Master of War

by David Gilman

  ‘That’s not rust, you blind old bastard, that’s dried French blood,’ he answered.

  ‘Well, I never, I must’ve slaughtered more o’them than I thought. You sleep tight in your bed now, Sir Gilbert, and be sure to keep a grip on your own blade,’ he said, the crude reference making the men laugh.

  ‘God help the whores when you and Will Longdon press a coin in their hand,’ said Sir Gilbert.

  ‘That won’t be all being pressed in their hands neither,’ Will Longdon told him.

  Sir Gilbert gave him a friendly kick. ‘Trouble is, Will, the whores will be giving you change from your coin.’

  ‘That’s because they feel ashamed for charging a man what gives ’em so much pleasure.’

  The men jeered, letting Sir Gilbert return to his men-at-arms. Nicholas Bray pointed a finger. No need for a veteran to lose his sleep.

  ‘Nightingale, that’s enough drink. Ready yourself to stand watch.’

  The men slept heavily. The sea journey, the hard riding and the ambush had taken their toll. As had the fermented cider that could strip a rat’s pelt from its bones when it fell in the vat.

  Nightingale felt the injustice of being chosen, but the day’s killing still excited him and he knew he probably would not have slept even if he were inside with the snoring men. He would tell of the attack when he rejoined the untested archers who waited back at the coast. The tavern ale would be bought by those who had yet to face the danger. Young lads needed the advice of veteran archers – and that’s what he was now. A veteran archer.

  He loosened his jerkin and tugged free the stone jar of contra­band.

  In the early hours before dawn a group of men crept close to the barn. These men were not soldiers, but villagers resentful of the betrayal by some of the Norman barons. They had no weapons to face the English, but they did not wish to succumb without trying to kill at least some of the invading army. They had watched, hidden in nearby orchards, as the horsemen and archers ransacked and occupied their homes. They could not have guessed that the Englishmen would drink so heavily, but that realization came to them as the night wore on. A breeze favoured them as they moved downwind from the horses. The peasants would not dare venture too far into the village for fear of alerting the better armed cavalrymen, who slept close to their mounts, in a farm’s courtyard.

  The village men saw that the barn’s doors were already closed, and only one man stood post, the Englishmen inside secure in the belief that any unlikely attack from armed men could be re­pulsed between the cavalry and the archers whose positions in the village created a natural ambush for any attacking force. But these villagers were not armed, except with their hatred of the English and the traitor Godfrey de Harcourt. They hesitated. Who among them would be brave enough to sneak up on the sentry and silence him? The question held them fast, none dared risk the confrontation. And then the question was answered for them. The sentry eased himself to his feet from where he had sat, his back propped against the barn planking, and took a few uneasy steps forwards. He had left his bow against the wall. The men looked at each other. The archer was young. And he was drunk.

  After a few yards the boy stopped. There was the steady sound of piss hitting the ground. One of the men carried a hoe as a weapon. In a moment of daring he stepped out of the shadows and swung the metal-headed stave against the archer’s head. The boy crumpled.

  Emboldened by their act the dozen men quietly rolled a haycart across the barn doors to stop any attempt by the men inside to escape, and bundled crisp hay along its length. The high, dry weeds and grass around the old building would do the rest. Without a sound they spread tallow across the main doors. They sparked a flint, and by the time they had reached the safety of the woods, the summer grass and tinder-dry wood were ablaze.

  Blackstone was in the depths of a dream. He had cut and laid the cornerstone for Lord Marldon’s great hall. The laying ceremony was attended by the King and his son, Edward of Woodstock. The speeches praised the stonemason’s skill, promised him wealth and entry to the stonemasons’ guild. A great feast and tournament followed. An ox turned on a spit, flesh sizzling, fat dripping. The smoke stung his eyes.

  He dragged himself awake. Thick choking smoke filled the barn and fire hungrily licked the walls. Somewhere in the distance behind the crackling sound of the burning wood men shouted and horses whinnied. He was near blind from stinging tears and each breath scoured his throat and lungs, plunging him to his knees in spasms of coughing. Pulling his jacket over his head he reached out blindly, trying to find his brother, but found his own sheathed bow instead. Like a blind beggar he used it to stab the hay around him until it prodded a body. He reached down and felt the man’s face. The stubbled jaw told him it was not Richard but he kicked the man time and again until he awoke. Fear quickly sobered him and he stumbled against Blackstone for support.

