by David Gilman
Meulon and Gaillard had stopped the advance, but as the wall shield was turned it gave Saquet an open corridor, letting him stride forward with fighting men to hurl himself at Blackstone. Like a battering ram he smashed into the Englishman, rocking him back on his heels. Blackstone used the force of the attack to let his weight spin away, moments before Saquet’s sword thrust came up from below his shield. There was no denying the man’s power and strength and still Blackstone could not believe that this youngster led a band of killers. That doubt did not stop him from slashing down towards the boy’s exposed neck, but where that charging bull had been seconds before he had now spun away and Wolf Sword slashed thin air.
There was no moment for either fighter to brace or find a solid stance, each reacted instinctively and they clashed again. Saquet smothered Blackstone’s shield with his own and beat down on his helm with the base of his sword, its pommel hammering with such force that Blackstone felt as though he was being hit with a mace. Saquet, a slaughterman’s apprentice from the age of five, had waded in gore all his young life. The brutal manner of a beast’s death was a daily occurrence and, just as Blackstone had been taught to carry and cut stone, so too had Saquet been tutored in butchery. A hammer blow to stun a cow into submission and stop its panic from the stench of other slaughtered animals became a personal test of strength that grew ever more powerful until it was said he could stun a beast with his bare hands before using his knife. The boy’s gentle looks belied a born and bred killer.
Blackstone felt that brutal power, managed to raise his shield, heard and felt the strikes and thought his knees would buckle. He rammed into Saquet, smashed muscle and fibre and roared a battlefield curse to wake the dead. Time and again he beat against Saquet’s unflinching shield, feeling his shoulder muscles gorge with strength as he wielded his own attack. Saquet took the punishment, but Blackstone saw that the blows rocked him. No one until now had matched Iron Fist’s strength blow for blow, as once again Blackstone used his crooked arm to give him the angle of attack. He had been taught how to move quickly, never allowing an enemy the advantage of having him in one spot. He shifted his weight, brought his right foot back slightly, then dipped his shoulder and angled the shield, then heaved his weight as if he were breaking down a door. The force of it took Saquet by surprise and caught him on the edge of his helmet. He rocked back, shock registering in his eyes. He was wrong-footed as Blackstone pressed home his attack and, despite Saquet being taller and heavier, he began to fall back from the blows rained on him with a rage that took Blackstone into the heart of an opponent and destroyed him. Saquet resisted, and caught Wolf Sword’s blade on his crossguard, with the unmistakable glint of triumph in his young face. However, his killer instinct and fearlessness were not enough to match Blackstone’s strength and skill. He had made the strike deliberately, forcing Saquet to bear the weight of the attack, giving Blackstone the chance to kick his legs away from beneath him. As Saquet’s limbs floundered, eyes widened in surprise at his fall, Blackstone lunged and rammed his blade through the boy’s open jaw, holding it there with a foot on the killer’s chest, his face welling with blood until the writhing demons that dragged men’s souls into the afterworld ceased their struggle.
It was finished.
No sooner had the routiers seen Saquet fall than they turned and fled. William de Fossat and his men could finish off Blackstone. Iron Fist was sprawled dead, bloody jaw still gaping and those intense blue eyes lifeless. Blackstone spared no thought for his victory. Some of the men began to clamber over the wall in pursuit of the twenty or so mercenaries who ran towards de Fossat’s distant horsemen.
‘Let them go!’ Blackstone shouted. ‘There’s more to come!’
Meulon and Gaillard hauled soldiers from the wall and cuffed them into position.
‘Stand fast!’ Meulon spat at them. ‘Hold your positions!’
Sweat trickled down their faces, and Blackstone took a moment to pull off his helm and wipe his face. Men sagged, breathing hard, while others lay unmoving. The archers were unscathed, as was Guinot, but he must have fought, Blackstone realized when he saw his blood-slicked blade.
‘Meulon!’ Blackstone called. ‘How many have we lost?’
‘Four dead, two wounded,’ he answered. ‘My God. It’s nothing. Defend the house of God and He holds a protective hand over us, eh, Master Thomas? We’ve been blessed.’
