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A simple stone shelter had been built on the approach path, barely big enough for half a dozen men to stand in, but its purpose was not a sentry position. It housed a crucifix, and a fine one at that; the figure of Christ in his torment was solid silver against the dark heavy wood to which it was nailed. Blackstone had given his men a place to remember their Lord God. Next to it stood another stone hut, a hermitage where an ageing mendicant monk offered his blessings to each of Blackstone's fighters. The Holy Mother Church forgave them their sins. A man could go to war knowing his soul had been cleansed. Blackstone turned in the saddle and looked at Torellini, as if he could hear the priest's thoughts echoing across the hillsides. He smiled. He knew what his men needed and that prayer and forgiveness gave comfort not only to them but to those who paid Blackstone to fight for them. 'We took the crucifix from a merchant from Siena who tried to slip past us on his way to Lucca,' said Blackstone.
'And the graveyard is sanctified?' Father Torellini asked. Blackstone nodded towards the old monk kneeling before his saviour. 'We found him wandering the hillsides. Too much sun, but he's devout, so I had him sprinkle some holy water. He can chant as many prayers a day as he wants. I can't hear him.' Blackstone urged his horse forward while Father Torellini watched the monk muttering incessant prayer, spittle dribbling into his matted beard. 'And where would he get holy water from?' the priest called after him. 'We stole it,' Blackstone answered. * Village boys ran forward to take the men's horses as Blackstone and his captains walked up the twisting passages. Elfred and Will Longdon each took one of the silk merchant's arms, their pace and strength aiding the frightened man up the steps. His questions about his abduction had so far been unanswered: his only consolation was that the cavaliere, Fra Stefano Caprini, followed them up the tortuous streets. One who protected pilgrims would surely not allow Blackstone to murder or torture him. Torellini's dwarf trailed at the rear as Meulon took it upon himself to carry the priest on his back to the top.
'And a donkey carried the holy man,' mocked Will Longdon. 'And the donkey will kick your balls if you get too close,' said John Jacob, striding past them both, catching up with Killbere and Blackstone. 'Your loose tongue will lash you to death one day,' Elfred added, puffing with effort. 'A man should have some joy in his life. Not that you'd know anything about that, old man,' he answered, then grinned at Oliviero Dantini's worried face. 'You understand?' said Longdon. The man nodded. 'Good. Happiness is the next best thing to godliness and godliness is only on my lips and in my heart when I'm shit-scared of getting killed. But happiness is with me all the time providing I can torment these miserable Norman bastards. It's a simple life.' 'You stupid whoreson, he has no idea what you're talking about,' Elfred moaned. 'Get a move on.' 'Course he understands. Even rich men like a joke, don't you?' he said, grinning again at the confused silk merchant. Longdon unslung his covered bow to jab at Meulon, but before he could stretch out his arm he smelled the stench of sweat at his shoulder. Gaillard looked down at the smaller man, nudging him aside. The two Normans had fought together before Blackstone had even arrived at their master's castle after Crécy.
'Be careful, little man,' Gaillard said. 'You trip on these steps and that war bow might go up your arse and out of your big mouth.' Longdon was, like most of the others, smaller than the two hulking Normans, whose stature was matched only by Blackstone, but he was as muscled as any archer who could draw a war bow. The years with Blackstone meant that men from different countries fought together without rancour, but for Will Longdon, Frenchmen – Norman or not – belonged lying face down in the mud with an English arrow between their ribs. He was not afraid of either of them and swore by God's blood that if ever the humour left him he would strike low and fast with his archer's knife and geld the bastards. The fear that held him back was Blackstone's retribution. His sworn lord valued those close to him. He quickened his pace, stepping past Meulon, dragging both merchant and Elfred with him. 'Heaven favours the strong of heart, Meulon, but you'd best hope the good priest has a prayer an English God can understand.'
* What Dantini took to be ruffians came out of their houses and greeted Blackstone and their captains as they made their way through the twisting streets. The silk merchant had never seen such rough-looking men. Their appearance frightened him. They wore barely any armour, preferring leather doublets tied with broad belts that held knives and swords; some wore a metal breastplate, others a thigh piece on their exposed fighting side. They looked filthy and all were unshaven. Some chewed food and spat into the gutter; others pushed women back into the darkness of their houses when they tried to peek out and see the warlord and his men return. Yet others loitered like the gangs on the corners of his own city, but these men were a different breed from the young men of rival families in Lucca. He averted his eyes from their gaze, feeling like a lamb trying to creep through a pack of wolves. Their eyes followed him. No one smiled. It was with relief that he finally stepped into the small piazza at the top of the town. Four houses squared off the area and the house at the head of the square was one storey higher than the two-storey houses that flanked it. Women came out of the buildings to greet Blackstone's captains. Whores or wives or both, Dantini did not know, but he noticed that when Blackstone pushed open the door to the bigger of the houses and stood back to allow Father Torellini to enter, no woman came out to greet him.
Dantini stood helplessly, trying to take in what was going on around him. Nothing was as he had ever witnessed before. His attention was caught by the lower rows of stone on the base of the house next to him and without thinking his fingers reached out and caressed the uneven etched grooves. The marks were not from the hand of any stonemason or sculptor. He was suddenly startled as one of Blackstone's men grinned at his uncertainty and drew an arrow from his belt. He rubbed its point into the groove and then made a small gesture with the arrow. 'Sharpens up the heads nicely,' said the man. Blackstone turned back from the door and faced the men. 'John, have the dwarf and our rich friend put into separate rooms. Guard them. Treat them well. Food and water. A woman if they want one.' Dantini felt the sweat drying on his spine, a shiver of discomfort that was not fear. 'Sir Thomas!' he called impulsively, and wished he had not spoken when those in the square turned their gaze upon him. Blackstone waited as the merchant found the courage to continue and realized he might soon be the laughing stock of these barbarians.
'I... I would like to bathe.' 'Of course,' Blackstone answered. 'You'll have hot water brought to your quarters or you can join me and my men in the bathhouse.' Dantini was caught by surprise. The Englishman had a bathhouse. His men washed. 'I would... prefer to bathe alone,' he answered lamely. The alternative was too unpalatable for words. 'And you shall have a clean linen shirt, Signor Dantini. It will be of sufficient quality not to irritate the skin. We took it from a baggage train going to Milan.' Blackstone paused and waited for the merchant's reaction. 'The man who wore it won't be needing it any more.' His comment had the desired effect. Dantini's jaw dropped. And then Blackstone added, 'We ransomed him. He lives in a palace and has many more.' The men in the square laughed – and Dantini could do little more than smile thinly at being the butt of the Englishman's humour. 'We don't kill every merchant we meet,' Perinne added. 'Only those who can't take a joke.' Blackstone ushered Torellini into his house as one of the Normans, the one called Gaillard, pointed to one of the houses.
'Your room is there.' And then as an afterthought: 'You want a woman?' Dantini shook his head vigorously. 'No, no. I do not.' 'I didn't think so,' Gaillard said, and placed a hand, which seemed to the diminutive Italian to be the size of a pig's thigh, against his back and gently nudged him towards the door. What sport would be had with him? he wondered. What conclusion would Thomas Blackstone reach as to who had betrayed his presence in Lucca? It had been impossible to ignore the gibbet at the crossroads. Blackstone settled Father Torellini onto the straw mattress, which was half propped like a chair. Woven grass mats covered the baked clay tiles and the stone walls held the heat from the fireplace where Blackstone stacked more split logs. The mountain oak would burn long and warm. Torellini looked around the sparsely furnished room. It was a soldier's quarters: a roughly hewn table and bench in front of the window and a cot with blankets on the opposite side of the room. He had been told there was a privy at the back of the house and that the drains took water and waste below the piazza and into the ravine on one side of the town. Another deterrent. Climbing through excrement would take a particular type of soldier – probably only the likes of Blackstone himself would consider such a route in attack. The town's foundations had been built by the Romans, which was why there were sufficient wells for the town to survive even if besieged.
A couple of women brought hot food and extra blankets for the older man. The women were not unattractive and the broad hips and tantalizing breasts swaying beneath their half-tied shawls reminded the old priest of a time when he had tasted the pleasures of the flesh. The two men ate in silence watching flames devour the logs. 'Those women are not yours,' Torellini said matter-of-factly. 'No,' said Blackstone, shoving another mouthful of goat stew into his mouth. 'Uh-huh,' muttered Torellini. 'What does that mean?' Blackstone asked. Torellini pulled a piece of gristle from his teeth and threw it into the flames. 'A man like you needs a woman. All men like you need women.' Blackstone glanced at this priest who had cradled his torn body at Crécy, taken his wife and children to safety before Poitiers, and who served God and the wealth of Florence. 'I lie with one when I need to,' he answered. 'I make sure they are looked after. No one here is taken against their will.' 'You've taken no wife either, nor bred more children,' Torellini said, making it sound like casual conversation, as if he had no care for Blackstone's domestic arrangements.
A gust of wind swirled around the piazza and flapped the tanned pigskin stretched across the window opening. Blackstone scraped the plate, wiping it with a crust of bread. He filled his mouth, as if camouflaging the words. 'I have a wife and children,' he said. 'What other sins would you have me commit?' 'I have an interest. I apologize. Yes, I remember them.' 'So do I,' Blackstone grunted, pushing himself up from where he sat cross-legged before the fire. 'You have heard nothing these past years?' 'They're somewhere in France. That's all I know. They are lost to me, but what happened in Lucca is not. You have more important things to worry about than my family. I'm going to find out who betrayed me.' * Steam smothered the room's ceiling, making heavy rivulets of condensation trickle down the old plastered walls etched with men's names. How long had names and comments been scratched into the wall? A thousand years? More? Latin and Tuscan, Hungarian and German, words Blackstone could neither read nor understand. Bored and angry men leaving their mark, telling the world they had been there, wanting little more than sex and money and a full belly to sleep on.
At some time in history someone had painted images onto the walls that curved into arches supporting the ceiling's tightly laid Roman bricks. They haunted the walls like ghosts in the plasterwork, tints of blue and terracotta, broken faces like scarred fighters on a fractured background. The square bath was big enough for a dozen men to sit chest deep. Women had boiled copper pots, crushing scented herbs into the bubbling water, then warmed bolts of linen cloth for the men to dry themselves. The bathhouse was used only by Blackstone and his closest companions – those who had fought at his side over the years and who commanded his men. John Jacob, Elfred, Meulon and Gaillard sweated in the humid air. Will Longdon, linen cloth wrapped around him, lay stretched out on the clay tiles. Sir Gilbert Killbere, as always, declined to share anyone's water. An old warrior did not consent to bathe with those he commanded and these men still respected his rank and privilege. Had it not been Thomas Blackstone they followed they would stand in Killbere's shadow and face the enemy.
A mongrel born and bred. Blackstone's own words echoed from the past. How in Christ's name he kept the strictness of command in place, yet could still bathe in the same soup water as them, Killbere never understood. But Blackstone did just that. A fine line separated familiarity and obedience. So be it. But Sir Gilbert would bathe on his own terms. 'I have been summoned to England,' Blackstone told them. They looked surprised, but each man kept his thoughts to himself. No one spoke. Their sworn lord would explain his own reasoning when it suited him, but the silence was only a few seconds old before Will Longdon expressed his opinion. 'That is to be welcomed, I would say. We've done no fighting here worth speaking of. Defending these mountains is one thing, but it's not anything to move the blood around a man's body. The men's arses are growing as fat as sows, even though you keep building these damned walls halfway up towards the heavens,' he said, nodding towards Blackstone. 'England, eh? My dick quivers at the thought. It means there's summat afoot with the French.'
'Your cock has no connection to your head, you ignorant bastard,' Killbere growled. 'It would rise like a flagpole if a damned goat fluttered her eyelashes. It has a mind of its own! Sweet Jesus on the Cross, Thomas, you've a hundred archers commanded by a village idiot.' 'Aye, but he's my village idiot,' Blackstone answered. 'And with Elfred's wisdom at his back he's brought down enough death to carve a path for us through our enemies.' The men in the bath nodded in agreement, breaking into smiles at Killbere's belligerent antagonism. He too knew that men needed prodding, that a kick up the arse from him was a welcome sign of respect for those who would stand at his back. 'That is a fact,' said John Jacob gravely. 'And cannot be denied, Sir Gilbert. It should be written that death has been unleashed by a village idiot.' All the men except Meulon laughed and splashed water on the already dry Longdon, who complained bitterly and would have showed them his backside had Blackstone and Killbere not been present.
