Gate of the Dead

by David Gilman

  Killbere made his way to the men and spoke quickly. ‘Sir Thomas will tell Lord de Hangest that we will accompany the royal family to Compiègne. It never yielded to the Jacques and the Dauphin’s family will be safe there.’

  ‘He’s not coming for them, then?’ asked John Jacob.

  ‘If he couldn’t bother his arse when the Jacques threatened them he won’t be here now, will he?’ said Will Longdon.

  Killbere looked over his shoulder as the knights began forming into a column of pairs behind Jean de Grailly and the Count of Foix. ‘You lads listen carefully. These lords and men-at-arms are riding out and we don’t know where the Dauphin’s army is. It would have been better to have them with us, but each day brings its own troubles. We’ll escort the women and children as far as we can, but if the Frenchies get behind us we don’t have a rat’s arse chance of outrunning them. And there’s no guarantee that Lord de Hangest will even agree to Sir Thomas’s proposal, but he’s no fool and we outnumber him, so he’ll go along with it, is my guess.’

  Meulon spoke for the other captains. ‘Sir Gilbert, if we take the Dauphin’s family to safety, that would buy us mercy if we were trapped by his troops.’

  ‘Sir Thomas once swore to kill the King of France. You think his son will forget that? Our own sovereign might have pardoned him, but Sir Thomas’s life is still forfeit if the Dauphin snares him. We’re of little interest to anyone. Sacrificing us is not worth a damn.’ He looked from man to man. ‘Who among us would not be hanged if caught? Our King still wants France. Those knights will go and slaughter until they tire of it, then they’ll be at Navarre’s side fighting for Paris.’ He blew his nose and wiped his beard with the back of his hand. ‘Keep a tight rein on your men. Outriders and scouts, and a rearguard of hobelars,’ he said, looking at Meulon and Gaillard. ‘We look to ourselves, lads. This business is not yet over.’

  *

  De Grailly leaned down from his saddle, his visor raised. ‘You cannot stay here, you know that, Thomas. And my word can no longer protect you.’

  ‘I am fortunate, my lord, that you were here. Without you we would all have fallen beneath the knives and staves of the Jacques.’

  ‘It was a shared fight that’s almost done. Join us, Thomas. I will find Navarre once we’ve strung up a few more peasants.’

  Blackstone shook his head. ‘Do not venture into Paris, my lord. I told Edward the same thing. While you go to kill more Jacques, Navarre will strike a bargain with their leaders in the city. You will be trapped in those streets.’ He let the horse snuffle his hand, and smiled up at the Captal de Buch. ‘Besides, I have yet to fulfil my task, set for me by the King.’

  De Grailly nodded. This common man had a way about him that could scratch a high lord’s pride. He was courteous enough, but his shield’s device was a plain message to all, high lord or common man: Défiant à la mort. Well, thought de Grailly, impertinence and defiance were usually as necessary as a fist in a gauntlet. And that defiance, even knowing that von Lienhard had been the better swordsman, had enabled this Englishman – trusting in God, or his own strength – to defeat him. Blackstone had proved the better man.

  ‘I’ve already spoken with Lord de Hangest. He’s with the Duchess now. They know they must leave and that the danger has mostly passed, but he’s afraid of Navarre. I have lent a few knights to escort the other women and children back to their homes – or what is left of them. They must salvage what they can of their lives. He and the bodyguard will escort the Duchess and the royal family elsewhere.’

  ‘Compiègne,’ said Blackstone.

  De Grailly nodded. ‘The most obvious place, but the safest.’ He gathered the reins and settled his shield. ‘You are encumbered by a duty that binds us all, but now you carry the added burden of a family.’

  ‘No burden, my lord,’ Blackstone said and smiled. ‘I shall be back in England soon, and my family with me. Then we are all safe.’

  De Grailly cast him a look that was almost of sympathy. ‘We’re none of us ever safe, Thomas. Not while we live.’

  Blackstone released his grip on the horse’s bridle and stepped back as de Grailly spurred his horse beneath the portcullis, followed by the Count of Foix and the other knights. Within moments the ward was desolate of men. Servants and squires had galloped behind their lords; the stronghold had only a steward and a handful of people left to see to its administration. Piles of steaming horse dung lay where moments before the great war horses had stood. The yard was eerily silent.

