by David Gilman
Blackstone laid a calloused palm on the youth’s cold skin. A proud father would put aside his loss and boast of his son’s prowess fighting for the new King while a mother grieved, consumed with pain.
‘He’s not here,’ said John Jacob. ‘We’ve turned all the dead and pulled aside the bodies that lie across each other. There must be close to a thousand out here. Beyard and his men would have fought close together. We found half of them lying near each other. Friends in life and death.’
Blackstone stepped over the dead knight. ‘Have the men search along the riverbank.’
‘Renfred and William Ashford’s men have already searched the riverside, Sir Thomas,’ said his squire.
The aftermath of a battle lays a sense of loss over men, no matter what victories they have celebrated in the past. Death on such a huge scale, where hundreds of men lay rotting, was sobering even to the veterans.
‘We’ll take those we find from the battlefield for burial; there’s a monastery some miles back,’ said Blackstone.
John Jacob acknowledged the order and turned back to the task.
‘It was ferocious, Thomas,’ said Killbere, tossing aside a bloodstained falchion. ‘God himself wept tears of blood here. There’s a host of brave men dead on this field. And many a young knight impaled, and others hacked apart and left to die in agony. I’m surprised we didn’t hear the clash of the attack where we camped.’
‘Any closer than a day’s ride and we would not have been able to resist helping them.’
‘Aye, more the pity we weren’t here. The wolves and wild boar will soon come to feast.’
‘If Beyard isn’t here then he’s captured,’ said Blackstone, looking across the field strewn with contorted corpses. They were an hour’s ride from the bridge at Vernon. De Grailly had been half a day’s ride to Paris. So close.
‘Sir Thomas!’ Meulon called. He had continued searching and now pointed into the distance, across the wooden bridge. Horsemen appeared from the trees. They showed no sign of advancing but simply watched Blackstone’s men. There was little doubt there were others waiting out of sight.
‘Gilbert, ready the men,’ said Blackstone as he mounted the bastard horse.
‘Where in God’s name are you going?’
‘To find out where de Grailly and Beyard are being held.’
John Jacob rode to his side.
‘I doubt they’re in the mood to talk, Thomas,’ said Killbere.
‘Then be ready for an argument,’ Blackstone said and set off with his squire.
Two days ago the bent and bloodied Bascon Gâsconay had ridden into the forest at Alençon. His wounds were to prove fatal, but he managed to deliver his message about the battle. It had been obvious when Beyard fell and the French reserves committed that the fight was lost. He lingered for that night and died in the cold hours before dawn. They buried him in a clearing, piling stones on the earth to stop wolves and boar digging up his corpse. By the time Blackstone arrived at the field of slaughter the sun had arced across the afternoon sky. There were enough hours of daylight remaining in the late spring evening for the men to gather their dead friends and enough time for more violence to be committed. The horsemen waiting across the bridge were likely to be the rearguard but if the main force was still close, then they could soon turn back.
Blackstone drew up the bastard horse. He felt its tension beneath the saddle as its withers bristled. It was as ready to fight as its master. ‘I am Sir Thomas Blackstone. I am not a part of Lord de Grailly’s army. I am here searching for the bodies of my friends.’
One rider urged his horse forward from the others, stopping ten paces from Blackstone. He bore the signs of the hard-fought battle. A dirty rag encrusted with gore bound his thigh. Grime and flecks of blood stained his beard. The man’s eyes were weary but Blackstone saw he had the resolve to fight again if need be. ‘I know your name. I fought the English with the old King at Poitiers.’
Blackstone remained silent. The veteran would have crossbowmen in the trees.
The man looked past Blackstone and John Jacob to where Blackstone’s men formed up ready to fight five hundred yards away.
‘We have no argument with you. We’ve been watching you. There are hundreds of bodies to search. We won’t stop you.’
‘We’re not searching for men from Navarre but the Gascon Lord de Grailly and his captain. You know their blazon?’
The Frenchman grunted. ‘I know it. We took many as prisoners for ransom.’
