by David Gilman
Perinne had dragged the heavy kitchen table used for preparing food across the door but the more the men on the other side pushed the more it gave. It would not be long before they breached his defence.
He wrapped a kitchen cloth around his hands and lifted a pot of hot water from its stand above the flames. The table shifted. Men swore and heaved and then three soldiers appeared, shoulders against the door. They pushed hard enough to force the heavy table aside. Big men, blood-flushed faces, beards flecked with spittle from their efforts. One was already clambering over the table to reach Perinne, who hurled the hot water at him. As the man’s hands went up to his scalded face Perinne threw the pot at the others and picked up his cleaver and knife. He did not wait for them to clamber forward but lunged at them, throwing himself across the table and stabbing one of them in the face. The other brought down his sword and Perinne felt the blade cut through his habit. It seared his flesh. The pain spurred him: he rolled, felt the squelch of blood on his back and prayed his left arm would work as he raised the knife in an attempt to block the second strike. The blow was hard and forced his blade away but his effort deflected the slash that would have taken his arm. He swung his free arm and struck down with the cleaver. It cut through the skullcap helmet and embedded itself into the man’s head. He fell without a sound, the force of his falling body yanking the cleaver from Perinne’s blood-soaked hands. He winced in pain from the slash on his back but ignored it, dropped to the tabletop and began pushing it back against the door. The sudden sound of men at the kitchen door made him swirl, knife in hand.
Blackstone and John Jacob with two men crouched ready to attack: they saw the bloodied monk. ‘Perinne!’
Perinne grinned and leaned back. Blackstone strode quickly to him as others stormed into the kitchen. ‘You look like a monk from hell,’ he said, looking at the soot and blood that covered the fighter. The cut on his back was deep enough to need attention. Perinne slumped. The fight had gone from him. Blackstone half supported him to a stool. ‘All right, my friend. I have you,’ he said. ‘That wound needs attention.’
Perinne gave a dismissive gesture. ‘Through there,’ he said, pointing to the door. ‘The solar and then the other rooms. I think there are more men in the château. I held here as long as I could but… you came just in time.’
John Jacob had already ordered men to guard the other side of the door they had breached.
‘You lit the fire?’ Blackstone said.
Perinne nodded as Killbere came into the kitchen; sweat streaked his face and he was breathless. ‘A good defensive château should always be built on high ground,’ he wheezed, ‘but not when I have to attack it.’ He moved across to where Blackstone stood with Perinne. He unceremoniously tugged Perinne’s shoulder down so he could poke a finger into the wound. The stocky fighter winced.
‘Get Will Longdon here to stitch it or – better – sear it with one of those irons in the fire,’ he said. ‘But do it quick.’
Perinne looked at the veteran knight, realizing that the urgency in his voice meant the wound was worse than he thought.
‘Aye, get it done,’ said Killbere in answer to the unspoken question.
Perinne nodded.
‘Find some wine,’ Blackstone ordered a couple of men waiting at the door. Others were already crowding in ready to join the fight. ‘Brandy if you can.’
Men quickly rummaged on the shelves.
‘Where’s the lad? Where’s Alain?’ said Blackstone.
‘Don’t know. He was taken inside to the Countess when we got here. That’s the last I saw of him.’
One of the men stepped out of the larder, a clay flask in hand. ‘Brandy, Sir Thomas.’
Blackstone gave it to Perinne, who drank thirstily, then coughed, and drank more. ‘Merciful Mother of God, this is going to hurt like hell.’
‘Hurts once and then it’s done,’ said Killbere and took the flask from him, swigged heartily and handed it back.
‘You go on,’ said Perinne to Blackstone and Killbere. ‘I’ve no wish for you to hear me cry out. Cade and his men are inside somewhere.’
‘Bellow like a calving cow,’ said Killbere. ‘I’ve brought the walls down about my ears before now when I’ve had a wound cauterized.’ He rested a reassuring hand on Perinne’s shoulder.
