Master of War

by David Gilman

  ‘And more, my lord,’ he answered.

  De Harcourt laughed. ‘You’re learning to answer like him! Yes, I can imagine, but you’ve honoured me with your loyalty to him. You were my best captain.’

  Meulon’s chin lifted in an unmistakable surge of pride from such praise.

  Gaillard rode out from the castle and waited at a respectful distance.

  De Harcourt nudged his horse forward. ‘Thomas, I see your sword is without that expensive scabbard I gave you, so obviously you are ready to fight anyone who tries to stop you. In which case I shall escort you and your men from my lands, by way of safe passage in case others try to impede you, though you understand, I am not helping you. As you outnumber us there is to be an honour­able agreement between us that you will not raid or plunder. You will agree to this for the sake of formality so I am not obliged to lie to the King’s officers if I am questioned.’

  ‘Of course. You have my word.’

  ‘Then let us ride together as far as we can and I will show you the quickest and safest route to Calais.’

  De Harcourt escorted the men north beyond Rouen, into Ponthieu and the castle at Noyelles, and then bade his farewell. The road ahead would stir too many memories, he told Blackstone. It was a place that Blackstone had no desire to revisit either.

  They skirted the woodlands above Crécy, where the charred remains of the windmill stood as testament to the burnt-out lives of those thousands who lay buried in the fields below. Matthew Hampton cast a glance at Blackstone. It was the last great battle they had fought and the place where so many of their friends lay dead beneath the undulating ground. Blackstone’s eyes lingered on the site as they rode past. He saw Hampton’s grim expression and gave a nod in his direction. The past would always haunt them and to experience it meant they were alive. Ghosts would always accompany them no matter how far they travelled.

  On the fifth day they halted on the heights and looked down across the marshlands surrounding Calais. Its streets could clearly be seen, laid out neatly within the rectangular walled town, and the citadel with its keep and curtain walls sat snugly in the north-west corner that faced the inlet whose harbour Edward had successfully blockaded, three years earlier, starving out the thousands of inhab­it­ants. Once Calais was in his possession Edward had brought in hundreds of English merchants to occupy the town, which was well fortified with high double walls sur­rounded by a moat and a long, fortified dyke that could be flooded, not unlike the one that Blackstone had built at Chaulion. There was no sign of Louis de Vitry and Geoffrey de Charny or their army. It was the first time Blackstone had seen Calais and now he understood why his King had besieged it for so long; a direct attack would be impossible. Other than being starved out, having a traitor within the walls would be the only way to seize it. Blackstone studied the shifting sands and marshlands. They gave little choice of approach for an army and he reasoned that de Vitry and the others would line up on the wet sand banks between the castle’s gate tower and the sea. Once that drawbridge was down and the portcullis up they would be inside the walls and the slaughter would begin.

  ‘You’re going into a part of England now, Meulon,’ Blackstone told him, pointing out the town.

  ‘Sweet Jesus save us, then. I hear your food is terrible,’ he answered.

  They gained entry and were met by twice their number of men-at-arms who defended the inner walls. John de Beauchamp, Captain of Calais, had been in Prince Edward’s division at Crécy and knew of Thomas Blackstone, but his caution was understandable when allowing a band of armed riders into the city walls. King Edward and the Prince of Wales had sailed secretly from England and were in the citadel.

  ‘Then my Prince and my sovereign lord will vouch for me. We came to defend Calais,’ Blackstone told him, and repeated the names of the towns and manor houses he held in the south for the benefit of the men who remained with arms at the ready.

  ‘Put your men there,’ Blackstone was ordered. ‘And wait.’

  ‘Do you know who has betrayed you?’ Blackstone asked.

  ‘We do and it’s of no consequence to you, Sir Thomas. I’ll tell the King you’re here. Every man will have his place when the French come.’

  Blackstone settled with his men on the wet ground, backs against the inner walls, their horses taken by others to be stabled. No food was offered and none asked for. As far as Blackstone was concerned there was no point in showing any need for comfort. The men rolled out their blankets and made do with the salted meat and fish they carried with them.

  ‘Like old times,’ Matthew Hampton said and he cut a slice of meat and fed himself.