  ‘The others!’ Blackstone yelled from beneath his self-made cowl. ‘The others!’

  Whoever it was fell to his knees, pulled his jacket across his head like Blackstone, and swept his hands in front of him. The fire took hold and in a great surge clawed towards the roof. The heat would soon kill them, if the building did not collapse first. Blackstone scrambled, felt his brother’s crooked face and tried to lift him. But the bulk and weight of the boy was too much even for Blackstone’s strength. His hands touched a stone jug. He splashed the fluid into his brother’s mouth. The gush of liquid choked him and he sat gasping for breath. Blackstone shook him and the boy reached out, grabbing the lifeline that was his brother.

  Three men stumbled into them. They huddled together for a moment, each seeking a way of escape. A farm wagon, hidden in the smoke, rested in the corner of the barn. Fire was already spreading across it, hungry for the tallow that greased its wheel axles. Blackstone pointed – to talk meant inhaling lung-destroying smoke. The cart seemed their only chance. If they could push it hard enough through the burning timber walls they might have a way of breaking out. Burnt straw swirled through the air, the fire’s updraught sucking it from the floor as sparks and splintered timbers tumbled from the roof that would soon fall in. The doors of hell had been opened.

  They pressed their bodies against the cart, but despite the archers’ strength its weight could not be moved. They retreated beneath its broad oak planking. Blackstone covered his mouth with his hand, trying to draw air into his lungs.

  ‘There!’ he shouted above the roaring fire. ‘That corner!’ He pointed. The fire smothered everything, but one corner burned more slowly. ‘They made repairs! That’s new wood. It’s the weakest part!’

  There was no time left. He ran at the corner planking, his hair singeing, the heat blistering his face, and threw his shoulder against it. The freshly cut, slower burning wood gave an inch or two. He tried again and this time his brother hurled his bulk against it. The wood nearly splintered away. The other two men began kicking the planks and when Richard shouldered the loosest, it gave.

  They burst through the fire into the night. Stumbling and gasping, they dragged each other but then could run no more and fell again, retching from the smoke, eyes streaming. Men ran towards them; Sir Gilbert took one of Blackstone’s arms, a horseman the other, soldiers did the same with the other survivors and dragged them to the safety of the trees. Two soldiers ran from a trough carrying buckets and threw water over the choking, smouldering men. The barn collapsed, sending a fireball of sparks pluming high into the darkness.

  Blackstone lay on his back. As his eyes cleared, the stars were red, glittering in the firmament, sucking up the dead men’s souls. Clutched to his chest, like a priceless prize of war, was his father’s war bow. The leather case was singed, but the weapon was unharmed. He needed luck to stay alive, and his superstition was strong enough to know that as long as the war bow remained in his keeping its good fortune would protect him. As dawn broke the smoke-blackened men gazed at the smouldering barn. Their comrades’ remains lay indistinguishable from the charred timbers. The survivor
s drank thirstily, trying to ease their raw throats.

  ‘Sir Gilbert!’ one of the hobelars called.

  The men turned to see where he pointed. John Nightingale was on all fours crawling from the bushes. His hair was matted with dried blood and he retched vomit into the dirt and over his jerkin. He sank back on his haunches staring blankly at the charnel house that had been a place of safety and laughter for his comrades.

  Sir Gilbert strode quickly to him as two of his men hauled Nightingale to his feet. The boy squinted. His sour, dry mouth croaked. ‘Water, Sir Gilbert… water. If you please.’

  Sir Gilbert gripped the boy’s chin. The stench of vomit and stale cider confirmed what he already knew. One of the hobelars picked up the stone bottle and tipped it upside down. It was dry.

  ‘Give him water!’ Sir Gilbert commanded, then turned to the survivors. ‘Was this man posted as sentry?’

  Except for Blackstone’s brother, who could not hear the demand, the men averted their eyes.

  Sir Gilbert would have none of it. He grabbed Will Longdon roughly. ‘Did Bray post this man?’ he demanded. Longdon had no choice. He nodded.