Blackstone sheathed Wolf Sword and laid aside his shield. He eased Perinne to his feet as Killbere picked up the piece of cloth that had been used to lift the pot of water. He twisted it and put it between Perinne’s teeth; then Blackstone laid him face down on the table and ripped the habit open further to expose the cut. He nodded to Killbere and two others to hold Perinne’s arms and legs as John Jacob pulled out a hot riddling poker from the coals. They wasted no more time. Blackstone seized a cloth, wiped away the blood, tipped brandy into the wound. Perinne’s back muscles bunched as the liquid stung and then John Jacob laid the red-tipped poker across the wound. Flesh sizzled. Perinne bellowed and then passed out.
‘Leave him on the table,’ said Blackstone, arming himself again and pushing through the knot of men who had gathered in the solar. They peered into the gloomy interior. There was no sign of Cade’s men or any garrison soldiers. The stood silently listening for any sound that might alert them.
‘Man’s stupid if he only holds upstairs,’ said Killbere quietly. ‘We could set fire to the place and let them roast in hell.’
‘He didn’t hold the town, he had no militia and how many of his men did you see? Not many.’
‘No,’ agreed Killbere. ‘A few levies, and a handful of Cade’s men. They were on the walls. It was mostly garrison men in the streets. We killed enough of Cade’s men when they tried to ambush us. If he has more men then he would have pitted them against us. We’ve killed most of them.’
‘So where is he? How many men can he muster?’ Blackstone looked at the men who accompanied him. ‘Then if he doesn’t have enough men to fight he has something to bargain,’ he said. ‘Alain. He holds the lad.’
‘Or this Countess is being held prisoner,’ said John Jacob.
Blackstone nodded. ‘All right. John, you take four men and search these rooms down here. Sir Gilbert and I will take the others to the upper rooms.’
The men raised their shields and followed Blackstone and Killbere up the stone stairway that turned onto a half-landing ahead. No cresset lamps flickered, plunging the stairs into deep shadow that verged on darkness. Blackstone stopped halfway and turned to the men behind him.
‘When we turn up there our backs are exposed to anyone on the landing above and if they have crossbows then we die here. Be ready. Sir Gilbert and I will draw them out.’
Blackstone and Killbere trod carefully forward and then as they reached the half-landing that exposed them to those above and behind them they quickly turned raising their shields. They had no sooner exposed themselves than the sound of crossbow bolts being loosed cracked the silence. Blackstone and Killbere, backs pressed against the stairwell, crouched as two quarrels struck close by. No sooner had the men on the stairs heard the taut bowstrings loose than they charged past Blackstone and up onto the landing above. Experience had taught them that if crossbowmen laid an ambush then they would release their bolts all at once in their determination to kill their enemy. As they raced up the stairs they were quickly proved wrong. There must have been four archers on the landing because another two quarrels struck the first two men who fell back dead into those who followed. The attack faltered but Blackstone and Killbere were already pushing their way through the stumbling men.
‘Forward! Keep going!’ Blackstone yelled.
He and Killbere were quickly in the near darkness and saw shapes of men moving against them. Dim light caught sword blades and a sudden cry of ‘Attack!’ bellowed from whoever held the landing. Blackstone braced his shield, pushed his arm forward, felt the impact of an attacker’s sword and thrust Wolf Sword instinctively, feeling its sharpened point bury itself into the nearest body. No sooner had he and Killbere
pressed forward than the men behind them were quickly at their side and their shield wall forced the defenders onto the back foot as they closed. Once the cries of defiance were spent the thud of shield against shield and blade against flesh and mail became a muted, grunting effort to kill. Light spilled onto the landing as two of the grappling men fell against a door which gave way, exposing a fire in a grate and candlelight. Killbere and Blackstone saw there were no more than eight men defending the landing. Three others were already dead at their feet. He and Killbere punished them with a sustained attack. Soon there were only five men standing. They cried out for mercy. Blackstone raised his sword to halt the attack. Killbere commanded the cornered men to lower their shields and drop their weapons. They were Cade’s men and had fought more stridently than garrison troops.
