Scourge of Wolves_Master of War

by David Gilman

  Blackstone wheeled the bastard horse away, hesitating to strike at such hardened men, even though they had been taken by surprise. His men veered and quickly re-formed forty yards from the footsoldiers, who crouched, clearly frightened, shields high, ready for these horsemen to attack. They edged back slowly towards the trees.

  ‘Hold!’ Blackstone called, to keep back his own men as well as to stop the Frenchmen. ‘We serve the English King and enforce the truce. We take the allegiance of the ceded towns. I am Sir Thomas Blackstone.’

  At the mention of his name the French soldiers spoke hurriedly among themselves and retreated faster.

  ‘Sir Thomas?’ Meulon called, asking whether the men should attack.

  ‘No!’ Blackstone ordered. The French were now well into the trees where they formed a line, shields high. They were not running, they were waiting.

  ‘Sir Thomas, they see us as their enemy. They’re too few to attack us but there’ll be horsemen somewhere,’ said John Jacob. Blackstone’s men restrained their horses, who had picked up their riders’ uncertainty. And then the bastard horse yanked its head so hard that the reins were nearly pulled through Blackstone’s grip. It turned away from the trees and faced the empty stretch of meadow. Several hundred yard-long paces away the breeze ruffled the treetops. The grass wavered. The bastard horse snorted, muscles quivering; it raised its ugly misshapen head and with ears erect pawed the ground.

  ‘Be ready,’ Blackstone called. There was no sign of any movement, no sound of hoofbeats, but Blackstone trusted the horse’s instincts even more than his own. ‘Meulon, watch those men in the trees.’

  And then they felt the tremor rumbling through the ground.

  ‘Will, get your archers back.’ There would be no time for the lightly armed archers to defend themselves if they were caught between an approaching attack and the men in the forest. Will Longdon’s men spurred their horses away. The veteran archer glanced over his shoulder as the horizon blurred and a smudged line of colour rose like a winter sunrise. Surcoats of blue, gold and red. Crimson and black banners and fish-tailed pennons. Heavy horses thundering towards Blackstone; men with shields raised and sword and mace ready to strike. It was impossible to gauge how many charged across the meadow but it was a great many more than the few Blackstone commanded. Longdon covered three hundred yards and then leapt from his horse. His archers did the same, abandoning their mounts to run free. He watched as Meulon wheeled left into the treeline with a dozen or more men and Blackstone led the charge into the approaching horsemen with Killbere and the others. Once the men clashed, horses would surge through the English ranks.

  Longdon’s bow was already clear of its waxed linen bag, the heart of yew bent, its cord strung on its horn tips. All was done with rapid, practised ease as his eyes stayed on the approaching horsemen and now he saw that they outnumbered Blackstone three to one. At least. There was a gentle hump in the meadow behind Blackstone as his men galloped forward. The ground had been pushed up – perhaps a long disappeared tree stump had been there. It made no difference whether it was an unmarked grave, rotted tree or creatures from the underworld clawing their way from hell. It was a marker.

  ‘A hundred and eighty paces!’ he cried as the bowman lined up each side of him. ‘Rising ground! Seen?’

  The archers quickly found it and called their acknowledgement. They pushed a handful of arrows into the ground at their feet, nocked the first and waited.

  The French men-at-arms had been returning to the footsoldiers’ position when they saw the armed horsemen who looked no different than the routiers they were hunting. Given the distance between them they spurred their horses into a canter and then a gallop whose impact would smash the lightly armoured men. What the French could not see through their visors as they advanced, sweat already stinging their eyes, breath sucked in through the heat of their helms, were the archers who had retreated behind the line of approaching horsemen. Men who rode tightly together, urging their horses into a canter and then suddenly splitting to veer left and right, leaving a half-dozen men in the centre. The urge to kill surged through the Frenchmen. These routiers had no discipline and if some had already peeled away to escape then they would be hunted down at leisure.

