Master of War

by David Gilman

  Blackstone noticed the change; so did Talpin and Perinne.

  ‘Do they follow the prior willingly?’ he asked his two wall builders.

  Talpin said, ‘It seems so. From what I understand the abbot was put here a year or more ago when the Mother house got rid of him. The monks didn’t want him – when the old abbot died, they’d voted for the prior. Somehow Abbot Pierre had connections and got the favour of the King and he was placed here. Who could challenge that? The villagers farm the land; he collects their tithes and sits on his fat arse.’

  ‘They seem to listen to the prior, though,’ Perinne confirmed.

  ‘Good. Are you satisfied with their work?’

  Perinne gestured with a sweep of his arm. ‘You can see for yourself, Sir Thomas. The night work has doubled our efforts. Aye, they’re working well.’

  Blackstone was as pleased as his wall builders. ‘Then encourage them. Don’t beat them.’

  The two Normans looked at each other.

  ‘A rope across a lazy back is no real punishment, Sir Thomas,’ said Talpin.

  Blackstone nodded. ‘I worked in a quarry from the age of seven. The quarryman thrashed me every day until the master stone­mason saw my efforts and eased the whip. See that we do the same for them. Praise their work. And for every extra yard laid ahead of schedule we give the men and the brothers extra rations of bread and at the end of each shift extra wine or ale. Make sure the kitchener is told.’

  For a moment it seemed Talpin and Perinne would question his order, but they understood the value of fresh bread to a man, and the promise of extra ale was better than an apple in front of a donkey. Their sworn lords’ promise of full pay while they served Blackstone and the possibility of making more from this venture had been reason enough to step forward and swear the oath of silence and obedience. The first, to deny where their true allegiance lay, and the second, to do the bidding of this young Englishman. All these men had followed their lords into battle. They had seen stupidity and careless disregard for their lives take many of their comrades. So far Blackstone had avoided both pitfalls. That he was French-speaking didn’t alter the fact that he was still a bastard Englishman, and an archer to boot, although that was slowly being forgiven as they began to see a man like themselves emerge – a soldier who had gained rank through skill and courage.

  They could live with that.

  24

  Before darkness fell Blackstone led twenty men into the forest. He had left ten of his men to guard the monastery and to ensure the monks were confined to the dormitory. Those he took with him carried two scaling ladders to take them over the walls under cover of black, troubled clouds driven by a harsh wind, tumbling across the sky. There was a dark gulley at the base of the wall, chilled from never seeing sunlight, and where mist would cling the better part of the day and night. It was a dank place with the smell of a tomb about it.

  Blackstone had made a decision that Meulon thought stupid and had argued in strained whispers in case his voice carried down to the sentries. Blackstone was going to go over the wall alone to reconnoitre the town. And then, once he had a better understanding of its layout, he would return and take the men inside its walls. It was madness, Meulon had told him, and as Blackstone eased himself over the wall and onto the battlements, he was beginning to wonder if Meulon had not been correct. Perhaps he would have been wiser to bring the men over and seek out their enemy in the confines of the town’s streets. A lantern swung in the corner of the square. Its faint light barely showed the three shadows that stood static near the middle of the open space. Blackstone crouched, letting his eyes follow the lines of the wall and the shape of the sentry who stood in each watchtower. Meulon had at least been correct about them huddling in their cloaks with their backs to the wind. He quickly moved forward and went down the steps leading into the square. The town seemed to be a jumble of various buildings with narrow alleyways between them. Here and there some houses were double height, better built in stone and wood, while others were squat and thatched, with smoke-holes cut into their roofs.

  He skirted the walls around the main square, using the shadows to keep his movements unseen. His heart beat rapidly with the thought that any minute he could bump into someone sleeping or disturb a sentry, and then the alarm would be raised and he would be hard-pressed to race back up the steps to where Meulon and the men huddled at the base of the outside wall waiting for his command to put up the ladder and attack. He was alone in a hostile environment and he cursed his foolhardiness. But luck had always been with him and as he thought of the silver talisman on the chain around his neck he skirted the far side of the square and got closer to what he now saw to be three upright stakes in the ground, and tied to each stake was the slumped body of a man.

  He moved closer and tried to hear if they were still breathing, but the wind and the clanking of the lantern overwhelmed any sound that may have come from them. He placed a hand on each man’s face. Two were stone cold, but the third had warmth in his neck. Blackstone could feel the stickiness on his fingers and knew that it was blood. This must have been the man who had been tortured earlier and whose cries he had heard. There was barely any life in him and there was nothing Blackstone could do to help him. A gust of wind suddenly extinguished the lantern. The nearest sentry shouted, but his voice was carried away by the wind. Blackstone imagined the man cursing to himself as he turned from his post and clumped down the wooden steps that brought him into the square. Blackstone moved quickly back to the wall of the nearest building and watched as the sentry’s shape slipped in and out of the darkness of the walls until he kicked at a door in anger and then pushed it open, shouting for those inside to relight the lantern. Those rooms must be where the guard slept, thought Blackstone, and sure enough, moments later, as the sentry made his way back up the steps a dull glow flared from inside the room and a man, stretching and scratching from sleep, came out and relit the street lantern.

