Viper's Blood

by David Gilman

  ‘All my men are hard to kill. Don’t dwell on him. Even you cannot resurrect the dead.’

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  After two hours’ slow travel the following day they were still uncertain of their location, dependent as they were on the dull glow of the rising sun behind the clouds to guide them westward. They skirted the vast swathes of forest that lay to their left and which curved a mile ahead, riding far enough from the treeline to avoid any ambush from routiers’ archers, but close enough to escape into the trees should horsemen attack across the open plain. There had been no sign of the enemy or of marauding bands of brigands, but Blackstone knew that they roamed far and wide and he wished that he could find signs of the English army. There was no scent of man or horse on the breeze, and no smoke from any fires carried and lingered in the forest. They would soon lose the protection of the trees as they eased their horses across the open ground.

  Killbere rode at his side with John Jacob and Henry following. Aelis rode alone with Meulon and Gaillard behind her. There was no idle talk among the captains but further back in the column archers and men-at-arms bantered as always. Banter that soon stopped.

  Blackstone saw the figure far ahead. Eight hundred paces to his archer’s eye. The man burst from the gloom of the trees and with a staggering gait ran hard towards them.

  Blackstone halted.

  ‘Perhaps it’s a villager from somewhere around here,’ said Killbere, peering across the dully lit landscape.

  Blackstone kept his eyes on the man who stumbled and fell, then raised himself up and continued running. ‘We’ve seen no village for days,’ he said. ‘That’s no peasant,’ he added. At six hundred paces the man took some form and at five Blackstone knew who it was. ‘That’s Robert.’

  ‘A turd always floats!’ shouted Killbere to the men. ‘It’s Thurgood!’

  Men cheered and their horses jostled as they began to move forward to greet him.

  ‘Hold fast!’ shouted Meulon. ‘You have had no command!’

  ‘It’s Robert!’ Halfpenny said. ‘He’s exhausted. I’ll take his horse for him.’

  ‘No!’ said Will Longdon. ‘Stay here. Meulon’s right. Why’s he running? An exhausted man stays where he is and waits for rescue.’

  At four hundred paces Thurgood fell and did not rise. Halfpenny yanked his horse out of the column but Gaillard reached out and snatched his rein. ‘Jack! Listen to Will. Your friend runs from something.’

  Halfpenny cursed but contained his impatience. The likely truth of what Gaillard said cut through the men’s relief at seeing one of their own back from what had seemed certain death.

  A slash of red like a bird taking flight fluttered through the distant treeline beyond the fallen archer.

  ‘A pennon,’ said Blackstone.

  And then there was another as the dark treeline’s shape shifted. A line of horsemen emerged. A rider came forward at the trot bearing a flag and then halted a hundred yards from his own men.

  ‘I’ll be damned,’ said Killbere. ‘Those are Lancaster’s colours. It’s Pegyn. He’s been raiding and doesn’t know it’s us.’

  Killbere raised himself in the saddle. ‘You blind old bastard! It’s me!’ He turned to one of the men behind him. ‘Raise our pennon. Let him see who we are.’ He pointed to the lone horseman. ‘Thomas, Pegyn is as wary as a fox. It will be good to have his men ride with us.’

  Blackstone had not taken his eyes from the gathering horsemen. They waited on the edge of the forest. Why? They outnumbered Blackstone’s men; that was plain to see. Pegyn’s caution was understandable but why did he hold back once Blackstone’s pennon was raised? And why was Robert Thurgood lying face down in the grass having run himself into exhaustion like a wounded deer from a ravening wolf?

  ‘It’s a trap, Gilbert. They’re waiting for us to ride out further. It’s not Pegyn. Get the men in the trees,’ commanded Blackstone. ‘Will! Wait until you’re in cover and only then unsheathe your bows. Whoever they are they don’t know there are archers among us.’

  Killbere needed no further command. He wheeled his horse, as did those behind him. Blackstone spurred the bastard horse forward. ‘Thomas!’ Killbere shouted.

  ‘They’ll kill him!’ said Blackstone. His shout made it clear he intended to rescue Thurgood.

