by David Gilman
Closer now. Eighty paces. Eighty strides of muscle-tearing effort. The trumpets blared again. Signal flags punctuated the King’s demand. Retreat! The French would not yield a damned yard and the mud slowed the attackers. More Englishmen fell. Crossbow bolts and stones continued to rain down. The English bowmen had stopped releasing their yard-long shafts: the bodkin points no longer tore through French flesh. The King had commanded it and now Blackstone’s men were exposed and abandoned. They were too few. Blackstone saw at once that even if they reached the high gate they would die beneath the walls. He swung his shield around and let the timber go. Killbere knew it as well. They had tried and failed. Had more men stayed at their back they might have had a chance. Killbere spat and let his sword dangle from its blood knot around his wrist as he put a finger to each nostril and blew clear the snot. And then in an act of sheer disdain he turned his back on his enemy and trudged back towards the English lines.
Blackstone laughed. The battle-hardened Killbere was the same age as the King. His forty-seven years had made him despise death more than he hated the French.
‘All right,’ Blackstone said. ‘We’ve done enough here.’
The men hesitated, and then they too dropped their burdens. The French had not come forward, perhaps grateful that they did not have to face the ferocious assault any longer. Blackstone gazed up at the high walls shrouded in mist and smoke. King Edward might pursue the siege again but not today. He looked at his exhausted and wounded men. Some leaned on their weapons, others spat out the foul taste of death, most grinned. There was no shame. No one else had got as close.
CHAPTER TWO
Blackstone’s meagre shelter offered little comfort from the cold and wet. The canvas dripped and the fire smouldered. There was no dry kindling. Blackstone watched men going among the badly wounded and killing them. Bodies were being dragged into a ditch so that their stench would soon be covered in a mass grave. The French did the same with their fallen. The King’s retreat had become a truce to despatch the maimed and dying. It would not be long before peasants, wraiths from the forests, crept from cover and went among the dead to strip what they could from the corpses. English archers might kill them if they had enough arrows, but on a great expedition such as this would not waste missiles on grave robbers. The killing ground became a dream-like scene. The breeze swirled the grey drizzle around the peasants who bent like crows pecking at the dead; archers went forward to pluck arrows from the slain; and screams and moans rose and fell as knives were used to end men’s agony.
Killbere stripped off his mail and undershirt and, ignoring the chilling drizzle, bathed a wound on his ribs. It was barely a hand’s width in length and his sodden shirt had clung to it and stopped it from bleeding further, but once the fighting started again his efforts would open it. He smeared a thick pungent wax-like cream across his flank and allowed a grimace as the astringent ointment stung the raw flesh.
‘I swear by a whore’s tits that the monks are poisoning me. I gave them good coin for this after we were ambushed at Laon, and it stings like a flail. They said it was good for horses’ wounds.’
Blackstone had pulled his mail free and let the sweat-soaked undershirt cling to him in the rain. The cold prickled his skin but his mind dismissed it. Best to embrace the weather rather than fight it. He reached into his saddle pannier and took out a roll of torn linen. ‘You should have confessed your sins first and asked for absolution,’ he said. ‘Then they would have given you honey and herbs to dress your wounds and a cask of their best brandy to ease your pain.’
Killbere gave a nod towards the silver goddess that dangled from a cord around Blackstone’s neck. Arianrhod. The Celtic goddess of the silver wheel was a pagan symbol pressed into Blackstone’s hand by a dying Welsh archer when the young Englishman first went to war and fought at Caen. She protected a fighting man in this life and then carried him across to the next. ‘Sweet Jesus, Thomas, when have you ever loved scab-arsed monks or priests? And when have I ever had the time to confess my sins? There’s a war to be fought. You’ll bind the damned thing for me?’
‘If you sit still long enough.’
