by David Gilman
‘You must save him,’ said Blackstone.
‘I cannot,’ said the priest.
CHAPTER TWELVE
Despite the priest’s insistence that he did not have the skills to save the veteran knight, Blackstone demanded that he try. The priest crossed himself for the twentieth time; perhaps God might bless him with a miracle. He watched as Blackstone bent his height below the door frame and went out to attend to his duties. Any moment alone with the dying man was miracle enough.
Blackstone ordered his men to find bloated carcasses of any beast slain before their attack. They were to search kitchens and butchers for hung game or meat or for any dead dog in the street, and for the maggots to be scraped from the rotting flesh.
‘Henry,’ Blackstone called. ‘Not you. Come here.’
‘My lord?’
John Jacob and Will Longdon watched the boy being summoned to accompany his father out onto the battlements.
‘The lad does not deserve chastisement,’ said John Jacob. ‘He might have left his post but he got fodder for the horses. You’ll keep my thoughts to yourself, Will.’
‘They’re no longer thoughts when you open your mouth, John. Who knows what Thomas will do to the lad? He’s changed.’
‘Henry?’
‘Aye, him as well. He’s not a child any longer. Not after what he went through with his mother. But I was thinking of Thomas,’ he said.
‘Christ, can we wonder at it? What he witnessed when his wife and child were slain? He’s always been a hard man when need be, but I wager he’s harder still now. We’ve both seen him fight but there’s a fury to him now greater than I’ve witnessed before.’ John Jacob paused and chewed his lip, keeping his eyes on father and son as they walked along the walls.
Longdon looked at Blackstone’s squire. Clearly there was more to be said once the words were considered.
‘Almost’, said Jacob reluctantly, ‘as if he had a death wish.’
Longdon unsheathed his archer’s knife ready to scoop the maggots from a dead cow that lay belly up. He turned his face from the smell, hawked and spat. ‘I’ve seen him spit in the devil’s face many a time. But I think you’re right. We’d best make sure we’re shriven. It will be the end for us all one day because where Thomas goes we follow.’ His face crumpled in disgust. ‘John, your cap is bigger than mine. Pass it to me – there are handfuls of these wrigglers.’
Blackstone and Henry looked down at the town square as the men went about their duties. Then Blackstone turned to gaze out across the battlements. The wind bit his face. ‘Do you think the rain will spare us for a few more days?’ he said.
Henry looked at the horizon across the forest and then around the surrounding countryside. ‘I don’t think so, my lord. In a day or two perhaps it might break. You can see the weather veers from the east. You can smell it, can’t you?’
Blackstone grinned. ‘You remember your childhood lessons well,’ he said.
‘Thank you, my lord.’
‘When we are together you must call me Father.’
The boy beamed. ‘I will, gladly.’
‘You were instructed to stay with the horses in the forest and yet you left your post and came into the town when we were fighting.’
The seriousness of his father’s question snatched away the smile. ‘I did. The archers in the rearguard were complaining about not being in the fight. I said I would go forward and see if Will or Jack needed them. When I came into the square there had already been much killing and then I saw the hay carts. I knew we needed fodder… so I… took them. Were they not mine to take?’
‘They were there to be seized. You did well. It was a good decision and a brave one.’
‘There was no fighting in the square, Father, and Jack and Robert were there. I was in no danger.’
‘I meant it was a brave decision disobeying my orders.’
Henry realized he had not understood quickly enough that there was an element of censure in his father’s praise. ‘Yes, sir, I disobeyed you because –’
‘Don’t explain again, Henry. You made your claim for your actions: stand by them. There is no need to defend yourself. We let our actions speak for themselves.’
They watched as the trees rustled from the veering wind.
‘Will Sir Gilbert die?’ said Henry.
‘He might.’
‘He is a great man. He and John Jacob cared for me when you… when you went away. They all did. All the men.’
Blackstone’s disappearance for the better part of a year after the death of Christiana and Agnes at the hands of an assassin had never been broached. ‘Henry, I was taken from you by grief. It was something I did not understand and an enemy I did not know how to fight. It will not happen again, I promise you.’