Blackstone studied the man and his dozen companions. He eased the bastard horse a few paces to the side so he could study them. They were common men, not knights or lords. ‘We’ll pay,’ he said.
The man grinned. ‘How much?’
‘A lot. More than you would see in a lifetime.’
‘Even for scum?’
Blackstone leaned forward; his horse shifted its weight. Blackstone glared at the Frenchman, who realized his insult had provoked the scar-faced knight. He saw that Blackstone had shifted his position so that the crossbowmen in the trees no longer had a clear view. He would be the first man to die if the Englishman chose violence.
He recanted, his voice inflected with a note of respect. ‘The Captal de Buch is ransomed to the Dauphin, my lord. They have taken him to Meaux.’
There was no hope of venturing so far into French territory and attempting a rescue of the Prince’s ally, even if Blackstone had wanted to. De Grailly was imprisoned in the walled city east of Paris where Blackstone’s wife and daughter had been murdered years before. A place that haunted him.
‘And the other man who served Lord de Grailly?’ said John Jacob. ‘His name is Beyard.’
The man shrugged. ‘I don’t know the names of those taken. Breton and Norman lords ransomed those of rank. If he’s alive then who knows where he is? We fight and they reap the rewards. All that’s left for us is the plunder taken from the fallen.’
Blackstone knew he told the truth. He tugged the reins. ‘We take our dead and leave,’ he said.
For a moment it seemed the man might attempt to stop him. His hand rested on his sword hilt. The Englishman had money for ransom. His eyes darted from Blackstone to the men in the field beyond. How many men could he stop from crossing the bridge if he attacked and brought the English knight and his squire down? Could he act quickly enough? His hand returned to the reins.
‘A wise decision,’ said Blackstone.
The man swallowed hard. The Englishman had the eyes of a falcon and the instinct of a wolf.
CHAPTER SEVEN
Blackstone and his men rode west to join forces with Sir John Chandos after they buried their Gascon comrades. The campaign to aid the young John de Montfort claim the Duchy of Brittany from the French King’s choice, Charles de Blois, would soon begin, especially now that the threat to the French Crown had been stopped. Smoke billowed above a distant forest.
‘The French have the bit between their teeth, Thomas,’ said Killbere. ‘They’ll take back every town and village that Navarre’s supporters hold.’
Blackstone studied the ground that lay between them and the forest. Were there men in sufficient numbers concealed in the trees to attack his hundred? ‘Take them or destroy them. A storm rages around us, Gilbert, and we may have to fight our way through to Chandos. That forest is dense enough to conceal more men than we have. If the French are laying a scourge on Normandy, then Chandos might be under siege.’
‘And there’s proof enough lying on the field at Cocherel that he wasn’t successful stopping routiers joining forces with the French.’
By the time they had skirted the forest and approached the smouldering town that lay beyond, its palisade walls and timber-framed houses had burnt down to blackened ribs with collapsed roofs. Man, woman and child lay dead along with domestic animals. A dozen heads were impaled on poles.
‘What place is this?’ said John Jacob.
‘Those who know are dead,’ said Meulon.
The breeze carried a
crid smoke and the stench of burnt flesh.
Blackstone’s battle-hardened veterans needed no command to fan out defensively. Death could be a whisper away if rogue mercenary bowmen were hiding within range and a sudden cavalry charge could inflict heavy casualties.
‘Survivors!’ Will Longdon called as a dozen men and women with children clambered out of a ditch a hundred paces away. They looked as though they had crawled out of a house fire. Their clothes were torn, their faces smeared in soot; blood encrusted their wounds. They held back, fear seizing them, rooting them to the spot. Perhaps they were uncertain whether the horsemen were more routiers or their lord’s men finally come to protect them.
‘Come forward,’ Meulon called. ‘You’ll not be harmed.’
Blackstone knew how terrifying his men looked to the villeins. He dismounted, handed the reins to John Jacob and walked towards the huddled group. He halted halfway. ‘Send one man forward. I serve King Edward and the Prince of Wales and Aquitaine. We are not routiers. We will help you.’
