Gate of the Dead

by David Gilman

  As Brother Bertrand was of no use to the fighting men he was instructed to wipe the smile from his face and carry Blackstone’s helm as the Tau knight stood with him carrying the unsheathed Wolf Sword. Von Lienhard had a squire assigned to him and a servant who carried out the same duties as Caprini and Bertrand. They had not yet put on their helms and wore only their padded leather caps. Each stared unflinchingly at the other as the priest signalled them to stop before the makeshift altar.

  The sky’s deep blue mantle closed over the castle. Flames from the fires lurched higher as the priest instructed the two knights.

  ‘Your mortal souls are in danger,’ said the priest. ‘You will both swear a solemn oath damning yourself to forsake the joys of heaven should you be proved liars by the outcome of this challenge.’

  ‘I so swear,’ said Blackstone and von Lienhard.

  Both men were then signalled to kneel, ready to kiss the crucifix. Blackstone felt the wound tear; his balance wavered slightly, a slight movement that did not go unnoticed by von Lienhard. As was customary in a contest of mortal combat both men knelt opposite each other, left hand, unencumbered by its gauntlet, extended across the makeshift altar grasping the other’s bare hand. Their right hands touched the crucifix ready to swear their cause to be just and to call upon Lord God Jesus to witness his proclamation. Blackstone felt the man’s grip exerting its strength, a small act of dominance before the eyes of God, pressing the bones in his hand. He let it tighten and offered little resistance. If that was how the German wanted to impress him then so be it. Jean de Hangest, as marshal of the contest, laid his palm across their bare hands. The final oath was to be spoken so that all those in the yard and the women above heard their voices clearly. Blackstone tilted his head and looked over his opponent’s head towards Christiana. His voice rang out across the void between them.

  ‘My cause is to defend my wife’s honour and to prove that her accusations against this knight are truthful and that his foul actions and deeds are evil, and that he is unfit to live in God’s eyes.’

  Von Lienhard could barely keep the sneer from his lips, and kept his gaze directed at Blackstone, uttering his oath like a direct threat to the man he intended to kill. ‘I swear that the accusation levelled against me is false and that I have just cause to defend myself. I shall prove my innocence by this man’s death.’

  De Hangest raised his hand. ‘Let it be in God’s hands.’ He stepped back, allowing the two men to get to their feet; the priest turned, made the sign of the cross, replaced the crucifix and began a quiet incantation as the German looked past Blackstone at the two men who stood a few paces behind him. The Tau knight and the monk stared back at him, as defiant as the man they served. There had been no occasion for von Lienhard to have seen either man closer than this before. They were many who milled about the yard, but he could swear he had seen one of them before – but where? He could not place the man and his mind gnawed at the thought. He was dressed differently than he remembered, he knew that, but it was more than the man’s clothes that shielded his memory from remembering. It made no difference. It was one of those things, unimportant now. Once he had killed Blackstone he would approach the man.

  The priest turned to face them and began to relate the psalm often spoken for the night-time prayer at compline. ‘In te, Dómine, sperávi, non confúndar in ætérnum; in iustítia tua líbera me. Inclína ad me aurem tuam, accélera, ut éruas me. Esto mihi in rupem præsídii et in domum munítam, ut salvum me fácias.’

  Blackstone had heard it in his childhood from the village priest. He never understood it, but had learnt over the years that it had something to do with putting his trust in God and justice. And, he remembered, it asked God to rescue the supplicant. He looked at von Lienhard. He had a light in his eyes that was more than the reflection from the fires. It was one of confidence.

  Of victory.

  47

  Caprini eased Blackstone’s helm onto his head and tightened the double straps at the back to make it sit correctly, while Bertrand held the gauntlet for Blackstone to push his hand deep into its leather palm. He flexed his grip feeling the tightness of the metal joints that extended across the back of his fingers and hand. Wolf Sword’s blood knot slipped over onto his wrist.

  ‘He has raised studs on his gauntlet, Sir Thomas,’ said Bertrand. ‘They will tear apart your face if you lift your visor.’

  ‘Since when did you know about fighting?’ Blackstone said as he readied his crooked arm for Caprini to ease on his shield. The monk dropped his eyes at the rebuff.

