Defiant Unto Death (49 page)

Two miles behind Blackstone's forty hobelars, Killbere travelled with Will Longdon and Elfred's archers alongside a wagon loaded with plunder. Wherever Blackstone looked across the landscape the French were drifting away, some alone, others in small groups of five or six – men who had fought side by side as kinsmen or friends, their skills and courage no longer required. The mortally wounded knight died before Killbere's men reached them.

‘There's a monastery you can take your friend to and have him buried,' Blackstone told them.

‘Sir Thomas,' answered the knight, a man from the first French battalion who had seen the heaviest of the fighting against the English, ‘the graveyard will be full; would you and your men ride with us to the nearest village so he may be buried in the churchyard there?'

Blackstone agreed and the band of men rode on with the knight's body. As they reached the next village a church bell rang out in warning of the approaching men. Villages had blocked the entrance with hay carts, and ditches had been built weeks before to stop brigands attacking at night. Blackstone and his men held off as one of the Frenchmen went ahead seeking permission to bury their comrade in the cemetery. But he was refused. Blackstone went forward, and dismounted. It was an uncommon action for a knight to dismount to address peasants, and the men pressed back a few paces as he stepped forward to speak to them.

‘This knight is far from home, but he came to fight the English Prince who tore apart your land. Would you deny him a Christian burial?'

The throng of men, armed with axes and scythes, shouted angrily, but Blackstone stood his ground. ‘You see men behind me, more than enough to ride through your hovels and burn them to the ground, and yet you still defy us.'

‘We have nothing!' one of their leaders shouted. ‘And these base knights ran from the conflict, leaving us alone to defend ourselves! Where were they when the English and Gascons pillaged and burned? Where? On their arses eating tender meats and drinking fine wines. And now they ask for compassion from those they themselves trampled on! Damn them! They've abandoned France and us! We won't have them buried here – and if you force us we'll dig the bastard up and feed him to the dogs.'

The speech met with a roar of approval.

‘Then you'd rather die,' Blackstone asked, glancing back to his armed men.

‘If we must! We have nothing left but our lives and what good is a life without crops, or stored food? They took everything. Our children already die!'

Killbere and the others caught up.

‘Thomas, kill the bastards and teach them a lesson. God knows I've no love for the French,' he said, glancing towards the French knights, ‘but a decent burial from your own kind isn't much to ask. Peasant scum are the same everywhere.'

‘I used to be peasant scum under the law of Lord Marldon, if you remember.'

‘What you were and what you've become are different matters, Thomas. Sweet Jesus! Torch them, bury the Frenchie and let's be on our way.'

Blackstone called to Elfred: ‘Get me two sacks of flour and a bag of coin.'

Killbere sighed. ‘Thomas, you're as soft as a milkmaid's tit and as brainless.'

‘So you've said before, Gilbert,' Blackstone said and smiled.

Blackstone had the flour and money handed over to the villagers. ‘There's been enough slaughter. Feed your children and buy what you can from the towns.'

The men seemed momentarily perplexed, but the act of generosity made them lower their weapons.

‘You have a priest at the end of that bellpull?' Blackstone asked.

‘We do. We should put it round his neck for all the good he's done us. But purgatory awaits anyone who murders a priest.'

‘Then fetch him and let's bury this man and ask God to cast his benevolence on us all.'

The French men-at-arms expressed their gratitude to Blackstone, whose gesture was more appreciated by them than the English. Once the burial had taken place the knights asked if they could join him.

‘I'm going south to get my family,' he told them, ‘and then no further.' He nodded towards Killbere. ‘He's taking the men into Lombardy. You'd be welcome.'

‘Sir Gilbert?' a Frenchman asked, seeking approval.

‘There's nothing like inviting strangers to a private banquet, Thomas,' Killbere grumbled.

‘We must choose our friends now, Gilbert. We've been cast adrift by circumstance. If we find fighting men who'll stand at our shoulder there's a chance that some of us might live a while longer. There are tavern whores in Italy who've yet to enjoy your charms.'

