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He calmed his breathing, felt the horse settle and knew, from whichever of God's angels hovered at his shoulder, that he had nothing to fear. Jacob and Caprini stepped away. Now that Blackstone was armed and ready no further contact was allowed. He dropped the visor and sucked in the claustrophobic darkness – the narrow slit barely wide enough to see directly in front of him. A fleeting memory of thousands of French knights bearing down on him and the other archers gave him a moment of imagined horror. How they had slain those poor bastards trapped in these coffins. What terror must they have known? Yet still they had come on. The horse snorted, lowered and then raised its head. Ears cocked forward. Muscles bunched and quivering. Eager to fight. Blackstone could not contain the moment of anticipation that mingled with joy. He laughed. 'You have the strength and balls of a bull,' he said to the horse. 'And I thank God for it.' The guards at the gate raised their lances and stepped quickly away.
The marshal's voice carried. 'Laissez-les aller!' Blackstone grunted with effort, desperately sucking air in the dark confines of the helm. Everything felt wrong. Something chafed in his groin against the saddle, bunched linen rubbed beneath his armpits and the jolting, uneven gait of his horse bobbed his vision up and down. With shield and reins in his left hand he pulled up his horse's head, fighting the unruly beast that seemed only to want to attack the other stallion that bore down on them. Blackstone cursed and tried to keep it on course, but between the bellicose horse and the wavering lance he struggled to keep his opponent in sight through the helm's narrow slit. His frustration rose to anger. Goddammit! For Christ's sake! Come on! Straight! Straight, for Christ's sake! a voice in his head bellowed as he used his legs to try to bring the aggressive horse onto the right course and not too close to the Prince who hurtled towards him. He had seen knights badly injured when horses collided, and also that it was not always possible for the knights to get a clean strike against the shield because of the wavering mounts. He held the lance right to left across his chest, angled just off the near edge of his shield. Its tip wavered uncontrollably and he could feel through his anger the despair that he would be unlikely to strike the Prince's shield. An archer's instinct always let the bowman guide his arrow shaft onto his target and that instinct rescued him in the final moments before the combatants closed. He eased the reins through his fingers, letting the belligerent horse turn its head as if to attack the other as he angled his shield. Raising himself forward from the saddle he took the weight and strain onto his hips and thighs, letting the bunched muscles in his back transmit their strength into his shoulder and arms. Instinct, anger and defiance let his eye take the tip of his lance onto the black shield.
Wood splintered. The impact smashed his shield against his ribs and threw him back across the saddle; only the strength of his legs held him onto the horse. Pain shot through his shield arm and blood roared in his head; somewhere beyond that was the bellowing of the crowd. He was glad of the extra notch John Jacob had cinched on his belt as he pushed his stomach muscles against it and came upright in the saddle. He pressed one leg into the war horse's side and kicked it around with the other. As the horse turned he saw that the Prince had not yet regained his stirrups and his own mount was floundering. He had made the first pass but he had no wish to do it again. The beast had struck the Prince's mount on the pass and now all eyes were on the Prince. Blackstone desperately wanted to pull free the visor and gulp air, but he gathered the horse, exerted his strength against its will and brought it to an impatient halt, letting it bellow and snort its exertion and frustration. His own lance was splintered two thirds of the way down its shaft, as was the Prince's, and following the Prince's example he tossed it aside. Blackstone was about to feign injury and allow himself to slip from the saddle but he was saved this humiliation when he saw that the Prince's horse was limping, injured from the contact. Blackstone watched the man he had last seen at Poitiers climb down from the saddle as attendants ran forward to seize its reins. Cheers and applause greeted the Prince's recovery and Blackstone could tell that he had winded the King's son. But that did not disguise the Prince's anger that came fast-paced towards him after drawing his sword from its saddle ring. Blackstone pulled Wolf Sword free and dismounted. John Jacob led four ushers at the run to take his horse. Blackstone said nothing as his captain took the reins from him, barely hearing his utterance.
'God's blood, you rattled his brain, Sir Thomas. Finish him.' Blackstone was already striding away towards the royal stand with Wolf Sword's comforting grip in his hand. Now that he had survived the joust he knew he could do what came more naturally to him. The man wearing the crested helm and dark, burnished armour covered by his tournament surcoat strode towards him, but Blackstone could see there was a slight imbalance in the Prince's stride. Perhaps, he thought, the impact had wrenched muscles. Blackstone felt exhilaration as he quickened his pace, knowing the crowd now applauded with approval at his eagerness to engage the Prince of Wales. Neither man waited for the other to strike first but barged their shields, hoping the other would be pushed off balance. The instant they clashed Blackstone realized, despite the Prince being nearly as tall and muscled, that he had the advantage of Edward, who rocked back half a pace. It meant nothing to the crowd, merely that the Prince braced his legs and brought his sword down, catching Blackstone's helm. Like a church bell's hammer the sword's clang reverberated inside. Neither man yielded another pace backwards, but kept striking their opponent with tireless blows. Each could hear the other grunting with exertion and both ignored the rousing cries from the crowd. Blackstone forgot his promise to Isabella. All else faded into a blurred memory as he hammered blow after blow against the heir to the throne. Edward had fought with youthful joy at Crécy and as a more experienced warrior at Poitiers, and a lifetime of zealous ambition to one day be a warrior king like his father brought him on to attack Blackstone. Yet every strike he made Blackstone parried, every manoeuvre that turned body and shield Blackstone blocked. Neither man could best the other, but Edward was tiring, his strength weakening. Blackstone sensed it as surely as he knew, when he had been an archer, that his arrows would find their target.
Blackstone saw the Prince shift his weight onto his back foot as he sought a firmer stance against the ceaseless attack. Blackstone had him. At that moment the Prince realized that the knight who faced him was stronger. And lethal. Blackstone bore down on him and felt him take two faltering steps backwards. Sweat stung Blackstone's eyes, his mouth was dry from exertion and a nagging pain crept up his old injury into his shoulder. Ignoring the discomfort he closed with the Prince. He heard the man's wheezing breath, as desperate as his own. This was a tournament no longer. It was close-quarter battle that made a man take desperate measures to survive. Blackstone's mongrel blood swept aside any jousting code of honour – he and the Prince had committed themselves to a fight that could lead to either of them being badly injured. Their ferocious desire to survive bled into the men's muscles. Blackstone would ram him with his shield, then take his legs from beneath him and the Prince would be unable to rise with the weight of his armour and the by then draining exhaustion in his muscles – the fight would be won.
Beyond the Prince's helm Blackstone saw a stripe of blurred colours that resolved into those on the dais who leaned forward in anticipation. The fury that possessed him to fight would be his undoing. The thought of his family lay beyond a distant horizon. He saw his adversary and only him. Nothing else mattered. But then, as if the pagan goddess had reached into his heart, a glimpse of Christiana flashed into his mind. Her beauty caught him off guard. As it always had. She was calling to him. Taking a half-pace backwards he deliberately raised Wolf Sword in defence rather than attack. Seizing the moment the Prince struck hard and fast, delivering a swinging blow that shuddered against Blackstone's helm. A lesser man would have been brought to his knees. Blackstone tasted the blood in his mouth and with a gesture allowed his head to drop in submission and his arms to splay in surrender. The bitterness he tasted was not due to blood alone. Both men stood heaving with exertion. Prince Edward pushed up his visor; sweat glistened on his face and Blackstone saw that he too had bitten hard on his tongue, blood running from the corner of his mouth. Through heaving breaths the Prince made his demand. 'Show yourself.'
Blackstone ignored his aching body and cumbersome armour and knelt before Edward. 'I am here to serve you, my Prince, not cause you harm,' he said and extended Wolf Sword towards him in a gesture he knew the Prince would recall from the day at Calais when he gave Blackstone his coat of arms – the sword, held like a crucifix, grasped by a gauntleted fist. The Prince's eyes widened. Neither man spoke. Blackstone cut free the leather covering from his shield, exposing his coat of arms. Then he pushed back his visor. What he saw was a seething anger held in check. 'Your defiance has no bounds. You defy us, you return marked as an assassin, and you defy yourself in order to allow us to best you.' 'No, my lord. You took advantage of my hesitation. I gave you no quarter. You won.' Edward spat blood from his mouth. 'Get up, damn you! Show your colours to our father.' The Prince bowed his head towards the royal dais. 'Sire! The day is over. We have been victorious. We beg permission to retire from this field.'
King Edward smiled, raised a hand in a small gesture of permission, and as the Prince walked towards the end of the lists, rousing cheers acknowledged his success. The King's eyes fell on the man who had come so close to beating his son. Who would have beaten him had he not yielded. Blackstone turned his shield. And bowed his head. There was no need for the King to see the scarred face that was hidden beneath the helm. The warrior King was less aggrieved than his son to see Blackstone and he allowed him an indulgent smile. 'Sir Thomas Blackstone,' he said, enjoying a hidden delight as the French King at his side flinched from the Englishman's name. 'You dispel the lies we hear about you and confirm your bellicose defiance. Défiant à la mort. We have a thought to see you arrested but your efforts here have pleased the crowds,' he said, then paused. 'And we hear you are a champion of the common man. It befits us to be merciful.' Blackstone raised his eyes. It was obvious that the English Crown had been kept informed of his exploits in Italy. 'God bless you, my liege.'
'We are divine, Sir Thomas; you, it seems, are coveted by His angels. Either those ascending or those who are fallen. How, we wonder, did you find the path to our door?' He glanced at Isabella, who did not meet his eyes but stared resolutely ahead at the fighting man who had yielded to her wishes. 'No doubt that secret will be made known to us in time,' he said. The King studied him a moment longer. He had not seen Thomas Blackstone since that day at Crécy when his torn body lay cradled by a priest, surrounded by the greatest knights of England, who all swore to the boy's prowess and courage. From that bloodied state a knight had risen with a reputation that could not be ignored – or denied. The King stood to leave, but before bowing his head Blackstone looked into the French King's eyes. He would not yield to him. One determined throw of Wolf Sword could reach John the Good's chest. It would tear apart his heart and Blackstone's promise of revenge would be complete. But that would not save his family.
He bowed as deeply as he could despite the damned armour and cinched belt cutting into muscle and flesh; like a flagellant monk he pressed hard against it to pay for his broken promise. Penance. * The Tau knight helped John Jacob ease away Blackstone's armour and mail. The ill-fitting plate had chafed his skin and his ribs were already discolouring into purple bruising. 'What of my horse, John?' he asked the captain, who tossed aside the last piece of armour in disgust. 'Aye, we've got him tethered and fed. Flared-up he was, took half a dozen of us and another hood over his head to settle him. He quietened some when we stripped him down. There's barely a mark on him, though how in God's name he didn't have your legs crushed I cannot say. I thought he was going to bite the head off the Prince's horse. Sweet Jesus, Sir Thomas, they'd have disqualified you even before you got in the saddle had they known what a mean bastard he is.' 'But he's not injured?' Jacob shook his head. 'Not a mark, as far as I can see. His hide is tougher than yours. I've hobbled him again because he's kicking anything that comes close. We should take the iron shoes off him. That might save any other horse from being hurt,' he said as he swabbed Blackstone's back with a cloth soaked in brine to clean the abrasions.
'No, leave him be, but tether him and the other horses close by. I don't know how long we'll be welcome here.' Caprini took balm from his saddlebags and administered the sweet-smelling paste across Blackstone's ribs, insisting Blackstone raise his bent arm against the pain so he and Jacob could bind him with a linen bandage. 'Not too tight or I'll not draw breath,' he complained. 'Loose enough to let you swallow the frumenty I've cooked,' said Jacob. 'Bit of decent pottage will do us all very nicely.' Blackstone glanced at the clay pot nestled in the fire's embers and the herb-scented steam emerging from it. 'If Will Longdon was here he'd have found some white cuts or shot a pigeon and found some decent bread. Is there ale?' 'Between you and that horse I've barely time to draw breath m'self. What's in the pot will fill our bellies.' 'So it will, and I'm grateful for it, John,' said Blackstone apologetically, his irritability calmed by the stalwart Jacob's practicality. Caprini tied off the bandage. 'You gave your Prince bruises to remember. But that was all. You could have beaten him. Why did you not? It was obvious to me that you held back.' The Tau knight stepped away and repacked the jar of balm. He studied Wolf Sword's pommel, and then balanced the hardened steel in the palm of his hand. 'I've seen you fight, Sir Thomas. He was no match for you.'
