by David Gilman
Thomas Blackstone.
‘Open the gates!’ a voice commanded.
*
‘Let them come,’ Killbere said, turning in his saddle to the eager young knights who waited behind him. ‘Watch how they attack. They’ll form up across us and then hope to ride into us and flank us. The French want personal glory. That splits them up.’
The nearest man was struggling to control his horse. Richard Baskerville was the son of one of the Prince’s companions who had fought with him at Crécy and Poitiers. ‘Hold him, boy,’ said Killbere. ‘When they charge, spur him on. Tight rein. Saw the bit. Otherwise his blood will be up and he’ll run you into the damned walls.’
The young knight nodded nervously. Killbere pulled down his visor. Blackstone’s horse raised its head, ears pricked forward. Its muscles quivered. Blackstone felt the tug on the reins. The horse was as keen as its master to strike the enemy, who now fanned out in extended line two hundred yards from the English.
Blackstone turned. ‘Gilbert. Let’s end this.’
Without waiting for an answer Blackstone spurred the bastard horse forward, its boiled leather breast armour creaking under the strain of its power. He heard Killbere curse at being caught off guard: he had been waiting for the French to get closer. Now Blackstone had gained forty or more strides on them all and would plunge into the fray unprotected.
*
The captain of the guard standing next to Bucy swore beneath his breath. ‘Bastards are outnumbered,’ he whispered to no one in particular. The French soldiers and militia manning this section of the wall cheered loudly. Bucy ignored the chilled air seeping beneath his cloak’s collar and stared transfixed as the sixty French knights rode en masse towards the English. Two to one. They would inflict misery on them. He saw Blackstone spur his horse forward. Did the man have a death wish? He would be overwhelmed. Bucy’s throat tightened in panic. He did not wish Blackstone to fall beneath French swords here, outside the city walls. Bucy had already planned a more fitting end for the scourge of the house of Valois.
The remaining English knights quickly put spurs to their horses. The trumpets and bugles suddenly fell silent. The deafening roar of the English army rose up. The horses thundered across the open plain, kicking up great clods of dirt. The French rode with swords at the high guard, ready to slash down, as did the English, who now urged their horses at the canter. Except for Blackstone. He rode as if out for a day’s hawking. Bucy could not take his eyes from him. The unusual rhythm of Blackstone’s horse rolled like a wallowing boat, but Blackstone was upright, sword arm low. What in God’s name was he doing?
A handful of the French had forged ahead of the others and the attacking knights behind them became more scattered. They had lost their formation, whether deliberately or not Bucy couldn’t tell. What held his gaze was the sight of the two knights who now vied to kill the scarred-face Blackstone. They had dug their heels into their horses’ flanks and were now at full gallop but Blackstone’s beast still lumbered at a canter. And then Bucy understood why. The slower-moving horse changed course. It angled away from the two knights bearing down on it, forcing the Frenchmen to jostle each other as they attempted to steer their horses at speed. The outer rider was being pushed by his companion by which time Blackstone had crossed their line of travel and raised his sword arm. The Frenchman had no protection. His shield arm was on the opposite side, almost being barged by his companion. He kicked his horse to try and turn it but Blackstone was too fast: he had half twisted in the saddle, bringing a sweeping cut upwards. As the French knight slashed downward Blackstone’s blade caught him beneath his raised arm, which suddenly flopped uncontrollably. Blood gushed from the near-severed arm and the knight tumbled from his saddle. By the time the dead man’s horse had galloped past, the knight’s companion had been forced to veer to one side and was suddenly under the swords of two Englishmen.