  ‘There it is, then,’ Will Longdon muttered. ‘We’re left with the shit again.’

  49

  Within the hour Blackstone’s men were ready to venture beyond the city walls. Supplies had been foraged and stowed securely in saddle panniers. Will Longdon’s men had retrieved and cleaned what arrows they could. The goose feathers in the fletchings were damaged and it would take a skilled fletcher to repair them, so one had to be found. And Blackstone knew that sooner or later he would have to get back to Calais, unless he could barter a barrel of arrows from the English routiers who rode with Charles of Navarre.

  What Blackstone really needed was to stay out of trouble.

  De Hangest beckoned him to a door that led to the solar where the Dauphin’s wife and family waited, being readied to leave the stronghold.

  ‘You should have joined the Captal’s men and escorted the other women away from this place,’ he said. ‘I have no desire to have a mixed force of English and Normans at my back.’

  Through the gap in the door Blackstone glimpsed a child no older than Agnes, an embroidered lace cap holding her hair in place as she ran across the room to one of the ladies-in-waiting, who gently rebuked her for her excitement. The other women in the room turned at the sound of their protector’s voice and, catching sight of the tall Englishman, quickly ushered the child out of sight.

  ‘Was that the King’s child Isabelle?’ Blackstone asked.

  ‘Those under my care are no concern of yours, Sir Thomas. I have no need of you or your men.’ He pulled the door to, shielding the few women who accompanied the Duchess from Blackstone’s gaze.

  Blackstone glanced down as the survivors of the terror were helped into wagons by the remainder of de Grailly’s men. ‘The Duchess might be thought to be among those women who are being escorted. Was that the intention?’

  ‘We are not using those innocents as bait for any Jacques who might remain.’

  ‘But you are using one of the royal wagons,’ said Blackstone as the slow-moving procession of knights and women trundled through the gates.

  De Hangest watched them leave. ‘It can do little more than attract attention from those who scout for Navarre. The Jacques are finished and I need a day’s ride to take my charges to safety.’

  ‘My lord, the King of England desires nothing more than their well-being, in a place of safety. It is why I came in search of them. Isabelle is the King of France’s daughter and if she is safe then he will reach out to his people and raise the ransom demanded by my King.’

  De Hangest scowled in disdain and turned away. ‘You’re a fool, Sir Thomas! Sooner or later the Dauphin will come for his family and his sister. She is close to the bosom of this family! You think the King of England cares about a nine-year-old child? He cares about the crown! He seizes Isabelle and he holds the key to a King’s heart. There’s a war to be fought, can’t you see that?’

  Blackstone matched his stride. ‘What war? What armies? Navarre? He’s as slippery as an eel and he’ll bargain with the devil. Who knows how many troops the Dauphin has gathered from Burgundy? It’s your King who will decide the fate of France.’

  ‘It’s yours who strangles us with sons of iniquity like you and your men and a self-serving Navarre who does your sovereign’s dirty work. Navarre thinks he is grasping the French crown by going into Paris – he is doing what your King cannot do, but the strings are being pulled by Edward! Navarre and the routiers he uses are at the behest of your King! Yours! You won a da
mned battle and you seized our sovereign and we will pay. But you will not take this child!’

  Blackstone watched as de Hangest stalked away.

  ‘I will follow you!’ Blackstone called after him. ‘You have my word that I am commanded only to make certain they are in a place of safety. Nothing more!’ His voice echoed down the passage.

  De Hangest turned. For a moment Blackstone thought he had relented. His shoulders slumped; his head shook as if in defeat. ‘Sir Thomas,’ he said more gently, ‘your word is your honour and there is no dispute in that. You are a warrior, and you see how a contest might be fought and a campaign determined, but you do not grasp the politics of it all.’ He sighed. ‘You will see.’ He left Blackstone standing in the passage. The silence of the castle was broken only by the older man’s hurried footfalls.

  There would be no shame in riding back to Calais now. The Dauphin’s family and the French King’s daughter were in safe hands. The family would be in Compiègne within hours, behind walls that had not been breached, while the Dauphin tried to outmanoeuvre Navarre and regain Paris. Promises would be made and then revoked – broken by stealth or by brute force. De Hangest was correct. It was politics that would undo the fighting men. No soldier saw the great battles; he saw only those who lived and died at the end of his sword – as blinkered as the view through a helm’s visor.

