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'How many with us?' Blackstone shouted as he came into another small square where twenty or so men were using a horse trough to beat down a heavy chestnut door, its iron hinges the size of a war shield. More bodies lay scattered, blood smeared the walls and the square's flaming torches illuminated the carnage. 'Enough!' answered the veteran knight who pushed past Blackstone, eager to kill. 'Gilbert! Wait!' Blackstone shouted. There were only nine men with them as the others were fighting running battles in the streets behind them. Those who assaulted the doorway turned and in a heartbeat saw that they were superior in numbers to their attackers. Blackstone's feet slithered on blood-wet stone, and by the time he'd recovered his pace two or three men had gone past him after Killbere. Swords clashed; ill-timed strikes sparked against the cobbled street. Some of Blackstone's men picked up fallen shields and came shoulder to shoulder to form a wall against the erratic attack. Blackstone could see that Killbere was in danger on his exposed left flank. The older man would soon go down. Blackstone ran towards him, but three men lunged from a doorway where flames licked the wooden stairwell behind them. The force of the attack pushed him back against a wall as he parried their blows. He half turned, letting the first man's momentum carry him stumbling past into the wall. Blackstone reached down and pulled a fallen shield onto his exposed arm. A sudden flurry of blows from the other two men hammered down on the metal rim but he ran his weight against them and the look in their eyes told him what they saw: a snarling apparition as the shadows contorted his face. He beat them back. One turned and ran; the other sidestepped, swung and cut at him with his arm raised. Blackstone rammed Wolf Sword's hardened steel deep into the exposed armpit, then shouldered the dying man aside. The man on the ground rolled clear, abandoned his sword and ran into the safety of an alleyway.
Blackstone turned to try and catch sight of his friend but Killbere was obscured by two hulking frames: the two Norman spearmen, Meulon and Gaillard, who had brought their men from a side street and boxed in the now helpless mercenaries, seven of whom backed into a corner and threw down their weapons. 'Mercy!' they cried, some going down onto their knees. Before Blackstone could stop his men they had cut into them. Two survivors cowered back, their arms raised in a futile attempt to shield themselves from the coming blows. 'Wait!' Blackstone ordered. Killbere turned a blood-splattered face towards him. Blackstone knew his own would be similarly smeared by the fighting. 'Spare them?' asked Killbere incredulously. Blackstone's men parted as he strode through them. 'For now. Get up,' he ordered. Over his mail one of the men's jupons bore the insignia of his lord, a viper swallowing a child. 'I know Visconti's blazon,' he said and turned to the second man, whose blood-splattered covering revealed a partial image. The cloth was so faded and worn that the image could barely be seen. A crown sat on what appeared to be a woman's head. But instead of arms there were outspread wings, and where there should have been legs were eagle's talons. For a moment the image of those talons clawed at his memory. He knew that coat of arms. He had seen it in the heat of battle.
The men trembled from the exertion and fear of the fighting. Their death was moments away and no man, even barbaric mercenaries such as they, wished to die unshriven. Blackstone laid Wolf Sword's blade tip against the insignia. 'Who is this you serve?' he said. The sharp point, although only laid gently on the cloth, caused it to tear. The man pushed himself back against the wall. 'Werner von Lienhard,' he answered. Blackstone said nothing; his men were waiting for him to push the blade through the man's chest so they could be about their business of stripping whatever wealth could be found on the men they had killed. Then he spoke. 'Your German lord. Where is he? North with Visconti's other troops? Or with the column?' 'Milan,' the man said, his voice croaking from lack of water. 'How many men in the column?' Blackstone asked. The two men looked at each other and shrugged, shaking their heads with uncertainty. 'A few hundred, lord.' 'Their route home?' Blackstone said. 'Through Vani del Falco. We were to follow them.' The man went down on one knee and his companion quickly followed. 'Mercy, lord. We will do whatever you ask of us. Spare us and we will serve you.'
Killbere's sweat-streaked face glowered with impatience at Blackstone. 'We have more to kill, Thomas. We can't stand here all night talking to these vile bastards.' Blackstone lowered his sword. 'I'll spare them,' he said. 'But bind their arms and keep them safe.' 'Bless you, lord! Bless you!' the men blurted. Killbere fell in step beside Blackstone as he strode across the square. 'You've a reason for this?' 'It will be dawn soon. Those we didn't kill will have run for the river. Organize the men, Gilbert. Find as many of the townspeople as you can.' 'Thomas, you're thinking up more trouble for us. Sweet suffering Christ. We've bled enough. We've lost men tonight.' Blackstone turned to face the man he respected more than any other. Killbere had fought for his King, had stepped in front of the English army and urged them to stand shoulder to shoulder against the French. And yet he had chosen to follow Blackstone into exile and serve him. 'Gilbert, trust me.' The older man hesitated, and then nodded. Fatigue and exasperation were getting the better of him. He muttered something incoherently under his breath and turned away to do Blackstone's bidding.
A harvest of white-fletched arrows stood proud from the bodies of those men who had tried to escape. Will Longdon's archers had unleashed their shafts in a storm that would have brought terror and incomprehension to those attempting to evade Blackstone's swordsmen in the town. The bowmen could bring down their target at three hundred paces; at two hundred, illuminated by the campfires, the retreating men simply ran into a curtain of arrows that fell from the night sky. The archers held their positions until Blackstone sent word for them to cross the river into the field of slaughter and protect his flank in case of any possible counter-attack. Longdon's men gathered their bloodied arrows, their bodkin points easier to draw free from their victims' punctured flesh than any broadhead. Arrows were a valuable resource, and these yard-length shafts fashioned from ash, as thick as a man's middle finger and flighted with goose feathers, were difficult to replace in any quantity. Once the archers had gathered the arrows they scavenged food and drink from the campsite and then, content with their night's work, they settled into their defensive positions and began to straighten and repair the fletchings. A decent arrow would repay its fletcher's skill by killing more than once.
Dawn brought with it the acrid stench of spilled blood as the breeze tugged at Blackstone's banner that now fluttered from Santa Marina's bell-tower. Villagers emerged from cellars and hiding places; others returned cautiously from the wooded hills and caves that surrounded the town. By nones they were gathering their dead, laying out the corpses in one of the small piazzas where donkey carts stood ready for them to be loaded for burial. 'Thirty-two of Visconti's men dead in the field, another thirty-seven here,' reported Meulon to Blackstone. 'Most of the bastards took fright when they saw you running out of the darkness,' said Perinne, one of Blackstone's longest-serving Frenchmen. 'The sight of you and Gaillard could curdle a mother's milk.' The weary men leaned against the church wall; some sat with their backs pressed against it, cleaning their weapons. They had found bread and cured meat and drank wine taken from the houses. 'How many did we lose?' 'Nine. Two won't see out the day.' John Jacob told him the names of each man lost in the night's fighting. Blackstone knew them all, though some of the names could not be given a face. No matter. They had fought as expected and would be buried in Santa Marina's graveyard with a prayer said over them by their priest.
'Where was the priest hiding?' Blackstone asked. 'The bell-tower,' said Gaillard. 'Should have had Jack Halfpenny bring down the black crow,' said Killbere and spat. 'Will's a better bowman,' said Gaillard. 'Jesus, it doesn't matter who, you Norman oaf! Any damned archer would have done!' said Killbere. 'Thomas, what's next? Back home for a hot bath, some mulled wine and a soft-breasted woman? I'm in need of sustenance.' 'Not yet, Gilbert. We've work still to do.' Blackstone raised his arm and gestured to the soldiers across the square. The men herded the survivors forward. They stood on steps and walls and gathered in cobbled alleyways. Looking down at their dead they waited in silent obedience, not knowing what demands would be placed upon them by this new group of mercenaries. The priest was brought forward. He had spent thirty-eight of his sixty-one years being shunted from village to village. He was a troublesome priest who railed against levies imposed on the villani by bishops and landlords, but who, five years before, had found himself blessed by being sent to Santa Marina. Bypassed by the pestilence, they believed that God had given them life for a reason other than to have their labour abused by low payment from those who bought their food. It had been the priest who had encouraged the villagers to make a stand and demand better payment. It had been he, he reasoned, who had brought this act of retribution down upon them.
'Your banner flies from my church,' he said to Blackstone. 'Défiant à la mort. I know enough of the language to understand it. The next time these men attack they will tear down the church stone by stone to reach it. But I will defy them. In God's name and in the name of Sir Thomas Blackstone. These people of Santa Marina will offer prayers every day for you and your men.' Killbere hawked and spat, then sighed, arms folded across his chest, his lack of interest plain for the priest to see. 'All of you,' the emboldened priest said. 'There will be no further attacks against you. My banner guarantees it,' said Blackstone. 'It's better than a thousand armed men protecting you,' said Killbere, wishing to add emphasis to Blackstone's reputation. Blackstone turned the priest's shoulders so he could face the townspeople. 'How many people died here?' The old priest shook his head. 'Three hundred, perhaps. I cannot yet say. We have not searched all the houses for their bodies.' 'And those who live?' 'The same number. I pray more.'
'Listen to me, old man! Those who attacked you were only part of a column that is making its way back to the safety of their own territory. These villagers know the mountains. Will they fight?' Killbere and those within earshot looked momentarily startled, as did the priest, whose shock was more apparent. Townspeople or villagers did not fight armed men. No peasant ever raised a hand against professional soldiers. Words failed the old man; his jaw opened and closed, his eyes widened. 'Will they fight?' Blackstone said again. 'My men and your people can ambush those who caused the slaughter here. An ambush will not kill them all, but we'll take plunder, which will be shared with you. Horses, weapons, cloth, coin, supplies, carts and mules. It will provide some degree of recompense. We can isolate them and kill at least a third of them. As many of them as they slaughtered. You know these people. Speak to them. They say no, and my men and I return home within the hour.' He pushed the recalcitrant priest forward until his sandalled feet stood in pools of blood that had seeped from the bodies laid in the square. He fumbled his words, uncertain how to rouse the townsmen to strike back – and then a lifetime of preaching sermons came to his aid. His voice carried across the square, urging the people to join Blackstone and his men and smite down those who had brought such grief and sorrow to their town.
'Thomas, you've a March hare for a brain at times. These peasants can barely wash their own arses,' said Killbere. Blackstone looked at the men, who obviously shared Killbere's doubts. The priest had come to a faltering stop. No voices were raised to join the fight. But they had not moved away. They were waiting for something more. 'They know every hill and crooked mountain path; they can throw rocks and loosen boulders. They can snare hundreds of men in the ravines and fall on them with staves and pitchforks. We can kill even more, and if we do those bastards will not come this way again and these people will be free. They will be respected by those who would wish to treat them otherwise.' Killbere stood closer to Blackstone. He raised his mouth to Blackstone's ear and in barely a whisper said, 'Thomas, you are no longer a stonemason living in a village under Lord Marldon's jurisdiction. You are more than that. You always have been. You cannot give them false hope for such freedom. They have not fought the wars you have endured,' he said. He spoke the words in kindness.
Blackstone placed a hand on his friend's shoulder. 'I will always be that stonemason, Gilbert. I'm a common man and that can never change. I can give them the fury to fight.' 'How?' said Killbere. Blackstone gestured to two of his men who stood guard at a doorway. They dragged out the two surviving mercenaries. Blackstone made his way into the square, the guards manhandling the frightened men to him. 'You have a chance to reclaim your lives!' he called out. 'We came here because we are paid men! Condottieri! And you have seen that we can inflict a greater slaughter on them even though there were fewer of us! Come with us today and I, Thomas Blackstone, will give you revenge! Seize it!' He grabbed the two terrified men. 'Sir Thomas, you said you would spare us!' one of them begged. 'I did,' Blackstone answered. 'Now it's up to them.' He threw them into the square where they stumbled and fell over the corpses. The men slipped in the gore, then stood like wounded beasts surrounded by a pack of wolves. One raised his hands in supplication. Nothing happened. No one moved. The two men carefully tried to back away, stepping over the bodies of women and children. It seemed they had a chance to escape. And then a villager's angry voice cried out. It was a shriek of agony so piercing it shocked the crows from the roofs. Another voice joined the cry. And another. A cacophony of pain rose up from the crowd. No words were spoken, no blasphemous curse, no threat issued. Just howling anguish that chilled the blood and held all those who were witness to it rigid with expectation.
Then someone in the crowd threw a stone that struck one of the mercenaries. He went down on one knee, but staggered to his feet again. Both men tried to retreat, but the howl of anguish became a roar of hate. Another came forward with a stave as a woman pushed her way through from the other side of the square brandishing a fire iron; within moments others surged across the corpses of their own loved ones towards the helpless men, who tried to run. Their cries for mercy were drowned. They fought with their fists, but went down beneath the flailing attack. Soon the men were dead, battered beyond recognition. Thomas Blackstone had gifted the villagers with blood-lust. * The townspeople ran across tracks that were little more than scars in the hillside. They ran as if in a swarm – no single track confined them; instead they swamped the hill, picking their way along routes used since their ancestors first grazed goats high in the mountains. Blackstone kept up as best he could, but these sure-footed peasants were used to steep climbs and twisting tracks and he and his men were forced to stop, gasping for breath, by the time they had reached two-thirds of the way up the steep incline.
