by David Gilman
It was not enough, and they both knew it.
33
Blackstone led sixty men and the laden wagon through the scented pine forests, climbing towards the route indicated by de Montferrat’s kinsman at the manor house. When the trees allowed them a view of the sky they could see mountain peaks guarding the valleys that would lead them into Italy. Killbere had said little on the twenty miles travelled, other than to comment on Blackstone’s sullenness. He had uttered a reply about being sick of France and wishing for new horizons, but then curtailed his answer to command more outriders to scout ahead. The forest became denser, and gullies and ravines ran like veins down the edge of the track, hidden by tangled undergrowth and fallen boughs, offering opportunity for ambush. De Montferrat’s kinsman had warned Blackstone of banditry from villagers who lived on what could be seized from travellers. They made no threat against the kinsman and their raids were infrequent, and for that reason he never ventured into the mountains to exact retribution. Blackstone wondered, when he had been warned, if the man might have been taking tribute from them. It made no difference; he had been warned.
‘If they come, they’ll come at us from above,’ Killbere said, looking at the slopes that swept away into the treeline above the track. ‘I’d rather we were on a ridgeline than down here. At least then we’d see the bastards.’
‘The old man said the routiers were north of us. There’s no horseman going to attack in a place like this,’ Blackstone answered, thankful that his mind had been turned away from dark thoughts of Christiana.
They camped on a curved plateau, where the road ran straight for three hundred paces in either direction until it curved from sight. That gave a clear view of anyone using the road. On the other side of the track a wall of rock ran several feet high before the forest’s bony roots gripped its crumbling surface. Beyond the rock face the trees grew denser the higher the ground went. The plateau where they settled was covered thinly with trees, and the slope that fell away went down forty feet to a tangled bed of fallen boughs, thorn bushes and wild berries.
As Elfred and Will Longdon’s men unhitched the wagon and hobbled the mules, Meulon and Gaillard instructed their sergeants to post sentries at each curve in the road and for others to find an animal track and go into the forest. The sentries were to lay a rope to guide their relief to where they stood guard. Blackstone wanted no one stumbling through the night.
‘Safe as anywhere, I suppose,’ Killbere said to Blackstone.
‘Trouble is, nowhere’s safe. Where would you attack a camp like this from?’
‘A sudden rush from each end of the road.’
‘That’s what I thought. We’d have nowhere to run, our backs’d be against this drop. And if they had a few crossbowmen and got them up there in the trees, we’d be like trout in a fish trap.’
‘I’ll put the men in small groups and each can defend its ground,’ Killbere answered.
Blackstone nodded: ‘And tell them that if it’s a hit-and-run raid to let whoever attacks escape down that end of the track. We don’t have enough men for ambush or pursuit at night. And no fires.’
Killbere strode away calling for Jacob and Elfred.
Blackstone looked at the sixty or so men securing their horses, and finding their place to fight should it come. Being adrift in enemy territory in a poorly defendable camp would give few men sleep that night. But exhaustion and cold would take them, and that’s when Blackstone, were he to attack a camp like this, would strike – two hours before first light, when men found that half-troubled sleep and they ached from curled bodies desperate for comfort.
Blackstone was wrong.
They came in the depths of darkness. Flickering torches burned like fireflies sweeping down through the forest’s steep hill. The killers knew the hillside, could smell the boar and wolf, find the night tracks of badger and fox. And the sentries’ throats were slit long before the wild men began their rush downhill. They were silent except for the rushing crackle of foliage.
Gaillard was the first to rise up, woken by what sounded like a storm throwing its weight down through the rustling forest. The movement triggered Blackstone and Killbere. The fug of sleep cleared quickly, but there was still a moment while the glimmering torches caused hesitation. Fireflies were the souls of unbaptized children seized by demons. The same thoughts crossed every man’s mind: the ghosts and goblins, the witches and damned were sweeping down out of the blackness to consume their souls.
Blackstone saw his men freeze.
‘They’re men! Raiders!’ Blackstone yelled, breaking the spell.
