‘Welcome back to Bruges, sir herald,’ said Gillis van Coudebrouc, the burgemeester. ‘What news from Calais?’
‘The king has sent for reinforcements from England. Sooner or later, Calais will fall.’
‘The sooner the better,’ said Jan Metteneye, the commander of the town watch. ‘The French have begun to muster their own army, at Amiens. Philippe is said to be on his way there now.’
It was bitterly cold in Bruges; the winter had been a hard one, and the waters of the Gronerei outside the window were still frozen hard. Men passed by on skates, some carrying enormous loads on their backs. The faint promise of spring in the air at Calais had receded.
‘In which case, his Grace will be glad of the continued support of the Flemish cities,’ the herald said.
‘Please assure his Grace that we stand ready to aid him. We too are raising men, and reinforcing our positions along the frontier.’
‘That is good to hear,’ said the herald. ‘Of course, above all else, the king desires the marriage of his daughter to the Count of Flanders. As we discussed, this will bring Flanders permanently into the English alliance, and England’s army will help defend Flemish cities from attack. I take it you are still of this view?’
Coudebrouc smiled and nodded, but Metteneye was frowning. ‘Forgive me, sir herald, but what makes you think we might have changed our minds?’
‘Well, there is the behaviour of the count himself,’ Merrivale said. ‘We hear he is reluctant to undertake the marriage. He has refused to take part in negotiations over the betrothal contract. Have you any idea why?’
Coudebrouc had stopped smiling. ‘What are you suggesting?’ demanded Metteneye.
‘I am suggesting that someone is working secretly against us. If that person is part of the League of Three, there will be grave consequences. I hope I make myself clear, gentlemen.’
‘The League is true to its word,’ Coudebrouc said. For the first time since Merrivale had met him, he sounded almost angry. ‘Yes, we were hesitant about committing ourselves fully to this alliance, but that is in the past. We have given you no cause to doubt our fidelity, none whatever.’
‘Then why is the count dragging his heels?’ the herald asked.
There was a pause. ‘We do not know,’ Coudebrouc said finally. ‘I spoke with him a week ago, and urged him to resume the negotiations. He refused.’
‘How closely is he guarded?’
‘He is held at the castle of ten Berghe, north of the city,’ Metteneye said. ‘A detachment of militiamen keep watch over him, commanded by our most reliable officers.’
‘Could any of these men also be Pilgrims?’
‘They are reliable,’ Metteneye repeated, but Merrivale thought his voice lacked conviction.
‘How often are men rotated in and out of the guard detachment?’
‘Never. The same men are guarding him now as when we first captured him.’
‘Then at the very least you must change the officers, and preferably the entire guard, once a week. Have the Pilgrims been active recently?’
‘No,’ said Coudebrouc, glad of the chance to give positive news. ‘The city has been remarkably quiet. Tranquil, even.’
‘Were you able to trace the three musicians? Marcelis and the other two?’
‘They left the city,’ said Metteneye. ‘We heard they went to Ghent and thence to Liège. They are genuine musicians,’ he added. ‘We have spoken to other travelling players who have met them. It is possible they were not involved.’
‘They were involved,’ Merrivale said. ‘Can you find out any more about their movements?’
‘There is a music school in Bruges during Lent,’ Coudebrouc said. ‘Musicians come from all over Europe. Perhaps we can learn more then.’
Lent began tomorrow. ‘We are also still searching for William Blyth, the English banker. Any word on him?’
‘Heer Adornes informed us of your interest. The city has been thoroughly searched and there is no sign of him.’
‘And the countryside? The towns?’
‘We have limited authority outside the city,’ Metteneye said. ‘But we continue to make inquiries.’
Neither their words or manner filled Merrivale with confidence. ‘Blyth had family here. His mother’s name was Gistels. Has he tried to contact any of her kin?’
‘The Gistels family were exiled from the city after the execution of Blyth’s mother. We think some of them went to Sluis, but… it was a long time ago.’
