by David Gilman
Blackstone’s mouth filled with spittle at the thought of the tender cuts of meat. He raised a hand. ‘My lord, with respect I would rather not. I eat when my men eat,’ he said, wondering if behind the offer of food a stern rebuke for Henry’s impertinence with the sergeant-at-arms lay in ambush.
The Prince of Wales gazed at him for a moment, tugging his fingers through his beard. It was not matted with filth and blood like most of his men, and harboured no lice. Since retiring from the field he had bathed and washed with honey and rosemary soap. Blackstone’s gesture was in its own small way an act of defiance. A gesture to tell a royal prince that Thomas Blackstone could not be bribed or bought. He would rather suffer the pangs of hunger than yield to enticement.
‘And if we command you to eat?’
‘Then I would obey,’ answered Blackstone.
For a moment it looked as though the Prince would do just that but he waved aside the servant. ‘So be it. We can hear your stomach rumble from here.’
‘It rumbles louder than the bombards that fail to break the walls or smash the city gates,’ he answered, again unable to contain the criticism that he had promised himself to keep locked firmly behind clenched teeth. ‘We had a chance to reach that gate. Enough men were with me: we could have burned it down.’
The Prince bristled. It usually took longer for Blackstone to irritate him. But today he was tired from the fighting and its lack of success. ‘You were recalled because we were losing too many men. You defied that command.’
‘I did not hear the trumpets, my lord,’ Blackstone lied, ‘and I was concerned that… that you were given sufficient time to leave the field when I saw you were stricken.’ He gave his response simply without any hint of derision that the Prince had eaten too well too soon before undertaking the rigours of combat.
‘And that you shielded us is why we summoned you. To give our thanks,’ said the Prince.
‘No thanks are ever needed, my prince. I am honouring a pledge.’
The Prince’s temper almost bubbled over the rim of his patience. ‘We are not to be wet-nursed, Thomas. We are not obliged to have you at our shoulder at every waking moment.’
‘That would make the royal bedchamber too crowded, my lord,’ Blackstone said and smiled.
The Prince was gracious enough to allow his knight’s boldness. ‘And the royal bed, Thomas. We would not share our women with you so it would be a long and lonely night that you would endure.’ He sighed. ‘Thomas, you vex us,’ he said finally.
Blackstone remained silent.
‘You were lured to England by our grandmother, Thomas, and then ensnared. Our father knew her political skills and the influence she had before her death.’ The ghost of Isabella the Fair, once Queen of England, still haunted those who knew her and had fallen under her influence.
‘I was at the command of a woman who could scare a French cavalry charge better than English archers, even when she was ill and dying. She took my arm for support once and I could not deny her anything. I doubt any man could. She told me where my wife and children were in exchange for my promise to protect you. Would you dishonour me by insisting I abandon that promise?’
Edward lowered his chin to his chest. He gazed at the brazier’s flames. No one could demand Blackstone’s pledge be relinquished. The Prince’s life was entwined with Thomas Blackstone’s as surely as a woodbine wraps itself around a tree trunk. It was a cause of frustration engineered by his grandmother, the woman who had embroiled the English Crown in intrigue and political manipulation until the day she died. She was still honoured by his father despite rumours spread by those who believed he had banished her from court. Her cleverness had been such that the boy archer, Blackstone, knighted by the young Prince those years before, was now obliged to ensure that he, Edward of Woodstock, heir to the throne of England, would survive as long as Blackstone drew breath. The mother of the greatest of English kings had even made Blackstone fight him in the St George’s Day tournament the year before last. Blackstone had fought without colours as an unknown knight and would have beaten him, had he not allowed his Prince to win. It had not been obvious to the onlookers but Edward had known. He let the memory fade.
‘We were grieved when your wife and child were slain, Thomas. We offered our prayers.’
Blackstone bowed his head. The Prince would not have demanded his presence simply to thank him for his guardianship in the ditch, nor to express sympathy, nor to offer chastisement for refusing to answer the trumpets’ call. There was yet more to come but only when the Prince was good and ready.