‘We’ll die here if we must with sword in hand but we’ll not be butchered defenceless,’ one of them declared.
‘Throw down your weapons and you’ll live,’ said Blackstone as he stepped across men’s corpses and levelled Wolf Sword at them. The routiers looked uncertainly at each other but when their leader threw down his sword and shield the others followed.
‘William Cade. Where is he?’ said Blackstone.
One of the routiers pointed up the continuing flight of stairs. ‘He’s with the Countess Catherine. Her rooms are up there. Sir Thomas, I beg you, let us live.’
‘How many more men are with him?’ snarled Killbere, pressing his face closer to the defeated men.
The man who spoke for the others shook his head. ‘Sir Gilbert, I don’t know. There are few of us left now but the Countess has men loyal to her.’
Killbere looked at Blackstone. He was ready to kill the men who had surrendered. Blackstone shook his head.
‘There were two monks sent here. One younger than the other. Where is he?’
‘I don’t know and that’s the truth,’ answered the mercenary. ‘When the alarm was raised we manned the walls and then fought through the streets. This was to be our last place of defence.’
John Jacob and his men pounded up the stairs. ‘Nothing below, Sir Thomas.’
Blackstone gestured to one of his men who had fought on the landing. ‘You and five others seize these men and take them to Meulon. Have them bound and held. If any one man tries to escape kill them all.’
Blackstone and Killbere turned for the upper storey. John Jacob was a stride behind them. ‘Still no sign of the French lad.’
‘We’ll find him. He’s here somewhere,’ said Blackstone as they reached the top floor. Two double doors faced them. The men let their breath settle. ‘John, break down the doors.’
John Jacob stepped forward with one of his men. They braced their shields and rammed the door. They flew open. Blackstone faltered at the doorway. Across the room, seated by the comfort of the fire, was a woman of rare beauty. She was dressed in fine silk clothes and wore precious gems that caught the light. She had the bearing of a queen ready to receive homage rather than a woman who might be facing imminent death. An armed guard stood either side of her. Big men who looked ready to die at her feet. Each held a sword in one hand and a snarling dog on a chain in the other. An older man stood respectfully just behind the seated woman.
‘I am bailiff to this noble household and Countess Catherine de Val. Who is it that invades her home and kills our men?’
‘I am Thomas Blackstone and you harbour a murderer and a thief and for all I know you aid and abet his killing.’
The bailiff took a half-pace forward but before he could speak the woman stood. There was a slight tremble in her voice.
‘I am Countess de Val. Do not judge me until you know me better,’ she said. The Countess made a slight gesture to the part of the room which was obscured by the doors.
Blackstone stepped forward.
‘Is this the man you seek?’ she said.
William Cade was on his knees, arms bound behind him and gagged like a captured thief, guarded by another two garrison soldiers.
CHAPTER FORTY-FOUR
Blackstone ignored the bailiff and the two men holding William Cade and with half a dozen quick strides put his boot into the kneeling man’s chest and sent him sprawling. His guards were too startled to react quickly enough and they took faltering steps backwards away from the scar-faced Englishman. Blackstone turned and looked at the Countess. ‘Stand your men down or have them and your dogs slain.’
‘And you will do what with me?’ said the Countess defiantly.
‘I will question you and expect answers. And then I will decide your fate.’
‘The Countess has the protection of the King of France,’ the bailiff said.
‘I’ve never liked him,’ said Blackstone. ‘I won’t ask you again. Send your men out and tell them to surrender their weapons to my men. And keep those dogs chained and under control.’
One of the bodyguards stepped closer. ‘We are the Count Henri de Val’s sworn men and since his death we serve my Lady Catherine. We do not leave her alone with you.’
Blackstone gauged the two hefty men. They could be killed and overwhelmed but their fearless loyalty was something that could be respected.
