Gate of the Dead

by David Gilman

  He led the way, followed by the creaking wagon, flanked on either side by his own men. For the tenth time that hour he twisted in the saddle. A mile behind was the unmistakable phalanx of Thomas Blackstone and his men. They followed the tracks he had made, their presence as constant as the heat. And like the heat their presence lulled him into a false sense of security.

  The riders appeared half a mile ahead, two of his scouts spurring their horses at the gallop over the gentle rising ground. He shielded his eyes from the sky’s glare and then desperately looked around for any place that might offer better protection. If they galloped they did so to raise the alarm. A nearby hillock offered a modest vantage point, but the heavy-timbered wagon would not make it even if they whipped the horses to death. His thoughts took too long. He heard the thud of hooves behind him as Blackstone spurred on his men to catch up. The Englishman had seen the two specks on the horizon before de Hangest. The scouts and Blackstone arrived almost together.

  The panicked scouts twisted to point behind them. ‘Less than a mile, my lord. Pennons. A large group of men.’

  Before de Hangest could question them further a line of horsemen appeared in the distance. Tapered pennons flared on their lances, from the speed of their travel.

  ‘Form up!’ shouted Blackstone to his men as he pulled up next to de Hangest. ‘My lord, have your men fall back behind us and protect your charges. There’s nowhere to run. We defend ourselves here.’

  Killbere and John Jacob had already galloped to the flanks as Meulon and Gaillard dismounted their men in an extended line. Behind them Will Longdon’s archers took up position and rammed their meagre supply of arrows into the dirt at their feet. Bows were uncovered, cords nocked and shafts laid across their knuckles ready to bend and loose. The men’s horses were held at the rear. De Hangest hesitated. Blackstone’s men had moved with an enviable and practised efficiency, but those men approaching might be leading elements of the Dauphin’s army from Burgundy. Or Charles of Navarre.

  ‘My lord,’ Blackstone said with steel in his voice. ‘There’s little time.’

  ‘Is it the Captal? Has he turned back towards us?’

  ‘Who knows?’

  De Hangest quickly responded and brought his men and the wagon behind Blackstone’s defence.

  Blackstone called out to his men. ‘French?’

  The heat haze and the sweat in their eyes made it difficult to determine. The undulating ground allowed the pennons to stay in sight, but their slim tails offered little more than ribbons of colour.

  ‘Can’t make them out, Sir Thomas,’ shouted Will Longdon and then deferred to Halfpenny’s keen eyesight. ‘Jack?’

  ‘No blazon clear yet. Shields are down though. On their saddles.’

  ‘He’s right!’ cried Meulon.

  The approaching horsemen had extended their line across the gentle rising ground and slowed their pace.

  ‘They’ve seen us right enough,’ cried John Jacob. ‘Spotted our archers.’

  Blackstone rode ahead a dozen yards and stood as high as he could in his stirrups to gaze at the men slowly approaching. He caught a glimpse of a shield as a horse turned on the contour. A cluster of blue etched diamonds against a white shield, a red cross of St George in its upper left hand corner.

  ‘They’re English!’

  ‘Is Navarre with them? Do you see his arms?’ shouted de Hangest.

  ‘No.’

  The wary horsemen held back just beyond the killing range of the archers. De Hangest urged his horse forward.

  ‘They mean to take us,’ he said, pulling up alongside Blackstone.

  Blackstone watched the patient men. No sword had been drawn, no lance lowered. They had not attempted to outflank them. ‘Eighty men or so, my lord. Their visors are raised, and they wait for us,’ he said. ‘They don’t know how many arrows my archers have. They daren’t risk coming any closer. They want to talk.’

  De Hangest looked behind him. Their defence was strong enough now that Blackstone’s men had deployed, but a concerted attack could punish them, and the royal family were easy targets. ‘Then let’s avert bloodshed if we can,’ said the older man, and spurred his horse towards the knights as Blackstone followed him a heartbeat later.

  ‘Halfway,’ he said to de Hangest. ‘Let them come to us.’

