by David Gilman
Malatrait stepped forward. ‘You have taken grain from our stores. We have little enough for ourselves.’
‘Fighting men need barley. That’s all we have taken.’
‘And now you leave us, Sir Thomas,’ the mayor said, hands outstretched imploringly.
‘The militia have been sufficiently trained to withstand an assault on the town’s walls,’ Blackstone said, addressing the crowd. ‘If routiers come in numbers you know what your fate will be. If you don’t fight they will kill you, if you show resistance you have a chance. Take consolation in the knowledge that King Edward’s raiding parties have swept many of the mercenaries away.’
‘Can we bury the men you hanged?’ asked Malatrait.
‘What remains of them will be left as the warning that I intended.’
There was a murmur of disapproval from the dead men’s family members in the crowd.
‘A Christian burial!’ an anonymous voice cried out.
Killbere’s eyes scanned the crowd but there were too many to identify who had called out.
Before Blackstone could answer the crow priest stepped forward and then turned to face the townspeople. ‘Lord Blackstone is right! Their bodies remain where they are. They serve as a warning. I will pray for them and ask God to forgive their acts of rape and brutality. Their bodies will rot, but Our Saviour the Lord will receive their souls unblemished by the corruption of their flesh. Only He will judge them.’
Killbere glanced at Blackstone. Corneille, the crow priest, was playing his part. Mayor Malatrait raised his hand to quieten the murmurs of uncertainty. ‘Our new priest speaks honestly. Their deaths might save our lives should routiers approach Balon. Let God embrace their souls as he said. These men acted in lust and their actions took them beyond that which they were ordered to do.’ He looked over his shoulder at Aelis and then his eyes settled on Blackstone. ‘It is just,’ he murmured reluctantly. The purse of silver moutons Blackstone had pressed into his hand the day before had been an added guarantee of his loyalty. He faced the crowd again and raised his voice so those at the back could hear. ‘It is just!’
Malatrait’s words calmed the crowd. Blackstone nodded his approval to the crow priest and the mayor – both men bought off in their own way; both sufficiently venal not to want to risk losing what they had gained.
John Jacob and Henry brought Blackstone’s war horse forward as one of the men-at-arms handed Killbere the reins to his mount. Blackstone climbed onto the bastard horse, the opposite rein gathered tight as always, stopping its cumbersome head from swinging around and biting.
‘You feared us coming to Balon,’ he said, ‘but despite the punishment inflicted you have benefited. No woman was raped or harmed; no man suffered loss of trade. Your church is restored, your altar rebuilt. You have a new priest to care for your spiritual welfare and a wise mayor to guide you in the years to come.’ He looked down at the two men. ‘If they do not execute their duties wisely then I will hear of it.’
He eased the brute horse forward. ‘My banner flies over your walls. My name will protect you.’
The crow priest suddenly reached up to Blackstone’s pommel. ‘Sir Thomas,’ he whispered. ‘Be careful. She is the devil’s whore. I know it!’ He quickly made the sign of the cross and stepped back.
Blackstone made no reply but the look in the priest’s eyes reflected the genuine fear he felt. For a moment the priest’s outburst caused a shudder down his spine. He shrugged it off and led his men towards the gates. The crowd parted.
‘What was that about?’ said Killbere as he rode alongside.
‘He was begging me,’ said Blackstone.
‘Ah. He knows when he’s well off. I’ll wager he was pleading with us to stay?’
‘No. He was begging me to look after the old man who rides at my side,’ said Blackstone and before Killbere’s curses reached his ears he spurred his horse forward.
As the gates closed behind the last horseman a great sigh could almost be heard from the citizens of Balon.
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
‘The weather won’t hold,’ said John Jacob some days after Blackstone and his men rode out of Balon. ‘Look at that horizon, Sir Thomas, we’ll be drenched again sooner rather than later.’
They had already crossed the River Aisne at the same place they used months before. The bend in the river and the narrow banks had been difficult but caused no hardship. Now they were camped in the lee of a forest, the land sloping away from them, a place where if attacked their enemies would have to labour uphill before being able to strike. On the reverse slope another river, wide and treacherous, offered protection to their rear. The view was clear and the distant sky forewarned them that the weather would be an ally to the French. They could hear the rushing sound of water tumbling across the ford they had found on the river they believed to be the Yonne.
