Defiant Unto Death

by David Gilman

  For King John to strike at a Norman lord, especially one whose domain straddled the Breton marches, was a daring move. ‘They attacked his castle?’ Blackstone asked, knowing that if that were the case then men might now be attacking his own manor.

  De Harcourt eased his helm and mail away from his sweat-matted hair and rubbed his scalp. ‘No. Men took him on his way to visit the girl I told you about. It was an ambush, pure and simple. The fool rode right into it. There’s been no threat made to others. No sign of troops, no indication that King John is planning to ride against us. From what we have gathered, they were mercenaries. We had hoped for a ransom demand, but none has been asked for.’

  ‘When was he taken?’

  ‘Three, perhaps four days ago. He’s being held by one of the King’s seneschals, Sir Rolf de Sagard, but whether John has sanctioned this we don’t know. He’s either picking us off one by one or this is a rogue attack by bastard routiers who have taken refuge behind his walls.’

  ‘A planned attack, then?’

  ‘God knows. You remember I told you that William had promised to help the girl’s father buy an ennoblement? Well, our friend had not yet fulfilled his promise. Too interested in cunny. So, I wouldn’t be surprised if her father isn’t behind his capture.’

  ‘Are you riding to meet the other barons to release him?’ Blackstone asked, looking at the well-armed soldiers.

  ‘Save William? And show our hand? If it is the King’s work then we’ll need to be ready, if it’s not then our plans are still in place and we’ll go ahead with our meeting with the Dauphin and Navarre.’

  ‘De Fossat’s one of you!’ Blackstone said sharply.

  ‘And his own man!’ de Harcourt retorted.

  ‘He’s been your ally throughout. He deserves your help.’

  ‘No, Thomas. If William’s cock has brought about his downfall then he’ll have to sweat it out in the man’s dungeon until demands are made.’

  Their tempers eased. A friend and ally, no matter how self-serving a character, was in danger, but Blackstone knew that de Harcourt was right.

  ‘I’d get home if I were you. Stay watchful for a few days,’ the Count said.

  Blackstone felt a nagging conflict rise within him. William de Fossat’s ambush and capture could not have happened at a worse time. De Harcourt saw the concern crease Blackstone’s face and knew his friend only too well. ‘Sweet merciful Christ, Thomas, you can’t be thinking of an oath made years ago.’

  ‘I’m in his debt. He saved my life. He’s my friend.’

  ‘A fair-weather one!’

  ‘A friend! It’s who you pledge your word to that counts!’

  De Harcourt snatched at Blackstone’s bridle, but the horse’s strength was too great and it snorted, yanking itself clear of the grasping fist. ‘I’m your friend too. And I beg you not to be foolish. Who would care if a pledge was not kept because a man couldn’t keep his cock under control?’

  Blackstone brought the horse back under control. ‘I gave my word, Jean,’ he said quietly.

  Their rush of blood had settled. De Harcourt sighed, and nodded in defeat. ‘I know.’

  ‘Listen, Jean. It’s better I ride south with my men. That keeps you and the Norman lords out of it. If I can free William then we’ll get him home and lock the horny bastard in his own dungeon until this blows over. You must see I’m right.’

  De Harcourt grunted, refusing to answer immediately, but he already knew that Blackstone had made up his mind. ‘Sir Rolf de Sagard has about sixty or seventy men behind those walls. Does that make you think twice?’

  Blackstone’s men were weary from their winter raiding and the battle at Saint-Clair, but now he would demand even more from them.

  ‘Ride straight to Christiana and take her and the children to Harcourt. Keep her there until I return. Two weeks. No more.’

  ‘Merciful God, Thomas. Her spleen will burst. You promised her no more campaigns or fighting this year. You gave her your word as well.’

  ‘And you think I could sit by the hearth and do nothing for William?’

  De Harcourt settled his helm. ‘We’ll ride there now. And tell William when you see him that he should be more diligent in his prayers and thank God he has you as a friend.’

  He nodded in farewell and yanked his horse away, cantering for the road that led to Blackstone’s manor – and Christiana’s displeasure.

