by David Gilman
‘When we fought at Launac I thought you might die a happy man then.’
‘I grant you, Thomas, my vitals were stirred at the drumbeat and trumpet and the banners and pennons flashing their colours across the ranks. It was a fight worth having but it did not take us any closer to defeating the French Crown.’
‘We do what the Prince asks and give de Grailly and Beyard a chance to go north.’
‘Surely you can’t believe they can win?’
‘The Prince says that Chandos has controlled the routiers, which means the French can’t recruit them.’ Blackstone stopped before they reached the men. ‘What doubts we have we keep to ourselves, Gilbert.’
Killbere spat and wiped a hand across his beard. ‘I don’t want to see Beyard or any of our Gascons throwing their lives away for a turd like Navarre. They need us at their side.’
‘Beyard is de Grailly’s captain. He has to go. He has no choice and neither do we.’
Killbere grunted. He knew full well there was nothing either of them could do, but it was worth trying.
‘William!’ Blackstone called.
William Ashford stood with his men in the yard. Striding briskly across to Blackstone and Killbere, he dipped his head respectfully. ‘Sir Thomas, it’s a pleasure to see you again. You’ve recovered, I see.’
Blackstone extended his hand to the man who had served the King, the Prince and then Blackstone. ‘Too long lying on my back nursed like a mewling child by the Prince’s physicians. After three months we wintered in a monastery until now when we are summoned by the Prince.’
‘And we are but one faltering step away from becoming celibate, tonsured recluses ourselves,’ said Killbere in greeting. ‘A brothel and a raucous tavern are what a man needs after hibernation.’
‘Not here, Sir Gilbert,’ said Ashford. ‘The Prince is a pious man. When he visits a town the brothels close and the taverns water down their wine. No mayor or council wants trouble with drunken soldiers when he’s around.’
‘And you’ve fared well?’ said Blackstone.
‘The Prince did me the honour of allowing me to serve as his bodyguard.’
‘Then I hope it will not disappoint you that I requested you and your men join me, and he has agreed.’
‘I know, Sir Thomas. The Prince said you would ask for me.’
Killbere grunted. ‘Damn, he played us like simpletons. He wanted us to be grateful and in his debt for the favour. Thomas, don’t ever play cards with Edward of Woodstock. He will have every silver and gold coin we have saved.’
‘That’s why he’s a prince of the realm,’ said Blackstone. ‘And we fight and die.’
Killbere grinned. ‘Treaties aren’t worth the parchment they’re written on. Another war for the balance of power. We should thank God that we live a more honourable life than those duplicitous vermin scurrying along the corridors of power.’ He shrugged with a sheepish grin. ‘Not counting our blessed King and Prince of course.’
‘But we won’t fight if Navarre gets there first and wins,’ Blackstone said.
‘And I saw a unicorn in the forest on our way here and a fairy farting so loud it scared the crows,’ Killbere said.
‘Stranger things have happened,’ said Blackstone.
‘You’re right; I almost married that nun. Did I ever tell you about that?’
‘Not more than a thousand times over the years.’ Blackstone turned away.
‘Where are you going?’ said Killbere.
‘To speak to Beyard and give my blessings to him and his men.’
‘Ah, then I’ll tell William about her. He hasn’t heard the story.’
CHAPTER FOUR
Blackstone and his men rode for three days within sight of the column snaking across the undulating landscape. Initially they saw distant pennons as a French scouting party shadowed them. Blackstone rode close to the border of Aquitaine and Languedoc, a feint to draw French attention and create uncertainty. When the French saw his column of men with his banner unfurled, they gathered in greater numbers in case the Englishman dared strike into French territory. It gave scant satisfaction to any of the fighting men that they had sown doubt and fear into their old enemy. Their task was to draw men and interest from the French southern army. Their presence taunted the French commanders but neither Englishman, Navarrese nor Frenchman violated the border and the truce.