  Seek out and secure their safety. The King of England’s words whispered across France and through these darkened corridors. Blackstone was barely a day’s slow ride away from fulfilling his duty.

  It was nothing.

  *

  Everything was prepared. De Hangest led his men beyond the city walls, men each side of the two royal wagons. The Dauphin’s coat of arms was hidden by draped sackcloth and, with no pennons or banners flying, the bodyguard left without fanfare, unlike de Grailly’s departure hours earlier. Blackstone waited until they could see from the stronghold’s battlements that de Hangest was a mile beyond the walls of Meaux. Killbere and Blackstone would lead with John Jacob, Meulon and Gaillard, taking their men on the flanks with Will Longdon’s archers bringing up the rear. Despite the scarcity of arrows, there were a half-dozen shafts per man and, with thirty archers, that could be enough to deter any small bands of Jacques they might stumble upon.

  Brother Bertrand ran here and there bringing forward horses, tightening cinches, checking saddlebags, wanting nothing more than to please the men who had allowed him to accompany them. Tolerance was not always forthcoming. Killbere cuffed him around the head as he attempted to take in his horse’s bridle a notch.

  ‘You keep your cunny hands away from my horse!’ Killbere said as Bertrand shied away from a well-placed kick for his troubles.

  As the men mounted, Jack Halfpenny dared raise his voice. ‘Best watch for crabs now, Sir Gilbert!’ Those around him smiled, but none wished to tread too closely on Killbere’s goodwill before they took themselves from the safety of the walls. The Jacquerie might be a spent force, but there were enough Frenchmen gathering into an army somewhere out there, and Killbere’s mood was always uncertain at best.

  ‘You’ll have the right to jest with me when I’ve felt your blood splash across my boots. You say you were at Poitiers?’

  ‘Aye, my lord. Me and Robert, both,’ said Halfpenny nervously, nodding towards Thurgood at his side.

  ‘Not with me you weren’t,’ said Killbere, gathering the reins. ‘And not at Blanchetaque, nor Crécy. Will?’ Killbere called to Longdon with uncommon friendliness. ‘We were there, were we not?’

  ‘We were, Sir Gilbert,’ Longdon answered, basking in the great knight’s benevolent tone.

  ‘You think my horse is in danger from the unholy monk and his crabs?’

  ‘I’d say they’ve already crawled beneath the saddle blanket and are nesting in your crotch.’

  Killbere laughed, as did the others who had served together over the years. Halfpenny and Thurgood smiled ruefully. It was nothing new to face the jibes of men who had fought shoulder to shoulder and lived to tell the tale.

  Killbere twisted in the saddle. ‘We’ll keep well back from the French escort. They’re nervous of us for some reason.’

  The men jeered. Killbere’s good humour served them well. After they had undertaken this final task, their world would be better because their sworn lord, Thomas Blackstone, would gain in stature, from which they too would benefit. Pride was a worthy companion when so few were chosen.

  Killbere settled himself in the saddle, content as much as a man could be who yearned for a decent war. It might still come, he comforted himself. And probably before Thomas Blackstone dragged his hands off his wife’s tits and joined them.

  *

  Blackstone embraced Christiana, indulging his senses in the warmth of her body and the scent of her hair. Hers was a sigh of contentment, his own one of ill-conceived desire.

  ‘Go,’ she said. ‘Before I stop you.’

  ‘And you could. Gilbert can do what must be done.’

  ‘And you would resent me for it later. They are your men, Thomas. Go to them.’ She sighed again. ‘I am resigned to it.’ She smiled, and kissed him. ‘Finally.’ She turned and beckoned Agnes to her. ‘Come and kiss your father goodbye.’

  Blackstone went down on his one knee, favouring the wounded leg. ‘Agnes, I have so many stories to tell you, but I have to go now. I’ll be back tomorrow.’

  He looked into the eyes of his child and saw the wonderment that had always bewitched him. Her finger traced his scar, top to bottom, her mouth parted, the tip of her tongue touching her top lip, as if concentrating on drawing a chalk line on a slate.

  ‘It’s going to rain,’ she said.

  ‘Oh? How do you know?’

  ‘Because you have been rubbing your arm. And you always did that when it was cold or when the rain was coming.’

