by David Gilman
The sudden release of a bow cord a few paces behind him startled him into lowering his bow and like every man there he turned to see Jack Halfpenny watch the flight of the arrow he had loosed. Moments later it struck with deadly accuracy into Thurgood’s back.
The young archer faced Will Longdon and Blackstone. ‘I made my friend a promise,’ he said quietly, and began the long walk to where Thurgood’s body lay.
CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR
They buried the young archer who had yet to see his twenty-first year next to the man he had killed. He and Collard were carried to the priory and monks were summoned and paid to bury the two men side by side and pray for their souls. Jack Halfpenny stayed a while longer than the archers who had knelt in prayer at Thurgood’s grave and then turned his back on the chanting monks. Will Longdon gave no orders for Halfpenny and allowed his ventenar to attend his usual duties. The archers kept their distance as Halfpenny took an axe to Thurgood’s war bow and burned the yew on his campfire. It was better that no other should feel its power.
Aelis de Travaux stood in the open clearing, her bedding rolled and tied, her cloak fastened around her against the cold north wind as Blackstone’s men prepared to move with the Prince’s division towards the walls of Paris. Edward’s vast army was about to assault the city.
‘Where did she get the knife?’ Killbere asked the captains who gathered around Blackstone. The men looked blankly at him.
‘Does it make any difference?’ asked Blackstone.
‘If Thurgood knew she wasn’t willing to have his cock in her then he might have abandoned the attempt. It’s only because she stabbed him that we discovered him. We’d still have a good man fighting for us.’ Killbere spat. ‘Get rid of her, Thomas. She’s a curse.’
‘And we would still have a murderer in our midst. Collard died under his hand.’
Before Killbere could answer Henry called out from where he stood with the horses. ‘My lord. I gave the woman the knife.’
The group of men turned and stared at the boy. Henry stood unflinching.
‘Why?’ demanded Blackstone.
‘You ordered me to stay with her when the attack came after we crossed the river. When Robert warned us. We thought the French would break through and she begged me not to let her face them undefended. She said she did not wish to endure the same fate as had happened to her at Balon. So I gave her my spare knife. The one from my boot. And then… then I forgot about it.’
Killbere turned his face away from the boy. ‘You can’t blame him for that, Thomas,’ he said quietly.
Blackstone knew that Killbere was correct. ‘Attend your duties,’ he ordered his son. ‘There’s no guilt in what you did.’
‘And the woman?’ Killbere said.
‘The Prince says he’ll place her with the apothecaries. She’s no longer my concern.’
Killbere pulled on his helm. ‘I’ll believe that when Edward’s trumpets blow loud enough to bring down the walls of Paris.’
*
King Edward’s progress up the Orléans road cut off the city from the south as his other commanders pressed their advance in the north until Paris was surrounded. The steady rhythm of the army’s drums told the French that the English were coming. The pounding reverberated around the advancing men as the footsoldiers trudged behind the mounted archers and men-at-arms. Blackstone rode ahead of his men watching the bulk of the army move forward. The Prince of Wales rode leisurely forward too, surrounded by his knights and their retainers. Despite the cold and intermittent gusts of wind that swept rain across their lines, the great war banners of the English army unfurled in all their glory.
‘If flags could win a war we would be masters of the world,’ said Killbere. ‘The damned French are nowhere in sight. It will be a sad day if they surrender and throw open their gates.’
‘And you think they’ll do that?’ said Blackstone.
‘It would save us having our shirttails lifted and being abused by the Pope’s legates. I’ll wager there’s a deal being done. Have we had any orders? I don’t see siege engines or scaling ladders.’
‘They’ll be brought up from the rear in good time if it comes to that,’ said Blackstone. ‘We’re riding east. There’s open ground between the walls and the Faubourg Saint-Marcel. If those suburbs are already destroyed the King’ll make his assault against the southern gates first. Then we’ll know what street fighting is about. This is a damned foolish plan, Gilbert. We’ll lose thousands of men in those warrens.’
