by David Gilman
‘Look at me,’ said Blackstone to the Frenchman.
De Miremont got to his feet and turned around.
‘You have claimed sanctuary yet you are neither murderer, rapist nor debtor. That we know of.’
‘No matter, I have the protection of the Church,’ insisted de Miremont.
The priest stepped between them. ‘Sir Gaillard will remain here for forty days and then present himself to the court for judgement or go into exile,’ he said.
Blackstone ignored the priest and studied the man who had usurped King Edward’s authority. ‘You still wear my sword.’
De Miremont quickly unbuckled the belt and scabbard, wrapped the belt around it and threw it down towards Blackstone. ‘I took it as my right when I imprisoned you.’
Blackstone buckled on Wolf Sword.
‘No violence,’ the priest insisted quickly. ‘To commit murder against a plea for sanctuary will never be forgiven.’
‘I give you my word, priest. No further blood will be spilt in God’s house. Now release the prisoners. Help those who need it.’
The priest shuffled away, grateful to be out of sight of the scar-faced man whose looming presence frightened him.
‘I will remain here,’ de Miremont said. ‘Gisbert de Dome can reclaim the city.’ He lifted his head contemptuously. ‘And when our King rids France of the English plague, then it will be your murderous King and his son who will beg sanctuary.’
Blackstone felled him with a punch. He grabbed the man’s leg and dragged him towards the door.
‘Thomas?’ Killbere called as he saw de Miremont’s body kicked down the steps. ‘Merciful Christ, you haven’t killed him?’
‘Not yet,’ said Blackstone.
The square was clear of the dead now and women with buckets of water were sluicing away the blood. De Miremont’s body tumbled into the square as Blackstone’s men stepped aside. The released merchants and councilmen staggered out of the church, hands raised to shield their eyes from the unaccustomed light.
‘You swore an oath!’ the priest shouted. ‘Before God Almighty you swore no harm would come to that man.’
De Miremont clawed himself to his knees, not yet clear-headed enough to know what had happened.
Blackstone faced the priest. ‘I swore I would spill no blood in there,’ he said, pointing to the church. Then he looked at de Miremont. ‘That will be done here.’
Townspeople huddled at the edge of the square away from the soldiers. Blackstone’s wounded were settled on the side of the church steps attended by servant women. They had summoned a physician, who examined each man. Most told him to look to their comrades, saying their own injuries were not as serious. The Mayor, Villon, was under guard and Meulon and Renfred had put their men in place to keep the querulous Sarladais at a safe distance. The side streets thronged with citizens desperate to know their fate at the hands of the English.
De Miremont was on his feet, looking like a cornered bear in a pit. The ferocious-looking Englishmen showed no sign of caring what happened to him, but he didn’t cower from them. Turning to face the crowds, he raised his voice. ‘The English seized Sarlat. They claimed it under treaty. I and Mayor Villon gave you back your city.’
A voice carried from one onlooker. ‘And kept taxes for yourselves!’
De Miremont lifted his hands to quell the dissent. ‘To pay for soldiers. To secure what is rightfully French.’
‘Much good they did us,’ another cried out, cheered on by those around him.
Gisbert de Dome climbed onto the steps. His bloodied shirt was testament to his involvement in the fight. ‘I was forced from this place by Villon and de Miremont.’
‘You sold your arse to the English!’ one of those in the crowd called out, and he, too, had supporters who jeered de Dome.
‘I signed the treaty agreed by our King, our blessed Jean le Bon. His tender heart broke when they placed such heavy demands on him. He did all in his power to save the people here and to hold what is a valued corner of France. His honour demanded we stand by that treaty – that is why I signed. That is why I was placed here. Betrayal comes from these two men,’ he said, pointing at Villon and de Miremont. ‘We are fortunate that this English knight, Sir Thomas Blackstone, brings no harm to our citizens, seeks no reparation other than for Sarlat to be governed for King Edward.’ He let the murmuring crowd settle down. ‘He has spared us and released me and our council.’
Killbere blew snot from his nostrils. ‘Sweet Merciful Mother of God, this man talks a lot.’