  They pulled up in the middle distance and four of the knights urged their horses towards them. They would parley. As they came closer Blackstone recognized one of the knights. It was the antagonistic Gilbert Chastelleyn who had given him his orders at Windsor. He pulled up, glancing at Blackstone. His unsmiling face gave no sign of surprise at seeing him. Ignoring Blackstone he dipped his head to the Frenchman.

  ‘My lord. I am Gilbert Chastelleyn. I serve Edward, King of England.’

  ‘I am Jean de Hangest who serves Jean de Valois, King of France and his son Charles, Dauphin, Regent of France.’

  The King’s knights acknowledged the other.

  ‘My Lord Cusington is not with you?’ asked Blackstone. Both men were known to often carry the King’s orders together. A fighting knight with a practised negotiator made a formidable pairing.

  Chastelleyn considered for a moment. ‘It does no harm for you to know that he is in Paris.’

  Blackstone realized that if the King of England’s negotiator was in Paris then he was using the usurper Navarre after all.

  ‘Is Paris held by the English and their allies?’ asked de Hangest anxiously. If the enemy had taken the capital then the French King might well have lost the crown.

  Gilbert Chastelleyn hesitated. ‘Events move on apace, my lord. But... no. We negotiate with Navarre who in turn makes promises to the Provost of Merchants who, now that the uprising is crushed, holds out for the Dauphin. The city is divided.’

  De Hangest grunted. ‘Navarre has English routiers with him. Which means there’s no English army on these shores. There’s no deal to be had between a turd like Navarre, with a bunch of cut-throats at his back, and the Provost. No one will open the city gates to your King.’ He was canny enough to understand that Chastelleyn was alone. That no invasion force was at his back. ‘What do you want?’

  ‘The child,’ said Chastelleyn.

  De Hangest sat back in the saddle as if he had been slapped.

  ‘King John’s daughter, Isabelle,’ Chastelleyn added.

  De Hangest glared at Blackstone. ‘You lied to me,’ he said coldly. ‘On your honour you said you had no desire to seize the girl.’

  Chastelleyn answered. ‘Sir Thomas knows nothing of this. He was sent to find the royal family, my lord. We did not know where they were held. He was ordered to take them to safety. I was sent to follow him.’

  ‘And they are still being taken to safety,’ said Blackstone. ‘Only then is my work done.’

  ‘Your work is finished now,’ said Chastelleyn with barely a glance towards him. ‘My King and yours desire the child,’ he said, directing his comments to de Hangest.

  ‘No!’ said de Hangest, grabbing a tighter hold on his reins. The horse’s head lifted, the bit cruelly yanking its mouth.

  ‘You’ll obey your own sovereign!’ said Chastelleyn, tugging a letter from his gauntlet. Sweat-stained and damp, it still bore the French monarch’s seal, which he thrust at de Hangest. ‘Or I’ll take her! Sir Thomas and his ruffians will never raise a hand against their own King’s men.’

  De Hangest fumbled to tear open the parchment, eager to read what was written.

  ‘We have no interest in the Dauphin’s family,’ Chastelleyn went on. ‘Only King John’s daughter. You can take the others to wherever you choose. And for what it’s worth the Dauphin is marching along the Marne valley with twelve thousand men. So time is snapping at my heels like a bloody dog in a bear pit.’

  Chastelleyn glanced at Blackstone, was about to say something, and then did not. De Hangest needed to be convinced. ‘For Christ’s sake! A deal is in the making with the child. If we do not seize France then your King will sell hi
s child to raise the money for his ransom.’

  De Hangest read as much as he needed. There was a gentle sag to his shoulders as he folded the parchment and pushed it into his riding glove. He glanced at Blackstone. ‘I told you that politics was beyond a soldier’s understanding.’ He faced Chastelleyn. ‘The child cannot ride in this weather. She needs shelter.’

  ‘We will accompany you another five miles to an abbey where there is a wagon waiting, prepared for her and her governess.’

  ‘We’ll still ride with you,’ Blackstone said.

  De Hangest nodded and turned his horse and Blackstone tugged his reins to follow.

  ‘Sir Thomas,’ said Chastelleyn. ‘Wait.’

  Blackstone faced him.

