by David Gilman
‘It’s time we stopped,’ said Killbere. ‘We’ve been chasing the bastard for too long. This ground will exhaust the horses. We’ll suffer injury at this rate, Thomas.’
Blackstone nodded. The small clearing they had entered offered new-growth saplings and overgrown ferns and bramble. There was no sign of boar or other animal tracks and the last woodcutters’ hamlet was less than a mile behind them. It was unlikely that wolves would venture this close to a settlement. He turned to his squire. ‘John, we encircle the clearing. Separate the horses, no more than ten hobbled at a time. If we are attacked we will only lose some of them. Have Will and Jack hunt us some fresh meat. Sir Gilbert and I will camp below those boulders.’ He glanced up at the rustling branches and gauged the wind direction. ‘Latrines to be dug down there beyond those rocks.’
John Jacob needed no further instruction and turned his horse to relay Blackstone’s commands to the captains.
* * *
Will Longdon and Jack Halfpenny brought down four deer, one of which, when gutted and skinned, Blackstone sent back to the nearby woodcutters. They could only snare small game for their pots so to have an English bowman bring down big game was cause for celebration. Their fires burned brightly and even though Blackstone’s men were deep in the forest the rising ground where they camped showed them the village’s flickering light in the distance. Blackstone’s generosity was repaid next morning when a scurvy-looking wretch made his way into the camp.
‘Sir Thomas?’ said Meulon as he led the peasant woodcutter up the path to where Blackstone and Killbere were washing in the stream that tumbled down the rocks. Blackstone pulled his head from the water and dragged his fingers through his hair. The tall Norman pointed behind himself, past the woodcutter. A monk, his tonsure unshaven for days, his face stubbled with ingrained dirt, smoke smudges encrusted on his wrinkled skin, was panting towards him. John Jacob had stopped him twenty yards downhill, waiting for Blackstone’s command to allow the monk closer.
‘Said he had to speak to you and you alone. I searched him. He has no weapon,’ Jacob called.
‘My lord,’ said the woodcutter as he knelt respectfully in the dirt. ‘This monk bade me bring him to you. I am blessed by him if you will see him.’
‘Get up,’ said Blackstone. ‘No need to kneel before me.’
The woodcutter rose as Blackstone beckoned the monk forward. Sweat streaked the man’s face despite the chill air. ‘My lord,’ said the monk, bowing slightly.
‘You promised this man a blessing,’ said Blackstone.
The monk looked nonplussed.
Killbere wiped a cloth across his chest to dry off the stream water. ‘A blessing. A promise of heavenly gratitude. A touch of your grubby hand on his lice-infested head.’
‘I have a message for Sir Thomas Blackstone,’ said the monk, paying no attention to Killbere’s chiding.
‘Monk, you had better not ignore this knight,’ said Blackstone. ‘Or he will baptize you again in this icy stream.’
The monk, surprised, glanced at the half-naked Killbere, who did not appear to be anything more than a pock-faced hobelar. Then he clasped his hands together, bowed his head and muttered an abject apology.
‘Give the man his blessing, then,’ said Killbere.
The peasant woodcutter, rank with stale sweat and woodsmoke, grasped the monk’s equally grubby hand and kissed it. The monk winced, even though his own stench was no different to that of the man whose spittle wet the back of his hand. He fought the urge to step away but the two half-naked men in front of him scowled with annoyance. He made the sign of the cross, muttered a benediction, and when the peasant pulled off his cap, the monk placed his hand on the matted hair and finished his blessing. The toothless woodcutter’s gums grinned at Blackstone.
‘My lord, me and mine are here to serve you.’ He bowed again and then returned the way he had come.
‘What do you want?’ Blackstone asked the monk.
‘I have a message for Sir Thomas Blackstone,’ repeated the monk, looking uncertainly from Blackstone to Killbere, who raised a hand and pointed at Blackstone.
The monk began his message again. ‘I have—’
‘Merciful God in heaven. No wonder you have been cast into this wilderness,’ said Killbere. ‘You must have bored your abbot to death. Give us the damned message.’