‘Can you see a way into the city, Thomas? Is there a weakness in its structure? Does your stonemason’s eye tell you how the walls can be breached?’
‘The bombards are useless. They are not powerful enough. Our chance was to get fire beneath the gates. That chance has gone now, my lord, and the French will expect it. They will stop us even getting close. We cannot mine beneath the walls: the rock is granite that would take years to tunnel through. And even if we did breach the outer walls Gaucher de Châtillon will have chains across the streets to slow us down, burning pitch and oil on the rooftops and men at every alleyway to harass and kill us. Have you forgotten Caen? The bloodiest street fighting I have ever seen – but Rheims will be worse.’ He paused his litany of bad news and gave his final verdict. ‘We have the greatest army: one that can defeat anyone brought against us in the field. But we do not have the means to defeat this city. The King should abandon the siege.’
‘He will not,’ the Prince said.
Blackstone got to his feet as the Prince, distracted by his thoughts, tore at a piece of bread and then changed his mind before it reached his lips. ‘My lord, I beg you. Talk to him. Get Lords Lancaster and Northampton with you. They’ll see the truth. There’s no crown to be had in Rheims. To lay siege here will take a year to starve them out and in that time the French will raise an army greater than anything we saw at Crécy or Poitiers. We are ninety miles from Paris and we will have to fight for every walled town. Our supply wagons are leagues to the rear. Blacksmiths and forges, carpenters, building supplies, ovens, corn mills, boats: they cannot move quickly enough. You have ten thousand troops to feed but you have almost no food left. Half of them are mounted archers who will soon have no arrows. No matter how many sheaves the King has brought, they will be wasted here. You cannot lose your archers to starvation and lack of arrow shafts. Not so soon after we have invaded.’
His comments agitated the Prince, who began to pace back and forth in the tent. He tossed the crust aside. He knew Blackstone was telling the truth. He also knew that Blackstone wanted to convince him because he was the only person likely to sway the King’s mind.
‘We left England too late. October committed us to a winter campaign and now we are paying for it,’ said Blackstone.
‘Our King is paying for it!’ the Prince bellowed, his patience exhausted. ‘The cost of this war is not coming from the Treasury, it is borne by our father. He is paying for this war and he decided when he should invade. It is not for you to criticize your King! You were lying a sodden drunk in a rat-infested cellar when we called for you. Were it not for the loyalty of your men who found you, and the desire of our father to bring you to war, you would be lying dead, choked on your own vomit.’
Blackstone lowered his head: to remain facing the enraged Prince would have been foolish. Let his blood settle and allow him to wipe the spittle from his face. Blackstone waited until the Prince calmed.
‘It was no cellar, my lord. I was lying senseless with grief and drink in the back room of a rat-infested inn.’
The Prince gazed at him. Blackstone stood slightly taller. His scar had faded but it still cut a path through his weather-beaten face. The scar had been etched in battle, on the day they were both plunged into the violent hell of Crécy, but the deeper scars that Blackstone bore now were from a more savage beast than war. They were wounds that had brought a great fighter to his knees. That he was here now,
before him, and had thrown his life once again into the fray to act as the Prince’s shield, was most likely the act of a benevolent God.
‘Very well. We will tell our father that his son’s wet-nurse believes this great quest should be abandoned. We will not face his anger. We shall use you as the whipping boy.’
Blackstone lowered his eyes. Once again his name would be brought to the King’s attention, embroiling him in court politics.
The Prince continued: ‘When you fought as an independent captain you seized towns by escalade. Your men have the skill to go over a town’s walls and seize it.’
‘That can’t be done here. The walls are too high, the ditches too deep. Escalade can come at a high cost in lives. Even your assault towers cannot breach those walls. Ladders would not do it.’
Waving aside the servant the Prince poured himself a drink. He hesitated for a moment and then poured another, which he handed to Blackstone, who knew the real reason for being summoned was about to be revealed.
He took the drink from the Prince’s hand.
‘Not here, Thomas. There’s another prize to be had.’
CHAPTER FOUR
‘God’s tears, Thomas, I’m in no mood to be dragged on a wild goose chase. I am happy here,’ said Killbere. ‘There’s a chance the King will assault the city again.’
