Cross of Fire

by David Gilman

  ‘On me!’ cried Roparzh and struck out before the descending men could reach them. His men knew how to fight and quickly formed a fighting line. They were safe from the archers now that they were so close to the shield men and those who raced towards them could not hold formation. It was man against man and the Breton knew the tall, muscular knight with the scarred face striding forward to take the attack to him was Thomas Blackstone. Another equally formidable-looking soldier was at Blackstone’s side and Roparzh knew these swordsmen needed to be smashed apart. He cried out for those around him to barge through.

  The sheer weight of attackers finally pushed John Jacob away from his sworn lord as Roparzh struck down a man in Blackstone’s shield wall. Blackstone was barely five strides away but one of Roparzh’s men sought to claim the prize by killing Blackstone himself. As the man traded blows with Blackstone another Englishman barged Roparzh aside. Roparzh pressed forward into Blackstone’s men who had stumbled their way onto the plateau. There could be no retreat. To turn and run would expose Lord Mael’s men to the archers who waited below, and they’d have Blackstone’s men at their backs. The archers could only be slain if they killed Blackstone’s men first. And then he realized the archers had abandoned their war bows and were running uphill, sword and knife in hand. They wore no mail; their leather jerkins or cloth jupons offered no protection against a sword thrust but they came on. Mad bastards wanting to kill.

  ‘Left flank turn! Turn!’ Roparzh bellowed. His men obeyed. Half turned their backs on Blackstone to face the approaching archers. Men were grunting with the effort of killing, a jagged roar of desperate voices as they slithered in gore, fighting, ramming, slashing. Desperate to kill and survive in the close confines of the narrow plateau.

  John Jacob blinked the sweat from his eyes. As he fought a hard-arsed Breton who refused to die, he saw Blackstone was being assailed. John Jacob traded blows, twisting this way and that, locking his eyes on the spittle-cursing man as blurred images swirled around him and, beyond, blood-curdling screams from mutilated and dying men dulled his senses. One sight loomed in the background. Quenell the archer clambered up the slope, slit the throat of one man, parried a blow from another but was then suddenly overwhelmed. He heard Quenell’s name being called as Ralph Tait turned away from the men on the plateau and barged and cut his way through to the wounded archer. Then he too went down. The surge of hatred gave strength to Jacob’s arm, and he struck his opponent with such force across the top of his shoulder that his blade nearly severed the man’s head. The Breton fell without a sound. Jacob spun around to reach Blackstone but the cacophony of screaming, cursing, battling men seemed as impenetrable as a locked shield wall. He waded into the fray.

  Blackstone was being assailed by three Bretons as Roparzh forced his shield against an Englishmen, throwing him off balance, thrusting his sword tip into his groin and then, as the man squirmed, pulling it free and pressing it into his throat. Blood gushed. The man’s legs curled into his stomach in agony as he died. A man in the fracas called out Othon! as he tried to reach his fallen comrade but Roparzh spun on his heel and swept his sword in a fast arc that caught the man behind his knees. Hamstrung, he went down, floundering. Roparzh stepped onto his face and felt the man’s neck crack beneath his weight. Now there was only one other man between him and the big Englishman.

  The sun was not yet fully up but already the bloodstained ground reflected the day’s dawning.

  Blackstone saw him coming. Gabriel LaFargue was down and one of his Gascon hobelars who had tried to save him went underfoot. The powerful man had strength enough to sweep aside two more of Blackstone’s men. Yet another Breton attacked Blackstone, who rammed his shield upwards, felt the man’s jaw shatter and saw teeth and blood spew. Reversing Wolf Sword he smashed its pommel into the side of the man’s head and then the leader of the Bretons whom Blackstone took to be Lord Mael Babeneaux was on him.

  Roparzh’s strength and weight gave him impetus, forcing Blackstone to quickly backtrack. He stumbled over a body. His back slammed into the ground. He rolled away from the strike. The Breton’s brute strength sliced into the corpse, cleaving chest and arm. Blackstone rolled onto his feet but the next blow smashed into his shield. Blackstone’s arm muscle twisted as the force of the blow caught him at an awkward angle. He dropped to one knee, covered himself with his shield and struck Wolf Sword upwards in a killing blow. The Breton swept the blade aside and aimed a kick at Blackstone’s face. It connected with his chest. Once again Blackstone was open to a killing blow.

