by David Gilman
‘Father, I have another hurdle to clear before I leave.’
Torellini saw her and nodded. ‘Good luck.’
‘With my wife or in finding the Prince?’
‘Whichever you perceive as the greater challenge, my son,’ he said.
Christiana saw Blackstone walking towards her accompanied by a cleric dressed in a white habit. He was not of the same order as those in the monastery, who were now about their daily labour. His complexion was smooth, like that of the Spanish people. He took two steps to every one of Blackstone’s, his busy hands punctuating his words. When Blackstone saw her from a distance he stopped. The priest nodded in response to something Blackstone said and moved away towards the abbey. Blackstone continued until he reached her.
‘Is Agnes all right?’ he asked, concerned.
‘She’s sleeping. They say she’ll be well enough to travel in two or three days. When were you going to tell me you were leaving? Do you intend to abandon us now?’
He guided her away from the building, not wanting his explanation to be given within the walls of the portal, nor their voices to carry. The abbey had offered sanctuary, but travellers came and went, and should strangers appear in the next few days he did not want his plans whispered by gossiping monks who might wish to relieve the monotony of chanting their prayers.
‘I was coming to the room to speak to you,’ he said. ‘There’s been much to arrange since morning prayers.’
He told her what Father Niccolò had related to him.
‘One man cannot save an army,’ she told him after listening patiently. ‘You tried to save Jean and the others, but matters are out of your hands now. Your English Prince has to defend himself with the help of others, not you. You must find a place of safety for your family, there’s no other duty for you right now. We’ve been blessed that Agnes has survived; are you prepared to risk her life again?’
‘I’ve struck a bargain with the Italian priest,’ he said. ‘I’ll ride to warn Prince Edward, and Father Niccolò and his escort will take you to safety.’
‘I’m in a place of safety. Do you intend us to be taken to a convent? Do you think those men who hunt you would respect undefended nuns? Thomas, there’s nothing more you can do to avenge Jean and the others. We’ll find a new home together, we’ll start again, your name alone will bring men to serve with you,’ Christiana said, trying to keep herself from pleading with him.
Blackstone turned back to look at the monastery walls. Above the arched tympanum of the sanctuary’s entrance were carved images of the Last Judgement. Angels blew horns above the figure of Christ offering an open hand in blessing. Was he welcoming the righteous, or giving a warning to guard against the evil that consumed men? The blessed gathered next to Christ’s right hand, while below His feet the bared jaws of a creature swallowed the damned. Carvings of man-like creatures crowded together in suffocating closeness, mouths gaping in terror of being eaten alive by the devil, stared back at him.
Paradise or hell.
He would risk one for the other.
‘The Duke of Lancaster is on the north side of the Loire. He’ll never get across to join Edward,’ he told her.
How many times had he ridden with the Harcourts across those northern plains and stood in wonder at one of nature’s great defensive barriers? The Loire’s swirling eddies and currents could drag man and horse down. English forces had struggled to find a crossing all those years ago before Crécy, but now it would be impossible.
‘What the Prince doesn’t realize is that the river will be flooded from the heavy rains. He has no reinforcements. And if he surrenders to King John, then our family will never know peace.’
‘This is not about saving Edward, it’s to quench your anger.’ She fell silent for a moment, knowing it was useless trying to convince him to stay. ‘What would you have us do?’
‘There’s a bargeman who will take you and the priest, with his escort, downstream. You’ll make good time, and it will take you far enough south to avoid the men who hunt us. Then they’ll take you by road to Avignon.’
‘Avignon! The French Pope?’
‘You’ll be safe there. The Italian has influence. I’ll join you when matters are settled.’
She looked up into his face, searching for what hidden meaning lay behind his eyes.
‘I want the man who tortured and slaughtered our people,’ he told her. ‘You want him dead. I promised you that.’
‘No, it’s more than that. We are too far south for de Marcy’s men to find us. He will be raiding elsewhere.’
‘Or rides with the King to fight Edward.’
