Gate of the Dead

by David Gilman

  ‘Did you question them?’ asked Blackstone.

  Perinne nodded. ‘They are from Picardy. I barely understood them, Sir Thomas. Their dialect is like a dog with its throat cut. It seems the mob’s got itself a man who can read and write to lead them. These are pig-ignorant shit dwellers. Inbred with goats. What little brain they have is soused with wine.’

  Haunted eyes stared up at Blackstone from unshaven faces caked in filth, bruised and battered from their ordeal. They trembled, sinking to their knees, uncaring about their stench or what it was that clung to their rags.

  ‘Are these part of the mob who burned that manor house down, do you think?’ asked Killbere.

  ‘Does it matter? We’re going to hang them anyway,’ said Blackstone.

  ‘It doesn’t matter, Thomas, so why waste good rope? Cut their throats and be done with it, but if they know anything, anything at all, then we should give them a chance to talk. There are a hundred castles, walled towns and fortified manors and we cannot search every one of them. It would be easier to find a celibate monk in the whole of Christendom than the Dauphin’s family in this ravaged country.’

  Blackstone turned to Will Longdon. ‘Give them food,’ he said. The centenar widened his eyes.

  ‘Me, Sir Thomas? I’d catch the plague if I went downwind of ’em.’

  ‘You snared and cooked coneys yesterday. They’re in your bags. They’re only coneys, for God’s sake, Will.’

  Longdon moaned as he undid the satchel tied to his saddle. ‘Still, Sir Thomas, why send these buggers to the devil with our food in their belly?’

  ‘A knife in an eye would get them talking, Thomas. Longdon’s not wrong,’ Killbere said quietly, though loud enough for only Blackstone to hear.

  ‘I know. If there are thousands of these Jacques, then no matter what they’ve taken from a nobleman’s house there still won’t be enough food for them. They’ve gained nothing from these killings – neither meat or freedom,’ he answered.

  Killbere grunted. ‘No meat? They’ve herded swine, cow, chicken and goose. How many smoked hams or cheese and fruit have they pilfered? These peasants will be as fat as ticks on a dog’s belly.’

  ‘Gilbert,’ Blackstone said patiently. ‘They own none of it. They have secured nothing. They are as they have always been; only now they will pay a price that far exceeds what little they have gained.’ He turned to Longdon. ‘Give it to them.’

  ‘Bertrand!’ Longdon ordered the failed monk. ‘Here. Take it to them. You heard Sir Thomas.’

  The archer’s rank gave him command of the lowest in their group, and Bertrand stepped carefully forward as if approaching chained dogs; then, when close enough, he tossed the roasted rabbits to the prisoners, who fell on them like ravening dogs, the one fighting the other for the scraps.

  ‘Are we afraid of two shit-caked and starving peasants?’ Blackstone muttered.

  Killbere shrugged. ‘Do not complain, Thomas. Your order is obeyed. It’s your own goodwill towards them that causes your despair. That and their stench.’

  ‘Sweet Jesus, forgive these men,’ said Caprini. ‘That they are brought down below the level of animals.’

  ‘You pray for their forgiveness, Fra Stefano? For the state that God has already placed them in? Prayer won’t help them. Would you care to offer them water to quench their thirst?’ said Blackstone.

  Caprini didn’t shirk from the challenge and slid from the saddle, then took his water skin to the two creatures. He stood over them and they cowered as if he were the Pope.

  Killbere said quietly. ‘Perhaps they think he’s the angel of death with that cloak.’

  ‘I had that thought myself one night in the forest,’ Blackstone admitted as he watched Caprini administer the water. The men drank thirstily, their tied hands clasped as if in prayer, eyes raised towards the Tau knight.

  ‘I do not speak their language,’ Caprini said, turning towards Blackstone.

  ‘Perinne, ask them what they know of the peasant army. Where it goes next. Is there any plan to their killing?’

  The men became animated when the hardened soldier swore and threatened them in something that was as close to their own dialect as he could muster. Food and spittle competed for lodgings in their beards.

  Perinne shrugged. ‘Sir Thomas, they don’t understand numbers, they say the peasants are as many as ants in a dung heap.’

