eyes. It was obvious that the English Crown had been kept informed of his exploits in Italy. ‘God bless you, my liege.’

  ‘We are divine, Sir Thomas; you, it seems, are coveted by His angels. Either those ascending or those who are fallen. How, we wonder, did you find the path to our door?’ He glanced at Isabella, who did not meet his eyes but stared resolutely ahead at the fighting man who had yielded to her wishes. ‘No doubt that secret will be made known to us in time,’ he said.

  The King studied him a moment longer. He had not seen Thomas Blackstone since that day at Crécy when his torn body lay cradled by a priest, surrounded by the greatest knights of England, who all swore to the boy’s prowess and courage. From that bloodied state a knight had risen with a reputation that could not be ignored – or denied. The King stood to leave, but before bowing his head Blackstone looked into the French King’s eyes. He would not yield to him. One determined throw of Wolf Sword could reach John the Good’s chest. It would tear apart his heart and Blackstone’s promise of revenge would be complete. But that would not save his family.

  He bowed as deeply as he could despite the damned armour and cinched belt cutting into muscle and flesh; like a flagellant monk he pressed hard against it to pay for his broken promise.

  Penance.

  *

  The Tau knight helped John Jacob ease away Blackstone’s armour and mail. The ill-fitting plate had chafed his skin and his ribs were already discolouring into purple bruising.

  ‘What of my horse, John?’ he asked the captain, who tossed aside the last piece of armour in disgust.

  ‘Aye, we’ve got him tethered and fed. Flared-up he was, took half a dozen of us and another hood over his head to settle him. He quietened some when we stripped him down. There’s barely a mark on him, though how in God’s name he didn’t have your legs crushed I cannot say. I thought he was going to bite the head off the Prince’s horse. Sweet Jesus, Sir Thomas, they’d have disqualified you even before you got in the saddle had they known what a mean bastard he is.’

  ‘But he’s not injured?’

  Jacob shook his head. ‘Not a mark, as far as I can see. His hide is tougher than yours. I’ve hobbled him again because he’s kicking anything that comes close. We should take the iron shoes off him. That might save any other horse from being hurt,’ he said as he swabbed Blackstone’s back with a cloth soaked in brine to clean the abrasions.

  ‘No, leave him be, but tether him and the other horses close by. I don’t know how long we’ll be welcome here.’

  Caprini took balm from his saddlebags and administered the sweet-smelling paste across Blackstone’s ribs, insisting Blackstone raise his bent arm against the pain so he and Jacob could bind him with a linen bandage.

  ‘Not too tight or I’ll not draw breath,’ he complained.

  ‘Loose enough to let you swallow the frumenty I’ve cooked,’ said Jacob. ‘Bit of decent pottage will do us all very nicely.’

  Blackstone glanced at the clay pot nestled in the fire’s embers and the herb-scented steam emerging from it. ‘If Will Longdon was here he’d have found some white cuts or shot a pigeon and found some decent bread. Is there ale?’

  ‘Between you and that horse I’ve barely time to draw breath m’self. What’s in the pot will fill our bellies.’

  ‘So it will, and I’m grateful for it, John,’ said Blackstone apologetically, his irritability calmed by the stalwart Jacob’s practicality.

  Caprini tied off the bandage. ‘You gave your Prince bruises to remember. But that was all. You could have beaten him. Why did you not? It was obvious to me that you held back.’ The Tau knight stepped away and repacked the jar of balm. He studied Wolf Sword’s pommel, and then balanced the hardened steel in the palm of his hand. ‘I’ve seen you fight, Sir Thomas. He was no match for you.’

  It seemed for a moment that Caprini favoured Wolf Sword. His fist curled onto its grip, the blade unnervingly close to Blackstone’s neck. The two men’s eyes met. Blackstone realized with a shock how easily someone could get so close to him and with one thrust take his life that had been so carefully guarded. The moment passed. Blackstone took Wolf Sword from him and eased it into a scabbard. ‘He was a match for any man.’

  Caprini made a gesture of surrender. ‘As you wish. Loyalty is a fine trait, but victory today could have made you the tournament’s champion.’

  ‘Sir Thomas does not seek glory,’ said John Jacob. ‘He serves the King.’

  ‘Well spoken, Master Jacob. ‘But your sworn lord is not a man to yield – not without good cause,’ the Italian answered.

  ‘I’m no fool, Fra Stefano. I could see that,’ answered Jacob, and turned his back so his questioning gaze did not fall on Blackstone.