  ‘A warning is all, Sir Thomas,’ said Brother Bertrand, chastened.

  ‘I have eyes of my own,’ said Blackstone, keeping them on von Lienhard as his helm was adjusted and the locking pin for its visor tested.

  Caprini fussed with the helmet, and faced Blackstone as he satisfied himself it was as good as it could be. ‘I cannot help you in this matter, Sir Thomas, and I am in danger of failing to keep you from harm,’ he said, helping to settle the shield on Blackstone’s arm. ‘He is very quick with his feet, strong in his chest and arms, and he will attack first. I saw it at Windsor. And in the instant of you raising your sword arm to strike, he will come beneath the blow and use his shoulder to throw you to the ground. It will happen suddenly. Prepare yourself because your leg will not be able to resist.’

  Blackstone took a final glance towards his men. Killbere and John Jacob had positioned themselves on each flank of the archers, who stood, bows strung, some resting their hand on their belts a fingertip away from their arrows. On the opposite side Christiana was held by her executioner, a grim look of forced courage on her face.

  Everyone sensed that von Lienhard was the more skilled of the two men.

  In a final plea Caprini put his face close to Blackstone’s, his dark eyes locking onto the Englishman. Blackstone heard not the words of an avowed hospitaller knight, but those of a man more used to slaughter than to prayer.

  ‘I vowed to protect you. Save my honour and take the knife I offered. Slip it between the joints of his armour, low, thrust up through his chest, use your weight, drop your sword at that moment and force the blade into his heart with all your strength.’ His gaunt face tightened in its urging.

  Blackstone gazed back into the man’s dark eyes. ‘I’ll kill him my own way,’ he said.

  Fra Stefano Caprini raised an eyebrow, but said nothing more. Blackstone knew he would need a sorcerer’s spell to be lucky enough to kill the German. He was a killer spurred on by the desire to revenge himself for his brother’s death on the battlefield. He wanted Wolf Sword in his own hand and his honour restored. He was the Visconti’s man and there were many defeats, also, to be avenged. No matter what cause or reason goaded von Lienhard on, Blackstone had too much to lose other than his own life. Much could go wrong in a fight and it would take only one hesitation, a single moment of uncertainty to allow a telling blow to break through the German’s defence. All he had to do was survive long enough for such a moment to present itself.

  And chivalry would die the moment the first blow was struck.

  As the priest hurriedly moved away Blackstone and von Lienhard moved onto the unpaved area of the bailey, a place where livestock would once have grazed. The ground was now bare, trodden underfoot into compacted dirt, with what little grass remained pressed hard into the surface, ready to grow when the rains came and the hundreds of men stopped trampling it. Blackstone and von Lienhard stood five paces apart, each with sword and shield, each with a knife fastened to his belt. Their iron shoes scuffed the dirt, telling them where it was uneven, where an unbalance might be forced. The huge fires cast their light across the yard; shadows raised high onto the walls, the heat from the flames adding to the night’s warmth and the sweat that already trickled down the combatants’ spines. Blackstone clenched Wolf Sword’s grip and tried to draw his opponent in, quickly looking down as if to see that the tuft of ground would trip him. Von Lienhard lunged, head and sword low, with no intent
ion to bring down a strike from a high guard, as Caprini had predicted, the expectation being that his opponent would instinctively raise his sword, allowing the German to barge his shoulder beneath the raised arm and throw Blackstone to the ground.