It seemed for a moment that Caprini favoured Wolf Sword. His fist curled onto its grip, the blade unnervingly close to Blackstone's neck. The two men's eyes met. Blackstone realized with a shock how easily someone could get so close to him and with one thrust take his life that had been so carefully guarded. The moment passed. Blackstone took Wolf Sword from him and eased it into a scabbard. 'He was a match for any man.' Caprini made a gesture of surrender. 'As you wish. Loyalty is a fine trait, but victory today could have made you the tournament's champion.' 'Sir Thomas does not seek glory,' said John Jacob. 'He serves the King.' 'Well spoken, Master Jacob. 'But your sworn lord is not a man to yield – not without good cause,' the Italian answered. 'I'm no fool, Fra Stefano. I could see that,' answered Jacob, and turned his back so his questioning gaze did not fall on Blackstone. Blackstone eased himself into a fresh shirt. 'I am blackmailed by Isabella,' he said. 'There, now that I've told you, your lives may also be at risk. The Queen may not like the idea of you sharing our secret.'
'Then you yielded at her command,' said Torellini. 'My family is in danger. The King plays for time while France burns. I am being used by her, but I'm caught up in something I don't understand. I was thought to be an assassin brought here to kill the Prince. It's a shit pit of stench and I want no part of it – but I have no choice.' Jacob and Caprini remained silent until the captain offered him a bowl of steaming food. 'Best to eat while we live, Sir Thomas. They say there's ambrosia in heaven, but I'd miss a decent hot meal.' Blackstone took the bowl and the hunk of rough bread being offered. Caprini warmed his hands at the fire as Jacob dished out another serving. 'And what word of this assassin? Is he known?' he asked. Blackstone shook his head. 'No doubt a rumour to trap me is all it is.' Caprini swallowed a mouthful of food. 'Then you are still in danger from those who spread it. You face men who are jealous of their position with the Prince. You are not wanted here and if the Prince is still your enemy even though you have tried to prove otherwise, then I doubt even his grandmother can protect you.'
'Her concern is for me to stay alive until she has no further use of me. We are safe for the time being.' John Jacob spooned another dollop of frumenty into Blackstone's bowl. 'It's never the wolf's pups who'll savage you, only the she-wolf.' * Dusk settled across the meadows as spring mist caressed the river. Hundreds of rushlights flickered ready for the contest to continue once prayers had been attended to and food taken. No one had yet approached Blackstone, so in the half-light they smothered the fire and struck their camp, carrying weapons and bedding to another site. If there were unknown enemies anxious to cause harm before Blackstone could discover Isabella's true purpose it was best to hinder their efforts by moving to the outer area of pavilions and tents. Months before this tournament the King had enjoyed a torchlit joust at Bristol and he wished to continue the spectacle of combat in the same manner. He and his guests would return in another procession to thrill the crowd, alms would be distributed to a chosen few while for most the chance to glimpse the warrior King and his family was deemed sufficient largesse. None had filtered away in the gloom to their villages. St George's Day was as much their celebration as that of the nobles. Soon, like creatures from a minstrel's fable, knights would ride in the shadows, their decorated and plumed helms bobbing and weaving as horses pranced and torchlight was reflected in burnished armour and illumined the colourful surcoats.
The three men on foot led their horses through the pavilions, avoiding those whose coat of arms suggested they belonged to those who might have been given lands and title by the Prince. Smoke from campfires and torches swirled upwards, dispersed by a forest of banners and pennons flapping lazily in the cool night breeze. Blackstone recognized many of the blazons; others were unknown to him. One banner, smaller than its neighbour, was held open easily by the small breeze; then, as a gust of wind rustled treetops, the second, heavier banner suddenly flared open. An avenging angel. A bare-breasted woman crowned with gold, eyes glaring across the defile towards him, teeth bared, wings and talons spread-eagled as if to swoop and carry him off. Harpies were the destructive spirits of the wind, baptised with names of storm and blackness; fierce and loathsome, they were thought to dwell in filth and stench. These harbingers of divine vengeance were despatched by the gods to snatch the souls of evildoers. The figure of the harpy bore down on him, tearing its way into his memory and the dying moments of a bloody battle a dozen years before. Mayhem's deafening roar pounded through his ears, his pulse quickened as once again he saw the coat of arms loom at him, powered by the knight's strength behind the shield and his vicious attack. A shattered mirror in his mind's eye reflected jagged battle scenes and the pain and horror of seeing his brother fall like a slaughtered ox beneath the swords at Crécy, the man who had done the slaying riding, harpy-painted shield high, sword hacking a bloody path towards the Prince. That glaring chimerical monster, both woman and beast, had swooped down on him as he lay, wounds bleeding, in the Crécy mud, and the attacking knight had taken his hardened steel sword to Blackstone. Blinded by his own blood, and close to death from his injuries, God's miracle and the blessing of the Celtic goddess Arianrhod had given Blackstone the strength to slay him. He had taken that knight's sword with its running-wolf-etched blade and wore it to this day.
And now that vile bitch taunted him again – an emblem of death, bringing with it other ghosts that clung like a silk cloth impaled on a thorn bush. Something that could not be removed without further damage or pain. The King had begun restoration of the royal lodgings in the upper ward of Windsor Castle. His temporary apartments were sumptuous enough for the brief time he would spend there and although the obligation of hospitality would still stand, his own quarters were private. A divinely appointed king never entertained his inferiors unless they were of very high rank or blessed with his friendship. The French King was his prisoner, but was treated with great respect. Not only was he housed at the Savoy Palace but he was given the comforts and retinue that befitted a king. He was as a free man – except that he was not. He was the key to even greater riches and territory. He and his young son Philippe were equals to the English King, so there was little cause for Edward to feel anything but victorious. The tournament was a spectacle whose fame would reach across Christendom and yet a rowelled spur of discontent now stung his success. His son was raging, his mother was silent and his wife, Philippa, betrayed no emotion at all. The good woman from Hainault remained stoic and had the grace to smile at Edward as he listened patiently to his son's outburst.
And a good meal was about to be ruined. 'He was exiled!' fumed the Prince of Wales with barely contained anger. 'And I was humiliated.' 'You won the contest. There was no disgrace. You were the better fighter. Everyone saw that,' said Edward gently. 'And you will lower your voice in our presence,' he added with an inflection that brooked no disobedience. The King's various counsellors who hovered constantly about his presence had been ushered away by his Chancellor and, retreating to the shadows against the royal apartment's walls, they became blind and deaf to what was said between their liege and his family. Rebuked, the Prince of Wales bowed his head. 'Sire. Forgive me.' 'It would seem that forgiveness will need to be dispensed to all before the night is out,' he said and turned to face Isabella. 'Perhaps your grandmother can explain how an exiled knight has appeared at our celebration without his King's permission.' Isabella's gaunt features reflected the pain she was in, but Edward would not yet offer any further sympathy or care. Mother and son were still close, but a king required respect and obedience from everyone. Isabella took the gold and silver enamelled cup of wine to her lips. Enough potion had been poured into it to keep her from collapse. This was no time for weakness, even in front of her son, for it was not sympathy that she wished to draw from him, but his sound judgement, to help him take the next step towards securing the territories in France – even, perhaps, the French crown, if John defaulted on his ransom of more than six hundred thousand pounds – a sum that seemed impossible to raise.
'I sent for him,' she answered simply. 'I wonder why I am not surprised to hear that confession,' he said. 'It is not a confession; it is a statement of fact. I sent for him because you need him, but he obeyed the command because he thought it came from you.' The King stroked his beard from his gown and sat opposite her, keeping a respectable distance that maintained royal status. 'My dinner will be cold, madam, and my knees ache from prayer. If I am to end this day with anything but an empty stomach and pain I would ask you to explain yourself. Quickly. For both our sakes.' He had noticed her wince momentarily, little more than a twitch of an eye, as she subdued her pain. She lowered the goblet, replacing it on the ornate stand at the side of her chair. 'When the tournament ends you will finalize the draft treaty with John.' Edward wondered briefly whether it had been a mistake to allow her to be visited by the French King and others in his retinue; it had been a chance for Isabella to reacquaint herself with friends and cousins from France. Information was a weapon.
'I will. Most of France is ours. Or soon will be, once the Dauphin accepts the terms,' he said. Isabella's voice was calm and assured and she spoke directly to her son as if he were the only other person in the room. 'France is burning. Routiers bleed her dry. Some of whom are encouraged by you – perhaps not openly, but it serves you well to observe the chaos. The great and the good have yet to decide whom they will support, be it John's son the Dauphin, or Charles of Navarre. You play one against the other, because whoever succeeds in bringing the people of Paris under their control will wield the power.' 'I see no connection between the politics of France and Thomas Blackstone,' said the King, trying to guess what he had missed but which his mother had foreseen. 'The turmoil is spreading. The peasantry arm themselves and even the lower ranks of nobility join their cause. There is murder and brutality and you offer no assistance,' she answered, urgency in her voice. 'Madam, I am playing a long game. There is a ransom and a country at stake.'
Isabella nearly forgot herself, the irritation bitter on her tongue. 'There will be no country!' she said too sharply. The King tilted his chin as if to rebuke her but she quickly lowered her voice. 'John and the Dauphin fear for their families! How can either accept your treaty when their attention is diverted not only by the back-stabbing Navarre but by a peasant army that burns and loots its way across the countryside?' She knew the King was aware of the payments she made to couriers who travelled back and forth between her and Charles of Navarre and others who were embroiled in the violence in the country of her birth. Information could be used either for or against Navarre, depending upon how she saw the great game changing. 'You have your ear close to the ground,' Edward said. 'I have it close to the hearts of those who are threatened,' she answered. Always quicker, always sharper, always better informed. 'John's family is his concern. His duty, as laid down by God, is to protect his country,' said Edward testily. 'Where he fails I shall succeed.'
Isabella gazed at her son, letting her eyes rest on him. He was the greatest King England had known and she had played her role in making it so. She answered with genuine tenderness. 'You are a benevolent King. You are gracious and kind and you curb your anger towards your enemies when you have them on their knees. If your family were hunted by the mob what would you wish?' She watched his face change from one of attentiveness to that of a man who could well imagine the horror of his own children being slaughtered. Then his face hardened. 'I am not John's keeper. I have yet to wear the crown of France. Let the Dauphin find the means to protect his own family.' Isabella rallied her waning energy. 'And you believe his fear will not influence his judgement in the treaty? He will try to strike a bargain. To buy time. I would ask you to save John's daughter and his son's wife and family. Benevolence will be met with gratitude. Your treaty will be less argued over. And King John will regain control over his son and Navarre – and his country. Thanks to you.'
Edward remained silent. He knew as well as the Prince that Blackstone could have beaten him, but had not. The rumour of his being an assassin had turned out to be just that – false accusation. Isabella had brought him to the tournament to prove his loyalty and thrust him to the fore – thrust him down the Prince's throat, more like. And the devil would play advocate between King and Prince, father and son, when the time came, because Thomas Blackstone was a thread that ran through all their lives. So now Edward knew what Isabella wanted. Whether she was correct he could not know. Not yet. He stood, annoyed that he was being manipulated. A small, albeit temporary, victory was needed over Isabella. He beckoned his chamberlain. 'Arrest Sir Thomas Blackstone.' * Like everyone else, Werner von Lienhard had been eager to watch the King's son fight. The avid crowds bellowed their approval of the anonymous knight who showed no colours and who had nearly unhorsed the Prince of Wales, their great English hero. Von Lienhard had pushed his way to the front and watched the contest. By the time Blackstone revealed his identity to the King, the Visconti's champion knew he could beat the scarred-faced Englishman: Blackstone's fury could be subdued by cold-hearted skill learnt over the years from the best swordmeisters in Germany.
As Blackstone and the others picked their way clear of the pavilions towards the darkened meadows eight armed men moved out of the shadows. Each was a knight who had no compunction about slaying Englishmen – especially as they were being paid by von Lienhard. Conrad von Groitsch and Siegfried Mertens were two knights who were close friends of von Lienhard. Each came from landowning families, but when their wealth had been squandered by an incompetent father or stolen by an older brother they had been forced to sell their fighting skills to those who paid the highest. For these three men the Visconti of Milan had been a generous benefactor. Others in the group had suffered humiliation on the lists or on battlefields. They were Germans and Frenchmen, and all were prepared to transgress the code of chivalry demanded by the St George's Day tournament. Blackstone had been distracted by the coat of arms that glared down at him. At no time since the slaughter at Crécy had he had any interest in knowing whom he had slain. Wolf Sword was his through victory, but now he realized it might be someone else's by birthright.
