by David Gilman
Iron-rimmed wheels trundled past the German knights as handcarts bore the fruit of bow-backed peasants’ labour on the way to market. An idiot dressed in an undershirt danced barefoot on the cobbles at the end of a rope. Perhaps it was the ragged-looking man’s father who urged the demented soul to jig like a monkey while he held out his cap for any meagre offering. Destitution and starvation lurked ever present like the evil in men’s souls. And yet, von Plauen acknowledged to himself, the Basilica of Saint-Denis and the Notre-Dame were testament to the glorification of the divine.
They reached the Grand Pont and gazed across the Seine where barge traffic unloaded their cargo on the riverside bank. Men hurried back and forth from warehouses to vessel, bowed under the weight of sacks of grain. Scurrying ants who laboured day and night to keep the city fed. Von Plauen gazed across the bridge to where the royal household’s banners and pennants curled from the river’s chill breeze. The once mighty French King and his son the Dauphin as trapped in their island palace as surely as in any grand prison.
‘It is a place of corruption, Wolfram,’ said one of the men riding with him. ‘Money changers and goldsmiths pave the way across the bridge to the palace. These French are creatures who cherish wealth and possessions.’ Walter von Ranke was a younger man recently accepted into the brotherhood of the Teutonic Order. The vicissitudes of the world had not yet tempered his zeal for righteous justice.
Wolfram pointed to Notre-Dame’s twin towers. ‘It takes money to build such a magnificent edifice to God, Walter. Let us be generous with our thoughts towards them.’ He heeled his horse across the bridge. ‘We need them to tell us where the man we seek hides from our justice.’
*
The Dauphin was irritable and had retired to his chambers. When the King of France was held hostage in England his absence from Paris had allowed the Dauphin Charles the right to rule. No longer. Now the Dauphin’s life hovered between France and purgatory. His tongue had lashed the King’s counsellor Simon Bucy all morning. And now it looked as though Bucy’s day would get worse. Beneath the tumbling clouds that threatened rain he watched the horsemen approach along the Grand’Rue from his office high in the palace. Their route led directly from the city’s north walls through the heart of Paris to the Grand Pont. Teutonic Knights were not ambassadors of goodwill, or pilgrims making their way on the Via Francigena, the route to Rome. They were troublemakers. Of that he was convinced. These stern, unsmiling brethren believed the Almighty guided their swords for justice and retribution. Bucy turned to warm his hands at the fireplace, seeking a modicum of comfort from what would surely be some kind of demand. The Germans would be admitted and relinquish their swords; the captain of the guard would escort them to the chamberlain who would soon knock on Bucy’s door because it was Simon Bucy who had the ear of the King – and of the Dauphin. During the King’s captivity in England, Bucy, who had once led the Parlement, had been a key adviser to the Dauphin Charles.
The knock on the door came sooner than he expected. Bucy followed the chamberlain to the grand entrance. Behind the massive carved oak doors stood pillared arches bedecked with banners from France’s history: past glories soon to be regained if only the Dauphin could convince the King to act more assertively in the face of English demands and to cease his irrational behaviour. Wolfram von Plauen and his companions bowed as Bucy entered the hall. The chamberlain would already have given them a courteous welcome. There was no need for Bucy to extend any further goodwill.
‘I am Simon Bucy, adviser to the King.’
‘My lord, I am Wolfram von Plauen and I seek an audience with your gracious King, may God keep him safe in these troubled times.’
May God keep us all safe, thought Bucy, without a flicker of irritation. After the French army’s defeat at Brignais against the routiers in April the King had made the extraordinary decision to travel to the Pope in Avignon and seek permission to marry the Countess Joanna, Queen of Naples. A vain attempt to strengthen the Crown by taking possession of Provence, which she ruled. His ransom still unpaid, hostages still held in England, defeat still burning in French souls, routiers flaying the land and King John had gone to the Pope. At such a time! If he could not secure the marriage, he would take the cross and raise a crusade. What madness had possessed him? It had been this final act that had swung the loyal Bucy to support the Dauphin’s dream of reclaiming France against the English.
‘The King is in Avignon. He has gone to…’ He hesitated. The least said about the monarch’s behaviour the better. Best to keep these hospitallers believing John II to be the most Christian king. ‘… to raise a crusade against the infidel.’