‘Tell the King, Thomas. I’m certain he’ll be pleased to hear your opinion,’ said Killbere sarcastically.
They broke clear of the forests and saw the great walls loom up six hundred yards ahead. As the army advanced bugles and trumpets blared the English King’s arrival. The rolling thunder of drumbeats thumped through the air and the splendour of banners and pennons of the English nobility paraded a history of conquest before the walls of Paris. The cacophony went on as heralds approached the great city’s southern portal. Smoke from the burning suburbs still drifted on a veering breeze and Blackstone could only imagine the thoughts of those who gazed down from the city walls on the destruction around them and the host that lay ready to besiege them.
‘You think they could be hiding ten thousand men or more in there ready to fight?’ asked Killbere.
There had been a time when another great city had held such an army in its streets. Blackstone had been in Rouen more than a dozen years before and seen that the hundreds of streets could be crammed with an army waiting to go to war.
‘They could be in there,’ he said. ‘And now would be the time for the French to show their hand and put their army into the field. And then this matter will be over.’
The stationary horses shifted their weight as they watched the challenge being delivered at the gate. Killbere grinned at Blackstone. ‘Bastards might just do it. It would be like Crécy and Poitiers all over again. Do you not relish the thought, Thomas? Face-to-face with them again? Eh? My God, let the trumpets blow. We’ll cut them down as we did back then.’ He sniffed and spat and chuckled to himself. ‘I can feel it in my bowels, Thomas. What king’s son would turn his back on honour and the chance of glory if he’s to rule one day?’
Blackstone watched the heralds turn back from the gate and ride back to where the King’s standard fluttered.
‘This one,’ he said. ‘He’s no backbone for a fight. And who can blame him? I’ve been in Paris, Gilbert: the city’s too difficult to take so why should he risk a fight? Besides, he may not have an army camped in there.’
They watched as the heralds delivered the French response to the King. There appeared to be a ripple of excitement among the King’s retinue. The Prince of Wales turned in the saddle and said something to his father.
‘Y’see,’ said Killbere. ‘You were wrong. Look at the King, bless him, he’ll have the Prince and us in the vanguard. That pledge you made to protect young Edward will have us in the thick of it. By God, Thomas, I believe we’re about to confront the French.’ He grinned. ‘Perhaps I was wrong about the girl. Perhaps she brought us good fortune after all.’
Blackstone did not share Killbere’s joy. The Prince had turned away from his father and pointed in Blackstone’s direction. A herald spurred his horse towards them.
‘The girl has nothing to do with it, Gilbert. It is what it is, and if that herald is coming for us then I doubt he’s bearing glad tidings.’
Killbere turned his gaze to the fast-approaching rider. He grunted. ‘You are a miserable wretch at times. Find joy in anticipation. I say my prayers as much as any other. I’m confessed, my clothes and saddle are dry now that the damned rain has stopped, and we stand before the walls of Paris waiting to fight. Cheer up.’
The herald reined in his mount. ‘Sir Thomas, I am obliged to have you and Sir Gilbert accompany me to our lord, the King.’
Killbere looked with glee at Blackstone. ‘Ha! We’re at your command. Ride on!’ The herald wheeled his ho
rse and Killbere slapped Blackstone on the shoulder. ‘We will write history again, Thomas, and your name will be writ large. I know that to be a fact because I will pay the scribes myself to make certain of it. You and me!’
By the time they reached the King’s retinue, more knights had gathered in the background, brought forward on instruction of King Edward. They were mostly young, newly knighted men, and their eagerness to prove themselves was apparent.
The King had more than forty retainers behind him. The great knights were at his side. Cobham, Lancaster, Chandos: men of proven courage and intelligence in the field. Warwick, Stafford and the King’s sons. The banners and pennons that fluttered in the ranks bore the blazons of every fighting knight known to Blackstone. Before this moment he and his men had seen only segments of the army, those close to the Prince as they shared the battlefield, but now the ten thousand stood on the open plain, their ranks curving away around the wall, encircling Paris.