The monk fumbled in the small leather purse on the rope around his waist and teased out a leather cord bearing a small silver medallion. He reached forward, offering it to Blackstone. It was the same silver-wheeled goddess that he wore around his neck.
‘He says he will meet you at the Roman aqueduct but that you are to come alone.’
CHAPTER SIXTY-TWO
The ancient aqueduct spanned a narrow valley. On Blackstone’s side of the vale five of the arches soared up above the treeline. He looked across the open ground, which gave him a clear view of the level ground behind him and the similar view of the landscape opposite. If there were an ambush it would be from archers concealed on the lower slopes in the treeline. Killbere had cursed and threatened to send Will Longdon and a dozen archers to protect him but Blackstone had insisted he honour ap Madoc’s demand and forbade anyone from following him. The monk had made his way beneath one of the arches and called out that Thomas Blackstone had arrived. His voice echoed along the curved stonework, then carried across the expanse of the valley. Blackstone watched the trees on the opposite side for any movement. There were no archers riding with Gruffydd ap Madoc when last he saw him but it was not impossible that he had gathered English bowmen to him in the time that had passed. The movement, when he saw it, did not come from the opposite side but from further down the open ground beyond the arches on Blackstone’s side. A lone horseman, a man who seemed too big for his own sturdy mount, eased into view and halted.
The startled monk turned quickly. ‘Sir Thomas, that’s him.’
‘I know who it is. Get back to your work and prayers, brother monk.’
The unkempt cleric needed no further urging and strode away quickly and as he disappeared back into the forest beyond the clearing Gruffydd ap Madoc rode forward at a leisurely pace. Blackstone watched him. There was no sign of the Welshman glancing left or right, no sense of him being wary or of readying himself to give a signal to any hidden men. As he reached the arched pillars ap Madoc dismounted and tethered his horse. He stood waiting. Blackstone looked around again. There was still no sign of men in hiding. The forest was as it should be. The birds flew; the breeze ruffled the treetops. He dismounted, walked the bastard horse closer and then tied his rein off on a secure tree. The Welshman watched him approach and then sat on a boulder and pulled off his helmet.
‘Thomas, I bear you no ill will. Whereas you wish to see me dead.’
‘You hanged one of my archers and tried to kill my centenar, who nearly died trying to save him.’
‘Ah, Thomas, you know in your heart it wasn’t me. What purpose would I have to do such a thing? I had your gold coin; I had two hostages. All I did was make sure you didn’t come after me in a hurry. It was William Cade and his men who strung up the lad and attacked your archer.’
‘You didn’t stop him.’
‘I knew nothing of it until it was too late. And now you hound me, running me down like a beast of prey. You know I’ll not allow it. We’ll fight and one of us will die. And it won’t be me. I don’t want to kill you, Thomas. I swear it.’
Blackstone tossed the Celtic charm to him. ‘She won’t save you.’
Ap Madoc caught it, kissed the figure of Arianrhod and put the cord around his neck. ‘Knew that would tell you who sent it,’ he said. He drank from a flask and then offered it.
Blackstone made no response.
‘It’s good brandy. We took it from… I forget. Someone we butchered along the way.’ He swallowed again and then corked the flask. ‘We could fight it out here and now, Thomas, but your gold is with my men, so you would die a poor man. And this place here’ – he waved a
hand at their surroundings – ‘is no battlefield, no place of glory. Not the place for a legend to die. Face down in a muddy stream, beneath some relic of a monument from another time.’
‘Perhaps I care less about the gold and more about avenging a boy archer.’
‘Oh, for God’s sake, man. The lad died at the end of a rope at the hand of others. Leave it be. No beardless boy is worth us drawing blood even if I had done it. I told you—’
‘William Cade is dead. I killed him,’ Blackstone interrupted. ‘He was in the pay of the French King and his scheming son. They have failed to kill me again.’
The Welshman seemed momentarily surprised that Cade had been tracked down. ‘Ah, well, then, your blood-lust should be satisfied with that. I hope the wretch died badly.’
‘We fought together in the past, Gruffydd. You, me and Gilbert. We served our King and now a tide of killing has swept across France and forced us apart. We each went our own way, no longer brothers in arms. We cannot have regret for what could have been.’
