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The city looms had fallen silent. Doors slammed closed as people went home, leaving only stray cats and ghosts to flit through the darkening streets. The household would not be expecting him. He raised the great iron door knocker to strike against its plate, three strident blows of authority that would have the house servant running downstairs, flustered and bewildered as to who it could be at this time of night. Church bells rang, the door opened and Oliviero Dantini stepped into hell. For a moment he was about to chastise the servant for lighting an expensive oil lamp so early in the evening, but before he could utter a word he was yanked into the entrance hall where he fell heavily. As confusion turned to terror another man grabbed him and hauled him to his feet. The man had the strength to lift him bodily from the floor, even though his legs refused to support him. The shadows moved and from somewhere a hand slapped him across the face with such force that he saw lights burst from the pain behind his eyes and tasted blood in his mouth. The next thing he knew he was being forced up the steps into his living quarters. He tried to say something, but his teeth had been loosened and his tongue cut from the force of the blow. He whimpered, begging to know who they were and why they were doing this to him.
He realized the intruders were not dressed as commonly as the condottieri. Reality deserted him momentarily as he noticed with an almost detached expertise that the men's clothing was of high quality. They hauled him into his wife's bedchamber and he saw that she sat upright in bed, propped by pillows, with the children under each arm. In the dull glow from the candles in the room he could see there was a grotesque smile on each of their faces as they lay against the crimson bedding. He knew somewhere in the recesses of his mind that his wife had never purchased anything but the finest-woven, embroidered linen sheets of pure white. And then he understood that their smiles were gaping wounds in their throats. He gagged and vomited and felt the tears sting his eyes. The men let him lie in his own mess and then one of them kicked him over and threw the contents of his wife's piss pot into his face. He spluttered and wiped his face with his sleeve. One of the men bent down holding the oil lamp so that he could see his face and watch his lips move in case the blow had deafened him and so that he understood why he was being punished.
'Your slave girl, the one who ran, she was picked up and taken north.' North. This killer was talking about Milan. The man with the fine cloth jacket nodded, seeing that the fool understood. 'My Lord Bernabò Visconti does not allow disloyalty to go unpunished. Lucca is beholden to Pisa and Pisa has an alliance with Milan and Milan is Visconti. You helped his enemy escape. This is your reward. Every living creature in this household is dead.' Oliviero Dantini fainted. The men carried his body to the top of his tower slapped him back to consciousness so he could know what was to happen – and then threw him into the street below. By the time Killbere and the men lost sight of land as a following wind eased them towards France and Blackstone reached the first of the passes that would lead him home, the self-satisfied citizens of Lucca awoke to the slaughter. No bounty paid for protection could ever be enough to stop the Visconti's wrath. There was to be no respite from the clawing cold that scratched its way through their clothing. Brother Bertrand, however, seemed impervious to the weather and every few hundred paces turned to see that the tall figure of the Englishman followed faithfully in his footsteps, and behind him the Tau knight and the rest. The monks who led men across these dangerous passes lived in the monastery on the other side of the pass. It was a beneficiary of the Englishman's strength and courage; thanks to him it flourished. Those who passed through the citadel that guarded the pass on the far side were seldom enemies of the Pope, and those that were, were stopped by the soldiers in the stronghold. This safe passage meant the guides were not threatened. There were whores in the villages, but the god-fearing lord of the area, Marazin, forbade fornication and the women had been forced to move further away into the ravines and rocky defiles that scarred the foothills where – to his mind – they gathered like a pestilence. Soldiers who sought employment in Italy camped beyond the citadel and the women would come down to share their tents while their husbands took the soldiers' payment.
Brother Bertrand made the sign of the cross at the memory of his travels through the soldiers' camp, disguising his true intentions by administering comfort to a wounded man. It was a place of corruption, where sexual acts were commonly seen. He had stood beyond a lit tent and watched a woman's rump moving rhythmically astride a Gascon soldier, her breasts loose from her dress. The warmth that spread from Bertrand's groin brought saliva to his mouth and he understood the devil's insidious reach. 'Brother?' a voice carried on the wind. He turned and saw Blackstone close behind him, the war horse at the Englishman's shoulder. 'What is it? What's wrong?' The images of the women in the valley had insinuated themselves into his mind and caused him to falter. The wind lifted snow from the ridges and lashed the men. He was glad of the mountain, praised God that its torment was his flagellation. 'There!' he shouted to Blackstone above the roar of the wind. 'You see it?' Blackstone raised a hand in acknowledgement. The low cloud had shifted suddenly, offering a brief glimpse of the distant valley. It was green and lush, the snowline barely touching it. It was like a promised land after the harshness of the mountain. Once into the valley the men would make good time. By dawn they would be there.
'Keep going!' said Blackstone, holding the hooded horse in check. It trusted Blackstone's scent, but quivered when it felt Blackstone's own uncertainty. The narrow ledge and jagged rocks still awaited man or beast if they fell. Blackstone had seen the novice's haunted glance. The man was used to travelling such dangerous routes so he knew it had nothing to do with fear. In that one instant Blackstone thought he saw within Brother Bertrand a desperation that cut deeper than the hardship of life in a monastery, alone with only prayer and hard work for comfort. Self-denial was a cross the man bore, visible in the fleeting moment of sadness that crossed his eyes. It took someone who knew that loss to recognize it. Brother Bertrand nodded and carried on. He had prayed hard in his attempt to resist the soft musk smell of the woman who had offered herself once she had been paid by the Gascon soldier, but he had failed. He had abandoned himself to it, allowing himself to wallow in her sin. It was a delight that could not be imagined; a betrayal of every vow he had taken; a moment of submission to the flesh that scoured his mind and pierced his heart with shame.
The woman had taunted him for his excitement and inadequacy and then gone to others, telling them what he had said to her in an attempt to impress her. And it was they who had questioned and threatened him until he had confessed the truth of what he had told the whore. He was one of many guides – not the most senior, not the most trusted – just one of many who escorted men through the Gate of the Dead. But this time he would return with Sir Thomas Blackstone. Bring Sir Thomas down through the narrow defile before the land broadened past the citadel and nothing would be said of his fornication, said a hardened-looking man – a Gascon who curled a fist around Bertrand's habit, tightening it around his throat, as the other hand grabbed his privates and squeezed until the novice monk yelped in pain. Now, as he hunched his shoulders against the wind, he thought through what he had to do. Once the Englishman was through the pass, they told him, he could go quietly back to the life he had chosen. Keep your mouth shut, they had threatened. Spend your life in silence. No one need know you brought him this way.
He smiled at the thought. A Judas act was the devil's joy. Contrition would put him on the side of the angels. * They settled the horses into a wider, sheltered area of the mountain road. Water spilled from crevasses, not yet a spring melt, but the setting sun played some of its warmth onto the mountains and the weary men who huddled close to their mounts. There would be no hot food that night, only a strip cut from a smoked ham and dry biscuit. But there was no threat on the remote pass from Blackstone's enemies, which offered some comfort. 'He's a funny one, that,' said Thurgood, pulling a blanket around his shoulders. Halfpenny looked to where the Tau knight knelt in prayer; the blazon on his cloak had been their beacon as they followed him through the foul weather and now its shape was like a symbol of devotion in the shortening day. Mist and then snow, and the incessant wind, had forced them to go carefully on the treacherous path. Thank God the worst was over. The descent already offered them more warmth.
'Religious fanatics, them lot,' said Halfpenny, passing a piece of cut meat to his friend. 'Still, if any of us gets a bad one, something like a knife in the guts, then he'd give you the sacrament, so that's some use, I suppose.' Thurgood chewed the cured strip of pig. 'They say they touch God in their prayers, or God touches them. Don't like that idea. Me and God are best kept at arm's length. Bad enough He knows what I'm thinking most of the time; don't want Him touching me. God touches a mortal man and he's a goner. Dead, I reckon, like being struck by lightning.' 'Which is God expressing Himself how He does best – striking down them that's unfortunate enough,' said Halfpenny. 'Aye. You're right. We'll sleep well away from him. There's lightning in these mountains and if he's spending half the bloody night in prayer then him being touched could spell pain and grief for us all.' 'He's a good fighter, mind,' said Halfpenny. 'I saw him back there and he can fight like a proper bastard, he can.'
The grumbling archers made the best of what they had. A stony path for a bed, a blanket and shoulder of rock to rest their heads. If it snowed they would lie, cramped and unmoving, until forced to start another day. 'Hard to think of him being a man of God,' said Thurgood finally. 'Worst kind,' said Halfpenny, rolling himself into his blanket and pulling his cap down tighter over his ears for as much comfort as he could get. The two archers were not the only ones watching the Tau knight pray. The stony ground must have hurt his knees, but he knelt with barely a tremble from either the cold or the pain. Brother Bertrand waited for his moment. Blackstone and his men slept, or were at least curled into what little warmth could be had beneath their cloaks and blankets. Caprini made the sign of the cross and kissed his fingers. The monk walked quickly; his feet, covered in rough-woven sacking and sandals, made barely any noise over hard stone, but even with the wind's ghostly howl in the high peak Caprini heard his approach. His hand was already at the dagger in his belt when Bertrand stopped and raised his hand in a gesture of submission.
'Brother, I need your guidance,' he whispered, loud enough to be heard by Caprini. 'And forgiveness.' * Blackstone awoke with a boot dug into his back. The clear, cold morning showed a smudge of pink on the snow-crested mountains. He peered up at the Italian. 'Get up, Sir Thomas,' he said and turned to where Brother Bertrand knelt in painful penance, head bowed, hands clasped in prayer, dried blood crusting a swollen lip. By the time Blackstone had raised himself and eased out the cold cramp, others had stirred. It was eerily silent. The wind had eased in the night and, once it had blown the last of the cloud away, it had finally ceased, as exhausted perhaps as the men. Will Longdon yawned and relieved himself against a slab of rock. 'His prayers have worked then,' he said, meaning the kneeling man, then shivered with pleasure and relief. John Jacob kicked Thurgood and Halfpenny awake, and followed to where Blackstone had walked to the kneeling monk. The gathering men stood back and waited. The Tau knight put the toe of his boot beneath the monk's chin. 'Open your eyes.'
As if from a deep trance Brother Bertrand blinked in the morning light. His tongue licked his cracked lips, dry from the night air and lack of water. Caprini pointed at him as he addressed the men. 'He asked me to hear his confession. And that which is confessed is between him, me and God. Unless he tells you why I had him pray throughout the night and struck him to clear him of his sin.' The men shuffled in the cold, hugging themselves for warmth, yawning and scratching from the night's privation. 'That is permitted?' asked Meulon. 'To admit what was said in confession?' The thought could worry any man devout in his belief that only God and priest would share knowledge of his sin. Will Longdon hawked and spat, then rubbed his face to flush some warmth into the skin. 'Meulon, you're the best throat-cutter I've seen, don't tell me you're scared of God knowing it like the rest of us?' 'Fra Stefano isn't talking about how we live and fight, you dumb bastard, he's talking about what happens to a man's soul,' said the Norman.
'That's enough,' Blackstone ordered without anger. The last thing he needed at this time of day was two of his captains bickering like village women. He turned to Caprini. 'He's confessed to what? Being involved with the ambush?' 'I am not permitted to tell you,' said Caprini, and eased his boot again, toppling the monk over like a pot. 'He's had his hand down his braies like the rest of us, I'll wager,' said Thurgood. 'Self-pleasure is a sin for the likes of him.' 'And the only pleasure you get when a whore sees that face of yours,' Longdon told him. 'Be quiet.' 'Brother Bertrand,' said Blackstone, 'I've no time or patience for a monk's misdemeanours. I've a full bladder and a day's ride ahead. If you had a hand in our betrayal we'll cut your throat and be done with it. It'll be quicker and less painful than being flung onto the rocks below. What's it to be?' The monk prostrated himself before Blackstone and began a litany of jumbled, almost incoherent words into the frozen ground. Blackstone looked imploringly at Caprini, who shook his head.
'I am not permitted to tell you.' 'Get him up,' Blackstone said irritably. Jacob and Longdon hauled the burbling monk to his feet. 'Give him water,' he instructed Gaillard, who took a water skin from the nearest horse's pommel and dribbled water into the weakened man's mouth. He coughed and spluttered, and Gaillard tipped more over his head. The cold, almost frozen, water made him gasp. 'You heard my question?' Blackstone said. The monk nodded vigorously. And told them everything. A month's ride away, across many horizons, an ailing woman lay on a bolstered couch, supported by cushions of the richest silks, finely embroidered by the most skilled hands. Her indigo velvet dress, smooth as brushed fur, exposed her arms to the man who stooped at her side. Her ladies-in-waiting hovered dutifully in the background as the physician eased away the silver bowl that held the royal blood. Master Lawrence of Canterbury had bled the King's mother for the second time that day. Despite her pallor he knew that the moment he left to ride back the seventy miles home that this ageing beauty would have her ladies attend her. They would apply make-up and comb her raven-black hair, now shot through with silver, and clothe her in the finest dresses, whose style would have come from Paris or Rheims. Her illness would not defeat her sense of fashion, nor her royal bearing. When he had first been honoured by the command to attend the dowager Queen he had been nervous. He had served the King, and his sovereign lord had then seen fit to make his skills available to the woman who, in her youth, had seized the crown of England in what many saw as a pretence to hold it in safekeeping for her son Edward. It was a history of intrigue and deception by a woman who to this day still held some power and influence behind the throne of Edward III. Master Lawrence had witnessed the affection still shared between mother and son, acts of kindness that denied the rumours that she had been exiled to one of her castles years before. The physician led a privileged life. Not only was he intimate with all that befell the royal family but he was an eyewitness to history, much of which would never be recorded by any scribe.
