Defiant Unto Death

by David Gilman

  ‘Yet still they offer themselves for slaughter. They march onto our swords. We must grant them their desire. Let the river take their blood to the sea so that if God ever gives fish the power of speech – they will speak in French!’

  Men’s laughter broke the spell of exhaustion.

  ‘They will have no victory while I am alive! I do not command cowards! We are a nation of men who cannot be conquered by these French. They are already broken, they already flee – it is their final act of desperation. Stand fast and be ready for victory!’

  Blackstone and Killbere were no different from the thousands of men who raised their weapons and gave voice in answer to their Prince’s command. And the closer the fleur-de-lys came, the sooner Blackstone could have his revenge. The French trumpets called the advance for the great swathe of men to move forward.

  And the French King whom Blackstone had sworn to kill, marched with them.

  English and Welsh archers shot their final volleys into the French flanks, but their lack of arrows meant the enemy came ever closer until finally they reached the English lines. For the first time the archers could not kill enough of their enemy to stop a full assault.

  Cries of ‘Pas de quartier! No mercy! No mercy!’ echoed across the French ranks as the English went down beneath the weight of their assault, butchered where they fell. The Oriflamme would burn their souls in hell. No prisoners were taken. Every man who opposed the King of France would die.

  ‘Elfred! Will! Here! With me!’ Blackstone screamed. The French were upon them. Their sheaves empty, archers threw down their bows and armed themselves with sword and dagger and threw themselves forward. Some hurled stones and then wrestled the French to the ground where, like a pack of wolves, they savaged their victims to death. The horror showed no sign of ending.

  English defiance took hold and broke the French into fragmented groups so that they were attacked and killed from all sides. And they in turn were granted no mercy. Meulon and Gaillard formed shield walls – a few men standing shoulder to shoulder – to deflect attacks on the archers. Guillaume was swallowed by the thrashing blows around him, but Blackstone was helpless to reach him, constrained by the weight of men eager to lay claim to killing the scar-faced knight. Killbere and Guinot smashed their way through and then Guillaume was once again on his feet. Brief, unnatural lulls as men died, retreated or, through exhaustion, simply stopped fighting, gave vital moments of rest. Blackstone could see the French King’s standard still flying, but there were hundreds of men between him and the man he had vowed to kill.

  ‘Sir Thomas!’ Perinne shouted, pointing across the tangled conflict. The flag of Saint George was being carried around the French left flank. They were English horsemen. Edward had sent Jean de Grailly and a mounted unit to outflank the French and attack their rear. Now a different fear gripped Blackstone. No matter how few the horsemen, they could cut through French ranks and reach the King. Blackstone’s prize could be taken from him. He turned back. In the distance behind his own lines he saw English banners where other men-at-arms ran for their horses. Prince Edward was gambling on the outcome of the battle by taking men from the line for a mounted attack.

  Blackstone ran for his horse. Guinot was with him, both men’s lungs heaving from the effort.

  ‘Stay with the shield wall!’ Blackstone yelled at him.

  ‘Never, Sir Thomas! Not today! Not now!’ The old soldier glared, daring his sworn lord to deny him a chance to strike at the heart of the enemy. Blackstone had promised him a fight and he meant to have his day.

  Blackstone knew it too. He nodded. English trumpets sounded, sending the Prince’s defiance rolling like a thunderstorm through the forest.

  Men stayed locked in the death struggles of the battle; others were galloping down the hill’s contour. Blackstone and Guinot led a group of men who caught up with them, and they in turn joined others. A gathering wave of violence swept downhill as men-at-arms hurtled pell-mell into the French. The attack struck their rear and flanks, and as English and Gascon infantry surged against them, they began to break. The French army fought for every inch of blood-soaked ground. English knights were pulled from the saddle, French lances, cut to five-foot lengths for ground fighting, speared men and horses.