‘By a stone wall worth fifty men,’ Blackstone answered. The men raised their heads. He was right. Their efforts with that wall had given them the advantage. Gaillard picked up a fallen coping stone and laid it back in its place and then others followed his example. The stone wall had saved lives.
‘Look to your front,’ Meulon said when he saw de Fossat’s horsemen begin trotting towards them. No hail of arrow shafts would greet them, and if they got close enough with their mounts some of those men would jump the wall. If they did get inside, and de Fossat and his men were experienced enough fighters to do just that, then the defenders would have little chance of survival. They had turned back one onslaught from mercenaries but if a Norman lord and thirty mounted men got inside it would be as devastating as a fox in a chicken coop.
‘Listen to me!’ Blackstone called. ‘They can’t bring their horses over here if we stand fast. Every other man on this front wall. Crouch below the wall, ram your spear shafts into the ground and keep their blades on top. You’ll rip their bellies open. The rest of you, ten paces back, with me. We’ll take on those who get through.’ The grim-looking men shuffled into position. The mayhem had only just begun.
Blackstone lowered his voice and walked among them. ‘Ready yourselves. Spearmen to the front, shield wall to the rear. They’d be stupid to try. But then, some of our noble lords are not known for their clear thinking.’ There was a murmur among the mixed bag of soldiers.
Matthew Hampton called out, ‘What Sir Thomas means is their horses have more sense!’
That caused a ripple of laughter. Blackstone knew they would settle and hold.
‘All right,’ he said. ‘Take your positions.’
The older, more experienced men ushered the others. The wall would do its job again, but a horse, even if it ripped its belly open, would bring down a low stone wall. They all knew that but no one spoke the thought aloud.
Once the men were ready, Blackstone pulled on his helm, and rested Wolf Sword.
His eyes held the far ridge as the mercenaries and de Fossat’s men met.
And then the utterly unexpected happened.
Screams echoed down the road as the slopes were suddenly sprayed with blood. De Fossat and his men trampled and slaughtered the mercenaries. Horses whinnied and slithered as some riders came out of the saddle, but it made no difference, they suffered no casualties as they stood on the torn ground, blood-churned beneath sword and hoof.
De Fossat rode clear and brought his horse slowly towards Blackstone and his men. He stopped fifteen paces away and raised his visor, his dark-bearded face and hawk eyes glaring from the helm like a caged raptor.
‘Well, Blackstone. This is a fine day. You’re alive and well, I see.’
Blackstone clambered over the wall, but stopped short of going too close. ‘I am, my lord. As are you.’
‘Barely. My arse is freezing, my sword needs cleaning and I have a warrant for your arrest and execution. And I need a drink.’
The antagonistic Norman was invited into the monastery and settled by the fire in the abbot’s old quarters. There was to be no act of violence between de Fossat and Blackstone.
‘No wonder the King favoured this abbot; he lived in some comfort,’ de Fossat said, sipping mulled wine and selecting pieces of meat with his eating knife. Blackstone had ensured that Meulon and Gaillard kept the men alert, in case de Fossat was laying a trap. But it was soon obvious that the soldiers who had defended the monastery were compatriots of the men riding with de Fossat. Food and drink was supplied to them. Despite this mixed bag of men having served their own lords,
Meulon kept a wary eye and had sentries posted. He moved among them as fires were lit and those who knew each other talked of the fighting and how Blackstone had taken Chaulion with few losses. His reputation was already being enhanced as the men who had fought gilded their stories with extravagant claims of his fighting skills and how they, numbering so few, had slain so many in hour upon hour of fighting. The greater their stories of Blackstone, the greater their own exaggerated role and glory became.
