by David Gilman
‘I’m grateful they didn’t try to scrape the poor bastard out of his armour. Be worse than trying to clean out an old cooking pot.’
‘You think he’s serious about wanting to fight me?’
Killbere stripped off his mail and swabbed a flesh wound on his arm. ‘They’re mad bastards, Thomas, and when they get caught up in religious fervour, they think they can rule the world. Challenging you to a fight is like a Will Longdon fart. An unpleasant experience to be endured or quickly avoided. Whatever the reason, the German’s convinced himself that he has to kill you.’
Blackstone sighed. ‘All right, if that’s what he wants.’
‘He’ll be one of those highly efficient swordsmen, Thomas. He’ll fight the way he trained. By the book, but not always predictable.’
‘I’ve fought Germans before,’ said Blackstone.
Killbere rung out the wet cloth. ‘I fought alongside them on crusade against the Lithuanians. They use something called Kampffechten. It’s a skill they learn for armoured combat on foot. It’s effective. You be careful. They sacrifice the strength of a strike – makes you think they have weakened, but then they make a fast, deceptive cut. It can catch you unawares.’
‘And you think I can’t deal with that?’
‘You understand Meisterhauwen, Thomas? Their mastercuts? They’re predictable but they use a sudden change of tactics to throw an opponent. Five controlled strikes. They call them the secret cuts.’ Killbere braced and used the edge of his hand to demonstrate what he knew of the German sword-fighting discipline. ‘They close off a line of attack, like so.’ He swept his hand across Blackstone’s body line. ‘But it’s a feint. You think they have moved into a defensive stance, like this’ – he quickly shifted his weight – ‘but it’s their first move to counter-attack. It closes off your line of attack. Draws you in, deceives you, and then that stance they’ve taken…’ He squared up to Thomas to impress on him how the German would likely turn what appeared to be a solid defensive position into a sudden killing strike. ‘It changes this quickly, Thomas.’ He cut the air with the edge of his hand, so rapidly that Blackstone took an involuntary step backwards. ‘A single cut or thrust with an immediate follow-up blow.’
‘I was taught by my own master, Gilbert.’ After being badly wounded at Crécy, sixteen-year-old Blackstone had been taken into Jean de Harcourt’s home and taught the way of the sword. It was a debt that could never be fully repaid and the skills instilled in him had saved his life on many occasions. ‘I fight the man, not his sword.’
‘Thomas, remember one thing: whatever position you adopt they have a counter-strike already in place.’ He held Blackstone’s attention. ‘Defence into attack. They gauge the weight of your blade against their own. If you feel theirs yield beneath your own, it’s a deception. Be ready for their killing thrust.’
Blackstone considered everything Killbere had shared. ‘Thank you, old friend. I’ll remember.’
‘When the time comes, finish him quickly,’ said Killbere. ‘We need to move on and these knights don’t let go of a grudge. We don’t want them shadowing us, looking for an opportunity to strike. Or him at least.’
‘We’ve just saved their lives, for God’s sake.’
‘And they will see that God sent you so they can complete their vendetta against you. It is part of their deformed logic. It will make perfect sense to them. Attend to your wound, Thomas. You will need your strength and skill against this man.’
*
Henry Blackstone stood next to his father’s horse, its legs hobbled and its great neck secured with rope. Henry had stripped off its saddle and boiled leather breastplate. A sliver of a wound, a hand’s width, ran across its flank.
Cateline’s son Jocard was at Henry’s shoulder, fascinated by and wary of the great beast that snorted and rolled its eyes in their direction.
‘He will try to kill you,’ said Henry. ‘Even my father has suffered injuries from his bite and kick. The men think the devil spawned him but he lets me handle him.’
‘Perhaps you are spawned by the devil as well then,’ Jocard blurted out, and then, seeing Henry’s flash of anger, quickly stuttered a retraction. ‘Forgive me. I meant no offence. I just meant that… well, if he lets you attend to him… I’m sorry. The words were all wrong.’
Henry stroked the horse’s neck. ‘Don’t ever say anything like that again, Jocard.’
The boy bowed his head, acknowledging the censure. Henry’s rebuke was spoken so coldly that the stern warning frightened him. Henry Blackstone had saved his life and such courage was something he knew he did not possess. However, Henry seemed to let the insult go and concentrated on treating the horse.
