Scourge of Wolves_Master of War

by David Gilman

  ‘Hold it,’ said Blackstone, noticing his son’s fascination. ‘Go on,’ he urged as the boy hesitated.

  Henry gripped the hilt and withdrew the famed sword. Its fine balance was immediately noticeable.

  ‘You think you’re ready,’ said Blackstone, sensing the boy’s frustration at being given such menial responsibilities.

  Henry’s spine straightened, his chin lifted. His father had just taunted him. ‘You know I’ve used a sword before. I can look after myself.’

  ‘Oh,’ said Blackstone. ‘A man who thinks he’s better than he is, is soon dead.’ He studied the boy. ‘All right, strike at me.’

  Henry hesitated, doubt creasing his brow.

  ‘If you can lay that blade on me I will give you whatever you desire. Horse, armour, weapons. Freedom. You can go wherever you wish. I want you with me, Henry, but you are of an age where you would prefer not to listen to your father. You’re a man. Behave like one.’

  The words stung. Henry sidestepped quickly, trying to touch his father’s mail. The movement was deft but Blackstone batted the sword blade away with his arm. Henry tried again but now blood was pulsing through a vein in his temple. Once again Blackstone turned on his toes, balanced on his heel, half twisted and let Henry’s strike take the boy past him. Blackstone cuffed him. Henry held his temper in check and danced quickly left and right, swinging the sword from high guard, slashing down, forgetting in that moment that now the blade could cause injury. Blackstone ducked and weaved easily and then quickly grabbed Henry’s wrist. Suddenly Blackstone’s knife was in his hand and he held it close to the boy’s sweating face.

  ‘And now you are dead.’ He lowered the knife. ‘I saw your rage, Henry. I know what that is. But you let it take you over. You are not ready. Trust me. I would not give you false acclaim. It takes time. Learn from men who are willing to teach you and swallow your pride. Killing a boy in the back streets of Florence is not killing a man in battle.’

  Henry handed back the sword. ‘Thank you, Father,’ Henry muttered.

  Blackstone resisted the urge to reach out and ruffle the boy’s hair. He was too old for that now. And the years when he had yearned to embrace the boy had slipped through his fingers.

  Henry watched enviously as Blackstone strapped on Wolf Sword. He knew he stood in his father’s shadow. He was caged by his name and yearned for the freedom he had experienced in Florence. Thoughts tormented him. In the past he had used sword and knife, had stood and faced an enemy and fought with courage. And now he was to be relegated to fetching and carrying again. He would obey his father… until such time as he would defy him and strike off alone to seek his own place in the world.

  Defiance. That was something else he had inherited.

  CHAPTER SIXTY-NINE

  ‘Riders, Sir Thomas,’ called Quenell, whose turn it was to stand guard with his archers on the walls. Meulon and Renfred ran quickly up the steps. Blackstone followed while Killbere and the men were leading their horses from the stables.

  ‘French or routiers?’ Killbere called.

  ‘Can’t see yet,’ Blackstone answered.

  Killbere groaned. ‘God’s tears. We were ready to ride. What now? Henry! Take my reins.’

  Henry ran forward and held Killbere’s reins as the veteran limped up the steps to join the others. He peered across the open ground. The morning light cast low shadows, making the distant horsemen indistinct.

  ‘If it’s the French come to take back Brignais let’s just give it to them. It’s worth nothing to us now,’ said Killbere.

  ‘They can have it,’ said Blackstone. ‘But they may want payment in blood.’

  Jack Halfpenny clambered higher and his archer’s keen eyesight recognized the approaching column of men and their colours. ‘It’s Sir William Felton,’ he called.

  ‘Felton?’ said Killbere. ‘What the hell is he doing so far south? Perhaps he’s come to reward us for kicking French arses.’

  ‘We’ll soon find out,’ Blackstone answered. ‘Open the gates,’ he called to the men below.

  Felton had two hundred or more men behind him who drew up on the far side of the narrow bridge as he rode across and halted a good distance from the walls.

  ‘Something’s not right here,’ said Meulon.

  ‘Thomas, this looks like trouble,’ added Killbere.

  Blackstone strode beyond the walls with Killbere and Meulon at his side. ‘Sir William?’ Blackstone called. ‘The gates are open.’

  ‘Sir Thomas, I am pleased to see you and Gilbert are unharmed,’ said Felton.

