by David Gilman
And now he led another hunt, charged by the Count to take the tall, scar-faced Englishman and his men through the deep forest on foot so that those who waited to kill could, in turn, be slain. Since dawn Blackstone and fifty of his men had followed Girard through what seemed to be an impenetrable forest as he led them this way and that along animal tracks, across deep streams and up boulder-strewn embankments. The men were scratched and bruised from their efforts as Girard weaved left and right, and on more than one occasion went down on one knee and signalled the men to follow his example. Like the boy, Blackstone was at ease in the dense woodland, but even he could not see what the boy saw, and only on one occasion did he catch a fleeting glimpse of shadows moving and his instincts told him that they were wolves seeking out prey. As they made their way patiently through the trees Blackstone was reminded how Robert Thurgood must have struggled alone through the forest before he warned them of the impending attack. He felt as though the dead archer’s ghost were flitting between the saplings and great trees, a haunting reminder of the lad’s courage, of his death, taunting Blackstone. He pushed Thurgood’s image from his thoughts and concentrated on following Girard, who at every twist and turn kept those who followed him downwind. If the breeze shifted, so did his route; there was to be no risk of the horses waiting in the distant treeline catching their scent. It was several hours before Blackstone caught the unmistakable smell of men who had spent days in the forest. Their latrine pits stank and the stale odour of sweat and food clung to the foliage. Blackstone and his men were two hundred paces from the blurred figures who milled at the fringe of the trees. Blackstone moved his eye from tree to tree until he focused clearly on the men who were preparing their horses; some of the mercenaries were already in the saddle. Girard had brought them through the forest in good time. He glanced at the boy who crouched, shivering. Perhaps, Blackstone thought, he was as feral as the Count had described. His quivering body was like a beast’s, sensing danger. He reached out and laid a hand on Girard’s shoulder. The boy flinched and then, with a glance at the fifty men who crouched, weapons in hand, eyes fixed ahead on the shimmering treeline, he turned and moved silently back into the forest. Within moments he was gone from sight.
Blackstone crept forward.
*
De Chauliac led the Princess’s escort into the valley’s broad expanse. His back muscles ached from the tension of the expected attack. His men were the best the Dauphin’s royal guard could offer and none were strangers to battle. What he feared was the Englishman’s tactics. If Sir Thomas Blackstone was making his way through the forest in the hope of reaching the expected ambush site by the time he and the slow-moving litter got there, it wouldn’t take much of a delay to find de Chauliac and his fifty men dead on the valley floor. If Count Amadeus’s man had reported the numbers of the routiers accurately then they were outnumbered at least five to one. Perhaps more. Even if Blackstone did hack his way through that forest, they were still going to face greater odds than de Chauliac wished. When Blackstone had briefed his captains on what was expected and de Chauliac had raised the matter, the Englishman and his captains had laughed. He had been insulted. They seemed to have no care for their own lives and being outnumbered evoked no fear in them. It had required Blackstone himself to soothe his hurt pride, pointing out that de Chauliac had been granted the honour of drawing the first blood. Very well, he had decided, no matter what happened he and his men would acquit themselves with courage and…
The sight of the shrine interrupted his thoughts. The sons of iniquity would attack here when they stopped, and he had to pretend that it was not expected. He could not form up his men in battle order to meet any charge against them; they had to wait, as if unsuspecting. He raised a hand and brought the column to a halt. The litter stopped in front of the shrine and, as Blackstone had instructed, the Princess climbed down to pray, aided by her two ladies-in-waiting. De Chauliac licked his dry lips and kept his eyes on the forest. There was movement in the shadows, he was certain of it.
No sooner did the Princess alight and kneel in prayer at the shrine than the treeline shuddered as an extended line of horsemen surged forward.
‘Make ready!’ de Chauliac called as his escort turned to face the attack. He hoped the mercenaries did not have good enough eyesight from that distance to see the men’s boots beneath the ladies-in-waiting’s robes. Their wimples covered the men’s beards and the litter concealed their weapons.
