Cross of Fire

by David Gilman

  Blackstone’s injuries from the battlefield at Launac and the newly inflicted wounds weakened him. He pushed his back against the wall to keep himself upright. There was still half a blade left on his sword. He tightened his grip and turned his head to one side so that the blood trickled away from his one good eye. His blurred vision showed the big man step closer, a look of regret creasing his brow.

  ‘I’m sorry, Thomas. I have no desire to kill you. Better the others did that for me. I have no choice now. I am paid to see your son and the Prince dead. By now your boy is slain by one of my men in Avignon. You stopped me from ending the Prince’s life but my reward will be as great for ending yours. The Lady de Sagard nurses a vendetta against you and the Prince you serve.’ He took another step. He was no fool. He knew Blackstone could still strike at him. ‘If I do not kill you then you will spend your life hunting me down. I’ll finish it quickly,’ he said.

  Death beckoned. Blackstone knew that even if he could wound the Welshman the fourth man waited somewhere in the shadows.

  ‘You’ll die first,’ he vowed. ‘I’ll see your body swept away before mine.’

  Gruffydd ap Madoc hesitated. ‘Thomas, you are the most defiant bastard I have ever known. No different from when you were a boy at Crécy. By Christ, I swear I thought you dead that day.’ He laughed. ‘And now you are moments from death and you threaten me. Look at you, man. Lame, wounded, barely upright. Drop that useless blade and let’s be done with this.’

  Crécy. The terror and noise of that first great battle lurked in Blackstone’s memory, always ready to be summoned. The mutilation and death of his brother, the sprawling fight across fallen bodies trying to reach him and then the final moments of his own life beneath the Bohemian knight’s sword. Death a heartbeat away. A desperate final breath that gave the young Blackstone the will and strength to kill the aggressor.

  Gruffydd ap Madoc half-turned, swinging back his sword arm. Blackstone pushed himself off the wall, threw himself forward, smothered the strike, jabbed upward with the broken shard, felt it strike mail and then the agonizing surge of pain as his own body weight snapped the crossbow bolt. The burly Welshman brushed him aside. Blackstone stumbled, striking his head against the wall. Instinct made him twist. He sat in the water, back once more against the wall, the current tugging at him. He lifted his head. Ap Madoc’s raised sword would not be blocked again.

  ‘Enough, Thomas,’ he grunted.

  Suddenly the Welshman saw something on the other side of the chamber. His mouth gaped; his sword arm faltered. Blackstone heard someone moving. He turned his head. A figure stepped from the darkness. Blackstone shook his head, trying to clear his mind. Once again he was lying on the field at Crécy, the priest giving him the last sacrament. Beyond his shattered body a great cross of fire emblazoned the sky as a windmill burned. He stared hard. Torchlight blazed brightly against a black cross. The flaming symbol came closer. Ap Madoc cursed, turning to face the apparition. Steel clanged. The burning cross swayed before Blackstone’s eyes. A cry echoed. Two, three, perhaps more sword strikes and then a final blow. Gruffydd ap Madoc dropped to his knees and fell face down, dead, into the water.

  Blackstone fought the darkness that reached for him. He extended his hand towards the blurred fiery cross. It came closer but Blackstone fell sideways into the water and felt it tear him away. It was a comfort from the persistent pain. The current rolled him onto his back as the water swept him away into the black tunnel.

  *

  They found Thomas Blackstone’s body later that day, washed up on the river’s muddy banks.

  CHAPTER SEVENTY-FOUR

  Killbere, John Jacob and the captains stood silently in the room. Sun streamed through the window, bringing warmth to the stone walls. Blackstone lay on a bed covered in a linen sheet.

  Killbere’s sigh was a curse. ‘He was always so damned pig-headed. He should have taken some of us with him.’

  ‘He cared more for the safety of the Prince than his own life,’ said John Jacob.

  ‘Better to die on the field of battle than down a damned sewer,’ said Meulon.

  Before anyone else shared their thoughts on Blackstone’s courage a hubbub of excited voices reached them from the corridor beyond the closed door.

  ‘See who’s making such an undignified noise when he’s lying here like this,’ said Killbere.

  Renfred opened the door and saw a flurry of activity as Sir John Chandos led the Earl of Warwick, the Prince and members of his retinue towards the room. John Chandos carried Blackstone’s sword. He reached the door.

  ‘Everyone out,’ he barked.

  Killbere and the others stepped quickly into the corridor and pressed themselves against the wall. Thomas de Beauchamp, Earl of Warwick, made a sweeping gesture and the retinue parted, following Killbere’s example. Heads bowed from both sides of the corridor as the Prince strode forward. He looked neither left nor right. When he reached the door Chandos presented him with Blackstone’s sword. The Prince stepped inside. Chandos closed the door behind him.