The knights' sudden appearance alarmed the horses, making Blackstone and the others instinctively grab their reins. Before he could pull Wolf Sword from its scabbard that was secured to the saddle's pommel, the horse had ducked its head, throwing him off balance. Its rear hooves lashed out and the heavy thud of iron shoes meeting mail-encased flesh and bone was plain to hear. Caprini had swung his horse between himself and the attackers and quickly engaged the first two men who struck at him. Blackstone released the reins and within moments he and John Jacob stood close enough together to deter the attacking men who wore mail but no surcoats, their open bascinets enclosing snarling faces. Without shields or armour Blackstone and the others were at a grave disadvantage. They parried a quick surge of attack, edged towards Caprini, and quickly formed a defensive wedge like a broadhead arrow, back to back. The horses ran loose, then settled beyond the first line of pavilions. Von Lienhard attacked Blackstone, a man with him at each side, forcing Caprini and Jacob to flatten their defensive line. Sword blades clashed and clanged, but then Blackstone took two strides forward, caught one of the men as he made a clumsy strike, and rammed Wolf Sword into his thigh. As the man fell Blackstone lowered his weight with him, keeping the blade rammed into muscle. The man dropped his sword and clawed at Wolf Sword's blade, to no avail. Blackstone had seen fighters make the mistake of withdrawing a blade too quickly, allowing their adversary to regain his feet and strike a low blow that could gut a man. Strong and violent men could withstand such agony as their hearts pumped energy and hatred into their muscles. In the seconds it took to press the blade firmly another of the attackers caught Blackstone across the back of his head and shoulder with a flat-bladed blow deflected by his mail. Fireflies danced behind his eyes and he felt his knees give way. Wolf Sword fell from his grasp. As he staggered to one side the wounded man lunged with a knife, but John Jacob kicked him in the face and then pushed Blackstone away as another struck downwards with a blow that would have cleft Blackstone from collarbone to hip. The Tau knight rammed his blade from a low angle, forcing it upwards through the man's raised armpit, its honed blade cutting through muscle and bone and out through his lower jaw. Blood and tiny fragments of bone sprayed from his head. The shattered jaw, in the throes of death, emitted a final vomiting retch.
Four of the attackers were sprawled, writhing in pain from deep wounds, the fifth was dead and, as Blackstone clawed himself to his feet, von Lienhard bent and picked up Wolf Sword. His eyes were held by the running wolf etched on the blade below the crossguard. In that moment a memory struck him as firm and violent as a mace. The sword was his elder brother's, ten years his senior, given by his father when he had come of age. He had carried it when he rode with the King of Bohemia at Crécy. Those who bravely charged the English that day gave their account of his brother fighting towards the Prince of Wales. He was within paces of killing the heir to the throne when he fell. Butchered by a common archer. An ignominious death at the hands of an unknown, low-born man – who now carried the sword. The shock of it held him too long. Blackstone took a few quick strides and as von Lienhard looked up from the etched blade Blackstone's fist clubbed him behind the ear. It felled the German to his knees as Blackstone seized Wolf Sword. The three defenders turned to face von Lienhard's remaining men. Three against two. The night should have been theirs, but the fight had caused a commotion and squires from the surrounding pavilions had armed themselves with flaring torches and swords. Tent flaps were thrown back as half-dressed knights emerged to see what was happening. They were not concerned. What they – mistakenly – saw was three ruffians fighting knights, who would be dealt with by the squires and the constable when he was summoned.
Von Lienhard was on all fours, shaking the dizziness from his head, unable yet to stand, as the two surviving attackers held back while Blackstone and his companions readied themselves for an attack from the gathering attendants. It was obvious that the Englishman and those with him would not dare face down so many and, seizing their chance, they dragged a groggy von Lienhard away from the fray. 'Shit pit again,' said John Jacob as the three of them circled, readying themselves for a rush from the gathering men. Caprini slipped off his cloak and twirled it around his shield arm as four of the older squires warily nudged their torches closer. 'It's Sir Thomas Blackstone!' one of them cried, his West Country accent, broad and gentle, carrying across the pavilions. Blackstone realized he must have been a senior squire among them because he half turned to address the others behind him – a gesture of trust that Blackstone would not take advantage of. 'Lower them swords! It's not Sir Thomas as would start this.'
The men who followed did as the older man instructed. There was enough light now for everyone to see the three beleaguered men clearly. There were many squires, mature in years, eligible for knighthood, but who either did not care for the responsibility or did not have the means to support all that knighthood demanded, and Blackstone reasoned that this squire might be such a man. 'There are wounded men who need attention,' said Blackstone, 'and one who is beyond help.' 'Aye, my lord, it'll be seen to. I am Roger Hollings. I serve my master, Audley.' Blackstone stepped forward. 'Our greatest knight,' he said, remembering the honour Sir James Audley had gained at Poitiers. 'Finely spoken, Sir Thomas. A great knight indeed.' 'He's here?' 'At the castle. He's an honoured guest of the King.' 'And rightly so,' said Blackstone, thankful that Audley's squire had been on hand. Von Lienhard and the surviving knights stood their ground warily, knowing the moment for their success had passed. 'And these good gentlemen?' Hollings asked. 'Is there business to be settled?'
Before Blackstone could answer a murmur of voices carried from beyond the men. Twenty torch-bearing guards led by a sergeant-at-arms pushed their way through the crowd. 'Sir Thomas Blackstone?' the arresting officer said, moving close to Blackstone, unafraid of any violent response against the King's command. 'You will surrender your sword.' There was no need for Blackstone to ask on whose authority the command had been issued. He turned Wolf Sword's bloodied blade away and offered the hilt to the sergeant-at-arms, who took it and passed it to another at his shoulder. Caprini and John Jacob followed Blackstone's example. 'I do not think this will end well,' said Jacob. 'Have faith,' said Blackstone, placing an arm on his friend's shoulder. 'We must hope that the good knight here can pray on our behalf as well as he fights,' Jacob answered, looking to the Tau knight, who unfurled his cloak and covered his shoulders, making the distinctive symbol plain for all to see. 'I pray better than I fight, Master Jacob, but it can take time for prayers to be answered.'
'Then I'll not hold my breath – while I still have it,' said John Jacob as the three men were ushered away. The King had spent little time at his dinner, sufficient only to play the gracious host to the French King and his honoured guests. Now that Isabella had involved herself yet again in affairs of state he needed time to deliberate how best to indulge her while considering her advice, knowing that her political and diplomatic skills had always been astute. He decided to approach one of his most trusted advisers, and under the guise of discovering how the Duke of Lancaster was recovering from the injury he had sustained in the tournament, he visited his close friend, who was now confined to his quarters under the care of the King's personal physician. Henry of Grosmont, Duke of Lancaster, had been Edward's closest friend for more than twenty years. He was one of England's greatest knights, who had fought and won battles and sieges that had brought fame and glory to his King. Lancaster was a man of impeccable integrity and for the past five years had been Edward's chief negotiator in his search for peace with the French, even dealing, against his will, with the duplicitous Charles of Navarre. Now this great-grandson of Henry III lay confined to his bedchamber, sweating with pain from his injury.
Lancaster had dismissed his attendants when the King had entered his chamber and now Edward wrung out a wet cloth and tenderly laid it on his friend's fevered brow. 'Do not shame me, sire,' said Lancaster, 'I am your servant, you are not mine.' In the company of his close friends, the earls of England who had helped him achieve success, Edward was able to relax the formality his crown demanded. 'We soothe the brow of a friend and we serve loyalty. And require the counsel of a man who has a common touch.' Lancaster relented, letting him wring out the cloth again. He sighed. 'Ah, my lord, because I always preferred the embraces of common women to those who were more refined means rather that I prefer their common touch. They were more willing.' Both men smiled, and Edward rested his hand on his friend's shoulder, fussing his nightshirt at his neck. 'You have always dressed well, drunk the finest wines and loved music and dance. You have always known what road to travel.' 'In my youth. I am now too pious for the joys of life.'
'And you have fought more bravely than any other.' Edward related what Isabella had done and her reasons for acting as she had. King and friend eased into a comfortable silence as Lancaster considered what Edward had told him and, despite his discomfort, thought clearly of the events that were unfolding across France. 'Thomas Blackstone might be a sign of the divine presence. Were it not for him you would be denied your son and heir. Isabella is right.' Edward sighed. 'Dammit, how often has she been wrong? An infuriating woman, our mother.' Lancaster smiled. 'It does not matter who lives and dies in any of this, only who decides it,' he answered. 'And that is your prerogative. Blackstone can be more use under your command. He has proved himself. And his loyalty,' he added in a whisper, his throat rasping from dryness. Lancaster eased himself on the pillows at his back and allowed Edward to help him sip wine. As the King eased his friend's head back, Lancaster placed a hand on that of his sovereign lord. 'Blackstone would not willingly go against the Prince. She made him. She holds something over him.'
Lancaster's exhaustion was evident. His wounds and the sleeping potion the apothecary had put in the wine lowered him into sleep and, as his eyes closed, the King of England tenderly drew the fur-lined bedclothes over him. Isabella the Fair had seen it all clearly. The King, and England, could only benefit from Blackstone's attempt to rescue the French family. And if God willed it, he might even succeed. But Edward had sent many men to their deaths in his time. If Thomas Blackstone needed to be sacrificed so that his treaty was seen to be negotiated in good faith, then so be it. * Stefano Caprini was treated no differently from Blackstone and John Jacob. His devotion to God and to His pilgrims meant little to his jailers. It would not be the first time that a hospitaller had turned to violence, and even though they knew nothing of his background they had heard of others who followed the Order of St James who led mercenaries. The three men were held in an antechamber near to where the King was undertaking renovations to the castle. Scaffolding and stonework lay nearby and Blackstone had run his eye over the masons' work. The skill was apparent and a part of him wondered whether, had he not been arrayed for war, he too might have found work as a skilled stonemason. But twelve years of fighting and war had given him different skills and had assuredly earned him more money. Builders, no matter how good they were, would see many a cold winter without a fire in the hearth. Work was hard to come by. Fighting was not.
De Marcouf was their jailer, flanked by half a dozen armed men. His orders were not to shackle the prisoners, but to keep them under spear and sword point – and under no circumstances was Thomas Blackstone to be harmed. Through the low doorway was a passage leading to another chamber from where Blackstone could hear the muffled voices of a man and a woman, but the thickness of the wall and the stoutness of the door made their words indistinct. Caprini eyed the Norman knight. 'You served as our guardian and now you hold us at sword point. We are unarmed and yet you fear us. If we were to be harmed your sergeant-at-arms had enough men to wound us. Are we such dangerous beasts?' 'I am not here to engage in conversation with you, Fra Caprini. If a messenger comes through that door and tells me that you are to be slain then it will be done without question,' said the Norman. A wooden latch slid back and the door was opened by one of the King's attendants, who nodded at de Marcouf. 'Sir Thomas,' de Marcouf said and gestured with his sword for Blackstone to go through the doorway.
Blackstone turned to Caprini. 'I have not yet heard a prayer uttered.' 'We pray with our hearts, Sir Thomas,' said the Italian. 'Little comfort for others,' Blackstone answered. 'Try moving your lips.' * Blackstone stooped through the low archway, de Marcouf at his back, the light from the cresset lamps and the attendant leading him to the next chamber. No man could go before his King and not be humbled. Battlefield exhortations to strengthen courage as he rode along their ranks were as close as most common men got to their sovereign lord. The blessing for the English was that Edward was a warrior king and knew how to reach out and seize their loyalty. He had fought at close quarters and put his own life at risk. A soldier's heart understood why men killed and it was a King's divine right to bless them for doing so. Blackstone saw the flames first – huge, curling tongues devouring the hefty logs in the gaping fireplace that held bundles of faggots stacked to one side. The warmth struck him as soon as he entered the small chamber. A broad-planked table stood to one side, its dark wood glowing from years of beeswax and servants' efforts, and which now had the unsheathed Wolf Sword lying across its dull sheen. Beneath his feet was a thick, woven rug and beyond him, close to the fire, a figure whose features were half lit by the flames. A hanging tapestry depicting a white hart being brought down by huntsmen covered the stone wall behind her. Despite the rug it was not a room for comfort, but rather a place where outsiders could be received. Isabella sat in a high-backed wooden chair, its single cushion untouched by her back, which was as straight as a yard-long arrow. And Blackstone thought when he saw her that the glint of the half-light in her eyes looked like blood-tipped bodkins.
Two other men stood in the glow of candlelight. One was as tall as the King, but older, with the hard, scarred look of a weathered oak. Gilbert Chastelleyn was a knight of the royal household; a key figure in Edward's life; a man prepared to serve as ambassador or warrior, as the King required. The second man stood opposite him, half-turned from the fire, one hand on the back of the Queen's chair, the other resting casually on the pommel of the dagger at his belt: Stephen Cusington, captain of the garrison at Saint-Sauveur-le-Vicomte, the great citadel close to where Edward had invaded France, was a battle-hardened knight who kept his King's possessions free of routiers and Frenchmen alike. Blackstone remembered him fighting with the Prince of Wales at Poitiers. Neither man looked pleased to see Blackstone; their animosity was barely concealed. Chastelleyn made a slight movement with his head. Beyond the Queen, in almost complete shadow and twirling a precious stone ring on his finger, was the King. Other than the gentle worrying of the adornment he did not move. He was watching the broad-shouldered man who still had mud streaks on his breeches and a darker spattering of something else on his jupon. A dried trickle of blood ran from his hairline, down the side of his ear and disappeared behind his collar.