The moment his voice carried, the attackers gave a mighty roar that struck fear into them all. Wild-looking bearded men, some wrapped in animal skins, others in rough-woven cloth, makeshift armour and helmets, hurled the burning torches into their midst, turning the ground into a hundred fires as they leapt into the clearing wielding axe, spear and sword with a savagery that nearly overwhelmed the defenders. Pockets of Blackstone’s men moved quickly into formation as the wild men threw themselves onto the soldiers’ blades. As each group of Blackstone’s men held their ground, it forced their attackers to manoeuvre around them. Dancing shadows flickered and then darkened as bodies fell across the burning torches. It was as if the great forest had unleashed bears and wolves to consume their prey.
‘Shields and advance!’ Blackstone heard Killbere command, and from the corner of his eye saw one of the groups huddle and then surge against the wild men. Horsemen galloped from one end of the road and struck at Elfred’s men who defended the wagon. They were soon overwhelmed and their attackers threw weapon and food bundles into the arms of the horsemen. The wagon rocked precariously as men clambered and fought, and then a wheel from each axle slipped over the edge. The wagon slewed before settling onto its side as men jumped clear. Blackstone led a group of men towards the wagon’s beleaguered defenders, the uncertain torchlight making the fight ever more ferocious.
One of the wild men swung a battleaxe at Blackstone, who took the weight of the blow against his shield, but the size and power of his attacker forced him off balance. His shield was ripped from his arm when the man swung again. Blackstone went down as a paw of a hand gripped his throat, the man straddling him and bearing down with a knee on his sword arm. Blackstone grasped a burning torch and thrust it at the man, who easily reared back his head to avoid the spluttering flames. Blackstone kneed him hard in the crotch, which weakened his stance, and Blackstone rolled clear. They grappled, first one then the other gaining the advantage. The man’s stench of stale sweat and pungent animal skin filled Blackstone’s nostrils. The battleaxe swung again, the flat side of the blade catching Blackstone’s head. Stunned, he felt the man gain extra strength and pin him but as the axeman reared back to deliver the killing blow he hesitated, his eyes startled by the glinting Arianrhod at Blackstone’s neck in the torchlight. That hesitation was fatal. Blackstone rammed Wolf Sword up through animal fur, then bone and muscle, its blade forced so hard into lungs and heart its tip broke through the base of the man’s neck.
Horsemen galloped away and the wild men ran. The raid was over. They had taken what they could. Sixteen of their own lay dead; others crawled in agony and were despatched. Blackstone’s company lost eight dead and as many wounded. A small price to pay against a greater force. Those who could not be saved were killed quickly; the less severely wounded would be treated. Blackstone ordered their dead to be buried. A Christian prayer would be spoken to keep their souls from being stolen from their graves by night demons.
The sudden incursion of the wild men had caught them unawares. Elfred, dried blood from a scalp wound encrusting the side of his face, trudged back with Will Longdon and the archers, as John Jacob brought back the horses that had been scared off by the attacking men. Killbere and some others dragged the enemy bodies to the edge of the hill and rolled them unceremoniously down into the tangled thorns and undergrowth.
‘They can feed the birds and berries. Better t
han night soil, though they stink more,’ he said.
‘How much did they get?’ Blackstone asked as Elfred reached them.
‘Damn near half of it. Sweet Jesu, we spilled much blood for that plunder, and there’ll be torment due from the devil’s own when we die. But I swear to you, Thomas, I’ll heap more sins upon my head if I catch those thieving bastards.’
The men made no protest as Killbere ordered them into details to bury their dead and gather what was left of the food and weapons. Then, horses and men straining with effort, they dragged the overturned wagon onto its wheels. By the time they had repacked their cargo it was already two hours after first light.
