by David Gilman
‘Who are you?’ a voice whispered, wary that there might be more than one man.
Blackstone felt a shock of recognition. ‘I am your patron and sworn lord,’ he answered.
Guillaume closed the screen after them and they stepped into the firelight that set the shadows dancing across the cave wall. Huddled in the corner, Christiana and the children looked gaunt and dirt-streaked, their matted hair and mud-caked clothes testament to days spent living rough on the road. Christiana held Agnes beneath her cloak, concealing her child from the intruder. She had a knife in her hand, as did Henry, who stood in front of his mother ready to protect her as Guillaume had asked him. Disbelief, then joy swept over them as Blackstone held them to him. Henry had stayed back a pace, allowing his mother and sister the affectionate embrace. Blackstone kissed his daughter’s tears away and wiped the grime from her cheek. He turned to his son, who waited expectantly.
‘I’ve seen that knife before,’ Blackstone said. ‘It’s not the first time it’s been pointed at me.’
‘I’m sorry, Father. I didn’t know it was you,’ Henry said, uncertain if the words were meant as a rebuke.
Blackstone felt a desperate need to reach out and hug the boy to him, but by the way his son stood, eyes raised to meet his father’s, Thomas could see that he was no longer a child. Instead he reached out and gripped the boy’s shoulder.
‘You have served your mother and sister well. I’m very proud of you, Henry,’ he said gently. And he could see that earning his father’s praise meant more than any gift he could have bestowed on the boy.
There was little food, but enough to stave off hunger. The cave stretched back forty feet or more into darkness, where the horses were herded into a makeshift corral of broken branches. Blackstone’s trust in Guillaume had been more than rewarded. He had brought them this far without injury, ensuring they had shelter, food and warmth. The squire’s own comforts had been denied and he was gaunt from fatigue and the strain of responsibility. The man’s intelligence had pre-empted the attack on their home, and his insistence on their escaping had saved Blackstone’s family. The walls of the limestone cave held the heat from the fire, and Blackstone instructed Guillaume to let it die down. Once there were only embers and the warmth of the rocks around the ash they would have no need to stand guard. Guillaume was reluctant, but Blackstone had seen the approach and without the threat of firelight no one would dare stumble their way through broken ground without an objective in sight. Guillaume nodded gratefully and accepted his master’s command. He moved to a place opposite the entrance and sat back against the wall, sword at his side, finally yielding to his exhaustion. Blackstone found what comfort he could and held Christiana to him, covered with her cloak, while Agnes snuggled beneath his sword arm. The warmth of the horses’ bodies and the relief that they were all unharmed allowed them to sleep.
The following day they travelled along goat tracks, buffeted by a changeable wind that brought cold, stinging rain. Blackstone led the way and Guillaume brought up the rear, with Henry, Christiana and Agnes between them. They had seen no sign of horsemen and, as they descended into the forest, the monastery’s slate-roofed stone bell tower came into view, perched on its escarpment. It looked to have been reinforced by boulders and river stones, and might in some past time have offered defenders a final refuge.
Christiana rode up alongside him. ‘Thomas,’ she said, easing aside her cloak to show Agnes cradled in the crook of her arm. Blackstone looked at his daughter’s flushed face. She was sleeping, but her damp curls were plastered to her head by fever rather than rain. He reached out and laid his hand on her face. He nodded. ‘The monks have medicine. We’ll be there by dark.’
He guided them to the approach road to the monastery, and then held them in the shelter of some rocks.
‘We must ride in,’ Christiana insisted
Blackstone calmed her. ‘I have to make sure it’s safe.’
