Defiant Unto Death

by David Gilman

  The wayfarers had told Killbere how more than two thousand routiers had attacked Marseille, but the town had been well defended and prepared for the assault, which failed. As the marauders grew in strength their attacks became more widespread and towns and villages fell under their swords.

  ‘Our men are getting restless,’ Elfred told Sir Gilbert. ‘They think we’re losing plunder to these others.’

  Killbere was no camp soldier and waiting without a plan of action chafed like a wet saddle. ‘Soldiers always whine like brats with colic,’ he said, drawing a whetstone along his sword blade. ‘They’ve food and drink; we need to rest. It’s a long road ahead.’

  In truth, he admitted only to himself, he was uncertain how best to proceed. A battle plan was simple. Men lined up opposite each other and fought to the death. Raiding villages and towns was easier still: slaughter the men, enslave women as whores and take whatever food was available, remembering to donate sufficient gold to the church so that sins might be forgiven. But finding a paymaster who would guarantee employment was beyond his experience. Serving a sworn lord and the Crown had been his life. Loyalty had been the currency he had always dealt in. The great wealth of plunder and ransom from battle had usually gone to the nobility, and to lower-rank knights who knew how to run estates with their newly found fortune while growing weak from lack of combat. Killbere knew himself to be caught between two conflicting needs: gaining wealth and having a sworn lord to serve. Perhaps his chances in the world would be better if he offered his services as a champion, without the baggage of commanding men whose loyalties could turn at the toss of a gold coin. But he was thirty-five years old and feeling the strain of years of hard fighting. Younger, stronger men would have more stamina to stand and trade blows. He needed small wars where the killing was easier.

  ‘Is it serious?’ he asked.

  ‘Not yet,’ Elfred said, looking across the sprawled camp. ‘But there are always troublemakers.’

  ‘And Blackstone’s men?’

  ‘The Normans are like knotted rope. Meulon and the other ugly bear would wait until the sun never sets for Sir Thomas. I’ll have the sergeants keep an eye on the others.’

  ‘Aye, do that. But those who want to go, let them – they’d be no good to us in the long run – but see they take nothing with them except that which is theirs.’

  ‘They’ll want their share of the plunder we have,’ Elfred answered.

  Killbere wiped his sword blade clean. ‘No, they leave with nothing but what they had when they joined us.’

  Elfred nodded. If the malcontents had to be confronted, then they would be killing their own and their venture could fail before it got much further. Both men looked beyond the distant hills and the black plumes of smoke. Death was on the march, and it was coming their way.

  The oil lamps and candles burned late into the night in the heart of the papal city. Pope Innocent VI, like many of the Popes, showed kindness and sympathy to the poor for Christian charity offered an assured place in heaven. Were it not for his guidance the hospitals and almshouses would not exist. On papal instructions a percentage of a merchant’s profits were given to the needy. Those who had wealth were obliged to offer something to those who had nothing. On this night, however, the underprivileged were not his concern. The bullion buried in the papal vaults and the vast wealth held by the merchants of the city was at risk. A gaunt and infirm old man, he suffered more than physical ailments; his indecision offered no direction to the politicians and court of the most important city in the region. The Holy See was under threat. Word had reached the Pope of the burning and destruction of the towns that straddled the Rhône. Bands of men, more barbaric than Saracens, threatened the entire region. The room was hot and men’s tempers flared as no one, least of all the Pope, could decide on a plan of action. The only directive issued that night was to draft more labour to finish the incomplete walls. It was inconceivable that brigands would attack their great city, but after the defeat of King John, no one was safe. The land was lawless.

  Blackstone lay in the cool bedchamber, gazing up into the shadows at the arched ceiling pillars decorated with cherubs garlanded with gold laurel leaves, spilling coins from one hand while holding a horn of plenty in the other. This was a banker’s house, ornate with soft furnishings, embroidered bed coverings and fine silk tapestries. Christiana had fallen asleep in his arms, but before she turned her back and he had pressed her body to his, she had flinched when he touched her. They kissed and he once again attempted to caress her, but she put her fingers to his face and lips and asked him to wait – without explanation, other than to say the fear and tiredness from her journey had still not left her. It had been like that for the past three days. No passion had been spent between them, when once neither could resist their lust for each other. He knew that it had been an arduous journey for her and the children and the attack on the barge would have taken its toll.

