Scourge of Wolves_Master of War

by David Gilman

  Blackstone vomited river water but Meulon ignored that as he grabbed him by the rope that was still tied beneath his shoulders. The man’s strength didn’t seem to be diminished as he threw Blackstone down into the mud beneath the rotting vegetation on the bank. Horsemen were crashing through the forest, heading towards those beyond the river. Blackstone and his Norman captain could not see the riders but the noise of the trampling horses told them they were close. As the sound faded they yanked free the ropes and carefully slithered up the bank and into the trees. Their backs were bruised and grazed from the boulders but the mud had a strangely soothing effect on their wounds and once they had brought their shivering under control they clambered further into the undergrowth.

  As they crawled they heard muffled shouts and screams from the distance. The fight continued beyond the forest. Meulon pushed aside a clump of ferns and bramble and they came face to face with the contorted body of a Breton mercenary with an arrow in his chest. Dirt and blood clogged his mouth; leaf mould half covered his face. Beyond him a horse lay dead with a broken stake in its chest. The clamour of the fighting became more distinct.

  Blackstone snatched the fallen Breton’s sword and Meulon grabbed his mace. ‘It’s Will and Perinne,’ said Blackstone.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

  When Will Longdon fell the horseman had turned his mount to trample him beneath iron-shod hooves. Killing Englishmen was in his blood, but to kill an English archer gave a visceral satisfaction and slaked an appetite to slaughter these silent killers. Richard Quenell had turned at the sound of the horseman bearing down on them. He saw Will Longdon fall. A thought flashed through his mind. Longdon had caused his humiliation; if he were dead then the way ahead might be open for him to take Longdon’s place as centenar. As quickly as the thought had arrived he pushed it from his mind. Longdon’s sworn lord, Thomas Blackstone, could have taken his rank from him, but had not. And even though the veteran knight Killbere had struck him, it had been a light punishment. Quenell had challenged the centenar, a man of senior rank, and he had been put in his place. A lesson had been learnt and he had been accepted into a band of men who wore their loyalty as proudly as their blazon. He nocked an arrow and loosed at the looming figure.

  It was a difficult shot. His aim instinctive. The rider’s mouth gaped from shock and pain, his head thrown back as the bodkin-tipped arrow punched into his chest and blood choked his throat. As he fell from the saddle the horse veered and ran into a concealed stake. As it screamed in agony Quenell ran forward to the fallen archer. Longdon was stunned but he was trying to get to his feet. Quenell reached down and grabbed the older man, dragging him up. He put his face close to the archer.

  ‘They’re still coming!’ he said. Other horsemen were in the forest. ‘Can you run?’

  Will Longdon looked confused from the blow to his head. Quenell gripped his jupon and shook him. ‘Run!’

  It took only two deep breaths for Will Longdon’s senses to return. He grabbed his war bow and without a word turned and sprinted for the far edge of the forest.

  Ignoring bramble cuts and whiplash branches they ran for their lives, cutting through the trees onto the narrow forester’s track. Behind them came the increasing sound of more riders punishing their horses through the undergrowth, swerving this way and that to avoid trees as they sought out the archers who had ambushed them. Longdon’s lungs heaved but he realized that he still gripped the half-dozen arrow shafts in his fist. If they had to turn and fight they could still kill some of those who pursued them.

  ‘The others are through,’ gasped Quenell.

  Ahead of them the trees thinned and daylight flooded the meadow on the other side. Longdon blinked away the tears of exertion and saw the ragged line of archers had turned 150 paces or more from the treeline to face the approaching enemy.

  ‘Now we kill more of the bastards,’ said Will Longdon and put on a spurt.

