Gate of the Dead

by David Gilman

  Blackstone saw the flames first – huge, curling tongues devouring the hefty logs in the gaping fireplace that held bundles of faggots stacked to one side. The warmth struck him as soon as he entered the small chamber. A broad-planked table stood to one side, its dark wood glowing from years of beeswax and servants’ efforts, and which now had the unsheathed Wolf Sword lying across its dull sheen. Beneath his feet was a thick, woven rug and beyond him, close to the fire, a figure whose features were half lit by the flames. A hanging tapestry depicting a white hart being brought down by huntsmen covered the stone wall behind her. Despite the rug it was not a room for comfort, but rather a place where outsiders could be received. Isabella sat in a high-backed wooden chair, its single cushion untouched by her back, which was as straight as a yard-long arrow. And Blackstone thought when he saw her that the glint of the half-light in her eyes looked like blood-tipped bodkins.

  Two other men stood in the glow of candlelight. One was as tall as the King, but older, with the hard, scarred look of a weathered oak. Gilbert Chastelleyn was a knight of the royal household; a key figure in Edward’s life; a man prepared to serve as ambassador or warrior, as the King required. The second man stood opposite him, half-turned from the fire, one hand on the back of the Queen’s chair, the other resting casually on the pommel of the dagger at his belt: Stephen Cusington, captain of the garrison at Saint-Sauveur-le-Vicomte, the great citadel close to where Edward had invaded France, was a battle-hardened knight who kept his King’s possessions free of routiers and Frenchmen alike. Blackstone remembered him fighting with the Prince of Wales at Poitiers. Neither man looked pleased to see Blackstone; their animosity was barely concealed. Chastelleyn made a slight movement with his head. Beyond the Queen, in almost complete shadow and twirling a precious stone ring on his finger, was the King. Other than the gentle worrying of the adornment he did not move. He was watching the broad-shouldered man who still had mud streaks on his breeches and a darker spattering of something else on his jupon. A dried trickle of blood ran from his hairline, down the side of his ear and disappeared behind his collar.

  Blackstone half turned towards him and went down on one knee, keeping his eyes focused on the carpet’s intricate pattern woven by a skilled hand at some time in history in a land he could not know. He concentrated so that his mind would not lead him astray and begin a dialogue with the devil as to what punishment might be inflicted on Caprini and Jacob. He had made the challenge on the Prince and he had been the cause of the death and wounding of his attackers. Their guilt was by association, his by command.

  The devil won.

  ‘Sire, I beg your indulgence for those who accompany me. They served me and I am to blame,’ he blurted out. The damned pattern had blurred before his eyes.

  De Marcouf laid his blade down the side of Blackstone’s face, close, so he could see it next to his right eye. ‘You do not speak until spoken to.’

  ‘All right, all right,’ said the King. ‘Get up.’

  Blackstone stood and raised his head.

  Edward strode forward and stood closer to the knighted archer. The English and Welsh bowmen had been his greatest weapon, but at Poitiers the witnesses to the battle described how it had been raw courage – man against man, sword in hand – that carried the day.

  ‘Sir Gilbert Killbere encamps outside Calais,’ said Chastelleyn unexpectedly. ‘With a hundred of your men.’

  ‘Sire,’ Blackstone answered in confirmation, unsure how the King had gained the knowledge so quickly – but of course the English-held city of Calais would have messengers travelling regularly.

  ‘Very well,’ Edward said impatiently. ‘It is our desire that you are welcomed back to your native soil. You are pardoned from exile.’ Clemency granted in a simple utterance.

  Blackstone felt the surge of relief and began to bend his knee again but was stopped by the King’s command.

  ‘Enough of that. We know of our benevolence. Our son, the Prince, will be aggrieved, but that is not your concern. Greater issues press us.’

  He paused, letting Blackstone remain perplexed at his good fortune. ‘We desire France to be ours,’ said Edward. ‘The Marshals of the Army urge us to make haste and seize Paris. Then it is done.’ He looked at Blackstone, a silent command to speak. Blackstone searched for an answer. How best to please the King? He could offer his men at Calais, and if necessary break his contract with Florence and bring several hundred more. It would be a worthless gesture. The King’s plan was too ambitious.