Bucy’s mouth dried with the horror of the efficient killing. His stomach lurched but his grip on the rough stone wall kept him focused, now more against his will, but also with macabre fascination. Blackstone’s horse barged a French knight. The man struck down repeatedly and Blackstone made little effort to halt the strikes: he simply parried with his shield, turning away the attacker’s blade. It seemed impossible to Bucy’s untrained eye that so many strikes could yield no result. Instead, as Blackstone’s shield forced the knight to half raise himself in the saddle to deliver a killing blow, Blackstone leaned forward and thrust his blade into the man’s exposed groin. His scream soared above the English cheers, and as he slumped, mortally wounded, Blackstone had already urged his horse into the other Frenchmen, leaving his victim to fall, head severed, beneath the blade of the knight who followed Blackstone.
Bucy nearly gagged. He clamped a hand against his mouth. His mind flashed with the imagined picture of the Savage Priest fighting Thomas Blackstone years before. He too had failed and his skeleton still hung as a warning to anyone who dared take up the challenge against the Englishman. And then a more sickening realization swept over him. If the English did breach the walls Blackstone would scorch the streets like uncontrolled fire. He would come for the Dauphin and, more importantly, for Bucy himself.
He abandoned his plan to lure Blackstone into Paris. Better to rid himself of the threat now.
‘Kill him!’ he heard a voice bellow. ‘Kill him!’ And felt no sense of shame as he realized the voice was his own.
*
Blackstone’s attack had slowed his progress, allowing the other English knights to catch up with him. Two Frenchmen attacked Blackstone, kicking their horses into position left and right, shields raised, mace and sword hammering down on him. Blackstone wore light armour: shoulder and arm pieces and thigh guards. His open helm sat on a gorget to protect his throat and left exposed his face and eyes, which terrified the Frenchmen more than the violence that swept over them. Blackstone’s gaze was unflinching. It was focused solely on killing.
Blackstone caught one strike on his crossguard and twisted the French blade away. The man’s gauntlet could not hold the wrench against his wrist and unlike Blackstone he wore no blood knot tying the sword’s grip to his wrist. The sword fell; his head half turned; Wolf Sword swept through the air with enough force for the hardened steel to cut into his helm and skull. The Frenchman reeled, his horse skewed away out of control as the blinded knight fought the pain and blood in his eyes and fell onto the swords of the Englishmen behind Blackstone, who now struck the French with concentrated violence.
No matter what the second French knight tried he could not deflect Blackstone’s rapid blows. They came too quickly and there was a power behind them that tore at his back and shoulder muscles. The Frenchman was no stranger to trial by combat. He had fought valiantly at Poitiers and defended garrisons and towns for the French Crown against marauding routiers in the years since. But then one of Blackstone’s blows forced aside his shield and the Englishman reached forward and backhanded his sword’s pommel against the French knight’s helm. The force made his head recoil and although he righted himself in the space of a heartbeat Wolf Sword’s blade pierced his visor.
Bucy watched as the mêlée became a slaughter. Other than Blackstone the English seemed to fight in pairs, hemming in the French knights who fought alone, eager to claim personal glory. Even Bucy could see that. He cursed their arrogance. No wonder the English army was unstoppable – they were disciplined. If French courage had been matched with the same strategy they would have prevailed. Riderless horses galloped here and there across the plain. French colours lay bloodied in the dirt. Knights hacked to death lay like butchered beasts.
A French knight rammed his horse against Blackstone’s. It made little impression. The bastard horse wheeled. Blackstone swore at the belligerent animal and gripped tightly as it bucked, its iron-shod hooves smashing into the other horse’s legs. Blackstone heard the bones crack and the horse whinny. Its body folded; the French knight pitched forward, screaming curses at his mount.
As he struggled to stay in the saddle Blackstone seemed to wait a few leisurely moments before plunging Wolf Sword’s point into the gap in armour between chest and shoulder. The knight fell writhing but as he tumbled to the ground he bravely tried to regain his balance, staggering to his knees despite his pain. Blackstone halted the bastard horse and waited for the dying man as he pushed back his visor, gulping air. Blackstone saw that he was a young man, barely any whiskers on his face, perhaps newly knighted like the English squires who were slaying his comrades. The young knight grimaced. The agony was getting the better of him. He cried out, forcing his body to keep attacking. He was within half a dozen paces of the scar-faced Englishman who gazed down at him. He raised his sword but the effort defeated him. He fell to his knees and succumbed to death.