  * * *

  Barefoot, sluiced with sweat and caked in mud, Blackstone and Meulon followed the clamour of battle and ran into the clearing. Will Longdon’s men were formed up in a ragged line where Perinne and Renfred’s one hundred mounted men-at-arms had been waiting; the archers seemed to have paused their killing as Blackstone’s captains were now riding hard into the surviving Bretons who had been foolish enough to give chase through the forest and emerged to find themselves in yet another ambush. Twenty or thirty Bretons had wheeled and fought but they were being overwhelmed. Many were already lying dead on the ground either from the archers’ skill or the men-at-arms’ charge. Horses ran loose; handfuls of unhorsed mercenaries scattered, running for the trees. If they ran clear of the hobelars then Longdon’s archers brought them down. Some corpses had three arrows in their back.

  Blackstone and Meulon came face to face with four of the mercenaries who thought they had escaped the killing. Disbelief creased their features as the two wild men appeared. Barefoot, hair and beards caked with mud, grass and twigs, shirts ripped, hose blackened, they didn’t look human, but like huge pagan forest dwellers that had finally emerged into daylight. However, whatever doubts the Bretons had were quickly dispelled. These two men were armed and were charging at them.

  Meulon’s great strides gained ground on Blackstone and he sidestepped a sword strike. The turn of his body meant he was already swinging the flanged mace from a low position in a fast arc that caught the first Breton under the chin as he stumbled forward. His head snapped back. So did his neck. He was dead before he fell. Blackstone parried the second mercenary’s sword thrust. The blade he had taken from the dead Breton did not have the fine balance of his own Wolf Sword, and the pitted blade had a poor edge to it. He sidestepped, allowing the man’s lunge to carry his weight forward. Letting the blade pass him he grabbed the man’s forearm, blocking him with his body strength, and smashed his forehead into the man’s nose. The Breton’s legs gave way and as Blackstone stepped over him he thrust his blade into the back of the man’s neck.

  Blackstone and Meulon stopped, level with each other but ten paces apart, as the two surviving Bretons attacked. The scar-faced knight and his long-serving captain stood their ground. Years of experience served as their shield. One of the Bretons saw Blackstone take a step forward. His bare feet looked to have slipped in the wet grass. He went down onto one knee. Caught unawares. Head lowered. The Breton attacked, obeying his instinct and half raising his sword ready for a sweeping cut. Blackstone lifted his head, looked into the man’s eyes, saw the startled awareness that he had been duped. Screaming defiance, it was the last breath he took as Blackstone tilted his blade and let the man’s momentum drive it up below his breast bone. The blade severed lungs, heart and spine and its bloodied tip protruded from his back. The inferior blade snapped. The man’s weight fell onto Blackstone, who went down beneath him. Rolling clear he saw that Meulon had the second man on the ground, a knee in his chest, his free hand pinning the man’s sword arm. The mace was raised; the man screamed for mercy. And then fell silent.

  Blackstone and his friend stood and watched as Perinne and Renfred’s hobelars killed the remaining Bretons. Those few who escaped had already galloped into the trees. The meadow’s crop of goose-feathered shafts was being harvested by the archers as they went among the dead and retrieved what arrows they could use again. Will Longdon raised an arm to Blackstone. By the time he and the throat-cutter reached him it was plain to see that every man had been blooded.

  ‘Thomas,’ said Will Longdon, weariness creasing his face, ‘I lost four of my lads.’

  Blackstone nodded, and placed a hand on his friend’s shoulder. No words were needed. He stepped past him to where Perinne was bringing the mounted men back together, steadying them after the killing in case of a counter-attack, although that was unlikely. The Bretons were in retreat down the valley and all the survivors would be in full flight.

  ‘You look as though you’ve been rolling in boar shit,’ said Will Longdon to Meulon.

  ‘And you stink of it,’ the
Norman answered.

  ‘Aye, well, that’s because some of us have been fighting and men soil themselves when they die.’

  ‘You archers don’t get close enough to fight.’

  ‘Then it must be your own arse you’re smelling,’ said Longdon.

  Meulon laid an arm across Longdon’s shoulder and grinned. ‘You moan like an unpaid whore.’

  ‘And your armpit reeks of a feral dog.’

  ‘Come on, I’ll help you collect your arrows.’

