Scourge of Wolves

by David Gilman

  Killbere glanced at Perinne. ‘Where’s Sir Thomas?’

  ‘Below in the yard.’

  ‘Perinne, stay here. Guard the stairs. There’ll be no assault on the château with Will’s men here but if you see the bailiff you hold him. He’s not to go up to the Countess. Tait, you and your men with me.’

  Tait and his handful of men ran behind Killbere down the curved roadway that led back into the town. Below him he saw the militia and garrison troops who had survived the blizzard of arrows turning in retreat and jamming the narrow streets. Their force was spent and they would either return to their homes and lick their wounds or try and escape into the nearby village knowing the town walls were bereft of bowmen.

  ‘Sir Gilbert? Do we burn these bastards out?’ shouted Tait.

  ‘In good time. First we make sure they never strike at us again. We’ll see if anyone holds the town square and gates.’

  The roadway’s slope pulled at Killbere’s leg muscles, he was tired – with good reason, he told himself – but the first stinging drops of rain against his face freshened him. He and the few men with him had the advantage that no retreating militia had yet reached any of the side alleys that would bring them onto the roadway. Those men in full retreat were now fighting for their lives as Blackstone’s men hacked at their backs. It didn’t take long for Killbere to reach the town square. The gates were closed and the walls were still unmanned. He suddenly realized that if enough retreating men flooded the area where the gibbets stood then he and Tait’s men would soon be overwhelmed. It would be better to kill those they could and let the others escape into the night.

  ‘Open the gates,’ he ordered. The hard rain stung their eyes as they lifted the crossbeam free from the gates. They dragged open the heavy studded doors, which soon became a maw into the blackness of the countryside and the muted shapes of the village obscured by darkness and rain. They heard the cries of approaching men funnelling down through the streets. It felt as if the Almighty had finally thrown His displeasure against the murderous town as thunder rolled across the mountains and the clap shook the ground they stood on. Killbere and Tait and his men formed a line and as the first desperate survivors spilled into the yard they struck at them and caused more chaos.

  The survivors, blinded by the rain, saw these men and in their panic they could not know they were the only ones who faced them. The rain finally drenched the braziers and those who could ran for the open gate. Thirty men ran past Meulon’s swordsmen, who struck from the side streets, and soon fell dead in the mud.

  Meulon and Renfred appeared from one side street as John Jacob and others came from another. Men still ran from them and Killbere was content to let them disappear into the storm beyond the walls. Exhaustion was already claiming Blackstone’s fighters as the lack of sleep and the action in the past two days drained them. When Meulon came into the yard by the gates Killbere sheathed his sword.

  ‘It’s done,’ he said. ‘Close the gates.’

  Meulon grinned, raised his sword arm and let out a roar. The victorious men with him bellowed into the slashing rain.

  ‘Is Sir Thomas not with you?’ asked the Norman fighter.

  Killbere squinted into the rain and looked around at the soaked men. Only a couple of the braziers still flickered, protected from the wind by the town walls, but he could see that Blackstone was not among them. ‘John?’ he asked Blackstone’s squire.

  ‘He followed Meulon.’

  ‘I didn’t see him,’ said the throat-cutter.

  ‘Is he wounded? Did he fall?’ asked Killbere anxiously. A fleeting memory stung him. When he and Perinne had stood watch that night at the monastery Perinne had told him of his fears for Blackstone. Of the raptor’s keening, of it first rising into the sky above Blackstone. How it had dogged their journey. Killbere had spat and scoffed at Perinne’s superstition. Theirs was a life ruled by the cruel bitch Fate.

  But the confined spaces of the narrow streets and the mêlée of the fighting meant it would be easy not to have noticed a man go down. It had been suffocatingly close during the hard-pressed killing.

  Killbere shrugged the tiredness from his aching body. ‘We must find him,’ he said and led the way back into the town’s streets.