*
Henry Blackstone had laughed along with the others when Blackstone presented John Jacob and Perinne with the women’s clothing.
‘Sir Thomas,’ Perinne pleaded. ‘I have fought with you since you were a boy and we built that wall together at Chaulion to fend off the bastard killer Saquet. If I am to die at the hands of routiers I beg you not to let it be dressed as a woman.’
‘Get the clothes on, Perinne, no one’s asking you to become a whore and sell your arse to monks,’ said Killbere. Perinne’s face fell and the shame of it nearly defeated the fighting man.
‘Sir Thomas?’ he pleaded again.
‘Perinne, I ask this of you so that you and John Jacob can protect the Princess. She must be seen by the skinners.’
‘The French would be better suited to this task,’ said John Jacob in almost a whisper. ‘I have heard stories from Paris about brothels that keep boys dressed as women.’
‘Idle gossip,’ answered Blackstone. ‘And can you imagine the insult rendered to the French if I asked de Chauliac to dress his royal escort in women’s clothing?’
‘They could charge more than you, John,’ said Meulon and laughed along with the others.
‘Aye, but if Perinne shaved that boar’s stubble from his chin I could get him married off to a tavern owner,’ said Will Longdon. ‘And then everyone would be happy.’
‘You’ll have a yard-long arrow shaft up your arse before this day is out, Will Longdon,’ snarled Perinne.
‘Which is less painful than what you’ll be getting!’ he answered.
The men’s laughter echoed around the courtyard.
‘Enough of this,’ said Blackstone. ‘I can’t afford to insult the French. Get the clothes on so we can all admire you.’
‘And a cap and veil will be enough to hide a face even a wild pig would spurn,’ said Killbere.
‘I hope you pray for forgiveness, Sir Thomas,’ said John Jacob as he was helped into the flowing clothes by Henry Blackstone.
‘Master Jacob, I think you serve my lord well, though I would suggest a tightening of the belt to lessen the girth,’ said Henry, smiling, ‘lest anyone think you are bearing a child.’ Which earned more laughter as well as a cuff around the head from John Jacob.
‘A page would do well to remember respect for the squire he serves. There are a hundred creaking saddles that can be oiled,’ he retorted, but with good humour.
‘And Henry, this is for you,’ said Blackstone as he tossed him a dress. ‘You are to be our Princess.’
*
The earth rumbled from the attacking horseman.
‘Not yet, not yet,’ Perinne said from beneath the face veil. ‘Let the bastards think they have us.’
‘Stay behind us, Henry,’ said John Jacob. ‘We take horse and man. Be ready to finish the beasts before they kick us to death when they’re down.’
Grimo the butcher and his attacking routiers spurred their horses on. The French and the women who served the Princess seemed rooted to the spot with fear as he sprang his ambush. It would be an easy kill. They were 130 long paces from the line of French cavalry when the first shadows fell from the sky. Horses whinnied and veered as arrows struck, throwing their riders; men gaped wide-eyed as the sudden shock of bodkin-tipped arrow shafts pierced neck and back. Screams and shouts of panic rose up from the valley and funnelled into the mountainsides, startling rooks and crows from the trees. Those same birds would soon be pecking the eyes and flesh of his fallen men. Grimo turned in the saddle and saw a line of men at the trees be
hind them half bent into their war bows as others raced towards them on foot with swords and shields raised. His ambush had turned on him like a wounded wolf. The sky darkened again and his eyes lied – the Princess pulled free her veil and dress and grabbed a sword from the litter, as did her ladies-in-waiting, women transformed into fighting men like a magician’s demons. Demons who now ran at him only to be overtaken by the charging French escort.