They are not looking for Blyth, Merrivale thought. They are not even trying. And they have made no attempt to prevent someone from influencing the Count of Flanders?
Aloud, he said, ‘I want to see the count, as soon as possible.’
‘Of course,’ said Coudebrouc. ‘I will conduct you to him myself.’
‘No,’ said the herald. ‘I want to see him alone.’
The castle was about two miles north of the city. Riding with his escort over the frozen fields under an icy blue sky, Merrivale could see it on the horizon, a massive fortress of red brick gleaming in the pale sunlight. As they drew closer he saw high walls overlooking a frozen moat and the figures of armed men at the gates and up on the battlements. The place looked secure enough. But money, he knew, could penetrate even the strongest fortification.
‘Welcome, meneer. I am the count’s steward. He waits for you in the hall.’
‘He is expecting me?’
‘Yes, meneer. Word came from the city yesterday.’
That damned burgemeester, Merrivale thought. Never mind. I have bullied noblemen into submission before, and I can do it again. He followed the steward up the steps into the high-ceilinged hall where tall windows let in shafts of sunlight. Fires burned in hearths at either end of the room, and the floor was warmed by encaustic heating. Heavy woollen wall hangings, decorated with hunting scenes, help seal in the warmth.
A young man stood at the far end of the hall, hands behind his back. He was richly dressed in an embroidered blue coat and white hose; his shoes were of red leather, and his hair had been recently curled. Merrivale walked slowly towards him, red and gold tabard glittering in the sunlight. The ferrule of his stick tapped softly on the floor.
‘Have I the honour of addressing the Count of Flanders?’ he asked.
‘Yes,’ the young man said shortly.
‘Good.’ The herald pointed to a bench beside the fire. ‘Sit down.’
‘I prefer to stand,’ said the count.
‘I said, sit down.’
The young man’s fist clenched. ‘Who are you? How dare you speak to me this way?’
Merrivale rapped his stick hard on the floor. ‘I don’t think you understand the situation. I give the orders here, boy, and if I give the order to have you taken out and drowned in the moat, that order will be obeyed. Now, sit down.’
Resistance went out of the young man like air from a deflating bladder. He sat down, staring up at the herald in a mixture of fear and resentment. ‘What do you want?’
‘I want to know what game you think you are playing.’ He waited.
‘Game?’ the count said eventually.
‘You swore an oath before God and man that you would wed Princess Isabella. Now you are refusing to discuss the betrothal contracts. Have you taken leave of your senses? You have no bargaining space, boy, none whatever. Fulfil your oath, marry the princess and have done.’
The fear was growing now. ‘I’m not certain I can.’
‘Why not? For the love of God, you’re a sixteen-year-old boy who has been offered a royal virgin to play with. Think about her. She is comely, she has soft skin and golden hair and the scent she uses smells like violets. Any other man your age would be slavering at the chance. Why in hell’s name are you delaying?’
The count said nothing. Merrivale reached under his tabard and brought out a small roll of parchment bound with a red ribbon, and handed it to him. ‘This is a bill of exchange for ten thousand marks of silver, drawn on a bank in Bruges. It is yours. Your attendants will help you negotiate it, and will bring you the money. At Easter, the queen and the Bishop of Durham will arrive with the betrothal contract. Once it is signed, another ten thousand marks will be paid to you. At the same time, the estates you inherited from your father will be handed over. Croesus and Midas will envy your wealth.’
The young man stared up at him, holding the unopened roll in his hand.
‘Someone is offering you more,’ said Merrivale. Still the count said nothing. ‘I doubt if you will ever see the money they are promising you. It is far more likely you will end up dead.’
‘I cannot stop them. Neither can you.’
‘You are frightened of them.’
‘Everyone is frightened of the Pilgrims. Even the guards. That is why they let them in.’
‘The Pilgrims come to see you?’
‘Yes. There are three of them, musicians. One is called Marcelis. I can’t remember the names of the others.’
‘Tomaset and Garnier,’ Merrivale said.
