by David Gilman
‘I was prepared to risk it. I’m the same age as the King and unlike him I do not have many opportunities to wallow in comfort. She would have been a demanding woman, I know that, but I am up to such demands. And, I have to confess, that as far as my heart is concerned, she was more radiant than even my nun.’
‘The nun who fornicated with every monk in sight.’
‘I forgave her once I broke their heads. You don’t understand women, Thomas. They have needs like us. Imagine being cooped up in a convent or a château. Dear Christ, the boredom. I pitied the Countess. What was there beyond embroidery and torturing routiers? Eh? Sexual gratification tempers the soul and banishes boredom.’
Blackstone finished hobbling the bastard horse. It snapped at his head as he bent to tie its front legs. He deftly avoided the yellow teeth and despite its belligerence ran an affectionate hand over its cheek. ‘I was thinking we should go south after we’ve finished the King’s business and dealt with the Welshman. Find an abandoned garrison, somewhere near a monastery, maybe find you another of your nuns. A place where the sun ripens the vines and the monks make good wine. Or perhaps even go back to Elfred and the men outside Florence. Or bring them to us. Elfred is even older than you. He would settle for a quieter life now, I’ll wager.’
‘We should do it soon, Thomas. The King will continue to find us work more fit for tax collectors than fighting men.’ He followed Blackstone’s example and rubbed grass and fern over his horse’s back. ‘But the likes of you and me cannot stay idle for long. We were born to fight. What would life be without something to stir the blood? We should think about the Moors in Spain. The Spanish will pay us well. There are sea breezes and food enough for an army. And the winters down there are warm. None of this dank misery with thousands of skinners on one side of the river and thousands more Frenchmen on the other. Let them fight among themselves. The Moors have built palaces rich with gold. A couple of good years of plunder and I could buy my own castle.’
‘And do what with it? Stand on its tower and survey your land? Farm it? Plant crops or vines?’
‘Servants, Thomas. They do all the work. We sit back and enjoy the rewards of our efforts. Merciful God, we could have done this a dozen times already. Imagine. Slave girls from the east, nuns from local monasteries, women from anywhere. I’m not fussy like you, Thomas. It’s not my heart I offer them. And it’s not for ever. Just long enough to rest and see which way the wind blows us to our next conflict.’
Blackstone carried his saddle and blanket beneath the tumbling boulders. He found a patch of deep fern and crushed the plants beneath the blanket, then settled his saddle as a pillow. He undid his sword belt and wrapped it around Wolf Sword’s scabbard. ‘I would ride away quietly, Gilbert, but there are too many enemies who await their chance to kill me. I’ll rest when I’m dead.’
‘You need a woman,’ said Killbere, settling his own blanket down. And then, remembering the women Blackstone had known since his wife died: ‘Perhaps not. You and women upset the order of the planets.’ He sighed. ‘I need a piss. Think about what I said, though. Spain is warmer than Italy, the women are hairy but they have no inhibitions. Not like some of these damned Frenchwomen who think their cunny is a vault full of silver. No, a Spanish woman’s skin is fragrant, her hair is black like silk, glistening with sweet oils. We could do worse if only for a couple of years. Three perhaps. But, I agree, no longer. Then, by God, we would be like armoured stallions ready to fight the devil himself.’
Killbere glanced down at Blackstone. The hard, seasoned knight, the boy he had dragged to war all those years past, lay curled in on himself, his breathing deep and regular as he slept. The veteran knight looked around as the men organized themselves. Years of campaigning meant they were sharp, every one of them, as keen as a honed blade. They knew what to do and when. Blackstone could lead an army of men like these and every one of them was worth shedding blood for. In truth, he told himself, despite all his talk of castles and rich women, there was nowhere else he would rather be than among them.
CHAPTER FIFTY-NINE
On the slow journey back to the monastery Blackstone had kept the injured Alain close by his own campfire and through the nights made sure the young man had warmth and food. The amputated leg showed no sign of turning foul but he had followed the apothecary’s instructions and had the dressing changed each day. Now Blackstone and his men waited outside the monastery Saint-André-de-Babineaux as John Jacob hammered his fist on the gate and rang the bell.