‘We’re still too far north,’ said Blackstone. ‘Perinne! Do you know this place?’
The barrel-chested fighter scratched his close-cropped head. ‘We’re nowhere near Auxerre and the King,’ said Perinne. ‘I’m sure of that. There’s a Benedictine abbey on the river and we’ve seen no sign of it.’
‘Then we’re lost,’ said Killbere as he gazed across the unfamiliar landscape. ‘God forbid there would be a battle raging somewhere so we might hear drum and trumpet to guide us.’
‘We need to get across onto the other bank,’ said John Jacob. ‘The King is to the west. Somewhere.’
Will Longdon trudged around the forest’s edge. He was sweating despite the cold air brought by the easterly breeze. ‘Our arses will be soaked if we do, no matter how high you sit in the saddle. Me and the lads have been trying to find a better way across. There isn’t one. I’m fearful the horses won’t keep their footing, Thomas. The rains have swollen what shallows there are here.’ He removed his cloth coif and wiped the sweat from his face. ‘I reckon we’ll lose men and horses.’
‘And there’s no other crossing place?’ said Blackstone.
‘We’ve gone downriver near enough another two miles. There are no villages in sight. So no one’s built a ford to get cattle or wagons across and if the King crossed anywhere around here we’d see the signs. Ten thousand men leave a trail of shit that you’d smell before you step in it.’
Killbere chewed a piece of grass and pointed with it in the direction Will Longdon had come from. ‘Walter Pegyn said the King would make for Paris. He’d have a hundred miles to get to the outskirts; odds are he’s already there by now. We’re better off being this far north. Save ourselves a long ride. Let’s get ourselves across the damned ditch and if we’re still in Burgundy hope it proves as friendly to us as it was to Edward. I don’t want to be caught midstream by any French raiding parties.’
Blackstone considered the risk. He nodded at Killbere. ‘See to it, Gilbert. I’ll join you at the river.’
As the men stripped off their mail and armour and made their way down to the river Blackstone went to where he had made a place for Aelis. When they camped at night he had kept her on the edge of the men and placed a guard over her. As he approached he saw that she was standing gazing in the direction of their travel. Her eyes looked past him into the distance.
‘Aelis,’ he said softly.
She showed no sign of recognition or of hearing him and, uncertain, he faltered to a halt a few paces from her.
After a few moments she looked at him. ‘Sir Thomas?’ she said, as if seeing him for the first time.
‘We need to cross the river here,’ he said, ignoring her dream-like expression. She appeared to be still deep in thought.
‘I see,’ she said. ‘And it’s more dangerous than the other crossing we made.’ She had not asked a question but had stated a fact.
‘Yes,’ he answered, wondering if she had foreseen the difficulty or whether she had heard the men who had returned from their reconnaissance speak of it. ‘Get rid of your cloak. Wear the jerkin and breeches I gave you. Bundle your clothing and tie the
m on the saddle. The current is strong. Can you swim?’
‘No.’
‘We’ll have a rope across to help horse and rider.’
‘And if I fall into the arms of the river goddess then you will see whether I sink or swim. Perhaps then you will have the answer to the question that has been troubling you.’
Blackstone was in no mood to discuss the doubts he held about her. ‘Get ready,’ he told her and turned back to where the men had started to make their way down to the riverbank.
‘Sir Thomas,’ she called after him. ‘You don’t know what lies across the river.’
He turned. ‘My King and his enemies are there. And once we are with him then you will be found a place to stay.’
‘There’s more,’ she said. ‘Your past is there.’
‘I lived in Normandy for many years. That’s no secret.’
‘More than that. You’ll see,’ she said and then ignored him as she unhooked her cloak and began to undo the ties on her dress. He felt tempted to watch her strip off her clothing but, as a pious priest would whip his own flesh to rid himself of impure thoughts, Blackstone punished himself with self-denial and turned away. He was uncertain whether it was through fear of this mysterious woman or the clinging memory of his dead wife. Whatever the reason, he craved the distraction and sanctuary of battle.