  The bastard horse’s lumbering gait barged between two horses, forcing them to swerve. The man-at-arms to Blackstone’s right could not swing his sword from that angle but the one on Blackstone’s shield arm twisted in the saddle and struck. Blackstone took the blow on his shield as he rammed Wolf Sword into the other man’s unprotected side. No sooner had they clashed than the Frenchmen’s speed carried them through. Killbere and John Jacob, who were half a length behind Blackstone, thundered into the enemy. Blackstone heard screams and the thud of bodies hitting the ground. Horses were whinnying and cries of alarm rose up from the Frenchmen who had lost control of their galloping mounts. Blackstone’s men had ridden and struck at the canter, and their slower pace made it easier to wheel their horses around to see their attackers in disarray. The Frenchmen who managed to steady their mounts – leaning back in their saddles, yanking their horses’ bits, tearing at their mouths – were once again bearing down on the Englishmen. But the English who the French thought had broken and run had now turned onto the Frenchmen’s flanks, effectively encircling them. Other French men-at-arms had galloped on towards the line of men who stood, backs arched, faces skyward. The Frenchmen’s laboured breathing and curses trapped inside their helms stopped them from hearing what sounded like the wind ravaging the forest, creaking the trees’ boughs and releasing a sudden whispering gust. They were twenty horse strides from the underworld’s creatures’ attempt to claw them down into their lair and by the time they reached the archers’ marker the arrows had stung man and beast.

  Meulon had barged into the trees with his men, their mounts trampling the footsoldiers, but the confines of the forest made manoeuvring the horses too difficult. His men quickly dismounted and fought those who had not turned and run. The Norman used his shield like a battering ram and Renfred’s and Tait’s men hacked and cut their way into the crumbling French line. It was grunting, sweating work despite the cold. But the men’s blood was up and the horses had already done damage to many of the footsoldiers. Meulon’s men, working in twos and threes, chased the scattered French, overpowering equally those who stayed to fight, alone or in pairs, and those who ran and foundered in the undergrowth and whose fear tormented their last moments of life. Those who turned and begged for mercy were also killed.

  The archers could not loose more arrows because of the proximity of Blackstone’s men so they dropped their bows and ran to despatch the wounded French with knife and sword. No mercy was granted, except for a quick death. Four of Blackstone’s men lay dead on the grass but the French were routed. One knight had seen the futility of their attempt to break through these vicious fighters and signalled a retreat. He and a handful of survivors galloped to escape and Blackstone watched as, once clear, he reined in his horse and turned to look at Blackstone’s men. He must have called out to his three companions as they too forced their horses to slow and then turn. The knight wore good armour and his distinctive yellow shield bore the image of a stag’s head. He waited mid-field. His horse’s lungs heaved, but its rider sat upright, sword at his side, facing Blackstone. The three knights who accompanied him drew alongside. Blackstone saw the knight raise his visor and say something to the others, who then held back their horses as he urged his own forward. He stopped eighty yards from Blackstone and waited again, sword lowered.

  ‘Hold your ground,’ Blackstone called, raising Wolf Sword and signalling his men to halt any further attack. He pushed the bastard horse into a trot and drew up ten paces from the stag’s head knight.

  ‘I am Sir Godfrey d’Albinet. You have committed a slaughter here today on great and good men who serve their King.’

  ‘It’s not the first time I have thinned out your King’s ranks,’ said Blackstone.

  The knight frowned. An
d then he looked more intently at the worn and battle-scarred shield on Blackstone’s arm. The blazon showed a mailed fist grasping a sword blade like a cross. The words Défiant à la Mort were etched in black lettering.

  ‘Blackstone,’ Sir Godfrey muttered.

  ‘Sir Godfrey, I did not wish this conflict. You brought it on yourself. I serve the English King who takes only what is rightfully his.’

  The French knight became agitated. ‘You are a brigand and wanted for atrocities on women and children. You have raped and murdered. You are no different than the routiers we seek to destroy.’ He looked around at the corpses of his men strewn across the field. Archers were going among the dead stripping what wealth could be found as they tugged free their arrows. ‘Had I seen your archers…’ He let the words trail off in regret.

  ‘What? You wouldn’t have attacked?’

  ‘I would have returned with more men and taken you on your flanks.’

  ‘The result would have been the same. And you are wrong about me and my men. You have been lied to.’

