Cross of Fire

by David Gilman

  At the upper level slivers of light illuminated the dusty wooden floor. A narrow slit in each of three rectangular bays in the dome faced different directions so that a burning lantern could be seen across the city and beyond the walls to the forested hills. An unlit lantern was placed on each sill. Henry tilted one of them back and forth and heard the oil sloshing inside. His flint would spark the wick and Blackstone’s men would bring death into the city. There was nothing more to do except wait for darkness and the terror that would soon follow. He curled up below one of the window slits and fell soundly asleep.

  *

  Killbere made his way to the edge of the forest where Meulon and the men waited.

  ‘We fight with you,’ said Wolfram von Plauen.

  ‘No, you stay and guard the woman,’ Killbere told him. ‘That’s your sworn duty.’

  He could see von Plauen wanted an argument, but the German had been put in his place and he could not go back on his word to Blackstone. The aggrieved knight turned away. His companions watched the exchange.

  ‘We are not obliged by any oath,’ said Gunther von Schwerin.

  ‘And your damned white surcoats will flap like bedsheets drying in the wind. When the clouds shift, they’ll see you coming in the moonlight before we get halfway. No, you stay.’

  ‘If there is trouble in the city, then it might be because of routiers, and if that is the case then the Welshman we seek might be there,’ the German insisted.

  ‘I’m not interested in your revenge.’ Killbere turned his back and walked towards Meulon, who stood at the edge of the forest with Renfred and Will Longdon. Clouds obscuring the moon teased apart like stretched silk on a loom, allowing soft light to filter across the city. Braziers burned on the walls at each of the city’s four portals, north, south, east and west. The braziers looked to be five hundred paces distance from one to the other and between the portals the walls fell into darkness.

  Meulon looked up at the clouds. ‘The wind is in our face. It will help.’

  Killbere nodded. The flickering light that emanated from the domed tower was the signal they had been waiting for. ‘Will, your lads ready?’

  ‘Aye,’ said the centenar.

  ‘We take the path down through the orchards as soon as the clouds cover the moon. One man in front of the other so no one stumbles. Renfred, your boys carry the ladder.’

  Killbere looked left and right. The moon glow showed him the line of men on the forest’s edge waiting for his order. Each one wore a small patch of white linen stitched onto the back of their jupon’s collar so that the man behind could follow closely. There was no need for Killbere to give a command when the moon went dark. He stepped forward as Blackstone’s men, disciplined in night attack and the use of scaling ladders, peeled off behind him until they became one long line moving silently through the night. The north wind brushed their faces, bringing smells of the city and the silence of a sleeping population. The going was easy through the lanes of trees whose leaves had mostly fallen, cushioning the sound of spurs and creaking leather boots. The wind eased away any rustle of mail or clank of weapons but carried the occasional voice of men at their posts, already weary of standing watch. When the moon was exposed the men crouched, waited for the clouds, and then stood silently and carried on towards the dark shape of the wall. As they reached the lowest point of the city’s defences Killbere and Meulon stepped aside, allowing Renfred’s men to lean the scaling ladder against the stonework.

  Killbere took the lead and scrambled up the ladder to the top of the wall, which was only twenty feet high at that point. He peered carefully along the walkway to see that a sentry lay sleeping with his back against the parapet. A cowled figure in the graveyard below raised a hand and pulled back the hood so that they could see his face and hand in the half-light. Killbere crouched and made his way down to Henry as behind him the rest of the men came over the wall.

  ‘Your father and John Jacob, what’s happened to them?’ said Killbere.

  ‘They are in the crypt. There was a fight, and I don’t know if either of them are injured. They killed half a dozen men.’

  Will Longdon and Jack Halfpenny, with their archers, circled the walled graveyard and as the centenar passed by he placed a reassuring hand on Henry’s shoulder. This was no time for conversation: that could come later when the killing was finished.

  As the men took up defensive positions Henry pointed to the nearest sentry post. ‘I went around the walls and saw where they have men posted. There are men-at-arms with the militia at each portal. There are four gates into the city.’

  ‘Aye, I saw their braziers burning.’

  ‘You can approach along the walls, and if you kill the men-at-arms at their posts, I don’t think the city’s militia would put up much of a fight, but I don’t know if there are more armed men somewhere else. There is a French knight who commands the men here.’

  ‘Well done, lad. Now you must take us through the streets so that Will and Jack can get their archers in position. They have sentries on the streets at the gates?’

  Henry nodded.

