by David Gilman
Blood drained from Felton’s face. His mouth opened and closed but no words came out. Wolf Sword was unwavering, as steady as Blackstone’s voice. ‘You accuse me of desertion and cowardice?’
‘Thomas, in God’s name. No such charge would ever be laid against you. Not while I am alive. I swear,’ said de Harcourt. He saw that his words had no impact on Blackstone. ‘I swear it on Jean’s soul, Thomas. He loved you like a brother.’
‘And I him,’ said Blackstone but his sword didn’t move. ‘But if bad fortune befell you, Louis, this favourite of the King would slander me and my men. I would rather kill him now and let his death be a shield of truth for us all.’
Felton felt the razor-sharp edge against his throat. It would take only the slightest pressure for his throat to be cut. He was in the wrong and it was not worth dying for an ill-considered insult. ‘I beg your pardon,’ he said. ‘I beg it freely and swear I would not cause ill will between you and the Prince or the King by such slander.’ He swallowed hard even though his throat had dried. ‘I spoke in bad temper and in haste.’
‘I bear witness, Thomas,’ said Louis de Harcourt. ‘Accept his apology.’
For a moment no one who saw the exchange between the Seneschal and the scar-faced knight knew whether Blackstone would let the insult die. Felton’s eyes closed when he felt a trickle of blood dribble down his neck onto his clean shirt. And then the pressure was released. He drew breath. De Harcourt sighed with relief. Blackstone lowered Wolf Sword and looked around at the men who had witnessed the argument and the near death of Sir William Felton. The silence was broken only by Wolf Sword being pushed into its scabbard.
De Harcourt and Sir William watched Blackstone turn away. He heard Louis de Harcourt speak quietly to the Seneschal: ‘You should attend mass and thank Christ, William. I know how close you came to death.’
* * *
Blackstone trudged down the hill to where Killbere and the men waited. Will Longdon and Jack Halfpenny had gathered their archers and were cleaning and repairing what arrows could be used again.
‘We could do with more,’ said Will Longdon. ‘Especially with Quenell and his men joining us.’
‘They asked for that? They’re Sir John’s men and Quenell blamed us for Garland’s death. I’ll not have any bad blood, Will.’
‘There is none. We’ve made our peace. He asked me if they could serve you.’
‘And you agreed.’
‘I told him I had some influence with you and if he shared his booty then I would consider it.’ Will Longdon grinned. ‘Thomas, a man has to have something for his efforts.’
‘And have I already accepted him?’
‘Oh aye. We have an agreement.’
‘Did I make a good decision?’
‘I would say so.’
‘Then it’s just as well I considered the matter carefully.’
‘And you’ll find others wishing to ride with us,’ Longdon said, nodding to where Killbere and the men-at-arms were gathered.
The hobelar, Tait, who had first challenged Blackstone when he entered Chandos’s camp, stood with Beyard. Some of the men were trading with each other, exchanging knives and silver-inlaid belts stripped from the dead. Others had found well-honed swords and decorative scabbards, spoils of war that the Bretons had seized from others and which they no longer had any use for. Killbere tugged off one of his boots and ran a hand inside it. He looked up as Blackstone approached.
‘Damned nail kept digging into my foot. It was a distraction I didn’t need during the fight. But Jack Halfpenny found this pair that fit me better than they do him.’ Killbere changed his footwear, got to his feet and stamped the ground. ‘If I didn’t know better I’d say they were made for me.’
‘And I’ll wager the Breton who killed the man who first wore them said the same,’ Blackstone said, taking his jupon from John Jacob.
‘And how is the old boar on the hill?’ said Killbere.
Blackstone refastened his sword belt and pulled his fingers through his hair. ‘Chastised,’ said Blackstone with a grin.
‘Sir Thomas?’ said Tait. ‘Me and my men serve Sir John Chandos. There’s twenty of us and now we wish to serve you.’
Blackstone looked at the rugged man and his equally vicious-looking hobelars. Some carried slight wounds; all showed signs of bloodletting in the close-quarter fight. ‘You said Sir William had a whiplash tongue. Then you should know that my punishments leave a harsher mark. I hang men who rape and those who fail in their duty and cause harm to any other of my men.’
