by David Gilman
‘Christ, they’ve breached the city walls,’ one of the sentries said.
Blackstone turned back and saw Jean de Grailly buckling on his sword; the Count of Foix and the other knights, von Lienhard too, were running down the steps from the great hall. This was no breach – there were no flames, no cries of terror – the mayor had opened the gates to the thousands of Jacques.
Blackstone met de Grailly and de Hangest in the middle of the bailey – the place where his judicial contest would have started had it not been for the unexpected assault outside. Now men ran for their horses; swords and lances were being gathered by servants and squires, stable-hands saddled horses while shrill cries of fear from the hundreds of women rained down from the gallery on the men below.
A voice carried from one of the men on the ramparts. ‘Bundles of kindling being brought to the end of the bridge!’
‘They mean to burn us out,’ said Killbere.
De Grailly was calm, his hesitation barely noticeable before he issued his orders. ‘Thomas, your archers must buy us time. There are twenty knights here and with our few squires and your hobelars we number a hundred horsemen or so. We split the field. Lord de Hangest and I will take our men left with the Count; my Lords de Chamby and de Mauléon and...’ He looked at the men and hesitated briefly again. ‘...von Lienhard and von Groitsch will ride to the right, and you, Thomas, with the remainder, cleave them down the centre. Drive through them to the city gates, beyond if we must. Spare none.’
‘My lord!’ de Hangest interrupted. ‘I will lead. Blackstone may follow! My duty lay here before your welcome arrival.’
De Grailly was obliged to acknowledge the older man’s right. ‘Quite so, my lord. As you wish. Thomas, once a path is cleared have your archers move into the streets.’
‘Their war bows are no use in streets that narrow,’ said Blackstone. ‘Sword and buckler is the best they can do.’
‘Very well. Have them follow in our wake. Let them kill those who are left and burn down every house.’
‘The city?’ asked Loys de Chamby, the pug-faced knight.
‘My friend,’ said the Count de Foix, ‘they opened their gates so that we and these good women might suffer the worst of fates.’ The Count looked to Blackstone. ‘Burn and kill, Sir Thomas. We must put an end to this uprising. Spare the cathedral and the religious houses.’
The knights settled their helmets and pulled on their gauntlets as de Grailly looked to the two adversaries. ‘And the matter between you will be settled when this is done.’
Blackstone and von Lienhard exchanged glances and then each turned to attend to their duties and face the immediate threat.
Brother Bertrand ran forward with the bastard horse’s leading rein. Its ears were perked, the boiled-leather breastplate hugging its chest muscles. The archers had raced to stand ready as Will Longdon gathered with the other captains around Blackstone.
‘Hobelars with me. Meulon, Gaillard: Sir Gilbert will lead you and your men. Will, when the gates open we will strike across the bridge. There will be too many crammed on it to resist; before we reach the other side loose what you have on the far end. You know the range. You’ll be shooting blind; have someone watch on the parapet for us below. That will give the horsemen time to cut through and into the streets. Then you and your men leave your bows, take up torches and sword and burn every house.’
‘And them what’s in ’em?’ Longdon asked.
‘None can be spared now,’ Blackstone said grimly.
‘They have brought the wrath of God upon their heads,’ said the Tau knight.
‘They’ve brought Sir Thomas Blackstone and his avenging angels onto them is what the ignorant bastards have done,’ said Will Longdon.
*
There was a rising panic among the women, but Jean de Hangest went among them and reminded them of their rank and that their behaviour should reflect it, and vowed that no harm would come to them. The Dauphin’s family were still secure, but it would make no difference if the twenty or so knights and Blackstone’s men-at-arms could not halt the surge that would soon swamp the bridge. They would all die. Although the men numbered a few more than a hundred they had the advantage of being on horseback and well armoured, and the peasants in their stupidity were no more than an enraged mob. Blackstone had shouted across the yard where he saw Henry, sword in hand, and told him to stay with his mother and sister, to stand with the other pages and the frightened women.
