by David Gilman
‘She’s safe!’ Blackstone said clearly, looking directly at the condemned man, and saw the understanding on Jean’s face. ‘And your family are under my protection!’
Jean de Harcourt’s eyes spilled tears. Blackstone’s stature on the wild horse, controlling its power beneath him as men-at-arms galloped and foot soldiers ran to attack him, proclaimed his fearless contempt for them.
When the armed men were sixty paces away, Blackstone nodded a final farewell to his friend and kissed Wolf Sword’s blade in salute.
‘God is with you, Thomas!’ de Harcourt cried out. And then laughed as Blackstone called out to the King, boxed in by the marshal and his knights.
‘You’re a craven bastard of a king! Dog shit sweetens the air better than your presence on this field of cruel injustice. Know this, John of Valois, I am Sir Thomas Blackstone, I slaughtered your army at Crécy, I seized your towns in Normandy and Gascony, and I will stand at King Edward’s side and see you defeated. You are my enemy. I will come for you for the harm you have done this day.’
Then his knee pressed the stallion’s flank, turning it directly into the advancing men, arcing Wolf Sword down in slashing blows that split helmets and skulls. Spears jabbed but his shield took the low-angled thrusts and the horse’s iron-shod hooves trampled the attackers. He had drawn the men from the column, a feint to shatter the line. The horse turned again and within a dozen strides bore down on Guy de Ruymont. Blackstone’s eyes held those of the terrified man.
‘Mercy, Thomas. My family …’ he said helplessly.
Without remorse, and ignoring the momentary image of the man’s children playing with his own, he sliced the blade across de Ruymont’s throat, severing head from body. The torso plumed blood, its hands still gripping the horse’s reins, staying upright long enough for the horse to gallop wildly into the flanks of the men protecting their King.
And long enough for Blackstone to raise the sword above his head in a final farewell towards Jean de Harcourt. The executioner’s blade fell onto his friend’s neck as the men-at-arms gave chase, but Blackstone was already beyond their reach, galloping across the open meadow known as the Field of Mercy.
Blackstone rode hard towards home until darkness smothered the forest track. There would be no pursuit or likelihood of ambush until morning. And then he and Christiana and the children would run for safety further south. Had Guillaume already taken them to Chaulion? When daybreak came King John’s men would be at Harcourt and hours thereafter at Blackstone’s hamlet. He loosened the reins and let his horse’s instinct find its own way through the night towards home. But at the first lifting of darkness the breeze warned him of disaster – the acrid smell of burnt timber and smouldering thatch. And when he came across Marcel’s slaughtered body on the track his worst fears were realized. He waited in the trees above the old fortified house, the surrounding barns and peasants’ homes – burnt-out; ghosts of smoke drifted from the blackened timbers. He stayed motionless, searching the devastation for any sign of life or of those who had taken it. As the smoke parted he could make out the bodies of villagers dangling at the end of ropes. His horse threw up its head, nostrils flaring as the stench of death reached them. He spurred it down the hillside and with sword in hand eased his way through the tortured village. Nothing had survived. Dogs lay hacked and speared alongside men, women and children. Farm animals had been taken, except for the cows that lay beside the gore of their own spilled entrails. The blackened doors to the manor house lay open and as his horse’s hooves echoed across the threshold into the courtyard he saw his servants’ bodies, their blood already congealed. The raiders must have struck before nightfall the previous day, when he was at Rouen.
‘Christiana!’ he called, waiting, hoping that she had hidden before the attack had reached the home. His horse stood steady amid the carnage. Trained for battle, it awaited its master’s command. Blackstone dismounted. The enemy was long gone, or they would have attacked in the confines of the courtyard. He ran up the steps, calling out her name and those of his children and of Guillaume, their protector.
Tables and benches were overturned; his three hunting dogs lay dead on the reed floor of the great room. The blackened remains of burnt tapestries clung to the stone walls, but his gaze was taken to the fireplace and the huge chestnut beam that lay across the broad grate. The naked body of Old Hugh, dried blood on his face and a gash in his chest where his heart had once beaten, stood in grotesque welcome to his master’s homecoming. Each hand was nailed into the beam. The attackers had crucified and then tortured him. Crudely written words on a piece of cloth hung from the servant’s already cold body. Blackstone pulled the stained linen free. The words chilled him. I believe in a cruel God. I am his wickedness expressed in anger. The cloth was from one of Christiana’s dresses.