Tait nodded. ‘Sir Thomas, your men have told us all we need to know. If you will have us, we will ride with you and be honoured to swear allegiance.’
‘All right, your captain will be Renfred. You hold no ill will towards Germans?’
‘Providing he holds none to us.’
Blackstone looked towards Renfred. The German studied the men for a moment. ‘I take no argument on my commands. You obey and we will have no ill will.’
‘Then we have agreement,’ said Tait.
Killbere grinned. ‘Well, Thomas, we build our strength back again. Beyard brings his thirty Gascons to our ranks.’
Blackstone turned to the Gascon. ‘Beyard, what of your Lord de Grailly?’
‘He’s with the King of Navarre in the Pyrenees. He has no need of us for now. But we Gascons are sworn to Edward and the Prince of Wales, so if we fight with you, we serve them.’
‘And with Tait’s men that makes fifty more men at our side, Thomas,’ said Killbere.
‘You and your men are welcome, Beyard,’ Blackstone told him. ‘When we camp tonight you and Tait will bring your men to me and my captains and give me their names.’
Killbere turned his back on the men and whispered, ‘And how do we pay them?’
‘Felton refuses us, Gilbert. So we find Gruffydd ap Madoc and William Cade and we take back the gold that is now rightfully ours.’
‘All of it? Even the King’s share?’
‘All of it.’
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
They buried their dead and rode south.
‘The French army are somewhere ahead of us, Thomas,’ said Killbere. ‘A skirmish with a couple of hundred of d’Audrehem’s men is one thing but an army of thousands might test us too far.’ He grinned.
‘The problem isn’t only d’Audrehem’s men it’s the army from the north trying to catch the routiers between them. If they’re using their fight against the routiers to entrap us then we keep out of their way. We secure the towns we’re supposed to and then find Cade and the Welshman.’
‘Debt collectors again,’ Killbere moaned.
‘We do the King’s bidding but we find those murdering bastards, take our revenge for Peter Garland and get back the gold. But this countryside gets harsher, Gilbert, and the Auvergne is home to brigands coming up the Rhône Valley. The more men we have with us the better.’ He turned in the saddle and called the Gascon captain forward. ‘Beyard.’
The Captal de Buch’s man spurred his horse alongside.
‘Chandos will wait in the north. Like us he takes the towns for Edward but the further south we go the closer we get to those Gascons who ride with routiers. They are going to be crushed by the French,’ said Blackstone. ‘They have an army of thousands and your Gascon brothers will die at their hands. Would they come over to us to save themselves?’
‘Without plunder? I doubt it, Sir Thomas. How else are they to be paid? They would take their chances with the French.’
‘Chandos told me there was a large force of routiers down in the Rhône Valley,’ said Killbere.
‘And that means they might threaten Avignon and the Pope,’ Blackstone added.
Beyard scratched his beard, his face wrinkled with uncertainty. ‘Gascons already loyal to King Edward ride with the routiers to fill their purses and seize whatever can be had, so that when the Prince arrives, they are not beggars at his door.’
‘He’s right,’ said Killbere. ‘
They’ve nothing to gain by coming over to us. Not now, at least. They’ve free rein to loot and kill but if they took your offer then they are manacled by your command.’
Blackstone knew they were right but also knew it was unlikely that his small force would be strong enough to secure all the towns decreed by the treaty. He needed help but, as Beyard and Killbere had made clear, there was only one good reason, other than loyalty, why fighting men followed one leader or another: plunder. ‘I’ve seen Avignon threatened before and the Pope usually pays off the routiers. Once the Prince of Wales becomes the Prince of Aquitaine then the Gascons will fall under his rule, and they would not defy either him or the Captal de Buch. I can see why they wouldn’t abandon the chance to extort money while they can.’
‘The routiers have not scoured Gascony because of the Captal’s loyalty to Edward. But the territory’s borders will become greater when we and Chandos clear towns held by the French,’ said Killbere. ‘We must give the Gascons the power to determine their own fate.’
‘Then we offer now what might be denied them later,’ said Blackstone. ‘The Gascons can have their pick. The treaty says the towns keep their existing privileges. I appoint a seneschal in each district and make Gascons captains of any walled town. Then they would have a foothold. All they would need to do then is bend the knee to Edward and swear their allegiance. Choosing their own territory now is better payment than gold or plunder.’
