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Gaillard stood by the fireside, his huge frame casting a giant's shadow. 'Sir Thomas has a spectre inside him, a torment that gives that sword of his a power of its own,' he said. 'See,' said Longdon, 'even a thick bugger like Gaillard can see that Sir Thomas will slice that bastard up like a roast pig after Lent.' 'A demon can't be slain, you short-arsed fool, but those Germans are masters of the sword,' Gaillard said. 'And now you contradict yourself, oaf! Sweet Jesus, where's your loyalty?' 'Do not question my loyalty to Sir Thomas! I rode with him when he first learnt use of the sword.' 'Well and good, but I served with him when we slaughtered your lot. I can hear their screams now. French bastards.' Gaillard bent so quickly that Longdon had no chance to duck. The big fist seized his neck and lifted him. Longdon wriggled, hands to his neck, trying to release the grip. Meulon suddenly stepped forward from the edge of the firelight. 'Leave him, Gaillard. Leave him,' he said sternly. Gaillard would always be subordinate to Meulon, even though they now held equal rank. He released the choking archer.
'You are the centenar, Will, and Gaillard is a captain,' Meulon said. 'There is to be no conflict among us. We serve Sir Thomas.' He flicked his head and Gaillard turned, and then he waited while the big man took his slow-burning anger elsewhere. 'Whatever happens tomorrow I will never allow Sir Thomas or his lady to die. I will take the shame on myself if I must, but if Sir Thomas goes down, I will kill this German myself.' Longdon swilled his mouth and spat wine. 'You do that and we're all dead. Trapped in this yard like fish in a barrel.' 'There are not many crossbowmen in the stronghold, and fewer than twenty knights. No more. You think about it. If we have to fight our way out of here we'll need your archers.' Robert Thurgood watched the two captains face each other. 'Captain, that's a dangerous game. We would need to have a plan, and Master Jacob and Sir Gilbert would need to be brought in to it.' Longdon turned and looked at the dozen men who gathered around the fire. 'An archer thinks on his feet, Thurgood. If Meulon makes his move we will be with him.' He faced the Norman. 'But Thurgood's right. Sir Gilbert and John Jacob will have no part of it.'
'If it happens, they will,' said Meulon. 'Christ,' Longdon muttered. 'We're inside a bear pit here. Thousands of peasants out there, and knights of glory in the stronghold. There has to be a better way.' 'Then speak to me when you have thought of it,' Meulon said. 'Stand vigil all night – if archers think better on their feet.' Then he turned away into the shadows. * The Knight of the Tau sat with his back pressed against the wall next to Blackstone, who fingered a crust of rough brown bread into a bowl of pottage. Caprini was slowly sharpening the blade of his dagger, stroking each side across the whetstone, each silent whisper honing its edge. 'Von Lienhard has fine armour. I suspect it is Milanese. There is virtually nowhere you can press a blade between the plates.' Blackstone seemed not to be paying attention. Caprini looked for any sign that he had heard and that he might understand how the conflict which lay ahead was made more difficult by the quality of the German's arms. 'I suspect the Visconti gave them to him,' Caprini went on. 'The cost of armour like that is beyond most knights' means. You will need to put him on the ground and then find a way to slay him.' He balanced the knife in his hand, letting the firelight catch its steel. 'This is slender enough to get between those plates.'
Blackstone still ignored him, as if concentrating on scooping the remains of the food and seeing in his mind's eye the fight that would unfold the following day. Caprini said nothing more, but laid the knife between them. It was there if Blackstone wanted it. Blackstone licked the moisture from his fingers and wiped them on his jupon, then pulled his cloak around him. 'You saw him fight at Windsor,' Blackstone asked. 'I did.' 'And he saw me fight the Prince.' 'As did we all,' agreed Caprini. 'He is a better swordsman than I am, isn't he?' 'He is.' 'Then you believe I cannot beat him, having seen us both fight.' 'That is what I believe, yes.' Blackstone curled himself into his cloak. 'Then I have no need of your knife,' he said, and walked away through the lurching shadows. * It would be a fight to the death. A judicial contest sanctioned by the authority of both the Captal de Buch and the Count of Foix. If Blackstone faltered then Christiana would be hanged, thrown from the open gallery with a rope around her neck. Her body would be left dangling against the wall until the crows had pecked the flesh from her bones. Her children would be separated; Agnes would go to a nunnery and Henry to a life of servitude as a common man.
Blackstone made his way into the castle and searched the rooms where the women huddled, doing what they could to make themselves and their children comfortable. Blackstone's hulking presence caused some of them to avert their eyes. The scar-faced man who strode among them, candle held high, looked fearsome. 'Agnes?' he called gently. 'I am looking for my daughter,' he said to some of the upturned faces. One of the women timidly pointed towards the corner of the room. Blackstone called her name again. 'I am the child's father,' he said. 'You have heard by now what is to happen tomorrow. I defend you all when I fight. Please tell me – is my daughter here?' A fluttering movement caught his attention in the far corner as a young woman lifted her cloak and exposed a sleeping child. Blackstone stepped carefully over the others to reach her. 'I promised Christiana I would keep her with me,' said the stranger. 'Shall I wake her?' Blackstone reached down and touched the warmth of his sleeping daughter's face. She was deep in slumber, nestled close to the woman, her own breath rising and falling with her guardian's. He wanted nothing more than to hold Agnes to him and nuzzle her hair. She would run her finger down his scar, wrap her arms about his neck and the years apart would close behind them. His hand trembled.
'I have asked that they let her see her mother in the morning. Will you keep her with you?' The young woman nodded. 'Then let her sleep, and when she awakes, tell her that her father came to her and will see her soon.' * Following Henry's testimony, Christiana was escorted to the dungeon. The cells were nothing more than iron cages and the conditions were brutal – rough straw her only warmth other than her cloak against the stone floor and walls that glistened with damp, but blankets had been given to her on the orders of the Captal. There was no need for her to suffer further, he had instructed. In a further act of benevolence, she was granted a candle for the cell, and another to burn in the passageway outside the caged door, and a mattress so that the daughter of a loyal French knight and the wife of an honoured Englishman might have some comfort. She had already made the unwelcoming cell as comfortable as she could. The mattress and blankets were laid out; the candle burned on a stone plinth.
'You should have stayed silent,' Blackstone said quietly, holding her close, barely able to stop himself from pressing his hands and mouth against her as his fear for her fought his lust. 'I could not, and you know it. No more than Henry could lie to save me,' she said, regret tinging her answer. Her face pressed into his chest as she tried to control the trembling in her body. Blackstone tightened his embrace. There were too many words dammed up in his heart and mind and he could not find those that would explain his feelings. 'You wrenched my heart from me when you left,' he said. She lifted her face to his. 'And the thoughts of my father... froze mine,' she said. She spoke without bitterness, but her sadness could not be disguised. Blackstone felt the moment hold them. War had cast them together and its cruelty had caused them both harm. Despite his love, despite the need for her, the last eighteen months had haunted him. Her lips touched his own, her finger tracing the scar on his face.
He knew that she needed to release the clawing thought of her father falling beneath the Englishman's arrow but he could not stop himself from feeding his own uncertainty. 'The child,' he whispered. 'Where is the bastard? Did it live?' Her body stiffened. He almost choked on his own crass demand, but he had to know. He held her, preventing her from stepping away from him. 'Christiana,' he implored her. She nodded, and raised her face so that he could see without doubt that she would defy him if he pressed her to abandon all thoughts of looking after the child. 'When the Jacques came we ran. I could not travel with him and Agnes, so I paid the nuns to care for him until I return. I paid them well.' It lived. He could not halt the squirming twist in his stomach trying to reach up into his chest. He wished it was not there, begged his mind to discard the thought. But it stayed lodged like the broad head of an arrow. All he could do was nod. 'I could not forsake the child,' she said. 'Does Henry know?'
She shook her head. 'He was already serving with Sir Marcel when it was born.' She took a deep breath. 'It was a boy. As yet unnamed; unchristened. There you have it.' Blackstone tried to find words to cover his feelings, knowing they were unjust, but they still persisted. He lifted the hair from her face and whispered close to her ear. 'You're headstrong enough to ruin a man's heart and cause more grief than a thousand cuts.' Christiana would not allow him to leave her without an answer. She had abandoned him once, had forged her own way with her daughter and illegitimate infant, and had survived. Now her life was in jeopardy and in her husband's hands. 'Then what's to become of us, Thomas Blackstone?' Had anything changed over the time since she told him of the rape? He had hoped the pain would have seeped away, but it lingered, an unhealed wound like that on his leg. It had to be ignored. 'Much will become of us. Let us be gentle with each other and soothe away the images in our minds,' he said tenderly.
Tears welled in her eyes. There was no sob of release as he kissed the tear on her cheek. 'Our lives seem bound by danger,' she said. 'You rescued me from the German horsemen once before.' 'And damned near drowned doing it,' he said, remembering the time when they had clung together as they forded the crossing at Blanchetaque. That was before the murderous battle claimed his brother, and cut his own body and face with wounds that took him to the feet of the angels. 'Had it not been for all that pain, I would not have you,' he went on, and felt the tension ease from her body. The candle's glow shaded her dark copper hair as he eased her down onto the mattress. He kissed the halfpenny necklace on her neck, felt her heart beating against her breasts. The other half of the penny lay embossed in Wolf Sword's pommel. His voice was barely a whisper. His throat almost choked with his love for her. 'We cannot be denied each other, Christiana. We are bound by fate. Why else am I here? What circumstance brought me from across the mountains, from another country, to be summoned by a Queen and pardoned by a King to send me into this mayhem and through slaughter to find you and my children? My God, I cannot extinguish a love that lights my way.'
'Agnes,' she said, suddenly remembering. He soothed the worry from her. 'She is with the young woman who cares for her. She's sleeping. You will see her tomorrow. We both will. This night is for us,' he whispered. She half turned, allowing his fingers to undo the laces at the back of her dress. She shuddered with tears of joy at his touch. His rough-skinned hands stroked her with a tenderness that released her lust, denied since they had last slept together. No man had been near her since her rape, and she had never desired any other but her husband. Her dress fell and took with it the years of passion that had been held in check. As his mouth found her nipples they fought each other with a rage of urgency that demanded satisfaction. By the time the candle flickered in its own pool of melted heat, Thomas and Christiana's lovemaking had renewed their vows and, like two newly found lovers, they lay, embraced in sleep. Too soon, the summer night gave way. 'My lord,' said the turnkey who waited respectfully along the passage as Blackstone and Christiana dressed. 'If you please.'
Blackstone nodded at the man and held Christiana at arm's length. 'We will be together before they ring the bell for nones.' He turned away from the woman he had loved since he was a boy sent to war. She waited for him to turn back. A glance. A smile. But in all his life Thomas Blackstone had never looked back. The sun had not yet risen high enough to cast its warmth over the high walls as John Jacob helped Blackstone dress for the impending duel. The shadows were deep and still held a chilled dampness, and a quietness seemed to have settled over the yard. Fires smouldered where soldiers had slept; Blackstone's men came and went to the latrines and washed at the well. Horses whinnied, their weight shifting at their tethering rings; stable-hands filled feedbags and fussed them over the horse's heads. 'Who's attending to my horse?' Blackstone asked as Jacob tightened the leather strap on his lord's shoulder plate. 'Who else but Brother Bertrand?' Blackstone grunted. The promiscuous monk had a strange calming effect on the aggressive horse that allowed him to attend it without injury.
'Good for something then,' Blackstone admitted, shifting his shoulders to allow the armour to fit more comfortably. Killbere bit into an apple, grimaced at its sourness and spat the pulp from his mouth. 'Damned food will be getting scarce and these bastard townsmen are hoarding for themselves.' He lifted a wineskin and drank thirstily, and then allowed himself a low, slow belch. 'You'll wear full plate; arm and leg protection is not enough, Thomas. He'd cut through mail and with your injured leg you're already at a disadvantage.' Killbere propped himself against the wall as Blackstone ignored him. 'Make sure Bertrand finds the best oats for all our horses,' said Blackstone. 'If the Captal has good fodder then we must get our hands on it as well. Have Will and some of the men steal it if we must.' 'Sir Thomas,' Jacob said, standing before the man who had once trusted him with his family's safety. 'You must—' 'No armour, John. Open helm, arms and legs only. I'll not fall face down in a damned iron coffin. I'll move faster than him this way. That's my advantage.'
Blackstone saw the look on his friend's face as he glanced at Killbere. 'Ah. No advantage, Thomas,' said Killbere. 'Judicial rules of combat. Both men equally dressed and armed. You're to wear armour. This is how gentlemen fight, not like a tavern brawl or a raid across the hills. Tournament rules! Time you accepted them. Bind his leg tight, John.' Sir Gilbert then scrubbed a hand across his stubble. 'I need a piss.' Blackstone watched the old fighter saunter across towards the latrines as Jacob readied the heavy plate. 'Sir Thomas, if anything happens, I swear to you I will save Lady Christiana.' Blackstone gazed up at the open gallery that ran along one side of the wall. It would not be long before Christiana would be brought out ready to be hanged should he fail. 'Don't let her hang, John. I don't want her choking and kicking her life away. There will be no time to reach her. Have Will put an arrow into her, and then protect yourselves.' John Jacob nodded. It seemed Blackstone understood how poor his chances were against von Lienhard. 'You'll beat him, Sir Thomas,' he said. 'You and that Wolf Sword have cleaved many a man from this life and that bastard deserves no less. Now, let's get this plate on you.'