Christiana’s anguish was obvious, but she held back the rebuke that rose to her lips. Blackstone moved forward, careful to keep himself away from the skyline. From his vantage point he could see the layout of the monastery and grounds of the Abbaye de Saint-Antoine-de-la-Rivière. Black-robed monks went about their duties. Each area served its purpose for their daily life, enabling them to live independent of the outside world. Stables, wood yard, vegetable plots – each walled enclosure had three or four monks working in it. On one side of the path that led to the arched entrance and then to the church and cloisters, goats, sheep and cows were penned. Half a dozen two-storey buildings ran along one side of the church, and the granary, bakery and workshops on the other. Thirty or more monks and an abbot would be living in the monastery, sustained by their own labour and prayer.
Guillaume moved next to him.
‘There’s a warren of passageways inside. They’d hinder anyone trying to make an escape. I don’t want to get caught like a rat in a trap,’ Blackstone told him.
‘The abbot is obliged to offer sanctuary and shelter. What could harm us?’Blackstone pointed to where a monk led two donkeys into the stalls. ‘Monks have no need for those,’ he said, meaning the seven strong-looking horses tethered in the open-fronted stalls. ‘We wait until dark and see if there are soldiers down there.’
‘They might belong to travellers or pilgrims,’ Guillaume said, and then paused uncertainly. ‘Agnes is worse. I can hear it in her lungs. She needs shelter and food, Sir Thomas. And their medicine.’
Blackstone watched as the monks moved from the walled gardens, the wood yard and the stables, gathering at the fountain house to wash their feet and hands after their labours. Guillaume pointed. Half a dozen men moved out from the dormitorium above the horse stalls. It was where common men were given a place of shelter and a straw mattress.
‘Hobelars,’ said Guillaume. ‘And there can’t be more than six of them. There are no other horses.’
‘Where’s the seventh man? He’s not with them.’
‘Did you wound any of the men you fought? Others might have brought him here.’
‘I killed them all,’ said Blackstone, watching the men move towards the chapel to join the monks. ‘And brigands would have these monks at sword point. No, they’re soldiers.’
‘English or French?’ Guillaume asked.
Blackstone could hear his daughter’s shallow, rasping breath.
‘Let’s find out,’ he said.
The priest, seated by the fire in the monastery’s library, gazed into the curling flames. He had seen paintings of men being cast down into hell and there was no doubt in his mind that when the dark shadow of death suffocated mankind most would feel Lucifer’s embrace. Except for him. For not only did he do God’s work but also served his temporal master with devotion. He scratched a louse from his head. This interminable waiting would try the patience of Saint Benedict himself, under whose auspices this monastery had been built and whose abbot now offered him shelter. He did not stand in full agreement with the Benedictines, who stole hours from the day to work as common men. Their black habits conjured images of busy crows pecking at a field, grubbing for food. A hierarchy should be maintained, which was why his own order kept the lay monks for manual work while the clergy attended to the liturgy and the spiritual well-being of all men. Or in his case the nobility.
He had read what was available in the poorly stocked library; its manuscripts were dated, and the light too poor to read in comfort from the constant gloom of low cloud that tired his eyes. Boredom and impatience were beginning to chafe like a penitent’s sackcloth shirt. His mission was of the utmost importance, but the foul weather had closed in and made it impossible to travel the treacherous roads. Hidden enemies could ambush them from the cover of the fog and, no matter how skilled the soldiers who rode with him, a surprise attack would give assailants the upper hand. He could not risk being captured. Death or ransom was not an option.
Sandalled feet shuffled through the passageways of the dimly lit monastery. The movement
told him it was almost time for vespers. The bell rang. He sighed in resignation and gathered his pale-coloured habit. It was a sacrifice to leave the warmth of the library for the penetrating cold of the abbey’s chapel and submit his aching knees to the unyielding floor. The chimes rang out. These Benedictines were never satisfied. Had they not already added an extra mass during the day? Was it an indulgence to spoil oneself in additional prayer? His stomach growled; it would be some time yet before his hunger would be satisfied. A modicum of suffering might make God take pity and reward him with a seaborne breeze to clear the mist and let him be on his way. There was more at stake than religious devotion. A war was at hand and he needed one of God’s small miracles to turn defeat into victory. He turned his back on the fire’s warmth and realized that a small miracle might not be enough.
