by David Gilman
‘Thomas!’ he hissed. ‘Look! For Christ’s sake, look!’ he insisted, beckoning Blackstone who quickly dismounted and clambered up the bank.
He squinted into the dull light that still clung to the foothills and forests in the distance. A vast horde of men were descending towards them. Thousands of horsemen in a great extended line.
‘Are they French? Their southern army?’ said Longdon, a note of fear in his voice.
Blackstone concentrated on the fast-approaching men. Near another mile and they would be on them. He waited, uncertainty clouding his thoughts. If it were the French he and every one of his men would be dead before they even clambered out of the ditch.
Will Longdon’s archers had resisted the urge to raise themselves from where they lay out of sight of the French but they turned and watched the approaching host with the same trepidation. They would be the first to die. They would have time to clamber back into the ditch but then they would be overwhelmed.
Blackstone’s archer’s eye picked out a solitary figure who rode yards ahead of the others. ‘Not French,’ said Blackstone. He grinned. ‘Ready your archers, Will. They’re routiers and they intend to attack.’
Blackstone quickly slithered back down the bank and mounted the bastard horse who yet again had warned him. ‘Ready,’ he called. He nodded to Meulon, who raised the banner. ‘Thousands of routiers are at our backs,’ he called. ‘The Welshman redeems himself.’
He spurred the horse along the ditch and then turned, urging it up and over. Every man followed and in an extended line they hurled themselves over the parapet. The rear ranks of the French turned away from the cooking pots to look quizzically at the horsemen who galloped towards them, but within heartbeats their confusion changed to wholesale panic. As if from nowhere a storm of arrows fell into them. Men screamed; some tumbled across the cooking fires; others ran for their weapons, bellowing commands and shouting a belated warning.
Blackstone’s horsemen had still not reached them by the time another hail of arrows fell. Will Longdon had moved his archers forward in two ranks, each ahead of the other, creeping their lethal assault further into the French until finally he held his archers in one extended line as the creaking bend of yew bows and the thwack of bow cords being released rippled through the still dawn air. And then heavy horse tore among the French, who ran in disarray. Trumpets blared as pennons and flags were raised and commanders, panic-stricken at the unexpected attack, tried to organize the men in defence. A thudding heartbeat thumped out from kettle drums, urging the French to form up and fight.
No sooner had Blackstone’s men’s horses trampled over the dead and the dying than another swarm of death followed as routiers plunged into the French flanks. Will Longdon ran his men hard towards the left flank of the encamped men in a move that would close the trap on those who thought of escape. The ground shook from the thousands of hooves as terror-laden voices hurled their agony into the morning sky. The surprise attack had caught hundreds of men unaware but as Blackstone forged his way forward others were forming a defence, determined to stop this advance guard of horsemen whose banner proclaimed it was Sir Thomas Blackstone and his men who hurled themselves into their midst.
Brave and desperate footsoldiers threw themselves at the riders, trying to stab and wound, to pull them down to the ground. Most died or were trampled underfoot as the weight of the horses barged them aside. In the background a cavalry unit fought their way through their own ranks to try and cut off Blackstone’s advance. These noblemen cared little for their own soldiers, forcing them aside with their mounts and causing them injury. The turmoil became panic. Blackstone’s men were getting closer to the bridge. Routiers had charged into the far-flung ranks. Last-ditch battles were being fought. Small pockets of desperate men were organizing a defence. Howls of pain and roars of defiance rose up, sweeping over the battlefield with an urgency that struck hearts with despair and fear.
The flag carried by the horsemen was that of Jacques de Bourbon, one of the most able French commanders. Their horses were cloaked in caparisons, bright colourful trappings proclaiming their rider’s wealth and status. The French were throwing their finest against these marauding horsemen. A footsoldier stabbed his spear at Blackstone; he felt its impact on his shield as another attacked him with a sword thrust, striking his armour-protected thigh. Blackstone heeled the bastard horse, letting its weight sweep them aside. Others reached for his reins but the speed and weight of the beast cast them off.