The Germans looked suitably impressed. ‘Such a righteous desire augurs well for our own quest, my lord.’ Wolfram’s blue eyes settled on the older man. ‘For justice.’
Ever the diplomat, Bucy graciously bowed his head despite the anxiety he felt about having Teutonic Knights in the city. Revenge was on their minds, but against whom? ‘We will extend our help wherever possible. Continue.’
‘Henry, Count of Vaudémont, the King’s Royal Lieutenant in Champagne, waged a private war against German princes beyond your eastern frontier. The Duke of Lorraine and the Count of Bar and their people suffered grievous harm at his hands and the routiers he employed.’
Bucy stoically showed no sign of his discomfort. De Vaudémont had caused vexing problems for the Crown. When his private war ended the routiers had swept back into France, some seizing strongholds south of Paris as they raided along the Loire.
‘We have undertaken to admonish the Count of Vaudémont,’ said Bucy, even though no action had been decided by the absent King.
‘My lord, the routiers were Bretons, Gascons and Navarrese led by Gruffydd ap Madoc, a Welshman. Their torture, rape and slaughter must not go unpunished. We seek him,’ said von Plauen.
Bucy’s keen lawyer mind snapped taut as a crossbow cord. Ap Madoc had led the mercenaries that saved Blackstone at Brignais. These Teutonic Knights were God’s gift. Perhaps He favoured them after all. They were better than any paid assassin. Planting a lie now could yield great benefit. ‘The man you seek, this Welshman, another led him – an Englishman, Thomas Blackstone. Blackstone and ap Madoc are the men who wreaked such indiscriminate violence against the innocent. Find the Englishman and you will find his friend.’
Wolfram von Plauen looked at the other knights. This was news they had not expected. ‘Our thanks, my lord. Where can we find this Thomas Blackstone?’
Where indeed? Bucy raised a hand, a gesture to buy time for thought. This was too good an opportunity to miss. Now that the treaty was in place and Blackstone was the English monarch’s Master of War, the French could not act against him; however, if Germans killed the man, no blame could be laid at the Crown’s door. Where was Blackstone? How could Bucy enable these zealots to find – and kill – him?
And then he knew. Bucy suppressed the excitement that surged in his chest. His day had improved beyond his best expectations. The clouds parted. The sun bathed the palace in its warmth.
‘The English King’s emissary, an Italian, Father Niccolò Torellini, is travelling under safe conduct with an escort across France to Avignon. He will go via Chartres. If anyone knows where Thomas Blackstone is, he will.’
CHAPTER THREE
Blackstone led the men into the forest, avoiding the direction of the other horsemen’s tracks, and made camp. Twenty-five mounted archers, the most valuable men of any fighting company, settled in the camp’s centre under the command of the veteran archer Will Longdon, who would normally be centenar of a hundred bowmen. It was through choice that Blackstone kept his column lightly armed and ready to traverse quickly across the wasted land that was France. Those archers and an equal number of men-at-arms were easier to feed and equip and served Blackstone well as a raiding party that could move across distances quickly, strike where necessary and move on. Once they’d conquered a town they left the garrisoning of it to others under the local s
eneschal’s command. Blackstone’s chosen were worth more in fighting skills and experience than brigands three or four times their number. If the French or Bretons rose in force, then Blackstone’s rallying call would bring men from far and wide to do his bidding and swell his ranks.
Meulon and Renfred set their men on the perimeter as a protective shield around the camp. Horses were hobbled and picketed and beyond the ring of armed men they set listening posts to challenge anyone probing their defences and alert the camp. Fear of night creatures, demons and dispossessed souls would keep most superstition-racked men at bay but if a bold commander struck, as Blackstone had done in the past, then death might visit the band beneath the cloak of darkness.
Will Longdon beckoned to his ventenar, Jack Halfpenny. ‘We have meat enough for another two days,’ he told the young archer, ‘but if Thomas is planning to take us further afield then we need more. There’ll be boar and deer in these woods. We’ll make our way to the river and find where they come to drink at dusk.’
Killbere bit into an apple. ‘Will, you get lost in these woods and we’ll ride on without you. Jack, you tie a piece of rope to him and keep him in sight, you hear?’ he growled through the apple’s pulp.