A sentry on the wall cried out his warning. ‘They’ve opened the far gate! They’re coming onto the bridge!’
Blackstone looked to where Will Longdon’s archers stood in ranks of three – a formation to lay down arrows across a narrow but deep killing zone. He steadied his horse, its withers rippling, head tipping forward, tugging at the reins in his left hand, eager to lead those horses that stood on its flanks.
The men-at-arms bristled with tension, crowding behind the Marché’s gates.
The sentry shouted his warning again. ‘Halfway! Hundreds of them jamming the bridge!’
Blackstone and his men were the vanguard; it was they who would drive the wedge through the mob and they who would be most at risk. He tightened Wolf Sword’s blood knot on his wrist, saw Fra Caprini cross himself and smiled as Killbere hawked and spat, as unperturbed as if he were about to go on a day’s hunting. He watched as Will Longdon and the others braced one leg forward, their first arrow balanced on the stave. He felt their readiness. Remembered being shoulder to shoulder. They would bend forward and then arch their back muscles to get the extra flight from their arrows as if their bodies themselves were bows – and then Nock! Draw! Loose! Sinew and strength and a skill honed since childhood.
He grinned.
Will Longdon saw him and nodded.
Dear Christ, it was good.
A rumbling thunder of the hundreds pounding across the bridge rose up over the stronghold’s walls. De Hangest called for the gates to be opened.
Blackstone saw the mob in his mind’s eye.
‘Wait! Forty paces!’ he called out. ‘Give them forty paces! Then open the gates!’
De Hangest was about to protest, but saw the sense of it. At forty paces they would still be surging forward, the weight of those behind forcing those in front onward; to then open the gates allowed the knights to spur their horses. The clash of the opponents would drive the horse’s hooves over them in a bone-crushing impact.
De Hangest looked up. The sentry raised an arm. And then dropped it.
‘Now!’
The gates swung open and de Hangest dug his heels into his horse. Blackstone, with John Jacob at his side, and Caprini and Killbere barely a stride behind, followed, gathering their killing instincts into a snarling cry. Those in the first ten ranks of the mob’s wave faltered, their terror-etched faces mouthing curses, arms raised helplessly to protect themselves against the huge beasts.
For twenty yards Blackstone and his phalanx did not strike a sword blow, their horses’ weight and their iron-shod hooves smashed through the body of men and women, whose cries were drowned by those horses behind Blackstone. Astride the war horse he felt its awkward gait adjust to the smashed bodies. Blood spattered high onto his legs and then, as the horde tried to turn and run, Wolf Sword began to swing in its rhythmic and graceful murderous arc.
Twenty yards from the end of the bridge wholesale panic gripped the mob as a flight of arrows suddenly descended into the bottleneck. The thud of steel-tipped bodkins, the fist of God hurled from the heavens, claimed fifty or more peasants. Screams and shouts echoed across the river as the cut of sword and axe made the bridge a butcher’s yard of misery. The bastard horse snorted, its head down, straining to run faster, needing to be controlled, as, nostrils flaring, it smelt the blood.
Ten yards. Another whisper of arrow shafts.
Close, Will! Not too close! We’re on them! Blackstone’s mind yelled, fearing his centenar’s miscalculation, his shoulders tightening unconsciously, expecting a yard o
f ash and goose feathers to run him through.
Five yards! The bodies jumbled and the three layers of arrows fell again.
Dear Christ! Too close! But fear became exultation – to be so close to the lethal storm, almost feeling their whisper on him. It enthralled him as the arrows struck and smashed their targets. And then he was among those who had no place to run except to turn and face the knights in a desperate attempt to fight with their backs against the buildings’ walls, in the narrow streets choked with heaving panic. The taste of terror soured their throats as Blackstone and his men forged straight ahead into the city. Out of the corner of his eye he saw de Grailly lead his men to the left, their horses being urged across the dead and dying and the harvest of arrow shafts that rose up from the bloodied furrows of the slain bodies.
Will Longdon had timed his archers’ strikes perfectly.