  Jack Halfpenny had scrambled into the fray with the archers as they attacked the Bretons. He clambered over bodies, slipped on the bloodied grass, lunged and caught Roparzh’s calf with his archer’s knife. It split the thick muscle to the bone. The stab was not fatal but the big man faltered for a few vital seconds.

  Roparzh turned his strike away from Blackstone, swinging down his blade like a man swats a fly, but the lithe archer had already rolled away. Blackstone threw himself onto the big-chested man, his weight smothering him. Roparzh’s wounded leg gave way. Blackstone straddled him; they twisted and rolled. They abandoned shields; their swords were useless in the close-quarter fight. They pitched down the hill, entwined, kneeing and jabbing. Roparzh’s sword was lost but Wolf Sword stayed attached by its blood knot and now hampered Blackstone from reaching for his knife. The Breton slashed his dagger into Blackstone’s mail. It pierced deep enough to wound his arm but the sudden shock of pain gave Blackstone the energy to beat down on his adversary’s face beneath his open helmet. The leather ties snapped. Bloodied, nose broken, Roparzh snorted blood and brought his knee up sharply into Blackstone’s groin. Agony tore through him and he was thrown clear, head swirling. The killing blow would come any second. He clambered painfully to his knees. Roparzh reached for an abandoned sword, raised it quickly in a double-handed grip. Blackstone’s head cleared as the man’s bulk loomed over him. Using his whole body weight the Breton struck: the blow would cleave Blackstone from shoulder to hip. Roparzh’s weight bore him forward, bent at the waist. Blackstone rammed Wolf Sword’s pommel into the ground and the hardened steel blade went into the Breton’s belly beneath his rib cage and out beneath his right shoulder blade. Roparzh uttered an animal grunt and pitched forward onto Blackstone, forcing Blackstone’s breath out of him. He lay winded, the stench of the man’s foul body stifling him. With a huge effort he pushed the dead man off him. The fight was over. Surviving Bretons ran. They were open targets for the archers who gave chase and brought them down either in the open meadow or on the forest edge where men were caught in bramble and briar. Sixty Bretons lay scattered, their carcasses twisted in death. Several of Blackstone’s men lay dead too, some lying with men they had killed and who had in turn killed them in a final deathly embrace.

  Blackstone staggered to his feet, caught his breath and spat the bile and phlegm from the back of his throat. He loosened the blood knot that had saved his life by keeping Wolf Sword close to his fist and then made his way towards the gore-splattered figure of Killbere halfway up the hill. The veteran had a gash above his eye that was bleeding onto his cheek and beard.

  Killbere grinned. ‘God’s tears, Thomas. They fell for it. Sweet Jesus, but that was some fight. They almost had us, I can tell you. They fought like the damned.’ He laughed, spat blood and stuck two fingers into his mouth to pull out a loosened tooth. ‘I thought you were done for.’ He spat again. ‘It was a hefty kick.’ He wiped his arm across his face and turned back up the hill. ‘I always knew your balls might be your downfall.’

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  The dull clanging of the bell for morning prayer still echoed around the castle walls. Henry made his way across the inner courtyard and entered the small chapel. The priest stood behind the altar, looking as much the haunted soul as he had the day before. The chapel was lit with sweet-smelling honey-wax candles, which reflected not only the gold and silver reliquaries, a wine goblet and crucifix but also Lord Mael’s generosity
. The reliquaries alone were worth more than most men would ever see in their lifetime. Henry followed the priest’s gesture for him to kneel to one side. There were no benches: the intention was not to provide comfort but display humility before God. The limestone floor slabs, worn smooth, were testimony to a hundred years of prayer. No sooner had Henry knelt and clasped his hands than the heavy footfall of Lord Mael and two other knights entered. They wore only their tabards and Henry realized that the two men following in Babeneaux’s footsteps must be the seigneurial lords whose men he’d previously seen. How many extra men were in the castle? Had Lord Mael been generous in sending his captain with sixty men to strike against Henry’s father because he knew he had more reinforcements inside the walls to defend the castle should the need arise?

