Defiant Unto Death (37 page)

As the man pitched hay Guillaume shielded a candle and went down the stalls looking at the mounts belonging to the soldiers. They were better horses than most hobelars would ride, strong of limb and well shod – the kind of mount a nobleman might keep for favoured men, men who might have to ride long and hard and then fight.

The abbot's guest, the priest, said another quiet prayer in thanks for having the authority and responsibility of his office. Were he a common monk he would be sleeping in the dormitorium, sharing the latrines with thirty others, and most likely fed little more than pulses and bread. The obligation of hospitality towards those of importance and rank meant a more plentiful offering of meat and poultry would be served with undiluted wine. He waited for the abbot who, no doubt, would be late in attending his own dinner. He seemed an amiable ambassador of Christ, but distracted by everyday responsibilities, which, no doubt, made the old man forgetful. Dear Lord, where
was
the abbot? The priest's stomach cramped in its desire for nourishment. At last he heard someone moving in the corridor. The door opened and a monk gestured for someone behind him to step into the room. A tall, broad shouldered man-at-arms stepped through the doorway and the priest's hunger was immediately forgotten. The scar-faced man waited at the door, expecting to see Abbot Pierre but found, instead, a priest staring at him. He was clearly someone of importance by the look of the rings he wore.

The flickering cresset lamps showed that the monastery was a draughty place, but the priest did not shiver from the cool air, it was the sight of the man standing before him as shadows wavered across his face. He was struck by God's miracle that had answered his prayer. The way ahead was now clear. He made the sign of the cross and kissed the crucifix at his neck.

‘I am Father Niccolò Torellini,' he said.

‘Sir Thomas Blackstone,' the priest heard the man-at-arms say as he stepped forward, taking the big man's hands into his own.

‘I know,' he said. ‘I held you in my arms on the battlefield at Crécy.'

A door into a passage leading to Blackstone's past had been opened and, like the darkened corridors around him, light did not show its end so clearly in his mind. Godfrey de Harcourt had told him, while he was recovering from his wounds, that the Prince of Wales had called for a priest to give the badly wounded young man the last rites. And now that priest stood before him relating the same story. Blackstone had only the memory of a burning crucifix and warrior angels awaiting his journey across the divide.

‘I did not know that you had survived, Sir Thomas,' Father Niccolò said. ‘I feel God has blessed me in bringing you here.'

Blackstone offered no explanation of what had happened to him over the past ten years. Men of God saw miracles where an ordinary man would see good or bad fortune unfold. God's will was unfathomable. Prayers in battle often went unheeded. Perhaps the Almighty was deafened by the clash of armour and the screams of men. This priest was an echo from that time. It was a coincidence, that was all. Nothing miraculous should be read into it. Blackstone had sought refuge at the monastery and the priest had done the same.

‘I must see my wife and daughter,' Blackstone said, eager to leave; he was troubled by the priest's hold on his soul.

Torellini nodded. ‘You are not permitted, but I will go. Listen to me, I beg you. I serve the Florentine banker, Rodolfo Bardi, who has much interest in the welfare of the King of England and his son the Prince of Wales, whose life you once saved, and who is now in grave danger. I have been sent by King Edward as his messenger. Wait here and when I return I will explain further.'

The priest believed the fragment of information would keep Blackstone waiting for his return, but the moment he left the refectory Blackstone took a lamp and found his way to the stables. The monks were at compline, their final prayers for the night, so the dormitorium was empty except for the snoring soldiers. Blackstone kicked the nearest man awake. Instinctively the hobelar reached for the sword at the side of his palliasse. Blackstone stamped on the blade and tipped the man off the bed. He had the advantage, despite the others being already on their feet and reaching for their weapons.

Blackstone stepped back, offering no threat, the action asserting his rank, letting the man recover, which he did quickly, gripping his sword. One of the men stepped forward. ‘I'm the sergeant of these men. What is it you want, my lord?'