‘Yes. Tomaset and Garnier, that’s right.’
God damn it, the herald thought in sudden anger, they are working right under our noses. I would like to break that smiling bastard Coudebrouc, and Metteneye too. But we cannot offend Bruges, not yet.
‘When you are Count of Flanders in your own right, with an English army at your back, then you will hold the whip hand,’ he said. ‘You can destroy the Pilgrims then. We will help you.’
The count did not respond. ‘It is the only way,’ Merrivale said quietly, looking down at him. ‘The marriage and the English alliance offers safety and security, for you and your people. The road you travel with the Pilgrims and their masters will lead to a quick and early death. Make your choice, my lord.’
After a long moment the young man stood up. ‘I will sign the contracts. Tell me what to do.’
‘Give me a letter telling me you accept the terms the king proposes. At Easter the contracts will be signed, and the marriage will take place as soon as possible thereafter. She is a bright and beautiful girl, who longs to be married. You will not regret your choice.’
‘If the Pilgrims learn of this meeting, they will kill me.’
‘You will be protected. You have my word on that.’ He would tell Metteneye to strengthen the guard at ten Berghe, and to rotate the watch and ban the musicians from the castle. As soon as possible, English troops needed to reinforce the guard. At all costs, this young man must survive.
‘Thank you,’ said the count.
Merrivale looked surprised. ‘For what?’
‘For helping me to make up my mind, and giving me the courage to defy them. For that, I shall be forever grateful.’
Returning to the city, Merrivale found a Knight of Saint John waiting for him at the gate, cloaked and muffled against the cold. ‘Sir herald? Commander DuSart begs you to attend on him as soon as you may.’
DuSart received him in the same vaulted white room as before. Sister Adela and Bessancourt were with him. The latter looked a little less nervous, which was faintly surprising. With them too, wrapped in a black fur robe and leaning on his ebony stick, was Oppicius Adornes.
‘We have found the trail of the French silver,’ said DuSart. ‘It was not easy. They ship the money by water, along the rivers and canals. The convoys move only by night, and the guards are alert and wear no identifying devices.’
‘How do they bring the silver into the city?’ Merrivale asked.
‘They don’t. They take it to Maldegem, about twelve miles from here. Maldegem is also a commandery of the Knights of Saint John.’
Merrivale digested this. ‘You told me last year that the Flemish knights are loyal to the League of Three.’
‘They are. The Flemish commanderies were part of the Priory of France, but they broke away nearly fifty years ago. But Maldegem is part of the bailiwick of Utrecht, which in turn is part of the priory of Germany. Thus outside our control.’
‘And we know some of the German knights have been approached,’ said the herald. ‘Including the Grand Prior.’ He remembered Tiphaine’s words. The rot is spreading. ‘Once the money reaches Maldegem, what happens next?’
‘We don’t yet know,’ said Sister Adela. ‘We have no eyes or ears inside that commandery. Relations between our own houses and the German priory have been strained since we broke away.’
‘Nothing at all? You said Maldegem is only a dozen miles away.’
Adela smiled. ‘This is Flanders. You can find a great deal of history in a dozen miles.’
‘They must have selected Maldegem for a reason. Its proximity to Bruges, perhaps. Meneer Bessancourt, you saw a letter that referred to Bruges.’
‘Yes,’ said the Frenchman. ‘The money is to be used in Bruges.’ Perhaps he was getting used to being afraid all the time, Merrivale mused. ‘We have discovered one thing about the Knights at Maldegem,’ Bessancourt continued. ‘They are converting silver into gold, and have been doing so for some time. It makes sense, of course. The French silver coins they stole are heavily debased, and gold is more portable. A single gold ducat is worth two hundred and forty silver pennies. You can transport a lot more wealth at one time.’
‘How is it that you have only just discovered this?’ Merrivale looked at Adornes. ‘When people trade silver for gold on the money markets, men like you quickly come to know about it.’
‘They did not use the ordinary bourses,’ Adornes said, speaking for the first time. ‘The Knights have their own dark exchange.’
