by David Gilman
Meulon kicked the men nearest to him and then, seeing their captain haul terrified townsmen to their feet, the men-at-arms went into the crowd and did likewise.
Blackstone pointed at the Breton. ‘Watch him!’ he commanded Perinne and John Jacob. ‘He moves, put a sword to his leg.’ Blackstone strode on to where Will Longdon attended Killbere. The veteran knight was now wrapped in a blanket and propped up against the wall; Jack Halfpenny had a rag and a bucket and was finishing wiping the detritus from Killbere’s chest. Killbere, for his part, was eating a piece of cooked meat and bread and swilling it down with wine. He stared up when Blackstone knelt next to him.
‘Don’t kill him, Thomas. He’s mine. I told that dog turd I would kill him and now I will. I prayed hard for you to come. I knew you would.’
‘Did you doubt it?’
‘No, but I knew that if Chandos had anything to do with it I’d have been left to rot.’ He saw the shadow of the truth cross Blackstone’s features. Killbere grunted. ‘Aye, I thought as much. Though I hold no ill will towards him. I’d have done the same if I were him.’
Blackstone placed a hand on his friend’s shoulder. He had minor wounds, cuts and rope burns from the coarse restraints, and the matted blood on his scalp had been gently bathed away by Halfpenny. ‘Rest first, Gilbert, and then you shall have him.’
Killbere snapped irritably at the attentive Halfpenny. ‘Mother of Christ, lad, I’m not a newborn calf to be rubbed down with straw. Away from me before I take a fist to you,’ he spluttered, showering those who attended him with bits of food and spittle. He tossed aside the blanket and forced himself to sit up.
Blackstone was unable to suppress a smile. ‘It seems being tied to that stake for four days was enough of a rest.’
‘And you took your time. I damn near froze to death half naked out there for these inbred peasant scum to hurl shit at me. What were you doing? Whoring? Where’ve you been?’
The welcome relief of seeing Killbere’s antagonistic spirit again soothed Blackstone’s grief.
‘Aye, you’re right. We were drinking and whoring. And then we had to decide whether to come and see if you were still alive and worth saving.’
Killbere grunted. He watched the townspeople being forced to cut down the men he had lost in the ambush. ‘We had no chance, Thomas. We fought as hard as we could but they overwhelmed us. Christ, they shot down our lads in one fell swoop.’
Blackstone helped his friend to his feet as Halfpenny stepped forward clutching Killbere’s sword belt and clothes. ‘Sir Gilbert, we found these in the guard commander’s billet. It must have been his reward for launching the ambush.’
‘Bring him to me, lad. I’ll pay him what he deserves.’
‘Will put an arrow through his eye. Him and his men, they’re all dead,’ said Halfpenny.
Killbere spat. ‘Good riddance, then.’ He took the clothes without thanks. ‘Get yourself away and prod more of those bastards to getting our men off the walls.’
The young archer turned away.
‘Jack,’ Killbere called after him.
Halfpenny turned.
‘You fought well and I thank you for trying to reach me in the fight. I’m pleased you lived. Now get off with you and once our lads are brought down attend to your own wound. There’s blood seeping.’
Halfpenny grinned. Killbere’s gratitude meant more than he would admit.
‘And take that stupid grin off your face before these inbreds think you a village idiot,’ Killbere demanded.
Killbere’s body shook as he dressed himself but he pulled back from the help offered by Blackstone. ‘I’m not a mewling infant, Thomas. I was dressing myself when you were not yet a seed in your father’s balls.’
‘You can’t fight him now, Gilbert. He’s strong. And he has twenty years on you. Young men move fast.’
There was still a tremor in Killbere’s fingers as he struggled to close his jupon. ‘Thomas, leave me be,’ he said. He was concentrating on the task at hand but his tone of voice left no doubt it was more of a command than a request. ‘And get that bastard dressed and armed.’