Killbere grunted with impatience and raised his arm so that Blackstone could wrap the linen around his ribs. ‘Cold, wet and not a decent meal in days. The supply wagons stretch back God knows how many leagues, the horses are dying, the men are starving while the King is warm and fed, and all because the…’ He winced. ‘Jesus, Thomas, you’re not swaddling a child, not so tight… all because King John has not paid his ransom. Why did we shed our blood at Poitiers for a captured King not to pay his debts? Am I a money-lender to royalty now? If he paid up we wouldn’t be in this godforsaken mess. What good is it for Edward to take the French crown? Eh? Answer me that. A country laid bare, a bankrupt nation, as useful as a eunuch in a whorehouse.’ He waved Blackstone away. ‘All right, all right. That will do well enough.’ He straightened his back and drew in breath. ‘You crush my lungs. I’ll cut it free when we go back to the walls.’
‘I doubt the King will send us back soon. We lost too many men. Gilbert, you should take yourself off to the nearest nunnery and have them attend you. Only they would have the forbearance to put up with you.’
Killbere tugged his wet shirt back on and then a leather jerkin. ‘Did I ever tell you about the nun I fell in love with?’
‘Often,’ said Blackstone and draped his own shirt over three sticks that had held the cooking pot above the flames when there had been fire. It would help ease the stench of sweat from the cloth but he would stink of woodsmoke like a cured ham.
Killbere found a piece of dried meat in a sack and squatted beneath the dripping canvas to eat it. ‘Where’s the boy?’
‘He’ll be here,’ said Blackstone and let his eyes scan the hundreds of men huddled around their makeshift shelters, sitting in the smudge smoke of meagre fires. Further still, along the treeline and beyond, were thousands more. The King and his three sons had brought the might of England to teach the Dauphin a lesson in war and politics. An agreement had been made between Edward and King John, who had been captured at Poitiers just over three years before, who still sat in London as his prisoner. Lands were to be ceded; a massive ransom was to be paid. Neither had been forthcoming and the Dauphin and the Estates General had refused to acknowledge the treaty the two Kings had made. The world would have been a better place had Blackstone managed to kill the French King at Poitiers as he had sworn to do. The world, he thought, would have been better had death not then wielded its scythe against his family.
‘He’ll be here,’ he said again, dismissing the horror that had befallen his wife and child from his mind.
Killbere grunted as he chewed the meat, and probed a maggot free with a fingernail. ‘I have not mentioned it often. Of that I am certain.’
‘What?’
‘The nun!’
‘You told me more than a year ago as we made our way down to Meaux.’
‘Ah. As recently as that. Well, I apologize. I’m starting to chatter like a damned washerwoman.’
‘There he is,’ said Blackstone as he caught sight of his son, making his way through the encampment, a small sack slung over his shoulder that was seeping blood. Henry Blackstone served as John Jacob’s page, the intention being that he would one day rise to squire under the man-at-arms’s tutelage and the watchful eye of his father. Had Blackstone’s wife lived she would have argued the case for the boy to continue his studies, not learn the art of war. But she had not lived and Blackstone now had his son at his side, but he honoured her memory and ensured the boy continued with his schooling too.
‘Henry. Where’s John Jacob?’ said Blackstone. His son and his squire had been sent to check on Blackstone’s men as had Meulon and Gaillard to check on theirs.
‘My lord, he was summoned to the Prince,’ the boy answered.
Killbere looked at Blackstone and pulled a face. No words were needed. Blackstone would hear bad news soon enough. Killbere stretched
around. ‘Boy, I hope you’re not carrying French heads in that sack. I’ve sliced enough of those today.’
Henry dropped the sack and knelt down, reaching inside it. ‘No, Sir Gilbert, they don’t cook so well.’ He lifted a piece of venison and smiled in triumph. ‘Will Longdon shot a deer.’
‘They’ll flog him for poaching the King’s game,’ said Killbere. ‘This is Edward’s realm now.’
‘No, Sir Gilbert. The sergeant-at-arms said that to Master Longdon but I told him he was wrong,’ said Henry.
