Defiant Unto Death (50 page)

The priest shrugged. ‘The heart can grow tired through fear,' he answered. Blackstone studied the man's face. It would be impossible to detect a lie from Rodolfo Bardi's personal spiritual adviser, a man whose influence went beyond the pastoral care of others. Niccolò Torellini bargained with the great and the powerful. Inscrutability was his trade.

‘And the soldier who was killed?' Blackstone asked.

‘I was asleep. I don't know what happened. Sergeant Jacob killed him. That's all I know.' He caught sight of Henry, relieved that it would halt any further questions. ‘There he is; I'll fetch him. And we should talk – about other matters.'

Blackstone watched as Father Niccolò bobbed his way through the jostling crowd, a nod here, a smile there, as he acknowledged greetings from those who were obviously rich and influential. Blackstone had seen the same arrogance of nobility and wealth among Norman barons and French lords, men who could wield power without getting blood on their own hands. For that they employed soldiers such as him.

The crowd thinned, allowing the priest to shepherd Henry over. The boy gazed at his father, who smiled, but noticed a shadow flicker across the boy's eyes.

‘I knew you would return, Father. I knew you would win,' he said and stood waiting hopefully for his father's embrace. Man and boy stood in silence, neither reaching for the other.

‘Welcome your father,' the priest said, bending down to the boy.

Henry stepped closer and extended his hand. ‘Welcome home, Father. I'm happy you were not injured.'

Blackstone smiled and grasped his son's hand, and felt that the skin was moist. Fear.

Blackstone's reputation had drawn the men who now waited for orders, but it was Sir Gilbert Killbere whose fearless leadership offered them a chance of wealth that went beyond the usual wages of banditry. He kept the men encamped a couple of miles from Avignon on the forested hilltop. They had waited three days since Blackstone had gone into the papal city, resting and organizing their route into Italy, where they could sell their skills to one of the warring city-states. Travellers had told them of large marauding bands who were burning their way along the eastern bank of the Rhône, to Marseille and beyond. French and English soldiers released from service after the battle of Poitiers had joined marauding groups of Germans and Hungarians in search of plunder. From where Killbere's men were camped they could see columns of smoke more than twenty miles away.

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 had 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.