Beyard and his Gascons were obliged to join their sworn lord but the bond between them and Blackstone’s fighters was as raucous and strong as ever. Insults were traded when Beyard and his men rode out to join the gathering army and every man kept any thought that they were most likely riding to their death locked inside. The King of Navarre’s ambitions had caused the demise of many a good fighter.
‘It would serve the world better if the aristocrats went under the sword instead of good fighting men,’ said Will Longdon.
‘You think the Jacquerie had the right idea?’ said Meulon, the throat-cutter.
‘A peasant uprising needs to be planned. Once they slaughter a nobleman’s children and roast them on a spit, they lose control,’ Will Longdon said.
Meulon snorted and spat. ‘You’re a peasant. Perhaps you should lead the next revolt?’
‘I’d make a better job of it.’
‘The noblemen hold the reins, you rump of a pig’s arse. They need fighting men and we get paid for doing their dirty work. Kill the aristocrats and we have no work.’
The veteran archer turned in the saddle to where Meulon rode at the head of his men. ‘Your brains were left in the dirt when your mother dropped you out of her belly in that turnip field. If there were no noblemen, we would have their money. We would have a life of luxury.’
‘Until another greedy bastard came and snatched it from you,’ said Longdon’s Welsh ventenar, Meuric Kynith. ‘You’ll not win a country by killing the rich and powerful, you must take it by stealth. Like I seized these boots off a nobleman when he was washing his arse in a river.’
‘I don’t want a bloody country, you pagan bastard, only a nobleman’s money. And if I had a nobleman’s money I would have a pair of fine boots like these for myself.’
‘But when you have such wealth then you would have to pay the likes of us to protect you,’ Kynith said.
‘Which is all you’re fit for because you haven’t the brains to do anything else.’
‘That would make you the same as the noblemen we have now,’ said Meulon. ‘And we would need another revolt to rid ourselves of you.’
Killbere shouted, ‘I will send you all to the nearest leper house if your bickering does not cease. I prefer birdsong and horse farts for conversation.’
Killbere’s chastisement quietened the instigators. The low murmur from Will Longdon’s lips was barely audible. ‘I would have knights stand their watch on the wall until their balls hardened like frozen walnuts.’
It was loud enough for Blackstone’s keen hearing. ‘Then you would live with eunuchs and be the only man left to fight. The battle is lost before it starts, Will. Accept what we are. Fine doublets and silk sheets do not become an archer. Better if such a man takes his pleasure in killing knights.’ He turned to Killbere. ‘Preferably theirs.’
The slow-moving army eventually passed east of Poitiers and drew up close to the Breton border.
‘My Lord de Grailly. I can go no further. I follow my Prince’s orders.’
Jean de Grailly watched his men ride past him. ‘I begged that you fight with us, Thomas, but the treaty forbids it.’
‘I would furl my colours and disguise my blazon and join you but the Dauphin would soon know we stood together and then my fate and that of my men would mean banishment again. I have other orders. My lord, I beg a favour.’
‘If it’s in my power, Sir Thomas.’
‘Whichever way the battle turns, send Beyard to me with news. I ride north to join Sir John Chandos. I will travel slowly. I’ll wait three days in the forest at Alençon and then ride on. Beyard knows our strongh
olds and where we take shelter. If it goes badly for you, send word. We will turn and cover your retreat.’
‘And face the Prince’s wrath,’ said de Grailly.
‘Bands of routiers remain on the Breton march. I will smother my blazon with mud and no Frenchman will know the difference. It’s all I can offer if the tide turns.’
‘I accept. But we won’t need you. More men join us at Évreux and then once we cross the bridge over the Seine at Vernon we strike the Dauphin’s underbelly. Paris and France will be ours.’ His grin reflected his confidence. ‘It will be a fight you will regret not being part of. The Prince should have thrown in with Navarre. When he’s crowned he will be generous to those who gave their support.’
‘My Prince gave you free passage. Seven thousand Frenchmen waited for you to break out through Languedoc. You would not have made a dozen leagues, my lord, and I suspect you know that.’
