by David Gilman
Meulon followed the grinning monk. Cooked liver, kidney and heart were a welcome treat and if the big man was as skilled with a knife as their own cook then there might even be enough to go around. At the very least the deer’s bones would be put into the soup.
Killbere followed Blackstone to the water trough where he washed his face and hands. ‘Two men left at midnight,’ said Killbere quietly.
‘We have them,’ said Blackstone, shaking the water from his hair. ‘Tied and gagged. They can’t raise the alarm.’
‘No doubt they were willing to tell you what you needed to know.’
‘Once Meulon raised his knife to their throat. It frightened them enough for them to piss themselves and tell me everything.’
‘And?
‘Prior Albert had instructed them to go to Felice and tell them that English brigands had sought shelter here and that we would soon be travelling north. It would have given them time to ambush us.’
‘The bastard prior is in their pay.’
‘No doubt.’
‘It fits,’ said Killbere. ‘I had the monastery chronicle looked at. There’s enough largesse from this Countess Catherine de Val. And before her, a year or more back, her husband. His death was recorded. Killed at the hands of skinners like he said, but butchered. He had a bad death.’
‘Is there a good one to be had? Anything else?’
‘Nothing of use to us. I sent the boy. He did well.’
‘Well, now we must act normally. Another few days here will suit us. Bring the men together.’
* * *
While the monks were engaged in their duties Blackstone gathered his captains and Tait, with the sergeants and ventenars, and told them what had happened during the night. ‘I’m going to send two men to take the monks’ place. Once they deliver the message that we are riding north it will draw out troops from behind the town’s walls. By the time they move to ambush us we will already be on the road and lying in wait for them. Tait, I want you to go into the Felice with one of Beyard’s Gascons.’ Two or three of the men gestured they would be willing to go with Tait. Blackstone pointed to one of the men, Othon. ‘You go with him, you’re about the right size for one of the monks’ habit.’
‘Sir Thomas,’ said Alain, ‘Master Tait might raise too much suspicion. They will recognize his accent. I should go.’
The men looked at the youth as if he had declared himself the next Pope. One of Tait’s men called out, ‘You think they would believe you to be a novice? You’re a lord’s son. You need to be a rough-tongued commoner like Tait here.’ The men jeered their agreement and Tait grinned.
‘Aye, boy, you’d need a few years of tavern life before you were ready to escape and come to a place like this.’
Killbere grabbed Alain’s hands and turned them palm upwards. ‘You’ve barely enough calluses to show you abuse yourself, let alone work the land.’
The men laughed as Alain blushed. He snatched free from Killbere’s grip. ‘I could say I worked in the Scriptorium,’ he blustered.
‘Not if you were a lay brother. You would have to be ordained and you would be tonsured,’ said Perinne.
Alain stood his ground and faced the grinning men. ‘My accent would not be questioned. If the wrong man is sent into Felice then it will be you lying dead in the mountains. You can shave my head if that will convince everyone.’
Blackstone placed a hand on the boy’s shoulder. ‘We do not doubt your courage. But you’re too young to be ordained.’ Blackstone hesitated for a moment. ‘But you make a good point about Tait’s accent.’
Killbere tugged at Blackstone’s arm, pulling him a few paces out of earshot. ‘Thomas, do not consider sending the boy into the town. It gives him the perfect chance to betray us. He’s French. You humiliated him. And even if he does not then if Cade is there he might recognize the boy from when we were in Sainte-Bernice.’
‘He barely caught sight of him. When we stepped into the courtyard there the lad was behind us. Cade and ap Madoc were looking at us.’
‘You cannot risk the men’s lives,’ insisted Killbere.
‘They are already at risk,’ said Blackstone.
Killbere sighed. ‘Thomas, Perinne was barely with us when Cade rode with the men. You had sent him off to follow the brigands’ tracks. We need a man we know and can depend on.’
Blackstone thought on it for a moment and then beckoned Perinne to him. ‘Perinne, I want you to go into Felice. Cade won’t recognize you. Not wearing a habit and a cowl.’
‘Of course,’ said the stocky fighter.