‘How does it work?’
‘We mint our own ducats.’ DuSart reached into the pocket of his robe and pulled out a gold coin, which he laid on the desk in front of him. Merrivale examined it. The obverse showed a Knight of Saint John kneeling before the figure of John the Baptist, while the reverse held the image of an angel. The inscription read MAGISTER D. GOZON – RHODE; coined in the name of Grand Master Dieudonné de Gozon, minted in the town of Rhodes.
‘I have never seen one of these,’ Merrivale said.
‘Few people have,’ said DuSart. ‘The coins are new, we only started minting them last year. They are used primarily for business dealings between houses of the Order. We also use bills of exchange, of course, but for smaller transactions payment in coin is sometimes simpler. But these ducats rarely enter circulation outside the Order.’
‘Several months ago, the commander at Maldegem wrote to some of the other commanders and offered to buy their ducats at a good discount,’ Sister Adela said. ‘He did not write to us, of course; as rebels, we are cut off from the rest of the Order, and so the news came late. A Scottish compatriot of mine serving in another commandery heard of this and, knowing of my interest, passed the news to me.’
‘And this is only one channel by which they are acquiring gold,’ said Adornes. ‘You are right, sir herald. Gold is scarce, and when men trade it in quantities, we hear about it. We think William Blyth is also buying gold.’
Merrivale looked at him. ‘Did you not close down the dark exchanges?’
‘All that we could find. We think Blyth continued to trade a few bills at a time, using intermediaries, but we could not track these. A few weeks ago, word began to circulate that someone is offering to discount bills for anything up to a third of their value. But the redeemer must make payment in gold.’
‘Are people taking up the offer?’
‘Our own bankers and merchants know better. But some of the outland merchants, who don’t know Blyth or his history, are rushing to make bargains.’
‘The conspirators are preparing their next move,’ the herald said.
‘It would seem so,’ said Adornes.
‘Where is Blyth?’
No one answered. Merrivale gazed steadily at Adornes. ‘A storm is coming, meneer. In a little while, it will break. When it does, you will not be able to sit by and watch it pass. Coudebrouc and Metteneye think they can, but they are wrong. This cataclysm will consume all of us, unless we stop it.’
Adornes said nothing. ‘Someone is aiding Blyth,’ the herald said. ‘One does not conduct banking operations of this scale on one’s own. Such a thing needs clerks, messengers, agents in the bourse. Blyth has people around him. You must know who some of them are.’ He paused. ‘All you have to do is tell us what you know. We will do the rest.’
Slowly, gripping his stick, Adornes rose to his feet. ‘When the family of Katelijne Gistels fled Bruges they went first to the town of Sluis,’ he said quietly. ‘Later they settled in the village of Sint Anna, near the town. The rumour on the bourse is, if you wish to buy cheap bills of exchange, take your gold to Sint Anna. The people you refer to may be members of the Gistels family. That is all I know.’
Or all you will tell me, Merrivale thought. He looked at DuSart. ‘Shall we go to Coudebrouc and Metteneye and ask for men?’
The commander shook his head. ‘I trust my own Knights more than the Bruges militia. It will take a day to assemble them. Tomorrow, we shall go.’
You can find a great deal of history in a dozen miles.
Thirty Knights answered DuSart’s call; less than Merrivale had been expecting but more than enough, DuSart assured him, to deal with any opposition they might encounter. Professional to their fingertips, they arrived fully armed and armoured with heavy black cloaks over their red robes. DuSart handled them with a quiet confidence that Merrivale admired. I have underestimated him, the herald thought. He is a good man, and a useful ally. I must remember to work more closely with him.
Adela and Bessancourt remained in Bruges. The Knights rode to Sluis in the afternoon, arriving at dusk while the colours of sunset were still brilliant in the sky, red and gold in the west, pink and deep lavender in the east with the first stars shivering into life overhead. Sluis was a collection of brick houses and a big church with a high tower that doubled as a lighthouse, huddled at the mouth of a muddy river emptying into a shallow bay. The tide was out, and the rotting planks and sternposts of sunken ships could be seen protruding from the ooze; French ships of war destroyed by the English seven years earlier. On the far side of the bay, the burned-out churches and houses on the island of Damme were black silhouettes against the flaming sky.
