Scourge of Wolves_Master of War

by David Gilman

  Meulon grinned. ‘Just as well it didn’t go in your arse.’

  ‘Just as well,’ Blackstone agreed and nodded his thanks to the big man.

  They gazed out across the bloodied battlefield. Noblemen’s banners and knights’ pennons were being seized by routiers as some French survivors ran for their lives while others surrendered in their hundreds. Will Longdon brought his mounted archers towards the gates and John Jacob called down to the sentries to open them. Within minutes Blackstone’s centenar led his men into the courtyard. They had all survived. They quickly dismounted, their horses mingling with the others. Longdon and his archers undid the last sheaves of arrows bundled on their saddles and ran up to where Blackstone and his captains waited.

  ‘You killed more than we could have hoped for,’ said Blackstone. ‘Well done, lads.’

  ‘Like the old days,’ said Will Longdon.

  ‘They couldn’t get to us once you rode into them, Sir Thomas,’ said Jack Halfpenny.

  ‘And then the Welshman and his hordes took to the field,’ added Longdon. ‘My God, Thomas, the French were taken completely by surprise.’

  ‘Damned fools,’ said John Jacob. ‘The arrogant bastards never thought to cover their rear.’

  ‘It’s a rout,’ said Meulon. ‘King John and his brat will lose sleep once they hear of it.’

  ‘I saw Perinne go down,’ said Blackstone. ‘He saved my life. I want his body brought here as soon as the day is won.’

  ‘I’ll find him,’ said John Jacob.

  ‘And I will help,’ said Meulon. ‘We grow fewer in number.’

  ‘And our grief increases,’ said Blackstone.

  Killbere had limped his way up the steps and joined them while below in the courtyard Henry Blackstone was organizing the levies to corral the horses, ensuring that only he handled the bastard horse. Foresti had the wounded and the dead moved into one of the nearby buildings.

  ‘They’ll see to it that our injured lads are kept safe,’ said Killbere. ‘Henry and his Italian guardian don’t need to be told what to do. If the French were trying to reach your boy I’d say we got here just in time.’

  ‘It comes at a cost, though,’ said Blackstone, unable to disguise the pain in his voice.

  Killbere looked the worse for wear, but he glared at the bloodied and saddened men around him. ‘Mother of God. You men look like dung trampled by a herd of cows,’ he said. ‘How you let a ragged-arsed bunch of Frenchmen cause you such misery makes me wonder if you’re past your best years.’

  The men looked at the gore-splattered veteran and his own wounds. And then they laughed. His insult had taken their thoughts away from their fallen comrades for a few precious moments.

  ‘And you look to be ready to enter a King’s tourney,’ said Blackstone.

  ‘I would not waste my skill on such buffoonery. Jackanapes dressed as prancing lovebirds thrusting their cocks like blunt-ended lances, trying to impress a lady for a token. God’s tears, this is what fighting men do. Tourneys. Entertainment!’ He spat with contempt. ‘This is what we do.’ He pointed across the ruptured field of death. Bodies curled, creatures devoid of life entangled in grotesque attitudes of death. ‘But I am ready to lay my sword across his throat,’ he said, pointing to the lone rider whose horse clattered across the bridge.

  ‘Not yet, Gilbert, it was ap Madoc who told me Henry was here,’ said Blackstone. He turned away and made his way down to the courtyard. The gates swung open at his approach and he stepped through to face the Welshman.

  Gruffydd ap Madoc had been in the thick of the fighting and it showed. He pressed a finger to each nostril and snorted snot; then he dragged a sleeve across his face and blood-matted beard.

  ‘Thomas! A hard-fought day.’

  ‘I did not expect to see you again,’ said Blackstone.

  The Welshman stared, looking his adversary over. ‘Aye, well, you’d best get that wound seen to or you might not ever see me again. There are barber surgeons among us. I’ll send them to you.’ He guffawed. ‘You lead a damned charmed life for a man who was once a bastard archer. Men like you sprout like great oaks from the bloodied ground.’

  ‘What do you want, Gruffydd?’

  ‘There’s gratitude for you. Your lad lives?’

