by David Gilman
‘Killed the man’s dogs. There’ll be others outside, I’ll wager,’ said John Jacob.
‘Put the light over here, John,’ said Killbere, pointing to a dark corner of the room. A narrow passage almost concealed a door.
‘Bedchamber,’ said Blackstone. ‘Have a look, Gilbert.’
Killbere cautiously opened the door with John Jacob at his side and the flaming torch pushed forward. Blackstone heard the veteran curse. ‘God’s tears, Thomas, these are vile men who have gone before us. Killing will be too good for them.’
Blackstone joined them at the entrance to the bedchamber. A woman of about forty years had been tied spreadeagle across the bed, and her clothes ripped from her. She was no servant: the quality of her gown told them that. It was obvious she was the knight’s wife. Her head was twisted to one side, her mouth slightly open, eyes glazed in death. That she had been raped was beyond question and then they had mutilated her. Killbere gestured towards what was concealed behind the door. A man, beard and hair grey, blood streaked, was bound to a chair. John Jacob put an arm across his nose and mouth to filter the stench in the room.
‘Tied him up and made him watch them do that to his wife,’ said Killbere, ‘and then, after they gelded him, they gutted him.’
A clothes chest had been plundered, those pieces not wanted discarded.
‘Searching for jewellery and gold,’ said Killbere as he moved to the far side of the bed and saw that some of the timbers had been levered up. ‘A man usually hides his treasures close to where he sleeps.’ He spat the stench from his throat. ‘Enough of this, Thomas. Let’s be gone.’
The three men left the room but as they strode back across the hall a shadow lurched from an alcove, a glint of steel slashing down. Blackstone turned on his heel, Wolf Sword raised, but he slipped in the still wet blood from the slain servant. John Jacob threw the burning torch at the attacker who instinctively shielded himself from the flying sparks. In the instant of the attack the men saw that the assailant had a lame arm and a blood-encrusted scalp. He was obviously weakened. This was the last, desperate lunge of a brave man.
Blackstone was already on his feet as the man fell and before Killbere instinctively delivered a killing blow Wolf Sword blocked Killbere’s strike.
‘Wait!’ Blackstone commanded.
The man squirmed onto his back, favouring his injured arm across his chest as Blackstone stood on his other wrist, forcing him to release his sword.
‘Murdering scum,’ spat the assassin. ‘Be done with it and burn in hell.’
John Jacob kicked the sword away. Blackstone and the others looked down on their attacker. It was doubtful he had yet seen his seventeenth year. The lightness of the whiskers on his face were those of a boy. His leather jerkin was darkened with a patch of blood over his left shoulder. His age was not unusual; there were many like him in the army.
‘We are not the ones who did this,’ said Blackstone.
The boy’s face creased in uncertainty. How long had he been unconscious? Blackstone wondered. The lad must have come to thinking the killers were still in the house.
‘Get to your feet, lad, and keep your hand away from that knife on your belt,’ said Killbere.
The boy’s strength seemed to have deserted him. He half raised himself but then slumped. Blackstone’s gesture stopped John Jacob from reaching down to help him. ‘Let him do it on his own,’ he said, wanting to test the boy’s determination. ‘Come on, boy, you can’t lie down like a beaten dog. On your feet.’
Blackstone’s taunt gave the boy strength and he got first to one knee and then to his feet, lifting his injured arm to stop its weight causing him more pain.
‘Who are you?’ said the injured boy. ‘Where’re my mother and father?’
Killbere and Blackstone exchanged glances.
‘A lord and his wife?’ said Killbere.
The look in the boy’s eyes was enough of an acknowledgement.
‘They’re dead,’ said Blackstone bluntly.
The boy grimaced. He looked at Blackstone. ‘Where?’
‘Best you don’t see them,’ said John Jacob.
The boy looked towards the bedroom door and took a stride forward but Killbere blocked his way. ‘Listen to us, lad. Leave them be.’
He had the good sense to step back from the veteran knight, who looked as formidable as the taller scar-faced man who stood at his side. ‘You’re English,’ he said uncertainly. ‘Routiers.’