Before Jacob could begin dressing him in armour both men heard the low rumble of what sounded like bees trapped in a barrel. They drummed and hummed until one sound rose louder than the others – a trumpet blared, and then another. Discordant and irregular, the hum became a roar and then one of the sentries cried out in alarm. 'The Jacques!' The impossible had happened and the warning took a moment to sink in. 'Get the men and horses! Archers to me!' Blackstone commanded and ran for the ramparts. By the time he reached the narrow parapet he could see in the far distance beyond the city a dust cloud stirred up by thousands of shuffling feet. Closer, though, were angry voices echoing through the narrow streets, rising up against the stronghold walls. Beneath the town's overhanging buildings the darkness heaved back and forth and then spilled out like a burst gut, spewing armed men and women into the clearing across the river. 'Christ, they've breached the city walls,' one of the sentries said.
Blackstone turned back and saw Jean de Grailly buckling on his sword; the Count of Foix and the other knights, von Lienhard too, were running down the steps from the great hall. This was no breach – there were no flames, no cries of terror – the mayor had opened the gates to the thousands of Jacques. Blackstone met de Grailly and de Hangest in the middle of the bailey – the place where his judicial contest would have started had it not been for the unexpected assault outside. Now men ran for their horses; swords and lances were being gathered by servants and squires, stable-hands saddled horses while shrill cries of fear from the hundreds of women rained down from the gallery on the men below. A voice carried from one of the men on the ramparts. 'Bundles of kindling being brought to the end of the bridge!' 'They mean to burn us out,' said Killbere. De Grailly was calm, his hesitation barely noticeable before he issued his orders. 'Thomas, your archers must buy us time. There are twenty knights here and with our few squires and your hobelars we number a hundred horsemen or so. We split the field. Lord de Hangest and I will take our men left with the Count; my Lords de Chamby and de Mauléon and...' He looked at the men and hesitated briefly again. '...von Lienhard and von Groitsch will ride to the right, and you, Thomas, with the remainder, cleave them down the centre. Drive through them to the city gates, beyond if we must. Spare none.'
'My lord!' de Hangest interrupted. 'I will lead. Blackstone may follow! My duty lay here before your welcome arrival.' De Grailly was obliged to acknowledge the older man's right. 'Quite so, my lord. As you wish. Thomas, once a path is cleared have your archers move into the streets.' 'Their war bows are no use in streets that narrow,' said Blackstone. 'Sword and buckler is the best they can do.' 'Very well. Have them follow in our wake. Let them kill those who are left and burn down every house.' 'The city?' asked Loys de Chamby, the pug-faced knight. 'My friend,' said the Count de Foix, 'they opened their gates so that we and these good women might suffer the worst of fates.' The Count looked to Blackstone. 'Burn and kill, Sir Thomas. We must put an end to this uprising. Spare the cathedral and the religious houses.' The knights settled their helmets and pulled on their gauntlets as de Grailly looked to the two adversaries. 'And the matter between you will be settled when this is done.' Blackstone and von Lienhard exchanged glances and then each turned to attend to their duties and face the immediate threat.
Brother Bertrand ran forward with the bastard horse's leading rein. Its ears were perked, the boiled-leather breastplate hugging its chest muscles. The archers had raced to stand ready as Will Longdon gathered with the other captains around Blackstone. 'Hobelars with me. Meulon, Gaillard: Sir Gilbert will lead you and your men. Will, when the gates open we will strike across the bridge. There will be too many crammed on it to resist; before we reach the other side loose what you have on the far end. You know the range. You'll be shooting blind; have someone watch on the parapet for us below. That will give the horsemen time to cut through and into the streets. Then you and your men leave your bows, take up torches and sword and burn every house.' 'And them what's in 'em?' Longdon asked. 'None can be spared now,' Blackstone said grimly. 'They have brought the wrath of God upon their heads,' said the Tau knight. 'They've brought Sir Thomas Blackstone and his avenging angels onto them is what the ignorant bastards have done,' said Will Longdon.
* There was a rising panic among the women, but Jean de Hangest went among them and reminded them of their rank and that their behaviour should reflect it, and vowed that no harm would come to them. The Dauphin's family were still secure, but it would make no difference if the twenty or so knights and Blackstone's men-at-arms could not halt the surge that would soon swamp the bridge. They would all die. Although the men numbered a few more than a hundred they had the advantage of being on horseback and well armoured, and the peasants in their stupidity were no more than an enraged mob. Blackstone had shouted across the yard where he saw Henry, sword in hand, and told him to stay with his mother and sister, to stand with the other pages and the frightened women. A sentry on the wall cried out his warning. 'They've opened the far gate! They're coming onto the bridge!' Blackstone looked to where Will Longdon's archers stood in ranks of three – a formation to lay down arrows across a narrow but deep killing zone. He steadied his horse, its withers rippling, head tipping forward, tugging at the reins in his left hand, eager to lead those horses that stood on its flanks.
The men-at-arms bristled with tension, crowding behind the Marché's gates. The sentry shouted his warning again. 'Halfway! Hundreds of them jamming the bridge!' Blackstone and his men were the vanguard; it was they who would drive the wedge through the mob and they who would be most at risk. He tightened Wolf Sword's blood knot on his wrist, saw Fra Caprini cross himself and smiled as Killbere hawked and spat, as unperturbed as if he were about to go on a day's hunting. He watched as Will Longdon and the others braced one leg forward, their first arrow balanced on the stave. He felt their readiness. Remembered being shoulder to shoulder. They would bend forward and then arch their back muscles to get the extra flight from their arrows as if their bodies themselves were bows – and then Nock! Draw! Loose! Sinew and strength and a skill honed since childhood. He grinned. Will Longdon saw him and nodded. Dear Christ, it was good. A rumbling thunder of the hundreds pounding across the bridge rose up over the stronghold's walls. De Hangest called for the gates to be opened.
Blackstone saw the mob in his mind's eye. 'Wait! Forty paces!' he called out. 'Give them forty paces! Then open the gates!' De Hangest was about to protest, but saw the sense of it. At forty paces they would still be surging forward, the weight of those behind forcing those in front onward; to then open the gates allowed the knights to spur their horses. The clash of the opponents would drive the horse's hooves over them in a bone-crushing impact. De Hangest looked up. The sentry raised an arm. And then dropped it. 'Now!' The gates swung open and de Hangest dug his heels into his horse. Blackstone, with John Jacob at his side, and Caprini and Killbere barely a stride behind, followed, gathering their killing instincts into a snarling cry. Those in the first ten ranks of the mob's wave faltered, their terror-etched faces mouthing curses, arms raised helplessly to protect themselves against the huge beasts. For twenty yards Blackstone and his phalanx did not strike a sword blow, their horses' weight and their iron-shod hooves smashed through the body of men and women, whose cries were drowned by those horses behind Blackstone. Astride the war horse he felt its awkward gait adjust to the smashed bodies. Blood spattered high onto his legs and then, as the horde tried to turn and run, Wolf Sword began to swing in its rhythmic and graceful murderous arc.
Twenty yards from the end of the bridge wholesale panic gripped the mob as a flight of arrows suddenly descended into the bottleneck. The thud of steel-tipped bodkins, the fist of God hurled from the heavens, claimed fifty or more peasants. Screams and shouts echoed across the river as the cut of sword and axe made the bridge a butcher's yard of misery. The bastard horse snorted, its head down, straining to run faster, needing to be controlled, as, nostrils flaring, it smelt the blood. Ten yards. Another whisper of arrow shafts. Close, Will! Not too close! We're on them! Blackstone's mind yelled, fearing his centenar's miscalculation, his shoulders tightening unconsciously, expecting a yard of ash and goose feathers to run him through. Five yards! The bodies jumbled and the three layers of arrows fell again. Dear Christ! Too close! But fear became exultation – to be so close to the lethal storm, almost feeling their whisper on him. It enthralled him as the arrows struck and smashed their targets. And then he was among those who had no place to run except to turn and face the knights in a desperate attempt to fight with their backs against the buildings' walls, in the narrow streets choked with heaving panic. The taste of terror soured their throats as Blackstone and his men forged straight ahead into the city. Out of the corner of his eye he saw de Grailly lead his men to the left, their horses being urged across the dead and dying and the harvest of arrow shafts that rose up from the bloodied furrows of the slain bodies.
Will Longdon had timed his archers' strikes perfectly. Blackstone felt the wound on his leg split when he and John Jacob jostled each other as they plunged into near darkness of the narrow streets. Red and blue hoods mingled with the rough cloth of the Jacquerie as the Parisian militia tried to escape with those they supported. Men were crushed against house walls as the horses pressed them; others could not stumble over their fallen comrades in time before Meulon and Gaillard rammed spears into them. Fra Stefano Caprini raised his voice to God and called for his past sins to be forgiven as he slashed man and woman beneath his sword. Women and children screamed in terror. Mothers abandoned their young as fear erased any feeling other than self-preservation. The vengeful horde swept down on the townspeople who had opened their gates. A price had to be exacted. Children tried to run between the horses and were clipped and crushed by their iron-shod hooves. Skulls split and limbs splintered. Killbere plunged into a small square, cobbled and dark, where clothing hung from lines, and dogs ran yelping before the terrified mob, and somewhere in the dark houses babies cried for their absent mothers. He heeled his horse, an almost continuous movement in a circle, yanking rein and digging in spurs. The beast spun in its own length as Killbere lashed the Jacques with his chained flail, its vicious spikes tearing scalps from heads and crunching bones. So swift were his strikes that none could reach up and haul him from his horse, and he grunted with satisfaction at the efficiency of his 'holy-water sprinkler'.
The men-at-arms forced their war horses into the narrow alleys, their heraldic devices looming from the shadows, a final torment for the wounded and dying. No mercy was shown, no act considered too violent. The noblemen regarded vengeance and retribution as their God-given right against these peasants who had torn apart the fabric of their brotherhood. This uprising already lay bleeding on the plateau at Mello, its leader tortured and beheaded in Clermont, and now it would be crushed to death in the streets of Meaux. Von Lienhard and von Groitsch fought alongside four others and then separated as they sought out those who had run into blind alleys, then turned back to pursue others in flight. Loys de Chamby forced a group of men into a boxed side street and was hacking them down; von Lienhard and his fellow German saw that he was in no need of help and rode into a forked street. Too late they saw the crossbowman step from a doorway and level his weapon at the French knight. Von Lienhard cried out a warning; de Chamby wheeled his horse but his shield was down, leaving the side of his face unprotected. The quarrel slammed into his helmet, punching through his skull, shattering teeth and blinding him. He swayed and fell, allowing the peasants to take their chance and escape. Von Groitsch spurred his horse after them as von Lienhard forced the crossbowman into a doorway. Unable to reload the weapon in time he threw the useless crossbow at the knight and drew his sword, but the German deflected it with his shield, leaned from the saddle and rammed his sword point beneath the man's chin.
Archers, each one carrying a sword and a burning reed torch, had run across the bridge, jumping over contorted corpses, cursing as they stepped and slithered through their gore. Will Longdon gave his orders. 'Halfpenny! Men with you, others with Thurgood and the rest with me. Torch the bastards. Don't get separated!' he yelled as he ran into the nearest house and spilled tallow onto straw bedding, setting it ablaze. From house to house they went, the flames following them, casting the men's shadows higher. Longdon rammed his sword into a man huddled into a doorway, whose arms were outstretched for pity, a whisper for water barely escaping his lips as the burning took hold and snaked from floor to floor, seizing a foothold on each overhanging house. Like snarling lions the flames leapt across the void, clawing onto the dry timbers. Will directed the men at his shoulder to go left and right. Kill and burn was his chant as he raced towards the sounds of screams and fighting. Breathless and sweating, he saw two knights beating off a mob of peasants, the savage cuts hacking limbs from those who raised their arms in a hopeless act of self-defence. One of the knights turned his horse and then fell without a sound as a crossbow bolt struck his helmet. Slivers of light cut the gloom and Longdon saw the German slay the peasant archer. Then the horse was spurred on and away into another side alley. Longdon ran forward. The French knight was dead right enough; what was left of his shattered mouth hung from his skull, eyes gaping, the bolt protruding through his pug-faced skull. Longdon reached for the sword, a fine weapon, but to seize a French knight's weapon when they fought as allies could lead to accusations of murder and looting. He thought better of it and crouched, seeking to find where the fight had taken the men-at-arms. Smoke began to choke the passageways. Longdon knelt to draw breath, wiping the grimy sweat from his brow; cries echoed and screams drowned all but the loudest cries of pain. Steel clanged and horses whinnied while somewhere ahead he heard a German's derisive voice barking at those he killed.