Blackstone half turned towards him and went down on one knee, keeping his eyes focused on the carpet's intricate pattern woven by a skilled hand at some time in history in a land he could not know. He concentrated so that his mind would not lead him astray and begin a dialogue with the devil as to what punishment might be inflicted on Caprini and Jacob. He had made the challenge on the Prince and he had been the cause of the death and wounding of his attackers. Their guilt was by association, his by command. The devil won. 'Sire, I beg your indulgence for those who accompany me. They served me and I am to blame,' he blurted out. The damned pattern had blurred before his eyes. De Marcouf laid his blade down the side of Blackstone's face, close, so he could see it next to his right eye. 'You do not speak until spoken to.' 'All right, all right,' said the King. 'Get up.' Blackstone stood and raised his head. Edward strode forward and stood closer to the knighted archer. The English and Welsh bowmen had been his greatest weapon, but at Poitiers the witnesses to the battle described how it had been raw courage – man against man, sword in hand – that carried the day.
'Sir Gilbert Killbere encamps outside Calais,' said Chastelleyn unexpectedly. 'With a hundred of your men.' 'Sire,' Blackstone answered in confirmation, unsure how the King had gained the knowledge so quickly – but of course the English-held city of Calais would have messengers travelling regularly. 'Very well,' Edward said impatiently. 'It is our desire that you are welcomed back to your native soil. You are pardoned from exile.' Clemency granted in a simple utterance. Blackstone felt the surge of relief and began to bend his knee again but was stopped by the King's command. 'Enough of that. We know of our benevolence. Our son, the Prince, will be aggrieved, but that is not your concern. Greater issues press us.' He paused, letting Blackstone remain perplexed at his good fortune. 'We desire France to be ours,' said Edward. 'The Marshals of the Army urge us to make haste and seize Paris. Then it is done.' He looked at Blackstone, a silent command to speak. Blackstone searched for an answer. How best to please the King? He could offer his men at Calais, and if necessary break his contract with Florence and bring several hundred more. It would be a worthless gesture. The King's plan was too ambitious.
'Do not try to take Paris, highness. You have neither the time nor sufficient siege machines,' said Blackstone. Edward's enthusiasm for war had never diminished. The warrior King would finally take the crown of France. 'We'll draw him out. No need for any siege!' the King answered. 'It would be the end of France. We hold King John, the Dauphin is a boy and the people of Paris are unsettled, ready for revolt, caught between Charles of Navarre and his ambitions and the Provost Étienne Marcel. The timing is perfect.' Blackstone defiantly held his King's gaze. 'If the Dauphin is still in the city you cannot entice him. No favour, no promise will make him leave the safety of Paris. Only if there is conflict within the walls and he is threatened will he leave it.' He saw the King's irritation smothered by his desire to have Blackstone agree to his strategy. Cusington and Chastelleyn would have berated Blackstone, but a slight gesture from the King stopped them. 'Let us have no pessimism here,' said Edward. 'Not from you. The civilized world knows what you did at Crécy. Scribes have it down; monks have copied it. What you did then – and since – travels at your back like a gathering storm. You put God's fear into your enemies but treat those deserving of mercy with a tenderness that could put a mother to shame.' He watched his scarred fighter, perhaps expecting a show of pride, a tilting of the chin in acknowledgement of his generous flattery, but Blackstone gave no sign other than to keep his gaze focused.
At a nod from the King, Cusington poured a glass of red wine for him. An edge of disappointment crept into Edward's voice. 'You are a mystery to us all, but we are glad that your sword is on our side of the lines – is it not, Sir Thomas? That Wolf Sword of yours fights for England?' The question broke Blackstone's gaze, and he dipped his head in acknowledgement. 'Sword and war bow before it, highness.' 'We believe it. And our mother, for all her intrigues and chess moves, insists upon it,' he said with another glance towards the stoic Isabella. Blackstone waited a moment; the mention of the King's mother had brought a brief softening to the monarch's brow and a glimpse of a smile. There was affection there despite, as he had said, the former Queen's intrigues. 'Highness, the Dauphin is weak and indecisive, but he has a resilience to him. He won't come out and fight,' insisted Blackstone. 'Why ever not?' Edward barked. 'He's a King-in-waiting! He must prove himself!' 'He has no need to, lord. He has Paris. I have run the gauntlet of its alleyways, and have seen the belligerence of its people. Paris would suffocate an army should they ever manage to breach its walls. He won't come out. And you cannot get in – should not even try.'
Silence was a weapon effective against those of lesser rank, and King Edward used it wisely, punishing Blackstone with it. After what seemed an interminable time, and during which Blackstone stayed unmoving, eyes lowered, in front of his King, Edward finally spoke. 'Very well. Perhaps for now you see a situation of which we have no knowledge. Events move at a pace that race ahead of us. Our army is not yet ready and we cannot know how the boy will react.' Edward laid his finger against Wolf Sword's blade. 'But we are aware that the French royal family might be threatened. You are to seek out and find your enemy's family and secure their safety for the Dauphin. How you achieve this is of your own choosing.' Blackstone knew his own family's safety was of no interest to the King of England, but impertinence was a breath away. 'And my own family, sire? What of them?' Edward turned on him, but by a miracle did not condemn him. He would have, Blackstone felt certain, had not Isabella placed her hand on her son's arm.
'I gave him hope that he might find them,' she said and then turned to Blackstone. 'We believe they are east of Paris. There are noble ladies under the protection of local lords, but that protection falters under the increasing weight of violence. The Dauphin's family joined those noblewomen. Find them and you may well find your family.' Blackstone dipped his head in respect and thanks. Edward held out his hand towards Cusington, who seemed to know exactly what was wanted. He lifted Wolf Sword from the table and gave it to the King. It had been wiped clean of blood before being brought to Edward, who gazed at it, remembering the night he first saw it. 'You clenched this to you in what we thought to be a dying archer's grasp,' said the King. He ran the tip of his bejewelled finger across the etched swordmaker's mark of the running wolf. 'A few hours ago you were attacked by a German knight. His name is von Lienhard – the same name as that of the man who tried to slay our son at Crécy – and whose sword you took that day.'
'I know that now, sire, but I had not realized the fact until I saw his coat of arms tonight.' 'It was his older brother.' Edward waited. 'You know something of having a brother killed in battle.' 'I do, sire,' Blackstone said, knowing the matter of the night's fight was still to be resolved. 'He is the Visconti's man, and might well have been declared tournament champion had he not broken tourney rules. He approached us and wished to claim judicial combat against you. We understand what drove him to break the tournament's pledge, but as no crime has been committed against him, he could not be offered satisfaction. He and those with him have departed.' The King paused. 'Be aware that revenge will unleash a man's baser instincts,' he said. The King's words were a judgement against Thomas as surely as they were a warning to be on his guard now that von Lienhard was free to act as he wished. Edward, ever the King who valued a warrior and a masterly crafted weapon, offered him Wolf Sword, letting Blackstone feel the comfort of it nestling in the palm of his hand.
'What is taken in battle cannot be denied,' said the King, and then after a moment added, 'be it a sword or a country.' Nothing more was said. This time the silence was the command for him to leave. As de Marcouf ushered him to the door the King spoke. 'Sir Thomas, you nearly killed our cousin John on the battlefield. A common man does not kill a king.' Blackstone did not hesitate in his answer. 'He butchered my friend and your ally, Jean, Count de Harcourt, sire, without trial or priest, and he went unshriven to his grave. I slaughtered the Norman knight who betrayed him and swore protection for his family and justice for his murder.' 'Your presence here has caused our honoured prisoner upset,' Edward said. Blackstone was glad of it but he kept the thought to himself. 'Fear in an enemy's heart weakens him, sire.' Edward held back his smile. This belligerent bastard before him was a killer who struck fear into even a King's heart. A French King. Not his own. 'It would be advantageous for you to show contrition. Debase yourself before him and seek his gracious pardon.' Edward saw the ripple of dissent before Blackstone even opened his mouth to answer.
'Sire, I do not have your benevolent spirit, nor am I obliged to be agreeable for the sake of future treaties. I will kill your enemies and my own. There is no distinction for me.' It was a clever answer – one that flattered the King and made clear his loyalty – despite its edge of disrespect for the French monarch. 'And if I command it?' 'I obey.' But Edward did not wish to humiliate the man who had carved a path through the battlefield and saved his son. Blackstone's defiance was too great a weapon to blunt in such a manner. Blackstone hesitated. No command came. He bowed and followed de Marcouf from the room. As they entered the dimly lit passage he turned before the door closed behind him and he saw the King of England bend and help his aged mother to her feet. She suddenly seemed very frail. No longer was there a great king in that room, only a caring son attending his mother with concern and affection. The door slammed shut. The way forward lay beyond the end of the passage. Part 3 The Terror
The Captain of Calais, Sir Ralph de Ferrers, was an honoured knight, a man who had long fought for his King, and who could barely conceal his contempt for those who sold their swords. Right now the two knights who stood before him looked to be little more than ruffians, swordsmen who would brawl in taverns and make trouble for a provost and his men. But they were more than that. Both had reputations. Both were men of renowned courage. Killbere was a ferocious knight, the man who had stepped forward at Crécy and whom all others followed. Blackstone was a name that had grown in legend and the man's physical stature could well live up to it, de Ferrers decided. But he also knew that men like these could be the cause of bloodshed. He examined the document embossed with the King's seal. As yet there had been no proclamation issued bearing the Great Seal, a command issued under the King's hand, confirmed by the Chancellor of England, that Sir Thomas Blackstone was granted immunity and that his exile had been rescinded. Bureaucracy was a baggage train to a fighting man's war. No matter; this decree for safe passage through English-held territory was genuine enough, and until such time as messengers arrived with the court document this piece of linen bearing the King's command in a clerk's neat hand and the wax impression of Edward's personal seal was more than enough for the Captain to assist Blackstone – as far as his duty allowed. The gruff-voiced de Ferrers folded the pass.
'I've no taste for brigands; we've a plague of you bastards here. Now I suspect you're going to cause me further aggravation,' he said, knowing full well that Blackstone was not acting in self-interest – if indeed he had been pardoned by the King. 'As Captain of this city I hold jurisdiction over soldiers here.' Blackstone ignored the man's contemptuous manner. There was little time to bandy words with an old knight who governed a city of merchants and garrison soldiers. 'Do you have any contact with the Dauphin's forces?' he asked. 'We go no further than the walls. I have two hundred acres of city to defend, and a garrison sorely stretched to man the walls. But I can tell you there are English routiers raiding up and down the Seine valley, so Paris holds the Dauphin's attention.' 'But you and the seneschal share responsibility for the marshes. You've authority outside these walls to see that the King's land is kept profitable and in good repair,' Blackstone said, determined to probe for any knowledge that might help him.
'Do not presume to lay down my duties, Sir Thomas. I know them well enough.' 'Then you know I have had my men on the hills,' said Blackstone. When he had arrived at Calais he had soon found Sir Gilbert Killbere encamped on the Sangatte heights beyond the marshlands surrounding the city. 'Did you ever challenge Sir Gilbert or ask why he was there?' 'I know of Sir Gilbert. His men did not attempt to enter the city. There was no cause.' 'You know the King's pledge. If Calais is threatened he would send a hundred men and archers to aid in its defence. Did you not think that my men might have been part of a defensive force? Did you not think there might have been a threat? Did you think at all, my lord?' Blackstone asked this man who spent his days implementing ordinances and who had not held a sword in anger for years. De Ferrers knew he should not have ignored the armed men on the heights; he had made enough excuses to himself. There was no threat from them – but now this lack of attention to his duty allowed Blackstone to challenge him.
For a moment he relented in his antagonism. 'The Dauphin is being squeezed and he will be lucky to keep any control beyond Paris.' 'Then you have no idea where his family might be?' 'I don't give them a moment's thought. Why should I? Calais is the portal to France, and if the King invades then I will make sure the gates stay open. Beyond that, these French bastards are of no interest to me.' 'And Navarre's troops? Are they helping the uprising? He has a crown to gain. Where is he?' 'That turd slithered from the devil's bowels. You want to find him, look to where the flies gather. Your kind should have no trouble following the stench,' de Ferrers said. Killbere could hold back his impatience no longer. 'You're a damned turnkey, and nothing more,' he said to de Ferrers, who scowled at the insult. 'Aye, you can bristle like the hairs on a hog's back, but, dammit, Sir Thomas Blackstone has earned enough respect for a civil answer. You think he'd be here wasting time with you if there were not some urgency? He's on the King's business, for Christ's sake! Even a common jailer can see that!'