  ‘Unharmed now,’ said Killbere. ‘But we spilled our blood out there on the field. You hesitate.’

  ‘I cannot bring my men inside the walls of Brignais, Gilbert, in case even more blood is spilled.’

  Blackstone followed the Seneschal’s gaze and turned to look at the archers who now stood along the wall’s parapet. He turned back to face Felton.

  ‘My men have a natural instinct for survival and you appear to pose a threat to us, Sir William. I fail to see why.’

  ‘I have orders from the King.’

  ‘Of France?’ said Killbere.

  ‘Sarcasm does not suit you, Gilbert. You know full well I speak of Edward.’

  ‘Well, if you come here looking for trouble then it is natural that we think you serve King John and his snivelling offspring,’ answered Killbere.

  ‘Charges have been laid against Sir Thomas for actions in the field,’ said Felton.

  Killbere turned to Blackstone and lowered his voice. ‘You hear that, Thomas? Felton’s enjoying this but his arse is pinching arrowheads in fear.’

  ‘And you would have us kill him and the King’s men?’ said Blackstone quietly. ‘We are in a shit pit and we must see if we can climb out of it.’

  Killbere looked towards the uneasy Felton and placed a finger on each nostril and blew free the snot. It was a gesture of contempt, but not one that could be proved.

  ‘Killing murdering bastard routiers, and slaying a French army, who by all accounts sought to seize his son here in Brignais and who had already attacked us before we fought the Bretons, cannot be considered a crime,’ Killbere said.

  ‘Sir John Chandos and the governor Henry le Scrope await us at Calais. I am not here to argue the rights and wrongs, I have been tasked with escorting Sir Thomas and his men there.’

  ‘God’s tears, Thomas,’ said Killbere under his breath. ‘Le Scrope? He’s an old war dog. He’s been fighting since ’33, a tough bastard and a good fighter. I knew him at Morlaix. He’s a hard man. Now he holds jurisdiction in all criminal cases. Are we to be tried?’

  Blackstone took a step towards Felton. ‘Calais. The prison? And you bring so many men to protect us? Or do you arrest us?’ he said.

  ‘I have no warrant for your arrest but this escort was ordered by Sir John. You are to travel under the protection of my flag. The French have petitioned the King to strike against you.’

  ‘Not with their northern army they won’t,’ said Killbere.

  There was a murmur of laughter from the men on the walls.

  ‘I’ve no liking for you or your men, Sir Thomas,’ said Felton. ‘I serve my King and he has ordered you be taken to the citadel at Calais. I have no interest in your fate but I will take you and if you resist we will answer with force.’ He looked to where Beyard and a group of his men stood in the courtyard inside the gate, ready to repel any sudden attack should such foolishness prevail. Enough men would die before they even reached the gates now that the archers manned the walls. ‘I’m told you have Gascons with you.’

  ‘I recruited them,’ said Blackstone.

  ‘They will stay here or disperse. I care not. But they will not travel to Calais. Only you and your men are to be escorted.’

  ‘Do you intend to have us disarmed?’ said Blackstone.

  ‘No, you are to ride as free men but you are under my command until I hand you over to Sir John.’

  Blackstone looked from Killber
e to Meulon. With Beyard’s Gascons they had near enough two hundred men to match Felton’s, and each of theirs was worth two of the Seneschal’s, but to raise a hand in anger would cast them all into the wilderness.

  ‘It’s a pity they serve King Edward,’ said Meulon quietly. ‘Sir William has every right to be fearful of us. We would have little trouble killing them if they chose to fight.’

  ‘If we chose to fight,’ Blackstone corrected him.

  ‘Goddammit, Thomas,’ Killbere said, his voice hushed so that no word could carry to Felton. ‘We could end our days in Italy. Would that be such a bad thing? The prison at Calais is a miserable end that I do not wish to endure.’

  ‘It’s not you they want, Gilbert,’ said Blackstone.

  ‘Well?’ Felton called. ‘Is there to be disagreement between us? Are you to submit to the King’s command?’

  Blackstone smiled ruefully at the men who had been for so long at his side. ‘Let’s see what Chandos has to say. Perhaps we can talk our way out of this.’

  Killbere grunted. ‘Aye, well, the trouble with that, Thomas, is that your tongue is not as eloquent as your sword.’