  CHAPTER FIFTY

  As Blackstone had fought in the courtyard he had seen three men break away once the archers had done their killing. They had squirmed their way through the crowd at a crouch but Blackstone had recognized William Cade. Blackstone skirted the edge of the butcher’s yard, using his shield and Wolf Sword to cleave past three or four desperate and fear-fuelled men who tried to stop him. He could see Meulon pressing home the attack yard by yard and John Jacob forcing his way along the opposite flank. Blackstone suddenly found himself in an alley where the rank smell of sweat mingled with that of blood and excrement. Eviscerated men rolled in agony in the dark as their comrades trampled their spilled intestines.

  Here and there windows were opened in the houses as women prepared to tip boiling water onto their enemy, stopping only when they saw that it was their own menfolk who fled in panic, screaming from their wounds. Light spilling from the shutters in a brief respite from the darkness allowed Blackstone to see where Cade was running. It looked as though he was heading towards the stables, but was it to hamstring Blackstone’s horses or an attempt to escape?

  One of the garrison troops blocked Blackstone’s way. The man had strength enough to force him back a pace and he fell over a dead body behind him. He smothered himself with his shield as the man hacked down. In the quickness of a breath Blackstone dropped his guard and lowered the shield, looking at the dark shape that was trying to kill him. His deliberate attempt to draw the man in succeeded: his assailant boldly stepped forward, ready to strike the fatal blow. It allowed Blackstone to hook his boot behind the man’s leg and tumble him backwards. Blackstone quickly recovered and lunged Wolf Sword down into the man’s chest.

  Women were screaming from the open windows, which still gave sufficient light as he searched desperately ahead, but there was now no sign of Cade. Blood trickled down his face from an earlier blow and it began to blur his vision in one eye. He lifted his face to the stinging rain and let it wash the blood away. He had turned his back on the street cluttered with bodies and panic and shouldered his way down a passage. He tried to remember the streets’ layout from when he had walked them checking his men’s defences but the darkness of the running battle had disorientated him. And then, more by chance than anything else, he caught the pungent smell of the stables on the wind.

  As he edged around the building he could hear the unsettled horses shifting in their stalls. A flicker of an oil lamp passed across a half-open door. Blackstone bent down and groped in the dirt for mud at the base of the building. It was malleable in his fingers, not yet soaked by the rain. He pressed it into the cut on his forehead to stem the blood and then crept closer to the opening.

  Three men were saddling horses in the dim light. One horse shied as Cade tightened the girth strap. He cursed and punched the horse, then kneed it in the belly and wrenched the cinch another two notches tighter. Blackstone caught snatches of conversation above the driving rain. The men would ride into the square and then Cade’s men would open the gates. As Blackstone got closer he sensed there was dissent from the men but Cade raised his voice and Blackstone heard the words King and reward. As rolling thunder broke across the town roofs one of the horses reared. Blackstone took the half-dozen strides into the stable and killed its rider, whose arms were raised sawing at the horse’s reins. Blackstone stepped quickly between the panicked beast, which slammed itself against the stall, and the second man who desperately tried to draw his sword as his horse turned and pushed him almost into Blackstone’s arms. Blackstone headbutted him. His nose split, head whipping back before he could utter a cry. As the man went down beneath the horse’s hooves Blackstone sensed the rapid shadow that came between him and the oil lamp on the wall. He ducked, avoiding the knife strike from
Cade, and rolled beneath the panicked horse, using his shield to protect him from the thrashing iron-shod hooves. The headbutted man grappled with him, spitting curses through his bloodied nose. For a moment it seemed that Blackstone could not break free, trapped as he was beneath his shield and the man alongside, and then one of the hooves caught the man’s head. Blackstone heard the bones in his face crack. He pushed himself clear of the horse as Cade tried to get around the agitated beast. The horse was now between Cade and Blackstone, who threw his weight against the horse’s rump in an attempt to reach the killer. In the confines between wall and stall and with the wild-eyed horse dangerously shifting its weight Blackstone’s shield became a hindrance. He slipped it from his arm and threw his weight against the horse again, forcing it aside. He flung his shield at Cade, who fell back but recovered quickly as one of the remaining horses whinnied and bolted into the storm. Cade slashed a high guard strike down onto Blackstone’s blade. Blackstone parried it, half turning, ready to let the momentum of his body cut across Cade’s exposed chest. But no sooner had one horse made its bid for freedom than the others followed, knocking Blackstone off his feet. His head smashed into the stall’s wall. Instinctively he rolled clear as wood splintered from Cade’s sword thrust where a moment before his head had been. Cade’s strike had all his strength behind it and his blade sank into the soft old timbers. He tried to yank it free but was forced to abandon it.