The sombre look on de Grailly’s face was enough acknowledgement of the truth. ‘I will see you in Paris, Thomas.’ He wheeled the horse and spurred it into a canter. Beyard remained a moment longer, nodded his farewell and understanding to Blackstone.
‘Beyard,’ said Blackstone, arresting the Gascon’s departure. ‘Do not die for a worthless cause. Remember what I said.’
‘I will, Sir Thomas, and am glad of it. But I fight at his side as I fought at yours. The rest is out of my hands. It is what it is.’ He yanked the reins and followed his sworn lord.
‘Goddammit, Thomas, I hate to see as courageous a fighter as Beyard ride into another man’s self-made hell,’ said Killbere. ‘I’m pleased you said what you did but Chandos will be grinding what’s left of his teeth when we arrive late.’
‘Arriving in good time only serves a purpose when a battle is to be fought, arriving late for another month sitting in a cold castle listening to old knights bleating about past glory is a fate worse than death. I wish we were with Beyard and de Grailly. We’ll stay at Alençon as long as we can.’
CHAPTER FIVE
Sir John Chandos had stopped routiers raiding across the north by directing them to Navarre’s cause and denying them to the French. It was a tribute to de Grailly’s reputation that various bands of English, Gascons, Spanish and Germans gathered at Évreux under his command. Two thousand horsemen followed the Captal de Buch east towards Vernon and the bridge across the Seine. It was then that a messenger arrived and told him that Navarre’s sister had surrendered the town and the bridge to the French forces and that they had been encamped and ready to fight for days. Before they could reach the River Seine, a smaller river, the Eure at the hamlet of Cocherel, had to be crossed. The French guarded that crossing, determined to halt all attempts at reaching the main bridge at Vernon. It was smaller and easier to defend. The news took a darker turn when de Grailly learnt there were Gascons under contract to the Dauphin on the side of the French.
Beyard saw de Grailly’s dismay at fighting his own countrymen. ‘My lord, there are men we know ready to face us,’ said Beyard. ‘We will not be able to distinguish friend from foe. Let’s turn back. We must find another way across the Seine. Blackstone will help us.’
De Grailly shook his head. ‘I will lose these men who have joined us for booty and plunder. We must take the bridge. It’s the only way.’
Later that day, when they crested a hill at Cocherel, they saw the French army already in position.
‘They are inferior in number,’ said the Captal, his spirits boosted by the knowledge that he had the upper hand. ‘They stand in our way of reaching Vernon and we have the advantage.’
Beyard saw the truth of it. The French were dismounted, standing in ranks. They could not attack uphill against mounted troops. Beyard took stock of the massed troops. ‘They are only a hundred or so fewer than us, but they have men in reserve at the rear. They’re Bretons. They are the danger if they scatter us in the fight.’
‘Their men have been here for days. Their supplies are low. They are weak. Now that they see we have the advantage they’ll break. Take your men onto their flank,’ said de Grailly.
Beyard had learnt lessons of war from Blackstone but to argue with his lord, a man who had fought in crusades and at the great battle of Poitiers, was not something he could do without risk of censure. ‘My lord, if I take men and split our force it is we who are weakened. They can turn and hold the ground. Our horses’ blood will be up and we might not rein them back in time. The river is beyond their ranks. If we break through and turn, we have the river at our backs. We have no ground to defend.’
The Captal de Buch showed no sign of displeasure at his orders being questioned. Beyard was the best of men and had served him loyally over the years. That Blackstone had given him command was an honour afforded few men. ‘Beyard, time is against us. Flank them and stop them using the bridge. They have nowhere to turn. Once we breach their defences, the road to Paris is open. If the Dauphin’s army is here, it is not at the bridge at Vernon. Win here and we win Paris. Seize the city and the Dauphin will not be anointed king. It is a risk worth taking. Take heart; let us win the day and then France.’
Beyard’s instincts warned him of the danger but the prize was too great. He wheeled his horse and called out to Bascon Gâsconay, one of the men who had served alongside him with Blackstone.
‘Stay close to me. If I am killed ride and tell Sir Thomas. He waits at the forest at Alençon.’
