by David Gilman
‘Jesus, Thomas,’ Killbere whispered with only the slightest movement of his head. ‘We’ve stumbled into a hornet’s nest.’
Blackstone turned and followed his gaze. Horsemen were also on their flank, making their way through the forest, turning and twisting, finding the tracks for their horses. They were too far into the trees to identify, but there was no doubt that they were routiers, and if they stayed on their present course they would ride right onto the Englishmen.
Blackstone slowly drew his sword, as did Killbere and the men. They would have to fight their way clear. Anticipation shortened Blackstone’s breathing, his fist gripped his sword until his knuckles ached. It was the same before every combat – the blurred vision that swam briefly before changing to the clarity of a raptor that saw every movement and nuance of battle. When fear gave way to exultation.
Before Killbere could stop him, Blackstone eased his horse aside and rode towards the flanking men. To ride against an enemy alone was suicidal. Killbere held fast, still in the forest’s cover, waiting to attack as Blackstone halted his horse on a broad track, twenty yards wide, leaving him completely exposed to the approaching men. Five, then ten, twenty and thirty men, filtered from the forest, followed by even more, and not one of them raised his voice in challenge or his sword in anger.
Blackstone turned in the saddle and called back quietly: ‘They’re my men.’
The French rearguard had no time to organize a defence. As they cleared the forest and moved into the open Blackstone and Sir Gilbert swept out of the trees with Guillaume and more than a hundred horsemen. Panic-stricken horses careered into each other as knights shouted and cursed in confusion, trying to strike back at their attackers. Guillaume led men onto their flank, as Killbere’s swept right, hacking and slicing the outer riders who had nowhere to run – turmoil at their backs, the English and Gascons at their front. Blackstone and the men behind him rode into the heart of the mêlée, the force of their charge carrying them deep into the Frenchmen who lumbered helplessly into each other as they attempted to turn their horses. It was a slaughter.
Within the hour more than two hundred French lay dead; others, captured by the Gascons, would fetch ransoms. The survivors galloped for safety, pursued by Blackstone’s men.
The blood-splattered Guinot, Chaulion’s garrison commander, reined in with Perinne and Meulon with Gaillard at his side. ‘I can’t stop them, my lord. They’ve been sitting behind a town’s walls too long.’
‘Let them be!’ Blackstone ordered. ‘Meulon, Gaillard, regroup your men and cover our flanks in case there are others in the forest. Perinne, you stay with Guinot, take our wounded from the field.’
The men wheeled their horses to carry out his commands. Beyond the escaping French another group of riders had appeared on the crest of a hill. Armoured knights, their banners catching the late afternoon sun, stood motionless watching the debacle. Blackstone could not make out the coat of arms. He spurred his horse.
Killbere saw Guillaume give chase and went after them. The two horsemen caught up with Blackstone as he crested the hill, but the French knights had already gone. Killbere pulled his helmet free and tousled his sweat-soaked hair. ‘We hurt the bastards, but it’s little more than a sting. Where in God’s name is King John?’
The three men could see no sign of the French army.
‘I don’t know, but I saw their scouts on this ridge. They’re close – couple of miles, maybe – hidden by those hills. If Edward comes out of that forest he’ll have no battle formation and if the French are drawn up he’ll have no choice but to fight on their terms. Gilbert, ride back, take Guillaume and the others, warn him to stay in the trees, guide him to as far as we reached.’
‘I’ll stay with you, my lord,’ Guillaume said.
‘No, ride as Sir Gilbert’s escort. Take Guinot and as many of the others who still remain. There might be French scouts between you and the Prince. Avoid them.’
Blackstone didn’t wait for their answer and urged his horse down the hillside.