  ‘Do not try to take Paris, highness. You have neither the time nor sufficient siege machines,’ said Blackstone.

  Edward’s enthusiasm for war had never diminished. The warrior King would finally take the crown of France. ‘We’ll draw him out. No need for any siege!’ the King answered. ‘It would be the end of France. We hold King John, the Dauphin is a boy and the people of Paris are unsettled, ready for revolt, caught between Charles of Navarre and his ambitions and the Provost Étienne Marcel. The timing is perfect.’

  Blackstone defiantly held his King’s gaze. ‘If the Dauphin is still in the city you cannot entice him. No favour, no promise will make him leave the safety of Paris. Only if there is conflict within the walls and he is threatened will he leave it.’ He saw the King’s irritation smothered by his desire to have Blackstone agree to his strategy. Cusington and Chastelleyn would have berated Blackstone, but a slight gesture from the King stopped them.

  ‘Let us have no pessimism here,’ said Edward. ‘Not from you. The civilized world knows what you did at Crécy. Scribes have it down; monks have copied it. What you did then – and since – travels at your back like a gathering storm. You put God’s fear into your enemies but treat those deserving of mercy with a tenderness that could put a mother to shame.’ He watched his scarred fighter, perhaps expecting a show of pride, a tilting of the chin in acknowledgement of his generous flattery, but Blackstone gave no sign other than to keep his gaze focused.

  At a nod from the King, Cusington poured a glass of red wine for him. An edge of disappointment crept into Edward’s voice. ‘You are a mystery to us all, but we are glad that your sword is on our side of the lines – is it not, Sir Thomas? That Wolf Sword of yours fights for England?’

  The question broke Blackstone’s gaze, and he dipped his head in acknowledgement. ‘Sword and war bow before it, highness.’

  ‘We believe it. And our mother, for all her intrigues and chess moves, insists upon it,’ he said with another glance towards the stoic Isabella.

  Blackstone waited a moment; the mention of the King’s mother had brought a brief softening to the monarch’s brow and a glimpse of a smile. There was affection there despite, as he had said, the former Queen’s intrigues.

  ‘Highness, the Dauphin is weak and indecisive, but he has a resilience to him. He won’t come out and fight,’ insisted Blackstone.

  ‘Why ever not?’ Edward barked. ‘He’s a King-in-waiting! He must prove himself!’

  ‘He has no need to, lord. He has Paris. I have run the gauntlet of its alleyways, and have seen the belligerence of its people. Paris would suffocate an army should they ever manage to breach its walls. He won’t come out. And you cannot get in – should not even try.’

  Silence was a weapon effective against those of lesser rank, and King Edward used it wisely, punishing Blackstone with it. After what seemed an interminable time, and during which Blackstone stayed unmoving, eyes lowered, in front of his King, Edward finally spoke.

  ‘Very well. Perhaps for now you see a situation of which we have no knowledge. Events move at a pace that race ahead of us. Our army is not yet ready and we cannot know how the boy will react.’ Edward laid his finger against Wolf Sword’s blade. ‘But we are aware that the French royal family might be threatened. You are to seek out and find your enemy’s family and secure their safety for the Dauphin. How you achieve this is of your own choosing.’

  Blackstone knew his own family’s safety was of no interest to the King of
England, but impertinence was a breath away. ‘And my own family, sire? What of them?’

  Edward turned on him, but by a miracle did not condemn him. He would have, Blackstone felt certain, had not Isabella placed her hand on her son’s arm.

  ‘I gave him hope that he might find them,’ she said and then turned to Blackstone. ‘We believe they are east of Paris. There are noble ladies under the protection of local lords, but that protection falters under the increasing weight of violence. The Dauphin’s family joined those noblewomen. Find them and you may well find your family.’

  Blackstone dipped his head in respect and thanks.

  Edward held out his hand towards Cusington, who seemed to know exactly what was wanted. He lifted Wolf Sword from the table and gave it to the King. It had been wiped clean of blood before being brought to Edward, who gazed at it, remembering the night he first saw it.