  John Jacob pointed at Henry. ‘Go with the men!’ He dug his heels into his horse’s flanks and followed Blackstone’s great war horse whose galloping hooves tore up clods of earth.

  *

  Thurgood lay face down. He felt the earth tremor and somewhere in the darkness of his wearied mind knew that it was not the roar of water that had swept him downstream until his body scraped against the shallow gravel bank that formed a small promontory jutting out from the shoreline. He had no sense of how long he had lain on that shore but as the first chill of dawn summoned the river’s mist he had awoken. The gnarled and twisted tree roots that still clung to the muddy bank were rotten but afforded enough grip to pull himself up the bank. He had stumbled into the forest and felt despair defeat the joy of having cheated death in the water. It was dense, bramble-choked woodland with no sign of path or animal track. He had felt no pain or hunger and any thirst had long been satisfied by the copious amount of river water he had swallowed. It was the cold that would slow him down and although he had cursed the weight of his jupon in the water he now knew the padded jacket would keep him sufficiently warm. He stripped naked and wrung out his breeches, shirt and jupon with as much strength as he could muster; and then he put the wet clothing back on his shivering frame. There had to be a way through. The sun was still behind the clouds, and obscured further by the forest canopy, so he could not determine which direction he faced.

  Gathering his thoughts he placed himself back at the crossing where he had plunged into the river. He remembered the dawn, pictured the bend in the river and then whatever images he could recall that gave him clues to the river’s direction. He had to move west to try and find Blackstone and his companions. He forced his mind to ignore the uncertainty about where the river had taken him. There were ferns growing close to the water’s edge; they were unfurling after retreating during winter. It was still early in the year so that meant it was likely that they had warmth early in the day. Morning sun. East. That way. Back across the river. Boyhood hunting lessons were never forgotten. The trees’ branches soared upwards but others reached horizontally towards any warmth the sun might offer. He sought out trees with lichen growing on one side of their bark. It was not always the case that this meant they faced north. He had been fooled by nature’s trick too many times as a boy when he poached the hunting grounds of his manorial lord along with Jack Halfpenny. Heading in the wrong direction then would have put him squarely into the arms of his lord’s reeve and certain hanging. The skill he had been taught was to find where moss grew. Moss needed water to thrive. He forced himself through the undergrowth, following what few spears of light he could discern in the forest. Tumbled boulders rose above him, and good fortune proffered him the sheer face of rock he had hoped for. Pushing through the undergrowth, he ignored the brambles scratching at his legs. Edging around the rock’s sheer surface he ran his hands across its flanks like a man assessing a horse. He found the covering of green that crept up one surface. This surface would never have the comfort of the sun’s warmth: it was always in the shade. The sun spent most of its time in the southern sky. Therefore the rock’s moss-covered surface faced north. The trees and moss had given him a bearing. He broke off a slender branch the right length for a staff. Now he had something to help push through the undergrowth and, he comforted himself, a means of defence against creatures that lurked there, and in his mind.

  As he pushed through the bracken his eyes scanned the trees for any sign of movement. Because he was looking ahead not down, he caught his foot in a root and went tumbling headlong. He plunged into a ditch; black slime smothered him. He choked and cursed and spat the foul-smelling mud from his mouth, and with a de
sperate lunge clawed himself free from the boar wallow. Scraping the mud from his eyes he cursed his bad fortune. There was no point in stripping again. No stream offered itself, just the underground spring that had formed the perfect pit for wild boar to roll in. He blew what he could from his nostrils and pushed deeper into the forest.

  He had no means of gauging how long it had taken him to penetrate the depths of the woodland. He found a path that cut through the thickets. The musky smell of deer and the animal’s droppings told him the beasts had moved through hours before, probably going to ground just after first light, seeking shelter and safety from predators. And then another smell caught his nostrils. The woodland had thinned out and there was more light: his hunter’s gaze flitted from one tree to the next until he found he could see more than a hundred yards ahead. There was movement in the half-light. And then the unmistakable sound of a sword being drawn from its scabbard. The distant movement slowed and became what looked like a single mass of men. The breeze barely penetrated the forest but the sickly smell of death needed no help to assail his senses. He had instinctively half crouched when he saw the men and in so doing his focus changed and fell on the disturbed ground to one side. He scurried quickly towards it and then stopped suddenly; unbalanced, he tumbled forward into the bracken. He was lying among dead men. A vast swathe of death where bodies had been piled up. The men bore no insignia to identify them. Heart thudding, he clambered over their bloodied corpses until one man’s death stare halted him. His mind raced. He had seen that face before. But where? The man’s mottled beard exposed a rictus grin. It was Sir Walter Pegyn. He and his men had been slaughtered and stripped of their blazon.

