Scourge of Wolves

by David Gilman

  Once again William Cade bowed his head from the admonishment. ‘I beg forgiveness, Sir Thomas. I thought only of you and the men. The air here is foul and we always slay lepers.’

  ‘It seems to me you would slay any living thing given the chance,’ said Blackstone. ‘Get yourself back.’

  Cade sheathed his sword and climbed into the saddle. By the time his back was turned Blackstone looked at the two men who still waited at a safe distance. ‘When we get to Sir John I want rid of him,’ said Blackstone.

  ‘You should have let Meulon cut his throat when we had just cause,’ said Killbere.

  Gruffydd ap Madoc knew nothing of the incident when Cade had tortured the Frenchman. ‘He came to me last night to sell his sword,’ he said.

  Killbere glanced at Blackstone. The Welshman’s confession was in his favour. ‘We know he skulked in the night to see you,’ said Killbere. ‘Not hard to imagine why.’

  ‘We deal with him later,’ said Blackstone. ‘Right now I’ve got us lost in this damned forest.’

  ‘And the flour’s for them by way of barter? To get us out of here?’ said Killbere.

  ‘Aye. We’ll get more when we reach Sir John. They’ll lead us out.’

  ‘I’ll get back to the men,’ said Killbere.

  ‘And I to mine,’ said ap Madoc.

  They turned their horses.

  ‘Your friends are frightened of us,’ said the leper.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘They should be. Who knows how we become afflicted. But you are not afraid.’

  ‘You heard what I said about my escape from Paris.’

  The leper turned and instructed the others. ‘Stay alert. Some of those men wish us harm.’

  ‘You’ll not be harmed if I say you won’t,’ said Blackstone.

  ‘I accept your word,’ said the leper. ‘But we are vulnerable now. No one has ever ventured into this forest since we settled here. The bones of the dead and the legend kept all but you away. And now your men know about us others might return.’

  ‘I give you my apologies. What will you do?’

  ‘Move deeper. We do not blame you, Thomas Blackstone.’

  Blackstone’s chin lifted in surprise at the man addressing him by his name.

  ‘Your man called you Sir Thomas. There are many men known as such but I know who you are. Come,’ said the leper, and led the way towards one of the huts.

  They stood aside and appeared to offer no threat. Blackstone knew it would have been an act of folly for them to cause him harm, but his senses were alert as he stepped into the windowless hut. A dull glow from a tallow lamp lit the room softly as the leper went to an iron-edged wooden chest and lifted the lid. His disfigured, bandaged hand held up a surcoat. The armorial design of a chevron against green background was barely visible beneath the ingrained dark stains on the worn cloth. Blood had soaked and dried, permanently discolouring the linen.

  ‘I wore my lord’s blazon,’ said the leper. ‘Henri de Crosin. We fought you at Poitiers. I was twenty paces from you when you tried to kill our King. I recognized your shield the moment you entered the forest.’

  Blackstone’s sense of being watched had been borne out.

  ‘I was stricken with leprosy a year later,’ said the man. ‘Spared in battle and condemned to a living death.’

  ‘Which takes a greater courage,’ said Blackstone.

  The man grunted. ‘Perhaps,’ he said. ‘But I was outcast.’ He replaced the treasured cloth from a time when he was as sturdy and strong as the man who stood before him and stepped closer to Blackstone so that he could see his eyes were infected: skin bubbled the flesh around them and the thin gauze showed similar disfigurement below the covering. ‘And then, like you, I was banished. You by your Prince, me by my fate. Banished from my wife, my lord, my town and my children. And now here you are, giving us your protection.’

  Renfred’s voice called from outside. ‘Sir Thomas?’

  ‘And your flour,’ said the leper.

  Blackstone sensed that the man smiled.

  The leper stepped out of the hut. Blackstone followed. Renfred had dropped two sacks of flour onto the ground and kept his distance from the gathered men.

  ‘Ride back. I’ll follow,’ said Blackstone.

  The German captain hesitated, looking nervously at the gathered men.

  ‘Go. There’s no danger. Have Sir Gilbert form the men into column again. We’re leaving.’