'You have already been betrayed, Sir Thomas,' Meulon said, 'and a summons to England might be another trap.' 'It's a command from the King,' said Blackstone. There was no need to explain Torellini's questioning of the Great Seal. 'Forgive me, Sir Thomas, but we have seen how kings behave. King John butchered my first master, Lord de Harcourt, and Edward's son outlawed you on pain of death,' Meulon answered. 'Because Thomas tried to kill a King! You do not strike down the divine, Meulon, whether he's French or not,' said Elfred. 'I am Norman and Sir Thomas knows where my heart lies. I would have slain Jean le Bon myself given the chance,' said Meulon. And then as the memory was caught: 'We lost too many good men to the house of Valois. A cause needs to be great for that to happen again.' He looked Blackstone. 'Isn't money a good enough reason for us to stay here?' He turned to the others, and shrugged. 'What do I know? I'm a common man who follows Sir Thomas. Where you go, I go.' Elfred clambered from the bath and wrapped the linen sheet around him. The heated water still steamed and it was an opinion long held that too much of it could weaken a man. 'According to the quill dippers we have two hundred and forty-five lances; that's several hundred and thirty-five men. Are we to march them home? We are contracted to Florence.'
'The contract is only held for six months at a time,' said John Jacob. 'And we've had three contracts,' said Meulon. 'They will want Sir Thomas for as long as he is prepared to stay.' 'They'll find others,' Gaillard said. 'Will Longdon is not wrong, Sir Thomas. Our fighting days are few and far between. Our enemies stay in their own territory. They take their payments and have no wish to die fighting us.' There was muttered agreement between them. 'For now we keep this news to ourselves,' Blackstone said. 'The men will be told in the next few days. But Meulon is right – we must discover who betrayed me. And why.' John Jacob shrugged. 'It can only be one of three men. Your priest, his dwarf or the merchant. Only they knew in what church you would meet.' 'It was not Father Torellini,' Blackstone said in a tone that would accept no argument. 'Throw the bastards over the cliff,' said Will Longdon. 'Whoever bounces is the guilty one.' 'You would make a fine priest yourself with such skills for determining a man's guilt,' said Blackstone. And then explained what he wanted done.
When the others had left and as Blackstone dried himself, Killbere remained, keeping stubbornly silent. 'You can say what's on your mind now they've gone,' said Blackstone. 'And what good would it do me?' 'Your counsel has always been considered. I never treat it lightly.' 'And your stubbornness is a defence that cannot be breached.' Killbere wagged a finger. 'Very well! You're too trusting, Thomas. Fate places Torellini in your life. He once served you; he took your family to safety and commissions us all with money from a Florentine banker. A banker! They pay for war and profit from dying men's misery. They would sell their mothers into slavery if it turned an extra florin. Who is to say they have not made agreements with the Visconti? Who is to say the King himself has not subscribed to a deal? Our good King, and I bless and honour his name, is tight with the Italians. As good a fit as sword and scabbard. The priest could be playing you at the behest of our King and his master.' Blackstone waited patiently but the knight only scowled in frustration.
'He serves me still, Gilbert. Trust me. He did not betray me.' Paolo the dwarf stared out of the window across the clay-tiled rooftops. He knew his master was with the scarred-face Englishman and that Father Torellini was probably being held as was he – not guarded as prisoners, but given quarters as reluctant guests until the Englishman decided what was to be done. There was little reason for them to try and escape, and if there were, how far would anyone get down those twisting streets? Dogs would soon alert the mercenaries in the houses. No, he decided, they were safe enough. There was no fear within him, only the stoic patience of a life-long servant. Father Torellini was a priest of enormous influence. And he knew of his master's connections with the English court. There would be no question of harm coming to either of them. When he had first set eyes on Thomas Blackstone he saw a man as tall as a mountain, a giant who could smite an army as a thrashing storm destroyed fields of corn. That was his legend. And the diminutive man could well believe it. He had obeyed his master and ridden into Blackstone's camp. No one killed a dwarf. Everyone knew that was bad luck. And Father Torellini had been correct. A mixture of superstition and respect for the Florentine priest secured him safe passage.
The door to the room creaked open. One of the mercenaries from the village, a vicious-looking man whose foul breath made him recoil, held a plate – a grimy thumb pressed into the piece of bread as he brought him food and wine. There was wood for the fire and the skins and blankets provided adequate warmth on the straw mattress. He tore off the soiled piece of bread and hungrily mopped up the peasant food. He had taken the offer of a woman and instructed her to wait outside. There was no point in sharing his food with a whore. He swilled the wine and belched, letting the firelight hold his gaze until he felt ready to call her into the room. When she entered she kept her eyes averted, either through subservience or fear of being had by a dwarf. It was something she knew nothing of. The men who usually paid her were assorted; they had calloused hands, blemished bodies and often black stumps where teeth should be. But they were men. Hasty and quick to be done with her. None had ever harmed her, because word of that would reach their sworn lord. One of the Hungarians who had joined Blackstone's company had punched her a year ago, drunk and feeble with lust. He was stripped and lashed. Afterwards, insulted by the whipping, he raised a knife in anger against the one that was called John Jacob, but a great bearded Frenchmen caught the man's hand, broke his arm and slashed his throat. He was a throat-cutter, that one. Everyone knew that. Except the ignorant pig Hungarian. But the dwarf? Had he been told no harm should be inflicted on the whores? Best not to challenge him. She kept her eyes lowered.
He pointed to the mattress and she obediently lay down and lifted her skirts, her face averted as he stripped naked, wanting her to see his muscled body. A dwarf was no different than any other man and, before Father Torellini had rescued him, he had wrestled other dwarfs for those whose tastes ran to such entertainment. He lifted her breasts free, and turned her face towards his own. 'Do as I tell you,' he instructed. She was well fed, and her belly and breasts wobbled with satisfying enticement as he exerted himself against her. She showed little interest in his efforts so he slapped her face hard to elicit anger and fear, and then she behaved and did everything he told her to do. A dwarf commanded little respect in the world but a village whore was barely worth her keep. When he finished with her she wiped her hand across her face, smearing her tears. As he buttoned his shirt he heard her mutter something beneath her breath. A curse, was it? 'What did you say?' he demanded. She shook her head. He grabbed her hair, twisting it so that she could not move.
'What did you say!' he asked again. More tears. Her hand trying to break his grip – gasping – begging for him not to hit her again. 'The merchant...' she said, stumbling to find the words through her pain. 'The merchant? The one here?' She nodded. 'What about him? Have you opened your legs for him as well?' 'Pay me and I'll tell you,' she said defiantly. He slapped her again and reached for his knife. 'You don't bargain with me, you slut. What about him?' 'All right, all right...' she begged. 'He says he has evidence. That he can prove you betrayed Sir Thomas.' He released her. His own fear suddenly tightening its grip. 'Not so!' he said. She cowered, easing her dress over her breasts, then pulling her hair back from her face. 'I heard it from one of the men. The merchant is frightened. That's all I know.' 'Get out!' Paolo said. Had he not taken the whore he would not have discovered the information that now threatened him. Had Dantini already spoken to Blackstone? He weighed the odds in his mind. It was late. The village slept, the darkness challenged only by the occasional fleeting glimpse of the moon behind shifting clouds.
Dawn would bring its own reckoning. * The silk merchant's room was no less spartan than the dwarf's. Food and wine and wood for the fire had been provided, but fear had taken his appetite, and the warmth from the fire made little difference to the chill that crept into his bones. He pulled his cloak tighter about him. They had offered him a woman. Sweet merciful God, he was in the hands of barbarians. He, Oliviero Dantini, who had stood in the courts of kings, being offered a village whore. 'Take your opportunity while you can,' one of Blackstone's English soldiers had suggested when he laid the plate of food down on the rough-hewn table. 'There's a chance you'll swing tomorrow.' That which gripped the silk merchant's throat was no physical hand squeezing the breath from him; it was a terror that struck from within. 'I am the one who saved the messenger. I paid the physician, I sent for the good Father. It was I who took the risk!' he blurted to the disinterested mercenary. 'I don't know anything about that. I just heard that the dwarf has proof it was you what laid the trap. He's having a good time with a whore, he is. He'll be all right. That's all I know.' And then, as if trying to bring cheer to the frightened merchant: 'The food's not bad if you've the stomach for it.'
'I must speak to Sir Thomas!' 'He won't get you any better food. He eats the same as every other man.' He grinned, knowing full well it was not the food the merchant wanted to contest. 'The town is asleep. Tomorrow is soon enough,' he said and closed the door on the man's stricken face. Never had Dantini felt so alone. The thoughts he had entertained of benefiting from Blackstone being killed in Lucca had been only fleeting. Thoughts could not condemn a man. They were known only to him and God. The Almighty would not punish him for thoughts! Untrue. Every priest and monk told how evil thoughts were like a whip to Christ's flesh. But, Dantini argued with his mind, he paid the Church! He paid the priests! He paid for his sins! He bought forgiveness! He fell to the floor in prayer, arms resting on the bench, his knees pressing into the wooden planks to feel the pain of contrition. He hid himself in prayer without any thought to time, and had no idea how long he spent muttering every benediction known to him since childhood. As a distant monastery bell woke its monks for vigils, there was a creak of a wooden floorboard outside his door.
* Paolo had clambered across the rooftop to the next building. His physical strength and agility served him well as he swung down onto the external steps of the house where Dantini was lodged. The floorboards creaked as he stepped into the passageway, but he soon found the firmness of a beam beneath the planking and his lightness helped him move quickly towards the room where a faint glimmer of firelight and the soft whisper of prayer filtered beneath the door. With the palm of his hand he pressed the door gently, letting it ease away from him, its leather hinges making a barely audible protest. It went unnoticed by the man in the near darkness whose back was to him, hunched deep in prayer and whose whispers continued unbroken as he stepped closer, knife in hand. He saw the murder clearly in his mind's eye. The kneeling man was the perfect target. The merchant's cloak and clothing would be too thick and of too good a weave to penetrate without a struggle, so he would pierce the man's throat and then his heart. He would steal the rings from his hands and let the killing be blamed on a godless mercenary. Keeping his eyes on the humbled figure he turned the knife, stepped forward and raised it. The figure before him seemed to shudder momentarily – four more paces and –
'Oh Paolo, I prayed it was not you,' said Father Torellini. The dwarf faltered, stunned by the suddenness of his master's words. Father Torellini half turned, pulling the merchant's cowl from his head and showing his features to his servant's dumbfounded face. Paolo dropped the knife. He could not kill the man he had served these past thirty years. He had not even time to show remorse. Darkness behind the door came to life as Thomas Blackstone stepped forward and clubbed him to the ground. Betrayal was worth a few hours of torture, insisted Blackstone's captains. There might be a greater conspiracy to uncover. 'Brand him and hang him over coals,' said Will Longdon. 'A slow roast to give him a taste of what awaits him in hell.' Gaillard shrugged. 'For once I agree with him, lord,' said the Norman to Blackstone and the gathered men. 'He must suffer. Impale him and plant him at the crossroads.' There was a murmur of agreement among the half-dozen men who sat around Blackstone on the roof terrace of his quarters. Killbere poked a finger into Gaillard's shoulder. There was no give in the muscle, but Killbere was concerned only with making his point.
'You would have Sir Thomas behave like the Hungarian barbarians? You are a pious shit, Gaillard. You pray before the Virgin yet you would ram a spear up a man's arse and have the world see what kind of men we are!' 'Then burn him, Sir Gilbert,' said Meulon in an attempt to save Gaillard's distress at being picked on. 'Aye, burn him and hang a crucifix around his neck,' said Killbere, 'and for what? Witchcraft?' 'He's a dwarf, he could be Satan's imp,' suggested Perinne, and made the sign of the cross. Killbere turned to Blackstone, who stood with his back to them all, gazing across the valleys and mountain peaks. Beyond the white mountain of marble in the distance lay his way home. 'Thomas? These men would damn us all by their thirst for revenge. You mutilate the dwarf at your peril. It's bad luck, for God's sake,' Killbere implored Blackstone. 'Have the priest deal with him. Damnation will cast him out into his own wilderness.' Blackstone turned to face the same men who had warned him against going into Lucca. 'Elfred? How far back does your memory go?'
'Sir Thomas?' queried his master of archers, uncertain what his lord meant. 'I was a boy when we went into France. We young archers served each other well enough; you were the voice of reason for us. We soiled ourselves and retched blood because of our fear, but you and Sir Gilbert held us together. You forged us, my friend, but you raised no objection when Sir Gilbert hanged John Nightingale because he'd fallen asleep at his post. Remember?' 'I do. Aye. He let the enemy burn the barn where we slept. We lost many a good man that night.' 'And afterwards your rank gave you responsibilities that meant men died under your command.' 'It did.' 'Then you are the senior man here after Sir Gilbert. What would you have us do with the dwarf?' Elfred's mouth dried. His uncertainty was plain to see as he looked to each of the men sheepishly. 'It can be bad luck; Sir Gilbert's right about that. God made these small men, full formed and no different than us, but He made 'em right enough, and His purpose is known only to himself... Perhaps it'd be better to give the small man a chance...'