He was using de Marcy’s name to convince her but she saw through him. She caught her breath. How well she knew him.
‘No, Thomas. It’s the King you really want. And they will kill you before you even get close to him.’
‘He butchered Jean, hacked him to death, gave him no confessor. My friend deserved a better death and I swore to avenge him. This bastard French King set loose the Savage Priest who flayed William and crucified Old Hugh and slaughtered our people. My people! I want them both feeling Wolf Sword through their heart.’
‘You cannot abandon us now. Damn you,’ she whispered, ‘damn you. We have everything we need as long as we are together with the children. You’re a fool, Thomas. There’s no glory left to fight for. Only us.’ She waited for him to say something, to rebuke her for challenging him. But he stayed silent and let his gaze stay on her. She touched the scar on his face. ‘You have tested God’s patience too many times. You’ve bargained with Him once too often. He’ll take you this time. You’ll widow me and I shall be left to beg on the strength of your name.’
‘Then you will never starve,’ he said, bitter that she had stepped away from him when he needed her embrace.
‘You’ll not take Henry,’ she bargained.
‘You had him for seven years. You taught him to read and write, you gave him what a child needed …’
‘He’s still a child!’
‘Only to you! He’s in his ninth year! He has to learn about war, Christiana. I’ve already broken tradition by keeping him with me. By now he should have been with another family serving as a page. He has to learn. Better he does it under my protection.’
‘No. He stays with me and Agnes. He’s proved his courage already. He stays with us, Thomas, I mean it. I won’t have him dragged to the slaughter, there’ll be enough killing to come in his life, but I won’t have him sacrificed for your vengeance.’
Blackstone smothered the rising anger that threatened to inflame their argument. Tears of defiance welled in Christiana’s eyes.
‘We part on bad terms, Christiana. I don’t want that.’
‘Then leave Henry with me.’
‘You blackmail me.’
‘Only because my love is not enough.’
There, in that moment, she broke down his resistance. ‘You use a velvet glove to wield a mace. I always give in to you,’ he said.
‘Only when you know I’m right.’
‘Which seems to be more often than not.’ He nodded. ‘The boy can stay.’
She stepped up to him and he embraced her. He smelled the fragrance of rosemary soap she had used to wash her hair, and felt the warmth of her soft skin as he laid his lips on her neck.
Paradise or hell.
When the bells sounded at sext, the midday sun was only a promising glow behind the cloud. Blackstone and Guillaume rode down the escarpment to the edge of the forest. Guillaume looked back towards the monastery, where, for at least a short while, they had been safe. Blackstone had spoken to the English soldiers who escorted the Italian priest and offered them silver coin for their ongoing protection of Christiana and the children.
‘We are on the King’s business, Sir Thomas,’ the sergeant had said. ‘And our orders were to deliver the priest to Prince Edward. There’s nothing in ’em that says we have to go to Avignon. You can see how this makes it difficult for us to honour
your request.’
‘I have agreed to relieve Father Niccolò of his responsibility so I’ll be riding to the Prince, and the information I have for him is vital. The priest will deliver my family to the Pope. No one will strike at them there. If I leave this monastery and go my own way, you’ll be dead by nightfall. The forest and valleys crawl with Frenchmen and those they pay to hunt and kill us. You’ll stumble like blind men in the battle. This way, you’ll reach safety and have the pleasure of the whores at Avignon.’ Blackstone had tossed the bag of coins to the sergeant, who felt its weight in his hand. He looked at the others.
‘Take the money,’ one of his men said. ‘The King’s business will still be attended to. It makes no difference who takes the message to the Prince. It’s a fair bargain.’
‘When you reach Avignon, Father Niccolò will reward you with another payment. And I will be in your debt,’ Blackstone told them.
One of the soldiers snorted and spat. ‘My lord, if what you say is true, there’s as much chance of you living as a rat in a dog pit.’