‘You’ll need to shave your beard,’ said Killbere.
The fighter grinned. ‘Aye, well, that will give some relief from the lice.’
Blackstone still looked troubled about his decision.
‘Cade rode with Meulon’s men. He won’t look twice at me. Who goes with me?’
‘I’ll send the boy.’
‘Thomas,’ Killbere sighed.
‘His accent will help.’
Killbere knew there was no point in arguing. ‘All right. Perinne, when you get to this Countess Catherine at Felice and you’re questioned tell them you have been a lay brother here for only a few months, that way if there has been any contact between the monastery and the town recently they won’t expect to recognize you.’
Blackstone turned back to face the expectant young Frenchman. ‘Alain, you will be a new lay brother who has sought sanctuary here because the English killed your family.’
‘Thank you, Sir Thomas.’
Blackstone turned to Tait. ‘Did Chandos strike anywhere south of where we fought the Bretons?’
‘We met resistance at Les Choux some months back but it was little more than a skirmish,’ said Tait. ‘The town surrendered quickly.’
‘Do you know it?’ he asked Alain.
‘No.’
‘Tait? Who were the burghers?’
The hobelar shook his head. ‘I don’t know, Sir Thomas. I was in the field searching out any ambush.’
‘I went into the town with one of Sir John’s captains,’ volunteered one of Tait’s men. ‘All I know is the mayor’s name was Riveaux. He was killed.’
‘It’s enough that English troops killed Frenchmen for you to have fled,’ Blackstone told Alain, ‘but if your father was the mayor then that adds strength to your story. You will have to maintain the lie if you are questioned, but there’s no reason for them to do that if they believe the prior has sent you.’
The young man smiled, flush with enthusiasm. ‘I will not fail you, Sir Thomas.’
Killbere grunted. ‘Fail us and you will also die. Remember that.’
‘I will, Sir Gilbert,’ he answered, the brief moment of joy at being chosen evaporating.
‘All right. Alain and Perinne will leave on foot today. I’ll tell Prior Albert that I am posting sentries on the ridge. Meulon, Will, Renfred: choose two men per post, that way when we send men out the lad and Perinne can slip away. Will, you take them up to the ruins, see them dressed and make sure those monks stay securely tied.’ Then he addressed his long-serving friend: ‘Perinne, you and the boy will take the monks’ habits and their bedrolls. Go due north to Château de Felice. It’s two days on horseback, so three full days or more on foot.’ He looked at Alain. ‘It will be hard going. Perinne will not carry you. You stay the pace.’
‘I will, Sir Thomas. And Master Perinne will have no cause to be slowed by me.’
‘Good. Perinne, we will use the lad’s accent to allay any suspicions so you will let him do the talking. Act slow-witted so that the questions go to him.’
‘No difficulty there, my lord,’ said Will Longdon. ‘Perinne once went to the wrong woman’s bedchamber and climbed in next to her husband.’
Ribald laughter was quickly quietened by a gesture from Killbere. ‘Best watch your arse, boy,’ he said to Alain, softening the threat with a grin.
Blackstone kept a cautious eye on any monks who might pass but so far there had b
een no sign of any of them being suspicious of the gathered men. ‘By the third day we will find an ambush site on the route. This Countess or William Cade will know how long the journey is from here so they will send out their men to entrap us in good time. And we’ll be waiting.’
CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN
Perinne set a steady pace and for the first day Alain struggled to keep up. His feet were soon blistered and that night after Perinne laid a fire the seasoned soldier examined the young man’s feet – despite his initial objection.
‘When you first start riding you get blisters on your arse, but at least you can keep moving. These blisters on your feet – they will soon bleed. Piss on them and let them dry and then see how far we can go tomorrow. Bleeding or not we have to get to Felice in the next couple of days.’
Alain knew he was in no position to argue with the grizzled fighter. ‘The monk’s sandals and habit chafe,’ he said.
‘Mine too, but you just ignore it.’
