Scourge of Wolves

by David Gilman

‘I would be glad to have them at my side, rather than under my boot,’ said Blackstone.

  ‘And now that you’re here we might just stay,’ shouted one of the men. ‘We’ve a seneschal leading us and he’s a whip for a tongue. Hard on his men, Sir Thomas.’

  The criticism of the man designated to lead them into battle raised a murmuring of agreement.

  ‘What of Sir John?’ asked Killbere.

  ‘He’s here. We’ll take you and your men to him, but he’s handing over command. That’s all I know.’

  ‘Sir Gilbert,’ one of the men called. ‘I was with Cobham at Blanchetaque. I saw you there.’

  ‘You got your arse wet wading across, then,’ said Killbere.

  ‘And my blade – with French blood.’

  ‘The King said the fish would all speak French after that,’ shouted another. ‘That’s how much blood we spilled.’

  The man who stood before Blackstone raised a hand. ‘All right, gobshites. Look to your duties. We don’t want Sir Thomas thinking that talk is all you’re good for.’ He looked up at Blackstone and Killbere. ‘They’re good men, every one gathered here across these fields, and they’ll fight hard for someone they trust,’ he said. His meaning was clear.

  ‘And do they fight for you?’ asked Blackstone.

  ‘If they do not then they get a boot up their arse. Most were at Poitiers with my Lord Warwick. We know you held the hedgerow that day, Sir Thomas. You and Sir Gilbert.’

  ‘It was a day to remember,’ said Killbere.

  ‘And never forgotten,’ said the soldier.

  ‘Take me to Sir John,’ said Blackstone and nudged his horse forward.

  As they walked the horses through the scattered men, those who recognized the shield and its motto, Defiant unto Death, stood with respect. And as those men stood then the murmur whispered across to others who glanced towards the new arrivals. And they too got to their feet. There were those who had not fought at Crécy, and some not even at Poitiers, but they had all heard of the man who had fought in every great battle and they wanted to see whether Thomas Blackstone’s appearance lived up to his legend.

  ‘No bowmen,’ said Will Longdon, scanning the scattered troops. ‘Not a bloody archer in sight, Thomas.’

  ‘Then that means you’ll have to work harder,’ said Meulon.

  ‘And about time,’ added Perinne.

  ‘The only time I saw Will work up a sweat was in that brothel a month back,’ chirped Renfred. ‘Sir Thomas? A horseman.’ The German pointed to a man-at-arms weaving his horse through the troops on the ground.

  Blackstone recognized the man’s blazon of five scallops set against a black cross, and when he reined in he saw it was Beyard, Lord de Grailly’s captain, the man who had escorted him across France when he had returned from exile in Italy. De Grailly, the Captal de Buch, was one of the greatest Gascon knights and held the hereditary title of Master of Gascony. If the Captal was here then there could be no doubt of who would lead the fight.

  ‘Beyard,’ said Blackstone. ‘Good to see you again.’

  ‘And you, Sir Thomas,’ said the Gascon. ‘I would come closer and offer you my hand in friendship and welcome, but I remember your horse is of ill temperament.’

  ‘Well remembered,’ said Blackstone. ‘The Captal is here?’

  Beyard shook his head. ‘More’s the pity. He’s now counsellor to Charles of Navarre. They’re tucked up in the Pyrenees. Navarre had a hereditary claim on Burgundy but he’s been forced to think again. It’s politics, Sir Thomas. A plague on us all. Sir John is this way.’

  The soldier stepped back. ‘Good fortune, Sir Thomas. Captain Beyard can take you on to Sir John.’

  ‘Your name?’ said Blackstone.

  ‘I am Ralph Tait.’

  ‘Then, Master Tait, I will see you again.’

  * * *

  Sir John Chandos stood before a modest tent and a glowing brazier. He was as grimy as any of the men, and like them he looked weary. Drizzling rain had started again and the damp smudged the furrowed lines on his forehead. A face ploughed by the responsibility of being the King’s negotiator in France.

  Blackstone nudged the bastard horse towards one of the wooden stakes with an iron eyelet hammered into the ground. Killbere did the same but kept his horse out of kicking distance of Blackstone’s mount. They dismounted and tethered the horses.

  ‘Beyard, I will call the captains before dark and give them my orders. Have yours ready,’ said Chandos.