This woman who lay in his care would ever be known as Isabella the Fair, once Queen of England and renowned for her beauty and intelligence. She was born to be Queen and her lineage connected her to the royal houses of Europe. Married at twelve, how old would she have been when she gave birth to the future King of England? Sixteen perhaps? It was said her husband had lain with her as a matter of duty. Master Lawrence barely stopped himself from snorting with derision as his thoughts meandered back through time. How could any man not desire her? Unless they preferred the company of young men, of course. Edward II had defied the rumour that he was a weakling. Yes, he had loved art and music, but he was known to be a man of strength; known too, perhaps, as one who had failed in military conquest. And perhaps it was that which caused the ambitious Isabella to take a lover, though this did not stop her leading a life of piety and pilgrimage. Master Lawrence had witnessed her acts of compassion and charity, most of which had gone unrecorded and did not quell the intrigue and gossip and, he acknowledged, the fear that surrounded her life.
When her sixteen-year-old son seized back the crown of England with a small group of devoted young noblemen he showed that he had inherited some of his mother's political skill by having her lover, Roger Mortimer, sent to London for trial by Parliament. Had the boy acted on impulse and slain the usurper he would have been seen as little more than an emotional, uncontrolled youth. The physician felt a shudder down his spine. When Mortimer was judged guilty he suffered the unspeakable agony of being hanged, drawn and quartered. Through this baptism of blood and foresight, young Edward had taken the first step towards being a warrior king. Isabella the Fair was banished from court, but not from England or her son's heart. She was granted castles and a pension of more than four thousand pounds a year. The old physician had heard that she spent more than a third of it on jewellery. She was a woman who would never present herself as anything less than a queen. 'What vile liquid must we drink this time, Master Lawrence?' she asked. 'Is there no improvement with the humour of my blood?'
'Some, highness. Among other prescriptions I recommend white, clear sugar. It will purify the chest and the kidneys, but it can cause bilious humours, so it will be mixed with sour pomegranates and a glass of theriac and barley water each hour.' 'That sounds disgusting.' 'But I am aware that my lady is an exemplary patient,' he said, knowing there was a degree of familiarity permitted. A degree. 'Your examinations are almost complete?' 'Almost, highness.' 'Good. We have business to attend to.' He had seen the horseman ride in – a hard ride given the lathered horse – and the mud-spattered Lord Robert de Marcouf had paced the courtyard awaiting his audience with Isabella. So, the intrigue went on, Master Lawrence thought as he watched his assistants clean and bind the Queen's slender arm. He was at an age when he lanced his own curiosity as soon as he would a boil. Too much inquisitiveness could fester into a risk to life. A Norman lord was at the gate: a man who lived among squirming snakes who had once plotted against the King of France. And now? What more could be done? The French King was Edward's prisoner. What need was there now for a nobleman who had sworn allegiance to Edward? It was no secret that the King used his mother for diplomatic missions to further England's influence. It was no secret to those close to the King that she had influenced his decision to invade France in the first place. What other intrigues she shared with the King the physician could not imagine. His was not a political life, for which he was grateful, and what he heard and witnessed from those in his care could prove fatal should he speak of it. To have his hand on the pulse that beat from the royal heart was as close as he wished to be. He had no desire to know what lay within its dark chambers.
Few words passed between the physician and his patient, often only simple pleasantries, sometimes questions from her that probed sharply like the instruments he used to open her veins – precise and skilled; questions that fed her information. She was ruthless, manipulative and one of the most beautiful women who had ever graced the royal palaces. Master Lawrence of Canterbury wrote his prescription. Isabella allowed one of the assistants to wipe a smear of blood from her wrist. 'We have scoured books over the years,' she said wearily, 'written by noble and literate men who have searched for the alchemy of everlasting life. If your prescription is the elixir we have always sought, your weight in gold would be given to you... forever.' She bathed him in the smile that made him think of a seductress or a she-wolf – he had never determined which. 'My humble skills are recommendations to your apothecary, highness. I myself would wish no longer a life than God may grant me.' 'Then you would deny me life if it were in your power to give it,' she said.
He sighed. He had stepped into one of her bear traps yet again. 'Highness, you show me to be the old fool that I am.' 'And we tease you, Master Lawrence. We could not wish for anyone better to serve us.' He bowed his head. Her gracious remarks always flattered him. 'May I suggest that I be housed nearby? In case I am needed again at short notice.' The determined tone of her answer reminded him that her reputation was well earned. Her dark eyes flicked quickly at him – a change as sudden as a cloud passing over the sun. He feared rebuke – but an instant later she smiled and he could see how a man would submit to her desires. 'Master Lawrence, we are, as always, in your debt. You have a long ride home and we would not wish to keep you from your duties elsewhere. We thank you.' It was a gentle dismissal. He bowed and left the chamber. Her glance towards her ladies-in-waiting was sufficient for them to hurry forward and help her from the bed so that she might be dressed in more fitting clothes to receive her guest.
'Is Lord Robert here?' 'He is,' one of the ladies answered. 'Then we must hurry. He has travelled a long way and it would be ungracious to keep him from a well-earned rest.' * Robert de Marcouf was a Norman lord with lands in England and, like Isabella, with spies in France. He was only a few years younger than the dowager Queen, but age and the damp weather of Normandy and England crept into his joints and found the old injuries sustained in a half-century of fighting. He was one of the few great knights of his generation still active: many others were ailing – or dead. His generation had seen the last of the huge pitched battles, but not the intrigue that often caused them. He waited patiently in an antechamber where a fire burned in the grate with a woven rug spread before it. There was but a single piece of furniture in the room: a wooden stool. He had ridden through the night and his limbs ached with fatigue, but the stool was not for his comfort. He bowed as Queen Isabella entered the room and sat on the simple stool, her back straight and her eyes unwavering, while her attendant ladies moved back against timbered walls that displayed paintings done, he had been told, by Italian artists. He knew she was ill; it did not take much to discover the truth when one had influence. She was a woman in her sixties who had never been anything but a queen. He knew she must be in pain, but she sat with her back straight as a blade as she watched him.
'What news, my lord?' A servant approached him with a tray that held a glass of deep red wine. He could hardly wait to bring it to his lips and gulp its invigorating warmth. He shook his head at the servant, who retreated. It was always a test of wills with Isabella. 'Blackstone sent men by ship from Genoa. It was a feint. He went north alone with a handful of men,' said de Marcouf. 'He will use one of the passes.' 'Then he is on his way. What else?' she said. 'There are those at court who believe Thomas Blackstone has been summoned as an assassin to kill the Prince of Wales, given the animosity between them.' Isabella showed no emotion, but her mind's eye saw how easy it would be for a determined lone knight accompanied by a few men to slip past those who wished to stop him. 'Is our grandson aware of this?' 'No.' She considered the news carefully. 'Once he gets into France he would be nearly impossible to find. Killing him here in England would be easier. Can he be stopped?' The Norman did not answer. Who could know? A legend could be killed as easily as a common footsoldier. One arrow. One knife thrust.
'Do you believe he will get through?' Isabella asked. 'Thomas Blackstone does not always use that sword of his to beat an enemy. If that was the case he'd have been dead years ago. He is not a blunt instrument like a poleaxe, highness. He uses his brain. That's what makes him so dangerous.' Fifty men waited in the trees that flanked the defile beyond the castle. The brutish Gascon who had threatened Brother Bertrand sat in plain sight on his horse for anyone approaching to see. Behind him fourteen others sat astride their horses so that no one could approach from their rear. The track, the hillside and the way forward were effectively blocked. And those who held the citadel in de Montferrat's name, barely five hundred yards away, would cause them no trouble. They had waited on horseback since first light and if the guide had been as good as he said he was then he would have Blackstone through the pass before the sun's rays reached the snow-capped peaks. How many rode with Blackstone was unknown, but word had it that there were fewer than a dozen. The cold made the Gascon's nose drip. He snorted and spat away the moisture. Fewer than a dozen men following a man with a price on his head. Christ, how had he managed to get this far, let alone expect to reach England?
Horses shifted their weight, their muscles having stiffened as they stood still. The damned cold would seize a fighting man unless he could move – and to move might give away the positions of those in the trees. It occurred to him that Blackstone might even have an advantage. If he had been riding since before dawn then horse and man would be warmer than him and if Blackstone perceived any threat awaited him then the Englishman would try something. The last thing he wanted was Thomas Blackstone taking his own men by surprise. He swore beneath his breath. Perhaps this hadn't been such a good idea after all. Better to have let them ride through the defile and onto the plateau. God, it was cold sitting and waiting. A man's mind could wander. He wiped the cold tears from his eyes. Something moved in the distance. He peered through blurred vision, and swore, wiping them again with a rag pulled from his jacket. A lone horseman came forward at the walk. The misshapen head of his horse swayed as it snorted, pluming air like some kind of damned demon beast. It looked as malevolent as the man riding it, who rode without a sword in hand. Had he been the only one to survive? The Gascon looked behind him, and then to the trees. No one could have got round them.
The rider stopped and pulled off his helm, dragging fingers through his neck-length hair. Pulled back the hair so he could be identified. The Gascon peered but could not see the rider's face clearly enough. Damn! He wiped his eyes again. Whoever it was, he hadn't moved – just sat there and waited. The Gascon tentatively urged his horse forward at a walk. The horseman raised a hand. That was plain enough to see and then he called across the hundred or more yards that separated them. 'No further! Come closer and you'll die.' The Gascon stopped, uncertain now as to whether this horseman was indeed Blackstone. Would such a renowned knight ride a horse that looked like that? Take nothing for granted, his own sworn lord had taught him since boyhood. His horse snorted nervously, its ears pricked. Something was wrong. It involuntarily took another pace forward, and another before he reined it back – and as he did so a rushing sound made him look to the sky. He knew that sound. He jabbed spurs into the horse's flanks and yanked the reins, moving it no more than four strides from where it had stood. Three arrows thudded into the ground where moments before he had been.
Sweet Jesus. It was Blackstone without doubt and he would kill the leader of any group of armed men before asking questions and that would make it easier to draw out the others. Blood of Christ! The Englishman might have slipped fifty archers into those rocks without his knowing it. 'Sir Thomas! Hold! I am Beyard! A captain to my Lord de Grailly, sworn men to your King! We mean you no harm!' he shouted, his voice echoing across the rockface. He settled the skittish horse as Blackstone beckoned him forward. 'Come alone!' he called, recognizing the Gascon accent. De Grailly, the Captal de Buch, was one of the greatest knights and, like his ancestors, held the hereditary title of Master of Gascony; he was sworn to Edward. Beyard spurred his horse. If Blackstone did not believe him he would be dead in the next minute. When he got to within twenty yards he drew back on the reins and pulled up the horse. Now he could see the scarred face. He glanced left and right. There was no sign of anyone else. Where were those damned archers?
'You bear his arms?' Blackstone asked. The man had no shield by which to identify him. 'I do.' He pulled back his riding cloak and showed the blazon of five scallops set against a black cross that were stitched on his jupon's chest. 'I have been here a week, Sir Thomas. More men have been at the next two passes. We've been waiting for you. No one thought you would risk going further north through Visconti territory, so we chose the lower three routes.' 'How many men in all?' asked Blackstone. 'This pass and the route to the coast.' 'Near enough two hundred.' If the man was speaking the truth then Blackstone knew such a sizeable escort would get him through without being slowed by caution. 'And where did you think I was going?' he asked, making sure the man knew enough to be trusted. 'You have been summoned to England, Sir Thomas. That's all I know. But you're in danger. There are those who wish to stop you.' 'The Visconti's men?' 'Perhaps,' said Beyard. 'Men will fight for those bastards either side of these mountains, but no – I believe it is other Englishmen.'
