Cross of Fire

by David Gilman

  ‘No further,’ another cried.

  ‘I’m with him,’ a third added his voice to the discontent. ‘We have already come too far. We tell him the boys are gone. Taken by creatures.’

  Blackstone carefully made his way back to his men as the men argued. ‘Twelve men or more. A search party for Henry and the boy. It’s too narrow for us all. Six of us will go forward and kill them. The others keep the torches burning here.’

  ‘And if there are more than you think?’ said Meulon.

  ‘Then we make the best of it.’

  The lead men passed their torches to those behind, unslung their shields and let their eyes settle on the darkness ahead of them. It served no purpose to be blinking away torchlight as they advanced. Blackstone waited, and the men whispered their readiness. Swords were silently drawn.

  They stepped forward. Phantoms of destruction.

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  The sun angled across the pale sky. The cooling breeze rustling the canopy above Killbere’s head was already shaking free leaves. Killbere turned to the men behind him who cosseted Lady Cateline and her children in their midst. ‘All right, it’s time. Will, bring them forward.’

  Will Longdon nudged his horse through the fern-covered ground and led Babeneaux’s wife to the edge of the forest. Cateline did not meet Killbere’s gaze.

  ‘Do not look so suspicious,’ said Killbere. ‘Thomas Blackstone has taken you under his shield for protection. No harm will come to you. I have explained everything, have I not?’

  ‘And when you go inside and they bargain your life for my son’s, then how do I know these men will not turn him over?’

  ‘These men who saved you and your children? These men who have shed their blood for you? You are an ungrateful bitch and I would trade you and your brats for any one of the men we lost.’ Killbere reined in his disgust. ‘But Thomas’s son is trapped somewhere in those caves and I pray his courage was not rewarded with his death. For some reason known only to God and himself my friend has embraced your dilemma. And now I am obliged to give my word they will not harm you. These rancid, arse-scratching, murdering scum archers who slew the greatest host in Christendom are more trustworthy than any Breton lord, French king or crow-black priest.’ He glanced at Longdon and the other unkempt bowmen. He sighed. ‘Providing there’s not a brothel in sight or silver to be stolen. Place your care in their hands and thank the Virgin Mary that Sir Thomas Blackstone stumbled on your misfortune. Now play your part.’

  Killbere urged his horse forward into the open, tugging the leading rein of Lady Cateline’s horse as if he had her captive. Her daughter stayed back in the trees with Jack Halfpenny. The child cried out. Cateline turned, her anguished look betraying her fear. She heard Jocard calm his sister with soothing words and the straw doll that Jack Halfpenny had made for her.

  ‘She is in good hands, and your loss will be the more convincing,’ Killbere told her. Will Longdon took six archers with him and the additional four men-at-arms made them convincing enough to pass as a small group of routiers. Beyard the Gascon and his hobelars, like the archers who rode into the open, had abandoned their jupons bearing Blackstone’s insignia.

  ‘They’ve seen us already,’ said Will Longdon. ‘Up there on the walls, Sir Gilbert. One of them’s turned and called to someone below.’

  ‘I’m not blind,’ said Killbere. ‘I need your eyes for distance. Pull us up when we are out of crossbow range.’

  Will Longdon checked the direction of the breeze and the positioning of the spur-shaped bastions. Bowmen there might gain another fifty yards on the men placed on the walls. ‘Here, Sir Gilbert,’ said Longdon, pulling the small party up 350 yards from the castle.

  ‘No closer?’ said Killbere. ‘I’ll be bellowing like a rutting stag to be heard from here.’

  Will Longdon shrugged. ‘They angle their aim upwards and a fifteen-inch quarrel might find your helm, Sir Gilbert. Better a rough throat than a permanent headache.’

  Killbere snorted, spat and raised himself in the stirrups as if that might help carry his voice. ‘Bring your master to the walls!’ he bellowed.

  ‘Sir Gilbert, they could hear you in Poitiers,’ said Will Longdon.

  ‘Aye, well, you had better hope that Sir Thomas is where he said he would be by this time,’ he said, squinting into the sun. ‘If not, and things have gone awry, then you and the lads ready yourselves for this bastard to come and fetch his son once my head is on a pole. When I go in have them hold their position in the trees. If those behind the walls ride, then bring them out and show your strength. Twenty archers with arrows nocked will deter many a man’s courage.’

