by David Gilman
‘Even colder up here,’ said Will Longdon. ‘I hope there’s meat and wine waiting for us. My arse aches and my stomach growls.’
‘Pottage and Gascon wine if we’re lucky,’ said his ventenar, Jack Halfpenny.
Killbere half turned in the saddle. ‘If you’re lucky enough to be fed you keep your bows with you. We’ve a Spanish lord and his men inside these walls and what they can’t take as a trophy in battle they will steal. An Englishman’s bow is a prize.’
‘And a Welshman’s,’ called Meuric Kynith, Longdon’s other ventenar.
‘Any damned bow, you heathen Celt,’ said Killbere. ‘Any archer loses his bow to a scab-arsed Navarrese thief, I’ll have him flogged.’
Blackstone glanced at the veteran knight at his side. ‘Gilbert, our archers wouldn’t relinquish their bows even in the grip of death. There’s no need to lecture them. Think of the years we have fought together. Not once have we seen any of them cast aside or lose a hemp cord, never mind their bow.’
‘They’ve been wintering these past months, Thomas. You kept them busy, I’ll grant you; building walls and exercising horses keep a man’s muscles taut, but it softens their brain. They need a kick up the arse every once in a while.’ He looked over his shoulder. ‘Especially archers.’
‘And you kicked my arse often enough when I was a lad and pulled a bow for the King,’ said Blackstone.
‘You deserved it. And it did you no harm. I take pride that my boot and the flat of my hand kept your senses sharp. How else would you have become the King’s Master of War?’
‘How else?’ Blackstone smiled as the gates opened.
CHAPTER TWO
Blackstone and Killbere stood in the corridor outside the great hall waiting to be beckoned inside. The Prince always travelled with an entourage and his presence in Agen was as well attended as ever. He had been in the city since November, not only to have homage paid to him by Gascon lords but to meet the Pyrenean rulers. It was Charles of Navarre who now commanded the Prince’s attention.
Killbere muttered out of the side of his mouth. ‘Navarre is odious, despicable and treacherous. Let’s be careful, Thomas. This wheedling bastard will have us shed blood for him if we are not cautious. The Prince values us yet we are but pawns in his grand scheme.’
‘What scheme is that?’ Blackstone whispered back, glancing at the court officials, aides and clerks who jostled along the corridor, any of whom would be eager to hear a note of dissent and report it to their superiors. It was how courtiers gained promotion and favours.
‘How in God’s name am I to know the mind of a prince? My bowels tell me this meeting will place us in jeopardy. There were two hundred men-at-arms preparing to move in the outer ward. Their horses looked fresh and so did they.’
‘They’re not troops readying for war, Gilbert, they’re the Prince’s entourage. I saw William Ashford and his men. I think the Prince is soon to return to Bordeaux.’
A flurry of activity caused a rise in the hubbub of voices. Blackstone was tall enough to see over the surge of courtiers and glimpsed a nobleman wearing an adorned cloak. He came out of a room further along the passage and turned away, followed by his personal retinue.
‘What?’ said Killbere.
‘Navarre. He’s just left.’
‘Are you sure it was him?’
Blackstone nodded. The man’s haughty bearing would have picked him out in a crowd even without the fur-collared embroidered robe.
Before Killbere could say anything more a servant swung open the doors, revealing a vast chamber decorated fit for a king or prince even though the castle at Agen had only been a temporary residence. Richly coloured tapestries hung from every wall. Ornate designs of swans with women’s heads hung each side of a centrepiece, black with emblazoned silver ostrich plumes. It was the Prince’s duty to administer the Duchy of Aquitaine and every man and woman who had the honour to be in his company loved and admired him. After the privations of years of war, the Prince’s extravagant feasts and entertainment had become a byword, serving the dual purpose of impressing those who needed to be impressed and uplifting the spirits of a nation that had endured great hardship. Blackstone knew that this room was where the Prince had governed the duchy over the past months and had accepted the allegiance of a thousand lords. Edward’s warmth, conviviality and largesse had brought disparate leaders and their fiefdoms under his control.