There was a muted conversation and then one man, carrying a child, stepped away from the group. A woman reached for his arm, begging him not to go, but he calmed her and handed her the child. He walked forward, but then faltered, eyes looking left and right at the horseman. Plucking up courage, he got within ten paces and went down on his knees and clasped his hands together.
‘I beg you, lord, do not harm us. Much violence has been done to us. We are poor people who offered no resistance but they came from the east and slew everyone except those you see.’
‘Get to your feet,’ said Blackstone. ‘Did they name themselves?’
The man clambered upright. He remained hunched, eyes lowered. He shook his head in answer.
‘These men,’ said Blackstone, pointing to the heads on poles. ‘Who are they?’
‘Normans, my lord, men who hold ground for Navarre. They protected us until the routiers came.’
‘What lord’s manor is this?’ said Blackstone.
‘He holds it in the name of the King of Navarre.’
‘Who?’ Blackstone snapped, impatient at the man’s slow response.
‘Lord de Graumont.’
The name meant nothing to Blackstone. ‘Where is he?’
The man looked perplexed and half turned to point at the decapitated heads.
Blackstone knew de Grailly’s defeat would have unleashed Breton warlords across Normandy. ‘You heard a name?’
The villager thought hard. He shook his head. Then raised it, eyes bright with memory. ‘Ronec.’
‘A Breton?’ said Blackstone. ‘Or French?’
The man nodded, his broken-toothed smile showing black stumps, the question unfathomable to him. ‘Some spoke a language we did not know.’
‘Navarrese? Spanish?’
The man’s blank expression was the only answer.
‘All right,’ said Blackstone. He took in the devastation. ‘There is nothing for you here. We’ll escort you to the next town or village. Take what you can from the ruins.’
‘Lord,’ said the man. ‘We are in your debt.’
‘There is no debt. Decide where it is we must take you.’
The villein’s eyes widened, confusion creasing his brow. ‘We ... we have no knowledge beyond our commune. Once a year the bailli comes and assesses our crops.’
‘What did he say?’ said Killbere as he joined Blackstone.
‘He doesn’t know anything. The reeve comes every year for his lord’s due. Graumont? Does the name mean anything?’
Killbere shook his head. ‘More local lords in France than rats in a sewer.’
‘This one sits on top of that pole,’ said Blackstone.
The villein’s face creased in fear as he listened to the exchange between Blackstone and Killbere. He nodded vigorously. ‘My lord. You speak the same language as those who attacked us.’
‘Englishmen?’ said Killbere. ‘Is that what he means?’
Blackstone nodded. ‘We’ve English and Breton skinners ahead of us.’ He raised a hand to calm the frightened villager. ‘We are not the same people as those who attacked you. Bring your people forward; we’ll escort you to the next village. Understand? If we had wished you harm you would already be dead.’
The peasant bobbed, bent like a beaten dog, dignity long since annihilated by a harsh life. He scurried back to the fearful survivors huddled at the edge of the ditch.
‘What do we do with them?’ said Killbere.
‘Escort them to safety.’
Killbere grunted and spat. ‘Wherever that might be.’
*
The men made two litters, poles braced either side of one of the spare horses, and then cross-braced with saplings. They carried two of the injured women and children on the litters as the other survivors trudged alongside the horsemen, bearing what few possessions they could salvage. By the time daylight faded they had picked up four more survivors who had run for their lives when the routiers had swept through their village. Blackstone gleaned fragments of information. The routiers were Bretons and Englishmen paid by the French. Men who had likely fought at Cocherel.
‘The King decreed no Englishman was to ride against the French,’ said John Jacob as the men watched the survivors set up camp. Grateful for their lives and Blackstone’s protection, they lit fires, prepared food and attended to the men’s needs by carrying water and gathering wood.
‘They’re not fighting the French; they’re killing Navarre’s men. Norman lords who hold his towns. All of this serves the Breton cause. If Paris commands them to destroy Navarre’s towns and lay waste to the domains he holds in Normandy, then they destroy any chance of us using them when we fight the Bretons.’