The young Frenchman felt out of his depth and knew that his ambition was getting the better of him. He felt the weight of insecurity press on him, remembering how, on the ridge when the Bretons attacked, his terror had overcome his desire to kill those who had inflicted such brutality on his family. Had it not been for John Jacob that day he knew he would have fallen beneath Breton swords. And when Blackstone took him through the routiers’ camp and showed him how to kill sleeping men he had thought he had become more capable but the truth, he realized, was that he was unable to match the toughness and stamina of the men he rode with. And now this truth was borne out by a day’s march across stony track. Even the monks seemed more resilient than he.
‘I’ll be all right,’ he said.
The stocky fighter glanced at him as he rolled out his sleeping blanket. ‘There’s no choice in the matter, lad. Sir Thomas has given us a job to do. And when you piss on your feet do it over there away from me. I don’t want the stench in my nostrils.’
‘I will, Master Perinne.’
‘Christ’s sake, boy, stop calling me that. We’re supposed to be monks and we can’t risk Cade remembering my name. Call me Brother Othon or you’ll get us both killed. All right, Brother Alain?’
The young man grinned and nodded, pleased the veteran was talking to him because the day’s walk had been in silence. ‘Should we not tell each other about ourselves? If we are monks serving the same prior would we not know where each came from?’
Perinne pulled his blanket over him and reached out to nudge another piece of wood into the fire. ‘Lay brothers join a monastery for different reasons. I’m supposed to be so dull-witted I’m only good for clearing shit from the animal pens so you and I would have no cause to talk in the dormitorium or when we eat. And the less we know about each other the better because then our lies will not become confused. I don’t know you and you don’t know me because we work in different places in the monastery. Understood?’
‘Yes, I understand.’
‘Then get some sleep because we leave at first light.’
Alain moved away from his companion to the furthest limit of the light cast by the fire. He looked down at his blistered feet and urinated over them, being careful not to soil the rough cloth of the chafing habit. In that moment he felt a wave of self-pity come over him. Only recently he had been the son of a respected knight to whom common men dipped their heads in greeting when he rode by. And now here he was pissing on his own feet, lower in status than even a common monk. Tears stung his eyes as sharply as did the urine his blistered feet.
In his mind’s eye he saw his mother and the man he called father. Blackstone had stopped him from seeing their mutilated remains but he remembered the fouled sheet in which they had been carried to their grave. It took little imagination to picture their savage death. He snorted the phlegm from his tears and spat. His resolve stiffened. He must never allow self-pity or fear to grip him again. He turned and nestled his meagre bedding closer to the fire. Tomorrow he would keep up with his battle-hardened companion.
* * *
The château sat on a craggy escarpment and took its name from the town that surrounded it. Some stone-built houses buttressed the outside of the walls, adding strength to the walls’ defences. Beyond these twenty or so dwellings the walls themselves remained Felice’s main fortification, enhanced by the craggy rock face that dropped down below them. Attackers would be observed approaching across the bottom of the rocks and would then face a seemingly impossible climb in the face of resistance. Château de Felice seemed impregnable.
A shadow high in the sky caught Perinne’s attention. It was a buzzard and its keening cry heralded death. And Thomas Blackstone was miles away so it had to be calling out for him and the boy. Perinne watched it soar high, imagining its eyes locked onto his. Would they both die inside those walls? Perinne glanced at the lad. Thomas Blackstone wanted him to survive but would it cost Perinne his own life? He spat. Fuck the damned bird. It could seize William Cade’s soul when the time came.
Perinne gazed across the rugged hills to where the jagged bedrock supported the château as it rose above the low-pitched house roofs. ‘Doubtful if God’s lightning could destroy a place like that,’ he muttered. ‘No matter how many Sir Thomas might kill out here he’s going to have to get the men inside those walls.’
‘How?’ asked Alain. ‘I see no way.’
‘Me neither, lad. Once we are inside we need to keep our eyes peeled so that we can see if there’s any weakness anywhere. We make a tally of how many armed men there are because when they send some of them out to ambush Sir Thomas they’ll leave enough to defend the town. Remember, we tell them there are less than twenty men at the monastery. With luck they will send twice that number to try and capture our comrades.’ He glanced at the young Frenchman. ‘All right, now you have to start thinking like a damned monk. You will lead the way to the gate and tell the guards who we are. I will be playing the role of the dullard behind you. Don’t be too damned cocky just ’cause you can find words to spout that others might not. Simple words, boy, just deliver the message. You remember all that we spoke of today?’ He pulled the leather coif tight onto his skull.