Unease crept through the men. 'A chance?' said John Jacob. 'You mean mercy?' 'Aye. Somehow. That's what I do mean,' Elfred answered. 'And that would square us with God, you reckon?' Will Longdon asked. 'It might,' Elfred told him. John Jacob rubbed a calloused hand across his stubbled head. 'All right. Put him to the stake, and I'll garrotte him before we light the kindling. That's mercy enough.' He looked to his sworn lord. 'Sir Thomas?' Killbere spoke before Blackstone could answer. 'I say again, kill this dwarf and bring down a lifetime of bad luck on us all.' 'That's superstition, Gilbert,' said Blackstone. 'And I believe it, as do you in that pagan Welsh goddess you wear around your neck.' Arianrhod. He swore by her protection. Blackstone met the great knight's stare with his own. 'He has to die, Gilbert. There's no mercy here for a traitor. It will be by my hand. Any misfortune will be mine and mine alone.' * The threat of torture and Father Torellini's imploring made Paolo confess more than his sins. He had sold the information of where Blackstone would be in Lucca to Englishmen who had stopped him on the road to Blackstone's camp. They were men of rough trade but they did not seem to be mercenaries. Paolo swore they were English and not German, like the mercenaries who held ground further north. And they knew about the messenger, but not of his whereabouts or whether he still lived.
It had been a simple bargain. His own life, and that of his master's, for the prize that was Blackstone. Any word of the betrayal and Father Torellini would also die. He could not have known that his master had sought the help of a guardian Knight of the Tau to watch over Blackstone in the city. Paolo begged for his life. He had gone to kill the merchant in order to protect his master, so great was his love for the man who had cared for him for more than half his life. Had the silk merchant held proof against the dwarf then sooner or later Father Torellini would have died beneath an assassin's blade. The dwarf's entrapment had been a simple bait laid by Blackstone to see who would attempt to commit murder in order to save himself. His men had watched and waited and when Oliviero Dantini submitted himself to prayer and Paolo had gone to kill him, Blackstone had taken the Florentine priest into the room and snared his trusted servant. Paolo had been stripped to shirt and breeches and knelt, tied beneath the silver crucifix in the stone shelter. The mendicant monk stood beyond the crossroads, wild hair and beard like a biblical prophet, chanting a liturgy of garbled prayer as he gazed up at the Englishman who strode towards them. The villagers gathered behind him, but none ventured any further than where the houses ended.
Superstition gathered them like a dog penning sheep. Only his captains followed, willing to share their sworn lord's decision. Tears welled in Father Torellini's eyes. He rested his hands on his servant's head. 'My trusted Paolo, you sold Thomas Blackstone's life. You would have had a great man slain in order to save me. I cannot save you, but I absolve you of the sin and will pray for your safekeeping in heaven.' The dwarf wept. 'Courage,' Torellini whispered, and gathered him in his arms as he would a child. 'Courage,' he said again and stepped back as he saw Blackstone approaching. Paolo nodded and tried to control his fear as Father Torellini wiped the tears from his servant's face. Blackstone stepped inside the shrine, and without a word to either man seized the rope that bound the dwarf's wrists and pulled him outside. Father Torellini crossed himself and muttered the benediction as Paolo scurried to keep up with Blackstone's long, unfaltering strides towards the gibbet. Like a child being taken from its parent he kept looking back to Father Torellini, who stood outside the shelter, hands clasped in prayer.
Paolo's gibbering words were a mixture of regret and desperation, imploring Blackstone to look after his master, whose life might still be in danger, as might Blackstone's. Paolo only ever wanted to serve his master. Nothing more. Nothing less. 'Forgive me, Sir Thomas. What I did, I did for Father Torellini,' he said as Blackstone put the noose around his neck. It was to be no easy death. No scaffold for a drop that would snap his neck, instead a choking, kicking strangulation awaited him. 'You served him well,' Blackstone told him. 'I forgive you.' His words seemed to have a calming effect on the condemned man. Blackstone hauled on the rope. The cold wind had swung and now blew from the north, and the men gathered their cloaks around them as they looked down across the village rooftops. The mountain passes were secure but Blackstone had not yet told them of his plans. He had spoken to Torellini and shared his thoughts. It was plain to see that the Englishmen who had accosted the dwarf in Lucca were looking for the King's messenger, knowing Blackstone would obey the command issued. Whoever had sent these men knew the connection between Father Torellini and Thomas Blackstone.
What was also plain to see was that there were too many bad omens connected to this matter, a common opinion held by Blackstone's captains. Nor was Blackstone immune from superstition. On his way to Lucca that day to meet the priest, a flock of crows had settled to peck grit from the roadside. These grey-backed harbingers of doom differed from the birds in England or France. Theirs was no cawing cry, but more of a growling warning. It gurgled in their throats, like a witch's cackle. It was a warning he had heeded and his guard had been up. Now storm winds blew hard. By nightfall the lash of hail beat against the clay roofs. 'I for one will be happy to leave this place,' said Killbere, easing a log into the fireplace as the others sat around the long plank table eating their supper. 'We've become little more than paid whores to rich merchants. We no longer fight an enemy, we skirmish and kill other whores who are paid by other rich bastards. There's no glory to be had. There's no sovereign to serve. Thomas, we should wrest ourselves from here. Be gone. Look how many administrators we are obliged to carry now. Tell the coin-counters and the bookkeepers and the clerks and the victuallers that they no longer have us as little more than names in their ledgers!'
'Are we to take nearly a thousand men to England?' John Jacob asked. 'No, we are still contracted to Florence,' said Blackstone. Killbere pushed himself back onto the bench, elbowing Elfred along. 'A contract is only worth the paper it is written on. Our word and our loyalty lie with the King and if he has called for you to return then the way is clear. God, King and country, Thomas.' 'I have no country, Gilbert. I am outlawed.' Meulon, who rarely offered an opinion, spoke up. 'Sir Thomas, those of us here would not wish to be left behind if you think to go alone.' It was obvious he spoke for all at the table. 'Gilbert, are there men in your opinion who could command in our absence?' Blackstone asked. 'A dozen or more. If any of us fell they would step forward. Ask anyone here – they will say the same. A captain dies and another must be able to take his place. It's how we trained them.' 'And if I take a hundred men, how many will desert?' The men looked among themselves. 'No more than a few,' said Longdon. 'I have a handful of archers who would sell their souls. Each company has like-minded men.'
'Pay them off and pay them well. Then choose thirty archers, and each captain ten men of your choice. Promote your best men to command those who stay. Our contract will not be forfeit.' 'You've a plan for us then, Sir Thomas?' Perinne asked, knowing there was no need for an answer. * Oliviero Dantini sat and waited for Blackstone's proposition to be set before him. Father Torellini watched his nervousness, offering no sign of comfort or understanding of what he had endured. The hanging of the dwarf had been a terrible sight and he could easily see himself suffering the same plight if he was not circumspect about what he said and did. A deal was to be made, that had been clear when he was summoned from his quarters. 'I've learnt that you not only commission ships for your trade from Pisa, but also from Genoa, who is their enemy,' Blackstone said. 'Of course; it is business,' he answered nervously. 'The Genoese sent mercenary crossbowmen to fight your King, Italian ships paid for by the French, but trade finds its own route.'
'I want a hundred men taken to France. The Florentines cannot commission ships without alerting my enemies. You will pay for ships from Genoa.' Dantini swallowed hard. That would require a great outlay of money. His mind toyed with the options that were open to him. The Englishman could kill him without hesitation, but what purpose would that serve? So it was likely that if he could make a deal then he would live and might even make a profit. It would not be wise to agree and then betray Blackstone's plans, because then the day would come when a knife would find his throat. Hire the ships then, use these men to escort a valuable cargo, because that would ensure his wealth would be protected. And then Torellini would send word secretly to the English court that the merchant of Lucca had not only saved the life of his messenger but also helped Blackstone and his men to return. A profit would be made and his reputation enhanced. His eyes flickered with the thoughts. 'You know how this would benefit you,' Father Torellini said.
Had it been that obvious? He nodded. 'I do. You and one hundred men,' he said to Blackstone. * Blackstone took Father Torellini and the Tau knight to his men. 'There are French and English knights and squires among our company. The men will vote on who shall lead them. Sir Gilbert knows of my plans. He will sail from Genoa to Marseilles and then ride on to Calais with a hundred men.' 'My lord? And you?' said Meulon. 'I go overland,' Blackstone answered, knowing his own misery at being aboard a turbulent ship would never be repeated if there was a choice to be had. 'You and Gaillard will not be going to England.' Meulon's bearded face crumpled. 'You would leave us here?' 'No. You travel with me and meet up with Sir Gilbert when I cross to England.' The Norman slapped the table. He could wish for nothing more. 'Safer for two Normans to be in France and await my orders with the others,' said Blackstone. 'Fra Caprini will also ride with me, and John Jacob, and Will.' 'North through Visconti territory? And then the Alps?' Elfred said, unable to keep the doubt from his voice. What Blackstone proposed was almost impossible. 'Most of the passes will be closed.'
'The monks at the abbey will get us through, just as they did when they brought us here,' Blackstone said. 'Sir Thomas, that was autumn. Now, after the winter snows, it will be hard going.' 'It can be done,' Father Torellini said. 'The monks keep the route clear. There are ropes spiked into the rock. If a man does not freeze to death he can get through.' Will Longdon forced a grin. 'I don't mind boats, Sir Thomas. A few bowmen might be useful aboard ship.' 'The risk is great either way,' Sir Gilbert told them. 'Storm or blizzard, both can kill you just the same. And I've seen you flounder across many a river from the day we went into France. You have never yet learnt to swim. Your death is only of value if it's in the service of your sworn lord.' 'I don't much like the cold, is all I was saying, Sir Gilbert,' Longdon replied. 'And you say too much too often,' said Killbere. 'You'll go where you're sent and you'll keep your bow cord dry and your fletchings covered from the snow. God help Sir Thomas and those who travel with him, but your hunting skills might be all that stands between them and starvation.'
'And Will can poach with the best of them,' said Elfred. 'And get himself hanged for it one day,' said John Jacob. Caprini rolled out a map and laid his finger along a curving line that snaked through mountains and plains across the border into France. 'The Via Francigena is the pilgrim route from Rome to Canterbury.' The men gathered closer to the map. Some of the territory they knew from their patrols and fighting with Florence's enemies, but the route that Caprini traced was not familiar. It meandered along valleys and skirted towns, through deep forests and across what looked to be narrow ravines. Some of the place names they had heard of, particularly further north where the route would take them between mountains and sea. It would be an arduous journey. A laden army might travel twenty miles a day with a good road and plenty of sweat; a King's messenger ninety if there were fresh horses every twenty miles or so. A pilgrim on foot could manage twelve miles or more a day. The men knew without asking that Blackstone would push them to cover the distance back to England in a month with good fortune on their side. It was sixty miles from Lucca to Aulla, and that would take them far enough north for the turn west and the hundred more to take Blackstone past Genoa through the mountains.
'We separate at Genoa,' said Blackstone. 'Sir Gilbert takes the main force by ship to France; I'll go through the mountains with half a dozen men and Fra Caprini as my guide.' 'The fratelli of Tau are sworn to protect pilgrims on their journey,' Father Torellini said, explaining to the others. 'They know every turn. Sir Thomas could not be in safer hands.' Will Longdon snorted. 'Aye, but if the Visconti hear of it Sir Thomas will be trapped on a mountain pass. Half a dozen men? What chance then?' 'The fewer the better,' Blackstone told him. 'And there's a rumour, already being whispered by servants of a certain merchant in Lucca, that one of the Englishmen killed in the piazza might be an outlaw called Blackstone. His body and that of other unnamed men who died that day have already gone into a communal grave, smothered in lime. It might hold off those still interested in my death, but they will watch those boarding the ships at Genoa.' 'Well... I still foresee trouble,' argued Will Longdon uncertainly. 'A hundred men leaving without their sworn lord?'
Gaillard looked pitifully at him. 'Your brains are too near your arse. If Sir Thomas had been killed in Lucca then perhaps some of his men would return to France and England.' He looked hopefully to the knights, trusting he was correct. Killbere gestured at Longdon. 'It's a fine day when a Norman has to explain a simple matter to an English archer.' Longdon bristled. 'I understood it all, Sir Gilbert. Sometimes it's important to see that others grasp it as well.' Caprini rolled up the canvas map. 'We will not visit any town or village on this journey. We will rest and be fed at monasteries and abbeys along the way. There is more than one route on the Via Francigena. And I know them. I have sworn to take Sir Thomas through the mountains and across France to Canterbury.' Blackstone said, 'We will not go north of Aulla on the Via Francigena. That takes us too close to the Visconti. Our enemies will be watching, but they wouldn't dare strike against Genoa. Once past the city we will shadow the same road that brought us here using another pilgrims' route. When we reach the Alps the Marquis de Montferrat will give us safe passage. And if my enemies believe I still live, then when a hundred men set sail they will think I am aboard.'