  Lord Mael did not glance at the pilgrim boy at the back of the chapel. The three men knelt, bowed their heads, and the priest began to recite the liturgy of the Divine Office in a monotone. Henry looked at the three kneeling men of violence and cruelty, a wave of disgust squirming in his stomach. Was Babeneaux a true believer who honoured the church with his expensive gifts? Or was he bribing God to forgive his sins? Whatever prayers these men of war offered one was certain: that Thomas Blackstone and his men had been slaughtered.

  Henry bowed his head and asked that his own sin of disobedience be forgiven and that his father had been the one victorious in the fight.

  *

  The kitchen fires flared as fat dripped into the flames. Henry ate the near-burnt dark bread; coarse and dry, it stuck to the roof of his mouth but the tumbler of rough-tasting wine swilled it away.

  ‘Let him take it,’ said the cook to the kitchen boy, who had just picked up a tray of food from the table. ‘We need more wood. Fetch it.’

  The lad pushed the tray towards Henry and then reached for a large iron key on a ring that hung from a nail on the wall.

  ‘Upstairs, pilgrim,’ said the cook. ‘There’s a boy. Feed him and bring down his shit bucket. Make sure you lock the door or you will hang by your cock from the castle walls until the crows peck it away.’

  ‘If they can find it,’ the kitchen boy said.

  The cook kicked his backside. ‘Get your arse moving.’ Then he glared at Henry. ‘It’s not a damned invitation.’

  Henry lifted the tray and the key, his heart racing at the unexpected opportunity to reach Lady Cateline’s son. He strode across the keep’s great hall. The dog followed and loped up the stairs after him.

  It took two hands to turn the key in the massive old lock and when he shouldered the heavy door open he saw a dark-haired boy three or four years younger than him pressing himself against the far wall. His fearful pallor told Henry the boy was expecting punishment – or worse.

  ‘It’s all right,’ Henry whispered. ‘I am the one sent by your mother.’

  The dog sauntered into the room, tail wagging, and sniffed the young prisoner. After a moment’s uncertainty the boy smiled, his relief obvious. He knelt and embraced the slobbering dog. Henry quickly took in the room; he saw the rough-hewn table and stool placed against the wall behind the door and a straw mattress, worn flat from years of use, stretched across a wooden-framed bed. He picked up the tray from where he had placed it on the floor outside, brought it in and closed the door. He handed the tray to the boy.

  ‘Who are you? said the boy.

  ‘If I give you my true name, it could be the death of me. It’s enough for you to know me as Henri de Sainteny.’

  ‘Where is my mother?’

  ‘Safe. And my father will bring men here to rescue you.’

  ‘No one can breach these walls. Did you find the postern gate?’

  ‘Yes, but it’s blocked.’

  Cateline’s son grabbed the food from the plate, tore a piece of bread for the dog and studied Henry as he ate hungrily. ‘I am fed only once a day. I am kept here and allowed out to walk once around the yard. My mother tried to get us away. Me and my sister. I was going to Avignon to—’

  ‘I know all that,’ Henry interrupted. ‘There’s not much time. I have to find a way to get my father and his men inside the walls. Is there any other gate?’

  ‘There’s nothing,’ said the hungry boy, crumbs spluttering as he answered.

  ‘Jocard, think hard. You’ve spent several years here; there must be something. Either for us to get out or my father and his men to get in.’

  The boy stared, blinking as he tried to remember anything that might be of use. ‘My sister Jehanne and I used to have the run of the castle. I know the walls are high, and they guard every gate. We only managed to escape because my mother’s friend helped us.’ He paused, the memory of what happened to his mother’s lover souring any further taste for food. He tossed the bread to the dog and Henry saw tears sting the boy’s eyes.

  ‘This is no time for sadness, Jocard. We must think clearly,’ Henry insisted, determined to focus the boy’s thoughts. ‘I have to get back to the kitchen and unless we can signal to my father and get him inside these walls, you will stay locked in this room until Lord Mael secures your inheritance, and then he will have no further use for you. He’ll kill you.’

