Scourge of Wolves_Master of War

by David Gilman

  ‘You confuse even me at times,’ Killbere said with a grin. ‘You never intended to harm them, did you? And you let me splutter on a like a damned wet-nurse imploring you to halt any slaughter.’

  Blackstone smiled. ‘I needed the terror in their hearts, Gilbert.’

  ‘But Chandos and the King will curse you, Thomas. They wanted Saint-Aubin.’

  ‘It’s of no strategic importance to anyone now, Gilbert. Its destruction serves a greater purpose. When these people tell their story they will exaggerate every deed and word spoken as surely as any drunkard in a tavern embellishes a tale, and the other towns will surrender without complaint. They’ll hand over the keys and swear the loyalty demanded.’

  The men continued to watch as the column of people disappeared from view. The intense heat from the flames melted the frost on the branches behind them and as the slow crackle of breaking ice echoed across the lake a louder sound began to be heard. It was the death throes of an ancient town, a place that had withstood siege over the centuries and witnessed the passing of armies. The foundations of the walls were crumbling, the masonry yielding to the searing heat. The men gasped as they witnessed the fifty-foot-high wall collapse from its base and then fold in on itself. Debris from the rough stone infill scattered onto the crumbling ice. The gaping wound that had been the north wall was suddenly cauterized by sheets of fire.

  Some of the horses shied and were quickly brought under control but Blackstone’s horse’s ears pricked forward. It showed no sign of fear at the gush of flame. Blackstone grunted. Perhaps it was true that the bastard horse had been sired in hell. He jabbed his heels and turned it away. The destruction was complete.

  The peace was proving as violent as the war.

  * * *

  The priest had been given a broken-down rouncey to carry him and his grisly message to Paris and the French King. The nag’s uneven gait threw the pot-bellied cleric from side to side, its bony ribs rubbing his thighs raw. Muttered prayers mingled with every heavenly curse he could muster against the scar-faced Englishman who had sent him on this errand. The blood-soaked sack tied across the horse’s loins had dried stiff but a haunting noise had started to wear down the priest’s nerves. At first it sounded as though the nag’s joints were creaking but when the priest let his mind settle on the sound behind him a stark fear clutched his heart. The noise was coming from the sack. The dead man was speaking to him in a subdued, distorted voice. Heart thudding, the priest hauled the horse to a halt and listened, but the sound had stopped. Heeling the horse forward the grinding began again. The priest squeezed closed his eyes, clasped his hands together and prayed harder than the day he had been given the benefice of Saint-Aubin. Once again he brought the horse to a halt and, like a man scared of something unknown creeping up behind him, eased himself down onto the ground. The moment his sandals touched the muddy track he sank to his knees and prayed again. Moments later the Almighty gave him courage. With eyes still closed he teased the encrusted string and untied the sack. Finally he dared to open his eyes and gaze down. Bernard de Charité’s milky eyes stared back at him, his face leering in a broken grin. Mesmerized, the priest gently tilted the sack, and then laughed, releasing the pent-up tension in his chest.

  ‘Ah, my lord. You struck even more fear into me in death than you did in life.’ The rocking of the horse had dislodged the severed head’s jaw and the grating sound was that of the lower teeth grinding against the upper. ‘What’s that, my lord? You would beat and curse me again if you could?’ He had endured more than one flogging at the Lord of Saint-Aubin’s hands. ‘I cause you discomfort? It was not I who put you in the sack, and the man who did commands me to take you to those you serve. I do penance at every step of the journey. My arse is as raw as your neck.’ The priest’s nervousness gave way to distaste for his task and loathing for the dead Bernard de Charité. ‘You died too easily,’ he whispered vehemently. ‘Died without enough pain being inflicted on you for the sins you committed in your whoring life. I pray the legions of Lucifer await you in hell to inflict their punishment.’ With a gesture that astonished him in its spontaneity he spat into the upturned face. His action made him recoil and he quickly closed the sack and crossed himself. ‘Merciful Christ, forgive me for desecrating the dead,’ he said.

  ‘What lunacy is this, priest?’ said a voice behind him.