Killbere swung his mace, knocking a knight senseless despite the padding within his helm, and then struck again. The Frenchman’s head whipped back and forth from the blows. His arms slackened as his head was pounded. His ears leaked blood and his brain, battered by the ferocious attack, plunged the man into darkness. He was as good as dead, and soon would be. He tumbled from the saddle and as Killbere wheeled his mount its hooves smashed into the man’s back. Killbere saw the young English knight Baskerville lose control of his horse and fall. The last surviving French knight had gained the advantage and as he turned his mount, preparing to go in for the kill, Killbere kicked his horse forward between him and the fallen man. Another knight dismounted to help Baskerville onto his feet while the Frenchman faced Killbere, who blocked the first two blows against him and then swung his chained mace around the man’s neck, hauling him from the saddle. Baskerville and his helper fell on him.
The killing ended.
*
Simon Bucy stood transfixed at the sight of the defeat. The cold blue sky highlighted the carnage. The blazons and surcoats were scattered like a trampled field of wildflowers. Blood seeped into the churned grass. English knights raised their visors and their sword arms, turning to the English host who roared in triumph.
All except one man.
Blackstone sat astride his war horse and faced the walls of Paris. He stared up at those who had witnessed the defeat. Bucy stepped back involuntarily. He knew it was an impossibility but it seemed as if Blackstone’s eyes had sought him out. And marked him for death.
It would not be so, he assured himself, gathering his confidence as he made his way down the steps to the waiting escort. As pages and stable-hands ran out from the courtyard to retrieve the fallen knights and recover their horses, Bucy comforted himself with the knowledge that he had the information and the means to cast Thomas Blackstone into the arms of a monster in a place far from the French court where he could never again pose any threat. French swords had failed to slay Blackstone but he, Simon Bucy, would ensure the troublesome knight’s death with the stroke of a pen.
CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX
Blackstone always rose before dawn even though after the previous day’s contest against the French knights he and Killbere had roundly celebrated their victory. The Prince of Wales had sent barrels of wine for Blackstone and his men and he and Killbere had drunk them dry with their captains. It served to ease the regret of the killing of Robert Thurgood and Collard. Now, as he walked among his men who stirred from their blankets and poked kindling into their campfire embers, he believed that this would be the day when the King of England would assault the walls of Paris. Here and there men stretched out the stiffness from their bodies and went into the trees to relieve themselves before warming the cooking pots and supping what remained of their contents.
The sky was still clear but the cold air pressed a veil of snaking mist across the treetops. It would need the weak sun’s warmth to lift it, but if it did not then it might help obscure their attack. It was madness, but they were all caught up in it and the future of England lay within such madness. They were all lunatics of war. He had wandered through his own men’s encampment and now realized he had been drawn towards the rear where the wagons were stationed and the barber surgeons would ready themselves to receive the wounded once the battle began. The apothecaries were back here and so too, somewhere close by, was Aelis, now that she had the Prince’s protection. He questioned why he had come this far with the unformed thought of seeing her again. Her image tugged at him, because he knew that if they got beyond the walls then the thousands who waited in the streets held the advantage no matter how strong the English. And death was more likely than not, even with the protection of Arianrhod. The silver goddess would ease his journey from this life into the next but before she did he wanted to see the witch-woman again. The previous night’s drinking had brought him dreams that scattered to and fro, will-o’-the-wisps, taunting and defying him to hold on to the visions that hovered before him. He had seen Christiana again but she was beyond his reach, held by unseen hands. She had smiled and the joy from it had flooded him with warmth until she faded into an amber-leaf forest, the wood spirits drawing her away. And as the shadows took her a cold hand clutched his heart. Wind swept the leaves from the trees and another woman stepped out and stared at him. It was Aelis, standing in the half-light as if she had been responsible for drawing away Christiana, denying him his love. As the witch-woman’s cloak fell open he saw that she was naked and the fullness of her breasts and the tilt of her chin challenged him. He had awoken in panic, the dream already escaping. The reality of where he was and the barren existence without Christiana was quickly brought home as he rolled free of the blanket, nearly kicking a snoring Killbere.