  Blackstone sidestepped, brought his injured leg back a pace, and slammed his shield into the harpy’s demented image. Von Lienhard had the momentum and strength, but Blackstone’s half-turn and shield defence forced the man past him, and as he went by Blackstone slammed Wolf Sword’s pommel down on the back of his helmet. He felt the blow connect, knew it would startle for a moment but would force the German to bend at the waist, half turn, slash backhanded, cover with his shield and expect his blade to connect with the Englishman’s thigh. Blackstone’s guess was correct, but he was too slow to move out of the way of the scything blade and he was lucky that it was only the flat of von Lienhard’s sword that smacked against his wound. Inside the suffocating visor Blackstone grimaced as the pain flared. It was a non-lethal strike, the pain could be borne and used to spur him on, but von Lienhard was already attacking again. Blackstone heard him grunting, forcing out his breath as he hacked and swung in a flurry of blows, his muscular build propelling strength into his sword arm. Blackstone parried his blow with his shield, deflected the blade with his own, felt the hardened steel bite as von Lienhard twisted, and somehow, more quickly than Blackstone realized, brought the sword down, almost striking his shoulder where even his armour would have been crushed and weakened. He caught the hardened steel on his shield, felt it bite, and twisted, hoping the blade stayed embedded. But von Lienhard stepped back, ripped it free, swung from the shoulder, a great arc aimed at a joint. Blackstone turned on the balls of his feet, the blade tip whispering past his neck, and, as he tried to regain his balance, von Lienhard struck again and again. The two massive blows forced Blackstone to take the strikes on his shield, once again rendering his own sword arm useless. Von Lienhard was beating down blows. The blade’s edge would not be the killing strike; these were weakening attacks to smash away resistance and destroy his opponent’s shield. Von Lienhard was seeking the opening, ready to thrust the sword’s tip in and sever arteries and muscle, bringing his opponent down so that he could be finished. Blackstone could not move quickly enough. The leg’s binding held, but the wound protested. He knew there would come a moment when he would blink the sweat from his eyes and realize that the man attacking him would kill him in a few more strikes. He was outclassed and everyone, including Blackstone, knew it. The crowd was hushed as steel clashed and the dull thud of sword meeting shield became a steady rhythm of unrelenting assault as both men grunted and swore from their effort.

  Killbere shuffled his feet, shoulders twitching as he fought a constrained battle of his own. ‘Jesus Christ, Thomas has not made one decent strike. Come on, man. You can see what he does now. You’ve tested him enough,’ he muttered.

  As if Killbere’s whispered frustration reached him Blackstone seized a moment as von Lienhard’s sword swept past his head and could not be raised quickly enough for another attack. Wolf Sword arced down in a lethal strike that would have cleaved the man from shoulder to hip had he not worn plate. Von Lienhard sucked in air, twisted from the waist, took the strike mostly on his shield, deadening the effect as half the blade caught his shoulder. The blow cut through the harpy’s outstretched wings, severing her naked breasts. Von Lienhard’s arm would have broken from the force of the blow and was saved only by the strength of his now useless shield. He tossed it aside and in the same instant threw himself at Blackstone, trying to smother him. Blackstone, still encumbered by his shield, turned on the balls of his feet, threw his shield arm around von Lienhard, pulling him close and beat Wolf Sword’s pommel against his helm. They wrestled as if in a tavern brawl, Blackstone bringing all his strength to bear.

  ‘I slew your brother!’ he hissed. ‘And I’ll send you to him!’ he goaded the German, trying to force more errors from him, but von Lienhard wrenched free, steadied himself, the ringing in his ears clearing although sweat near-blinded him. He shook his head, saw Blackstone rid himself of his shield and attack.

  ‘Now he has him!’ John Jacob cried.

  Blood pounded through Blackstone’s mind. A vendetta was being fought: two men, each fighting to revenge his brother. Blackstone heard the surge in his ears and the welcome strength from the urge to kill overtook him; this time he would not hold back as he had done with the Prince. He ignored his slow-moving leg, forced it to do things no wounded leg should be asked to do. Wolf Sword struck every blow with a power that should have brought von Lienhard to his knees. But the German’s skill, powered by hate and evil, kept him alive. He deflected a strike and swung his studded gauntlet against Blackstone’s head. His shoulder was behind the blow and Blackstone felt his teeth rattle and his tongue bleed. The sour, metallic taste filled his mouth and he spat within the confines of his visor. His breath rasped, but he feinted his next strike and as von Lienhard shifted his weight Blackstone’s bunched fist came down like a mace, striking the side of von Lienhard’s head. The spectators cried out as the German stumbled from the massive blow and Blackstone brought Wolf Sword up, ready to deliver a lethal strike.

  A gasp went up from the crowd as Blackstone lunged and his leg buckled. One of the huge fires spat a cloud of sparks into the night sky – an omen of the devil’s breath. Blackstone recovered, gripped his sword’s blade halfway down with his left hand, used it to block von Lienhard’s strike, turned it to pound him with the pommel, using Wolf Sword like a two handed-club, then jabbed its point into his armour, desperately seeking a weakness that would yield to its sharpness and allow its lethal point into flesh. The blade skidded and bounced off the fine armour. The moment had been lost. And Blackstone knew it.