The forests drank in the remains of the day’s light, the setting sun emptying the landscape of men’s hope. Blackstone eased the horse forward, letting it find its own way over the patchy ground. He turned in the saddle to look back towards the forest where several thousand men would be stumbling, exhausted. There was no water to be had in that dense woodland, and if the French army blocked the roads south, the English would be hard-pressed to gain any relief before battle commenced. Blackstone knew there was a smaller river that lay south of the Poitiers road, but if the French were already there the English could be easily surrounded and starved into submission. There seemed to be nowhere suitable for them to stand their ground. And then Blackstone saw the tall stone tower of a Benedictine abbey. The narrow river lay just below it, and he could see across the village rooftops to the hillside beyond. That ground was the best place to make a stand. The holy tower was a beacon. Perhaps God was on Edward’s side after all.
The abbey was a sharp reminder that Blackstone’s family had left a similar monastery days earlier. As the bells rang out for vespers, Blackstone allowed himself a prayer for their safety. They would be well away by now, ever closer to Avignon, where the Italian priest would ensure their safety. Once this battle was over and his sworn revenge satisfied, they would be reunited.
He turned the horse back towards the forest. Prince Edward now had his place of battle and Blackstone had the opportunity he had waited for – to kill the French King and the Savage Priest.
Christiana and the children lay huddled on the barge’s wet deck. They and Father Niccolò, with the sergeant, two other men and three tethered and snaffled horses, had glided downriver for four days. A second barge with the other hobelars and horses followed the broad-beamed boat, its tiller embraced by a bargeman. By the next day they would disembark and be within a few days’ ride of Avignon. The priest had shown kindness, telling Christiana and the children stories of his home, where God’s sunshine blessed the food and powerful city-states ruled. There was no King to obey, and trade was made in all manner of goods. Medicine and art flourished, children were educated and gold coin was minted. As they were swept across eddies and currents, he told Christiana that he had been witness to Blackstone’s wounds ten years ago at Crécy. His injuries were their common link, for soon after that his broken body had been given refuge by the de Harcourts, where Christiana had nursed him. And loved him.
Their food aboard was sparse after the first two days, and the curtains of rain and river mist, between the occasional sunshine, soaked and chilled them, exposed as they were on the open deck. Agnes had recovered enough to travel, the monks’ herbal remedies restraining the fever, but the child slept more than she was awake, held close to Christiana, whose cloak kept the worst of the rain from her. Cold and wet they may have been, but they were safe. Two days earlier there had been a brief glimpse of armed men ashore who had followed the meandering riverbank for a few hours. The river was, however, too wide for horsemen to ford, and the bargemen stayed in mid-stream until the men were forced away from the water’s edge when the track ran out.
They had been blessed with a warm day; the sun’s rays eased aching limbs and dried wet clothing. It was now only a few hours until daylight, before the bargemen would ease the barges ashore to unload their human cargo. Glimpses of moonlight showed the pastured hills lying downstream. The gentle creaking of seasoned timbers and softly lapping water lulled those aboard into a cradling sleep, all except for the bargeman and the soldier, Rudd, who stood his watch.
The bargeman held the tiller and gazed above the baled cargo, watching the night tide, mindful of sandbanks and shifting water that told him where shale beds lurked below the surface. Midstream was deep and fast-flowing, requiring a lifetime’s experience of navigation on the river, but still demanding vigilance as they moved into layers of surface-hugging mist. The bargeman, his attention fixed on his work, did not notice the soldier who made his way forward, knife in hand.
Christiana’s breathing was slow and steady, her sleep deep enough to dream but shallow enough to rise to the surface if the barge groaned from the river god’s threat. The soldier knelt next to her, swallowing the spittle that filled his mouth from the excitement of his lust. She lay on her back, her cloak open, exposing her dress that had snagged halfway up her leg. The girl child was next to her, close to her face, soothed, perhaps, by her mother’s breath. Rudd turned to look behind him; the bargeman was hidden behind the bales, the other two men still slept and, as the mist thickened, their forms became even less visible. He waited a moment longer. No one stirred. Blackstone’s brat was curled against the bulkhead cocooned in a blanket, his back to his mother.
Rudd edged closer so he could straddle her in a single movement, his breeches already undone. His hand clamped her mouth and as she bucked and gagged, startled into wakefulness, he had his weight across her, holding the knife point below her eye, moving it away to lead her gaze to Agnes, inches from her. Rudd held the blade beneath the child’s chin, his meaning clear.