  Blackstone was on his feet as Cade ran for the door. Cade snatched a baling fork, turned and jabbed the double tines at Blackstone. One of the narrow points pierced his mail and drew blood high on his arm next to his shoulder. Had he kept his shield the iron tip would have jammed into it but now the strike made him half turn his shoulder away from the next thrust. The rain thundered down on the slate roof; horses whinnied, crushing their weight against the walls of their stalls. The flickering oil lamp’s dull orange glow threw a muted veil of light across the two men who crouched facing each like ancient gladiators, one with a long-handled spiked fork, the other batting away its jabs with his sword. If Cade caught Blackstone’s sword blade between the two tines he could twist it away and gain the advantage. As Blackstone jabbed again he deliberately threw his free arm forward, ramming it between the two tines. His strength forced the haft to twist in Cade’s hands. Cade snarled as Blackstone wrenched the baling fork out of his hands, but he had the agility to avoid Blackstone’s strike, which would have taken him across the shoulder and cleaved him to his hip. As Blackstone regained his balance and shook his arm free from the pronged fork Cade snatched a sword from one of the fallen men and then backed away further towards the door. Neither man spoke, cursed or threatened. Each had his eyes locked on the other. Cade knew he had a chance to kill Blackstone. The bigger man was quick on his feet but the half-light and confines of the stable gave the lighter man the advantage. He could duck and weave and if he could deliver a maiming blow the legend that was Thomas Blackstone could be ended.

  Cade’s eyes widened with confidence. Blackstone’s left shoulder had dropped. The stab wound must have gone deeper into his packed muscle than Cade had at first thought. But Blackstone showed no sign of pain and he strode forward again as Cade pulled a length of chain from a wall hook and swung it. Blackstone winced as the links struck his wounded shoulder. He faltered. Cade grinned. He swirled the chain again and this time entangled Blackstone’s sword arm, snaring the crossguard. Blackstone was defenceless. His left arm drooped; his right was snagged. With a cry of triumph and a darting stride forward Cade lunged. He was on his toes, limited in his movement by the taut chain on Blackstone’s sword arm. And then the chain tightened further and pulled him off balance. He stumbled forward, his sword point dipping off target, and before his leg muscles could correct his fall Blackstone’s left arm swung forward and gripped his throat. Blackstone had fooled him. Stiff with shock, he choked. Blackstone held him in a crushing grip. Then, as his sword dropped, his hands grasped Blackstone’s wrist in a vain attempt to relieve the pressure, and he saw Blackstone easily shake free the chain. His efforts to disable Blackstone had been useless. He was the one who had been duped and drawn in. Eyes bulging, spittle running from his lips, he gurgled as his breath was closed off from his lungs. His legs fought and kicked but made no impression on the tall man holding him. Blackstone brought the suffocating man’s face closer to his own.

  ‘I promised you a slow death,’ said Blackstone, and threw him to the ground. Gasping with relief and barely conscious, Cade fought for his breath. Through bloodshot, watering eyes he saw Blackstone stand over him. A trickle of blood ran down the Englishman’s scarred face and for a moment in the flickering glow of light he appeared to Cade’s fear-struck mind as the Devil’s disciple.

  ‘Where is the Welshman?’ said Blackstone.

  Through the depth of his pain and knowledge of certain death Cade knew he could have one last victory over the English knight. He shook his head and rasped, ‘You’ll never know.’ His breath wheezed in a pitiful laugh.

  Blackstone swung the chain across a roof beam. He secured it and tested its strength. ‘You will take a long time to die, William Cade, and then I’ll put your head on a pole outside the gates. Tell me where he went.’