The men's heaving lungs were raw from exertion, but if they stopped too long their limbs would seize and make the final push to the summit more difficult. 'They're like fleas on a dog's back,' said Perrine. 'We're going to lose sight of those up front. God knows what sort of fuck-up they'll make when they find the column.' 'He's right,' said Killbere. 'Thomas, you should take the archers and some of the others to get up there with them. I'm too slow, so I'll follow those breaking off to the right. It's less of a climb and they must be working their way around the hilltop to flank the column.' The men hawked the phlegm from their lungs and throats, bent double to ease their pain. 'I'll take thirty men with Sir Gilbert,' said John Jacob. 'If you can get the higher ground with Will Longdon's lads, then you'll cause the Visconti's men pain and give those mad bastard peasants a chance not to get themselves slaughtered.' 'Virgin's tears,' said Longdon and then smiled. 'You men-at-arms always expect us archers to do the hard grind.'
'It's a mark of our esteem for your killing skills,' said Killbere sarcastically, ready to move on, determined to show the younger men that he was fit enough to lead the flanking assault. 'Pick your men,' said Blackstone and turned to run up the mountainside. Longdon gritted his teeth, settled his war bow into its linen bag across his back, and followed his sworn lord and friend. The archers clambered after them as Killbere and Jacob pointed to others, gesturing that they should join them. Talking took too much air from their lungs; air sorely needed for this last leg-punishing run uphill. It would have taken the better part of a day for a column of mounted men, laden with slow-moving carts and supplies, to reach the defile that ran between the curving passes. The men and women of Santa Marina took less than three hours using muscle-tearing shortcuts. Soaked in sweat, Blackstone pulled free his helm and pushed his head beneath a brook that tumbled cold water between the rocks. 'Shit!' said Jack Halfpenny as the archers sank to their haunches. 'I've barely the strength to spit, never mind draw my bow.'
'On your feet,' ordered Longdon. He was hurting as much as the next man, but needed to have the archers ready for whatever Blackstone asked of them. There was little chance of controlling those townsmen bent on revenge; there was no one to lead them or to take command. 'They've blood in their nostrils, Thomas. Like a crazed war horse. You'll not stop them now.' 'They'll cause damage all right,' said Blackstone. The townsmen were moving downhill across both sides of the road. They did so in silence; no cries echoed along the defile from them and the column had not yet looked up to see their approach. The column had split in two; its vanguard was already moving out of sight around the distant curve, but the main force lumbered along with the wagons. With most of the cavalry at the front they would be hard pressed to counter-attack. To his right Blackstone saw armed men appear from around the shoulder of the hillside. It was Killbere and John Jacob with the others, who were now a thousand yards away and on the far side of the road. Blackstone had to get his archers onto the left flank along the contour line.
'There's more to do, lads,' he told them. 'There always is, Sir Thomas,' said Robert Thurgood. The archer was a newcomer, along with Jack Halfpenny. Neither was yet twenty years old. Lean and wiry, their size belied their ability to draw a powerful English war bow. Both men came from the same village and had tramped across France with the Prince of Wales during his great raid that ended in the slaughter at Poitiers. As children they had stood at the butts and watched the older boys practising archery. Of the two it was Halfpenny who first felt the strength of a bow in his hand and the squirming joy in his chest as the shaft loosed. Thurgood was more interested in shirking work on the lord's estate and was known for an aggressive temper that had seen him punished on more than one occasion. Jack Halfpenny showed his friend how an accomplished archer earned respect and attracted village girls at a county fair. When they presented themselves to Blackstone's captains, the scarred knight himself tested their skills and heard their testimony and Halfpenny convinced the legendary knight to allow them to join his company. Halfpenny had stood silently while Thurgood spoke of battle and killing; of how the English and Welsh archers were the greatest of men and the jewels in the King's crown. Then Halfpenny spoke of the body of the yew bow in his hand and the waxed cord pulled to his cheek, of how the power of the loosed arrow gave flight to a part of him that he could not explain, but that he knew it was a gift from God. Those words gave the two friends the opportunity to join the renowned Thomas Blackstone. Like all fighting men they were hungry for booty if it was to be had, but Killbere was as hard a taskmaster as any they had served before Blackstone. 'And best we get to it before Sir Gilbert thinks we're no better than women gossiping at a bathhouse,' Halfpenny gasped.
The track that followed the contour was level enough for Blackstone and his fifty-three men to cover the distance and, once the lumbering wagons below reached the turn in the road, the villagers began hurling rocks from the slopes. The sudden assault caused chaos. Men who had been slumped half-asleep in the saddle from the dreary pace of pack mules and ox-drawn wagons were flung into panic. The archers formed their line, bent their bows and fixed their bow cords. Arrows were readied. 'Wait,' said Longdon to his bowmen, watching Blackstone gather the half-dozen men-at-arms, ready to plunge downhill into what would surely become a frantic fight for life as the men below realized they were cut off from the vanguard. Santa Marina men and women were forcing iron bars under unstable boulders; others put their weight behind rotting trees, tipping them into an increasing avalanche of debris onto the mercenaries. Cries of alarm mingled with frantic commands from those trapped, whose horses bolted, slipped and went down as riders fought to control the panic. Footsoldiers rallied quickly and began to clamber uphill towards their attackers. Unarmed peasants would soon turn tail.
Blackstone watched as the mercenaries regrouped. They were trained to turn and attack an ambush. If the villagers held their ground then Killbere and the others would have the advantage as the Visconti men tried to fight uphill. The mercenaries' lumbering carroccio was an ox-drawn wagon bedecked with their commander's banners – a command post worth seizing – and which now made it difficult for those ambushed to make any quick response. The oxen that pulled the war wagon sat squarely in the middle of the road, helping to further divide the main force. The carroccio swayed, unsettled by the frightened oxen as men ran past and the wagonmaster hauled on their reins. The breeze unfurled the flags enough for Blackstone to see the Visconti viper twist and curl, as if in that moment swallowing a child. Blackstone wanted that banner. He raised Wolf Sword in command and heard Will Longdon bark his order to the archers. 'NOCK! DRAW! LOOSE!' The creaking war bows, their waxed hemp drawn back, were as much a part of Blackstone as the muscles in his body. When the twanging bowstrings gave flight to the bodkin-tipped arrows, Blackstone ran as if propelled from the straining heartwood of yew.
Shock reverberated through the mercenaries who had clambered up the opposite hill. They were about to wreak slaughter on defenceless peasants, uncertain why the armed men who stood yards behind had not advanced to engage them. And then they understood. Arrows thudded into them, the force of their impact driving through bodies cloaked in mail. Men fell and writhed, contorted in agony. Many were dead within seconds, gasping those last few breaths, choking on blood as heart and lungs were pierced. Those who survived the first arrow storm faltered, then turned back, seeking out the archers. Another terrifying hammer blow fell on them. And then Killbere advanced through the stunned villagers who had never before seen what violence archers could inflict. Blackstone ran hard. Those on the track had realized they had been outflanked and turned to face the attack. Now they had armed men in front and behind and they could see that the archers were firing further down the trapped column as riders tried to make their escape. Blackstone saw Killbere and Jacob in the centre of an extended line as they hacked their way downhill. Meulon and Gaillard speared and jabbed as the townsmen and women scurried behind the killing, finishing off wounded men with knives.
The Visconti men were being overwhelmed by the ambush and the weight of townsmen who still hurled rocks and beat them with staves and scythes as they went down. The peasants raised their voices again: men shouted; others screamed. Blackstone and Perinne were confronted by four men who had formed a wall of shortened lances. Neither had a shield and, armed only with swords, they would not be able to get past the five-foot-long sharpened lances. Perinne bent and picked up a rock and threw it into one of the men's faces. He stumbled back. Blackstone followed the Frenchman's lead and hurled sharpened flints at the men, who seemed surprised that their ranks could be broken in such a manner. Trying to avoid the rocks they raised their shoulders and turned their heads, which made their lances waver and gave Blackstone a way forward. Once behind the lethal points he and Perinne cut down the panicked mercenaries. Enemy riders spurred their mounts into the attack, and three of Blackstone's men went down, but the mercenaries could see there was no escape unless they made a break through the archers' storm and tried to rejoin the vanguard that lay beyond the boulder-strewn curve in the track. As one of the riders charged forward, Blackstone and Perinne grabbed a lance, bent their backs into it and took the horse deep in its chest. The rider fell amidst thrashing hooves and Perinne nimbly danced to one side and plunged his knife into the injured man's throat.
As the pitiful screams of horses began to fade along with those of dying men, one of the cavalrymen rode through the chaos and snatched the Visconti banner. Defeat would bring its own penalty from his master, but to salvage the flag from the hands of their enemy might purchase some grace. Blackstone picked up a fallen shield and fought through men disorientated by Killbere's advance. As he rammed home Wolf Sword's blade into the back of a man who had turned to face Jacob and the others, he knew it was too late to reach the battle flag. He watched the rider spur his horse into a gully and then found scrub that would hinder those on foot. The fluttering viper took flight. Survivors turned to escape when they saw the flag carried away. They had to run the gauntlet of peasants and Blackstone's men, but some made it into the forest to find their way across the blocked road. Blackstone heard Killbere's voice demanding those who surrendered to be spared. Ransom would be paid, so they were worth more dead than alive. Reluctantly the peasants did as ordered. The fierceness of their own assault now diminished.
* The tumult settled into the stillness that always followed a battle. This had been little more than a skirmish, but Blackstone's men had attacked a column of the enemy three times their own number and, with the help of those from Santa Marina, defeated the main force of well-trained mercenaries. Close to three hundred enemy dead lay scattered on the road and hillsides and as the peasant women went among the corpses to strip them of clothing, belts and weapons, their men turned the great ox-carts around and loaded their plunder. Sacks of grain, cloth, saddles and bridles, bags of coin and armour. Some of the loose horses ran wildly on the slopes; others stood eating grass. All told, more than two hundred of them would be caught. Twenty-eight townsmen were dead, half again wounded. Blackstone had lost only three men. A town had been saved; revenge inflicted; plunder taken. And those who had suffered the defeat would know it was Thomas Blackstone, condottiere of Florence, the outlawed English knight, veteran of Crécy and Poitiers, who had inflicted it upon them.
Blackstone and his men wintered in their own place of safety in the mountains, guardians to the rich city of Florence that lay to the south. Italian lords despised the foreigners among them, who fought with such savagery as to revolt any citizen of a civilized state. They were reviled, but also respected for what they could do. These men seemed impervious to harsh weather; they would fight through winter snows or the worst of summer heat. Fighting was their reason to live and reward for their efforts would come in this life rather than the next. Santa Marina's misfortune had been caused by a broken treaty. A bad debt had needed to be collected by the Visconti in Milan, and although the city republics contracted their condottieri to work within the confines of their own territory, agreements were occasionally made between opposing forces to allow an enemy to cross another's territory. There were times when it suited opponents to agree a safe passage as those who gave the indemnity might one day require the same permission in return. Florence had agreed to let the Visconti recover money owed from an unpaid ransom. Conditions of payment were agreed, a fair price would be paid for any damage to crops or livestock along the way, but when the Visconti forces were returning home they had altered their route and the rearguard of the column, foraging for fresh supplies, entered Santa Marina, where they argued with the townspeople about the price of the food they wanted to buy. Knowing the viciousness of these men and that they had deviated from their journey home raised an alarm that brought Blackstone and his men to enforce the terms of agreement. However, by the time Blackstone received the news it had already been too late for most of those in the town.
Now the history of the battle he and his men had fought those months before had been written by monks in their scriptorium, and the Battle at Santa Marina had covered the townsmen with glory. The deeds of Thomas Blackstone and his mixed force of English, Welsh, French and Gascon, already known for their belligerence in battle, were now inscribed on parchment, though in the writing the fight became more about the courage of the townspeople and less about the condottieri. Some rumours even blamed Blackstone for instigating the violence. Such gossip eventually reached the ears of his men. 'We are obliged to fight by our contract,' said John Jacob as they sat around the fire in Blackstone's quarters. The Englishman's strength and courage had been tested many times and never found wanting. He had been honoured in the past by Blackstone choosing him to carry out tasks that might deter lesser men. Years before he had led men up a castle's sheer walls to help rescue Blackstone's family. John Jacob's men soon learned to trust the stalwart fighter.
'Aye, there's a code of law and we'll be forfeit if we don't,' Killbere agreed. 'If another bloody town gets into a shit pit, we'd do better to negotiate a settlement with the bastards who started it. Why fight to the death?' said Will Longdon. 'No harm in making a few florins on the side. Lift a few sacks of grain, take some horses – they'd only be nags, but it all adds up. And I'll wager there's always a few men in the town with something worth having.' 'We were supposed to rescue the town, not ransom it,' said Jacob. Will Longdon poked the burning logs with a fire iron. 'I've a right to my opinion, and if I see an opportunity where we can gain without risking injury or death, then we should take it. Ransom rather than kill. A man who surrenders forfeits all property.' 'Will's right,' said Blackstone. 'I am?' Longdon said, unable to keep the surprise from his voice. 'But not about Santa Marina,' Blackstone told him. 'There's no negotiating with Visconti's men. They'll never show or ask for quarter. You have to kill them first.'
Killbere sat with his feet outstretched towards the flames. His cloak was pulled around him and he wore a fur-lined velvet cap, said to have come from the land of the Russians. This cap had once graced the head of a merchant from Bologna who had thought to travel through the mountain passes to Lucca. 'We are paid well for what we do,' he said. It sounded as though his words were tinged with regret. 'Winter rations always make you discontented,' said Blackstone. 'Though we've eaten well these past few months. There's been plenty of forest boar.' 'Which has started to taste like old goat. I don't much care for these Italian winters, Thomas. The truth is I don't much care for any of it. The wine is weak and the peasant food barely enough to put flesh on a cur's ribs.' 'But the women here have the flesh,' said John Jacob. 'They give me warmth and comfort.' The others murmured their agreement as Meulon bent to stack more logs on the fire. His great frame shielded the heat. 'Spring is here, Sir Gilbert. The sun already gives us warmth.'