Since Lucca, Blackstone had known that Englishmen were involved in trying to kill him, though there was no evidence that they had been sent from England. Perhaps they were mercenaries wishing to claim the prize? 'Call down your men from up there,' Blackstone told him, glancing up at the forests. Beyard realized that Blackstone must have remained hidden since before dawn, watching the deployment of his men. He signalled and the horsemen eased their way down and made their way into the open ground where they could all be seen. 'Are they all my Lord de Grailly's men?' 'Most. Some Provençal.' 'And your Lord de Grailly?' 'On crusade in Prussia. A messenger was sent. My sworn lord would have been here himself; there's no doubt about that. He holds you in high regard, Sir Thomas. I brought what men I could.' He paused, still unable to see where Blackstone's archers where. 'Your archers, Sir Thomas? I don't see them, so how could they see me?' 'You went into position too early, Beyard. We watched where you stood. An archer knows his distances. You were one hundred and thirty-eight paces from where I intended to halt. They fell back another eighty. They knew exactly where to aim. You invited them to kill you.'
Beyard flushed with anger at his own stupidity. He had fought at Poitiers; he knew what English and Welsh bowmen could do. Blackstone rode up as behind him three archers ran from beyond the rocks. They came fast, running hard to be at Blackstone's side, carrying their bows in their hands, ready to stop and shoot again if so commanded. Behind these three men five mounted men spurred their horses. They came on almost silently and Beyard noticed for the first time that the ugly beast that Blackstone rode had muffled hooves, as did the others. Nine men. That's all Blackstone had brought with him for this perilous journey. At the rear came a floundering figure, his habit caked with dirt, his feet wrapped in sacking. 'He betrayed me, then,' Beyard said, nodding towards the figure of the monk whose flailing arms seemed unlikely to propel him along any quicker. 'Not really. The devil betrayed you.' Blackstone smiled at the Gascon's confused look. 'He tasted sex and he wants more,' he said as the breathless Bertrand reached the men.
'God's blood! Send him to Avignon then,' said Beyard. 'Priests and nuns there go at it like rabbits. 'No,' said Blackstone, nudging the bastard horse forward next to the Gascon's. 'Says he doesn't want to be a monk after all. Wants to be a fighter.' 'God help us. We had best warn the men. I don't want any trouble from them with the women.' It was Blackstone's turn to be uncertain. Beyard gathered his reins. 'The whore said Bertrand had no experience – that he shot faster than an arrow. But he's hung like a donkey. There'll be a line of whores stretching from here to the coast to sample his pleasures. I doubt the rest of us will have much luck and I'll wager he'll not do much fighting.' * The Gascon bodyguard had secured the plateau so that no intruder would be able to strike at Blackstone. He accepted the hospitality offered by the allied castle and next morning would lead the men towards the safe havens across France prepared by Lord de Grailly's household. There would be little chance of attack now – not with the Gascon lord's protection to Calais.
Now that he was back on French soil he felt the pull of his family even more strongly. All he knew of them was that they were somewhere in the north, close to Christiana's guardian and friend, Blanche de Harcourt. Blanche had written to him – four letters in eighteen months. Four sheets of paper. The family was well. His son, Henry, placed with a knight of good standing to serve as a page. His daughter growing more beautiful every day. No mention of the bastard child, the result of his wife's rape, which by now must have been born. Barely a word about Christiana. Had she taken a lover? Did she still speak of the deception that Blackstone had kept hidden from her during their years of marriage? Fate had twisted a knife into their hearts when the truth was finally revealed. He had been a young archer when he had flanked the French ambush in Normandy that day years ago. An arrow shot and an old knight dead. A knight whom he later discovered was Christiana's father. The truth had finally burst like a boil from the plague. There was no mention of her demanding a divorce in the letters. Four letters was all he had. The words conjured their images in his mind. He had wanted nothing more than to live free from war on his Norman demesne. It had been almost perfect until the King of France had set a rabid murderer after him and then the secret that he had borne for so long had been exposed.
Blackstone shuddered as his thoughts chilled him, emotions clawing his innards. Anger and despair ignited a longing for his family. It was this bleak place that brought the memories flooding back. He had inflicted his revenge here, had lost his wife here and gone through the Gate of the Dead to Lombardy with no expectation of ever returning. But somewhere in France was everything that he held dear. Blackstone shielded the candle flame as he walked along the line of men settling themselves into the empty horse stalls. Blackstone's men would take the castle's hospitality while Beyard's men stayed vigilant outside. Now that he had passed safely into their care, no sneak attack from his enemies would catch them off guard. 'We should get drunk tonight,' said Will Longdon as he threw down his blanket. John Jacob kicked straw into an acceptable pile, toeing aside horse manure. 'Will's right, Sir Thomas. Some decent ale after the food they gave us would warm the bones. There's a chill to this place.'
'Aye, John, I know. But it's more than a chill from these stone walls that creeps into us,' Blackstone said. Jacob and Will Longdon had scaled the slippery fortification above the lake at the back of the castle when they fought for his family's lives the year before last. 'No drink, though,' he said. 'We start early. And ale won't drive this kind of cold from your bones.' There was a truth to the superstition that lost souls clung to places they had known when they were taken suddenly from life and Blackstone had been part of a great slaughter here. If only prayer and a thick cloak was enough to give some warmth to those who had done the killing. Blackstone promised himself that he would offer thanks to his guardian goddess, the naked figurine bathed in the candle glow at his throat. He moved along to where the horses were stabled and found the corner stall where the darkness held his own horse. Where others stood lifting a hoof as they slept, ears back and eyes closed, his horse faced him, ears pricked forward, eyes glaring through the flickering light. Did it ever sleep? He stood before the great beast, saw in his mind's eye the brand on its right leg and remembered the day it took a dozen men and ropes to hold it long enough so the mark could be made. Like all horses contracted to the Italians it was obliged to be branded. Right leg for stallion war horses and coursers, left for palfreys and mules. Everything was accounted for so payment could be made for its loss – horse and man each branded in his own way.
He reached out for the animal to take his scent and snuffle his palm. Its yellow teeth snapped, making him snatch his hand back in time to save his fingers. It was a beast of war that gave no favour unless it felt inclined. Blackstone understood it perfectly. As he went across the yard to his quarters he saw the dull candle glow from the chapel. His own candle was spent and the following wind urged him towards the chapel. That and something else drew him to its flame. Caprini knelt in prayer, but turned quickly, knife in hand as the door creaked open. Blackstone saw the blade and the man relax when he was recognized. 'Forgive me,' said Blackstone. 'I didn't know anyone was here.' Caprini crossed himself and got to his feet, tugging the cloak around him. He glanced at the crucifix and then back to Blackstone. 'I'll leave you to your prayers.' 'No need,' said Blackstone, 'I doubt He would listen.' 'Every prayer is heard,' said Caprini. 'Do not blaspheme, Sir Thomas. You may stand a hair's breadth from the devil's grasp but you have not been snatched into his lair. Not yet.'
'I have laid waste towns and slaughtered all those who resisted me. I have left widows and orphans across the breadth of two countries and their screams would drown out any prayer of mine.' 'Then pay a priest to say them for you.' 'There isn't enough money,' said Blackstone. 'Then you live without salvation.' Stefano Caprini nodded curtly and walked out of the chapel. Blackstone glanced at the burning light and the shadows it threw across the silver-inlaid crucifix on the small altar. How many men had prayed here before battle for their salvation? He could never know – but he had sent many of them to meet it. * Caprini tightened the belly strap on his horse. 'You have no further need of me now,' he said to Blackstone, who had seen the black-cloaked figure slip away from the castle's chapel to the stables. He was going to leave as silently and mysteriously as he had arrived in Lucca. 'I have every need of a man who can fight as well as you,' Blackstone told him. 'And these men need spiritual comfort. A fighting man close to God's heart. We only have a horny novice with us now who has renounced his vows. He won't be much good for prayers.'
'Sir Thomas, you have been brought safely through the mountains. In three weeks you will be in England.' 'And will need men I can trust at my back.' 'I have sworn an oath to help those on pilgrimage.' 'You swore an oath to take me to Canterbury.' The two men stared at each other. The older man shook his head and pulled down the stirrup strap. 'Do not play with words, Sir Thomas, they can cause more wounds than that sword of yours.' Blackstone placed a hand on the man's arm as he gathered the reins. 'I don't know where Canterbury is,' he said. 'Go with God – and I'll follow in your footsteps. That should get me back to England.' Caprini thought about it without answering Blackstone and then unfastened the saddle straps. 'Canterbury,' he said in little more than a whisper. 'An oath is an oath.' Blackstone walked back into the night. The Tau knight was a strange creature, a man who yielded little of himself, as if the dark cloak shielded his secret past. And what man didn't? thought Blackstone. Caprini may have fought well, but Blackstone did not yet trust him. Better to have the devil you know at your side, he told himself.
* The men gathered at dawn as the mist tried to escape the forest's embrace. Caprini and the other men waited respectfully as Blackstone's lone figure stood by the graveside of the young man who had sacrificed his life less than two years before. Time, and the passing of it, was a concept beyond Blackstone's understanding – but the lingering ache of separation was real enough. He missed his wife, his daughter and his son, and still mourned the loss of this boy who had tried to protect his family. He had chiselled the memoriam with his own hand. This stone marks the resting place of Master Guillaume Bourdin, esquire to the English knight, Sir Thomas Blackstone, cruelly slain in defence of the helpless by Gilles de Marcy, the Savage Priest. A scaffold held the remains of the man Blackstone had killed that day. His skin, as taut and blackened as weather-beaten leather, clung to the skeleton that was spreadeagled in warning. The dead man's dark shield still hung from his neck, held by wire that bit deep into bone. Words Blackstone had etched on it still gave warning to those who passed.
Here hangs the body of this cruel murderer, killed in single combat by Sir Thomas Blackstone. So will all evil perish. Blackstone spurred the horse and heard the rumble of hooves behind him. Ahead lay England and a King who had summoned him. The mist whispered away on the breeze, but the ghosts in that place lingered. Part 2 Tournament of Kings Blackstone had never been to London; in truth, before going to war he had seldom travelled beyond his own village. Since then the streets of Rouen and Paris had been his only experience of big cities. He didn't like either, and his recent journey into Lucca confirmed everything he felt about being confined within a city's walls. He had no idea where Canterbury was in relation to London; it remained a place that existed only in his imagination and in stories – no doubt exaggerated – told by those who had been to the great place of pilgrimage. They had travelled across France day in and day out, with long hours in the saddle, but often walking across difficult terrain, caring more for their horses than themselves. The further north they rode the more familiar the landscape became. He was close to home, or what had once been his home. Normandy was as blighted as the rest of the country by the roving gangs of routiers. Since King Jean le Bon had been captured at Poitiers his son had failed to heal the bankrupt nation. The Estates General in Paris had risen up and Charles of Navarre was a spectre that still haunted the Dauphin. Each lord's house that sheltered Blackstone told the same story: France was in tatters and King Edward was sucking the marrow from its bones with his ransom demands for the French King. Knights fortified their manor houses; others had moved their families into the walled towns or cities. Blackstone asked all those who gave him hospitality if they had heard of his wife Christiana and the Countess Blanche de Harcourt, who sheltered his family.
'The routiers are off down the Rhone valley from what we've heard. I pray they take their blight to others, as unchristian as that seems,' said one old knight, still loyal to King Edward's desire to rule France, who had offered them a frugal meal. 'The de Harcourt family is still divided. The Countess dispersed her band more than a year ago. She had torched the King's villages in revenge for what he did to her husband. Then...' He shook his head in weary despair at Blackstone and Caprini, who shared the honour of his table. 'Then, like the rest of us, she returned home to try and save what she could. As far as I know she went to her fief in Aumale. Safer up there. Wish I could get my people somewhere like it. But in truth there's been trouble everywhere. The Dauphin is losing what little control and support he has. No one knows what will happen. I'm sorry, Sir Thomas, I don't know where your family is.' He heard the same answer many times over the month it took the men to make their way to the coast. At every hamlet he was reminded of the life almost lived with Christiana and the children and the villagers who had depended on the strength of his sword arm. Every turn made him wonder if his family were close by.
Blackstone parted company with Beyard three days south of Calais with thanks for the Captal de Buch's captain's protection. 'I have sent word ahead, Sir Thomas,' said the Gascon. 'The boat waits for you at Le Havre. Go cautiously. I cannot tell who waits for you on the other side.' Blackstone and the others rode on, sleeping rough so that no one could identify his coat of arms, or remember the scar-faced knight. When he caught the scent of the salt marshes on the wind, Blackstone took leave of his captains. 'Gaillard and Meulon, you both know Calais. You and the others take lodging outside the city and wait until Sir Gilbert arrives. John and Fra Stefano and I will take a ship to England.' 'Good luck on the crossing, Thomas,' said Will Longdon. 'We'll find a priest and have him pray for calm sea and fair wind.' 'Then pay him double, Will,' said Blackstone, 'or there'll be more of me on the sea bed than arrives ashore.' The men laughed. Sea crossings were the devil's realm. 'We've Fra Stefano to help calm the waters,' said Jacob. 'The Lord won't ignore us.'