The boy nodded and smiled bravely. ‘I hope not. I miss them too. But I… I remember when you killed the man who did it. I… I did not take pleasure in it… like you and the men. I could not. And I don’t know why.’
‘Don’t question it. Killing comes differently to us all. Live with who you are. We are blessed with the men at our side. And you have known them all for some years now. You’re satisfied serving as page to John?’
‘I hope I serve him well and that he is satisfied with my duties.’
It was a good answer from a boy who might see his service as demeaning given his father’s status.
‘John Jacob thinks highly of you and is well pleased with your work. He tells me your swordsmanship is coming on, but what of your studies?’
Henry fell silent for a moment as he considered his answer. ‘May I speak freely?’ He looked up at his father. ‘I remember telling you when we buried Mother and Agnes that I could not be a fighter like you even though I had killed to save them from the Jacques. I had promised Mother that I would study and when you were gone Sir Gilbert made me attend to my studies. He instructed my tutors to beat me if I did not apply myself. I was not punished very often. I learnt quickly and it came as easily, as when you taught me to read the wind and understand the animals in the forest. But Sir Gilbert said that I was to understand what was not written in books.’
‘And what was that?’ said Blackstone.
‘Loyalty, Father. He said that was the greatest treasure a man could possess. And that is why he brought me to you that day when grief claimed you at that London inn. And that is why I will serve you as the others do. But I have no books with me so I cannot read when my duties allow me. I have tried to fulfil my promise to both you and Mother.’
Blackstone felt the wind sting his eyes. He almost reached for the boy to hold him close, but then the tears could not be blamed on the cold.
‘I am proud of you, as was your mother. I am blessed that you are my son.’ He felt the stricture in his throat and feared the love for his son and the talk of Christiana would defeat him. He pushed the emotion away and took a small leather-bound book from beneath his jupon. ‘I know you have no books with you.’ He handed the volume to his son, who held it as if it were a block of gold. ‘It was your mother’s. It stays safe in my saddlebags and I kept it by my side all the years we were apart. It is all I have of her joy, so cherish it. Now, go and attend to your duties. See that my horse is groomed and fed, and be careful of him. It seems you’re the only one he doesn’t try to kick and bite.’
‘Oh, he does! But I give him apples and make sure he has the sweetest hay. He’s getting to know me.’ Henry grinned and went down the steps. Blackstone watched him. The boy turned back and lifted the book. ‘Thank you, Father. Thank you.’
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
Blackstone administered the squirming larvae himself into Killbere’s suppurating wound. He had given orders that fresh linen be boiled and dried over the fires, no matter if smoke clung to the bandages: it might help heal the wound.
‘I have not seen this done,’ said the crow priest. ‘To take maggots feeding on death is to put death into the wound.’
‘I’ve had it done to my own wounds,’ Bla
ckstone told him. ‘They eat the rotting flesh better than any barber surgeon can cut. It cleans the wound. We use your potions once they have done their work and you bleed him.’
‘Bloodletting is better served when done on a saint’s day.’
‘Then find a damned saint and draw his blood.’
Robinet scratched his head. ‘What day is it today?’
Blackstone looked blankly at him. Then called to the men outside. ‘Perinne? Will? What day is it?’
There was a murmur from the men and Perinne stepped into the doorway. ‘We don’t know, Sir Thomas. We left Rheims what… six days ago? Eight? Why would we need to know?’
‘The priest needs it.’
‘My lord,’ said Henry, who appeared at Perinne’s side. ‘I believe it is the seventeenth day of January. I might be wrong by a day or two but… I believe that is close.’
Blackstone smiled at his son, thankful that he had taken Will Longdon’s advice. ‘Well remembered, son.’
When Henry turned away Blackstone looked at the priest. ‘Well?’
‘A day or so here or there should not make much difference… Saint Andrew the Confessor of Peschiera is remembered… on the nineteenth. We will invoke his goodness to help your friend.’
‘Do everything in your power to save him. Your life has not yet been spared.’
