by David Gilman
He felt acid gnaw at his stomach. Such extravagance was being paid for by his countrymen, who had been stripped of everything. And while John was lavishly entertained, enjoying days of falconry and unfettered travel between the noble houses of England, his nation had been left in the hands of his son, the Dauphin, who defied his own father and rejected the treaty. The Dauphin and the Estates General had poked a stick in the English lion’s eye and brought Edward and his ravening army back to France. Were it not for the hand of God and the mighty storm that had slain so many of Edward’s men then the English King would never have signed a treaty of peace. And now? Desolation was everywhere. Memories of defeat and the sight of Thomas Blackstone fighting the Prince of Wales on that St George’s Day tournament had been pressed between the pages of time, like a child’s collection of flowers and butterflies crushed between the leaves of a book. And even now he was not being allowed to forget the scar-faced Englishman. Even now.
‘We do not wish to hear about Thomas Blackstone,’ said the King to his son. ‘He should not inflict any more distress upon our family or our nation and we will not discuss him again.’
John raised his face and closed his eyes, breathing in the cool country air. It smelled clean and sweet and he had no desire to contaminate it with any talk of Thomas Blackstone. Birds were not yet nesting but they sought their old places of safety in anticipation of the fullness of spring that would eventually rebirth the countryside. Nature’s hand easing away the ugliness of the ravished landscape was something to be cherished. John the Good turned to his son again. ‘When we were released we gave Edward the kiss of peace and vowed to honour the treaty. Blackstone is not the only Englishman carrying out his King’s command.’
King John glanced towards the older man who stood a few paces behind the Dauphin. Simon Bucy, longtime friend, senior adviser and the man who had led the French Parlement and who had endured the years in Paris trying to help the Prince Regent rule France in John’s absence. Bucy’s face was a mask of inscrutability. Ever the diplomat, the favoured counsellor would never show any sign that might indicate even a hint of disloyalty to the young Prince. It had been Bucy’s duty to support the Dauphin through those years of John’s captivity, to stay close and advise in the King’s name. John turned away. It would be unfair to press Bucy in front of his son. He would wait. They already spoke long into the night about how best to salvage France and make her the greatest country in Christendom once again. Long conversations without the Dauphin’s presence. Without the habitual coughing and sniffing. That a son’s ailments could be so intrusive and irritating! Charles had always been a sickly child and now even as a grown man his physical looks and demeanour suggested little more than an illness-ravaged, indecisive twenty-three-year-old youth. He had lost his hair and fingernails, all, if rumours were to be believed, due to being poisoned by Charles of Navarre. John suppressed a sigh. If only he could have been blessed like Edward with warrior sons and no in-laws trying to stab him in the back.
The King watched a pair of linnets dart in and out of a bush as they began the task of ensuring that their old nest was still in place. They were an example of industrious endeavour. Exactly what was needed for the French to rebuild their country. Their songbird trills were a delight. He would let them nest and rear their young and then he would have nets set and snare them. They would make a delicious pie.
‘We tire,’ he said and walked away with a dozen lackeys close at his heels.
As Simon Bucy followed the King, the Dauphin placed a hand on his arm. ‘A moment,’ he said.
Bucy held back.
‘Does our father not see the threat that Blackstone might still be to us?’ said the Dauphin quietly.