  Killbere thought for a moment and beckoned Meulon to him. The big Norman bent his head so he could hear Killbere’s quietly spoken command. ‘Henry will lead you. At first light kill the men at the gates. Will and Jack will bring down the men on the walls. I’ll wait here with Renfred and release Thomas and John Jacob.’ He looked towards the church. ‘He’s in the crypt.’

  Meulon nodded his understanding and looked back towards the gathered men. ‘How many men to stay with you?’

  ‘Three to watch our back. Henry, you guide Meulon and the men through the streets to the gates, then return here and wait at the lantern of the dead, understood?’

  Henry nodded. ‘Follow me,’ he told Meulon, who signalled his men and the archers.

  CHAPTER FORTY-FIVE

  Henry ran through the narrow streets that became so dark from the overhanging buildings that at one point he whispered urgently for Meulon to stop. Pressing the back of his hand against the stone wall that ran along the street he heard the men’s heavy breathing behind him. Someone stumbled on the cobbles and their whispered curses sounded as loud as a thunderclap. Uncertainty took hold, and he wondered if he had taken a wrong turn. What he had seen in daylight appeared to be different at night. Night shadows contorted the shape of buildings and the curve of the narrow lanes. Meulon whispered an urgent demand. Was he lost?

  Henry settled the panic that rose from his chest and pictured the route he had followed when the French knight posted his men. If he was on the right track, then when he turned the next corner and looked up there would be a wind vane showing the bent figure of a blacksmith wielding a hammer against an anvil. Edging forwards, he felt the rough stone scrape the skin on the back of his hand. He ignored it, wanting to keep his palm free of abrasions should he need to grip a knife. He heard the creaking metal of the wind vane before he saw it. The north wind caught the iron blacksmith, nudging him this way and that. Henry’s relief spurred him on.

  He turned and whispered to Meulon: ‘Not far now.’

  Memory and instinct took him left and right, skirting merchants’ houses and shuttered artisan workshops. A pinched alley led the way to the first portal. Henry pressed an arm back to slow Meulon and then pointed up towards the guard post. Two men stood leaning against the wall, shoulders hunched against the cold damp air, their backs to the city as they gazed blearily across the dark landscape from where any attack was likely to come. Two other men with them paced back and forth. De Miremont’s soldiers, who knew the value of staying alert.

  Henry pointed and murmured: ‘Those two – men-at-arms. The others – citizen militia.’ Below the sentry point another two men slept, huddled against the hinges of the sturdy wooden gates. ‘Garrison troops,’ said Henry. He felt Meulon nod. The men’s eyes were accustomed to the darkness now, and they had no trouble identifying their enemy.

  Meulon signalled Will Longdon to him. ‘Leave Jac
k and two archers. Kill those two first,’ he whispered, pointing out the professional soldiers on the wall. ‘I’ll leave four men to kill those at the gate and any others if the alarm is raised. Call on the others to surrender. They are not fighters and Sir Thomas would not have us kill needlessly. We need goodwill if he is to secure the city.’

  Will Longdon beckoned Jack Halfpenny and pointed at two other archers, meaning they were to come forward. ‘Much good it will do us once your knife finds throats to cut,’ said Longdon, and stepped away to give his orders.

  ‘The first hour of daybreak will be on us soon, Master Henry,’ said Meulon. ‘Three more gates. We must move on. Find your way and find it quickly.’

  *

  Killbere and the captains had agreed to strike before first light when the bell rang for early morning prayer. The chill of the hour meant men would be stiff and weary from their night watch, and they would be thinking of their warm hearth and a hot bowl of food. It was a cruel time to die but a good time to kill. Killbere edged around the side of the cemetery. The street in front of the church was as deserted as everywhere else. If a night watch patrol turned a corner there was nowhere for Killbere and the others to hide. Renfred lifted the iron latch as quietly as he could but still the metal scraped. He stopped. The men held their breath, listened, but, hearing no movement or challenge, Killbere nodded for him to continue. He and Renfred pressed their shoulder to the heavy door and eased it open. The far end of the church glowed from a brazier either side of the steps leading to the crypt; around them, about a dozen men lay curled in sleep on the stone floor, wrapped in cloaks for their meagre warmth. Killbere led his small party forward, thankful for the cone of light; his companions moved instinctively into position, fanning out so that when blades plunged into unsuspecting bodies, their strike would be as one. They were ten paces from the sleeping men when a cough from the darkness froze them in their tracks. A footfall scuffed the floor as someone approached from the gloom of the side aisle. Killbere and the others silently retreated into the safety of a side chapel’s darkness. They watched as a man stepped into the light. From his dress and the sword in his belt he appeared to be one of the provost’s men guarding the crypt. He fussed with the ties on his breeches, having obviously been outside to relieve himself. When he reached the sleeping men, he kicked two of them, cursing them for not being awake. They made little protest, got to their feet, yawned, stretched and stood guard. One drank from a wineskin, then passed it to his companion.