‘By God, that's a truth. Aye, join us,' he told the Frenchman. ‘We'll find ourselves another battle and be better paid for it.'

By the time the victors of Poitiers were within three days of Avignon, Killbere had accepted fifty-seven more men whose lives were adrift, within two days another seventy, and each time stragglers joined they knew of the scar-faced knight who rode at their head. The resurrection of the boy archer who had saved the life of a Prince at Crécy, been honoured with knighthood and fought to kill a King at Poitiers was already folklore. Sir Thomas Blackstone was a talisman.

Blackstone left the men on a forested hilltop that gave a clear view of the fortress city of Avignon rising up from the cliffs on a broad reach of the Rhone.

‘We'll rest and make our plans for a day or two,' Killbere had told him.

‘And wait for me?'

‘What else? I know you, Thomas, better than you know yourself. You haven't brought these men at your back to abandon them here. You may think otherwise, but there's nothing left for you and your family. And you're no farmer. We'll wait a while. Not too long, mind, so don't you become a damned monk down there.'

‘They'll be looking for whores, Gilbert,' Blackstone said, looking at the unkempt men.

Killbere glanced at those now under his command. ‘If I can keep them back long enough I will. I can't let them loose down there. They'd be like rats in a sewer; I'd never get them back. There are other towns.'

Blackstone ordered his Gascon hobelars and the new men to obey Sir Gilbert. Then, with a brief farewell to Meulon and Gaillard, he made his way down towards the city.

‘Sir Gilbert?' Elfred said as they watched Blackstone and Guillaume ride away. ‘You think he'll come back?'

‘He's done his duty for Edward and now he's to see to his family. You can't deny a man that. But where else can he go afterwards? He'll be back.'

Within the walls of the papal city Blackstone felt like a country squire who'd been looking at the back end of a horse for too long. He stood head and shoulders above those who filled the corridors, which were more ornate than those in any nobleman's house he had ever seen. Courtiers, messengers, bankers and visitors gathered in groups, speaking in a variety of languages and tones, dressed in rich colours of fine cloth, beaver-skin hats and ermine-edged robes. Silk merchants argued with bankers, who made deals with spice traders, who sold their precious commodities to middlemen. The Papal See was open for business.

Blackstone doubted that even King Edward's palace could be so richly adorned. Walls lined with religious frescoes swept colour through corridor and chamber. While one wall extolled the glory of hunting and religious men dressed in splendid clothing, another eulogized the Virgin Mary, while yet others showed the Saviour dying for the sins of the world. Another bragged of fine castles and tranquil countryside, expressing the desires of those who commissioned the paintings. Floors tiled in patterns of flowers and heraldic beasts led to offices of the Curia; courtyards with arches that soared to windows of inner corridors bustled with pilgrims hoping for the pontiff's blessing. Women in brocades and furs, their stewards scurrying behind attendant knights, glided down the passageways.

Niccolò Torellini ushered Blackstone through a gilded door into an antechamber, which in turn led to a scented garden. A small fountain trickled water over stone troughs into a pond. The buzz of voices faded as the doors closed behind him and the stillness of the walled sanctuary shut out the urgency of the heaving corridors. Agnes leaned across the low wall, her fingers dipping into the water as she talked to the fish that rose to the surface thinking she was offering food. Father Niccolò touched Blackstone's arm.

‘I will find your wife and son,' he said quietly. He moved through another door that led to the rooms at the banker's house.

Blackstone walked towards his daughter, listening to her voice as she played in a make-believe world. He stopped a few paces away from her. The warmth of the sun trapped in this courtyard garden and the fragrance of roses and lavender embraced him like a victor's garland. A moment of peace and tranquillity, an image of simple beauty he wished he could somehow preserve.

‘Agnes,' he said gently.

The child whirled, eyes bright with expectation. ‘Papa!' she said and ran into his arms. He held her tightly, the scent of her skin and the touch of her small body flooding him with tenderness and gratitude. She brushed hair from his forehead and traced the scar. ‘Did you fight a big battle?' she asked.

He nodded. ‘How did you know?'