  Jocard nodded. ‘I expect an assassin every time they unlock the door.’ He stroked the big dog’s head. ‘His name is Jupiter. He was my dog until I was locked up in here. He would give his life for me.’

  ‘By now men have died for you. Sixty men rode out before first light to attack my father. I know he will have been victorious but I’m sure men whom I count as my friends will lie dead on the battlefield. Think hard so that their death was not in vain.’

  Jocard was silent for a moment. Henry thought he had driven him to despair.

  ‘Perhaps there is a way.’ Jocard’s voice was almost too quiet for Henry to hear. The boy raised his head. ‘Have you seen the well in the yard?’ he said more clearly.

  ‘Yes, I drew water from there. You can’t think of using that to escape. It’s far too deep and who knows how the well is fed.’

  ‘I know,’ he answered. ‘One day Jehanne and I were playing in the far corner of the castle yard, beyond the stables, past where the grain stores are. We found an overgrown iron grate in the rock face. We were playing hide and seek and she had squeezed between the grate’s iron bars and the rock. It took me a long time to find her, and I only did because I heard her crying. She was frightened because she’d slipped a few feet down into a cave. I reached in and pulled her out. I could smell the cold air and I heard water running in the distance far below. I think there’s a stream or river underground that feeds the wells in the castle. There are many caves around here and if we could get down into the river perhaps we could find a way out.’

  Henry imagined such an escape underground. Rivers could flow with no opening above the rock face and if they dared to risk it the chance of survival was slim.

  Jocard’s face grimaced. ‘But… but it’s a fearful place.’

  ‘It’s guarded?’

  Jocard shook his head. ‘Not by the living. It was Lord Mael’s father who put the bars across the entrance. One of his sons, Lord Mael’s youngest brother… he went down one day and never returned. Tormented demons lie below us. Spirits of the dead that feed on the living. They call the entrance Hell’s Gate.’

  Henry’s throat tightened. There was no doubt the devil kept souls trapped beneath the earth – how else was the gateway to hell guarded? He put on a brave face.

  ‘Superstition. Be ready. We’ll go tonight.’

  PART TWO

  HELL’S GATE

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  The dead grinned their contempt for the living.

  Blackstone walked among the slain as his men stripped them of anything worthwhile. They took the corpses of his own men from the field and laid them side by side. Some he had known longer than others, but all were a loss.

  ‘Nine. We were lucky,’ said John Jacob as he accompanied Blackstone.

  ‘Another six wounded,’ said Blackstone as he gazed at the d
ead men, calling their names as he passed by them. ‘Gabriel LaFargue, Othon… Merciful Christ, John, I didn’t know Ralph Tait had gone down.’

  ‘He saw the archers attack and turned to fight the Bretons’ flank. They overwhelmed him, but he took four or more with him,’ John Jacob said as they stopped next to Quenell’s body.

  ‘Damn. We can’t afford to lose experienced archers,’ Blackstone lamented. He turned as Will Longdon approached. ‘Will, I’m sorry you lost Quenell.’

  ‘Aye, he stormed ahead of us when we came up the hill. Got himself isolated. Stupid, brave bastard had fire in his belly and took on God knows how many.’ The insult was intended as respect. A few men followed Longdon up the hill. ‘Jack and me and a couple of the lads will take what gift he offers. Meulon and Renfred’s men will do the same with Ralph Tait and the other men-at-arms.’

  Blackstone nodded. Whatever was taken from their own dead served not as booty but as a part of the man to be honoured and remembered. No matter how insignificant the item it served to keep their companionship alive.

  The German captain Renfred stood back while Ralph Tait’s comrades took what they wanted. Killbere sat on the ground as one of the men spat on his head wound in an attempt to clear the dried blood. The man’s dirt- and blood-encrusted hands probed the wound until it trickled blood again.

  ‘Merciful Christ!’ snarled Killbere and gave the man a kick. ‘Will, get yourself over here and attend to me. Get brandy and your needle and thread.’

  Will Longdon stepped away from the ceremony for the dead. ‘And have you kick my arse when I stitch your skull, Sir Gilbert? Best you bathe it yourself and let it bleed and then when it hampers your vision you will be grateful for me and my sewing skills.’