Houses were burning fiercely, forcing Longdon to duck and weave as a tapestry of flames licked across the walls. In the veils of smoke a horseman was slashing this way and that at any peasant who dared strike at him. Men wearing the parti-coloured hoods of red and blue seemed to be everywhere but the horseman was cutting them down efficiently, using his horse to wheel and crush. Some tried to claw their way into a smouldering house but could not escape his blows. A baby wailed in the doorway. Longdon hesitated as he tried to keep the knight in view through the thickening smoke, but the baby's piercing cries finally proved too insistent to ignore. The battle-hardened archer dropped his torch and reached into the entrance and plucked the infant from the ragged bodies that lay on the threshold. Another few minutes and flames would lick down the narrow passage, drawn by the air, a beast that needed constant feeding. A dead woman's body half covered the child; perhaps she had tried to protect it from a sword slash and died herself instead. Longdon held the child to him, picked his way clear of the bodies, and took it a dozen paces away from the burning house. He could do no more than take the infant away from the flames and nestle it against the bodies of slain men and women. It would die, but at least it would not suffer the torment of the fire. He quickly ducked away as he realized what must be done to save Thomas Blackstone from the challenge of the superior swordsman. No arrogant-bastard knight would bring down his friend and sworn lord if he could stop it. A dead militiaman sprawled on top of those slain by the German, who now urged his horse down another street. Longdon sheathed his sword, pulled the man's crossbow from beneath his body and found the quarrels in the man's belt. Ignoring the dead body's sagging resistance he put his foot into the weapon's stirrup against the man's chest, hauled back the cord, settled his breathing and then the bolt.
Clambering over the corpses he reached the street corner, pressed his shoulder against the wall to steady his aim and brought the weapon up to his master-archer's eye. The swirling smoke funnelled upwards from the narrow twisting lane to cloak the German, who half turned, shield high, thirty feet away, the wide-eyed harpy's mouth screaming its silent delight at the slaughter, her talons seemingly reaching down to claw at the desperate peasants falling beneath the sword. Longdon felt a brief moment of admiration for the simple weapon that allowed a man to kill so easily at close range. The bolt slammed into the back of the German's neck, its impact throwing him forward across the horse's withers, startling the horse forward, deeper into the gloom. Will Longdon threw aside the crossbow and turned back to find his men. There was no need for more slaughter: the men-at-arms had inflicted a biblical revenge worthy of any crow-black priest's exhortation. What he needed now was a drink. The day's killing ceased when the Captal de Buch and his knights swept beyond the city walls and into the surrounding countryside, where the peasants scattered in disarray, making it as easy to kill them in the open as it had been in the narrow streets. Once through the city Blackstone led his men in a great flanking curve that halted any retreat and forced many of the defeated Jacques onto their knees, pleading for mercy. The noblemen's code of honour did not extend to the murdering peasants and their retribution against those in the uprising was savage. Bodies hung from trees; every village in the surrounding area was razed to the ground. Some of the leaders who were betrayed by their own followers were hamstrung, left to crawl for what remained of their pitiful lives.
Blackstone turned back his men once he saw the rout was complete. He felt no thirst for revenge against the Jacques; they had taken their chance to seize their land and failed, and their punishment had been swift, their threat crushed. It had been a long day of slaughter and his leg needed attention. He sat on horseback with the Tau knight, their blood-splattered jupons testament to the close-quarter killing. None of his men had been killed; some had taken light wounds, but a barber-surgeon could treat those who needed it. Blackstone preferred Caprini's administrations. 'That will burn for a month and a day,' said John Jacob as the three men watched the thick smoke rise from the city. 'It'll stink like a damned hog roast in there.' 'A funeral pyre for the damned,' said Caprini. 'A stench you can't wash from your nostrils,' Blackstone told him. His leg throbbed and blood oozed through his breeches, staining darker and wetter than the blood of his victims. 'The nobles will gather their forces now. Let them finish it.'
Killbere rode towards them as Meulon and Gaillard gathered the men. 'Thomas! These noblemen have inflicted God's justice on the poor bastards, and I've no taste for it. It's not sport and it's not battle and I'm tired of it. We should get drunk and be on our way.' 'That we should,' said Blackstone and, ignoring the wrench on his wounded leg, eased his horse forward. As they approached the city walls, they found the gates still open, and this time, instead of being met by the mayor and his officials, they were greeted by his body swinging from the gibbet alongside his officials. 'Arrogant shit,' said Killbere. 'Didn't like him the moment he opened his mouth. Let's hope he choked slowly.' Making their way through the streets, they found a route that was not blocked by fallen timbers and flames, or choked with bodies from the assault. As they rode through the gate at the far end of the bridge Will Longdon's men were retrieving what arrows they could from the dead. Some shafts could be reused, but damaged fletchings would not fly well, and patient, skilled work from the archers would be demanded to repair them.
'You loosed so close to me I thought I was going to be shaved,' Blackstone said to Longdon, who was carefully examining a fletching. Longdon grinned. 'You moved too quickly. I thought you would be doing more killing with that blade of yours.' Blackstone nodded, looking about at the others, counting the men quickly. 'All safe?' 'You didn't leave us much to do,' Longdon said and began the walk back to the stronghold alongside Blackstone's horse. 'Most of the knights had themselves a fine day. Some of them are back and they're exhausted.' 'I hear sympathy in your voice, Will. Slaughtering the multitude is a hard day's work for some of these men.' Longdon handed a wineskin up to Blackstone, who drank deeply. 'Plenty of food and drink to be had, though much of it's gone up in flames. Should've left some of 'em alive though, to clean up the mess.' He grinned again and reached up for his wineskin, but it was already at Killbere's lips. 'You're welcome, Sir Gilbert, it was only a drop to wet the throat of a hard-working archer.'
'Longdon, you haven't worked a hard day in your life and this wine is piss-poor. Find some ale, for God's sake.' 'Burning down a city takes time and effort, Sir Gilbert. And it's dangerous. There were times I near took a wrong turn and got myself trapped. Damned near cooked I was,' said Longdon with enough sarcasm to earn him a spew of wine from Killbere that he quickly sidestepped. 'Aye, we'll get you in the kitchens then if you're that good with lighting a fire.' He tossed the wineskin to the Tau knight. 'But your archers did a half-decent job at the end of the day,' he said. 'Make sure they know it. You're their centenar. Give them praise where it's due.' The horsemen moved ahead, but Killbere turned in the saddle. 'And use that tone with me again and I'll have you cleaning the shit drains!' Longdon watched the horsemen move past him, a curse on his lips but pride in his heart. His men had done all he asked and these horsemen knew it. Arrogant shits. Not Thomas Blackstone though, he told himself. Not him. Killbere's threat was nothing. It had to be said, was all. He burned with the desire to tell Blackstone that he had seen von Lienhard go down in the streets with a quarrel through his brain. More than anything did he wish to tell his friend that this was one fight that did not need to be fought and that he, Will Longdon, had seen to it. It had surely been God's plan to see Blackstone and his family reunited. And he had been chosen to see it done. Perhaps, he thought, he should find a priest and tell him that. An archer chosen by God to do His will. Now that would have Killbere choking till he dropped.
Blackstone turned to Killbere. 'He's an archer's man, Gilbert, don't chastise him too much.' 'You're too damned friendly with them, Thomas. They're archers, they need to know a man-at-arms cares little more for them than their skill.' Killbere grinned. 'I wish we had more of them and that's the truth. But you will keep silent on that.' 'You believe I would?' Killbere sighed. 'You damned near pissed yourself when those arrows fell so close. And it wasn't through fear. I saw that. Christ, given half the chance you'd be back in their ranks whoring, drinking, fighting and killing the French. But using the sword is what you're bred for now, Thomas. What we need is a proper fight. Stepping forward and hearing the drums and trumpets. We'll die old men in our beds, shitting ourselves like mewling infants.' His frustration bubbled over. 'We need another war, and if Edward doesn't come at the Dauphin now and seize the crown then he never will!' He looked apologetically at Blackstone and shrugged. 'Is how I see it.'
'I will be sure to let him know your feelings when I see him.' 'I always knew there was something of a gossiping woman about you,' said Killbere with a grin. They rode into the yard where exhausted knights sat where they had dismounted. Horses stood head low from hours of giving chase. Men's blood-flecked faces stared at him and he realized he probably looked no different. Servants and pages brought refreshments to their masters as knights dipped their heads into pails, flicking the sweat and water from their caked hair, dragging fingers through bloodied beards. Swords were unbuckled, gauntlets dragged from aching hands; horses remained as yet unsaddled. Blackstone had seen men as tired as this after battle and it told him how much killing had gone on over the past hours. Brother Bertrand ran forward to take the horse. 'Two knights killed, Sir Thomas, but there are dead as far as the eye can see from the ramparts. We are blessed by your return,' he said with his usual idiot grin as Blackstone eased himself from the saddle. He needed Caprini to dress the wound again. The monk noticed. 'With respect, Sir Thomas, you should have let me stitch that wound.'
Blackstone saw the cuts on the horse's flanks. One deeper than the other. Its muscles rippled as he laid a hand on it, its head turning, but held by Bertrand. 'Apply your skills to him,' he told Bertrand. 'Do it properly and you'll be rewarded,' he said. 'Reward enough to be with you, Sir Thomas,' said Bertrand, leading the battle-scarred horse away. Killbere handed his reins to a stable-hand and muttered. 'That stain on his face is from kissing your arse.' 'Is there anyone you have a good word for?' said Blackstone. 'My King. I love my King. Who else is worthy?' he said and laughed, placing a hand on Blackstone's shoulder. As they walked into the bailey the gathered knights turned their attention towards him. The Captal and the Count of Foix had emerged from the great hall. Blackstone's instincts warned him of an impending threat. De Grailly had no smile of welcome on his face. Will Longdon led his men in from the bridge and saw Blackstone and the others crossing the yard towards de Grailly and the Count of Foix. The Captal de Buch said something, shook his head and gestured towards a knight who stood at the far side of the yard.
It was von Lienhard. He had killed the wrong man. * Longdon's stomach knotted as the German looked towards the archers and then raised an arm and pointed towards him. His mouth went dry. Had there been a witness? Everyone in the yard turned to face him and he thought of how he might run. Murdering a knight was a crime that would see him swinging from a rope in the next few minutes. Panic gripped him. He turned to push his way back across the bridge when he saw the dead German's horse and the knight's body laid across the saddle being led into the bailey. It was the dead knight being brought into the stronghold they were looking at, not the archer. He sucked in breath. His panic subsided and was soon overtaken with bitter self-recrimination. He had failed Thomas Blackstone and now his friend would likely die. * 'Sweet Christ, there has been enough bloodshed this day,' said the Captal de Buch to an insistent von Lienhard. The blood-smeared German hawked and spat the sourness from his throat. His own blood was up from the day's killing, and he could see the Blackstone fared worse through his exhaustion and wounded leg.
The Captal looked with some disdain at the German. 'It is customary for those who fight a judicial contest to fast and attend a vigil through the night.' 'My Lord de Grailly, these are extraordinary circumstances. There are still Jacques to be hunted down and punished. There is a kingdom at stake and this matter is trifling in comparison. I insist it is fought.' De Grailly knew von Lienhard had a good point. There was still work to be done beyond the walls. 'I have fought with Teutonic Knights and admired their courage and honour when on crusade against the pagans. But you would have this matter settled today, when the light is failing and we have done our duty? Sir Thomas's wound must be attended to. It would be honourable to withdraw until such time as he is healed.' Von Lienhard seemed as gracious as if he had been invited to a summer feast. 'If he wishes to retire then I shall step aside.' He smiled at Blackstone though his eyes did not. 'I do not need him to be bear any injury in order for me to beat him. But his wife must recant her accusation.'
De Grailly fumed, almost forgetting his superior rank and succumbing to a verbal brawl. 'Well, Thomas? Will she? I'll not have her harmed if she does. And then this matter is closed.' If he could convince Christiana to drop her accusation then von Lienhard would be free with his honour intact. Blackstone looked directly at each man in turn. These men did not know his wife, and Blackstone would not try and convince her to recant. 'This vile knight inflicted a foul death and instigated worse on a good man's family. My wife is prepared to risk her life and orphan her children to see him punished. There is no need to delay our contest. I will have my leg bound and take food and drink, if my Lord de Grailly permits it.' The Captal nodded. Everyone was weary after the day's killing, and although the clear summer evening would last for another hour, the darkness would then be upon them. 'Have torches readied, and fires lit,' he told de Hangest. 'This matter will be concluded tonight. Bring the Lady Christiana out, prepare her.' He cast a glance at Blackstone. 'Make certain she has her cloak. It's a warm night but... she will be chilled,' he said.