  Blackstone’s bastard horse trampled men underfoot, its adrenaline giving it irresistible power. He abandoned any hope of restraining it; lathered in sweat, teeth bared and nostrils flared, it smashed anyone in its path – a path that led to the French King’s standard. Blackstone brandished Wolf Sword. The banner was sixty yards away, surrounded by knights fighting hard to keep it aloft. Where was the King? A bodyguard of men wearing black armour and white surcoats marked with fleurs-de-lys surrounded the flags. The King was hidden among these men, wearing the same surcoat. They yielded to no one and no English knight could break their position. One French knight fought ferociously with a battleaxe.

  Blackstone heard Guinot’s voice rise over the noise of the fighting. ‘The standard! Seize it! Take it down!’

  He was too far ahead for Blackstone to guard him and Guinot was unhorsed; he swept aside lesser men and plunged forward on foot towards the King’s standard and the Oriflamme. His mace struck the helmet from the axeman’s head. It was the King. The blow rocked him, but he steadied himself as the bodyguard of black-armoured men rallied and slew the aggressor. Blackstone watched helplessly as Guinot went down under a flurry of blows, beaten and stabbed to death, not knowing that he had almost slain the French King. The bareheaded monarch bled from a head wound, but still swung the axe, scything a deadly arc.

  Two Frenchmen ran at Blackstone, their lances ramming his shield. The force of his own horse’s forward momentum threw him from the saddle. In an instant his back slammed down, but luck was with him. He fell onto bodies that broke his fall, and the men who tried to press home their attack stumbled on the corpses. Blackstone’s shield took the first blow, its impact lessened by their poor footing. He rammed the first man with the shield’s rim, catching his chin and seeing the jaw shatter and teeth vomit through the blood. The second man was already too close to turn his blade against so he bore the pain of the mace that glanced from helmet to shoulder and back-handed him with Wolf Sword’s pommel. It crunched against the man’s temple, which dented like a cracking egg. His eyes rolled, his knees buckled, and Blackstone knew he was already dead.

  An opening appeared before him in a broken line of fighting men. Thirty paces away the bareheaded axeman turned and gazed directly at him. The King of France recognized the man sworn to kill him. Ranks closed, but the English were there in force. The knight grasping the Oriflamme went down under a vicious attack he had no hope of countering. The sacred battle flag toppled. Blackstone was clawing his way forward, heart pounding, ears deafened by screams and shouts, his eyes locked on his prey. Snared in the scattered sounds an Englishman’s voice called: Yield! Yield, sire! Yield! The day is ours!

  French knights lowered their weapons.

  Twenty paces.

  The King had one hand on a young man’s shoulder: his youngest son. There was no need for him to die. King John’s courage could not be questioned. He had fought to the end.

  Ten paces.

  He turned and saw Blackstone pushing his way forward, then offered his gauntlet to a knight.

  The King had surrendered.

  Five.

  Englishmen turned and faced a grunting, scar-faced knight, sword raised, ready to strike. The old warrior Cobham was at the King’s side with Warwick. He yelled to Blackstone, sword arm gesturing, a look of panic on his face – but the words could not penetrate Blackstone’s rage. The King of France took a step backward, a protective arm around his son, as several English knights grappled with Thomas Blackstone, throwing him to the ground, pressing him into the blood-drenched soil. Blackstone could do no more. He offered no further resistance. His blood-smeared blade lay next to his face, still held by the blood knot on his wrist, and the swordsmith’s mark, the running wolf, etch
ed on his soul as indelibly as it was on the hardened steel.

  In the distance the abbey’s bells rang out the midday call to prayer. The battle had lasted more than seven hours.

  30

  Men left the field to treat their wounds, to find food and water and then sleep away the fatigue that the battle had exacted upon them all. Scavengers from nearby villagers went among the fallen and stripped whatever of value they could find. The thousands of soldiers and men-at-arms who lay dead were left to rot. Only the noblemen’s bodies were recovered and laid to rest in nearby cemeteries. The English Prince and the King of France dined in the royal pavilion as others haggled over the ransoms to be paid by the captured nobles. The prisoners would have to be kept at their captor’s expense until the money was paid, and that could take years. Better that a price was agreed and the Frenchman released with the promise not to bear arms until his debt was paid. The fortunate few who had captured men of great rank sold their prisoners to the Prince, who would make a handsome profit when the ransoms were eventually settled.