'He has safe passage. Nothing more!' de Ferrers replied angrily. 'You'd do well to remember your place. I have authority enough to have you jailed!' 'Which is all you are fit for – though you would do well to remember that it wasn't so long past that Sir Thomas and his men protected these precious walls when the French thought to take them back. You hold this place, then you must know what your enemy is doing. We need to know.' De Ferrers wanted nothing more than to have these men away from Calais, so he suppressed the desire to respond to the perceived insults and rolled out a map across the table. 'The Dauphin struggles to rally support and the Parisians support the Provost of Merchants, Étienne Marcel,' he said, his forefinger tracing a circle around Paris. 'They murdered the Dauphin's marshals in front of him. Word has it they said they were protecting him from them.' He grunted. 'They were showing him how vulnerable he was in the city.' 'Then he's not there, is he?' asked Blackstone. 'He can't be if his family is in jeopardy.'
De Ferrers began to realize that Blackstone's presence might somehow be connected to the French royal family. 'No...' he said hesitatingly. 'He withdrew to Meaux and we think he's made his headquarters there, but where his family is we cannot know.' 'Then we travel east of Paris,' said Killbere. 'Forty, fifty miles or so. What about skinners?' The Captain of Calais drew his finger across the map. 'There are mercenaries here and... here, as far as we know, but they are so widespread it is impossible to be exact.' Blackstone's eyes stayed on the map, reading what he could of the countryside. Rivers and canals were better marked than many roads, some of them little more than tracks that could be washed away in storms. 'What of these peasants? How organized are they? Are they anything more than lynch mobs that will burn themselves out once they have what they want?' 'They are called Jacques, or the Jacquerie, led by a man called Cale, from somewhere near Clermont. He seems to have some education. He's no arse-in-the-mud peasant, but they've turned to him for leadership. They swarm to the north and east of Paris,' he said, running his finger across the map. 'Far enough from Calais not to cause trouble, but close enough for Paris to see flames on the horizon.'
Blackstone and Killbere studied the map. They knew the routes from Normandy into Picardy; both had ridden and fought their way across it years before, but how they were to avoid the raiding bands of routiers was uncertain. No matter where they looked, the brigands were as big a threat as the marauding Jacquerie. 'Come on, my lord, let's not squeeze a dog's bollocks until it yelps and bites. How do we reach Meaux? Due south and east, or can we ride around these murdering bastards?' demanded Killbere. 'Who knows? The mob swarms. More to the east, the last we heard.' 'Damn. There's no avoiding them, Thomas. We'll have to ride right through them.' 'You won't get through,' said de Ferrers. 'It's an area more populated than elsewhere, so they have little trouble recruiting. God knows why they've taken to slaughtering on that side of Paris. Those are rich agricultural domains held by tenant farmers and there's little reason for the violence to take hold there.' 'He's right,' said Killbere. 'Tenant farmers prosper from buying land and employing their own peasants. Why destroy that?'
De Ferrers's knowledge of the rampaging peasants gave him a brief moment of superiority. 'Thousands of Jacquerie have gorged themselves on murder and looting with their women alongside them. The women are no different; you'd be a fool to think otherwise. They urge atrocities against their own sex and children. These women are not like ours, they're enslaved to hardship even in their own homes. They breed like vermin and, if they don't have enough food for another mouth, they think as little of suffocating their own newborn as of relieving themselves. Once the rampage had begun their brutality became as violent as the men's.' Blackstone's stare made the man avert his eyes. He was in no mood for a gatekeeper's opinion. 'A mob surges; a man throws in his lot. These people are tired and enraged. It's a blood-lust against the nobility. As simple as that,' said Blackstone. Killbere glanced at him. Was Blackstone saying he understood their grievance? Blackstone knew that questioning look, but this was not the time or place to argue. Killbere turned his attention back to de Ferrers. 'What's their strength?' he asked.
'Rumour has it that they number in their thousands and grow stronger every day,' said de Ferrers, 'but they split and re-form. Hundreds into thousands and then fracture again as they seize and burn.' Blackstone thought deeply for a moment. His task was impossible. A hundred men could not fend off thousands. 'I have thirty-three mounted archers with me. I need extra arrows. At least two sheaves a man. Can you sell them to me? A penny for every shaft.' 'The going rate is a penny and a half and arrowheads are five a penny,' he said. Blackstone nodded. 'All right. I'll take what you can give me.' De Ferrers looked through the window that gave him a view of his domain. He might hold the keys to France for his sovereign, but he knew that Calais was not impregnable, no matter how quickly the King could send reinforcements. What if brigand and peasant joined forces? Would Charles of Navarre bring them together? That would be a formidable force. Double walls and two ditches that could be flooded with seawater were his main defence. The vital harbour was formed by a piece of land jutting east, which served as an additional defence to the north. At the extreme north-west was the castle whose fortifications merged with the town walls. In the centre was the marketplace and outside, a suburb stretching east, south and west. If ferment stirred within the walls how quickly would he be able to suppress it? The arrival of these two knights had now nudged him into doubt. No merchant was allowed to bear arms, not when his garrison consisted of only nine knights, forty squires and thirty archers. Archers were the gold in a king's crown. It was not beyond the realm of his bureaucratic imagination to know that such a small force could be overwhelmed. He should be more forthcoming with Blackstone and Killbere, but not with vital arrows.
'I have no surplus,' he said, and rolled the map. 'But I will tell you that they are not simply an unruly mob, despite their blood-lust. They have help,' he said. A man's betrayal of his class was always a bitter thing to admit. He was familiar with many French knights who had shared crusades and tournaments, and it was not unusual for some families to have common ancestors. 'Allegiances can no longer be trusted. The peasants have military skills that can only come from educated men – noblemen, minor noblemen. I have heard that when they burned the castle at Beaumont-sur-Oise there were knights who were part of the mob. Men have turned themselves into devils to save themselves from death at the hands of the Jacquerie. The Duchess of Orléans barely managed to escape to Paris; more than sixty castles were destroyed in her area alone.' Killbere ran his tongue over his teeth. 'God's blood! I thought we had slaughtered enough of their nobility over the years. Now there's more to be done. Come on, Thomas, let's get out of this dank place and leave the clerks to their scribbling and Sir Ralph here to his ordinances. Time spent here can make a man old,' he said, looking at de Ferrers. 'Old before his time,' he added for good measure.
Before de Ferrers found the wit to answer Blackstone raised one more question. 'Have you seen a German knight by the name of von Lienhard? A big man, fair-haired above the shaved sides of his head, wears his beard short. He bears a harpy on his coat of arms. He and others like him had safe passage for the King's tournament, but he broke the code of conduct and fled England.' De Ferrers shook his head. 'There is so little honourable behaviour left,' he said with a disapproving look that had not altered since Blackstone had entered his quarters. 'We've had many knights travel on the King's safe conduct, but no one of that name. If he has lost his honour he'll no doubt be found with the routiers. What else is a man like that to do?' The meaning was not lost on Blackstone but there was little more to be gained from staying any longer within the walls of Calais. Von Lienhard would one day want his revenge, but not anytime soon, Blackstone reasoned. There would be little chance of the German tracking him down amid the present chaos. Savagery gripped France, tearing at it with a ferocity that spared neither life nor honour, and if King Edward wanted to inherit a nation that had not bled to death, then the Dauphin's family might serve as the balm to heal its wounds. And where the nobility gathered to hide from the terror was where he might find Christiana and his own family. Beyond that he could not say what lay ahead.
Christiana stumbled along the roadside ditch, dragging an exhausted Agnes behind her. The nine-year-old child had listened to her mother's desperate explanation that they had to escape the rampaging hordes of murdering Jacquerie. Earlier, they had sought shelter in a knight's manor house, but when they reached the turn in the road the acrid smell of the burnt-out buildings told her she was already too late. She had foolishly dismounted and left Agnes with the horse as she carefully made her way through the ruined house in search of food. There was nothing to be salvaged. In the wreckage she saw scorched bodies curled like sleeping children. She had known those who lived there and she could only guess that the remains were those of the knight's wife and offspring. As she dragged her dress through the charred timbers she tripped and fell headlong into the burnt and mutilated carcass of the knight himself. She cried out, recoiling from the roasted meat that still clung to his ribs and the black mess of the man's innards. Terror snatched at her and the acid surge of bile forced itself from her throat. She choked and retched.
Her cry had startled the horse, already nervous from the smell of death, and it tore itself free from Agnes's grip. Christiana heard her child's shout of distress and ran after the galloping horse. Blackened, muddied and exhausted, she turned her anger on the tearful girl. 'I told you to tie the reins!' she shouted at the wide-eyed Agnes. 'I told you!' she yelled again, knowing that she was being unjust. As her daughter's lip quivered, trying to hold back a sob, Christiana knelt and pulled the trembling girl to her. Everything they had in the world was tied to the horse's saddle: food enough for two more days, a wineskin and a bedroll. That was all they could salvage when those first men had torn through the palisade around her own house and her steward had fallen beneath staves and knives. It had been a modest home to afford her independence and yet stay within easy riding distance of her friend and mentor Blanche de Harcourt. The Countess had lost her Norman lands when her husband was executed, but she was a countess in her own right and held title in the county of Aumale. It had been by God's grace that Blanche and the younger of her children were away from home when the killing started.
Miles away from Christiana's house a ploughman had returned from the fields to find his lord's bailiff and three of his soldiers stripping what few sacks of grain the ploughman held in his barn. It was a command that had come from Paris, because the Dauphin had closed off routes into the city. The waterways had been blockaded to stop provisions coming into the capital; the supplies were to be taken instead by dozens of fortified garrisons to stop the savage hordes of routiers under Charles of Navarre's command getting any closer to the city. The ploughman heard nothing – he was deaf to the reason, his spirit broken. His wife lay ill; his children had barely enough to eat to carry them through the day's work, let alone the approaching autumn. It was as hollow an existence as the permanent hunger in his belly. And when, finally, the family withered and died the lord of his manor would seize all that remained. Every tool, bowl and animal they had. Under the right of morte-main, everything, including his labour, belonged to his master. The Church already took its tithe in kind, demanding grain, hens and eggs – it was a tax owed to God, he was told, and then he was threatened that his soul would burn in eternal hell if he did not also obey the demands of his own domain lord. On that fateful day when the bailiff arrived, the ploughman's flailed soul consumed him.
He said nothing as the last of his hens and jars of lard were loaded and his breeding sow was tied to the back of the cart. He stepped and raised his hand that held the scythe. The three soldiers ignored his approach, but as he hacked the bailiff to death they cursed and turned on him. It was not the first killing of a peasant family, but it sparked a fire that took hold as quickly as had the ploughman's thatch. Across the countryside the peasants' discontent had been slow to erupt, but the years of suppression had festered; their plight had been made worse by the ravages of the routiers. It was bad enough that they could barely feed themselves, but the roving brigands took what they wished and killed anyone who resisted. The French King was still a hostage in England and their cries for protection fell on the deaf ears of lesser nobles who had few means to aid them and who seized what they could for themselves. And those who could not help joined forces with the brigands. The peasants' distress found its release in anger and accusation at the cowardly knights and lords who had betrayed them by surrendering to the English Prince, and made their lives an even worse hell than before. No priest's threat could be worse than what they now endured.
The lynch mobs grew and those knights and their families whose homes stood in their path were the first to die. No one was spared. A horse whinnied. 'Get down!' Christiana said quickly, pulling Agnes into the ditch. Someone cried out in the distance, perhaps at the sight of the galloping horse. There was no chance of running across the track towards the forest. The land between had been cleared of trees over the years and stumps and brambles would have ensnared them, holding them helpless for whoever was approaching. She cradled Agnes in front of her and pulled her muddied cloak over them both, gripping the knife in her hand as hoofbeats thumped along the track. She heard a voice cry out. 'Too late!' More hoofbeats rumbled and then slowed as men halted their horses close enough for her to hear their snorting and the jangle of bridle and bit. The men's voices were muffled. She held her breath as one of them dismounted. Agnes trembled and began to whimper; the cold water at the bottom of the ditch was soaking their clothes, making them both shiver. Christiana pressed her lips close to her daughter's ear and whispered for her to be silent. The man's boot scuffed the stony path and she heard a sword drawn from a scabbard.
The squelch of the man's footfall came along the ditch. The terror in her mind coiled her muscles; she was barely able to control her own trembling, but one thing was certain in her mind – she would not allow her child to be raped and then butchered as had happened to others. The man was almost upon her when she heard his gasp of surprise. 'Here!' Christiana pushed herself up and thrashed blindly with the knife towards the man's legs a yard from her. He cursed and sidestepped as she lost her only opportunity to inflict a wound to buy her time. The soldier moved quickly and pinned her knife hand, twisting her wrist to make her release the blade. 'Run!' Christiana yelled as Agnes clambered up the side of the ditch and wove between the legs of the startled horses. As Christiana fought the man who held her, another of the four men jumped down quickly from the saddle and snatched the wriggling and screaming child. Christiana cried out, despite the man who struggled with her saying something that she could not understand. 'Don't hurt her! I beg you!'