Meulon’s horse was brought down. Frenchmen rammed halberds and spears into its chest and flanks. It fell bellowing in agony. Meulon tumbled down, narrowly avoiding its thrashing hooves. Some of the French who had struck at the horse had their ribs and skulls shattered by its flailing iron-shod legs. Meulon clambered to his feet as John Jacob and Renfred reined in their horses and protected him. Meulon hefted Blackstone’s banner and thrust it into the German’s outstretched hand. Riderless horses ran free. Meulon slashed and battered his way towards one. A sword thrust caught his shoulder, its point piercing his mail. Ignoring the pain he struck the man with the edge of his shield and, despite the roar of battle, heard the man’s neck snap as its rim rammed beneath his chin. The horse panicked, wide-eyed with terror as men swarmed around it, but Meulon’s strength took him onto its back and spurred it to follow Blackstone, who was closing on the French knights.
Perinne and Killbere stayed as close as they could to Blackstone, whose great beast of a horse was ploughing a furrow through the hapless infantry. With John Jacob they swung their horses to be a half-length behind his shoulder. Blackstone’s men followed like a skein of geese behind their leader. The broadhead formation devastated the French footsoldiers but Blackstone was wounded. A crossbow bolt loosed at close quarters had punched through his shield and mail and plunged into his side. For a moment it looked as though he was about to tumble from the saddle but he quickly righted himself and spurred the lumbering horse towards the bridge. All of Perinne’s fears surged. The great raptor had circled again. Thomas Blackstone was going to die.
One of the French commanders had rallied his men and blocked the bridge. Spears held low, shields locked, four ranks of men one behind the other stood ready to repel the attackers, determined that Brignais would still be theirs when this routier attack was eventually beaten. The French had reorganized. Killbere took a second to look left and right. Across the swarming men he saw the Welshman’s routier force had pushed the French ranks further back. On the other flank Will Longdon’s archers still loosed their arrows into the terrified footsoldiers. Fires burned out of control. Tents blazed. Smoke wafted across the confused field. And still Blackstone rode towards the town gates and the French cavalry that now came between him and the bridge.
Killbere raised himself in the stirrups and slashed down at a gaggle of men who struck at him. Desperate hands grabbed at his reins. An axe struck his shield, splitting it in two. He threw the useless shield from his arm and grabbed his chained flail, swinging its spiked weight at the axeman whose grimacing face was torn from his skull. On and on Blackstone’s men charged. Every man seemed to bear a wound. Some lay dead. Horses ran wild. Jacques de Bourbon’s knights bore down on Blackstone’s lightly armed men, halting their momentum.
High in the sky a lone buzzard’s piercing shriek carried across the cacophony below. Perinne heard the cry like a beckoning angel’s call. For months the spectre of death had been waiting. It had passed him by with only a light touch and he had brushed it away. In that moment the battlefield fell silent. No sound existed. Figures blurred before him, men’s gaping mouths silently hurling abuse and crying out in pain. Men weeping in fear, bodies contorted from their wounds. Everything slowed. Blackstone was being overwhelmed by two knights wearing armour and great helms. They swung axe and sword as they isolated him, desperate to slay the legend. Killbere and the others could not reach him as they fought their own battle. Renfred fell. The banner with him. John Jacob grabbed it. Meulon had driven his horse int
o the armoured knights and used his strength to shield Blackstone’s squire. The men were outnumbered. How much longer could they fight through? It seemed they had all gone as far as they could. They were too lightly armed to fight these heavy cavalrymen.
One nobleman came at Blackstone on his blind side. Count Jacques de Bourbon desired nothing more than to cleave Blackstone’s head from his body. Sunlight speared the low hills. It cast its crimson glow onto the bloodstained men who raised their hands to shield their eyes from its glare. Perhaps that parting of the heavens was a miracle. Perinne’s horse surged forward through a gap that appeared and with a desperation born of his fealty to Thomas Blackstone blocked de Bourbon’s war horse. The Count’s head turned, his vision obscured by the narrow slit of his great helm. The silver-braided reins slipped through his gauntlet-clad hands as this routier dared to assault him. The roar of battle thundered back into Perinne’s ears and the loudest cry was his own. Ignoring the sharp tug of his back wound he attacked de Bourbon with a ferocity that took the renowned knight by surprise. Blackstone half wheeled his horse, seeing Perinne trading blows. Perinne’s attack bought him vital moments, and he turned and struck down the two knights clamouring to kill him.
