by David Gilman
The men jeered at Will Longdon, but Thurgood and Halfpenny were careful not to be too vocal. Longdon was their captain.
‘Routiers have seized on our King’s invasion and follow behind us,’ said Blackstone.
‘Skinners?’ said Jack Halfpenny. ‘Are we to fight them as well as the French? With these few men, Sir Thomas?’
‘We travel light and with the numbers we have,’ said Blackstone. ‘Too large a force would be quickly noticed on the route we must take. The routiers strip what little remains of food and money from village and town, supplies that we need. One of the Dauphin’s noblemen has taken over the regional mint at a town called Cormiers. He sends the money to the Dauphin but he has enough silver and gold coin to buy off some of the routier captains and pay them to attack us. The Prince gave me these.’ He spilled out a few gold coins from his purse. Willing hands snatched at them.
Will Longdon turned a coin in his fingers. ‘Mouton d’or. The Lamb of God,’ he grinned. Halfpenny looked nonplussed. ‘I’ll wager even silver pennies are strangers to your purse, Jack.’ Will held the coin between thumb and forefinger. ‘See? The etching on the coin. A sheep with a halo and a banner? Eh? That’s supposed to be Our Lord Jesus.’
‘How can a sheep be Our Lord?’ said Halfpenny, squinting at the markings.
‘Because… because it is…’ said Longdon, lost for explanation.
‘The sheep is the lamb,’ said Gaillard. ‘It is Old Testament. The lamb was sacrificed as was Our Lord. That is its meaning.’
Longdon nodded in agreement. ‘There, y’see. Gaillard only looks like a wild man. He might be as big and stupid as a tree but he knows his scripture, does Gaillard. Probably buggered by a priest when he was a lad to drive the lessons home.’
‘My spear will drive its lesson home through your arse,’ the Norman answered, used to their ongoing taunts.
Robert Thurgood licked his coin. ‘Gold, Sir Thomas. Nothing tastes as good.’
Killbere had not demeaned himself by reaching for the tumbled coins. He took Thurgood’s. ‘How much are they paying the skinners?’
‘One was given twenty thousand,’ said Blackstone.
Killbere was as impressed as the others. ‘The Lamb of God has fallen into wolves’ jaws,’ he said. ‘Independent captains can retire in comfort and buy themselves a walled town for protection. Better that we have it.’
‘The King,’ Blackstone corrected.
‘So that we may give it to the King,’ Killbere recanted but with a glance to Blackstone that intimated there might be enough to share with the royal purse.
Blackstone ignored him. ‘The more we take from the French the quicker they weaken and the sooner Edward seizes his crown. To win we must draw the Dauphin from behind the walls of Paris. Scour his land, raid his towns and villages and seize whatever money he has to buy troops and bribe routiers.’ He opened his palm for the return of the coins and, once they were secure in his purse, pointed with a stick to the landscape on the ground. ‘We travel south-east. There are towns and villages scattered across the whole area but across the river are two walled towns, one of which has the money.’
‘How do we know this? Deserters?’ said Meulon. ‘They could be sent by the French to draw us into a trap – these rivers can be deep with swamps and ponds beyond them.’
Will Longdon said, ‘Meulon’s right. Think back how often we failed to find river crossings when we fought before Crécy. We’ll need luck to find a ford.’
‘I have one in mind. This information came from prisoners not deserters,’ Blackstone said. ‘This town is called Cormiers. Do any of us know it?’
The men shook their heads. No one had passed through that part of France before.
‘There are two hundred or more men inside the walls, according to the prisoners that were taken,’ Blackstone said.
‘Halfpenny is right,’ said Killbere. ‘We are too few to seize walled towns, especially when outnumbered.’
‘Chandos has been sent by the King. He has near enough three hundred men. He will attack once we’ve scaled the walls at night.’
Every man in the English army was aware of Sir John Chandos. The veteran fighter was known for his courage and his ability to plan and execute strategy but it would be Blackstone and his men who would go and penetrate into the heart of the enemy.
‘Then we take the greater risk,’ said Perrine.
‘When have we not?’ said Killbere. ‘How do we know where this town is?’ he asked Blackstone.