  The Gascon acknowledged the great knight’s command and spurred his horse. The moment he was out of earshot the King’s vice chancellor in France changed his tone. ‘You took your time. You’re damned late. Another day and we would have been gone from here.’

  ‘We’d have followed the stench of your latrine pits,’ said Killbere.

  ‘Gilbert, I swear it’s you I blame for making Thomas Blackstone so damned independent in thought and action.’

  ‘I taught him everything, John. Especially how to not give a pig’s arse for authority other than the King’s.’

  ‘And the Prince,’ said Blackstone. ‘When he lets me give a pig’s arse. When he doesn’t exile me or strip away the towns I fought for. When he’s had a good night’s sleep after a bellyful of good Gascon wine. Then, he and I get along. Until the next time we fall out.’

  ‘Honour is a tenuous thing, John,’ said Killbere. ‘We offer it to men who often don’t appreciate it.’

  Chandos handed them two beakers of wine. ‘We’re soldiers. No one said it was going to be exactly as we want it. Which is why’ – he looked at Blackstone – ‘we need discipline.’ He poured more wine into his own beaker. ‘He disobeyed me, Gilbert, to go off and find you. I told him you weren’t worth the effort. That you would already be dead. That there were more important battles to fight.’

  Killbere nodded. ‘Quite right. Which brings us back to that pig’s arse. John, we fight for each other. Nothing will change that.’

  Chandos addressed Blackstone: ‘So you killed the bastard who captured Gilbert?’

  ‘I did that myself,’ said Killbere. ‘And then we burned the town.’

  ‘It was to be held,’ Chandos berated them.

  ‘No, it was a punishment for betrayal,’ said Blackstone, helping himself to more wine, and then topping up Killbere. ‘And Sainte-Bernice is abandoned as well. Routiers slaughtered everyone. Men, women and children. And the lord of the manor.’

  ‘Holy Mother of God. The King is inheriting a wasteland. He needs every town he can get.’

  ‘Not those two,’ said Killbere.

  ‘We lost one of our own as well,’ said Blackstone. ‘We came across French troops, d’Audrehem’s men. They either mistook us for routiers or the King of France still has a warrant out for my death.’

  ‘They saw your blazon?’ said Chandos.

  ‘I believe so.’

  Chandos gave the news some thought. He shook his head. ‘No, Thomas. King John knows you ride with me and that you serve Edward. See it as an error.’

  ‘Aye, an error that would have made us crow food,’ said Killbere. ‘They knew who they challenged.’

  ‘Then most likely it was a knight or some such who bears a personal grudge against you. God knows there are enough Frenchmen who would like to see you dead. But they backed off, did they? So, you see, they saw you were Edward’s man.’

  ‘No, it wasn’t that simple. We fought enough of them to make them run, but that was because they thought us reinforced by a few hundred routiers led by a Welshman, Gruffydd ap Madoc. We both know him from the old days, but he had been bought off by the bastard at Saint-Aubin to ride against the likes of us. I planned to bring him here to fight with us and promised him payment.’

  ‘Then where is he? Three hundred could sway the battle.’

  ‘We were betrayed by the man you gifted us. William Cade. He told ap Madoc about the gold we carried from Saint-Aubin. They took two hostages so we couldn’t pursue them. They hanged one of our arch
ers. Cade took his men with the others. I intend to find him, get back the gold and kill Cade and the Welshman.’

  Chandos grunted and poked the charcoal. ‘There’s scum everywhere. Cade was a freebooter. He raided around Paris. He fought for whoever paid the most. Even the French. It’s what men do. How else are any of us to live if we don’t sell our sword?’

  ‘And you got rid of him by putting him in my company?’ said Blackstone.

  ‘Don’t complain. He was worth having in a fight.’

  ‘He’s a man who takes pleasure in inflicting pain,’ said Blackstone. ‘He would torture a wounded man to death. He was more than scum and you put him among us.’

  ‘It was his choice. He and his men came to me when I left Paris after the first negotiations. I didn’t gift him, Thomas, he asked to join you once I offered you men.’

  Killbere glanced at Blackstone, and then said, without concern in his voice, ‘Aye, well, he couldn’t have known we were taking towns in the Limousin.’