His sergeant rounded on him. ‘Quiet, Rudd. Sir Thomas is right. One man who knows the lie of the land could get through better’n us riding with the Italian. And if there’s a wager to be made, my money is on him.’ He tossed the coins back to Blackstone. ‘We’ll take the payment from the priest, Sir Thomas. Havin’ your bond is worth more’n a few coins.’
Rudd snarled: ‘It’s us as well! It’s not for you to say! Take his money!’
Without warning the sergeant struck the man down. ‘You’ll do as I command, you whore’s son, or I’ll cut your hamstrings and leave you in the forest to fend for yourself!’ He faced Blackstone. ‘You leave the priest and your family to us. And when you reach Avignon you’ll know where to find us.’
Blackstone looked to the others. They nodded. The fallen man got to his feet.
The agreement had been made.
Guillaume faced the road ahead. Blackstone had not given even a backward glance.
They parted several miles to the north. Blackstone sketched a map into the dirt.
‘Send word to the towns. Leave half the men, those with women and children – they’ll have more to fight for – and gather the rest. Meet me somewhere about here,’ he said, pointing at a scrape that served as the river that ran north of Poitiers’s walled city. ‘The Count of Poitiers has his army to the west and he’ll move south with King John. I have to catch up with Edward. If they get behind him he has nowhere to go and the French will crush him. His only chance of escape would be surrender.’
‘The English will be hard pressed to move at speed. Their wagons are loaded with months of plunder. How long before they’re trapped?’ said Guillaume.
‘Probably no more than two or three days.’
‘And if you aren’t there, what do I do?’ Guillaume asked.
Blackstone climbed into the saddle. ‘Serve the Prince, then ride to Avignon. I’ll be dead.’
26
Blackstone found his way through the countryside from memory. Landmarks were few and far between, but the lie of the land and the prevailing winds helped him gauge direction. By the end of the first day he had crisscrossed forest trails and negotiated his way across a fast-flowing river. By nightfall, soaked through and numb with cold, he rode as far as the dwindling light would permit, then curled the reins round his fist and slept with his back against a tree and his shield across his body. He awoke before first light when the breeze shifted and brought the smell of woodsmoke into the trees. Men had moved into the forest during the night, but there was little smoke, which meant the men would be some distance away. He listened, but there was no sound: no disgruntled voices complaining of the cold or of the hard ground where they slept.
He led the horse, feeling his way forward in the darkness with the length of his sword, tapping the trees like a blind beggar. By the time he reached the open ground he could see distant pinpricks of light from a half-dozen fires scattered across the landscape, small speckles of red, giving off wispy smoke in the still, predawn air.
He wondered if Guillaume could make it as far as the towns where his men awaited their orders. If the French had scouting parties scattered across the land, neither he nor his squire would get through unless the gods smiled or Arianrhod covered his journey with her gossamer wings. At a time when a morning mist was most wanted, the land was clear from the fresh breeze that allowed men to see for miles.
The fires to the east were the most distant, and the broken ground and gorges between him and those men offered a buffer. But those who were closer – whose fire he could smell in the damp air but could not see – they were the most dangerous. How long could he ride before they came upon him? Men’s limbs would be stiff, and they would be slow to react, still groggy from a night’s sleep. Now was the time for risk. He gathered the reins and spurred the horse. To ride slowly and with caution could invite a sudden, unexpected attack. If he rode hard the horse’s hoof beats would probably alert some of the men, but at least he would have the momentum to outdistance anyone in pursuit.
There was no track across the broad meadows and no sign of men labouring in the fields. He knew there were villagers scattered across the hills, but they had either been frightened by marauding brigands or word had reached them from travellers on the road to and from Poitiers that the English were close. Most in this area were loyal to King John, so Blackstone knew he would be given no shelter.