‘Information from the prisoners.’ He pointed with a stick the route they would take, where he thought a ford might exist across the River Aisne and where there was danger from the French and routiers. The mercenaries roamed freely and most of the bands were several hundred strong, some as great as two thousand. With luck they would sight them before the skinners became aware of the small band of Englishmen.
‘Perinne, you and Jack find the way forward along this route I’ve shown you. Take a dozen archers in case you need to fall back and defend yourselves. We will be an hour behind you.’ Blackstone looked at each man, giving them the opportunity to raise any questions. All stared at the ground plan, seeing the reality in their mind’s eye. No one spoke.
‘All right,’ said Blackstone. ‘We do not ride hard. We edge our way through the French. We meet Chandos in four days’ time.’
Blackstone went beyond the trees where the horses were tethered. His horse was further back in the forest, its huge bulk an almost invisible shadow in the woodland. It was tethered and hobbled. Its head drooped, its eyes were closed but its ears swivelled at the sound of his approach even though Blackstone trod quietly across the wet grass. It feigned sleep.
Blackstone stepped closer. And waited. Experience had taught him not to get too near the bastard horse without care. It might have been hobbled, but its yellow grindstone teeth would snap and bite. He took another step. It was an ugly beast. Sired, said the stable-hands, repeating the legend, by the devil, unyielding in its belligerence. Its black hide was dappled as if singed by the cinders of hell. Its neck, as thick as a man’s waist, supported an oversized and misshapen head. A battering ram in battle. Its hooves the breadth of a man’s hand bore iron shoes that tore the ground and smashed limbs. Bulging shoulder muscles encased a tireless heart. Battle-scarred, it was a horse that Blackstone loved more than any other. It had the fiery soul of a fighting warrior.
Blackstone made a small sound with his lips. It shook its head, its eyes still closed.
‘Damn you,’ he said quietly. ‘I’ll not be ignored by a dumb beast.’ He reached out, palm forward towards its muzzle, letting it get his scent, even though it knew his voice. It suddenly lunged, eyes wide, lips curled, teeth snapping; then it snorted, held by the restraining ropes. He slapped its muzzle. It was less than a fly swat to the war horse. Its ears and eyes were on him. ‘Bastard,’ he muttered and carefully eased the saddle blanket across its back. A shudder went down its spine as he settled the curved saddle. Its head lifted; he knew that, like him, it was eager to be free of its constraints. He pulled the opposite rein tight to stop the beast from swivelling its head and biting him as he eased up into the saddle. Its ears pricked; its head rose. It trotted without command to where the other riders waited. The bastard horse whinnied and took its rightful place at the front of the column.
A fickle breeze shifted the mist from the skeletal leaf-bare trees clearing a path across the undulating landscape. Blackstone urged the horse forward. Like the dark spirits of the forest, demons lurked within him. The sooner he could pursue and confront them the sooner they could be vanquished.
CHAPTER FIVE
Blackstone and his men rode east through the English lines following the shallow contour of land between Rheims and the rising ground to their right where King Edward was encamped at Verzy ten miles from the city walls. Soldiers raised their eyes from their preparations to continue the siege as the renowned knight passed among them. They raised an arm and cheered. Cries of
Crécy. Poiters. Blanchetaque. Men who had been in the ranks fighting the same vicious battles and who knew of the scarred knight’s prowess. None of Blackstone’s men acknowledged the greetings, riding as they did hunched from the wet and cold. Once they left the lines fifty miles of uncertainty lay ahead at the end of which would be a fight to secure a worthless town where men would die and others would share their plunder. Blackstone heeled the bastard horse into a trot. Better to ride with hope than sit and waste away in a futile siege.
The following day’s meagre sun gave barely any warmth in the early morning hours but it served to lift the men’s spirits as they rolled free from their damp blankets. Men cleared their throats and spat out the stale taste of night. By the time they ate their pottage from the small iron pots nestled into their fire’s embers the sky became sullen again, smothered by the creeping low cloud.