‘By the dog’s bollocks, you did not,’ said Killbere.
‘Son, what happened?’ said Blackstone.
‘Father, I hope I did not shame you but the sergeant was going to arrest Master Longdon until I told him that our sovereign lord had yet to be crowned. It’s only the French King’s deer,’ said Henry.
Blackstone and Killbere were dumbfounded and then Killbere guffawed and laughed until a coughing fit and the pain in his side stopped him. ‘Sweet Merciful God, Thomas, you’ve a wolf pup here who knows the law of the forest.’ He grinned with pleasure. ‘Henry, you are a credit to your father.’
The boy beamed but soon lowered his eyes at the stern glance from Blackstone. ‘You challenged a sergeant-at-arms, Henry. You’re a page not a squire. And you should bear your learning lightly. You risked shaming the man in front of the archers.’
‘Yes, Father.’
‘Will Longdon spoke up for you?’
‘He did. He knew the man so they parted on good terms.’ He raised his eyes and dared a grin. ‘And I parted with this.’ Henry wiped the blood from his hands on the sacking. ‘Will said it ran in fear from the forest when the King’s bombard went off. Said it ran right across the line of archers. Said it was a French deer showing disrespect for English archers.’
‘And the rest of its carcass?’ said Blackstone.
‘Will’s sharing it with as many of his archers as he can.’
‘My mouth waters, boy,’ said Killbere, ‘but raw venison is hard to chew with my old teeth.’
Henry smiled and pulled out a wad of wood shavings. ‘The carpenters were cutting timber.’
‘Good lad!’ said Killbere. He reached for his aketon and picked away a couple of stitches of the padded jacket with his knife. He tugged free some of the wool and gave it to the boy. ‘Fire and food.’
‘You checked my horse? He’s fed?’ said Blackstone.
‘Yes, Father. They have him roped in a glade. They did as you instructed and kept him well away from the other horses.’
‘No injuries?’
‘Not to your horse, Father. One of the boys in the baggage train got too close and he kicked his leg. They say he won’t walk again without a staff.’
‘Serve him right. Everyone knows to keep clear of him.’ Blackstone looked up at the clouds. ‘It will blow clear for a while. Make haste, Henry. We’ll save some for John for when he comes back.’
‘You spoil your men, Thomas, I’ve always said it. Though I grant you John Jacob deserves to be treated well.’
‘And Will Longdon, and Meulon and Gaillard and Jack Halfpenny, and Robert Thurgood and –’
‘God’s tears, Thomas. You cannot feed the five thousand… Yes, yes… them as well. Come on, Henry, do as your lord and father commands. All that killing has worked up my appetite.’
As the boy set about his task Blackstone’s gaze ranged beyond the temptation of the venison and the promise of warmth that even a meagre fire would offer. John Jacob was making his way towards them through the scattered men and with him was one of the Prince’s messengers.
More censure from the man he had sworn to protect? Blackstone wondered. Perhaps the sergeant-at-arms had not been so accommodating after all. The fire crackled into life; Henry laid the skillet on top. Whatever the messenger wanted, Blackstone could see by the scowling frown on John Jacob’s face that it was not good news. Blackstone doubted he would get to enjoy the only fresh meat they had seen in days.
