Cross of Fire

by David Gilman

  ‘The gates!’ Killbere shouted. There was no need for the command: Beyard and his men were already running for the main gate, killing the two men who guarded it as Killbere struck out at Lord Mael, but the men closest to him blocked the veteran knight. As Killbere fought off the three soldiers Lord Mael was running towards Blackstone. The surviving knight called out for his own men to join them and within seconds thirty men ran forward to bolster Lord Mael’s ranks.

  Blackstone and his men were outnumbered.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  Blackstone blinked away the glare of the late afternoon sun as he emerged from the darkness. His stomach lurched when he saw the castrated bodies hanging upside down. Like Killbere he feared one of them was his son, but there was no time to reflect for a tall, heavy-set man was racing towards him, blocking his view of the mutilated corpses.

  The courtyard seethed with men. The sight of the fearsome killers emerging from the underworld caused Lord Mael’s men to hesitate – all except those at his shoulder, who hurled themselves forward.

  Blackstone saw Killbere out of the corner of his eye, and as he slammed his shield into an attacker he looked beyond the man’s battered face to the inner curtain walls. There were no crossbowmen there yet; they would still hold their position on the outer walls. Still expecting an attack from beyond. Within moments Meulon, John Jacob and Renfred formed a broadhead wedge with their shields. The sudden rush against them faltered. Blackstone’s men were clear of the cave and formed up behind Blackstone. They shuffled forward, pressing back the desperate defenders. Creating order out of chaos, taking control of the fight, they hacked their way forward one stride at a time. And then the shield wall parted, men broke free, slamming and thrashing three, four determined paces forward. Blackstone struck out towards the Breton lord. Shadows engulfed the yard. The sun edged below the castle walls. The chill soothed the sweating men, giving them renewed vigour. The odds were against Blackstone but their defence had not been broken and their counter-attack had scattered Lord Mael’s men. Some of them surrendered.

  ‘Spare them!’ Blackstone bellowed over the cacophony. He was too late for some; others clasped hands in prayer awaiting the death blow that never came. These were not untrained militia, they were fighting men, raised and paid for by Lord Mael, men who had fought the English on past battlefields and who now begged for their lives, unable to contest the violence that Blackstone and his men inflicted on them.

  A crow cackled at man’s folly.

  A priest appeared, a bandage around his head, a crucifix raised, a dazed look in his eyes. The fighting faltered and then stopped. An eerie silence suddenly smothered the castle. Men whimpering in pain succumbed to death; others drew their agony into themselves, cradling its ferocious bite, swallowed whole by it.

  Lord Mael had backed himself against the tower’s scaffolding, bloodied sword in hand. He had killed three of Blackstone’s men and now only his sworn enemy faced him. Blackstone’s men went quickly among the survivors, stripped them of their weapons, kicked their legs from under them, forcing them face down. The priest stood like a beacon, eyes blinking, clearly believing that his appearance had caused the combatants to cease fighting. Killbere seized his shoulder, forcing him down.

  ‘On your knees where you belong, priest. This isn’t your doing. It’s his,’ he said, pointing his bloodied sword towards Blackstone, who stood ten yards from Lord Mael. Babeneaux had not yielded, and he wanted Blackstone dead.

  The knight who had stood at the Breton lord’s side throughout, and fought as hard as any man, turned his sword and offered its hilt to Killbere. ‘You are no vagabond, sir. I see that now. To whom do I surrender?’

  Killbere glanced at Blackstone, who nodded.

  ‘I am Gilbert Killbere. A knight by King Edward’s grace.’

  The knight bowed his head. ‘I am Lord Judikael. You have slain good men who served me loyally.’

  ‘Then when matters are settled here, you can have this priest pray for their souls and I will ransom you. I demand your parole not to raise arms against King Edward or John de Montfort until that ransom is settled. Agreed?

  ‘It is agreed.’

  Lord Mael pivoted. ‘Traitor!’ His blade rammed into his ally’s side and tore a gaping hole wide enough for his innards to spill. As he pulled free his sword he paced quickly towards Blackstone.

  Killbere was ready to intercept but Blackstone raised his sword. ‘No!’