‘Away!’ Grimo screamed, waving his sword, ordering his men to split and run. Those that could peeled away from the French assault, but most were caught between the men attacking from the rear and the horsemen to their front. His horse barged another; he swung widely, skill and desperation forged into a bid for survival. The Frenchman went down. Those men who had worn dresses ripped them free and were fighting together, spear and sword, shield and mace, as they thrust into a horse’s chest and then hacked the rider to death. Two men and a boy. Efficient and deadly, they stood their ground, chose their victim and attacked again. He had seen fighting like this before on the field at Poitiers and knew without doubt that they were Englishmen. The mêlée engulfed them all. The royal guard tore into his men but were initially outnumbered as his routiers divided their ranks, forcing them to fight in twos and threes. But that momentum was soon lost as more of his men fell writhing on the ground pierced with arrow shafts.
‘Break left and right!’ he screamed. If they made good their escape these attackers would be forced to separate and he and his men would have the chance to ride to safety. The silence of the men attacking on foot with their bared teeth and snarling faces was more frightening than if a banshee had howled its spectral scream and descended on them. Those who had swarmed from the forest behind them started to kill with practised efficiency. The big man leading the attack raised his shield to ward off a blow from one of Grimo’s men on the ground. There were too many unseated horsemen, he realized as the attacker’s shield smashed into the man, followed by a swift strike that cleaved the man from shoulder to chest.
Iron-shod hooves churned mud. Henry jumped lithely aside and killed a flailing horse as Perinne and John Jacob ran forward to pull a routier down from his saddle. And then Henry was separated as horses milled between them. A rider leaned down and swung a spiked mace at him; he ducked but slipped in the mud. The horseman quickly heeled his horse around in an attempt to trample him. The man bent low in the saddle, his arm brought back in a high, sweeping curve that would deliver a crushing blow. Henry’s fear and desperation gave him strength. He lunged, forcing his sword point into the man’s exposed thigh. The snarling face bellowed, spraying spittle. Wide-eyed with pain he swept the mace down. Henry felt the air whisper past his ear. Pain cut through his metal skullcap. He could smell the horse’s sweat and saw the beast’s terrified eyes rolling back at him as its shoulder struck him. Hooves clawed the dirt next to his face. As he rolled clear he saw the distant snow-capped mountains tinged with the sun’s blood hue beneath the horse’s belly. It was a glimpse of God’s beauty and a moment’s foolishness that took his eye from his attacker. Helplessly he tried to scramble clear, but the wounded man – who in his fury had dismounted, abandoning the advantage of his horse – rammed his boot heel into Henry’s chest, pinning him down. Then he swung the spiked club towards the boy’s face.
In an instant the man was pulled backwards by a blood-streaked Perinne and as the routier lost balance John Jacob fell on him, hacking him to death.
‘On your feet, boy!’ Perinne shouted.
Stunned and winded, Henry clambered to his feet. The screaming cacophony swirling around him made him dizzy. Colours blurred. John Jacob grabbed him by his jupon and was yelling at him. But he couldn’t hear. And then as blood ran across his eyes his legs gave way and he slipped into blessed silence.
*
Blackstone ran twenty paces behind the arrow strikes. They ceased to fall the moment he reached the rear ranks of the horsemen. The heaving mass of riders barged and struck at each other. The French fought well, although Blackstone and de Chauliac were outnumbered. Blackstone realized there must have been three hundred routiers who had attacked, but the English archers had claimed a third of these and fear of the archers’ skill caused panic among the rest. No sooner had Will Longdon’s archers stopped shooting than they abandoned their war bows and, with buckler, knife and sword, ran to support Blackstone’s men-at-arms.
Blackstone cursed as a rider heeled his mount around against him, wishing he was on his bastard horse, wanting its strength and belligerence. Killbere swept his blade across the mercenary’s horse’s leg, severing it completely. It screamed and went down, body rolling in agony, throwing the routier. Blackstone jumped clear of the thrashing hooves and Killbere plunged his sword into the man’s neck as Blackstone put the fallen beast out of its agony. Blackstone’s men swarmed past, shields high, ramming them against riders’ legs, working in pairs; cutting and slashing the routiers down onto the ground where they attempted to defend themselves – without success. Blackstone had been right. His men knew how to kill better than most. The mêlée was bedlam. Madness gripped the fighting men as those who grappled on the ground beat each other with fists and rocks. In the eye of the fighting storm a dozen of the royal guard encircled some routiers, hacking them down. Two of the brigands half wheeled their horses and boxed in de Chauliac. He was at their mercy, unable to counter their wild blows. He took a strike on his sword arm; his mail stopped the sword point from cutting into bone but the blow was powerful enough to spill blood. His arm went limp and he was unable to parry the next blow. Blackstone had seen the attack, wove between horses and yanked the routier’s reins, pulling him from the saddle. The man rolled clear, but Blackstone was on him and threw his weight onto Wolf Sword’s crossguard; the blade pierced the man’s throat.