  Blackstone confined himself to the banker’s house and garden, enjoying the time with Agnes, allowing Christiana the days of comfort that the refuge offered. Henry absented himself at every opportunity to explore the corridors of power. The boy had changed, there was no doubting it – more confident, but also more withdrawn.

  Was that not to be expected? Torellini had asked him when he mentioned it to the priest. A boy defending his mother, a family with fear in their hearts and danger at every corner. The past would slip away.

  Torellini handed him documents that secured his future. Blackstone fingered the folded parchment, the Pope’s waxed seal as cold and dry as the desolate past that would haunt him for the rest of his life. A haunting that would always drive him on.

  ‘Your journey is only just beginning. Great wars are behind you but conflict will never be far away. I will care for your family.’ Torellini’s eyes questioned the Englishman. He knew the answer before asking it. ‘You have not yet told Christiana of your plans.’

  Blackstone shook his head. There was a time and a place to do battle.

  And now was not the time.

  He slipped from the bedclothes when he heard muffled voices and scuffling footsteps through the corridors. There was no sign of Father Niccolò. Blackstone went out into the courtyard and saw lamps burning within other rooms. He dressed and slipped his archer’s knife into his belt. Guards stood at the far end of the corridor as noblemen and priests were ushered into a great chamber behind closed doors. Blackstone turned a corner, pushed open the door to an outside staircase and went up to one of the lower battlements. He could see beyond the walls and the flickering lights of the city where taverns still plied their trade along with the whores and soldiers and those who travelled with the hope of fortune or the opportunity of a political office – the surest route to wealth and influence. His eyes scanned the dark shapes of the hills. Knife points of light wavered. Killbere and his men were still there. Voices raised in argument drifted up from the lamp-lit chamber below. The words were indistinguishable but he caught their sense of panic. Whatever the cause, it would soon surface. He settled his back against the wall, preferring to sleep in the chill air and to see the dawn rise rather than go back to the ornate chamber and a cold wife.

  ‘Riders,’ Will Longdon said as he relieved himself against a tree.

  ‘Watch where you’re pointing that,’ Elfred cautioned as Longdon changed the direction of his gaze and everything else followed.

  ‘Sir Gilbert,’ Elfred called.

  ‘Aye, I see them,’ Killbere said as his men gathered at the treeline and looked into the distance where horsemen galloped towards the city gates.

  ‘Two hundred maybe,’ Meulon suggested.

  ‘That’s not all,’ Killbere said, pointing beyond the fields on the other side of the river where a black snake of cavalry writhed through the folds of the hills. ‘Elfred?’

  ‘More’n a thousand, I reckon,’ Elfred said, his archer’s eye gauging the indistinct numbers.

  ‘Our Thomas’d tell you how many hairs they h
ad on the heads if he was here,’ Longdon said, wiping his hands dry on his breeches.

  ‘Sir Thomas to you, pisspot,’ Killbere grunted. ‘Those up front – the knights – they’re the envoys. They’ll do the talking.’

  The men watched in silence as the gates opened and city dignitaries and two cardinals went out in their finery to meet the riders. A dozen of the knights followed the city officials inside.

  ‘What’s all that about then?’ Will Longdon muttered. ‘You think Sir Thomas knows about it?’

  ‘He will soon enough,’ Killbere said, glancing around the rising hills. ‘Elfred, get the sergeants to send out riders, to keep an eye on our backs.’

  Blackstone had left the inner walls as the sounds of chapel bells tumbled across the rooftops. Those who prayed made their way to matins; others, who slumped in doorways, unable to afford a room, stirred and slept on. He found the painted board displaying three horseshoes and made his way through the archways into the yard. The pungent smell of horses mixed with the less savoury stench of human waste. Stable boys dragged soiled straw from the stalls as Blackstone looked at the liveried horses. He recognized three of the horses belonging to the soldiers who had accompanied the Italian priest.