Blackstone was grateful for his consideration, and inclined his head in recognition. De Grailly stepped away from the two combatants and looked up to where the women stood in the colonnade. It did not matter that he privately believed Christiana, there were rules that bound men to their honour – at least in a matter such as this. The men below and on the ramparts watched him as he turned and faced the walls that separated the stronghold from the city beyond the river, where the sky still churned with smoke. If the night went badly, and the wind of good fortune shifted, they would be smothered by it. 'The wager of battle will commence in one hour when compline is rung! Let a priest be called and the oaths taken!' de Grailly called across the stronghold. It was all that needed to be said. A man was going to die and a woman's life might be forfeit. 'Bind it well, Fra Stefano, I'll need it as strong as it can be made,' Blackstone told the Tau knight. The Italian had cleaned the wound and applied a dry linen dressing, and then carefully fashioned the boiled leather from an archer's bracer and bound it to give the leg rigidity. 'You should pray before the oath,' he said. 'I cannot do that for you.'
'You can pray for my family.' 'I can pray for the world but sometimes God chooses to let His plan unfold without intervention.' He paused as he attended the wound and looked up at Blackstone. 'You will die when the time is determined.' For a moment Caprini's grim countenance made Blackstone feel that the Italian man of God had a direct communication with the Almighty. Brother Bertrand brought food and drink, and then washed Blackstone's back, dried him, and helped him into a fresh linen shirt. The padded jacket was still wet from the day's exertions but the fresh cloth next to Blackstone's skin would refresh him. The two men attended to him as Will Longdon and the other captains sat a few feet away. 'We can fight our way out of here,' said Killbere. 'There's no need for this, you know, Thomas. There are enough of us.' 'My men will be standing by the gate and I have Gaillard on the ramparts with others ready to raise the portcullis,' said Meulon. 'Sir Thomas, I will ram my spear down any man's throat if I see you fall.'
Blackstone stayed silent, letting Caprini and Bertrand fuss at their duties. 'Bertrand, did you rub down my horse?' he asked, ignoring the others. 'With handfuls of dry straw, Sir Thomas. I cleaned his hooves of flesh and mud, and fed him the best oats that Jack Halfpenny stole from the grain store. Your horse is an ungrateful beast. He bit me here,' he said, pulling up his cassock and showing the bruise and outline of the horse's teeth on his buttocks. 'That's him poisoned, then,' said Will Longdon, glad for the fool distracting them from the business at hand. 'You cannot die from a horse bite. We all know that,' said Gaillard derisively. 'The fucking horse! Gaillard. The horse!' Will Longdon said in exasperation, his own nervousness simmering beneath the surface. How could the Norman still not understand an Englishman's humour? The captains laughed, but it was forced, and even Gaillard nodded and grinned sheepishly. 'I knew that, Will,' he said giving the moment to the archer, and allowing it as a truce between them.
Blackstone was already fighting von Lienhard in his mind. The first strokes were vital. Caprini had told him of the German's efficiency, those calculated and well-rehearsed guards, each held for a blink of an eye, high guard, low, cut, strike and the turn on the balls of his feet as if he wore little more than a linen shirt rather than armour. His gaze followed the men stacking bundles of wood at each end of the yard that would be lit as bonfires so that the combatants might have more than torchlight held by men in the arena. A trestle table had been paced in the middle of the yard and a priest laid out a crucifix for the oath-taking. The judicium Dei – the judgement of God – would soon be decided. Blackstone kissed the pagan goddess at his throat and stood up. The leg felt good; it hurt but the binding was tight. John Jacob elbowed Bertrand out the way and began to dress Blackstone. 'Gilbert, did you speak to Henry?' 'I did. He will be with his sister. He's a good lad. He'll not let you down.'
'I have no doubt of that. See to it that he finds a good knight to serve if this does not go well.' 'It will go as well as you expect, Thomas. You've fought better men than him, for Christ's sake. He fights like a girl with a wooden stick!' The men laughed and Meulon stepped forward with Wolf Sword. 'I have honed it, Sir Thomas; its edge will split a hair.' 'Let's hope it will do the same for the head beneath it,' said Blackstone as Jacob strapped the armour to him. Meulon's beard opened and exposed his grin. 'I won't let him kill you, Sir Thomas. I'll hang for it, but your King and your men need you.' There was a murmur of agreement from the gathered men. 'No. You will be hunted down wherever you go. I've told Sir Gilbert and John what's to be done if I go down.' Killbere spat in the dirt. 'Thomas, we'll not interfere in this. You will stand your ground, Meulon. Sir Thomas must face his own demons, like every man here. But if he kills you, we'll kill him. Pure and simple. We'll pincushion the bastard with a dozen bodkins. It won't help you, being dead, but you can look down and see his tormented soul wrestling with the devil.' He took a breath and embraced Blackstone. 'I took a boy to war once, and then I rode with a man. You can beat him, Thomas,' he said emphatically. 'You and that damned pagan goddess will see him despatched to hell – helped on his way by Fra Caprini's prayers. Eh?'
The day's light had eased from the clear sky and men rammed burning torches into the stacked wood. The great red glow lit up the yard. In what remained of the city a church bell rang out for compline. The end of the day. The Captal de Buch and the Count of Foix sat foremost on the benches that had been set up on the edge of the contest area. Bascot de Mauléon sat behind them with the other surviving knights and their squires. Jean de Hangest stood to one side. He had duties to perform before the contest began. An almost ghostly whisper went among the women who gathered at the colonnaded gallery as Christiana was brought out and helped to stand on a stool with her back braced against a pillar. Blackstone watched as her hands were bound and a sergeant-at-arms eased the noose around her neck, then looked down towards the Captal and nodded. When Blackstone was killed or forced to admit defeat through his wounds, she would be pushed over the edge. 'Right, lads, let's take position,' said Killbere. The old fighter would have the men placed around the yard. If they were forced to kill von Lienhard then they would need to be in control of the castle.
Killbere eased Will Longdon to one side and whispered in his ear. The archer looked up towards Christiana, his face ashen, but Killbere's stern look made him nod his understanding. As Brother Bertrand was of no use to the fighting men he was instructed to wipe the smile from his face and carry Blackstone's helm as the Tau knight stood with him carrying the unsheathed Wolf Sword. Von Lienhard had a squire assigned to him and a servant who carried out the same duties as Caprini and Bertrand. They had not yet put on their helms and wore only their padded leather caps. Each stared unflinchingly at the other as the priest signalled them to stop before the makeshift altar. The sky's deep blue mantle closed over the castle. Flames from the fires lurched higher as the priest instructed the two knights. 'Your mortal souls are in danger,' said the priest. 'You will both swear a solemn oath damning yourself to forsake the joys of heaven should you be proved liars by the outcome of this challenge.' 'I so swear,' said Blackstone and von Lienhard.
Both men were then signalled to kneel, ready to kiss the crucifix. Blackstone felt the wound tear; his balance wavered slightly, a slight movement that did not go unnoticed by von Lienhard. As was customary in a contest of mortal combat both men knelt opposite each other, left hand, unencumbered by its gauntlet, extended across the makeshift altar grasping the other's bare hand. Their right hands touched the crucifix ready to swear their cause to be just and to call upon Lord God Jesus to witness his proclamation. Blackstone felt the man's grip exerting its strength, a small act of dominance before the eyes of God, pressing the bones in his hand. He let it tighten and offered little resistance. If that was how the German wanted to impress him then so be it. Jean de Hangest, as marshal of the contest, laid his palm across their bare hands. The final oath was to be spoken so that all those in the yard and the women above heard their voices clearly. Blackstone tilted his head and looked over his opponent's head towards Christiana. His voice rang out across the void between them.
'My cause is to defend my wife's honour and to prove that her accusations against this knight are truthful and that his foul actions and deeds are evil, and that he is unfit to live in God's eyes.' Von Lienhard could barely keep the sneer from his lips, and kept his gaze directed at Blackstone, uttering his oath like a direct threat to the man he intended to kill. 'I swear that the accusation levelled against me is false and that I have just cause to defend myself. I shall prove my innocence by this man's death.' De Hangest raised his hand. 'Let it be in God's hands.' He stepped back, allowing the two men to get to their feet; the priest turned, made the sign of the cross, replaced the crucifix and began a quiet incantation as the German looked past Blackstone at the two men who stood a few paces behind him. The Tau knight and the monk stared back at him, as defiant as the man they served. There had been no occasion for von Lienhard to have seen either man closer than this before. They were many who milled about the yard, but he could swear he had seen one of them before – but where? He could not place the man and his mind gnawed at the thought. He was dressed differently than he remembered, he knew that, but it was more than the man's clothes that shielded his memory from remembering. It made no difference. It was one of those things, unimportant now. Once he had killed Blackstone he would approach the man.
The priest turned to face them and began to relate the psalm often spoken for the night-time prayer at compline. 'In te, Dómine, sperávi, non confúndar in ætérnum; in iustítia tua líbera me. Inclína ad me aurem tuam, accélera, ut éruas me. Esto mihi in rupem præsídii et in domum munítam, ut salvum me fácias.' Blackstone had heard it in his childhood from the village priest. He never understood it, but had learnt over the years that it had something to do with putting his trust in God and justice. And, he remembered, it asked God to rescue the supplicant. He looked at von Lienhard. He had a light in his eyes that was more than the reflection from the fires. It was one of confidence. Of victory. Caprini eased Blackstone's helm onto his head and tightened the double straps at the back to make it sit correctly, while Bertrand held the gauntlet for Blackstone to push his hand deep into its leather palm. He flexed his grip feeling the tightness of the metal joints that extended across the back of his fingers and hand. Wolf Sword's blood knot slipped over onto his wrist.
'He has raised studs on his gauntlet, Sir Thomas,' said Bertrand. 'They will tear apart your face if you lift your visor.' 'Since when did you know about fighting?' Blackstone said as he readied his crooked arm for Caprini to ease on his shield. The monk dropped his eyes at the rebuff. 'A warning is all, Sir Thomas,' said Brother Bertrand, chastened. 'I have eyes of my own,' said Blackstone, keeping them on von Lienhard as his helm was adjusted and the locking pin for its visor tested. Caprini fussed with the helmet, and faced Blackstone as he satisfied himself it was as good as it could be. 'I cannot help you in this matter, Sir Thomas, and I am in danger of failing to keep you from harm,' he said, helping to settle the shield on Blackstone's arm. 'He is very quick with his feet, strong in his chest and arms, and he will attack first. I saw it at Windsor. And in the instant of you raising your sword arm to strike, he will come beneath the blow and use his shoulder to throw you to the ground. It will happen suddenly. Prepare yourself because your leg will not be able to resist.'
Blackstone took a final glance towards his men. Killbere and John Jacob had positioned themselves on each flank of the archers, who stood, bows strung, some resting their hand on their belts a fingertip away from their arrows. On the opposite side Christiana was held by her executioner, a grim look of forced courage on her face. Everyone sensed that von Lienhard was the more skilled of the two men. In a final plea Caprini put his face close to Blackstone's, his dark eyes locking onto the Englishman. Blackstone heard not the words of an avowed hospitaller knight, but those of a man more used to slaughter than to prayer. 'I vowed to protect you. Save my honour and take the knife I offered. Slip it between the joints of his armour, low, thrust up through his chest, use your weight, drop your sword at that moment and force the blade into his heart with all your strength.' His gaunt face tightened in its urging. Blackstone gazed back into the man's dark eyes. 'I'll kill him my own way,' he said.
Fra Stefano Caprini raised an eyebrow, but said nothing more. Blackstone knew he would need a sorcerer's spell to be lucky enough to kill the German. He was a killer spurred on by the desire to revenge himself for his brother's death on the battlefield. He wanted Wolf Sword in his own hand and his honour restored. He was the Visconti's man and there were many defeats, also, to be avenged. No matter what cause or reason goaded von Lienhard on, Blackstone had too much to lose other than his own life. Much could go wrong in a fight and it would take only one hesitation, a single moment of uncertainty to allow a telling blow to break through the German's defence. All he had to do was survive long enough for such a moment to present itself. And chivalry would die the moment the first blow was struck. As the priest hurriedly moved away Blackstone and von Lienhard moved onto the unpaved area of the bailey, a place where livestock would once have grazed. The ground was now bare, trodden underfoot into compacted dirt, with what little grass remained pressed hard into the surface, ready to grow when the rains came and the hundreds of men stopped trampling it. Blackstone and von Lienhard stood five paces apart, each with sword and shield, each with a knife fastened to his belt. Their iron shoes scuffed the dirt, telling them where it was uneven, where an unbalance might be forced. The huge fires cast their light across the yard; shadows raised high onto the walls, the heat from the flames adding to the night's warmth and the sweat that already trickled down the combatants' spines. Blackstone clenched Wolf Sword's grip and tried to draw his opponent in, quickly looking down as if to see that the tuft of ground would trip him. Von Lienhard lunged, head and sword low, with no intention to bring down a strike from a high guard, as Caprini had predicted, the expectation being that his opponent would instinctively raise his sword, allowing the German to barge his shoulder beneath the raised arm and throw Blackstone to the ground.