Now the Prince stood, one arm leaning against the high mantel above the log fire as he gazed into the flames. Rugs and fresh reeds smothered the stone floor; a table, long enough for two men to lie head to toe, showed an unfurled map in front of the Prince’s upholstered chair. Another door led off from the far corner, used no doubt by Navarre to leave the room. Did protocol demand the arrogant aristocrat avoid meeting the scar-faced knight who had been essential to his success years before when he had defeated the peasant uprising?
Blackstone and Killbere bowed.
The Prince, smiling, turned away from the flames and the thoughts that consumed him. ‘Thomas, time has healed your wounds?’
‘Thank you, highness, yes, I am well. Your physicians were most attentive.’
He faced the Prince whose destiny had been entwined with his own since boyhood, when they had fought at Crécy and Blackstone had saved Edward’s life. Their journey thereafter had been fraught, through turbulent years of defiance and disagreement, until finally time and circumstances had healed the rifts. Despite it all, the years had solidified Blackstone’s iron-hard loyalty until once again, at great risk to his own life, he had saved the Prince from the assassination attempt at Bergerac the previous August. The attempt resulted in Blackstone suffering near fatal wounds when he fought an old ally. A friend who had become an enemy.
Those events had made the Prince of Wales genuinely concerned for Blackstone’s wellbeing. ‘I thank God for his blessings, Thomas. We had prayers said for you. So too our father.’
‘I am grateful, my Prince.’
‘We feel we should have had our priest spend more time at your bedside while you recovered. A psalter read before retiring calms a man’s mind. The psalms are words of comfort and wisdom. And your life is spent in the valley of the shadow of death, Thomas.’ Edward smiled, knowing the seriousness of his suggestion would not sit well with the Master of War. ‘Perhaps the Goddess of the Silver Wheel has more sway over you than we appreciate.’
Blackstone unconsciously touched the archer’s talisman at his throat. Arianrhod. The Celtic goddess who protected in this life and carried the fallen across to the next.
‘I’ll take my comfort where I can find it, lord.’
‘And your son, Henry?’
Blackstone felt the pang of separation at mention of his son. ‘My Prince, as you know, after his own injuries were attended to, he was granted a scholarship at Oxford by our gracious lord King.’
The Prince nodded ‘He has our father’s protection. England would seem to be the safest place for Thomas Blackstone’s son. We trust you are content with him using his mother’s maiden name? Father Torellini advised it would be wise.’
‘I am unable to give you enough thanks for his well-being, highness.’
‘Thomas, you have saved the King’s son’s life twice. It is a gesture of gratitude from our King. We hope he is a good student.’
‘He’s a stranger to England. He was born here and what education he has had was in Florence and Avignon. He has seen bloodshed enough for a boy his age, so I pray he settles and realizes his good fortune.’
‘We are certain he will do well. And you, Sir Gilbert, are you as anxious as ever to confront our enemies?’
‘I seek only to serve my Prince and my King and kill those who come between us.’
Edward beckoned them to the table. ‘Turmoil awaits us at every turn. Our plans for alliances can crumble at any moment.’
‘And the King of Navarre is part of that turmoil?’ said Blackstone.
The Prince nodded.
; Blackstone’s life had been as tainted as others by the King of Navarre. ‘He’s a traitor. As far back as ’46, when I was a boy, he drew the de Harcourt family into rebellion against the French royal family. They executed my friend and mentor. Years later we helped him against the Jacquerie. He is a snake, highness. He will twist and turn and inflict his venom.’
‘Thomas, you are talking of a King. His father-in-law was the King of France and his mother a daughter of the fleurs-de-lys. He has royal blood. You are disrespectful.’
‘My disrespect is well founded, my lord. He will turn on you. The day will come when he will strike a deal with the French. His kingdom is at our backs. He controls the passes over the Pyrenees. Do not trust him.’
For a moment it seemed the Prince might chastise Blackstone. Instead, he nodded. ‘I know all of this, Thomas. The politics of Spain are now coiled like the serpent around us. I favour him only so far. He goes to war. He will attack the French army of the north once he crosses the Seine. He lays claim to the throne of France.’ He paused. ‘Yet again.’