‘I am sincere in my wish not to see us fight, Thomas. I swear that.’ He kissed the silver-wheeled goddess again. ‘She protects us both, but if we go at each other like crazed dogs all it proves is that you want your money back. Did you take Cade’s share?’
‘Let’s finish this now,’ said Blackstone. ‘Once you’re dead I’ll follow your men and get back the gold.’
Gruffydd ap Madoc sighed and stood. He pulled on his helmet. ‘Thomas, I will trade you.’
‘For what? The money?’
‘No. Your life or mine. Perhaps you will kill me, perhaps I you. I think it better if we both live.’
‘Beyond the gold there’s nothing I want from you except to close the account of a young archer’s death. You gave your word and he died without priest or mercy.’
The Welshman walked slowly towards Blackstone. He stopped at arm’s length. Too close for either man to draw a weapon. ‘Have you heard from Lord de Grailly’s man? The Gascon captain, Beyard?’
Blackstone’s heart skipped a beat.
‘No, I thought not.’ Ap Madoc stepped away. ‘Thomas, I was down near Avignon when your Gascon went among the routiers. He has a persuasive tongue. He convinced enough of them that your promises were as good as… gold.’ He grinned. ‘Me, I believed him as well. Though I can’t see you granting me the seneschalship of anywhere other than hell.’
‘If you have harmed him, Gruffydd, then my revenge will be doubled.’
The Welshman rolled his eyes and trembled his hands. ‘See, it’s terrified I am.’ He guffawed. ‘I never met him. Christ, Thomas, it’s not for me to kill a Gascon like him. Look to the French for that.’
‘He’s dead?’
‘Soon will be.’
‘He’s prisoner?’
Ap Madoc snorted and spat. ‘Is his life worth trading for mine?’
‘You talk too much.’
‘I’m a Welshman. We love to talk. And fight.’ He grinned once more. ‘Thomas, it is our language that is the bedrock of your mother tongue. We savour it like a good wine.’ He paused, but when he spoke again his words still tumbled lightly. ‘He’s not my prisoner, no. But he is imprisoned, for want of a better word. Now, would you trade him for my life?’
‘I would not.’
‘I thought not,’ said ap Madoc. ‘No, indeed. I thought you would not. So, I asked myself: What would Thomas Blackstone trade to let the matter between us rest? And I thought: I know, something more precious than a sack of gold, greater than a loyal man-at-arms. Now, what do you think that might be, eh? Shall I give you a clue? A scholar, brave as a boar facing a hunter, and as sharp and bright as that Wolf Sword that you’d love to use on me.’ He stopped, eyebrows raised, watching Blackstone’s reaction.
Blackstone’s mind raced to the obvious conclusion.
‘Ah, you’ve got it then. Aye, Thomas, your lad was being escorted from Florence. I don’t know why. A priest and a knight of the Tau with him. They sought sanctuary at Avignon. They heard of your Gascon and made themselves known to him. I don’t know the details but perhaps he offered to bring them on to you.’
‘Where are they?’
Gruffydd ap Madoc pulled his fingers down his beard, studying the renowned knight he had momentarily reduced to a concerned father.
‘Say it is over between us, Thomas, and I will tell you where they are, and I will even fight at your side to help release him. I have more men with me now than I had before. I know where the brigands ride and I know their captains. Routiers are being hunted by the French, who are everywhere. Together, with you leading them, you could finish off these bastard Frenchmen once and for all.’
Blackstone took a pace back. Wolf Sword was suddenly in his hand. Gruffydd ap Madoc smiled and extended his hands away from his own weapons.
‘What good would that do?’ he said. He spun around following Blackstone’s gaze and realized that Blackstone had drawn his sword because of the horsemen who had appeared in the distance, beyond the aqueduct behind him. Routiers or Frenchmen? It made no difference. The two men stood no chance. They ran for their mounts. The Welshman spurred his horse, yanked the reins and held the panicked beast as he called out to Blackstone.
‘Brignais! It’s held by mercenaries. They are trapped behind the town’s walls by a French army! You are in my debt, Thomas. Do not forget it!’ And then he galloped across the valley.