Killbere tapped the map. 'Gascony is ours, Calais is ours. Once Sir Thomas is in England we will wait under English protection for our orders.' Blackstone looked at each of his captains. He saw their concern for the venture, but they had never been unwilling to go forward into danger. It was not possible for such men to refuse. * Father Torellini blessed them as they prepared to leave. Saddle panniers, blanket rolls and personal weapons were all they carried. Each wore a cloak over his tunic and a helm and shield strapped to his horse's pommel. Those who would travel beyond Genoa and across the mountains took no pack mules for provisions. With favourable roads and a relentless journey Blackstone and his escort should reach Calais in little over a month's time – if he was not discovered. Now that Dantini had agreed to engage the ships he would be taken with Killbere as surety for the ship's commission. Blackstone had permitted the dwarf's body to be taken down and buried and now his business at Cardetto was almost finished. The captains were chosen; Elfred would remain as master of archers. He made no objection to being left behind. He could still draw a war bow along with the best of men, gristle and muscle had not deserted him, but he was better suited for command now that old wounds and age hampered him from making a strenuous journey. There was to be no man taken who would slow their pace.
Father Torellini took Blackstone aside. 'Thomas, you will arrive in England not knowing why you have been summoned. Englishmen have already tried to kill you here – who knows what alliances have been formed or who wishes to claim your death?' He looked across at the gathered men who waited for their sworn lord. 'You have often survived because God has willed it. And no doubt you believe your pagan goddess has shielded you from greater harm. But you have always looked forward and seen the lie of the land and then chosen your place to fight. Now you must look to the future because your enemies will be hidden from you and you must find a way to kill them before they kill you.' Blackstone ruffled the donkey's ears; the sturdy beast would carry Father Niccolò home to Florence. He gathered the reins for the priest. 'They will make themselves known one way or another. If it is in combat I will have a chance; if it is an assassin I may not.' Torellini took the reins and placed his hand on Wolf Sword's hilt. 'Thomas, when you were close to death at Crécy you clutched this sword to your chest. None could prise it from your grip. Now the years have run by like the wolf mark etched on its blade. The half-cut silver penny pressed into its pommel is a memento of your wife – these are unyielding strengths that you carry, but your sword may not be enough to save you in the future. Perhaps now is not the time, but you must look to those who serve you, those who are closest to you, and ask yourself who might be prepared to betray you as I was betrayed.'
Blackstone looked uncertainly at the priest, and then to his escort. Meulon and Gaillard, oxen of men in battle and hard with loyalty. John Jacob fought fiercely and had helped save Blackstone's wife and children, as had Will Longdon that day on the alpine pass when Blackstone slew Gilles de Marcy, the Savage Priest. 'Those men carry my life with them, Father.' 'Of course they do but...' The priest brought his hands to Blackstone's shoulders and faced him squarely. The scarred face gazed down at him, and Father Niccolò Torellini made his point again. 'Think of battle. What you know of your enemy's intentions brings victory. Let my words be your companion for the future. Who among these men might betray you? Because your enemies already know your intentions.' The two surviving Visconti brothers, Galeazzo and Bernabò, Lords of Milan, were separated by two years in age. The dynasty had spread across swathes of northern Italy and these inheritors of ruthless ambition were more determined than their ancestors to increase their power further.
Guile, cruelty, avarice and murder were the tools they used to further their ambitions and these Vipers of Milan barely needed protective walls around their cities, so great was the terror they inflicted. Galeazzo, the elder of the brothers, was a man who appreciated art and culture and encouraged it when not devising slaughter and war. Debauchery was left mostly to his brother Bernabò. A mad bastard. A dangerous and insane bastard, according to those who dared to whisper the truth. Galeazzo held a dozen towns to the west and south; the more violent Bernabò much the same to the east, but his raiding parties, consisting of the most vicious mercenaries he could find, patrolled wherever they pleased within their vast tracts of territory. Occasionally Bernabò's men overstepped the mark in Galeazzo's lands and the two brothers would argue bitterly, threatening each other with death, until finally Bernabò would trade his men's trespass for gold and gifts and take pleasure in a week-long torture of those who had transgressed – a mere sideshow of impatient entertainment, given that both brothers were renowned for the quaresima, when they tortured victims for forty days.
And now they were arguing again. As his brother ranted Galeazzo felt unsure whether his life was being threatened. 'You ignore our inheritance!' Bernabò spat. 'You squander it! I embrace it!' he bellowed. 'It is not written in any document but we have it in our blood, so don't lecture me, brother! I will get dressed when I am good and ready. Sex and violence embrace me as I embrace them.' Bernabò had invited his brother to a banquet to celebrate a moment that might allow them some advantage in their war against the papacy, yet had failed to appear at his own dining table. Galeazzo had sent a nervous servant to search out his brother, but the man had returned bloodied and so he had taken it upon himself to go up to Bernabò's bedchamber. The sight of the half-dozen naked women who lay across cushions and bedding told him the preceding days had passed in orgy. Bernabò stood equally naked in the middle of the room, a bottle in one hand, the other scratching his balls. His beard was matted with food and wine and now flecked with spittle as he pointed an accusing finger at his brother. The incoherent rage built to dangerous levels and the deranged lord's roaring was made more frightening when some of his hunting mastiffs raised their howls from the yards below. Bernabò kept hundreds of the beasts. Many were savage beyond control and would be set loose on helpless villagers when Bernabò rode out. And woe betide any houndsman who allowed one of the beloved dogs to be injured. The offending houndsman was tortured to death.
Galeazzo was not prepared to be insulted but he had come to his brother's palace with fewer guards than usual. To fight his way clear would be futile. Especially if the dogs were set free. Three years before the two men had killed their brother, Matteo – whose vile behaviour exceeded even their own – when his actions threatened the Visconti empire. Better to cut away the diseased limb than have it infect the body. Was this a ploy for Bernabò to murder him or just a ranting taunt from a man whose excesses could not be sated? Galeazzo was even-tempered, which made him the more dangerous, but he had been no stranger to the same excesses in his own youth. He had once fornicated with his aunt and several other lovers at the same time and that drunken week was still a blur. The only clear memory he had was that she murdered her husband before he killed her. 'We need a proper war! A real war against the fucking Pope!' Bernabò yelled. 'We took Bologna from him, we should take Florence! Take those Tuscan bastards and burn them over coals. Burn every last fucking brick down.'
Galeazzo threw a silk robe to his brother. He was safe. It was to be an overweening rant, something that he had calmed and controlled before. Bernabò had indulged in such displays since the Pope had threatened to excommunicate them. Such a threat made little difference to Galeazzo: he had bargained away his soul years before. But Bernabò's hatred was greater. The ongoing hostilities against the Papal States had in the past secured them riches from the success of their own condottieri, but there were few gains to be had these days. Bernabò pulled on the robe but left it untied as he slumped onto the bed next to a drunken whore. 'She has the best arse of them all,' he grinned, the temper gone almost as quickly as it had arrived. He slapped the woman's rear and then bent and kissed the inflamed mark. He sighed and rolled his shoulders, letting the tension ease. 'Florence is too beautiful to destroy,' said Galeazzo, sitting on a stool by the fire. He tipped a half-empty bottle to his lips. 'Art and sculpture define our civilization.'
'Fucking and killing define our civilization!' roared Bernabò and laughed until his face turned red with apoplexy, which made Galeazzo think for a moment he would choke and fall dead to the floor. But Bernabò wheezed and spat and then sighed with great satisfaction. 'We can hurt them – a little at least. Chop one hand off. Maybe an arm,' he said. 'What are you talking about?' Galeazzo said wearily, hunger pangs from his missed dinner beginning to feed his irritability. Bernabò mouthed a word, making his lips exaggerate it. Galeazzo was amused enough to smile. 'What? You drunken fool.' Bernabò put a finger to his lips. 'We can only whisper the name,' he said, making a game of it. 'Am I to guess? What? You've poisoned the Pope? You've sent him a whore with the plague? You've pissed in the Arno?' Bernabò stuck out his tongue like a finger from the orifice, then curled it back to his lips. 'Bl-a-ck-st-one.' One man stood between them and Florence and that was the Englishman. There were others like him – he had only a small number of men, fewer than a thousand on contract. But they held ground that could not be taken. The attrition for the Visconti and their allies would be too great should they ever try. Besides, they were not ready to attack Florence. Not yet. But they would be, one day, and if Thomas Blackstone were not there to help defend the city it would be an advantage.
Their own mercenaries had fallen foul of the Englishman on a number of occasions, but none of his actions had threatened their well-being. Despite his reputation it was obvious that Florence did not have the manpower to come after them. Last winter Blackstone's men had slain hundreds of theirs who had been stupid enough to raid a small, worthless town in the Tuscan hills. They had paid the price and their commanders had returned to Milan and Pavia in shame. It should have been in fear – for retribution awaited them. These men would have done better to desert and make their home elsewhere. They had broken an agreement made with Florence and trust had been left lying in the bloodshed on those hillsides. Now there could be no further incursion to collect debts and Santa Marina had fallen under the protection of Blackstone. To strike back would be costly and pointless for such a worthless heap of stones. The Visconti executed two of the four commanders who had ridden in the vanguard that day, but spared the others. One was a German who sold his services and those of his men to the Visconti and despite the loss that day they considered him valuable. Had they had any romantic inclination towards chivalry they would have called von Lienhard their champion. No one had bested him in any challenge. The other commander was a favourite cousin – albeit a bastard relation. The Visconti were no strangers to the murder of family members, but in this instance to have killed him would have caused yet another rift among the clan and neither brother was ready for another internecine war. When the time was right alliances would be made and Florence and its treasures would be taken. The Vipers' spies were in brothels and churches, city-states' council chambers and bedrooms of the perverted, embedded like ticks in a dog's skin.
'What do you have?' Galeazzo asked, wanting the stupid game to end. 'An English courier came through the mountains. He carried no letter of safe conduct. He died...' Bernabò grinned. '...after a while. He had destroyed the sealed document he was to deliver before my men caught him, but he had been sent to Bardi's priest in Florence.' 'Torellini?' Bernabò nodded. 'So the English reach out to the priest. So what? It means nothing. They deal with the bankers there.' 'There's more. Blackstone is leaving Italy. There was another messenger who sailed south.' 'You have him?' 'I have my assassin.' 'Even he cannot reach the Englishman,' said Galeazzo. 'We don't even know if Torellini made contact with him.' The twisted face smirked, his quivering tongue flicking from his lips like a snake. 'Yes we do.' Galeazzo held on to his patience. 'Enough, brother. Tell me what you have.' 'A runaway slave.' * The assassin was an aberration, especially to Bernabò Visconti. The killer led a chaste life, never knowingly seen with man or woman for the pleasures of sex. Bernabò didn't care. The self-imposed restraint was a ligature that choked distraction. His was a life that took gratification from death. If ever Bernabò Visconti felt the emotion of love, it was for this man – his perfect assassin.
The killer was expert in waiting long, patient hours until the perfect moment to slay his victim presented itself. Sometimes the strike was quickly taken, shocking in its audacity, other times he would infiltrate the inner circle of the man who was to die, a master of simple disguise that made him both visible but unsuspected. He was versed in all weapons, accomplished with sword and mace, but he favoured the knife. It was a special knife, the hilt and grip crafted for balance, long enough in the blade to penetrate, sharp to sever and small enough to conceal. The great craftsmen of Pistoia were renowned for such skills and it was always their knives that he used. He knew in particular of one old man who was renowned as a master blade maker. Years before he had travelled to the small town, which lay between Florence and her enemy Lucca; it was a place where men killed frequently in vendettas, encouraged by the Florentines to wage their vicious feuds within their own streets and piazzas, keeping their violence away from Florence. He had visited secretly, not wishing to be seen in the streets, despite no one being aware of who he was or what his skills were. A stranger's face was always noticed in these small towns and suspicion hung in the air, ready to turn, as quickly as the spin of a coin, into a brutal assault in case such a stranger had been brought in as an assassin. Avoiding the narrow streets he went to the Ceppo hospital, where he offered his skills in herbal medicine to those who suffered wounds and other ailments. He had been taught how to staunch cuts that went to the bone and suture the wounds and then to apply the balms and herbs, the knowledge passed down to him by his mother, and her mother before her. After a month he disappeared, and no one knew where.
