Scourge of Wolves

by David Gilman

  Blackstone looked back. Killbere was correct. If French reinforcements arrived across the undulating land behind them Blackstone and his few men would be trapped between the two forces.

  ‘Don’t worry, Gilbert, by the time any more French arrive, we’ll most likely be dead.’

  ‘Ah, always pleased to hear that you have a plan,’ said Killbere. He grinned but there was a look of resignation at the impossible task that lay ahead. ‘When the time comes, Thomas, we must retreat up there. Those of us alive.’ Killbere pointed to where one of the fields on their flank rose up; the spring vines were still bare but they would offer good defence once the men were obliged to retreat. They could hold a first wave of attack from there but it would not take long for the heavy horse to trample them and the vines into the ground. Desperation would make them sell their lives dearly, and it seemed to Blackstone that their only hope would be to join Henry and the Tau knight behind the walls.

  A roar rose up from the French army. Blackstone dismounted and crawled to the top of the water channel’s lip. The French had thrown another attack against the walls. It would soon be dark and Blackstone could barely make out the assault but the narrow bridge did indeed slow the French as they swarmed forward. The defenders were hurling rocks and stones down on those below their walls. Scaling ladders were being pushed away and the French were dying. Yet sooner or later the overwhelming numbers of attackers would prevail: the defenders would not be able to kill enough French, and those left would clamber over their own dead to reach those inside.

  Killbere, Meulon and John Jacob joined Blackstone on the wet ground and peered across the ditch’s wall, each of them gauging the strengths and weaknesses of the attacking force. Meulon glanced at his comrades in puzzlement and then gazed back at the French ranks. ‘Look hard. Do you see what I see?’

  The men kept looking. What had Meulon spotted and they had not?

  ‘There’s another drainage ditch a few hundred yards behind them, which would get us closer if we could reach it unseen,’ said John Jacob.

  ‘He’s right,’ said Killbere. ‘Over there on the left you can see where this ditch leads into it. We could get close enough to count the hairs on the back of their necks, but there are so few of us against so many of them. Still, it’s close to that bridge and the town gate. Perhaps we could move through them at night?’

  Blackstone glanced across at Meulon, who smiled.

  ‘There’s more than that,’ said Blackstone. ‘What have you seen?’

  Meulon raised his eyes across the parapet again and waggled his finger back and forth. ‘They have no rear pickets. There are no sentries, no rear defences; everything they do is focused on the town.’

  For a brief, incredulous moment the other three men looked again.

  ‘Arrogant bastards think they’re too many to worry about a rear attack,’ said John Jacob.

  ‘And we are too few to take them on. But if we had Felton and Louis de Harcourt with us we could make them bleed,’ said Killbere.

  Blackstone remained silent, his mind racing to find a way through the blind spots and reach the gates. There were thousands of infantry and crossbowmen, and at least a third of the force would be knights and men-at-arms on horseback. Even if they got halfway under cover of darkness – a troop of men riding at the walk, unhurried, as if they belonged with the French – could such a daring plan be successful? One challenge and they would be overwhelmed.

  ‘What banners do we see?’ said Blackstone.

  ‘Men of Lorraine, and there’s Jacques de Bourbon’s…’ said John Jacob. He winced; de Bourbon was a renowned fighter.

  ‘Lyonnais, Bourbonnais, the Count of Forez… Christ, there’s as many noblemen here as we killed at Poitiers,’ said Killbere. Turning his back on the host he pulled free his helm, scrubbing his palm over his sweat-streaked hair. He grinned. ‘Kill a few more of their high and mighty and King John will have a seizure. We’d save Edward a lot of trouble.’

  ‘There are men from Savoy out there as well,’ said Meulon.

  The men slumped down the ditch wall. ‘We can get Will and his lads closer tonight, Thomas,’ said Killbere. ‘We need to see if there’s a gap in the French ranks tomorrow or whether there’s another route we haven’t seen.’

  Blackstone nodded in agreement. The water channel was wide enough for a dozen men to gather across. He summoned his men.