  The jangling of horse bridles and rustle of men preparing for battle startled him back to the immediate danger. Horses had been brought forward from further back in the forest. It was impossible to see how many men were readying themselves, but he knew that if they had slaughtered Sir Walter and his eighty men then they must number at least a hundred or more, and if they were scouring the countryside as a raiding party then they posed great danger to any smaller group. A half-dozen men eased their horses near the grave, their voices low, barely murmuring. They were almost on him. He lay without flinching. The horses were so close he could smell them. The men stopped, and through half-opened eyes he saw them staring down at him. He prayed his thumping heart would not give him away. The men said something to each other and then smiled as they gazed down on their victims. Thurgood realized that the dried mud obscured his jupon’s blazon and disguised him. The men heeled their horses. He waited until the silence of the forest settled again.

  He pushed through the undergrowth directly away from the gathering men. If Blackstone and the others had followed the line of the forest then they would ride into an ambush. He tripped and fell a dozen times, his face and hands were scratched, but he forged through the undergrowth towards the light that brightened the edge of the forest. He dared not go further. To try and escape into the open would invite death. A lone horseman could quickly ride him down or a crossbowman fell him.

  His body trembled from exhaustion. Fear dried his mouth and throat. He waited ten feet from the forest’s edge. The open ground beyond it showed no sign of movement. Crows cawed and bickered in the treetops. Nothing else stirred. The killers made no sound other than their movement: no voice was raised, no commands uttered and that told him that they were seasoned men who knew the value of silence. If the horsemen were readying themselves then it meant that they must have scouts beyond the forest who had warned them of others approaching.

  His eyes blurred. He rubbed the tiredness from them and swept his gaze across the horizon. A smudge on the skyline became a knot of riders who were moving at walking pace. They had to be unaware of the men in the forest and if they stayed on course they would soon be too far in the open to escape back into the trees that lay on their flank for cover. He stared hard, using his archer’s skill to focus on the approaching men. They were too distant for him to identify the blazon on their shields. Then the dark shape of the horse in front, its bulk and size and the misshapen head, told him who led the men. He cursed his exhaustion, knowing he did not have the strength to run all the way to warn Blackstone and the others. But there was no choice. He had to time his run carefully so that he could make enough ground before those who lay in ambush were forced to reveal themselves. Slowly but surely Blackstone’s men approached and his mind’s eye measured the distance. At what looked to be eight hundred paces he sucked air into his lungs and burst from the trees’ protection.

  *

  Blackstone saw the shimmering treeline burst into life as the horsemen spurred their horses towards him. He had the advantage of being at full gallop, whereas they needed to gain momentum from a standing start. As he threw back his weight to pull the war horse to a halt John Jacob surged past him. Blackstone dismounted and went down on one knee to turn Thurgood’s body face up. The leading horseman from the ambush had a fifty-yard advantage over his companions and he was the immediate threat. Blackstone gripped the front of the fallen man’s jupon and shouted his name. The archer’s eyes fluttered and Blackstone slapped him across the face. The shock made Thurgood half raise himself, a fist swinging unconsciously against his unknown assailant. And then realization dawned on him.

  ‘On your feet!’ Blackstone yelled, dragging the sturdy archer upright. He mounted and hauled Thurgood behind him, but not before the bastard horse had swung its head and tried to snap at the clambering man. As Blackstone turned away he saw John Jacob attack the fast-approaching horseman. The man barged his horse into Jacob’s and swung a chained mace. Blackstone’s squire took the blow on his raised shield and as his opponent regained his balance Jacob wheeled his horse tightly, yanking rein and kicking with his opposite leg into the horse’s side. He had little time to kill the man-at-arms. More than a hundred riders had spurred their horses from the thickets. John Jacob came up slightly behind the man, denying him the chance to swing the mace again, but offering himself with a lowered shield to make him think he could swing the spiked ball behind him into Jacob’s face. As he raised his arm to strike, John Jacob ducked and rammed his sword beneath the man’s armpit.

