Gate of the Dead

by David Gilman

  ‘Why am I spoken to by a man like this?’ Cale demanded. ‘Is it beneath your dignity to discuss terms with me when I’m the one holding this place with twice as many men as you have?’

  The nobleman looked down, as if being shamed, keeping up the pretence that Blackstone had insisted upon.

  Blackstone answered for him. ‘You’ve some education, like me, general, and I hear you own land, also like me. We’re different from these noblemen. I know what it means to be poor. I give you my word that—’

  ‘Be quiet!’ Sir Robert suddenly barked. ‘This man leads an army, you do not.’

  Blackstone looked suitably chastised, anger barely held in check as he continued the ruse. ‘You pay him off when we can beat him!’ he challenged the Norman.

  ‘Neither of us wants unnecessary bloodshed,’ de Montagu said in a reasonable tone, making Blackstone seem even more coarse than he appeared. De Montagu faced Cale. ‘I can give you a King’s word that you will be given safe passage and welcomed to discuss terms of truce that, he feels certain, will satisfy you.’

  Sir Robert waited patiently as Cale considered the proposition. Charles, King of Navarre, was the French King’s son-in-law who sought the crown. And to do that he needed to gain the support of the citizens of Paris, which meant bringing the Provost of Merchants onto his side. And the Provost had already despatched men to support the uprising. A treaty would benefit Navarre as it could the future of the common man. It might even secure rights that few had even dreamed of.

  ‘I hold the field,’ he answered. ‘You will not defeat us today. And when noblemen fall under the billhook of a peasant your whole class bleeds.’

  Sir Robert remained silent, but Blackstone fuelled Cale’s confidence with a whispered plea.

  ‘Don’t do this, my lord, we can beat them.’

  De Montagu played his part perfectly. He glared at Blackstone, and then shook his head. Cale grinned. He had them.

  ‘We would need pardons for what has occurred in the heat of our unrest,’ said Cale.

  ‘Charles of Navarre believes we all should seek pardon for our deeds,’ said de Montagu. ‘Which is why he extends this offer of a truce to you.’

  Cale looked a hundred paces beyond the two men, to where five squires and a knight waited, pennons aloft, ready to escort him to the parlay with a king.

  Blackstone let his eyes settle on the man from Picardy whom the great swathe of murdering villeins had turned to as their leader and who now controlled their hate and the terror they inflicted. His thousands of peasants had burned and destroyed a dozen towns and might even, for all Blackstone knew, have slain Christiana and his children. So far they had broken the yoke of servitude and bested men-at-arms when those knights tried to defend their families and land. If Cale accepted the word of a king, even a king of such an insignificant and distant place, but who might one day wear the crown of France, then Cale’s own vanity would seal his fate.

  And if he did as Blackstone expected then he and Sir Robert might have only moments to live.

  ‘We will stand our ground here until you return,’ said de Montagu, gently closing the trap. ‘As surety.’

  He and Blackstone were no more than thirty long paces from the front line of peasants. They would be overwhelmed the moment anything happened to Cale.

  Cale nodded. ‘One sign of falsehood and you’ll be dead,’ he said, and then spurred his horse past them towards the waiting escort.

  A ragged cheer swelled up from the peasants as Cale raised a clenched fist as if in victory.

  Blackstone turned to Sir Robert. ‘Keep a tight rein, my lord; don’t touch your sword yet,’ he said quietly. ‘Be ready to raise your shield.’

  His eyes watched the distorted faces in front of him. These peasants would like nothing more than to hack the two of them to pieces. Blackstone had seen those self-same faces as a boy when villagers dangled a cat over a dog pit for sport and then screamed their blood-lust as it was torn apart. Dark hovels and smoke-filled rooms caged such people, a lord’s demands clawing at their backs like a flail. Noblemen, bailiffs, sheriff, sovereign and Church: all took their share of these creatures’ pitiful existence. Their time would come – but not today. Not after what they had done.

  How many breaths would it take before the snarling, debased horde cut them down? Without turning to watch Cale’s progress towards Navarre, Blackstone listened to the retreating hoofbeats. Cale would be close to the escort now. When he and Sir Robert had walked their horses slowly towards the eager-to-kill mob he had counted out a man’s pace mark in his mind.