Blackstone sidestepped, brought his injured leg back a pace, and slammed his shield into the harpy's demented image. Von Lienhard had the momentum and strength, but Blackstone's half-turn and shield defence forced the man past him, and as he went by Blackstone slammed Wolf Sword's pommel down on the back of his helmet. He felt the blow connect, knew it would startle for a moment but would force the German to bend at the waist, half turn, slash backhanded, cover with his shield and expect his blade to connect with the Englishman's thigh. Blackstone's guess was correct, but he was too slow to move out of the way of the scything blade and he was lucky that it was only the flat of von Lienhard's sword that smacked against his wound. Inside the suffocating visor Blackstone grimaced as the pain flared. It was a non-lethal strike, the pain could be borne and used to spur him on, but von Lienhard was already attacking again. Blackstone heard him grunting, forcing out his breath as he hacked and swung in a flurry of blows, his muscular build propelling strength into his sword arm. Blackstone parried his blow with his shield, deflected the blade with his own, felt the hardened steel bite as von Lienhard twisted, and somehow, more quickly than Blackstone realized, brought the sword down, almost striking his shoulder where even his armour would have been crushed and weakened. He caught the hardened steel on his shield, felt it bite, and twisted, hoping the blade stayed embedded. But von Lienhard stepped back, ripped it free, swung from the shoulder, a great arc aimed at a joint. Blackstone turned on the balls of his feet, the blade tip whispering past his neck, and, as he tried to regain his balance, von Lienhard struck again and again. The two massive blows forced Blackstone to take the strikes on his shield, once again rendering his own sword arm useless. Von Lienhard was beating down blows. The blade's edge would not be the killing strike; these were weakening attacks to smash away resistance and destroy his opponent's shield. Von Lienhard was seeking the opening, ready to thrust the sword's tip in and sever arteries and muscle, bringing his opponent down so that he could be finished. Blackstone could not move quickly enough. The leg's binding held, but the wound protested. He knew there would come a moment when he would blink the sweat from his eyes and realize that the man attacking him would kill him in a few more strikes. He was outclassed and everyone, including Blackstone, knew it. The crowd was hushed as steel clashed and the dull thud of sword meeting shield became a steady rhythm of unrelenting assault as both men grunted and swore from their effort.
Killbere shuffled his feet, shoulders twitching as he fought a constrained battle of his own. 'Jesus Christ, Thomas has not made one decent strike. Come on, man. You can see what he does now. You've tested him enough,' he muttered. As if Killbere's whispered frustration reached him Blackstone seized a moment as von Lienhard's sword swept past his head and could not be raised quickly enough for another attack. Wolf Sword arced down in a lethal strike that would have cleaved the man from shoulder to hip had he not worn plate. Von Lienhard sucked in air, twisted from the waist, took the strike mostly on his shield, deadening the effect as half the blade caught his shoulder. The blow cut through the harpy's outstretched wings, severing her naked breasts. Von Lienhard's arm would have broken from the force of the blow and was saved only by the strength of his now useless shield. He tossed it aside and in the same instant threw himself at Blackstone, trying to smother him. Blackstone, still encumbered by his shield, turned on the balls of his feet, threw his shield arm around von Lienhard, pulling him close and beat Wolf Sword's pommel against his helm. They wrestled as if in a tavern brawl, Blackstone bringing all his strength to bear.
'I slew your brother!' he hissed. 'And I'll send you to him!' he goaded the German, trying to force more errors from him, but von Lienhard wrenched free, steadied himself, the ringing in his ears clearing although sweat near-blinded him. He shook his head, saw Blackstone rid himself of his shield and attack. 'Now he has him!' John Jacob cried. Blood pounded through Blackstone's mind. A vendetta was being fought: two men, each fighting to revenge his brother. Blackstone heard the surge in his ears and the welcome strength from the urge to kill overtook him; this time he would not hold back as he had done with the Prince. He ignored his slow-moving leg, forced it to do things no wounded leg should be asked to do. Wolf Sword struck every blow with a power that should have brought von Lienhard to his knees. But the German's skill, powered by hate and evil, kept him alive. He deflected a strike and swung his studded gauntlet against Blackstone's head. His shoulder was behind the blow and Blackstone felt his teeth rattle and his tongue bleed. The sour, metallic taste filled his mouth and he spat within the confines of his visor. His breath rasped, but he feinted his next strike and as von Lienhard shifted his weight Blackstone's bunched fist came down like a mace, striking the side of von Lienhard's head. The spectators cried out as the German stumbled from the massive blow and Blackstone brought Wolf Sword up, ready to deliver a lethal strike.
A gasp went up from the crowd as Blackstone lunged and his leg buckled. One of the huge fires spat a cloud of sparks into the night sky – an omen of the devil's breath. Blackstone recovered, gripped his sword's blade halfway down with his left hand, used it to block von Lienhard's strike, turned it to pound him with the pommel, using Wolf Sword like a two handed-club, then jabbed its point into his armour, desperately seeking a weakness that would yield to its sharpness and allow its lethal point into flesh. The blade skidded and bounced off the fine armour. The moment had been lost. And Blackstone knew it. Von Lienhard counter-attacked. Blackstone stood his ground. He could no longer move lightly on the balls of his feet. The wound would not let him. It was only a matter of time now before the more agile knight cut his legs from beneath him and the moment he was on the ground von Lienhard would find enough gaps in Blackstone's poorly fitting armour to pierce. Both men heaved from exertion and heat, desperate to yank back visors and suck in air, but both denied themselves the temptation. As flames and shadows competed across the yard, faces in the crowd turned expectantly towards the German, anticipating a kill. Von Lienhard would take fewer than a half-dozen strokes to finish it now that Blackstone could not move quickly. The clash of steel was dulled, his own thudding heart and rasping breath closing out whatever cries came from the spectators. Men stood, fists clenched; women raised their hands to their mouths; other faces showed the rapture of conflict, as lustful as a man who desires a naked woman. Von Lienhard struck once, twice, half turned, three times, another, then a fifth. Blackstone couldn't field the blows quickly enough. He went down on one knee as von Lienhard's momentum took him a few strides past him.
Wait! Blackstone's mind told him. Let him come! His sword lowered as if from exhaustion. His head drooped, half turned so he could glimpse von Lienhard's attack as he moved, feet shuffling, gaining ground, finding balance, muscles pumped. Von Lienhard came in for the kill. Blackstone was before him – helpless, finally succumbing to the inevitable. Through the narrow slit of his visor he glimpsed the man whose face he knew but could not place standing with Blackstone's men, looking directly at him. As if he knew what was about to happen. His face. That face. Where had he seen it? And then it came to him. A half-lit passage in Milan. A meeting with Galeazzo Visconti and his mad, twisted brother, Bernabò. A door closing behind the man who had been summoned earlier. A half-glance in shadow. Those eyes. It was the knowing eyes that he recalled. That brief moment, less than a breath's worth, caused him to hesitate. The man who had gained Blackstone's trust was the Visconti's assassin. A man of God!
It was the hesitation Blackstone had waited for. Hurling himself at von Lienhard, he bore him to the ground; the men grappled, but Blackstone's weight was on top. Swords were now redundant. Von Lienhard was jabbing with his dagger but finding no entry, while Blackstone yanked savagely at his opponent's visor. The locking pin had jammed. He straddled von Lienhard's chest, pinned his knife arm and rammed the heel of his hand beneath the visor. Once, twice, and then it gave, slamming upwards, revealing the spittle-covered and snarling face. Von Lienhard was strong and now he had air. He sucked it in, arched his back and nearly threw Blackstone off, but Blackstone balanced his weight, urging his mind to revel in the pain from his bent leg. 'Confess!' Blackstone cried. Von Lienhard twisted his head back and forth in denial, raising his legs, trying to kick Blackstone's weight from him. 'Admit your guilt!' Blackstone yelled again. Von Lienhard had lost. He would be taken and hanged. But where there was breath there was hope. With a desperate surge of energy he rolled his shoulder, pushed up his arm, forcing Blackstone's visor up, his fingers clawing inside to rake his studded gauntlet into Blackstone's bloodied face. Blackstone pushed aside his arm and hit him. The punch unleashed from an archer's shoulder muscles slammed into von Lienhard's face, splintering bones. He convulsed, gurgling blood through his shattered mouth. His skull was crushed. His arms flailed and then stopped. A shudder went through him. One blow had killed him, like a beast felled with an axe.
Blackstone pulled his gauntlets free and desperately sought to release his helmet, his fingers unable to undo the fiddly straps. He gave up, and rolled free of the German's body. His men were running towards him, faltering and then stopping, because the fight had yet to be declared. He heard a muted cheer from the spectators, and then eased onto his good leg, almost too tired in that moment to stand. He forced himself onto his feet, faced the senior lord and addressed the Captal de Buch. 'I have discharged my duty, my lord. I beg you to release my wife.' De Grailly stood and signalled to the guards, who eased Christiana down from the parapet. He strode towards Blackstone. 'It is done, Thomas. Dear Christ, I thought he had you a dozen times.' 'He did. But there was not enough hatred behind his sword. I would have dragged him down to hell with me had he cut me.' De Grailly and the Count of Foix looked at the battered man who stood before them. 'Let us hope there are no other brothers in the von Lienhard family,' said the Count.
De Grailly smiled. 'It's been a long, day. Thank God it has ended as it has.' He placed a hand on Blackstone's shoulder and then turned away to join the other knights, who followed him into the castle. Killbere and the others gathered around Blackstone. Caprini undid the straps of his helm and Blackstone gratefully pulled back his leather coif and with his fingers combed the sweat from his hair. Caprini gazed down at the battered corpse that would be stripped and hauled away to be hung by the ankles until it rotted. 'You should have taken my knife, Sir Thomas,' he said quietly, without emotion, and then smiled. 'Better to kill with less effort.' He turned away to allow Blackstone's men to offer their congratulations. Brother Bertrand watched the Tau knight walk away, then picked up the German's torn shield. Why had Caprini offered him his knife? What was it he whispered? he wondered. A man with a background like Caprini's, who now employed violence in the service of God, had deadly skills of his own. Bertrand decided that he should watch Fra Stefano Caprini more carefully.
The battered shield's image glared back at him, the chilling gaze of the harpy, despite now being scarred, seemed as defiant as Blackstone. He looked up as Blackstone stepped towards him. All the skill and brutality in the world was of no use if you hesitated against him. One mistake had cost von Lienhard his life. 'You served God's will, my lord,' said Bertrand. 'I fought for more than that,' Blackstone told him, taking the damaged shield from Brother Bertrand's hands. The wild-eyed harpy had borne down on him twice in his life, and each time the man who carried that shield had nearly taken his life. He had now killed two brothers. One who fought for glory and the other who murdered for gain. Good riddance to both those gods of war. He tossed the shield into the flames. The chimera twisted in the heat, talons curled, teeth bared in a silent scream. Let that be that, he thought. He had been spared, as had Christiana and his children. And for that he was thankful. He made the sign of the cross.
And then brought the silver goddess to his lips. Christiana bathed his wounded leg as he lay with a linen towel modestly wrapped around his waist to shield his nakedness from Agnes, who sat on a stool next to him, not daring to look at the cut. She cupped her hands around her face, staring at him, shielding her vision. 'Does it hurt, Father?' 'No, it's only a small cut.' Henry stood at the foot of the mattress, watching his mother tease out the discoloured skin around the wound. The Captal de Buch had given over his own quarters – less an act of generosity than many supposed. He and the other knights would soon ride out to kill peasants who still roamed the countryside or who thought to escape the noblemen's revenge by returning to their villages. 'Henry,' said Blackstone. 'Have you cleaned my sword?' 'I have, Father. And have seen to it that your braies and hose are washed. Your shirt is almost dry. John Jacob had the monk squeeze them out and peg them near the fire.' 'His name is Bertrand. And he's no monk.'
'But he wears the habit,' said Henry. 'Have you seen his tonsure? Unshaven for weeks. He wears the habit because we would not give him any clothes until he proves himself. He's a servant, nothing more.' Blackstone grunted as Christiana's probing went too deep. She raised her eyes in apology. He shook his head. It was all right. Fra Caprini had conjured up a balm and bark dressing, and if he was cautious for a few days then the wound would bind. 'Go and speak to Sir Gilbert. You know how to behave with a knight such as he?' 'I do, Father.' 'Good. Tell him I shall join him soon.' The boy did as he was told, and Blackstone could not help but notice how strong and confident he looked. He was lankier, but already there were contours on his shoulders and arms, muscle forming that would grow with him. He would keep his son with him now. He could serve John Jacob and learn to be a squire and fight. 'Have you seen the royal family?' said Agnes. 'I have seen the King of England,' Blackstone replied. 'I meant the royal family who are with us in this castle,' she said, taking down her hands from her face, but still averting her gaze from her mother's ministrations.