  Renfred tugged the reins and spurred his horse.

  ‘I will lead you out,’ said the leper. ‘There are animal tracks we use when we go to the towns to beg. There’s a convent that gives us alms and food that help us trade among ourselves. When I leave you at the forest’s edge, turn south for eight leagues, then east for another six. You will find the men you seek there.’

  ‘You’ve seen them?’

  ‘Chandos? Yes. We saw his banner. We know our enemies from the past, Sir Thomas, but perhaps it is they who will rid us of the brigands.’

  ‘Your name?’ said Blackstone.

  ‘Robert de Rabastens.’

  ‘You have my thanks, Robert.’

  Rabastens nodded and then placed a bandaged stump on Blackstone’s arm. Blackstone never wavered but looked into the man’s eyes. ‘Before you meet your enemy you will pass close to the village of Sainte-Bernice-de-la-Grave,’ said the leper. ‘For many years before Poitiers, ten or more, I served at my King’s command. I fought pagans in the Holy Roman Empire, routiers in Lorraine, the English in France: any enemy that challenged my King. My wife and children saw nothing of me. I never watched my children grow. I had made a vow before God that if I survived fighting the English that day at Poitiers that I would return home. I was wounded and spent weeks recovering and by the time I reached the outskirts of Sainte-Bernice I knew it was more than battle wounds that ailed me. So I did not go back, but let it be thought I had died. My wife remarried the lord of the manor, Mouton de la Grave, who took in my sons and they in turn took his name. Two died of the plague but the third, Alain, is near enough a grown man. Lord de la Grave is a good knight and he may stand in your way. He is loyal to King John and even with the King’s command I do not think he will relinquish his town or his loyalty easily. I ask a favour…’

  Blackstone placed his hand on what remained of the man’s. ‘No harm will befall your son from me or my men,’ he said.

  A tear glistened in the once proud man’s eyes. He nodded his thanks.

  ‘I shall tell him that his father still holds him close in his heart.’

  Rabastens shook his head. ‘I am dead. Let it remain so.’

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  As the men filed their way out of the forest Blackstone did not look back. The leper who once fought as a man-at-arms at the French King’s side had melted back into the shadows. Courage on the battlefield Blackstone understood, for it was underpinned by rage and fear; but the fortitude to survive the loss of that life as a soldier and then abandonment by family and community was something he could not comprehend. His own grief at the loss of his family was tempered with loving memory, which gave him the strength to fight on; he doubted he had the kind of resolve needed to endure a living death like the leper.

  They rode sixteen miles south without incident. Killbere and Gruffydd ap Madoc traded stories of the years since Blackstone last saw them fighting shoulder to shoulder on the field at Crécy.

  ‘It was the nun that did it for me,’ said Killbere. ‘Damned if she didn’t steal my heart. I remember it as if it were yesterday.’

  ‘As do we all,’ said Blackstone.

  ‘I have not mentioned this story for at least two years,’ said Killbere.

  ‘Not so. We hear this story every time Gilbert stops to take a piss.’

  ‘Having your cock in your hand brings back memories,’ said Killbere defensively.

  ‘You didn’t marry the nun?’ said the Welshman.

  ‘She was promised to others,’ chirped in Blackstone. ‘The whole dam
ned monastery.’

  Killbere scowled. ‘It is true she was a woman who had an appetite but you can only do so much praying in your life. The loins ache for physical comfort.’

  Gruffydd grinned. ‘By the sound of it, it wasn’t an ache but an itch.’

  ‘I see I am in coarse company. Where is your respect for a man’s confession of love?’ complained Killbere.

  ‘Let’s be clear, Gilbert. Your heart was ruled by your balls,’ said Blackstone. ‘But what confuses me was whether this was the first nun or the other?’

  ‘There were two?’ said ap Madoc.

  ‘Oh, at least,’ said Blackstone. ‘But I know only of two.’

  ‘You mock a man unfairly,’ said Killbere in a wounded tone. ‘She was an angel searching to bring heathens like me to the Mother Church.’

  Gruffydd laughed. ‘Lead me to her! I’ll abandon the old gods.’