Blackstone felt the wound on his leg split when he and John Jacob jostled each other as they plunged into near darkness of the narrow streets. Red and blue hoods mingled with the rough cloth of the Jacquerie as the Parisian militia tried to escape with those they supported. Men were crushed against house walls as the horses pressed them; others could not stumble over their fallen comrades in time before Meulon and Gaillard rammed spears into them. Fra Stefano Caprini raised his voice to God and called for his past sins to be forgiven as he slashed man and woman beneath his sword.
Women and children screamed in terror. Mothers abandoned their young as fear erased any feeling other than self-preservation. The vengeful horde swept down on the townspeople who had opened their gates. A price had to be exacted. Children tried to run between the horses and were clipped and crushed by their iron-shod hooves. Skulls split and limbs splintered. Killbere plunged into a small square, cobbled and dark, where clothing hung from lines, and dogs ran yelping before the terrified mob, and somewhere in the dark houses babies cried for their absent mothers. He heeled his horse, an almost continuous movement in a circle, yanking rein and digging in spurs. The beast spun in its own length as Killbere lashed the Jacques with his chained flail, its vicious spikes tearing scalps from heads and crunching bones. So swift were his strikes that none could reach up and haul him from his horse, and he grunted with satisfaction at the efficiency of his ‘holy-water sprinkler’.
The men-at-arms forced their war horses into the narrow alleys, their heraldic devices looming from the shadows, a final torment for the wounded and dying. No mercy was shown, no act considered too violent. The noblemen regarded vengeance and retribution as their God-given right against these peasants who had torn apart the fabric of their brotherhood. This uprising already lay bleeding on the plateau at Mello, its leader tortured and beheaded in Clermont, and now it would be crushed to death in the streets of Meaux.
Von Lienhard and von Groitsch fought alongside four others and then separated as they sought out those who had run into blind alleys, then turned back to pursue others in flight. Loys de Chamby forced a group of men into a boxed side street and was hacking them down; von Lienhard and his fellow German saw that he was in no need of help and rode into a forked street. Too late they saw the crossbowman step from a doorway and level his weapon at the French knight. Von Lienhard cried out a warning; de Chamby wheeled his horse but his shield was down, leaving the side of his face unprotected. The quarrel slammed into his helmet, punching through his skull, shattering teeth and blinding him. He swayed and fell, allowing the peasants to take their chance and escape. Von Groitsch spurred his horse after them as von Lienhard forced the crossbowman into a doorway. Unable to reload the weapon in time he threw the useless crossbow at the knight and drew his sword, but the German deflected it with his shield, leaned from the saddle and rammed his sword point beneath the man’s chin.
Archers, each one carrying a sword and a burning reed torch, had run across the bridge, jumping over contorted corpses, cursing as they stepped and slithered through their gore.
Will Longdon gave his orders. ‘Halfpenny! Men with you, others with Thurgood and the rest with me. Torch the bastards. Don’t get separated!’ he yelled as he ran into the nearest house and spilled tallow onto straw bedding, setting it ablaze. From house to house they went, the flames following them, casting the men’s shadows higher. Longdon rammed his sword into a man huddled into a doorway, whose arms were outstretched for pity, a whisper for water barely escaping his lips as the burning took hold and snaked from floor to floor, seizing a foothold on each overhanging house. Like snarling lions the flames leapt across the void, clawing onto the dry timbers.
Will directed the men at his shoulder to go left and right. Kill and burn was his chant as he raced towards the sounds of screams and fighting. Breathless and sweating, he saw two knights beating off a mob of peasants, the savage cuts hacking limbs from those who raised their arms in a hopeless act of self-defence. One of the knights turned his horse and then fell without a sound as a crossbow bolt struck his helmet. Slivers of light cut the gloom and Longdon saw the German slay the peasant archer. Then the horse was spurred on and away into another side alley. Longdon ran forward. The French knight was dead right enough; what was left of his shattered mouth hung from his skull, eyes gaping, the bolt protruding through his pug-faced skull. Longdon reached for the sword, a fine weapon, but to seize a French knight’s weapon when they fought as allies could lead to accusations of murder and looting. He thought better of it and crouched, seeking to find where the fight had taken the men-at-arms. Smoke began to choke the passageways. Longdon knelt to draw breath, wiping the grimy sweat from his brow; cries echoed and screams drowned all but the loudest cries of pain. Steel clanged and horses whinnied while somewhere ahead he heard a German’s derisive voice barking at those he killed.