Blackstone and his men gave the pockets of woodland a wide berth in case of sudden attack. They had passed three abandoned villages and seen no sign of the people who lived there and by midday rested on the outskirts of another. The wattle-and-stone hovels were in ruins, a few dead dogs lay bludgeoned or slashed from spear or sword, but once again there were no villagers. The charred thatch was already cold and crisp; the black timbers of a ruined barn bore witness to the fact that the attackers had not passed recently. A dozen men dismounted to search the tumbledown buildings as Will Longdon set his archers in a protective shield in case those responsible for the destruction were hiding in the woodland two hundred paces away.
Meulon squelched his way back down the track that served as the highway through the hovels. ‘Nothing, Sir Thomas,’ he said and gestured with his spear in an arc. ‘There’s no sign of anyone. They must have run before the attack. Fences are broken, livestock taken. These dogs stayed too long.’
‘The people have run for the nearest walled town,’ said Blackstone.
Killbere eased his horse alongside Blackstone’s. ‘I rode down to that stream; there’s a bloated cow’s carcass poisoning the water. There’s nothing here for us, Thomas, but I’ll wager we are following in the skinners’ path. There’ll be more of this and sooner or later we’ll catch up with them.’
Blackstone looked across the horizon. ‘It might not be routiers. Edward had his scavenging parties out far and wide. Whoever took this village did it days or even weeks ago.’ He looked at Killbere, who guzzled from his wineskin. There was a sheen of sweat on the veteran knight’s face. ‘You’re sweating even though the air is cold.’
Killbere belched. ‘It’s a chill, nothing more. A lifetime of soldiering and lying on wet ground does a man no good. You wait till you’re my age. Your knees hurt, your back aches, your teeth come loose and your piss takes longer to come. It’s reward for serving the King.’
Blackstone eased his knee into the horse. No need to tug the rein: it knew it was meant to turn. ‘I’ll find a convent for you and have them take you into the infirmary. They’ll clothe you in a habit and feed you gruel so you don’t have to chew. A pisspot by your side and a hot stone on your mattress for your aching bones. I’ll sell your armour and weapons to pay for it.’
Killbere followed him. ‘A true friend, Thomas. I’m grateful. And when you try and take me from my horse you’d best have Wolf Sword honed because I will gut you and any man who thinks I am unable to fight another day.’ He spat red wine spittle. ‘I’ll die with a damned sword in my hand like God intended or I’ll not die at all!’
The two men laughed. ‘Then I’d best find you a decent fight, Gilbert. We cannot have you inflicted on the world for eternity.’
‘Sir Thomas!’ Perinne called. Blackstone and the others looked to where he pointed. The low cloud hovered over the land and seemed to rest above the heads of the dozen horsemen who watched them from the gentle rising land a mile away.
‘Chandos’s scouting party from the north?’ said Killbere.
Blackstone squinted in the flat light. ‘Perhaps. It’s the direction he’d travel. I don’t know… Will? Jack?’
The archers tented hands around their faces, their keen eyesight searching for any telltale clue.
‘No pennons or banner, no colour on their clothing, Sir Thomas,’ said Longdon.
‘And no helms. There’s not a knight among them,’ added Jack Halfpenny.
‘Chandos would have his men-at-arms scouting,’ said Blackstone without taking his eyes off the distant men. They had not moved. ‘Besides, if it were Chandos’s men they would have seen who we are and come down.’
‘Routiers, then,’ said Killbere. ‘As I said.’
The horsemen on the skyline disappeared down the reverse slope of the hill.
‘Shadowing us, do you think?’ said John Jacob as he climbed back onto his horse after searching the village.
‘Perhaps. Brigands, outlaws and the dispossessed. France is in tatters and our King wishes to seize it and hoist it like a battle flag,’ said Blackstone. ‘It seems a worthless place to me – and there’s no honour in slaughtering unarmed villagers. Whoever’s up there will kill for what they need.’
‘The countryside is crawling with vermin,’ said Killbere.
‘It might be the French,’ said John Jacob. ‘There are still castles and strongholds with their troops.’
‘Vermin are vermin, John,’ said Killbere. ‘Best we kill them all.’ He glanced at Blackstone. ‘But not today, eh, Thomas? Bastards are probably trying to draw us in. We outnumber them until we get over that hill and there’s a goddamned army waiting.’
‘As you say, Gilbert, not today. It’s good to see that your ailments have not affected your brain.’