Below them, their enemy raised their pennons. A cacophony of trumpets from the French tore the air. Emboldened, they bellowed their resolve, battening down their fear. Beyard spurred his horse, his men galloping stirrup to stirrup. A broadhead thrust into an enemy already milling in disorder. He saw de Grailly lead the main charge. The ground shook. Horses whinnied. The armies clashed. Men screamed frenzied curses. Others pain. Sounds of battle soared. Beyard’s horse trampled men beneath its iron-shod hooves. He slashed down and back, cutting a swathe through men who jabbed with lance and spear, while his cavalry crushed men as if they were riding through a field of wheat. Horses came down as Frenchmen lunged spears into their chests. Some carried their riders forward another thirty yards or more and then fell, writhing in agony as the rider fought to free himself before men, hacking savagely, fell on him.
Beyard saw de Grailly in the midst of the battle, wielding his axe, his blood-splattered shield testament to the ferocity of the fight. Beyard heeled his mount, knocking more men to the ground. He felt the first shudder through the great beast’s muscles as four opponents struck out bravely at the war horse. Two rammed spears into its chest, another slashed at its legs. The beast’s head reared, eyes wide, teeth bared in agony. Beyard was ready for the fourth man who swung a mace at him as he leapt free from the dying horse. Its wildly thrashing death throes kept its tormentors at bay as Beyard, grunting with effort and shaking sweat from his eyes, slammed his shield against his attacker, forcing strength into his legs to push the bigger man off balance; as the man twisted away Beyard slashed down and severed his arm at the shoulder.
He stepped clear and began to attack other men standing in defensive knots. They broke when his Gascons joined him, felling men at the edges, leaving the rest vulnerable. The Gascons pressed on. Their opponents fell back. Some begged for mercy. It was denied. Blood-lust smothered men’s thoughts as thickly as bloodstains smeared mail and shield.
Yet the French ranks held. They pushed back as the Bretons held in reserve added their weight. Beyard slithered through men’s gore. Dead horses blocked the passage of battle. Beyard turned to the men at his side, shouting above the din, when a crossbow bolt pierced one man’s neck. Beyard swung instinctively. The bowman was less than ten strides away. Beyond him was the bridge. They were almost there. A blow from a mace felled him to his knees. Shield raised, he swept his sword back in a scything arc and felt the blade bite into a man’s legs. He tried to stand but his head swirled, his eyes blurred and he sank down and fell onto his back. He heard rolling thunder across the clear sky and then realized it was the
dull thud of hoofbeats across the wooden bridge. The French had more reserves hidden in the trees across the river. The strength fled from his arms as he yielded to his descent into darkness. They had lost.
CHAPTER SIX
Blackstone walked among the dead.
Horses stood in the midst of the carnage, blood-smeared, reins loose, some grazing. Blackstone’s men despatched those limping from broken legs or seriously wounded. Strutting crows pecked at the fallen troops as the men scoured the field for their Gascon comrades. When they found one, they called out his name, their sadness all that broke the silence. It took hours for them to search the hundreds slain. They recovered nine bodies of the twelve men who had served under Beyard. There was no sign of the Captal de Buch or his captain. They gathered the shields bearing de Grailly’s blazon of five scallops set against a black cross.
Blackstone bent and eased a body aside, his blazon showing him to be from Burgundy, a French ally. The youth was too young to have more than a few whiskers on his face. He looked no older than Blackstone’s son, Henry. The young knight had clearly sought glory and the enemy dead around his corpse was evidence he had fought hard. There was no sign of a wound. His dead horse lay on its side but it wasn’t the fall that had killed him. Blackstone tugged the lad free from those around him and saw the tell-tale rivulet of dried blood from a slash in his groin. A sword tip or knife had pierced his mail and cut into the artery that, once severed, meant his life had drained from him: a merciful wound that saved him from the agony of severed limbs or crushed skull. He would have fought on for a few minutes more, feeling the weakness seeping into his body, robbing him of strength. He might even have been unaware that the injury was taking his life.