‘Open it, you lovers of the Lord, or be prepared to meet him,’ he shouted.
Killbere shifted in his saddle. ‘Thomas, were it not for the lad and his need for care, would we have burnt this place to the ground for their treachery and sent these pious, lying bastards into the forest and hills so that the wolves and bears might fill their bellies?’
Blackstone grinned. ‘I would have sent the prior on a pilgrimage to Canterbury on his knees and helped him on his way with a sack of pig fat on his back to help attract them.’
The leather-faced porter’s head appeared in the viewing hatch. Blackstone and Killbere could hear the trembling voice from where they waited.
‘He’s afraid to give us entry,’ John Jacob called.
‘Tell him he has no choice. We have an injured man. We claim sanctuary for him,’ Blackstone answered.
Killbere sighed. ‘We need to make better time, Thomas. Who knows if the Welshman is still at La Roche? He’ll outnumber us so we’ll need to ride with caution once we’re close.’
‘We are still refused,’ called John Jacob.
‘Mother of God,’ groaned Killbere. He stood in his stirrups and bellowed. ‘Open the gates, you Judas whores, or we’ll send our men over the walls.’
John Jacob trudged back, shaking his head, to where his horse was held. ‘The old gatekeeper has strict instructions from the prior.’
‘This is hardly the time to start a siege, Thomas. Let us scale these puny walls and teach them a lesson.’
‘Let’s try the front gate first,’ said Blackstone and nudged the bastard horse forward. As he reached the double wooden doors he tugged the rein to bring the great war horse’s rump against them. Then he eased his weight in the saddle and the horse obliged, pushing itself back, gathering strength, pressing its front legs into the dirt until its weight splintered any holding bar on the other side of the gates. Blackstone quickly turned the beast and forced his way through. The monks were gathered, huddled together for strength and confidence, but they soon broke and scattered as Blackstone urged the horse forward. Killbere, John Jacob and Meulon followed, leaving the rest of the men at the open entrance. Blackstone dismounted and pushed his shoulder against the locked door that led to Prior Albert. It quickly gave and once inside he strode down the passage and saw the prior running into his rooms. Blackstone heard a lock turn. He kicked at the handle, throwing open the door. The prior, shaking with fear, was on his knees before a simple crucifix on the wall. Blackstone grabbed him by the collar and threw him onto his cot. The weight of the man’s body splintered the cot’s legs and Prior Albert slithered to the floor, his habit up around his waist.
‘Get to your feet and cover yourself,’ said Blackstone.
As the prior scrabbled to adjust his habit Killbere came into the room. ‘I’ve sent Perinne into the kitchens.’ He pointed at the quivering prior. ‘You and your fleabitten brothers are close to death. Do you wish to pray before we take our blades to you? Your Countess won’t be coming to help you this time. We killed all her men and the routier scum she sent to ambush us. Did you think we wouldn’t come back, brother betrayer? We offered you peace and goodwill. Now you’ll pay with your lives.’
Blackstone stepped forward and placed a restraining hand on Killbere’s shoulder. ‘Now, Sir Gilbert, we caused Prior Albert’s monks no harm but he was likely frightened that we might have been skinners not men on our King’s business,’ he said, looking down on the kneeling prior.
‘Yes. Ye
s, I was convinced you were men like… like…’
‘William Cade,’ said Blackstone.
‘Exactly,’ said the prior, seizing on the excuse.
‘There, you see, he was fearful of his own doubts,’ Blackstone said to Killbere. ‘Like a man who doubts his own faith.’ He looked at the prior. ‘Do you doubt your own faith?’
‘I do not.’
‘Then you believe that the Almighty will protect you.’
‘I do.’
‘And yet you lost your faith when we were first here, otherwise why would you have betrayed us?’
The prior’s mouth opened and closed as his thoughts raced for an answer.
‘He is a false believer. Kill him now and burn the place to the ground,’ Killbere growled, taking a stride forward.