  14

  The retreating soldiers squelched through blood-soaked mud, their labouring breath desperate from exertion as they ran for their lives, pursued by men as breathless as themselves but who sensed victory was in their grasp. Swords’ tips cut through the air, their sting nicking hamstrings and leg muscles. Those who fell tried to turn and raise a sword arm in defence but their attackers snarled their venom and plunged sword, knife or axe into the screaming men. Bodies split open, entrails spilled across their legs as feeble hands tried to gather their guts moments before blades severed heads and limbs. Fighting men stood in their enemies’ innards and then clawed their way up the hillside. A butcher’s yard slick with gore.

  Those in retreat saw the man leading the killers in pursuit was always a half-dozen strides ahead of those who followed – all seasoned fighters anxious for victory and the spoils of war. As the fight crested the hill ten horsemen from the castle spurred their horses forward to trample the attackers beneath their hooves. Those on the run, those men who had survived the baying horde behind them, somehow managed to run between their own cavalry’s mounts, buffeted by the riders’ careless disregard for their safety. Relief surged through the survivors. Safety! The savage bastards who sought to take the stronghold had failed because now the castle’s horsemen would set about their killing. They were wrong. The moment of exhilaration faded as quickly as it had occurred. When the riders crested the hill they were at their most vulnerable. The snarling horde levelled pike and spear and lunged at the horses’ bellies. The beasts’ agonizing screams echoed across the hills to the castle walls.

  Disembowelled and mortally wounded horses reared up, throwing riders into the attackers’ midst who swarmed across them in an unforgiving and relentless tide. Sweat stung knights’ eyes, their vision a narrow slit through a helm’s visor, unable to see the mayhem being wrought. It was a half-blindness that became a terrifying claustrophobia when the horse beneath them fell, throwing them and the eighty pounds of armour that encased them like a worm in an iron coffin to the ground. One of the first to fall felt a final, helpless terror, piss spilling down his leg as the final sight of life was of a wild-eyed attacker snarling a curse as a knife came through the narrow slit and pierced eye and brain. Heels drummed the ground in death throes – flailing into the darkness, realizing that the howling scream was his. And that God did not exist.

  Before the man’s bowels let go his killer was already stepping on his lifeless body and attacking another.

  Almost there! Suck the air and spit the fear. Wild-eyed and unstoppable, the attacking men surged over the brow of the hill and saw the enemy run for the safety of the castle walls. The portcullis was up; men on the battlements screamed for survivors to hurry. A siren wail of pain and terror told the defenders that unless the portcullis was dropped death would be among them. Those being pursued were overtaken by the lone surviving man-at-arms who mercilessly spurred his horse to escape the savagery that pursued him. The retreating men heard the bastard screaming to lower the portcullis as soon as he reached the castle’s gate. Their hatred for the privileged horseman lent power to their legs. They heard his horse’s hooves clatter across the bridge. Fifty yards. Forty. Only thirty now. Thirty rapid strides to safety. A groan came from the chain tower as the mighty winch holding the portcullis released the tension of its burden. The portcullis slammed into the ground. The survivors were only ten yards from safety and their screams of anguish echoed up the walls. They were dead men.

  The dozen or so soldiers, bloodied and exhausted, turned to face the men who would kill them. Their backs a
gainst the barred gate they threw down their weapons and knelt in supplication. Mercy was their only hope.

  None was given.

  The butchery lasted only minutes despite spears and rocks being hurled down onto those doing the killing. There would be no burning pitch or oil, no siege was in place, there had been no warning to defend the castle. The assault had caught the garrison by surprise when the supply wagons were attacked on the approach road. There had been so few men surging from the forest that the garrison commander thought they could only be a roving band of disorganized routiers – mercenaries who raided for supplies. And that was why Sir Rolf de Sagard had sent out troops and horsemen to inflict punishment and rescue his supplies – but the ragged band soon formed into a cohesive knot of disciplined fighters led by one man at the point of the phalanx. Now the attackers were closer, the Frenchman saw the man’s armorial blazon: a mailed fist clenching the cruciform of a sword. His heart sank – Sir Thomas Blackstone. There was only one reason for him to venture this far south into such hostile territory; Blackstone was after the prisoner held in the castle’s dungeon. But how could the Englishman hope to secure the castle with so few men? Was this the best he could muster – fewer than fifty fighting men? Perhaps Blackstone’s legend had been embellished? He seemed to be little more than a common brigand with ambition beyond his capability. Sir Rolf de Sagard’s hopes soared. Below his gate the scar-faced Englishman and his men huddled beneath their shields, sheltering from his men’s barrage. He bellowed his orders to his men on the wall. ‘Kill them! We have them! More rocks!’