  As the light swayed again in the wind the door closed behind the guard and the light inside was extinguished. If nothing else Blackstone had discovered where some of the routiers were. Dare he go on further into the alleyways and risk alerting a dog or a townsman who could raise the alarm? His moment of indecision allowed a hand to snake out and grasp his ankle.

  Blackstone almost cried out, but managed to choke back his alarm. He fell back, rolling in the dirt, his hand reaching for his knife. Before he could get back on his feet he heard a desperate whisper: ‘Stranger, help us. For pity’s sake, help us.’

  Blackstone looked quickly towards the sentry in case his tumble had been seen, but the man still had his back to the square – what threat could there be from within? Blackstone peered into the darkness and less than six feet away, where he had been standing moments ago, was a grid in the ground that covered a pit. The gaps were large enough for a man to push his head through, and Blackstone could see that someone was there and that it had been a hand that now gestured to him that had snatched at his ankle. Blackstone wasn’t sure what to do. How many men were caged below ground? If he didn’t go to him it would only take a yell of despair to alert the sentries. He had no choice. Bent double, he took the few strides to the man whose features he could barely make out in the darkness. The swaying lantern gave just enough light to see that he too had been beaten.

  The man whispered again, ‘Stranger, there’s a water bucket to your left. Reach for it, I beg you. There are more than a dozen men in this hole with me. Give us water, in God’s name! help us!’

  Blackstone glanced behind him and saw a wooden bucket with a ladle. What to do? If he gave these men water would they cry out or fight among themselves? The best he would be able to do would be to pass only the ladle down into the pit. ‘Who are you?’ he asked.

  ‘Guinot, my name is Guinot. I served here. They take one of us out every day and beat us to death. Help us,’ the man whispered, in a voice barely audible from the strain of his dry throat.

  ‘Very well. I’ll get you wat
er, but how many men are there here? Routiers, I mean? How many did Saquet leave?’

  ‘Here… I… I don’t know… think he left with about… fifty men…’

  It was still guesswork. Saquet could have a hundred and fifty men for all anyone knew. The town could be crawling with them back in those darkened houses.

  ‘You came here to kill him?’ Guinot asked, his hand reaching to grasp Blackstone’s cloak.

  Blackstone eased its grip. ‘Will you and the others stay quiet if I give you water?’

  ‘They’re my men. We’re Gascons,’ he whispered with determined effort. Gascons from the south-west of France saw Edward as their natural lord, the descendant of their ancient ducal house.

  Blackstone quickly turned and brought the water bucket to the edge of the caged pit and then handed the injured man the ladle. He could just about see Guinot’s parched lips open with desperation as the thirsty man took the ladle and then handed it down to the men below with a warning whisper to stay silent. Each man, one sip. The ladle soon came back. Blackstone gave more water until finally, after vital minutes had passed, Guinot drank.

  ‘I have men outside the walls. Can I take the town?’ Blackstone asked, worried now that either of the sentries would glance down into the square. Rain fell, light swirls of it that within moments suddenly turned to sleet. Blackstone ignored the stinging attack on his bare head.

  ‘How many men?’ the imprisoned man asked.

  ‘Twenty.’

  Blackstone could almost see the look of disappointment on the man’s face. It was certainly in his voice.

  ‘Twenty?’

  Blackstone heard the sentry stamp his feet, trying to drive out the cold.

  Guinot said, ‘I don’t know. There’s at least that many here. More, I think. Thirty – forty even. More men arrived and joined Saquet. There are ten of them in there,’ he said, meaning the guardroom. ‘Others with their whores. Scattered in the town. Twenty men, you say?’ He extended his hand and grabbed Blackstone’s arm. ‘I hope you survive. We can’t help, even if we could break free. We’re too weak. Good luck, stranger.’

  The effort to stay upright through the cage bars took their toll and Guinot eased himself down into the dank pit.

  It was either time to abandon the daring attack on the town or retreat to the monastery and draw Saquet into the open when he returned from his wild goose chase. Blackstone raced for the steps that would take him to where Meulon and the men crouched shivering in the cold on the other side of the wall. The short, sharp sleetstorm had passed, the cold blast easing as the sky filled with a descending swarm of snow. It was a good omen. The snow would camouflage the attacking men.

  The sentries’ muscles were cold and stiff from such a bitter night and their minds numb from the tedium of guard duty. They were the first to die. Meulon left two of his men with crossbows in their position, knowing there would soon be enough light for them to pick out short-range targets. Blackstone told Meulon his plan, but the older man suggested a different tactic. If Blackstone and a half-dozen men could deal with the guardroom he would torch a couple of buildings and then hide in the shadows across the square to cover Blackstone’s back. Once the alarm was raised the bastard routiers would run into the square from the alleys. Blackstone would bear the brunt of the attack but Meulon would reinforce him.