Blackstone restrained him again and turned to the prior. ‘I am certain that if we grant these monks our mercy they will offer their prayers for us and care for our wounded comrade. Is that not so, Prior Albert?’
‘With all my heart I swear that to be so.’
Blackstone’s body blocked the prior’s view so that he could not see Killbere grin. Their little game of threat and the promise had worked. Killbere stormed out of the room and turned with a final pointed gesture. ‘If he’s lying God himself will strike him and scorch this place from the face of the earth.’ He turned away.
‘Now,’ Blackstone said to the prior, hauling him to his feet. ‘You will prepare the infirmary and instruct monks who are skilled in treating wounds. And then your kitchener will feed my men. Understood?’
‘I will do everything you ask and will pray for you.’
‘Pray for yourself, brother prior. You still need forgiveness for your betrayal.’
* * *
The monks attended Alain de la Grave with gentleness. Clean sheets covered with woollen blankets and a fire in the infirmary ensured his comfort. Herbs and ointments were prepared and a wicker cage was placed over his amputated limb to keep the weight of the blankets from his wound. While Killbere and the captains went about billeting the men and stabling the horses Blackstone watched the monks go about their business. The young Frenchman was still gravely ill but he was conscious.
‘The monks will prepare a potion for your pain,’ he said.
‘I am cast out of the world, Sir Thomas. I cannot serve you and I can no longer serve myself. Better that I should have died,’ Alain said weakly.
‘No, your courage demanded that we tried to save you.’
‘Like this?’ he said bitterly, barely able to suppress his tears.
‘You are not a child, Alain. You will bear this like any fighting man. Your life has changed but you have a life,’ Blackstone said sternly. ‘I have seen sturdier men than you die from amputation. You have fierce blood in your veins.’
Alain tried to raise himself in the bed but his strength had not yet returned. Blackstone resisted the urge to step forward and help him. Sweat blistered the young man’s face. A monk preparing fresh linen dressings across the room moved to help him.
‘No!’ Alain said. ‘Leave me.’ The monk glanced at Blackstone who gave a gentle shake of his head. The brother turned away and returned to his duties while his young charge persevered and finally propped himself up.
‘And what would you have me do with this half-life you’ve condemned me to?’ he demanded.
‘What you did at Felice took courage. It will not desert you. Once that wound is healed you’ll use a crutch and you will move as quickly as many men on two legs. I’ve seen men tie their half-leg by straps to a saddle. You’ll be able to ride. You will do what you can and make the best of it.’
‘I won’t be able to fight,’ he insisted.
‘No, likely not, but you’re an educated man. There are towns and villages who need teachers. You might have only one leg but you have a brain which is more than a lot of fighting men have.’
They fell silent. Blackstone went to him and touched his arm. ‘We are riding south tomorrow to seize and kill Gruffydd ap Madoc. I could not leave you at Felice so here is where you will stay until you are healed. No matter how long it takes. No harm will come to you here. And when my business is done I will look for you again.’
Alain nodded but Blackstone could see his words offered no comfort.
‘You are stricken, Alain, but that does not make you any less a man.’
‘How are you so certain?’ he answered. ‘How can you know?’
‘Before we arrived at Sainte-Bernice and found you I spoke to a man cursed with leprosy. He guided us through the forest near your town. He had served King John and years ago fought us at Poitiers but the leprosy brought him to his knees. His family was taken from him; the son he loved was raised by another man. He understood that despite the pain of that loss he had no choice but to accept it. He was one of the bravest men I have met and he lives his life with fortitude and courage.’
As Blackstone quietly told the story he thought he saw in Alain’s eyes a glimmer of some lost childhood memory.
‘His name was Robert de Rabastens. He was your father.’
Disbelief gripped the young Frenchman. Finally he stared at Blackstone, his voice strained. ‘My father was Mouton de la Grave. Lord of Sainte-Bernice.’
‘He honoured Robert de Rabastens and took you to his heart. Now you must honour both these brave men.’