  ‘How many yards to their front line?’ he had asked his centenar of archers before riding up to Navarre.

  ‘Two hundred and four,’ Longdon had answered.

  ‘And nine,’ the young Halfpenny had suggested.

  His own archer’s eye told him the distance lay somewhere in between – and when he had approached Guillaume Cale to offer the truce he had drawn up the bastard horse at what he deemed to be a hundred and seventy five yards from the archers.

  There was a sudden cry as Cale was seized by the squires. No honour was lost when a pledge to a peasant was broken. It was whom you gave your word to that counted.

  The shockwave that was about to surge towards them was the blink of an eye away.

  Blackstone swore he heard the creak of a forest’s trees bending before a mighty wind – but knew it was the sound of English archers drawing back their war bows. And when that wind swept down in a rippling storm it cut into the dangerous crossbowmen and those who tried to shoulder them aside to attack. They got within twenty paces. Sir Robert de Montagu held his nerve as the air ripped around them a second time.

  The thudding of steel-tipped ash driving through bone and muscle sounded like a dog tearing flesh. The attackers faltered. Bodies lay writhing, effectively blocking those behind. A few of the crossbowmen loosed their bolts. One thudded into Sir Robert’s shield, but he was already spurring his horse as a swarm of knights hurled forwards and archers loosed volleys from two flanks flaying a path for them. The peasants’ hopeless attempt at attack faltered as hundreds died within the first few minutes. No man had got closer than ten paces to Blackstone. As Navarre’s knights swept past Blackstone he kept his horse reined tight, holding back its desire to join the fray. Peasants were trampled, hacked and speared, as behind the horsemen dismounted knights walked through the field of blood, slashing at the wounded, hacking limbs, inflicting the noblemen’s revenge. Navarre was well out of danger as he helped slaughter the wounded.

  Will Longdon and his archers bent their bows and eased the cords from their nocks. Their part was over. They had held their ground, following Blackstone’s orders not to join the fight. There was no booty to be had, no prize worth losing a valuable archer for. Blackstone turned his horse and saw Killbere where he had left him. There was no glory or honour in this slaughter. It was as simple as clubbing rats in an infested hovel. But to the peasants’ rear a knot of armoured men spurred their horses away from Navarre’s attack. A winged creature bobbed and weaved as the harpy-emblazoned shield glared from their midst. Those of the lesser noblemen who had joined the peasants’ cause now sought escape from the disorganized rabble who refused to obey their commands.

  Killbere watched as Blackstone raised Wolf Sword and spurred forward his horse. ‘Sweet Jesus, what’s he doing? He said to stay back,’ Killbere muttered as his eyes followed Blackstone’s attack.

  John Jacob pointed with his sword. ‘The harpy!’

  Killbere had no time to ask the question; his baffled look was enough.

  ‘We were attacked at Windsor,’ said Caprini. ‘By that knight and others.’ He grinned at Killbere. ‘It seems that Satan’s horde shall not go unpunished!’ he added, digging spurs into his horse’s flanks, quickly followed by Jacob.

  ‘Mother of God!’ Killbere cursed. ‘Will! Keep your lads here! Meulon! Gaillard! You and your men kill some of those turds before they swamp Sir Thomas!’ The orders given
, he urged his horse forward, following the Tau knight as the two Normans peeled away at an angle to drive a wedge between the swirling ranks of Cale’s army.

  Will Longdon was fitting his bow cord again. The fight might turn if those knights abandoning the field galloped towards them and managed to avoid Blackstone. He had faced armoured French cavalry before and knew how to bring them down.

  *

  The great horse trampled men flailing helplessly at Blackstone as he swung Wolf Sword up and down and then left and right, the blood knot biting into his wrist. Iron-shod hooves smashed bones as the horse barged through the men with Blackstone urging him on. Men screamed; others fell back wide-eyed as the shock of pain seared through their final moments. Blackstone saw Navarre’s men to his right, but the harpy still gathered others around it, its outstretched talons clawing its way free from the mêlée. Blackstone pulled the horse at a sharper angle in an effort to cut off the knight’s escape. A blade slashed the greave on his leg, glanced upwards and tore a line across his thigh. The raw cut was insignificant, but he felt its stinging pain as he pressed the horse’s flank to make him turn.