  ‘I could have told you that,’ said Killbere.

  ‘Sir Gilbert, all I can understand is that they were heading towards the town of Mello near Clermont to join a bigger group. Looking at all the shit we found out there, that means a lot of villeins with an urge to kill driving them on like a spear up their arse.’

  ‘You know this Clermont?’ asked Blackstone.

  Perinne nodded. ‘If it’s where I think it is, we’ll have to go through them, sooner or later. We could keep avoiding them as best we can, Sir Thomas, but they’re bloody near everywhere.’

  Blackstone spat. Damn. Thousands of peasants coming together would be a formidable army and he had no desire to get caught up trying to fight his way past them. Better to let someone else do that.

  ‘We’re riding back to Navarre,’ he said to Killbere.

  Killbere grunted. It made sense. ‘Let the French slaughter the bastards. That’s all they’re fit for.’

  ‘The French to kill or the peasants to be slain?’ asked Blackstone.

  ‘Both. They deserve each other,’ said Killbere.

  Blackstone tugged his rein and nodded at Perinne. ‘Hang them. They need to be seen.’

  *

  Blackstone could see the concern crease Navarre’s face. Was it fear or dumb stupidity? What did he think awaited him in the valley below? Blackstone wondered. It was obvious that Charles of Navare was shocked by what he saw. The horde looked more like a trained army than the undisciplined mob he had expected. Trumpets blew over drumbeats as they waved tattered flags and raised fists clenching weapons. Navarre had sworn to destroy the uprising, a political manoeuvre to show support for the nobility, because the Dauphin had abandoned the aristocrats to their fate when he went south-east to raise an army to seize back Paris. Navarre’s promises had drawn seigneurs and knights from Normandy and Picardy determined to finally put up a shield of resistance against this horde.

  ‘If he’s to keep these nobleman at his back, he had better do his killing well,’ said Blackstone as he watched the look of uncertainty on Navarre’s face.

  ‘He’s no fighter, Thomas, look at him,’ said Killbere. ‘His arse pinches tighter than his lying lips. How in the name of Christ have we ended up here?’

  ‘We use him as he intends to use us,’ answered Blackstone, studying the army that had formed up in front of them in their strong defensive position. ‘They’ve chosen their ground well,’ he said.

  It was no vast army such as the French had fielded at Crécy or Poitiers, no heaving body of knights and war horses, but the thousands of peasants before them, who held the plateau near the town of Clermont, looked to be well organized. And men with weapons forged with a village smith’s skills had enough steel to bring down horses. Peasants armed with crossbows joined those in the front rank; armour could be pierced as easily as an aristocrat’s arrogance. Several hundred horsemen held the rear; and in between a couple of thousand armed men stood in line. There was military know-how in this peasant army – and Blackstone was not the only one to see it.

  ‘He’s a clever-enough bastard, this leader of theirs,’ said Killbere. ‘Those trenches he’s dug and the wagons protecting his flanks will make it difficult to dig his men out. Like scraping shit out of a horse hoof, you have to be careful the beast doesn’t kick you in the face.’

  ‘Navarre has the numbers – just – but we’ve both seen how men on the ground can stop horsemen,’ Blackstone said.

  ‘Aye, but if Cale has any military sense he’ll let Navarre throw himself at them and then swarm over us like rats from a burning barn,’ answered the veteran knight.
‘You heard what Will and Halfpenny said. They could take Cale out of the saddle when he’s in range. Wouldn’t take a dozen bodkins to punch through his miserable skin.’

  ‘Killing Cale would be short-sighted, Gilbert. He’s got three armies elsewhere, and information we could use.’

  ‘God’s tears, Thomas, you still think we’ll find the Dauphin’s family with a turd like this?’

  ‘Which turd? Cale or Navarre?’ Blackstone answered and smiled. ‘A good fight is worth the effort, but I have no wish to risk wounds and death to any of my men on these murdering scum. We’ve better causes waiting for our risk.’ He gathered the reins. ‘Remember my orders, Gilbert. My life depends on it.’

  He spurred his horse along the low ridge to where Charles of Navarre waited, still undecided how best to attack the ranks of peasants, who now seemed eager to fight.

