by David Gilman
Killbere saw it was useless to try and hold their position any longer. The sheer weight of the enemy was pushing aside the dead to reach the scar-faced knight and those at his back. ‘Back, Thomas! Back now!’ The veteran knight sidestepped a blow, took it on his shield, rammed his sword’s hilt beneath the man’s chin. His jaw cracked, and he fell back. Killbere leaned forward and pierced his chest with his sword point. He stepped to Blackstone and punched his arm to alert him. Blackstone swung around, sword arcing, ready to decapitate an unseen attacker. Killbere deflected the blow but the force of it nearly broke his stance. Blackstone’s blood-splattered face glared at him before recognizing his friend. Nothing more was said. Backing away, they retreated behind the shield wall, which stood firm. A surge of horsemen burst over the dead. They could not be stopped. They would crush the shields. Blackstone and his men stood their ground, lungs heaving, sword arms weary but held ready. Blackstone was suddenly aware of the rush of men behind him. Will Longdon’s archers were at their side. Bows creaked and arrows loosed. Blackstone knew they had few arrows left, but they killed and killed again and the horses screamed. Blackstone saw a wounded man rise from amid the fallen bodies. He got to his knees, sword still clutched in a bloodied fist. A rush of fear gripped Blackstone. It was John Jacob. He must have been bludgeoned to the ground earlier and, recovering consciousness, was now rising from the surrounding dead. He would not survive.
Blackstone pushed through the shields. It was the insane act of a suicidal man but it had the impetus to loose a storm of violence from Blackstone’s men. Meuric Kynith tossed aside his bow. His arrow bag was empty. Clutching his buckler and mercy knife he swore in Welsh and went after the Englishman who had once beaten him. His Welsh archers stormed after him. Halfpenny’s and Longdon’s men were barely a pace behind. Someone grabbed Blackstone’s banner and bore it aloft. Blackstone was too far ahead of his men. Someone threw a spear from the enemy ranks. It struck Blackstone’s shield; he deflected it but as his shield moved away from his body, a crossbow bolt pierced the top of his shoulder. His shield arm dropped. He protected John Jacob as three men attacked, seizing their chance to kill the wounded knight. Blackstone’s strength saved him but then another unseen bowman loosed a second quarrel, piercing Blackstone’s leg. He tumbled to one side and fell into the thrashing iron-shod hooves of a gutted horse. A hoof struck his helm and then his unwounded leg. It snapped with the crack of a yew bow broken in two.
His final glimpse of blue sky saw men clambering over him and his banner caught in the sun’s rays. The clamour of battle around him faded into silence as he fell into darkness.
CHAPTER SIXTY-TWO
Soon after midday the fighting ceased. Eerie silence settled across the battlefield and the scattered dead. Here and there the dying groaned softly until those who went among them plunged a knife into them and took what they had of value. Pennons lay among the fallen, the honour and glory they had once proclaimed trampled into the blood-soaked grass. Some were still clutched in a dead man’s grip and waved gently in the stiffening breeze in macabre farewell.
Gaston Phoebus rode slowly through the carnage. Weariness etched his face beneath his sweat-matted golden hair. The crows and buzzards were already settling, tearing men’s flesh and pecking the moist eyes of the dead. Bodies lay in tight knots where they had died, embraced in that final desperate struggle to survive. The Count de Foix eased his horse through the field of death to where the greatest number of dead horses and their riders lay. He had fought many campaigns during his young life but he had never witnessed dead horses sprawled like this, great beasts on top of each other as their riders had bravely sought to jump across those already brought down by lance and arrow. Hundreds of arrows, sown like a sapling forest, smothered the battlefield deep within d’Armagnac’s ranks. He knew without a doubt that Blackstone’s archers had won the day for him.
Ignoring the stench of gore and excrement that assailed his nostrils, he urged his mount over a horse’s entrails and crushed men who bore witness to the ferocity that Blackstone’s outnumbered men had inflicted on their enemy. Crows fluttered out of his path and then boldly settled again to feast. He gazed down at the ragged survivors. Blood-splattered archers gripped belts and jewels taken from the dead French knights. He made no objection. Blackstone’s men had paid a high price. They deserved their reward. He doubted there was one man among them who did not bear a wound.