Another of the soldiers quickly came down to help the man holding her as she fought and kicked. The second man gripped her face, hard, making her cease trying to smash her head against the other's chest. 'Stop!' the man shouted, but Christiana spat at him, twisted her body, and kicked out. The sudden shock of the man's slap made her taste blood. There was no way to stop the men raping them now; she was too weak to fight. Dear Christ, she prayed, don't let them harm my child. Tears stung her eyes and the pulse of blood pounding through her head muted the man's words as she watched him mouth words at her. His rough hand pulled away the wet hair plastered over her face. Was this an act of lust before she was thrown to the ground and her skirts ripped away from her? Whatever happens, do not let me see my child raped and killed. By all that is holy, I beg You. 'My lady, listen to me. You are safe. We are Sir Marcel's men. Sent to search for you. Do you understand?' It had been an act of tenderness. The man had brushed the hair from her face as a mother would do for her child – a small gesture to soothe away fear. Christiana blinked, felt the strength seep from her. Her blurred eyes sought out the small crest on the man's jupon. It was the badge of Sir Marcel de Lorris, a minor lord who held lands in trust for her friend and mentor Blanche de Harcourt. It was where Blackstone's son Henry had been placed as a page to be trained in arms and to serve the knight and his household.
The man repeated his question again. Christiana nodded and felt the man's hold loosen. The soldier lowered Agnes to the ground as Christiana staggered against the bank, soaked, cold and exhausted. She held her daughter to her and wiped the tears from her dirt-caked face. The men stood back, waiting for her to gather her composure. She dragged her sleeve across her running nose and, holding Agnes at her side, looked at the rough-hewn men who could just as easily have been routiers. 'I beg your forgiveness for hurting you,' said the man who had slapped her. He was older than the others, wisps of grey in his beard, his helmet enclosing a weather-beaten face that now looked remorseful. Christiana nodded and spat away bloodied phlegm. This was no time for delicacy. 'They have killed those in the house. We must bury them,' she said without thinking. The man was uncertain for a moment, knowing she was of higher rank than him. 'My lady, we do not know where the mob is. They swirl across the countryside like a flock of starlings. There's no telling. We must leave those poor souls as they are for now. My lord commanded me to find you and your child. We found your horse some way down the track. Can you ride? You and the girl?'
'We should go,' one of the other riders said. The man raised his arm to silence him, waiting for Christiana's answer. 'If need be we can give you food now, but we should ride if you are able.' The violence summoned up to defend her child had left her. She nodded. 'I can ride.' 'Then one of us shall carry the child,' said the man. 'No. She will stay with me,' Christiana told him and extended her hand so that the man could help her clamber up the muddy bank as the other quickly lifted Agnes up onto the track. 'I am no stranger to danger,' she told the man, as if convincing herself that she would confront whatever lay beyond the curve of the road. He cupped his hand for her to step up into the saddle, its low pommel allowing him to lift Agnes into her lap. She gathered the reins in one hand and held Agnes to her with the other. 'My lady, I have no doubt of your courage. We all know who you are,' said the soldier. Is that what was known of her? she wondered. Did her estranged husband's reputation still confer respect and protection on her despite his selling his fighting skills to Florentine bankers? Was he now any different from the brigands who tore France apart and opened the gates to a peasant uprising? She had abandoned her marriage, but it had not yet released her.
'Does my son still serve your lord?' she asked. 'He does, my lady.' 'Then take me to him,' she commanded. * Smoke from burning houses and great estates plumed on the horizon. The advancing peasant army crept its way across the landscape without any fixed goal, twisting this way and that like a river. As soon as they slaughtered one noble family they moved on to the next. The route Christiana's escort took bore them away from those tell-tale signs of destruction and as they rode closer to their lord's demesne, the countryside seemed as it should. Crops and meadows were undamaged and livestock grazed. Her arms ached from holding Agnes to her, but she made no effort to ease the burden of the sleeping child. It would not be long before they were all safe, although a nagging uncertainty refused to leave her and she could not place what it was that teased her mind. Everything was as it should be here; perhaps the mob had swept across the horizon, leaving de Lorris unscathed. Relief flooded through her when they turned along the track and she saw the manor house. Palisades were pulled aside as the men escorted her past more armed men into Sir Marcel's courtyard, where she was warmly welcomed by the armoured knight and his pregnant wife, Marguerite.
'Christiana, thank God you were found. The blessed Virgin has seen fit to cloak you in her protection,' said de Lorris. 'Take the child to a bedchamber. Bathe and feed her,' he instructed his steward. The servant reached up and took the sleeping Agnes. Christiana struggled to ease herself from the saddle. They had ridden hard, her escort relentless in their desire to return to the safety of their master's fortified manor. She saw that, as well as the four riders who had accompanied her, there were another six men-at-arms, and a half-dozen crossbowmen who manned the low walls. There was no sign of Henry. Christiana could barely keep herself from leaning into the knight's arms, in gratitude not only for her rescue but also that her son had been sent to this devout man as a page and under whose tutelage he would soon be a squire. 'Where is my son? Is he safe?' Marguerite de Lorris put her arm around Christiana. 'He is. He works in the tunnel to clear it for our escape should we need it,' she said. 'Come now, let me find you clothes and have a bath drawn for you.'
Christiana eased herself from the woman's embrace. Her hair was twisted and matted from mud and water, her skin caked with dirt. She was as bedraggled as a peasant woman. 'A tunnel? Are we not safe here?' she asked. 'We have no idea how many are out there,' said de Lorris. 'The tunnel leads to the chapel. No one violates the sanctuary of the church. It will be a final refuge should we need to abandon the house.' Christiana nodded, trying to grasp through her exhaustion how desperate their situation was. 'Is there no news at all?' she asked. De Lorris glanced quickly at his wife, uncertain how much he should tell a woman who had barely managed to escape with her life. 'The Dauphin faces insurrection in Paris,' said Marguerite, making the decision for him. 'Tell her, my lord – we all need to know how things stand.' De Lorris eased the two women towards the door, out of earshot of his men. 'The last we heard was that the Provost, who is against the Dauphin, has seized the moment to urge the peasants to rise up south of the city. If they cut off all the routes into Paris who knows what might befall us.'
'Then we have nowhere to go,' said Christiana, her mind chasing possibilities of further escape. 'If too many come here then you and Marguerite will be guided through the tunnel while I and my men hold back the mob as long as we can. Christiana, none of us is safe as long as this murder continues.' Christiana felt the hollowness of despair. 'Why don't we leave now?' she asked, looking towards the soldiers who manned the walls. What had seemed to be a stronghold moments before now seemed to be completely inadequate. 'Surely we should go to a town? Any town. They will resist. We need higher walls than these.' Sir Marcel's lips tightened. The lands he held extended for miles around and she had drawn comfort from the fact that those who worked the estate had not risen up against him. And then she realized that there had been no sight of anyone in the fields. No smoke from the hovels, no barking of dogs or cries of children. The land was empty. This had been the unrecognized discomfort she had felt when they first approached.
'Your villeins have run off and joined the mob, haven't they?' 'Yes. I can only pray they remember that we did not rule them with anything other than a harsh word.' Panic quivered in her stomach and chest. She forced it away. The mob would come, she was sure of it. Now she had to think clearly. Her son and daughter must survive even if she did not. 'Will you take me to Henry?' she asked. * Beyond the entrance hall an iron-studded door gave way to steps that led down to the cellar. Its chilled darkness held haunches of smoke-darkened venison and the cleft carcass of a pig hung in two halves, a meat-hook piercing its thick skin. The room was large enough for wine and foodstuffs to be kept cool and beyond it was a low door that allowed flickering torchlight to seep into the cellar. The steward who had led her below the house went ahead with a burning torch. 'My lord's father once used this passage to meet his mistress in the chapel. He did not respect his family or the church, as his son does. Sir Marcel thought it wise that it be cleared and readied...' He caught himself and quickly assured her: '...should it be needed.'
Christiana saw that pieces of old armour and moth-eaten, threadbare carpets and tapestries had been stacked against one of the cellar's walls. Cobwebs sizzled in the torch's flame as he led her deeper into the gloom, to where a candle burned in a copper holder hooked onto the wall. 'Be careful, my lady,' said the steward, half turning towards her, as he pointed out the uneven ground beneath their feet. She muttered her thanks, but there was a question that needed to be answered. If the mob came those in the house could buy their lives by betraying the whereabouts of the tunnel. 'Why have you stayed?' she asked. The man faltered, hesitating before he took another step. 'I am a Christian man who has served his master since childhood. If there is a more devout knight then I have not heard of him. My lord has shown kindness and humbled himself before his King and God. It would be wrong for me to abandon him in his hour of need. Death will come when God sends that dark angel. Who am I to run from it?'
She saw the glimmer of a smile in the torchlight, one of resignation and sadness that his death might be imminent. Christiana reached out and took the candle from the wall. 'Go back to your master. I can find my way,' she said and, without waiting for his answer, pushed past him. She was not willing to let death's angel go unchallenged. * The air was heavy, veiled with smoke from the steward's flaring torch. She thought she had gone about a hundred yards, one hand outstretched to help guide her against the rock wall, when she felt the fetid atmosphere lighten and the coolness of fresh air touch her skin. A shadow fell across her path as a figure scuffed the ground and she almost dropped the candle as a knife blade caught the light. She had not seen her son for more than a year and the figure of the boy – only three months short of his eleventh birthday – was still as she remembered him, but he had grown and she could see strength had gone into his limbs. She called his name. The boy faltered. My God, he looked like his father, she thought, as he suddenly smiled at the sound of her voice. He stepped forward and lifted her hand to his lips.
'You're safe! And Agnes?' 'Yes,' she nodded, eyes stinging, 'with me. She's sleeping.' The candlelight exposed her streaked and torn clothes and through the grime on her face the tracks made by her tears. Without embarrassment he palmed them away. 'My lord said his men would find you.' And then guilt crept into his voice. 'I wanted to go, but I'm only his page, so I had to obey him.' 'And he sent you here so that you could ready our escape.' He sounded relieved. 'Yes. And I've made it safe for Lady Marguerite and the children. And now for you and Agnes.' His eyes searched her face and clothing. 'Has it been terrible?' 'More than I imagined,' she admitted. He was no longer a child; there was no need to hide the truth. He gently pulled her another few steps forward. A sturdy chestnut beam lay against the end wall, crosspieces nailed across its length. He pointed upwards. A flush of air came from the space above. 'That hole leads into the chapel. I've already put two wineskins and a satchel of food up there. There are blankets and clothes for the children. We shall be safe. I can push the stone in the floor across it. Did you know that my lord's father used this for...' He bit back the word. '...fornicating.'
'I know what it was used for,' she said, and smiled. A boy training to be a squire heard soldiers talk and, no matter how devout his master, those around him would speak about the rougher aspects of the world. It would do him no harm, she thought; the world would test him soon enough. She suddenly felt tired and leaned against the wall. He reached out for her. 'Mother, you're exhausted. Let me take you to the house.' 'Are your duties done?' 'Yes. More clothes and food perhaps, but I can do that afterwards.' She eased herself free from him. 'No. Finish what you must do. Our lives may depend on it. I'll go back to Agnes; come to us when Sir Marcel gives you permission. He has trusted you with the responsibility for us and his family.' Henry nodded. 'I thought it was a lowly task because of being a page.' 'No. He honours you and expects you not to fail him.' He looked older now. His chin lifted. 'You don't have to worry. We'll be all right. You'll see.' In another life, before he was born, she heard the echo of another young man she had nursed back to life – whose strength had become hers. Together they had survived, bound in a fate that carried them across a great river, clinging to each other as an enemy chased them down. She had known terror before and Thomas had killed the man who inflicted it. But her husband was not here now. Henry was his father's son, but he was not yet his father.
'Get a rope, make it fast to something in the chapel,' she told him. 'I have this ladder for the ladies and the children—' 'It's not for us,' she interrupted. 'If we have to escape through here then they might try to seize us from this passage. You will use the beam to block the door from the cellar. The rope is for you to climb into the chapel. Henry, you will be the last one down here.' He swallowed hard. The mob had so far been a distant problem, but now these past eighteen months' weapons training with his lord and his squires would imminently be needed. His mother's appearance had shocked him and the reality of the looming danger dried his mouth. 'Then... they will come,' he said, trying to disguise his fear with a half-hearted smile. Henry wore a sheathed dagger in his belt. It had once belonged to her husband's squire and he had given it to Henry before he was brutally killed. She tugged it free and tucked it into her waistband. 'They will come.' She reached out and touched his face, drew it to her and tenderly kissed his forehead. 'Be ready, my son. We will have to fight for our lives.'