  ‘He seemed to know,’ said Chandos. ‘He asked if I were joining forces with you. I thought nothing of it. Should I have done?’

  ‘No. He probably thought there was some glory to be had by riding with Thomas,’ said Killbere, brushing aside any doubts Chandos might have had.

  Chandos grunted and nodded vaguely towards the troops. ‘There’s enough food for you and your men, for a couple of days at least.’

  ‘We have enough to look after ourselves,’ said Blackstone.

  ‘As you like. Have your men camp behind us on top of the slope, Thomas.’

  ‘Where are your bowmen?’

  ‘Up there. Fifty of them, no more, but they are well sited for any attack that might come. They’ll buy us minutes’ grace if need be.’

  ‘Is there a centenar?’

  ‘No. A ventenar commands them.’

  ‘Your fifty and mine. I have a centenar who knows how best to use bowmen.’

  Sir John looked towards Will Longdon and quickly identified the veteran who rode ahead of the archers, his war bow in its waxed linen bag across his back. ‘Tell my ventenar you are to command them. His name is Quenell.’

  Blackstone turned to the men behind him. ‘Will, you heard Sir John. Work with his archers. Meulon, Renfred, Perinne.’ He nodded at his captains, who turned away their horses without needing to be told what to do, well versed over the years as they had become. ‘Alain, go with the men,’ he told the young Frenchman.

  ‘And him?’ said Chandos.

  ‘Sainte-Bernice. It wasn’t just the village and manor house pillaged, they also slaughtered his parents. He can ride with us. He’s old enough to fight and he has bad blood for the killers. He’s the Lord of Sainte-Bernice now and he signed it over to us, for what it’s worth.’ Blackstone took a deep draught of his wine. Killbere warmed his backside against the brazier. ‘Who do you have?’ asked Blackstone.

  ‘William Felton, who is Seneschal of Poitou, and Louis de Harcourt. They’re the main commanders.’

  ‘How many men?’

  ‘Between us we have a thousand.’

  ‘Against?’

  Chandos shrugged. ‘De Harcourt and Felton are out there now patrolling with their men. But my estimate is that there are two thousand Bretons and they won’t be dislodged easily.’

  Killbere swallowed the last of his wine. ‘On the King’s last campaign Felton got himself captured at Rheims but he escaped. It was said he broke his parole. He’s a miserable bastard. Hard-nosed Northumbrian. But the King likes him well enough.’

  ‘A man back there said he’s in command,’ said Blackstone.

  ‘I’m due to return to Vincennes and continue negotiations for the handover of the remaining towns.’

  ‘Then we stay with Felton?’ said Killbere.

  Chandos pulled out a folded document. The wax seal had been broken. He poured both men more wine. ‘King’s orders. I’m to do the talking, Thomas, and you the fighting.’ He gestured with the folded document. ‘He’s in command but you know this countryside so you’re to advise him.’

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  Blackstone and Killbere walked their horses towards Blackstone’s men encamped on the high ground.

  ‘Thomas, you know that Felton will piss his breeches with frustration. He’ll be obliged to listen to the advice of a man who’s socially inferior. Handle him with care.’

  ‘I will,’ said Blackstone, ‘but he’s got a reputation of having the heart of a lion and being unafraid of death.’

  ‘Aye, and that’ll make his pride ready to burst like an overripe grape if you challenge him.’

  ‘I’m hoping Louis de Harcourt will side with me.’

  ‘A blood enemy of Edward now fighting for him? He might not. His brother became your tutor and friend after Crécy but Louis never came across to join our ranks. No matter that he now takes payment from Edward, he might think you turned his brother back then.’

  ‘I didn’t. The family was already split.’

  ‘God’s tears, I hate family quarrels.’

  ‘Be thankful you don’t have one.’

  Killbere grunted and said, ‘William Cade seemed intent on joining us, Thomas. Is there more to it you think?’

  ‘Perhaps. If he was near Paris who knows who paid him.’

  ‘But why kill one of our lads?’

  ‘To make me come for him.’

  ‘Aye, that makes some sense. But it won’t be to draw you away from fighting the Bretons. It’s more than that.’

  ‘Then when we find him we will find out.’

  ‘And while we’re talking about distrust,’ Killbere said, ‘keep an eye on Chandos. His shit isn’t covered in gold. He takes handouts, y’know.’