Thomas Blackstone’s men were gaining ground yard by bloody yard and now the French were dying in greater numbers than Blackstone’s own. Perinne’s assault had forced the Constable of France to stand and fight, but Jacques de Bourbon had battled his way clear and now Perinne was assailed by de Bourbon’s bodyguard. Perinne jammed his heel into his horse’s flank, spurred it and yanked the rein, once again blocking de Bourbon’s retinue from riding Blackstone down. Perinne’s savagery nearly unseated an armour-clad nobleman and as the man struggled to control his war horse Perinne stabbed into the knight’s ribs between the armour. Again and again, short rapid strikes that gave the knight no means to defend himself. He slumped. The wounded man’s horse veered, causing more chaos.
Jacques de Bourbon’s great war horse was forging a path towards the legendary Englishman as its rider spurred its flanks to barge Blackstone’s mount. Glory awaited de Bourbon when the legend died here this day. The horses struck but it was the bastard horse that veered first; gathering strength in its haunches it wrenched the reins from Blackstone’s grip as it swung its great head against that of de Bourbon’s mount. The force of the horse’s blow made the other beast toss its head; de Bourbon momentarily lost control just as Blackstone raised himself and struck his blade down against the man’s neck – to no avail. Wolf Sword’s blade skidded off the plate armour.
De Bourbon recovered quickly, and struck repeatedly at Blackstone, who reeled, feinted, and then leant forward with his shield to block the jabbing attack. Ignoring the wrenching tear in his side, he forced the bastard horse so that both men were knee to knee. They traded blows and then Blackstone urged his horse to step backwards, one, two, three strides and de Bourbon was suddenly stretching forward, unbalanced. Blackstone pressed his right leg into the bastard horse’s side, kicked with his left and the weight of the horse turned sharply. De Bourbon recovered his seat and yanked the reins, trying to stop Blackstone’s mount from thrusting its weight against his own. The Frenchman was forced onto his blind side and the impact of Blackstone’s blows made him reel, his back arched, his arm raised to try and balance himself in the saddle. Blackstone dropped his own guard and lunged, ramming the blade hard and fast. Blood poured from beneath de Bourbon’s armpit. His sword arm was now useless and as he rocked back Blackstone found that soft muscle beneath the knight’s thigh and rammed in his blade. The renowned knight and commander tumbled forward over his horse’s neck, mortally wounded by the scourge of the House of Valois. As Blackstone kicked his horse to try and fight his way through to the embattled Perinne, de Bourbon’s squire reached his lord and tugged his master’s horse aside, steering it from the fray.
Blackstone gulped air. His mouth was dry. His lungs heaved and the wound in his side gnawed at him. Sweat stung his eyes as he tried to reach Perinne but there were too many between Blackstone and his friend. Now others clamoured at Blackstone and Wolf Sword arced and swung into flesh and bone.
Two of de Bourbon’s knights pressed Perinne. His shield arm covered the blows from one as he fought off the other. His blade cut across the knight’s neck; the man’s gorget saved him but the strength of the blow made him reel in the saddle, his arm sweeping back and catching Perinne’s, throwing him off balance. Perinne felt sudden blinding pain as the other knight’s blade found the space below his breastplate. The sword drove up into Perinne’s chest. His head was thrown back. Blood flooded his mouth. He saw the shadow in the sky. And remembered the years at Blackstone’s side.
The circling buzzard’s broken cry called once again. Per-inne, Per-inne. All this time, he realized, it had been calling for him.
* * *
Blackstone saw his friend die.