'I should you warn you, I am still paying for the sins I committed,' said the Tuscan knight. 'You would need to build a cathedral to find favour with God on my behalf.' Blackstone embraced his men in farewell with an admonishment that Bertrand be allowed only one whore a week and for the rest of the time be kept from the brothels. His training in looking after equipment and horses was to continue and he was not to be given any other clothing than the habit he wore. It might prove advantageous to have a monk who could sniff out information in the town. He would sniff out more than that, Will Longdon had suggested. They watched as their sworn lord and his companions rode out of sight. 'I always thought Fra Stefano was as stiff as a monk's cock in a monastery. I never knew he had a sense of humour,' said Will Longdon as they turned for Calais's protection. 'I'd have warmed to him more had I known.' Meulon eased his horse across a stream, heeling the uncertain beast into the shallows. 'There was no humour in him, Will. When we crossed the mountains, the seneschal at the castle said he had heard of an Italian by that name. A man from Tuscany who once murdered and raped his way across Italy. He made the Visconti look like children torturing a cat for fun at a village fair. He had more sin than all of us put together before he turned to God and good deeds.'
Longdon crossed himself. 'Sweet Jesus, you never thought to tell Thomas?' 'He knows,' said Meulon. 'Why do you think he's made him go to England? A man like that seeks redemption every day of his life. He's God's shield for Thomas.' * They were blessed with a southerly breeze and a gentle swell long before his men paid any priest. Near-darkness smudged the English coast and it was night by the time they landed and guided their horses uphill through the fishing port towards the burning torches held by the men who waited for them. Blackstone's hand rested on Wolf Sword's grip. A voice cried out: 'Do as this man commands – no harm will befall you!' John Jacob tugged his horse forward. Blackstone said quietly, 'Whoever sent these men is the same who sent Samuel Cracknell.' 'Maybe so, but I'd feel better if we knew who they were.' 'It would do us no good,' said Blackstone. 'They could give us any name they wanted. He must be close to the King, otherwise he couldn't know what was written.' Blackstone moved closer to the torchlight to see the face of the man who had called out. There was little to be seen beneath the open-faced helmet and the man's greying beard. He offered no hand of welcome or friendship and his eyes showed no fear as Blackstone's shadow fell across him. His authority, Blackstone reasoned, was probably sufficient to give him such an unwavering gaze. Rank and privilege. Men whose authority would not be challenged. The six men who accompanied him did not seem anxious to draw their swords, so there was no threat intended. Not yet at least. The man's cloak was held with a silver clasp at his throat beneath its fur collar and he pulled it back so that Blackstone could see the cross of St George on his padded gambeson.
'What month and day is it?' Blackstone asked. 'The day after tomorrow is St Anselm's Day.' April. They had reached England in time for the tournament on the twenty-third. Perhaps now the meaning of the King's command would become plainer. 'We ride through the night,' the man said. He glanced at Caprini. 'You're a pilgrim's comforter?' he asked gruffly, barely able to disguise his disdain. 'The Italian?' 'My companion,' said Blackstone as Caprini gave no sign of answering. Scratch a scab and it will bleed. Scratch a man with Caprini's pedigree and God's servant or not, he might take offence at such a dismissive question. 'And him?' 'John Jacob. My captain. He served the King in London and was trusted to take an emissary to the King's son before Poitiers. An Italian emissary. Held in high regard by the King. Trusted with secrets. As I trust these men.' Blackstone's answer seemed satisfactory. Nothing more was said as the men mounted their horses. 'Forward!' the man commanded the escort who rode ahead to light the way.
'How well do you know London?' Blackstone said to John Jacob. 'Barely. I went across its bridge once – the big one with the houses on it – and I served at Windsor for a while. Then I was sent to France. You'll know when we're there. You'll smell it. The Thames is a sewer.' * They rode at a steady pace on country roads, alerting cur dogs as they passed hamlets and villages, but nothing more. No challenges were made and no horseman lunged from the forests. White-edged clouds slipped across the sky, then blanketed the moonlight, casting them back into darkness. Pockets of rain swirled across the land, lashing down and then scurrying away once man and horse were soaked. They reached the edge of the town whose castle dominated the landscape. The low-roofed houses were lowly subjects to its grandeur. A toll-bridge cottage yielded a man carrying a stave in one hand and a burning torch in the other. He seemed uncertain as the horsemen clattered towards him. 'Stay clear!' one of the front riders shouted, barely slowing his horse. The man stubbornly refused to move out of the way, forcing the horseman to halt.
'I answer to the Constable. This is the King's road and there's a toll,' he insisted. 'There's an ordinance and I must obey it.' By the look of him he was little more than a local villein granted the privilege of minor authority. However, a small man with any kind of authority could cause a problem and if the knight who led them thought his rank would be obvious then he was mistaken. The tollgate keeper peered into the gloom, trying to see who it was that forced his horse through the body of riders. 'A penny a cart, a farthing a horse,' he recited. 'Each way, that is.' The cloaked man rasped out a command. 'Stand back now!' The man's voice had the desired effect. 'My Lord de Marcouf!' he gasped, and bowed his head quickly, obviously recognizing the threatening tone. And no man of rank or wealth ever paid a toll. That was for the poor. De Marcouf turned in his saddle and glowered at Blackstone. Now his identity was known and Blackstone understood. A Frenchman sent to escort Blackstone home. A King's messenger to Italy and Gascon and Frenchmen to get him to wherever this place might be.
'Sir Thomas,' said John Jacob. 'I don't know where we are, but this isn't London.' 'Nor Canterbury,' said Caprini as he slipped a knife into his boot. * Despite the distance they had travelled, the castle gates stayed closed and de Marcouf made no attempt to have them opened. A sentry would challenge them at this time of night and might even raise an alarm. Clearly de Marcouf wanted their arrival to be kept as quiet as possible. Men ran from a stable yard as they dismounted. 'We go through the postern gate,' said de Marcouf, handing his reins to one of the men. Others began to lead horses away into covered stalls where oats and hay bags were already prepared. 'They've been expecting us,' said John Jacob. 'But keeping it quiet,' said Blackstone. He handed the bastard horse's reins to one of the stable boys. 'He bites and kicks. Keep him away from the others and don't beat him or I'll beat you.' The boy's eyes widened. 'Yes, lord,' he said. 'Tether him and let him feed. Groom him, clean his hooves and make sure there's fresh bedding straw for him. Clean. Not swept of dung and reused, you hear?'
The lad nodded and coaxed Blackstone's horse away. Blackstone watched. The fellow knew how to deal with the big horse, bringing his shoulder in close to his neck and jogging forward making the horse stride with him, but keeping his hand and face well away from its yellow teeth. * The escort had carried extra reed torches for the night ride, but now even those spluttered with exhaustion. More were taken from the ostler and once again Blackstone and his companions were obliged to follow de Marcouf. One man went ahead as the others flanked Blackstone, Jacob and Caprini. The men set off, striding quickly through the darkened houses towards the castle walls and the meadow that lay beyond it. The town's houses snaked this way and that, a mixture of cob, thatch, wood and stone. Unpaved streets, muddy from the rain, clogged the men's boots, but the escort was intent on moving as quickly as they could through the darkened passageways. As they turned into a wheel-rutted path a cart blocked their way.
Instinct put Wolf Sword into Blackstone's hand. If this was the street that led to the postern gate then it was the most obvious place for an ambush. A scuff of a boot made John Jacob push his shoulder against the nearest soldier, the sudden action alerting everyone to the attack from the darkened street to the left. Crossbow bolts struck down three of the soldiers, their torches falling into the dirt, throwing a flickering light into the alleyway. Blackstone saw that John Jacob had read the ambush perfectly and shouted a command to the startled de Marcouf. 'Go with him!' The Norman was no stranger to reacting quickly and as Jacob grabbed one of the fallen torches and ran into the side street Blackstone broke to the right, finding purchase in the stony dirt, hunched, ready to ram anyone that lurked, waiting to attack. The first volley of quarrels and the narrow confines of the street and its darkness told him there would be little time for their attackers to reload their weapons. John Jacob and the others would kill quickly.
Caprini was already at his shoulder. Behind them curses and shouts of pain rang out as steel struck steel from Jacob's counter-attack. Blackstone threw a burning torch into the darkness and saw the glint of flame catch men's faces as they jostled towards him. They had chosen unwisely. These narrow streets meant only three men could fight abreast and there were four of them. In the dancing shadows Blackstone let the first two men attack, one a pace behind the other. They had created their own fatal disadvantage. Blackstone held the blow on Wolf Sword's crossguard and took a half-step back, letting the man's momentum put him off balance. He grunted, knees buckling, hand outstretched, sword arm useless. Blackstone twisted Wolf Sword, rammed it down into the man's spine. It pierced mail, grating the links, shattering bone. There was no cry as the man could not draw breath to utter one. The weight of his body released the blade and Blackstone yanked it upward, letting the pommel strike into the second attacker's face. It struck him on the cheekbone between open helm and face. The force of the blow threw the man back on his heels, floundering as pain blinded him and stripped the strength from him. Blackstone followed through; he stepped across him, forcing the sword into the man's gullet. Caprini had moved quickly and lightly in a cold-blooded exercise in killing. Efficiently and almost without effort he parried the third man's strike and then opened his guard momentarily, letting his attacker think that the older man could not sustain the fight. Caprini blocked the blow that immediately came, held it at head height and rammed his knife into his assailant's exposed armpit. The man's gasp of pain shuddered from him, his knees sagged, but he had not yet gone down – stubbornly, desperately gripping his sword, fighting through the wound that had not yet killed him. Caprini supported the man's weight on his sword and then twisted the knife, tearing deeper inside the assassin's body. He sighed as if reluctantly letting life slip away from him. Caprini stepped aside and let him fall dead into the darkness.
The fourth man hesitated, snatched the fallen torch and used it as a weapon against the hulking shadow that came for him. In desperation he threw the torch towards the scarred face but Blackstone's arm flicked it aside; the sparks and embers from the spitting tallow flared – a fatal distraction. The man's eyes involuntarily followed them, allowing him only two more breaths of life. Caprini ran forward into the darkness, quickly going down onto one knee in case another silent enemy was waiting, but there was no further attack. Torchlight bobbed towards them from the ambush site. 'Sir Thomas?' called John Jacob. 'Here, John.' Jacob and the surviving soldiers strode quickly towards them, illuminating the killing scene. De Marcouf's men turned back and forth, torches high, ready for another assault. The Norman's blood-streaked sword glistened in the reflected light. 'Assassins. They bear no coat of arms, they serve no lord,' he said. 'Five men,' said Jacob. 'Three bows. They should've used more of them; they'd have brought us all down.'
'Four here,' said Blackstone. 'Nine men. Perhaps they were only expecting the three of us.' John Jacob spat, and toed one of the bodies. 'Still wouldn't have been enough,' he said. And in the devil's firelight Blackstone saw his captain grin. * Sounds of the fight had alerted the castle guard and Blackstone heard men's feet thudding across the narrow wooden bridge straddling the castle moat that led to the pointed archway of the postern gate, the castle's side entrance to the town. They bore torches which gave enough light to see where the houses ended and the meadowlands began and the belly of a river curving around its one side. A great tower loomed up in the darkness from where sentries would have seen and heard the attack in the streets. Once through that gate and in the confines of the castle there would be no escape. If there were any chance of freedom then being in a place unknown to him would make evasion from a determined enemy more difficult. Rivers often denoted boundaries and they in turn revealed landowners and loyalties.
'Wait,' said Blackstone as de Marcouf strode towards the stronghold. 'What river is this? Where am I?' The Norman stopped and faced him. 'It is the Lea. And this is Hertford Castle. North of London, Sir Thomas. You have been summoned here with as much secrecy as possible. It was my duty to protect you and I thought I had taken sufficient measures. I offer you my apologies.' Blackstone was none the wiser as to where he had been brought, but he knew of the knight who had escorted them. 'Lord de Marcouf. Your demesne was east of Paris and you supported Charles of Navarre rather than your French King. I remember your name mentioned by my friend Jean de Harcourt. Are we to be imprisoned here?' De Marcouf looked at Blackstone and the two men who flanked him either side. A part of him was grateful that there would be no conflict between him and the hardened fighters who stared him down. 'Follow the command sent to you,' he said. 'Men should not question a royal summons.' 'Not all men are outlawed,' said Blackstone. 'And I have already been attacked more than once.'