  ‘He does and you have my thanks. Where did you find all those men?’ Blackstone asked, giving a nod in the general direction of the battlefield and the routiers who were going among the dead and dying, stripping plunder and killing those who squirmed from mortal wounds.

  ‘I sent word to every damned captain who had skinners under their command that Thomas Blackstone was about to take on the French army with a handful of men. They came for you, you dumb Englishman. More than four thousand of them. They heard your name and they rode hard. You and that damned reputation of yours.’

  ‘And so that they could destroy a French army that hunted them.’

  Ap Madoc shrugged. ‘That was a bonus. We have Tancarville and a thousand prisoners and their ransoms.’ He tossed down a sack. ‘So I won’t need your gold.’ The meaning was clear. Gruffydd ap Madoc desired peace between himself and Blackstone.

  Blackstone made no move towards the sack. Somehow the gold meant less than it did before. The two men held each other’s gaze. ‘Then spend your ransoms wisely, Welshman.’

  Gruffydd ap Madoc’s beard split into a broad grin. ‘I will whore and drink my way to the next fight, Thomas. We came here to share a victory. Whether you like it or not we are a brotherhood of the sword.’ He gathered the reins. ‘Goodbye, Thomas.’

  Ap Madoc turned his sturdy horse and spurred it away. Blackstone watched him ride into the battlefield where, in the distance, routiers were leading prisoners away. He went forward to pick up the sack but as he bent forward fire streaked through his side. He abandoned the attempt as fatigue and pain swept over him. It was time to retrieve Perinne’s body and to have his wounded men and horses attended to. He would send Henry to pick up the gold. Right now he was too damned tired.

  CHAPTER SIXTY-SEVEN

  Killbere had cursed and spat as the barber surgeon sutured and bound his leg wound.

  ‘You’re stitching my damned leg, not embroidering like a woman. Get on with it!’ he bellowed, swigging back brandy. ‘Mother of Christ, Will Longdon and his fumbling fingers could stitch fletchings neater than that!’ he complained as they looped the wound with broad stitches.

  Before Blackstone allowed one of the barber surgeons to attend to his own wound he insisted they stitch the cuts and gashes on his horse. They hobbled the bastard horse and secured its great neck with ropes in a stall. It was Henry who placed one hand on its muzzle and soothed its cheek with the other. It fought the ropes but the barber surgeon was safe from the hobbled legs striking him. Only when plantain had been ground down in pestle and mortar and herbs boiled and mixed into it and then applied to his horse’s injuries did Blackstone allow the surgeons to assess his own wound. There was some argument between the barber surgeons who hovered nervously over the pierced flesh. It had been suggested that like his horse Blackstone should be securely tied. One blow from those big hands because of the pain and bones would be broken – and they would not be the injured knight’s.

  ‘Let the wound fester,’ suggested one of the two barber surgeons. ‘When the wound is full of pus then it’s easier to pull the quarrel free.’

  ‘Cut the flesh and use the prongs,’ the other argued. ‘Or we could cut an exit wound and push it through.’

  ‘If we open the wound and push strips of linen soaked in honey then that will soften the flesh,’ said the first.

  ‘There is no damned honey,’ said Blackstone. ‘Get it out now.’

  The quarrel’s head was no different than a bodkin-tipped arrow. Its flanged head had sliced into Blackstone’s side. The hope was it had not broken his rib because then marrow would seep into his bloodstream and he would die. Its fifteen-inch length had been snapped earlier by Meulon but now the surgeons asked the big Norman to he
lp hold Blackstone’s shoulders when they probed and widened the wound and then inserted the prongs that would grip the quarrel head to ensure it did not detach when the shaft was extracted.

  Meulon raised a questioning eyebrow at Blackstone, who shook his head. ‘Bring Henry,’ he said. Better that his son witness his father’s courage than squirm and fight against Meulon’s strength. Henry was ushered forward as Will Longdon and the others stood witness to the barber surgeon’s attempt. ‘You will help these men,’ said Blackstone as the boy stood next to him. ‘When they tell you to pour wine into the wound you will do it and then press the wound apart so that they can perform their butchery.’

  ‘Yes, my lord,’ said Henry obediently.