  Blackstone moved into the darkened tavern. Men and women slept wherever there was space. He stepped across the prone bodies and made his way up the stairs. John Jacob had been well paid for his mission; if Blackstone had gauged the man correctly he would have paid for a room. There were no doors on the niches that served as sleeping bays. Sergeant Jacob was already awake and sat sharpening his knife. A pitcher of ale was at his feet, the small window open, street sounds rising. Jacob got to his feet as Blackstone stood in the doorway.

  ‘I heard you were back, Sir Thomas. You have anyone else with you?’

  ‘Guillaume. And there are friends outside the city. I thought you’d have struck out for Bordeaux and home. You and your men.’

  Jacob made light of it. ‘Three of ’em have gone. The climate here suits me, my lord, and besides, I was not at the battle so I gained no plunder. The priest paid us well. I’ve no complaints.’

  ‘You stayed to offer my wife assurance,’ Blackstone said.

  Sergeant Jacob nodded, and put away the knife. ‘I thought it could do no harm for her to know there was someone close should she need it.’

  ‘I came to thank you,’ Blackstone said.

  ‘You’ve no need, my lord. I did as I said I would, that was all.’

  Blackstone sat on the window seat. ‘Did my son act well?’

  ‘As you would expect, Sir Thomas,’ Jacob answered. The evasiveness barely noticeable.

  ‘On the barge. When you killed Rudd. Did he act well?’ Blackstone quietly insisted. ‘Did the boy use his knife?’

  ‘Have you spoken to the lad, Sir Thomas?’ Jacob asked, still wary of being drawn to explain the exact circumstances. Sir Thomas Blackstone might hold him responsible for the assault.

  ‘Not yet. But I will.’ Blackstone took a draught of the ale while waiting for Jacob to answer.

  ‘He did, my lord. He behaved courageously. He stabbed Rudd before I got to him. And then he helped us push his body into the river. He did your name proud.’

  The explanation had still omitted the details of the assault. Blackstone had no need to pry any further. It was obvious what had happened.

  Blackstone extended his hand and the man grasped it. Sergeant Jacob held Blackstone’s gaze. ‘Rudd was drunk with a knife in his hand. Your son defended his mother and sister and I finished the job. I can assure you, Sir Thomas, that’s all that happened.’

  Blackstone pressed no further. John Jacob had protected Christiana and now he shielded her name.

  ‘England has little need for us now, sergeant. The French wars are over,’ Blackstone said.

  ‘Then I’ll fight the Scots. There’s always them to cause trouble.’

  ‘No. That’s done with. Edward has imprisoned the Scottish King. Men like us are left to their own devices.’

  ‘Then you’ll be doing what exactly, Sir Thomas?’

  ‘That’s yet to be decided, but when it is, I could use a good captain at my side, John Jacob.’

  ‘I’m a sergeant, my lord.’

  ‘Captain,’ Blackstone answered.

  Jacob nodded in acceptance, but before the men spoke another word the clatter of horses echoed down the street. Blackstone leaned out of the window, but the riders were a couple of streets away; all he could see were their pennons fluttering below the roofs.

  Blackstone pushed his way through the corridors to Christiana and the children. ‘Stay here,’ he told her.

  ‘What’s wrong?’ she asked

  ‘De Marcy is here. He’s inside the city.’

  ‘Here? Why? For us? Does he have men with him?’

  Blackstone had moved from the room to the garden and back again. ‘A bodyguard, that’s all. Where’s Henry?’

  ‘He went out to the merchants, as he always does. Thomas, are we in danger?’

  ‘Does he know about de Marcy?’

  ‘What?’ she asked, unable to hide her fear.

  Blackstone grabbed her arm. ‘Does Henry know about the Savage Priest and what he did? Does he know I went to kill him?’

  She hesitated, and then nodded. ‘Yes, he knows. I told him on the barge. He asked me why you’d left us.’

  ‘Keep the door locked and open it only when I return.’

