Gate of the Dead

by David Gilman

  ‘That will burn for a month and a day,’ said John Jacob as the three men watched the thick smoke rise from the city. ‘It’ll stink like a damned hog roast in there.’

  ‘A funeral pyre for the damned,’ said Caprini.

  ‘A stench you can’t wash from your nostrils,’ Blackstone told him. His leg throbbed and blood oozed through his breeches, staining darker and wetter than the blood of his victims. ‘The nobles will gather their forces now. Let them finish it.’

  Killbere rode towards them as Meulon and Gaillard gathered the men.

  ‘Thomas! These noblemen have inflicted God’s justice on the poor bastards, and I’ve no taste for it. It’s not sport and it’s not battle and I’m tired of it. We should get drunk and be on our way.’

  ‘That we should,’ said Blackstone and, ignoring the wrench on his wounded leg, eased his horse forward.

  As they approached the city walls, they found the gates still open, and this time, instead of being met by the mayor and his officials, they were greeted by his body swinging from the gibbet alongside his officials.

  ‘Arrogant shit,’ said Killbere. ‘Didn’t like him the moment he opened his mouth. Let’s hope he choked slowly.’

  Making their way through the streets, they found a route that was not blocked by fallen timbers and flames, or choked with bodies from the assault. As they rode through the gate at the far end of the bridge Will Longdon’s men were retrieving what arrows they could from the dead. Some shafts could be reused, but damaged fletchings would not fly well, and patient, skilled work from the archers would be demanded to repair them.

  ‘You loosed so close to me I thought I was going to be shaved,’ Blackstone said to Longdon, who was carefully examining a fletching.

  Longdon grinned. ‘You moved too quickly. I thought you would be doing more killing with that blade of yours.’

  Blackstone nodded, looking about at the others, counting the men quickly. ‘All safe?’

  ‘You didn’t leave us much to do,’ Longdon said and began the walk back to the stronghold alongside Blackstone’s horse. ‘Most of the knights had themselves a fine day. Some of them are back and they’re exhausted.’

  ‘I hear sympathy in your voice, Will. Slaughtering the multitude is a hard day’s work for some of these men.’

  Longdon handed a wineskin up to Blackstone, who drank deeply.

  ‘Plenty of food and drink to be had, though much of it’s gone up in flames. Should’ve left some of ’em alive though, to clean up the mess.’ He grinned again and reached up for his wineskin, but it was already at Killbere’s lips. ‘You’re welcome, Sir Gilbert, it was only a drop to wet the throat of a hard-working archer.’

  ‘Longdon, you haven’t worked a hard day in your life and this wine is piss-poor. Find some ale, for God’s sake.’

  ‘Burning down a city takes time and effort, Sir Gilbert. And it’s dangerous. There were times I near took a wrong turn and got myself trapped. Damned near cooked I was,’ said Longdon with enough sarcasm to earn him a spew of wine from Killbere that he quickly sidestepped.

  ‘Aye, we’ll get you in the kitchens then if you’re that good with lighting a fire.’ He tossed the wineskin to the Tau knight. ‘But your archers did a half-decent job at the end of the day,’ he said. ‘Make sure they know it. You’re their centenar. Give them praise where it’s due.’

  The horsemen moved ahead, but Killbere turned in the saddle. ‘And use that tone with me again and I’ll have you cleaning the shit drains!’

  Longdon watched the horsemen move past him, a curse on his lips but pride in his heart. His men had done all he asked and these horsemen knew it. Arrogant shits. Not Thomas Blackstone though, he told himself. Not him. Killbere’s threat was nothing. It had to be said, was all. He burned with the desire to tell Blackstone that he had seen von Lienhard go down in the streets with a quarrel through his brain. More than anything did he wish to tell his friend that this was one fight that did not need to be fought and that he, Will Longdon, had seen to it. It had surely been God’s plan to see Blackstone and his family reunited. And he had been chosen to see it done. Perhaps, he thought, he should find a priest and tell him that. An archer chosen by God to do His will. Now that would have Killbere choking till he dropped.

  Blackstone turned to Killbere. ‘He’s an archer’s man, Gilbert, don’t chastise him too much.’