Blackstone turned the bastard horse to where his men were encamped. He would lose the approaching horsemen in the depths of the forest, but knew he could not afford to lose time in reaching his son. The remaining corner of his heart capable of love was besieged with fear.
CHAPTER SIXTY-THREE
The woodcutter repaid his debt to Blackstone. Despite his skinny frame he ran tirelessly through the vast forest, outpacing the horses that followed him. Before the midday sun rose above the treetops on the second day, he slowed and gestured to Blackstone, indicating the moss-covered boulders that tumbled into a wood-strewn gully. At first Blackstone could not see what the wiry man was pointing at. His toothless grin seemed to imply he had a secret and he scrambled surefooted down the awkward slope, pushing himself through waist-high ferns.
‘God’s tears, Thomas, I hope he doesn’t expect us to ride down there. I thought he was going to show us a way out of this forest and avoid the French,’ said Killbere as he watched the woodcutter reach the bottom of the gully.
‘He will,’ said Blackstone. ‘There’s something down there he wants to show us.’
The woodcutter began to pull aside undergrowth and then called for Blackstone to go down to him. Blackstone handed his reins to John Jacob and clambered after the man. It was treacherous going but he persevered, for as he pushed through the ferns he saw debris from a broken wagon wheel and what looked to be scattered remnants of planking that would have served as part of a cart’s baseboard. When he reached the woodcutter he saw what he had exposed. There were four barrels, some cracked open but mostly intact. The man grinned and nodded his head excitedly. ‘For you, my lord, for you.’ The man took a small chopping axe from his belt and hacked away one of the barrel lids. Blackstone bent down and reached inside and felt the familiar soft touch of goose feather in the palm of his hand. He closed his grip and pulled out a handful of arrows.
‘Soldiers came this way months ago and their wagon fell, my lord. We hid these barrels because we were afraid and did not know who to trust. We wanted no trouble. We buried the wagoners’ bodies.’
Blackstone grinned and placed a hand on the man’s shoulder in gratitude. He looked up to where the mounted men stared down at him and he raised his fist, clutching the yard-long arrows. ‘Will, Jack, Quenell, down here.’
Will Longdon and his archers would rather starve than have their arrow bags empty and – now that they had bundles bound and tied to a pack horse – like hungry men at a feast their spirits lifted. Every man would have at least four sheaves and from what Blackstone had told them about the French army at
tacking the town where his son had sought sanctuary, they would need them. When the arrows were secured the woodcutter ran on like a tireless dog ahead of the horsemen until on the fourth day of travel from the mountains and forests of La Roche they reached a clearing close to where the sky stretched beyond the confines of the trees. The clearing exposed tracks etched across the rolling countryside. Smoke rose from distant hamlets and sunlight caught a slithering narrow river that twisted towards dark smudges in the distance that could be more woodland or perhaps further villages. Once Blackstone’s eyes adjusted to the distances the multitude of bare feathered sticks that clung to hillsides were revealed as stakes holding rows of vines like silent, stationary soldiers.
The forest dweller spat phlegm and let his eyes gaze across the vast expanse that was denied him in his day-to-day existence. Then he clambered on top of a boulder and pointed to one side. ‘Five leagues,’ said the woodcutter. He turned and looked at Blackstone but there was no smile on his face this time. ‘Brignais, my lord.’
Blackstone eased his horse alongside their guide. Beyond the landmarks the ground flattened into a plain and Blackstone saw a speckled mass of movement that his eyes soon told him was a barely moving mass of encamped men. It was the French army under Jean de Tancarville’s command. And they numbered in their thousands.
* * *
From his vantage point Blackstone spied out the best route to take them behind the French army. To reach his son behind the walls of Brignais seemed an impossible task. The town was built on high ground and the French would need time to defeat its defenders. He saw a low stone bridge across a narrow river that would funnel the troops and knew, if it could be blocked or enough of the enemy killed on it, that might slow the French attack sufficiently for him to find a way inside.
‘There could be danger behind us, Thomas,’ said Killbere as they slowed their horses, approaching within a thousand yards of the rear of the French, using irrigation channels as cover from any sentries patrolling the perimeter. The water course was shallow, the ground yielding to mud beneath the horses’ hooves.