Once Blackstone had raced across the open plain, he eased his horse into the edge of another forest. Dismounting, he walked the horse through the dense woodland, then tethered it and made his way back to the forest’s edge. He had a clear view across the open valley into the foothills and the woodland he had travelled through. It did not take long for him to see the distant riders – half a dozen or more – making their way down onto the track and then cantering as they followed one man who scouted ahead of the group. This man halted them and pointed to Blackstone’s tracks. The galloping horseman they had heard meant the rider sought no comfort from a campfire. And who might risk avoiding them? An English messenger might, and he would be a valuable prize. The horsemen looked towards the forest, where Blackstone unconsciously took a step further back into the undergrowth. One of the riders, who appeared to be in charge, raised himself in the stirrups and swung his sword arm in a broad arc, evidently a signal. There must be another group of men on Blackstone’s side of the valley. The riders turned their horses onto the meadow and made their way towards him.
Blackstone pushed through the trees. Branches clawed out from the lower trunks – they would rip a man’s face off if he tried to ride through them. He led the horse and cleared the path with his sword until he was deeper still into the forest. With luck the men would be slowed by the same problem, but he had to make headway before they entered the woods and heard the slashing of his blade. He redoubled his efforts, desperate not to be entrapped in such a confined fighting area. Shafts of sunlight suddenly penetrated the canopy. The wind had cleared the morning cloud and showed him the way to a track made by woodcutters and charcoal burners from one of the nearby villages. Blackstone climbed into the saddle and listened. There was the crack of dry wood beneath horses’ hooves, and muted cursing. They had not yet dismounted and fought their way through the labyrinth.
No sooner had he felt the brief comfort of advantage than he heard an excited cry. One of the men was already on the track a few hundred paces behind him. Some of them must have found an easier way through the forest. The man called out again, telling the others that he had found their quarry.
Blackstone spurred his horse along the track. Within half a league it became wider, with grass verges and wildflowers mixed with a tangle of new saplings. His horse smashed through easily as he pulled it off the track and plunged back into the forest. Men had been at work in this part of the woodland, which was less dense, allowing him to manoeuvre the horse through it. He needed another woodcutter’s trail before they surrounded him. If the
re were crossbowmen among them they could have him down and at their mercy.
Now voices carried back and forth in the forests behind and to one side. The men had spread themselves out in their search for him and called so their sweep was broad and thorough. Whoever came across Blackstone first would soon summon the rest. He listened to the sound of their progress around him. They were close. He eased forward in the saddle and rested his hand on his horse’s face. Stay calm, stay calm, he whispered in his mind. One man appeared thirty paces to his left, bending over his pommel as he ducked below a low branch.
The man’s eyes looked right at him for a second or more, but did not see any movement so the glance yielded nothing and the man pushed on forwards. Blackstone turned at the sound of another approaching horseman. He was making his way through the trees, jinking left and right as he avoided branches and fallen boughs; his head was down, looking to see how to guide his horse through the fetlock-snapping undergrowth on the forest floor. He was within ten paces; if he looked up now he would see Blackstone. Another voice cried out beyond the man, and the rider turned in that direction, away from Blackstone’s position. The voices fell silent and only a faint crushing of undergrowth could be heard. Blackstone eased the big horse forward, though he knew that the sound of its passage must be heard by the searchers. He hoped they would think horsemen moving so close to them must be one of their own. The trees thinned, a narrow track presented itself and he urged the horse forward.
A few hundred yards further on Blackstone lost his advantage. The track broadened out into a clearing – a disused woodcutters’ encampment containing several old fire pits.
Blackstone reined in his horse. The shadows of the forest moved from the trees into the clearing. It was the second group of horsemen. The men-at-arms urged their mounts forwards and then stopped. Behind him the same movement told him he was surrounded. He glanced back. Ten men waited, their nervous mounts sensing their riders’ anxiety: wanting to kill him, but hesitating. Ten behind, ten to the front. No crossbowmen. Some wore pieces of armour, others mail, a few nothing more than a hobelar’s jerkin. Twenty men. A scouting party for the bigger force? Which was where? Or were they brigands – roaming bands of looters? Had these been the men who had attacked his home and slaughtered his people? Blackstone did not move. If they struck at him with urgency he would not survive. Their manner indicated they were overconfident, convinced that one man could not harm them.