  ‘I am no friend of yours. And I admitted to the King and the Prince that I was one of those close to him who tried to stop you coming from Italy. Queen Isabella was thought to be a threat. And word came ahead of you that you were sent as an assassin to kill the Prince.’

  ‘I would never harm him.’

  ‘He knows that. And he will be pleased that you are unharmed. Knowing what we know now.’

  Blackstone frowned. ‘My lord?’

  ‘Did you find the man?’

  ‘You have me at a disadvantage,’ said Blackstone, a rising uncertainty twisting in his mind.

  ‘Word reached us from Florence. There was an assassin, but you were to be his victim.’

  Blackstone shook his head. It was too confusing to grasp. ‘Then how would I know of him or uncover him if he hasn’t struck at me?’

  ‘He was with you from the start. Before you reached England. He’s a man of God.’

  51

  It took less than an hour for the assassin to prepare himself. He walked quickly, knife in hand, towards Christiana’s quarters. Inflict great pain and suffering on Thomas Blackstone. Make him scream in agony, and let what he sees rip out his heart. He will die a slow death. The words of Bernabò Visconti sang in his mind, as did the image of the Viper of Milan slavering with delight, teeth bared as he tasted the terror that would be inflicted.

  The Tau knight eased into the room, knife in hand, held low, ready to strike quickly. He had heard a sound that made him cautious. The door was open, allowing a finger-width of light. A movement dashed across the gap. Mercury-quick. Shadows. Breathing that was unnatural.

  He eased open the door with his free hand, as slowly as he could, praying the hinges would not betray him. He pushed his leg forward, letting the side of his foot roll onto the stone floor, a poacher’s stealth, no noise of footfall, no warning for his prey.

  There was another door that led to the next room. Another entrance. Damn. He had not realized there was another entrance.

  *

  Killbere held formation, keeping the men together as Perinne grabbed Henry’s reins on Blackstone’s command to stop him pursuing his father. The bastard horse near burst its heart galloping back to Meaux, surging through the twisting lanes and across the bridge. Once inside the stronghold Blackstone raced up the stairs, alarming his rearguard.

  ‘Where is he?’ Blackstone yelled. ‘The Italian knight! Where is he?’

  Confusion made them mute, and if they had an answer it would have been too late because Blackstone was already running down the length of the gallery, Wolf Sword in hand.

  ‘Find him!’ he shouted.

  Christiana’s door was closed but unlocked. He swallowed his fear and slowed his hand, then gently pushed aside the heavy wooden door and stepped inside a butcher’s yard.

  A ragged doll lay on the floor; it looked torn, its fair hair matted with blood, its blue eyes wide with fear, opaque in death. Blackstone’s throat strangled. As he faltered a fragment of his brain warned him that the killer might still be in the room, but his strength ebbed as his daughter’s blood trail took his eye to Christiana. She lay sprawled in the dark pool spread beneath her body from the stain that seeped from her heart. Her tender lips were parted as if taking a final breath.

  Blackstone fell to his knees. He tried to find words, to call their names, but nothing came as bewilderment rendered him incapable. He reached out to touch Christiana, macabre, disfigured, the sticky pattern of blood streaked down her dress, her one shoe off, her bare foot lolling to one side, the palm of her hand open like a street beggar. Gazing at him. Asking why.

  He leant in blood, flies buzzing, the warm summer light illuminating the room. The horror tried to make him scream, but there was nothing. No feeling that he could understand. The death was within him, its hollowness burying him. He vomited, bent double, guts retching until he could catch his breath and wipe the tears from his eyes. Not even Arianrhod could save him from the dark angels who crucified his heart and soul.

  A sound scratched into his mind and he looked towards the other door that led into the room. Using the wall to support him, his hand left a trail of blood across its rough stone until he saw Caprini lying on his back, a knife rammed up to its hilt between shoulder and neck. Blood gurgled from his lips; eyes wide, arms unmoving. Bile gorged Blackstone’s throat. Christiana had fought back. She had rammed his knife into him, but it had not been enough.

  Blackstone snarled as he knelt and grabbed the Tau knight’s jupon, feeling the blood-lust return. His free hand gripped Caprini’s throat, ready to break the bones in his neck.