  Blackstone eased himself into a fresh shirt. ‘I am blackmailed by Isabella,’ he said. ‘There, now that I’ve told you, your lives may also be at risk. The Queen may not like the idea of you shari
ng our secret.’

  ‘Then you yielded at her command,’ said Torellini.

  ‘My family is in danger. The King plays for time while France burns. I am being used by her, but I’m caught up in something I don’t understand. I was thought to be an assassin brought here to kill the Prince. It’s a shit pit of stench and I want no part of it – but I have no choice.’

  Jacob and Caprini remained silent until the captain offered him a bowl of steaming food. ‘Best to eat while we live, Sir Thomas. They say there’s ambrosia in heaven, but I’d miss a decent hot meal.’

  Blackstone took the bowl and the hunk of rough bread being offered.

  Caprini warmed his hands at the fire as Jacob dished out another serving. ‘And what word of this assassin? Is he known?’ he asked.

  Blackstone shook his head. ‘No doubt a rumour to trap me is all it is.’

  Caprini swallowed a mouthful of food. ‘Then you are still in danger from those who spread it. You face men who are jealous of their position with the Prince. You are not wanted here and if the Prince is still your enemy even though you have tried to prove otherwise, then I doubt even his grandmother can protect you.’

  ‘Her concern is for me to stay alive until she has no further use of me. We are safe for the time being.’

  John Jacob spooned another dollop of frumenty into Blackstone’s bowl. ‘It’s never the wolf’s pups who’ll savage you, only the she-wolf.’

  *

  Dusk settled across the meadows as spring mist caressed the river. Hundreds of rushlights flickered ready for the contest to continue once prayers had been attended to and food taken. No one had yet approached Blackstone, so in the half-light they smothered the fire and struck their camp, carrying weapons and bedding to another site. If there were unknown enemies anxious to cause harm before Blackstone could discover Isabella’s true purpose it was best to hinder their efforts by moving to the outer area of pavilions and tents. Months before this tournament the King had enjoyed a torchlit joust at Bristol and he wished to continue the spectacle of combat in the same manner. He and his guests would return in another procession to thrill the crowd, alms would be distributed to a chosen few while for most the chance to glimpse the warrior King and his family was deemed sufficient largesse. None had filtered away in the gloom to their villages. St George’s Day was as much their celebration as that of the nobles. Soon, like creatures from a minstrel’s fable, knights would ride in the shadows, their decorated and plumed helms bobbing and weaving as horses pranced and torchlight was reflected in burnished armour and illumined the colourful surcoats.

  The three men on foot led their horses through the pavilions, avoiding those whose coat of arms suggested they belonged to those who might have been given lands and title by the Prince. Smoke from campfires and torches swirled upwards, dispersed by a forest of banners and pennons flapping lazily in the cool night breeze. Blackstone recognized many of the blazons; others were unknown to him. One banner, smaller than its neighbour, was held open easily by the small breeze; then, as a gust of wind rustled treetops, the second, heavier banner suddenly flared open.

  An avenging angel.

  A bare-breasted woman crowned with gold, eyes glaring across the defile towards him, teeth bared, wings and talons spread-eagled as if to swoop and carry him off. Harpies were the destructive spirits of the wind, baptised with names of storm and blackness; fierce and loathsome, they were thought to dwell in filth and stench. These harbingers of divine vengeance were despatched by the gods to snatch the souls of evildoers. The figure of the harpy bore down on him, tearing its way into his memory and the dying moments of a bloody battle a dozen years before. Mayhem’s deafening roar pounded through his ears, his pulse quickened as once again he saw the coat of arms loom at him, powered by the knight’s strength behind the shield and his vicious attack. A shattered mirror in his mind’s eye reflected jagged battle scenes and the pain and horror of seeing his brother fall like a slaughtered ox beneath the swords at Crécy, the man who had done the slaying riding, harpy-painted shield high, sword hacking a bloody path towards the Prince. That glaring chimerical monster, both woman and beast, had swooped down on him as he lay, wounds bleeding, in the Crécy mud, and the attacking knight had taken his hardened steel sword to Blackstone. Blinded by his own blood, and close to death from his injuries, God’s miracle and the blessing of the Celtic goddess Arianrhod had given Blackstone the strength to slay him. He had taken that knight’s sword with its running-wolf-etched blade and wore it to this day.

  And now that vile bitch taunted him again – an emblem of death, bringing with it other ghosts that clung like a silk cloth impaled on a thorn bush. Something that could not be removed without further damage or pain.