DuSart had sent scouts ahead, and now these came riding back. ‘Sint Anna is two miles west of here. There are a dozen houses in the village, along with a church and a manor house. No lights are showing.’
‘Is the place deserted?’ DuSart asked.
‘No. We heard horses moving in one of the barns.’
The commander nodded. ‘So, they are waiting for us,’ he said. ‘It makes no odds. If Blyth is in Sint Anna, we’ll have him. What is the ground like around the village?’
‘Between here and Sint Anna is a salt marsh, pretty much impassable. But there’s dry ground on the far side.’
‘Then we’ll circle around and wait for the fall of night. Once it is fully dark, we go in. I’ll take the manor house; Joren, you and your men make for the church, and Lutgart and his file will search the village. Frido, your lot are the reserve; if we run into opposition, come in hard and fast.’
Brother Frido was a big man, bearded and bear-like in his black cloak. He nodded. Quietly the Knights went about their preparations, checking weapons, muffling the harness of their horses with rags, pulling hoods over their bascinets so there would be no betraying gleam of metal in the starlight. ‘You should wait here,’ DuSart said to Merrivale.
The herald shook his head. ‘I want to be there when Blyth is taken.’
‘Do you want a sword? We can lend you one.’
‘Heralds are forbidden to carry weapons, commander. You know that.’
Beneath the raised visor of his bascinet, DuSart grinned. ‘You’re not exactly an ordinary herald.’
As the sky darkened they forded the sluggish river and splashed through the marshes beyond, coming quickly to the dryer ground. Frost crunched on the grass. Steam spouted from the nostrils of their horses. In the silver glow of starlight they could see the huddled cottages of Sint Anna, the church tower and larger bulk of the moated manor house. Nothing moved there; all was dark.
Slowly the Knights turned towards the village and fanned out, breaking up into separate parties each making for its objective. Brother Frido’s reserves followed them. Merrivale rode behind DuSart, watching the shadows.
They were fifty yards from the village when the church bell clanged once, a single note echoing in the cold air, and then fell silent.
DuSart held up his hand. His men stopped. ‘Who goes there?’ the commander shouted. ‘Come out and show yourselves!’
In answer came a man’s voice, quiet but carrying, and the hair stood up on Merrivale’s neck.
‘I am a poor pilgrim, travelling in a perilous land,’ said Nicodemus the assassin. ‘In God’s name I am weary, and I seek shelter.’
‘It’s a trap,’ Merrivale said sharply, but he was too late. An arrow hissed out of the night and struck DuSart at the base of the throat, just above his breastplate. The commander clutched at the shaft embedded in his body and rolled out of the saddle, falling heavily to the ground. Another arrow followed, killing the horse of the man beside him. Roaring, the rest spurred their horses towards the village, Brother Frido’s men thundering after them. Merrivale jumped down and knelt beside the commander’s body. He was already unconscious, blood pouring from his throat; he would be dead within minutes.
Fighting erupted in the village, shouting and screaming and the clatter of weapons on armour. Rising and grasping his stick, Merrivale hurried towards the village. Bodies already lay in the street. Up ahead the Knights fought with a cold, disciplined fury, carving their way through the dark figures that swarmed out of the houses to attack them. A solid phalanx led by the big figure of Brother Frido reached the door of the church and smashed it open, rushing inside. Breath steaming, his wounded leg aching, Merrivale hurried after them. He spotted a single dark figure leading a horse away from the gate of the manor house. ‘Blyth!’ he screamed, and ran towards the other man.
It was not Blyth. The man turned as Merrivale approached, and the herald saw he was tall and lean. He had a longbow in his hands, an arrow at the nock. It would take him only a second to raise the bow and shoot. Merrivale halted, holding out his hands to show he was unarmed, but he knew this would make no difference.