'I have not,' said Blackstone. 'No one has seen them. They have quarters that no one is allowed to go into, except the man with the grey beard who shouts at everyone.' 'That is Lord de Hangest, and he is here to protect them.' The child thought for a moment, and he watched as her eyes gazed into his own. She seemed momentarily uncertain. 'I did not think that we would ever see you again. I thought that you had forgotten us.' Blackstone reached out and touched her face. 'I have never forgotten you, and I have always prayed for your safety. And I promised you, that day in the mountains, that I would come back.' 'You were not there to protect us, though. Henry did. He was very brave.' 'Do not say such things to your father, Agnes,' said Christiana. Blackstone raised a hand to stop her berating the child further. 'I had to travel a long way, Agnes. Over mountains, through the snow, so that I might be brought by God's hand to your side again. I know you were frightened, but your mother and your brother were there to protect you, and they have both told me how brave you were. I will be with you from now on. Our family is together again.'
She nodded, the explanation accepted. Christiana knew that sooner or later the child would start talking about the infant that had been left in the care of the nuns. 'Agnes, take this, throw away the water and bring fresh,' she said. 'Yes, Mother,' said Agnes, taking the bowl of discoloured water, and carefully made her way out of the room, slopping its contents as she went. 'There won't be much left in the bowl by the time she gets there,' said Blackstone, allowing the deep sense of contentment to comfort him. When the dirt and sweat had been sluiced from his skin and hair, the bathing felt like a baptism for a new beginning. Christiana finished binding the wound. 'It's clean and if you don't ride for a day or so—' He shook his head. 'We're leaving.' Her uncertainty showed. 'To where?' 'I have men in Italy who will fulfil my contract, but now that I'm pardoned by the King we'll go to England. I'll find us a fine home, in a small town or village, and I shall be the Prince's man. There'll be no threat against you ever again. Before then I have to finish what I was sent here to do.'
He could see that his words rankled her. She had made her own decisions these past years and was now obliged to do as Blackstone instructed. England had never been her home and her discomfort with many Englishmen had never left her, bred into her as it was with a distrust and at times a loathing for their warmongering. England. The very word frightened her. An island fortress more forbidding than this stronghold. It was not that she resented his decision. Her happiness at being with him again was deeply felt; what rose within her was her independent spirit that disputed his right to decide where and how they would live. Relent, she told herself. God has saved us all by sending her lord and husband to them. There could be no denying such heavenly power. She crossed herself. She was a mystery, this woman, thought Blackstone. Her passion for him was as wild as his for her, but her piety was a bridle and bit trying to hold her in check. 'Then we will be ready,' she said. 'You haven't asked what it is I was sent to do.'
'I thought you would tell me when you were ready, Thomas,' she said. He sighed. 'God's tears, Christiana, you're not the kind of woman to timidly accept what I say. You never have been.' 'Perhaps I have changed,' she said unconvincingly, winding the cut linen into another bandage. He watched her for a few moments, until her own look of defiance eased. 'I am sorry, Thomas. I will happily go with you.' She knelt next to him and placed her hand across his chest. There were more scars than ever – a map of white tracks and discoloured blemishes – stretched by his muscles as taut as an oiled canvas scratched with a quill. She pressed her lips to his, her hand resting on his cheek. 'I am in love with you as I was once before, but I am frightened now because there is another child that you have never seen, and may never wish to see. Still he is mine and I must care for him. If you tell me to abandon him and leave him in the care of nuns then I will, but that will not soothe my guilt, nor stop me thinking of him.' She stood up and smoothed her dress, willing her shaking hands to be doing something.
'You have not yet told Henry. And Agnes soon will,' said Blackstone. 'What must I do? Swear Agnes to secrecy or tell my son? Am I to abandon the baby?' Blackstone got to his feet; the binding on the wound was good. He put weight on it; there was little to worry about, but his actions were buying him time. He did not wish to be reminded every day of their lives of her rape. Nor the emotions it stirred. That she had been submissive that night to save her daughter's life was something he understood but that had never been enough to wash the image from his mind. This was the moment when his life would change. 'I will tell Henry about the child,' he said, and bent his head to the woman who had always meant more than he could find the words to express. 'And I will tell him that the child is mine.' Christiana fought the tears. This was no time for weakness. She had fought and killed for her children; she had not backed down from her accusation against von Lienhard and because of it Blackstone had saved their lives and brought them together as a family again. He had come close to death and now pushed aside his own uncertainty. He could make no greater gesture of his love for her.
She nodded, and gathered the balm and mixture. His own misgivings melted away when she smiled and her green eyes sparkled with hope. They would soon be home. * Fra Stefano Caprini watched as Blackstone made his way from the room given him by the Captal de Buch. His eyes followed the man's long stride as he made his way down towards the outer ward. His leg seemed not to trouble him, and the sword that had brought the German's wrath and thirst for revenge slapped against his thigh in its scabbard. No one would separate him from Wolf Sword until he lay cold and dead. The sword, though, would not be the prize. Those who sought to claim Blackstone's death would seek the favour of the Englishman's enemies. And after defeating von Lienhard Blackstone's reputation would grow even more, but there would always be someone who wished to claim the glory of killing him. What though, he wondered as the figure walked along the gallery, would Blackstone do next? Would he ride back to Italy or perhaps ally himself with de Hangest and accompany the royal family to another place of safety, one that had not fallen to the Jacques? He studied the confident, striding man. It made little difference: Caprini's work was almost done.
Beyond the Marché, the city of Meaux still burned and would do for weeks to come. Deep-seated cores of fire, glowing timbers that refused to die, continued to flare up as the tumbled buildings' wattle and dried straw walls fed them. Acrid smoke lingered and the stench of burning flesh was becoming unbearable when the breeze shifted. John Jacob and the captains had organized their men to clear the bridge of the fallen Jacques, tossing the shattered bodies into the river. Once that was done they followed Blackstone's orders to do the same with one of the narrow streets so that the Captal de Buch could ride unhindered through the city. Werner von Lienhard's body was stripped naked, his fine armour taken apart by the men, once Blackstone had refused it as a prize. He had no desire to encage himself in armour worn by a man whose spirit might still cling to it. Each of his captains took pieces as booty, then a rope was dropped from the walls and the German's corpse was hoisted by his ankles like a slaughtered pig. Blood drained from his body through his shattered face, which congealed into a purple mask. Those who had witnessed the fight would tell their own tales of it and when de Grailly sent a messenger south to Gascony to declare that the Jacquerie were routed, word of the Visconti's champion's fate would soon filter across mountain passes and eventually reach the Vipers of Milan. Von Lienhard's death carried little meaning in the scheme of things and would soon be forgotten – news of the failure of the great uprising would take precedence. And that too would be pushed from memory as the struggle for Paris gave warning that the fight for France went on. Those thousands who had died were little more than stepping stones across France's turbulent waters.
Blackstone's men had earned their rest. They were given looted ale from one of the cellars and after their labours in clearing the bridge and streets were allowed a brief respite before Blackstone gave them further orders. The danger was mostly gone and the bowmen knew they had got off lightly in the killing. For once they had not been threatened by an overwhelming force who could reach them. They bantered back and forth about who had done the hard work of killing the Jacques. The humid day made it too hot to argue and the ale, a few days away from being spoilt, needed to be drunk. Blackstone's men lounged, as do all soldiers in all armies, grateful to go almost unnoticed as they watched the activity that went on in the yard. Horses whinnied and jostled as their riders cursed and brought them under control. De Grailly and his cousin had gathered the knights and regaled themselves and their horses in their colours. Surcoats of red and green; blue slashes against a red diamond; sheaves of yellow, black, silver and white that sported bird's wing; spear point and cross bars of gold. The big, muscled destriers looked even more formidable with caparisons bearing their lord's blazon blanketing their great bodies. The Captal and his knights were dressed as the mighty armies of France and England had always done when going to war, a spectacle to impress and terrify their enemy, a great swaggering of pride that reminded the common man of his place in the world.
'Like a bloody fairground,' muttered Will Longdon as he and the other archers leaned against the walls, keeping out of the horsemen's way. 'You think there's any need to get dressed up like a mummer to slay a few peasants?' asked Jack Halfpenny. Gaillard sharpened his knife against the stonework, watching the lords and knights prepare for their departure. He snorted and spat. 'Better to have a glorious death at the hands of a great knight in all his regalia than be taken by the sweating sickness,' he said. 'He's right,' said Thurgood. 'I'd rather take my chances with one of this lot than something I can't see creeping up on me.' Will Longdon looked from one to the other. Holy Mother of God. Gaillard's eyes twinkled. The bloody Norman was jesting. 'You arse, Thurgood!' said Longdon, playing along with Gaillard. 'Everyone knows you can see the sweats coming for you.' 'You can?' said the archer, his brow furrowing. 'When was the last time you pissed?' said Gaillard, realizing Longdon had caught on.
'Pissed?' 'Aye. When did you undo your jacket, pull down your hose, take out that poor excuse of a dick of yours and piss?' 'First light,' said Thurgood, now looking more worried. 'And?' said Longdon. 'It was all right, was it?' 'My dick?' 'Your piss!' urged Meulon, who had now caught the gist of the tease. Thurgood's words stumbled as his brain tried to remember. 'I... I don't know... it was dark.' 'Your piss?' said Gaillard looking concerned. 'No! I meant it was still too dark to see.' 'Oh,' said Meulon with a tinge of regret, and a look between Gaillard and Longdon. 'That's never good. First light is when the sweating sickness first shows itself.' 'It is?' said Thurgood. 'Always with the first piss of the day,' added Longdon, looking equally concerned and giving a sad shake of his head. 'Bugger,' said Thurgood. 'I never knew that.' 'Sometimes you can see it when you piss again. Not always. Sometimes though,' said Meulon. 'Aye,' agreed Longdon. 'Sometimes.' 'And it itches. Your groin, it itches, does it?' said Gaillard seriously.
'No more than usual,' answered Thurgood uncertainly. Who among them didn't have crotch rot? Longdon shrugged and the men fell silent. They went back to watching the great knights yank their horses' reins as squires ran from one to the other, adjusting straps and tugging horses' caparisons. Thurgood looked worried, scratched his groin and edged away. 'I'll take another piss,' he said. The others ignored him, except Longdon who barely gave him a glance. 'Good idea,' he said disinterestedly. Thurgood nodded and walked on, then stopped halfway across the yard and turned. 'What am I looking for?' he called back. 'A fool with his cock in his hand!' shouted Longdon and joined the others as they guffawed. Their laughter faltered when Blackstone and Killbere strode towards them. 'Here we go,' said Longdon, and then called to an embarrassed Thurgood. 'Get your arse back here!' Blackstone stopped in front of de Grailly to speak to the young lord, gripping the horse's bridle to steady it. Killbere made his way to the men and spoke quickly. 'Sir Thomas will tell Lord de Hangest that we will accompany the royal family to Compiègne. It never yielded to the Jacques and the Dauphin's family will be safe there.'
'He's not coming for them, then?' asked John Jacob. 'If he couldn't bother his arse when the Jacques threatened them he won't be here now, will he?' said Will Longdon. Killbere looked over his shoulder as the knights began forming into a column of pairs behind Jean de Grailly and the Count of Foix. 'You lads listen carefully. These lords and men-at-arms are riding out and we don't know where the Dauphin's army is. It would have been better to have them with us, but each day brings its own troubles. We'll escort the women and children as far as we can, but if the Frenchies get behind us we don't have a rat's arse chance of outrunning them. And there's no guarantee that Lord de Hangest will even agree to Sir Thomas's proposal, but he's no fool and we outnumber him, so he'll go along with it, is my guess.' Meulon spoke for the other captains. 'Sir Gilbert, if we take the Dauphin's family to safety, that would buy us mercy if we were trapped by his troops.' 'Sir Thomas once swore to kill the King of France. You think his son will forget that? Our own sovereign might have pardoned him, but Sir Thomas's life is still forfeit if the Dauphin snares him. We're of little interest to anyone. Sacrificing us is not worth a damn.' He looked from man to man. 'Who among us would not be hanged if caught? Our King still wants France. Those knights will go and slaughter until they tire of it, then they'll be at Navarre's side fighting for Paris.' He blew his nose and wiped his beard with the back of his hand. 'Keep a tight rein on your men. Outriders and scouts, and a rearguard of hobelars,' he said, looking at Meulon and Gaillard. 'We look to ourselves, lads. This business is not yet over.'
* De Grailly leaned down from his saddle, his visor raised. 'You cannot stay here, you know that, Thomas. And my word can no longer protect you.' 'I am fortunate, my lord, that you were here. Without you we would all have fallen beneath the knives and staves of the Jacques.' 'It was a shared fight that's almost done. Join us, Thomas. I will find Navarre once we've strung up a few more peasants.' Blackstone shook his head. 'Do not venture into Paris, my lord. I told Edward the same thing. While you go to kill more Jacques, Navarre will strike a bargain with their leaders in the city. You will be trapped in those streets.' He let the horse snuffle his hand, and smiled up at the Captal de Buch. 'Besides, I have yet to fulfil my task, set for me by the King.' De Grailly nodded. This common man had a way about him that could scratch a high lord's pride. He was courteous enough, but his shield's device was a plain message to all, high lord or common man: Défiant à la mort. Well, thought de Grailly, impertinence and defiance were usually as necessary as a fist in a gauntlet. And that defiance, even knowing that von Lienhard had been the better swordsman, had enabled this Englishman – trusting in God, or his own strength – to defeat him. Blackstone had proved the better man.
