by David Gilman
Sir Gilbert wheeled and kicked the horse into submission and tried to reach Blackstone, who had already cut his way through the horsemen twenty yards ahead. Iron and steel wrought a deafening clatter but men’s cries soared above the clamour.
‘Thomas!’ Killbere yelled. Blackstone had burst through the enemy lines and was pursuing three men who had broken free and were galloping across the open plain. He saw that John Jacob was fighting a determined opponent but would soon better him. Grinning, Killbere turned his horse to follow Blackstone, exulting once again in the joy of battle.
The pursued men looked back over their shoulders and saw only one man chasing them, with another rider two hundred yards or so behind. One shouted something to the others and they wheeled their horses to attack. Blackstone saw that they were riding too hard to make a neat turn, and as the men peeled away left and right they were too far apart to make their intended assault effective. The predator, Blackstone, locked his gaze onto his intended victim. The man in the middle had been obliged to slow his horse from a gallop to a canter. Under different circumstances that could have given him more control to fight. But with the weight of the bastard horse charging at him his own horse fought the bit, wrenching his head from side to side in a desperate attempt to escape. The horseman cursed and struck its flank with the edge of his sword blade and the pain made the horse whinny. It ducked its head unexpectedly and pulled the rider off balance.
Blackstone was on him. He parried a blow with his shield and as the man raised himself in the saddle to strike again Blackstone rammed Wolf Sword into the soft muscle of the man’s buttocks. His scream was muted by the vomit that spilled from his mouth. His head dropped, body curled in pain, and Blackstone cleaved his shoulder from his body. Released from the tension of the reins the horse panicked and ran; the swaying man still saddled until moments later the corpse tumbled to the ground.
The two survivors drew closer together but now they had Killbere attacking from their left and Blackstone from their right. The sight of the raised shields bearing Blackstone’s coat of arms caused them to hesitate. One of the men-at-arms was more courageous: he kissed the crossguard of his sword and urged his horse towards Killbere. The other panicked and tried to turn away but as his horse swerved he fell sideways out of the saddle. His foot caught in the stirrup for a few seconds but the horse’s momentum soon released it. He clambered to his feet to find the charging war horse that was bearing down on him moments before now stood thirty paces away, flanks heaving, nostrils billowing cold air, the sheen of white sweat flecking the saddle and its rider, who stepped down, sword in hand.
The man fell to his knees, threw aside his sword and raised his eyes to the scarred face that now stood over him. ‘Lord Blackstone, I crave mercy.’
‘You know me,’ said Blackstone.
‘Your blazon,’ the man answered as behind them the clash of steel told Blackstone that Killbere had engaged the second man. The fight soon ended and the kneeling man’s reaction told Blackstone who had lived and who had died.
‘You’re routiers,’ said Blackstone. ‘You slaughter Englishmen and steal their colours. You lure others to their deaths under falsehood.’
The man shook his head. ‘No, lord. We are French. We serve the King and his son the Dauphin. We fight as Frenchmen against you.’
Killbere’s horse approached at a steady trot and stood off from Blackstone.
‘No French knight would steal an enemy’s colours and hide behind them. It goes against every code of chivalry. Even your Dauphin would not allow such dishonour.’
The man sighed. ‘Sir Thomas, it was his command for us to ambush and kill them. Our captain was instructed by a man who counsels the Dauphin. His name is Simon Bucy, a man of great authority. Our captain died in the first assault. He was a squire, no more, but he led us well. We were to kill any English patrols and take their clothing. None among us took pleasure in such deception but we followed our orders.’
‘Your name?’
‘Paul de Venette.’
‘You have a family?’
‘In the suburbs of Paris, lord. Two sons and a daughter. And a good wife who fears the approach of the English King.’
Blackstone glared at the man, who had begun to shiver. ‘Get to your feet,’ he said.