  Killbere turned, reached for Renfred and pulled him closer, whispering next to his ear. He listened, nodded and then did the same with the first of Meulon’s men. The moment every man was briefed Meulon’s three men slipped away silently along the side aisle, readying themselves to attack from behind once Killbere and Renfred broke cover. The cold air had seized Killbere’s joints and he cursed silently that too many years lying in wet fields on campaign were taking their toll. Ignoring their stiffness, he curled his fist tightly around his sword and slipped its blood knot over his wrist. Renfred was at his shoulder a few paces away. They would need killing room between them. They waited, steadied their breathing, ignoring the anticipation hammering in their chests. Peering into the warm glow, they chose which men would die first. The three men who had skulked through the darkness to attack from the sleeping men’s rear were supposed to provide a distraction. Provoke a turn of the head from the sentries that would allow Killbere and Renfred to stride forward.

  Somewhere in the background a blade scraped across stone. As the sound echoed the three sentries’ response was immediate. They turned, hands reaching for their swords; uncertain seconds that would cost them their lives. Too late, they wheeled back around. Killbere killed the man who had berated the others. Renfred’s sword clashed against the other man’s blade with a clang of metal as loud as a church bell. The sleeping men rolled out of their cloaks, shook themselves free of sleep and, as the last of the sentries fell in agonizing death throes, launched themselves at Killbere and Renfred. Killbere rooted himself to where he stood, parried, thrust, pivoted and struck with the expertise of a veteran used to fighting so close to his enemy he could smell the rank odour of their bodies and see their snarling lips curl back in hatred. He relished the close-quarter killing.

  As he and Renfred were forced back a few paces, moments away from being overwhelmed, their determined attackers were felled from behind. Meulon’s three men struck without warning or mercy. Renfred searched the bodies, found a set of keys, tossed them to Killbere and then pressed a torch into the brazier.

  ‘Guard the entrance,’ said Killbere to the three silent killers.

  Killbere followed Renfred below ground and saw Blackstone and John Jacob, faces pressed against the bars. One of John Jacob’s eyes was closed from the beating he’d taken and Blackstone’s face bore bruises and swelling. ‘You kill them all?’ said Blackstone as Killbere fussed with the bunch of keys, trying to find the right one.

  ‘Nine dead, two lying in their gore waiting for the devil to take them,’ said Killbere as another key failed in the lock.

  ‘I hope you weren’t as slow in the killing as you are with that lock,’ said Blackstone.

  Killbere kept his eyes on the keys. ‘Thomas, I swear the thought rises in my mind of leaving you here. How many more times must I rescue you?’

  The lock sprung free. Blackstone grinned. ‘As long as we both shall live.’

  ‘That might not be much longer. This damned city is a warren. A half-dozen men could seal our fate in these narrow streets.’

  ‘Where’s Henry?’

  ‘With Meulon.’

  Blackstone turned to the imprisoned merchants and councilmen. ‘You stay chained until we have killed de Miremont and his men. It’s the safest place for you. I’ll have you free, I swear it.’

  The men muttered their thanks. ‘God bless you, Sir Thomas,’ one of them called.

  ‘You’ll need it,’ said Killbere as Blackstone freed one of the prisoners. ‘Who’s he?’

  ‘The man who knows the streets and where the soldiers will be. Gisbert de Dome.’

  Blackstone led the way up the steps. ‘Where are the men?’ he asked, scooping up a sword from one of the dead guards.

  ‘At the city gates until the bell for prime rings.’

  ‘And then?’

  ‘The killing starts.’

  CHAPTER FORTY-SIX

  Gisbert de Dome shivered as he stepped into the cold night air. The stiff northerly breeze ruffled his linen shirt. He consoled himself that he would soon retrieve his clothing and weapons seized when he had been arrested by de Miremont.

  ‘This way,’ he told Blackstone as they went past the men guarding the entrance.

  Blackstone caught de Dome’s arm. ‘Where are you going?’

  ‘The bastard will be in my house sleeping with a whore in my bed. What better place to kill him?’