‘We need those weapons and supplies, Elfred,’ Blackstone said. ‘Captain Jacob, take your best men and find their tracks; we’ll be right behind you.’ Jacob and a half-dozen men peeled away as Blackstone turned to Will Longdon. ‘Take six archers and ten men and return to the others. Bring them on early; travel only in daylight. We’ll rendezvous at dusk tomorrow at the Marquis de Montferrat’s, and then we pass through the mountains. We’ll not arrive as beggars in a Prince’s kingdom. There’s to be no relying on others until we make our terms.’
Blackstone and Killbere urged their horses down the steep incline, skirted the brambles and fallen boughs, and rode for the distant forest, followed by those already mounted.
‘God help them when Sir Thomas and Sir Gilbert get their hands on ’em,’ one of the hobelars said.
‘God will look the other way when the terror falls upon the scum,’ Will Longdon said.
‘Don’t you get yourself lost!’ Elfred called as the wagon and escort started down the track.
‘Straight as a yard-long shaft, me!’ Longdon called back.
‘Aye, I’ve seen some of them shafts of yours. Like a damned crescent moon, half of ’em.’
Each raised a hand in farewell.
Longdon waited as his column of men filed past and then, as he reined his horse to fall last in line, the breeze caught a scrap of cloth on the bramble thorns below. A flutter of blue, like a snared bird, creased the pale green material. Easing his horse down the slope he reached across the tangled mass with his bow and lifted the embroidered material. The stitching showed a blue swallow curving in flight. For a moment Longdon puzzled over it, then his mind caught the fugitive memory. Of course – it was Sir Thomas’s. Folding it neatly he tucked it beneath his jerkin.
De Marcy could make no accusation against the Pope for Blackstone’s escape. He had been given all that he demanded, as well as absolution for the slaughter he’d inflicted during his lifetime. That the prize of Blackstone had slipped away meant there were those of the inner court who had warned the Englishman. No matter, De Marcy would strike out and join the Visconti of Milan, the Pope’s enemy, who had more riches than the King of England. Those with wealth and power needed men like the Savage Priest to impose their will, but his mind was now preoccupied with where Blackstone and his family would run and whether he should search for him or continue with his planned alliance with the German and Hungarian routier company across the border. The temptation to stay longer would not abate. A final act to enhance his reputation had been placed before him if only he could bring down the Englishman. There were knights whose fighting skills were legend, and Blackstone was one of them: a beast on the field of battle, consumed with a rage that swept man and horse aside with a focus on destruction that de Marcy understood. It could take weeks, searching for one man and his family, and yet, he brooded, Blackstone had been right there, at Avignon, placed in full sight for the Savage Priest to seize – God’s gift. How far could he have travelled? With bribery and threat he would find out their route. Perhaps it was not too late after all.
Blackstone, Killbere and their men filtered through the darkening forest. Nightfall was at their heels and, if they were to make the rendezvous the following night, they needed to exact their revenge against the raiders and recover what weapons and plunder they could. They had lost the men’s tracks some miles back, but the scouts had fanned out and found the broken ground over which they had travelled. It was only after another five miles that they sighted the men who had swept out of the night.
The area surrounding the village that Blackstone gazed down upon had been fortified with low dry-stone walls, curving and twisting like a writhing snake, making it impossible for riders to strike directly against the village. Sharpened stakes lay between each wall, to maim the horses of anyone foolish enough to attack, leaving their riders vulnerable even if they survived the fall. A high palisade gate was the only way in and out of the village.
‘A ratcatcher’s worth of peasants. Belligerent bastards by the look of them,’ Killbere said.
‘Two hundred fighting men, probably the same again that we can’t see,’ Blackstone answered, keeping his eyes on the hovels, each joined to its neighbour by wicker fences. Fighting through the village, even if they could get into it, would be hard going.
‘We don’t have enough men to attack,’ Killbere said.
‘And I can’t give you cover because we don’t have enough arrows,’ Elfred told them.
The villagers had cut back the edge of the forest on their flanks, leaving stumps and tangled brambles. They would have a clear view of anyone trying to approach, and had made it impossible for an assault to breach their defences without taking heavy casualties.
‘Well, that’s it. We go on. We can’t get ourselves trapped in there, especially at night,’ Killbere said.