  Glory would be his and the King of France would reward him for delivering the head of the man who had plagued him for so long.

  Blackstone and his fighters knelt, shield straps tightened and locked above their heads as the thud of rubble and spears pounded down upon them. Their boiled leather knee guards protected them from the stony ground but it would not be long before the shields would crack like eggs and then Blackstone and his men’s mangled bodies would join those of the slaughtered men.

  ‘Holy Mother! He’d best hurry!’ Meulon shouted above the noise of the assault hammering down.

  Blackstone twisted his head and looked at the black-bearded man whose eyes glared from behind his helmet’s nose guard. Meulon and the others – Gaillard, Perinne: sworn men at his side for these past years – crouched like beasts in the field fearful of being struck by lightning.

  ‘He’ll be here!’ Blackstone yelled, and prayed that his squire had done exactly as ordered because his own attack was a feint to draw the men in the castle to the front wall.

  Guillaume Bourdin clambered across the rear parapet from the scaling ladder that had wobbled precariously when four of the rungs gave way beneath his weight. He led the assault but almost lost his grip when he crashed the length of his body down the ladder. His feet slammed into the man below, a muffled grunt and a curse was all the nineteen-year-old squire heard as he hauled his weight up hand over hand. Shield and sword were strapped across his back, which meant that he would be vulnerable as he breached the wall. But no soldiers lay in wait; the cries of battle were beyond him from where Blackstone led the frontal assault. Despite the broken ladder men poured across the wall after him, running along the battlements, peeling left and right to secure the walls and watch towers. They ran silently, bringing their shields across their bodies, readying axe and spear. None wore armour, their swiftness of foot and agility in battle demanding that they wore only mail shirts beneath a gambeson that bore Blackstone’s coat of arms. There was no distinction between knight and common soldier. The castle’s inner ward was protected by a curtain wall and as Guillaume ran towards the front battlements he saw others clamber like rats across a sinking ship’s bows to the keep, where soldiers would be guarding the garrison knight’s family. The young squire gave them little thought. If the men followed Blackstone’s orders the women and children would not be harmed, but if any showed resistance they would be slaughtered.

  Guillaume and his men had got further than they thought possible before being detected as the defenders concentrated their efforts on destroying those below the shield wall. Ten men ran behind him in support, another dozen or more raced along the other parapet and they would soon meet resistance from the watchtower, but the men on the ground who had run down the steps to the courtyard would have to secure the gate as rapidly as they could, while those above took control of the tower and raised the portcullis. Guillaume saw the rolling gait of Guinot the stocky Gascon, his short hair bristling grey in the dull light, his leather jerkin stretching tight across a broad back as he wielded an axe in one hand and a mace in the other. He and the men with him carried no shields for protection; they were going to carve a path into the soldiers behind the gates. Fifty men were now inside the castle walls. Guillaume knew that despite every one of his men being worth two of Sir Rolf de Sagard’s, Blackstone had, for once, attacked with a superior force.