  ‘There are too few of us to cause these thousands any harm, but they have no defence in their rear. Tonight we will walk the horses through these ditches – we cannot be seen – and then we will wait until dawn to see what can be done. If Will and his archers take up position on the rear of the ditch then any attack can be repulsed. French horses will die here and their riders with them, but once arrows are loosed it’s only a matter of time before footsoldiers come swarming. Then Will and Sir Gilbert will form a defensive line beyond those vines.’ He looked at the grim faces that stared back at him. ‘I will not ask you to strike through their ranks with me. Too many of us will die. If the diversion is enough and we cause chaos among them, then I will get through and reach my son.’

  ‘And I,’ said John Jacob.

  ‘Me too,’ said Meulon. ‘I know young Henry and wish to see him safe.’

  ‘And Beyard owes me money,’ said Renfred, ‘so best I come with you, Sir Thomas.’

  ‘And I have no wish to sit here with my arse in freezing water,’ said Perinne. ‘The more of us at your side the better.’

  A murmur of agreement rippled through the men.

  ‘We’ll have no damned disagreement here,’ growled Killbere. ‘If Will and Jack and Quenell and their lads do their killing and then ride free of their infantry when they turn on them… then we all go. Beyard will need help in there and I’ll wager there’s fewer than two hundred manning those walls.’ He looked at Blackstone. ‘We are in agreement, Thomas. We have fought too hard together over the years.’ He looked at the grinning faces. ‘None here will see you strike out alone.’ He stepped to his horse and took its reins. ‘Besides, you and that bastard horse of yours would probably get lost without us and you would end up in a cage and carted off to Paris. Then where would your lad be? And there I was thinking we could all end up in Italy with good wine and plump women.’ He sighed. ‘We will have to forsake those pleasures for another time. You see how obvious it is, dammit. You need us.’

  CHAPTER SIXTY-FOUR

  Beyard was bloodied. He had grappled with a determined Frenchman, one of the hundreds who had clambered onto the walls, and taken a blow to the head. Blood trickled into his eyes until the scalp wound caked dry. His men fought hand to hand, beating skulls with rocks, slashing and stabbing with any weapon to hand. And once again they had pushed away the scaling ladders. The few defenders of the castle at Brignais had fought on every wall and their numbers were dwindling. As darkness began to seep across the landscape he and his men counted their losses. Fra Foresti had joined the routiers on one of the walls after extracting a promise from Henry Blackstone that he would stay clear of the fighting and help servants carry water buckets to those who fought. Water had soon given way to gathering and carrying rocks to hurl down. Henry had helped break down a low stone wall and like a beast of burden carried a yoke across his shoulders bearing rubble. Young men and children scurried here and there responding to cries from the men on the walls. Exhaustion was claiming them all and they knew it was only a matter of time before the sheer weight of French numbers swarmed over the walls. And then a final stand would be made in the small castle.

  As the daylight faded so too did the last attack of the day. When they had arrived at Brignais it had turned out that Beyard outranked everyone in the garrison and its defence had fallen to him. He had reached the hilltop town with little time to spare. His 150 Gascons, along with Henry Blackstone and Fra Foresti, were too small a force to challenge the hordes of French who swept down the Rhône Valley to destroy the routiers riding north intending to invade the Duchy of Burgundy. Beyard’s
party had been caught in the middle. When they had retreated into the mountain foothills they had joined forces with a small band of routiers who told him of a mercenary stronghold held by a few men at Brignais. It could not have been a more unfortunate place of refuge. The French army already pressing south of Lyons had descended, seeking a routier by the name of Hélie Meschin, another Gascon who had once served the French, and had become a brigand when released from their service. He was nothing more than a gangster who occupied towns and villages and the routiers quickly learnt that the French had decided to trap and kill him. That he had slipped their net and taken to the hills was ignored, if it was ever known, because the rumour was that Blackstone himself was behind the walls.

  Beyard shouted his orders. ‘We need lances cut down and sharpened. Three men on every lance.’

  Weary men nodded their understanding and began to gather their weapons ready for another assault whenever it might come.