‘Highness, we both know how dangerous that is,’ said Blackstone. ‘The river crossings are few and far between and held by French forces. He cannot win.’
The Prince’s finger traced a line on the map south of Paris along the river. ‘The town of Vernon commands a bridge across the Seine and Vernon belongs to Navarre’s sister, the dowager Queen. That’s her domain. That is where they will cross.’
‘Navarre is no field commander,’ said Killbere. ‘We’ve seen him lead men. Or try to.’
‘He will not lead the troops. He has recruited two thousand routiers, Gascons and Bretons and some English, as well as his own Navarrese troops. Our esteemed Gascon lord and friend the Captal de Buch will command them. Navarre will stay...’ He paused and smiled. ‘… at home. That is the most generous way we can phrase it. He stays in his castle at Pamplona.’
Blackstone and the Prince held each other’s gaze for a moment. The involvement of the experienced commander Jean de Grailly, the Captal de Buch, was not lost on Blackstone; some of his own men-at-arms were Gascons and one of his ablest captains, Beyard, was a sworn man to the Captal.
‘My Lord de Grailly wants my men?’
‘Yes.’
‘Highness, that leaves me depleted. I have a small command by choice. We are close knit. We travel fast. I can rally a thousand men and more to meet your own demands when the need arises but I need men with me who have fought together. Who know what to expect of the man at their shoulder. At least let me keep my captain Beyard.’
‘No. He goes with de Grailly. He needs him.’
Blackstone was about to protest but the stern look from the Prince stopped him. ‘Do not challenge your Prince’s decision, Thomas.’
Blackstone dipped his head. ‘My lord. May I ask for those men taken from me to be replaced from your own?’
‘Who?’
‘William Ashford from the King’s guard and his dozen men. They rode with us when he accompanied Father Torellini to Avignon. He’s a man I trust and he would have stayed with us had he not been recalled to accompany you from Bordeaux to Bergerac.’
The Prince seemed uncertain. ‘I value him highly, Thomas. I keep him close.’
‘Highness, I need a man of equal stature to Beyard. If I am to serve you effectively, then grant me Ashford.’
Edward’s reluctance was obvious. ‘Thomas, were it any man other than you we would decline such a request. However, it is a fair trade. He and his men are yours.’
‘I am grateful, my lord.’
Killbere shuffled. ‘Highness, may I speak?’
‘You have spent too many years in Thomas’s company to know restraint, Gilbert. You see the flaws already in this plan?’
‘This matter with Charles of Navarre. It makes no sense,’ said Killbere. ‘We have a treaty with France. Are the English involved?’
‘We are not.’
‘Then we are not to fight?’ said Blackstone.
The Prince leaned forward and indicated Spain. The different regions defined on the map showed the small but strategically important kingdom of Navarre squeezed between the sea and the kingdom of Aragon to the east and the greater kingdom of Castile to the south. Fewer than a hundred thousand souls inhabited Navarre, but its narrow border with the Prince’s Duchy of Aquitaine provided a gateway north into France for the ambitious Pyrenean king.
‘The French expect his troops to enter France further east where their southern army of several thousand are waiting to stop him.’
Blackstone’s instincts warned him. ‘Then you’ll let them travel through your territory, my lord.’
‘Yes. That is all we will do for him.’ He sat in the armchair and fidgeted with his cloak, tugging it across his legs. He looked at Blackstone, waiting for a further response. Blackstone knew there was more to be said. It made little sense for the Prince to help the troublesome King of Navarre. Why risk antagonizing the French? What would cause the Prince of Wales to take such a chance? The previous year Blackstone had secured the loyalty of the Count de Foix, by helping him beat his sworn enemy Jean d’Armagnac. The Count had then demanded a massive ransom on his defeated enemy. The victory and the wealth it subsequently brought had made the Count de Foix a more powerful lord than he had been before the battle, but at least he was no longer a threat to Aquitaine and the Prince. Blackstone ignored the Prince’s gaze and stepped to the fire. If the sight of the flames had helped the Prince order his thoughts then they might help him see the truth behind the Prince’s decision.