  And then he was among them.

  He barged aside a man-at-arms riding a big courser whose head yanked to one side as the muscled neck and misshapen head of Blackstone’s savage horse struck it. A heavy thud, a wide-eyed stare. The man’s sword was held too high as he half turned to strike. Blackstone swept his blade across the man’s chest, slashing its razor edge against mail, knowing that it was useless as a cut but its force would rock the man back – letting him drive Wolf Sword’s point into his groin. The strangled cry was swallowed in the man’s helm; his feet slammed forward in the stirrups and he tumbled across the back of the saddle.

  Other riders charged from Blackstone’s blind side. It was Caprini and John Jacob forcing the knot of men to splinter, hacking into peasants and men-at-arms, leaving the German knight to pound through the gap. He was ahead of Blackstone and rode a faster horse. Sweat stung Blackstone’s eyes. The leather grip on his gauntlet was wet with blood; he felt Wolf Sword’s grip slip from his hand but it was saved by the blood knot and, twisting his wrist, he reclaimed it, letting the reins loosen, giving the bastard horse its head. He felt its energy surge like an arrow propelled from a war bow – it would need the devil and his helpers to pull it back under control.

  The German tried to swerve, but the horses were side by side, Blackstone’s shield covering his body from the smashing blows of the flanged mace being slammed against it. A glancing blow caught the top of his helm, whipping back his head; a burst of pain exploded behind his eyes and he rocked in the saddle, his falling weight slowing his horse so that it faltered a pace behind. Had it not been so mean-spirited a beast determined to bite the other horse Blackstone would have been carried away from the attack in a wild gallop. He lurched forward, brought back his shield arm and slammed it across the man’s shoulder onto his helm. He too swayed as Blackstone used the horse’s barging motion to bring a hammering strike down onto his helm. The German’s horse veered; the man lost his stirrups and, despite the saddle’s cantle, slid off onto the ground.

  Blackstone let Wolf Sword dangle from the blood knot, grabbed the reins with both hands, pushed himself back in the saddle, and sawed the bit left and right in a harsh attempt to slow the horse. He pressed his wounded leg into its flank and kicked hard with the other. Like a lumbering cog trying to turn on a running tide the great beast curved around to face the fallen knight, who was on his feet again, mace thrown down, sword in hand. Blurred images swept back and forth as peasants fought a running battle with Navarre’s men-at-arms. There was no order to their retreat; they stumbled and fell, craved mercy and were given none. Horses ran loose; torn flags fell into the bloodied field. Blackstone’s horse finally slowed, flanks heaving, nostrils flaring as it bellowed air, while Blackstone tried to get it to face the man who now ran at him, sword raised for a blow that would take his leg off. It was impossible to turn in time to fend off the attack.

  A horse swept into view; its rider, his sword raised, made a sweeping cut from on high, curving the strike down onto the side of the German’s head. The man dropped like a sack of grain; a spurt of blood held for a moment in the air as delicately as a woman’s torn veil and then splattered across him.

  The retreat was in full flight and by the time Blackstone reached the fallen man Killbere had turned his horse back. He pulled back his visor. ‘Tears of Christ, Thomas, you should rid yourself of that ox-of-a-horse!’ he cried.

  Blackstone yanked his helm free and tore off his gauntlet, pulling fingers through his sweat-soaked hair. ‘It’s not the horse; it’s more likely the rider who can’t handle it. Thank you for that.’

  ‘Is he dead?’ Killbere said.

  ‘With half his head missing, he should be. Clean through helm and skull.’

  ‘Good! It’s as I intended,’ said Killbere. ‘The Italian said you weren’t on speaking terms with this whoreson.’

  Blackstone knelt and eased the split visor from the mangled remains of the man’s head. The side and back of his skull were shattered but his face was plain to see.

  ‘He’s nobody’s son now, Gilbert, whore or not. We barely spoke at all, but this wasn’t him. It’s one of the men who was at his side.’

  ‘Ah,’ said Killbere, as if he had failed.

  ‘But,’ said Blackstone as he looked across the field of slaughter, ‘where one shows her talons so too will another. At least I know he’s close.’