  ‘Gilbert reverted to his heathen ways and beat the monks, and… I’ve forgotten, what did you do to the nun?’ said Blackstone.

  Killbere ignored the question. ‘And then, years later, I was riding in the forest and found Thomas here surrounded by men ready to kill him. That was just before Poitiers. What he fails to mention is that I saved his life that day.’

  ‘And he has told the same story ever since,’ said Blackstone.

  * * *

  As the wind settled Blackstone saw, several miles ahead, the murky haze of smoke that smothered the clouds. He spurred the men across the rolling ground and then urged the horses on as it rose before them. As they crested the hill they saw that where a village had once huddled a mile ahead bitter-tasting smoke now swirled through the destroyed houses. Bodies lay scattered: villagers desperate to escape the terror that had swept down on them. Smouldering corpses lay scattered along a track through a small coppice whose trees had been seared by wind-whipped flames. Wherever these people had been running to they had been too slow or the violence that had come upon them had been too swift. Blackstone and his men trotted forward, swords drawn, but there was no sign of the attackers. The hamlet was bereft of livestock and spilled corn told a story of grain stores being looted. A cow lay dead, its udder empty. Milked and slain to deny others. Rats scurried over the fallen bodies; some burrowing into carcasses via open wounds. As the men skirted the burning village Blackstone saw trampled ground. Horsemen must have used the shallow river that meandered along the far side of the buildings to approach, probably at first light, masking their noise with the sound of water, and churned up the bank when climbing ashore. The hoof prints showed there must have been a large group of horsemen. A hundred or more. At least.

  Blackstone called to Gruffydd ap Madoc. ‘Split your men and encircle the village. Then sweep through in force. If the raiders are ahead of us we will be on their heels. This killing is only hours old.’

  For a moment it looked as though the Welshman would argue but the ferocity of the recent attack stopped any objection he might harbour at being commanded by Blackstone. As ap Madoc wheeled his mount and shouted his orders, Blackstone led his men along the track. They would be the first to strike against any enemy that remained at the slaughtered village. The mud of the track was churned up: whoever had attacked this place had swept through the hovels, struck down the villagers and surged onward down this path.

  A half-mile down the track the woodland opened out into another clearing. A low-walled fortified house stood two hundred paces away. The gates were open and a dozen bodies slumped over the parapet here and there. The attackers had overwhelmed a local lord or seneschal, the man responsible for protecting the villagers. Blackstone’s men quickly fanned out as Will Longdon dismounted his archers and formed a defensive line across the clearing. If there were still raiders behind the walls they would be brought down moments after any attempt to escape. Blackstone and his men looked at the scene of destruction. The lord’s house sat within the centre of the walls, surrounded by a courtyard. A small family chapel had lost its roof, its bare timbers smouldering. No sound came from behind the walls. Blackstone eased the bastard horse at the walk, his men following. Whoever the house belonged to its owner had secured it as best as he could. It was the kind of stronghold common across France. A local lord and his family with a small retinue of footsoldiers, probably no more than twenty or so men. Crossbow- and pikemen usually, the kind of small force that would be called upon by the King in time of war. There were thousands of such local fiefs, and once brought under the fleur-de-lys gave a French king a great army. The kind of army that the English King had defeated on the field of battle.

  The trees had been cleared far enough from the walls to give the lord of the manor’s men a good killing ground but it appeared that this attack had been so sudden that the alarm had been barely raised before the swarm of men overpowered the defences. Meulon and John Jacob had gone forward and reconnoitred the far side of the walls. Meulon reined in.

  ‘The ground is churned from the gates, around the walls and then beyond the far clearing,’ said the Norman.

  ‘Whoever was here was in force, Sir Thomas, but it looks as though they’ve gone,’ said John Jacob, handing Blackstone a torn piece of cloth. It bore bloodstains. ‘There are a few bodies at the foot of the walls brought down by crossbows. This was on one of them.’

  Blackstone turned the cloth over and looked at the design of a barbed arrowhead.

  ‘Bretons,’ said Blackstone.

  ‘Some of the men fighting for Charles de Blois,’ said John Jacob.