  Blackstone hesitated. ‘No, he won’t be there. He’s a fighting man. He’ll expect an assault. He’s no fool. I made no mention of my men but he’ll know I’d have had them with me and that if I didn’t return in good time, then they’d come for me. What he will not expect is that we are already inside the walls. De Miremont will be at the main gate. Take us there.’

  The freed nobleman immediately saw the sense in what Blackstone had said and his desire for revenge was as cold as his chilled skin. He nodded. ‘This way.’ He led them this way and that, as surefooted as any citizen who knew his way blindfolded around his own city, off the main thoroughfares and into the twisting alleyways that would lead to the city walls. By the time he raised his hand to bring them to a halt sweat was trickling down their backs from their fast pace. Blackstone stared at the silhouette of a black storm cloud that was the city wall looming in front. He could see men moving along the wall’s walkway. Straining his eyes, he attempted to pick out the figure of de Miremont. A shadow moved close to them. A startled Gisbert de Dome uttered a cry. Blackstone’s hand quickly smothered his mout
h. He whispered, ‘One of mine.’

  Meulon stepped closer. Blackstone released de Dome. ‘Sir Thomas, we watched your approach. Thought for a minute you were one of them,’ Meulon said quietly, meaning the men on the walls. The throat-cutter’s teeth gleamed in the darkness. ‘I’ve got Will here with some of his lads. Master Henry brought us through the streets.’

  ‘He’s here?’

  ‘Back in the shadows.’

  ‘Keep him there.’

  ‘We’re ready, Sir Thomas. We were going to spare the night watch militia and kill the men-at-arms. Are those your orders?’

  ‘Unless they put up a fight and don’t surrender,’ said Blackstone.

  ‘Aye. We’ll finish them off quickly.’

  ‘How many on the walls and ground?’ said Killbere.

  ‘Twenty over the main gate. Not many down here. A handful. I reckon there must be more in the city. There’s just not enough men here.’

  Blackstone knew that although he could not see Will Longdon and his archers they would be spread along the rear of the buildings in the shadows, ready to loose their arrows and kill those on the walls. Blackstone looked up at the sky. The first glimmer of daylight touched the clouds. The grey light would soon be the last thing many of the men defending the city would see. ‘Will and his men will not have time to shoot again. The moment the first men-at-arms fall others will be alerted. Sir Gilbert and John will come with me onto the walls with a few men.’ He saw Killbere turn and tap half a dozen men. ‘You and the others kill the sentries at the gates and then secure the surrounding area.’

  ‘What about me?’ said Gisbert de Dome.

  ‘Stay here. I need you alive.’ He glanced down the line of men crouched waiting behind him in the alley. Instinct told him it was time.

  Blackstone turned away from Meulon with Killbere and John Jacob at his heels. The steps leading up to the walls were fifteen paces away. A dull clanging of a church bell in the distance denoted it was time for monks to pray and people to leave the warmth of their beds. In the broken silence a whisper of loosed arrows from the unseen bowmen rushed past his head. They struck with deadly accuracy. The first few men fell without a cry, the force of the arrow shafts piercing their chests and strangling any gasp for air. It was their companions who cried out fearfully at the invisible hand that had struck down their comrades, by which time Blackstone was on the walkway with Killbere taking the men left and John Jacob bringing the remaining with him behind Blackstone. The civilian militia threw down their arms and ran. No one at street level could have seen the men-at-arms who had slept with their backs against the parapet. These men did not surrender so easily. They lurched to their feet, swords already drawn. Blackstone killed the first man, who managed to half-raise himself before Blackstone’s sword cut into his neck and shoulder. He yanked him aside, his body thudding onto the street below where Meulon’s men were quickly killing the sentries. Screams and shouts of alarm echoed through the streets far more urgently than the monotonous ringing of the bell. There was enough room on the wall for three men to fight shoulder to shoulder. Men-at-arms lunged at Blackstone and John Jacob who used the narrowness of the rampart to their advantage. As Blackstone swung and struck, forcing the men back, John Jacob kept his sword low, stabbing upward through their broken defence. They stepped over bodies, or pulled the wounded aside to be killed by Blackstone’s men behind them. The clamour of fighting along the wall was evidence of the concerted attack. Killbere, for his part, cursed the men-at-arms who stood their ground and ignored cries for leniency from the wounded. The militia on his section of the wall begged for clemency too as they surrendered and were mostly spared, though in the bloodletting a sword blade often found its mark before its strike could be turned aside.