*
Perinne struggled against the fast-flowing river. Occasionally his feet stumbled across the boulders below the surface, which afforded him a brief moment of purchase. If the current took him there were roots and half-submerged tree trunks to snare him. He gasped and floundered as his arms beat steadily against cold gushing water. Few of Blackstone’s men could swim but Perinne had proved himself on other campaigns. Now he had offered to take the slender line across the other side of the river that would allow a rope to be hauled across and secured. He swallowed water, lost his footing, but then forced his head above the surface, gulping air, trying to control his choking. He saw through blurred vision the men and horses on the bank. They were shouting encouragement to him but the roar of water and its chill in his ears deafened him. He had plunged in a hundred yards upstream, fought the churning current and was now almost at the far bank directly across from the men. He had used the swirling water to bring him down to where the shallowest part of the river appeared to be. The leather sack strapped to his back contained shirt and breeches, which would be the only warmth available to him once he made the riverbank. For now he was naked, pinched and stiff with cold, and battling aching muscles. His feet found purchase in mud and gravel and he was suddenly only waist-deep. Throwing himself forward he grasped handfuls of grass on the bank and hauled his shivering body ashore. He ran to the treeline and began hauling the heavy rope across. It took only minutes and then he hoisted the rope around a stout tree trunk and tied it off so that its height would be that of a man’s waist in the saddle.
*
Jack Halfpenny and Robert Thurgood stood shivering on the near bank with the other archers. Everyone had stripped down to jupon, undershirt and breeches. No man was to risk drowning because he was laden with weapons, mail and armour. Shields and swords were fastened securely to saddle straps and pommels. The war bows were nestled in waterproof linen bags. The water would cause less harm to their arrows, which nestled in their waxed arrow bags.
‘I stay till the end and see if we can get the wagon across,’ said Blackstone, nodding towards the hay cart that carried supplies. ‘The mules are strong enough but if a wheel goes then we’ll abandon it. I’ll not have any men drowning to salvage smoked meat and wine.’
‘We should feast on it first,’ said Killbere. ‘If a man’s to drown better to have a full stomach and a confused mind from an over-indulgence in wine.’
‘And if we cross without incident? You’ll thirst and starve for the next week.’
‘You give a man hard choices, Thomas. I’ll stay back with you and help with the supplies. Let’s get to it then.’
‘Across you go,’ Blackstone said to John Jacob. ‘And then you, Henry.’ His own squire and son would brave the water first.
John Jacob made no complaint and eased his horse into the water. For a moment it seemed the horse would panic before it found its footing, but the taut rope did its job as it pressed against the horse’s flank and Jacob’s leg, and bolstered man and horse’s confidence.
‘You’ll pull me out,’ said Halfpenny to Thurgood. ‘I’ll not drown like a gasping fish.’
‘Fish don’t gasp, you fool,’ said Thurgood. The two men had grown up together in the same village and it had always been Thurgood who waded into lake and river to bring in their fish snares.
‘If they’re on land they do,’ said Halfpenny. ‘And so will I if I go under.’
‘Hold your breath and you’ll bob to the surface.’
‘Aye, but what do I do then?’ said Halfpenny. ‘I’ll be going downstream like a bobbing apple.’
‘No you won’t,’ said Thurgood as he tied off his pannier and tested its security. ‘The horse will probably kick you to death before that happens, or those half-submerged tree trunks will gut you like a Frenchman’s halberd. It’ll be slow and cruel but the cold will kill you soon enough.’
Halfpenny hunched against the cold. ‘Bastard,’ he said to his friend.
Will Longdon’s firm grip held Thurgood’s shoulder. ‘Jack’s a ventenar. There are twenty archers who need him. He’s important. He goes in, you go in after him.’
‘Aye, of course, Will. I was joking is all.’
‘This is no joke. I hate rivers. When we waded across Blanchetaque I was up to my chest while bastard Genoese crossbowmen were loosing their bolts but at least I had Sir Thomas at my side and he swims like a bloody pike. I’ve damned near another fifteen years on my aching bones since then, so you’ll ride between Jack and me,’ said Will Longdon, poking a finger into the archer’s chest. ‘I’m a centenar. So if Jack and me go in you remember I’m more important than him. I’m the one you rescue first.’
Blackstone watched as his son followed John Jacob into the water. The boy balanced his weight as his horse found its footing. Its gait rolled and swayed but the young page instinctively allowed his body to anticipate its uncertainty. John Jacob rode ahead of him and when necessary raised his right hand to indicate where the best path would be across the uneven riverbed for the horses. Once half the men had followed, Blackstone nudged the bastard horse next to Aelis.