‘Very well, stay with her until she commands you to leave.’ He looked towards the two men who stood with William Cade. ‘Have these men surrender their weapons and take the dogs. What needs to be said should be done without their snarls interrupting us.’
The bodyguard looked at the Countess, who nodded her assent. Without hesitation the two men handed over the chained dogs and the two garrison men lay down their swords. Blackstone’s men stood aside from the doorway as the muscular beasts were taken from the room. There was a moment of calm once their threat had been removed. Blackstone laid aside his shield and slipped Wolf Sword into its scabbard. There would be no assault from the two men who guarded the Countess unless she so ordered, but it was obvious to the men and to the Countess that they would die before they even reached Blackstone, with or without sword in hand.
‘You align yourself with this scum,’ he said, meaning William Cade.
‘Am I to be questioned like a common prisoner, sir? I do not discuss my private affairs in front of unwashed, bloodstained soldiers.’
Her courage and defiance in face of the brutal-looking men who gathered in the doorway impressed him. ‘John, have these men taken downstairs, secure the main doors to the château and send word to Meulon to give safe passage to those who sought sanctuary in the church and the square. Have the people return to their homes and take their livestock and chattels with them.’ He faced the Countess. ‘Does that give you some assurance, my lady?’
‘I am grateful,’ she said. There was warmth in her voice, enough to easily entice him to stay in the room with her.
‘Do you have a physician who serves this household?’
‘An apothecary in the street below the church,’ she answered.
‘Fetch him for Perinne,’ Blackstone told John Jacob, who stood ready to pass on Blackstone’s orders, ‘and leave three men outside the door.’ He nodded his dismissal.
As the men clattered down the stairs, Killbere closed the door behind them and pulled off his sweat-soaked helm. He walked across to a table that bore a flagon of wine and a tray full of glasses. He hesitated momentarily and looked at the Countess. ‘With your permission?’
‘You assault my town and kill my men and you ask if you may help yourself to my wine?’
‘Killing your men is thirsty work, but there’s no need for bad manners,’ said Killbere, pouring the wine.
Blackstone pulled off his gauntlets and took the glass of wine Killbere offered and slaked his thirst. He laid his helmet on the table.
‘We were sent into a trap by Prior Albert. But we learnt of his treachery and ambushed the men you sent to kill us. The prior is in your pay.’
‘I seize routiers who terrorize my people. I capture and kill them in revenge for my husband, son and daughter who were murdered by them two years ago. I make no
apology for using men like William Cade to entrap them. I take pleasure in my revenge. I inflict pain on them at every opportunity. I knew nothing of you or the men who ride with you. Prior Albert considered you mercenaries.’
‘We are men on the English King’s business,’ said Blackstone. ‘A treaty has been signed and agreed by your King and mine. I enforce that treaty.’
‘And Château de Felice is not ceded to English rule. You have no right to do what you have done,’ insisted the bailiff.
‘I came on Felice by chance in my search for Cade,’ said Blackstone.
‘Be careful whom you kill and why you kill them. He also has protection. He serves the French Crown,’ the Countess said.
Killbere snorted at the news. ‘Thomas, this bastard was planted on us!’
Cade’s muffled curses meant nothing. Killbere pulled off his gag.
‘Listen to her. She’s speaking the truth. You harm me and word will get back to Paris,’ said Cade.
‘We don’t intend to harm you,’ said Killbere. ‘We’re going to kill you. Traitors deserve a slow death. An Englishman serving our blood enemy should be made to suffer. And you must pay for killing a young archer who was promised safe conduct.’
Cade squirmed and tried to get off his knees. Killbere pushed him back again.
‘Kill me and you lose your gold. Kill me and you won’t find the Welshman.’
‘You’re wrong on both counts. You’ll yield that information when I ask for it,’ said Blackstone, with the implied threat of torture. ‘How much did you pay him for delivering routiers to you?’ he said, turning to the Countess.