The man attempted to stand but he trembled too much. ‘I fear death,’ he said. ‘Here, like this, in an open field without a weapon in my hand. I do not wish to die like a butchered beast.’
‘You will not die,’ said Blackstone. ‘At least not at my hand.’
The man tried to express his gratitude but Blackstone’s sword point rested beneath his chin and raised his head. ‘You will identify your captain among the fallen and you will take a message back to the man who ordered this deception. If you do not, I will hunt you down across the whole of France. I will find your family and I will slaughter your children in front of their mother and then I will give her to my men. Edward will soon be your King and so I will know if you break your pledge.’
‘I swear I will do as you command. On my family’s lives I swear it.’ Still shaking, de Venette got to his feet.
‘Walk to where we killed your captain,’ said Blackstone.
Blackstone watched the man shambling back towards the killing ground. Blackstone tugged the bastard horse’s reins and settled into the saddle.
Killbere spat. ‘Slaughtering children and raping women now, are we?’ He grinned.
‘You know that I had to make sure he would do as I said,’ Blackstone answered. ‘Just because a snake hisses doesn’t mean it’s going to strike.’
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
Meulon and Gaillard had pulled Aelis into the forest and told her to stay as far back in the trees as she could in case the attacking men penetrated the woodland. And then Killbere had shouted a command for Henry to stay with her as the two Normans joined the others readying themselves for the attack. The young page obeyed and remained mounted with sword drawn. He watched as Will Longdon quickly dispersed his men and Killbere gathered the horsemen ready to attack. His heart beat quicker and his palms sweated. Aelis looked at the boy who might soon be her only defence. He set his jaw firmly and concentrated on the men’s rapid movement in front of them.
‘Give me one of your knives,’ she said.
Henry glanced quickly at her and shook his head. ‘If they break through and kill me you have a better chance of staying alive if you don’t try and fight them.’
‘I’ll die anyway,’ she answered. ‘Do you know what was done to me at Balon?’
Henry nodded.
‘I will not endure that again,’ she said.
The charging horses shook the ground and Henry looked through the trees to where his father protected the fallen archer. Nothing, it seemed, could halt such a charge. Even Will Longdon’s archers, he thought, could not save his father or John Jacob out there in the open. Once again in his young life the boy thought he faced death. He tugged free the knife from his boot and handed it to her. She nodded her gratitude and together they waited for the assault.
What Henry Blackstone and the woman had never witnessed before was the efficient killing of man and horse by English and Welsh bowmen. Henry’s shock at the terrifying slaughter was mixed with excitement. And when Sir Gilbert Killbere charged from the forest beneath the rainstorm of arrows the boy’s stomach tightened and the gorge threatened to momentarily choke him. And then his father was lost from view as he plunged into the enemy ranks.
Once the French attack had failed, the men-at-arms dispatched the dying. He watched as his father followed a lone survivor towards the fallen. The man went among the dead and then pointed to someone lying half beneath his fallen horse. It was one of the men who had led the charge. His father quickly decapitated the corpse and beckoned one of the men to put the head in a sack, which was then given to the survivor. Henry could not hear what was being said, but the man grasped the bloodied hessian and then went on one knee before Henry’s father. Bl
ackstone took his knife and cut a blazon that was stitched to one of his dead men’s jupons. He thrust it into the survivor’s fist. Then a horse was brought forward and the man allowed to ride free.
‘Your father sends a message to his enemy,’ said Aelis, and without waiting for the boy’s response went forward to help with the wounded.
*
‘Four of ours dead,’ Meulon reported to Blackstone. ‘A small price, Sir Thomas. There must be a hundred or more of theirs. Our numbers become fewer in every fight,’ he added. ‘I hope we find a weaker enemy next time.’
Killbere was busy wiping the gore from his blade. ‘It is not in Sir Thomas’s nature to prey upon the weak,’ he said and grinned at the big Norman warrior. ‘You’re injured,’ he said quickly, noticing the blood that seeped beneath his coat of mail.