‘We’re not mercenaries. We serve the English King. We travel east to fight the skinners,’ said Killbere.
The young man hesitated. ‘The English are our enemy, but I’ll ride with you because I must avenge what has happened here. Will you take me?’
‘No,’ said Blackstone.
‘What?’
‘You’re injured and your blood boils. I know what it’s like. You lose reason. When you kill you need to unleash the blood-lust, but also to let your mind rule your actions. Bring those two together and it’s formidable. You don’t have the experience to fight like that.’
‘Treat my wound and let me join you, otherwise I’ll go alone.’
‘Horses are gone,’ said John Jacob. ‘There’s no food left and your wound will poison you. You won’t get far on foot. You’ll be wolf bait in two days.’
The boy lowered his head, the turmoil of his anger forcing him to beg. ‘Please,’ he whispered. ‘Help me avenge my family and all those loyal to us who were killed here.’
‘Where is this place?’ said Killbere.
‘Sainte-Bernice-de-la-Grave,’ the boy answered.
Blackstone hid his surprise. ‘You’re the son of Mouton de la Grave? Lord of this manor?’
‘I am,’ said the boy.
Blackstone nodded to himself. Fate, it seemed, had brought him to the leper son’s door.
‘All right, you can ride with us. Your father had more courage than most fighting men; his son deserves a chance to follow in his footsteps.’
The boy struggled for a moment with the realization that he had suddenly been accepted. ‘I’m grateful to you. My name is Alain de la Grave.’
‘I know,’ said Blackstone.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
Blackstone and the others stepped outside. Gruffydd ap Madoc sat on horseback flanked by fifty or so of his men. Meulon, Renfred, Will Longdon, Jack Halfpenny and all their men were on their knees, hands behind their heads, weapons laid on the ground in front of them. Alongside the Welshman was William Cade. Two of his men stood over Peter Garland and Will Longdon who knelt, hands bound in front of them with ropes around their necks.
Gruffydd ap Madoc raised a hand when Blackstone and Killbere stepped through the doorway, John Jacob behind them, helping the wounded boy. ‘No further, Thomas.’
Blackstone stopped and placed a restraining hand on Killbere.
‘Whoreson bastard,’ said Killbere.
‘Ah, Gilbert,’ sighed ap Madoc, ‘now you guessed this might happen, don’t tell me you didn’t.’
‘You kill us now, Gruffydd, and Chandos will hear of it sooner or later. And then the King,’ said Blackstone.
The big Welshman shrugged. ‘I know, I know. Thomas, I have a fondness for you and Killbere is a good companion to have at your side when the French throw their weight at you, but this is business. A transaction has taken place and I have mouths to feed and men’s greed to quench.’ He patted the saddlebags that were slung across his horse’s withers. ‘You lied to me, Thomas. Now what kind of friendship can be based on distrust, I ask you?’
Blackstone looked at the sneering William Cade, who leaned across his pommel. ‘So that’s what you were doing in ap Madoc’s camp last night. Telling him about the gold from Saint-Aubin.’
‘It seemed only fair that I be paid for my efforts. Chandos is more frugal with the King’s gold than a nun selling her cunny.’
‘You could have taken the money sooner,’ said Blackstone to the Welshman.
‘No, that would have caused bloodshed betwee
n us. This place presented itself. You inside the walls, me outside with my men.’
‘Take the money,’ said Blackstone. ‘And take the ropes off my men.’
‘Ah, now, Thomas. You show me no respect. Am I a fool to be taunted? If I do that the moment I turned my back a flight of arrows would find their mark. And then you will have the gate closed knowing I cannot lay siege to you. I take these men as hostage and leave them at the far end of the village. That will give me enough time to be long gone and out of range of your archers. You can see that makes sense, can’t you?’
‘Harm them and you and the murdering bastard next to you will be my blood enemy. I swear it, Gruffydd, I swear it in front of every man here.’
William Cade tugged on the rope around Will Longdon’s neck. ‘You threaten us when we have the lives of your men in our hands?’ He laughed.