  ‘He’s the King’s vice chancellor in France. He’s Edward’s negotiator. Why would he do that? He has power and prestige enough.’

  Killbere spat. ‘When I dragged your arse ashore all those years ago you were as dumb as blood pudding. Haven’t you learnt anything? Do you not listen to gossip and rumour and then apply your mathematical skills as a stonemason and divide up the percentage of what are lies and what’s truth? Edward gave Chandos old Godfrey de Harcourt’s castle at Saint-Sauveur-le-Vicomte. That’s the stronghold that holds the Cotentin, you remember that, don’t you? Whoever commands that has the key to invade Normandy. Charles of Navarre has fiefs in Normandy and guess who pays Chandos to look the other way when Navarre’s men raid and harass the French?’

  ‘If that’s what Chandos is doing then it’s because the King wants it.’

  ‘Oh, I’m not saying the King isn’t playing a double game. He promises the French there will be no Englishmen raiding while his chief negotiator turns a blind eye. When have I ever loved the French? I hope they rot and one day we rule this godforsaken place we fought so hard for. What I am saying is do not trust so easily.’

  ‘Gilbert, Sir John’s reputation is renowned. Look at the responsibility he’s been given. He landed with sixty archers and fewer than forty men-at-arms and but within days he added a further forty hobelars. Between him and Louis de Harcourt they’ve now raised a thousand men. We couldn’t do that.’

  ‘Because we don’t have the King’s warrant or money. All I am saying, Thomas, is that when these damned glory hunters get a command ripped out of their hands they can cause trouble. If they ignore your advice, you’re the one in the pig shit.’

  ‘Gilbert, when I was a young archer you taught me that without honour we are nothing. We will follow Sir John because he is the King’s loyal servant and we serve the King.’

  Killbere sighed and rubbed a hand across his whiskers. ‘Aye, I taught you well, right enough. Still, no harm in keeping eyes and ears open.’

  As they reached the top of the slope John Jacob came forward and took the bastard horse’s reins. It immediately lurched and tried to bite him, the big yellow teeth snapping, but Blackstone’s squire had long since learnt how to handle the belligerent beast and quickly brought it under control. ‘There�
��s trouble with Sir John’s archers,’ he said, nodding to where Jack Halfpenny and Will Longdon stood facing a bunch of Chandos’s bowmen, who looked angry. Blackstone and Killbere strode quickly towards the men.

  ‘Jack, what’s going on?’ said Killbere.

  ‘Sir Gilbert, these men accuse us of betraying Peter Garland,’ said Jack Halfpenny, one hand resting on Will Longdon’s arm. Will looked as though he would strike at the man opposite him at any moment.

  One of the belligerent archers stepped forward and faced Killbere, who was a couple of steps ahead of Blackstone. ‘Sir knight, we gave young Garland into your care and this man’ – he pointed at Will Longdon – ‘tells us that the lad and him were taken but that he escaped. No centenar runs from his men, and we’ll not be led by a coward.’

  Will Longdon’s archer’s knife was in hand before anyone realized – except Meulon, who had anticipated violence and was standing close by. He snatched Longdon’s arm and blocked the archer’s lunge. Longdon stepped into a wall of muscle and bone.

  ‘Easy, Will,’ said Meulon. ‘The man provokes a fight,’ he added, glancing at the accuser who had his own knife in hand, ‘without knowing the man he challenges.’

  ‘Enough!’ said Killbere and cuffed Longdon’s accuser, who stumbled backwards but had the good sense not to retaliate. ‘If you want to know about that boy, you speak to any one of our captains and they will tell you the same story as Will Longdon here. He was hanged by the man who rode with you, William Cade, and it is he who set his men on our archers and it was they who damned near killed this man here. He fought to save Peter Garland. Know this and live with the knowledge. And then you serve under his command. Understood?’

  The men muttered their understanding and agreement.

  ‘Your name?’ demanded Killbere of the archer.

  ‘I am Richard Quenell, ventenar to twenty of these men.’

  ‘Then you shall remain so,’ said Blackstone. ‘You and Jack Halfpenny both,’ he said, pointing to his own man. ‘And serve under Will Longdon.’

  ‘I will, Sir Thomas. I thank you,’ said Quenell, dipping his head in respect for Blackstone and in gratitude for retaining his rank.