Robinet the Crow, as the men now called him, shook his head. ‘I have told you, Sir Thomas, nothing I have can heal him. We can only pray.’
‘You think Our Lord will listen to words spilling from your lying mouth?’
‘I think it is the only chance your friend has.’
*
As the night closed in and his men slept he allowed the priest to question why the veteran knight was so important to him. Blackstone’s disdain for the thieving cleric was tempered when he shared his own story of serving the French royal captain, Sir Louis de Joigny. There had been a time when the local villagers, as ignorant and superstitious as any peasant, attended Robinet’s services in the town’s church. But de Joigny had demanded payment to be made: a tribute, no matter how modest, be it a handful of goose eggs, or a clutch of fish from the river. The villeins were poor enough and they soon preferred to be without God’s grace than the food in their bellies. And the royal captain’s demands were not restricted to the villagers. Even though the townspeople were dependent on the villagers to grow crops and slaughter beasts in winter to help feed them, they too were squeezed by the nobleman’s demands. Louis de Joigny saw to it that food was always rationed and that the city cellars were well stocked in case of siege but those were supplies held to feed the soldiers not the people. Being the Champagne region’s mint was the town’s staple means of income from the French Crown. Payment was made for casting the coin and then distributing it to the French troops in the area. The town’s craftsmen, skilled in leather and carpentry, earned money from selling their wares in larger towns but Sir Louis exacted his own tax on everything they sold. When the English invaded, Cormiers was the only place of safety for those within and without the town walls. The priest had challenged Sir Louis on a number of occasions on the people’s behalf but the tyrant had ignored him, secure in his position as a favourite of the Dauphin who could do no wrong in the eyes of his court. When the priest complained too often Sir Louis threatened to tear down the ancient church and use the stone for outer defences. Robinet Corneille decided to hoard what he could and when the Constable’s men had arrived that night to seize the last of the minted coin he quickly hid the sack of contraband. If the English or routiers came he would pay for the lives of those unable to pay ransom.
‘And for yourself,’ said Blackstone. He eased another handful of twigs into the fire’s embers to build up the warmth in the room whose stone walls were only now beginning to hold the heat against the cold outside.
‘Of course. I would speak up for others but if it was them or me I would choose the person I know and love the best.’ He grinned. ‘I have no wish to die because a routier or an English soldier sees no worth in my life. I will pay to live. What man would not? You spared me once you knew about the gold.’
‘I spared you to heal my friend.’
‘And you still intend to kill me? What good would that serve?’
‘None,’ Blackstone admitted. ‘I can see that he is beyond help. You can keep your church and pray for those who survived the fight, but if your people rise up against the soldiers who stay here, then I promise the English King will not be as merciful as me. It’s up to you to convince them to obey.’
The priest wrung out a cloth in a bowl of water and laid it across Killbere’s forehead. ‘The truth is I was going to run, Sir Thomas. Oh, I would have left some of the money for the poor, but I was going to take to the road and make my way to Avignon. It’s warmer there and the Pope has his own wealth; it’s a city of –’
‘Greed,’ Blackstone interrupted. ‘I’ve been there.’
Robinet shrugged. ‘I think I would like Avignon,’ he said. ‘And now that you’re not going to kill me perhaps my… let’s call it desire… my desire might serve us both.’
‘How does your… let’s call it greed serve?’
‘The fact that Sir Louis de Joigny is a prisoner will not hinder his authority among the French once his ransom is paid. He will find power elsewhere. He will cast the same shadow of fear on us all. I may be a contradictory priest but I could take my tale of misery to the Pope and with sufficient embellishment I could have de Joigny excommunicated. I could cause his family shame. It could serve as a fitting revenge on behalf of us all.’
‘Then you should start walking. Avignon is a long way.’
‘He would hear of it and have me hunted down and flogged, or more likely stripped and mutilated; a victim of brigands is the story that would be told.’
Blackstone waited. There was more to come.