De Marcouf and his escort faced the three men. The older man was senior in rank and Blackstone was being impertinent. 'You were escorted safely across France by my doing and commanded so by those who summoned you. Even an outlawed knight must show some gratitude by extending his trust,' said de Marcouf irritably. Bad enough that a man of his age had spent so long in the saddle and then been forced to fight at close quarters within spitting distance of the castle, now this bent-armed, scar-faced barbarian was questioning him. Blackstone dipped his head in respect and acknowledgement, then followed the column of torchlight through the castle grounds. He had little choice but to go where his fate took him. The bailey inside the curtain wall had timber-framed buildings built closely together – most likely used by officers of the court, he thought, and somewhere in that labyrinth were the royal apartments. This place overwhelmed any lord's manor that Blackstone had previously known. It was a King's country palace and comprised all that went with it: chapel, great hall, kitchens and offices, everything the sovereign would need when hunting away from London. Despite the poor light his mason's eye saw enough of the stone and flint walls to know they were several feet thick. And, like a cage door trapping an unsuspecting wolf, the imposing walls of the gatehouse held the portcullis. Blackstone's trepidation gnawed at him. Being brought halfway across Europe to meet the King in a castle away from London meant it was to avoid the prying eyes of his court. Father Torellini had warned him that the King would usually send a summons through his Chancellor, so had he been brought here as a safeguard against conspirators? If so, it had not worked. Nine men lay butchered in the dark streets as proof.
'If it was the King who wanted us dead, Sir Thomas, our heads would already be on the end of a pole,' said John Jacob quietly. 'But we might still get a bird's eye view over these walls by morning.' 'No doubt it's a fine view,' said Blackstone as they ducked below a low arch into a darkened passage. The chapel bell rang for matins. It was morning. Forty-nine days since they had tried to kill him in Lucca. Isabella the Fair wore the plain garments of the Franciscan Poor Clares beneath her velvet dress, the simple linen, dry against her skin, denying the comfort and sensuality of better cloth. She had watched them take Blackstone into the antechamber and now gazed through the screen's latticed woodwork as he stood without moving while de Marcouf paced back and forth. Both men showed the signs of a hard journey and she knew about the ambush. Her life had been spent watching men, and hers was a calculating intellect that saw through the hubris so many carried like a battle flag. Some were devious enough to be used to undermine an enemy or to gain power. She had once fallen for a man as strong as Blackstone and together they had seized the crown from her husband, the second King to bear the name Edward. His chivalrous attributes had been admirable and he had been a lover of music, poetry and art, but it was she who had the steel in her blood. Her husband had had strength enough but there had also been uncertainty in him, which some took to be timidity; his tenderness meant he had failed to grasp the importance of waging a war and securing peace on terms that suited the conqueror. The steel had been inherited by her son, the third Edward, and how willingly he had wielded it, snatching back his rightful crown from his regent mother and her lover, who had paid the price with a mutilated death while she was banished from court. Twenty-eight years had passed since that fateful day. Now there was no passion, only age and pain – and a mind that could still reach into men's lives and manipulate their destiny.
Blackstone had still not moved. A sentinel guarding the gates of an unknown land. It was time to bring this warrior knight into plain sight. The potion she had taken eased the pain that was so insistent these days, but her poise did not desert her as she sat on a high-backed chair, supported by cushions, warmed by the fire in the grate. She had prayed, as she did several times during the day and night, and, looking at the man who bent his knee before her, wondered if Sir Thomas Blackstone was the answer to some of those prayers. She let him stay on his knee longer than would normally be required. Behind him de Marcouf had already been given permission to stand. The old knight would have knelt on broken glass had she demanded it, but loyalty needed to be rewarded with gentleness. She waved away her chamberlain, the constant companion who saw to it that all was as it should be in the Queen's household. What was needed now was privacy, and God knew there was precious little of that rare commodity to be had.
'All right, enough of that,' she said, without any hint that gentleness might still find any refuge in her. 'What took you so long? Were you waylaid with whoring and theft?' she added in a bitter accusation. Blackstone stood before her. The morning light softened her features, brushing away age, letting his imagination see how beautiful she must have been in her youth. John Jacob was outside and Caprini had gone to pray, while he, after three hours, had been ushered in to await the dowager Queen's presence. More bells rang out for prayer. A thought delayed his answer – if fighting men had to spend so much time on their knees there would be no time for war, and then what use would any of them be? 'Highness, I travelled as quickly as I could, thinking I was summoned by the King,' said Blackstone, daring to probe for an answer to Isabella's presence. 'Don't fish with me, Sir Thomas. I'm no toothless lamprey to take your meagre bait. You do so at your peril. I am a pike that devours others in this murky pond.' She saw that her rebuke cut through his dogged fatigue. 'You thought the seal to be that of your King,' she said.
'I did.' He paused. 'And then it was shown to me that it belonged to his father.' 'By the good priest Torellini, no doubt.' 'Yes, my lady.' 'An eye as keen as his brain. A trusted go-between. So a dead King summons you and you came. Why?' 'A King's seal is enough. I thought my lord might have wished to disguise the summons,' Blackstone answered as simply as he could. There was no point in trying to offer clever answers. Not to this woman. But he could not resist trying once again to see what her connection was to him being brought to this place. 'I serve the King,' he said. She studied him. The clenched sword of defiance stitched onto the bloodstained jupon, grime on face and hands and his scar cutting a valley across a stubbled face. She could imagine him in battle, remembering the stories told to her of how he had thrown himself into the fray, an action that saved her own grandson. She ignored his statement of loyalty. 'And the coin?' 'A fine talisman, highness. Its inscription blessed my journey.'
'And I'll wager our friend Torellini translated that as well. Your lack of education serves you badly, making you depend on others,' she said, her gaze as unrelenting as her criticism. 'I am no stranger to my own shortcomings, my lady,' Blackstone answered respectfully. 'Are you not? Then you share the same understanding with the rest of the world,' she answered, her voice laden with sarcasm. 'Which of my messengers reached you?' 'Master Samuel Cracknell, highness.' She considered his answer for a moment. At least one had got through then. 'And what of Master Cracknell?' she asked. 'Dead of his wounds, but he clung to life long enough to deliver his message.' Isabella blinked and looked away for a moment and it seemed to Blackstone that news of Cracknell's death was not something she cared to hear. 'That saddens me,' she said as if to herself, confirming Blackstone's instincts. 'He was a favoured sergeant-at-arms. His family will be rewarded for his courage and loyalty and you shall give a full account later. My command went beyond words on parchment. Did you realize that? Did he?'
Blackstone was no closer to finding out why he was standing before a Queen who had once seized the crown, and who still seemed to have great influence. 'St George's Day,' he said. 'I had to get here before then.' She smiled. Blackstone had seen beyond the simple message. Her instincts were still as sharp as a blade and she had been correct in choosing him. 'We are both exiles, you and I, but I am a daughter, sister, mother and widow of Kings. I was a child when I was betrothed; a young woman when I seized the crown to make this country strong. I choose men carefully, Sir Thomas, and I have chosen you.' She stood and Blackstone bowed. 'And in serving me you will serve your King.' Isabella the Fair left the antechamber flanked by her ladies-in-waiting. Once out of sight her resolve gave way and she faltered; her ladies stepped forward quickly to support her arms. There was little hope for her own future, but bringing the outlawed knight home might well serve that of her country. * Blackstone and his two companions were taken to rooms much better than a common dormitory for soldiers. Their clothing was taken by washerwomen and they were fed meat and pottage, with white bread whose burnt base had been cut away. Guards were placed at their door – which remained unlocked – who were there, said de Marcouf, for the men's safety. The Norman knight made no attempt to have them disarmed and instructed the men to sleep before they left for Windsor and the great tournament.
'We'll find you armour,' he told Blackstone. 'I don't fight in tournaments,' he answered. De Marcouf was as tired and irritable as a man could be who lacked sleep and was exhausted by the journey back from the coast, yet was still expected to await Isabella's command. 'You will do as she instructs,' he said edgily. Blackstone tore off a chunk of the bread and soaked it in the thick pottage, then sucked the moisture from it until the mush squelched in his mouth, but he kept his eyes on the older man. It would be too dangerous to antagonize such trusted confidants. 'With respect, my lord, she did not summon me all the way here to fight in some extravaganza that has no meaning and value to anyone other than the King and his noblemen. It's a damned party piece and I have no interest in being part of it.' De Marcouf glared at him, but knew the argument would be lost if he continued. No one could force Blackstone to take part. And the fighting man was correct – it was an expensive piece of showmanship.
'Get some sleep,' de Marcouf told them and pushed past the sentries, who closed the heavy door behind him. John Jacob took a slice of meat. 'The food's good,' he said, 'and the mattresses look as though they have enough straw in them to settle a horse. We're being cared for, Sir Thomas. You're going to piss them off, so we should eat and sleep while we can, before they throw us into a damp cell.' 'They won't cause us harm. Not yet, at least. Perhaps when we've served our purpose; not before,' said Blackstone. Caprini ate delicately, choosing the lesser cuts and slicing the bread where the top crust was browned darker from the oven – a humble man who allowed others to eat better than himself. 'What purpose could there be for your presence here?' As yet there was no answer being offered by anyone. Blackstone shook his head. Jacob worried a piece of bread in his fingers. 'Do you think the King's son is behind this? Maybe using his grandmother to get you here? He's the one who exiled you and took everything from you. A man carries a grudge long enough and it grows bigger every day. A trap can be sprung in a dozen different ways.'
Before Blackstone could answer Caprini asked, with a quizzical look at him: 'The Prince holds a grudge against you?' 'Sir Thomas tried to kill the King of France,' said Jacob. 'At Poitiers.' Caprini's hand faltered before the bread reached his mouth. 'The King of France will be at the tournament. He is a royal prisoner of the King of England, an honoured guest.' In his desire to reach England it had not occurred to Blackstone that the man he had vowed to kill would be present, but the Italian knight was correct. Caprini leaned forward, elbows on the table. 'I have heard that King Edward keeps lions and leopards in the Tower of London. Perhaps, Sir Thomas, you have been lured here to fight like an ancient gladiator.' 'Perhaps, Fra Stefano, it's time for you to go on to Canterbury and prostrate yourself at the place where Thomas Becket was slain.' 'And miss such a spectacle? I think I will stay with you. Someone will have to pray for your well-being or bury what scraps are left of you.' For the first time in the long journey to England, Caprini's face broke into a grin and the three men laughed. Blackstone raised the goblet of wine in a toast.
'Lions and leopards,' he said. 'Long may they reign.' * The air was dry and light, high clouds veiled the sun's glow when Blackstone was escorted next morning across the bailey towards the postern gate. The castle yards buzzed with activity as liveried servants and household staff made final preparations for the journey south to Windsor. From what Blackstone saw in the confines of the yard there must have been a hundred or more coming and going, all to serve Queen Isabella. He had known Norman lords to show their wealth by having households of servants, but now that daylight had come to Hertford, valets, huntsmen, grooms, squires, clerks and stewards scurried like rats in a hay barn. Isabella's wagon carried her standard of a shield divided bearing on one side the arms of England and on the other the fleurs-de-lys of France. A hierarchy of servants fussed silk cushions embroidered with flowers and birds into a day-bed arrangement and tied back woven curtains behind a voile drop to afford Isabella privacy on the road. Soldiers attended their horses as sergeants-at-arms barked orders. Blackstone looked at the activity and thanked God that when he rode anywhere it was just him and the bastard horse.
De Marcouf and the escort strode across the footbridge towards the meadow where a dozen or more courtiers hovered like marsh flies around the King's mother, who sat on a cushioned chair. Her huntsmen stood to one side with a brace of dogs as her falconer gazed up, pointing something out to Isabella. Blackstone's eyes found the fast-moving silhouettes against the sky's white veil as the raptor found its target, and when it struck the hapless pigeon Isabella slapped the arm of her chair in triumph. By the time Blackstone was escorted to her the hunting bird had been retrieved and settled back on the falconer's arm. 'Sir Thomas,' Isabella said, 'you slept well?' A crispinette held her hair neatly, balancing the beauty of her face and the make-up that accentuated her cheekbones and the red stain to her lips. Like the veiled morning sun, she projected a muted glow of health. Her cloak was open despite the morning chill and she seemed in good spirits. He bowed. 'In great comfort, highness.' 'Good. We have two days on the road, but I could not resist an hour's pleasure. Falcons are my indulgence and I am spoiled with gifts of them from my son and those who still profess to admire me.'
'I am certain that your highness has many admirers who are genuine in their affection for you.' She gave him a knowing look. A lifetime of fawning servants and courtiers had encrusted her heart with a brittle disregard for such compliments, but at times there was someone who found the right words and spoke them plainly as had Blackstone. 'You have learnt that flattery to a woman, even a queen, does not go unnoticed or unappreciated. You were taught manners by a Norman lord's wife,' she said, the tone of her voice telling Blackstone that she knew exactly who had nurtured him from common archer to man-at-arms. 'My lady the Countess Blanche de Harcourt,' Blackstone answered. 'Her husband was a loyal supporter in those days. She taught you well.' A memory of a Norman castle and a lasting friendship that ended beneath a falchion's blade on the orders of the French King flashed into his mind. Her eyes lingered on him for a moment. 'You look a different man than the one I received,' she said. His jupon and breeches were laundered, his boots cleaned, his beard trimmed. 'You look better groomed than my dogs.'