The men looked to be battle-hardened veterans. They had recovered from their sleep quickly, ready to strike any intruder. They would make good bodyguards for an unarmed priest travelling on a vital mission.

‘I am Sir Thomas Blackstone,' he said. The sergeant's eyes registered his recognition. He lowered his sword and the other men followed his lead.

‘I know of you, my lord. I fought at Cobham's side at Blanchetaque. I was wounded at the river – we were glad of the archers that day. I am John Jacob; how can we be of service to you?'

‘You ride as escort for the Italian priest. Why are you here?'

‘We were to sail to Bordeaux and meet up with Prince Edward's army. But the weather came down on us before we could get any further south. We were blown ashore. We lost four men in the storm. We've been here two days waiting for the fog to lift. The priest is nervous.'

Blackstone addressed the men. ‘He has good cause to be. King John has men everywhere, mostly routiers, and he holds many of the villages and towns. You'd be hard pressed to find the Prince.'

‘Be that as it may, my lord, if the priest says we have to find him then that's the way it is. We're on the King's business.'

‘Do you know what news is to be delivered?'

‘Only Father Niccolò knows that,' the sergeant answered. ‘You'll ride with us?' he asked with undisguised hope in his voice. A knight of Blackstone's reputation and fighting skill was worth having on what seemed to be a fool's errand. No good could come of wet-nursing a priest in hostile territory.

Blackstone shook his head. ‘I've other business to attend to. I'll speak to you before I leave. I know the lie of the land.'

‘We're obliged, my lord.'

Blackstone nodded and turned away. Was it so long ago that he had slept rough with coarse archers, who fought as sworn men for a knight? A life shared with Christiana and the Harcourts had softened his manners, but seeing these Englishmen stand-to, belligerent and ready to fight, kindled a memory. He missed the comradeship denied him by being a commander of such men.

The gloomy passageways felt oppressive as Blackstone waited for the priest's return. The still air, clammy from the fog outside, made his undershirt stick to his skin, making him wish he could be free of the confined space. Now that his family was safe he would rather be taking the fight to his enemy. His daughter's illness had held sway over his emotions. The thought of Christiana and the children falling into enemy hands had hardened an already resolute determination, but now the girl lay still and helpless in the grip of fever, and he was angered by his inability to protect her. He watched Father Niccolò moving towards him, a cloak of good English cloth edged with fur over his white habit blurring the image of a humble man of God. Blackstone distrusted those who professed humility and vows of poverty. Mendicant friars lived from a begging bowl; others in the clergy seemed secure in self-sufficiency and interest. He had seldom seen common men attend church services. It seemed that worship and blessings were attended mostly by the nobility and the rich. Perhaps heaven was similarly divided. Blackstone tried to put a face to the English King's banker, Bardi. His name had been mentioned when they first invaded Normandy and Blackstone had crept into the ceremony when the Prince of Wales was knighted in that small Norman church, but the moment had been filled by the King's presence. He could not remember ever seeing this priest, or his master, but the delicately featured Torellini, with the hands of a woman, had been entrusted with a mission by the King of England – that alone commanded respect.

‘Your daughter still sleeps. The monks have attended to her and your lady stays by her side,' Father Niccolò told him. Then, in an unexpected gesture of compassion, he touched Blackstone's arm. ‘They say that if she survives until dawn, she will recover. Now, let us leave her in God's hands so that we may talk.'

‘Bring her here,' Blackstone said abruptly.

‘What?'

‘If she is close to death then she and her mother will need her family's comfort. Have the monks bring them to my room. They can attend to her there. If she survives the night then I'll listen to what you have to say. If she does not, we will mourn her death and then you will continue on your journey and I on mine. Everything seems to be in God's hands.'

Father Niccolò could see no alternative but to do as Blackstone demanded. He turned back towards the infirmary. There was need for more prayer. His knees would be aching by morning.