De Chauliac’s strength returned. He feinted and then plunged his sword point beneath the man’s raised arm. He kicked the horse around and saw Blackstone was already attempting to outflank survivors who were desperately attempting to break free. Fallen bodies and thrashing horses slowed his pace and at least twenty men escaped. Others fled in the opposite direction. Suddenly the fight’s energy waned and some of the routiers tried to surrender – without success.
Blackstone saw de Chauliac urge his men to pursue the escaping mercenaries.
‘Captain! No! Let them go! Leave them!’ he yelled, running to the horseman and snatching at his bridle. The Frenchman’s blood was up and he tried to yank free but Blackstone held firm. ‘My men will deal with them. You give chase, you might die with those bastards!’ For a moment it seemed de Chauliac would wrench his horse free but the lust to kill calmed and he nodded.
‘I owe you, Sir Thomas. It will not be forgotten.’
Blackstone barely acknowledged the Frenchman’s thanks and rejoined his men.
The fight in the valley was over. Blackstone’s men were already stripping the bodies of whatever plunder they could find. The dead routiers had gold and silver in their purses and some wore silver belts with expensive knives and swords, plunder taken from their victims. Blackstone saw the look of disgust cross de Chauliac’s face.
‘You and your men fight like demons, Sir Thomas, and I more than any other am glad of it, but it’s common men who scavenge from the dead.’
‘It’s their reward, de Chauliac. Unlike you, they’re not in the service of any nobleman or king. They must take their profit where they find it. See to your wounded.’
The Frenchman had watched Blackstone carve his way through the mercenary ranks, and the force of his attack had stunned the enemy. He and the veteran knight Killbere were formidable and de Chauliac knew that had they met face-to-face on the battlefield he would have been the one to die. He had no sense of false pride when witnessing the prowess of such fighting men.
‘See to your own men, Sir Thomas. And your boy. I saw him fall.’
He steered his horse away as Blackstone’s eyes scoured the killing field. He saw John Jacob and Perinne next to the small sh
rine of the Holy Mother. At their feet lay his son.
CHAPTER FIFTY-ONE
Grimo the butcher spurred his horse away from the killing. Twenty men had turned with him and a similar number had escaped on the road back towards Chambéry. The attack from the forest had taken him utterly by surprise. English whoreson archers. They had slain his men with a terrifying ease and then the swordsmen had swept into them with a fury that staggered even his men, every one of whom had fought in the great battles. How many men lay back there in the valley? More than two hundred was certain. He would have to build his force again. How had they known, those English? His paymaster didn’t know where the attack was to take place; there could have been no idle gossip, no words loosened by drink. How had they known?
It made no difference now. He and a handful of his men had survived but there would be no payment from Milan and, worse, he would not be able to return in failure. Not to the monster who would tear the flesh from his bones with his bare teeth. He looked back. No pursuit. The road ahead narrowed and beyond its bend he knew there was a crossroads. He would decide where to go when he got there. He slowed their retreat and cantered down the curved track, but then quickly reined in.
‘Sweet Jesus,’ said the man at his side. ‘It’s a trap.’
Two huge men straddled the road with their men. The same damned men he had let through before. Men he could have slaughtered back then but who would now inflict losses on him. Desperation clawed at Grimo and his routiers. They couldn’t go back: certain death lay there; they had to throw themselves forward and seize the road. Horses jostled. The odds were about equal. The butcher bellowed defiance, kicked his horse forward and brought up his shield, his raised sword ready to strike.