  ‘Fra Foresti,’ Beyard called to the Tau knight, who was helping to carry a wounded man down from the walls. The hospitaller handed responsibility to another and joined the Gascon captain in the yard.

  ‘They will breach us tomorrow,’ said Beyard. ‘We cannot hold the walls. What shall we do about Henry? We cannot escape through the French lines. If I and my men stay do you think the French would honour a Knight of the Tau and a pilgrim in his charge?’

  ‘Possibly, but it’s a great risk.’

  ‘No greater than staying here,’ said Beyard. ‘You can tell them that you were captured and held by us.’

  Fra Foresti fell silent. Beyard put a reassuring hand on his shoulder. ‘We have to get Henry out. Once the French break through they’ll kill every soul here. Man and boy. We could not even disguise him as a servant. This place will be burnt to the ground and all of us with it.’

  ‘Have you thought why they have committed their army to destroy this insignificant place? It’s held by so few. What threat does Brignais offer?’

  Beyard shook his head. ‘We don’t need to know why. They are scraping the land clear of routiers. We are in the wrong place and I am sorry for bringing us here.’

  ‘You know there was an attempt on the boy’s life. He is worth more than gold to those who seek to hurt his father.’

  ‘You think all of this is because of him?’ said Beyard. ‘Thousands of men to seize a boy?’ He stared at the injured being carried away and the dead being laid out in the dirt of the yard. ‘No. That cannot be.’

  ‘Someone tried to kill him, Beyard. Perhaps their intention is not to seize him.’

  Beyard sighed. ‘Merciful Christ, if they killed him then Sir Thomas would set this world on fire and he would be hunted down by every prince and nobleman. Every beggar and assassin would have just cause to kill him.’

  Fra Foresti looked to where Henry was helping to tend the wounded. ‘We are not to know what reason lies behind this. All we can do is stand our ground. In his last breath the boy must declare who he is and then his name will either save or condemn him. Capture or death. That is all that remains.’

  * * *

  Blackstone and his men led their horses along the deep channel. At its end it turned into another drainage course. The evening breeze was in their faces so the smell of men and animals reached their nostrils. Being downwind gave Blackstone’s men the advantage and as they peered over the top of the high ditch wall they heard voices of the French troops settled about their thousand fires.

  ‘They’re damned fools. Look at them. We could walk among them and cut their throats. No sentries. Not one,’ said Killbere quietly. ‘Damn, they’re so close now I could spit on them.’

  The rear ranks of the French army lay 150 yard-long strides from where the men hid.

  ‘The French commanders have no need to fear anyone,’ said Meulon. ‘Not with so many. Who is there to strike at them? No one in any strength.’

  Blackstone studied the scattered troops. ‘We’ll place Will and his lads behind this ditch. They’ll kill enough to get their attention and then we ride through. The French have a well-trodden path towards the walls. They funnel themselves across the field. We’ll ride in on that. I wish we could have got you closer, Will. Killing them on the bridge would have slowed their advance. But we will have you strike them once you see us attacked. Until that moment I and the others will ride hard and fast. It might get us close.’

  Will Longdon lay flat on his belly like the other men at his side. ‘Come the morning I’ll have Jack and Quenell take their men back fifty paces behind us. They can shoot first: the range will be good to kill the French at the back and when Jack brings his lads forward mine will already be shooting deeper into the French ranks. We’ll kill them in waves. Just like the old days,’ he said, grinning.

  ‘As we try to reach that bridge they’ll turn on you, Will. We’ll have a fight on our hands but you won’t have time to get the horses free from here and that vineyard is three hundred and fifty yards,’ said Blackstone. ‘You’ll be running for your life.’

  ‘Thomas, when any of them come at us they’ll be stumbling over their own dead. Then they have to get across this ditch with us on the other side and the horses below them. We can buy enough time for you and the others to gallop through. And with a few thousand Frenchmen chasing us, we’ll get to that vineyard quicker than an arrow falls from the sky.’

  Blackstone turned and looked along the huddled men and horses who waited silently in the darkness. Once again he had given every man the opportunity to leave and once again they had ignored his pleas that many of them would die while trying to reach the gates. His son would have every chance to live but so many of Blackstone’s men would die in the attempt.