She nodded, and followed his sign to pull her dress higher, his hand moving from her mouth to her breast. His knees forced her legs apart, his eyes never wavering from hers until she turned her face away and looked at Agnes, terrified that the child would wake and scream. Even as he forced his way into her, she kept her eyes open, watching the knife blade waver near the child’s throat. Christiana’s pain intensified as his muffled grunts increased. The scream, when it came, was not from the vulnerable child but from Rudd himself.
Henry awoke as the boat groaned in its efforts to stay on course and saw Rudd raping his mother. He plunged Guillaume’s dagger into the man’s bare buttocks, then fell back from the sweeping arc of the man’s blow. Rudd cursed, Christiana twisted, and the man fell away. But his reactions were immediate, the pain and the smothering blood across his hand spurring him to lunge at her with his knife. He was half up, his breeches catching his knees, slowing his momentum, but already swinging the blade down in his blind rage.
A fist snatched a handful of his hair, yanked back his head and exposed his neck to a blade that cut his throat to the spine. Rudd gurgled blood, lungs rasping, hands whirling in his final moments, trying to reach those that held him. His eyes rolled into his head and the sergeant cast him to one side.
‘My lady,’ he said gently, bending quickly and tugging her dress down; the sight of Rudd’s death had ousted all thought of modesty. She trembled, and then clutched her clothes, nodding, pulling a waking Agnes to her. By then the second soldier had joined the sergeant and heaved Rudd’s body away from her.
‘Father,’ Sergeant Jacob called, beckoning the sleep-groggy priest from the back of the boat. ‘Lady Christiana needs you.’ Jacob turned to the soldier: ‘Finn, get a bucket and swill this blood and shit away.’ Then he knelt to help Christiana. ‘Come away from here, my lady. We’ll make a better place for you and the child.’
‘Thank you,’ she said, accepting the help of his strength; then, looking into his face as the moonlight thankfully slid away behind clouds: ‘Nothing happened.’
‘I know,’ he answered, sharing the lie.
She looked at Henry, who stood with his back against the boat’s side. Before she could utter a word, Jacob turned her away. ‘He’s all right. I’ll look after him,’ he told her, and let a stoic Father Niccolò guide her back towards the stern of the barge.
Jacob bent down and retrieved the dagger, fat and blood slimy on its blade. He dipped it in the bucket and then wiped it on his sleeve. Henry had not moved, frozen at the sight of Rudd’s head being nearly severed.
‘Master Henry,’ the sergeant said. The boy did not respond, so Jacob touched the lad’s face, and guided it to look at him. ‘You saved your mother. Do you understand?’ he said quietly, his voice barely above a whisper.
Henry began to tremble.
Sergeant Jacob gripped the boy’s shoulder, sliding the dagger back into its scabbard in the boy’s belt. ‘Be brave, lad,’ he urged, but Henry’s face turned to the dark sky, his mouth wide open, his lungs desperate to scream, but no sound came; he was rigid.
The sergeant slapped him hard, the calloused hand raising a welt across the boy’s face. Henry’s head snapped back, his eyes glared, but his hand reaching for the dagger was quickly stopped by Jacob.
‘All right, lad, all right. You’re all right now, aren’t you, boy?’
Henry’s body relaxed. He nodded. ‘Yes, sir.’
‘Now, the job’s not yet finished, is it?’ And he turned to look at Rudd’s half-naked body, crumpled against the bulkhead. ‘Can you help us finish it, Master Henry?’ he asked, knowing the boy needed to see through the gruesome task if he were ever to face death again.
Henry nodded again and followed the lead of Jacob and the other soldier, Finn, grabbing hold of the body to heave it overboard. Rudd’s gaping throat yawned, his eyes a curse in death, but Henry stared right back into the lifeless eyes and knew that he was glad, deep into his heart, that this man was dead. He also knew that the love he had for his mother had been stolen by the darkness.