  *

  They used hot irons on Guillaume Cale’s stripped body, laying the glowing tips across back and chest, pressing the searing heat onto the inside of his thighs and the soles of his feet, inflicting the most pain they could think of. They were practised in the art of suffering. They asked no questions and sought no confession; this was a simple exercise in torture to burn the man’s screams into the townspeople’s minds.

  In Clermont’s town square the bloodied man was forced to kneel before the terrified townspeople, flanked by Navarre’s men, the gore not yet cleaned from their blades. A forge had been brought where a smith beat iron, taking the white-hot metal and shaping it as ordered by Navarre.

  ‘We bring your son home!’ Navarre called to the crowd. ‘We return him to the whore that spawned him and this sewer that bred him!’

  Blackstone and Killbere sat astride their horses looking across at the heads of the crowd watching the ceremony of humiliation. A rough-timbered platform had been quickly built and Navarre and those close to him stood on it as the bound Cale was forced onto a stool.

  ‘Hanging witches was always good for business,’ said Killbere, ‘but there are no piemen or jugglers here today. Navarre has a cruelty to him that takes the pleasure out of public spectacle.’

  ‘They’re not finished with him yet,’ Blackstone said, tasting the throat-clawing fumes from the forge mingled with the smell of burning flesh. He took the wineskin from his saddle and swilled out his mouth, spitting the foulness onto the ground.

  ‘You waste good wine, Thomas. Why are we still here? I’ve no taste for this and neither have you.’

  ‘I need him alive for a while longer. I made a bargain with Navarre.’

  Killbere grunted. ‘You can see how far that might get you.’

  ‘It was given in front of the noblemen. He’ll be obliged to keep it or lose their trust,’ Blackstone answered.

  Navarre beckoned the smith, whose tongs held the glowing metal in the coals. ‘There were those who thought this man could be a King of the Jacques,’ he told the crowd. ‘Their wish is granted.’

  Guards tightened their grip on the ropes holding Cale.

  ‘Behold your King!’ Navarre shouted as the smith clumsily placed the band of hot iron onto Cale’s forehead. Flesh and hair burned, and even Navarre was obliged to cover his face with a linen cloth as Cale screamed and writhed.

  ‘Kill the poor bastard and be done with it,’ Killbere muttered.

  Cale slumped
forward, the pain too great to bear, as Navarre and his entourage stepped down from the platform, leaving Cale’s blistered body to regain consciousness and ready itself for the final horror. The crowd tried to turn their backs on the spectacle but soldiers prodded and jabbed them to face the pitiful sight. Blackstone pushed his way through to the platform.

  ‘Not too close, my lord,’ said one of the soldiers. ‘There’s enough shit and piss come out of him to make a pig faint.’

  Blackstone ignored him and clambered up onto the platform. The guard snatched at his arm.

  ‘Take your hands off me or you’ll know the pain that he feels,’ Blackstone said.

  The guard hastily withdrew his hand and turned back to the peasants where his authority lay. Knights like this Englishman held sway over common soldiers and he had no desire to end up like that poor bastard on the platform.

  Blackstone eased himself closer to the slumped man. He reached down and took the smith’s leather pail of water, soaking the cloth Navarre had discarded. Squeezing the water over the man’s burnt head he waited until Cale muttered something, his shoulders hunched as he gritted his teeth. Hot irons were an agony that grew worse as the flesh continued to fight the pain. Blackstone tilted back the man’s chin, letting the water run into his parched lips. Cale’s eyes opened and focused on the man who had tricked him and who now gave him comfort.

  He nodded. There was no pride left to sustain him; arrogance had been scalded from him. ‘Thank you,’ he rasped.

  The stench around the man was as foul as the guard had warned, but Blackstone used the bucket to sluice the man’s waste away and then knelt close to him. The iron crown, now cold, squeezed Cale’s head like a vice, the cruel symbol scarring his face beyond recognition.

  ‘You are going to be hanged soon,’ Blackstone told him unhurriedly, making sure that his words were heard clearly, holding the man’s attention. ‘They will hang you by the neck and then draw you, spilling your guts into those coals so that they’ll burn in front of you. Then each limb will be hacked and tossed to dogs. Then they’ll take your head.’