Bucy hesitated, nervous that his absence from the King’s side would be noticed. ‘Highness, our sovereign lord has the greatest task placed before any monarch. His country is in ruins and he is near bankrupt with a ransom still to pay the English King. Thomas Blackstone plays no part in his future.’ Bucy could see that the Prince, who at times could be more petulant than his father, would need a better explanation. He lowered his voice. ‘My Prince, in the past your father and I tried to have Blackstone killed, but we failed. We set the Savage Priest on him and Blackstone slew him in combat. Blackstone must surely be guarded by Satan’s imps. And when you graciously kept me at your side while our King was held prisoner, you and I contrived to send him to the assassin in Milan who had murdered his wife and child. And that too failed. Blackstone is a force of nature that I doubt any man can destroy.’ Bucy did as he had always done when offering advice to either King or Regent. He would pause as if considering the great weight that his interrogator had placed upon him and that brief hesitation always convinced those listening that his answer had been given with the utmost care and consideration. ‘Should we not abandon any further attempt to rid ourselves of him? Perhaps we should be grateful that when the Jacquerie scorched the land it was Blackstone who helped rescue your family. It was he who gave you what short time was left with your children before they were so cruelly taken.’ Bucy lowered his eyes briefly, a mark of respect and shared sadness. Barely two years after Blackstone had rescued the Dauphin’s family at Meaux, Charles’s three-year-old daughter Jeanne and her baby sister Bonne, his only children, died within two weeks of each other. The Dauphin had taken the bereavement badly.
‘Our children are gone from us, Simon. Perhaps it was God’s punishment for not putting Blackstone to the sword when we had him in Paris. Our sin must have been to have let such a scourge on our land live.’
‘No, highness. Forgive me but that is not true. You were in his debt. And you paid that debt by telling him where the assassin was. There would have been no honour in killing him when he came to Paris under truce.’ Bucy concealed his agitation at being held back from being with the King. Such a delay might raise questions and the last thing he wanted was to have to explain to his sovereign lord that his son still harboured an unquenchable desire to kill the rogue Englishman. There were greater and more pressing concerns to attend to.
‘You do not understand, Simon. You do not see the future. Our father will not live for ever and when we are king we will face the threat that Blackstone and men like him bring. We may not be a warrior or master horseman like our father, we may not even have the strength to wield a sword, but we have sufficient intelligence to foresee that Edward will promote Blackstone here. The day will come when we will take back France. We will avenge Crécy and Poitiers. It may not be this year or the next. But do not doubt us, we will take the realm back from the English and when that day comes we do not wish to have Thomas Blackstone defy us as he has defied his own King. Our way ahead will be easier without him.’
The comment gave Bucy pause for thought. There was no denying the Dauphin had strength of personality despite his physical frailty. Had it not been for his stubbornness in denying King Edward the full terms of the original treaty more of France would have fallen into the hands of the English. Even when Edward had invaded with the greatest army he had ever assembled, the Dauphin had stayed behind the walls of Paris and let the English King fail to seize the great cities, denying him supplies by burning the crops and food stores before Edward could reach them. In many respects the ailing Charles had outfought the great warrior King without even leaving the royal palace. And the boy had been astute enough to keep his father’s counsellors close to hand, himself included. Perhaps Charles had the vision to see what might befall France if Thomas Blackstone were given more power and authority, and, most importantly, more troops.
‘Then how could we succeed when we have failed so many times before?’
‘You would not remember because you were engaged in attempting to save your estates from the Jacquerie.’ It was a gentle rebuke, but pointed none the less. ‘But when they swarmed across our land the guards found a poacher in these very grounds. He had dared to clamber over the walls to kill our game. He was apprehended. We had him show us how he laid his traps and th
en how he enticed the prey into them. It was skilful and took patience. He tempted those he wished to kill into moving from a place of safety into his snares. He understood his prey and used that knowledge against it.’ The Dauphin’s smile reminded Bucy of a grimacing corpse whose tinder-dry skin stretched across its skull. ‘We have already set a course of action,’ said the Dauphin. ‘And we will share it with you when the time is right. Simon, think to your own future and decide who best to serve in order to save France.’
In a dismissive gesture the Dauphin turned his face away to gaze across the manicured gardens.
Simon Bucy bowed and, gathering his cloak around him, walked briskly towards the royal quarters. He served the King loyally and always had done. And would continue to do so. But – there was always a but in the corridors of power – would John have the vision and strength that was required to strip the land of marauding fighters like Thomas Blackstone?