'I've already spoken with Lord de Hangest. He's with the Duchess now. They know they must leave and that the danger has mostly passed, but he's afraid of Navarre. I have lent a few knights to escort the other women and children back to their homes – or what is left of them. They must salvage what they can of their lives. He and the bodyguard will escort the Duchess and the royal family elsewhere.' 'Compiègne,' said Blackstone. De Grailly nodded. 'The most obvious place, but the safest.' He gathered the reins and settled his shield. 'You are encumbered by a duty that binds us all, but now you carry the added burden of a family.' 'No burden, my lord,' Blackstone said and smiled. 'I shall be back in England soon, and my family with me. Then we are all safe.' De Grailly cast him a look that was almost of sympathy. 'We're none of us ever safe, Thomas. Not while we live.' Blackstone released his grip on the horse's bridle and stepped back as de Grailly spurred his horse beneath the portcullis, followed by the Count of Foix and the other knights. Within moments the ward was desolate of men. Servants and squires had galloped behind their lords; the stronghold had only a steward and a handful of people left to see to its administration. Piles of steaming horse dung lay where moments before the great war horses had stood. The yard was eerily silent.
'There it is, then,' Will Longdon muttered. 'We're left with the shit again.' Within the hour Blackstone's men were ready to venture beyond the city walls. Supplies had been foraged and stowed securely in saddle panniers. Will Longdon's men had retrieved and cleaned what arrows they could. The goose feathers in the fletchings were damaged and it would take a skilled fletcher to repair them, so one had to be found. And Blackstone knew that sooner or later he would have to get back to Calais, unless he could barter a barrel of arrows from the English routiers who rode with Charles of Navarre. What Blackstone really needed was to stay out of trouble. De Hangest beckoned him to a door that led to the solar where the Dauphin's wife and family waited, being readied to leave the stronghold. 'You should have joined the Captal's men and escorted the other women away from this place,' he said. 'I have no desire to have a mixed force of English and Normans at my back.' Through the gap in the door Blackstone glimpsed a child no older than Agnes, an embroidered lace cap holding her hair in place as she ran across the room to one of the ladies-in-waiting, who gently rebuked her for her excitement. The other women in the room turned at the sound of their protector's voice and, catching sight of the tall Englishman, quickly ushered the child out of sight.
'Was that the King's child Isabelle?' Blackstone asked. 'Those under my care are no concern of yours, Sir Thomas. I have no need of you or your men.' He pulled the door to, shielding the few women who accompanied the Duchess from Blackstone's gaze. Blackstone glanced down as the survivors of the terror were helped into wagons by the remainder of de Grailly's men. 'The Duchess might be thought to be among those women who are being escorted. Was that the intention?' 'We are not using those innocents as bait for any Jacques who might remain.' 'But you are using one of the royal wagons,' said Blackstone as the slow-moving procession of knights and women trundled through the gates. De Hangest watched them leave. 'It can do little more than attract attention from those who scout for Navarre. The Jacques are finished and I need a day's ride to take my charges to safety.' 'My lord, the King of England desires nothing more than their well-being, in a place of safety. It is why I came in search of them. Isabelle is the King of France's daughter and if she is safe then he will reach out to his people and raise the ransom demanded by my King.'
De Hangest scowled in disdain and turned away. 'You're a fool, Sir Thomas! Sooner or later the Dauphin will come for his family and his sister. She is close to the bosom of this family! You think the King of England cares about a nine-year-old child? He cares about the crown! He seizes Isabelle and he holds the key to a King's heart. There's a war to be fought, can't you see that?' Blackstone matched his stride. 'What war? What armies? Navarre? He's as slippery as an eel and he'll bargain with the devil. Who knows how many troops the Dauphin has gathered from Burgundy? It's your King who will decide the fate of France.' 'It's yours who strangles us with sons of iniquity like you and your men and a self-serving Navarre who does your sovereign's dirty work. Navarre thinks he is grasping the French crown by going into Paris – he is doing what your King cannot do, but the strings are being pulled by Edward! Navarre and the routiers he uses are at the behest of your King! Yours! You won a damned battle and you seized our sovereign and we will pay. But you will not take this child!'
Blackstone watched as de Hangest stalked away. 'I will follow you!' Blackstone called after him. 'You have my word that I am commanded only to make certain they are in a place of safety. Nothing more!' His voice echoed down the passage. De Hangest turned. For a moment Blackstone thought he had relented. His shoulders slumped; his head shook as if in defeat. 'Sir Thomas,' he said more gently, 'your word is your honour and there is no dispute in that. You are a warrior, and you see how a contest might be fought and a campaign determined, but you do not grasp the politics of it all.' He sighed. 'You will see.' He left Blackstone standing in the passage. The silence of the castle was broken only by the older man's hurried footfalls. There would be no shame in riding back to Calais now. The Dauphin's family and the French King's daughter were in safe hands. The family would be in Compiègne within hours, behind walls that had not been breached, while the Dauphin tried to outmanoeuvre Navarre and regain Paris. Promises would be made and then revoked – broken by stealth or by brute force. De Hangest was correct. It was politics that would undo the fighting men. No soldier saw the great battles; he saw only those who lived and died at the end of his sword – as blinkered as the view through a helm's visor.
Seek out and secure their safety. The King of England's words whispered across France and through these darkened corridors. Blackstone was barely a day's slow ride away from fulfilling his duty. It was nothing. * Everything was prepared. De Hangest led his men beyond the city walls, men each side of the two royal wagons. The Dauphin's coat of arms was hidden by draped sackcloth and, with no pennons or banners flying, the bodyguard left without fanfare, unlike de Grailly's departure hours earlier. Blackstone waited until they could see from the stronghold's battlements that de Hangest was a mile beyond the walls of Meaux. Killbere and Blackstone would lead with John Jacob, Meulon and Gaillard, taking their men on the flanks with Will Longdon's archers bringing up the rear. Despite the scarcity of arrows, there were a half-dozen shafts per man and, with thirty archers, that could be enough to deter any small bands of Jacques they might stumble upon. Brother Bertrand ran here and there bringing forward horses, tightening cinches, checking saddlebags, wanting nothing more than to please the men who had allowed him to accompany them. Tolerance was not always forthcoming. Killbere cuffed him around the head as he attempted to take in his horse's bridle a notch.
'You keep your cunny hands away from my horse!' Killbere said as Bertrand shied away from a well-placed kick for his troubles. As the men mounted, Jack Halfpenny dared raise his voice. 'Best watch for crabs now, Sir Gilbert!' Those around him smiled, but none wished to tread too closely on Killbere's goodwill before they took themselves from the safety of the walls. The Jacquerie might be a spent force, but there were enough Frenchmen gathering into an army somewhere out there, and Killbere's mood was always uncertain at best. 'You'll have the right to jest with me when I've felt your blood splash across my boots. You say you were at Poitiers?' 'Aye, my lord. Me and Robert, both,' said Halfpenny nervously, nodding towards Thurgood at his side. 'Not with me you weren't,' said Killbere, gathering the reins. 'And not at Blanchetaque, nor Crécy. Will?' Killbere called to Longdon with uncommon friendliness. 'We were there, were we not?' 'We were, Sir Gilbert,' Longdon answered, basking in the great knight's benevolent tone.
'You think my horse is in danger from the unholy monk and his crabs?' 'I'd say they've already crawled beneath the saddle blanket and are nesting in your crotch.' Killbere laughed, as did the others who had served together over the years. Halfpenny and Thurgood smiled ruefully. It was nothing new to face the jibes of men who had fought shoulder to shoulder and lived to tell the tale. Killbere twisted in the saddle. 'We'll keep well back from the French escort. They're nervous of us for some reason.' The men jeered. Killbere's good humour served them well. After they had undertaken this final task, their world would be better because their sworn lord, Thomas Blackstone, would gain in stature, from which they too would benefit. Pride was a worthy companion when so few were chosen. Killbere settled himself in the saddle, content as much as a man could be who yearned for a decent war. It might still come, he comforted himself. And probably before Thomas Blackstone dragged his hands off his wife's tits and joined them.
* Blackstone embraced Christiana, indulging his senses in the warmth of her body and the scent of her hair. Hers was a sigh of contentment, his own one of ill-conceived desire. 'Go,' she said. 'Before I stop you.' 'And you could. Gilbert can do what must be done.' 'And you would resent me for it later. They are your men, Thomas. Go to them.' She sighed again. 'I am resigned to it.' She smiled, and kissed him. 'Finally.' She turned and beckoned Agnes to her. 'Come and kiss your father goodbye.' Blackstone went down on his one knee, favouring the wounded leg. 'Agnes, I have so many stories to tell you, but I have to go now. I'll be back tomorrow.' He looked into the eyes of his child and saw the wonderment that had always bewitched him. Her finger traced his scar, top to bottom, her mouth parted, the tip of her tongue touching her top lip, as if concentrating on drawing a chalk line on a slate. 'It's going to rain,' she said. 'Oh? How do you know?' 'Because you have been rubbing your arm. And you always did that when it was cold or when the rain was coming.'
A child's memory was like the flutter of a fairy's wings, he had once told her. Had the past two years been little more than that for her? 'You're right. It's been aching. And the weather is humid. Perhaps there will be a thunderstorm.' She shrugged and reached her arms around his neck. 'You always smell of your horse, Father.' Blackstone smiled, and kissed the top of her head. Henry stood at the door. Jacob had found him a jupon, too big for his shoulders, but it was belted and bore Blackstone's blazon on its breast. He tried to suppress his pride, but could not. 'I should ride with you and serve Master Jacob,' he said. 'I know. But there are more years yet before you become a squire and we'll let you fight. Be patient. Do as your mother asks.' He glanced at Christiana. 'And there's something I will tell you when I return that's important for us all.' Christiana smiled gratefully. 'Yes, Father,' Henry said obediently, not daring to ask what news it might be. He was trying hard to learn the patience demanded of him.
'Let him ride with you, Thomas. He's earned the right,' said Christiana. She nodded at Blackstone. The time to tell him would present itself; until then her son should be with his father. 'All right,' said Blackstone, seeing the boy's face light up. A mirror of himself long before. 'Get down to Sir Gilbert.' Henry stepped quickly from the room without thinking of bidding farewell to his mother. Blackstone was about to call after him in reprimand. 'It doesn't matter, Thomas. Let him be,' said Christiana. 'All's well now.' Blackstone lingered a moment, wishing he could deny his duty. 'Until tomorrow,' he said. 'Bertrand will serve you; make sure he brings hot food from the kitchen and fresh water to wash. There are men on the walls and the gates and I have asked Fra Stefano to stay close to you all. Trust him; he has God on his side and protects pilgrims. And he seems to think I'm one.' He smiled. There was nothing more to be said. He stepped into the passage and half turned. Christiana's arms were draped across Agnes as she held the child to her skirts. He checked himself and felt a sense of puzzlement. He had never looked back before.
* Blackstone walked down the gallery and saw the men below waiting for him. The silky layer of light cloud kept the sun from throwing shadows, but the sight of Caprini waiting at the end of the passage by the head of the stairs looked nothing more than the darkness that lurked behind a pillar. His black cloak swallowed his features, but his unflinching eyes caught the light from the stairwell as they watched him approach. His stern expression always reminded Blackstone of his childhood and the village priest who glowered at them as they struggled to learn under his tutelage, and was always ready with a hazel switch to sting them into concentration. 'I promised to accompany you until the end of your journey,' said Caprini. 'And I have felt your presence at every step of the way. Your duty is almost done now, as is mine. And then we can go our separate ways. I need my men with me, but someone of rank – someone I trust – must be here.' The Tau knight was silent for a moment, then he nodded. 'I will pray for you,' he said.
Blackstone chased down the steps as Caprini moved to the gallery's balustrade and gazed down on the band of men who had shared his journey since Lucca. Killbere shouted something at Blackstone and the other men laughed. Blackstone raised a hand as if apologizing for their jest. What was said Caprini did not understand. The English used words that had double meanings. Better, he thought, to be a plain-speaking man; then each knew where he stood with the other. There could be no room for misunderstanding. A man prayed directly to God, and killed out of necessity without pity. As the iron-shod hooves clattered out of the yard the Tau knight turned towards the room where Blackstone's wife and daughter waited. De Hangest sweated in his mail, his filthy surcoat crumpled and stained like the other men's from the fighting and the fires at Meaux. There had been no time for the luxury of bathing; his was a responsibility he wished he could shed. Once in Compiègne he would relax – if they ever got there at this pace. He pulled back the mail coif from his head, willing what little breeze there was to strengthen. He hated this damned weather. It made women inconsolable and men bad-tempered, and the agonizingly slow pace of their journey added to his own stretched patience. The royal wagon was as slow as a man walking and he wanted to get beyond the open plain. He had denied them the route through the forests; it would have been cooler, but fraught with danger. The Duchess had complained, as she often did, but her husband had – praise God! – commanded her to obey all de Hangest's instructions.
