Scourge of Wolves

by David Gilman

  No sooner had Longdon plunged into the forest than he was sawing the rope around his neck with the short-bladed skinning knife hidden in his boot. Garland tried to keep pace but the tangled bramble kept catching his legs. Will Longdon jumped across a hurdle of fallen branches towards him. They had made barely thirty yards and as Longdon cut Garland’s bonds he could see horsemen urging their mounts into the trees. The moment Garland’s hands were free he took the knife and freed Will Longdon’s bindings. And then desperately tried to cut the length of rope from his own neck.

  ‘Hurry!’ hissed Longdon. But the rope was thicker and was taking longer to cut than the veteran archer’s. One of the horsemen saw them and although he cried out to his comrades Longdon realized that the others could not see them because a tall swathe of bramble obscured their position. The horseman was urging his horse to twist left and right through the trees in their direction. Longdon snatched the knife and took a fistful of Garland’s rope and with more strength than the boy possessed cut the rope, yanking the blade across the hemp. The rope separated but the force of his efforts loosened the knife from his grip and it tumbled into the undergrowth. ‘Leave it!’ said Longdon.

  They turned and, ignoring the tearing thorns, pushed deeper. Lungs raw with exertion they ran for their lives but the crashing sound of the horsemen was getting closer. Will Longdon could hear running water but there was no sign of the river that skirted the village. If they could reach it and it was fast flowing they might have a chance to be swept beyond the horses. He dared a glance over his shoulder. Garland was keeping up but one of the horsemen was now less than twenty paces behind them and had found a gap in the trees to force his horse through. Cade’s man gripped his sword, ready to cut them down. Further back two other horsemen urged their horses towards him. Will Longdon’s instincts took over. The memory of charging horsemen at Crécy and Poitiers flared in his memory and once again he summoned the heart-stopping courage it took for men to stand their ground and kill their enemy.

  ‘Run, boy! Run!’ he yelled as he turned to face the horseman. He snatched a fallen bough, its branches flayed like a witch’s claw, and thrust it at the horse. It reared; the rider yanked the reins but the huge beast had lost its footing and fell sideward. Longdon hurled himself at the cursing man, who was already half up as the archer’s weight struck him. Longdon hit him hard in the face with his fist and the man reeled but he was strong enough to absorb the blow and threw himself onto Longdon. In that moment the archer knew that while he was sturdy, the other man was heavier and stronger. He was ten years younger and knew he had the advantage. Neither man cursed, each holding their breath from the exertion as they grappled. Cade’s man suddenly had a knife in his hand. Longdon snatched at his face, clawing at the man’s eyes. He brought a knee up into his groin and Cade’s man grunted, but even that did not lessen his grip. Will Longdon pulled the man’s weight down onto him, smothering the knife hand as it got caught in the undergrowth. Longdon pushed his thumb into the man’s mouth and clutched the flesh of his face, tearing the lips and cheek open. The man bellowed, but the agony gave him added strength. The two men rolled, each fighting for the knife. Will Longdon headbutted his opponent. Blood splattered the man’s face as his nose cracked. And then as the horseman gradually gained the upper hand Longdon reared up, throwing his weight against him. But the man’s grip held firm on Longdon’s jupon and the archer knew that if he fell onto him the knife would find his belly.

  Suddenly the ground gave way and both men fell, still clutching each other, through the undergrowth and down the stone-strewn embankment. Within seconds they hit the river. Will Longdon’s attacker had tumbled beneath him and Longdon fought to keep his body on top as they plunged into the shallow water. The man seemed weaker and the archer realized he must have caught his head on a rock; although he still flailed Longdon suddenly had the upper hand. He forced his knee into the man’s back, grabbed his collar with one hand and his hair with the other and twisted his head, forcing it beneath the water. The man squirmed, legs kicking, his desperation to survive the fight forcing strength back into his body. Will Longdon found that deep-seated place within himself and drew on its killing energy, forcing the power from his shoulders into his arms and fists. And then the man went still. The archer kept his weight on the man’s back until he was sure he was dead.