Undetected, he had gone beneath the hospital into the labyrinth that led below the city walls and several hundred yards later emerged in a side alley, so narrow that a loaded donkey could not pass through it. No sound of beaten metal came from behind the studded door that hid the small foundry where the blade maker produced his pistolesi – the daggers so favoured by assassins. Instead there was the sound of files and rubbing stones, grinding away at the blades. It was a slow, laborious task that required concentration to shape the bevelled centre of the knife and painstakingly smooth away its edges. He slept in the foundry, unwilling to leave until the knife he wanted was ready. It had been cut from a piece of steel and measured for its balance, its double-edged blade taking weeks to shape, its bevelled edges crafted and ground by the master's apprentice – then taken to the charcoal fire that glowed with deep red heat and thrust into Satan's domain to be tested by his heat. He never forgot the sight as the steel was prodded gently to harden: a process that demanded not only skill but years of experience. The charcoal had not to be too hot or it would ruin the steel, and if the blade became too yellow or blue then it remained too soft. Only when it turned a rich crimson along its whole length did the master have his assistant quench it in a vat of olive oil. It was the oil that sealed its strength. The cool blade was cleaned, slowly rubbed clean of the fire's deposits by a grinding stone, coarse at first and then finer. Once that was done it was placed on a griddle above a lesser-heated fire, allowing the embers to heat the metal gradually until it turned the colour of mountain honey. It was this that tempered the blade into hardened steel. Yet again it was quenched and once more ground and burnished until the metal gleamed.
The chestnut grip was carved to shape and bored end to end, then held in a vice and when the dagger's narrow tang was heated it was pushed through the small crossguard and into the wood forming a perfect fit. A young child, whose small fingers could bind thin strips of cured leather, wound and glued the grip. The dagger's blade was no more than the length of a man's palm from wrist to fingertip. It was an object of beauty to the Visconti's assassin – a blade so finely honed it could sting through the slender gaps of the best armour, and its bevelled edges so sharp it could slash a man's throat so that he did not know it until he choked on his own blood. Unlike those who contracted him, especially the cruel Italian lord to whom he was bound by blood, he took no delight in the killing of a victim, felt no visceral thrill in making the final cut. Sending a soul to meet its judgement was an act that transcended the brutality of torture. Not for him the skills of tearing flesh and extending suffering; his pleasure came from the perfection of the kill and the deception of making the victim believe that the man sent to kill him was an ally. Suffering could be achieved in different ways. Take that which a man loves and then take the man himself once he knows he has lost it.
This killer was not known by face, except to the one corrupt lord. Throughout the Italian city-states a whisper sent out for his talent would, like a bee gathering pollen from flower to flower before returning to its hive, gain momentum and eventually reach him. He had never failed to kill his victim, and usually within plain sight of others. It was his ability to kill quickly and often with flair, and then to disappear like a phantom, that enhanced his legend. There was no name attached to him, no one place of residence. It was suspected that he lived in comfort, given the rumours that he only killed those of importance: merchant, politician or soldier – anyone whose influence had begun to encroach on another's power. That there could never be any link to those who hired him and the death of their adversary meant they had a golden cage of security – better than any Peruzzi or Bardi bank. His appearance could change; his short hair meant his head could easily be covered by black cloth pulled tightly over his scalp. He wore no adornment or material that might warn his victim. He was a lithe man, slender as an acrobat, his practised muscles stretched across a torso that carried no fat, no sign of indolence or indulgence in fine sweet foods. When contracted to follow and slay a quarry he wore no boots, leaving his feet bare for purchase on marble floor or dirt street. He bound his legs and wrapped his torso in finely woven black cloth, with no leather belt to creak when he moved, rather a thin, corded rope to hold the material around him. He had learnt to control his respiration so that his breath would not plume in the chilled winter shadows, and he would not be heard to inhale as he lunged, or exhale as he struck.
Like a dancer he could turn on heel or toe. One cut. Then dance away. Now, he was already in place. His orders were simple. Infiltrate Blackstone's men, lie in wait, become unseen, and when the time was right inflict great pain and suffering on the Englishman. Make him scream in agony so that his pain ripped out his heart and he died a slow death. Fra Stefano Caprini led the way along mist-hidden tracks that made the going slow over the next few days. Rivulets slithered down the rock faces as if the stone that protruded from the forest's banks wept from being held by ancient roots that clawed them back to the earth. Breath feathered the air as the horses made their way steadily at the walk, nose to tail. Saddle-creak and jingling bridles were the only sounds that broke the silence as they clumped along the dirt pathway. Over the centuries the Via Francigena had been scraped from the countryside and in most places allowed only two men to walk abreast, which meant that riders could travel only in single file. Despite the closeness of the man in front and the dripping wet from the overhanging trees, Blackstone's men stayed alert during these passages through narrow confines. Saddlebags scraped the embankments; riders bent low over their pommels to avoid low-hanging branches. None voiced his tiredness or irritation at being hemmed in by the landscape. As they cleared a bend the valley mist was swept away, as if by the hand of God, and sucked further into the deep valleys. Nine hours after daylight had pierced its way through the hills they heard a solitary church bell's desolate tolling.
Across the saddle of land was a bell-tower and some stone buildings, big enough to house a dozen or more monks. A wisp of smoke went up and then bent as the air took it in the mist's wake. 'Little more than a monastery cell,' Caprini said, turning in the saddle to Blackstone, who nudged his belligerent horse alongside his guide. It snuffled and champed the bit, yanking its head. Blackstone gave a firm tug of the rein to settle it. 'Perhaps a dozen monks who work the fields and tend the livestock, so we will sleep with the horses in the stable. Food for us and the last of the winter silage for the horses,' the Tau knight continued, pointing to the low wooden thatched building on the other side of the tower. 'This is our final resting place before we climb into the foothills and seek out our guides through the pass.' 'You know this place?' Blackstone asked. 'I have not been here for ten years. It's grown. It used to be little more than a hermitage.' Blackstone studied the lie of the land. The small plateau had been divided into sections. Low stone walls had been laid to protect their small potager. A meagre diet for a gruelling life. A goat was tethered; that would be for milk, not meat. It flicked its ears as a donkey brayed defiance. Probably at being kept in such miserable company as that offered by the hermit monks, Blackstone thought. The monks would grind what flour they could buy or trade and bake rough-crusted bread, but no such tantalizing smells accompanied the wisp of smoke.
This was the third similar refuge they had stayed in over the past nine days. They had made steady time, though too slow for Blackstone's liking, since bidding farewell to Killbere and the men south of Aulla. No threat had been made against them, no challenge offered as the company of men skirted village and town. 'When you reach Bordeaux,' Blackstone had told Killbere, 'go north, find the causeway to Saint-Clair-de-la-Beaumont; it will still be held by Jean de Grailly's troops. There's a church nearby and a monk there by the name of Brother Clement. I gave him my silver when we took Saint-Clair.' Killbere's eyes widened. Blackstone raised a hand to stop his friend's inquisition. 'I promised Our Lord Jesus that day if he carried me safely ashore off that barrel of a cog then I would give over my plunder.' Killbere scratched his beard. 'You are a man of conflicting habits, Thomas, but you're a man of your word, for which I and no doubt the Lord are grateful. And now I understand why you would rather have the ground beneath your feet than a rolling deck.'
Killbere considered what was being asked of him. Normandy was a dangerous place, more so since King John had been defeated and taken prisoner at Poitiers. Thousands of routiers were raping and burning across France. Knights lost their demesnes and Norman strongholds changed hands through siege or corruption. And the King's son was trying to keep Paris out of the clutches of the avaricious Charles of Navarre, who still had designs on the French Crown. The whole place was an angry hornet's nest. 'And if de Grailly has forsaken the place?' 'His men will hold it. It's too vital to lose.' Killbere was agitated. 'I don't trust monks at the best of times. Halfwits, illegitimate cast-offs and self-serving, lying thieves who would strip a corpse in the name of the Almighty. God forbid they should seek a legitimate trade in the world.' He held a finger to the side of his nose and blew the snot free. 'Why not go further into Normandy and use those at Chaulion? It was your citadel and you gave the monks there more than a few pots of silver.'
'No. The Prince took my towns from me. His men would send word if you approach. Go to Brother Clement. See if he has spent my gift wisely; if he has then use him to find a safe route for you and the men. He'll be trustworthy and in my debt.' Killbere had gazed down from the hills towards Genoa. There was sanctuary within sight at the Romanesque churches of Commenda di San Giovanni di Prè, a place that had protected pilgrims and fighting men since the time of the Crusades. 'You'll not reconsider? There's a straw mattress and hot food down there. God's blood, Thomas, a damned boat ride is better than a saddle-sore arse even if you retch it over the side. You might not get through those mountains. Take the boat with us.' Blackstone turned his horse. 'Gilbert, I would rather face Satan and his devils with one arm tied behind my back than surrender to his kindred spirits lurking beneath those waves. Get to Calais. Await my orders.' There was no more to be said and now, days later, hungry, wet and tired, Blackstone eased himself from the saddle and listened to the Tau knight's caution.
'This is a route seldom used, Sir Thomas. These monks prefer solitude and prayer. Such a community may not always express kindness to fighting men.' Blackstone knew monks could be belligerent bastards if they were not there to serve pilgrims and receive payment for it. 'We pay our way, Stefano. I'm not here for conversation or prayer.' * Blackstone made a slow, cautious approach. Once they left the cover of the trees they would be seen, even by any devout monk who went about his work with his head full of prayer. Movement was a concealed fighting man's greatest weakness. He held the men at three hundred paces, the tree shadows making their numbers indistinct to anyone below. One of the monks raised his head from hoeing the stony ground and shielded his eyes from the low sun. His voice carried as he called to his brother monks. 'Armed men.' Other monks appeared, carrying implements from the buildings and the fields behind the tower. They made no attempt to come together; there was no sense of them standing shoulder to shoulder as brothers who shared a sacred and remote hilltop religious cell. They stayed where they were.
'Fra Caprini,' Blackstone said. 'Go forward, tell them we mean them no harm. Once they see your blazon they'll know it's the truth.' The Tau knight nodded. 'If I am uncertain of our reception I will call you in with my right hand. Otherwise the left.' He spurred his horse forward, leaving Blackstone and the men waiting. John Jacob brought his horse alongside. 'Seems safe enough,' he said, letting his eyes sweep across the plateau and broken hills to snow-capped mountains beyond. 'So it seems,' said Blackstone, unable to keep a nagging doubt from his voice. Most of those below had moved towards the shelter of the buildings. Others had gone inside. A natural fear of armed men approaching was understandable. Gaillard and Meulon eased around in their saddles to look at Blackstone. 'Good place for dismounted men to be at a disadvantage once we get down there, Sir Thomas,' said Meulon. 'Those low walls and livestock fences could hinder a fight when we're on foot.' 'Or be used to hide an ambush,' added Gaillard.
'I see that. And something else. Will?' he called, bringing the archer forward. 'Put your eye past those hillside walls. Up the slope, past those boulders.' A bird of prey curved high in the sky, using the mountain air to gain its height. 'What do you see?' Blackstone asked. 'The ground is scuffed, as if men and horses have gone up,' said Longdon. 'Donkeys or goats, perhaps?' Jacob asked. 'Perhaps,' said Blackstone. 'I see one donkey fenced and a goat tethered. Poor monks won't have more livestock than that.' 'Can you see the ground birds?' said Will Longdon. 'Further still. Way beyond. Raven or crow. I can't be certain.' 'I can't see them,' Jacob said. 'Look beyond the slope, and the rocks, the ground falls away into a dip and then rises to the right, and falls away again, like a wave. In the curl of the wave there's movement.' He looked to Blackstone, who nodded in confirmation. An archer's eye was keener than most. 'Carrion feeding. A bird of prey in the sky. There's little food to be had this time of year. A few spring rabbits? A deer that's fallen to its death?' Blackstone said, knowing it was unlikely.
'They would be in the forest. Might be a dead bear or wolf though,' said Jacob. 'Then there would be more birds,' said Longdon. 'Could also be dead men,' said Meulon. Blackstone watched Caprini speak to the monk in the distance. There was still only one of them doing the talking: the one who had called out at their approach. The others had gone back inside the buildings or were standing near doorways or alongside a pig pen or wood store. Chickens clucked in the hen house. 'It's been a slow journey. If word has got here before us that this was our route, this is the last chance our enemies would have to stop us.' He turned in the saddle. 'Will, take Halfpenny and Thurgood. Ease the horses back. Dismount, and in case they can see you make it seem that you think one of the horses is lame. Walk one of them back, around that corner out of sight. Tether him and the three of you move downhill through the trees and find a place to cover us.' 'Aye, Thomas,' Will Longdon said and turned back. 'We'll ride in then?' said Jacob.