'I have been spoiled by your highness's generosity.' 'So you have,' she said. She saw the goddess Arianrhod at his throat. 'I have seen her amulet before. Our Welsh archers have her as a talisman. They say she protects them. It's a pagan belief. You're no Welshman.' 'I am not. But years ago a dying Welsh archer pressed her into my hand at Caen.' She nodded knowingly. 'Where much slaughter took place. No matter. A soldier seeks protection wherever he may find it.' She stood and a lady-in-waiting stepped quickly forward, but was waved away. Isabella needed no helping hand in public; besides, the sleeping draught had taken her through the night and her morning prayers had strengthened her, and the joy of her early hunt had lifted her spirits. She stroked the hooded falcon. 'I have twenty birds – falcons, goshawks, tiercels, lannerets – an expensive indulgence. It costs a penny a day to feed each of them.' She faced Blackstone. 'But their ability to strike so silently and effectively is worth paying for.'
Blackstone waited but her gaze made him lower his eyes. 'Not so defiant after all,' she said. 'You have good sense not to challenge me, young Thomas Blackstone.' She made a slight gesture and the courtiers backed away out of earshot. 'Are you worth paying for, I wonder?' 'I have always served the King, highness. I ask for nothing in return.' 'But your loyalty comes at a cost to others. I know what happened after Poitiers. I am a Frenchwoman who has family and friends in France. I know the ladies of the courts, I know the rumours and the gossip and the truth of what happened. You fought and won your battle but you lost your wife and children. And you did not force them to remain with you. A man's affection betrays his heart, Sir Thomas. You are a confusing man to me, and I like things to be clear. How else does one make decisions?' She walked a few paces and then pointed at the ragged pigeon that lay on the ground. Blackstone bent and picked it up. She took it from him, its limp neck and opaque eyes a sad sacrifice to a queen's pleasure.
'You strike your enemies with the same ferocity. You kill efficiently. You leave women and children weeping.' She put a finger beneath the dead bird's head and lifted the almost weightless neck. 'And yet you give comfort to those who seek it. And mercy to those who beg it.' She dropped the dead bird. 'Where does a killer find such compassion?' 'Perhaps, my lady, it was there first and the killing came afterwards.' She nodded. 'A good answer.' She lifted her arm. 'Help me to my chair.' The gesture almost caught him by surprise but he quickly levelled his arm for her to grasp and in the instant she took it he felt her weight to be little more than the bird's. 'You trust the men with you?' she asked as she settled onto the cushions. 'John Jacob has served the King and me with fierce loyalty. The Italian Knight of the Tau was unknown to me but he saved my life from assassins and fought at my side on our journey here. Every man I have with me I would trust with my life. And that of my King.' 'Then what I tell you is for you alone, for now at least. You will decide when the time is right to share it and with whom. Do you see how I extend my trust to you?'
He nodded, but felt that she had already lured him into her web. This woman could entice the devil to forswear Satan. 'Then treasure it, because it can be easily squandered and my grandson's life could be at risk.' And with those words the cage door fell and held his loyalty captive. The tournament on St George's Day was to be a great celebration before the two Kings reached agreement on the treaty that would give Edward much of what he desired from France. He would renounce his claim to the French crown provided his sovereignty over widespread fiefs and counties was recognized. King John the Good's ransom had yet to be paid and there was great concern that it would be further delayed because of the strife that still tore across France. The Dauphin held Paris, but civil violence and class hatred were being stirred by Charles of Navarre, the French monarch's duplicitous son-in-law, who had escaped from prison the year before and who wanted to be King. Taxes could not be raised and the ransom would not be forthcoming unless order was re-established and the violence quelled – and who would succeed in doing that was far from clear. If the treaty were not ratified, the demand not met, the ransom not paid – England would go to war again.
'A king and queen are divine, Sir Thomas. We have the hand of God on our shoulder and we have great responsibility to heal a nation and secure its future,' Isabella said. Blackstone waited patiently. He knew parts of France were in turmoil, but what did it have to do with him? Paris and the Seine were the key to the heart of France and whoever held those controlled the country. 'Last year you helped common townsmen and villeins rise up against the Duke of Milan's soldiers.' 'I did, my lady. The Visconti's troops were contracted men who committed atrocities.' 'France bleeds from civil strife and routiers; wounds fester into poison. A king can lay hands on the sick and if God wills it they will be healed – or He, in His wisdom, lets the afflicted die. Until we know God's desire we must strive with the attributes He has blessed us with – our instinct and intelligence. Your King stands back while France turns on itself. It suits him. It suits a King who waits for a treaty to be signed.' Blackstone saw the logic of it. While a nation tore itself apart the English King sat back until a victor emerged. John the Good would be desperate to agree terms that would at least leave him a country to rule.
'Then the King lets others do his fighting. It places great pressure on King John and the Dauphin. It makes sense, my lady. It's what any good general would do. Loose the dogs at the bear and see who wins.' Isabella looked suddenly tired. 'France and England are one. We inflict this on ourselves. It will become a hollow victory.' 'I see no role for me to play in all of this, highness,' said Blackstone. 'You will. And I will instruct you later. Your mother was French; your wife is French. You are suited to my plan. But first it is enough to know that you must take part in the tournament. That is my wish and you will fight with shield covered and without your coat of arms displayed. The King and the Prince must not know you are here. Not yet.' She stood and he watched as she hid the pain. He took a half-step towards her and she rested her hand on his arm. In an instant he saw in her eyes not the most powerful woman in England and France but a dying woman, who feared for her family and the country they ruled.
'You cannot see the future, Thomas Blackstone, but I tell you that one day it will be more than a dying queen who relies on your strength.' She withdrew her arm and walked bravely past the courtiers, who stepped clear of her path and lowered their heads in respect. * The cortège rumbled slowly southward on roads the King of England had vowed would be repaired. Blackstone and his two companions rode on the verge, easing the horses' amble. It was a slow, laborious ride that demanded patience and reminded Blackstone of the baggage trains of war. How a woman in pain endured the rocking wagon he did not know, but royalty were not the same as ordinary people. They were chosen to rule. Divine. And that gave them what? he wondered. The ability to hear the voice of God? The money to buy His grace, more like, Blackstone reasoned. Common men fought in blood for holy benevolence. He silently thanked the great mystery of it all for a King and his son who had built the bridge between themselves and their soldiers. A warrior king was blessed by God and his people. As the journey progressed there were frequent stops as Isabella gave alms. One day he counted 170 poor being blessed with her largesse. At each place they stopped Isabella beckoned him and used the strength of his sword arm to help her from her wagon. Each stop she spoke carefully to him and drew him in further. As his horse shadowed the royal wagon he knew that Isabella the Fair had enticed him to her more as an enchantress who cast her spell than a queen who commanded.
Blackstone had not been summoned again but on the second night, as they approached Windsor, he saw in the distance hundreds of burning torches illuminating the castle's great walls and tournament fields that fluttered with pennons and banners. 'Do you think we'll ride in tonight?' asked Jacob. 'It's a murky business, all of this, Sir Thomas. And there's a kingdom's worth of armed men down there.' 'A Queen arrives in daylight so that she may be noticed,' said Caprini. 'Aye. Tomorrow, John, she'll not skulk in. Not she.' Voices drifted across the distant fields. Entertainers were singing as their music beat its rhythm in what sounded like a county fair. 'Well, King's tournament or not,' said Jacob as they gazed down at the burning fields, 'there'll be whoring and drinking.' He smiled. 'At least I hope so.' Blackstone turned to Caprini. 'There'll be a monastery somewhere around here. Perhaps you'd prefer to find lodging there. Knights and the nobility can be as drunk and raucous as a tavern's villeins.'
'What others do is no concern to me, Sir Thomas. I live my own life.' 'As you wish,' said Blackstone, 'but when a man wades through a swamp some of the slime always sticks to him.' He nudged his horse forward. * Servants had gone ahead to pitch Isabella's pavilion for the night's rest. Blackstone and Jacob lay in silence on the damp ground watching as stewards controlled the camp's never-ending activity. The intemperate horse was hobbled and fed and kept close by. Until Blackstone knew what was being asked of him he wanted the chance to escape if danger loomed out of the night. Liveried staff scurried this way and that, cooking fires burned, food was prepared and served and ladies-in-waiting came and went from the Queen's pavilion. The two men lay beneath a tree and rolled themselves in their blankets. Caprini had gone beyond the pickets and found a hermitage to pray at. Across the camp a boy servant, little more than six or seven years old, was cuffed round the ear by a cook for dropping something. He made no sound of pain or complaint and went on with his duties with the cook's scolding voice following him.
'You miss your lady, Sir Thomas?' Jacob said unexpectedly. The question took Blackstone by surprise. Men seldom shared their feelings with each other. Their actions spoke louder. Though perhaps it wasn't such a strange thing to ask, Blackstone thought. It was John Jacob who had killed the man who had raped Christiana and who had kept silent to protect her name. And when Blackstone fought the Savage Priest before they were exiled it was Jacob who had scaled the castle walls and brought her and his children to safety. Jacob was a strong man; with his cropped hair and stubbled face he looked like someone who would not be troubled by a fight, and on many occasions Blackstone had been grateful for the man's stubbornness. No task was too great for this captain. 'Yes. I think of her every day.' 'Rightly so. She's a fine woman and that boy of yours, Henry, he's a lion's heart inside of him. Bit uncertain of some things, I grant you, but he's a son to be proud of.' Jacob was one of the chosen few whom Blackstone trusted without question. The men seldom spoke about their families, if they knew of them, preferring to remember whores who gave pleasure and drink that smothered memories. But John Jacob was quieter than most.
'You have family,' said Blackstone. 'South, aren't they? Near London?' 'Once,' said the captain, without any hint of regret. 'They died.' 'The pestilence?' Blackstone asked after a pause trying to remember when last they had spoken of home and hearth. What little there was of either. John Jacob shook his head, still gazing to where children ran back and forth carrying platters of food. 'The famine, back in '50. Stored rye went mouldy; crops failed. All they had was drawk and darnel, and them weeds don't keep a body alive. My girls died first. Two of them. Then the three lads. I don't know what happened to Beth. Neighbours said she wandered off into the woods after she buried them. Wolves probably took her.' He spoke matter-of-factly, as if telling of something simple instead of a great loss at a time that had taken the lives of many. 'You weren't there?' 'No. King's business in Flanders after Crécy. My belly was full.' They lapsed into silence again, the moment past. Soldiers formed an outer picket as Marcouf's captain with thirty men stood guard closer to the royal quarters. Blackstone and Jacob had been fed, but no summons had come from Isabella.
'It's a bugger not knowing what's going on,' said Jacob after a few minutes. 'She's enough men here to protect a king. I've never been this close to a queen before. And she spoke to you. Personal, you say, with no one there? No chamberlain, chancellor or household controller? No one?' 'No one,' said Blackstone, taking the last bite out of a flaccid-skinned apple. The horse lowered its head and snuffled his hand, lips back, teeth seeking the fruit. Blackstone gave it a gentle slap, making it pull back its head, but then it scuffed the ground with a hoof and repeated its demand. Blackstone relented and opened his hand, letting the horse take the core, turning his palm to cover its nostrils. It swung its head away, needing no comforting hand once it had what it wanted. 'Until we find out what's going on, John, we'll keep watch between us. There's bait being dangled, but I don't know why. Not yet.' They pulled their blankets up and propped themselves against the tree. There were enough shadows flitting through the torchlight for anyone to move in the darkness with a knife in hand. Within a few hours' ride was the Prince who had outlawed him and stripped him of his towns in Normandy. And with him was the captured King John who had slain his friend Jean de Harcourt and whom Blackstone had sworn to kill. Whatever lay over that hill on the tournament fields, there was enough hatred and distrust to be the cause of Blackstone's death.
* The movement was slight, a will-o'-the-wisp that came through the night mist, a candle's dandelion glow followed by the soft rustle of a woman's brocade. Isabella had not sent a captain of the guard or the grizzled de Marcouf, but a young woman who attended her. She appeared like a vision and for a moment Blackstone thought he had fallen asleep on his watch and was dreaming. 'Sir Thomas?' she said, keeping her distance, fearful that if he slept he would react with a knife in his hand. Blackstone didn't move. 'Yes,' he answered. 'My lady awaits you.' John Jacob half rose as Blackstone got to his feet. 'It's all right, John. They've sent an angel for me.' Jacob grunted when he saw there was no danger. 'I'll stay awake. Angel or not, priests say women are Satan's gate. And they should know. Tread carefully.' The captain of the guard stood aside as the woman led Blackstone into the pavilion. A rich orange glow from candles placed around the carpeted tent offered a false sense of warmth. Isabella sat, wrapped in a fur-lined cloak. A stool was placed ten feet away. Isabella smiled and nodded to the angel. 'Merci, Jehanne.'