Gisbert de Dome rallied the townspeople. ‘I will show you where Mayor Villon and Gaillard de Miremont have hoarded the taxes they collected from you. Taxes I will order returned to you!’
A wave of support swept through the press of people.
‘Hang them!’ someone called. Then it seemed the whole crowd took up the cry. A chant became a roar. Hang them! Hang them!
‘Now his big mouth has incited mob rule. We will have more trouble on our hands, Thomas,’ Killbere muttered.
Blackstone stood next to the released councillors. ‘These men will sit in judgement. Let their decision be recorded. There will be no mob rule here. You will return to the way things were at the signing of the treaty.’ He turned to the released men. ‘It will be a fair trial or I will come back. Understand?’
They nodded and muttered their assent.
‘De Miremont could walk free, Thomas,’ said Killbere. ‘He still has friends and influence here. You risk him raising men and seizing Sarlat again and next time we would need an army to besiege it.’
Blackstone smiled. ‘I know. Don’t be concerned, Gilbert, he won’t risk the rope.’
De Miremont strode into the middle of the square. ‘I will not be tried like a common criminal. I am Gaillard de Miremont, Lord of Sauignac. I took the city back from the English and I will defend my actions.’ The Frenchman did not lack courage. His honour would be his downfall, like his fellow knights and noblemen who had fallen in past years at Crécy and Poitiers. Honour was everything. Honour was worth dying for.
Killbere raised an eyebrow. ‘You knew he’d never submit to a trial.’
Blackstone shrugged. ‘He’s an arrogant bastard. What else could he do?’ He stepped down to where de Miremont stood glaring at him.
‘Arm me and defend yourself, Englishman,’ de Miremont said.
‘I am the King’s Master of War. You broke the treaty. Why shouldn’t I hand you over? I don’t care how they kill you. A long choking kick at the end of a rope is all you deserve.’
De Miremont turned to the crowd. ‘Thomas Blackstone denies me the right to defend myself in combat. I call him a coward and afraid to die at my hands.’
Blackstone remained silent. It was the final act of a desperate man fearful that the court would bow to the will of the mob inflamed by Gisbert de Dome. A knight of any standing would never refuse a challenge by being called a coward.
‘Let him fight! Fight!’ the crowd chanted.
De Miremont turned to face Blackstone. ‘I win and you leave Gisbert de Dome for me to deal with. They will release Villon and I will be free to return to my lands.’
‘Except you never will,’ said Blackstone.
‘I give my word.’
‘I meant you will never return to your lands because you will be dead.’
They returned the Frenchman’s weapons to him. He hefted his shield and circled Blackstone, who turned slowly with him, waiting for him to strike in his eagerness to win his freedom and claim glory for killing the English King’s Master of War. When he struck he did it with such force and skill that Blackstone was wrong-footed. De Miremont’s rapid attack almost cost Blackstone his arm but Wolf Sword’s hardened steel caught the muscle-shuddering strike. Blackstone battered the barrel-chested man with his shield, rained so many rapid blows in return that de Miremont backed quickly, found his footing, steadied himself, and planted his feet as firmly as a rock.
The crowd roared, blood-lust raisi
ng their voices to echo around the cobbled square. It would be a trial of strength now that de Miremont’s opening gambit had been tried and failed. The hope of using his strength and fury to defeat Blackstone abated into a dogged blow-by-blow contest with the Englishman, who did not waver. Sweat stung both men’s eyes; muscles and sinews strained from the force of their blows. Blackstone took a half-step back and pivoted on his heel, enough for the Frenchman to think he had faltered. De Miremont’s confidence betrayed him. Instead of shuffling forward and gaining the advantage inch by inch, narrowing the gap that Blackstone had opened, he took too big a stride. As his leading foot went forward so too did his downward strike: an easy blow for Blackstone to avoid, pivoting again and allowing the blade to pass so close to his face and chest he felt the air whisper. The Frenchman’s momentum carried him a fatal half-stride past Blackstone. Perhaps a part of de Miremont’s mind told him Blackstone did not have time to reverse his own blade and thrust at him, that in the next few seconds he would half-turn, using his body strength to sweep his blade like a scythe and sever Blackstone’s leg at the thigh. It was a perfectly rational thought embedded from years of honed reactions against inferior opponents. What he had not expected was Blackstone’s fist curled around Wolf Sword’s hilt slamming into his face. His nose and teeth broke. He stumbled as the sudden pain tore into his brain. Had he not overstepped, his fighting spirit would have made him spit out the blood and take the fight back to Blackstone but that fatal over-confident stride had thrown him off balance and he continued falling forward. Before he hit the cobbles Wolf Sword rose and fell behind him and Blackstone’s weight forced its blade between his shoulder blades.