  ‘You’re too damned friendly with them, Thomas. They’re archers, they need to know a man-at-arms cares little more for them than their skill.’ Killbere grinned. ‘I wish we had more of them and that’s the truth. But you will keep silent on that.’

  ‘You believe I would?’

  Killbere sighed. ‘You damned near pissed yourself when those arrows fell so close. And it wasn’t through fear. I saw that. Christ, given half the chance you’d be back in their ranks whoring, drinking, fighting and killing the French. But using the sword is what you’re bred for now, Thomas. What we need is a proper fight. Stepping forward and hearing the drums and trumpets. We’ll die old men in our beds, shitting ourselves like mewling infants.’ His frustration bubbled over. ‘We need another war, and if Edward doesn’t come at the Dauphin now and seize the crown then he never will!’ He looked apologetically at Blackstone and shrugged. ‘Is how I see it.’

  ‘I will be sure to let him know your feelings when I see him.’

  ‘I always knew there was something of a gossiping woman about you,’ said Killbere with a grin.

  They rode into the yard where exhausted knights sat where they had dismounted. Horses stood head low from hours of giving chase. Men’s blood-flecked faces stared at him and he realized he probably looked no different. Servants and pages brought refreshments to their masters as knights dipped their heads into pails, flicking the sweat and water from their caked hair, dragging fingers through bloodied beards. Swords were unbuckled, gauntlets dragged from aching hands; horses remained as yet unsaddled. Blackstone had seen men as tired as this after battle and it told him how much killing had gone on over the past hours. Brother Bertrand ran forward to take the horse.

  ‘Two knights killed, Sir Thomas, but there are dead as far as the eye can see from the ramparts. We are blessed by your return,’ he said with his usual idiot grin as Blackstone eased himself from the saddle. He needed Caprini to dress the wound again. The monk noticed. ‘With respect, Sir Thomas, you should have let me stitch that wound.’

  Blackstone saw the cuts on the horse’s flanks. One deeper than the other. Its muscles rippled as he laid a hand on it, its head turning, but held by Bertrand.

  ‘Apply your skills to him,’ he told Bertrand. ‘Do it properly and you’ll be rewarded,’ he said.

  ‘Reward enough to be with you, Sir Thomas,’ said Bertrand, leading the battle-scarred horse away.

  Killbere handed his reins to a stable-hand and muttered. ‘That stain on his face is from kissing your arse.’

  ‘Is there anyone you have a good word for?’ said Blackstone.

  ‘My King. I love my King. Who else is worthy?’ he said and laughed, placing a hand on Blackstone’s shoulder.

  As they walked into the bailey the gathered knights turned their attention towards him. The Captal and the Count of Foix had emerged from the great hall. Blackstone’s instincts warned him of an impending threat. De Grailly had no smile of welcome on his face.

  Will Longdon led his men in from the bridge and saw Blackstone and the others crossing the yard towards de Grailly and the Count of Foix. The Captal de Buch said something, shook his head and gestured towards a knight who stood at the far side of the yard.

  It was von Lienhard.

  He had killed the wrong man.

  *

  Longdon’s stomach knotted as the German looked towards the archers and then raised an arm and pointed towards him. His mouth went dry. Had there been a witness? Everyone in the yard turned to face him and he thought of how he might run. Murdering a knight was a crime that would see him swinging from a rope in the next few m
inutes. Panic gripped him. He turned to push his way back across the bridge when he saw the dead German’s horse and the knight’s body laid across the saddle being led into the bailey. It was the dead knight being brought into the stronghold they were looking at, not the archer. He sucked in breath. His panic subsided and was soon overtaken with bitter self-recrimination. He had failed Thomas Blackstone and now his friend would likely die.

  *

  ‘Sweet Christ, there has been enough bloodshed this day,’ said the Captal de Buch to an insistent von Lienhard.

  The blood-smeared German hawked and spat the sourness from his throat. His own blood was up from the day’s killing, and he could see the Blackstone fared worse through his exhaustion and wounded leg.

  The Captal looked with some disdain at the German. ‘It is customary for those who fight a judicial contest to fast and attend a vigil through the night.’