'Soon as Caprini signals. Let's not make it obvious that we doubt who's down there. We are weary travellers, exhausted by the journey. Gaillard, slump forward, you're sick. Tell the men. Be ready.' They waited and then Caprini turned in the saddle and waved them in with his right hand. Danger. They eased their horses down the gentle slope towards the monks, hunched in the saddle like men who had been riding for days without sleep. Men who might be lulled into thinking they were safe. Caprini understood. As Blackstone pulled up his horse a dozen paces away he touched the monk's shoulder. 'The brothers here are a silent order. But he will speak on their behalf.' Blackstone considered the monk's appearance. Dirt-caked habit, hands calloused and grimy. If the other monks were as lean and strong as this monk appeared to be, then it showed that their life here was hard and demanding. The man's face was stubbled and his tonsure had not been shaved for days. Perhaps so remote a place made the act of washing less important. Caprini turned to the monk and gestured to Blackstone. 'These men are exhausted, Brother. They need nothing more than sleep and food for the night.'
Gaillard slumped across the saddle's pommel. Without the monk seeing, Meulon jabbed him in the ribs making him groan. John Jacob's eyes widened. Not too much acting, he was trying to say. Meulon shrugged. 'And I have a man sick,' said Blackstone. The monk nodded. He showed no trace of concern at the arrival of the armed men. No sign of nervousness that these riders were not pilgrims of Christ. 'All are welcome here. But...' and as he hesitated Blackstone saw his eyes shift like a stallholder bargaining a piece of cloth, '...we are poor recluses. Some payment, no matter how small, would be welcome as a charity.' Caprini glanced backwards as Blackstone as the others dismounted. Blackstone stayed where he was, head bowed into the cowl of his cloak. 'We have gold florins and enough silver coin to pay for a king's hospitality,' said Caprini. 'We carry funds from Florence to the Marquis de Montferrat so that he might keep the pass through the mountains safe.' He carried the lie well. He lowered his voice so that only the monk could hear him. 'They will cause no harm. Drunk and tired men sleep the sleep of the dead. This was the safest route I could find for them.'
'Then you are welcome,' said the monk. 'How many men?' 'There are six of us, Brother,' said Blackstone, looking at Caprini, whose eyes quickly scanned the dismounted men. Will Longdon and two others were missing. Perinne was already dismounted, fussing at his saddle strap, his eyes searching the compound for any untoward movement that might warn of a trap. Caprini nodded to the monk. 'As you can see. Six.' Blackstone hoped that when he sent Longdon into the trees they had been far enough away from the sanctuary not to have been noticed. The monk looked at the weary men, but also let his gaze go past them up the track and across the treeline. There was no sign of movement. He seemed satisfied. 'Then we will accommodate you as best we can. Here in this remote place we seldom see travellers. One, perhaps two, at a time. But we shall do what we can. Two men can sleep in the dormitory, another in the stable. The sick man should be taken to the kitchen for warmth. We will do what we can for him.' He pointed to the three different areas where the men should tether their horses, then turned and gave a barely noticeable nod to one of the other monks near the woodshed. A tip of the chin that John Jacob noticed.
'Monks, my arse,' he whispered to Blackstone as they walked their horses towards the shelter. 'They're separating us. Easy pickings, Sir Thomas.' He and Blackstone led their horses where they were instructed. A warning look from Caprini was acknowledged. The horses jostled; the Tau knight muttered: 'Be cautious. This man's dialect is not from these parts.' The uncanny silence of the mountain foothills was broken only by the horses' shifting weight and the screech of the raptor high in the sky. Even the chickens had fallen silent, perhaps because of the hunting bird's distant threat. In the stillness the men tied off their horses and eased the saddles from their backs. Each man knew that Blackstone and John Jacob were already positioning themselves for an attack that might come from behind the low wall or the building's darkened doorway. They appeared unconcerned yet eyes and ears sought out the moment that they knew must come. They were vulnerable – but alert. Meulon made a fuss of getting Gaillard down from his horse, easing his friend so that he sat, back against the wall, but with his spear laid at his side. Then Meulon took his time untying the panniers, looking across his horse's withers to where one of the monks had stepped out of sight.
It took six heartbeats before the attack started. At the edge of the sanctuary seven armed men broke cover, their feet pounding into the damp earth like a war drum that signalled several things to happen at once. The tethered goat jerked at its restraint, alarmed as a monk stepped from behind a wall and swung an axe at Meulon. He parried with his spear shaft and Gaillard went quickly onto one knee and rammed his spear point up through the man's lungs and heart. Meulon put his boot into the gasping man's chest as Gaillard pulled his haft free. The two Normans recovered quickly, turning as screams suddenly echoed from the running men being cut down by Longdon and his archers in the forest. Three armed men broke through, turning the corner of the furthest building, swords raised, their faces contorted with fear and disbelief that their own ambush had failed, knowing that there was no escape. They attacked with the desperate belief that all fighting men carry with them: that they will not die – not this day. John Jacob caught sight of the Italian knight as he squared himself to face the oncoming attack.
'He needs help,' he grunted as he and Blackstone shouldered their horses aside, forcing the animals between themselves and the armed monks who suddenly appeared from the doorway. The bastard horse objected and swayed its weight against Blackstone, throwing him off balance and making him step back. A crossbow bolt whipped through the air where he had stood a moment before. One man carried a fighting axe in each hand, the other a sword, and as the crossbowman threw aside his now useless weapon he snatched up a spear that had been hidden at the corner of the building. They lunged – aggressive men who made no sound; who kept their eyes on their intended victims. John Jacob was at Blackstone's shoulder to help block the swordsman, which hampered the double-handed axeman. Blackstone ignored Jacob's words. Caprini would have to deal with his own attackers. The stocky Perinne hacked down a monk who wielded a falchion, swinging his blade with such force it cut through the man's heavy clothing, its keen edge slicing into ribs, lungs and heart. Blackstone and Jacob parried blows from wild-eyed assailants. Madness; men of God attacking with such violence. Fleeting thoughts flashed through Blackstone's mind. A planned ambush to stop him reaching England or fighting men disguised as monks to rob exhausted pilgrims? Every man was battling for his life.
Caprini stood his ground. He caught the first man's strike on the crosspiece of his sword, turned and slashed his knife hand across the attacker's face. Blinded, he fell squirming, ignored by the Tau knight, who altered his stance, dropped to one knee and took the second man in the groin. The charging man's weight forced Caprini down with him, but by then Meulon and Gaillard were at his back. Meulon's spear hooked into the attacker's collarbone and the screaming man was hoisted like a fish snatched from a stream. Meulon kicked down onto the man's neck, cracking bones, and wrenched his spear shaft free. The other man had faltered in his attack. The two giant men shielding the Tau knight were a terrifying sight and the man's courage failed him. He turned and ran. He did not see the three archers emerge from the trees and bend their backs into their war bows. The hiss of the arrow shafts through the air was unmistakable. The fleeing man turned, desperately seeking the arrows in the sky in a vain attempt to avoid them. By the time he saw them, two had pierced him: one through the chest, one the thigh. The third thudded into the ground less than half a shaft's length away. He squirmed, muscles contorting, a shattered body trying to deal with its agony. By the time the archers reached him he was dead.
As Blackstone killed the third man he looked across at Caprini. The moment was held like a stitched tableau. Figures lay dead; the Tau knight stood over a writhing monk and then rammed his blade into his chest to strangle a final terrified scream. 'So much for them being a silent order,' John Jacob said, smiling as he wiped his blade clean on a handful of straw. The archers finished off two or three men who lay in the dirt, arrow shafts embedded in them. The killing had taken less time than it would to toll the bell a dozen times. Blackstone's men stood their ground. Were there others? 'Will?' Blackstone called. 'No more down here!' Longdon shouted. Blackstone turned to where the two Normans stood with bloodied spears. Both shook their heads. 'It's finished, Sir Thomas.' 'No one inside. This was all,' said Perinne. Nine monks lay dead. Seven more bodies lay sprawled. These men were dressed little differently than Blackstone's own men. Fighters. Brigands perhaps. 'Strip them!' Blackstone ordered.
There was no need for Blackstone to order the others to take up a defensive position. Will Longdon placed Halfpenny and Thurgood where anyone approaching could be ambushed as Jacob searched the buildings. Meulon, Perinne and Gaillard stripped the monks as the Tau knight accompanied Blackstone to where the carrion crows had been spotted. The two men rested a moment, catching their breath in the cold air, then looked back to where the slaughter had taken place. The naked corpses quivered like maggots as Blackstone's men dragged them into the centre of the killing field. 'Could they have been monks?' Blackstone asked. 'It is possible. Men have been known to lose themselves when they live such isolated lives,' Stefano answered. He paused for a moment. 'Who among us has not experienced madness?' Blackstone remained silent, but the remark struck home. Ram a bodkin-pointed shaft into a man's chest and the shockwaves of pain tear through his body. As did the knowledge that when he fought he was possessed. Of what... he was uncertain.
'And you?' he said, looking carefully at the Italian knight, whose gaze had not left the bloodstained sanctuary. 'I have been in that place. And I swore to Our Lord Jesus that if he delivered me from it I would serve pilgrims and those who fought for Him.' 'Then why help me? I'm no pilgrim. I wear a pagan goddess at my throat.' Caprini smiled. 'You are a man of reputation. Others fear you. Not I. You are unknown to me as a man. But when Father Niccolò Torellini asks that you be helped, then I know you to be a deserving man who must be in the service of God.' Blackstone continued uphill. 'I do not know God. I serve my King and my men. Have no expectation of me other than that,' he said. Stefano Caprini sighed with the comfort of knowledge. 'You are as Father Torellini predicted. But whether you know it or not, there is a goodness within you that can only come from suffering torment of the soul.' Blackstone turned and pointed a finger at him. 'Do not preach to me about who I am. Do not think you understand what I do or why I do it. I kill. And I do it well. That is all you need to know about me.'
The two men faced each other for a moment longer, and then the older man dipped his head in acknowledgement. He was not cowed by the younger, stronger man, but his own code of behaviour demanded he make amends. 'I apologize. It is not my place to speak of such things.' Blackstone had no doubt that this knight had fought his demons and won, but his own would always shadow his life. They made him who he was. He held them close. Like old friends. * Shallow graves had been turned and picked at by scavengers. Wild beasts had torn the earth back and feasted on what remained of the men buried there. Bones were separated from torsos, a few – thigh bones and ribs – lay scattered across the alpine grass. There was little depth to the soil for burial so rocks had been placed over the corpses in an attempt to protect their sanctity, but they were inadequate against the wild creatures. There were no markers or headstones. 'Why would anyone bring their dead up here?' Caprini asked, looking at the place, which probably held twenty or thirty graves. 'They have a graveyard near the sanctuary.
'To hide them from visitors,' Blackstone said, tugging at an exposed piece of cloth and easing out its remains. 'Then these are the bodies of monks murdered by brigands who took their place to kill pilgrims.' What was left of the dead man's skin beneath his threadbare clothing barely concealed his bones. Blackstone eased a skull aside with the toe of his boot. The matted mass that was once the man's hair slipped away. He bent down and poked at the remains with his knife. 'Look for yourself,' said Blackstone and went to another grave, one that was better covered with stones. He pushed aside the rocks and scraped away the dirt covering. Caprini looked up from where he was examining the skeleton. 'That grave is sacred.' 'Not up here,' said Blackstone, exposing the skeleton's skull. This corpse had the remains of a cap and wispy strands of hair that clung to it. He flicked away the head covering with the tip of his knife. 'These are not monks. They're pilgrims, slaughtered by monks.' Caprini looked in disgust at the graves. Blackstone was already walking past him.
'Men of God who were placed here to give sanctuary to those on the journey to Canterbury and Rome, murdering innocent pilgrims,' said Caprini, as if the shame was his own. 'Priests torture witches and non-believers. The Inquisition will burn a man's soul from his body. What more is there to understand? I'll have the men cover them up.' Blackstone paid no more attention to the Italian's concerns and turned away. 'Do not condemn the Church because of these vile creatures,' Caprini called after him. 'These men were sarabaites, the most detestable of monks. They are loyal to the world and without an abbot to shepherd them they pen themselves in the fold of lust and wantonness. They affront God with their tonsures. They follow no Holy Rule, only whatever strikes their fancy. Better that we should stay silent than speak of them.' 'Then you can offer prayers for those they betrayed and slaughtered. I'm happy knowing I cast them into the fires of hell.' * The naked bodies of those who had once made vows of holy orders lay in a ragged line. Meulon pointed at them. 'There are no battle scars on any of them. There are a few healed wounds. Nothing that a farm tool couldn't inflict. Did you find anything up there?' he said.