An avenging horde had fallen upon them. King John was devout; these were the sentiments of a man possessed by evil intent. It was true that the French King lived in fear of conspiracy; he had already shown that he would strike at the heart of those against him, but he would not twist his devotion to God in such crude terms. He was king by divine will; he would not perceive himself as the hand of wickedness. No, Blackstone realized, this attack was committed against him by the Savage Priest, sent by the beleaguered King to rid himself of those who plotted, or those who knew the intentions of the conspirators. A purge of violence would sweep across Normandy, just as Prince Edward’s chevauchée scoured the south.
A reckoning was at hand.
Blackstone felt a stab of fear. Where were his family and Guillaume?
23
Blackstone stepped over the bodies of his servants. The attackers had taken all the food from the kitchen and slaughtered his people where they stood, or cowered. Beatrix lay, eyes glazed in death, a meat cleaver loose in her fingers and a dead mercenary with a slashed neck a couple of paces away. Amidst the carnage he found a half-eaten ham and an unbroken bottle of wine; after feeding his horse, he ate and drank his fill. His pursuit might take days and he did not know when he would eat again.
The heavy clouds moving in from the west told him there would be more rain later that day. The stiffening breeze played across the treetops, leaving the stillness of the ruins below to taunt him. Where once had been the sound of children’s laughter, a woman’s shout to her husband, a man’s voice raised in answer, was now silence. The bodies lay where they had been killed. The wild boars would soon emerge from the forests and gorge on the corpses. This was no time for sentiment or sorrow at the destruction of his home and the slaughter of the people he had vowed to protect. The bodies of his wife and children were not among the slain.
There was hope.
There were three tracks that led in and out of the hamlet, wide enough for a wagon, but there was no sign of any fresh wheel marks. That meant Guillaume might have left in good time on horseback. If he had followed Blackstone’s orders and waited the day and night as instructed, the raiders would have them. Now that the King had decided to kill or capture those he thought were against him, Sir Thomas Blackstone’s family would make a prize catch. And he who held his family held Blackstone.
All the horses were gone, most likely taken by the raiders. Only the old swayback that had brought them from Paris had been slaughtered. Blackstone rode around the smouldering village; the torn earth meant the horsemen had come in from the Harcourt road. He wondered if the Countess had escaped in good time. The pitted track suggested there must have been fifty or more riders. Blackstone rode slowly for the first two miles; then he found a blood trail on the road towards Chaulion. He found the bodies at the side of the road. One man lay sprawled, partly covered by the tall ferns. Another lay twenty yards further on, his body half on the road, half in the trampled foliage. A running battle had taken place. Flies buzzed and crows flapped stiffly away as he moved through the wet ferns and found more bodies, swords by their sides and blood splattered on the nearby leaves. Four were Blackstone’s men, the others he did not recogniz
e. It looked as though they had fought a rearguard action. There was no fair-haired boy, no ringletted daughter showing among tangled stems. No embroidered dress, the same warm colour as her hair, that Christiana wore when riding. Blackstone caught his own sense of desperation and acknowledged his heart’s entrapment by his family.
If Guillaume had had some warning of the attack and disobeyed Blackstone’s orders, his family would be safe behind Chaulion’s town walls. The men who had done this were unlikely to lay siege to a walled town held by fifty of Blackstone’s men.
He urged his horse on in fear for his family and a deepening hatred for Jean le Bon – King John ‘the Good’ – who had executed his friend so cruelly and sent killers to his home. It could be no other than the Savage Priest who did the King’s bidding. The man Christiana had urged him to kill.