  ‘You clenched this to you in what we thought to be a dying archer’s grasp,’ said the King. He ran the tip of his bejewelled finger across the etched swordmaker’s mark of the running wolf. ‘A few hours ago you were attacked by a German knight. His name is von Lienhard – the same name as that of the man who tried to slay our son at Crécy – and whose sword you took that day.’

  ‘I know that now, sire, but I had not realized the fact until I saw his coat of arms tonight.’

  ‘It was his older brother.’ Edward waited. ‘You know something of having a brother killed in battle.’

  ‘I do, sire,’ Blackstone said, knowing the matter of the night’s fight was still to be resolved.

  ‘He is the Visconti’s man, and might well have been declared tournament champion had he not broken tourney rules. He approached us and wished to claim judicial combat against you. We understand what drove him to break the tournament’s pledge, but as no crime has been committed against him, he could not be offered satisfaction. He and those with him have departed.’ The King paused. ‘Be aware that revenge will unleash a man’s baser instincts,’ he said.

  The King’s words were a judgement against Thomas as surely as they were a warning to be on his guard now that von Lienhard was free to act as he wished. Edward, ever the King who valued a warrior and a masterly crafted weapon, offered him Wolf Sword, letting Blackstone feel the comfort of it nestling in the palm of his hand.

  ‘What is taken in battle cannot be denied,’ said the King, and then after a moment added, ‘be it a sword or a country.’

  Nothing more was said. This time the silence was the command for him to leave. As de Marcouf ushered him to the door the King spoke.

  ‘Sir Thomas, you nearly killed our cousin John on the battlefield. A common man does not kill a king.’

  Blackstone did not hesitate in his answer. ‘He butchered my friend and your ally, Jean, Count de Harcourt, sire, without trial or priest, and he went unshriven to his grave. I slaughtered the Norman knight who betrayed him and swore protection for his family and justice for his murder.’

  ‘Your presence here has caused our honoured prisoner upset,’ Edward said.

  Blackstone was glad of it but he kept the thought to himself. ‘Fear in an enemy’s heart weakens him, sire.’

  Edward held back his smile. This belligerent bastard before him was a killer who struck fear into even a King’s heart. A French King. Not his own.

  ‘It would be advantageous for you to show contrition. Debase yourself before him and seek his gracious pardon.’ Edward saw the ripple of dissent before Blackstone even opened his mouth to answer.

  ‘Sire, I do not have your benevolent spirit, nor am I obliged to be agreeable for the sake of future treaties. I will kill your enemies and my own. There is no distinction for me.’

  It was a clever answer – one that flattered the King and made clear his loyalty – despite its edge of disrespect for the French monarch.

  ‘And if I command it?’

  ‘I obey.’

  But Edward did not wish to humiliate the man who had carved a path through the battlefield and saved his son. Blackstone’s defiance was too great a weapon to blunt in such a manner. Blackstone hesitated. No command came. He bowed and followed de Marcouf from the room. As they entered the dimly lit passage he turned before the door closed behind him and he saw the King of England bend and help his aged mother to her feet. She suddenly seemed very frail. No longer was there a great king in that room, only a caring son attending his mother with concern and affection.

  The door slammed shut.

  The way forward lay beyond the end of the passage.

  Part 3

  The Terror

  33

  The Captain of Calais, Sir Ralph de Ferrers, was an honoured knight, a man who had long fought for his King, and who could barely conceal his contempt for those who sold their swords. Right now the two knights who stood before him looked to be little more than ruffians, swordsmen who would brawl in taverns and make trouble for a provost and his men. But they were more than that. Both had reputations. Both were men of renowned courage. Killbere was a ferocious knight, the man who had stepped forward at Crécy and whom all others followed. Blackstone was a name that had grown in legend and the man’s physical stature could well live up to it, de Ferrers decided. But he also knew that men like these could be the cause of bloodshed. He examined the document embossed with the King’s seal. As yet there had been no proclamation issued bearing the Great Seal, a command issued under the King’s hand, confirmed by the Chancellor of England, that Sir Thomas Blackstone was granted immunity and that his exile had been rescinded. Bureaucracy was a baggage train to a fighting man’s war. No matter; this decree for safe passage through English-held territory was genuine enough, and until such time as messengers arrived with the court document this piece of linen bearing the King’s command in a clerk’s neat hand and the wax impression of Edward’s personal seal was more than enough for the Captain to assist Blackstone – as far as his duty allowed. The gruff-voiced de Ferrers folded the pass.