Blackstone’s small force would have no chance against the entrenched villagers. He looked across the lowering skyline as clouds hugged the hills. ‘Wind’s from the south. It’ll soon be dark. Elfred, get the men ready.’
‘Fight at night?’ Elfred asked. ‘With respect, Sir Thomas, we’re at a disadvantage and night-fighting isn’t going to favour us.’
‘It favoured them,’ Blackstone answered.
Blackstone ordered the men to gather bundles of fallen kindling and dry branches. The villagers had slashed down the undergrowth but had not gathered all of the felled saplings. As blackness covered the valley, men ran forward and laid the tied bundles against wall and palisade. Within minutes the flames from the resinous pine branches began to consume the village gate. With half a dozen fires burning, Blackstone’s men threw green branches into the flames, letting dense, choking smoke smother the village. Screams and shouts echoed across the stone walls as the villagers’ defensive positions now trapped them. Unable to run between the walls and embedded stakes they funnelled into the only entrance left to them: the flaming gate. As the warriors ran forward in an attempt to push the burning pyres free they were silhouetted against the flames.
A hundred paces into the darkness of each flank Elfred’s archers rained down arrows in a lethal crossfire. As men fell, panic gripped the women and children, who turned and ran back into the eye-watering smoke to try and clamber to safety over the village’s defences. Blackstone’s men waited, clear-eyed, the breeze at their backs. The wind caught embers, and then tinder-dry roofs smouldered and suddenly flared. As the warriors retreated in disarray from the burning gate, Blackstone led his horsemen out of the darkness and into the chaos. As fire jumped from hut to hut and the wind swirled smoke through the narrow gaps between them, the tongues of flame cast the riders’ giant shadows.
The villagers were disorganized, but fought as best they could, some running to protect the women and children, others forming ragged lines of defence, but despite their courage they were cut down by the horsemen. Within an hour those fighters who had opposed them lay dead. Smoke still drifted as first light exposed the village’s charred remains. Blackstone’s attack had killed more than ninety fighters as well as a dozen women whose bodies lay, swords in hand, next to their men. Children had died in the flames and beneath galloping hooves but they were few, which was the only comfort Blackstone could take. The escaping villagers had clambered over the walls, those not caught on the sharpened stakes running into the night
, still guarded by the hundred or so fighters who survived the attack.
Hobelars found a wounded man who quickly confessed where the village hid its plunder. Men dug beneath the charred remains of the village leader’s house and from the cache pit pulled out caskets of plunder, weapons and food. Once the booty was recovered a hobelar cut the man’s throat.
‘A good night’s work,’ Killbere said, grinning, passing a wineskin to Blackstone. ‘There’s food and wine they’d stored for the winter. Panic took their horses, but if we wait a few hours they might wander back.’
Blackstone guided his horse through the smouldering carnage as the men brought the wagon down from the forest. There would be sufficient food now for their journey across the border and when Guillaume arrived with Christiana and the children his reinforcements would have more weapons than when they started.
‘How many did we lose?’
‘Only three. A few wounds. Nothing that won’t heal.’
‘Was there money?’ Blackstone asked.
‘Not a lot. They raided mostly for weapons and supplies by the look of things,’ Killbere said.
‘Share it with all the men when they get here.’
‘Even those who didn’t fight? The others back at the fortress?’
‘Everyone gets a share. Have the sergeants keep the men alert, Gilbert. There are still a hundred or more armed men who escaped and they’ll have their people with them. They could overwhelm us now there’s light.’
He was about to turn his horse when a movement across the valley caught his eye. The long sweeping plain, wide enough for five hundred men to stand shoulder to shoulder, darkened as troops rode into view. It was difficult to see in the faint light what coat of arms fluttered at the vanguard of the approaching army.
‘Damn it, Thomas, I hope that’s not de Marcy. We’ll not outrun him from here,’ Killbere said, and then called for the men to form up as Blackstone stared into the dim light from where the armed men edged forward through the smoke that still clung to the trees and ground.