‘Go next. The horses ahead are easing the current so your horse can follow in their wake. Grip his mane if you feel unsteady.’
The sorcerer’s daughter barely acknowledged him. ‘I know how to ride. I’ve as much skill as any man here.’
Blackstone refrained from challenging her. There were enough horses crossing to give her own mount a sense of certainty, but he knew that if she did not control the animal it could shy and she would be swept away.
‘Who will carry my satchels of medicine?’
‘They’ll come across with the supplies.’
‘And if the cart cannot get across?’
‘Then they’ll be strapped to the mule. And if the mule can’t get across I will bring them. Get ready and do as you are instructed. Your river goddess seems to be a mean-spirited bitch.’
*
Halfpenny waited as she urged her horse down the shallow bank. He half turned to Thurgood and, keeping his voice low, said to him, ‘I will let her swaying arse blank out my fear of drowning.’
‘If the horses splash enough water I’ll wager the ties on that jupon won’t hold. I want to see her tits burst free from it. I swear, Jack, they could push their way through the gates at Rheims.’
‘Hey!’ Will Longdon urged. ‘Enough chatter. You’re as bad as washerwomen. Go.’
Halfpenny and Thurgood eased their horses into the river after Aelis. The cold water crept up their legs and thighs and the skittish horses needed a firm rein. Further ahead amidst the groups of riders some mounts threw their heads back
as the water bubbled noisily beneath them. In midstream one of the men nearly fell when his horse lunged, trying to pass another. He cursed and brought it back under control but the beast’s actions caused a ripple effect down the line. Men sawed their reins in an attempt to stop their horses from clamping their teeth onto the bit and forcing their heads forward. Riders’ seats were precarious no matter how skilful they were.
As the horse in front of Aelis shied, its back legs slipped, then righted. The stumble alarmed Aelis’s horse and its iron-shod hooves slid over the rocks. It fell. She threw herself clear of the stirrups and as she pitched into the water she tried to grab the safety rope. She plunged below the surface into a deeper pool, and then surfaced, choking, the current snatching her quickly away. She floundered, her feet trying to find purchase as she went over shallower ground, but the eddies below the surface clutched at her legs. Through the gushing water in her ears and mouth she heard vague, distorted cries from the men. Her blurred vision saw men trying to control their horses as her own clambered to its feet. One of the men on the bank spurred his horse downriver. A mottled beast, cinder-burnt, the men had told her. Scorched by the devil. The man who leaned forward in the saddle had raised an arm and shouted something. Then she was under again. Darkness engulfed her mind. She was dying. She knew there was little she could do. No matter what goddess she implored for mercy, the one who lay waiting on the riverbed was about to claim her. She burst through the surface. Someone was close to her. She couldn’t make him out. His face snarled with effort and spat water, but a callused fist reached for her. Beyond him the scorched beast was forcing its way into the current, its strength overcoming the torrent. The man’s fist clutched at her. She felt its strength grab the front of her jupon, the ties tore but like a dog with a rat he shook her free of the drowning and shoved her face clear of the water. He was shouting at her. ‘Don’t fight! Don’t fight!’ She tried to make sense of what he was saying. She had to fight. The river goddess was enfolding her into her arms. And then she understood. She tried to tell him but her breath was trapped in her lungs. Her eyes stung in a confused vision of rolling clouds and tumbling water. The man in the water had wrapped an arm around her. She felt her breast squeezed under his strength but the power in the man’s embrace made her cough and splutter. ‘You’re all right! Stay calm! You’re safe!’ The voices shouted in her ear. Pain pressed into her back. The man who had rescued her pushed his body against her. She realized he had pinned her against one of the half-submerged tree trunks. She could barely make out his features. One of the younger men. An archer, she thought. The man’s grip loosened as the current nearly pulled him away. She slipped below the surface again and felt the water consume her. Once again he struggled with her and wrenched her upright. She forced her eyes open wider. A horse’s black sinewed leg was close to her and then Blackstone leaned down, arm outstretched. The man in the water grunted with effort and hauled her into the horseman’s waiting grasp. Then she smelled leather and sweat and felt the rough cloth of Blackstone’s jupon on her face.