It was dark by the time Blackstone reached the monastery doors. Guillaume beat on the studded doors with his sword’s pommel. They were drenched and shivering. No sound came from the inner rooms, the windows stayed shuttered, no one ventured into the foul night. Guillaume beat on the door again, and then they heard the sound of a shuffling step and saw the faint glow from a tallow candle as the pedestrian gate was opened. A monk, looking as ancient as the stones themselves, stood uncertainly as he gazed at the two men, one still with a sword in his hand.
‘Sir Thomas Blackstone and his family seek shelter,’ Guillaume told him. ‘We have a sick child.’
The monk’s gaze had already moved to Christiana and Henry, and he could see the unconscious child held by her mother. He stepped back and ushered Blackstone and Christiana inside. Blackstone turned to Henry.
‘Stay with Guillaume and the horses. Someone will come.’
The soaked and trembling boy looked wretched, but made no complaint and nodded at his father’s command.
For one so aged the gatekeeper monk moved quickly into the monastery, touching his candle flame to cresset lamps that lit the way. Another door was opened and they were ushered into a bare room with a boarded cubbyhole that served as a bed and a small partition as a prayer niche. The gatekeeper lit two more wall lamps and gestured for them to wait. The monks spoke only after the midday prayers, when the day’s manual labour began. The monastery fell silent as the bell ceased its ringing.
The monk stepped away and Blackstone reached out and took Agnes from Christiana. Her breathing was shallow and laboured as he laid her on the straw mattress. There was nothing to do but wait. Minutes later an older man bearing a crozier, the abbot’s symbol of office, came into the room with three other monks. They barely gave Blackstone and Christiana a glance and went directly to Agnes. The abbot nodded and as one lifted the ailing child, carrying her from the room, the other held a candle to light their way through darkened passageways. Before Christiana could object the old man spoke calmly, a soft kindness to his voice, as if breaking the silence should be done with the least intrusion: ‘Your daughter will be taken to the infirmatorium. We have no brothers with sickness or injury so you can be with your daughter. Go with Brother Gerard.’
Christiana followed the wavering shadows cast by the retreating monk’s candlelight. The old man turned to Blackstone. ‘I am Abbot Pierre. You are welcome to share my house. We have a place for pilgrims and paupers, but these quarters here are kept for those of rank, such as your squire and page. The room next door is yours. Are these accommodations suitable, my lord?’
‘My squire and my son travel with me. This room is more than adequate. I’m grateful for your hospitality. But you have soldiers here.’
‘They need not concern you, Sir Thomas. They travel as escort for a brother priest.’
Blackstone remembered the word of the dying routier he had killed at the river. Priest. Was there a connection between these soldiers and the paid killers after all?
The abbot moved to the door. ‘I will arrange food and drink for your companions and extend the invitation for you to dine with me and my other guest in my quarters. We have hot water should you wish to bathe. I will ensure you have clean linen. Your horses are being stabled. Brother Tobias here will take you to the refectory and we will have food prepared for your lady. You will say mass with us?’ the abbot said, having glanced at the pagan token at Blackstone’s neck.
‘I have already interrupted vespers. Forgive me, but there was an urgency with my daughter.’
The abbot made a small deprecating gesture.
‘We will attend mass,’ Blackstone said, determined not to create ill feeling.
The answer was satisfactory. There were fighting men who would have declined the invitation. ‘Then I shall have one of the brothers come for you. Please inform your companions that they are obliged to stay out of the conclave.’
Blackstone was as unfamiliar as most with the inner rituals and disciplines of a monastery. The abbot saw his uncertainty.
‘The brothers’ living quarters, the cloister and gardens. I have already extended dispensation for your lady and your daughter to be cared for in the infirmatorium.’
‘And we will gladly respect your wishes, Brother Pierre.’