  Killbere trudged back to where Blackstone waited. His horse had been injured, but he had sewn its wound and dressed it with salve and, provided the beast was not asked to ride hard for a few days, it would heal. A war horse was a great expense and its well-being was vital for a knight left with nothing but that and his skill as a fighter. The only glimmer of satisfaction Blackstone could rescue from his failure was that he and his horse had survived.

  Killbere made his way through the lines to the marshlands where Blackstone sat using the shallow water to bathe the deep bruises and welts from the blows he had taken. Guillaume smeared the same horse salve across his master’s back where wounds had broken the skin.

  Killbere slumped and splashed water onto his face. It would take time for the dried blood to be completely scrubbed away. ‘Edward won’t see you,’ he said finally. ‘You will not be allowed to question John.’

  ‘I need an answer, Gilbert, that’s all,’ Blackstone said.

  ‘You’ve caused embarrassment and displeasure to a Prince of the realm. He’ll forgive you in time, but for Christ’s sake, Thomas, you tried to kill the King of France after he’d surrendered. Cobham and Warwick think you should be flogged, hanged and left out there to rot with the rest of them.’

  ‘I almost had him,’ Blackstone said. ‘But I need to know where de Marcy is. That at least.’

  Elfred and Will Longdon squelched across the soggy ground to where Killbere and Blackstone sat. Meulon and Gaillard carried baskets of food and wine.

  ‘Sir Thomas,’ Longdon said, handing a wineskin to Blackstone and dropping an armful of food seized from the French camp. ‘They had more food than they could eat. And I’ll wager that wine won’t scour your bowels.’

  Blackstone drank deeply and passed it to Killbere. ‘You should be gathering clothing and valuables,’ Blackstone said.

  ‘Most of it’s gone,’ Longdon said, his mouth full, gratefully accepting the wineskin from Guillaume, swilling away the food in his overfilled mouth. ‘Bastard peasant French robbing their own. We should go and burn the whoresons out of their villages. Need this first …’ he said, pointing to the next mouthful of food being ripped between his teeth.

  ‘Where’s Perinne?’ Blackstone asked.

  ‘Attending to Guinot’s body. We said we’d keep whatever booty and food we found for him to share,’ Meulon said, and slumped onto the ground, pulling back his sweat-soaked mail from his head.

  Elfred cut a thick slice of bread for each man. ‘They nearly finished us, Thomas,’ he said.

  ‘And if the Dauphin and Orléans had not left the field they would have done,’ said Killbere. ‘Mad bastards couldn’t see that. God knows why they went.’

  ‘Perhaps they missed the comfort of their beds and the softness of their whores,’ Will Longdon grinned. ‘I care not. We beat them.’

  The men fell silent as they drank and ate, their exhaustion sobering their thoughts. Recounting in their mind’s eye what they saw, where a false step or unlucky blow could have brought any of them down.

  ‘If the French had not dismounted they’d have worn us down,’ said Meulon. ‘They thought to fight like us.’

  ‘None can fight like us,’ said Will Longdon. ‘We gave ’em a lesson this time, by God. They won’t forget this one, Thomas. We’ll drink and whore on stories of this day for years to come.’

  Elfred showed no sign of sharing his archer’s enthusiasm. ‘Most of my men were killed. God knows how many English and Gascons lie out there. It was close-run. Our Prince will need to supply us with more arrows next time.’

  Blackstone stood and pulled on his leather jerkin. ‘There’ll be no next time, Elfred. The King is taken. France is finished. There’ll be no more war. Better get used to the idea of being a peasant swineherd.’ Swallowing a final mouthful of wine he stepped away. ‘Stay with my horse,’ he instructed Guillaume.

  ‘Thomas?’ Killbere called. ‘Where are you going?’

  ‘I told you. I need an answer,’ Blackstone said as Meulon and Gaillard got up to accompany him but he gestured them to stay, and made his way towards the royal pavilion.

  Killbere groaned. ‘Sweet Jesus, he’ll find himself at the end of a rope if he doesn’t show some respect.’

  Longdon shoved a wedge of food into his mouth. ‘Best get the rope ready then, Sir Gilbert,’ he said as a weary Killbere got to his feet to follow Blackstone.