  Sweat pricked Blackstone’s skin as the surgeons probed. He kept his eyes on his son, who gave his full attention to the duty he had been assigned. The surgeons pressed the forceps into the wound and then, struggling because of the knitted strength of Blackstone’s muscles, pushed in a finger and pulled the gash further apart, telling Henry to press against the muscle to help keep the wound open. The surgeons cursed, their own sweat dripping into the bloodied mess on Blackstone’s side. And then one of them grinned. They had the crossbow bolt’s bevelled head in their grip. It was intact and was not embedded in Blackstone’s rib. They did not wrench it free but caused their patient more suffering as they eased it out through the torn flesh. Like two men who had been handed a gold coin they held the bloodied shaft aloft to proclaim their success.

  Blackstone spat the leather-bound wood from between his teeth. ‘This is no damned fairground. Finish it. Irrigate it with wine, let it bleed a while to flush the wound and then pack it with the same herbs you gave my horse. And hurry.’

  As Will Longdon took the broken and bloodied quarrel and examined it with the interest of a man whose own arrow shafts caused death and injury, the surgeons did as they were instructed. Henry poured the wine and swabbed the wound with fresh linen; as the blood flow eased one of the barber surgeons pressed the herb balm into the lesion while the other dipped silk cord through wine and made ready to stitch closed the wound.

  By the time they had finished Blackstone’s shirt was soaked with sweat and blood. Meulon bent down and offered his sound arm to Blackstone and hauled him to his feet. Blackstone looked around at the gathered men. All had an injury of some kind. He put an arm on his son’s shoulder. ‘These men fought and died for you, Henry. You will always remember their sacrifice and honour them.’

  Henry Blackstone looked at the gathered men and bowed his head towards them in acknowledgement. ‘I will always do so,’ said Henry. He turned and looked up at his father. ‘But, my lord, it was you they followed.’

  CHAPTER SIXTY-EIGHT

  It took three days for news of the battle at Brignais to reach Dijon and the French King. and another six punishing days of hard riding for the messenger to reach Vincennes.

  ‘Tancarville was defeated?’ said the Dauphin in what was barely a whisper, unable to disguise his shock that more than four thousand men of the northern army could be defeated by a group of disparate mercenaries.

  ‘A thousand prisoners were taken by them,’ confirmed Simon Bucy, watching the Dauphin steady himself, fearful that the news might cause the frail man to collapse. ‘Some escaped,’ he said in mitigation.

  ‘How many?’

  ‘A… a few hundred.’

  ‘Out of so many?’

  ‘Sire,’ said Bucy, dipping his head to express his shared sorrow. ‘And Jacques de Bourbon died of his wounds.’

  The Dauphin looked as though he had been clubbed with a mailed fist. Pain and disbelief in equal measure crossed his features. ‘And our father?’

  ‘He has departed for Avignon. It seems he seeks the solace of the Pope’s blessing.’

  The colour that had drained from the Dauphin’s face was quickly replaced with an angry flush. ‘Solace? Our father abandons Dijon, our people. France! For solace!’ he bellowed. Spittle flecked his thin beard. He steadied his breathing. ‘And what of Thomas Blackstone? Were the walls breached? Did they at least kill him?’

  ‘The matter is… unclear, highness. There is some confusion.’

  ‘Confusion as to whether he is dead or alive?’

  ‘Information is unreliable at the best of times, your grace, but reports are that he led the routier attack against Tancarville’s men. It appears that… well, that he was outside the walls and led a force of thousands.’

  ‘We do not understand, Simon. We were told he was in Brignais.’

  ‘It seems we were misinformed. But there is one thing that is absolutely certain, highness.’ Bucy barely managed to keep the pained expression from his face. The Dauphin turned at the trusted counsellor’s hesitation.

  ‘Thomas Blackstone is in Brignais now,’ said Bucy.

  * * *

  As the Dauphin fumed and his father rode towards Avignon, a second delegation from the French monarch, despatched by the Dauphin, reached King Edward at Windsor Castle ten days later. Their demand that Edward use his resources in France to hunt down and stop Blackstone’s raiding were made with all the diplomatic skill the situation demanded but, none the less, with a forcefulness that could not be ignored for a second time. News of the French defeat added to the King’s uncertainty about what to do with the rogue knight Thomas Blackstone, who had previously been blamed for destroying French towns, mutilation, rape and murder. It was essential that Edward gain the territory and the ceded towns guaranteed by his victory two years before; any further delay might fracture the already delicate peace treaty.