A tear spilled from Alain’s eyes. He quickly wiped it away and regained his composure.
‘Honour is all we have left to us,’ said Blackstone. ‘Find where yours lies, hold it close and let it serve you.’
CHAPTER SIXTY
The men and horses were rested and fed and after the prior had prayed for them they left. Behind them the prime bell for morning prayers rang out across the rocky hillsides.
Blackstone did not look back. What lay behind a man was past. It was Killbere who turned and glanced at the monastery as the column of men meandered across the valley track. ‘I hope the lad survives. It feels unusual not having him with us.’
‘I thought you found him a burden,’ said Blackstone.
‘God’s tears, Thomas, I found you a damned burden when you were a clumsy oaf that I first took to war, but I persevered.’
Blackstone smiled. ‘He’ll survive. He has youth on his side and he has the urge to live. I told him about his father. He thought him dead.’
‘Aye, well, a leper is the living dead.’ Killbere crossed himself. ‘I will die with a sword in my hand or with a woman in my bed, God willing.’ He shrugged. ‘But it seems likely that the way ahead will not offer me the choice. If the French have heard about Felice, then they will have an excuse to hunt us.’
‘They don’t need an excuse,’ said Blackstone. ‘It will soon be a time of reckoning, Gilbert. One way or the other we will not be able to avoid the French army.’
Killbere snorted and spat. ‘Then just as well I ploughed a furrow with the Countess.’
It took three days of steady riding for Blackstone’s men to reach the Loire and another to find a ford. Blackstone and his men had skirted the broad swirling river with its treacherous currents and sinking mud until coming across a broad shallow expanse of the waterway. They sat in their saddles two hundred yards from the bank in cover behind a village of huddled, reed-thatched houses, waiting to see if the crossing was safe. There had been no sign of riders on the far bank but the bulrushes that grew in the shallows’ mud and the trees beyond could easily hide an enemy.
‘This is the best we will get, Thomas,’ said Killbere. ‘But who’s to say local troops don’t use it to go back and forth?’
Blackstone studied the muddied banks and approach to the ford as the air from the river was swept onto them by the northerly wind. ‘Cow shit,’ he said. ‘Smell it?’
Killbere wrinkled his nose. ‘I thought that was Will Longdon and his archers.’
‘Aye, Sir Gilbert,’ said Will Longdon from further along the line of horsemen. ‘But when archers fart men die. And you are still
in the saddle.’
‘And I’ve a mind to have your scab-arsed archers swim across further upstream to see if your foundering draws any attention from an enemy on the far side.’
Blackstone pointed beyond the village to the ford. ‘It’s shallow enough for local villagers to herd the cattle across, so there must be grassland on the other side. There’s nothing but forest here.’
The wind carried no sound of voices, only the flitting smoke from the hovels’ roofs and the gentle baying of cattle. Then herdsmen appeared from beyond the houses and began to whip a dozen cows across the ford. Blackstone and Killbere watched as the men waded knee-deep, their cries urging the cattle forward easily audible, but no soldiers appeared on the far bank to establish who it was that called out. Blackstone led his men forward to follow the cattle herders. The villeins were alarmed at seeing armed horsemen suddenly splash into the shallows behind them yet they had no choice but to hasten the cattle and let them scramble ashore wherever they may. Blackstone’s men rode among them, using the cows’ splashing hooves and ululating panic to smother their own heavy hoofbeats. Anyone hidden beyond the riverbank would have their guard lowered by the usual sound of the villagers bringing across their livestock. The men spurred their horses on, swords drawn against any troops who might be guarding the crossing unseen. Once up the bank the men saw a stretch of open meadow that led to wooded rising ground. But the pasture was trampled as if a column of horsemen had cut across it and merged into the forest.
‘Thomas! Our flank!’ Killbere called.
There was a surge of activity in the treeline and men stumbled into the open. They were footsoldiers and no more than thirty of them. They were French regular troops, a contingent of infantry who would have been part of a larger group of scouts or raiders. It was unlikely that they were alone without mounted men-at-arms in support.