‘There are things you should learn about wounds, Jocard. There are not always barber-surgeons or physicians around to help us and a man must look after his horse.’
‘I don’t intend getting into a fight, Henry, and I don’t have a horse of my own.’
Henry took a deep breath and suppressed the urge to berate the boy. Henry knew he would soon be in a place of learning where he would not be the brightest pupil and humiliation would invariably be heaped upon him. Jocard’s dullness was a good testing ground to exercise restraint.
‘When you have been schooled at Avignon you will return to your domain,’ he said patiently. ‘They will expect you to govern your people. The day will come when you will be obliged to fight. There are so many things that are asked of us, Jocard, and knowing how to treat a wound is only a small one, but remember even a light wound can become poisoned. My father once saved an apothecary, and she repaid the debt with her life, but not before she passed on her knowledge to him and the men.’
‘I understand,’ said Jocard, looking puzzled.
‘This wound is not deep enough to stitch so we sprinkle this powder into it. It’s ground yarrow. It will clot the bleeding and stop any infection getting in,’ Henry instructed him.
‘Then I must learn about herbs?’
‘Yes, and that is something I can teach you.’
‘And fighting?’
‘That too. Now, take the powder and spread it evenly into his cut, then press your fingers into the wound so the grains soak the blood.’
Jocard’s face creased with disgust but he did as instructed. Anything was worth doing if it brought praise from the older boy. And a part of his heart yearned for a father like Blackstone and an older brother like Henry. Perhaps, he mused, when Sir Thomas Blackstone’s journey was over he would return and marry his mother.
*
Wolfram von Plauen and the surviving Teutonic Knights gathered their weapons and armour, recovered their horses and led them to the forest. They kept away from Blackstone’s men, who were scattered in the trees and who barely cast a glance in their direction as they treated each other’s injuries. The archers had suffered no wounds so they built fires and prepared food for the rest.
Blackstone made his way through the camp to where William Ashford had stayed with his men surrounding Torellini and Cateline and her daughter.
‘Sir Thomas,’ said the King’s sergeant in greeting.
‘William. All was well here?’
‘Other than me trying to keep my men from joining in, yes.’
‘You had a more precious duty. The woman?’ he added, lowering his voice.
‘Aye, she’s no trouble. She was as keen as a flower girl at a tournament to see the fight. I kept pulling her back from the treeline in case she attracted anyone we didn’t know about out there.’
‘I had planned to go our separate ways tomorrow but you’re going to need a bigger escort for your charge. There’s a man at Sarlat who will give you additional escort.’
‘A Frenchman?’
‘Yes.’
‘Not so sure that gives us much safety, Sir Thomas.’
‘He will be paid enough, don’t worry, and his men will give you and Father Torellini additional protection to Avignon. ‘
‘As you wish then, my lord.’
‘Stay alert after dark. Scavengers will come in the night for the dead. Wolves and boar. They should stay clear of us here, especially if we keep fires burning, but if they get the taste for flesh and pick up our scent, then we must be on our guard.’
Ashford nodded. ‘Aye. I’ve been in a forest camp when boars came through. They tried to snatch a man, savaged his damned arm. We’ll be vigilant.’
‘Build a hammock off the ground for Lady Cateline’s child. Boars would easily take her.’
Blackstone went deeper into the trees. They had made Father Torellini comfortable. Blankets and cut ferns created a passable bed and his saddle a place to rest his head. A fire of slow-burning ash and oak gave off warmth in the damp forest air. One of Ashford’s men was close by preparing food for the priest. Blackstone knelt and recounted what he had told the sergeant about using an additional French escort.
Torellini nodded. ‘Yes, that seems wise. I will ensure his men will be amply rewarded when we reach Avignon. The incentive will keep their eyes and swords sharp for any other routiers in our path.’ Torellini rested a hand on Blackstone’s shoulder. ‘Thomas, you and your men fought hard. It was a fight you could have avoided.’
Blackstone shook his head. ‘They were burning a man to death. No one deserves to die like that and those who commit such an atrocity have no right to live.’
Torellini looked affectionately at Blackstone. ‘You’re hurting. Your wound is bleeding.’
‘It’s not serious. One of the men will attend to it. I have a Teutonic Knight who wishes to kill me.’