The angel glided away, back into the night mist. Blackstone had kept his head bowed until the elderly Queen spoke. 'The stool is pitifully small for a man your size, but I need to see clearly the face that earned its scar from saving my grandson. The eyes betray the truth of what someone really thinks, and what I have to say to you will leave me in no doubt about your thoughts.' Blackstone eased Wolf Sword's scabbard and squatted on the stool to face her. 'For some time our spies have been telling us that an assassin has been sent to England. Here, to kill the Prince. You are suspected of being one of those assassins.' It was an opening gambit meant to throw Blackstone off guard. He said nothing for a moment, thinking of those who had tried to kill him – an Englishman at Lucca, Visconti's men on the Via Francigena. 'An assassin would kill the King,' he said. 'If a protracted war takes place even a warrior king may not sustain the effort demanded. Look what my grandson achieved. It would be he who went to war in the vanguard. Kill the Prince and you leave a bereaved King, weakened by grief – perhaps reluctant to go to war.'
'Or inflamed with an anger that would burn down the world in revenge,' said Blackstone. 'Neither result benefits England.' 'Then it was the King who sent men to kill me?' 'More likely those close to him.' 'How would they know I was sent for?' Isabella made no show of regret. 'Because someone in my court betrayed me.' Betrayal and conspiracy were a daily fact of life among the labyrinthine passages of court. 'Do you know who, my lady?' 'Not yet. It will be someone privy to my sending Master Cracknell. I will find out in due course. I always do.' 'Who holds the seal that you used, highness?' 'I hold it. Had I used my own, Father Torellini would have known immediately it was I who summoned you.' 'I think he knew anyway,' said Blackstone, trying not to look too obviously into the Queen's eyes, but as determined as her to seek out the truth or catch any fleeting glimpse of lies. 'But he did not divulge it to you, because why would you trust a disgraced Queen? An old woman who stays in the shadows?' Torellini, you devious old bastard, Blackstone thought. There were confidences shared between the Florentine priest and the English throne that he would never know. 'The assassins? Who were they?' he asked.
'The King pardoned and released many criminals when he went to war. They are known to his advisers. It is not difficult to find men who kill for money, Sir Thomas. You are such a man yourself.' 'I'm no assassin.' 'A distinction that will not be considered when they discover that it was I who sent for you.' 'They think that you would kill your own grandson?' 'There are those who believe I had my own husband murdered. What difference in their minds between killing a King and a Prince?' For the first time Blackstone realized that the Queen of old was obliged to vie for power with those close to her own son. How much trust had been lost over the years? How much affection remained? 'Then you will be under suspicion.' 'Yes,' she said matter-of-factly. 'And you will be killed when they discover you are here.' They had tried and failed so far but he knew that once he showed himself in the open, defenceless without his men or any other protection, then they would have him. 'I'm in a bear pit, aren't I? What do I do?'
She turned her wrist in a small gesture of distraction, twirling one of the gold bracelets that was loose on her thin arm, as if considering her answer. 'My lady. I'm a common man, but I'm no fool. You have not brought me this far, to this moment, without knowing what is to be done.' He saw the truth in her eyes as clearly as the written message that had been sent to him. 'You go into the lists and beat the Prince in combat.' If she had planned to catch him unawares she succeeded. 'I cannot! I've seen bravery in men, but the King and my Prince are the lions of England. I cannot challenge them. In battle men stepped forward into an overwhelming enemy because of them.' She saw the anguish on Blackstone's face – his admiration and love for the King and the Prince was genuine. But she made no concession to his feelings. 'You will yield when he knows you have beaten him. There is no need for him to suffer humiliation but he will know when the better fighter has won the day.' Defeat squeezed Blackstone's chest. 'I cannot.'
'This is the only way your name can be cleared and the journey I plan for you be completed. I will be able to convince the King that what I see lying ahead is to his benefit. His and England's.' Blackstone stood, as something more fearful than facing any enemy gnawed at him. 'My lady, when I fight, I fight to kill. There's no other way I know. My fury unleashes itself without my knowing it. I cannot do it,' he said, as if confessing a mortal sin to a priest. 'Cage your demons, Sir Thomas, grasp them by the tail and do not let them loose.' 'There is no control of them once they are set free, my lady. They slip their bonds and carry me into the fight.' Isabella turned her eyes away from the scarred knight. His loyalty was beyond question. She understood that no command of hers would ever force Blackstone to fight. It would take more. 'Then you may never see your family again,' she said quietly. Blackstone felt as if a mace had struck him. He blinked. 'My family? Where are they?' 'Safe for now. But only as long as you do as I command.'
Defiance edged his voice. 'Tell me and I'll do as you wish.' 'You do not bargain with a Queen!' she bit back. 'You bend your knee and offer thanks that she gives you the chance to save their lives.' Blackstone went down on his knee and bowed his head. A surge of hope for his family was beaten down by a sudden distaste for the woman who manipulated him. He would do anything to save Christiana and the children. Even defeat a King's son. 'I'm in a shit pit,' said Blackstone to John Jacob. 'I've never used a lance. Never trained with it.' 'I thought your Norman lord taught you the use of arms,' said Jacob. 'I refused the lance. You know as well as I do they're useless in battle, except for ramming into the ground and spearing horses. Tournaments are for show, not for killing.' 'That might not be true after today,' said Jacob. 'Your faith in my death is touching.' Jacob shrugged. 'All I'm saying is the Prince and whoever fights with him are well practised in the use of every weapon and have been trained since childhood. You wouldn't expect them to be a skilled stonemason or archer. I don't think a shit pit is deep enough.'
The two men remained silent. Blackstone was unafraid of combat but fearful of being injured through his lack of skill with a lance. And if he could not beat the Prince and prove his worth then Christiana and the children were at risk. 'If you go down will she speak for you?' asked Jacob. 'Isabella? I doubt it. She'll wash her hands of us. I'll be the assassin everyone says I am. You keep yourself well away, John.' 'Running from a fight isn't something I care for.' 'If I'm beaten, you're taken. Get down to the river and try to reach Calais. Tell Sir Gilbert what happened and ride back to Italy.' 'As much chance of that as a whore giving herself for free,' he said keeping his attention on the armour that had been brought for him to strap onto his sworn lord. Every knight of worth had his armour fitted to his body. Ill-fitting plate chafed and slowed a fighting man's skills, which was another disadvantage for Blackstone. Damned near eighty pounds of uncomfortable armour and a belligerent horse unused to riding in the lists seemed to be an insoluble problem. Jacob rubbed a piece of frayed strapping on the armour's breastplate between finger and thumb. 'All those who saw us safely across France will be used to hunt us down. No, Sir Thomas, for everyone's sake you've got to see this through.' He tossed the old armour to one side in disgust. 'And whatever you do, hold back enough so you don't kill him. Even your pagan goddess won't save us then.'
A cloaked figure stepped from behind a tree. Jacob's knife was quickly in his hand making the approaching man stop. 'Master Jacob,' said Caprini as Blackstone laid a hand quickly on Jacob's arm, recognizing the shadow's form. 'I wish to return to my bedroll.' The Tau knight had moved remarkably close to both men without being seen or heard. Blackstone and Jacob exchanged a brief look. 'Fra Stefano,' said Blackstone, 'the ground's wet tonight; you should have stayed at your prayer.' Caprini came closer to the small fire and helped himself to a spoonful of pottage. Jacob cut a piece of bread and offered it. 'I am grateful. Thank you,' Caprini said. The firelight from the pavilions faded across the meadow. 'The trees drip unpleasantly; we should have brought a tent. The trouble with England is that God must see it as a garden that needs constant watering.' 'A dribble of rain down a man's neck is barely a problem worth considering,' said Jacob as the Tau knight ate slowly, chewing each morsel as if it might be his last meal.
'I heard what you were talking about. Your Prince will only fight at the end of the day when the last two men have fought; then he will take to the lists. Three tilts of the lance for each challenge unless the challenger is unhorsed.' 'How do you know that?' asked Blackstone. No one had told him the order of the contest. 'May I?' Caprini asked, extending his hand for another slice of bread. 'I know this because I am a foreigner. Because I am ignorant of this ritual. And I ask a man called Roger Mortimer—' 'The Earl of March? You spoke to him?' said Jacob, interrupting his bread-cutting. The man was no older than Thomas Blackstone, but held one of the highest ranks in England. 'He's to proclaim the jousts. You don't just walk up and ask him. He's the Marshal of the Army.' Jacob look disbelievingly from the Italian to Blackstone, who looked bemused at the hospitaller's lack of formality. 'But I did because when I was at prayer I saw him with others going to their own chapel. Men who pray, Master Jacob, share the same joy. A Knight of the Tau is not unknown in this country.'
'I beg your pardon, Fra Stefano. I meant no disrespect.' 'How could any be taken?' he answered gracefully and then spoke to Blackstone. 'Take the blow on the first pass and go down. Why take three tilts? Sooner or later he will unseat you. Once you're on your feet he'll be obliged to dismount and face you.' 'He's as strong as I am. And if the fall doesn't knock me senseless he soon will after I tumble.' 'All right. Take the strike, and then knock him down,' said Caprini. 'It makes sense, Sir Thomas,' Jacob said, adding his weight to the argument. 'This armour is so poor it may come apart after the first hit. I've seen the power of two horses at full tilt. Use that horse of yours to barge him. It's a foul beast at the best of times. In fact, I've never seen a creature so keen to meet the devil on his own terms.' The Visconti's man, Werner von Lienhard, had insisted on a hot bath before being dressed for the tournament by his esquires. Servants had boiled water for hours, but their sleepless night had earned them no gratitude. His pennant fluttered above his pavilion, joining those of other knights from across Europe who had been given safe passage to attend and fight in the tournament on St George's Day. Hundreds of English, German, Gascon and Flemish knights put aside old enmities and pitched their tents and pavilions next to each other within sight of the royal standard and the dais where the King and Queen would sit with their honoured guests. Now, as the contest began, a dazzling array of blazons milled around as knights and their squires paraded the lists to the cheers of hundreds of spectators. Knights rode their caparisoned tournament horses, wearing ornate plate armour, emblazoned with their arms. Crested helms and pennants vied for attention like peacocks showing off to the ladies of varying ranks dressed in their finest bright colours and jewelled garlands. They watched each other, a knowing look in their eyes, because a feast of adultery would be committed over the next few days and nights.
Von Lienhard had already identified three or four women he would sleep with before the tournament ended. There would be time before the royal warrant of protection ran out, forcing him back to the Visconti. There was prize money to be had as well as women but the Visconti offered random slaughter, which suited his tastes more. Such killing would be denied him during this friendly tournament where lances would be capped and fatal blows forbidden. Prowess would rule the day and von Lienhard was determined that he and the other German knights would ride home victorious from this spectacle. Friendly jousts or not, men died or were injured and he had sworn to the Visconti that, given the chance, he would kill Thomas Blackstone – if he appeared. He had asked others whether the Englishman had made himself known, but no one knew of Blackstone being present. Perhaps, he speculated, Blackstone had not survived the mountain pass. * The cheering crowds of spectators were silenced as trumpeters heralded the Earl of March's announcement that each combatant would fight on horseback and on foot armed with any weapon of attack and defence except for devices of evil design or those enchanted with charms of spells that were forbidden by God and the Holy Church to all good Christians. On the cloth-of-gold-draped dais Edward and his Queen sat with the French King and other noblemen, as Isabella was fussed over by a lady-in-waiting. Blackstone watched the tender expression on his King's face and admired the difference between his demeanour with his family and his rousing aggression with his troops on the battlefield. His sharp features were softened by his berry-brown hair and beard and he was dressed far more richly than when Blackstone had seen him go to war. A design of wildfowl and falcons with open wings was embroidered in coloured thread into his tunic and gown, and his belt was stitched with drakes and ducks that cowered from the hovering falcons.
When Blackstone had been first brought before Isabella her clothing was modest in its decoration. He paid little attention to women and their dress, but today Isabella could not be ignored. She was the grandest of queens. Blackstone had seen enough precious jewels, seized from Italian merchants unfortunate to be on the wrong side of the conflict. They brought a good price to help feed and arm his men over and above their contracted payments. Today, however, it looked as though Isabella the Fair could pay the French King's ransom simply by donating her jewellery. Alms to the poor. Her gold chaplet was studded with diamonds, rubies, sapphires and pearls and these precious jewels were repeated in her slender gold crown that glistened in the light. Isabella the Fair outshone King Edward and his Queen and all the richly clothed nobles and guests in the royal stand. 'No wonder we are peasants,' said John Jacob. 'Not all of us, perhaps,' he added quickly, looking at the Italian. 'Do you see any finery on me? My own rosary is as plain as black peas. I was a soldier before I became a hospitaller,' he said. 'Only kings and nobles have the right to wear such luxury. I am happy with plain woven cloth. Who among us needs anything more?'