  Edward, Prince of Wales and Aquitaine, stood for a moment looking at the man whose path had crossed his own on numerous occasions. They had fought in war and argued in private and he had despaired often at Blackstone’s defiance. Alone in the room without servants he ceased for a moment to be a prince of the realm and pulled a stool forward to sit next to Blackstone.

  A pigeon cooed and fluttered against the window’s stippled glass. The Prince saw the shadow disappear and when he turned back Blackstone’s eyes were watching him. Blackstone tried to rise but the Prince gently pressed a hand against his chest, easing him back onto the pillow. ‘There is no need for that, Thomas. Not today.’

  ‘You’re safe,’ said Blackstone.

  The Prince nodded. ‘Yet again you save our life. Yet again we are in your debt,’ he said.

  ‘There is no such debt, sire.’

  The Prince lifted Blackstone’s belt and scabbard from the chair and slid the hardened steel home. ‘If Wolf Sword had been in your hand instead of an inferior blade, you would have suffered less injury.’

  ‘I’ll heal.’

  ‘We would have it no other way. Our personal physician cares for you. One of your archers had the impertinence to raise his voice and demand an apothecary trained in the use of herbs to also attend you.’

  ‘That would be Will Longdon.’

  ‘We believe that to be his name. He was thrown into the cells. A few days of stale bread and water will serve as sufficient punishment. Don’t worry – we will release him without charge. We are familiar with insubordination from you and those who follow you.’

  ‘All good men. All would die for you.’

  ‘And some did during the attempt on our life. Were it not for you, Thomas, the Lady Joan and I would be dead. You readily gave up your sword when the enemy was at our door.’

  ‘My duty has always been clear. But you would have saved her. You forget, I’ve seen you fight.’

  The Prince smiled. Two soldiers sharing a common heritage of war.

  ‘How long have I been here?’ Blackstone asked.

  ‘Two days. You stank like a sewer rat when you were found and no doubt you fought like one. You were bathed and your wounds attended to.’

  Blackstone fell silent. The Prince shared his silence. He knew how far their journey had been together.

  ‘When I lay in the darkness facing death, my mind took me to the field at Crécy. I saw the burning cross again and heard the whisper of angels. My mind played tricks but I know the torchlight down there showed me a cross of fire.’

  ‘We fight our battles over and over, Thomas. When they dragged your body from the riverbank we once again saw the boy lying wounded at our feet at Crécy. I too was young and that burning windmill lit up the sky for miles. It heralded our victory louder than any trumpet or drum. It was a sign we would one day win our father’s war.’ The Prince smiled. ‘You were not mistaken, Thomas. The man who saved you was a Teutonic
Knight. His name is Gunther von Schwerin.’

  Blackstone smiled. ‘The fourth man.’

  The Prince’s expression showed he did not understand.

  ‘When I went after the Welshman I thought four men had gone down into the canal,’ Blackstone explained. ‘He must have been shadowing us and finally saw his chance for revenge when ap Madoc ran from the attack. It was the torchlight on his blazon I saw. Where is he now?’

  ‘Gone. He warned your men that the water had swept you away. He told us he owed you a debt, that you had saved him and his fellow knights. And when you were found alive on the riverbank, he rode on.’

  The Prince laid a hand on Blackstone’s arm. ‘You could have gone to Avignon to save your son,’ he said, his voice unusually tender. ‘You chose to stay. We are humbled, Thomas. And grateful. We had news that your son is safe. Wounded, but safe.’

  A tear formed in the corner of Blackstone’s eye.

  The Prince nodded and smiled in understanding. ‘When you are healed we will send for you.’ He stood ready to leave and placed a hand across Blackstone’s. ‘We desire peace, but it is the nature of these times that there will always be conflict. We begin a new journey together, Thomas. We will have need of you to fight again.’

  Author’s Notes

  Medieval manuscripts and maps refer to the hilltop town of Domme, in the region now commonly known as the Dordogne, as Dome. Gilbert de Dome, Lord of Vitrac and one time Seneschal of the Périgord, was also known by a different spelling to his name. The names Gilbert, Gisbert, Gilibert and Guibert de Dome are recorded. I chose Gisbert to differentiate between him and the series’ more familiar character Gilbert Killbere.