'And you tell me you don't hunger for something other than that?' answered Killbere. 'You and Gaillard. I hear you talking about Normandy. Sweet Mother of God, we are all homesick and that's the truth.' It was always difficult getting the men through winter. No matter how much raiding or defensive work they did, the season ground every man down. 'We are alive, fed and paid without question,' added Gaillard. The other captains nodded their agreement. How often did lords of their manor or even their sovereign neglect to pay their fighting men? 'Paid by clerks who keep a tally. As if we were shepherds,' said Killbere. 'Who leave us well alone,' answered Blackstone. 'The Florentines ask little of us. We choose who we raid. Who we fight and when. We give our loyalty; they give us money.' 'And there's always a bonus to be had somewhere along the way,' said Jacob. 'We captured seventy whores from that brothel in Monte di Castellano last summer.' 'And we give a firm hand when it is needed,' added Gaillard lamely.
The men laughed. 'Gaillard, your calloused palm would take the skin off a pig,' said Will Longdon. 'I didn't mean the whores. I meant keeping other bastards in check,' Gaillard retorted. 'We know that, my friend,' said Meulon, 'just that your mouth was a pace behind your brain.' The conversation was running dry. They had complained enough. 'The day's routine awaits us,' said Jacob, getting to his feet. Routine. The very word was a heavy burden, but one that the captains used to keep short-tempered soldiers out of trouble. A sentry's cry echoed up from the streets below. And then a dwarf on a white donkey rode into view. Thomas Blackstone hated cities. To him they were forests criss-crossed with animal tracks where violent beasts waited in shadows. An enemy was best confronted on open ground. He gazed down at the bristling towers clustered behind high walls from where he camped in the mountains north of the Italian city-state of Lucca. The air was heavily scented with wild jasmine and yellow-flowered gorse. The city shimmered in the unexpected heat of the spring haze.
Lucca. A place of enormous wealth. And treachery. 'It's a trap,' said John Jacob, sucking a piece of meadow grass, gazing down across the vast plain. 'They'll snare you, Thomas,' agreed Elfred, his master of archers, pointing towards the distant city. 'You'll be gutted and hung from them walls and we won't be there to stop it. Damned if you can't see it for what it is. Damned if you can't.' Blackstone nodded. Elfred was getting old but he had seen enough killing and stupidity on the battlefield to smell a disaster lying in wait. 'Meulon?' Blackstone called to the Norman who had been at his side for these past twelve years, who stood like a sentinel, one foot resting on a boulder, his helmet and piecemeal armour at his feet. The bear of a man pulled his fingers through his beard. He had taken to tying its length with a leather cord. His mane of hair and heavy-set eyebrows, under which his dark eyes stared, made a startling image, enough – it sometimes seemed – to make an enemy falter. A fatal mistake. He turned to Blackstone.
'You have more enemies than wild bees on summer flowers,' he said. 'You cannot take men inside with you. And even you cannot take a city's garrison single-handed.' He looked at the others who nodded their agreement. Perinne, like others among them, had sworn loyalty to Blackstone years before when they fought in Normandy and killed the mercenary leader Saquet. He rubbed a hand across his scarred scalp. 'Do not go. It means nothing to refuse.' There was no shame in turning away from a place where a man could be snared like a rabbit. Blackstone looked at the half-dozen men lounging outside the sweet-smelling cow byre where dung and spring grass gave a pungent, comforting odour. Seasons of Italian sun, wind and rain had burnished their skins and highlighted the scars that had been earned fighting at his side. Each was a trusted companion as well as a captain to his soldiers. Blackstone and his men had forged their way through the Alps less than two years before when he was exiled by the English Crown. The slaughter at Poitiers had been a great victory for the English, but Blackstone's blood-lust to slay the French King in revenge for the brutal killing of a friend had offended King Edward's son, the Prince of Wales. He and Blackstone were the same age – men whose destiny had been entwined in battle years before. They had had an uneasy relationship then: a King's son who owed his life to an archer. A common man knighted on the battlefield from whom an uncommon fighter had emerged. Sir Thomas Blackstone was the scourge of the French and anyone else who challenged him. However, his determination to kill King John had blinded Blackstone to the demands of his Prince, who then stripped him of everything – his towns in France and his stipend to feed and arm his men. And in the aftermath of the battle Blackstone's terrible, long-hidden secret had been revealed and had caused his wife and children to be taken from him.
These men served him; some had known him as both man and boy. Others had benefited from his loyalty and friendship. Each was expected to speak his mind. One of the men pushed himself deeper into the shade of an olive tree. As with the others, the hard life of serving Thomas Blackstone showed in Will Longdon's lean and sinewy body, but like any English archer, he had muscle packed across his back and shoulders. Few men could pull the 160 pounds' draw weight of a bow – and none had done it better than Blackstone himself, before his arm had been snapped by a German knight at Crécy. The soldiers of the greatest army in Christendom had been slain in their thousands. Crécy's slaughter was a memory etched on their souls as jagged as a battle sword's chipped edge. 'Pissing against the wind is a drunkard's foolishness,' said Longdon. 'A clear-thinking man would do no such thing. We've fought long and hard, and now you're about to drop your hose and bare yourself to a scabby bunch of bastards who have more money than bed lice in a mattress and servants aplenty to pick snot from their noses. Piss on them, aye, but do it upwind. We could burn down one of their gates and slit a few throats. That'd take their mind off you skulking through them alleyways. And I'll wager there'd be a few silver and gold rings to be had,' said the veteran archer who served as Elfred's centenar. A hundred English war bows were under his command, archers who had been drawn by the reputation of Sir Thomas Blackstone when he had contracted his men's fighting skills to Florence.
Near enough a thousand men stood at Blackstone's back now, straddling hilltop towns and fortifications that barred any incursion from the north and west of Florence. A protective barrier of sword, spear and bodkin-tipped, yard-long arrows, behind which Blackstone's men leaned their weight. The centuries-old ruined tower that offered shelter for their horses also half concealed another soldier. Like the men in the grass it was hard to tell if he was a knight or a common soldier. Each wore a mail coif to protect head and shoulders over padded jerkins with Blackstone's armorial device – a symbol more potent than many a priest's admonition. Pieces of armour on thigh, arm and shoulder gave each of the seasoned fighters agility. Over the years they had taken prized weapons from those they killed, but their greatest weapon was the reputation that went before them. 'The dwarf is an omen!' Killbere said as he stepped from the ruin's shade. He dressed no differently from the others, despite his seniority and the fact that he was a knight of long standing, and had been Blackstone's sworn lord when the young Englishman had first gone to war. Killbere's beard had silken threads of white; his hair, cut close to his scalp, was peppered with grey. He was a ferocious fighter well able to rally men to hurl themselves against an enemy of greater strength. 'Superstition goes hand in hand with the mystery of Christ and his angels.' He grinned at the lounging men and then turned his gaze to where the saddled donkey stood tethered in the olive grove. Sitting patiently like a child, but with an old man's face, the dwarf was dressed in a fine cloth tunic with bone buttons. A soft velvet cap sat jauntily on the misshapen head, which seemed too big for his stunted body, and a pair of fine, hand-made boots graced the feet now dangling from the rock where he sat. Dwarfs were common enough in rich households: they seemed to have a calming effect on horses, and men of wealth and status often had an entourage of these small men dressed in fine livery.
'Dwarfs can be bad luck as well,' said Elfred, and spat. 'Devil's imps.' 'Good luck, too, though, 'specially when he serves a priest,' countered Will Longdon. 'And a rich one at that.' 'You'd as soon lie in a graveyard with a whore than believe in the power of the devil,' said Perinne. 'Only if it were a priest's whore for good luck!' Longdon answered. 'And I'd rattle her bones enough to wake the dead!' The men laughed, but they all glanced uncertainly towards the dwarf, who seemed unconcerned at their deliberations. He had delivered his message from his master – the Florentine priest Niccolò Torellini, who served the Bardi banking family – and what these men did was of no concern to him. He waited, as would any servant, out of earshot and disinterested, for Sir Thomas Blackstone's answer. 'Father Torellini saved my family before Poitiers. He secured them sanctuary with the Pope at Avignon,' Blackstone told them, glancing at John Jacob, who had accompanied Blackstone's wife Christiana and the children on that ill-fated journey and who had slit the throat of the man who had raped her.
'He did,' John Jacob agreed. 'And like Sir Thomas says, we've sold our sword to his master and been paid well. We're of great value to them here.' He hesitated. 'Still,' he said, looking at Blackstone, 'it must strike you as odd that a priest from Florence is now hiding in a church in Lucca, an enemy city. And sends for you.' 'His own master, Bardi of Florence, pays our contract. What cause is there for him to betray me now?' asked Blackstone. 'Unless someone's made him a better offer for your head,' said Killbere. 'These are different than the lords we served in England or France,' he added, nodding acknowledgement towards the Frenchmen among Blackstone's command, 'they at least swore fealty and held a sword in anger. These rich cities buy their protection from us, and others like us, and we do the killing and the dying. Money-men should never be trusted, Thomas. They serve a different god from the rest of us.' Killbere stood in the middle of the men and levelled his gaze on the younger man. He placed a hand on his shoulder in friendship and concern. 'You're an outlaw, Thomas. There's many a man who believes that killing you would please the Prince of Wales. Italians have dealings with the Kings of Europe. If it were up to me I'd have the dwarf on a spit and burn the truth out of him. We'd soon see where the truth lies. Devil or priest's messenger, you'd soon know.'
Blackstone looked again at Lucca's towers, looming like a barrel of spears within the city's walls, each one proclaiming its owner's power. Rich and wealthy families built their towers on a piazza, with a house attached and another tower on another corner, securing their safety. Streets were controlled by rival gangs who made their allegiances to wealthy households, wriggling loyalties that slithered through dark alleys where enemies plunged knife and sword into unwary victims. But the Lucchese were known for buying off their enemies and allowing themselves to be protected by stronger city republics. They were shielded by a powerful allegiance with Pisa and Milan, enemies of Florence. Capture Thomas Blackstone and a vital blow would be struck against the Florentines. Blackstone was as superstitious as the next man. There was a god to be feared, but he wore a silver talisman of a pagan Celtic goddess around his neck. The medallion of Arianrhod had been pressed into his bloodied hands years before by a mortally wounded Welsh archer during the street fighting in Caen – and she had protected him ever since.
'The dwarf is an omen,' warned Gaillard. Blackstone considered the men's trepidation. He smiled. 'Like the Valley of Lost Souls,' he said to them. 'Oh, blood of Christ, Thomas,' groaned Killbere. The others uttered no comment but each made a small gesture of embarrassment or winced at the memory that Blackstone had evoked. When Blackstone had brought his men across the Alps and down into Tuscany they had made camp in the scented hills on their approach to Florence. As darkness fell a flickering light appeared, soon joined by a dozen more, and then thirty and then a hundred. They appeared from bush and tree, floating towards the men. Struck with a terror of the supernatural, the men had watched in silent awe. Legend said that the valley had once been a place of great slaughter and was haunted by a thousand souls who had died without the comfort of sacrament or priest. Dispossessed, they searched for unsuspecting travellers to become their host. Blackstone had felt the chilled blade of fear cut down his spine as the flickering lights swarmed: revenants, the walking dead, unshriven ghosts desperate to take over a man's body and to be reanimated by demons. Men drew in breath and unsheathed swords, making the sign of the cross as they prepared to defend themselves against the malevolent spirits. Blackstone and his company were in a strange land and he knew that if unknown curses and myths were to halt them at every turn they would be no use as fighting men. As his men held back Blackstone stepped into the blinking lights and let them swirl about him. Men swore and prayed in the same breath and begged him to turn back. Blackstone reached out a hand into the pulsating light. He watched one settle and then closed his fist.
A flaming torch revealed a small fly crushed in his hand. No blood or blister showed, no wound or incision, no entry into his body to take over his soul. They soon learnt that they were nothing more than fireflies and, as everyone knew, fireflies were simply the souls of unbaptized children seized by angels. The men's embarrassment knew no bounds until drink and fighting had cleansed them of it. If the dwarf had not been sent by sorcerer or enemy to lure him into the city of towers, then Father Niccolò Torellini needed his help. Killbere knew the argument was lost. 'At least let me come with you. I speak this Tuscan tongue better than most.' 'You have as much skill with the language as Will Longdon who curses in it fluently,' Blackstone answered. 'I'll go alone and the rest of you will wait in the hills for two days and then go back to the men. One way or another you will know what happens.' He glanced towards the dwarf. 'Hold him. If it is a trap, pay him a gold florin and let him go.' 'What?' said John Jacob. 'Free the dwarf with a reward if you're taken?'
Killbere smiled. He knew how Blackstone thought. 'And then we follow him and kill the sons of whores who laid the trap.' There were several gates into the city from which the garrison soldiers on the high walls could clearly see the approach roads across the open plain that might bring an enemy. Danger lay outside the walls. Money had bought safety for the Lucchese. A law had long since been passed that stopped any of the ambitious men in the city from building their fortress-like villas within six miles of the city. The oligarchs were allowed their tower houses within and their villas in the hills. No private army could ever be gathered close to Lucca, which blunted any ambitious merchants' power-hungry desires. Soon after dawn threw its light across the great plain, Blackstone waited with Killbere and Meulon in the foothills, identifying which gate might offer him the best chance of entering the city. Their breath plumed in the chilled air: there had been a frost, but it would soon melt in the warmth of the early spring sunshine.