‘Sir Gilbert, when we come back with venison you will be grateful you have such good hunting men to ride with you,’ Longdon answered.
‘Scab-arsed poachers more like. Don’t go shooting a tough old buck – bring us tender meat, you hear?’
Killbere and Will Longdon were veterans who had served together longer than any of the men under Blackstone’s command, since before Killbere had even taken the young Blackstone to war.
‘Best keep a night light burning, Sir Gilbert. Shall I rouse you when we return to give you the comfort of knowing we have made our way back safely?’
Killbere tossed the apple core at them. ‘Get your arse moving, you insolent bastard – and don’t go shooting blindly; Thomas is out there.’
*
Late sunlight flooded the glade where Blackstone’s tethered horse bowed its misshapen head into the sweet grass shaded from the sun. It had been a hot summer that burned the grass and the warmth had lingered into the autumn that now settled on Blackstone as he perched on a log considering whether he should pursue the routier who had claimed to have killed him at Saint-Ouen. They were already late for an agreed rendezvous with the Seneschal of Poitou, Sir William Felton. There was no love lost between him and Blackstone. It gave Blackstone some comfort to know that despite Felton being awarded the victory Blackstone had orchestrated against the Bretons at le Garet earlier that year, before defeating the French at Brignais, the King and Sir John Chandos knew the truth of the matter and had privately acknowledged it. The honour of Master of War bestowed on him by King Edward could be a blessing or a curse. The Prince of Wales and Aquitaine would be a difficult master to serve. Honour could turn to disgrace with an unguarded word or action and he was under no illusion that the recently married Prince would not be even more demanding with a wife at his side.
Blackstone’s meandering thoughts were suddenly interrupted. The bastard horse raised its head; its muscles quivered. Blackstone knew the warning signs. He quickly climbed into the saddle and waited, eyes searching the treeline. They were downwind but he heard nothing more than the breeze rustling the treetops and the hardening leaves whispering their impending fall to earth. The horse quivered again and pawed the ground, its great strength yanking the reins as it tossed its head towards the breeze.
‘All right,’ Blackstone muttered. ‘Let’s see what it is.’ He eased the horse across the glade. If there was danger lurking, then being in the open meant he would not be caught unawares by any sudden attack. As they reached the far side he looked through the trees, picking first one to focus on, then further ahead another, until his gaze penetrated a hundred yards into the forest. There was no sign of threat. He picked out an animal track and guided the bastard horse forward. A sound like a bird cry rose faintly on the breeze. Pushing further through the trees he caught the soft gurgling of the river tumbling over boulders. He could feel his horse’s tension beneath him. As they emerged from the edge of the forest, he saw the river curved left then right. Downstream was devoid of any threat but the horse was insisting on moving upstream. They were still downwind and he concentrated on trying to make out anything untoward over the shallow water dashing across the pebble riverbed. And then he heard it again. An animal cry. High–pitched, thrown into the breeze. As they rounded the bend he saw movement on the opposite bank.
He nudged the horse back into the safety of the trees; the bastard horse’s cinder-burnt mottled coat that made men believe the belligerent beast had been sired in hell camouflaged any movement as Blackstone weaved through the shadows between shafts of sunlight. A magpie snickered, a flash of blue and white causing men’s faces to look upward. A dozen of them on the far bank. More men, perhaps, further back in the trees where Blackstone couldn’t see them. A sudden bellow of laughter and shouting. A taunt. A sharp, flat crack travelled on the breeze. A man’s open hand slapped a figure being pushed this way and that. A circle of men. Two of them tormenting a raven-haired woman, cloak half ripped from her chemise, blood-red velvet on the ground leaving her nothing but her torn dress. The men laughed as they tossed a bundle of clothing between them as the woman tried to reach it. It was a rag doll. Flaxen-haired, limp. A child. The men were tormenting the woman by throwing it back and forth.
A distant memory caught Blackstone unawares: when he had fought across the river crossing at Blanchetaque before the Battle of Crécy to find a girl who had been abandoned in the forest. The girl would become his wife but the sixteen-year-old archer did not know that at the time when he rode into the forest and skirted the French and Bohemian knights who hunted for her. Her rescue and his final swim back with her against a turning tide had brought both praise and criticism but it defined the young Blackstone’s daring and courage. Now he weaved quietly between the trees watching another woman fearful for her life and that of her child.