Blackstone quickly strode forward a half-dozen paces through his kneeling men. Horsemen’s swords cleared scabbards and those Welshmen who carried spears lowered them in anticipation of Blackstone attacking ap Madoc. But Blackstone had moved so that he could face both antagonists and that they would see the reality of his threat in his eyes. He stood as close as he dare without Will Longdon and Peter Garland being yanked down and dragged away. He looked directly at William Cade.
‘If you know anything of those I have killed then you will know that I do not make idle threats. I say again, harm them and you will know more pain than you thought possible before I kill you.’
Gruffydd ap Madoc scowled. ‘I intend no hurt to befall them, Thomas. I seek only a safe retreat from your anger and your archers.’
Blackstone pointed at Cade and the threat was unmistakable. His voice hardened. ‘It is him I warn, Gruffydd, but if my men suffer injury you will both be held accountable, no matter who inflicts it on them. Blood and death will follow you.’
William Cade tossed the rope holding Will Longdon to one of the men. ‘If they’re too slow to keep up and fall and scrape their knees, what then? You’ll bring more than curses down on our heads? No matter what threats you make, Blackstone, you bleed like any other man and I will not turn away when the day comes. I’ve killed tougher men than you.’
Blackstone didn’t answer. He had made his promise and saw that it had struck the pardoned murderer as firmly as the blow he had given him before.
The Welsh veteran was losing patience. ‘William Cade and his men will have their share of the gold francs so there is no cause for him to bear malice towards these two archers or to test your desire for retribution. You wait long enough for us to clear the village and then you can do what you want. Give chase and we will turn and fight, and you are not stupid enough to pit yourself against hundreds of men.’ He wheeled his horse. ‘I bear you no ill will. Neither you nor Gilbert. I take what is needed and that is all. Sir John Chandos can keep the writs bearing the King’s seal and all that they promise. Gold coin is gold coin and when men die every day there is no damned time to wait for a fucking writ! Stand your ground, Thomas, and then come for your men.’ Gruffydd ap Madoc spurred his horse and cantered from the yard. His horsemen turned to follow and Will Longdon and Peter Garland fell in at the rear of the horsemen. They would be obliged to run as the horses trotted.
Will Longdon glanced back. ‘It’s a mile or so, Thomas. No more. Even I can run that.’
And with that the men cleared the courtyard. No sooner were they through the gates than Blackstone’s men quickly armed themselves.
‘We give chase, Sir Thomas?’ asked Meulon, buckling his sword. ‘We can keep them in sight long enough.’
‘No. I don’t want to give Cade any excuse to kill Will and the boy.’
‘He’s a twisted creature, Meulon, he’ll take pleasure in plunging a knife into them,’ said Killbere. ‘Give them space.’
‘How long do we wait?’ asked Jack Halfpenny.
‘Long enough to bind this man’s wound,’ he said, beckoning John Jacob to bring Alain de la Grave forward. ‘Jack, gather your bowmen and hold these walls in case they change their minds and return. Meulon, you and Renfred ready the men. Gilbert, pick ten men and hold this place until I am back. We might need it.’
‘Thomas, leave Halfpenny and the archers here. Bowmen are no good to you in the trees but the rest of us are.’
Killbere was right. The thought of trying to keep any of the men-at-arms out of an ambush was the wrong choice. Blackstone laid a hand on his friend’s shoulder. ‘We’ll take all the men but I’ll lead. I want you on my flank. Split the men. You take Renfred; I’ll have John and Meulon with me.’
Alain de la Grave had been propped against the wall, his leather tunic eased off him and the blood-soaked linen shirt cut away from the clinging wound by one of Jack Halfpenny’s archers.
‘I will come with you,’ the Frenchman said.
‘No. There will be time enough for that.’ He looked to Halfpenny. ‘Search the kitchen and cellars. See if the raiders left any honey. Wash that wound, smear it into the cut and then stitch it. Bind him tight with clean linen when that’s done.’
‘Aye, Sir Thomas.’
‘You’ll need brandy for when they use needle and thread on you,’ he told the boy.
‘I will be all right,’ de la Grave said bravely.