  Sir Gilbert pushed him back and turned to Nightingale, who drank desperately from a waterskin. Sir Gilbert snatched it away. ‘Where’s your bow stave and arrow bag? Where’s your goddamn sword, you pig shit? And your knife?’ The knight’s threatening voice was chilling. Blackstone could feel that something terrible was about to happen, something perhaps more terrible than the barn’s destruction.

  ‘Get a rope,’ Blackstone commanded one of his men.

  Blackstone’s heart thudded with helplessness.

  Nightingale mumbled, his befuddled brain still trying to grasp what had happened.

  ‘Sir Gilbert, I don’t know… I went for a piss… I’m sorry,’ Night­ingale stuttered.

  ‘Fourteen archers dead, Master Bray among them. The King values his bowmen. They are the gold in his crown. And they are dead because you supped too long and hard like a suckling pig on a sow’s teat. Men came and took your weapons. Men came and slaughtered my archers! Because of your neglect!’

  One of the hobelars had knotted and thrown a rope across the limb of a chestnut tree. Two others dragged Nightingale towards it. The boy struggled.

  ‘Sir Gilbert! I beg you!’ He almost broke free, the fear sober­ing his mind, adding strength to his archer’s muscles. One of the hobe­lars struck him across the back of the head, and as suddenly as he had resisted, he yielded to the inevitable.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ he called to the five archers who had not moved. ‘I’m sorry, lads. Forgive me.’

  His hands were quickly bound. There was no ceremony. The two hobelars hauled on the rope and the kicking, choking boy was dragged into the air.

  Sir Gilbert turned away. ‘Get the horses!’

  Blackstone could not look at the bulging face. Nightingale’s swollen tongue turned purple, blood seeped from his eyes, his legs kicked violently, but less so than a moment before.

  By the time the men rode past him a few minutes later, the first crow had settled.

  No prayers for the dead were said, or needed. The army’s priests could pray for departed souls because that was their role. Professional soldiers would spit and curse the devil, swear vengeance against their enemies and say a private prayer of their own in thanks that they still lived – and then share their dead comrade’s plunder among themselves. It took the morning to track down the villagers. They ran across the skyline between the saddle of ground that connected two corners of a forest, their silhouetted figures visible from miles away.

  The horsemen gave chase and encircled them. One man who carried Nightingale’s bow and arrow bag attempted to draw it but managed only to pull it back halfway and the arrow loosed was easily avoided. Fear and panic gripped the peasants. They babbled in French, tears came to their eyes. Sir Gilbert and two of his men-at-arms dismounted and drew their swords. No one spoke. Anger and revenge raised the men’s swords and Blackstone watched as the knight and his men clove the Frenchmen’s bodies with their war swords.

  One man remained. He knelt in supplication before Sir Gilbert. Blackstone watched as his captain indicated the coat of arms on his jupon, and told the man his name. Then he ordered the man to run. At first he hesitated, but when Sir Gilbert raised his sword, he did as commanded.

  The warning would race like the barn fire.

  The English were coming and Sir Gilbert Killbere would lead the slaughter.

  4

  Sir Gilbert and his men returned to the vanguard as Edward’s army moved relentlessly down the Cotentin peninsula, cutting a swathe seven miles wide across the countryside. Blackstone watched the tide approach across the hills. Like a voracious caterpillar it devoured everything in its path.

  Once the vanguard had camped for the night, Sir Gilbert reported to Godfrey de Harcourt and Sir Reginald Cobham. The old knight, with his close-cropped grey hair, was a soldier who would sleep in his armour and share the privations of the common man. When battle commenced Cobham would lead the assault, and the marshal of the army, the pugnacious William de Bohun, Earl of Northampton, would be shouting encouragement to the knight who had fought for years at his side. It was such relish for engaging and defeating the enemy that drove men like these and Sir Gilbert Killbere.

  ‘There’ll be no resistance,’ Sir Gilbert reported. ‘Sporadic attacks like the ambush is all we can expect.’

  ‘We’re beyond the peninsula now. We should strike eastwards and attack Caen,’ Sir Reginald said. ‘The city is like a boil on your arse. It needs lancing.’