  *

  The army of peasants had burned their way across the landscape as effectively as any king’s troops plundering in war. Ranks were swelled with minor noblemen and landowners who saw advantage in attacking those with richer domains, whose wealth could be stripped from them. Long-standing vendettas could now be settled by using the mob in their favour.

  News had reached them that the Provost of Merchants in Paris had sent a separate mob of citizens south of the capital to join their cause. Who could stop them now? The Jacquerie army to the north, and another to the east, would soon control every approach to the city, and once the citizens rejected Charles of Navarre and closed its gates to the Dauphin, denying him governance of his kingdom, then the villeins would hold the nation for themselves.

  They were led by men who knew how to fight. Guillaume Cale was a local man who had taken them to victory with the promise of greater prizes awaiting them – once they had pulled down these knights of Charles of Navarre.

  Two long ranks of peasants bayed an incoherent war cry extolling their excesses, and crying for the blood of the noblemen who waited in the distance. Who could stand against them? A peasant’s delusion had become a chimera let loose.

  *

  When Blackstone had returned to Navarre’s men he was greeted coolly, but his information as to where Navarre’s enemy might take a stand had proved correct and the emblazoned knights curved their way across the countryside like a glittering rainbow. If grandeur and pomp could have won the day then no sword would ever need to be drawn. The gathered knights were ready to strike, the mass of horsemen, flags and pennons, surcoats and horse trappers a surge of colour that was meant to intimidate.

  Now Blackstone rode to where Navarre gazed out uncertainly at the gathered mass.

  ‘My lord,’ Blackstone said as he snatched the bastard horse’s reins, stopping it from barging the war horse of a wealthy knight in Navarre’s entourage. Navarre looked faintly surprised that Blackstone had addressed him directly without permission, but his worry about the possible humiliation at the hands of the peasants facing him swept aside his irritation.

  ‘Is the Englishman impatient to kill more Frenchmen?’ Navarre said, a thin smile advising those around him that this was an attempt at wit. A dutiful titter of laughter was offered up, but a few of those close to him remained grim-faced. These knights deserved better than Navarre. They had hitched their fate to his so that each might gain what he desired. Among them were Normans who still sought autonomy, hoping that Navarre would not renege on any surety given to their cause. Despite Blackstone being an Englishman he was considered one of them – his love and respect for Jean de Harcourt and his fight for justice at the Norman’s death would never be forgotten.

  One such veteran knight, the Norman lord Sir Robert de Montagu, his armour draped in a surcoat of azure and gold with a stag’s head crest, sat on a destrier as grandly adorned as if in a royal procession. The horse’s trapper copied the device and reached almost to the ground; the trimmed etched-leather reins were studded with silver – all denoting a man of high rank and prestige. By contrast Blackstone looked little more than a common hobelar, wearing his mail, jupon and boiled-leather breastplate for protection.

  ‘Thomas, we’re all impatient, but a decision has not yet been made. Be respectful of our lord’s dilemma,’ de Montagu said in obvious warning, but with sufficient weariness to let Blackstone know that the Norman was tired of Navarre’s indecision.

  ‘You’ll lose good men down there, my lord,’ said Blackstone, ignoring him and addressing himself to Navarre. ‘You’ll win, but there’ll be a price to pay.’

  ‘Christ, Thomas, hold your tongue. We’ve no need for further doubt,’ said de Montagu, alarmed at Blackstone’s suggestion.

  ‘You think we lack courage?’ snarled the knight closest to Navarre. It was his brother Philip, the hot-headed younger man who would rather kill than negotiate with an enemy.

  ‘No, my lord, I remember when you murdered the unarmed Constable of France four years ago. My friend Jean de Harcourt told me of your courage that night,’ answered Blackstone.

  Two of the Norman knights blocked Philip of Navarre’s horse as he spurred it towards Blackstone, ready to strike at his insolence.

  ‘De Harcourt was weak! As was his choice of low scum for friendship. We seized the moment!’

  Taunting Navarre’s brother gave some pleasure and it might snap Charles of Navarre into a more belligerent state of mind. Blackstone answered, keeping his eyes on Charles. ‘My friend was intelligent and loyal and your actions spurred King John into retribution that cost de Harcourt his life and those of your brother’s supporters. The murder you committed that night unleashed a vile killer against my family, so I know what comes from a bad decision.’