'Avoid the south-east port, Thomas,' Killbere said as Blackstone pulled a coarse cloth shirt over his head. 'That's the road that leads to Florence. They'll have extra eyes there. Go further around the walls to the Gate of the Foreigners. There will be many wishing to enter the city. The Duomo is close by. It's a good landmark from which to get your bearings.' He saw where Killbere pointed. A steady stream of farmers was already using the narrow road to trundle their produce into the city. And they seemed to be moving through the high gates without being stopped. From where they stood they could see three of the approaches into Lucca. Traffic was moving slowly on the other two roads where small overladen carts of caged livestock, escorted by men and women bearing baskets of produce, were backed up as sentries at the gate impeded their advance. 'They may have extra eyes, Gilbert, but they're not searching too closely. It's the other ports into the city they're checking. If it is a trap they're expecting me to avoid the road from Florence. I'll go in there.'
* Elfred and Will Longdon had relieved a peasant farmer of his heavy bundle of firewood, paying him more than its worth. Despite its weight and size Blackstone could have carried twice as much with ease, but as he got closer to the imposing towers that flanked the high gates, he bent his back and altered his stride to a shuffle. From beneath his cowl he glanced furtively left and right. The huddle of people jostling towards the entrance to the city, and their constant chatter and shouts as they greeted each other and barracked the soldiers to let them through, all helped to conceal the stooping figure carrying the oversized load of wood. There were others with similar loads: fuel to feed the cooking fires and furnaces of the smelting guilds. Others trundled handcarts laden with caged ducks and chickens, pitted wheels rumbling over the uneven road, jostling for a place as pig herders swore and flicked their grunting charges with switches. The walls were over thirty feet high, built of cut sandstone, deep and unyielding, with blocks of limestone spaced horizontally between them that accentuated the curve of the arch. The watchtowers were higher still. A massive double archway, itself twenty feet or more in height, held the double gates and portcullis. If an army made an assault, Blackstone thought, it would take more siege engines than he had heard of in Italy to smash through. He saw crossbowmen on the walls, but their weapons were held casually, without intent. They were garrison soldiers, unused to close-quarter battle. The only weapon he carried was a knife in his waistband that would be lethal in his hands, but the confines of the city's passageways meant that garrison troops could overpower and kill him if they were numerous enough.
At the entrance of Porta San Gervasio he reached the narrow footbridge that spanned the canal: it was only a few feet wide. He felt the worn timbers of the lowered drawbridge beneath his feet. This was the most dangerous moment. Farmers were funnelling into the archway, pressed shoulder to shoulder, close to the sentries on either side. The stone-lined stream was as ancient as some of the city's Roman walls and men and women were plunging folds of material into the water, tanning the fabrics. Two of the women tanners began to argue, their voices pitched high in anger as one grabbed yards of fabric from another, and in the tussle a length of cloth fell into the stream. No sooner had one of the women reached for it than she slipped and the situation quickly escalated; a man pulled the second woman away and slapped her hard. The queue of farmers shuffled almost to a halt as two of the sentries strode towards them to restore order. Blackstone edged forward, taking advantage of the distraction. A woman in front of him struggled with a heavy hand basket as she was jostled. She cursed to another, but Blackstone quickly lifted the basket and muttered an offer to help. His back was so bent his face barely reached her chest; the cowl kept his scarred face from view. By the time she had muttered her thanks and begun a diatribe against the amount of time it took to get into the city these days, the line had quickly passed under the raised portcullis. The sentries looked past him, their eyes scanning the crowd, uninterested in a peasant bent double, or his woman companion who chattered like a caged bird.
The fetid narrow chiassi swallowed the crowds, each alley filtering the peasants away to the different piazzas where they would set up their stalls. Blackstone straightened his back. The sky was pierced by tower after tower, a forest of neatly cut stone blocks of granite and limestone, built up with narrow clay bricks that soared skywards. Some had covered balconies at their summit; most had four- or five-storey houses attached to them. He admired the thinking behind them, for there were no outside stairs from which to gain access. A perfect defence, unless an enemy managed to hurl a torch through one of the first-floor windows. The dwarf had scratched an outline of the ancient city in the dirt. No street bore a name, only the churches, built by the wealthy, who claimed a piazza as their own territory and would then build a private chapel across from their homes, only a few paces away, so they could walk quickly into its sanctuary without fear of assault from rival gangs that supported other families. Blackstone was quickly lost. He cursed to himself. He needed the sky and the touch of breeze on his face to find his way.
Follow your nose, the dwarf had instructed him. Beyond where the iron pots are made, he was to go past the nearest church, then there would be the stench of leather workers; the guildsman's church would be at his right shoulder, another piazza lay to the east, with the place he sought pressed against the north wall. The figure of Christ would beckon him. That was where Father Torellini waited. The hard-baked dirt street led to a darkened passage. He eased the rope supports from his shoulders, dropped the bundle and stepped clear. Glancing down through the funnels of shadows, he saw light penetrating onto small piazzas, some of them barely thirty feet wide. A darkened doorway led into a courtyard, from which he heard voices tumbling from the rooms above. And something else – a steady rhythmic sound that he realized could be heard throughout the alleyways and streets. He looked up at open windows that allowed what little air there was to pass through the buildings. The heat and stench of thousands of people crowded into a walled city, woodsmoke from the fires, the foulness of open drains and the acrid smell of small foundries clung like a miasma to the confined walls. The rhythms he heard fought against themselves like a confused sea of sound. He remembered Torellini had told him there were more than three thousand looms in the city, so great was its world trade in silk. No wonder the Lucchese could buy their way out of conflict. That was what he heard. Looms: the heartbeat of the city. It seemed that every floor of every house released the sound of its promise of wealth. Blackstone felt a breeze waft down an alleyway to his right. That's where the foundry smell came from.
Instinct guided him. Where each chiasso broadened into a square, groups of armed men lounged idly. Some sat with their backs against the wall, others leaned, talked, gestured, argued or laughed. Some taunted others across the piazza, trading insults. But the violence was confined to verbal abuse. These were family gangs, holding their own territory. Blackstone avoided them all, sometimes retracing his steps, finding another passageway, leaving behind another cacophony of metal being beaten into pots. The city reminded him of Paris, though Lucca, as far as he could see, had no wide streets; however, guildsmen were belligerent no matter in what bramble patch of a city a man found himself. Trespass and you would feel their resentment at the end of a club or knife. A dancing bear, chained by a ring through its nose, reared up as a crowd quickly stepped back, amazed at the size of the beast. Coins tinkled in appreciation, and acrobats turned somersaults in the air. A flurry of activity made him press his back into an alcove. A dozen armed young men full of bravado were pushing people aside as they made their way towards him. Was this the trap or a belligerent personal feud between gangs to be settled? There was no point in risking discovery, so he pushed open the door at his back. Voices and laughter echoed from walls that held sconces lighting the steps leading below. Blackstone quickly closed the door and followed the passage downwards. He turned into a basement with an arched roof and sturdy pillars that supported it. Washed-out images on the walls proved to be ancient frescoes of men and women. Fragrant oils clung to the Roman bricks so neatly laid that his stonemason's eye recognized the work of a master builder centuries earlier. Figures moved in the half-light; a splash of water, a woman's squeal and a man's voice bellowing with laughter. The air was heavy and he realized why the fragrance was so strong – it was to diffuse the heavy smell of human sweat. Something touched his arm, making him turn quickly. A woman gazed up at him. She wore a fine silk drape over one shoulder, her breasts exposed. They pressed against him.
'This place welcomes every man who can pay, but there are those present who would object to a man of low class being here. Men of more affluence usually honour us.' She had spoken quietly, as if not wishing others in the shadows to hear, or notice the roughly dressed man who had entered the brothel. Blackstone listened for any intrusion from the street, but the gang of malcontents had passed by. 'Where am I?' he asked the woman. She raised an eyebrow and glanced to where a middle-aged man lay on a narrow bed with a woman straddling him. The dim light caught the sheen of sweat on his balding head and the dewdrop of sweat from her breasts. 'I know what this place is, but where am I in the city?' he said. 'A stranger? Up to no good? Are you a cut-purse or do you have business on a farm stall?' she answered, taking a step back, her voice taunting him. She faltered at Blackstone's silence; his gaze frightened her. She pulled the drape across her breasts, holding it at her throat. 'You are beneath the walls of the ancient city.'
'How close am I to the church that shows Christ with the angels?' She almost sneered. 'You're a pilgrim? And you end up in here? We can show you paradise, stranger.' Blackstone snatched her arm and pulled her to him; the silk fell noiselessly to the floor. She was close enough now to see his scarred face. 'Where is it?' he whispered. Oil lamps were being lit, the cellar becoming brighter and the shadows more threatening as others realized there was an intruder. She gave in quickly, her arrogance crushed by fear. 'The Church of San Frediano is the only one... I think...' she muttered. 'Where?' She seemed confused. Men of God, or those who sought His comfort in a church, were usually more meek than threatening. 'Follow the streets opposite... to the right... and then you will see the city walls... then keep going to your left. It's there.' He released his grip; she stepped back fearfully and bent to pick up the silk drape. When she raised her head he was gone. * Blackstone sensed he was nearing the church that gave sanctuary to the priest. He used the shadows and alleys like an animal wary of danger that could leap out at any corner but he was unaware of the black-cloaked figure who had followed him since he entered the city. The cloaked man's fist rested on his sword's hilt.
As the sun arced its way across the clay-tiled roofs and its rays sought out the darkened squares, Blackstone stepped into the brilliance of a broad piazza. Stallholders clung to its edges as crowds jostled to buy food from their tables. Men and women dressed in fine clothes of colourful silk, some escorted by two or three personal bodyguards, strolled along another street that bisected the square. Beggars came and went among the crowds. Occasionally coins were dropped into the outstretched palm of one sprawled in a doorway. Charity was a fine thing. The rich only paid beggars so that their own sins in this life could be accounted for by the poor in the next. Those Lucchese with money gazed at the shops cut into the walls, the T-shaped narrow doors, flanked on each side by an unglazed window displaying their wares. A shopkeeper stood back in the cool shadows, hands clasped in gratitude as one of the wealthy citizens entered the doorway. Blackstone stayed in the narrow alley at the corner of the piazza, taking in all that went on before him. Nothing seemed out of place, but it was the perfect ambush site. Across the piazza the gleaming white limestone church stood squarely before him. Above its pillared entrance was a magnificent mosaic façade, rich in hues of gold and blue, that spanned the upper width of the church. It showed the Ascension of Christ flanked by two angels and beneath his feet the twelve disciples.
It was two hundred arrow-long paces to the church's door. He waited. A man at one of the stalls bent down to lift a copper pot. With barely a tilt of his head his eyes looked in Blackstone's direction. When he straightened, his gaze went past the woman customer extending her hand with money. Blackstone glanced left. Two men stood examining pockmarked pewter plates. But their faces had turned away the moment their glances met. Hands reached beneath cloaks. These were the professionals. They would have paid others less able to strike first. It was a trap. It needed no prediction from his friends. He expected it. Three, then. Were there more? Christ's eyes gazed down with benevolence. Reach out and ascend to the glory of my Father's house, he seemed to implore. Blackstone kissed the silver goddess. If there were more assassins waiting he could not identify them. Cut a clear path through the crowd, he told himself. Halfway, sidestep to the right; the copper-pot stallholder was the closest. Kill him first.
The others would rush him. The crowd would scatter. Chaos. Go down on one knee and strike upwards. Gut the second man low. Hamstring the third. Panic would do the rest. Blackstone had to reach the Church of San Frediano and its sanctuary. He strode into the piazza and felt the sun's warmth. The glare from the pale stonework creased his eyes. He gripped his knife, holding it down at his side. There were five assassins waiting to kill him. Blackstone eased himself through the milling crowd, edging his shoulder towards the stallholders on the right-hand side of the piazza. The heavy church door was open to allow the citizens of Lucca access to pray. The darkness that lay within might conceal those wishing to cause him harm, but it was more likely that the killers would ply their trade outside the sacred place. Out of the corner of his eye he saw the furthest two men ease their way into the crowd from his left-hand side, and the man who had pretended to sell the copper pot was already less than six paces away, his eyes intent upon his victim. That alone marked him as an amateur, unused to killing with stealth. A common thug hired to do a butcher's work.
The other two assassins still had to negotiate the shuffling crowds, but Blackstone knew the moment he killed the first man they would rush him – but that too would aid him. They would be forced to push people aside and be hindered by them – and he would kill them easily. The first man bared his teeth, his body turned slightly, left shoulder forward, ready to strike upwards with the knife held low in his right hand. Blackstone turned his back on the other two men and pushed himself into his attacker. His left hand grasped the man's wrist in a crushing grip before he could strike, and in the instant before he plunged his knife into the man's ribs, piercing lungs and heart, he saw his eyes widen in surprise that his attack had been foiled and in pain as the bones in his hands cracked from the strength of the man he had come to kill. A stonemason's grip. Blackstone embraced the body, letting the dying man slip onto the ground, and then twisted to meet the rush of the attack coming from behind him. For a few moments there was no reaction from the crowd: a man had fallen; another eased him to the ground. They stepped around Blackstone and the dead man; it was only when the other two killers began to push their way through that people called out in alarm and warning. By then Blackstone was on one knee, letting the first man stumble over him as if caught by undergrowth. Blackstone lunged, slashing the man's hamstring; he crumpled to the ground screaming in agony as he dropped his weapon and clutched at the wounded leg. His shrieks were quickly silenced as Blackstone's knife went into the hollow of his throat.