  The priest whirled and faced a horde of armed horsemen who stood twenty paces away. He had not heard them approach. His mouth gaped. There were at least thirty men-at-arms; behind them even more followed until they were more dense than the forest that had hidden them.

  ‘The deranged are always with us,’ said the tall, barrel-chested man. He eased his horse forward. ‘Whether their voice is satanic or heavenly.’ He spoke with a strange accent but the words that escaped through the thick mass of grey beard were clear enough to be heard by the hundreds of men behind him. How had they moved so silently? wondered the priest. How had he not heard a jangle of a bridle or the creak of leather and mail? Fear of what he held in his hand had closed the world around him. That and the fact that they had approached downwind. Fighters who knew how to get close to an enemy.

  ‘Which is yours?’ said the horseman. ‘A voice of God or the mutterings of the devil?’

  The priest stuttered, mind racing for an answer as the rider stepped down from the saddle. He stood as tall as the scar-faced Englishman who had destroyed the town but he was older, with an almost white mane of thick shoulder-length hair. The man’s callused hands that reached for the sack sported delicate silver and gold rings in contrast to flattened and scarred knuckles. A man who knew how to use his fists, decided the priest; he gave up the sack without protest. The fighting man spoke with a calm assurance, almost conversationally, as if speaking to a child who had been given a gift.

  ‘Now, what have we here?’ The man-at-arms pushed back his cloak and opened the sack. He showed no sign of surprise; nor did he recoil. The blood on the sack had already given its warning. ‘Who is this?’

  The priest’s throat dried as he glanced fearfully from the man on foot to those who still sat unsmiling on horseback. A ravening horde of routiers if he had ever seen one. ‘My lord, it is the master of Saint-Aubin-la-Fère, Bernard de Charité.’

  ‘Ah,’ said the quietly spoken man. ‘Too late, then. I was summoned by him to bring my men and help him resist the English and the pretender to Brittany. A pity. He promised sacksful of gold coin; instead he gazes up at me from one.’ He tied the sack closed and handed it back to the priest. ‘He had a fierce reputation. Who was strong enough to do this?’

  The priest found his courage and his voice again. Now that the barbarian, for that is what every routier was at heart, had declared his loyalty to the dead man he found common purpose. ‘A man-at-arms. A knight who fights for England and his violent, grasping King.’ He raised his voice and addressed the horsemen as if he were delivering a sermon. ‘Who accompanies a man possessed by both the devil and archangel so that he inflicts harsh punishment on one hand and compassion on the other. A double-edged sword that gouges a man’s soul and sends him stumbling, confused, into the unknown away from the hearth that has nurtured him, like a spiritually blinded man.’

  The man-at-arms sighed and placed a heavy hand on the priest’s shoulder to curtail any further incomprehensible rhetoric. ‘Who?’

  The priest flinched. ‘Sir Gilbert Killbere struck my lord down in single combat.’

  The routier’s chin tilted in recognition. ‘Killbere? And the other?’

  ‘Sir Thomas Blackstone.’

  Once again the man’s eyes indicated recognition. ‘And where are they now?’

  The priest pointed, arm shaking. ‘South. Past what remains of Saint-Aubin. If you are a compatriot of de Charité then you can avenge him. They are less than a hundred strong and you… you… have…’ The priest stumbled as he tried to calculate the press of horsemen.

  ‘Three hundred.’ The routier grinned.

  ‘
Three…’ the priest said, swallowing hard. This was one of the biggest bands of routiers he had seen. ‘Then, my lord, ride on and follow the smoke. And in the name of God and the dispossessed people of Saint-Aubin, slay those who inflicted such misery on us and leave their carcasses for the crows.’

  CHAPTER NINE

  Three days after the destruction of Saint-Aubin-la-Fère, Blackstone and his men waited a mile beyond another town’s walls. The citizens of Saint-Aubin knelt at its gates and begged entry; their elders stood before the town’s council and declared their misfortune. They behaved exactly as expected. With gestures of ever-increasing passion they wept and bemoaned their fate and pointed to where Blackstone’s men waited. Within hours the gates were opened and Blackstone rode into the town to take the oath of allegiance from the chief citizens. They were promised that the town would lose none of its privileges and that the regional lord and his men would serve as seneschal and guardians with the assurance of help from the English King. Blackstone appointed the local lord as garrison commander, ordered that King Edward’s arms be painted above the gate and reappointed the town’s officials.