  ‘Identify yourself,’ a voice answered moments later from the castle walls.

  ‘Is that him?’ said Killbere, turning to Cateline.

  She nodded. Her lips parted, but no words came.

  ‘We have no need for names, my lord,’ answered Killbere. ‘We know who you are. We have information and goods to trade. We are few men in need of money and supplies.’

  ‘And I have men riding in my domain and if they come upon you, then what information and goods you have are of no interest to me. You are whoreson routiers and I would see you as crow bait.’

  Killbere saw Lord Mael shield his eyes.

  ‘You have my wife,’ Babeneaux called.

  ‘And for a price we will return her to the bosom of your hearth, my lord.’

  ‘And my daughter?’

  ‘I bear sad tidings, Lord Mael. Your daughter succumbed to a fever. She is dead.’

  Babeneaux glanced at the two knights by his side. Their movement allowed a brief glimpse of a different blazon.

  ‘The woman is of no use to me,’ the Breton lord answered Killbere. ‘Do with her as you wish. My daughter’s life was short and of no consequence. Now get off my land before my men return.’

  ‘We found sixty men lying dead a few leagues from here. They were butchered by a greater force. We ride to avoid a similar fate. Come, my lord, that information alone is worth some food, surely.’

  There was no answer but Killbere and his escort saw Lord Mael’s head dip despairingly at the news. Then he raised himself again. ‘You have nothing I need,’ he called and turned away as if to walk down from the battlements.

  ‘We found a boy!’ Killbere shouted, cupping his hands to help his voice carry and arrest the man’s departure. The distant figure stopped. ‘Found him this morning. He is this woman’s son. Is he of interest, my lord?’

  ‘Where is he? Show him!’

  Killbere sighed. ‘And here the game begins,’ he said quietly, and signalled to those in the forest two hundred yards away. Jack Halfpenny rode out leading Jocard. When the horse was level, Killbere reached across, winked at the boy, and raised Jocard’s chin so his face might be more easily recognized from that distance. Unnecessary because Babeneaux knew his stepson well enough, but Killbere’s act was convincing.

  ‘Bring him to me and I will reward you,’ Lord Mael called.

  ‘You think me a simpleton?’ Killbere spat aggressively. ‘Do not insult us, Lord Mael Babeneaux de Pontivy. This woman has told us of his worth. I will deliver him to Sir William Felton and be paid in gold coin for it. Now do not fuck with me! Send me gold and then take him!’

  ‘And have your men in the trees kill my men so you can steal the boy and the ransom?’

  Killbere smiled at the two archers. ‘So far so good. He plays the game as Thomas predicted. And now I step into the bear trap.’ He raised his voice again. ‘Then how to complete our trade?’

  ‘You come inside and I will pay you. Then your men will bring the boy closer and mine will escort you out. Then the exchange will take place.’

  ‘And have a quarrel in my back?’ said Killbere.

  ‘My crossbowmen will lay down their arms until the exchange is complete.’

  ‘We would see their weapons placed on the wall without their quarrels,’ Killbere answered.

  ‘Agreed,’ Lord Mael a
nswered.

  Killbere turned in the saddle and looked at Beyard and the three men-at-arms with him. He grinned. ‘Well? Do we accept his invitation?’

  ‘And be ready for Sir Thomas,’ said the Gascon captain.

  ‘Take a couple of my lads with you,’ said Will Longdon. ‘With luck, they will bring down some of those men on the wall.’

  Killbere shook his head. ‘No. It will be a sudden flurry of killing. There will be no time for an arrow to be drawn, let alone loosed in there. We take our chances. You will hear the fight. Bring the lads out of the trees. Shoot onto the walls. It will give us a chance.’

  ‘A slim one, Sir Gilbert,’ suggested Halfpenny.

  ‘When has it ever been any different?’ said Killbere. He raised an arm in acknowledgement to the Breton lord. ‘Open your gates!’