CHAPTER TWELVE
Wolf Sword was suddenly at the Welshman’s throat. Blackstone had moved so quickly that even Killbere was taken by surprise. Gruffydd ap Madoc guffawed and slapped his thigh. ‘I would kiss the Pope’s arse if he created a miracle so that the world could see the look on Killbere’s face.’ Gruffydd made no move to defend himself but his eyes locked on to Blackstone. There was suddenly no humour in his voice. ‘Thomas Blackstone, lean forward and press your sword point into my throat and every man with you will die. Lower your sword and let me explain.’
‘It had better be a good explanation, my friend, because if it is not your head will be in the mud before my death,’ Blackstone said and lowered the blade.
Gruffydd ap Madoc sighed. ‘Christ, you were a mad archer back then, throwing yourself into the fight, and it would appear everything I have heard about you over the years is true. You’re a fearless bastard and I wager you place your life in Arianrhod’s hands, but I didn’t know that you had attacked Saint-Aubin. Bernard de Charité sent word weeks ago for us to fight in the war in Brittany against John de Montfort’s troops. It was time for us to leave what was left of the Germans and make some money in the Limousin. Had we got here earlier I would have been forced to make a decision whether to take de Charité’s gold and fight you or turn my back. What do you think I would have done, Thomas?’
Killbere grunted and poked a finger in Gruffydd’s chest. ‘You and I faced French cavalry at Crécy, and we both saved the other’s life. Men who endure that do not turn on each other like rabid dogs.’
‘He has hundreds of men, Gilbert, and perhaps they didn’t share your danger. They ride for profit,’ said Blackstone, looking at the Welshman.
Gruffydd nodded. ‘You’re right. These men are drawn to me because I put food in their bellies and gold in their purses, but what Killbere said is true. And I would have killed any of these men behind me who would have challenged me. They know that. And what good would it do for me to kill Thomas Blackstone? I would be showered with wealth by the French King and his son but I would be cursed by every Englishman and God knows you English cause enough trouble without me adding to it. There’s fighting and money to be made elsewhere.’
‘You could have helped against these French,’ said Killbere.
‘I did. I stood my ground and let them see our strength. They were only a couple of hundred Frenchmen going south to join their army.’
‘Perhaps you were waiting to see whether they turned and ran or overwhelmed us,’ said Blackstone. ‘Then you could have claimed that you had blocked any chance we might have had of escape.’
‘You’re beginning to sound like a damned politician, Thomas. Merciful Christ, I held back because the French knew we were not with them. They saw us and thought we supported you. Now, are we going to sit out here all day or can we join forces and ride on? The French go south to fight routiers.’
‘And we are on the King’s business,’ said Killbere. ‘There’s no pillaging to be had. You and your men will stay poor if you ride with us.’
Gruffydd’s eyebrows raised as he looked questioningly at Blackstone. ‘Some payment for our help? Three hundred men at your back is no bad thing.’
‘You ride with us to join Sir John Chandos and if he agrees you can have the money from Saint-Aubin.’
‘How much?’ said Gruffydd ap Madoc.
‘One and a half thousand gold francs,’ said Blackstone.
The Welshman grunted with pleasure. ‘You have it here?’
‘Of course,’ said Blackstone. ‘The sack is strapped to my pommel.’ He glanced down. ‘Ah. Pity. It must have slipped free during the fight,’ he said drily.
Gruffydd blinked twice and then threw back his head and laughed. He gathered his reins and turned the horse. ‘You taunt your enemies and tease your friends, Thomas.’
‘Did you think I would carry that much money?’ said Blackstone. ‘What fool would? The money is on a writ pledged by the King. Chandos will pay you.’
The stocky horse wheeled under Gruffydd’s hand. ‘So be it! Ha! You are a man worth following, Thomas. My men will bring up the rear behind your own and we will obey your commands.’ He guffawed again and spurred his horse back towards his men.
‘Gruffydd!’ Blackstone called.
The Welshman turned.
‘Your men at the rear but you ride with Sir Gilbert and me.’
Ap Madoc grinned, knowing full well that if Blackstone sensed betrayal then he would be the first to die. ‘So be it!’ He nodded in agreement and urged the horse away.