  * * *

  Beyard and his Gascons agreed with Blackstone that they would ride south to Aquitaine, secure in the knowledge that the domain fell under King Edward’s control. They would wait until word came from Blackstone. He paid the men with gold that had been returned by Gruffydd ap Madoc and, to the annoyance of Sir William Felton, the Gascon captain and his men renewed their pledge of allegiance to Blackstone.

  Blackstone and his men rode steadily northwards. There were few words spoken between Blackstone and the man sent to escort him. Sir William was clearly concerned that the French might be tempted to strike at them should they camp in the open countryside. Blackstone and Killbere admitted to themselves that the gruff Northumbrian knight was organized. He had arranged for them to rest most nights in towns held by the English King or in those ceded to him by the treaty. A treaty broken, the French insisted, by Thomas Blackstone.

  In the mid-afternoon on the fifteenth day after leaving Brignais, Sir William Felton crested the low hills and led his escort down through the salt marshes, land that flooded when the tides rose around Calais. Blackstone felt a tinge of regret as he remembered Gaillard, his murdered friend and captain who had guided him through these treacherous places years before when they went to fight the French at Calais. Little had changed except those who commanded the castle and the town. From the heights they could see that the streets were neatly laid out within the rectangular walled town and the curtain walls that surrounded the citadel and its keep sat snugly in the north-west corner. Perhaps, Blackstone mused, that would soon be his home when he was imprisoned. Killbere had asked what would happen if the English King was forced to make an example of Blackstone in order to appease the French and keep the peace. What if Edward executed Blackstone? He wouldn’t be the first man to be sacrificed for the sake of a sealed bargain or an agreement made between royal cousins. Those whom God chose to rule did not have to show loyalty to those who served them. It was a question that could not be answered until Blackstone faced the charges brought against him.

  ‘Well, if that is the judgment,’ Killbere had concluded, ‘they will have your men scaling the walls by night. You will not die alone, Thomas, of that I am certain.’

  CHAPTER SEVENTY

  Calais’s outer defensive wall was surrounded by a moat and the southern gate accessed by a drawbridge, beyond which was a portcullis. The outer wall was buffered by a second curtain wall behind it. The space between the two was a gap wide enough for twenty men to stand abreast.

  ‘A dozen years back we stood shoulder to shoulder there, Sir Thomas. Trapped the French and slaughtered them,’ said Meulon as they waited beyond the great walled city.

  Killbere drank from a wineskin and passed it to Blackstone. ‘Aye, it was a hell of a fight.’

  ‘We had our comrades still with us,’ said Blackstone, watching as Felton made his approach towards the guarded drawbridge to gain entry. ‘Matthew Hampton, Talpin, Gaillard, Perinne…’ His voice trailed off. Ghosts of the men they had lost always rode among them.

  One of Felton’s captains approached them. ‘Will? John?’ Blackstone called. The archer and John Jacob nudged their horses closer. ‘Killbere and I will be going in alone. John: you, Will and Meulon take care of Henry. He’s a wild streak in him and he needs a watchful eye.’

  ‘He won’t run while you’re in there,’ said Will Longdon.

  ‘And we will wait until you return,’ said Meulon. ‘We know this place. If matters turn for the worse then we can defend ourselves out here.’

  ‘Sir Thomas, I should be at your side. I’m your squire,’ said John Jacob.

  ‘The fewer men who ride in there the better. It’s me they want, and Sir Gilbert would have to be bound and gagged to stop him accompanying me and none of us would be prepared to try that,’ said Blackstone with a grin. ‘No, John, you were with Henry when it mattered all those years ago.’ He looked at his three trusted companions. ‘Keep him close.’

  Felton’s captain reined in his horse. ‘Sir Thomas, Sir Gilbert, we are ready to enter Calais.’

  ‘All right,’ said Blackstone. ‘Give me a moment longer.’

  ‘Gladly, my lord.’ The man hesitated as if considering what he was about to say so that his words would not sound disloyal. ‘Sir Thomas, I serve Sir William and obey his commands but every man I know is aggrieved that you have been brought here. Many of us fought on the same battlefield and know your strength and honour. You and your men would have defeated us had you turned against us at Brignais. I thank God you did not.’ The captain looked for a moment as if he had said too much. ‘When you are ready, my lord.’ He turned his horse and waited some distance away.