‘If Sir Louis de Joigny were to be killed then much could be achieved,’ he said. ‘I would be safe to do as I wish and the people of Cormiers would be free of a tyrant and the English could stay here until hell freezes over.’
‘And who would do the killing?’
‘I would expect it to be you.’
‘And why would I kill him?’
‘Because if you agreed then I believe your friend here might have a chance to live. A slim one, but a chance.’
Blackstone grabbed the priest’s cloak and yanked his face close to his own. ‘Bastard priests don’t bargain with my friend’s life.’
‘It’s all I have,’ said Robinet confidently without any hint of begging.
Blackstone thrust him away. ‘How do I save him?’
‘Two days’ ride away is a man who conjures healing magic. He uses herbs and incantations.’
‘Sorcery is condemned by the Church and herbalists by the French King’s decree,’ said Blackstone.
‘Ah yes, condemnation and a King’s ignorance. Medicine and healing, prayer and incantation. Are the latter so different?’
‘You’re a corrupt priest.’
‘I do my best,’ he said, grinning through blackened teeth.
*
Sir John Chandos did as Blackstone suggested. He allowed the townspeople to dig a communal grave and the priest to pray for the souls of the dead, and then he had the surviving French soldiers hanged from the elm trees beyond the walls. Chandos and his men were ready to return to Rheims. Blackstone would stay to keep a watchful eye on Killbere. The veteran slipped in and out of consciousness but when he was awake he ate well enough of the mutton broth and drank enough wine to kill the pain without needing the careful administration of hemlock. He snarled when the fever clouded his mind and cursed those caring for him, insisting he was not injured sufficiently to need fussing over. The tirades came and went and Blackstone and the men were grateful whenever Killbere fell into peaceful sleep. It was a mystery to them why such an ill man should eat and drink so well. It was because his dying body demanded it, the priest told them. It was a bad sign, n
ot a good one. There were probably only days left before Killbere died.
Chandos commiserated with Blackstone. Killbere’s death would be a loss. He promised that a mass would be said for such a loyal servant of the King once the news was taken back to Rheims. ‘And we shall tell the Prince of what you did,’ he said as he prepared to leave. ‘And your good advice. A Christian burial offered them solace.’
‘Some. But not enough,’ said Blackstone.
Chandos grimaced. The noise from the streets beyond the square was proof enough that the town would never declare itself for the English King. Soldiers blocked the streets as townsmen and -women hurled abuse at Sir Louis de Joigny who rode between two men-at-arms at the front of the column behind Sir John.
‘They would tear him apart like a pack of dogs now that his soldiers are dead,’ said Blackstone. ‘Give him to them.’
De Joigny stared down his beaked nose at the scar-faced knight who had placed a hand on his horse’s bridle. He wrenched the reins free and addressed Chandos. ‘Sir John, I am not to be insulted by a common mercenary.’
‘He is more than that, my lord, he serves my King and my Prince,’ said Chandos. ‘He is held in high regard.’
‘Not by me,’ said de Joigny. ‘I know of his reputation. A paid killer without honour. A man who once tried to slay my King. You heard what he said: he would throw me to those vermin. I am a royal captain. Respect is my right.’
Blackstone smiled. ‘Your shit does not smell sweeter than any other man’s. I have slain better and braver men than you and were it in my hands you would be hanged, drawn and quartered and your guts fed to the dogs while you were still alive.’
De Joigny leaned forward in the saddle, his sneering face closer to Blackstone’s. ‘I am under the protection of a gentleman and a Knight of the Garter. You are a barbarian. A peasant who should have been kept in the fields.’ He hawked and spat at Blackstone.
Blackstone did not flinch but his hand snatched de Joigny’s belt and hauled him to the ground. The horses spooked and Chandos cursed as his own horse veered away. The Frenchman gasped with shock but his hand went to his belt to draw a dagger. Before it could be eased from the sheath Blackstone slapped him hard with his open hand. The man’s knees went from beneath him but Blackstone’s strength hauled him free of the nervous horses and then flung him down onto the cobbles for all the town to see. The crowd fell silent, their gasp of disbelief heard at the gates.