* Werner von Lienhard had left Windsor with his tail between his legs, shamed that he had not been permitted to face Thomas Blackstone in single combat. But reason subdued his despair. It had been his skill and practicality that made him a captain of men with the Visconti. He would wait. The time would present itself again – revenge should burn long and slow like an Italian vendetta. It was still a matter of honour to kill the man who carried his brother's sword, but now it would be on von Lienhard's terms and the grievance would never be relinquished. Perhaps back in Italy, when Blackstone returned, a public trial might be contrived – an appeal to the Signori that he had the right. The Visconti would like that. They would relish the thought of seeing the Englishman beaten on their own territory. It was all he wanted – to swear the oath publicly before bishop and lord that his cause was right and just before God. Now, he contented himself with the knowledge that he had the skill to beat Blackstone when the time came. He and the two other knights who rode with him from Windsor had made their way from the French coast towards the city of Senlis. On the way they witnessed the surging mass of peasants, a thousand or more, who swept over a knight's abode. Watching from high ground and partly hidden by trees, they saw the family slaughtered, falling under the frenzied attack of scythes and woodcutters' axes. The Jacques threw the small child screaming into the air and then impaled her on their pitchforks. After the men raped the knight's wife their women hacked her limb from limb. And then the horde stripped the house like a plague of locusts.
He turned to the two knights who had watched in grim horror as members of their own class were slaughtered. 'There is nothing we can do to stop this killing. If we are seen we would be overwhelmed. And I will not die at the hands of scum,' he told them. He had seen enough slaughter in Italy to know that a peasant was little more than a dog: soulless, ignorant and incapable of rational thought. Conrad von Groitsch turned his face away from the slaughter. He crossed himself and spat. 'To see such a good, fine lady and her child butchered by a rabid mob sickens me,' he said. The other murmured in agreement, but all three kept their eyes on the murderous horde. Von Lienhard watched the retreating villeins swarm away from their attack, carrying the goods they had found. The house was set ablaze and the smoke from this funeral pyre swirled and was carried by the breeze, fluttering like a battle standard. The peasant uprising had its own flag of war. 'There were a couple of men-at-arms who rode with them. You saw it?' he asked, passing a wineskin to his companion.
The third man, Siegfried Mertens, swilled wine around his mouth and spat it free. 'And they took no part in the slaughter, but they helped themselves to the silver,' he said to von Lienhard. 'If we're to cross France back to Lombardy, we could make the journey more prosperous. Silverware and riches are wasted on peasants.' 'I want no part of, it' said von Groitsch. 'Killing peasants is one thing, slaughtering our own is quite another. I'm no pagan.' The three men looked out from their vantage point. The horde had changed direction. A cry went up and the ravening mass looked up towards them. One of the mounted men-at-arms had caught sight of the colours on the Germans' shields. 'Christ's blood,' said von Groitsch. 'Let's get away from here.' 'Wait,' said von Lienhard. 'We're German. They have no quarrel with us.' 'We're knights, Werner; for Christ's sake, see what's coming towards us. They mean to kill us,' said von Groitsch. Von Lienhard pulled himself into the saddle. 'If we want silver and plate we'll ride to them, raise a hand in greeting and offer to show them how to fight like soldiers instead of the shit-legged scum they are.'
His companions winced at this foolishness, but von Lienhard had always been one to seize an opportunity and – as the fair-haired knight spurred his horse forward, helmet free, sword still in its scabbard and with a hand raised in greeting to the first of the horsemen who galloped towards him – they heard him laugh. 'These villeins are a festering rabble of rats!' he called to the men-at-arms. 'But I can show them how to fight when the time comes!' The horsemen pulled up and twisted in the saddle, checking the labouring mob swarming three hundred paces behind. 'As do we!' one of them said. 'Better to catch the devil's tail than his fangs,' answered von Lienhard. 'We split them and lead them. What do you say? More booty for us all. They can have the fine furnishings,' he said, and grinned. It was the moment of truth as the horde came within fifty paces. The first horseman nodded. Having another three knights at their backs would give them a better sense of security, even if it were a false one. The man-at-arms wore his colours as brazenly as a tournament knight and turned his horse to face the villagers and townsmen who wielded an assortment of weapons behind him.
'They're with us!' he called. 'Good men who hate these fat landowners!' The mob of peasants were so caught up in their own heady success that they roared their cheers and then wheeled like an army, skirting the horsemen, their rampage not yet sated. 'Pig-shit stupid,' said von Lienhard. 'Aye,' said the horseman. 'And we are glad of it, otherwise we'd be taken ourselves. But they're learning. They fashion swords from scythes and billhooks and there's one from Picardy who can read and write.' 'He's here?' von Lienhard asked. The man-at-arms shook his head and made a vague gesture towards the horizon beyond the forests. 'Thousands of them out there. He's with them. Name's Cale. Bastard must fancy himself as a peasant king.' Von Lienhard let the horsemen ride off on the flanks of the peasants. He would wait until the mob had seen him and his blazon so that they would recognize a knight who supported their cause during their next slaughter. As the heaving mass passed him, he raised his hand like the Pope in blessing to the wide-eyed grinning monkeys, drunk with bloodletting and power.
'Satan awaits you, you turds,' he said, knowing they could not understand him, and smiling as he kept up the pretence of solidarity with the peasants. 'Retribution will come and you will cry out to a deaf God. And you will know the wrath of the nobility, who will peel the skin from your backs, rip the tongues from your mouths and put your families to the sword.' His companions eased their horses up alongside him. 'Their stench alone is enough to make a horse retch,' said von Groitsch. 'Werner, this had better be profitable.' 'Conrad, trust me. We shall ride the tide of terror home in a vessel of gold and silver,' he said, nudging his horse to follow in the Jacquerie's wake as great hooded crows glided and flapped through the pall of smoke, and then crabbed their way towards the tattered flesh that lay across the French knight's courtyard. Blackstone and Killbere made their way down from the citadel's room, watched by a relieved Sir Ralph de Ferrers, glad to rid himself of two of Fortune's men. They would find whatever reward the King had promised in the fields of blood, far beyond the walls of his jurisdiction.
Killbere was anxious to challenge Blackstone's lack of condemnation in front of de Ferrers. 'A word or two against these lice-infected peasants might have eased his manner. A barrel of arrows wouldn't have gone amiss.' 'And you were as gentle as a mendicant monk begging for alms, were you?' 'I am who I am, but you could have brought him around.' As they eased past sentries and clattered down the stone steps to the inner ward and their horses, Blackstone blew his nose with a finger and pulled on his gloves. Their journey had not yet properly started and already the odds were heavily stacked against finding his family alive. 'Who's to say they don't have a reason?' said Blackstone. Killbere looked incredulous. 'You think you understand these turds?' he growled. 'I was a free man and never a serf, Gilbert, but you crush those you rule long enough and it's more than their bones that break.' 'Mother of Christ, they slaughter worse than the damned routiers. These aren't aggrieved peasants at Santa Marina you can sway, Thomas. These devils have crawled out of the pit and rake their talons on the innocent.'
'You think I side with them?' 'I served my sworn lord when you were a snot-nosed peasant working in a quarry, living in a hovel. I know you, Thomas. Sweet Jesu! You see every man's tortured soul as if it were his blazon. Scum, Thomas! Vile, vicious, evil, shit-stinking scum is what they are.' He drew breath and grabbed the bigger man's arm. 'You were never that.' 'And the noblemen who ride with them?' 'Worse! I don't know what's worse than shit but they are. And when I find the word I will tell you. They should be hoisted and gutted and their entrails dragged from here to the end of the world by dogs. And I'm the man to see it done.' They reached their horses. Blackstone raised the stirrup strap and kneed the bastard horse in the belly. Standing this long would have let it bloat and when they rode the saddle strap could loosen and make the saddle unstable. The horse shook its head, rattling the bridle, half glancing backwards, ready to snap its yellow teeth given the chance. Blackstone tightened the strap another notch.
'If Christiana and my children are in their path, Gilbert, I'm already too late. If the Dauphin's family is at Meaux, then that's our best chance to find them. These peasants might have just cause – I don't care – but the King has bartered my pardon and family so that I can help him seize this godforsaken country.' Sir Gilbert sighed. 'When you were a boy I was charged with taking you to war and instilling anger in your blood and love for your King in your heart. Perhaps I didn't do it well enough.' Blackstone's voice softened. 'Gilbert, you are a cynical old bastard who did it too well. I serve our King whether he bartered or not. He is my sworn lord as you were once. One day his victories will give us all a chance to rule ourselves. But not as a mob.' Killbere grunted. 'Then we kill as many of these Satan's imps as we can.' 'I know my duty, Gilbert.' 'Good! Because that's what gives us honour. That and sending these vile bastards back where they come from.' A gratified Killbere spurred his horse forward across the drawbridge and urged it into a canter along the track leading through the tufted marshlands and the heights where the men waited.
Killing was a profession best honed by practice. * Blackstone gathered his men around him. He told them of his plan to try and reach the Dauphin's family. Perinne rasped his palm over his crow's-foot-scarred head. 'I might know how we can get down to Meaux, Sir Thomas,' he said. 'I passed through it when I was a boy.' He scratched a curve in the soft earth. 'Town's on the bend of the river. There's a bridge, or was as I remember it, across to the stronghold. The walls are thick enough, and reinforced with towers and bastions. If they're in there they'll be as safe as lice in Will's crotch.' 'Nothing is safe near his cock,' said Gaillard. 'It's a weapon of war,' said Longdon. 'By all accounts it's outflanked by Brother Bertrand,' Blackstone told his gathered captains, allowing them the moment of humour. 'Good. Then Perinne will lead us. Gaillard knows the marshes around Calais so he will take us beyond them. The trick is not to be caught by the Dauphin's forces, the routiers or the mob.' Meulon poked the fire with a stick. 'What about Charles of Navarre?'
'Him too,' said Killbere. None of the men had a suggestion as to how a hundred of them could travel through countryside that teemed with potential enemies. 'Why don't we find Navarre and join forces with him? He must want to get hold of the Dauphin and his family as much as our sovereign lord,' said Will Longdon. 'And use them to bargain his way to the crown or have them on a gibbet,' said Blackstone. 'Our Lord Edward wants them alive; Navarre plays a game of his own choosing.' 'With many an English mercenary at his back,' said John Jacob. 'Perhaps it's the King's plan to use him to seize Paris now they support the uprising,' said Meulon. 'None of us can know who to trust,' said Blackstone. 'Navarre wants the crown, as does our King. One force plays against the other, but whoever plays the game the best will win.' 'Some game it is then, Sir Thomas, if the French crown is being tossed in the air like a fairground prize,' the big Norman answered. 'Aye, and we're in the middle of it,' said Longdon.
'It's no bad place to be,' said Gaillard. 'The middle of a wheel is what makes it go round. We can control what we need to.' 'By the sweat of Jesu's brow, Gaillard, I swear you do not see it,' said Longdon. 'What goes through the middle of a wheel? A shaft. What is a shaft other than like a spear or...' Longdon poked him with the feathered end of an arrow shaft, whose fletching he was carefully repairing. 'An arrow?' He circled thumb and forefinger and then poked a finger through it. 'Middle. Shaft. Us.' Blackstone squatted by the fire. It would soon be dark and no progress would be made travelling through hostile territory at night. 'Will, see it as a wheel if you must, but let it be a wheel of fortune. We'll ignore them all and seek out the Dauphin's family. All we have to do is save them from the mob and see them secure somewhere. Once word gets back to our King then we decide what it is we want to do.' Killbere stood and looked around him. They were in a good defensive position, and an attacker would be hard-pressed to make his way through the tufted, uneven ground of the marshlands at night, but a local peasant could sniff them out and lead anyone wishing to do them harm.
'Captains, get the men fed, the horses hobbled and tethered. Keep them saddled. Set pickets through the night. No fires. As Sir Thomas said, we don't trust anyone.' 'Not even the Captain of Calais?' asked Longdon. 'He's the King's man.' 'Not even the King's mother,' answered Killbere. 'Especially not her,' said Blackstone under his breath. * The men rolled themselves into their blankets, finding what meagre comfort was to be had on the forest floor. Killbere watched as Stefano Caprini, who always kept himself on the edge of the camp, knelt in prayer; then Sir Gilbert spread his blanket and kicked leaves and moss to make a passable hollow for his hip. Blackstone was already stretched out, sword at his side. It would not be long before the darkness covered them and neither man would be able to see the other, no matter how close they were. Killbere jerked his head towards Caprini. 'Why is he still here?' he asked 'Canterbury was a disappointment. No discomfort or misery to be had,' said Blackstone.