‘Charles of Blois won’t be a part of this. It’s a separate fight,’ said John Jacob. ‘Sir John has let them slip through.’
‘No, Chandos couldn’t stop those routiers already under contract,’ Killbere said. ‘The new French King will pull together any of these men. It serves him and Blois when the time comes. Thomas, if we find more survivors along the way then we’re bringing another problem to his door.’
‘Then we must rid ourselves of them before we reach him. We need to find out more about these routiers, especially any Englishmen. Send Renfred and Meulon to me,’ he told his squire.
Killbere fussed at the fire. ‘It will take us… what, nine or ten days to reach Chandos? Perhaps more with these stragglers. We need to make better time.’
‘I know. We’ll find another village that doesn’t belong to one of Navarre’s lords. They’ll need their strength so we will let them rest and eat what food we can spare.’
‘You know what these villeins are like. They don’t welcome outsiders from other villages.’
‘I’ll bribe them. Money buys lives.’
‘A blade to the throat might be more effective.’
‘That’s the down payment.’
*
Renfred and Meulon accompanied John Jacob to Blackstone. They squatted next to the fire as Blackstone scratched out a route on the ground for them and made a model of the territory where he had spent his earlier years raiding against enemies and protecting villages. ‘Ride south-west. We are here on the edge of Alençon, half a day’s ride should bring us on the Roman road to Villaines.’ He indicated the rough terrain he had laid out: ‘In this forest is the village of Saint-Pierre. Scout the road. See that it is safe. We’ll leave the survivors there.’
‘We should cut out their tongues,’ said Meulon. ‘They’ll talk. Just because we’ve helped them doesn’t mean they won’t tell the French or Bretons where we are or where we’re going.’
‘And I’m telling them that we are going north not south.’
‘And how do we go on from there, Sir Thomas?’ said Renfred.
‘We skirt Villaines. The town’s loyal to the French King. We must get to Sir John.’
Meulon and Renfred nodded their understanding. ‘Where do we meet you?’
‘Edge
of the forest, here.’ He pointed with the stick to the rough model. ‘Look for a ruined chapel. We’ll feed these people and let them rest and then travel by night along the road. It’s quicker and there’s less chance of an attack. Routiers won’t risk an assault against a column of men whose strength they can’t determine.’
Renfred tapped Meulon’s shoulder. ‘There’s another hour before it’s dark. We’ll leave now to give us more time.’ The two captains got to their feet.
‘Meulon,’ said Killbere. ‘Don’t kill anyone you don’t have to.’
The throat-cutter’s teeth bared behind his thick beard. To a stranger it was a snarl. To those who knew him it was his attempt at a smile.
Killbere winced as the captains walked back into the forest to gather their men. ‘Meulon can turn a man’s bowels to water.’ He drank from a wineskin. ‘And that’s before he draws his knife.’
CHAPTER EIGHT
Screams of terror haunted the darkness as flames from the burning village lit the night sky. Meulon and Renfred had travelled across well-worn roads until reaching the cave-black forest, where the pitiful cries of innocents being slaughtered guided them through the trees. They halted at the edge of a clearing, watching shadows flit this way and that three hundred yards away as routiers murdered and raped their way through the undefended town.
Indistinct voices pierced the mayhem. Dogs yelped in pain and then fell silent. A woman broke free from four men who had entered her house and dragged her out. The men did not stop her. They laughed; two of them unsheathed their knives and used her for target practice. Both knives found the woman’s back. Then they hauled a child from its hiding place in the bushes nearby as it screamed for its dead mother. A blade glinted blood red in the fire glow. The child dropped with a slashed throat. One man kicked the body and the others turned away to inflict more carnage.
Meulon’s grunt was a savage expression of disgust. His hand reached for his knife. ‘Renfred, find your way back. Bring Sir Thomas. These bastards will destroy everything before we make another ten miles down the road.’
The German captain placed a restraining hand on his friend’s arm, knowing Meulon’s intentions. ‘You cannot go in there alone.’