Now those immediately around Blackstone realized that there was killing being done. Cries and shouts of panic spread across the square as people milled, not knowing which way to turn to escape. Blackstone was already pulling a woman aside as the second man swept down his sword. He had used both hands, a high guard above his right shoulder, but the momentum that carried him forward made his strike clumsy. Blackstone sidestepped, his knife now in his left hand, and, as the man passed him less than an arm's length away, let his blade and the man's own momentum do their work. The man's throat was cut, blood spurted; he dropped the sword and grasped the pulsing wound as he staggered and fell and then squirmed, gurgling, gazing upwards, seeing the vision of Christ beckoning him. The chaos spread like the plague. Blackstone moved towards the church. He made no attempt to run, as he had no desire to alert any witnesses to his escape. He suddenly caught a glimpse of a gaunt-faced man who swirled past him feet away – his black cape billowing with an embroidered blazon on its back that looked like the symbol of an axe with a pointed shaft. He checked his stride, turned and saw the cloaked man wield his sword. Beyond him, a burly man, leather apron pulled tight across his broad body and the look of a blacksmith about him: thickset bare forearms; face pitted with soot; a gnarled hand clutching a falchion raised ready to strike, its short, curved cutting blade a weapon to hack and maim. He was less than six paces away and, had the swirl of the cape not caught his eye, Blackstone's back would have been towards the assailant.
The gaunt man braced, drew back his sword on the barrel-chested man. It was a simple killing. The blade rammed into the man from below his heart, the sudden agony throwing back his head, eyes wide, falchion clattering onto the paved square. Blackstone's mystery saviour quickly withdrew his blade, turned to Blackstone. His eyes darted over Blackstone's shoulder in warning. Blackstone spun, instinctively sidestepped and saw the fifth assassin. He was little more than a youth and fear and desperation creased his face. His clothes were threadbare; the long-bladed knife he wielded might have been fine for slicing meat for the stew pot, but useless in a struggle. Then Blackstone fell heavily, his feet slipping in blood. The boy slashed down, yelling to give himself courage as Blackstone twisted away. The black cloak smothered his vision as the Samaritan stepped over him. Blackstone saw the blade strike the boy, heard a pitiful whimper of pain that was a final exhalation of breath. Blackstone stood and faced the stranger who had saved his life. The man's wiry frame belied his strength and agility. Gaunt cheekbones projected below brown eyes of a piercing intensity. Whoever this man was he was older than Blackstone, closer in age to Killbere. Fighters who had angels at their back had either the devil or God in their hearts.
'Hurry,' the man said and turned for the church. * The small door into the church gave way to a cavernous, vaulted interior. The piazza's glaring heat and the blood that flooded across the pale stones were banished. The cool embrace of the ancient church suddenly chilled Blackstone. Stools and benches were few. Prayer here meant that most worshippers would feel the hardness of the flagstones on their knees. Penance was delivered with ease. The gloom gave way to darkness in the side chapels from which the altar's muted light beckoned. The church was empty except for an elderly woman who knelt in prayer. When she heard the scuff of boots and the closing of the door, she turned, saw the two men, made the sign of the cross and, pulling her shawl further over her face, shuffled away, leaving Blackstone and his Samaritan alone. Blackstone's saviour unclipped his scabbard and prostrated himself full length before the altar. Blackstone could now clearly see the emblem blazoned on the cloak, but still did not recognize the woven double-bladed axe with its pointed shaft. He waited, still wary, letting his eyes adjust. From slashing assault to a house of sanctuary was little more than a dozen paces. Was anyone waiting in the shadows, knife in hand, willing to risk excommunication for the mortal sin of murder in a church?
The black-cloaked swordsman got to his feet and stepped away towards a marble font. He waited, scabbard point to the floor, hands resting on the pommel of his sword, like a tomb's guardian. His eyes, though, stayed on Blackstone. No sound of movement reached Blackstone. He wiped the blood from his hands across his tunic; then he took a dozen paces from the entrance where he knelt and crossed himself, glancing at the silent Samaritan. He would not prostrate himself – to kneel before the unseen God was humility enough when assassins lurked. From the darkness someone whispered his name. Blackstone turned and saw the familiar figure of Father Niccolò Torellini emerge from a side chapel beyond the pillars. Torellini was the proof that Fate had entwined an English King, a French lord and an Italian priest with influence. Blackstone had learnt, years after the event, that this had been the same man of God who had cradled his mutilated body on the field at Crécy. After the battle Blackstone had been given into the care of Jean de Harcourt and trained as a man-at-arms, and then he and his family had been hunted by mercenaries led by Gilles de Marcy – the Savage Priest. It was Torellini who had given Blackstone's family safe passage to the Pope at Avignon, and in return Blackstone accepted the task of warning the Prince of Wales that he and his exhausted army would stand alone against the might of the French King. Much good it did the French. Sir Gilbert Killbere, Elfred, Will Longdon and the others had stood at Blackstone's shoulder and, despite the odds, defeated the French at Poitiers.
'Thomas,' the old man whispered again, a sigh of both gratitude and relief. He barely came up to Blackstone's chest, but he took the Englishman's arms and Blackstone lowered his scarred face to be kissed on each cheek. 'I knew you would come,' he said, and led Blackstone further into the cool shadows. The silent guardian followed twenty paces behind. Father Torellini eased Blackstone onto a bench. 'Here, sit here, Thomas. I prayed for your safety.' His eyes settled on the silver image of the figure with outstretched arms that hung around Blackstone's neck. 'You still pray to a pagan goddess,' he said, though not as a criticism. Blackstone smiled. 'I see her as one of God's angels.' 'Good answer. One day I will believe you,' said Torellini and waited for Blackstone's inevitable question. Blackstone half turned so he could watch the swordsman. The man remained expressionless, but Blackstone's instinct told him that if a shadow moved or a breath of air touched his cheek, the sword would be in his hand.
'Who is he?' Blackstone asked. 'His name is Fratello Stefano Caprini. He is here to ensure that you live long enough to embrace your destiny.' 'He saved my life. There were two assassins I hadn't seen. He's your man? A soldier of Florence?' 'He's God's man. A warrior of the Lord. You saw his coat of arms?' 'The axe? Yes,' Blackstone answered, though there was a nagging memory that he had seen it before. 'It is not an axe, Thomas. It is the Tau. A symbol of the letter that was the first word of Christ. He is one of the Cavalieri del Tau. A military order of hospitallers. These fratelli care for pilgrims and the sick.' 'And outlawed Englishmen,' Blackstone said. Then he remembered a time when he and his men had come across a dead Franciscan monk found after a routiers' raid, butchered and staked to a tree. Around his ankle was a piece of twisted hemp that bore a small wooden cross similar in design. It had been of no significance to the killers, but Blackstone had noticed it when they buried him. He nodded in thanks to the swordsman, but got no response.
'Why did you send for me?' asked Blackstone. Samuel Cracknell lay hidden in a room of a merchant's house in Lucca. He had sailed from England several weeks earlier, bound for Genoa, from where he would be given safe passage to Florence. There he was to seek out Father Torellini who served the Italian banker, Rodolfo Bardi, friend and lender to the English Crown. The priest would ensure that word reached Sir Thomas Blackstone and Sergeant-at-arms Cracknell would then deliver the message whose wax seal bore the arms of Edward, King of England. The ship, an unwieldy cog, almost foundered, but the ship's master saved his vessel, only to lose it when two enemy Pisan ships appeared. The feud between Pisa, Florence and Genoa was an ongoing conflict and although Genoa traded with the world, Pisa ruled the southern waters of the Tyrrhenian Sea. Cracknell had thrown his cloak and tunic, bearing the insignia of a messenger from the court of Edward III, King of England, into the churning sea when the ship was seized west of Genoa. By a miracle his captors did not find the folded parchment he carried or the gold coin sewn into a hem. Cracknell lied to save his life, telling them he was a servant to an English wool merchant, travelling to Genoa to secure a contract and that his letters of authority had been lost in the storm. He bore no emblem or ring of office; he displayed no obvious signs of wealth; he was worth no ransom. It was a grave risk, but one that had to be taken. Had he admitted his true status they would have tortured him and discovered that he carried a letter for the English condottiere contracted by Florence who secured the mountain roads between Florence and Pisa. He risked death because he was worthless to them, unless they sold him into slavery. Every minute he still drew breath would offer him a chance to escape.
The ship's master knew his identity and could have traded the secret for his own safety, but when his captors decided Cracknell was worthless – and moments before they pulled a knife across his throat – the seaman cursed the sons of whores who lived like sea lice feasting on unarmed merchantmen and head-butted the nearest Pisan guard. It cost him his life but it gave Cracknell the chance he needed. He leapt overboard and made good his escape. The crossbow bolt that struck his shoulder was a lucky shot; falling at the end of its trajectory and weakened by the distance, it penetrated his shoulder muscle but lacked the force to shatter bones and sever vital arteries. Desperation drove him inland, where finally his wounds and exhaustion left him crumpled by the roadside. The vagaries of fate might have left him to die where carrion crows would soon feed on him, but he was found by devout Christians, servants of a Lucchese merchant travelling home, who dressed his wounds and took him to their master.
The silk merchant, Oliviero Dantini, faced a dilemma. He found the sealed message, wrapped in a pig's bladder to keep it dry, stitched into the man's clothing. His fingers barely resisted the urge to slit open the folded parchment and violate the royal seal. But a lifetime of deliberation stopped him. He fingered the shiny document, smelling its musk of sweat and salt and the subtle aroma of ink. Cracknell slipped in and out of consciousness and begged that word be sent to Father Niccolò Torellini in Florence. Dantini's words soothed and comforted his distress until finally the man admitted he was a messenger from the English court. No thief then, Dantini realized. The man had travelled several hundred miles to bring word to a friend of England. Who knew? Perhaps even a friend of the King. Others would be on the same journey. One man with a letter would not be the only one bearing such a message. Others perhaps by land. Or by another ship. If he, Dantini, were to contact the Florentine then he would have the opportunity to ingratiate himself with those who had influence with the English King. On the other hand Lucca was an enemy of Florence and allied to Pisa. Where was the profit and loss in this situation? Christian duty had been fulfilled, but commerce and politics made other demands that had to be served.
There was also the danger that the authorities in Lucca would discover that the man he harboured was not simply an injured traveller who might have been waylaid and wounded by brigands. Why, he had asked Cracknell, did he need Father Torellini? But the Englishman fought the pain and shook his head. He refused to succumb to the infected injury that was slowly sucking his life away, or the persuasive questioning of the merchant who leant close to his face and lowered his ear to listen for a whisper of explanation. 'Father Torellini' were the only words he murmured as he slipped in and out of consciousness. The fever caused by his wounds would soon kill him and the merchant knew he had to make a decision quickly. Checks and balances. Dantini never made less than 150 per cent profit on any deal. Influence was a desirable commodity that could be traded. He watched as the physician did what he could to ease Cracknell's pain. He dressed the wound and bled him, then eased drops of hemlock between his lips. If Dantini had not spent time in Bruges, had not conversed in the English courts with other merchants, had not understood and spoke English, he would have let the wounded man die without another thought. But then his fever made him ramble and Oliviero Dantini heard him mutter: Torellini... find Torellini... and... Sir Thomas... Blackstone.
The mention of the Englishman's name made him catch his breath. A mixture of fear and excitement dried his mouth. He knew the risk was worth it. Florence and Blackstone's sword were blessed by the Pope. The great divide between the city republics meant loyalties shifted as soon as one alliance was dropped and another formed. Lucca had Pisa's protection. To have saved King Edward's messenger and delivered the man's sealed orders to the influential priest – that would give him greater access to the English court. And Edward was known to reward those who showed loyalty. Like any business transaction, this situation required some thought – and guile. Those in Pisa and Milan would be generous. The English condottiere was a prize that could be better than gold and someone had already tried to claim the reward in the piazza. Who it was he did not know but it had been a brutish and clumsy attempt. The trick was to kill Thomas Blackstone, but without being seen to be involved. * Blackstone waited with Torellini until the priest finally unclasped his hands. He had twisted and held them in a rare sign of anxiety during the telling of what he knew about the Englishman now sheltering in Dantini's house. The light was fading; they would soon be in darkness.
'I was fearful that when I sent for you I was drawing you into a trap, which is why I asked Stefano to watch for you.' 'Who knew I was coming into the city?' Father Torellini shook his head. 'This merchant made no mention of your name, only that the King's messenger had a document for me. I knew, as did Stefano.' 'Then this Dantini seeks reward for the service.' Torellini nodded. 'The merchants of Lucca have houses in Bruges. They travel the courts – England, France and Spain, the Holy Roman Empire – they take news of who says what to whom and what alliances seem fragile. They speak many languages; it's how the likes of Edward learn what is happening in the world.' 'It's unlikely the men in the square were simple cut-purses. I had nothing they could want except my life.' The priest reached out and touched Blackstone's shoulder. 'Are there any of your men who would betray you? Anyone?' 'Not one,' Blackstone said, barely able to keep the irritation from his voice. 'Thomas, I understand. But a new man perhaps? A woman you lie with?'
Blackstone shook his head. Only those closest to him knew of the clandestine meeting. 'Your dwarf,' Blackstone said. 'You sent him to me. He knew.' 'Paolo? No, no, he has served me for thirty years. I sent him to you when I left Florence. He never came here; he would know no one. I was told to come to this church, and when I got here the local priest gave me the name of the man I must seek out.' 'Whoever is responsible will show his hand again. Are we to stay here for the night?' Blackstone asked. 'No, we go to the house.' 'We can't stumble around without torches, and the city patrols will be on us.' 'No need for torchlight. There is a man being sent who can see despite the darkness.' * By nightfall the city was so dark Blackstone could not see his hand in front of his face. When night fell the Lucchese shut down their looms as master and servant alike went to bed. Candles were expensive and used sparingly. Blackstone held the guide's rope as he stumbled along uneven streets; behind him Father Torellini took his length of rope, as did Stefano Caprini at the rear. The only sound in the narrow streets was the tap-tapping of the blind man's stick as he led the three men through chiassi known to him since childhood. Each brick and stone on the building's flanks told him where he was in these narrow passageways, some barely wide enough for Blackstone's shoulders to pass through.