  When the first of the French delegations had arrived it had been necessary to bring Sir John Chandos back to England to be questioned about Blackstone’s supposed acts of brutality, which conflicted with the terms of the peace treaty. Chandos had defended Blackstone, refuting as best he could the allegations made by the French. He reminded the King that the French still allied themselves with the Bretons and they in turn still caused havoc. The English King made suitably comforting sounds of support to the French delegation and promised he would take action. He sent his royal cousin, King John, blessings of peace for the future of France. But now he knew that he needed to decide what to do about the defiant Blackstone.

  * * *

  In Brignais the warm May weather helped ease the stiffness brought on by the men’s wounds. The weeks that had passed since the battle had returned their strength but had not lessened their sadness at the loss of their men, especially that of Perinne. His story was told by Meulon, who recounted the years that had passed since Blackstone had met him and they had first fought together. Killbere related instances that brought smiles to the haggard men’s faces. Fra Foresti spoke quietly in prayer at Perinne’s graveside. And weeks later still, when he had returned to Florence, he explained to Torellini what had occurred and how the victory came about because Blackstone’s name had been a clarion call.

  The French who had fallen in the battle had been stripped of any wealth but, as most of the footsoldiers were arrayed for service by their local lords, there was little to be scavenged, other than clothing, by the villeins from nearby villages. It had taken only a few days for the bloated, naked dead to begin to stink. Scavengers pecked and tore soft flesh and took sightless eyes. Blackstone had Beyard’s men ride among the villagers and order them to dig a long trench as a mass grave. By the time the thousands had been put beneath the ground it was the end of May and Blackstone prepared to lead his men, and his son, out of Brignais, northwards so that they might continue relieving towns of their French allegiance.

  ‘Father, am I to stay with you now?’ Henry had asked when alone with Blackstone.

  ‘From what Father Torellini told you and the instructions he gave the Tau knight, it seems you are safer at my side than on your own. God knows how we continue your education. Your mother will not rest in heaven if I do not attend to it.’

  ‘I brought books from Florence, and I will study for as long as I remain at your
side. Perhaps my future will change when it is discovered who was behind the attack in Florence.’

  ‘If anyone can find that out it will be the Bardi’s priest. And if it was those vipers in Milan then we will take death to their door.’

  ‘Father Torellini might never find out. It might not have been the Visconti.’

  ‘Then we will take each day as it comes and be on our guard. I’ll have the captains help train you and I will watch your progress. But until such time as I am content that you are proficient in both your studies and the use of a sword you will help with stabling and the baggage and return to being John Jacob’s page.’

  ‘Am I not too old to be a page?’ he asked plaintively.

  ‘You will receive no special favour here, son. Over the years you have earned the men’s respect, now it’s time to keep it.’

  ‘I understand, Father.’ Henry tried to keep the disappointment from his voice. Returning to his father had brought him no more status than he had before. He had made progress in his life away from the fighting men. Florence was the capital of culture and learning and now that too had been snatched away.

  ‘And we will ride back to a monastery where I want you to meet a young Frenchman, not much older than you, who fought for us. He learnt to keep his hot blood under control. He sacrificed himself for us,’ said Blackstone.

  ‘He died?’

  ‘He lost his leg. But he’s courageous and a man can learn from those who have to find a different way to live. Your life has changed now, Henry, and there are lessons to be learnt beyond those in your books.’

  Blackstone gestured for his son to pass the belted sword. The boy wrapped his palms around its breadth. The pommel held two halves of a silver penny that Blackstone had once split; he had given half to Henry’s mother, keeping the other for himself. Then, when his wife was murdered, he had brought the two pieces together. His father had been only a year older than Henry was now when he fought at Crécy with some of these men. When he had lost his deaf-mute brother and slain the Bohemian knight who once owned the hardened steel blade etched with the Passau swordmaker’s mark of the running wolf.