'Murdered pilgrims. These bastards cut their throats or smashed in their skulls.' Gaillard crossed himself. 'Shit.' 'John, call in Will and the others,' he said to Jacob. 'What of those who came from behind us?' he said to Meulon. 'They're fighting men all right. Scars on their backs from whippings...' 'Or penance,' said Gaillard. 'Gaillard, for Christ's sake. They're brigands, probably deserters. If Sir Thomas is right then these men worked with the monks. Chances are we came on them before they had time to organize themselves,' said Meulon and looked to Blackstone. 'Am I right?' Blackstone nodded.'These buildings yield nothing but what you would expect from dirt-scraping monks, but if they're deserters they're Visconti deserters,' he said, showing them a couple of the bloodied jupons that bore the faded viper patch. 'Planned, do you think? Or chance?' said Jacob. 'Can't be planned,' said Blackstone. 'How would they know which path we took?' 'Unless they put men across them all?' Jacob said. 'Perhaps,' admitted Blackstone. He threw the jupons down. 'Search everywhere. Find their booty. Then drag them into that byre,' he ordered.
* By nightfall their horses had been sheltered and fed. Fresh water had been drawn from the well and the men had washed themselves, combing the blood from their wet hair and then gathering at the fire that Jack Halfpenny and Thurgood had built up. Will Longdon had boiled eggs then slaughtered and plucked half a dozen chickens. He had roasted and seasoned them while the others had torn apart the monks' dormitory and found a cache of coins, gold rings and silver trinkets. Not all pilgrims were penniless. Meulon and Gaillard spilled everything onto a blanket and carried it out to where the men now sat around the fire. 'And there's wine,' said Longdon as he and Thurgood put down clay jugs and settled themselves to eat and drink. 'Some of it was off,' said Thurgood. 'Tasted like piss and vinegar.' 'Didn't stop him from drinking it, though,' said Halfpenny. 'He'll be shitting a sword's length by tomorrow.' 'No,' said Perinne. 'He has a copper-bottomed gut. I've seen him drink laundry water with scum on it.'
The others laughed and grunted in agreement, quickly silenced by the chicken's soft flesh on their teeth. A clear sky glistened with stars that blessed them and the hot food eased away the aches and pain of minor wounds from the day's killing. There was an added benefit of the cold night air: it kept the dead bodies chilled and slowed decomposition. Stefano Caprini hovered at the edge of the circle of men. Blackstone also stood to one side. He had eaten barely enough to satisfy his hunger, but it was enough that he had not lost a man to the ambushers – and that satisfaction had quelled his appetite. The food was good and every man licked fingers and sucked bones from the tasty fowl. Will Longdon was a good man to have riding with you. He could provide food better than most men. If there was a bird to be snared or a deer to be brought down, Will would find it. Always had. And when he cooked there was never a man who did not enjoy his offering. His whore mother had abandoned him as a child and a washerwoman in a village had taken pity – and his mother's shawl as payment – and fed the boy. She must have been the one who taught him to cook, Blackstone thought, though he had never known for certain. Who among them knew the story of their own family? His own was vague – a French mother who softened the heart of an English archer and died giving birth to another son. Each and every man had his own story. One day they might even discover what they were.
'You cannot take this,' Caprini said, meaning the booty on the blanket. Meulon looked up at him, but turned away and devoted his attention to the succulent chicken leg. 'Cannot?' said John Jacob. 'Or should not?' Thurgood and Halfpenny looked blankly at the other men. Thurgood's nose had been bent out of shape by many an alehouse brawl; now it became as pinched as the rest of his features as he tried to understand what challenges were being laid down. The Italian knight seldom spoke. Jacob tossed chicken bones on the fire and glanced towards Blackstone. 'My men killed those who tried to kill them,' said Blackstone. 'It is tainted with blood,' insisted the Tau knight. Will Longdon snorted. 'And my hands are dripping in chicken grease, but I'll lick my fingers and taste the dirt from the ground and the blood of those men. It's what comes to us from our efforts.' Blackstone watched his men's reactions. For an outsider to come between them and their reward could turn into a dangerous situation and his rank would not help him. They were no longer in any king's army; they were company men who chose their own commanders.
Gaillard got to his feet, his size looming even larger as his shadow was cast by firelight. He faced the Tau knight, but then turned away, muttering, 'I need a piss.' Blackstone understood his men. Gaillard was agreeing with Caprini, but did not wish to break ranks. 'We are travelling fast,' said Meulon. 'This is no time to start carrying extra weight. Another fight like this and the next thing you know we'd need a pack horse. Best to leave things as they are.' The Norman might have been talking about the weather. He did not seem to be criticizing Will Longdon for wanting to take the booty. 'Hang on,' said Thurgood. 'You agreeing with the Italian? That what you're saying? I did my share of killing today, and reburying the poor bastards murdered by them monks. A few coins and trinkets won't weigh me down.' It was John Jacob who spoke the truth plainly. 'It's tainted with pilgrims' blood, lad. We'll give it to a church when we next come to one.' It was said in a manner that brooked no argument.
Longdon saw the look in the man-at-arm's eyes. He barely spared a glance in the archers' direction. 'Why not?' said Longdon. 'Let's play the Good Samaritan and give to the poor bastards who really need it, eh?' The centenar knew his duty. Allowing dissent to fester was how a battle line could yield. Blackstone had taken a gamble giving Longdon a hundred archers to command in the company, and now even with two chosen men, they had been selected by him. He was still a rogue who would steal a pair of shoes from the dead, like any of them, but he would not allow one of his archers to cause discord, especially in such a small group of men whose objective was to get their sworn lord back to England. 'What? No. A pig's arse!' said Thurgood. Longdon licked his fingers. 'Besides, your arrow was wide of the mark when those men made their run.' 'I used my knife!' said Thurgood defensively. Every archer knew when his strike was good or not. 'I sliced as many throats as any man here.' Longdon got to his feet and gathered the corners of the blanket. 'You're not here to use your knife, lad. Any arsehole swordsman – other than them among us, of course – can do that. You're here to put your man down with an arrow. To make sure we don't have to go round cutting throats.' It broke the tension. By the time he had delivered his admonition the blanket was gathered and taken to Caprini.
Thurgood looked confused. It was true he had missed – once. But was that a good enough reason to be denied a share of the spoils? He looked from man to man who either smiled or shrugged. The matter was closed. Blackstone stepped forward and threw his chicken bones into the fire. 'We'll let the Italian carry the extra weight. That's only fair, wouldn't you say, Robert?' he said, laying a comradely hand on Thurgood's shoulder. The question made the archer clear his confused dissatisfaction quickly. 'Aye... I suppose it is, Sir Thomas.' Then, with a more definite assertion that he had made the correct decision: 'It's only right.' Caprini nodded his thanks to Longdon as he took the tied blanket from him. 'You're bloody lucky Thomas is here, sir knight. Me? I'd have had the trinkets round my neck, the coins in my purse and the rings on my fingers,' said Longdon barely above a whisper. Caprini showed no concern. 'But an English archer needs to hold his war bow and draw an arrow without impediment. To wear rings on your fingers would make you less effective. Surely?'
Will Longdon turned away and sucked his teeth. Smart-arse knights. They were all the same, wherever they came from. * By the time the morning sunlight touched the valleys, the men were ready to ride. The donkey and the goat were tethered behind one of the horses. Two more days would take them to the monks at the pass. The livestock would serve as a contribution for their help, along with the booty, which was now tied onto the donkey's back. Thurgood had been persuaded that a donkey was better suited to carry it than the Tau knight, who was needed to guide them. The men's safety was still in the knight's hands, it was argued. And look what that had brought them, Thurgood had moaned. Then all the more reason to make certain that the monks who would guide them through the pass should feel sufficiently rewarded, came the argument in answer. Thurgood tethered the goat and the donkey on a trailing rein behind his horse. 'And when we thirst, you can milk the goat for us,' said Halfpenny. 'That's if he can tell the difference between donkey and goat,' said Will Longdon.
As the men's humour jibed back and forth, Blackstone stood in the byre with John Jacob. The dead had already been thrown unceremoniously inside, their bodies covered with anything that would burn – mattresses, benches and stools and then finally armfuls from the woodpile – then tallow and oil was smeared and spilled. Blackstone looked at the carnage. Two of the men waited outside with burning torches. Jacob gathered a handful of the brigands' clothing. 'You've seen these, Sir Thomas,' he said, pulling aside the cloth so that the stitched, though faded, badge on its left breast could be seen. 'Visconti men.' He did the same with another. 'But this livery I don't know. It looks German or Hungarian.' He rubbed his thumb across the raised colours, more bloody than the others, and even less distinct. 'These were men fighting for the Visconti. Now, why would they be here? In this godforsaken place? Killing pilgrims was the monks' business. If anything they got in these men's way.' He tossed the clothing onto the pile. 'If they were after you they must have had men in place along the main routes of the Via Francigena. This must have been the last place they would have expected you to travel, but a good site for an ambush, expecting our guard to be down. From here we're moving into de Montferrat's territory. The Visconti have no cause to love him, but they're not likely to send men that far west on a hunting expedition for you. It's either coincidence – or these men here were waiting for you.'
And that meant betrayal. 'Burn them,' said Blackstone. * By the time they rode across the ridgeline the funeral pyre's black smoke had risen high into the sky, a signal to anyone beyond the horizon that if this had been a planned assassination, then whoever had tried to have Blackstone killed had failed. It would take days for the information to reach the men's paymasters. From hermit monk to itinerant pilgrim word would go through village and hamlet until it reached condottiere patrols. The truth would become rumour and then legend. Thomas Blackstone, the scourge of his enemies, would be seen as the English knight who slaughtered innocent monks who had offered him shelter and respite. There were twenty-three passes through the Alps. Transalpine princes controlled those that led into their territory, routes that had been established when man first questioned what lay beyond the next mountain. Great warriors such as Hannibal had achieved the seemingly impossible and the legions of Rome had tramped beneath the great snow-capped sentinels. To the north was the St Gotthard, used by the Milanese to extend their influence – wealth, goods and banking – into the land of the Germans. Further south the Brenner gave the Venetians and Florentines access across France towards Flanders and England. Even in mid-winter people and carts could get through the passes using sledges. However, the underbelly of the Alps was the route Blackstone had secured when he fought 'La Battaglia nella Valle dei Fiori' and tore the citadel that guarded the route from the grip of one of the Visconti's captains. It was a treacherous pass that made men cleave to its ice- and snowfields. When the thaw came, the monks who guided travellers across those narrow paths would try to retrieve the bodies, but more usually the mountain held them close.
Except for hot food and a change of horses for his men, Blackstone declined further hospitality offered by the Marquis de Montferrat. Fresh mounts were given freely to the men, though Blackstone's war horse had the stamina and strength to continue. It was a creature like its master – able to ignore privation and the harshness of nature. They were well suited. 'Stay,' de Montferrat said. 'The snows have slowed travel this year. Even the monks have lost some of their own to icefalls. There are women here for your men – and it is paid for.' He smiled because he was making good revenue thanks to Thomas Blackstone and the Pope. When Blackstone had fought the Battle of the Valley of Flowers at the border and seized the citadel it gave de Montferrat control over a key route into Lombardy. The papal chamber and the city of Genoa paid the Marquis a hundred thousand florins to allow mercenaries through the mountains to inflict terror and destruction on the Milanese rulers and their German mercenaries. Genoa, like the Pope, was the Visconti's enemy.
'And I take tolls for those troops to pass by the castle you seized.' He raised a glass of wine in salutation. 'You need never pay for anything in my territory, Sir Thomas.' Blackstone realized that the harsh weather that had swept across the north that winter might have claimed any other of the King's messengers – had they been sent. Samuel Cracknell had sailed from England, his ship clinging to the coastline. Misfortune had struck when it was blown off course and into the hands of the Pisans. 'Have you heard of anyone from England coming through the pass these past weeks?' he asked. 'Other than handfuls of routiers and foolhardy merchants thinking this was a land ripe for exploitation? None.' Blackstone watched the Marquis's response. There was no guile or deceit in his answer. Perhaps there had been only one messenger after all. 'Only merchants, then,' said Blackstone. Montferrat laughed. 'By the Holy Cross, you would think they'd know the Italians are masters at making deals. Those poor bastards haul themselves through the passes. They come to make money, and they are culled by disease and war, just like you mercenaries.' He paused. As much as Blackstone had studied his host, so too had de Montferrat watched his guest. Both men were paid for the services they provided to their paymasters. Why was Blackstone turning his back on Florentine money? 'No one goes back through that pass, not at this time of the year. Why else is it called the Gate of the Dead?' he said. 'Not from this heavenly land. Stay here and die here.'