  Blackstone pulled the door closed behind him. He moved as quickly as the crowded corridors would allow and, despite his size and strength, which pushed men aside, the sheer number of people slowed him. His own fear was that Henry would try to prove himself and attack de Marcy. If that happened, no one would stop the Savage Priest from killing the boy.

  By the time Blackstone reached the part of the palace where huge doors opened onto a courtyard, servants were holding the intruders’ horses and squires stood with the pennons of de Marcy and a lord of Provence. The Pope’s welcoming ministers ushered the sallow-faced killer and his entourage into the corridors of power. Papal guards lined the route as de Marcy strode towards the inner chambers where the Holy Father waited to greet him. Fear of what this killer and his routiers could do had forced the Pope to welcome him and hear his demands.

  Blackstone pushed through the merchants and traders who had been herded against the walls. There was no sign of his son. Fear crushed him as tightly as the crowd. One of the soldiers half turned to press back the throng and Blackstone saw Henry. The boy was crouched below men’s legs, knife in hand, like an animal preparing to spring.

  Blackstone pulled and turned people away, and as de Marcy came within five strides of Henry, reached out and grabbed the boy’s shoulder. The guard turned, men’s voices were briefly raised in alarm, and then subsided into complaint. Blackstone yanked Henry back into the crowd, but the commotion was not lost on de Marcy. His pace faltered, his eyes scanned the huddled men, pressing shoulder to shoulder. It was impossible not to see Blackstone. The doors of time closed and their memories collided. Both knew the other. Their eyes locked, and Blackstone saw the look of triumph on the Savage Priest’s face. Neither man could do anything, surrounded as they were by the numerous papal guards.

  Blackstone pulled Henry further back into the crowd as the dignitaries and de Marcy went on to the Pope’s chambers.

  Christiana scolded Henry as she gathered their few possessions together. ‘You’ve exposed us all to danger. Now he knows we’re here. If you’d obeyed me we would still be safe.’

  ‘I’m sorry, Mother,’ Henry said.

  ‘There’s no shame in trying to kill someone as evil as de Marcy, Henry,’ Blackstone told him.

  ‘You encourage him?’ Christiana said.

  ‘He was trying to succeed where I had failed. But,’ he said, turning to Henry, ‘they would have killed you. That’s the only reason I stopped you. You have to think before you kill.’

  ‘Blessed Mother of God,’ Christiana whispered
, crossing herself, ‘you bring death to the last place of refuge we have.’

  There was a rapid knock on the door and Father Niccolò, breathless and sweating, having run from the Pope’s chamber, entered and then leaned back against the door, as if the devil himself were pressing from the other side.

  ‘De Marcy threatens the towns that control the routes into Avignon. He would seize all trade and bullion. He demands payment of more than fifty thousand gold florins. And he wants you. You have to leave. Now. The Pope will give you up. He has no choice.’

  He looked sympathetically at Christiana. ‘I am going back to Florence. There is a boat waiting. My lady, I hope you are convinced that the offer I made Sir Thomas is a good one and is now the best chance you and your family have of escape.’

  Christiana looked to Blackstone. ‘What offer?’

  Father Niccolò winced. He had come between man and wife. He quickly shrugged the moment’s awkwardness away. This was no time for protracted family negotiations.

  ‘Thomas. Please. We must leave,’ he urged.

  ‘What offer?’ Christiana demanded again.

  Blackstone hesitated before answering. But answer he must. Time had run out.

  ‘I have a contract to lead forces in Florence.’

  ‘To leave France?’ she asked. ‘This is my home! I’ll not run again!’

  ‘There is no damned France left, Christiana! The King is taken, the Dauphin will struggle to gain power. Charles of Navarre will be released and the killing will start again. Christ, it’s all done with here!’

  Blackstone gave a brief look of regret at his blasphemy to Torellini, who nodded and made the sign of the cross.

  ‘Keep the documents I gave you safe. I will take your family; the transalpine Princes will welcome you and your men. I have already sent word.’

  ‘I told you, Father. They aren’t my men. They’re Sir Gilbert’s.’