CHAPTER SEVEN
Three hours after dawn a frightened priest did as he was bid at the point of Renfred’s sword and rang terce. The German man-at-arms let the nervous priest yank the pull rope long enough for the shrill clanging to irritate and then prodded him from the gatehouse chapel to where de Charité and Killbere waited in the square below for absolution before they fought. Killbere had fortified his weakness with brandy and had spurned Blackstone’s offer to fight in his place. As Killbere tied his sword’s blood knot onto his wrist he turned to Blackstone.
‘If he kills me then you can have him. You’ve a look in your eyes, Thomas. You seek revenge for the men we lost. I will deliver it.’
‘These scum hacked them at the end of a rope,’ Blackstone said, looking to where his men’s savaged bodies lay in a line against the wall. ‘They need to pay for that. Men and women. There’s no mercy to be had.’
‘You don’t kill women, Thomas. Never have.’
‘These towns need to be taught a lesson. I will burn a swathe across this damned country whether they’re held by routiers or French. Their King still has a price on my head. By the time I’m finished he’ll have so many heads in sacks he can rule over their corpses.’
‘Merciful Christ, Thomas. You’ll become a monster if you slay everyone in this town.’
‘I will become what they say I have always been.’ He gestured to the approaching priest. ‘God be with you, Gilbert.’
He stood back as Killbere pulled on his helm and strode forward. There was little doubt that Killbere was the more experienced fighter but de Charité was years younger and the man’s strength was obvious from his barrel chest and thick neck muscles. There was a wolfish grin on the Breton’s face as he approached the middle of the square. In his mind he had already beaten the weakened veteran knight. De Charité bent down on one knee and took the priest’s blessing. A short confession and he was absolved from his sins. He stood back and pulled on his helm, waiting as Killbere faced the priest, who looked uncertain because the Englishman had not bent his knee.
‘You’re in the way, priest,’ said Killbere.
‘My lord? You must be shriven.’
‘I have confessed a lifetime of sins to many priests before many battles but I have no intention of dying today.’
‘Do you fear your sins will not be forgiven by contrition because your conscience bites at your soul?’ said the priest uncertainly.
‘Get out of the way.’
‘But...’
Killbere pushed the stammering priest to one side and advanced. Bernard de Charité hesitated, stunned that Killbere would dare refuse God’s blessing.
‘Prepare yourself, Breton turd. By tomorrow your head will be spilled from a sack in front of your King.’
De Charité slammed down his visor, raised his sword at the high guard and swung the blade, feet braced at an angle, the power from his shoulders and chest bringing enough strength to bear to cleave a man from shoulder to hip.
As he watched his friend Blackstone involuntarily shifted his weight as if he were fighting instead of Killbere. Half-step! Turn and thrust! Gilbert! He has you!
As de Charité’s blade swept downward Killbere did not flinch. He made a subtle shift of his body’s angle and the Breton’s sword tip whispered past his face and chest. It was a movement made by an expert fighter whose instinct as much as his eyes told him where a sword blade would fall. The crowd gasped. De Charité’s impetuousness carried him past Killbere, who made no attempt to strike. He waited, shifting the weight on the balls of his feet as a disbelieving de Charité quickly corrected his balance, turned and attacked again.
This time Killbere caught the strike on his own blade, turned it with a two-handed twist and felt the Breton shuffle his weight ready to use the advantage of his strength against him. The crowd stayed silent, afraid to support their lord, but Black
stone’s men roared for Killbere. Blackstone glanced at John Jacob; they knew how skilled Killbere was in a fight but he was weak. He would be unable to withstand a sustained attack. Blackstone turned his head towards where he had positioned Will Longdon. The archer held his bow down, an arrow already nocked, his fingers on the cord. If Killbere looked as though he was going to be killed Blackstone could never reach him in time. It would need the speed of an arrow to save Killbere’s life. Blackstone shook his head at the centenar’s questioning look. Not yet. Wait.