  Blackstone ran quickly to the guardroom with eight men and one of the sacks they had carried from the monastery stuffed with sheep’s wool and felt, tied and soaked in lamp oil. A sack flared from the square’s lantern that Blackstone broke over it, and as one of the men kicked in the door another threw the blazing bundle into the room. They pulled the door closed and rolled a barrel into place to slow their victims’ escape. It took only moments for the fire to take hold and cries of alarm from the guardroom could be heard across the square. The guardroom door finally yielded as the smoke-choked and burnt men stumbled into a night where fire swept down from heaven. There were snowflakes tumbling out of the black sky and across the town’s roofs, tinged with red from another burning house that Meulon’s men had torched. It was a controlled burning to save the whole town from going up in flames, using the wind to fan the flames across another three or four buildings before they reached the stone walls. This bewildering conflagration of ember and snowflake was the last thing the soldiers from the guardroom saw as Blackstone and his men cut them down.

  Blackstone deliberately kept his group in the open and the looming firelight. Shadows crawled across the walls as the alarm bell rang and his men opened the gates to allow the townspeople to escape. Those living nearest the burning buildings ran across the square in ones and twos as routiers dashed into the square. Blackstone and his men blocked their path and cut them down. Some turned to run for the steps onto the walls but the first few fell to the crossbowmen, who now had clear targets from the light of the burning houses.

  Saquet’s men were a ragged, disparate group of mercenaries, who had tumbled from the alehouse and whores’ beds when the town’s bell rang out its alarm, but a dozen men appeared suddenly as a fighting group, and then another fifteen or more from a dormitory close by and they called out to those others who stumbled from the alleyways. Now this body of men could resist more effectively and they charged, yelling their abuse and rage at Blackstone who was already fighting in the square. The men clashed, spectral figures cursing and slipping in the bloody snow beneath their feet. Black­stone had positioned himself forward of the others, who flanked him in a spearhead, and as he stood his ground and parried the blows of the attackers, those who survived his sword stumbled into his men, who hacked the routiers down. But more of Saquet’s men appeared from the town, alerted by the cries of the fight in the main square, and they outnumbered Blackstone’s.

  ‘Now!’ Blackstone yelled. ‘Now!’

  But there was no sign of Meulon.

  A sudden shock of abandonment and fear took hold but he spat it out and threw more weight into his sword arm.

  ‘On me!’ Blackstone shouted, and the men drew themselves closer to him, forming as tight a line as they could against the onslaught.

  Fires still burned but the flames battered themselves against the stone walls and, finding no purchase, began to falter. Seeing that the fire was being contained, some of the townspeople began to draw water and douse the flames, but others still panicked and ran for the gate to escape the slaughter and it was they who impeded Meulon and his contingent across the square. Women’s screams mingled with cries of alarm as Saquet’s mercenaries hacked their way through them. Pressed hard by the vicious attack, Blackstone and the others retreated. Blackstone took a blow across the shoulder but the sword failed to bite through his chain mail. He shouldered the man, ramming him aside, and then, cleaving downward with Wolf Sword, he shattered his opponent’s collarbone. He stepped quickly to one side and thrust the sword into the man’s chest, then turned again, sensing the next attack, twisting away as another routier struck down on him from the high guard. Blackstone had only a moment to strike before the blade took him across his exposed shoulder. With no time to turn his own blade he brought both hands up on his sword’s grip and smashed the pommel under the man’s nose. His attacker’s momentum met the full force of Blackstone’s strength and the double-fisted blow shattered his skull and threw him back into the gore-splattered snow. Vital seconds bled away. They were losing. They couldn’t hold their line much longer.

  And then a swarm of shadows charged across the square and Meulon’s men began their slaughter.

  The turmoil swirled about Blackstone. One of the attackers caught him a glancing blow on his head and a trickle of blood ran into his scar, making his face look even more fearsome. He snatched at a terrified woman who ran between him and an attacking routier, seeing her unmistakable terror as she caught sight of his scarred face when he shoved her away from the strike. He was too exposed. The blade could not be parried. Meulon took a stride forward, his sword low, striking from waist height into the man’s stomach. />
  The attacker’s momentum faltered and Blackstone took a stride forward and then another, taking the fight to the enemy, cutting through the curtains of white that fell and the men who squinted into the storm’s blinding snowflakes – he had the wind at his back. One man came at him with a battleaxe, his beard caked with snow and blood, his eyes wild and focused. There was something familiar about him, but Blackstone didn’t know what it was until he saw the stitched leather binding on the stump whose fingers he had severed weeks ago.

  Blackstone’s feet went from under him, slithering in the snow as the flat surface of the axe’s blade struck him on the side of the head. The axe-man’s effort brought others, ready to counter-attack, but Blackstone’s men quickly formed a barrier around their stunned leader, their spears lunging at the mercenaries, whose surge faltered. Blackstone stared up at the one-handed man who suddenly folded in on himself as a spear ripped into his stomach. He crashed into the snow not an arrow shaft’s distance away. A moment later his contorted face was spluttering blood, his eyes glazing as the soldier who killed him stamped a boot into his chest and yanked his spear free.