  The captured nobles were in Prince Edward’s custody. There was no need for them to be guarded, their word was their bond, but an English picket was in place to protect them from further theft of their possessions by light-fingered Englishmen.

  Killbere caught up with Blackstone, who squatted, watching the sentries. ‘I feared you would end the day on a gibbet,’ he said. ‘So I came to help.’

  ‘Then you would be guilty by association,’ Blackstone answered.

  ‘But I wouldn’t do anything to antagonize my King or Prince,’ Killbere said, his gaze challenging Blackstone.

  Blackstone pointed to the pavilion of scarlet silk where the King’s young son was kept.

  ‘Would those sentries know you?’

  ‘The whole army knows me,’ Killbere said, but then relented and looked towards the men. ‘Perhaps not. They’re Oxford’s men.’

  ‘Then you won’t be involved with me if you go and tell them that the King’s servants are commanded to attend him at the Prince’s pavilion.’

  Killbere’s discomfort was obvious. ‘John’s lad? He’s a fourteen-year-old boy. You can’t hold him responsible for his father’s deeds. Thomas, I’ll not be party to murder.’

  ‘And I would not ask it of you. Trust me.’

  Killbere sighed, his indecision brief, then without any further questioning went forward to the sentry.

  There were four servants attending to the boy who duly left the pavilion once the guard had delivered Killbere’s message. By then Blackstone had already slipped between the silken folds and waited. There was no one else, other than the boy Prince and a clergyman, to raise the alarm. The King’s son had been bathed and dressed; a table was laden with food, some half-eaten on a gold plate. The boy knelt in prayer on a richly woven rug, the priest next to him. Low murmurs of entreaty escaped the old man’s lips. It was unlikely his creaking joints would allow him to stand quickly and raise the alarm.

  Blackstone spoke softly; Wolf Sword hovered at the boy’s chin. ‘Do we share the same God, you and I?’

  Their eyes opened and the boy recoiled, but Blackstone kept the sword’s point steady. ‘You’ll stay on your knees, priest, and go back to your prayer. Now.’

  The priest’s bony hands quivered, but he clasped them together and squeezed his eyes shut. The boy hadn’t flinched despite his fear.

  ‘I saw you, sir knight. On the battlefield.’

  ‘And I you, my lord,’ said Blackstone. ‘You called out a warning to your father at each blow aimed by our men-at-arms.’

  ‘D
o you kill me now?’ the boy asked.

  ‘Can a French Prince be trusted to keep his word and remain silent?’

  ‘I am Philip and I give you my word.’

  Blackstone read the boy’s eyes, and then lowered his sword.

  ‘I want to know where Gilles de Marcy is and why he was not with your father when we took the battle.’

  ‘Why is he important?’

  ‘This is not a discussion, young Prince,’ Blackstone answered and then relented. ‘But he professes that God is cruel and that he acts as the hand of God.’

  The priest opened his eyes. ‘He is an abomination. De Marcy’s soul hovers between earth and hell.’

  The boy looked at Blackstone. ‘None the less, he was trusted by my father. If I do not tell you, will you kill me?’

  ‘No,’ said Blackstone. ‘I didn’t come here to cause you harm.’

  ‘And do I have your word, sir knight?’

  ‘I am Thomas Blackstone, my lord, and I give it. So there’s no reason now why you shouldn’t call the guards.’

  ‘Except we are bound by our honour,’ said the boy.

  Blackstone waited. The young Prince got to his feet. ‘Very well. Gilles de Marcy was instructed to take my older brother from the field. For his safety.’

  ‘Where was the Dauphin taken?’

  ‘I don’t know. But de Marcy was released from the King’s service. A bargain was struck. He escorted the Dauphin to safety rather than stay on the field. Brutal cowards are easily bought, Sir Thomas. He has almost five hundred men with him. Routiers. He is his own man now.’

  Blackstone nodded, realizing that was all the information he could expect. He eased away to look through the folds of silk, checking that the alarm had not yet been raised. As he was about to make his escape the boy knelt once again in prayer and said: ‘May merciful God grant our father forgiveness for any wrongdoing, Sir Thomas.’