  31

  The King had begun restoration of the royal lodgings in the upper ward of Windsor Castle. His temporary apartments were sumptuous enough for the brief time he would spend there and although the obligation of hospitality would still stand, his own quarters were private. A divinely appointed king never entertained his inferiors unless they were of very high rank or blessed with his friendship. The French King was his prisoner, but was treated with great respect. Not only was he housed at the Savoy Palace but he was given the comforts and retinue that befitted a king. He was as a free man – except that he was not. He was the key to even greater riches and territory. He and his young son Philippe were equals to the English King, so there was little cause for Edward to feel anything but victorious. The tournament was a spectacle whose fame would reach across Christendom and yet a rowelled spur of discontent now stung his success. His son was raging, his mother was silent and his wife, Philippa, betrayed no emotion at all. The good woman from Hainault remained stoic and had the grace to smile at Edward as he listened patiently to his son’s outburst.

  And a good meal was about to be ruined.

  ‘He was exiled!’ fumed the Prince of Wales with barely contained anger. ‘And I was humiliated.’

  ‘You won the contest. There was no disgrace. You were the better fighter. Everyone saw that,’ said Edward gently. ‘And you will lower your voice in our presence,’ he added with an inflection that brooked no disobedience.

  The King’s various counsellors who hovered constantly about his presence had been ushered away by his Chancellor and, retreating to the shadows against the royal apartment’s walls, they became blind and deaf to what was said between their liege and his family.

  Rebuked, the Prince of Wales bowed his head. ‘Sire. Forgive me.’

  ‘It would seem that forgiveness will need to be dispensed to all before the night is out,’ he said and turned to face Isabella. ‘Perhaps your grandmother can explain how an exiled knight has appeared at our celebration without his King’s permission.’

  Isabella’s gaunt features reflected the pain she was in, but Edward would not yet offer any further sympathy or care. Mother and son were still close, but a king required respect and obedience from everyone. Isabella took the gold and silver enamelled cup of wine to her lips. Enough potion had been poured into it to keep her from collapse. This was no time for weakness, even in front of her son, for it was not sympathy that she wished to draw from him, but his sound judgement, to help him take the next step towards securing the territories in France – even, perhaps, the French crown, if John defaulted on his ransom of more than six hundred thousand pounds – a sum that seemed impossible to raise.

  ‘I sent for him,’ she answered simply.

  ‘I wonder why I am not surprised to hear that confession,’ he said.

  ‘It is not a confession; it is a statement of fact. I sent for him because you need him, but he obeyed the command because he thought it came from you.’

  The King stroked his beard from his gown and sat opposite her, keeping a respectable distance that maintained royal status. ‘My dinner will be cold, madam, and my knees ache from prayer. If I am to end this day with anything but an empty stomach and pain I would ask you to explain yourself. Quickly. For both
our sakes.’

  He had noticed her wince momentarily, little more than a twitch of an eye, as she subdued her pain.

  She lowered the goblet, replacing it on the ornate stand at the side of her chair. ‘When the tournament ends you will finalize the draft treaty with John.’

  Edward wondered briefly whether it had been a mistake to allow her to be visited by the French King and others in his retinue; it had been a chance for Isabella to reacquaint herself with friends and cousins from France. Information was a weapon.

  ‘I will. Most of France is ours. Or soon will be, once the Dauphin accepts the terms,’ he said.

  Isabella’s voice was calm and assured and she spoke directly to her son as if he were the only other person in the room. ‘France is burning. Routiers bleed her dry. Some of whom are encouraged by you – perhaps not openly, but it serves you well to observe the chaos. The great and the good have yet to decide whom they will support, be it John’s son the Dauphin, or Charles of Navarre. You play one against the other, because whoever succeeds in bringing the people of Paris under their control will wield the power.’

  ‘I see no connection between the politics of France and Thomas Blackstone,’ said the King, trying to guess what he had missed but which his mother had foreseen.

  ‘The turmoil is spreading. The peasantry arm themselves and even the lower ranks of nobility join their cause. There is murder and brutality and you offer no assistance,’ she answered, urgency in her voice.

  ‘Madam, I am playing a long game. There is a ransom and a country at stake.’

  Isabella nearly forgot herself, the irritation bitter on her tongue. ‘There will be no country!’ she said too sharply. The King tilted his chin as if to rebuke her but she quickly lowered her voice. ‘John and the Dauphin fear for their families! How can either accept your treaty when their attention is diverted not only by the back-stabbing Navarre but by a peasant army that burns and loots its way across the countryside?’