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  Lord Mael’s men had not overcome their fear of the underworld as they hunted for the two missing boys. They had caged it deep within themselves but when they reached the glistening crystal cave the rock formations and twisted shapes there created the face of a demon in their inflamed imaginations – and they had faltered. Gazing up at the gaping jaw that dribbled saliva, in reality nothing more than the sheen of water on the rocks, and the glinting eyes staring at them with unabated desire, they cowered, argued and, eventually, succumbed to their fear and turned back.

  It was too late.

  As they peered into the darkness and caught the whiff of burning oil – surely the devil’s brimstone? – the void shuddered with movement. The darkness came alive. Terror gripped them. They cried out as Blackstone’s men surged forward. Behind them torchlight created looming shadows the size of giants. As Mael’s men scrambled to their feet, they fought each other to turn and run. Yet one of them found his courage.

  ‘They are men! Nothing more! Turn and fight,’ he demanded, grabbing his comrades and turning them to face what was only a mortal enemy. ‘Run and you die! Fight! We have a chance. We outnumber them. Turn!’

  It was to their credit that most of the fourteen men found their footing and their backbone and raised their flaming torches, swords and maces ready. Abandoned torches lay spluttering in the wet sand or fell against the narrow rock wall, flames casting their own giants to combat those who attacked.

  Babeneaux’s men bellowed aggressively, fortifying themselves as they closed on their enemy. They splashed through the water, teeth bared, eyes wide with a desire to kill, mouths gaping, sucking fetid air with lungs bursting. The chamber resonated with a frightening response as Blackstone’s men roared their challenge that tore the heart out of an already frightened enemy.

  They clashed. Half-darkness enveloping them. Shadow killing shadow. Cries of pain chasing down those who had escaped. Clanging steel, blade on blade, echoed around the chamber. What had been an unspoilt place of fearful beauty became violated with blood and death. Lord Mael’s men fought bravely, desperation fuelling their strength. No man wanted to die. No man wanted to die in Hell’s Gate, a veil’s thickness away from where Satan’s imps would reach up and grab their slain bodies. Church and monastery, Bible and Book of Psalms: all had images of being seized and taken. And as each man fell, calling out for mercy, begging to be spared, Blackstone’s men hurled them into the arms of the devil.

  Blackstone did not slow his attack. They trampled over the fallen, snatched up the longer-burning pitch-soaked torches and gave pursuit to the escaping men. How long had it been since he and his men had descended? How much time had passed since Killbere had placed his survival into Blackstone’s hands?

  *

  Killbere, Beyard and the three men-at-arms rode slowly beneath the portal. Crossbowmen on the ramparts watched them. None yet aimed at the riders but the weapons were ready for use. The outer yard was stiff with men and horses. The second gate was already open, inviting them through the inner curtain wall. As they rode, they searched for a place to defend themselves. To fall back and form a small defensive shield wall until Blackstone reached them. Killbere glanced at Beyard. No words were needed. This place was a death trap for so few men.

  Lord Mael Babeneaux waited, feet firmly planted on the ground, his wide stance telling these intruders that he was the foundation rock of the castle. Two knights stood by his side. Killbere recognized their blazons. It had been their men who had died in the meadow alongside Lord Mael’s captain and soldiers. Killbere pulled up his horse. To be on horseback offered advantage over the men on the ground but when fighting in such a confined space it would be better to dismount and keep the horses between them and the men who stood along the walls.

  ‘You scum think you can come here and bargain?’ snarled Lord Mael. He made no move towards the men. He had no need. There was nowhere to run. Behind the Breton lord Killbere saw the scaffolding and the tower. Labourers and masons had stopped work, clearly watching what fate would befall these interlopers. But there was a more grisly sight that seized Killbere’s interest. A large man who might have once had hair on his thick arms and back was spreadeagled across a wooden frame. His back had been lashed from a whipping. One of the soldiers threw a bucket of water across the bloodied stripes and the man cried out – so he was still alive. One arm of the scaffolding had been used as a gibbet. Two boys hung by their ankles, stripped of their breeches, shirts falling over their features obscuring their identity. They had been emasculated. Blood had drained down their bodies and pooled in the dirt. Flies fed on their blood and wounds. Killbere’s stomach tightened. Either boy could be Henry.