He reined in his horse. Meulon sat exhausted with those of his men who had survived. He did not raise himself at the Count’s arrival. ‘Where is Sir Thomas?’ Phoebus asked.
Meulon pointed wearily behind him. Blackstone’s men parted their ranks, revealing Killbere cradling Blackstone’s broken body.
The Count gazed down at him. There was no sign of life, nor would he expect there to be given the wounds he saw on Blackstone’s body. Yet he hoped. ‘Does he still live?’
Killbere spat blood. ‘Not for long.’
*
The Count’s personal physician and surgeon who accompanied him on that December day were summoned as soon as he knew Blackstone was still alive. The badly wounded knight was carried gently to a pavilion next to de Foix’s own where he waited for confirmation that his skilled surgeons had reset Blackstone’s leg. The Englishman did not regain consciousness, which all agreed was a blessing, given the intense pain that would have to be endured. Henbane and brandy were mixed and dribbled past Blackstone’s lips in a vain attempt to dull his body’s agony when they pushed one of the crossbow bolts through his leg muscle and pulled it free. The second was more dangerous and the incision near his shoulder was deep. When the forceps failed to take a firm grip on the quarrel, there was doubt that they could remove it. The shaft broke and was extracted and then the bolt’s point was finally dug out.
They could do nothing for Blackstone’s head wound other than to bathe and stitch the jagged gash, but when the surgeons expressed concern at Blackstone’s shallow breathing, doubting that he would survive, Killbere pushed them aside. ‘Stitch him, bathe him and wrap him warm. He’s not dead yet, for Christ’s sake.’
They left most of the corpses on the field of battle, a winter feast for scavengers. They returned only those of noble rank to their families for burial in their feudal domains. It was a resounding victory for the Count de Foix. D’Armagnac and many of his leading noblemen surrendered and their ransoms ensured that Gaston Phoebus would become one of the richest princes in the west. Never again would he fear being challenged now that his war treasury overflowed. The victorious Count imprisoned d’Armagnac and the other prominent leaders in the castle at Orthez while he returned to the luxury and comfort of his palace.
They carried the unconscious Blackstone onto a wagon to be cared for at the Prince’s castle at Foix. Gaston Phoebus promised that the man whose strategy had given him victory would be attended to day and night until he recovered. And Killbere and the men would winter in comfort and warmth. It was a welcome offer and gratefully accepted. Killbere sent the men from Dome back home once the Count had rewarded them. News of the victory would soon reach Paris and Killbere sent word to Gisbert de Dome, warning him to stay true to his pledge of holding Dome and Sarlat in the name of the English King. He was still obliged to pledge his fealty to the Prince of Wales when he arrived in Aquitaine. Killbere knew that once it was known Blackstone lay critically wounded then ambitious men might renege on their agreements, free from their fear of Blackstone’s retribution.
And then Killbere and the men waited for Blackstone to survive.
*
On the third day Blackstone regained consciousness. They had kept his dry lips moist with a wet rag squeezed diligently by Killbere. He ignored the pail of water brought by servants and soaked the cloth in Gascon wine. Blackstone’s eyes opened slowly and stared at the grizzled face of the man he had known since he had first gone to war. They had bandaged his arm, and he bore the raw stitches of a head wound. Blackstone said something but it was barely a whisper. Killbere
put his ear close to Blackstone’s mouth.
‘John Jacob?’
Killbere nodded. ‘Alive.’
‘The others?’
‘Wounded. Every man. We lost archers. A lot of the Welshmen. They ran out too far looking for booty and were caught in the open, but Kynith lives. Will Longdon keeps him as ventenar at Halfpenny’s side once we get more bowmen. They recalled Beyard to his lord Jean de Grailly to report on the battle. He vows he will return to us as soon as he is able.’
‘My horse?’