  ‘We are little more than debt collectors,’ moaned Killbere as they rode towards the next town. ‘When you were a boy and a knock on the head away from being the village idiot I was riding across Lord Marldon’s domain doing exactly this. Collecting debts from villeins.’

  ‘I was caring for my brother and working in a quarry,’ said Blackstone, ‘to earn every penny that was demanded.’

  ‘Well,’ Killbere sighed, ‘they were good days. Days that took us to war. The best war a man could wish for. Better than this. Anything is better than this. Now I collect towns for the King. Where in God’s name is Chandos? We need an army to strike at the French. Mark my words, Thomas, the French King is gathering troops. We should ride north towards Paris and put an end to his dreams of glory and stop his men from even leaving the suburbs.’

  ‘North and into the plague?’ said Blackstone. ‘The pestilence takes its toll in England and Paris. Better to stay out here.’ He turned his face to the fine rain that fell and kept his men hunched beneath their cloaks.

  Snot dripped from Killbere’s nose. ‘When a man fights, Thomas, he cares nothing for foul weather, but when he is asked to be an errand boy misery clutches at his heart. Let’s go and find some of the Breton bastards who challenge our King and get the blood moving through our veins.’

  Blackstone ignored his friend’s suggestion and glanced behind him at the column of men. ‘Will? The archers Sir John gifted us. They’re little more than lads.’

  Will Longdon wiped the rain from his face. ‘Untested, Thomas. Strong enough, decent pull weights on their bows, but untested. New recruits. They’ll be all right. At least he didn’t give us Welsh bowmen. God’s blood, they can argue for the sake of it and drive a man to pull a knife. I gave half of these new lads to Jack Halfpenny. Jack’ll bring them into line.’

  ‘And, John? What about the men-at-arms?’ he asked John Jacob.

  ‘Meulon says they’re scum, but they seem willing enough. Most are pardoned men. The King needed fighting men so he emptied the prisons and this is where some of them have ended up. I have my lads keeping an eye on them. I’ve warned ’em that they’re following you now and we don’t tolerate certain things.’

  Blackstone turned to Killbere. ‘You’ve seen them. You walked among them when we camped. Do you think they’re ready for a fight?’

  Killbere put a finger to each nostril and blew them clear. ‘You throw them into a brawl and they’ll learn soon enough. I remember you on your first kill. You were puking like a dog. But you learnt quick enough. You had the instinct even back then. You saw how things were. How to attack and where. Most of them will do all right when the time comes. Don’t mother the youngsters, Thomas. I know Henry’s not here to fuss over.’

  ‘Is that what I did?’ he said, his son’s image in his mind’s eye.

  ‘Aye. Now and then. The lad took risks but he used his noggin. You give these boys a chance and they won’t let you down. Not with Jack and Will at their backs. And Meulon will cut the throat of any man who disobeys and rapes.’

  Blackstone knew Killbere was nudging him not to be so cautious with untried archers, using Blackstone’s son Henry to make his point. The boy had saved their lives a year ago in Milan when Blackstone sought his vengeance against the Visconti, and now the lad was studying in Florence under the guidance of Father Niccolò Torellini. Blackstone’s memory prodded him. It was the self-same priest who had held him when he was a badly wounded sixteen-year-old archer on the field at Crécy. Held him and blessed him and given him absolution because his injuries were so bad he was close to death. Sixteen. His own son was not yet that but had shown courage years before he had any right to be tested.

  ‘All right, Gilbert, I’ll let Jack and Will command those lads when the time comes. But until it does we do the King’s bidding. Chandos has a fight waiting for us so there’s time to train them. I won’t have my men killed because they’re not ready.’