  ‘My Lord de Grailly, these are extraordinary circumstances. There are still Jacques to be hunted down and punished. There is a kingdom at stake and this matter is trifling in comparison. I insist it is fought.’

  De Grailly knew von Lienhard had a good point. There was still work to be done beyond the walls. ‘I have fought with Teutonic Knights and admired their courage and honour when on crusade against the pagans. But you would have this matter settled today, when the light is failing and we have done our duty? Sir Thomas’s wound must be attended to. It would be honourable to withdraw until such time as he is healed.’

  Von Lienhard seemed as gracious as if he had been invited to a summer feast. ‘If he wishes to retire then I shall step aside.’ He smiled at Blackstone though his eyes did not. ‘I do not need him to be bear any injury in order for me to beat him. But his wife must recant her accusation.’

  De Grailly fumed, almost forgetting his superior rank and succumbing to a verbal brawl. ‘Well, Thomas? Will she? I’ll not have her harmed if she does. And then this matter is closed.’

  If he could convince Christiana to drop her accusation then von Lienhard would be free with his honour intact. Blackstone looked directly at each man in turn. These men did not know his wife, and Blackstone would not try and convince her to recant. ‘This vile knight inflicted a foul death and instigated worse on a good man’s family. My wife is prepared to risk her life and orphan her children to see him punished. There is no need to delay our contest. I will have my leg bound and take food and drink, if my Lord de Grailly permits it.’

  The Captal nodded. Everyone was weary after the day’s killing, and although the clear summer evening would last for another hour, the darkness would then be upon them. ‘Have torches readied, and fires lit,’ he told de Hangest. ‘This matter will be concluded tonight. Bring the Lady Christiana out, prepare her.’ He cast a glance at Blackstone. ‘Make certain she has her cloak. It’s a warm night but... she will be chilled,’ he said.

  Blackstone was grateful for his consideration, and inclined his head in recognition.

  De Grailly stepped away from the two combatants and looked up to where the women stood in the colonnade. It did not matter that he privately believed Christiana, there were rules that bound men to their honour – at least in a matter such as this. The men below and on the ramparts watched him as he turned and faced the walls that separated the stronghold from the city beyond the river, where the sky still churned with smoke. If the night went badly, and the wind of good fortune shifted, they would be smothered by it.

  ‘The wager of battle will commence in one hour when compline is rung! Let a priest be called and the oaths taken!’ de Grailly called across the stronghold.

  It was all that needed to be said. A man was going to die and a woman’s life might be forfeit.

  ‘Bind it well, Fra Stefano, I’ll need it as strong as it can be made,’ Blackstone told the Tau knight.

  The Italian had cleaned the wound and applied a dry linen dressing, and then carefully fashioned the boiled leather from an archer’s bracer and bound it to give the leg rigidity. ‘You should pray before the oath,’ he said. ‘I cannot do that for you.’

  ‘You can pray for my family.’

  ‘I can pray for the world but sometimes God chooses to let His plan unfold without intervention.’ He paused as he attended the wound and looked up at Blackstone. ‘You will die when the time is determined.’

  For a moment Caprini’s grim countenance made Blackstone feel that the Italian man of God had a direct communication with the Almighty.

  Brother Bertrand brought food and drink, and then washed Blackstone’s back, dried him, and helped him into a fresh linen shirt. The padded jacket was still wet from the day’s exertions but the fresh cloth next to Blackstone’s skin would refresh him. The two men attended to him as Will Longdon and the other captains sat a few feet away.

  ‘We can fight our way out of here,’ said Killbere. ‘There’s no need for this, you know, Thomas. There are enough of us.’

  ‘My men will be standing by the gate and I have Gaillard on the ramparts with others ready to raise the portcullis,’ said Meulon. ‘Sir Thomas, I will ram my spear down any man’s throat if I see you fall.’

  Blackstone stayed silent, letting Caprini and Bertrand fuss at their duties.

  ‘Bertrand, did you rub down my horse?’ he asked, ignoring the others.

  ‘With handfuls of dry straw, Sir Thomas. I cleaned his hooves of flesh and mud, and fed him the best oats that Jack Halfpenny stole from the grain store. Your horse is an ungrateful beast. He bit me here,’ he said, pulling up his cassock and showing the bruise and outline of the horse’s teeth on his buttocks.