  Caprini’s lips were moving, his eyes beseeching Blackstone. Whatever angel guarded the Italian, it stopped Blackstone from killing him. He pulled Caprini to him, lowering his face so he could hear the words, wanting him to suffer knowing he was unshriven and would be in Satan’s claws forever.

  It was barely a whisper. ‘Sweet merciful Christ... do not... abandon me. The pain... I could not know... such pain as this... I pray it pays my debt... for the sins I have committed...’

  The two men’s eyes locked onto each other. The last thing Caprini would see would be the hatred in Blackstone’s face. The moment before Blackstone reached out his hand to crush the life from him, he mouthed something that Blackstone could not hear. Caprini shuddered with effort, blood spluttering from his mouth as his lungs filled.

  ‘I... could not... save them... from him,’ he rasped, clutching a bloodied fist to Blackstone’s jupon, urgently trying to make him understand.

  Blackstone’s grip eased, his breath held tight in his chest. Caprini nodded, his grimace a smile as his last breath escaped from him. The Englishman understood who had murdered his family.

  *

  Blackstone’s trembling hands gathered the reins. Those on the gates told him that Brother Bertrand had ridden out with some urgency to find him, and because he was Blackstone’s servant they had sent him towards Compiègne. Like an army’s drumbeats heralding slaughter the bastard horse’s canter beat out its rhythm, but was unable to break the unforgiving numbness that held him in its grasp. The trap had been carefully laid and he had stepped into its spiked pit. The monk had played his hand well, an assassin who had waited until the greatest pain could be inflicted on his victim.

  His men had followed his orders and shadowed Chastelleyn as he took the French King’s child back to England. The dark-haired girl was the same age as Agnes, and a part of him wished she had died instead of his daughter. Wished that he had slain John the Good at Poitiers; had forsaken the promise made to Jean de Harcourt to revenge him; had never answered the summons from a Queen and had not slain a German knight’s brother at Crécy. The memories of regret tumbled through him as a growling thunder warned of an impending storm. The curse had finally caught up with Blackstone. When he hanged the dwarf in Italy he had taken it upon himself. And now God’s displeasure had been visited on him.

  *

  ‘And now, Thomas?’ asked Killbere as Blackstone rode to the head of his men. ‘What’s this with Bertrand? Chastelleyn’s scouts found him on the road south and brought him in. He’s covered in blood and he’s asked for sanctuary with the King’s men.’

  Blackstone watched as a hundred paces away Chastelleyn’s men
-at-arms formed a barrier between them.

  ‘Father?’ said Henry, who rode behind Jacob. ‘What has happened?’

  Blackstone saw the look of anguish on the boy’s face. ‘Perinne, take Henry to the rear.’

  The stocky Frenchman nudged his horse towards Henry Blackstone.

  ‘Father? Are we to fight?’ the boy asked, suspecting that his role would be only to stay with the horses.

  ‘Do as I say, Henry,’ Blackstone told him. The cold, unemotional command had the desired effect. The boy had never heard such a frightening tone in his father’s voice. He obediently rode with Perinne and once out of earshot Blackstone faced Killbere. He spoke coldly. ‘Bertrand’s the assassin. He killed Christiana and Agnes, and Fra Caprini who tried to save them.’

  Killbere and John Jacob looked as though the most impossible act in God’s creation had been committed. They were speechless for as long as it took the words to lodge inside them. Blackstone might as well have rammed a barbed broadhead into their ribs.

  ‘Sweet merciful Christ, Thomas,’ said John Jacob, the shock of it slumping his shoulders, the back of his hand pressed to his mouth.

  ‘There is no mercy left in this world, John,’ said Blackstone.

  Killbere could not suppress his bitterness. ‘Fuck Chastelleyn, Thomas. We’ll take him and we’ll flay the bastard. I want to hear him scream.’

  Blackstone nodded. ‘Wait here,’ he said and urged his horse forward to where Chastelleyn sat behind the line of his men. He was expecting trouble. Bertrand sat on his horse a few paces behind the King’s knight as Chastelleyn raised his arm.