  Blackstone called Perinne forward. ‘Take five men. Follow the tracks. Be back before nightfall.’

  Perinne turned his horse and called the nearest men to him.

  ‘All right,’ said Blackstone, ‘let’s see if anyone survived the attack.’

  He led the men through the gates. It was too small a fortified house to warrant a portcullis or defensive ditch and there was no sign of the gates being smashed open. Peasant smocks lay abandoned just inside the gate.

  ‘Like as not they talked their way in,’ said Killbere. ‘They kill and chase villagers, take their clothing, beg for entry and once the gates are opened quickly kill the sentries. And then it’s a quick gallop from the trees and the routiers are in.’

  Blackstone glanced at him.

  ‘You can be sure they’re part of the horde that John Chandos is hunting,’ said Killbere in answer to the unspoken question. ‘Sure of it.’

  Blackstone nodded. It made sense that the closer they got to Chandos the more evidence there would be of the Breton routier army that was gathering. Inside the walls there were signs of the fight all around them. Bodies lay where they had fallen: another twenty or so of the knight’s men, crossbows flung from their hands, some with swords still in the scabbard – so quick had been the surge through the gates that those in the yard, perhaps still running for the walls, had had no chance to draw them. Three servants were propped against the main house entrance, their blood splattered across the iron-studded door. Kitchen knives and a hand scythe had been their only weapons, useless against battleaxe, mace or sword, but their death at the entrance was testimony to their courage as they had tried to stop the killers from entering their lord’s house. One was disembowelled; another had a severed arm; their companion’s throat had been cut.

  Wisps of smoke swirled as the breeze caught embers in the deep thatch that covered the buildings to one side of the yard. Soldiers’ quarters most likely, thought Blackstone. Four attackers lay dead at the feet of two men who had fallen half in, half out of the entrance.

  ‘Small company of men,’ said John Jacob.

  Meulon eased his horse towards them. ‘No sign of anyone alive out here. A few attackers dead near the grain store along with servants. Five women inside. Raped. Throats cut. I covered them with sacking.’ He hesitated. ‘And what’s probably their children. They spared no one. Their blood-lust was up.’ He spat. ‘Bastards should be spitted and roasted, Sir Thomas. If these are the skinners we’re after they need no mercy shown
them when it comes to it.’

  ‘Once they got over the wall in numbers these people stood no chance,’ said Killbere. He glanced at Blackstone. The sight was eerily reminiscent of when they had fought the Jacquerie while searching for Blackstone’s family a few years before. They had come across a similar scene of a local lord’s household butchered and raped. Blackstone had remained stony-faced.

  ‘All right. Secure the walls. Bring in Will and the others. Renfred, ride to ap Madoc, tell him what we’ve seen and ask him to hold the ground around the village. Have him post men on the hills and then ask him to join us. Meulon, have the men guard the gates. Whoever did this won’t be coming back but it pays to be vigilant. We’ll look inside and then move on. There’s no point in staying in this butcher’s yard.’

  He tethered the belligerent horse away from the others and, with Killbere and John Jacob, stepped up to the house’s main door, past the dead servants and into the gloom of the stone walls. The damp air drew their breath into a mist. John Jacob walked ahead, sword ready. He shouldered open a door that led into the great hall. Embers still crackled in a fireplace; the stonework was smudged with smoke and the smell of it lingered in the room. John Jacob bent and pressed a torch of bound faggots into the glow, blew on it and, once it flared, held it aloft. The glow reached into the farthest corner. Tapestries had been ripped from the walls, benches overturned. Wine and scraps of food had spilled across the dining table. The killers had obviously stayed long enough to raid the kitchen. A body slumped by a wall panel in a spreading pool of blood, still wet, that settled across the floorboards beneath the scuffed reed covering: another servant, his head caved in, blood plastering his matted hair across his face. A meat cleaver had fallen from his hand but there was no blood on its cutting edge. It had been a futile attempt at self-defence. A hunting dog was close by, its skull crushed.

  ‘Killed the man’s dogs. There’ll be others outside, I’ll wager,’ said John Jacob.