He led the way, followed by the creaking wagon, flanked on either side by his own men. For the tenth time that hour he twisted in the saddle. A mile behind was the unmistakable phalanx of Thomas Blackstone and his men. They followed the tracks he had made, their presence as constant as the heat. And like the heat their presence lulled him into a false sense of security. The riders appeared half a mile ahead, two of his scouts spurring their horses at the gallop over the gentle rising ground. He shielded his eyes from the sky's glare and then desperately looked around for any place that might offer better protection. If they galloped they did so to raise the alarm. A nearby hillock offered a modest vantage point, but the heavy-timbered wagon would not make it even if they whipped the horses to death. His thoughts took too long. He heard the thud of hooves behind him as Blackstone spurred on his men to catch up. The Englishman had seen the two specks on the horizon before de Hangest. The scouts and Blackstone arrived almost together.
The panicked scouts twisted to point behind them. 'Less than a mile, my lord. Pennons. A large group of men.' Before de Hangest could question them further a line of horsemen appeared in the distance. Tapered pennons flared on their lances, from the speed of their travel. 'Form up!' shouted Blackstone to his men as he pulled up next to de Hangest. 'My lord, have your men fall back behind us and protect your charges. There's nowhere to run. We defend ourselves here.' Killbere and John Jacob had already galloped to the flanks as Meulon and Gaillard dismounted their men in an extended line. Behind them Will Longdon's archers took up position and rammed their meagre supply of arrows into the dirt at their feet. Bows were uncovered, cords nocked and shafts laid across their knuckles ready to bend and loose. The men's horses were held at the rear. De Hangest hesitated. Blackstone's men had moved with an enviable and practised efficiency, but those men approaching might be leading elements of the Dauphin's army from Burgundy. Or Charles of Navarre.
'My lord,' Blackstone said with steel in his voice. 'There's little time.' 'Is it the Captal? Has he turned back towards us?' 'Who knows?' De Hangest quickly responded and brought his men and the wagon behind Blackstone's defence. Blackstone called out to his men. 'French?' The heat haze and the sweat in their eyes made it difficult to determine. The undulating ground allowed the pennons to stay in sight, but their slim tails offered little more than ribbons of colour. 'Can't make them out, Sir Thomas,' shouted Will Longdon and then deferred to Halfpenny's keen eyesight. 'Jack?' 'No blazon clear yet. Shields are down though. On their saddles.' 'He's right!' cried Meulon. The approaching horsemen had extended their line across the gentle rising ground and slowed their pace. 'They've seen us right enough,' cried John Jacob. 'Spotted our archers.' Blackstone rode ahead a dozen yards and stood as high as he could in his stirrups to gaze at the men slowly approaching. He caught a glimpse of a shield as a horse turned on the contour. A cluster of blue etched diamonds against a white shield, a red cross of St George in its upper left hand corner.
'They're English!' 'Is Navarre with them? Do you see his arms?' shouted de Hangest. 'No.' The wary horsemen held back just beyond the killing range of the archers. De Hangest urged his horse forward. 'They mean to take us,' he said, pulling up alongside Blackstone. Blackstone watched the patient men. No sword had been drawn, no lance lowered. They had not attempted to outflank them. 'Eighty men or so, my lord. Their visors are raised, and they wait for us,' he said. 'They don't know how many arrows my archers have. They daren't risk coming any closer. They want to talk.' De Hangest looked behind him. Their defence was strong enough now that Blackstone's men had deployed, but a concerted attack could punish them, and the royal family were easy targets. 'Then let's avert bloodshed if we can,' said the older man, and spurred his horse towards the knights as Blackstone followed him a heartbeat later. 'Halfway,' he said to de Hangest. 'Let them come to us.' They pulled up in the middle distance and four of the knights urged their horses towards them. They would parley. As they came closer Blackstone recognized one of the knights. It was the antagonistic Gilbert Chastelleyn who had given him his orders at Windsor. He pulled up, glancing at Blackstone. His unsmiling face gave no sign of surprise at seeing him. Ignoring Blackstone he dipped his head to the Frenchman.
'My lord. I am Gilbert Chastelleyn. I serve Edward, King of England.' 'I am Jean de Hangest who serves Jean de Valois, King of France and his son Charles, Dauphin, Regent of France.' The King's knights acknowledged the other. 'My Lord Cusington is not with you?' asked Blackstone. Both men were known to often carry the King's orders together. A fighting knight with a practised negotiator made a formidable pairing. Chastelleyn considered for a moment. 'It does no harm for you to know that he is in Paris.' Blackstone realized that if the King of England's negotiator was in Paris then he was using the usurper Navarre after all. 'Is Paris held by the English and their allies?' asked de Hangest anxiously. If the enemy had taken the capital then the French King might well have lost the crown. Gilbert Chastelleyn hesitated. 'Events move on apace, my lord. But... no. We negotiate with Navarre who in turn makes promises to the Provost of Merchants who, now that the uprising is crushed, holds out for the Dauphin. The city is divided.'
De Hangest grunted. 'Navarre has English routiers with him. Which means there's no English army on these shores. There's no deal to be had between a turd like Navarre, with a bunch of cut-throats at his back, and the Provost. No one will open the city gates to your King.' He was canny enough to understand that Chastelleyn was alone. That no invasion force was at his back. 'What do you want?' 'The child,' said Chastelleyn. De Hangest sat back in the saddle as if he had been slapped. 'King John's daughter, Isabelle,' Chastelleyn added. De Hangest glared at Blackstone. 'You lied to me,' he said coldly. 'On your honour you said you had no desire to seize the girl.' Chastelleyn answered. 'Sir Thomas knows nothing of this. He was sent to find the royal family, my lord. We did not know where they were held. He was ordered to take them to safety. I was sent to follow him.' 'And they are still being taken to safety,' said Blackstone. 'Only then is my work done.' 'Your work is finished now,' said Chastelleyn with barely a glance towards him. 'My King and yours desire the child,' he said, directing his comments to de Hangest.
'No!' said de Hangest, grabbing a tighter hold on his reins. The horse's head lifted, the bit cruelly yanking its mouth. 'You'll obey your own sovereign!' said Chastelleyn, tugging a letter from his gauntlet. Sweat-stained and damp, it still bore the French monarch's seal, which he thrust at de Hangest. 'Or I'll take her! Sir Thomas and his ruffians will never raise a hand against their own King's men.' De Hangest fumbled to tear open the parchment, eager to read what was written. 'We have no interest in the Dauphin's family,' Chastelleyn went on. 'Only King John's daughter. You can take the others to wherever you choose. And for what it's worth the Dauphin is marching along the Marne valley with twelve thousand men. So time is snapping at my heels like a bloody dog in a bear pit.' Chastelleyn glanced at Blackstone, was about to say something, and then did not. De Hangest needed to be convinced. 'For Christ's sake! A deal is in the making with the child. If we do not seize France then your King will sell his child to raise the money for his ransom.'
De Hangest read as much as he needed. There was a gentle sag to his shoulders as he folded the parchment and pushed it into his riding glove. He glanced at Blackstone. 'I told you that politics was beyond a soldier's understanding.' He faced Chastelleyn. 'The child cannot ride in this weather. She needs shelter.' 'We will accompany you another five miles to an abbey where there is a wagon waiting, prepared for her and her governess.' 'We'll still ride with you,' Blackstone said. De Hangest nodded and turned his horse and Blackstone tugged his reins to follow. 'Sir Thomas,' said Chastelleyn. 'Wait.' Blackstone faced him. 'I am no friend of yours. And I admitted to the King and the Prince that I was one of those close to him who tried to stop you coming from Italy. Queen Isabella was thought to be a threat. And word came ahead of you that you were sent as an assassin to kill the Prince.' 'I would never harm him.' 'He knows that. And he will be pleased that you are unharmed. Knowing what we know now.'
Blackstone frowned. 'My lord?' 'Did you find the man?' 'You have me at a disadvantage,' said Blackstone, a rising uncertainty twisting in his mind. 'Word reached us from Florence. There was an assassin, but you were to be his victim.' Blackstone shook his head. It was too confusing to grasp. 'Then how would I know of him or uncover him if he hasn't struck at me?' 'He was with you from the start. Before you reached England. He's a man of God.' It took less than an hour for the assassin to prepare himself. He walked quickly, knife in hand, towards Christiana's quarters. Inflict great pain and suffering on Thomas Blackstone. Make him scream in agony, and let what he sees rip out his heart. He will die a slow death. The words of Bernabò Visconti sang in his mind, as did the image of the Viper of Milan slavering with delight, teeth bared as he tasted the terror that would be inflicted. The Tau knight eased into the room, knife in hand, held low, ready to strike quickly. He had heard a sound that made him cautious. The door was open, allowing a finger-width of light. A movement dashed across the gap. Mercury-quick. Shadows. Breathing that was unnatural.
He eased open the door with his free hand, as slowly as he could, praying the hinges would not betray him. He pushed his leg forward, letting the side of his foot roll onto the stone floor, a poacher's stealth, no noise of footfall, no warning for his prey. There was another door that led to the next room. Another entrance. Damn. He had not realized there was another entrance. * Killbere held formation, keeping the men together as Perinne grabbed Henry's reins on Blackstone's command to stop him pursuing his father. The bastard horse near burst its heart galloping back to Meaux, surging through the twisting lanes and across the bridge. Once inside the stronghold Blackstone raced up the stairs, alarming his rearguard. 'Where is he?' Blackstone yelled. 'The Italian knight! Where is he?' Confusion made them mute, and if they had an answer it would have been too late because Blackstone was already running down the length of the gallery, Wolf Sword in hand. 'Find him!' he shouted. Christiana's door was closed but unlocked. He swallowed his fear and slowed his hand, then gently pushed aside the heavy wooden door and stepped inside a butcher's yard.
A ragged doll lay on the floor; it looked torn, its fair hair matted with blood, its blue eyes wide with fear, opaque in death. Blackstone's throat strangled. As he faltered a fragment of his brain warned him that the killer might still be in the room, but his strength ebbed as his daughter's blood trail took his eye to Christiana. She lay sprawled in the dark pool spread beneath her body from the stain that seeped from her heart. Her tender lips were parted as if taking a final breath. Blackstone fell to his knees. He tried to find words, to call their names, but nothing came as bewilderment rendered him incapable. He reached out to touch Christiana, macabre, disfigured, the sticky pattern of blood streaked down her dress, her one shoe off, her bare foot lolling to one side, the palm of her hand open like a street beggar. Gazing at him. Asking why. He leant in blood, flies buzzing, the warm summer light illuminating the room. The horror tried to make him scream, but there was nothing. No feeling that he could understand. The death was within him, its hollowness burying him. He vomited, bent double, guts retching until he could catch his breath and wipe the tears from his eyes. Not even Arianrhod could save him from the dark angels who crucified his heart and soul.
A sound scratched into his mind and he looked towards the other door that led into the room. Using the wall to support him, his hand left a trail of blood across its rough stone until he saw Caprini lying on his back, a knife rammed up to its hilt between shoulder and neck. Blood gurgled from his lips; eyes wide, arms unmoving. Bile gorged Blackstone's throat. Christiana had fought back. She had rammed his knife into him, but it had not been enough. Blackstone snarled as he knelt and grabbed the Tau knight's jupon, feeling the blood-lust return. His free hand gripped Caprini's throat, ready to break the bones in his neck. Caprini's lips were moving, his eyes beseeching Blackstone. Whatever angel guarded the Italian, it stopped Blackstone from killing him. He pulled Caprini to him, lowering his face so he could hear the words, wanting him to suffer knowing he was unshriven and would be in Satan's claws forever. It was barely a whisper. 'Sweet merciful Christ... do not... abandon me. The pain... I could not know... such pain as this... I pray it pays my debt... for the sins I have committed...'
The two men's eyes locked onto each other. The last thing Caprini would see would be the hatred in Blackstone's face. The moment before Blackstone reached out his hand to crush the life from him, he mouthed something that Blackstone could not hear. Caprini shuddered with effort, blood spluttering from his mouth as his lungs filled. 'I... could not... save them... from him,' he rasped, clutching a bloodied fist to Blackstone's jupon, urgently trying to make him understand. Blackstone's grip eased, his breath held tight in his chest. Caprini nodded, his grimace a smile as his last breath escaped from him. The Englishman understood who had murdered his family. * Blackstone's trembling hands gathered the reins. Those on the gates told him that Brother Bertrand had ridden out with some urgency to find him, and because he was Blackstone's servant they had sent him towards Compiègne. Like an army's drumbeats heralding slaughter the bastard horse's canter beat out its rhythm, but was unable to break the unforgiving numbness that held him in its grasp. The trap had been carefully laid and he had stepped into its spiked pit. The monk had played his hand well, an assassin who had waited until the greatest pain could be inflicted on his victim.