Blackstone led the way through the soldiers huddling beneath soaking wet blankets, red-eyed from their smudge fires. He could see Meulon and Gaillard in the distance gathering his men. Some needed a kick to roll them from their blankets, but not the archers: he glimpsed Will Longdon quietly leading them from the field. Their paths would cross at the treeline. John Jacob and Henry trudged behind Killbere, a couple of levies carrying the men’s armour and weapons. It was another half-mile to where their horses were tethered behind the lines.
‘Gilbert, the King has released me for now from my duties with the Prince. We have work to do for him.’
‘Ah,’ Killbere grunted, and then spat out the acrid taste of smoke, ‘but I am already doing my work for him. I kill dog-breath Frenchmen who shit their braies when they see our blazon. I take no surrender. I leave the bodies of our King’s enemies as a bridge of tears for their wailing widows and orphans. I cannot do any more than I do already. I am happy here.’
‘In the cold and wet without food in your belly and rough wine on your tongue,’ said Blackstone. ‘And no plunder on our pack horses, or women straddling your thighs. Christ, man, you can’t sit in this mud and yearn for it.’
‘Women, you say?’ said Killbere, opening his stride to catch up with Blackstone. ‘There are women where we’re going? Don’t tell Will Longdon, he’ll run to this place of mystery you’re taking us. The last time I saw him he was starting to look at the baggage boys. Lads younger than Henry here. He’s an irritating turd when he’s not dipped his shaft for a while.’ Having made his plea he waited for an answer but Blackstone was giving nothing away. ‘Where are these women, did you say?’
‘All in good time, Gilbert. Henry, run ahead and warn them to have our horses saddled. The archers need good mounts. I don’t want any horses with saddle sores. Tell them I have the Prince’s command. Run, boy.’
Henry loped forward.
‘He obeys without question, Sir Thomas,’ said John Jacob.
‘So does a beast of burden if you thrash it hard enough,’ said Blackstone. If John Jacob had any problems with Henry Blackstone then it would be he who would cuff the boy.
‘He’s no dull-witted page, he’s got learning and he knows what’s what,’ said John Jacob, and then, in answer to the unspoken question. ‘I’ve never had to raise a hand to him.’
‘He’s twelve years old. He needs discipline. All boys do,’ said Killbere. ‘A good thrashing once a week is to be expected. A boy needs to feel the switch on his back. Never did me any harm.’
‘Aye, Sir Gilbert, but he’s got something of Sir Thomas in him. He’s stubborn and he’ll make your balls ache with some of his questions. He craves knowledge and he wants to please his father.’
Killbere’s grunt passed for a laugh. ‘Thomas makes your balls ache because he doesn’t answer any questions. And he’s been stubborn since I hauled his arse ashore at Normandy back in ’46. Christ, Thomas, where are we going?’
Blackstone smiled and nodded ahead to where Meulon and Gaillard waited at the forest’s edge. ‘I’ll tell you when the captains are gathered, Gilbert.’
Meulon the throat-cutter grinned. ‘The men are ready, Sir Thomas. They’re happy to be rid of this siege.’
‘Sitting on our arse with only two days of killing gives a man no hope of plunder,’ said Gaillard.
‘We could have breached that gate, Sir Thomas,’ said Meulon. ‘Damned if we couldn’t. It was wrong to blow the recall. Another hour and the bastards would’ve been under our swords.’
Blackstone placed a hand on Meulon’s shoulder in commiseration. ‘At least now we won’t be sitting on our arses in the rain.’
The small troop of men followed Blackstone through the trees into the clearing where the rear echelon was encamped. Will Longdon waited for his sworn lord. He should be in command of a hundred archers, but Blackstone’s centenar had only half that number standing behind him. Cock-sure, arrogant, tough bastards, thought Blackstone as his gaze fell on them. There was no one like them in the army. Christ, he thought, if they were let loose in the streets of Rheims they would run faster than their arrows and be twice as lethal. A part of him was thankful that the city walls would not be breached because he knew some of the men would disobey his order not to rape. Enough wine and blood-lust would countermand any commander’s order. And then he would have to hang the rapists.