Killbere's brow furrowed, and then he realized that Blackstone was jesting. 'Ah, right. Now that he has the pleasure of a damp forest, cold food and the joy of Will Longdon's complaints – I ask again: why is he still here?' 'He confessed his sin,' said Blackstone, turning onto his side so that his words might not drift further than Killbere next to him. 'Don't tell me he's another damned Brother Bertrand who has found fornication to be a greater delight than self-pleasure,' said Killbere. 'Where is he, by the way?' 'Kept with the horses. Thank God we have no mares. He fetches and carries and does it well enough. He has a permanent grin on his face, so he's a happy bastard.' 'Gilbert, only idiots smile all the time.' Killbere sighed in agreement. 'We pulled him from a peasant's hovel two days after we arrived, suckling like a piglet on the swineherd's wife's teats. We had to pay the man off with a handful of salt.' He unwrapped a half-loaf of bread and cut a piece, which he handed to Blackstone. The stillness of the forest deadened most sound, but here and there a man coughed, or a murmur gently carried. The quietness of the place made it seem obligatory to speak barely above a whisper.
Blackstone glanced into the near-darkness where the Tau knight prayed. He shook his head, remembering. 'A strange fellow. We reached Canterbury,' he said, tugging the crust with his teeth. 'The place was tight with pilgrims – and he spent a half-day at prayer while I had the horses newly shod. And then...' Killbere sensed his friend's uncertainty and stayed silent while Blackstone found the words. 'And then he returned from the cathedral, and knelt before me saying that Father Torellini had told him to stay at my side until my journey was done.' 'Back to Italy?' 'I don't know,' said Blackstone. 'He said he had intended only to get me safely across the mountains and to Canterbury, but he was to be granted indulgences by the Pope for every day he was away. And then... then he told me that a man must die with his sins cleansed, without regret in his heart and as poor as Christ.' 'No sharing of the spoils for him, then,' said Killbere with a satisfied grunt. 'It was strange, Gilbert. I value his fighting skills and I couldn't deny him his duty. And then he said that he'd had a vision when he'd prostrated himself where Thomas Becket was slain.'
'Holy men and visions make me more fearful than witches and their familiars. What kind of vision?' 'He didn't say... only that I would need God's comfort.' The two men fell silent. After a moment's thought Killbere cleared the congealed bread from the roof of his mouth with a fingernail and sucked it free. 'Priests, friars, monks and soothsayers: they all dabble in the black arts. Steer clear of them all and pray to Christ before a fight is what I say. That's the best men like us can do.' 'And trust the men at our shoulder and back. You taught me that,' Blackstone answered. 'And it's brought us this far.' There was no answer other than Killbere's rhythmic breathing. He was already asleep. Blackstone turned into his blanket and, as he settled his face into the sweet-smelling moss and leaves, he saw the darkness move. The blazon on the Tau knight's cloak had caught the glow of filtered moonlight as he rose from his prayers, and then the darkness took it like a magician's spell. No sight, no sound. As if Fra Stefano Caprini had been a dark angel come to count the souls he was owed.
Blackstone pulled Wolf Sword closer to his chest and then kissed the silver goddess Arianrhod. The question he had not asked at Canterbury was: whom did the Tau knight mean when he said a man must die cleansed of his sins? Caprini or Blackstone? The terror came across the broad moonlit fields. There was no need for torches as the mob moved with slow, relentless determination: at first in no formation, but as if blown by the wind, like dandelion seeds across the low-cut meadows; then, as if drilled, they gathered in a great arc – a bull's horns to entrap the unfortunates within the manor house, their approach the more frightening in its silence, with only the steady sound of shuffling footfalls. As some trampled their way through the vegetable gardens, others came ant-like down the corridors of the vineyards. They slowed and then halted as they reached the low walls and saw the glint of moonlight on armour. The mob's leader raised a fist clutching a billhook, and more than four hundred peasants behind him followed his example.
'Renounce your nobility and your status and swear allegiance to those you have oppressed during your unnatural life as lord of this demesne,' the man cried, his voice echoing across the courtyard. Christiana and Henry stood in an upper-storey room, pressed against the wall, hardly daring to peep around the window opening. Agnes was further back, wide-eyed with a child's fear, wondering why her mother and the brother she had not seen for so long held knife and sword at the ready. The man's voice had resounded through the house and she saw her mother turn towards her and smile in encouragement. She had been told to be brave, but she found no comfort in her mother's words. For days they had hidden from those who wished to harm them and she did not know why they were being hunted. The ghostly figures that had come across the landscape had taken those in the house by surprise, but the sentries had seen the fields waver in a tide of shadows and raised the alarm, snatching those in the house from their sleep.
'Be ready to go downstairs,' she had warned Agnes. 'Stay silent and hold back your tears. We will be all right. Lady Marguerite and her children will be with us,' her mother had added. But Lady Marguerite was not with them. She was in her chamber in the wing of the manor house, where firelight gave them light and warmth. Here in the cold, unlit chamber there was nothing but the ghostly shadows cast through the window opening, and bare boards that smelled of dog and lavender seeds. She shivered and wished she was with the other two children, huddled by the fire with their mother. Christiana dared to peer around the opening. 'Mother!' Henry hissed at her. 'They'll see you!' The chill that Christiana felt was not from the night, but from the cold understanding that they would not survive the night unless they reached the cellar. And it would have to be done in darkness, because the moment the mob saw a torchlight they would swarm after it. She hesitated as, below, Sir Marcel made his appeal. Could the knight's name and reputation be enough to hold them back? Would they bypass the manor and take their terror elsewhere? Sir Marcel stood on the low rampart, resplendent in his armour, but unable to hide the uncertainty in his voice at the sight of such a vast mob.
'I am Sir Marcel de Lorris. And there are those among you who know me and who have been favoured by my family's goodwill. Take what livestock and food you need but leave my home and my family in peace, I beg you, in God's good name.' Christiana watched fearfully. There had been no assault against the walls, no roar from the mob – instead there was the most terrifying sound. Laughter. Their leader laughed. And Christiana knew it was already too late. She turned and ran to Agnes with Henry a couple of paces behind her when a scream of utter terror squeezed a mailed fist around her heart. They were already in the house. 'Downstairs!' she hissed, catching Agnes's hand. Behind her she heard a woman's sobbing. Marguerite! There was nothing she could do. The mob had infiltrated that wing of the house, drawn by the firelight. And then the mob bellowed from outside. Cries of pain came from the courtyard as soldiers loosed their crossbow bolts and the men-at-arms slashed at the ghostly horde. As she ran past the windows towards the stairwell she glimpsed the uneven fight and wished there had been a contingent of English archers in the yard. They would not be able to stop the hundreds but they would have brought so many down in such a short time that the attack might have faltered.
She stopped suddenly. Noises from downstairs meant they were already below; they had rushed past the feeble defence and were already stripping out the house's wealth. More voices carried, harsh and commanding, as the mob's leaders called them to halt and bear witness. Sweat ran down her back and she cursed the layers of clothes that hampered her. Her daughter began to gulp great sobs and she went down on one knee to quickly assure her. 'No noise. Bite your tongue if you have to, but do not cry out.' With trembling hands she cupped the child's face and kissed her, then took a tight grip of her hand. 'Mother.' Henry's urgent whisper made her turn. Her son stood at a window, back against the wall, sword still in hand but with a look that told her the screams she heard belonged to his master's wife. She dragged Agnes with her, desperately unwilling to let the child go. She held the girl to her as those she had heard in the lower hallway scuttled like rats to witness the atrocity inflicted on the lord of the manor.
From what she could see, most of the men-at-arms, those hardened men who had rescued her, were already slain, their bodies stripped naked and smeared with blood and dirt as they were desecrated underfoot. Lady Marguerite's clothes were being torn from her by peasant women; they grabbed her hair, their knives slashing away her fine clothes, uncaring that their blades cut through fabric and into skin. Christiana watched the woman's humiliation and terror and felt the blood drain from her face. Sir Marcel, bloodied and wounded, was held bound by a stave behind his arms as he was forced to watch the sickening assault on his pregnant wife. In front of the parents was the battered and bloodied body of their fair-haired daughter, two years younger than Agnes. They had thrown the child from the window into the courtyard below. The mob leader spat into Sir Marcel's face, and yelled for him to renounce his rank, and his privilege, and to turn his lands over to the people. Sir Marcel nodded, his body shuddering from the tears.
Christiana saw half a dozen men-at-arms on horseback at the gate, and for a moment there was a flutter of hope. And then one of them raised himself in his stirrups. He was bareheaded, his sword still in its scabbard. Neither this knight, nor those with him, would raise a voice to protect them. He was young and she saw his fair hair and the shaved side of his head as he cried out to the mob's leader. 'Be done with it! He will say anything now. It means nothing. Be done with it!' The women had forced Marguerite to her knees and she had tried through her sobbing grief to reach forward to pull the battered body of her daughter to her. But a woman grabbed a handful of her hair, wrenching free a bloodied fistful. Sir Marcel was trying to say something to his wife when one of the men stepped forward and cut her throat. Her body convulsed as the women kept a firm grip on her, the pulsating blood soaking her bulging stomach. The horror was not yet over – men pulled his son through the crowd. He had obviously tried to protect his mother and Christiana could see he had been wounded: his left arm hung limp and he staggered, barely able to stay on his feet. He was little more than a child, still at home being taught, like all seven-year-olds, the joy of verse and the meaning of honour. He trembled, his fine clothes soiled with his own fear. A massive bruise covered half his face. No sooner had his eyes sought out his father than the mob's leader slashed down viciously and slew the boy. A cheer went up as the child's head was thrown into the crowd.
Christiana's strength deserted her and she slumped to the floor, her face pressed against the rough cold wall. It would be better to be torn apart by wolves, which would kill more quickly and with less cruelty than these peasants. Someone grabbed the front of her dress and shook her. It was Henry, slapping her face. 'Get up!' he hissed. 'Get up now!' She smelled the vomit he had spewed from his own terror before her own had cast her into darkness. Reaching for him she found her strength and then fear and instinct made her run for the stairwell. There were scant seconds for them to reach the cellar as the mob bayed for Sir Marcel's death. As she went down the staircase, her back pressed against the wall, a firm grip on the knife, she saw the crowd part, exposing the heaped bundles of kindling. Two of the attackers struck flints and lit tallow torches and dragged the helpless de Lorris to where the fair-haired knight stood with a lance rammed into broken stonework. They bound the barely conscious man to the makeshift pyre and thrust the torches into the dry tinder. The flames quickly took hold and held the mob's attention as Sir Marcel raised his face to the night sky and screamed in agony.
Footsteps thumped back and forth above them, carpets and furniture dropped past the window – they were already looting. She dragged Agnes behind her as Henry watched their backs until they pushed into the cellar. She could smell the intruders before she saw them. A rancid stench of stale sweat and excrement that clung to clothes and skin. A candle flickered in the near-airless room as a man and woman gorged what food there was while shoving oatcakes, jars and cuts of meat into a sack. Their mouths were full, distorted gargoyles, when they saw Christiana. The man spluttered, reaching for a falchion he had laid on the table in his haste to seize supplies. As he lunged Christiana released Agnes's hand and grappled with him, knowing in that instant that he would overpower her. Without thought she rained down knife blows on his neck and shoulder and saw blood spurt as she severed an artery. He fell back, legs kicking out across the blood-wet stone floor, choking on the food, hands to the wound that would kill him in minutes. The woman had thrown a clay pot at Henry, and then backed like a cornered feral cat as he and Christiana threatened her. The peasant slashed a short-bladed knife in front of her, sweeping back and forth, disgorging the food so she could cry for help.
'Kill her!' Christiana cried as she lunged, forcing the woman to face her attack. Henry hesitated, but only for a second, when the woman's knife nearly caught his mother's face, and then he drove down his sword into the woman's back. She fell, taking his sword embedded in bone and muscle. He gazed, wide-eyed, at the first person he had slain. Christiana stepped on the woman's shuddering body, her foot pressing her weight onto the neck, her voice a slap, breaking his hesitation. 'Get it!' Henry yanked free the blade. The babble of voices from outside came closer as the mob came into the house. Christiana snatched the candle and led the way into the passage as Henry shouldered the door closed. They bumped along the rough-hewn wall, stumbling and grazing skin. Uneven rocks punched and bruised them; their breath rasped with exertion as terror drove them on to where the beam lay ready. She waited, trying to calm her breathing, listening in case any of the mob was already in the chapel. She pulled a bloodied sleeve across the sweat on her face. She could barely make out Agnes in the poor light, but she saw that Henry's face was daubed with dirt and gore. He had taken responsibility for their safety – as his father had once done.