Torellini’s eyebrows raised. ‘One of those men?’ he said, looking to where the Germans camped.
‘Yes. I don’t know why.’ Blackstone shrugged. ‘But if a man is intent on doing something the reason why doesn’t matter.’
‘They are the same men who approached me at Chartres. Let me speak to him on your behalf. I’m certain there is a misunderstanding.’
Blackstone got to his feet. ‘Thank you, Father, but the day is almost done, and this matter needs to be settled. Besides, he doesn’t seem to be a man who would listen.’ He put a hand to the blood-soaked shirt, testing the wound’s severity. ‘And as much as I miss my wife and daughter I will not join them tonight except in my dreams. The German can embrace his own loved ones in heaven.’
CHAPTER FORTY
The Teutonic Knights stood in the clearing beyond the trees. They had dressed in mail and surcoat. Wolfram von Plauen stood at the head of his men, none of whom seemed the worse for wear after their ordeal, other than the visible signs of bruising and cuts from the attack and their beating at the hands of the routiers. Killbere and Renfred accompanied Blackstone as he strode across to meet them. Blackstone’s men edged forward from the forest to watch the contest. Blackstone’s wound had been treated and bound but the cut aggravated him.
‘There is no reason for this, Thomas,’ said Killbere in hushed tones. ‘We saved their lives so they are in our debt. What we do with them is up to us. Let’s kill them and get back to our supper.’
‘No, Gilbert, this needs to be done.’ He called out to the group of men. ‘I wish to know what harm I have caused you and why your repay your lives being saved by challenging me.’
Von Plauen waited, legs astride, hands resting on his sword hilt, its blade point in the ground. Blackstone watched him, sizing up the man’s confidence. Von Plauen said something in German to one of the others.
‘Renfred?’ said Blackstone.
‘He has told another knight called Gunther to speak on his behalf, and in English so we don’t misunderstand him,’ said Renfred. Then added, ‘Arrogant shit.’
The knight stepped forward, a streak of blood encrusted in his hair and beard from the blow he had suffered in the fight. ‘I am Gunther von Schwerin. We were told that you and the routier Gruffydd ap Madoc fought together. There was great slaughter against one of our princes on the eastern border. Atrocities were committed. We seek retribution and justice in their name. You will admit your guilt, tell us where to find the Welshman and face my comrade Wolfram von Plauen in mortal combat. God will bless the righteous in this matter.’
‘They like their speeches,’ said Killbere. ‘Let me handle this, Thomas.’ Before Blackstone could object Killbere took a couple of paces forward. ‘Who told you these lies?’ he demanded.
‘The dead and the mutilated do not lie,’ Gunther answered. ‘The evidence is known. The French court acknowledges the wrongdoing and use of routiers by Henry, Count of Vaudémont, the King’s Royal Lieutenant in Champagne.’
Killbere cleared his throat and spat. ‘Ah, so the French in Paris told you this, did they? Whatever language you care to speak, they are liars.’
Gunther listened with a puzzled look on his face. ‘I speak four languages. The court in Paris speaks the langue d’oïl. I understood perfectly.’
Killbere half turned to Blackstone. ‘God’s tears, these are idiot bastards. They take my words to the letter.’ He faced them and tried again. ‘They seek only to destroy Sir Thomas Blackstone by any means. They are our sworn enemy. They squirm like rats in a barrel, these Frenchman. The King or the Dauphin. It makes no difference. They are worthless wretches and liars.’
‘Are we to believe the word of a man who stands next to a murderer against that of the French royal court?’ said Gunther.
‘You have the word of an English knight, you damned ungrateful arse-clenching cross-bearing monk,’ Killbere fumed.
Blackstone stepped forward. ‘Thank you, Gilbert. You have expressed your feelings in your usual forthright manner,’ he said with a hint of weary sarcasm. ‘I don’t think they have any intention of believing us and they’re looking for a fight.’
‘Damned pity they didn’t all end up on the roasting spit if you ask me,’ said Gilbert as Blackstone beckoned Renfred to his side.
‘Renfred, let there be no misunderstanding. Tell them this in their own language. We did not fight on the eastern border. Gruffydd ap Madoc sought us out and betrayed us. We hunted him but he eluded us. Gruffydd ap Madoc then raised an army of routiers and saved us at Brignais. If I knew where he was I would not tell you. I owe him my life and that of my son and those men who served me.’