Beyard nodded at Blackstone’s proposal. ‘I’ll wager they’ll threaten the Pope, take his money and then turn to you.’
‘Thomas, if they come over to you Chandos might think it’s a show of strength,’ said Killbere. ‘That you intend to seize territory for yourself.’
‘Then he’d be a fool. Gilbert, we don’t know whether the French are hunting us or their attack was just misfortune, but if we stumble across a French army and they strike then it’s simple enough for them to say they thought us to be skinners. Our heads will be on poles. Let us at least gather men at our back. No harm can come from it.’
‘Sir Thomas, I’ll take ten of my men and leave the others with you. It might take me some time to contact those I need to convince. When I send word how will I reach you?’ said Beyard. ‘I don’t know whether I can draw the Gascons away from the other routiers. There are French and Bretons who fight at their side, and the Hungarians would want to be in the front rank if there’s killing to be done. I’ll choose only Gascons and only those I can trust.’
‘How much time, Beyard? A couple of weeks or more, do you think?’ said Killbere.
‘I know my way down there. If we don’t ride into trouble I will be at Avignon in fifteen days,’ said the Gascon captain. ‘And then however long it takes to recruit the men.’
‘And we will be riding several days south,’ Blackstone said. ‘There’s a monastery at Saint-André-de-Babineaux. You know it?’
Beyard thought for a moment. ‘South from here, you say? There’s a Franciscan priory I know in that valley and Saint-André is beyond it, I think. It’s hard riding, Sir Thomas. Valleys and mountains and not many routes in – the River Allier is, what, west or east of it? Is that the monastery you mean?’
Blackstone nodded. ‘Between the Allier and the Loire. Routiers have taken one of the walled towns nearby. Look for us at the abbey. If we ride on we will leave word. Take what supplies you need and choose your men well. Take your best. You’ll need them.’
‘Aye, Sir Thomas.’ The Gascon captain turned his horse and cantered back to his men.
‘Gilbert, are we likely to come across any of your favoured nuns at Saint-André?’ Blackstone teased.
‘God’s tears, Thomas, if it were likely do you think I would let the likes of Will Longdon near such a place? Anyway… no, there’s none that I can remember.’ Killbere looked askance at a grinning Blackstone. ‘And if by chance there are I will make sure your bed stays cold.’ He nodded towards the horsemen riding towards them. ‘Perinne and the scouts.’
Perinne and four of his men drew up. ‘Sir Thomas, we’ve found routiers.’
‘Cade and the Welshman?’ said Blackstone.
The stocky fighter shook his head. ‘No. Might be Bretons. Perhaps some of those who escaped the fight. But they wear the arrowhead blazon that we found at Sainte-Bernice. Same people who slaughtered the boy’s parents.’
‘How many?’ asked Killbere.
Perinne shrugged. ‘No more than we need for a decent fight. About the same as us. They’re camped on broken ground. Boulders, trees, a fast-flowing stream. They’ve lookouts. It would be hard to get close without being seen.’ He looked from Blackstone to Killbere. ‘We could avoid them. Go around their flank.’
Killbere spat. Perinne grinned. The answer was obvious.
* * *
Darkness blanketed the uneven ground. The routiers’ campfires cast their glow across huddled men. Their voices carried across to where Blackstone and his captains lay watching from three hundred paces away. Beyard had not yet departed with his men and he settled on the wet ground with the others.
‘Will Longdon and his archers could kill half of them in their blankets,’ he said.
Blackstone studied the dozen or more campfires, watching as occasionally a figure rose and cast a shadow. ‘Hard to say how many there are,’ he said. ‘But the size of those fires means there must be a half-dozen men or more seeking their warmth. If we shoot into them many of them will scatter into the night.’
‘Let’s go in at dawn,’ said Renfred. ‘Men are stiff and cold, their bladders full and their eyes half-closed.’
‘Perhaps,’ said Blackstone. ‘Where are their horses?’
Perinne lifted his chin, indicating the darkened bulk of boulders beyond the firelight. ‘Treeline comes over those rocks. Hard ground to cover at night. I don’t think we could get close enough to scatter the skinners without alerting them. We are downwind for now so they won’t pick up our scent but look at the way those flames are dancing this way and that.’
‘Breeze is veering,’ said Blackstone.