  Lord Mael stooped and picked up an abandoned flanged mace. The Breton had no shield to protect him so Blackstone cast aside his own. Lord Mael feinted; it caught Blackstone wrong-footed, and the Breton slammed his shoulder into him, trying to throw him down, but Blackstone took the blow, squared his stance and parried the subsequent sword thrust that would have pierced heart and lungs. Mael tried to smother Blackstone, striking down with the mace, slamming it against the scar-faced knight’s helm, but Blackstone spat in his eyes; the man’s neck snapped back, forcing him onto his heels. Too close for a sword strike, Blackstone reversed his fist and slammed the pommel towards Mael’s face, but the man was quick, turned his head and took the blow on his raised arm, exposing Blackstone’s chest for a killing blow. His blade struck upwards, its tip catching Blackstone’s mail beneath his jupon, enough to snag for an instant. Blackstone spun on his heel, his body movement forcing the man off balance. Blackstone struck down from the high guard, a blow to sever shoulder from body. Lord Mael sacrificed the mace, gripped his sword blade with his free hand and blocked the strike. Metal clanged, hardened steel shuddering from the strike.

  Those who had surrendered dared to stand up when Blackstone fought their master. The dust beneath the two men’s feet swirled like a shroud as each sought the advantage, manoeuvring back and forth, wild beasts slamming horns, battering the other until one fell. Now the Breton was quickly side on again, both hands gripping his sword hilt, swinging left and right, high to low, scything the air before him with renewed ferocity, forcing Blackstone back. Men scattered as they shuffled, sidestepped, testing and striking, dancing with death. Blackstone counter-attacked. Sweat stung both men’s eyes but their violence continued unabated. And then the watching men gasped. Blackstone was wrong-footed, his blade cut through thin air, his shoulder turned exposing neck and back to the skilled fighter who reacted without a second thought, brought his sword from across his shoulder, committed with all his strength to cleave Blackstone’s head from his body. He bellowed. And drawing that breath to spur his strength gave Blackstone the heartbeat moment he needed. He had fooled the master swordsman. Using his own momentum he pivoted on his heels and plunged Wolf Sword’s blade beneath the man’s armpit, through his shoulder and into his neck. The strike stopped Lord Mael where he stood. A gaping hiss, eyes blinking at Blackstone’s face so close to his own. Blackstone ripped free the blade, its edge scraping bone. Lord Mael Babeneaux de Pontivy dropped to his knees, eyes staring upward towards the God he would never meet.

  And then fell back.

  *

  Silence settled. Exhaustion claimed the men. Some sank to their knees to ease weary muscles or favour their wounds. Blackstone took the wineskin from Killbere and drank thirstily, red liquid splashing across his beard, sluicing away the blood. Blackstone’s small force had killed thirty-four men behind the walls, another thirteen underground. They had lost seven of their own in the courtyard and two of Beyard’s Gascons at the main gate. Eleven of Lord Mael’s men lay dead in the meadow, slain without loss by Will Longdon’s archers. Lord Mael’s crossbowmen on the outer walls surrendered when they realized all was lost and they beckoned those outside the walls within. Lady Cateline stayed at a distance from her slain husband, shielding her young daughter. Her son stared at the carnage. None of the archers spoke when they saw the slaughter. It had been a fearful fight and friends had died.

  Blackstone turned to Meulon. ‘Question the survivors. Have the men search for Henry,’ he said. Meulon nodded and summoned weary men to him.

  The pri
est had not moved, still clutching the crucifix to him as he knelt. Eyes unable to fathom what he had witnessed; lips muttering silent prayers.

  ‘I think his mind has gone, Thomas,’ said Killbere. ‘The blow to his head must have scrambled his brain.’

  ‘And we will use it to our advantage,’ said Blackstone. ‘When we leave this place will be abandoned. Have the masons seal the cave’s entrance. We close the castle gates, burn down the keep, destroy that new tower and send him on his way to tell what he saw here.’

  Blackstone raised the cleric to his feet. ‘Priest,’ he said gently, ‘what did you see here today?’