‘The damned beast is stabled – alone as always. It kicks and bites and will never die until the devil comes to reclaim his own.’
Blackstone sighed, his cracked lips creased into a smile. ‘Did we win?’ he rasped.
Killbere nodded. ‘You made the young Count one of the wealthiest men in France. We’re his guests and you have physicians nursing you as if you were a damned prince yourself.’
Blackstone raised his bandaged head, the effort nearly defeating him. He attempted to lift his arm but pain shot through him. Killbere put his hand behind Blackstone’s neck and supported it back down onto the pillow. ‘Steady, Thomas.’ He laid a gentle finger next to Blackstone’s wounds. ‘You took a bolt in this leg and your arm, and a horse kicked your other leg and head. Your leg’s broken, ribs as well, but I doubt the blow to your head knocked any sense into you.’
Blackstone sighed. ‘I can’t lie here.’
‘You have no choice. And I need to get the men rested and healed. We are all hurt, Thomas, every last one of us.’
Blackstone turned his head on the pillow. ‘They must be rewarded, Gilbert. They fought like lions.’
Killbere dabbed Blackstone’s lips. ‘The Count treats us well. We are to stay until you are recovered. We’ll pass the winter here.’
‘Too long,’ Blackstone whispered.
‘No, my friend, barely long enough for you to heal and regain your strength.’
Blackstone’s eyes closed as he drifted into sleep.
‘Barely long enough for any of us,’ Killbere said to himself.
CHAPTER SIXTY-THREE
Over the months, Gaston Phoebus had watched Blackstone being helped from his bed and using a crutch to force himself around the castle’s inner ward. He did it every day no matter how harsh the weather until the day came when he abandoned the support and tested his leg. He fell, got up, fell again until step by painful step he regained the ability to walk unaided. It became a daily ritual that the Count observed without fail. He was watching a man who should have succumbed to his wounds rise like Lazarus. Blackstone’s captains kept their distance, fearful of his temper should they try to assist him. By the month of March his leg was sufficiently healed for him to mount his horse; by May he was practising his sword skills. The passing months saw the Englishman regain his strength and as June brought warmth back to the sun Blackstone, still limping from his weakened leg, went beyond the walls and ventured into the foothills, demanding ever more of his body.
After the battle his men’s wounds had been debilitating but less severe, and the Count’s gratitude secured them treatment from his physician and the healing skills of monks from a nearby monastery. Sir Gilbert Killbere assumed command while Blackstone fought his own determined battle. The men were employed selecting and training the army that Gaston Phoebus recruited with his new-found wealth. Many were poor quality and rejected by Blackstone’s captains. But by summer when Blackstone threw off the constant pain of his injuries, the army was as well trained as the Count could hope for. The ransoms from the capture of the Count d’Armagnac, the Lords of Albret and other noblemen meant that the Count de Foix could shower largesse on visitors. His feasts became renowned and Blackstone and Killbere, who kept their distance from the sumptuous gatherings, would hear him regale his guests with tales of the Prussian crusade and of how he rescued the Dauphin’s family at Meaux until finally his stories cumulated in the Battle of Launac. Only occasionally was Blackstone’s name mentioned in any of his exploits. The Count de Foix’s generosity and charm did not extend to deflecting from his own glory.
‘He’s a nobleman,’ said Killbere. ‘And now he’s a damned rich one, thanks to you.’
‘We’ve all benefited, Gilbert. These past months gave us time for the men to recover and bring them back to strength. You worked them hard. It shows.’
‘There was enough booty and putting coins in a man’s purse heals many wounds.’
They walked the ramparts gazing across the grandeur of the Pyrenees behind them and the deep, broad valley beyond. ‘Having one prince to deal with was difficult enough but our own will be annoyed because you weren’t there to meet him at Bordeaux. Bowing as he stepped ashore. He likes ceremony, does Edward.’
Blackstone admired the view. The forests clinging to the foothills had given him the solitude he sought to hide the weakness and pain of his body. He had not wished anyone to see his struggle. ‘We must move the men to Bergerac, Gilbert.’