Guillaume had killed Marcel and then turned back to the village. Panic gripped him until the galloping horse’s urgency focused his mind into an iron-strong determination to do as Blackstone had commanded. Save his lord’s family. Marcel’s confession of betrayal laid bare King John’s trap. Jean de Harcourt and his conspirators would be snared at Rouen at the Dauphin’s feast. Guillaume realized King John had played his hand well. When Guy de Ruymont leaked the information to Blanche he knew she would ride to warn her husband, and that the trusted servant Marcel would be used to draw Blackstone away from his home and his family. The favoured servant had been bought by de Ruymont over the months. A lifetime of sleeping on cold floors and endless hours of labour could render the most loyal susceptible. Marcel had been offered more silver coin than he had ever seen and promised a more exalted position in de Ruymont’s own service. Slowly, as a creeping sickness sucks life from the body, his loyalty had been bled from him. Old age would be soothed with comfort and status. And if the servant had failed and Blackstone had chosen to stay with his family then King John’s killers would already be on the road. Either way Blackstone would be caught in the net.
Christiana refused Guillaume’s demand to leave immediately and seek refuge at Chaulion as Blackstone had ordered. She argued, demanding he ride after Blackstone and warn him.
Guillaume’s love for his master and his family was as deep-rooted as the memory of the terrifying fear those ten years ago, when Blackstone the English archer had pulled aside the curtain of the boy’s hiding place in the castle at Noyelles. Blackstone had given him life and honour. Fear was something to be overcome, spat out like the poison it was, and Christiana’s fear could throw them to the wolves. He grabbed her, risking rebuke at his disrespect for her status. Countess Blanche de Harcourt might already be taken at Rouen because of her own desperation to warn her husband. Sir Thomas would do what he could, but he would not sacrifice his life needlessly. Now Christiana had to make a decision. She could ride to Rouen, blinded by emotion, and play into the King’s hands, or she could submit to her husband’s command and allow Guillaume to take her family to safety. The King’s mercenaries would be here soon after first light. Would she abandon her trust in Sir Thomas’s skills as a knight? For a moment it seemed that she would strike Guillaume, but she relented and obeyed the man entrusted with her family’s safety.
Guillaume picked out three of the best horses: coursers – big, powerful hunters that would carry them far and fast. Christiana had gathered bedrolls for the children and packed food and drink. Fearful servants were calmed; they would come to no harm providing they declared their loyalty to the King and their denial of Blackstone. Guillaume redistributed the provisions between the three horses and threw down the bedrolls. No unnecessary weight would be taken on their escape. He told Christiana to dress the children warmly.
Guillaume took Henry into the stables. As simply as he could he explained the bare truth. His father was in danger and would return to them, but men were coming to the village to seize him, his mother and sister.
‘What will they do to you?’ the boy asked.
‘I’m your father’s sworn man. They’ll kill me.’
The boy thought for a moment. ‘What do you want me to do if that happens?’
Guillaume tucked his sheathed dagger into the boy’s belt. ‘This was mine when I was your age. I once threatened your father with it because I was trying to protect someone. I want you to protect your mother and sister if anything happens to me. Can you do that?’
The boy nodded, uncertainty clouding his thoughts for a moment. ‘Yes,’ he said decisively, knowing he would push the knife into anyone who threatened his mother and sister.
Guillaume had Henry take one of the horses from the stall. The boy had only ridden palfreys – reliable but less spirited horses than the big courser he would now have to manage, the one his father rode when not using his destrier. Holding the reins the boy gazed up at the flaring nostrils. Guillaume watched him raise his arm and let the horse snuffle his hand. It shifted its weight unexpectedly; this stranger was not the usual stable-hand who groomed and fed him, or the tall man who could command him.
‘Come,’ Henry said calmly to the horse, ‘we have to go a long way. You’ll be all right. You’ll run faster than any of them with me on your back.’ Henry allowed the horse a moment to listen to his voice and then gently but firmly tugged the reins. Blackstone’s son would do well, Guillaume decided. They would be forced to ride hard. Christiana would have no choice but to carry Agnes, held close to her.
Guillaume picked half a dozen armed men to ride with them for protection; then he summoned the villagers. He offered assurances and told them the King’s men sought Sir Thomas and that their lord’s orders had been made clear. Defame and deny the man who had protected them these past years. A few called back asking why danger was suddenly upon them. There was no time to explain – he urged them to do everything the King’s men demanded. Their lives were in their own hands. John’s men would soon be there and they were to obey Sir Thomas’s command.