The abbot nodded and turned to leave.
‘Would you care for a bath, Sir Thomas?’
The subtle question was not lost on Blackstone. He had been in the saddle a long time.
‘I would welcome it,’ he said, and guessed that his host shared the same feeling.
Guillaume and Henry unsaddled the horses. Evening prayer was still in progress and the second of four psalms to be sung lilted across the darkened cloisters. They rubbed down the horses with straw, barely able to see by the candle that flickered in its beaten metal holder. By the time the litany was chanted, Henry had slumped exhausted into the hay. Guillaume let the boy sleep and attended to Blackstone’s intransigent horse. A monk arrived and helped him dry off and feed the remaining horses.
As the man pitched hay Guillaume shielded a candle and went down the stalls looking at the mounts belonging to the soldiers. They were better horses than most hobelars would ride, strong of limb and well shod – the kind of mount a nobleman might keep for favoured men, men who might have to ride long and hard and then fight.
The abbot’s guest, the priest, said another quiet prayer in thanks for having the authority and responsibility of his office. Were he a common monk he would be sleeping in the dormitorium, sharing the latrines with thirty others, and most likely fed little more than pulses and bread. The obligation of hospitality towards those of importance and rank meant a more plentiful offering of meat and poultry would be served with undiluted wine. He waited for the abbot who, no doubt, would be late in attending his own dinner. He seemed an amiable ambassador of Christ, but distracted by everyday responsibilities, which, no doubt, made the old man forgetful. Dear Lord, where was the abbot? The priest’s stomach cramped in its desire for nourishment. At last he heard someone moving in the corridor. The door opened and a monk gestured for someone behind him to step into the room. A tall, broad shouldered man-at-arms stepped through the doorway and the priest’s hunger was immediately forgotten. The scar-faced man waited at the door, expecting to see Abbot Pierre but found, instead, a priest staring at him. He was clearly someone of importance by the look of the rings he wore.
The flickering cresset lamps showed that the monastery was a draughty place, but the priest did not shiver from the cool air, it was the sight of the man standing before him as shadows wavered across his face. He was struck by God’s miracle that had answered his prayer. The way ahead was now clear. He made the sign of the cross and kissed the crucifix at his neck.
‘I am Father Niccolò Torellini,’ he said.
‘Sir Thomas Blackstone,’ the priest heard the man-at-arms say as he stepped forward, taking the big man’s hands into his own.
‘I know,’ he said. ‘I held you in my arms on the battlefield at Crécy.’
25
A door into a passage leading to Blackstone’s past had been opened and, like the darkened corridors around him, light d
id not show its end so clearly in his mind. Godfrey de Harcourt had told him, while he was recovering from his wounds, that the Prince of Wales had called for a priest to give the badly wounded young man the last rites. And now that priest stood before him relating the same story. Blackstone had only the memory of a burning crucifix and warrior angels awaiting his journey across the divide.
‘I did not know that you had survived, Sir Thomas,’ Father Niccolò said. ‘I feel God has blessed me in bringing you here.’
Blackstone offered no explanation of what had happened to him over the past ten years. Men of God saw miracles where an ordinary man would see good or bad fortune unfold. God’s will was unfathomable. Prayers in battle often went unheeded. Perhaps the Almighty was deafened by the clash of armour and the screams of men. This priest was an echo from that time. It was a coincidence, that was all. Nothing miraculous should be read into it. Blackstone had sought refuge at the monastery and the priest had done the same.
‘I must see my wife and daughter,’ Blackstone said, eager to leave; he was troubled by the priest’s hold on his soul.
Torellini nodded. ‘You are not permitted, but I will go. Listen to me, I beg you. I serve the Florentine banker, Rodolfo Bardi, who has much interest in the welfare of the King of England and his son the Prince of Wales, whose life you once saved, and who is now in grave danger. I have been sent by King Edward as his messenger. Wait here and when I return I will explain further.’