  Cade had no fight left in him. ‘When I die, you whoreson, the Dauphin will know of it and… he will… know where you are.’ Cade wheezed again. ‘It’s over… you… bastard. Even you cannot… fight an army.’

  So, the French had always intended to try and kill him, Blackstone realized. And the army that searched for routiers also searched for him. By now Chandos would have been at court and the King and his son would know where Blackstone had been seizing the towns for Edward. It would not take long for messengers to reach the army and for them to hunt him down. Chandos would not be able to help him now that Blackstone and his men operated alone.

  Blackstone dragged a bale of straw beneath the chain. He reached down and hauled Cade to his feet. Cade made a feeble attempt to struggle but Blackstone easily had the measure of him and banged his head with a short sharp knock against the stall wall. It was enough to make the man cease. Blackstone twisted the chain around his neck and lifted him onto the teetering, uneven bale. Cade had no choice but to reach up and grab the chain above his head but when Blackstone’s sword tip sliced through the binding string the bale collapsed. Cade kicked and wriggled but he was unable to support his body weight with his hands on the slippery chain.

  Blackstone stood back and wiped away the blood from his eye. ‘You hanged young Peter Garland,’ said Blackstone. ‘Now Satan and his imps wait for you in the darkness.’ He sat tiredly on another bale, leaning against the wall. He pulled off his helm and eased back the coif beneath it. Sweat and blood caked his beard but he did not mind the discomfort from the stinging wound. He had known far worse.

  He tilted his head slightly so that the blood did not obscure the sight of Cade slowly choking to death.

  CHAPTER FIFTY-ONE

  Blackstone and his men soon came together. He gathered the captains in the drenching rain. Some of the men, like Blackstone himself, had minor wounds that could soon be attended to.

  ‘How many men did we lose?’ he asked.

  ‘Seven dead,’ said Meulon.

  Blackstone nodded wearily. ‘All right. The gates are barred and the town dead clutter the streets. It’s time the men got some sleep. Take everyone into the château. Use the lower rooms and light the fires. See what you can find in the kitchen and dry out the men’s clothing. There will be no more fighting here. The storm will see to that, and tomorrow the townspeople can clear away their dead.’

  The captains gathered their exhausted men and made their way back to the château where they barred the doors. Once the fires were lit men quickly fell asleep, even ignoring the prospect of scavenging for food. Blackstone and Killbere trudged upstairs to the Countess’s rooms with John Jacob.

  ‘You didn’t kill her,’ said Blackstone.

  ‘I struck her hard enough to stop her
gelding me with a dagger.’

  ‘She will never stop hating us or men like us. I can understand that,’ Blackstone said.

  ‘She kills and tortures for pleasure, Thomas. A she-wolf if ever there was one.’

  Their footsteps scuffed and echoed up the stone stairs. ‘I’ve known a woman take up arms in revenge for the death of her family. Blanche de Harcourt raised a mercenary army when I failed to save her husband back in ’56. She was a formidable woman, Gilbert. I can see some of her strength in this Countess Catherine. She holds her dead husband’s fiefdom and survives as best she can.’

  ‘Aye, well, feel sympathy if you must, Thomas, but you did not come whisker close to having a knife plunged through your head after a night’s passion.’

  ‘Perhaps she was left with no choice when you didn’t succumb in her arms,’ said Blackstone, ignoring Killbere’s scowl as they walked through the Countess’s room to her bedchamber.

  The Countess was conscious but remained tied up as Killbere had left her, still naked and shivering as the fire in the room had died down to embers. Her hair was in disarray and the bruise from Killbere’s blow discoloured her cheekbone. Killbere stepped forward and hauled her to her feet. After the fighting he and Blackstone looked even more threatening than when they first arrived at Felice and she made a slight protest of resistance, but he held her firmly and then draped a robe around her. He chastised her quietly as if she were a child.

  ‘Did you think I spent those hours with you only to offer myself up as a sacrifice?’ He tenderly eased a strand of hair from her face and kissed her forehead. ‘Your hatred has poisoned your heart. We would have left you in peace but now your soldiers and militia are dead. So too is William Cade.’