  Exhausted but still alert for the other horsemen, he slumped back into the waist-deep water and steadied his breathing. Voices carried from the forest above. He stumbled to the embankment and pressed himself into the dirt wall. He dared to glance downstream but there was no sign of Peter Garland. He should have made good his escape now Longdon had bought him time. The voices sounded closer. Longdon smeared mud and dirt from the riverbank onto his face and jupon, then grabbed handfuls of grass and weed, pushing it here and there into his belt and neck opening. Anyone riding close by would not recognize a man half submerged, camouflaged with mud and leaf.

  There was nothing more Longdon could do other than wait and hope that Cade and ap Madoc’s men would ride on. The light fluttered before his eyes. He pushed aside the overhanging undergrowth but still the grey light flickered through the trees. He blinked. He felt the chill of the water on his thighs and waist. It tugged at him. The water was deeper than he thought and he shivered from its chill. Sweat from the fight slithered down his spine. He suddenly felt weak and his head began to pound. He touched the wet hair on the back of his head and his hand came away covered in blood. Like the man he had killed he must have cracked his skull on the downward plunge and his urge to survive had smothered the pain from the injury. He cursed beneath his breath. It felt as though he was falling asleep. He had lost all sense of time. How long had he been hiding? He snatched back his head as his chin drooped onto his chest. Horsemen were approaching. If he couldn’t stay awake they would find him and then he would hang. Just like the current pulling at him, unconsciousness was carrying him away. He slipped lower, chest-deep, tried to find his footing but couldn’t. He cursed disbelievingly. He thought he had won the fight.

  Like a lover’s gentle enticement the river eased him away.

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  When Gruffydd ap Madoc saw the archer’s hanged body he hauled William Cade from the saddle and threw him to the ground. Cade’s men drew their swords but ap Madoc’s Welshmen quickly boxed them in.

  ‘You dog turd! I gave my word!’ His great bulk loomed over the English mercenary, sword point hovering over Cade’s throat.

  Cade scuttled backwards away from the blade but the Welshman planted his boot onto Cade’s chest. ‘I owed Blackstone,’ Cade spat. ‘He humiliated me in front of my men.’

  ‘Humiliated?’ said ap Madoc, rolling the word on his tongue to savour its meaning. ‘Made you look like the sewer rat you are. Stopped you torturing a man is what I heard.’

  ‘It was me who told you about the gold!’ Cade said hastily.

  ‘And I paid you your share. There won’t be enough gold to keep me alive anywhere in this peasant-shit country now you have unleashed Thomas Blackstone. I will be hunted. Even if I go to the French they will use me to bargain with the English. I’m a routier! I have no ally. We fight for each other. No one will save me from the rope or Blackstone’s sword. Every damned Englishman will be happy to hunt me like a cur dog so they can please him.’ The sword pressed closer to Cade’s throat.

  ‘Wait, wait! I can be of use to you.’

  The Welshman murmured in his own language. ‘Mor ddiwerth â rhech gafr.’ Ap Madoc’s horsemen sniggered and voiced their agreement. He spat, the globule landing on Cade’s chest. He pressed the sword under the man’s chin and a trickle of blood ran down his neck. ‘As useless as a sheep’s fart.’

  It would take only the slightest pressure for the blade to pierce Cade’s throat. ‘I beg you. Listen to me. I rode with Sir John Chandos. I know where all the towns are that are to be ceded to Edward. I know where all his troops will be. I can lead you away from them all. You need never see
an Englishman again.’

  ‘Except you.’

  The sword hovered. There was some value in what the treacherous bastard said. Once word got out that a man serving with ap Madoc had caused the Welshman’s pledge to Blackstone to be broken then, in the time it takes to break wind, Cade would be forgotten. It would be thought the mercenary leader himself had strung up the English bowman. Even routiers needed some kind of honesty. Those who paid for their services expected they would keep their contract. He glanced up at the men who rode with him and who benefited from their raiding together. They were veterans of the wars and even those who came late, the ‘Tard-Venus’, who drifted in looking for plunder, were ruthless but dependable. Dependable as long as there was money. And none wanted to face the wrath of any army or organized body of men because of a treacherous act. There were others who would hang, draw and quarter every one of them because of their past actions.