  ‘Aye, well, don’t go dragging your great paw along the arrow shaft when you do. It takes skill to bind them goose feathers. Something a throat-cutter wouldn’t understand.’

  They bickered their way across the killing field until enough bloodstained arrows had been gathered and then waited for the next attack. Side by side.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

  Blackstone waited in the field with the men but the Bretons did not return. The day grew short and as the light behind the clouds begin to diminish he led them back through the forest towards the heights. The valley was strewn with corpses: a thousand men or more must have died in the confines of the ambush and the assault higher up. The riverbank had been torn away in places and dead Bretons, either wounded by Longdon’s archers or killed in the assault and fallen into the torrent, now lay twisted and caught on fallen trees and rocky outcrops at the river’s margin. The force of water from the dam had flooded grassland and forest edge. The current was gentler now that the sluice gate had been closed. When Blackstone and Meulon saw the devastation they realized they had been fortunate not to have been swept to their deaths or pummelled even further along the boulder-strewn riverbed. If the river hadn’t crushed them then the horde of Bretons waiting to attack would have had them at their mercy.

  Blackstone led his men back towards their lines. The higher they climbed the more dead they stepped over. Men heaved their attackers’ corpses downhill, clearing the assault line. Killbere strode along one length of the terraces, John Jacob on the other. Beyard and his Gascons were doing their fair share of looting the bodies before tossing them aside. Jack Halfpenny and his archers had left their vantage place to pick their way among the dead retrieving what arrows they could, and they too looted. Felton and de Harcourt’s banners fluttered further to the rear.

  ‘Looks as though Jack and his men brought down more than their fair share,’ said Will Longdon.

  ‘As did you, Will,’ said Blackstone. He raised an arm towards Killbere, who acknowledged his approach.

  ‘And Sir William will be claiming all of this as his own doing,’ said Meulon as he plucked a silver-handled knife from a mercenary’s belt. ‘Small reward for what we did today,’ he said, tucking it into his boot.

  ‘Best to let a vain man have his glory, my friend. It was a small price to pay to get what we wanted.’

  By the time they had scrambled up the terraces Killbere stood waiting.

  ‘I thought you had gone with the fishes,’ he said, grinning.

  ‘It looks as though you had a fight on your hands,’ said Blackstone.

  ‘Nothing like the old days. We lost twenty or thirty men. Mostly Sir William’s. They were untrained and ran down the damned hill like girls at a county fair. Thank Christ there were enough of them to smother these bastards. By the time they’d tripped over their swords and de Harcourt’s men closed the ranks we got them organized.’

  Blackstone’s amused look of doubt made the veteran knight shrug and relent.

  ‘Aye, all right,’ he admitted, ‘they fought well enough. But they were a breath away from being late. John here saved young Alain’s neck and sent him back to fetch the lazy bastards. Not as disciplined as us but they played their part. It was a good enough day. Better had you and Meulon been at our side instead of being so damned foolish. God’s blood, man, what were you thinking? A few more men and we could have pulled you out of the dam.’

  ‘There was no time. We’d have drowned.’

  Killbere glanced at Will Longdon, Perinne and the others who had fought in the ambush. ‘You lads stop them down there?’

  ‘Will did more of the killing than us,’ said Perinne, nodding towards Longdon, ‘but we killed those who thought they had the better of us.’

  ‘Get the horses to the rear and then help secure the line in case those whoresons try a counter-attack.’ He turned to Blackstone. ‘We hurt them, Thomas, but there might be enough of them left to try their luck again.’

  ‘No, Gilbert. They’re spent. We’ve given the King the upper hand in his private war with the Bretons.’

  Killbere grinned and spat. ‘Better still, we have pissed off the French.’ He looked back towards the hilltop. ‘Pig-face is up there, pleased as a virgin bride.’

  ‘I’d best go and congratulate him.’

  ‘And then let’s be about our own business, Thomas. This has whetted my appetite for a decent fight. Let’s track down William Cade and the Welsh mountain goat he rides with.’

  CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

  Sir William Felton and Louis de Harcourt stood further up the hill, just below its crest, beyond which the horses were tethered. They were bloodied, but their squires were busy cleaning their weapons and scrubbing their surcoats. The two men were stripped to their undershirts, plunging their hands into a bucket and sluicing blood from their faces. Felton looked up as Blackstone approached.

  ‘You didn’t drown then?’

  ‘I came close enough,’ said Blackstone, helping himself to the knight’s wine flask. He swallowed a couple of mouthfuls and watched the two men being fussed over by their squires as they were handed bolts of cloth to dry themselves.

  ‘Did you get any fighting done?’ said Felton.

  ‘Enough,’ Blackstone answered and took another mouthful of wine.

  ‘You’re free and easy with another man’s drink,’ said Felton.

  ‘And you were almost too late in committing your men. What were you waiting for? A winged angel with an invitation from the King? Killbere had to send a lad to summon you. Could you not hear the fury of it all?’

  ‘Damn you, Blackstone. You weren’t here to see the carnage that could have happened had I not thrown my men into the fray at the correct time.’

  ‘I told you that Sir Gilbert was in command and if you had listened to him you would not have lost so many men.’

  ‘Men serve to fight and die.’ He snatched the flask from Blackstone’s hand and strode to where a fresh shirt was being unpacked for him by his squire.

  ‘You waste men’s lives needlessly. Every man has his place in a battle. Throw a man’s life away and you weaken everyone who fights. You have Sir Gilbert to thank for holding the line at your leisure.’

  Louis de Harcourt stepped quickly between the two men because Sir William had turned and taken an aggressive couple of strides towards Blackstone. De Harcourt knew that Felton’s rank should not be challenged by Blackstone, but he also knew Blackstone’s reputation when it came to defiance. Thankfully his action stopped Sir William from doing anything rash. There would be only one outcome and Thomas Blackstone, had he struck the Seneschal of Poitou, or done worse, would have once again felt the wrath of his King. Despite being King Edward’s enemy for so many years, and by association Blackstone’s, Louis de Harcourt had now thrown in his lot with the English and felt protective towards the man who had sacrificed so much for the de Harcourt family.

  ‘It is difficult to time when best to strike, Sir Thomas. Too soon and we would have lost the element of surprise. And then even more men would have died,’ said de Harcourt.

  The two men, seeing de Harcourt’s gesture of reconciliation, understood in that moment that conflict between them should be avoided. Sir William grunted dismissively and sat on a fallen tree trunk as his squire helped him off with his sweat-laden shirt and into fresh linen.

  ‘You can go your own way now, Blackstone. I have my duties to return to and de Harcourt rides with me,’ said Felton dismissively.

  ‘My men need
payment. We serve the King. Sir John knows this,’ said Blackstone.

  ‘Then take your claim to him. Chandos made no mention of it to me. Besides, I have my own and Louis’s men to feed, clothe and pay. Take your gang of cut-throat vagabonds and seize what you can elsewhere.’

  ‘My men take precedence,’ Blackstone insisted. ‘I gave you this victory. If we had listened to you we would likely be lying dead beneath Breton hooves. You fought in other great victories standing at the Prince’s side, but they were victories not of your making.’

  Sir William Felton’s temper broke. ‘You gutter rat,’ he snarled. ‘You were given honour by the Prince’s hand. That he knighted a common archer is not for me to condemn but when you are in the territory that I control then you take your orders from me. There is no money. There is no food. You will not benefit from our supplies or our protection. Ride on, Blackstone, and rob others but you will not thieve from me.’

  Louis de Harcourt raised his hand to try and stop Felton’s aggression. ‘William, if he is due payment on the word of the King then he should be paid.’

  ‘Not by me and if anyone questions my reasoning then I will tell them that the great legend Thomas Blackstone deserted the battlefield at the time of the attack.’

  Louis de Harcourt was barely quick enough to step aside as Blackstone suddenly had Wolf Sword at Felton’s throat. His squire reached for a knife.