‘Nicodemus,’ he said.
‘Ah, you remember me,’ the other man said mockingly.
‘I would hardly forget a hell-spawn like you. Where is Blyth?’
‘Where you’ll never find him, herald. The Pilgrims are protecting him.’
Merrivale pointed towards the village where the Knights were hunting down and killing the defenders. ‘The Pilgrims are dying.’
‘They don’t mind. They’ll get their reward in heaven, or they think they will, just like your crusaders. But there’s thousands more Pilgrims, herald. They’re everywhere, all around you, just waiting for their moment.’
‘Are you going to kill me?’ Merrivale asked.
‘Nothing would give me more satisfaction, but it’s not your time to die. When that time comes, he wants the pleasure for himself. Those are his orders.’
‘Whose orders? The man from the north?’
‘Yes. He knows you call him that, by the way. It amuses him. That’s what the old queen used to call him, he says. Her man from the north.’ Nicodemus raised his bow. ‘Walk away now, herald.’
‘You said you had orders not to kill me.’
‘I could cripple you, though. You’re already lame in one leg. If I put a shaft through the knee of the other, you’ll never walk again. Now, turn around and go.’
Merrivale said nothing. An arrow hissed and thudded into ground between Merrivale’s feet. Nicodemus already had another arrow at the nock. ‘Go,’ he repeated. ‘While you still can.’
The herald turned away. Behind him, he heard Nicodemus mount the horse. Suddenly furious, heedless of the danger, he wheeled around and began to run, but Nicodemus was already spurring the horse. Pain shot through Merrivale’s bad leg and he halted, leaning on his stick and gasping, unable to do anything but watch as Nicodemus rode away.
They sat silently in the white room at the hospital in Bruges; Merrivale, Adela, Bessancourt and Brother Frido, who had been elected by his fellow Knights to take charge of the commandery. They had brought DuSart’s body back that morning, and two other men whose wounds required treatment. The Knights had been badly outnumbered, but their training and discipline had won out; DuSart had been the only fatality. The Pilgrims had fought to the end, refusing all offers of surrender; the last of them had been hacked down before the altar of the church, still fighting. The sanctity of the church was of no avail to them.
Bessancourt was the first to break the silence. ‘We could go the burgemeester and ask him to take action against the Pilgrims.’
Adela shook her head. ‘Coudebrouc is afraid,’ she said. ‘Afraid he will be next.’ Her voice was dull with fatigue and emotion. She had been fond of DuSart; everyone had. His Knights had been in tears as they gathered up his body at Sint Anna. I should have known this was an ambush, Merrivale thought. I could have saved him.
‘The Pilgrims are everywhere,’ Brother Frido said. ‘Their power and reach seem to have no limits.’
‘What do they want?’ Merrivale asked. ‘Are they intending to overthrow the governments of the League of Three?’
‘They have never made any public statement of their aims,’ said Brother Frido. He paused. ‘Although, I did hear they were behind the revolution in Liège two years ago.’
‘What happened in Liège?’
‘The commune overthrew the bishop, and defeated the army he led against them. Many Pilgrims supported the commune, and still do.’
‘The Pilgrims also defend Poperinge against the militia of Ypres,’ said Adela.
‘And they are in league with the man from the north,’ Merrivale said tiredly. ‘His power, and theirs, seems to grow with every passing day, and it seems there is not a damned thing we can do about it. Nor are we any closer to establishing his identity.’
He looked at Adela and Bessancourt. ‘Our only hope is to trace the money. Will you remain here and continue your work? Get Adornes to help you.’
‘Adornes is the one who sent you to Sint Anna,’ Bessancourt said sharply.
‘I very much doubt if he knew what was going to happen. Someone fed him false information. Nevertheless, he is now in a difficult position. Blackmail him if you need to, but get him to help you find the right trail.’
Adela nodded. ‘What will you do, sir herald?’
‘I leave for Calais in the morning. I must report to the king.’