  ‘I have enough shit on my boots,’ said the Welshman raising his sword.

  * * *

  Blackstone and his men approached the village. They rode slowly and deliberately, looking for any sign of ambush. It seemed unlikely, Blackstone reasoned; the Welshman could have slaughtered them in the courtyard. There would be no need to risk injury to his own men in the open. No, this was a simple case of theft and, for the thief, buying time. They brought their horses to a halt on the muddy track when they saw the body hanging from the low overhang. Gruffydd ap Madoc and his men were long gone. And with them any thought Blackstone had of him being a brazen cutpurse. He was a murderer.

  The rope creaked as the wind moved the bough. The body swayed.

  ‘Cut him down,’ said Blackstone, keeping his eyes on the dead man’s face, grieving for the loss of a comrade, regretting the needless death of a fighting man. The thought that his trust of Gruffydd ap Madoc had brought it about flayed him. But, he answered himself, it was an Englishman’s betrayal. Cade had told the Welshman about the gold. Greed and treachery had led to this.

  Two men went forward to retrieve the body as a third lowered the rope tied around the tree trunk. The men cut the rope and laid the dead archer gently in the grass at the side of the track.

  ‘I would not have thought it of the Welshman,’ said John Jacob. ‘He fought at Sir Gilbert’s side all those years ago.’

  ‘A man changes, John,’ said Blackstone. ‘Perhaps he did it as a warning for me not to follow him.’

  ‘And will we?’

  ‘In time. First we must bury the dead and attend to the King’s business.’ He eased the bastard horse closer to the dead archer. The men stepped away as he gazed down. ‘Put him across a horse and bring him back,’ said Blackstone.

  He looked up at the cut rope. As frayed as the past.

  * * *

  Killbere led his men along the riverbed around the flank of the village. They could see through the overhanging trees that there were no horsemen in sight but they were downwind and the stench of the rotting corpses wafted sickeningly over them. There would soon be more creatures of the forest feasting on the dead if there weren’t already. Killbere glanced left and right as his horse picked his way through the river stones beneath its hooves. A body lay face down, his leather jerkin billowing from the air trapped beneath it, which had allowed the dead man to float and be caught against the riverbank. Killbere brought the men to a halt. It was a good place for an ambush and using a dead man as bait was not uncommon. With practised ease some of the men urged their horses up the lower left-hand bank to shield those in the water in case a sudden charge came out of the village. The others stayed alert, scanning the high bank opposite; it was smothered with undergrowth, the trees diminishing the light. Killbere gestured and Renfred eased his horse forward and quickly dismounted, turning the dead man over.

  ‘It’s one of Cade’s men. He’s been in a fight. Half his face gone. Ripped and beaten.’

  ‘Let him rot,’ said Killbere, keeping a wary eye on the surroundings. The nearside bank showed no sign of horse’s hooves. ‘If he’s down here he must have come from up there,’ he said, pointing to the high bank. He rode forward, peering into the gloom of the river that darkened the closer it flowed nearer the village. The overhanging branches interlocked creating a roof, keeping the damp chill trapped. That and the stench. Some of the villagers had tried to run for the safety of the river when the village had first been attacked but the killers had blocked any retreat. There were bodies lying on the low muddy bank, half in, half out of the water. Hair swirled in the slow but insistent current. A woman’s arm flopped into the water, her hand waving gently in macabre farewell.

  Further ahead in the gloom a body was caught on a fallen tree branch. The man’s arm had caught the branch and the submerged trunk had stopped him floating further downriver. Killbere stiffened and then spurred his horse. He dismounted and waded quickly to the man who wore a jupon like the rest of them. Killbere wrapped his arms around Will Longdon. Dead or alive? He couldn’t tell.

  ‘Will, you’re safe now, man. You’re safe. We’ve got you.’