  ‘And as wet and damp as it always has been,’ Blackstone answered.

  Hampton lowered his voice so that Meulon and the other Normans didn’t hear. ‘Good to be killing Frenchies again, Thomas,’ he said, knowing Blackstone would most likely allow the familiar­ity. ‘But if we’re stuck in here we won’t get much booty.’

  Blackstone chewed on his own food. ‘Don’t you worry about that, Matthew. You just keep your bowcord dry. There’ll be enough killing for us all.’

  Hampton grinned, teeth ragged with meat, and tapped his leather helmet. That’s where his bowcord was and it would stay there until the Frenchies came within range.

  Within a few hours there was a flurry of activity as the inner gates were opened and an entourage of knights and men-at-arms came towards Blackstone’s men. The man who led them, wearing full armour, was the same age as Blackstone and almost as tall, and wore his hair long and parted in the middle and, unlike the last time Blackstone had seen his Prince, he now sported a short beard. But the striding confidence of the King’s son had not altered. He was a fighter like his father. How many sovereign lords would have sailed secretly through the night to aid even a key town like Calais that was under threat? He could have stayed at home like Philip, Blackstone thought to himself as he quickly went down on one knee, followed by the others.

  ‘You arrive like will-o’-the-wisps from the marshlands, Thomas, but far more frightening than creatures of super­stition and nightmare. Get up.’ The Prince of Wales looked critically at the band of men who stood before him.

  ‘To defend our lord’s good name and safety of his city, my Prince,’ Blackstone answered.

  ‘And your Prince. You’ve come to defend me, I hope? You seemed rather good at that,’ he said and stepped forward to gaze more carefully at the archer’s ruined features.

  Blackstone faced the man who had honoured him at Crécy, but averted his eyes for fear of being thought impertinent. ‘My lord, you need no help in that matter. Your fighting skills are known across the land.’

  ‘As are yours, Thomas. We hear that mothers tell their child­ren that if they don’t behave, the scar-faced-devil of an Englishman will come for them in the night and carry them away to purgatory. Merciful God, Thomas, we didn’t expect you to live after Crécy, perhaps you have come back from the dead to terrify us all?’

  He laughed and his entourage visibly relaxed. ‘There are so few of you. What? Sixty, seventy men? A mongrel bunch, Thomas, by the look of them.’

  ‘It’s not how many, lord; it’s how they fight.’

  ‘A good answer. You please us. And if memory serves, your mind is as quick as your impertinence. So, my knight, you ride here not knowing we were already hidden behind the walls. We accept your loyalty and daring with gratitude.’ He paused and looked slightly askance at Blackstone’s men, who appeared little better than brigands. ‘You have no colours, no coat of arms. Unless you are part of the conspiracy and have found a way to exploit our trust and gain entry by subterfuge.’

  There was no hesitation in Blackstone’s answer. ‘If that were the case, my Prince, you and these men would already be dead.’

  Some of those in the entourage visibly flinched. The Prince also looked taken aback for a moment as Blackstone’s eyes dared to look into those of his lord.

  ‘Yes, we believe that would be the case as well,’ he sai
d. He held out his gloved hand. ‘We see you still carry the sword.’

  Blackstone’s hand reached for the grip and as he drew the blade from the metal ring that held it some of the men behind the Prince went to draw their own, but the King’s son made a small gesture that stopped them.

  ‘We know this man. We knelt with him in the mud at Crécy. Many of you were not with us that day, but we shared a moment that will only be forgotten when death takes us. Not so, Thomas?’ He paused and then took the sword that was offered, hilt first. The Prince felt its weight and balance. ‘It’s as we sus­pected, Thomas. As perfect a sword as could be made. When you lay injured you gripped it as a man going to the grave clings to life.’

  The Prince turned the sword and held the blade in front of him, holding it like a crucifix. ‘You were God’s instrument, to save our life. Will you give us this sword?’ he asked quietly.

  ‘Everything is my sovereign lord’s,’ Blackstone answered.

  ‘We are not your King, Thomas. Will you give me your sword?’

  ‘Gladly,’ said Blackstone without hesitation, and hoped the flutter of apprehension he felt at losing Wolf Sword did not show on his face.