‘As you like,’ said Blackstone and turned to the waiting men. ‘We go slowly. Sir Gilbert will ride around the village and use the stream to come up behind any of those bastards who might be waiting. The Welshman will not use all those men; there are too many of them. But sixty or so could be waiting. The rest of us will ride straight into the village. If we have no choice we ride back here behind the walls.’
He brought the horse to the head of the men and rode through the gates. Like a sword blade from the coals hammered on a blacksmith’s anvil the old rage beat in his chest.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
Gruffydd ap Madoc led the band of mercenaries away from an enraged Thomas Blackstone. The world they lived in brought fighting men together but it also demanded that each look to his own wellbeing, and there were times when old bonds of comradeship had, by necessity, to be loosened. And two and a half thousand gold francs meant there was a lot of slack. He kept the horses at a slow trot so that the two men at the rear with ropes around their necks did not stumble. Even without inflicting further humiliation or pain on these men he knew Blackstone would seek him out. He glanced back and saw the huge body of horsemen behind him. One thing was certain, with this many men it would be impossible to hide their tracks, and if Thomas Blackstone followed then he would have no problem finding them. He resisted the urge to heel his mount into a canter. Once the men were released at the village then he would give the horses their heads. No matter what trail he left behind the greater the distance between him and Thomas Blackstone and Killbere the better. He knew Blackstone would not be foolish enough to attack so many with so few, but he also knew that the Englishman would one day find a way to confront his theft and betrayal.
Will Longdon felt the rope’s knot beneath his chin as he ran to keep up with the mercenary, twenty paces ahead, who had been tasked by Cade with holding the length of rope. Peter Garland ran alongside, and he too kept his chin high to avoid the chafing hemp. Both men’s lungs burned. Will Longdon spat phlegm from the back of his throat. Sweat stung his eyes and the shirt stuck to his back beneath his jupon.
‘Peter, almost there, boy.’
The young archer glanced his way and nodded with gritted teeth. It was obvious to Longdon the boy’s fear might get the better of him. And what he also knew in his heart was that William Cade would hang them, no matter what assurances Gruffydd ap Madoc had given Blackstone. He needed the boy to be thinking clearly because if they were to escape the noose they had to do it before they reached the village and the Welshman brought the horses to a halt.
‘Peter, listen. You hear me?’
Once again the boy looked his way and nodded.
‘We have to take our chance before we reach the vil
lage. We can’t trust them. You understand?’
The boy’s brow furrowed with uncertainty and then he understood what the veteran archer was telling him. He nodded. ‘How?’
‘The last bend in the road before we reach the village. The forest is on the left of the track and is dense enough for us to hide in until Thomas and Sir Gilbert come looking for us, as they surely will. Cade was humiliated and the turd will take his revenge, I’m sure of it. You hold tight onto the rope.’ Both men were grasping the length of rope in front of their faces to ease the chafing. Longdon gestured with his clenched fists. ‘When I tell you, you pull hard, dig in your heels, let your back take the weight, like drawing your bow. You understand? Curve your back and yank the rope. If we don’t pull the riders from the saddle we might rip the rope from their hands. Then we run. Into the undergrowth. And we keep running until we find the filthiest shit hole to crawl into. Somewhere they won’t poke their noses looking for us. They won’t search for long. Not with Thomas and the others on their way. With luck the Welshman doesn’t want a fight even if he does outnumber us. Understand, boy? Use your strength and then run. I’ve a knife in my boot so I can cut the rope but we need to get distance between us and them. Got it? We run and hide.’
Peter Garland looked frightened.
‘Aye, me too, lad,’ said Will Longdon. He smiled, and drew another deep breath from the exertion. ‘But it’s the fear that gives us legs.’
He looked ahead. William Cade had eased his horse free of the jostling riders and as the two men who held the ropes approached him he made a small gesture with his hand, a movement that indicated something ahead that was higher than the riders’ heads. Will Longdon squinted through the sweat. His archer’s keen eyesight picked out a chestnut tree with an overhanging bough. It was barely twelve feet above the track. A rope thrown and tied off on a horse’s pommel would haul him and Garland fast enough to break their necks.
‘Mother of Christ, help us,’ he whispered to himself as his gut instinct was confirmed. ‘Peter. We do this now. Hear me? There’s no more time!’