‘We’re not going to the Prince?’
‘No. Not yet.’ He smiled. ‘Let him come to us.’
Killbere scowled. ‘Thomas, he seeks honour and goodwill. There is no point in antagonizing him and earning his displeasure.’
‘We brought him the Count’s loyalty. He should be thankful for what the men did, Gilbert. They bled for him. Again. And now he arrives with fanfare and a retinue grand enough for a coronation. Sixty knights, three hundred and more archers and two hundred and fifty men-at-arms. He’s not the King, Gilbert, he’s a prince of the realm who has been rewarded half of France because of what we did. Imagine what we could have done with those men. Will and Jack lost half their archers in the fight at Launac. Meulon, Renfred, all the captains – they all suffered losses. We were too few. The Count is rich and the Prince has Aquitaine. And now he sends word for us to ride to him and present ourselves.’
‘Then he means to reward us,’ said Killbere.
‘He means to bask in our glory. Not this time, Gilbert. I won’t ride ahead of an entourage like a damned court jester.’
‘God’s tears. Listen to you. You’re defying him again. We have no excuse.’
Blackstone grinned. ‘I am serving him as best as I know how.’
‘By turning your back on him. We will undo all the good we have done,’ said Killbere, curling a fist in frustration.
‘Listen to me. He cannot object if we ride to Bergerac and ensure his safe entry into the city. Gisbert de Dome takes the Bishop of Sarlat to pledge fealty there, as do Breton lords waiting to bend the knee. There’s a truce between them but who’s to say there isn’t one among those miserable northern lords who doesn’t hold a grudge against us, the Prince, the King? Eh? It will calm his irritation when he learns that we have showed our consideration for his safety by getting to Bergerac before him.’ He put an arm on Killbere’s shoulders. ‘Besides, we know the city of old and where the best beds are for the men. Taverns and inns will be overrun when his procession chokes the streets. I say we do our duty and look after ourselves.’
Killbere shook his head. ‘Thomas, your wounds still trouble you. Let’s wait another week. Let him go to Bergerac without us if you insist. We shall send word that we are still healing.’
Blackstone looked at his friend. They had survived together and his heart warmed from the closeness he shared with this man and the others he commanded. ‘Gilbert, you worry too much. The King’s mother made me swear to look after the Prince. The King made me his Master of War. I have the authority to do just that.’
Killbere sighed in surrender. ‘That kick to the head has added to your stubbornness. Very well, we shall defy him again but this time I choose where to go if we are exiled.’
CHAPTER SIXTY-FOUR
Royal authority in France had collapsed. Failure hung over the French King and his ministers as heavily as the persistent black rain-bearing clouds smothering Notre-Dame, drawn in from the sea by the heat in the south. Jean le Bon had expected the Count d’Armagnac an
d the mighty lords he had gathered with him to defeat the Count de Foix. Arnoul d’Audrehem and Jean d’Armagnac had used a hundred thousand florins from taxes raised in the Languedoc destined for the King’s ransom to secure payment for the routiers to fight for him at Launac. Now both the battle and the initiative were lost. The Count de Foix had become rich and powerful and would now swear fealty to the Prince of Wales and Aquitaine. King John had been weakened again. The Breton civil war teetered, a tenuous truce agreement in danger of collapse. Negotiating power now rested more in the hands of the English Prince than his own. Routiers had seized strategic points on the Seine that could threaten trade into Paris. Aquitaine would experience peace but warring factions would plague the rest of the kingdom.
Such affairs of state troubled the counsellor Simon Bucy during his journey back from Vincennes to the Île de la Cité where he had been summoned by the Dauphin. The warm damp weather worsened the Dauphin’s constant sniffle and cough. Charles was a man plagued with ill health, less likely to ever lead an army in the field than any of his brothers still held captive in London, yet Bucy had realized months before the Dauphin’s lack of physical prowess did not diminish his intellect or his cunning. The future of France and his own status within the court lay with the Dauphin.