‘And no telling when it shifts behind us and those mounts get restless once their nostrils smell our stink,’ said Killbere.
‘Sir Gilbert,’ said Meulon, ‘these men are riding hard. They’ve covered a great distance since Sainte-Bernice. If they are good at what they do then they will be in the saddle as dawn breaks. We should kill them now.’
Killbere grunted. ‘He’s right, Thomas. We’ve their firelight to guide us.’
‘I don’t see any sentries posted,’ said John Jacob, ‘but I’ll wager they’ll be somewhere. I’d put them on the rising ground near those rocky outcrops. I could get close enough. The stream there and the breeze in the treetops would mask our approach.’
There was a murmuring of agreement among the men.
Blackstone glanced at the night sky. Cloud obscured the moon. ‘We wait until they are curled in their blankets and the fires have gone down. Fewer shadows but enough light to guide us. Perinne, you and Renfred take a few men apiece and circle around those rocks. If their sentries are there then they might be armed with crossbows.’
Killbere sighed. ‘And the last thing I want when I’m creeping around like a priest leaving a whore’s bed is to have a bolt in my arse.’
Blackstone sensed the men grinning in the blackness.
‘Sir Thomas,’ said John Jacob. ‘What about the boy? Alain de la Grave won’t be easy to keep back with the horses once he learns his parents’ killers are down there.’
Killbere huffed. ‘Christ, Thomas,’ he whispered, ‘we can’t take him. He’ll trip over his spurs or piss himself. He’s no killer.’
‘They raped and mutilated his mother, Gilbert, and the man he thought of as his father was gelded and gutted. He needs to rid himself of that. He comes down with me. It’s time he learnt to kill.’
CHAPTER THIRTY
Perinne and Renfred had bound their boots with torn cloth to deaden any sound of leather scraping against rock. They l
eft their swords with the rearguard and each man was armed only with a knife. They went forward before Blackstone and the others slipped into the darkness. Ever wary of the wind shifting and betraying their scent to the horses they felt their way around the rock formation, guided by the snores of one sentry and the muffled cough of another. Renfred clambered through a break in the rocks and crawled, hand outstretched in the darkness, his fingers finding the way forward until he felt the boulder slope downward. Straining his eyes in the near blackness he made out what looked to be the dark shape of a boulder but one that hunched and moved: the shadow became a man that coughed and spat free the phlegm. Cloth and steel scraped the rock face yards away, followed by the sound of a body falling as Perinne killed the other sentry. Alerted, the wheezing sentry moved away from what little comfort he had found against the boulders. Renfred slipped over the edge and reached out, yanking back the sentry’s head. The man’s knees buckled and before they touched the ground a knife had been driven beneath his chin. His gurgled last gasp for life was choked with blood and the sudden flailing of his arms ended as quickly as it had begun.
Blackstone kept Alain de la Grave at his shoulder. The boy trembled with anticipation and fear but his eagerness to keep up with Blackstone’s fast pace, and not stumble, gave him something to concentrate on. Spurs removed, scabbards discarded, axe, knife, mace or sword in hand, Blackstone’s men had fanned out and swept into the camp. Blackstone moved quickly to the nearest fire, held a restraining arm back against the boy, and plunged Wolf Sword into the sleeping man’s neck. He gestured for Alain to ram his blade into the already dead man’s chest. Blackstone needed the boy to know how hard it was to penetrate muscle and bone. Alain hesitated, but then felt his blade sink into the corpse, and as the body rolled saw the blazon that he had last seen during the attack on his family at Sainte-Bernice. He jabbed the sword in again. Blackstone looked at him and nodded. Now the boy knew how to kill.
* * *
Guillouic, the bastard son of a cobbler from Croissic in south-eastern Brittany, had spent the better part of his twenty-odd years living by his wits, his blade and his ability to inflict terror. He had served with the French army off and on but preferred the freebooting life of a routier where more profit was to be had and unrestricted pleasure indulged in without the discipline of arrogant French lords. The Breton civil war suited him. Three years ago he had joined Breton brigands. A drunken fight with their leader over pay and the savagery of his victory startled even those among them who had wallowed in blood. The humble cobbler’s son was a force to be reckoned with and the fury of his killing meant the leadership passed to him without challenge.