William de Fossat accepted another mug of spiced wine. ‘This is how it is, Master Thomas. When you left, Jean de Harcourt sent me to the King on behalf of the Norman lords. We are a self-governing Duchy which has always been in the hands of the King’s son. And we needed some security, protection if you will, now that your English King has stepped back from seizing the French crown. And so Jean suggested that I ride to Paris and tell them that an English independent captain – that’s you,’ de Fossat said, tipping his head slightly towards Blackstone, ‘intended to seize Chaulion and that I, and the soldiers offered by my Norman lords, would ride south and make sure you failed. We would seize you and lop off your head and display it on the end of a pole.’ He sipped the wine. ‘That is what I promised, not necessarily what I would deliver. Circumstances change a man’s intentions, like a rock diverts water in a stream. Saquet was that rock.’
Blackstone waited in silence, studying the man he had humiliated at Castle de Harcourt, so who better to promise revenge to the King? ‘And is that still your intention? You’ve helped kill the routiers you sided with. In what position does that place you now?’ He could not deny the sense of unease he felt, still wondering if de Fossat’s arrival was part of a more elaborate plot. Were there men in the forest just waiting for him to lower his guard, and then ride down on them because the enemy was already within?
William de Fossat was weaned on conspiracy and honour that curdled together like sour milk and red wine. Norman lords had their Norse heritage chanted to them while they suckled. A lifetime of hearing La Chanson de Roland, the epic poem of valour recounted at feast days, celebrating French honour, was as much a part of their heritage as Rollo the Viking. And now de Fossat sat, once again, opposite a peasant stonemason who now bore arms. The world turned mysteriously. The scarred face gazed at him.
‘Why not kill Saquet before he attacked?’ Blackstone asked.
De Fossat showed no sign of pretence. ‘Why risk my men? The oaf thought himself better suited to the task of killing you. So, I let him try. Once I saw your defences I knew you would prevail. But, if by some chance he had killed you I would still be in the King’s favour,’ he said matter-of-factly. ‘Your life or death is important to me only as long as either serves a purpose. I am not Jean de Harcourt, Blackstone; I would lose no sleep over your death.’
‘Then you’re not to be trusted,’ said Blackstone.
‘See it for what it is. I return with sackfuls of heads and I tell the King that they are your men and that I helped slaughter them. Unfortunately you had more men than we anticipated and that brutish Saquet was no tactician, but an uncontrollable peasant. His mercenaries fled or are dead, leaving me and my brave troops to engage you in battle. It was impossible to root you out of Chaulion and we retired with honour, having slaughtered thirty or more of you,’ he sipped his wine, ‘depending how many heads I take back. And the mean-spirited King’s son, the Duke of Normandy, will return some of my lands that he confiscated because I have proved my loyalty to his father, the mean-spirited King. We shall all come out of this with our lives and lands intact.’
It was an effective deception and Jean de Harcourt’s plan had given the Norman lords protection now that Sir Godfrey had been disgraced. ‘And what happens to me and my men? Will your King send another force against me?’
‘The King will not concern himself with losing a few walled towns this far from Paris now that I have tried – and failed; he has bigger worries than that. It means that another pawn has fallen in this game of war, but that you are master of what you hold.’
‘I hold it for Edward,’ Blackstone said, ‘not myself.’
‘And he will hear of it. You’re no fool, Thomas, in time you will have control of this area; there are more small towns for you to take, and root out those that can cause us all problems. You will have enough money – the Norman lords will make sure of that, to start with at least – to keep your men paid, but then you’ll take a share of the crops and livestock and raid and take booty.’ De Fossat finished his explanation.
‘Then our business is done, my lord.’ Blackstone stood – an act that once again told the Norman that although Blackstone was in the presence of a superior, this was now his territory and he would do as he wished.
De Fossat’s dark eyes flashed; a superior glare of authority. He lowered the pewter mug and wiped the excess from his bearded lips. ‘Bear this in mind. Your men are paid by Norman lords, so you’re a man-at-arms in our service,’ he said. ‘Do you have any message for those who secretly support you?’
‘Our actions here are message enough.’
De Fossat pulled on his gloves and turned to leave. He had taken only a few strides when Blackstone’s words stopped him. ‘There is one thing: I have no further need of their money. I now have land and supplies.’ He paused to let de Fossat take in his words that denoted his independence. ‘And a cellar full of booty.’