‘Henry told me. I didn't believe him but Father Niccolò said it was true. You want to see the fish? I've given them names.'

He settled her down on the pond's wall and sat next to her as she began pointing out the dark gold and brown flashes that skirted beneath the surface.

‘That one's called the Pope's Hat, there's Aloise and Bernard, but the big one is called Master Jacob because he swims around the others and keeps them under control.'

‘So Master Jacob looked after you just like your fish does with his charges,' Blackstone asked.

‘Oh yes, he looked after Mama and Henry and me. And he told Henry stories about you.'

‘Were they nice stories?'

She shrugged. ‘I don't know. Henry said they were, but he might have made them up himself.'

Blackstone kissed the top of her head and heard one of the doors into the courtyard open. Christiana stepped into the garden as Agnes ran to her. ‘Mama, Mama, Papa is here. He's come back.'

Agnes clung to her mother's skirts, but as Blackstone gazed at his wife's face he felt a tinge of fear. The smile that gave him no chance of victory in an argument seemed subdued. Something had happened. They embraced. He felt her cling to him with quiet desperation.

‘I feared for you,' he whispered into her hair.

She nodded, keeping her face buried into his chest. ‘And I you.'

He wiped the tears from her cheek.

‘And Guillaume? Does he live?' she asked.

‘Yes. He fought well. He's at an inn in the city. I've stabled the horses and stored some plunder there. We'll have some money now.'

She nodded, as if distracted. He had expected some sign of relief at knowing that the squire who had brought them through so much danger was alive and close by. There was joy missing from her eyes.

‘Has something happened to Henry?' he said, his instincts outweighing his desire for her.

She seemed surprised at the question. ‘Henry is well.'

‘Then where is he?' Blackstone asked, trying to ease whatever was disturbing her. What troubled her: had he left her alone once too often to worry that he might not return?

‘Henry goes where he should not. He slips out of these apartments and mingles with the merchants and their retainers in the corridors. He hears gossip and agreements being made. It intrigues him. I scold him but he disobeys me.'

‘He's a boy. Perhaps these walls confine his natural curiosity.'

‘Is that reason enough to disobey his mother, Thomas?'

He saw it again, a downward glance that hid something more.

‘No, it isn't. I'll speak to him.'

She stood on tiptoe and kissed his cheek; then she grasped his hand. ‘I'm so happy that you've returned unharmed. Don't leave us again, Thomas.' She looked at him. ‘Promise,' she said, and then ran ahead with Agnes, laughing as they brushed their hands across the lavender bushes and then cupped the fragrance to their faces – as if no such promise was expected.

Blackstone bathed and then ate the food served by Torellini's servants. Christiana told him about their river journey and how one of the soldiers had drawn a knife and threatened her, and how Sergeant Jacob had killed the man. She made no mention of the assault on her. Blackstone knew she had sufficient strength and willpower to endure hardship and fear, but perhaps the incident with Rudd in the confines of the barge had placed her too close to the killing. Blackstone held back from telling her of his own journey and the battle at Poitiers.

‘I'm going to find Henry,' he said.

She reached out for his hand. ‘Does King John still live?'

He nodded.

‘Then no good came of it. You should have stayed with us,' she said in answer to his failure.

Father Niccolò guided him through the corridors of the papal city. It was only when the groups of men moved from their path that some glanced up at the tall knight and reacted to his scarred face.

‘Have you spoken to my son while he's been under your protection, Father?' Blackstone asked as the priest ushered him into an alcove, where the dim light subdued his presence.

‘He keeps much to himself,' the priest told him, ‘but he is brave and strong, and he studies hard the books I give him. His Latin is good, and I am teaching him Tuscan, which is the more pleasing of our dialects. You should be proud of him. Sir Thomas, there are rumours racing through the corridors about what is happening to France now that the English have been victorious. We should talk. I have a proposal for you. It would benefit you and your family.'

Blackstone had kept his gaze on the crowded corridors, searching for his son. When he turned his attention back to the priest it was to seek the truth of the matter: ‘What has happened to my wife?'