Searing pain momentarily blinded Gaillard de Miremont, Lord of Sauignac. He gasped and swallowed blood. He did not feel the impact of his head striking the ground. Face down, his dying gaze took in the cobbles’ gleam, and then the feet of those closest to him shuffled back from the sudden gush of blood that spewed from his torn heart and lungs. Despite the crowd’s shocked awe, for him there was only silence.
CHAPTER FORTY-NINE
Ignoring the biting wind, Lady Cateline draped her cloak over one of Blackstone’s wounded men. Fearing the worst during Blackstone’s absence she had told William Ashford and his guard to prepare fires to boil water and cook food for the survivors. Her servant, Melita, had torn strips of linen ready to bind wounds. Blackstone’s men had won the fight but it had taken its toll: their exhaustion was clear. Cateline knelt in the dirt and lifted the wounded man’s head so she could spoon broth into his mouth. The murmur of men’s curses drifted through the trees. Will Longdon and Jack Halfpenny’s archers aided their comrades and established sentries around the camp’s perimeter.
‘You have too many wounded to fight effectively,’ said Father Torellini, casting an eye between the bloodied men and Blackstone, who bore his own wounds.
Blackstone drank thirstily, watching his men being attended. No commands were necessary; those who were able tended those who needed help. ‘Their wounds will be bound, stitched or cauterized. They’ll fight if they have to,’ he answered.
‘Thomas, they are mortal. All men have a breaking point,’ said Torellini reproachfully.
‘They are my men,’ said Blackstone. ‘They do not break or falter unless they are dead.’ He swilled his mouth and spat blood. He looked at the Italian priest. ‘And they will do what I ask of them.’
‘I know that, Thomas, and I know you. You will not ask of them what you will not do yourself. But they are not you.’
‘You know me too well, Father. I’ll ask no more of them for now. Besides, the horses need rest. We’ll ride to Dome before nightfall. You and Sergeant Ashford will come with us. Gisbert promises us two hundred fresh men; I will have fifty added to your escort. I need the others.
‘Lady Cateline and her children will also require more comfort than they’ve had,’ said Torellini.
‘It’s only a few hours’ ride and Gisbert is preparing quarters for you and food and care for my men. It will give the woman whatever comfort there is.’
‘Do not be so dismissive of her, Thomas. When you and Sir Gilbert went into Sarlat she organized the camp and insisted the Germans follow you into the city. Wolfram von Plauen argued that he was obliged to stay and protect her. She is a forceful woman. It was she who had fires and food prepared.’ He pointed to where she attended to his men. ‘She abandons her own comfort to aid them.’
Blackstone watched her. There was a streak of blood on her face from where she had pushed back a rogue wisp of hair. Her daughter stood diligently at her side holding a bowl of water for Cateline to dip a linen cloth into and clean a man’s wound. Cateline looked less like a woman who held a domain in her own right and more like her servant, who also tended the men.
Blackstone scowled. ‘Father, she is an encumbrance to what I have to do. She seems to have impressed you enough to be an amenable travelling companion. She rides with you and Ashford. Be thankful you’re a man of the cloth otherwise she might snare you into marriage. We leave before noon.’