De Fossat nodded. ‘Then you’re no longer a man-at-arms in our pay, but a knight of your own standing… Sir Thomas.’
Blackstone knew there was still an issue that needed to be broached.
‘And what of you and me, my lord?’
The Norman held his gaze. ‘You bested me in a contest. My pride was wounded – it still is. And if you had not been restrained by Jean the madness in you would have slain me. To that extent I am in your debt.’
‘There isn’t one, my lord. Had there ever been a debt it was wiped clean by the role you played in killing the routiers. Even though it was not done for my sake.’
‘A gracious gesture is a sign of good manners, Sir Thomas. Is it possible you aspire to dine at high table?’
‘You once said I fight like a bear-baiting dog.’
‘And so you do.’
‘Then it’s unlikely that courtly manners will calm such a savage mongrel, wouldn’t you say?’
De Fossat smiled. ‘I would say.’ He paused. ‘We’re from different worlds, Blackstone, but you should know that you have my respect as a knight and I would ride with you against a common enemy. But if we find ourselves on opposing sides I’ll kill you when you least expect it.’
The bodies were gathered and laid in the snow, to be kept until spring when the ground softened and they could be buried in a pit. De Fossat’s men cut off their heads and put them in sacks. They left Saquet’s horses and weapons for Blackstone. Those men who knew each other from being in the service of the same Norman lord bade farewell and watched as the horsemen rode up past the hanged mercenaries and disappeared up the track through the forest.
While de Fossat’s men had gone about their grisly work Blackstone had gathered his men together and offered them the chance to return to their own masters. It was an opportunity to leave the service of the Englishman and return to their garrisons and the protection of whichever lord they served. It took only a few moments, as men looked at each other; some shrugged; others passed a comment between themselves. It was Talpin, one of the wall builders, who stepped forward.
‘You’ve bought us a stronghold here and Chaulion, Sir Thomas, and we’ve food in our bellies and money in our purses. I think we could make this wall bigger and stronger, so I’m thinking I’ll stay and see if it can be done.’
‘Aye, and he’ll need me to make sure he keeps it straight and true,’ Perinne said.
A murmur of approval ran through the survivors.
Meulon said, ‘We stay with you as long as you need us, Sir Thomas.’
Blackstone turned to Matthew Hampton standing with those archer
s who had not been taken to the infirmary.
‘You’re asking me to fight next to Frenchies,’ said Hampton, and glowered at the gathered men. ‘Me and the lads don’t much care for them. The Gascons we know about; they’re like us,’ he said, leaning on his war bow, ‘but this bunch of Normans seem to have taken to you and that’s good enough for us.’
26
After two weeks at the monastery where the ailing men recovered, plans were made to demolish more redundant buildings and agreement was reached with the prior, Brother Marcus. The monastery would be given another defensive wall and a rotating contingent of four men who were God-fearing and who welcomed the prayers offered by the monks. Blackstone and his men would honour the monastic Rules of St Benedict, as they were called, in that no man would carry a weapon inside the monastery, and to adhere to this a place would be built adjoining the walls where these men might live. They would eat with the lay brothers, and if trouble passed their door or tolls were refused, then the monastery bell would be rung and men from Chaulion would ride to their aid. It was an enclave held by men who months earlier had never imagined that they could not only co-exist but even fight shoulder to shoulder.
Prior Marcus would send chosen brothers out to the local villagers to proclaim that the killer Saquet was dead, slain by Sir Thomas Blackstone, and that they would no longer be raided. Chaulion and the monastery were held in the name of King Edward of England and no messenger or Englishman who served him was to suffer. In return for their tithes, which would feed Blackstone’s men, they would share the same protection as that offered to the monastery. When spring came there would also be a market held in Chaulion each month where trade and barter would take place and where a tax of two per cent would be levied on each trader from beyond the area. Crime would be punished, enforced by Sir Thomas or his captains. Hangings of miscreants would coincide with market day as a warning to others and for the entertainment of the people. No slaughter of animals was to take place within Chaulion’s walls and no river upstream from the town or monastery would be used for slurry, the washing of carcasses or as a privy. It was to be a new beginning.