  ‘Our King does not lie. He has issued a warrant.’

  ‘Your King wants me dead; so too the Dauphin.’

  ‘For your crimes.’

  ‘For my success. Rumour and lies serve their desire to have me dead and for noble men like you to die trying to kill me. Surrender and you will live. I will accept your word that you will not fight and I will release you on parole.’

  Sir Godfrey spat a globule of phlegm onto the ground towards Blackstone. ‘Surrender? To a murderer?’

  ‘To an English knight,’ said Blackstone. ‘You and your three companions. I will not ask you to remain silent about where you saw me, but I will hold you to your word and accept your parole.’

  For a moment it seemed the Frenchman might agree. A look of acceptance crossed his face but then he shook his head as if listening to his own voice of reason. ‘I cannot,’ he said. ‘There is no honour surrendering to you.’

  ‘Is there more honour being killed by me?’

  ‘You would have your archers slay us?’

  ‘I would kill you myself. Don’t die needlessly, Sir Godfrey.’

  ‘You are confident that you can defeat me, but if it is I who defeat you, you will either be dead or my prisoner. What chance would I have against your men?’

  ‘You would be free to go. My word is my honour.’

  Sir Godfrey glanced over his shoulder. ‘My companions will fight with me. Choose your men.’ And with that final abrupt demand he wheeled his horse around and returned to his companions.

  Blackstone rode back to Killbere and told him of the French knight’s decision.

  ‘I wish these bastards would know when they are beaten. Their arrogance chafes,’ said Killbere as he drank wine thirstily from a flask. ‘All right, who fights with us?’

  ‘John Jacob and Renfred.’

  ‘Aye, they’ll finish these noblemen off in good time and they’ll have belts of silver and daggers encrusted with precious stones. Decent plunder. I found only a few rings on those I killed but I gave them to Will Longdon’s lads. They took good care of those horsemen.’ He sighed, corked the flask and gathered the reins. ‘But the archers are going to need more arrows if we ride into any more of these French. We could steal a few barrels of arrows from Chandos and Felton if we could find them but I dare say they are warming their arses somewhere in a nobleman’s great hall and bedding his servant girls. Right, let’s get on with it. I’ll need food in my belly before it gets dark. Fighting always gives me an appetite.’

  Blackstone called to Renfred, who had fought with Meulon in the trees. The German caught his horse, which had wandered a few feet from the killing, and led it to where Blackstone, Killbere and John Jacob waited.

  ‘Sir Gilbert and I will take the centre. John, you and Renfred draw the other two away. I suspect they will want me dead quickly so they’ll strike at me first. If you attack the man on the right flank his sword arm will be hampered by his position until he breaks and turns. This isn’t a tourney. The two of you go at him, kill him and then attack the fourth man.’

  ‘Wait,’ said Killbere, and pointed across the field. The knight’s three companions had suddenly spurred their horses in an attempt to escape through the far group of Blackstone’s men who had encircled them. They rode tightly together, knee to knee, which made it impossible for Blackstone’s men to stop all of them. One at least would be sacrificed, perhaps two, but it was certain that one would escape. Perhaps Sir Godfrey had not taken Blackstone’s word and thought the archers would kill him? Whatever his reasoning, it seemed he was prepared to fight alone in an attempt to allow others to get away and warn the French about Blackstone.

  They watched as the French men-at-arms broke free and hit Blackstone’s stationary line of horsemen. The impact carried two of them through as the third was hemmed in and killed. Half a dozen of Blackstone’s men gave chase. The French knight, too, watched his men’s bold attempt and then turned his horse to face Blackstone.

  ‘I’ll take him,’ said Killbere and was about to spur his horse but Blackstone blocked him.

  ‘No, he made his choice. It’s me he wants.’