The loyal fighter’s strength and courage had been a constant companion since Blackstone had been a boy and now he had given his own life to save that of Blackstone. The loss gave added vigour to Blackstone’s sword arm. He broke through the armoured knights; Killbere was at his side, face bloodied and with a leg wound that seeped blood into his saddle. The man’s injuries made him no less lethal. John Jacob raised himself in his stirrups and lifted the banner higher. Blackstone’s men, those who survived, wheeled their horses and drove them forward to reach the standard. All that lay ahead now were a few mounted men-at-arms and scattered groups of footsoldiers, and once through them they would need to assault the bridge – and a horse would not survive those spearmen.
As Blackstone and Killbere re-formed their men, the gates of the town opened. Beyard, and what looked to be a hundred men, charged out carrying lances cut down and sharpened to five-feet lengths. One in three men carried a lance; two others ran at his side armed with sword and shield. They bellowed their defiance and those who guarded the bridge had no choice but to face the counter-attack. But the bridge defenders were suddenly in disarray for as they tried to turn they found they could not bring their spears to bear. Blackstone charged forward into the mêlée and onto the bridge. Beyard’s men planted their lances between the bridge and the gates and the desperate French, fleeing the approaching English horsemen, were forced onto them. Those not impaled were hacked down by the Gascon captain’s swordsmen. By the time Blackstone had forced his way across the bridge Beyard’s men had taken the brunt of the attack.
Blackstone’s wound bled down his side and onto his leg but the embedded crossbow bolt staunched most of the flow. The bastard horse had suffered a dozen gashes. Killbere’s shoulders slumped, his sword dangling from its blood knot. Beyard watched as Blackstone’s exhausted men gathered. Meulon looked as though he had fought the French army alone. Blood caked his beard, a blade had cut through his mail and a raw, bloodied gash scarred his massive arm muscle. Renfred ran alongside John Jacob’s horse, grasping a saddle strap for support while Blackstone’s squire still carried the blazon. Everywhere across the battlefield French troops were surrendering.
Beyard gazed up at the wounded men. Fighting off his own fatigue he smiled and pulled free his helm. He nodded. No words were needed, not yet. He stepped aside, indicating that Blackstone should ride through his gathered men, who parted as the blood-spattered horse bore its rider to the gates of Brignais. As they entered Blackstone saw the dead and wounded laid out in the yard. A black-cloaked figure stood guard over the wounded men, sword and shield ready, and at his side stood Henry Blackstone, similarly armed, older and stronger than when Blackstone had last seen him, standing ready to fight with the sword given to him years before when he was a boy.
No longer.
His son was the reflection of Blackstone’s own youth when he first went to war.
CHAPTER SIXTY-SIX
Killbere refused all help to ease him down from his horse despite his wounds. Blackstone concealed the crossbow bolt in his side, covering himself with his shield as he ordered his fighters to
man the walls in case of a counter-attack. He had said little to Fra Foresti or his son; explanations would come later. It was more important to secure Brignais once again.
Beyard brought his men inside the walls and saw Killbere dunk his head in a water trough in an attempt to clear his head just as Henry Blackstone approached.
‘With your permission, Sir Gilbert, I have a bandage to bind your wounded leg.’
‘Aye, young Henry, let me sit. Bind it tight. I will have need of this leg for a while longer,’ said Killbere in a rare moment of gratitude. ‘It’s good to see you again, lad. We journeyed some way to get here. It seems the French are determined to purge your father’s name from their memory. They’ll need better men than they’ve sent so far.’
The Tau knight gathered levies to take water to the fighting men who had made it inside the walls, and had others go among the wounded to follow Henry Blackstone’s example in staunching their injuries with whatever bandages could be found. Blackstone winced as one of his men stumbled against his shield arm as they made their way onto the parapet. Meulon was close enough to see, and realized his sworn lord had been injured.
‘Let me look,’ he said, gently easing aside Blackstone’s shield. ‘They used a long-shafted quarrel. Best to snap most of that,’ he said, looking at the crossbow bolt that protruded from Blackstone’s side. ‘We’ll get the rest of it out later.’
Blackstone nodded and let the big man grasp the bolt shaft. The Norman captain glanced in anticipation at Blackstone who said, ‘Do it.’
Meulon’s strength snapped it easily but the pain from his effort stabbed Blackstone.