Killbere took a backward step. It seemed ill advised because de Charité braced his left leg, drew back his sword, threw forward his weight and lunged. Killbere couldn’t avoid the strike. Blackstone was about to signal Will Longdon when Killbere suddenly swivelled on the balls of his feet, twisted his hips, reversed his sword and struck de Charité’s helm with the pommel. The Breton’s heels rocked. The blow snapped back his neck and Killbere used his free hand to grab his opponent’s sword belt and tip him backwards. De Charité’s legs splayed, his sword arm reaching out against the impact of hitting the ground. It happened fast. A roar of disbelief surged from the crowd as Killbere kicked back the man’s visor with his heel and then rammed the point of his blade deep into the fallen man’s chest. It cut through cloth, mail and flesh. De Charité squirmed but Killbere was leaning all his weight onto the sword’s pommel. The Breton’s strength nearly threw Killbere off as he bucked and floundered but the veteran knight knew how to kill and his blade could not be dislodged. The Lord of Saint-Aubin screamed, eyes wide in pain and terror, his gaze locked onto the grimacing features of the man who had promised that his face would be the last thing he saw before he died. His eyes dimmed and the gurgling in his throat from the choking blood stopped.
Killbere wrenched free his sword and pulled off his helm, hands shaking from the fight’s effort.
‘I vowed to take him limb from limb,’ he said to Blackstone, who stepped quickly to his friend. ‘But I was too damned tired.’
* * *
The Breton warlord’s head was severed and wrapped in a sack. Blackstone would send the priest north to Paris to deliver the gruesome message that Saint-Aubin was lost and that a favoured ally of the war in Brittany had been slain. De Charité’s men’s corpses had been unceremoniously thrown into their billet as Blackstone ordered the people of Saint-Aubin to strip wood from their homes and livestock byres. He walked the base of the town’s walls letting his stonemason’s eye seek out a weakness. He found it in the north wall that abutted the lake. Over the years the dank conditions had weakened the rubble stone used in its construction. The wall had been built in two layers with loose rubble and dirt between them. Blackstone ordered that everything that could burn be stacked along its length. Tar barrels were placed at the base of the wall and casks of oil emptied over the wood. Blackstone was going to burn the place to the ground. The cold persisted but it was fear that made the townspeople shiver as Blackstone looked down on them from the top of the steps leading up to the parapet walkway.
‘The Lord of Saint-Aubin-la-Fère was given the chance to fight for his life, but those who had sport with my men will die.’
A fearful moan rose from the upturned faces. They jostled each other like penned sheep but there was no escape.
John Jacob, Perinne and Killbere flanked Blackstone. The squire cast a nervous look at his sworn lord. Blackstone’s anger was as unyielding as the frozen lake beyond the walls. He was going to teach the town a lesson and John Jacob feared that he was about to order the slaughter of all the townspeople. Will Longdon’s archers were stationed on the ramparts, and the men-at-arms, shields up, stood in a line ready to advance on the unarmed folk.
Three men in the crowd looked nervously at each other and then took faltering steps forward.
‘My lord,’ said the eldest. ‘We serve on the council. And with your permission we will speak on behalf of the people of Saint-Aubin.’
Blackstone gave a curt nod.
‘Thank you, Sir Thomas. For years we have lived in fear of routiers,’ continued the man. ‘They scorched everything for miles around. It was only the protection of Bernard de Charité that allowed us to sleep safely in our beds.’
The second man in the delegation splayed his palms in supplication. ‘For years the English King took what he wanted. The war he fought destroyed France. We had nothing. Only our town. It is where we are born and where we belong. It is the only place any of us have known. Our children are our only wealth.’
A murmur of agreement rippled through the crowd. The third elder dared to step closer to Blackstone. ‘Sir knight, we had agreed with heavy hearts to deliver our beloved home to King Edward, but Lord de Charité convinced us that it would be a grave mistake, that the English would inflict pain on us in their victory.’ He bowed his head, clasping his hands together, voice faltering. ‘That we behaved so vilely towards the dead cannot be excused. It shames us. But our lord urged us to wreak our own revenge on them so that we might free ourselves of the burden that has crushed our hearts for so many years. We vented our suppressed fear – and that was wrong. Our true guilt is of being frightened by fighting men such as yourselves.’