‘God’s blood, Thomas, these Celts are touched. He’s as possessed now as he was back then. Better he’s with us than not,’ said Killbere. He studied Blackstone for a moment. ‘We fought hard, him and me, smothered in gore and with a rage to kill. We took the fight to the French and we bled for our King. There was honour in it.’ He watched the burly Welshman reach his men. ‘But we cannot trust him now. Mark my words on that. He’s dangerous.’
‘Tell the captains to keep our men away from his. You’re right, Gruffydd ap Madoc will be a good ally until he decides not to be. Once he gets the smell of plunder he will turn on us no matter what he says.’
‘Aye, especially if he finds out what we carry in our saddlebags, and that you told him a thousand less than we have. I was fearful the coins would jangle when that bastard horse of yours shifted its weight.’
* * *
They rode south-east for six days, skirting the towns that already owed Edward fealty. There were still a half-dozen more that were required to paint the English King’s arms above their gates, but they could wait. By day and night the uneasy fellowship of ap Madoc’s mixed band of routiers rubbed like a wet boot on a man’s heel.
‘Keep your stench downwind,’ Will Longdon taunted the riders, whose ranks were mostly Welsh men-at-arms bolstered by mongrel packs of English, German and French routiers. After the Welsh it was the English who made up most of their numbers. Some had deserted the English army years before to find a more profitable occupation; others had been discharged like so many after the last great invasion. It made no difference which King they had served, the reality was they were only good for war and thousands of such men roamed the countryside in various bands, led by captains, all men of fighting experience. All driven by lust, greed and necessity.
‘Sleep with your hand on your cock and you’ll wake to find your throat cut one morning,’ they jeered back at Longdon.
‘Sleep with your knife and you’ll wake without your cock,’ others cried.
‘If it can be found,’ shouted another.
Gruffydd ap Madoc grinned and said something in a language that Will Longdon could not understand. The men who rode closest to the big Welshman roared with laughter.
‘A hundred paces and a couple of dozen sheaves of arrows and I’d teach them to cry for their mothers in English,’ said Longdon to Jack Halfpenny who rode at his side.
‘If Sir Thomas trusts them to fight with us then we had best not antagonize them, Master Longdon,’ said Peter Garland from a horse
length behind them.
‘Do dogs’ bollocks swing?’ said Longdon. ‘You have to show scum like that contempt. It’s expected. Us to them, them to us. How else are men to show they are men? Taunt and insult. It’s necessary.’
‘For what?’ said the young archer.
‘For friendship,’ said Will Longdon, shaking his head as Jack Halfpenny grinned at the lad’s innocence. ‘And trust,’ he added. ‘How else am I to go among them and find out their true intent?’
* * *
Will Longdon had gone out with a half-dozen men that day and brought down a deer. That night he took a haunch to some of ap Madoc’s men, guided by campfire and raucous voices. The routiers had looted wine and brandy from German lords’ cellars and had clearly been imbibing freely. Blackstone’s men, in contrast, had settled into their own defensive routine and smothered their cooking fires and extinguished candle stubs as darkness fell. The distance between the two camps was as broad as each group’s discipline. They were a day’s ride from where Sir John Chandos expected a routier army to be, and that was close enough for Blackstone to insist on caution. Let ap Madoc’s men behave as they wanted but Blackstone and those who had long fought at his side knew the value of letting darkness and silence cloak them. If any sneak attack were to come in the night it would be against the routiers, illuminated by their scattered firelight across the open field.
Will Longdon was welcomed to a campfire by men dulled with drink and he played up his own part accordingly. The meat was packed into the embers, covered with stones and more wood stacked on top. It would take hours to cook but the soldiers would wake to a succulent breakfast. Will’s generous gift was rewarded with a small cask of brandy. Ap Madoc’s men bragged of how they had raided the French–German border for a year. They had fought and killed without restraint and they had been well rewarded by the French Count de Vaudémont.