  Lord Mael noted the men’s attention to the dead. ‘You see what happens to those who fail me? Worthless servants.’ He nodded his head towards the whipped man. ‘He is my cook, so he had value. They did not. A pilgrim came into my castle and slept in the warmth of my kitchen and ate my food. I gave charity and was rewarded with betrayal. Kitchen boys are little more than slaves, but a cook is harder to find. They slept while the viper escaped in the night with the boy you now hold.’

  Killbere concealed the sigh of relief that neither of the two dead boys was Henry.

  ‘You have the pilgrim as well?’ asked the Breton lord.

  ‘No. Only your stepson.’ Killbere’s gaze swept across to the ladder leading up to where smoke curled from a chimney and what he thought to be the kitchen. From the top rung of the ladder a mastiff’s body swing at the end of a rope. Hanged like a common criminal.

  ‘No one and nothing escapes my wrath,’ Lord Mael said.

  Killbere spat. This was a vile creature to inflict such punishment on a dumb animal. Killbere’s horse shook its head from the flies gathering around its eyes. Its bridle jangled; the bit clattered between its teeth. Killbere held the killer’s gaze. ‘Where’s the money?’

  ‘You think I will pay you?’ said Lord Mael. ‘An oaf of such stupidity?’ He suddenly snatched at the air and then opened his palm to expose a crushed fly. ‘Who steps into my web?’

  ‘If you want the boy, pay.’ Killbere squinted at the sun now below the castle walls. ‘One way or another.’

  Lord Mael taunted. ‘Senile old man, I do not barter. I take what is rightfully mine.’

  ‘Send men out there and the boy will die,’ Beyard said.

  ‘You think mercenary scum would not give him up?’ He put out his hand to one of the nearby soldiers, who stepped forward and placed a bag of heavy coin in his palm. ‘I pay them. I get the boy. I get the boy – I kill them. Money and boy where they rightfully belong. My men await my command and they have twice as much as this ready to tempt the greediest. How many more men are in the woods?’

  ‘A hundred,’ said Killbere quickly, deliberately instilling panic into his voice.

  ‘I’ll wager less than fifty. More likely twenty in all. You bear no blazon. You are scavengers. You look like desperate men. Men such as you do not travel in large numbers. You are little more than vagabonds and thieves.’ He turned to his men on the walls. ‘Anything?’

  A voice answered. ‘No more men than we saw be
fore, my lord.’

  ‘Send them!’ Lord Mael commanded.

  Killbere and Beyard turned as the great gates swung open and a dozen men spurred their horses from where they waited between the outer and inner walls. Killbere glimpsed them riding hard towards Will Longdon, Cateline and the boy.

  The shadows lengthened; the breeze scurried leaves across the dirt yard. Killbere’s horse’s ears stiffened. Its head raised. Horses whinnied in the stables. Lord Mael looked around. There was no obvious danger, but the seasoned fighter knew to trust what he saw and something other than his men riding out had alerted the horses. A distant howling crept up from behind them. It was coming from the open cave mouth. A wail that rose and echoed. Men scurried from the scaffolding as the eerie screams reverberated from the bowels of the earth. Some soldiers backed away. A horse bolted from its stable hand, knocking aside baskets of stone. A blood-curdling shriek tore its way from the cave to claw its way down men’s spines.

  ‘The devil!’ cried a soldier near Lord Mael, who turned rapidly, drew his sword and killed him.

  ‘Stand your ground!’ he commanded. The two knights with him also drew their swords, looking nervously around them. A soldier ran screaming from the cave, blood sluicing his face and arms. Confusion and panic gripped Lord Mael’s men as a tall, scar-faced knight burst from the entrance. Blood splattered his beard and chest. The devil’s ascent, for that is what legend would relate, took less than ten rapid heartbeats. Blackstone pounded on the heels of the wounded man, the sole survivor of those sent into Hell’s Gate. A huge bearded man half a pace behind Blackstone cut the survivor down. More men spilled from the cave and swarmed into Lord Mael’s soldiers. Killbere released his skittish horse and it bounded into the two knights, knocking one aside. The man tried to rise but Killbere’s sword pierced his throat.