At first Henry struggled with the horse’s power, slowing the party to a canter. Guillaume rode close, one hand ready to snatch at the reins, but the boy’s determination kept him in the saddle. They were barely three miles from the house when one of Guillaume’s men cried out a warning. Guillaume turned in the saddle and less than half a mile back five horsemen gave chase. He realized they were probably scouts for the main party. As the track rose up he could see beyond the trees and the smoke already filling the sky from the burning village. There would be no mercy given to Blackstone’s people.
‘Stay on the road, Henry! I’ll follow!’ he shouted to the boy. ‘Hang onto his mane! Gallop, boy!’
There was no time to wait for an answer, or to offer any soothing comfort to the frightened boy. Guillaume turned the horse and spurred back to join his men. Agnes was bound to her mother by a broad swathe of embroidered linen and Christiana spurred the horse upwards to crest the hill. Life or death was moments away. Guillaume’s sword was already drawn as he shouted commands to the rearguard. The men turned to meet the attack head-on and Guillaume led them. Seven to five, the advantage was theirs. The men clashed. Sweat-streaked horses whinnied, men bellowed curses, striking each other in desperation. Guillaume parried a blow with his shield and thrust his blade beneath his attacker’s exposed armpit. He wheeled the horse and slashed the back of the skull of another man who was besting one of his own men. The horsemen were common hobelars; they wore no coat of arms, had no colours of the King, or of a lord. They were hired men – and they were as fierce as Guillaume’s, who held their own for only moments longer. Two defenders were already down, unhorsed, one of them trampled and killed; the other ran for the safety of the forest through waist-high ferns. Guillaume called to the man, but he was already being pursued and seconds from death. Guillaume took a fierce blow and reeled in the saddle. Two men attacked him simultaneously and as one beat savagely against his shield the other swung a cutting blow across his body. Guillaume pressed tight with his left leg and kicked his horse around with his right; the momentum pushed back the shield attacker and allowed h
im to parry a sword strike from the other. The swordsman was committed, the momentum of his horse carrying him past Guillaume, who struck down across the man’s exposed neck. Guillaume’s horse churned the ground as it wheeled to his command and he fought off the second man, who made a mistake in his panic at seeing his companion’s death, and allowed Guillaume to lunge beneath his guard. Blood seeped below the man’s jerkin onto his legs from a stomach wound and as his head lowered in disbelief at the pain that suddenly gripped his guts, Guillaume slashed again. The man rolled like a drunk from the saddle and lay unmoving. The remaining attacker in the ferns turned and galloped back towards Blackstone’s village.
Others would soon be in pursuit, and it would be a far greater force than the few men they had just fought. Four of his men lay dead; two remained unharmed. The men gazed wildly at the spiralling smoke. They were soldiers who had fought for years and finally settled under the protection of their Lord Blackstone. They had married their whores and borne children and their families were back in the village.
‘No further for us, Master Guillaume, if you please,’ one of them said, the horse beneath him skittish from the scent of blood.
Guillaume nodded. Life was precious, but a point came when something more was demanded.
‘Good luck to you,’ Guillaume said, granting them leave to turn back.
‘And you,’ the second man answered. Then both men wheeled their horses and headed back to the devastation that surely awaited them.
Guillaume watched them for a moment longer: drink-rotted soldiers who would kill without conscience sacrificing themselves at last for something that had some meaning in their lives.
He urged his horse on; there were those he had sworn to protect.
Blackstone skirted the crossroads at Chaulion’s monastery. The walls were manned by more men than usual. Blackstone held off, keeping to the safety of the forest. He waited until a cloud slipped across the face of the sun, so that the men’s faces were less shadowed. There wasn’t a man he did not recognize. He was safe unless the raiders had breached the walls he and his men had built, and his men had joined the enemy. Trust was a currency in short supply. Blackstone had weeded out most of the scum from the men who looked to him for command, but there was always a risk. He rode forward.