  I thought it worth mentioning some background detail on a recurring character, Simon Bucy, who throughout the series is Thomas Blackstone’s enemy. He was an influential adviser to both the King of France and his son, the Dauphin. The loss of his estates during the (earlier) Jacquerie uprising and the threat to those in power at the time must have been as terrifying as the revolution that was to be inflicted on France four hundred years later, but his political sense of survival was keenly honed. His career began as a procurator in the French Parlement in 1326 and he became its first president for the years 1345–50 and he was ennobled in 1339 for service to the Crown and State.

  When Thomas Blackstone fought the Teutonic Knight, I referred to the medieval method of sword fighting. The Royal Armoury at Leeds holds one of the earliest dated manuscripts in Latin, with drawings of fencers without armour showing techniques of sword and buckler fighting. Many of the technical terms are in German, which implies that the author was a German cleric. The text suggests that rather than relying on strength alone, skill and manoeuvrability were the key to success. In the first book of the Master of War series, Jean de Harcourt, Blackstone’s French mentor and friend, taught him various sword skills. In this book I did not wish to dwell too long on theoretical texts so I barely touched on the subject, but the schooling of knights, in this case the Teutonic Knights, fitted neatly with my characters.

  By way of a very brief introduction to a complex subject here are a few of the named attacks: Schiltslac (shield strike), Stichslac (thrust strike) and Durchtritt (step through). Blackstone and von Plauen were not wearing suited armour, so I had Killbere refer to the type of combat as Kampffechten (armoured combat on foot) rather than Blossfechten (unarmoured combat). By having a third party, Killbere, recount the type of combat I gave myself some leeway in case any purists insisted that because they were not wearing full armour when they fought then it should be referred to as the latter rather than the former. However, the five Meisterhauwen (mastercuts) are well documented. One reference by medieval German fencing masters is to the Funff Haue (the five hidden or secret strikes). This was what Killbere warned Blackstone about. Zornhau (strike of wrath): the diagonal descending stroke from the right shoulder. Krumphau (crooked strike), which breaks any attacking high thrust and is aimed at the opponent’s hands. Zwerchhau (crosswise strike) is a multi-faceted strike aimed at head, hands or body. Schielhau (squinting strike): this unusual term might refer to the fighter glancing away from an opponent to make him believe that a feint is coming. The downward diagonal strike descends in a sliding motion towards the head and shoulder. And, finally, Scheitelhau (crown strike), a vertical strike targeting the top of the head.

  It is historically accurate that at the Battle of Launac Gaston Phoebus was outnumbered by Count Jean d’Armagnac, and also that the broad flat plain offered no cover except for a copse of trees, which is where the Count de Foix positioned his bowmen. D’Armagnac did not expect his arch-rival to have longbow archers under his command and it was this tactical error that lost him the battle. I was uncertain if the cold December conditions would affect the draw of the archers’ longbows so I turned once again to the expertise of Captain David Whitmore of the Shire Bowmen Longbow Roving Marks, who explained that when shooting in winter he would add an extra coating of beeswax to his bow’s hemp cord. I am, as always, grateful for his insight.

  I visited the various locations during the research for this novel but when I was in Bergerac, I could find no record of where the Bishop of Sarlat, Austence de Saint-Colombe, rendered homage to the Prince of Wales. I am grateful to the historian and author Michael Jones whose book The Black Prince gave me additional insights into the Prince of Wales and his journey throughout Aquitaine at that time. He advised me that the ceremony was unlikely to have been in the city’s medieval church of Saint Jacques as it was being rebuilt and only completed in 1377.

  Tourists who visit Sarlat, one of the best preserved medieval cities in France, and who are familiar with that city, know the cathedral does not sit in the main square, which is how I have presented it in Cross of Fire. I studied medieval maps of Sarlat and discovered the buildings that surround the cathedral were constructed in the fifteenth and sixteenth centuries onwards, so at the time of Blackstone’s fight in the main square I took the view that the city was far more open and that the cathedral would have formed the focal point of the city. I am grateful to Laurène and Kelsey, knowledgeable tourist advisers at the Office de Tourisme, Sarlat Périgord Noir (info@sarlat-tourisme.com) for confirming the probable length of the medieval city walls at the time of the action taking place in this book, and also in confirming the date that the church of Saint Sacerdos was declared a cathedral – 1317.

  Finally, I extend my thanks to my readers, who wait patiently every year for Thomas Blackstone to once again enter their reading lives and who share their enthusiasm for the Master of War series. My thanks to you all.

  David Gilman

  Devonshire

  2019

  www.davidgilman.com

  www.facebook.com/davidgilman.author

  https://twitter.com/davidgilmanuk

  About the Author

  DAVID GILMAN enjoyed many careers – including firefighter, soldier and photographer – before turning to writing full-time. He is an award-winning author and screenwriter.

  www.davidgilman.com

  facebook.com/davidgilman.author

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