  A child’s memory was like the flutter of a fairy’s wings, he had once told her. Had the past two years been little more than that for her?

  ‘You’re right. It’s been aching. And the weather is humid. Perhaps there will be a thunderstorm.’

  She shrugged and reached her arms around his neck. ‘You always smell of your horse, Father.’

  Blackstone smiled, and kissed the top of her head.

  Henry stood at the door. Jacob had found him a jupon, too big for his shoulders, but it was belted and bore Blackstone’s blazon on its breast. He tried to suppress his pride, but could not. ‘I should ride with you and serve Master Jacob,’ he said.

  ‘I know. But there are more years yet before you become a squire and we’ll let you fight. Be patient. Do as your mother asks.’ He glanced at Christiana. ‘And there’s something I will tell you when I return that’s important for us all.’

  Christiana smiled gratefully.

  ‘Yes, Father,’ Henry said obediently, not daring to ask what news it might be. He was trying hard to learn the patience demanded of him.

  ‘Let him ride with you, Thomas. He’s earned the right,’ said Christiana. She nodded at Blackstone. The time to tell him would present itself; until then her son should be with his father.

  ‘All right,’ said Blackstone, seeing the boy’s face light up. A mirror of himself long before. ‘Get down to Sir Gilbert.’

  Henry stepped quickly from the room without thinking of bidding farewell to his mother.

  Blackstone was about to call after him in reprimand.

  ‘It doesn’t matter, Thomas. Let him be,’ said Christiana. ‘All’s well now.’

  Blackstone lingered a moment, wishing he could deny his duty. ‘Until tomorrow,’ he said. ‘Bertrand will serve you; make sure he brings hot food from the kitchen and fresh water to wash. There are men on the walls and the gates and I have asked Fra Stefano to stay close to you all. Trust him; he has God on his side and protects pilgrims. And he seems to think I’m one.’ He smiled. There was nothing more to be said. He stepped into the passage and half turned. Christiana’s arms were draped across Agnes as she hel
d the child to her skirts. He checked himself and felt a sense of puzzlement. He had never looked back before.

  *

  Blackstone walked down the gallery and saw the men below waiting for him. The silky layer of light cloud kept the sun from throwing shadows, but the sight of Caprini waiting at the end of the passage by the head of the stairs looked nothing more than the darkness that lurked behind a pillar. His black cloak swallowed his features, but his unflinching eyes caught the light from the stairwell as they watched him approach. His stern expression always reminded Blackstone of his childhood and the village priest who glowered at them as they struggled to learn under his tutelage, and was always ready with a hazel switch to sting them into concentration.

  ‘I promised to accompany you until the end of your journey,’ said Caprini.

  ‘And I have felt your presence at every step of the way. Your duty is almost done now, as is mine. And then we can go our separate ways. I need my men with me, but someone of rank – someone I trust – must be here.’

  The Tau knight was silent for a moment, then he nodded. ‘I will pray for you,’ he said.

  Blackstone chased down the steps as Caprini moved to the gallery’s balustrade and gazed down on the band of men who had shared his journey since Lucca. Killbere shouted something at Blackstone and the other men laughed. Blackstone raised a hand as if apologizing for their jest. What was said Caprini did not understand. The English used words that had double meanings. Better, he thought, to be a plain-speaking man; then each knew where he stood with the other. There could be no room for misunderstanding. A man prayed directly to God, and killed out of necessity without pity.

  As the iron-shod hooves clattered out of the yard the Tau knight turned towards the room where Blackstone’s wife and daughter waited.

  50

  De Hangest sweated in his mail, his filthy surcoat crumpled and stained like the other men’s from the fighting and the fires at Meaux. There had been no time for the luxury of bathing; his was a responsibility he wished he could shed. Once in Compiègne he would relax – if they ever got there at this pace. He pulled back the mail coif from his head, willing what little breeze there was to strengthen. He hated this damned weather. It made women inconsolable and men bad-tempered, and the agonizingly slow pace of their journey added to his own stretched patience. The royal wagon was as slow as a man walking and he wanted to get beyond the open plain. He had denied them the route through the forests; it would have been cooler, but fraught with danger. The Duchess had complained, as she often did, but her husband had – praise God! – commanded her to obey all de Hangest’s instructions.