‘My lord,’ said Blackstone, lowering his eyes respectfully as the King settled his gaze on him.
‘Sir Thomas, we are told you have engaged with our enemy on numerous occasions and we are comforted by the sight of our trusted servant Sir Gilbert at your side.’
‘Thank you, sire. We have been fortunate,’ said Blackstone. He was wary of being in the royal company. Each time it had happened in the past he had been drawn too close to the heart of power.
‘And God was with you,’ said King Edward. He touched his neck and then indicated Blackstone. ‘God and your pagan goddess. Many of our Welsh archers are comforted by her.’ There was no hint of criticism in his remarks.
‘She is a spirit of nature created by the Almighty, sire, and every fighting man who is prepared to die for you must take comfort wherever he finds it.’
‘A good answer, Thomas,’ said the Prince. ‘My lord, our father, has a question for you.’
The breeze curled the royal banner. The dragon standard fluttered like a living beast moving through the air. It was a silent moment when the world held its breath. The flags were the only moving things. That and the snuffling horses chomping their bits, shaking their heads, shifting weight. Saddles creaked. The stillness, Blackstone realized, was anything but. His thoughts had been arrested for a few moments because when the Prince had spoken to him he had a look on his face that glowered a warning. He was expected to give the King the answer he wanted.
‘You have been inside the city walls, Thomas. You know the streets and the danger that lurks within them,’ said the King. ‘If we assault how do we secure it?’
Blackstone hesitated. The army was drawn up. If the time had come then the attack had to be driven forward without delay.
‘Sire, this weather will not hold. You can smell the change in the air. We’ll be bogged down soon enough. We should strike now and make what gains we can because the next few days will have us back wheel-deep in mud.’
The King studied him a moment longer. ‘Thomas, let us not consider when we attack, we wish to know what awaits us behind those walls.’
The memory of searching the streets of Paris when Christiana had been used as bait by the Savage Priest was as clear in his mind as the time he had rescued her and escaped through the warren of alleyways and across broad boulevards.
Blackstone surrendered to his own honesty, knowing full well it was not a truth the King wanted to hear. ‘Sire, in truth I cannot imagine such an assault. To have thousands of men gathered in their mail and armour at the bottom of scaling ladders being punished with missiles and oil would slaughter far too many before you even breached the walls. If you succeeded and our men have had sufficient food and rest before such an undertaking, then they would have to survive savage resistance. Paris has sixteen quarters and each of those is divided into tithing groups. The city’s militia are rotated every three weeks as night watch on the city walls, and they cannot shirk their duties because each militia is commanded by a royal captain and the guild contingents are supported by mounted troops. Every corner of every alleyway will be defended. It will be a charnel house for the army.’
Killbere failed to hide his look of despair as Blackstone delivered his verdict.
‘But we would seize the damned place no matter the cost,’ Killbere blurted.
King Edward’s expression betrayed no sign of anger or disappointment at Blackstone’s answer. He glanced kindly at Killbere. ‘Sir Gilbert, we know we could cast you into hell itself and you would wrestle the devil and his imps into submission. Like you, those who fight under our command, with love and loyalty, are the finest England has ever witnessed. Their courage is never doubted.’
He turned his attention back to Blackstone. ‘We are content with your answer, Thomas. Our dear friend and adviser Lancaster has already assured me of the bloodbath that awaits us should we scale those walls.’
‘The Dauphin will not come out and fight, sire?’ said Blackstone.
‘He will not,’ said the Prince.
‘Then do we go in?’ said Blackstone. Perhaps, he suddenly realized, it was his men’s expertise at escalade that had prompted his summons. His heart squeezed tightly. To bring up tall ladders against those walls was, as he had just told the King, little more than a death sentence.
‘We do not,’ said King Edward. ‘Not yet, at least. It is in our favour to find victory by another means. They must be taunted to come out and face us. The French have offered sixty knights to fight à l’outrance. They seek glory in a fight to the death. We will agree and have chosen young men newly honoured with knighthood to contest them. Their sixty against our thirty. That way when they are defeated they will know that every Englishman is worth two Frenchmen. Then perhaps the Dauphin will be unable to resist bringing out his army to reclaim French honour. It is the least any king, or any king’s son, would desire.’