A few of the archers wore the half-green and -white coats of Cheshire and Flint bowmen. The others wore jupons bearing the cross of St George and Blackstone’s blazon. Jack Halfpenny and Robert Thurgood stood at Will Longdon’s side. Under the guise of tugging free his steel skullcap Halfpenny gently nudged Longdon, who reluctantly took a step forward. The clumsy gesture did not go unnoticed.
‘Sweet Jesus,’ muttered Killbere, ‘here we go. There’ll be a complaint about something I’ll wager.’
‘Will?’ said Blackstone.
‘Sir Thomas,’ Longdon said loudly enough for all to hear the mark of respect despite his being one of the knight’s long-serving friends. His head twitched slightly, as if not wanting the men behind him to hear what he had to say. He stepped closer and lowered his voice. ‘It’s these Cheshire and Welsh archers,’ he said, and by way of emphasizing his predicament shrugged his shoulders. ‘What am I to do with them? They’ve been sent by their captains. I can’t understand a damned word the Flint men say and the Cheshire men think they are the Virgin Mary’s gift to fighting men. Can I send them back?’
‘We need them, Will,’ said Blackstone. ‘We’ve twenty-six men-at-arms and only thirty-four of our own bowmen. The Prince boosted our ranks with the additional men.’
Longdon winced. ‘These Cheshire men hate the Welsh because they refused to embark on the invasion unless they were paid up front. It’s a matter of aggravation. They’ll be at each other’s throats.’
He glanced hopefully at Blackstone, who looked past him to the scowling green-and-white-clad archers. ‘It’s good to hear that your centenar speaks so highly of you!’ he proclaimed to the new men as Will Longdon groaned quietly. ‘Your King and Prince have placed you under my command and Will Longdon speaks for me when the time comes to fight.’
Killbere meanwhile lowered his head and voice and glared at the centenar. ‘Do your damned job. You’re not a mewling infant at the tit. There’s killing to be done. Our sweet merciful Christ suffering on the cross died for your sins, you heathen bastard, so get to your duties before the damned resurrection.’
Will Longdon gritted his teeth and turned back to his men. ‘Find your mounts!’ he ordered.
Blackstone turned to Killbere. ‘You’d make a fine priest, Gilbert. Perhaps that n
un of yours has affected your soul.’
‘She infected my cock is what she did. Every damned monk in the convent had had her, not that I knew it at the time. Don’t mock. I might have left a broken heart behind but I left a damned sight more broken heads.’
‘You told us before that you had not bedded her because she was too good for you,’ said Blackstone. ‘Or that you were not good enough for her.’
‘Ah…’ said Killbere. ‘That was a different nun.’ He grinned.
*
Blackstone gathered his captains around him. Meulon and Gaillard stood like granite gateposts each side of the half-circle of squatting men. Jack Halfpenny had been made ventenar of twenty archers and was included in the group along with Robert Thurgood, who, like Halfpenny, had joined Blackstone’s men in Italy and had proved loyal when the men fought their way back to England the year before last. A year that was a lost lifetime for Blackstone, when desolation had wreaked havoc with his heart and mind more viciously than any army that swept across the landscape bringing it to its knees. Perinne squatted with the captains. He was one of the few who had survived the years fighting at Blackstone’s side. John Jacob and Killbere sat on half-barrels gazing down at the sticks and stones that Blackstone had laid out on the ground as a map. There were a half-dozen Germans who now rode with Blackstone’s men and he had made one of them, Renfred, a captain. They had proved to be good fighters and loyal to Blackstone.
‘Until the King defeats the Dauphin and wins France he is hard pressed on this war. He needs money,’ said Blackstone.
‘May God grace our sovereign lord,’ said Longdon, ‘but he should try and live on sixpence a day like any mounted archer.’
Killbere gave the veteran a gentle kick. ‘Be grateful he does not take payment for every arrow you let loose.’
‘There would be no victory then,’ said Meulon, ‘not one shaft would fly with Will’s tight grip on his purse strings. It would be left to us fighting men to win the King’s wars.’