  ‘You have more friends than we know,’ said Killbere. ‘Much good it will do us now.’

  Blackstone grinned as he tightened the reins and turned to where Henry waited. ‘You won’t be coming with me, Henry.’

  ‘But who will care for him?’ said Henry, meaning the belligerent horse. ‘No stable-hand will know what to do; he will kick them to death. He knows me. I should be with you.’

  ‘I will give them instructions on how to deal with him. They will have to take their chances as you did in the beginning. Let us not argue, son: you cannot go with me. It is what it is. But you will have the company of good men around you. Listen to them and learn. There is always more beyond your books, but what you know they do not. So share your knowledge with them.’

  ‘I will, Father,’ said Henry obediently. ‘Are we to wait here until your return?’

  ‘Yes. John Jacob is your guardian while I am absent.’ Blackstone knew that Henry still remembered when he was little more than a child and John Jacob had cut the throat of the man who had raped Henry’s mother. That bond would be hard to break. ‘And let Will Longdon and Meulon tell you tales. There were adventures we shared that grow in the telling. But it gives them pleasure. Allow them that.’

  ‘I’m lucky to have them care for me, I know that.’

  The men were watching and Blackstone knew that Henry would be embarrassed if he reached out and held him close. He fought the desire to hold his son.

  ‘I embrace you, Henry,’ Blackstone said.

  ‘And I you, Father.’

  * * *

  Calais thrived on trade, thanks to King Edward, and as Blackstone and Killbere rode escorted through the cobbled streets its merchants and citizens turned to watch the tall Englishman and his companion clattering along towards the north-west corner and the walled citadel and its keep. Many recognized the blazon on Blackstone’s shield and jupon and rumours started as soon as Sir William Felton arrived. Whispers threaded through the streets, dancing ahead of the mounted men, rumours that were embellished as they jumped from tongue to ear. Betrayal, disloyalty, murder. Words that caused shock and started arguments among those who defended his name and those who were scandal
ized by it. If a knight with Thomas Blackstone’s reputation was being taken to the citadel and the governor, then was the legendary knight about to be tried? Sir Henry le Scrope was known for meting out harsh justice. What had Thomas Blackstone done to deserve it?

  The captain’s voice carried to the sentries who manned the citadel’s gates, which swung open as the horsemen approached, and as they thudded closed behind them Killbere turned in the saddle and looked at the defensive wall and the men who manned it.

  ‘The Almighty himself would have trouble escaping from this place,’ he said, ‘and just as much trouble trying to breach it through those outer walls. Thomas, I fear we are soon to be without the creature comforts of this world. Do you think that Countess Catherine made a complaint against me? I satisfied her lust with vigour. Perhaps she was aggrieved I left her. That would be cause enough for complaint.’

  ‘Complaint perhaps that you were a wily old fox who denied her plunging a knife through your thick skull.’

  Sir William halted before a set of doors. A court official came out and greeted him. Felton dismounted.

  ‘Captain, I would urge no man or boy to try and stable my horse,’ said Blackstone as he dismounted and tied the bastard horse to the hitching ring. ‘And keep other horses a good distance from him.’

  ‘I will do as you ask, Sir Thomas,’ said the captain and shouted his orders to his men.

  Killbere grunted. ‘Should have let the beast loose, Thomas. We might need a distraction if we need to run.’

  ‘With that leg of yours? I’d end up carrying you.’

  ‘The day that happens I would go back to my nun and let her rub olive oil into my old muscles and offer prayers that I live long enough to pleasure her.’

  They were beckoned forward by Felton. ‘Follow me.’

  Felton followed the court official through a bleak entrance hall, its heavy stone walls free from tapestry or decoration. King Edward’s coat of arms was the only adornment. They turned into a passageway lit with cresset lamps, their dull flames throwing the men’s shadows towards iron-studded doors. The court official pulled them open, revealing two armed guards who stood inside. Light shafted down from a high window and freshly cut rushes were spread across the floor. Blackstone and Killbere knew they were getting closer to the seat of power in Calais by the increasing comfort on display. A fire burned in the grate, upholstered benches and chairs were arranged near to it. Servants stood back in the shadows. A tall silver-haired man leant over a table bearing documents. He raised his eyes when Felton entered and let the document he was examining curl back into a roll.