CHAPTER THREE
The Prince’s encampment lay in Villedommange, a few miles from the city walls. From its rising ground the hamlet afforded the Prince a view of the plain before him. Blackstone strode ahead of the Prince’s messenger; the only words he had uttered were that Sir Thomas Blackstone had been summoned. John Jacob had turned to accompany Blackstone as he picked his way through the resting troops, but his sworn lord insisted he stay with Killbere and Henry and eat the fresh meat that Will Longdon had supplied. Through the grey drizzle and mist Blackstone saw the pavilions of the Prince’s retinue. A forest of pennons declared there were several bannerets and more than a hundred knights who fought close to the King’s son. Their squires would number in the hundreds, and the fighting men would be reinforced by nearly a thousand mounted archers. The Prince’s pavilion sat beneath his barely fluttering banner of Drago, the Welsh dragon that had rallied men at Crécy and Poitiers. The soaked material proclaimed the presence of one of the greatest fighting princes that England had produced. King Edward’s three other younger sons, Lionel, John and Edmund, had embarked with him to earn their spurs as their father came to seize the French crown. Blackstone doubted whether any of them could ever match the fighting skills and bravery of their older brother. Edward of Woodstock was a great knight who relished the rigour of battle as much as his warrior father. Blackstone and Prince Edward had been both blessed and cursed at the battle of Crécy when, as a sixteen-year-old archer, Blackstone had thrown himself into the fray in a vain attempt to rescue his own brother from a German knight who had struck the mute boy down. Blackstone’s action had failed to save his brother but stopped the young Prince being slain. Since then an uneasy and often embittered relationship had formed between the two men. The Prince’s sharp-edged anger at Blackstone’s defiance was tempered only by respect and a grudging gratitude.
Men-at-arms barred Blackstone’s way. He stood without protest as a steward went ahead of him into the pavilion. The rain became heavier, tapping out a staccato rhythm on the taut wet canvas. Rain dribbled down Blackstone’s neck but he stood unwavering as the men-at-arms hunched their shoulders. The tent flap was raised and the steward beckoned him forward. Blackstone entered into the half-light of the sumptuous lodgings of a prince at war. The flap was tied back and the burning candles made the damp air heavy with their sweet smell of beeswax. To one side a trestle table draped in a white linen cloth was covered with an assortment of silver and gold plate that bore the evidence of what must have been a feast. Some cold meats and a hank of bone, bowls half filled with bread. Fresh bread, his nose told him. The Prince sat on a bow-armed backless stool, a fresh shirt visible beneath his half-buttoned doublet embroidered with a curving vine and a bird about to take flight. He looked as though he had spent the day hunting, not fighting for his life.
‘Thomas,’ said the Prince.
‘Sire.’ Blackstone went down on one knee.
The Prince beckoned him forward. ‘A good day’s sport, Thomas.’
‘Aye, your grace,’ said Blackstone, remembering the slaughter and the stench of it, all less than three hours before. The fair-haired Prince made light of the battle, thriving as he did on the desire to fight, knowing perhaps, Blackstone thought ungraciously, that there were men around him who would throw themselves against the enemy so that no harm would befall him. Good sport providing you weren’t killed or maimed.
Edward waggled a finger and from the near-darkness at the back of the tent a servant stepped forward with a silver tray and a goblet of wine and offered it to Blackstone. He accepted it with a curt nod of his head and the servant faded away as quickly as he had appeared. Blackstone hoped the Prince did not want a drinking companion for the night; without food in his belly his head would soon be reeling – and then his tongue would loosen and he would be on more dangerous ground than facing a French cavalry charge.
The Prince nodded again, meaning Blackstone to sit on a nearby stool – one without the comfort of cushions or embroidered arms.
‘You stink, Thomas. Have you no water to bathe?’
‘No water and no fire even if we had, my lord. Nor is there food for my men or sufficient fodder for the horses,’ he went on, unable to stop himself. He quickly tried to cover his accusation by bringing the goblet to his mouth.
‘We are aware of their discomfort,’ said the Prince, ‘and our gratitude to our men will not be forgotten when we take the city.’
Blackstone lowered his eyes to avoid confrontation.
‘You may speak freely, Thomas. We are not always in agreement, but over the years we have learnt to tolerate some of your more outspoken thoughts. We see no purpose in denying you the right to speak freely here.’
‘I did not come here to offer my thoughts. I came at your command.’
The Prince nodded. He would draw out Blackstone one way or another either by threat or promise. The scarred Englishman was too valuable to his father’s cause. ‘We have food here for you,’ he said and once again beckoned the servant forward. ‘Fill a plate for Sir Thomas,’ he commanded.