  The Prince of Wales still held the cruciform forward. And then after a moment he said, ‘In truth, we think it would see better service in your hands, Sir Thomas. Take it from us.’

  Blackstone grasped the blade above the Prince’s hand. It was a gesture of unspoken fealty.

  Prince Edward released his grip and stepped back. ‘Very well. Remember our King’s orders. The leaders of this army must be taken alive. Ransom and shame in defeat are bedmates to a French King. We wish to exploit that. So, choose your ground.’

  ‘Where will the enemy strike first?’

  ‘Here. Between these walls. Through those gates. And then we pursue them and finish them off so that Philip doesn’t dare try again.’

  ‘Then this is where we fight,’ said Blackstone.

  The young Prince studied him for a moment and then, in a rare gesture, laid his hand on Blackstone’s shoulder.

  ‘Thomas, you cannot defy death forever.’

  Days later Blackstone learnt that the traitor was an Italian mercen­ary, Aimerac of Pavia, who was King Edward’s galley master. He had betrayed his King for money and then betrayed the French for safe passage. Before dawn on the following morning Blackstone stood in the chill gloom of the two walls’ shadows. They had been told that a French army had come in the night and waited in battle order on the stretch of sand beyond the castle’s walls and the sea – exactly where Blackstone had thought they would be. As the grey light brought the day closer those on the battlements saw what appeared to be as many as four thousand infantry and more than fifteen hundred men-at-arms, who readied themselves to lead the assault.

  Blackstone was five paces in front of his own front rank and three paces behind him stood Meulon, ready with shield and spear. The walls were narrow and allowed twenty men abreast to stand. Blackstone’s few English archers took the rear ranks with enough clearance to draw their war bows. Blackstone and his men were too far away from the tower gate to identify the shadowy figure who went forward, but soon afterwards the sound of the drawbridge being lowered was heard as the portcullis was hoisted up.

  Blackstone turned to face the men. ‘Make no sound. They’ll send scouts in first. They’re not the ones we want.’

  Minutes later indistinct figures of armed men ran beneath the portcullis and quickly checked left and right that no ambush awaited them. Deep in the grey gloom Blackstone and his men waited. The scouting party signalled for others to follow. Blackstone looked up as he heard the wind off the sea catch the fluttering French royal standard being hoisted above the tower. Two other banners were hoisted. One Blackstone did not know; the other was that of Louis de Vitry.

  Blackstone and his men raised their unmarked shields.

  Feet thundered across the drawbridge, creaking armour clat­tered as men ran forward shoulder to shoulder to be the first to strike into the heart of Calais and its unsuspecting garrison. Blackstone raised his sword, and heard the rattle of sword and spear as the men behind him readied themselves for the attack. More than a hundred men swarmed beneath the tower’s gate and then, the moment before the portcullis dropped, trapping them inside, and a sudden fanfare of trumpets signalled the attack, the French men-at-arms saw the darkness race towards them as Blackstone and his men hurled themselves silently into their midst. Two volleys of arrows from the rear ranks flew over the men’s heads and brought down men-at-arms at the rear, which gave the others little chance to retreat or to form themselves into defence. Metal clashed on metal and then the devil’s brew of fear and the urge to kill became a sudden roar from Blackstone’s attacking men – a sound even more terrifying after the silent attack – that echoed between the two high walls, which now trapped the leading French units. Blackstone smashed and cut his way forward at the point of the phalanx; Meulon’s spear thrust past his face as its length jammed into the open helmet of a Frenchman at his right shoulder. The heavy figure of Gaillard forced his way forward, plunging his spear into a flailing man, whose body-weight took the spear down with him. Gaillard made no attempt to retrieve it, but drew his sword to hack others. Blackstone barged a French man-at-arms, turned, locked crossguards and twisted, kicked and brought the man down, then rammed Wolf Sword between breastplate and thigh and trampled onwards, as writhing men were gutted and despatched by those following.