‘Sire!’ Killbere begged. ‘Young knights need a veteran to lead them in a contest to the death.’
King Edward put a finger to each nostril and blew snot free. ‘Gilbert, how could we deny you the pleasure? Though it is unfair on the French. You and Thomas are each worth ten of them.’
CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE
Simon Bucy stood with the Dauphin, who tugged his robes tighter around his neck against the chilled air.
‘Sire, these men fight for the glory of France in your name. If you and members of the court were to accompany me to the walls they would be cheered by your presence. And it would be a grand gesture of defiance.’
The Dauphin shuddered. ‘They fight for their own glory, Simon. We gave our permission; let that be enough. The people do not need to see us; they know we are here. If Paris falls we all fall. Let them take heart from the knights who ride out.’
Bucy knew it was hopeless trying to budge the Prince Regent from the comfort of the room that looked out beyond the Grand-Pont into the city. The coolness of the day and the clear sky would make the blazons and colours of those who fought beyond the walls more vivid. The pageantry would stir men’s hearts, but the Dauphin’s refusal was to be expected. The Pope’s prelates were still trying to negotiate a peace settlement and if the city could hold out long enough then the English would be forced to make concessions and scale back their claim to vast territories. The Pope’s prelates were scuttling back and forth between Paris and King Edward. France, the Dauphin knew, could not endure the great tribulation and poverty that would follow should Edward’s demands be met. Clerks had committed his thoughts to parchment and sent them to the prelates. A final appeal for a treaty had been sent. It acknowledged the older treaty, made before Edward had increased his demands. The King of France, desperate to return from captivity, had signed France away, but his son had resisted. And the English army baying at the gates was the result.
‘Then I shall bear witness to their bravery,’ said Bucy.
The Dauphin was deep in thought, gazing across the city, and made no reply.
‘Highness?’ said Bucy. ‘With your permission?’
‘What? Yes. Yes,
do as you please.’
Bucy bowed and left the chamber, walking quickly to where the captain of the guard, de Chauliac, and his escort waited. ‘Where are they?’ he demanded.
‘The English have surrounded the city and have thirty knights waiting beyond the gates at Porte Saint-Victor,’ said the captain.
A thousand yards from the palace, less in some places to the walls, where the English host were gathered. Bucy felt a tinge of anxiety mingled with anticipation. If the French knights did not succumb it would be a futile victory but might prove an important morale boost to the people of the city. Bucy and his escort’s horses clattered across the Petit-Pont that connected the Île de la Cité with the south bank. By the time they dismounted and went up onto the walls the bugles and trumpets from the English were reverberating again. It was an act of intimidation. Bucy looked to where the French armoured knights waited impatiently behind the gates. Their visors were still raised, but their swords were held ready and shields tucked close. The war horses sensed their riders’ anticipation and some of them jostled, cursed by the squires and stable-hands who kept a firm grip on their bridles. As soon as the gates were opened the horses would surge and it was likely that some of those doing their best to hold their masters’ beasts in check would fall beneath their hooves. The horses were large and strong enough to knock aside the strongest of men, let alone these boys.
Bucy reached the top of the walls and gasped when he saw that the English army stood like another great encircling wall. In the near distance the renowned place of learning the Abbaye de Saint-Victor had remained undamaged. Its great library and scriptorium were still intact. Perhaps it had been spared because the English King’s savagery had been sated by the slaughter in the suburbs. The noise and the spectacle caused Bucy’s heart to tremor. He was aware of Edward and his standard in the distance but his eyes sought out the English knights who waited less than five hundred yards from the gates. They sat on their war horses in the shape of a broad arrowhead. The knight at the formation’s tip waited with an open-faced helm gazing up at the walls. Bucy could not see his face, but he saw that this man and the knight a few paces behind on his left bore the same blazon on their shields. Bucy gripped the wall.