Blackstone could hear Father Torellini's laboured breath and then, as they made their way beneath the black cowl of an archway, Blackstone sensed they had stepped into a small piazza. The moonless, heavily clouded night sky was a different shade of darkness and the black shadows loomed upwards like malevolent giants gazing down on the intruders. The blind beggar stopped and the men behind him stumbled into each other. 'Thomas, what is it?' the priest whispered. Blackstone made no reply and eased his arm against Torellini in a gesture of assurance. The old beggar grunted and Blackstone heard his hand rasp against the stone wall. And then he struck the wall three times so that the sound echoed around the open space. He paused and then made the same signal again. No one spoke. Then, in the building opposite, Blackstone heard what sounded like a large piece of canvas being moved followed by the creaking of shutters as a first-floor window opened. He could make out a figure lowering a ladder into the street below. The scrape of timber against stone and the final dull sound as it touched the ground made the old beggar grunt again, this time in satisfaction.
No instructions were needed. The blind man tugged the rope free from their hands and tapped his way into the darkness. 'We're here,' Blackstone said. Oliviero Dantini sat in a darkened corner of his apartment that spanned the breadth of the townhouse. Below him were two floors of looms standing silent. If he secured the trust of the Florentine priest, then betrayed his Englishman later, it would place sufficient distance between him and the act. Had he not put himself at huge risk? he would tell the English Court. Had he not done as much as he could? He would kneel before the priest, expressing his humility, and the priest would bless him. And the first step of his new journey would be taken not only with the English but here in Lucca. He could rise to the office of podestà: there was power and influence to be wielded as chief magistrate. God knows he had lent the city enough money over the years, and his influence with the farmers and peasants in the contado would grow – though how anyone could choose to live beyond the city walls was a mystery to him. He had extended the hand of financial friendship to the drapers' guild, and helped to provide cheap cloth for the market. Becoming chief magistrate would allow him to settle scores with rival families. He might even be able to exert influence on communal councils and shape the rural statutes that protected local interests. Lucca was a city-state, its people bovine creatures cosseted by the city walls since Roman times; as the city grew, more walls were built and financial inducements ensured Pisa's protection. Now that trade with England and Flanders demanded even more silk, Dantini could already see himself in the palazzo della podestà, wearing the chief magistrate's magnificent gowns. Or perhaps not? Doubt entered his mind. Power should not be seen but rather felt. No, he decided, the common populace would respect the show. And he could build more wealth, and wealth would buy title, and then he could pay for his own condottieri. A small army outside the walls exerting their strength...
His thoughts were interrupted by his servant's announcement. 'The priest is here, master.' 'Then allow him to enter. Does he need help?' he answered impatiently. 'There are two other men with him,' answered the servant. Fear suddenly stripped away all ambition. He waved a hand impatiently. 'Be certain it's the priest. Make sure! If it is... then... lower the ladder fully. Bring him to me. Go. Go!' He touched his fingers to his brow. It was a cool night but the sweat glistened. He dabbed his face and waited in the half-lit room as he heard the outside curtain being drawn and the shutters opened. He crossed himself and muttered a prayer. If his worst fear was realized, the priest was bringing a dark angel into his house. * Father Torellini identified himself and was beckoned to climb the ladder. 'I'll go first,' Blackstone told him and shuffled forward with the priest's hand on his back for guidance; as he reached the ladder he palmed the knife in his hand. To go through the darkened window into an unknown room was to accept an assassin's invitation. He clambered up and then, readying himself for violence, felt the tension ease from his shoulder as a muted, warm glow seeped from the room. Against the far wall stood a servant holding a candle with his hand shielding the light, casting everything else in the room into shadow. Blackstone could see that behind the servant stood a man, clearly the master of the house, who held one hand across his chest, gripping the folds of his cloak. The figures were barely recognizable, their features almost hidden in the soft light. Blackstone quickly took in what little of the room he could see. It was large and almost devoid of furnishings. Broad planks formed the floor, stout beams the ceiling. There were wall hangings, but he couldn't make them out. He stepped over into the room and, without taking his eyes from the servant and his master, extended his hand through the window.
'Come on up,' he said quietly, and heard the creak of the priest's weight on the ladder below. When the two men joined him in the room the servant passed the candle to his master, who still seemed nervous of the strangers in his house. The servant quickly pulled up the ladder, and then drew an outside canvas covering, held across the opening on an iron rod. He closed the wooden shutters, trapping what little light there was in the room. The merchant stepped forward nervously. Here was the man so many had tried to kill. The shadows heightened the merchant's fear. The dimness served to accentuate Sir Thomas Blackstone's fearful aspect. Thank Christ the Lord Almighty and the blessed Virgin Mary that he had not been involved in the killing in the piazza because who else could know of Blackstone's association with the priest, or that the Florentine was in the city or that the Englishman would come to Lucca? That Dantini protected the English messenger would surely convince Torellini and Blackstone that he was uninvolved in that attempt. Italy swarmed with paid mercenaries to protect city-states. Some were greater than others. But this condottiere who protected Florence was taller than he imagined. This was no squat, muscled man like other thugs and killers he knew of; his height alone gave him authority. Dantini realized that he had involuntarily stepped forward, raising the candle holder so that he could see the tall man's face. The stubble clung to the running scar like scrub on the side of a dusty road.
'Sir Thomas,' he said in almost a whisper, flustered for the moment; his hand trembled, making the feeble light flicker. He bowed, keeping his eyes averted longer than necessary, desperately hoping that the killer in his midst would not savage him or his family. 'I did not know you would be with Father Torellini,' he managed to say without too much hesitation. 'Someone did. I met them in the piazza,' Blackstone answered. Dantini raised his face – his innocence in the matter must be seen. 'Terrible news, Sir Thomas. Terrible.' 'For them. And whoever paid them,' said Blackstone, staring down the merchant. Before Dantini answered, Torellini stepped forward. 'I am Father Torellini, and these men serve as my protection.' He spoke with the authority that Church and State gave him. 'You take a great risk.' Dantini sighed with relief, thankful that the priest seemed to be on his side. 'I do, yes, indeed, that is true. A great risk...' he said, almost stumbling over the words, uncertainty suddenly clouding his thoughts again. All his skills of negotiation in trade, of buying cheap and selling dear, all his years of usury and cunning fraud, seemed to desert him. How many times had he watched men less able than himself succumbing to his skills? The wealth of the Lucca silk trade gave him power over those who desired it. Be they kings or queens, upstart noblemen and their whores or common wool farmers, Oliviero Dantini had outsmarted them all.
He recovered his composure and gestured to the doorway that led to another room. 'I will wait by the window,' said Caprini. 'Best to see who else might be in the streets at this time of night.' Blackstone nodded and followed the others as the servant quickly ran forward and opened the ornate carved doors that led to a more sumptuous apartment where furnishings and carpets softened the broader-planked floors and stone walls. All the windows were shuttered, and Blackstone realized that without a ground-floor entrance, access to these tower houses with their interconnecting rooms was possible only by a ladder lowered into the courtyard. Those that had towers attached, like this merchant's house, were well-defended strongholds in a city plagued with family rivalries. Blackstone had taken an instant dislike to Dantini. There was a slyness about him. His posture kept changing: one moment he was gesturing with his arm as they strode across the luxurious apartment as if about to tell them of its wealth and finery; the next his shoulders slumped like a whipped servant as Blackstone demanded, 'Where is the King's messenger?'
Another room. A bed, woven carpet and drapes, a woman who cowered in nightgown and cap. As old as the merchant himself, and fatter. The wife of a rich man in a sumptuous bed surrounded by drapes. She looked defiant, but made the sign of the cross and lowered her gaze when she saw Father Torellini. 'Yes, yes. Blessings, sister,' Blackstone heard the priest mutter tiredly behind him. Oliviero Dantini led them to a central staircase that ascended into the tower. Another candle was lit as the servant went ahead and cast light up into landings with oppressively dark chestnut beams and flooring. 'I had the best physician. Trustworthy, I assure you. I paid him well,' Dantini said breathlessly as he took the steps, eager to let it be known that he had spared no expense despite the citizens of Lucca's reputation for miserliness. 'Here. A safe room. He is here,' he added as the servant waited at the next landing by a doorway. He gestured impatiently for the man to open the door. 'Let me speak with him, first, Thomas. Who knows what delirium he may suffer,' said Torellini.
Blackstone stepped back and let him go into the room. Dantini shifted nervously, but his anxiety calmed as a servant girl stepped forward carrying a tray of wine glasses. The girl was no more than fourteen or fifteen years old, but composed and self-assured. Her eyes were lowered respectfully, Blackstone thought, in obedience to a master who probably took such a beautiful girl to his bed. Her plain linen dress showed her slender neck and shoulders; her fair hair and blue eyes gave her an almost angelic air. Dantini took a glass of wine and noticed Blackstone watching the girl, who remained unmoving, waiting until her master's guest took his wine. 'Georgian,' Dantini said, leering over the rim of the goblet. 'From the Black Sea. A better choice, I have always thought, than the Tartars they bring in. Such ugly creatures. Beauty, Sir Thomas, should always be at the centre of a man's desires. In all things. Don't you agree?' 'Does she speak?' asked Blackstone, ignoring the question. 'No, no. They have a foul guttural tongue. They learn quickly enough to remain silent with a strap laid to their backs. Cheaper than hiring Italian servants. Why pay exorbitant wages when you can buy a slave for fifteen florins?'
A woman's voice called from the lower floors. 'My lord? My lord?' An exclamation of concern. Dantini winced. 'My wife. Forgive me, Sir Thomas, I must assure her that no harm will befall us this night.' For a moment he considered dismissing the servant girl, but changed his mind, thinking that she would amuse the Englishman. Perhaps he might even offer to buy the tender-looking girl and in that instant he regretted telling Blackstone that she had cost fifteen florins at the Pisa slave market. He scurried downstairs to attend to his wife's anxiety. Blackstone gently lifted the girl's chin. She looked at him defiantly. He understood that look and the feelings that lay behind it. Her breasts looked firm, their nipples pressing through the undershift and linen dress. It was not difficult to understand how such innocence could be desired. Though by now, of course, innocence had long since fled the girl. He laid a hand on her shoulder and with the lightest of touch turned her so that he could see the nape of her neck and the smooth skin between her shoulders. The tips of flat welts, new and old, criss-crossed her back. He knew the full strike of the belt would go down to her buttocks. Somewhere on that tender white skin would be a mark burned into her flesh to denote her slavery. Probably no bigger than a small coin, it would pucker in a pink eruption. Either her thigh or her breast, he thought. It made no difference. The flesh healed, but slavery was death to the soul. He turned her to face him again. He took the purse from his belt and placed it on the tray. The girl's eyes widened, but Blackstone smiled and calmed her fear. Dantini's footsteps echoed up the stairs.
'Go when you can,' Blackstone said quietly, hoping she might understand his intent even if she did not comprehend the words he spoke. He made a child-like gesture of his first two fingers walking. She caught her breath and then quickly took the purse from the tray. Dantini puffed his way to the landing. 'You don't care for wine, Sir Thomas?' he said. 'Or... anything else?' 'Nothing.' 'Of course. As you wish. I am here to serve,' he said and waved the girl away, unable to avoid watching her buttocks clench and sway as she moved downstairs. He smiled apologetically at Blackstone, who gave no sign of sharing the moment of pleasure. The door opened. The merchant stepped aside, allowing Blackstone to bend beneath the door frame and enter the room, which had a cot, a pitcher of water and a bowl, and the wounded man who lay half raised on the pillows. His linen shirt was bloodstained, his left arm bound in a sling. Cracknell held a knife in his good hand; sweat ran into his eyes. He blinked and shook his head, his hair flicking the sweat away. The air was oppressive. It stank of urine and infection – a stench that was no stranger to Blackstone.
'He was unconscious. I prayed for him and bathed his face, and no sooner did he awake than a knife was in his hand,' explained Torellini, who turned and raised a hand to calm the wounded man. 'I am Father Niccolò Torellini, my son. We have found you. You are safe.' Cracknell gave an audible sigh of relief and lowered the knife. Blackstone looked at him. He had seen poison creep into men from their wounds, and this man was no different, with his pallor and palsy, and his struggle for breath. He knew they had reached him with barely enough time before he died. And die he would. No physician could cure whatever happened to the blood and heart of a wounded man. It needed good luck and God on your side. And both, it seemed, had abandoned the King's messenger. It was only his courage and duty that had kept him alive this long. Blackstone eased the merchant from the room, pushing the inquisitive but obedient man onto the landing, then closed the door behind him. Whatever was said in the dying man's room was for Father Torellini and Thomas Blackstone.