The wagons were gone. He stood for a moment searching the clearing for anything that might tell him why so many supply wagons had been moved during the night. The King, he reasoned, must be repositioning them in case of counter-attack.
Trumpets roused the men and by the time he had made his way back to his own lines priests were standing before men-at-arms and hobelars alike as they said mass. It was Sunday and if a man had to die perhaps it was better on the holiest day of the week. Killbere emerged from the trees tying the cord on the front of his breeches. ‘I’ll say this for the Prince, he has good wine. Not that gut-rotting stuff. Thought he might have sent some brandy though. Perhaps he has a celebration planned once we clamber over the walls.’ He shook a couple of wineskins, found one that still held some wine and then drank thirstily.
‘You suck like a cow at the teat,’ said Blackstone, buckling on his sword.
‘A man has little else to suck these days. I shall be glad to find a brothel before Edward’s men flay the city. We must ask the Prince’s indulgence and get ourselves in the vanguard. His blood will be up, you’ll see.’
‘You’re anxious to have us killed. Your tongue wagged like a washerwoman’s yesterday and had us in enough trouble. Learn to let the Fates decide.’
Killbere swilled his mouth and spat. ‘Thomas, you and me, we should take what we can when we can because we’re in need of some comfort in this damned campaign.’ He tossed aside the empty wineskin. ‘Are you going to mass?’ he said, tugging on his jupon and shrugging off the chills. Blackstone made no answer as Killbere reached for his sword belt. ‘No. I thought not. The devil will catch you unaware one day, Thomas. He’ll snatch your soul when you least expect it and you won’t be confessed. A man should not die unshriven.’ He stamped his feet to get the circulation going.
Blackstone raised his face to the breeze. ‘Wind’s shifting. If he’s going to attack we shouldn’t wait. The good weather will be gone by tomorrow. Can’t you taste it?’
‘My mouth is like the floor of your horse’s stall,’ Killbere said.
Henry arrived with a leather pail of water. ‘My lord, Sir Gilbert. I’ve brought water from the stream.’
‘Ah, good lad,’ said Killbere and cupped his hands into the cold water and splashed his face. He snorted and spat again. ‘Now I can try and stay awake while the black-hooded crows mutter their incantations.’ He strode away towards the gathering men and a priest who was already bl
essing them.
‘You’ve eaten?’ said Blackstone.
‘Later, Father. John Jacob had me bring this water first.’
‘All right. Be off with you. Eat when you can, boy, you don’t know when the next mouthful is coming your way.’
‘Yes, Father.’ He left the bucket. ‘Father, I watched you fight yesterday and… I was frightened.’
‘We all know fear, son,’ said Blackstone gently, ‘some more than others, but we hide it so that the man next to us does not get infected. Fear can destroy an army quicker than the plague.’
‘I meant that I was frightened that you would be wounded or killed. I was fearful of that. I would not wish to be alone, Father.’
Blackstone studied his son. He showed no sign of trepidation; there were no tears in his eyes. ‘Henry, I will always be with you, no matter what happens. Just as your good mother’s love protects you.’
Henry nodded. And then he shrugged. ‘It’s not the same as having her here, though, is it?’
‘No it’s not. We find our courage in her memory though, don’t you think?’
The boy nodded. ‘She was brave. I will try and remember what you have said, when I’m afraid.’
Blackstone reached out and gripped his son’s shoulder. ‘Listen to me, Henry. I have seen you look death in the eye and I have been filled with pride at the way you faced it. Every man here who serves with me has seen it as well. These men are warriors who respect you. Carry that knowledge with humility and use it as your shield against fear when you must. This is the truth of it, and you would not be here with us if it were not.’