The bastard horse was eager to press on but Blackstone restrained it and guided it into the shallows. When they reached the middle of the river he brought it to a halt. Its ears were up. One twitched left and right listening for any other threat, but its eyes, like Blackstone’s, stayed rigidly fixed on the men. The belligerent beast stood four-square. Blackstone knew that if he gave it its head and charged into the men, then the woman would probably be the first to die and then the child – if it was still alive. And a dozen men, like a pack of wolves, could bring him down. He would draw them in. Blackstone hoisted his shield onto his arm and drew Wolf Sword from its scabbard.
And waited.
One man on the far side of the tormenting circle tilted back his head as he raised a wineskin to his mouth. It was then that he saw the lone knight waiting in the middle of the river. Dappled light caught the water and reflected the eyes of a wild-looking horse that pawed the shallows. He spluttered wine and then said something that made the others turn and stare. Moments later three of them broke away and mounted their horses tethered in the trees. They spurred their mounts as their comrades shouted encouragement. Shouts carried across the water: voices bellowing that they would kill the interloper. Laughter. It was going to be easy.
Blackstone waited and then pressed his left leg into the bastard horse’s side, kicking his right behind the girth. The war horse needed no further command. It suddenly swung its hindquarters left and struck the first of the oncoming horses, forcing it to veer. The horseman swayed in the saddle, struck blindly, but his blade only met Blackstone’s shield as Wolf Sword swept in a perfectly aimed arc at the exposed man’s throat below his helmet’s chinstrap. There was no need to wait and see the man die: Blackstone heard the splash and was already swerving to strike the second attacker. The man raised himself in the stirrups to gain an advantage over Blackstone’s height. His intended killing blow whispered across Blackstone’s head and gave him no chance of recovery as the
momentum of horse and body forced his groin onto Wolf Sword’s point. The blade ran through him out and of the small of his back. His scream startled a coven of crows that voiced their alarm as they flapped wildly from the canopy. Wolf Sword’s blood knot bit into Blackstone’s wrist, keeping it secure in his fist.
The third man tried to steer his horse away from the snarling scar-faced knight but Blackstone’s next blow severed the man’s sword arm and bit into his rib cage. The killing had taken less time than the men on the riverbank took to reach their horses. One of them shouted commands. They cuffed the woman to the ground; she lay unmoving, as did the rag-doll child. The horsemen bellowed with wine-fuelled courage as they urged their horses towards the riverbank. Nine against one. Blackstone spurred his horse. It surged into the approaching men as they splashed into the shallows, their horses suddenly uncertain of the riverbed beneath their hooves. The bastard horse barged into the two leading horses before they or Blackstone delivered a blow, forcing them past Blackstone with their riders fighting to regain control and turn them back. The ragtag formation that followed were too scattered to attack Blackstone en masse. The nearest fell as Blackstone’s sword swept across the horse’s flanks. The wounded and terrified animal balked; the blade took the man’s leg below the knee. Horse and rider went down in a spurt of blood. The bastard horse turned without command, as aggressive as its master as it fought the bit and bared its yellow teeth. The wide-eyed horse it confronted reared as its rider cursed, savagely yanking the reins. The vital seconds he took to steady his mount cost him his life. The rim of Blackstone’s shield struck beneath the man’s chin and the crack of jaw bone and spine flopped him backwards into the water. River boulders caused another attacking horse to stumble, throwing its rider into the water and then rolling on top of him. The horse recovered but the man lay unmoving, face down. Two more riders challenged Blackstone. Seeing he would be vulnerable if they attacked both sides at once they came hard at him. It was a mistake. Their action blocked their companions from smothering Blackstone completely. Blackstone spurred his horse to force them apart. His shield took the blow from one rider but the strength behind the strike forced Blackstone back from its impact, giving the second man the opening he needed to swing his flanged mace at Blackstone’s open helm. Momentarily stunned, Blackstone slumped as his horse’s momentum took him past his attacker and the other men wheeled their mounts around.