'What is your name, my son?' asked Torellini. 'I am Samuel Cracknell. I have... a document that... must... reach... Sir Thomas. Only... he can read it. I have your word, Father?' 'I will not give it to him...' Torellini said quietly and smiled at Cracknell's sudden uncertainty. He laid a comforting hand across the man's. 'He is here. He has come to see you himself. You can give him the document with your own hand.' The priest moved away from the bedside and took the branch of candles from Blackstone, who pulled the footstool closer to the dying man's cot. Cracknell peered through the shadows that played on Blackstone's face. Was he ready to give the vital message to this man dressed as a commoner? 'You're Sir Thomas?' he asked uncertainly. Blackstone nodded, turning his face so that his scar might be seen more clearly. Like a doubting child Cracknell raised an uncertain finger and traced the scar without touching Blackstone's face. His eyes narrowed as a moment of indecision intruded on his fevered mind. Battle-scarred veterans were ten a penny. 'You once knew a King's messenger, did you not?' he asked, determined to make sure that Blackstone was who he said.
'I did,' answered Blackstone. 'Some years ago. A good man. I sat with him as I sit with you. And he was taken by the French King's men in my place.' 'And you would remember his name?' Blackstone remembered it well enough from back then, when the Norman lords teetered on the edge of rebellion and Blackstone was taught the art of killing with the sword. Normandy, a dozen years before. Christiana his wife-to-be, Henry and Agnes his children yet to be born. Names, and the feelings that came with them, crowded his memory like a winter forest, skeletal boughs reaching out to scratch his conscience. 'His name was William Harness. A brave, good man who was wounded by French villagers. I made sure they paid for their viciousness to him.' Cracknell sighed, as if releasing a great weight. 'We know that story well. Every man who rides into foreign fields... for... the King... knows it... as will their children.' His hand grasped Blackstone's wrist to help him half turn and reach beneath the mattress. He pulled out a document, folded twice vertically, its thin ties wrapped around and crossed. At its crease was a dark red globule of dried wax, its heart pressed with the royal seal. The parchment had a greasy sheen to it, and a smear of blood had dried into its grime.
'One thing more, Sir Thomas. Use your knife... and cut away the stitching that holds the cord for my hose... here...' Cracknell said, touching his waist beneath his shirt. Blackstone carefully lifted the cloth, felt the cord in the man's waistband. His fingers touched a coin stitched into the seam. He carefully separated a few stitches and eased out a gold coin. Cracknell nodded. 'I was told... that should also... be placed in your hand.' He grimaced in pain, his breathing now more laboured. 'My duty is done, Sir Thomas... Don't... don't linger in this... place. You are in danger, my lord.' Blackstone dampened the cloth rag in the bowl of water and wiped the man's brow. 'I'm always in danger, Master Cracknell.' Footfalls scuffed the wooden stairs into the tower. Blackstone eased Father Torellini aside and gripped his knife. Whispers filtered through the door frame, followed by a gentle tap. Blackstone opened the door and saw that there were two men, both dressed similarly to Stefano Caprini. Cloaked Knights of the Tau.
'We should take him from this place, Sir Thomas,' Stefano said. 'I sent word to my brother monks. Our hospital is close enough and no one will question us.' Blackstone glanced at Cracknell – the man was close to death. 'Even so,' Stefano said, understanding the Englishman's thoughts, 'he will be under the hospitallers' care...' He lowered his voice to barely a whisper, ensuring the dying man did not hear him. '...until he dies, and then we will bury him in our graveyard. Has he fulfilled his duty to you?' Blackstone nodded. 'Then you can do no more for him, Sir Thomas.' 'Stefano is correct, Thomas. Let me administer the sacrament,' urged Father Torellini. 'Now that he has done his duty the will to live will slip away from him.' Blackstone looked back at the royal messenger who had clung to life so that he could carry out the King's wishes. He nodded. 'You and Stefano attend to him, Father,' he told them and eased opened the document, tilting the parchment to the candlelight and read the neat script: Do as this man commands – no harm will befall you.
Ten words that demanded Blackstone's obedience. * 'Wait,' he said and pushed between the priest and the knight. He quickly knelt at the cot and shook the dying man. 'Master Cracknell.' He shook him again but there was no response. 'Thomas. He is beyond words now,' said Father Torellini. Blackstone kept shaking the man, his free arm stretched back to give the document to the priest so he could see for himself. 'I need his words, Father. He's the voice of the King.' Cracknell's breath was slow and heavy, easing him away from the flickering shadows. Blackstone gripped the man's shoulder and squeezed the wound. Cracknell's breathing faltered. 'Thomas. In God's name, mercy,' Father Torellini said, stepping forward to restrain Blackstone, but was in turn held back by the Tau knight. 'Pain awakens a man from the darkest places,' said Caprini. Once again Blackstone pressed into the injury. Cracknell groaned. Now Blackstone forced his fingers into the suppurating wound itself, and the man gasped in agony, his eyes staring wildly, as his upper body curled from the cot. Blackstone held him, easing him gently back onto the pillows, and pressed a beaker of water to his lips.
'Sir Thomas...?' he whispered, uncertainly. 'Master Cracknell, listen to me. You have information I need. What were you told, that you should pass on to me?' Cracknell's eyes focused, his mind searching for an answer. 'Nothing, my lord. No instructions for you.' 'I am to follow your command,' Blackstone said. 'Did you not know what was written?' he asked, already aware that no messenger would be privy to the contents of what they carried, but hoping that a personal message from the King to the outlawed knight might be an exception. Cracknell shook his head. 'You were given nothing for me?' Blackstone repeated, knowing there was little else to be asked. 'Nothing,' came the answer. Blackstone felt the frustration squirm within him. Cracknell must know something. 'Think of when the document was handed to you. The royal clerk, the Chancellor, whoever it was, what did he say?' 'To... Genoa... and then Florence... under escort... and safe passage to Florence and... Father Torellini.' 'More than that. You carry a command for me but you do not yet know it. It lies in the words that were spoken to you. Father Torellini would have sent for me had you reached Florence and there I would have questioned you as I question you now. Clear your mind and think.'
Cracknell's eyes darted through the layers of pain and time, searching desperately for the answer, seeing the royal clerk place the folded parchment into his hand. Watching his lips, hearing his orders. 'I was to board ship... at Portsmouth... from where you first... sailed to war... but... was commanded to return before... the King's tournament...' 'The King holds a tournament many times a year,' Blackstone repeated. 'Those are his pleasures.' It seemed a mystery he could not unravel. Was there any meaning in those instructions? Cracknell smiled, as if finally understanding the subterfuge that had been his to carry. 'There can be only one... at Windsor... St George's Day, Sir Thomas... it can be no other...' Blackstone laid the palm of his hand on Cracknell's face, as he would on a child's. 'It can be no other,' he said gently. * Blackstone waited out the night. Sitting in the high tower's darkness, watching the late-risen moon come and go behind clouds, throwing shadows from the city towers across the rooftops. Here and there in the distance a dull glow seeped upwards from the darkened alleyways as the night patrols of armed young men went about their business. Fireflies who sought out the living.
He heard muffled whispers from Torellini and the Tau knight and then the weary footfall of the older man as he climbed the night-black stairs. 'Thomas?' 'Here. By the window.' A cloud shifted and the moon briefly illuminated the unshuttered opening. The priest sighed. 'I see you.' He sat on the top step. 'Cracknell has died, his soul cleansed by absolution. The cavalieri are swaddling his body. At first light they will take him to their graveyard. When the city gates are opened they will accompany a handcart carrying his body. You will pull the cart, Thomas – no soldier will question us then.' Blackstone nodded, even though Torellini could not see his response. Where in this labyrinth had he been betrayed, and by whom? A wounded man washed ashore and by chance brought to a merchant's house. Who knew of the meeting? The merchant, Father Torellini, and the dwarf who had ridden with the message to Blackstone. 'Why does an English King use you?' he asked the priest. 'Edward has always had strong links with us,' Father Torellini answered.
'Because the bankers of Florence fund his war chest? It's more than that.' Blackstone sensed the hesitation in the priest's answer. 'There is a history between us, Thomas. It goes back further than you can imagine. Before you were born. I serve one of the greatest men in Florence, and before him others served King Edward's father. It goes beyond the business of lending money.' He paused, evidently reluctant to continue. The darkness was Blackstone's friend. Like a confessional it eased men's souls and loosened their tongues. He remained silent, listening to the priest's breathing. 'There is a Genoese family, the Fieschi. Cardinals and diplomats, used by the King's father,' Torellini said. 'And, like them, there are other Italians, such as my master, Bardi of Florence, whose family have been confidants of both royal father and son. The King has strong ties with us. His physician was Pancio de Controne, who helped the King open dialogue with other Italian bankers. Edward appointed Nicholyn of Florence to the royal mint. We share a—'
A lifetime of vows suddenly silenced him. Blackstone listened to the old man's intake of breath, as if catching himself on the brink of an indiscretion. 'A secret?' Blackstone suggested. 'Yes. An intimacy of trust.' It was obvious that was all the priest was going to say. In the city of fifty thousand souls a dog barked, others took up the challenge and then fell silent again. Blackstone knew little of King Edward's life. He had been a village stonemason who could read the sheriff's proclamations; an archer arrayed for war; a man-at-arms blessed with the strength to harness the rage within him. A King was divine. 'He trusts you to reach out to me,' said Blackstone. 'Did you understand the message?' 'I think so. I can't be certain. But I believe I am being summoned to England before the final week of April when Edward holds his tournament on St George's Day.' Torellini was silent for a moment. 'I have heard that the King has granted a pardon to those who travel to the tournament. Foreign knights and princes are to be welcomed to fight there.'
'Not for me, Father. No pardon is granted to a man exiled by the King's son. But this message must have something to do with it.' 'Then it's nothing more than guesswork.' 'It's all I have.' He felt the embossed coin between his fingers. 'And Cracknell was told to give me this.' He reached across the wall opening, the brightness of the moon showing the gold coin held between finger and thumb. 'A double leopard,' said Father Torellini when he saw the embossed coin. 'Worth all of six shillings when it was in use. Why send me a coin that can't be traded except to be melted down?' Father Torellini teased the coin in his fingers. Why indeed? A coin taken out of circulation many years before and now sent to a fighting man who had enough money to buy passage home, a condottiere whose contract with Florence meant that if the King needed Blackstone's men at his side then the Florentines would risk engaging ships and crews for them to be transported to England. But no such request had been sent to Florence. No, the gold coin was a symbol of royal authority showing two heraldic leopards crouched each side of King Edward on his throne. It was a deliberate reference to the throne of King Solomon described in the Old Testament. The image that told his subjects that theirs was a wise King.
'Ah...' Torellini sighed. 'I knew there was something wrong.' Before Blackstone could question him, the priest gathered his garments and turned on the stairs. 'We need candlelight, Thomas. Come!' Refusing to explain, Torellini scuttled down the stairs as quickly as he could, with an air of anticipation verging on excitement. 'Be patient, be patient,' was all he would say to Blackstone's questions. * When they descended to the first floor Father Torellini instructed the merchant to provide a dozen candle holders. Eager to please, Dantini hurried his servant, quietened his wife's protests and ushered Blackstone and the priest into his private chamber. The outer curtains were drawn and the shutters closed, sealing the light of a dozen candles within the room. Torellini dismissed the merchant and arranged the candle holders on a table, and then unfolded the parchment. 'The document you received is not what you think.' He brought the royal seal into the light. 'Do you see?' Blackstone studied the seal's imprint. A monarch on horseback, a crowned helm, shield and sword. The horse's forelegs raised, the King posed as if his sword arm was ready to strike.
'I do not,' said Blackstone. 'It's the King's seal. I've seen it before on an archer's leave of absence from the battlefield.' 'A king's Great Seal is broken when a new monarch is crowned,' said Torellini, biting a knuckle as he worried about his explanation and whether his thoughts could even be true. 'This' – he tapped the document – 'this seal shows the King with crowned helm and three lions on the horse's caparison. Edward's seal does not. Edward's shield is quartered with the fleur-de-lys; his father's was not.' 'I've seen the seal before,' Blackstone insisted. 'This is the King's seal.' 'No, Thomas, this is his father's seal.' Blackstone remained silent for a moment. Neither man spoke. 'I don't understand,' said Blackstone. 'If his father's seal was broken when Edward took the crown, then how can this be his?' 'A copy is always held by the Chancellor of the time,' the priest said, 'and, Thomas, if the King wished to send you a personal message, he would not use the Great Seal. He would hide such a message from his advisers. He would use his signet as a secret seal for such a private document.'
He held the gold double leopard out to Blackstone; the dull glint of light caught the figure of the King. 'This carries a Latin inscription. Has that pagan goddess you wear around your neck supplanted Our Lord Jesus Christ in your life? Do you know the bible's teaching? Were you taught it in your village?' 'Only enough to bear the sting of the village priest's switch before he absconded to the whorehouses of France. I cannot read Latin.' 'No matter,' said Torellini as Blackstone took the coin. 'The inscription translates to: "Jesus passing through the midst of them went on his way."' Blackstone felt the blank despair of ignorance. Father Torellini smiled and patted his arm. 'The book of Luke refers to Jesus passing through a hostile crowd of Pharisees. Do you see, Thomas, for those who are superstitious these words are a charm against thieves and the perils of travel. You have been sent a token to protect your journey home.' He pressed the coin into Blackstone's hand, using both of his own to close the Englishman's big fist. 'There are enemies waiting for you; their assassins have already tried here. This is only the beginning.'
Blackstone's men waited, impervious to the chill wind twisting down through the valleys from the Apuan Alps. The sun's spring warmth returned only when the wind shifted and the forests suffocated its bitterness. Killbere had posted men as outlooks, but it was Blackstone's battle-scarred bastard horse that first gave warning of his master's approach. It snuffled the air, its whinny alerting the men. Within minutes Blackstone's lone figure clambered up a jagged ravine, through gorse and olive trees, an unexpected route for his return. John Jacob cuffed one of the sentries. 'The dumb beast has better sense,' he chastised the man. Blackstone pulled off the cloak and hood, and then his linen shirt, wiping the sweat from his body. The chill wind prickled his skin. Elfred undid a blanket roll and gave him a fresh shirt. 'You insult my horse, John. He's not dumb. He can turn against lance and sword, he can trample and kill along with the best of men and his eyes are better than my own.' 'We'd be best served if we had a few more like him, Sir Thomas,' said John Jacob, giving the shamed sentry a glaring scold.