*
Blackstone and his men travelled twelve miles south from the woods of Sarlat, passing Vitrac and the fortified Castle de Montfort that guarded the route below a high escarpment. The partially ruined castle had been destroyed in the fighting that had swept across the area during the war. What remained hung perilously on a clifftop. An escort of Gisbert de Dome’s men from the castle was waiting to lead them along the narrow track through meadows and fruit orchards, the grass already scythed and stored for winter silage, the fruit trees barren until spring brought its warmth and their blossoms. Oak and chestnut piers supported a bridge across the River Dordogne, wide enough for four horsemen abreast. Blackstone raised his eyes to the heights of Dome as the bastard horse’s hooves struck their dull note across the wooden planks. The fortified mountaintop town commanded views across the river as it curved along the vast plain below. There were other strongholds along the river that held strategic positions but it was Dome that would prove one of the most challenging to conquer. From its heights defenders could watch as travellers and armed men made their way along the valley. Yet it was not impregnable. A year after the Battle of Crécy when the young archer Thomas Blackstone lay badly wounded at Harcourt routiers had scaled the sheer cliffs and taken the town. Three years later brigands struck again and scaled the walls on the western slopes. Finally, the lesson was learned, and the burghers strengthened their walls and increased their vigilance.
Blackstone’s escort led them in a curving route up the hillside until they reached the fortified gates. Urging their mounts up the sloping street, they saw Gisbert de Dome waiting to greet them. An upheld hand brought the column to a halt. De Dome was no longer bloodstained. His gambeson was stitched with a gold thread, his boots burnished to a dull glow, their quality reinforcing his clothing’s lustre, which spoke of a man of authority and, Blackstone guessed, wealth from when he rode with Gruffydd ap Madoc’s routiers.
‘I have made arrangements for your men over there,’ said de Dome, gesturing to the open ground beyond the town’s buildings. A copse of bare trees wavered in the wind but the walls would offer Blackstone’s men some protection from the elements. ‘There are stables beneath the east walls. Enough for all of your mounts.’
Blackstone nodded at Meulon and Renfred, who peeled away with their men. ‘Will, have your lads camp beneath the south wall.’ Unlike the northern ramparts above sheer cliffs, the south offered ground that was less steep. ‘If de Miremont’s followers suddenly decide to strike back that’s where they’ll come – up the southern slopes.’
Will Longdon and Jack Halfpenny’s archers urged their horses along the walled escarpment.
‘We are safe here,’ insisted Gisbert de Dome.
‘Nowhere is safe,’ said Blackstone, heeling his horse past the man in his debt.
*
The Teutonic Knights camped away from Blackstone’s men. Wolfram von Plauen had to remain close to Lady
Cateline Babeneaux. Honour demanded he fulfil his pledge to Blackstone but the duty still rankled.
‘We should strike out from here and find the Welshman,’ said Sibrand von Ansbach, recognizing his leader’s dismay. He was as senior as Gunther von Schwerin and if he could convince his comrade to support him, von Plauen could be swayed.
Gunther cut a piece of salted mutton from the supply sack on his saddle. Since the routiers had slain the two half- brethren the knights fended for themselves. They were no strangers to hardship or self-reliance. ‘He has a point,’ he said.
Von Plauen looked past their tent to the window where Cateline and her children were billeted. He seemed torn.
‘There is no dishonour, Wolfram,’ von Ansbach gently insisted. He looked to his comrade von Buchard. ‘Rudi? If Gisbert de Dome rode with the Welshman, then he might know where he went. We should question him and strike out. Finding ap Madoc is our sworn duty.’
Von Buchard squatted and fed the fire. He gazed into the flames for a moment. ‘Brother Wolfram gave his word and so did we. Our pledge stopped Blackstone from killing him.’ He looked for support to Gunther, who shrugged.
‘One pledge over another. Which one do we dishonour first? We should bide our time. For all we know Blackstone will lead us to him.’
‘Not if we are in Avignon,’ said von Ansbach.
Gunther laid a hand on his friend’s shoulder. ‘No matter where we are we will seek out the Welshman. He must be killed, so that we serve justice. And justice, my brother, requires patience and prayer.’
Wolfram von Plauen laid out his bedroll. ‘Gunther is right. We are honour-bound and God will guide us to the Welshman in good time.’ He stood and turned towards Cateline’s billet. ‘I had better check on the woman.’ He walked away from his comrades.
Rudolph von Burchard fussed with the fire, poking a stick into the embers, casting a glance from their departing leader to the others. His gaze settled back on the flames. ‘How much danger can she be in her bedchamber?’ he said.