  As Blackstone urged his horse on he looked back and saw Jacob a hundred yards behind. The horde of men would catch him if they did not come within range of Will Longdon’s archers soon. He could feel Thurgood’s arms wrapped around him but knew the archer would not be able to hold on much longer, especially with the horse’s awkward gait. As he came within 150 paces of the forest he felt Thurgood fall. He turned the horse. John Jacob was racing towards him. Blackstone felt a sudden rising fear. Had they chosen the wrong place? Where were Killbere and the other men-at-arms? There was no sign of them in the trees. And if Will Longdon did not have his archers on the edge of the forest where they could loose their arrows without the branches impeding them then he and John Jacob would have no chance against so many.

  Blackstone halted the bastard horse in front of the fallen Thurgood and drew Wolf Sword. There was no time to fasten a blood knot to his wrist. He held up his shield and readied himself for the bone-crushing force of the charge that was now less than two hundred yards away. John Jacob swerved; sweat lathered his horse’s neck and flanks. Its nostrils flared and for a moment it seemed he would not be able to control the stallion. Then Jacob turned the horse and, twenty paces to one side of Blackstone, prepared to meet the horsemen head on. The charging men seemed intent on galloping through him and Blackstone and then riding down the few men they thought to be retreating into the thickets behind.

  Blackstone focused on the man he would kill first. The bastard horse strained, ever eager to attack, but as Blackstone was about to ease the reins and spur forward he saw a movement from the corner of his eye. The attacking horsemen suddenly leaned back in their saddles, hauling on their horses’ reins, the shock of what they had seen causing instant panic. These men wore only jupon and mail and had no plate armour. The ranks of archers
who strode ten paces from the forest on either flank of Blackstone and John Jacob were already drawing their war bows. Will Longdon had divided his archers ready to catch the horsemen in an enfilade. The bows creaked: yew staves bending under the enormous pressure from the archers’ strength and skill born from years of training.

  The ash-hewn arrows tore through the sky. The horsemen were already barging into each other as they tried to escape. No sooner had the archers loosed than their second arrows were flying and moments later a third. Three waves of yard-long, bodkin-tipped arrows fell into horse and man. It was carnage. Horses whinnied and screamed as the shafts pierced deep into muscles and flesh. They tumbled, legs breaking as they went down, eyes wide in terror and pain. Where moments before the horsemen had been sweeping down confidently on those weaker in number, they now were felled, cursing and shrieking in agony, some pierced by more than one arrow. Flailing hooves smashed bones and skulls. Men writhed; some tried to turn and run. Most could not.

  Blackstone tasted the lust of killing on his tongue. As the fourth volley of arrows was let fly he felt the sinews in his back and arm relive the moment when he too had been a master archer. Before that German knight had sliced through his face and broken his bow arm at Crécy. But here and now, like that slaughter at Crécy fourteen years before, the chaos was almost complete. From certain victory to certain death in less than a minute.

  Blackstone heeled the bastard horse and a heartbeat later John Jacob followed. Behind them Killbere and the mounted men-at-arms burst from the forest with blood-curdling yells. Within seconds Blackstone and John Jacob were among the foundering men; still dazed from the archers’ unexpected assault they offered Blackstone’s men little resistance. Killbere raised himself in the saddle, giving himself extra height to bring his sword down onto the collarbone of one of the horsemen. The man’s mail did not save him. The blade angled and caught him beneath the ear. Half his jaw was sliced away and the edge of Killbere’s blade almost severed his head. Blood gushed across Killbere’s arm, but he was already spurring his horse forward. It needed little encouragement. The scent of blood was turning it wild. Like many war horses in battle it would run uncontrolled through the enemy lines, but once a blood-crazed horse did that the enemy could surround the isolated rider and bring him down with spear and axe.