Houses were burning fiercely, forcing Longdon to duck and weave as a tapestry of flames licked across the walls. In the veils of smoke a horseman was slashing this way and that at any peasant who dared strike at him. Men wearing the parti-coloured hoods of red and blue seemed to be everywhere but the horseman was cutting them down efficiently, using his horse to wheel and crush. Some tried to claw their way into a smouldering house but could not escape his blows.
A baby wailed in the doorway. Longdon hesitated as he tried to keep the knight in view through the thickening smoke, but the baby’s piercing cries finally proved too insistent to ignore. The battle-hardened archer dropped his torch and reached into the entrance and plucked the infant from the ragged bodies that lay on the threshold. Another few minutes and flames would lick down the narrow passage, drawn by the air, a beast that needed constant feeding. A dead woman’s body half covered the child; perhaps she had tried to protect it from a sword slash and died herself instead. Longdon held the child to him, picked his way clear of the bodies, and took it a dozen paces away from the burning house. He could do no more than take the infant away from the flames and nestle it against the bodies of slain men and women. It would die, but at least it would not suffer the torment of the fire. He quickly ducked away as he realized what must be done to save Thomas Blackstone from the challenge of the superior swordsman. No arrogant-bastard knight would bring down his friend and sworn lord if he could stop it. A dead militiaman sprawled on top of those slain by the German, who now urged his horse down another street. Longdon sheathed his sword, pulled the man’s crossbow from beneath his body and found the quarrels in the man’s belt. Ignoring the dead body’s sagging resistance he put his foot into the weapon’s stirrup against the man’s chest, hauled back the cord, settled his breathing and then the bolt.
Clambering over the corpses he reached the street corner, pressed his shoulder against the wall to steady his aim and brought the weapon up to his master-archer’s eye. The swirling smoke funnelled upwards from the narrow twisting lane to cloak the German, who half turned, shield high, thirty feet away, the wide-eyed harpy’s mouth screaming its silent delight at the slaughter, her talons seemingly reaching down to claw at the desperate peasants falling beneath the sword. Longdon felt a brief moment
of admiration for the simple weapon that allowed a man to kill so easily at close range. The bolt slammed into the back of the German’s neck, its impact throwing him forward across the horse’s withers, startling the horse forward, deeper into the gloom.
Will Longdon threw aside the crossbow and turned back to find his men. There was no need for more slaughter: the men-at-arms had inflicted a biblical revenge worthy of any crow-black priest’s exhortation. What he needed now was a drink.
46
The day’s killing ceased when the Captal de Buch and his knights swept beyond the city walls and into the surrounding countryside, where the peasants scattered in disarray, making it as easy to kill them in the open as it had been in the narrow streets. Once through the city Blackstone led his men in a great flanking curve that halted any retreat and forced many of the defeated Jacques onto their knees, pleading for mercy. The noblemen’s code of honour did not extend to the murdering peasants and their retribution against those in the uprising was savage. Bodies hung from trees; every village in the surrounding area was razed to the ground. Some of the leaders who were betrayed by their own followers were hamstrung, left to crawl for what remained of their pitiful lives.
Blackstone turned back his men once he saw the rout was complete. He felt no thirst for revenge against the Jacques; they had taken their chance to seize their land and failed, and their punishment had been swift, their threat crushed. It had been a long day of slaughter and his leg needed attention. He sat on horseback with the Tau knight, their blood-splattered jupons testament to the close-quarter killing. None of his men had been killed; some had taken light wounds, but a barber-surgeon could treat those who needed it. Blackstone preferred Caprini’s administrations.