‘You should only concern yourself when I cannot raise my sword arm, Thomas, because who will look after you then?’
Blackstone smiled and lifted the silver goddess to his lips.
*
The daylight grew short. As they edged southwards, Blackstone kept his men in the open ground. He also placed a rider between them and Perinne and his scouting party so that those acting as Blackstone’s eyes remained in sight, and would not fall foul of any ambush from the dense forests that pockmarked the landscape and could hide an army. The wet ground gave no indication of horsemen travelling in the same direction, but the preceding days’ rain could have hidden any tracks. His own men’s horses made distinct indentations in the soft winter grass. If an enemy were in front of them then they would not have travelled recently. Blackstone turned his face to the breeze that came from woodland three hundred paces away. There was no odour of fire or men. Soldiers, be they brigands or otherwise, relieved themselves in a communal area. The stench of excrement would drift on the wind but there was no such smell, only the scent of wet ground and pine resin mingling with the clean taste of rain. Half the forest had its branches covered in needles; they would make a soft bed on the ground beneath them, drier than the exposed ground. The other trees were bare on the men’s opposite flank, so no one would be hidden there.
‘We need to camp,’ said Blackstone. ‘But there’s no cover out here and if we are being followed we need to get into those trees. John, ride forward and have Perinne look at that forest over there.’ He pointed to the small woodland. ‘It’s big enough for cover and small enough not to hide any large body of men.’
John Jacob spurred his horse, followed without hesitation by his page Henry Blackstone. Blackstone watched his son lean into the horse’s rhythm. He quietly acknowledged the satisfaction it gave him. The boy’s upbringing in Normandy and the fight to the death at his mother and sister’s side had matured him. The years since the boy’s birth were as clear as a bright spring morning in Blackstone’s memory.
Killbere noticed Blackstone’s intent stare at the distant horsemen. ‘He’s a natural horseman, Thomas. Better than you at his age, eh?’
‘I didn’t have a horse at his age, Gilbert. I had been cutting and carrying stone in a quarry since I was a child.’ Blackstone quickly dismissed any sentimentality. ‘I’d whip him if he didn’t r
ide that well. He had the best of horses when we lived in Normandy and Christiana had him serve with a God-fearing knight. A good man savagely slaughtered by peasants but who taught the boy well. Henry must prove himself. I’ll not tolerate any favour shown to him. He’ll have no special privileges because of who he is.’
‘Sweet Jesus, Thomas, your heart has become even harder since Christiana died. The boy worships you. He’s a reason to live.’
‘The reason I had to live was taken from me. I serve my King now, that’s enough.’
The two men watched as Henry and John Jacob reached the outrider. Killbere sighed. ‘Ah, Thomas, you’re an honest man who lies badly. You’ve always served the King even when his son treated you badly and banished you.’
‘I deserved it,’ admitted Blackstone. ‘I tried to kill the King of France.’
‘A pity you failed. We would be lying with our favourite whores these days instead of sitting with our arses in mud.’ Killbere settled his arms across his pommel and nodded towards the boy. ‘Another three or four years and that lad will grow into a fighting man who’ll bring tears to your eyes at the sight of his courage.’ He fixed Blackstone with a querulous look that asked his friend to prove him wrong.
Blackstone remained silent. Watching his son already brought the taste of salt to his lips and those feelings were best kept to himself. He did not want the man who had first taken him to war to think less of him because he was now weakened with sentiment and love for the boy. And fear. To lose Henry would be to suffer a wound so grievous it might finally kill him.
‘Light a dozen fires. They’ll smoke. If they come we’ll be ready.’
CHAPTER SIX
The killers came at first light. They rode slowly, their horses at the walk, bridles bound with leather and cloth to stop them jangling. The muted creak of their saddles could have been mistaken for the easing of tree trunks against the morning breeze that had freshened enough to blow clear the rolling low cloud. They rode four abreast, 128 men, bunched knee to knee as if they were preparing a cavalry charge. But they carried no lances, only sword, axe and mace. Their plan was to swoop down on the Englishmen, trample them underfoot and slaughter the dazed survivors before they could shake themselves free of the half-sleep that plagued men sleeping rough.