‘A sword thrust. It’s nothing.’
‘Aye, and nothing becomes something. Get fires lit and water boiled. Clean and bind the wounded now, Meulon,’ said Blackstone. ‘Have the woman use her balm and dress it. We need to take a few hours and let Thurgood regain some strength. Move the men upwind from the stench of the dead. We camp until tomorrow.’
‘And keep an eye on the girl,’ said Killbere. ‘She might do more than heal you.’
Meulon’s bushy eyebrows creased in uncertainty.
‘Never mind,’ said Killbere and waved him away.
When Meulon was out of earshot Killbere said, ‘Perhaps I was wrong about her. It might be that she brings us good fortune.’ He looked across the killing field. What horses had escaped the carnage had run free but grazed contentedly within sight. ‘Horses and supplies for plunder. Not much silver to be had other than Walter’s belt, which I found on the man whose head you took. I’ll keep the belt as a memento of our friendship.’ He scrubbed a hand across his sweaty scalp. ‘Until I need money for whores and drink,’ he went on, grinning. ‘I’ll go down into the forest and see where he and his men lie. Perhaps there’s more to be taken from them.’
‘No, Gilbert. Whatever they had these men will have taken when they killed them. Leave them. We can’t bury them. The creatures will feast on them soon enough. Same with these Frenchmen.’ He spat the cloying taste of death from his throat. ‘The French must be desperate if they’re hiding behind English colours.’
The two men watched as Jack Halfpenny and Will Longdon helped an unsteady Thurgood to his feet and then sat him down at the edge of the forest. Halfpenny gave his friend a wineskin and Thurgood drank thirstily. Aelis walked towards the archers.
‘You warm to her, then, Gilbert?’ said Blackstone.
‘I have a fevered memory of that night. That doesn’t mean I intend to wed the girl.’
Blackstone gave him a warning look. ‘Don’t be like Will Longdon and let your cock rule your brains.’
Killbere sighed. ‘Have no fear of that, Thomas. My cock is like a diviner’s stick. It seeks out that which is hidden, not which is offered freely. A man needs a contest even with women.’ He took the reins of his horse and walked to where the men had begun moving upwind of the dead.
Blackstone watched Aelis reach Thurgood and the archers. Her rescuer rose quickly to his feet and Blackstone saw her reach out and take his hand, then raise it to her lips. She was thanking him for saving her life. She then turned away and began helping one of the wounded. Blackstone saw the look of lust on Thurgood and Halfpenny’s faces. Uncertainty lingered in his mind. The girl was among them like a fox in the hen house, and she already cast her influence – good or bad – over his men. Her spell would strengthen the longer she stayed. He regretted bringing her with them and the reason for doing so was beginning to seem less certain. He had wanted to save her life from the retribution that would surely have been inflicted on her once he and the men had left Balon.
More than that, he told himself. She had already started spinning her web. He promised himself that she would not entrap him.
*
They buried their four men-at-arms who had fallen in the attack. They were a Hainaulter and three Englishmen who had served in Blackstone’s company for two years. Collard had been friendly with the Hainaulter but knew nothing of the man’s family. These men lived and died anonymously, but Blackstone allowed their bodies to be buried and marked their graves by scratching a stone with each of their names. Before they had left Balon all his men had been shriven by the crow priest so their souls were ready to meet their maker in the hereafter. Only Blackstone had remained unshriven. He would not confess sins to a God who already knew them, and who had allowed his wife and child to be murdered. Defiance ran ever deeper within him. Arianrhod, the goddess of the silver wheel, hung at his neck next to the small crucifix Christiana had given him. Both symbols offered comfort in their own way. The pagan moon goddess was created by the Almighty as surely as any man, woman or beast. He felt her presence in every tree and river. But God hid in the shadows.