  Renfred was at his side and eased the unconscious body out of the water and onto the bank. Killbere clambered after him. Renfred laid a hand beneath Longdon’s jupon.

  ‘His heart beats, Sir Gilbert. But he’s lost blood and the cold water has taken its toll.’

  ‘Fetch my blanket from my bedroll and bring my brandy flask,’ said Killbere, kneeling and gently tapping his palm against Longdon’s face. He tugged away the ferns and grass from his collar and belt. Renfred draped Killbere’s blanket over the injured archer as Killbere lifted his head and dribbled brandy between his lips. ‘Come on, lad. You’ve been hurt worse than this before now. Come on,’ he urged gently.

  After a few moments Will Longdon spluttered. Killbere grinned at the others. ‘I’ve known this whore-mongering archer since Morlaix, and in those twenty years I’ve never seen Will Longdon refuse brandy.’ He slapped Longdon’s face harder. Longdon flinched and opened his eyes.

  ‘Mother of Christ. Sir Gilbert!’ he gasped, looking dazed, eyes darting back and forth at the faces grinning down at him.

  ‘You’re still a malingering whoreson, Will Longdon,’ said Killbere. ‘And now we find you skulking in a river dressed like a damned woodland fairy,’ he said, clutching the torn ferns and grass in his fist.

  Longdon groaned. ‘Aye, well, I couldn’t go back without bathing or you’d have complained I stank after the exertions I endured.’

  Killbere nodded. ‘We saw Cade’s man back a ways. It looked as though you had a fight on your hands. God’s tears, Will, you’re getting old and slow.’

  Will Longdon grinned. ‘That’s the truth, Sir Gilbert. A drop more brandy might warm what blood I have left in me.’

  Killbere eased the flask to his lips. ‘I’ll take payment from your purse when I find it.’

  Longdon sighed. ‘I would expect nothing less, Sir Gilbert. Where’s Peter Garland?’

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  Blackstone withdrew the men behind the gates of Sainte-Bernice. They tipped the bodies of de la Grave’s defenders over the walls and posted guards. Night beckoned so it made no sense to ride on to meet Sir John Chandos; besides, the boy archer needed to be buried and Will Longdon’s wound stitched. Once that was done the captains set about organizing their men. Perinne had returned from his patrol and reported that the tracks left by the attackers had been lost at the edge of a dense forest. Food was cooked and sentry duties allocated. Alain de la Grave was asleep next to the fire that now blazed in the great hall. The blood had been sluiced from the floor and the bodies of the dead servants taken outside and placed downwind. Killbere pulled off his boots, still wet from wading in the river, and settled his feet in front of the fire. Candlelight glimmered as the men laid down their blankets. Except for their turns at sentry duty they would all sleep inside the great hall.

  ‘I swear I have heard more sense coming out of a pig’s arse,’ Killbere said, extending the brandy flask to Blackstone, who
shared the fireside. ‘Bretons slaughter their way through territory because they are not part of the treaty. We have routiers hunting routiers, the French army chasing them up, Englishmen chasing them down. King John paying brigands to abandon the towns they hold so that Edward can nail his name above the gates. French towns ceding to Edward, some refusing, others being bribed. We pay gold coin on behalf of the Crown and make an alliance with three hundred mercenaries led by a treacherous Welshman and are betrayed by an Englishman stealing the King’s money who served Sir John Chandos, Knight of the Garter, friend of the King and a fine judge of men.’

  ‘It’s called peace,’ said Blackstone, handing back the flask.

  ‘Thomas, I want a simple life. Show me my enemy and let me kill him. Raise the flags, beat the drums and let the trumpets blow across the battlefield.’

  ‘Perhaps that will come again if Edward doesn’t get the territory he won.’

  ‘That we won. We serve our sovereign lord, Thomas, but it is our blood that nourishes this godforsaken land.’

  ‘That’s the price we paid, Gilbert.’

  ‘And gladly. But are we to spend our days wandering the land like tax collectors? The time will come when everything due is paid. What of us then? What about taking the cross and going on crusade?’

  Blackstone’s eyes widened. Killbere shrugged.