Blackstone nodded for Renfred to translate into German. The Teutonic Knights at first appeared surprised that one of Blackstone’s men spoke their language. When Renfred had conveyed Blackstone’s message Gunther turned to von Plauen. ‘I believe them. Thomas Blackstone is not the man responsible. We have no quarrel with him. We owe him and his men our lives. We should not dishonour ourselves.’
Von Plauen glared at his comrade. ‘They fought together. You heard him!’ he said, berating his companion. ‘You would dishonour me?’ Before Gunther could disagree von Plauen brought the sword to his lips, kissed the blade and raised it in a two-handed grip at the high guard. ‘Defend yourself!’ he called and strode forward. Blackstone did not hesitate. He rushed the German. The intensity of his attack took von Plauen by surprise. He had expected Blackstone to stand his ground and trade blows. He recovered, altered his balance, blocked the hamstringing strike aimed at his leg and half twisted, altering the grip on his sword, and struck with such force that Blackstone felt the shudder through his hands and arms. Blackstone twisted his own blade, turned on his heel and swung with a cross strike that if not defended would cut into the man’s side and at least break ribs with its force. Von Plauen braced, traversed on his right foot, sword high behind his right shoulder, a solid turn that attacked Blackstone’s unguarded side – which was quickly defended. The sword strokes were so rapid, blade against blade, that the steel chimed like a church bell calling the faithful to prayer. Blackstone and von Plauen were already at the God of War’s altar.
The German’s footwork was faultless; pressing backwards with his left foot and pivoting to the right, he altered his line of attack. Every practised step the German made was to attack a right-handed opponent. Blackstone saw it coming, parried and quickly ch
anged his own position. His body twisted; his wound burned, making him drop his hip slightly, putting him at an immediate disadvantage. Von Plauen threw his weight forward; the blades clashed. Blackstone faltered, regained his balance and used his strength to force the man back. The German’s determined strikes had Blackstone on the defensive. And that was exactly what Blackstone wanted. He was testing his opponent. Seeing how he fought. Waiting for any attack that was not so rigid in its execution. None came. The man’s expertise was second to none. But he was no street fighter, and he had already revealed the five main mastercuts. A lesser opponent who did not have Blackstone’s battle experience would already be dead.
Blackstone attacked, his eyes never leaving the knight’s body movement, watching his eyes, seeing where a feint might come. Von Plauen was too obvious. Too rigid in his killing technique. Blackstone knew that the German was waiting to deceive him with a feint. Blackstone turned on his heel, pressed forward with the flat of his foot, rose up on the ball of his right foot and hammered down a blow that broke the German’s stance. He staggered back, yielding for a moment, preparing to feint. Blackstone pressed ahead a stride, only one stride, one long pace, wanting the man to think he was off balance, that the length of his sword blade was all that he had to worry about. Von Plauen snarled in victory, believing Blackstone had stepped into his trap. He cross-cut. Now would come the parry and that gave von Plauen the exact moment in the fight he wanted. The tip of Blackstone’s blade would be flicked away and the point of his own blade thrust into Blackstone’s chest or throat.
Blackstone felt the man’s grip yield, barely noticeable, but enough for a swordsman to feel the give, to make him think he suddenly had the advantage, just as Killbere had warned. Wolf Sword broke von Plauen’s block, its blade sliding down and away, steel against steel, a movement that would force Blackstone onto his toes, making him fall forward unbalanced. The German bared his teeth: the fight was won. He used the feint and his opponent’s weakness to deliver the killing blow. But Blackstone was no longer the right-handed adversary he had been throughout the fight. He had twisted his hands, right over left, striking von Plauen’s sword with Wolf Sword’s guard, moving forward with a lot of power behind it, throwing his attack onto his wounded side, letting the pain befriend his strength. Von Plauen’s blade was forced down. Blackstone stepped in, smothered any recovery with his body and smashed Wolf Sword’s pommel beneath the man’s chin. Dazed and shocked, von Plauen staggered, spitting blood, choking, desperate for breath, trying to raise his sword arm, but Blackstone grabbed his belt and threw him to the ground.