The three men fell silent.
Blackstone showed no sign of mercy. ‘You will pay. Every one of you,’ he said coldly.
A wail of grief rose from the crowd. Women clutched their children to them as menfolk embraced their women. Their death was imminent, exactly as de Charité had predicted.
Killbere turned and spoke quietly to Blackstone. ‘Thomas, think a moment on this. Your rage is understandable. The years of war and your own suffering can close a man’s heart to mercy. How often have we seen and heard our King vow to inflict terror on a town or a city that has defied him? It was only the tender words of his Queen who softened his anger and made him relent. You loved Christiana when you were still a boy archer. Think of her now. Your wife may be dead, Thomas, but I know she still speaks to your heart.’
Blackstone had still not turned his eyes away from the whimpering crowd.
Killbere gently touched his friend’s arm. ‘I, more than anyone, wish to strike these people down, but we gain no honour from it. And honour is all we have left in our desolate lives. To kill them in the name of our King serves no purpose other than to inflame hatred against him. You’ve always had a place of tenderness in your heart. Find it again.’
Blackstone finally turned to face his friend and spoke quietly. ‘I am no monster, Gilbert. I would never slay women and children, but an example must be made. You know that. What would you have me do? Walk away?’
Killbere remained silent. Blackstone was right. The English King had won the peace and that which was ceded to him needed to be claimed. And those who betrayed his trust risked everything.
‘Do what you did when we seized Balon after our fight at Rheims before the King signed the treaty.’
Blackstone glanced at him. They had captured the town of Balon the previous year and punished those who had tortured a woman thought to be a witch. Blackstone faced the crowd. ‘The ground is as hard with frost as my heart is with revenge. You will dig until your hands bleed, men and women both, and you will bury my men and your priest will pray over them. Forty men died. I will take a tithe. You choose,’ he said, looking at the town elders. ‘Four men to hang. That is the mercy I, Thomas Blackstone, grant you in the name of my King for the betrayal and mutilation.’
The spokesmen nodded their acceptance. Men grimaced at the thought of who might be chosen; women wept; and the children whimpered, not understanding what grieved their parents.
‘And when this has been done,’ said Blackstone. ‘I will destroy Saint-Aubin-la-Fère.’
CHAPTER EIGHT
The pall of smoke hovered above the blazing town, a black shroud heavy in the air. It took a day and into that night for the men, women and children to bury Blackstone’s slaughtered men and then as the dawn broke he allowed them to gather what they could carry. Four bodies swung fro
m a gibbet fifty yards from the main gate as the stream of people shuffled their way clear of the blazing buildings and the decapitated body of Bernard de Charité that hung from the ankles alongside the men who had been sacrificed. The townspeople’s homes had been destroyed and the corpses of de Charité’s men had been laid in the pyre once anything of use had been stripped from them (being garrison soldiers their boots were less worn than those of Blackstone’s men). As the inferno took hold the flames soared up through the tower keep and ignited the timber-frame roof like a beacon that would be seen for miles. Blackstone’s men loaded supplies stripped from the town after he had allowed every family enough food for a week.
Blackstone and his men sat at the forest edge, their horses shifting weight, snorting breath, and watched the procession of dispossessed with the smoke billowing behind them.
‘No one town will take them all in,’ said John Jacob.
‘They’ll split into groups and find sanctuary,’ said Blackstone.
‘They’ll tell the others what we have done,’ said Killbere. ‘And that will put the fear of Christ into them.’ He glanced at Blackstone. ‘If any of them survive. They’ll fall prey to routiers now, Thomas. They’ll be slaughtered out in the open.’
‘They’ve paid the price, Gilbert. We’ll shadow and protect them. That will give them another story to tell. Fear and gratitude work like a horse pulling a cart.’