  The Earl of Northampton scratched two lines in the dirt with his dagger. ‘It’s the major obstacle in our path towards Paris; the King knows that. Battle has to be joined there before we can move on. We need to cross the Seine and then the Somme, and the devil will task us on that. We can’t leave Bertrand’s thousands at our backs. On to Caen before he fortifies the place further.’

  ‘St Lô first,’ de Harcourt told them.

  ‘Godfrey, there’s no point. We all know of your enmity for Bertrand, but he has enough sense to know he can’t defend that against us,’ Northampton told him.

  ‘If he’s there I want the bastard’s head on a pole. Three of my friends were butchered there. Their skulls are on the gateway. They were Norman knights who swore fealty to Edward. He’ll want his revenge as much as I. St Lô, I say, and then Caen,’ de Harcourt insisted.

  Sir Reginald looked to the earl. ‘Well, it’s a rich city. There’s wine and cloth for the taking.’

  ‘But it slows the advance!’ Northampton argued. ‘It’s what Bertrand wants. To slow us down. God’s teeth! There’s a French army coming from the south-west and Philip is moving to cut us off at Rouen. This diversion will cost us more than it’s worth.’

  ‘When the King learns of its riches, and the fate of the men loyal to him, he will want St Lô plundered and burned,’ the baron replied.

  Sir Gilbert stayed silent. He had no definite proof that the French harassing force had gone to defend the rich city. The Earl of Northampton looked to his knight. ‘Not much to argue there, Gilbert, but you have an opinion, no doubt. You always have.’

  ‘If I were Bertrand I would abandon St Lô. Sir Reginald is right, it’s rich and it’s a temptation that’s hard to resist, but Bertrand will run like the fox he’s proving to be. He won’t leave troops there; he’ll already be fortifying Caen. St Lô is the bait to keep us wriggling a while longer.’

  ‘But it’s a fat worm,’ the Earl of Northampton conceded.

  The men turned away, but Godfrey de Harcourt caught Sir Gilbert’s arm.

  ‘If we are to attack St Lô, there is another matter for you and your men,’ he said.

  Except for Blackstone, the archers replenished their weapons from the wagonloads of white-painted staves. They tested and drew the hemp cords, discarded one stave in favour of another, until each man was satisfied he had the bow that best suited him. They were made
mostly of English ash and elm, fine weapons for any archer, but inferior to Blackstone’s yew bow.

  The men each took another two dozen arrows in an arrow bag, and readied themselves to ride out again with men chosen by Elfred, who had been made centenar by Sir Gilbert. There was a solemn mood among the survivors of the fire. Comrades had been lost in the barn and Blackstone’s friend was a rotting corpse hanging from a broad-leafed chestnut tree. Combat at least offered men the chance to die fighting their enemy, but dying trapped like rats and burned alive was a perverse act of the devil, defying God’s will. So God would not help any villagers who found themselves at the archers’ mercy – there would be none.

  Blackstone was sitting with his brother and Elfred, as Will Longdon cursed the bastard French cowards to the dead men’s replacements.

  ‘Blackstone!’ Sir Gilbert bellowed.

  He got to his feet, gestured for his brother to stay, and walked quickly to his captain, who turned on his heel towards their com­manders’ banners. The lame de Harcourt watched the young archer as he bowed, but Blackstone’s eyes had gone past the Norman. Twenty paces away, talking to Sir Richard Cobham and the Earl of Northampton, was the young Prince of Wales. His pavilion had been pitched and servants scurried, as cooks prepared food. Blackstone’s mouth watered, he could not remember when he had last tasted meat. A dozen knights stayed a respectful distance from the Prince, but it was clear they were there to protect the heir to the throne. Now that he was closer than in the church Blackstone could see the boy’s fine features more clearly.

  ‘Your captain tells me you have skills; that your father was an archer who married a French woman, and that she was not a whore, and you speak French. And that you have a head on your shoulders,’ de Harcourt said.

  Blackstone could not help but wonder what accident of birth determined their fate. Perhaps God had his favourites. The boy looked strong, but could he wield a sword for hours on end as Blackstone could swing a mason’s hammer? Perhaps too much was being asked of such a young Prince who had yet to prove himself in battle. Perhaps…