Alain de la Grave nodded. This final day’s journey had been different from the first. Perinne had questioned him about his childhood to see if he had been baptized and knew the psalms; that he could offer a blessing if need be. They had spoken about the monastery, testing him where the buildings were situated, when they ate meat, when they did not. Where the latrines were situated and the name of the old porter who had spent most of his sixty years living in the monastery. Everyone would know Brother Gregory’s name. Enough familiarity of the place if questioned, not enough to show they knew more than they should.
‘All right, Brother Alain, lead the way. Grip that staff and find purpose to your stride. We deliver important news from Prior Albert for Countess Catherine. No one else. Just her. If we are separated because you’re the one who bears the message then you will be facing her or the bastards she protects. Understood?’
‘Aye, Brother Othon. I understand.’
Perinne crossed himself and took a deep breath. ‘Then God bless us both.’
* * *
They walked along the muddy track that meandered through the scattered households of dirt-encrusted villagers who grew crops and raised livestock. Villeins stopped, heads bowed, expecting a blessing when the two monks passed. Alain muttered a few words in their direction and then they reached the bridge that led to the path up to Felice’s iron-studded gates. A deep-running river swirled below. Perinne looked left and right. The causeway bridge seemed the only way into the town. The river flowed at an angle from the low hills and did not encircle the walls. Now that they were closer he could see more clearly that the ragged dry gully cut along the base of the rock face. Above this the houses that leaned against the town walls formed another defensive barrier. A walkway had been built from great timbers and then planked so that it gave the appearance of an exten
ded balcony stretching across the front of the houses. It was to all intents and purposes a wooden street that allowed the householders to walk around the walls to the gate. The broken ground below the wooden props holding up the walkway made it difficult to clamber up, as did the sheerness of the walls. And this approach could be easily defended by the householders pouring boiling water or throwing missiles down onto any attacker. It was obvious to Perinne at that moment that no matter how many of the garrison troops or skinners Blackstone killed outside the walls, the town could not be taken. They were on a fool’s errand.
Sentries on the wall called down to the soldiers at the gate and the two monks were admitted. A broad courtyard greeted them, as did the several corpses hanging from a gibbet. The bodies were torn and disfigured. The guard at the gate saw their stunned surprise. ‘Routiers. They’re starting to stink. The crows have had their fill of them. They’ll be in the river in a few days, along with the others that were brought in.’
Perinne and Alain needed no prompting to cross themselves. The carcasses showed savage injury, and if Perinne and the Frenchman failed such would be their fate. The raptor’s prescient cry had warned them. This was a place of death. Narrow streets cut away between houses that huddled wall-to-wall. It seemed at first glance that the alleyways were inhabited by tradesmen: blacksmiths and carpenters shared the start of one street on the left of the courtyard; cooks, bakers and butchers another on the opposite side. The stench of acrid smoke from the forge was overpowered by the mouth-watering odour of baked bread. Alain’s stomach growled.
‘We have a message from Prior Albert,’ said Alain to the sergeant who stepped from the guardroom. Alain looked across to the other side of the gate into what looked like a small armoury. The soldiers who loitered in the area were relaxed, the boredom of their routine reflected in their lack of interest towards the two monks. The sergeant turned and called to one of the other men.
‘Take them to the Countess,’ he ordered.
The man so ordered pulled on a skullcap helmet and nodded for the two men to follow him. They skirted the rotting bodies on the gibbet and after a few hundred yards the dirt alley became paved. The passage was wide enough for a cart and horse and rose quickly, turning into a steep curving street that led to the château itself where it rose above the town. In some houses they heard infants crying, in others pots being clattered. As they trudged behind their escort a different breed of men appeared in doorways. Alain recognized their garb as similar to that of the routiers he had seen at his father’s house at Sainte-Bernice. They were not his parents’ killers but they were William Cade’s mercenaries. And they were dangerous.