  Before Killbere could answer the bastard horse’s muscles rippled. Ears forward, its head rose, pulling on the reins. Blackstone raised a hand and halted the column behind him. ‘Something’s wrong,’ he said, trusting the feral stallion’s instincts even above his own. They had crested a gently rising hill and made their way into the belly of lower ground. Ahead and to their right flank the edge of a forest followed the gently undulating contours. There was no need for Blackstone’s men to question why he had brought them to a halt. The ground suggested a perfect place for an ambush from the curving forest 350 yard-long paces away. The men cast off the chill from their muscles and eased aside their capes. Without being ordered Meulon and John Jacob eased their mounts to either side of Blackstone and Killbere and as they took position Will Longdon and Jack Halfpenny had quietly signalled their archers to dismount and take up position to the front of them. Every fourth man took three horses each and moved them to the rear. Within minutes Blackstone’s men had prepared for an attack. Birdsong had fallen silent, no rooks or crows cawed from the dark thatches of their nests in the tall treetops and yet the whisper of breeze that brushed the men’s faces brought no warning of danger. Bridles jangled as the horses patiently stood their ground, but the bastard horse whinnied and bunched its muscles, forcing Blackstone to sit back in the saddle and tighten the reins. Killbere glanced behind them. They would never be able to make the higher ground back there. There had been no sign in the wet grass of anyone ahead of them so if there were enemy on their flank they had kept themselves in the forest for as long as Blackstone’s men had been riding in their direction.

  ‘Chandos, do you think?’ said Killbere quietly.

  ‘He’d have shown himself as soon as we came over the hill,’ said Blackstone. He drew Wolf Sword, its blade scraping loud with intent on its scabbard’s metal rim. Moments later every man-at-arms did the same. The forest’s treetops erupted in a black swarm of screeching crows. Wings flapping, they cried their alarm as the forest edge wavered and splashes of colour emerged from the dull treeline. The breeze barely lifted the banners and the cut tongues of pennons that followed. Armoured men on war horses were flanked by men-at-arms.

  ‘French,’ said Killbere as ever more men emerged from the forest. ‘Christ, how many are there?’

  ‘Two hundred at least,’ said Blackstone. ‘Probably more in reserve. Unless this is just an advance party.’

  Killbere glanced at Blackstone’s men. ‘That’s all right then. For a moment I was worried we might be outnumbered.’ He grinned at Blackstone. ‘God’s blood, Thomas, the bastards have us.’

  The French had moved across the valley floor and lined up for attack. No challenge had been made, no demand for withdrawal. The French were hunting for routiers and meant to kill.

  ‘Whose banner is that?’ said Blackstone.

  Killbere squinted as the horsemen turned into formation.

  ‘That’s the Marshal
of France. D’Audrehem’s men. The French King must think he’s the only one who can seize the prize that he’s missed all these years.’

  ‘He’s not after me, Gilbert, he’s clearing out routiers. He doesn’t know who we are. He hasn’t seen our blazon and he won’t have come from Saint-Aubin.’ Blackstone studied the line of men that faced them. ‘He’s an impetuous fool,’ he said. ‘You remember that he charged our lines at Poitiers and failed.’

  ‘Aye. He wants glory. Let him come then. Will and the lads will cause some pain and then we can get among them.’

  The line of French horsemen bristled as they tightened reins and jostled, their front rank knee to knee. ‘Stupid bastards never learn,’ said John Jacob. ‘Our archers will cut them down.’

  ‘But there’s enough of them to finish us,’ said Blackstone.

  Before the French line began their advance the sky darkened on the crest of the rising ground to Blackstone’s left flank. Horsemen appeared and drew up their horses. It was obvious that the men were in force. At least two hundred more, realized Blackstone.

  Killbere spat. ‘Now we might have a problem.’

  Blackstone knew he couldn’t fight that many. There was no retreat and the horsemen on his flank would have cut off any such attempt. The French had cornered him at last, like a wolf in a trap. He shunned the brief moment of realization that death was imminent. He was grateful his son was in a place of safety and that he would carry on his name. Blackstone heeled the bastard horse. ‘Those horsemen on the ridge will hold off, Gilbert. They won’t risk getting close to our archers. They’ll stay out of it. D’Audrehem’s men are enough to finish us.’

  Blackstone nudged his horse – fighting the bit – forward and then turned to face his men. Will Longdon had placed his and Halfpenny’s archers in a sawtooth formation between the men-at-arms’ ranks, arrows pushed into the dirt at their feet. There was little need for Blackstone to raise his voice as he addressed them.