  The horses fussed and were cursed at as they were brought under control. Charles of Navarre was devious enough to know when he had been offered an alternative disguised by defiance.

  ‘What price do I pay, Sir Thomas? I have the support of the nobles. Men die in battle.’

  ‘Would you exchange a denier for a gold crown? Or a rouncey for a stallion? There’s no point in getting any man of noble birth killed, my lord. Any such death against these vermin will reflect badly. It weakens your cause and strengthens theirs.’

  ‘Let’s be done with this,’ said Philip.

  Blackstone remained unperturbed. Navarre’s brother served only as the sword arm for the family’s ambitions. Navarre raised a hand to quieten any further interruption and nodded consent for Blackstone to speak. ‘And how do I avoid this?’

  ‘Bring their leader, this Cale, to the table to negotiate. Without him they become rabble again.’

  ‘Offer him a truce?’ Navarre asked as the others murmured their disapproval.

  ‘He has the status of a general. Or so he thinks. And you are King of Navarre.’

  Navarre was a poor war leader, but his years of political deceit and intrigue gave him an instinct like a viper slithering from an entangled mass of snakes. He immediately saw what the others had not. ‘Go down and bring him to me then, Sir Thomas.’

  Blackstone had expected Navarre would want him to be the means of betrayal, then Blackstone’s would be the name linked to duping the peasant leader. ‘Sire,’ he said, flattering the monarch of the small mountain province in the Pyrenees, ‘I will convince him, but it needs a king to offer the truce and a nobleman to promise it.’

  ‘And you will want something in return,’ said Navarre.

  ‘I want the right to choose how he dies,’ Blackstone answered.

  In that moment Charles of Navarre recognized the skill of the Englishman and the ruthless streak of a great commander. Blackstone would lay a trap and he, Charles of Navarre, was to spring it.

  39

  The peasants watched as Guillaume Cale rode forward to speak to the two men riding at a walking pace to meet him in the space that lay between the two armies. A parlay had been arranged and perhaps, some muttered among themselves, they would be paid by these frightened aristocrats to leave the field of battle. More wealth, more possessions and the rewards for their savagery
lay within their grasp. Beyond them, beneath the glory of gold-threaded flags, Navarre knew Blackstone had made a good choice in choosing Sir Robert de Montagu to ride with him to meet the peasant commander. The grandeur of the man and his horse next to Blackstone made a sharp contrast, extolling the man’s rank.

  Blackstone drew up his horse, leaving a half-dozen paces between him and the peasant commander. Guillaume Cale would have been considered handsome by some women: a strong-looking man whose dark eyebrows curved like flared wings over his beaked nose. His assortment of arms and armour gave him the look of a fighting man and he showed no fear as he gazed at Navarre’s envoys. This was his home ground. The small town of Clermont where he was born and raised was only a few miles away. A man grew confident on his own territory, Blackstone thought, a confidence that could blind him.

  Sir Robert de Montagu held back, as had been agreed with Blackstone, who would do the talking until Cale rose to the bait. If Blackstone was correct Cale would demand that the reviled nobleman debase himself by entering into the negotiation – believing himself closer in rank to de Montagu rather than Blackstone.

  ‘You’re to be offered a truce,’ said Blackstone.

  ‘Whose puppet are you?’ demanded Cale.

  ‘I’m a fighting man. You can’t win here today. I’ve seen better scabs on a dog’s arse than those men behind you,’ Blackstone deliberately taunted.

  ‘Scabs that cover the wounds of France. You’re an Englishman?’

  ‘I am.’

  ‘A routier,’ Cale sneered. ‘And you insult me? Behind me are common men and women that the likes of you rape and murder.’

  ‘You don’t need any lessons in that, general,’ Blackstone said, tingeing his insolence with a casual deference. It had its effect. Guillaume Cale turned his attention to the richly dressed nobleman who obviously spent more money on his horse than a villein could earn in a lifetime. By comparison Blackstone’s horse with its blotched coat and nondescript bridle reflected its rider’s low rank. He was talking to the wrong man.