'Well?' demanded Killbere. 'You were right. It was a trap,' Blackstone answered as he finished dressing, hooking the ties across his padded jacket. 'Damned if it wasn't obvious. But you haven't been in a whorehouse while our balls have been shrunk to walnuts in the night's cold, have you?' he said, handing Wolf Sword to its master. Blackstone took a half-eaten apple from Will Longdon's grubby fist and bit hungrily. He had not eaten in hours. 'It's my pleasure, Thomas, to sacrifice life and limb in your service but that apple was paid for with coin from my own purse. No theft or threat was involved in its taking,' Longdon said. Elfred jabbed him with the fletched end of an arrow. 'Sir Thomas to you, you insolent lying bastard. I saw you steal that apple.' 'That was another, you old blind fool. And I have known Sir Thomas since he got his feet wet invading Normandy and his blade wet killing those who got past your archers intent on killing our King.' 'Aye, and it was likely your poor rate of fire that let them!' Elfred said to the gathered men who jeered the hard-done-by Longdon.
Blackstone tossed the core to his horse, ignoring Longdon's outstretched hand. 'You can fill your belly later,' he said and walked to the horse, which raised its ears and snorted. He put his boot in the stirrup, and pulled on the opposite rein to stop the belligerent beast from turning and biting him, contesting his right to mount. The men got to their feet to follow Blackstone to their mounts. Elfred looked enquiringly at Killbere, who had been Blackstone's first sworn lord many years before. He was ignored. This was not the time for questions. Blackstone had learnt something and he would tell them in his own time. The hilltop town of Cardetto, from which they commanded the surrounding countryside, was a day's ride away. Towers and long-abandoned fortified houses on surrounding hills had been repaired since Blackstone and his men wrested them from a marauding band of routiers who savaged villager and merchant alike on the mountain tracks. The brigands had had no leader strong enough to hold the towers, and after they had burned a nearby monastery and slaughtered the monks, Blackstone and his men hanged twenty of the mercenaries in plain sight, and killed another forty who refused to yield their ground. Blackstone was a war leader who brutally imposed his authority, and his enemies had heard of it. Florence paid the bills and Blackstone's men held the heights like sharp-eyed eagles. There had been no idle time between skirmishes. Every man had carried stone to those hilltops to rebuild and reinforce the ruins – Blackstone among them. Florence's enemies employed other mercenaries to replace those Blackstone had killed, but they ventured no further than the boundaries of their own territory. It made no sense to fight unless they had no choice.
A cowl of smoke from Lucca's fires hovered over its roofs and towers like a malignant spirit. Blackstone was glad to be free of its claustrophobic narrowness. The anticipation of returning to England, despite the danger that awaited, thrilled him. He turned in the saddle. 'Meulon, Gaillard, Will and John. Go down the mountain the way I came. Two miles south and one east is a shepherd's hut. Father Torellini and a frightened silk merchant are there – one man guards them. Give him respect: he's a knight. Escort them to me.' The men mounted, ready to do his bidding. Will Longdon pulled a face. 'Another knight to obey and a damned priest to try and save our souls,' he moaned quietly. Killbere hawked and spat. 'You're an archer! Your soul is beyond redemption. You should hope for a quick death so no priest has to wrestle with the devil for it. Get to it!' As the four men spurred their horses, Killbere turned to Blackstone. 'He has a point, Thomas. And a silk merchant to boot? Is there a ransom for him?'
'There's a way home. And if we use our wits we will live long enough see England again.' Hours later Blackstone and his men made their way through the defile that led up to their village. Flags wavered against a clear sky as Blackstone's troops signalled each other from their mountain stronghold. The defensive line across the mountains had been unbroken these past fourteen months, the men's bellicosity cooled by the winter snows and Blackstone's regime of ongoing fortification. A stone-paved track led up through the village, whose houses tumbled down the hillside towards the broad spread of the valley below. The town dominated the main roads of the area: a strategic position of considerable importance. The Romans had seen its value and so did Blackstone. Its alleyways connected houses where his men lived with their women, sharing the town with the villani who had been abused by others before Blackstone came with his men. Those who had held Cardetto before were allied to the Visconti of Milan, the northern lords who were growing ever more powerful. Pisa had funded these mercenaries in return for a guarantee that Lucca and Pisa would be protected against anyone from the south fighting for Florence. Protection soon turned into savagery. With no one willing to challenge them the mercenaries' cruelty was inflicted on the villagers. There were more than four hundred of these killers: Germans and Bretons, with a hard core of Hungarians, who were the vilest of men and who committed the worst atrocities, news of which spread across the mountain villages like a gorse fire on an August day. The surrounding villani fled for their lives, but these peasants' cries for help made little impression on the Lucchese. Their city was safe. Its gates were closed. Those who scraped a living in the mountains were hardy, adaptable; they would build new hovels elsewhere, was the Lucchese's argument. The communes closer to the city walls were safe. Food supply would not be interrupted; fuel would be brought in daily. Vicious slaughter was far removed from the day-to-day existence of the city dwellers.
'It is impossible to seize the village,' Blackstone's paymasters had told him. 'The streets are steep and houses clutter the chiassi; there's barely room for a donkey to pass between the buildings.' Blackstone saw the difficulty and had taken a dozen men to reconnoitre the mountain slopes that rose up from the impassable ravines on either side of the village. Abandoned hovels, sheepherders' huts and ancient towers long broken down for their stone had been left to the wild grass and brambles. Their positions were no threat to anyone foolish enough to attack Cardetto, but once the village was seized, those places would be like an eagle's wings, broad shields to a sharpened beak. He made certain that the mercenaries in the village saw his intent. For several days his men stood behind their shields, blocking any escape from the village. His archers wedged themselves in the rock crevices on either flank. Every man lit three small fires to give the impression that there were more of them than their enemy believed. By night more than two thousand fires flickered across plain and hill.
Blackstone waited, letting the defenders' nerves fray a little more each day. Let them wait, he had told his captains, they have food, they have water, but they do not have our advantage, that of knowing when the conflict will come. Blackstone would attack when the time was right. The snow stayed high on the mountaintops, the low winter sun throwing spear-long shadows to the front of Blackstone's men. These lower slopes were tinder-dry as the east wind flayed gorse and men alike. Their muscles ached and the cold stiffened their grip on axe and sword. Killbere stamped his feet and pulled his hands beneath his cloak. 'We need to take this goddamned place, Thomas, before my balls crack and drop into my boots. A good fight will stir the blood.' Blackstone shook his head. 'Tomorrow, Gilbert. Ready the men for tomorrow.' 'Another day? Sweet Jesu! They'll barely be able to crawl into the place.' 'They will run, and they will fight through the streets. House to house. They'll do it because I'll do it.'
'Well, I'm getting too damned old to run! I'll do my killing at a more leisurely pace.' 'I want you to stay here and attend to the rearguard.' 'You taunt me, Thomas? I'll not be denied my share of the blooding!' Blackstone nodded and remained silent. A look that was almost one of pity. The colour flushed into Killbere's face. 'You take the centre, I'll take the right flank.' 'Very well,' Blackstone answered. 'If you feel it's not too steep a climb for you.' It was only Blackstone's smile a moment after he had spoken that stifled the older man's impending retort. 'Aye, well – you just remember who saved your ignorant backside when you were a boy. Who stepped forward at Crécy and the whole army stepped after me? Who stood at the hedgerow at Poitiers shoulder to shoulder with you and took the French bastards full on? If it had not been for your blood-lust for the French King I would not have had to follow you into banishment! You've a short memory since that damned German knight beat you around your thick skull at Crécy. We should go at them today. Why wait?'
Blackstone turned to face the men who waited two hundred paces behind them. 'You always told me to choose my ground when I fought. Can you feel that? The wind is turning. From the north. It will be at our backs tomorrow and it will scour through that village. That's when we light the fires and let the smoke choke and blind them. And that is when we follow and kill them.' * They built up fires and dragged brush and wood onto them, smothered them in tufts of bog grass, laid wet sacking across the flames. Choking smoke funnelled up through the narrow streets, smothering the buildings. A thick plume that would soon be seen as a funeral pyre. Inside the hovels mercenaries boarded up their windows, lay down on dirt floors, covered their faces with rags, poured what water they had over themselves, ignoring the women and children's screams. As the wind twisted smoke through the village Blackstone and his men followed in its wake, pounding up stone-laid steps, racing for the top through empty streets, not giving the defenders a chance to organize themselves. Blackstone and his men were silent, making no effort to break down doors and kill, their pounding feet the only sound. The more men up the hill, the less chance of being repulsed. As the mercenaries finally gathered their wits and pushed open their doors they were greeted by sudden violence as groups of Blackstone's men surged up behind him and slaughtered them.
Blackstone reached the top of the hill where three houses stood proud of the hovels below. Twenty men were behind him as they put shoulders and shields to flimsy doors. No one had ever dared attack this place before; no one could have even reached the lower streets – no one had thought of using the north wind as an ally. Meulon and Gaillard kicked a door down and met a rush of resistance. Their size and weight held the mercenaries who threw themselves forward, but the narrow doorway limited their attack. The two Normans thrust their spears into throat and groin, forced others back as their men killed the squirming mercenaries and then boxed another four into a corner. The small room stank of death. Swords were no match for spears and another house was taken. As the Normans jabbed and cut their way forward Blackstone forced his way into the second house, John Jacob and his men the third. Blackstone had Perinne at his side and Will Longdon at his back. A dozen archers crowded the alleyways, spilling into any space that allowed them to use their bows in the narrow confines and to search out a target in window or door. Some of the mercenaries turned their backs to run, but cloth-yard shafts pierced spines and hearts. Inside the house children screamed, a woman wailed, men yelled in defiance. Blackstone called Will Longdon's name as he felt the wood splinter beneath his shoulder. Shield held high, he was in the squalid, half-lit room, where smoke still clung to daylight. A broad-shouldered man stood with six others. Blackstone could see he was the brigands' leader, armour on his chest and arms. One of his men kicked a woman to her knees, grabbing a handful of hair. The snarling mercenary held the mother's child and put a blade to its throat. He grimaced, saying something in a guttural voice that Blackstone did not understand. No need to. He would kill the small boy. In an instant Blackstone turned on the balls of his feet, away from the threat, going instead for the man who held the woman. Wolf Sword scythed down, cleaving the man from neck to waist, severing the hand that held the woman's hair and whispering through a handful of her dark locks. So quickly had he turned and struck, so instinctive was his attack, that the mercenary leader's gaze followed him – and did not see Will Longdon behind Blackstone's shoulder and the drawn-back arrow that would pierce his left eye a heartbeat later. The child fell and the mother scrambled for him. Blackstone stepped over her as she slid below the attacker's feet, drenched in blood, slithering through the gutted man's entrails to reach her wailing child.
By the time she had curled her body about him the remaining men were dead. Strong hands pulled her to her feet. Will Longdon's rough voice shouted a command to quieten her screaming and passed the shivering woman back through the men to those outside for safekeeping. Blackstone put his foot on the mercenary leader's chest, pulled free the bodkin-tipped arrow from the skull and gave it back to his archer. 'Well shot, Will,' Blackstone said, loosening Wolf Sword's blood knot from his wrist. 'A poor aim, Thomas,' said Longdon, taking the bloodied shaft. 'I was aiming for his right eye.' 'It was good enough,' said Blackstone. The village had been taken. Father Torellini sat astride his horse and gazed up at Blackstone's village. Smoke curled from roof holes; coloured cloth and linen shirts fluttered like flags on washing lines strung between the houses. He could see that at every turn of the narrow passageways armed men stood vigilant. Across the hillsides signal flags bent in the breeze on top of the long poles as Blackstone's men passed information. Torellini did not understand what they meant but perhaps these lookouts were giving assurances that no one followed in their wake. And scattered around the fringes of the town were the usual camp followers: prostitutes, barbers and servants, those willing to serve a warlord, being paid for their services and enjoying the protection he might afford them.
Condottieri were loyal to their company and the men who led them. Father Torellini knew merchant families and rich citizens who gathered family around them for protection, and these men were bound together by similar loyalties. Blackstone had his casa, the household of men who served him, be they knight, squire, man-at-arms or archer – nothing would break their ranks. And Blackstone was different from most other commanders. He did not seek fine silks, rich food, or collaterali, those ostentatious trumpeters paid to announce a commander's status. Before the pathways began their ascent through the houses a dry stone wall had been built as a redoubt, a first defence to hamper anyone clambering across the broken ground trying to use the shelter of the ditch that ran along the foot of the village – which, he guessed, would flood in winter. Father Torellini sighed with grim satisfaction. Not only had Blackstone created an obstacle for an enemy foolish enough to try and attack from that position, but he had also made the graveyard serve his purpose of defence. Father Torellini's eyes scanned the mounds – more than fifty of them at first glance. The wooden crosses, bound together with hemp, marking each grave were yet more obstacles for an enemy to overcome. Three paths led away from where his horse stood: to the left and right, trails that would be used by travellers; the third would take him straight ahead, up through the village. At the centre of this crossroads was a gibbet. There was no body swinging from it today, but when Blackstone executed anyone the death would proclaim to all those who paid their toll that the Englishman commanded these roads.