Rudd’s body barely made a splash as the current dragged it below the fast-moving barge. Water sluiced across the deck as the soldier swilled it down. Sergeant Jacob offered Henry a bottle of gut-ripping cider. The boy pulled on the neck, winced and coughed, but then took another mouthful, the rich bite of its aroma cleansing the stench of Rudd’s loosened bowels from his nostrils.
‘Now, best you go back to your mother and sister,’ Jacob said.
Henry shook his head. ‘No. I’ll stay with you.’
Prince Edward kept his army in the trees. They were without water, and had little food. No fires were permitted to offer any comfort from the dank forest, and the men stayed dressed for battle. The army had barely a few hours’ rest before Blackstone and Guillaume led them from the trees before sunrise. He guided them down the valley beneath the walls of the abbey and onto the hillside at the northern end of a wood known as the Bois de Nouaillé.
‘The men are tired and hungry, my lord,’ said Guillaume as Blackstone watched the soldiers prepare themselves to defend the rising ground.
‘Then they will be more bad-tempered than usual,’ Blackstone said. ‘Pity the well-fed French, Guillaume, their breakfast will soon be vomited on this field.’
Guillaume handed Blackstone what little water was left. ‘You have hardly taken anything yourself, my lord.’
Blackstone could not deny the young squire his concern. He swallowed the water, and watched the exhausted army. ‘Fate chases me. I’ll settle matters in this battle.’
‘My lord?’ Guillaume asked, not understanding what Blackstone meant.
Blackstone wiped the sweat and grime from his face. ‘Ten years ago I fought across Normandy with the King. There was bitter fighting when we took Caen and one night I searched for my brother in the streets. The fallen were everywhere and I came across a priest in the shadows who was desecrating the dead. I almost killed him but he escaped. My knife took his finger. And when Sir Gilbert came upon me in the forest I questioned a routier who told me this Savage Priest has a finger missing.’
He dismounted and handed the reins to his squire. ‘This man flayed William de Fossat alive, destroyed my home and tortured and killed my people. He threatens my wife and children. When you attend mass pray that fate has not deceived me. I’ll kill him on sight.’
Blackstone strode towards Killbere, who had returned with a scouting party. His broad grin told Blackstone he must have had sight of the French army in all its glory.
Killbere reported directly to the Prince and the commanders. ‘The French are about a mile away, my lord.’
The Prince looked across the undulating land and his weary men still trudging across the hillside. ‘If the French are that close, we’ll be hard pressed to form up for battle. Let’s pray the cardinals come back again. We need time. Where?’
‘They’re hidden behind that ridge. They
’re ready.’
‘As many as we believed?’ the Prince asked.
‘Like fleas on a dog’s back, my lord. Banners as thick as an invasion fleet’s sails,’ Killbere said. ‘Ten or twelve thousand fighting men, right enough, my lord. They haven’t gone home yet.’
The men laughed. French courage was never in doubt, but French noblemen had always made their own decisions when to leave the battlefield.
‘No, not this time,’ the Prince said with good humour. ‘If Blackstone’s information is correct then King John holds them to their word to fight.’
‘Then we’ll make them wish they had not,’ Killbere said, bringing a murmur of agreement from the others.
‘You’ll not make any further progress, my lord,’ Killbere continued. ‘Blackstone has chosen the best place to defend. You face north-west and have a commanding view of the plateau in front of you when they come over that hill. Their cavalry is in the front division. Five hundred or more.’
He paused letting what he had said sink in to the commanders.
‘It won’t be the first time they’ve tried to put us under their hooves,’ said the Earl of Salisbury.
‘They’ll want our archers first,’ said the Prince. ‘They’re no fools; their scouts will have seen how few we have.’
Killbere scratched more lines in the dirt. ‘Well, my Prince, the three divisions who will follow have abandoned their horses. They fight on the ground. Like us.’
The commanders looked from one to the other. Was this gross folly on the French King’s part or had he realized the terrain was best assaulted on foot?
‘Crush us with the cavalry and swarm through us,’ said the Earl of Warwick. ‘He learns from us.’