  Gaillard was down. A knight hammered a mace across the back of his helmet, covering any retaliation with his shield. Meulon’s huge form forced his spear beneath it, and when Blackstone saw blood suddenly spurt, he reached down with his crooked arm and grabbed Gaillard’s shoulder. The stunned man rolled to one side and a sword suddenly plunged through the tightly fought mêlée and pierced Gaillard’s shoulder. His mail took most of the thrust but blood oozed. Blackstone came up from his half-crouched position and slammed his shield upwards, sweeping the man’s sword arm away, exposing his chest, and then, as if Meulon and Blackstone were one, like a chimera spawned for war, Meulon shortened his grip and rammed his spear beneath the man’s gorge. Then they moved forward: stab, cut and thrust, side by side. Unstoppable. Gaillard got to his knees and was swept up in the surge.

  Faceless spectres loomed from the grey stone walls wielding battleaxe and sword as they tried to halt Blackstone’s advance, but his spearmen jabbed and wounded, as Matthew Hampton’s archers kept their distance and sent another storm of shafts into the French. Blackstone angled the attack, catching those with their backs against the portcullis, caged with nowhere to go except finally onto their knees to yield. The inner gates opened and garrison troops led by the Captain of Calais pressed forward in a steady rhythm.

  ‘Hold!’ Blackstone yelled, keeping his men from rushing for­ward and finishing off the surrendering men. They had already killed more than thirty of the enemy; murdering the rest would have no further effect on the failed attack. And he wanted his men still strong, because there was no sign of Louis de Vitry in this first assault. The sweating, bloodstained men ripped buckles and swords from their enemy. Booty was their reward. Some of the surrendered were felled by blows to quieten their insults at being bested by men who wore no coats of arms. Trumpets and drums sounded in the distance, heralding an attack. Blackstone pushed through the scavenging men to John de Beauchamp.

  ‘Where’s the King?’ he demanded, knowing his men’s work was done between the walls. The portcullis groaned upwards as de Beauchamp barked his answer and horses clattered from the inner walls across the drawbridge.

  ‘He’s attacking from the south gate, the Prince from the north!’ de Beauchamp shouted, and jumped clear as the horsemen pressed between them.

  ‘Sir Thomas!’ Meulon cried as he saw Blackstone grab the bridle of one of the bustling horses and haul its rider down. The man fell heavily on his back, but rolled to avoid the dancing hooves. Blackstone was in the saddle and was carried through the tower
gates by the swarming horsemen.

  Beyond the citadel Blackstone saw many of the French retreating under the English King’s onslaught. There must have been more than two hundred English archers with the King, Blackstone realized, as a swathe of Frenchmen fell from a sudden dark cloud. He scoured the French lines for Louis de Vitry’s banner, but the mayhem of the battle obscured it. And there was still no sign of William de Fossat. Was he biding his time, waiting to strike when the clamour of battle allowed him the chance?

  Beyond the marshes on the spit of sand, horses galloped at full stretch as Frenchmen stood their ground and bravely met the Prince of Wales’s assault. It would be a miracle if they held against Edward’s pincer attack. But where was de Vitry? Where? Neither flank carried his banner, so Blackstone urged the horse forward into the centre as the other horsemen split and joined each of the flanks.

  And then he was suddenly pitched forward. Crossbow bolts thudded into the horse. Its momentum carried it forward barely a dozen paces as its vital organs were hit. Blackstone fell into the marshy ground, the horse rolled across him. Visions of Sir Gilbert Killbere going under his horse at Crécy flashed into his mind. Don’t let me die like that! the voice in his head shouted. He was trapped. His left leg was pinned. Kicking and pushing with his free leg he began to drag himself clear. He was in the eye of a great storm, where an unearthly quiet prevailed. It took only a moment for him to realize that mud and turf had rammed itself between his helmet and ears and that was what had caused the battle to become muted.

  He pulled the helmet free and shook his head, pulling his mud-sodden hair from his eyes. A handful of Frenchmen had seen him go down and were running towards him, accompanied by a knight on his war horse, half a dozen strides behind them, its lumbering gallop kicking clods of mud into the air. Sword raised and visor open, it was impossible not to recognize William de Fossat’s hawk face. Blackstone’s leg sucked clear of the quagmire and, with less than twenty paces before the men were on him, he pulled himself upright and readied Wolf Sword to strike.