  Von Lienhard counter-attacked.

  Blackstone stood his ground. He could no longer move lightly on the balls of his feet. The wound would not let him. It was only a matter of time now before the more agile knight cut his legs from beneath him and the moment he was on the ground von Lienhard would find enough gaps in Blackstone’s poorly fitting armour to pierce. Both men heaved from exertion and heat, desperate to yank back visors and suck in air, but both denied themselves the temptation. As flames and shadows competed across the yard, faces in the crowd turned expectantly towards the German, anticipating a kill. Von Lienhard would take fewer than a half-dozen strokes to finish it now that Blackstone could not move quickly. The clash of steel was dulled, his own thudding heart and rasping breath closing out whatever cries came from the spectators. Men stood, fists clenched; women raised their hands to their mouths; other faces showed the rapture of conflict, as lustful as a man who desires a naked woman. Von Lienhard struck once, twice, half turned, three times, another, then a fifth. Blackstone couldn’t field the blows quickly enough. He went down on one knee as von Lienhard’s momentum took him a few strides past him.

  Wait! Blackstone’s mind told him. Let him come! His sword lowered as if from exhaustion. His head drooped, half turned so he could glimpse von Lienhard’s attack as he moved, feet shuffling, gaining ground, finding balance, muscles pumped.

  Von Lienhard came in for the kill. Blackstone was before him – helpless, finally succumbing to the inevitable. Through the narrow slit of his visor he glimpsed the man whose face he knew but could not place standing with Blackstone’s men, looking directly at him. As if he knew what was about to happen. His face. That face. Where had he seen it?

  And then it came to him. A half-lit passage in Milan. A meeting with Galeazzo Visconti and his mad, twisted brother, Bernabò. A door closing behind the man who had been summoned earlier. A half-glance in shadow. Those eyes. It was the knowing eyes that he recalled. That brief moment, less than a breath’s worth, caused him to hesitate.

  The man who had gained Blackstone’s trust was the Visconti’s assassin. A man of God!

  It was the hesitation Blackstone had waited for. Hurling himself at von Lienhard, he bore him to the ground; the men grapple
d, but Blackstone’s weight was on top. Swords were now redundant. Von Lienhard was jabbing with his dagger but finding no entry, while Blackstone yanked savagely at his opponent’s visor. The locking pin had jammed. He straddled von Lienhard’s chest, pinned his knife arm and rammed the heel of his hand beneath the visor. Once, twice, and then it gave, slamming upwards, revealing the spittle-covered and snarling face. Von Lienhard was strong and now he had air. He sucked it in, arched his back and nearly threw Blackstone off, but Blackstone balanced his weight, urging his mind to revel in the pain from his bent leg.

  ‘Confess!’ Blackstone cried.

  Von Lienhard twisted his head back and forth in denial, raising his legs, trying to kick Blackstone’s weight from him.

  ‘Admit your guilt!’ Blackstone yelled again.

  Von Lienhard had lost. He would be taken and hanged. But where there was breath there was hope. With a desperate surge of energy he rolled his shoulder, pushed up his arm, forcing Blackstone’s visor up, his fingers clawing inside to rake his studded gauntlet into Blackstone’s bloodied face. Blackstone pushed aside his arm and hit him. The punch unleashed from an archer’s shoulder muscles slammed into von Lienhard’s face, splintering bones. He convulsed, gurgling blood through his shattered mouth. His skull was crushed. His arms flailed and then stopped. A shudder went through him. One blow had killed him, like a beast felled with an axe.

  Blackstone pulled his gauntlets free and desperately sought to release his helmet, his fingers unable to undo the fiddly straps. He gave up, and rolled free of the German’s body. His men were running towards him, faltering and then stopping, because the fight had yet to be declared. He heard a muted cheer from the spectators, and then eased onto his good leg, almost too tired in that moment to stand. He forced himself onto his feet, faced the senior lord and addressed the Captal de Buch. ‘I have discharged my duty, my lord. I beg you to release my wife.’