Jacob grunted. 'True enough. I'd feel like a court jester dressed in woven colours,' he muttered. 'Perhaps we're all the King's fools, John. We don't need fancy dress to make us so.' They stood well back from the swirling colours that seemed even brighter against the grey sky. Painted lances and fluttering pennons added to the spectacle. It was obvious to Blackstone that the King still showed favour to his treacherous mother. He reached for her hand and kissed it and then waved aside the lady-in-waiting as he settled her cloak comfortably about her, nestling her cloak's fur collar snugly into her neck. Had time healed her treason, Blackstone wondered, or had she never been committed it? Perhaps, as she had told him, she cared only for England in everything she did and let nothing stand in her way. Not even Blackstone's family. They were the means to make Blackstone yield to her will. He gazed long and hard at the russet-haired, unsmiling French King who sat, square-jawed, next to Edward and his Queen. Edward was showing off. Splendour such as this was costly and was being paid for by the French – from taxes raised from ransoms paid for Edward's prisoners. King John was indirectly paying for Edward's party; no wonder the English King laughed and cheered as loudly as any commoner.
For the better part of the morning Blackstone and the others kept their distance, denying themselves the spectacle in case any of them was recognized. They kept their cowls over their faces and busied themselves like servants cleaning Blackstone's weapons and adjusting the old armour. Roars of appreciation or despair soared and dipped as favoured knights won or lost their contests. A mêlée of horsemen staged a thrilling assault of sword and mace that saw the Duke of Lancaster fall wounded, and as others were beaten and yielded the crowd's excitement rose, muting the trumpets and drums. Blackstone edged his way around the lists feeling the same apprehension he experienced before battle. Most men felt it. All kept it hidden. And Thomas Blackstone was no different. Whatever it was that drove men into the turmoil of war became their friend when steel clashed and the desperation to survive gave them strength. It was the waiting that churned a man's stomach and let the sweat trickle down his spine. But, Blackstone chided himself, this was to be no fight to the death. It was a spectacle in which knights and squires who loved the contest showed off their prowess – little more than a training session – and his family's safety depended on his waging a convincing fight. However, if the Prince fought as hard as Blackstone had witnessed on the battlefield then there was a chance that Blackstone could be beaten. He spat out the stale taste that crept into his mouth. It was not the conflict that troubled him, but rather that he would once again be within striking distance of the French King.
Blackstone carefully edged along the rear of the crowd and studied the man he had sworn to kill. The French monarch half rose from his seat as a Burgundian knight unseated a Gascon. Any small victory for the French over an English ally was a cause for rejoicing. King John clenched a fist in victory. Had he done that when his executioner hacked off Jean de Harcourt's head? Blackstone wondered, remembering the moment when he had called across that Field of Mercy and sworn vengeance. As the Gascon yielded beneath the Burgundian knight's assault amid more muted cheers than would have gone up had the Gascon won, King John glanced across the crowds and in that moment Blackstone felt a shudder. His own archer's eyesight was keener than most and he saw the French King's eyes narrow for a second. Had their eyes met fleetingly? Blackstone dismissed the thought. He was too far away to be recognized, but he saw the King's face as clearly as the day he had cut his way through the field at Poitiers and got within ten paces of killing him.
The moment passed. The French and English Kings applauded. Drumbeats and whinnying horses demanded attention. A deafening roar of voices swelled over the tournament field. A pair of knights stood like gatekeepers at each end of the lists, barring entry through the gates to anyone not fighting. They held lances down across the entrance as behind each of them the next two fighters came to the mounting benches. A herald's voice was suffocated by the wave of excitement as the Prince of Wales's pennon was shown at one end. There was no need to announce who was next to joust. His horse was swathed in a black trapper that bore the Prince's tournament colours of three white ostrich feathers. A friendly tournament such as this meant his royal coat of arms would not be displayed. The same three ostrich feathers were blazoned against a black background on his shield. His helmet was adorned with the boiled-leather crest of a lion. In the centre of the lists the tournament marshal raised his arm, readying the combatants. As if on command, the crowd fell silent – so silent that the snorting horses and the snap of closing visors sounded loudly. Attendants held the horses' bridles, aiding each rider to control the power that now demanded to be released, and handing each man his shield. The marshal's arm dropped as his voice carried the command to let the horsemen go.
'Laissez-les aller!' The gatekeepers stepped back quickly out of the way, raising their lances, letting the surging horses through. A gasp of expectation rose up, turning from awe to blood-lust. Edward of Woodstock, the great Prince, victor of Poitiers and captor of the French King, crouched, lance steady, hurtling towards his opponent across the seventy yards between them; seventy yards that were devoured in six seconds. The Prince's opponent struck the Prince's shield a blink of an eye before the Prince found his target, but the Prince took the blow at an angle and his own lance splintered as it struck with such accuracy that the impact lifted his opponent out of the saddle. The combined weight of horse, man and armour and the bone-crushing momentum carried the man across the saddle's cantle. As his body thudded into the ground Blackstone already knew that the man's shield arm must have been broken. His eyes had followed the tip of the blunted lance from the moment the Prince had lowered it. Edward's aim had not wavered, even when he had taken the glancing blow on his own shield. It was the strike of a highly trained knight. This was no sport. The Prince meant to be the victor and Blackstone understood the cold, deliberate intent meant that he, too, was likely to fail in this contest of arms.
'He will not rise,' said Caprini. 'He is too badly injured.' They watched as ushers ran forward to aid the stricken knight and from the way his body sagged Blackstone knew the man's shoulder was snapped. The Prince retired beyond the gate to await his next opponent, applauded by King and commoner, cheered on by a crowd who revered their heroic Prince. 'Sir Thomas,' said Caprini. 'You cannot beat this man in the saddle. Angle your shield high, like so.' He bent his arm to demonstrate. 'Deflect the blow, push forward in your stirrups. Get him on the ground with you. Then you can overcome him.' 'You have a lot of confidence in me,' said Blackstone. Caprini kept his eyes on the Prince as he was fussed over by attendants. 'I see a fighter's weakness and his strength. He was aiming for the other's head. Strike the helm and such a blow can snap a man's neck at worst. At best he is in darkness for a long time. Your Prince is known to be a generous benefactor, but not here; not when he fights.' * John Jacob had taken his time in dressing Blackstone. After Blackstone had bathed he tugged on a linen shirt and then a padded tunic to help protect his ribs. Blackstone had reined in his impatience as Jacob fumbled with straps and the layers of clothing and armour. To save his sworn lord's strength from bearing the weight of the armour on his chest and shoulders he dressed him from the feet up, adding the weight piece by piece. Over Blackstone's leather shoes he fitted the sabatons of mail, then plate armour for the shins, knees and thighs. He eased a sleeveless mail haubergeon onto his torso and cinched Blackstone's waist with a leather belt.
'Christ, John, I'll split like a squeezed worm,' he muttered as Jacob found an extra notch. 'Keep your guts in place,' Jacob said, attending to his duty, determined to give Blackstone as much protection as possible. 'When was the last time you had to do this?' 'Never,' said Blackstone. 'Merciful God, I hope you've had a good breakfast,' Jacob answered without halting his ministrations as he fitted a breastplate and then added pieces for Blackstone's shoulders and arms. 'Too tight on the arms?' he asked. Blackstone lifted and swung his fighting arm. 'No. It's good enough.' 'It'd better be. Our Prince will have the very best armour. Catch the flat of your blade on it and it will slide like water off glass. Stroke hard and put your weight behind it. Hard, Sir Thomas. You have to beat him with your strength.' 'He's no weakling.' 'But he hasn't been running up and down those accursed mountains in Italy for nigh on two years and fighting bastard Hungarians who take a lot of killing.' Jacob checked his work, looking Blackstone up and down as a concerned mother might dress a child. 'It'll do,' he said as he tugged on the plated gauntlets with their leather lining for grip onto Blackstone's big hands. Blackstone was obliged to bend down so his captain could tug a leather cap onto his head and then, before fitting the helm, slipped a mail coif over him to protect his neck and shoulders. There was to be no surcoat showing his coat of arms. He settled the uncrested helm on Blackstone's head.
'Your own mother wouldn't recognize you, Sir Thomas. Come to that, neither would I if you came at me dressed like this.' Jacob wiped the back of his hand across his mouth and spat in satisfaction. He was sweating from attending Blackstone. God knew what it was like in that metal coffin. 'Near enough time, Sir Thomas. Lads have brought your horse to the mounting bench. I've hobbled him and kept him hooded. Don't want him running amok and bringing attention on us.' Blackstone nodded as the figure of the French King merged back into the rich colours of nobility on the dais. 'Good enough. Keep my blazon covered on your jupon and shield and when I go down it's up to you to get my horse.' 'Aye, me and a dozen more. It'll be done, though I'm not sure how.' Blackstone turned to Caprini. 'You gave your word not to mention my name, Fra Stefano.' 'It stands. And if there are those who wish you harm, then Master Jacob and I will guard your back. It is my intention to take you to Canterbury. I sense that a pilgrimage would be good for you.'
The thunder of hooves rumbled across the ground and the clash and roar of the crowd signalled that the Prince had taken another prize. 'He's getting warmed up,' said Jacob. 'His muscles will be loose now, but he'll be hot. He'll have sweat in his eyes. One more chance when he goes back and takes off his helm for a servant to wipe his face. He won't take off them gauntlets and do it himself. He wants his third victory and then he can sup and do whatever heroic princes do after a joust. Piss in a gold jug and turn it into wine, for all I know.' Blackstone felt the crumpled linen shirt between his shoulder blades twist like rope from the sweat that soaked him beneath the padded jacket, mail and armour. He had forgotten how cumbersome it all was and why he and his men chose to fight without the plate. Caprini came to escort him towards the enclosure. 'Did you hear that? The crowd? A German knight, the best I've seen. He cleared the field. We see the best of them all today, Sir Thomas. Remember what I said and you will come through this with honour.'
'And still be able to walk, I hope,' said Blackstone. 'I've no joy at the thought of fighting the Prince.' As they approached the mounting bench the bastard horse raised its head, scenting his master's approach despite being hooded. 'Christ help us both,' Blackstone muttered. Had he been able to reach the silver goddess at his throat that now lay tucked beneath the steel collar he would have invoked her blessing. Jousting horses were as well trained as the men who rode them. Blackstone's horse was a fiery instrument of war. And it seemed as irritated as Blackstone at having to wear such protection. The beast was caparisoned over a quilted blanket, a chanfron headpiece of jointed metal pieces had gaps for its eyes, ears and nostrils, and curtains of mail protected its flanks, while a strong, boiled-leather covering protected its chest. Trumpets blared, the marshal's voice drifted through the pavilions. An unknown challenger was to take the field. Rumour had it that it was to be one of the King's closest friends disguised as a poor knight – a jest, just as when the King and his son dressed in the guise of city officials at jousts and took on all comers. Others said that it was the Gascon lord, Jean de Grailly, who had returned early from the crusade in Prussia. Those who professed to know from reliable sources said it was a famed Spanish knight. Rumour after rumour had failed to uncover the name of the knight who would soon appear without a coat of arms. It was an added excitement and one that fuelled the crowd's interest. A fine way to end the first day of the ongoing tournament.
Wolf Sword was held in a ring tied to the saddle's pommel; axe and mace were tucked into and tied onto his studded belt. John Jacob steadied the horse's steel bridle as its yellow teeth snapped and champed at the bit. Blackstone nodded and Jacob eased off the hood. The horse shivered, ducked its head, tugging against the reins, testing Blackstone. His legs held its body firmly, not too tight – not yet – because whatever Blackstone needed from this beast it would be commanded through the pressure from his legs. 'I have him,' he told Jacob. Caprini stepped in and took the leather-bound, unmarked wooden shield from an attendant, lifting it so Blackstone could hook his bent arm through its straps. 'I think you have a chance. Rise up when you strike,' said Caprini. 'Rise up and lean forward the moment before impact. He will do the same, but the man who gets the blow in first will suffer the least. He crouches but you will have extra power to strike a downward blow. It might save you because he will find his target on your shield. Then, take yourself to the ground when you are ready.'
Blackstone wondered if the old broken bone that bent his shield arm would take such an impact. Another attendant handed him the unwieldy ash lance, near enough fourteen feet long, thick at the base to tuck beneath his arm with a carved place for his gauntleted fist to grip behind the simple crossguard. A crown-shaped, three-pronged cronel covered the lance's tip. He felt awkward – trapped like a coiled snake in an iron casket. 'Thank Christ they're blunted,' he said, meaning the lance. He eased its base into the well-worn pocket of the fewter on his stirrup to hold it steady until it could be brought to bear. A persistent throbbing drumbeat of his heart pounded through his helm. John Jacob stood on the mounting stool and raised a wineskin to Blackstone's lips. 'Wine and water, Sir Thomas. You take the fight to him. You'll need this.' Blackstone swallowed, grateful that his dry mouth had been eased. He held the great beast ready, its plain caparison as dull as its singed-looking hide. Two unmarked creatures, their identity camouflaged by drab covering, about to hurl themselves into the riot of colour that fluttered in all its pageantry.