The meaning was not lost on Blackstone. Italy's republics might be at constant war, but it was nothing like the ravaged country of France. Montferrat picked remains of his food from a silver plate and tossed it to the dogs that lay gazing intently in the hope of scraps. 'You risk a great deal coming this far north. How you survived in Tuscany these years I don't know. The Visconti would like nothing better than to hang and gut you. You think the Hungarians are cruel bastards? Nothing compares to those brothers.' He kicked one of the hounds from beneath his feet. It yelped and slunk away. Montferrat leaned forward to make his point. 'When the Pope threatened to excommunicate Bernabò he had four nuns and a monk stripped and put in a cage. He roasted them alive. He hates the Church. And those who fight for it.' 'And you,' Blackstone said. 'And me. Though I'm little more than a gatekeeper these days.' 'You're a Piedmontese nobleman. You have influence and that gives you information,' said Blackstone.
Montferrat shrugged. 'A little,' he agreed, his attempt at humility fooling no one. He relented, knowing what Blackstone was asking. 'The word came that you had left the service of Florence and were returning to France, or at least those that were interested thought it to be France.' Blackstone gave nothing away. How difficult could it be for rumour to spread like a plague? 'Or perhaps not France?' Montferrat said. 'Who knew?' He shrugged again. 'I heard you were taking ship at Genoa. And if I heard then your enemies heard.' 'And who was interested?' 'The Visconti. The Germans. The Hungarians. Other company captains. French noblemen dispossessed by you. Italian merchants robbed by you. Those with a vendetta against you. The Virgin Mary, for all I know. You didn't crucify her son, did you, by any chance?' Blackstone drank the last mouthful of wine and pushed the stool away from the table. 'My thanks for the horses and supplies. We'll leave after matins.' 'Thomas, you have made it this far; whoever wants you dead will have to wait until after you pass through the mountains. Because now they will know that you did not leave with your men at Genoa.'
Montferrat toyed with his eating knife. He could make money from informing Blackstone's enemies where he was going. But then he ran the risk of losing the Pope's largesse. And then, who knows, he thought, they might even use Blackstone to take back the citadel, pour thousands of brigands through the pass and lay siege to him. 'Your intentions are safe with me,' he said. 'I never doubted it,' said Blackstone. But the Marquis was uncertain, from the Englishman's smile, whether he meant it. * Snow whirled in turbulent vengeance against those who dared to trespass through the mountains. It sought out the ravines and rock faces, punishing guides trying to cross the divide as they pushed and pulled wicker sledges carrying their passengers. The Italian villagers earned good payment for taking travellers through the pass, but it was the monks from the monastery on the French side of the mountains who had served pilgrims for a hundred years and knew every handhold, and it was they whom Blackstone would trust to take his men back to where they had journeyed two winters before.
'The villagers' greed has already killed many this past week,' the leather-faced monk told Blackstone as they waited in the lee of the mountain. The monk looked younger than Blackstone's twenty-eight years, but Blackstone could not tell his age as he watched him coil a hemp rope in a great loop that he tied off and slung across his body. These monks could be twice the age they looked – perhaps the high mountain passes brought them closer to God's domain and He blessed them for their piety and courage. He had told them his name was Brother Bertrand, a novice, born and raised in the mountain villages and taken as an orphan into the monastery when still a child. Now he added that the pass was icy on this side of the mountain because of the north wind that swept down from the higher peaks. Once they reached halfway it would be easier and the downhill approach would cause them less difficulty. Blackstone studied the young man. He had a foolish grin stitched across his face. Did that indicate that he was in the hands of an idiot? Blackstone wondered. Young, old or idiot – did it matter? He was a mountain guide. The monk's wiry frame could mislead an untrained eye as to his strength – indeed, a life of fasting and prayer might weaken some men – but if he had climbed and travelled these mountains since going into the monastery, then his slight body would be as supple as a English archer's yew bow. A trustworthy guide to lead them back.
'You will do nothing, Sir Thomas, until I tell you. And then you will obey every word I say until we reach the other side,' said the monk. 'If a man falls he is in God's hands, not ours. We do not stop on the path. You remember it?' Blackstone did remember. It was one of the most difficult passes to traverse, but when he had led several hundred men into Italy in fair weather it had been less challenging. He had lost fewer than half a dozen men during that journey. The ground had been dry, the autumn winds not yet gathered behind the peaks. The sun broke through that day like a divine light showing the way through the Gate of the Dead. Not so now. The unpredictable gusts of wind could lift a man the size of Meulon and cast him down. There was no argument from Blackstone or those who had previously made the same perilous journey with him. As the wind buffeted the mountainside the men kept as close as possible to the rock face. Their horses were blindfolded and weapons secured to the saddle pommels. Meulon held the reins of his horse tightly, his bare hand comforting its muzzle. Like the others it was hobbled so that its strides were restricted. Despite the horses being sturdy beasts and used to such difficult conditions, it was better to control any skittish behaviour. Horses were dumb beasts whose erratic behaviour could kill a man. Only once they had traversed the worst the pass had to offer would the hobbles be untied.
Each man wrapped sackcloth around his horse's hooves and his own boots for purchase. Those who wore their hair long tied back its length with cord and then pulled their helmets tightly onto their heads and tightened the straps or bound them beneath their chins with a strip of linen. Debris from a rockslide could stun a man and to lose your footing meant a frightened horse and a long drop into oblivion. Thurgood cast a glance at his friend, Halfpenny. This pass was more dangerous than he had imagined. The two archers had come into Lombardy by a more northern route after they found their services as archers no longer needed after the English victory at Poitiers. Drifting with many others they had joined one of the routier companies and plundered southwards until they heard that Sir Thomas Blackstone had a few hundred men under contract for Florence. They were young men, easily swayed by the attraction of a good wage paid by Italian city-states, and the chance to share plunder when the company's terror was unleashed on the unsuspecting. Rape and murder suited them. However, they found it was different with Blackstone. They had to prove their worth. By good fortune they were accomplished archers and experienced fighters, who wore an English soldier's belligerence like a coat of arms. And their animal instincts soon understood that Blackstone's command was little different than being in the King's army. Ill discipline was not tolerated. Rape of the innocent was punishable by hanging, and looting a church could lose a man his hand.
There were enough women among the camp followers who would spread their legs, provided they were paid, and Blackstone's captains saw to it that they were. Any fighting between soldiers over a woman that ended in a killing was judged on the circumstances. There were still those who would die over a whore. A drunken condottiere's knife attack meant Blackstone's company lost a fighting man, so whoever did the killing was well advised to have a good enough reason or he would feel the weight of Blackstone's justice. 'North was better,' Thurgood said to Meulon. 'A decent road and space for cart and horse. This is too narrow.' He squinted into the white flurries that buffeted around the weather side. 'And too high.' He looked at Halfpenny. 'Shit might freeze, Jack, but if I fall I'll not be stuck like a turd on a rock for everyone to see. Put an arrow through me and knock me off my perch. Will you do that for me?' Halfpenny's cap was bound around his head and chin. Before he could answer through gritted teeth, Meulon muttered his own reply. 'I could put my spear up your arse now and save us all the trouble later.'
Halfpenny's gagged laugh through the binding sounded like a dog being strangled. 'Piss off, Jack,' said Thurgood. 'And you, you French bastard,' he said, pointing at Meulon, 'can kiss my English arse.' 'Norman bastard,' said Gaillard. 'We're Normans. And you forget Meulon is one of Sir Thomas's captains.' 'And my centenar is Will Longdon. That's who I take my orders from.' Meulon grinned. 'But you are travelling behind me today so you will do as I do and watch for my command.' Will Longdon made his way down the line of stationary men and horses, muttering instructions as he passed each man. 'Sir Thomas says to tighten the girths, bind loose clothing, secure weapons.' Thurgood snatched at his arm. 'Will, am I to follow Meulon? He farts like a horse. I'll be over the edge with his stench.' Longdon snatched free his arm. He was in no mood for bleating men. 'Is your bow covered and tied?' 'Aye, but—' 'And the cords are stored and dry?' 'Of course,' said Thurgood, aggrieved a fellow archer was not standing up for him.
'Then cease mewling and get ready to move. Do what Meulon says. He's too mean and ugly to argue with.' Longdon turned back. His limbs were already seizing up in the cold. He steadied himself against horse and man as the intemperate wind whipped a flurry of snow against him. 'In half a day the track widens, but if you can't hold onto your fear until then, I'll tie a rope around you and drag you along like a dog,' said Meulon. Halfpenny stepped quickly between his friend and the Norman. Thurgood was handy with a knife and he was lighter on his feet than the big man. 'You wouldn't want that, Meulon, you're as big as a tree and he'd end up pissing on your leg.' Halfpenny and Thurgood had only been with Blackstone's company for less than a year and wielded no influence over any of the captains, and they only had Will Longdon to vouch for them. It was the veteran archer's standing with Blackstone that brought them so close to this bodyguard of men. That and their skill. Nothing more was said as the horses resumed their hobbled steps. Meulon glanced back at the belligerent Englishman, and the thought passed through his mind that for once he did not want an archer at his back.
Oliviero Dantini had journeyed with Sir Gilbert Killbere, a man who spoke little to him, even though Dantini could converse freely in English and French. They had placed him in the centre of the column of the hundred men to ensure his safety should any attack be made upon them. Dantini had already sent his commission to the Genoese for the ships needed to take these condottieri across to Marseilles. The silk merchant lived in the city, but his trade depended on prevailing winds and he knew that Thomas Blackstone had chosen a good time to send his men across the water. Had it been thought through, he wondered, or did the hulking Englishman understand the vagaries of weather? He had been treated with respect by Killbere and these mercenaries, but he had never longed so much for his home. His sensibilities were continually offended by their presence, for he was a refined and cultured man, used to the courts of England, Flanders and France, and being taken and held prisoner by Blackstone had scarred him as if scalded with molten lead. These men of war frightened him every step of the way and their surrounding him made him feel like a lamb being taken to slaughter. At night he found it difficult to keep warm despite the quality of his cloak and bedroll. Maggots of fear ate away at him beneath his skin so that he trembled like a carcass being devoured from within.
Not that he was given much time to rest, because the English knight set off before dawn and rode beneath moonlight until darkness forced him to stop. Dantini was exhausted, but the older man showed no sign of fatigue. They were racing against time, eager to be in France. Dantini felt dirty and unwashed and yearned for the softness of his bed and one of the slave girls who would do his bidding. In these desperate moments he even felt affection for his wife, whose unwavering duty towards him and their children did her great credit, but whose conformity and piety meant there was little pleasure to be had from sexual union with her. Despite these conflicting emotions his dignity forbade him to yield to his fear, and he was proud of that. He placed himself in the hands of God to whom he prayed each night. Killbere assured him that once the men were aboard the ships and his note of commission had been witnessed and executed legally then he would be given an escort home to the gates of Lucca. There was nothing for him to fear, other than his own timidity, Killbere said.
Timidity? More like disgust at the company he had been forced to share. Their word had been kept; he had not been robbed or injured in any manner and Blackstone's bond to him had not been violated. Was this a code these creatures lived by, or another layer of fear, greater than his own, of Thomas Blackstone's intolerance of disobedience? Argument filled his mind, a conversation with himself that was as confusing as these men's behaviour. There was nothing about them he admired. He saw them through disdainful eyes as ignorant, brutal killers who inflicted savagery for payment, though he confessed in his prayers before God to the contradiction that he was grateful to have fallen into the hands of the Englishman, Blackstone. And as the journey reached its end he knew that the powers in Florence would let the King of England know of his service to the Crown. That thought, at least, gave him comfort. Once home he would make immediate arrangements to travel to Flanders and from there let it be known that he wished to visit the English court. King Edward's reputation went beyond that of warrior king – he was renowned for refinement and opulence. Money could buy culture, not like these barbarians, who took their blood money and bought women and drink, who thought themselves men of significance because they had purchased a house with a vineyard and a woman to bed them. A sovereign such as Edward was a benefactor, a great, cultured man whose library was renowned, who appreciated art and music and who held those who served him in Italy in great affection.
When Dantini saw the billowing sails carrying the men's ships away, he commanded his escort to ride for Lucca. He denied himself sleep in his urgency to feel the safety of the city. Once he'd entered through the portal of San Donato he let his escort return to their mountain lair. The city troops closed the great gates behind him, the strongest bodyguard he could wish for. He left his horse and saddlebags with the ostler at the gates, having no desire to wait while a message was sent to his house for servants to come and attend him. They could get the bags tomorrow. He was saddle-sore and his body felt as though it had been on the rack. Even so, as he got closer to home he could barely keep himself from running along the Via del Toro towards the comforts that awaited him. He could almost smell the fragrance of the warm bath that would be drawn for him and then the smooth skin of the young slave girl as he commanded her into his bed – and then he would offer thanks for his deliverance in prayer. It was nearly curfew and he praised God that he did not have to spend another night beyond the gates of his beloved Lucca.