  The priest blinked uncertainly, unable to answer, so Blackstone helped plant the seed that would flourish ever bigger in the telling. ‘Did you see the devil’s disciples swarm from beneath the earth and slay these men?’

  The priest looked intently at the scar-faced Englishman. His eyes searched for the vision. ‘Yes… yes… I saw that… I saw the devil himself rise up…’ His finger pointed towards the cave. ‘Hell’s Gate… yes… So it was true – demons were caged there… and now…’ He suddenly stepped back, fear clawing his chest as he gazed at Blackstone. ‘The devil is among us. This place is cursed. Haunted by death and evil.’

  Blackstone nodded. ‘Warn everyone. Preach what you saw.’ He turned the priest towards the main gate and watched him shuffle away, crucifix held tightly, to spread word of the terror that lay behind the castle walls. A warning that would see Babeneaux’s castle remain unoccupied and condemned.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  As the bodies were dragged across the courtyard a bedraggled Henry Blackstone clambered down the kitchen ladder.

  ‘Thomas,’ said Killbere, drawing Blackstone’s attention to the boy.

  Blackstone watched his son’s hesitant approach as he wiped the last of the blood from Wolf Sword’s blade. Henry stood off like a wary dog, expecting to be whipped.

  ‘Where were you, boy?’ said Blackstone sternly, not yet prepared to show how relieved he was that his disobedient son had survived.

  ‘I found my way back through the caves and hid in plain sight, my lord. In Jocard’s room in the keep. A place they would not think of looking. Lord Mael had already slain those who worked in the kitchen. I dared not show myself when you were fighting in case my presence distracted you.’

  Killbere turned away from Henry so that he would not hear his whispered words. ‘Do not be too harsh with him, Thomas. He showed courage and daring.’

  Blackstone returned the generous comment with a dark scowl.

  ‘I’ll attend to the men,’ said Killbere and left father and son to settle their differences.

  ‘Come closer,’ said Blackstone.

  Henry did as he was told and stood just beyond arm’s reach.

  ‘I do not tolerate disobedience. Men’s lives depend on discipline.’

  ‘I understand, my lord, but I thought to save Gabriel because he was uncertain about the Latin I taught him and to hesitate with Lord Mael would have meant his death.’

  ‘Gabriel is dead.’

  Henry’s face registered shock.

  ‘I am weary and I have my men to attend to. I will decide what to do with you later.’

  ‘May I speak with Lady Cateline’s son? I would like to know he is all right after his own ordeal.’

  Blackstone shook his head. ‘Go to John Jacob and find out what his orders are.’

  Henry bowed his head and followed his father’s command. Blackstone watched his son walk away. His back as straight as a sword blade, he strode with purpose, undeterred, it seemed, by Blackstone’s admonishment. Pride in the boy taunted him, but so too did uncertainty. Henry was strong for his age, had proved his courage, but he had defied his father and his squire, John Jacob. Defiance Blackstone understood. How to harness the boy’s intelligence and potential as a fighter? Despair seeped into his heart. Perhaps the boy needed to be sent away again. A university, perhaps: somewhere he could return to his studies. Somewhere safe. Blackstone slipped Wolf Sword into its scabbard. Nowhere offered safety if they discovered you bore the name Blackstone.

  *

  John Jacob growled at his page, ‘Henry, you are an ill-disciplined wretch, and I shall find you every unpleasant job to instruct you otherwise. Report to Meulon. He attends the dead. You will help strip the enemy corpses of anything of value, and then you will drag the bodies to the pit the survivors are digging. Tell him those are my orders for you. And when you have done that go with the men and bring in the rest of our horses from the forest. Only you have a way with your father’s beast. Get to it.’

  Henry knew John Jacob’s threat and his father’s anger meant weeks of punitive duties. It did not matter. He had done what few others could have done. There was satisfaction in entering a beast’s lair and surviving, in planning and executing an escape. How many men, no matter how courageous, would have entered Hell’s Gate and then saved his charge before saving himself? Punishment was nothing compared to that. He suppressed his self-satisfied grin.

  ‘You laugh at the dead?’ said Meulon, who’d caught the lad’s indulgence. The broad-chested throat-cutter sat on a barrel, his back resting against the wall, binding a linen bandage over a slash on his arm.