Guillaume and Henry slept in the first cell-like chamber while Blackstone and Christiana stayed together with Agnes, who was settled on the bed that had been provided for Blackstone. The silent monks came and went every half-hour through the night. Exhausted, Christiana finally fell asleep and Blackstone covered her with a blanket, then went back to nursing his child. He dabbed water on her lips and kept the wet cloths, brought by the monks from the fountain house, on her body. At each visit the monk would bring another herbal potion and, as Blackstone cradled his child, her lips were eased apart and drops administered on her tongue.

As the hours passed by the night was disturbed by the bells that called the monks to their midnight prayers. No one in the two rooms awoke, so Blackstone kept a lone vigil. The haunting cadence of the monks' hymns and plainsongs offered an unexpected comfort to him. The night wore on, but two hours after the one period of prayer ended, another bell rang, taking the monks from their beds back to the church. Blackstone had not moved the whole night and when the bell rang for matins as the dull morning light eased through the window, he saw that Agnes's fever had broken. The child turned in her sleep; Blackstone softly stroked the curls back from her forehead and felt the tiny life under his hands respond to his touch. The morning prayers ended, and once again the infirmary monk returned to check on his patient. Blackstone allowed the man his examination, and the monk nodded and smiled, then made the sign of the cross. God had guided his hand to administer life-saving potions.

Blackstone woke Christiana and allowed her the tears a mother sheds at the news of her child's survival; then he kissed his sleeping daughter and left the room. He had made an agreement to meet with the Italian priest.

As God's breath had soothed away Agnes's fever, so too had the wind blown away the fog. Blackstone found the priest trailing the monks who were leaving the morning service. Knowing Torellini had seen him he walked around the animal pens and waited on the cliff top, from which he could now see the river that ran through the landscape below. On the horizon a brief ray of warmth slipped like a gold sword blade between earth and sky, only to be hidden almost immediately by the lowering clouds.

‘Tell me what it is King Edward has charged you with,' he said.

Torellini nodded in answer to his own thoughts. Destiny, guided by the hand of God, had seen fit to deliver the child from death and Blackstone back into the King's service.

‘The Prince's army is fewer than six thousand men; they are weary from months of raiding across France, but they expect the King to invade through Normandy and intend to meet him at the Loire. The Duke of Lancaster has landed in Brittany with two thousand men. The French army would be caught and crushed between the three English forces. This is the great battle to secure France that Edward has always dreamed of.'

Blackstone sensed the closeness of victory over the French, just as King Edward would have done.

‘Godfrey de Harcourt went to Edward to pledge Normandy. The King now has strongholds across the north. There couldn't be a better time for him to invade.'

‘Then you have not heard of Godfrey's death?' said Father Niccolò.

Blackstone felt the hollow pit of his stomach contract. The old lame knight was dead? ‘What happened?'

‘King Edward accepted his allegiance; he returned to his castle in Normandy and was ambushed. They cut him down.'

Ambushed. Was it the same vicious killers who had swept into Blackstone's home? Did it make a difference who killed you? Perhaps it did, if they took pleasure in making a man die slowly.

‘Do we know anything more?'

‘No. But King Edward fears for the Prince. He has had prayers said for him.' Torellini let the information sink in. For a King to engage chaplains to pray for his family was a rare show of anxiety.

It could only be bad news that Torellini carried.

‘Then what news is it that's so important?' Blackstone asked.

‘Enemy ships are in the Channel. The King cannot come. The Prince is alone with only Lancaster as reinforcement. It is the King of France who has the advantage. Everything the English have fought for over all these years could be lost.'

The French King had made promises to protect his people from the ravages of the English raids that had swept through the south-west. Taxes had to be raised, and for the King not to finally strike out at the marauding English would signal the disintegration of his country. King John had the northern army gathered at the Loire; the Count of Poitiers held the southern army to the west.

Father Niccolò spread his hands, a gesture of hopelessness. ‘King Edward has many influences from Italy. Italian art adorns his palaces, our doctors serve him, he buys our armour, and English cloth is on our weavers' looms.' He looked almost apologetically at Blackstone. ‘We commit money to the English throne. We have been loyal over the years, even when times were difficult and debts were not repaid.'