  ‘That’s him poisoned, then,’ said Will Longdon, glad for the fool distracting them from the business at hand.

  ‘You cannot die from a horse bite. We all know that,’ said Gaillard derisively.

  ‘The fucking horse! Gaillard. The horse!’ Will Longdon said in exasperation, his own nervousness simmering beneath the surface. How could the Norman still not understand an Englishman’s humour?

  The captains laughed, but it was forced, and even Gaillard nodded and grinned sheepishly. ‘I knew that, Will,’ he said giving the moment to the archer, and allowing it as a truce between them.

  Blackstone was already fighting von Lienhard in his mind. The first strokes were vital. Caprini had told him of the German’s efficiency, those calculated and well-rehearsed guards, each held for a blink of an eye, high guard, low, cut, strike and the turn on the balls of his feet as if he wore little more than a linen shirt rather than armour. His gaze followed the men stacking bundles of wood at each end of the yard that would be lit as bonfires so that the combatants might have more than torchlight held by men in the arena. A trestle table had been paced in the middle of the yard and a priest laid out a crucifix for the oath-taking. The judicium Dei – the judgement of God – would soon be decided.

  Blackstone kissed the pagan goddess at his throat and stood up. The leg felt good; it hurt but the binding was tight. John Jacob elbowed Bertrand out the way and began to dress Blackstone.

  ‘Gilbert, did you speak to Henry?’

  ‘I did. He will be with his sister. He’s a good lad. He’ll not let you down.’

  ‘I have no doubt of that. See to it that he finds a good knight to serve if this does not go well.’

  ‘It will go as well as you expect, Thomas. You’ve fought better men than him, for Christ’s sake. He fights like a girl with a wooden stick!’

  The men laughed and Meulon stepped forward with Wolf Sword. ‘I have honed it, Sir Thomas; its edge will split a hair.’

  ‘Let’s hope it will do the same for the head beneath it,’ said Blackstone as Jacob strapped the armour to him. Meulon’s beard opened and exposed his grin.

  ‘I won’t let him kill you, Sir Thomas. I’ll hang for it, but your King and your men need you.’

  There was a murmur of agreement from the gathered men.

  ‘No. You will be hunted down wherever you go. I’ve told Sir Gilbert and John what’s to be
done if I go down.’

  Killbere spat in the dirt. ‘Thomas, we’ll not interfere in this. You will stand your ground, Meulon. Sir Thomas must face his own demons, like every man here. But if he kills you, we’ll kill him. Pure and simple. We’ll pincushion the bastard with a dozen bodkins. It won’t help you, being dead, but you can look down and see his tormented soul wrestling with the devil.’ He took a breath and embraced Blackstone. ‘I took a boy to war once, and then I rode with a man. You can beat him, Thomas,’ he said emphatically. ‘You and that damned pagan goddess will see him despatched to hell – helped on his way by Fra Caprini’s prayers. Eh?’

  The day’s light had eased from the clear sky and men rammed burning torches into the stacked wood. The great red glow lit up the yard. In what remained of the city a church bell rang out for compline. The end of the day.

  The Captal de Buch and the Count of Foix sat foremost on the benches that had been set up on the edge of the contest area. Bascot de Mauléon sat behind them with the other surviving knights and their squires. Jean de Hangest stood to one side. He had duties to perform before the contest began. An almost ghostly whisper went among the women who gathered at the colonnaded gallery as Christiana was brought out and helped to stand on a stool with her back braced against a pillar. Blackstone watched as her hands were bound and a sergeant-at-arms eased the noose around her neck, then looked down towards the Captal and nodded. When Blackstone was killed or forced to admit defeat through his wounds, she would be pushed over the edge.

  ‘Right, lads, let’s take position,’ said Killbere. The old fighter would have the men placed around the yard. If they were forced to kill von Lienhard then they would need to be in control of the castle.

  Killbere eased Will Longdon to one side and whispered in his ear. The archer looked up towards Christiana, his face ashen, but Killbere’s stern look made him nod his understanding.