*
After two more days they had left what they believed to be Burgundy. It was soon apparent that they had left the land where the peace treaty had been signed with the Burgundian Queen. Devastation was widespread. They came across three burnt and plundered villages within the space of a day. The ashes were cold, the blackened timbers cool to the touch. Here and there bodies lay scattered across fields: victims of Edward’s soldiers’ raids who had tried to escape. If Blackstone and his men followed the trail of destruction they would soon find their way back to the King. Instinct and the occasional pall of smoke on the horizon led them towards the great army that by now must be ready to attack Paris.
‘My lord?’ Henry said late in the third day, as Blackstone was about to lay down his blankets by the fire. Killbere looked up from where he sampled pottage from the blackened pot.
‘Henry, you’ve food enough?’ he asked.
‘Aye, Sir Gilbert, with John Jacob. I’ve skinned a coney that Will Longdon trapped. He caught a half-dozen and gave me one.’
‘Then he favours you, damn him. He never gives us rabbit, does he, Thomas?’
‘What is it, Henry?’ Blackstone asked.
‘May I speak with you?’ his son said.
‘All right.’
The boy looked uncomfortable in Killbere’s presence and Blackstone caught the boy’s look of anguish. ‘Walk with me. I want to check the captains have placed the pickets.’
Killbere barely stopped his snort of derision. Blackstone trusted the captains with his life; there was never any need to check the sentries. He bit his tongue. It was obvious the boy needed to speak privately with his father.
Blackstone and Henry walked across the gently sloping ground. Rain had fallen the day before and the evening clouds threatened more to come in the following days. ‘Rain will be on us again, Father,’ he said, allowing himself to address Blackstone as a parent rather than his sworn lord, now the two of them were alone.
‘You didn’t want to talk about the weather, I hope. My supper grows cold.’
The boy shook his head. ‘No. More than that. I wondered why you have brought us to this place?’
‘Here? We camp in safety. We are on high ground. There are no forests close enough to draw out night creatures. There’s water in the stream and our backs are to the east wind.’
‘Father, do you not recognize where we are?’
Blackstone gazed across the hillside. The copse of aspen in the valley at the stream’s edge meant nothing; neither did the shadows cast from the weak sun. ‘I do not,’ he said.
‘Then it is fate which brings us here,’ said the boy in a defeated tone.
Blackstone felt a bristle of irritation. ‘You’ve been listening to the ramblings of that woman?’
‘Mistress Aelis? About what?’
‘That my past lay somewhere in this land once we cross that river.’
‘She said that?’ Henry whispered, clearly shocked by Blackstone’s answer.
‘Henry, enough of this now. What is it you want?’
‘When Mother and Agnes
were killed at Meaux we travelled south.’ He pointed to the opposite direction from where they stood. A slim scar of a track meandered past crippled trees, bent from age and wind. ‘We came from the direction of those trees.’ He pointed to their intended direction of travel the following day. ‘If we travel across the crest of that hill we will be at the Abbaye de l’Evry.’
Blackstone felt a cold grip seize his heart.
Memories haunted him. Before the battle of Poitiers he had sent his wife and children to safety at Avignon under the Pope’s protection. Christiana had been raped on their journey there. Henry Blackstone had been in his ninth year and had tried to save his mother from the attack but it had been John Jacob who had cut the rapist’s throat and thrown his body overboard from the barge that carried them. After Poitiers Blackstone had been exiled for trying to kill the French King but when they were about to cross the Alps Christiana had told him she carried the rapist’s child and that she would not abort it. It was not the unborn child’s fault, she had declared. The rift tore them apart but eighteen months later, when Blackstone returned, days before her murder, they had reconciled. Days when they cleaved to each other like the long-lost lovers they were. And he had promised to claim the child as his own and to go to the convent where it had been placed for safety. After her death he kept his promise. The Abbaye de l’Evry was found, the child named and claimed as his own, but he paid for the nuns to raise him.
‘Then… then we shall present ourselves tomorrow and see how… the child fares,’ he said reluctantly. He was still bound by the promise to Christiana.