He looked into the smoke as a soothsayer might do, to divine the truth. It curled into misshapen faces as contorted as the politics of Aquitaine and France. Now there was a greater game to be played out.
‘There is no reason for you to jeopardize the truce with France,’ Blackstone said. ‘You need to secure Navarre’s seaward ports and have him as an ally because there is a civil war going on in Spain between Castile and Aragon. The treaty England signed years ago with Castile means that if they are invaded you must go to their aide, and if the Kingdom of Navarre is not an ally, then as an enemy he can strike you from the rear. You secure territory for the future because the way into Castile is across the Pyrenean passes and they lie in his territory.’ He looked at Killbere and saw that the veteran knight also understood.
‘So, your highness, you want us to draw the French away from his flank,’ said Killbere. ‘To make sure he can march without hindrance. We’re to be a distraction. Bait.’
‘And that does not implicate the Crown and will not affect the truce between you and the King of France,’ said Blackstone. He faltered. Thought again and faced the Prince. ‘But there’s more.’
The Prince nodded. ‘Agreements are being made and others put aside. Sooner or later you will be asked to fight the French again. Our father must secure Brittany. Charles of Blois threatens us with his claim to rule. Men are already being prepared in the north.’
‘By Sir John Chandos?’ said Killbere. ‘Sir John directs routiers to your cause, thereby denying them to the French?’
‘Yes. Using you to shield de Grailly’s flanks is a means of sending you closer to our father’s choice, John de Montfort, and his bid for victory, without alerting the French to our father’s intentions.’
‘Chandos subdues the routiers so that the French cannot recruit them against Navarre,’ said Blackstone. ‘And by doing that he secures the northern border so that when de Montfort goes into battle against Charles of Blois then it’s the English against the French.’
‘Brittany must be under English rule. A proxy war for the balance of power, Thomas. How else is England to secure territory in France now that we are at peace?’ said the Prince.
‘Does Navarre know of your plans?’
‘He is assured that you will ride at his flank. That is all. The less our Spanish King knows about our intentions the better chance of our success.’
‘But we won’t fight if Navarre gets there
first and wins,’ Blackstone said. ‘Why does he strike now? King John was dishonoured when his second son broke parole but the King returned into custody in England months ago to reclaim his honour. He still rules France. Even if Navarre defeats the army and rides into Paris, he cannot defeat King John. Highness, this makes no sense.’
The Prince stood and gave an almost imperceptible gesture. A servant came forward and poured wine.
‘Thomas, Navarre strikes against the Dauphin before his coronation. The King of France is dead.’
CHAPTER THREE
As Blackstone and Killbere strode through the corridors, armed and intimidating, looking as though they had fought the devil and won, lesser mortals stepped aside. Killbere’s scowl aided their decision. The castle’s inner ward was busy with men and horses who awaited their orders.
‘Jean le Bon dead. The old bastard,’ said Killbere. ‘Who’d have thought after you tried to kill him at Poitiers that years later he would rot on silken sheets, chewed away by disease in a foreign land. Sweet justice, Thomas. It would be a damned miracle if the Dauphin can be stopped before he’s crowned. We should fight with de Grailly and bring his wretched son down as well.’
‘Whatever we think of the Dauphin, he’s a clever man, more so than his father. He might not be a warrior prince but he held us out of Paris the last time we fought. Navarre doesn’t have the skill but Jean de Grailly has. He might yet deliver the crown to an ally of our King.’
‘The French won’t stop until you’re dead and they seize France back from England. You don’t believe the scheming rat the Dauphin would stop his vendetta against you?’
‘No. But we aren’t about to face him on the field of battle. We are not involved in Navarre’s conflict.’
‘Then why don’t we help him and bring the House of Valois to its knees? Even if it means siding with Navarre? At least we would have Jean de Grailly and Beyard at our side.’
‘And defy the Prince?’
‘You haven’t done that before? What’s the worst that can happen? He’ll banish us again. I keep telling you: we can make more money and live a better life in Italy. Father Torellini banks our money with the Bardi. We have enough to live on. We have fought for so many years we should end it with defeating the French. I would die a happy man.’