  The odds were too large. For a moment he considered abandoning his son because trying to reach him would see the death of so many of the men he held dear. The sacrifice was too great.

  Killbere was the closest man to him and despite the darkness he must’ve seen the doubt crease Blackstone’s features.

  The veteran knight whispered, ‘It’s all right, Thomas. They’ll die for you tomorrow as they would any other day.’

  CHAPTER SIXTY-FIVE

  The men slept as best they could, each tying their mount’s rein to leg or arm. Horses relieved themselves, shifted their weight and half slept, like their riders who lay in their animals’ filth, curled in on themselves on the wet ground, giving no thought to the following day or their fetid conditions. A man’s stench meant nothing when he was soon to be covered in gore. As the pre-dawn light crept across the sky they roused themselves. Stiff from the wet ground, they rubbed warmth back into their muscles. Some scooped shallow water from the bottom of the ditch and freshened their faces. Blackstone gripped Will Longdon’s arm and embraced the man who, like Killbere, had been at his side since the first day he had gone to war. No words were needed as the veteran archer clambered up the rear of the ditch wall, keeping his men low against the skyline as they crawled into position.

  The French army slowly awoke, their fires wafting the tantalizing smell of cooking over Blackstone’s men. But it would not be the first time he and his men had gone into battle hungry. They fussed their horses, pressing their palms against their soft noses, giving them their familiar scent. Girth straps were tightened. Some knelt briefly in prayer. Others spat the night’s foulness from their throats. Most relieved their bladders. They had all been told what was expected the moment Thomas Blackstone mounted that bastard horse of his. God willing the beast would trample its way through the French ranks, some muttered quietly among themselves.

  The barely lit day showed their grinning faces. Best to be at the French while they scratched their balls and yawned themselves into wakefulness.

  Blackstone would lead his men to the end of the ditch where its grassy walls were low enough to spur their horses up and into the unsuspecting French. Then it was a race to the gates, shields high so that their enemies and their friends could see who it was who rode towards Brignais.

&nbs
p; Perinne saw the shadow high in the sky.

  ‘She’s hunting early for men’s souls,’ said Will Longdon resignedly, and then placed a hand on his friend’s shoulder. ‘We must watch out for Thomas. Once they see him they will want him dead.’

  Killbere undid one of his saddlebags and stepped towards Blackstone. He carried a folded banner. Catching Meulon’s eye he beckoned the Norman captain to him.

  ‘Your spear,’ he said quietly.

  Meulon looked at what he was holding and understood what was expected of him. He lowered his favoured weapon as Killbere took his time to secure the banner. Meulon shook it free and lofted it high enough for the men in the ditch to see it. Blackstone’s war banner, the mailed fist grasping the sword blade in cruciform. Killbere held the bottom of the flag so that the words Défiant à la Mort were clearly visible.

  ‘They’ll know who it is who rides among them and kills them,’ said Renfred.

  ‘And those behind the walls,’ said Killbere. ‘We’ll need them to open those gates damned quickly.’

  Blackstone watched as Killbere did something he had never done before. He lifted the flag’s hem and pressed his lips against it.

  And then John Jacob did the same. And Renfred. Quickly followed by all the rest, the men shuffling forward to kiss the material.

  Blackstone’s heart beat hard. How many of these courageous men would remain alive in the coming hour?

  And now they honoured him.

  * * *

  Silently the men followed Blackstone’s example and climbed into their saddles. Blackstone was waiting for the dawn to break across the hills before urging his horse slowly forward because then the rising sun would blind the French and give his men another chance to survive longer than expected. Meulon held the flag-draped spear low. As soon as they threw themselves into their enemy he would hold it aloft. Renfred and Perinne would ride either side of him to protect Blackstone’s blazon.

  The bastard horse turned its head, nearly dragging the reins from Blackstone’s hands. He yanked the belligerent beast’s head back, but it repeated the movement. Its ears were up. Its nostrils flared. And it stubbornly resisted his heaving on the rein. Will Longdon suddenly appeared over the edge of the ditch wall, belly down.