  The garrison commander half turned as men behind him screamed a warning. Sir Rolf’s worst fears were realized as he saw the enemy swarming within the castle walls. He yelled a command and ran at Guillaume along the parapet, which was only wide enough to allow two men shoulder to shoulder. Blackstone had spent the past five years training each day with his young squire, and the remorseless demands Blackstone made on his men were what secured the towns he held and the fear he created. Ferocity in attack, he always told them, drives the heart and strengthens the sword arm, but also puts the fear of Christ into others. Now, however, the greatest challenge Guillaume faced was to carry out his lord’s command not to slay Sir Rolf. He wanted him alive. How, the young squire asked himself, was he supposed to do that and survive? The garrison commander held back, ordering his men-at-arms to halt the attacking men. Guillaume bent his shoulder behind his shield and scraped its edge along the parapet wall, allowing another of his men to squeeze in next to his shoulder. As the man cut viciously low into the legs of the soldiers defending Sir Rolf, Guillaume skewered and jabbed his sword beneath raised arms and exposed throats. They fell gasping and squirming and were kicked to the yard below.

  Sir Rolf turned to retreat to the safety of the keep but Guillaume screamed to Guinot below: ‘Guinot! Stop him!’ and jabbed with his sword in the direction of the knight.

  The sweat-slicked Gascon ran forward, cutting off the man’s escape, and, as Sir Rolf killed two of his attackers, Guinot hurled his mace straight at the man’s head. The strike whipped the knight’s head back, rocking him onto his heels, and then one of his knees gave way as he staggered. Stunned, he half turned, desperately sweeping the sword in a wide arc, catching another of Guillaume’s men across the throat. By then Guinot was on him, throwing his weight over him, ripping free the helm and punching him in the temple. Sir Rolf de Sagard lay unconscious in the mud, his beard clogged, his ears and nose leaking blood. As the cry went up that their commander was down his soldiers grouped together and formed a defensive knot, crowding themselves into a corner. They had already witnessed the lack of mercy given to those who had tried to surrender on the other side of the portcullis. There was no choice other than to fight. Guillaume shouted for others to assault the gatehouse and as the men he led plunged spear and sword into the fifteen or so men who stood their ground he joined those who were using a granite horse trough as a battering ram against the keep’s stubborn oak door.

  He heard the portcullis clank upwards and men heaving aside the gates. Blackstone strode into the outer ward flanked by the bear-like figures of Meulon and Gaillard. Within half a dozen strides Blackstone had barked out an order to spare the few remaining survivors who now crowded behind their fallen comrades. The moment the order was given the French threw down their weapons and knelt in surrender. Blackstone’s men reached into the group and hauled them into the open yard.

  ‘Where’s de Sagard?’ Blackstone called as he and the others walked between the fallen men.

  ‘My lord!’ Perinne shouted from where he had propped the hapless
commander against the wall, wrists bound and shackled to an eyelet in the wall. Sir Rolf was still groggy from the blows and blinked uncertainly as Blackstone reached him and lifted his chin with his gauntleted fist.

  ‘Where is William de Fossat?’

  The battered man shook his head, mumbled and dropped his head down onto his chest.

  Blackstone pinched the knight’s nose. ‘Don’t feign unconsciousness with me, you turd!’

  Sir Rolf gasped for air.

  ‘You know who I am,’ Blackstone said threateningly through gritted teeth.

  Sir Rolf nodded.

  ‘Good,’ said Blackstone, as he heard the keep door shatter and saw Guillaume lead the men inside. He twisted the man’s head so he could see what was happening. There was a clash of steel and shouts of alarm from within. Men cried out; a woman screamed. ‘But you don’t know my men. And what they’ll do to your wife and children. Where is de Fossat?’

  ‘He’s not here.’

  Blackstone pushed his head back against the wall, making him grimace as the rough stone rubbed his scalp.

  ‘You’ll spare them? I beg you, Sir Thomas, don’t let your men dishonour my wife and daughter.’

  Blackstone glared at the beaten man, saying nothing – and then relented. ‘I’ll spare them,’ knowing full well his orders already stood for them to remain unharmed.

  ‘The truth, Sir Thomas. William de Fossat is not here. He is no longer my prisoner.’

  This time Blackstone slammed Rolf’s head back hard, stunning him. ‘Stay with him, Guinot. Keep the bastard alive. Give him water when he comes to. Meulon, with me. Gaillard, you and Perinne take the men. Search everywhere.’ He strode quickly to the keep and pushed his way through the crowded stairwell as his men came down with bolts of fine cloth, silver plate and jewellery.