  Sir Godfrey dropped his visor, raised his shield and then dug heels into his horse’s flanks. The war horse’s hooves tore up the ground, sending up clods of turf. It was obvious the French knight was an experienced fighter. Blackstone just managed to hold back the bastard horse, who fought the bit and then lowered his great head, until his rider eased the reins slightly and the muscled beast unleashed its strength. Blackstone cursed as its uneven gait unbalanced him. His open-faced helm made him more vulnerable should the French knight find a way to jab at his eyes or slash his face. He tucked his chin onto his chest, raised the shield to just below his eyes and steered the pounding horse with his knees and heels. Sir Godfrey was swirling a spiked flail, the length of its chain meaning he would be able to strike before Blackstone could deliver a sword blow.

  Dammit, stay straight… Straight, for Christ’s sake. He swore silently as the wayward beast beneath him took it upon itself to suddenly veer. It was an uncontrolled movement that saved Blackstone’s life. The Frenchman had altered his strike. No longer was the flail swirling around his arm in a sweeping arc; the knight’s skill had allowed him to bring it down, rather than across Blackstone’s body. It would have torn the shield and half his face away had the bastard horse not changed direction moments before the two men collided. The length of chain wrapped around Blackstone’s sword arm and the spiked ball bit into his mail. The speed of the two horses meant that the Frenchman galloped past Blackstone and his strength pulled Blackstone from the saddle. Blackstone tumbled in the air and landed face down. The effort tore the flail from Sir Godfrey’s grip and he heaved on his horse’s reins and drew his sword as Blackstone thumped into the ground.

  The impact had torn Blackstone’s helm away and as he groggily raised his head, spitting dirt and grass, he saw Killbere in the distance place a restraining arm on John Jacob. This was Blackstone’s fight. He clambered to his feet and shook free the shield from his arm. With Wolf Sword in his right hand and the retrieved flail in his left he braced himself as the Frenchman charged him down. The knight bent down from the saddle, bringing back his sword arm in a sweeping blow that would be hard to deflect. As the wide-eyed horse was almost upon him, so close that he saw its blood-flecked nostrils and smelt its breath, Blackstone sidestepped, swung the spiked chain and caught the horse’s leading leg. He did not have the strength to haul the horse to the ground but as he bent his back and dug in his heels the horse’s leg was snagged for a vital stride, and that made the beast falter. The flail’s handle slipped through his hands but the stumbling horse had thrown the unbalanced Frenchman.

  As the horse danced away, kicking free the entangled chain, Blackstone strode towards the man who had determined to kill him and gain favour from his King. He got to his feet, dazed, and pushed up his visor, turning on his heel, looking for the Engli
shman. As he spun he saw Blackstone. Eyes wide with surprise he raised his sword. Too late. Wolf Sword’s honed steel blade rammed into his face, through his skull up into his brain.

  He fell back, arms wide; his body shuddered and was then still.

  Blackstone reached down and pulled free the inlaid silver sword belt and scabbard from the fallen nobleman. Dead men’s plunder was his bounty.

  Blackstone and the French were once again at war.

  CHAPTER SIXTY-ONE

  La Roche was not a town but an area made up of craggy rocks and, in places, dense woodland. The hillsides rose and fell, their boulder-strewn forests making travel arduous. Blackstone and his men travelled for days through the remote hamlets; many were little more than a handful of wattle and mud hovels next to a muddy track, rutted deeply from handcarts. Where the ground had become impassable the locals had laid cut ferns and branches to accommodate their donkeys’ passage. Most had no livestock other than a pig or a milk-giving goat. Blackstone questioned these forest dwellers, who knew the woodland as well as any wild creature, but none had seen or heard of brigands led by a grey-bearded man who wore silver armbands and silver and gold rings on his fingers.

  Ancient foresters’ tracks were often overgrown but Blackstone’s scouts found a route wide enough to support oxen dragging felled timbers to some charcoal makers in their crude woodland hamlet. These people had no wealth for routiers to plunder so their safety was guaranteed. A nearby monastic cell supported a few monks who had struck out years before to bring God’s grace to these peasants. The monks themselves were as filthy and unkempt as those they tried to help and they had learnt the bitter lesson that trying to survive by growing crops in the unyielding ground kept them in a state of near starvation and dependency on those to whom they had come to offer spiritual succour. The woodcutters and charcoal burners trapped and shared what little food they had with the monks. It seemed a small price to pay for salvation.