  ‘I’ve no taste for brigands; we’ve a plague of you bastards here. Now I suspect you’re going to cause me further aggravation,’ he said, knowing full well that Blackstone was not acting in self-interest – if indeed he had been pardoned by the King. ‘As Captain of this city I hold jurisdiction over soldiers here.’

  Blackstone ignored the man’s contemptuous manner. There was little time to bandy words with an old knight who governed a city of merchants and garrison soldiers. ‘Do you have any contact with the Dauphin’s forces?’ he asked.

  ‘We go no further than the walls. I have two hundred acres of city to defend, and a garrison sorely stretched to man the walls. But I can tell you there are English routiers raiding up and down the Seine valley, so Paris holds the Dauphin’s attention.’

  ‘But you and the seneschal share responsibility for the marshes. You’ve authority outside these walls to see that the King’s land is kept profitable and in good repair,’ Blackstone said, determined to probe for any knowledge that might help him.

  ‘Do not presume to lay down my duties, Sir Thomas. I know them well enough.’

  ‘Then you know I have had my men on the hills,’ said Blackstone. When he had arrived at Calais he had soon found Sir Gilbert Killbere encamped on the Sangatte heights beyond the marshlands surrounding the city. ‘Did you ever challenge Sir Gilbert or ask why he was there?’

  ‘I know of Sir Gilbert. His men did not attempt to enter the city. There was no cause.’

  ‘You know the King’s pledge. If Calais is threatened he would send a hundred men and archers to aid in its defence. Did you not think that my men might have been part of a defensive force? Did you not think there might have been a threat? Did you think at all, my lord?’ Blackstone asked this man who spent his days implementing ordinances and who had not held a sword in anger for years.

  De Ferrers knew he should not have ignored the armed men on the heights; he had made enough excuses to himself. There was no threat from them – but now this lack of attention to his duty
allowed Blackstone to challenge him.

  For a moment he relented in his antagonism. ‘The Dauphin is being squeezed and he will be lucky to keep any control beyond Paris.’

  ‘Then you have no idea where his family might be?’

  ‘I don’t give them a moment’s thought. Why should I? Calais is the portal to France, and if the King invades then I will make sure the gates stay open. Beyond that, these French bastards are of no interest to me.’

  ‘And Navarre’s troops? Are they helping the uprising? He has a crown to gain. Where is he?’

  ‘That turd slithered from the devil’s bowels. You want to find him, look to where the flies gather. Your kind should have no trouble following the stench,’ de Ferrers said.

  Killbere could hold back his impatience no longer. ‘You’re a damned turnkey, and nothing more,’ he said to de Ferrers, who scowled at the insult. ‘Aye, you can bristle like the hairs on a hog’s back, but, dammit, Sir Thomas Blackstone has earned enough respect for a civil answer. You think he’d be here wasting time with you if there were not some urgency? He’s on the King’s business, for Christ’s sake! Even a common jailer can see that!’

  ‘He has safe passage. Nothing more!’ de Ferrers replied angrily. ‘You’d do well to remember your place. I have authority enough to have you jailed!’

  ‘Which is all you are fit for – though you would do well to remember that it wasn’t so long past that Sir Thomas and his men protected these precious walls when the French thought to take them back. You hold this place, then you must know what your enemy is doing. We need to know.’

  De Ferrers wanted nothing more than to have these men away from Calais, so he suppressed the desire to respond to the perceived insults and rolled out a map across the table. ‘The Dauphin struggles to rally support and the Parisians support the Provost of Merchants, Étienne Marcel,’ he said, his forefinger tracing a circle around Paris. ‘They murdered the Dauphin’s marshals in front of him. Word has it they said they were protecting him from them.’ He grunted. ‘They were showing him how vulnerable he was in the city.’