  ‘I do not. I beg your pardon. I am instructed to help strip the bodies and drag them to the pit once it is dug,’ Henry said, gazing across the mutilated corpses and the survivors digging a long trench against the far wall.

  ‘Punishment eh?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘It was to be expected.’

  ‘It was.’

  ‘Men here respect you, Master Henry. We have watched you grow in courage over the years. Perhaps there are times to be disobedient, perhaps this was one such a time, but you must earn trust, lad. Understand me? You have to be trusted to be where you are supposed to be. We each rely on the other for that. Trust is the key to men’s loyalty. Remember that.’

  ‘I will.’

  Meulon’s teeth flashed for a moment through the dense black beard. ‘I never liked listening to lectures either. It will soon be dark, but these men will keep digging until we can bury the stench. Renfred has others digging graves for our own men who fell. Go and find lamp oil or torches.’

  ‘There’s a storeroom but it needs to be unlocked or the door broken down.’

  Meulon pointed. ‘My men are resting by the stables. They’ll help.’

  ‘I can do it myself.’

  ‘Then be quick about it.’

  ‘May I ask who among us we lost?’

  ‘Ralph Tait and Quenell at the ambush. Othon as well. Gabriel LaFargue.’ Meulon named the others who had not survived the fight. Henry saw their faces. Heard their laughter.

  ‘And here?’

  ‘Tom Woodbrook, Robert d’Ardenne, William Audley, Thomas Berford among others. It has cost us dearly. More than half our men-at-arms all told.’

  ‘And what of Will and Jack?’

  ‘They are alive. They are manning the outer walls while we see to ourselves here.’

  ‘Thank you, Meulon. I’m sorry for those men we lost.’

  ‘It’s the price we pay to fight those who hate Sir Thomas. Besides…’ He tied off the bandage, flexed his arm and picked up his shield. ‘It was their time to die.’

  *

  Blackstone went among the men offering encouragement and promised they would share equally whatever Lord Mael had in wealth. The sorrow of losing friends was soothed by the knowledge that there would be more plunder for every man. And that they would soon be in Poitiers to spend their coin on women, wine and ale. Killbere was stripped to the waist, washing himself down with a torn piece of linen. His bruises and welts from the fighting would be eased by the well’s cold water.

  ‘Have you seen her?’ Blackstone asked.

  ‘Aye. She went up into Babeneaux’s quarters. Took her offspring with her.’

  ‘Have we searched the place?’

  Killbere nodded. ‘There’s no one the
re to cause us trouble. Servants were hiding in the cellars. If there were any guards, they are dead or missing.’ Killbere thrust his head into the bucket, then shook himself like a dog. ‘Strange she didn’t mention the tunnel.’

  Blackstone ignored the comment and swept his gaze across the castle. It was secure; the men were safe. No one was out there to cause more harm. ‘See that the men have hot food, Gilbert. The cook will have enough life left in him to organize it. Have fresh straw taken from the stables for the men’s bedding and set the night watch.’

  ‘And where are you going?’

  ‘To satisfy your curiosity.’

  *

  Blackstone made his way to the five-storey building, more elegant than the keep’s basic structure. If it was where Babeneaux had his private quarters then it stood to reason that his wife would also have her rooms there. The broad heavy wooden staircase rose from the cut limestone floor. Wall sconces clung like swallows’ nests to the wall so that there would be no need to carry candles to light the way in darkness. It told of a man who had a taste for the small luxuries of life. Comfort he would no longer enjoy. Blackstone followed the flickering oil lamps. Guiding. Inviting. He took his time. Weary from fighting for his life, he allowed himself a few moments when there was no need to act with urgency. His spurs clanked; his scabbard tapped each heavy step he took. The first three floors were devoid of life but voices murmured from the top floor. As he reached the next level, he could smell fragrance. He looked along the broad colonnade, and out across the outer walls. Moonlight blanketed the forest and meadow, still plagued with specks of crows that fluttered and cawed, bickering like hunchback priests over the scattered dead. Night creatures would soon join them. Wolf and boar would gorge tonight.