by David Gilman
‘Nearly there, lads. Keep going. Ten feet more and we’re in,’ he gasped through clenched teeth.
37
The huge banner filled the sky, rippling in the chill breeze off the majestic, snow-capped peaks. As the standard curled and fluttered above the fortress its image seemed all the more alive. The coiled body devoured its prey in a symbol of power and authority, warning any challenger that death awaited those who dared oppose the will of the Visconti family, Lords of Verona. Behind the fortress walls was the cruel and merciless killer who once served John, King of France, and who now led his own army of mercenaries, men dedicated to continuing war in their pursuit of slaughter and plunder under the Visconti flag. More than fifteen hundred of these vicious soldiers stood ready at the castle’s flanks awaiting the command to fall upon and annihilate the two hundred men who stood a few hundred paces away behind the solitary figure of the Englishman, Thomas Blackstone.
His battered shield, like his body, showed the scars of war, but his weariness from pursuing the killer across France and into the foothills of Italy was outweighed by his desire for revenge. The Frenchman had butchered those close to him, and now held his family captive. The two hundred stood ready to die, but if Blackstone had any hope of seeing his loved ones alive, they must stand fast. Blackstone had first to meet the challenge of single combat. He waited a hundred paces in front of his men and looked to the four knights he must defeat before finally facing the killer. If wounds or death did not claim him first.
His war horse champed its bit and eased its stance. The scent of juniper carried on the gentle breeze. Were it not for the inevitability of death it would be a near-perfect day. Blackstone turned in the saddle and looked back at his men; some of them he had known for a decade.
Had it been only ten years since he was a sixteen-year-old boy sailing to war in France? The English hamlet of his birth, with its thatched hovels and lush meadows, lay behind a veiled memory. There had been enough slaughter for ten lifetimes.
A thousand voices and more roared as four horsemen charged. Blackstone spurred his horse forward.
All those years of bloodshed had brought him to this place.
Blackstone made no attempt to avoid the first blow from the horseman who swept a battleaxe towards his unguarded face. He brought up his shield, half turned his head and, using his shoulder’s strength, forced the shield forward to meet the blow. It lessened the impact; his shield took the blade’s bite and as Blackstone’s horse surged forward, he twisted the man from the saddle. Good fortune blessed him – instead of an axe the second man carried a flanged mace, which slammed into his unprotected side. He half turned again as the metal flukes hacked into his shoulder armour, hammering muscle and bone and snapping his head back in agony. The high-backed saddle saved him from being unhorsed. Momentum carried him forward and he swung Killbere’s weapon through his pain in a roundabout sweep that caught the third man-at-arms around his throat. The chain whipped, the spikes digging into the houndskull visor. It wrenched the man’s neck as Blackstone spurred on the horse, whose lunge tightened chain and spike into an unbreakable lock. The man’s neck snapped. Blackstone’s arm was twisted behind him, exposing his chest as he held the mace’s handle. The fourth man came at the gallop tilting a shortened lance, no more than five feet long, like those the English footsoldiers used against French cavalry. Barely an instant before the lance could pierce his armour and heart, Blackstone whipped his shield across. The lance smashed into it, the impact caught him off-balance and he was pitched from the saddle. A roar of victory went up from de Marcy’s men.
Blackstone lay unmoving.
De Marcy’s hands gripped the battlements. His orders were clear: the men he had sent out were only to beat Blackstone’s strength down so that he would be sufficiently weakened for the Savage Priest to ride out and kill him. He was anxious that the surviving men-at-arms did not forget his command. The first man Blackstone had unhorsed was on his feet and running, sword raised ready to strike the fallen Englishman. It would be a killing blow. De Marcy ordered the crossbowmen who stood by his side to kill him. They loosed their bolts without question and the knight below fell ten paces from Blackstone.
The two knights who remained faltered; the warning was clear.
Blackstone eased himself onto his side. The fall had winded him and pain shot through his back. He breathed shallowly, letting the short gasps feed life into his body. The knights dismounted and strode towards him with shields raised, swords ready to strike.
‘You’ll never kill him,’ Christiana said, turning to face the man who had beaten and humiliated her.
‘He’s flesh and blood. He’ll bleed and he’ll die and I will be the one to do it.’
‘Even if he’s wounded, you’ll never defeat him. You’re a brutal savage, but he fights with a different kind of strength. He’ll kill you slowly and you’ll beg for mercy, and he won’t listen. He’ll kill you today. I swear it.’
De Marcy slapped her hard, splitting her lip. She fell against the ramparts, blood pulsing from her nose. Agnes cried out, but Henry pulled her to him. Christiana held fast, desperate not to fall to the ground, but to stay defiant – as Blackstone had always told her.
‘You and your brats will die before I kill him. I’ll throw them down and the rocks that tear them apart will break him.’
The men below ran the last few paces towards Blackstone, who was groggily trying to get to his feet. Their visors were up, the need for cooling air greater than any threat from the downed man. Wolf Sword lay on the ground, out of reach as Blackstone raised himself onto one knee, levering himself up, using his battered shield as a crutch, his body bent in pain. The swordsmen would hamstring a leg, bone-cut his arm, make him barely able to stand against de Marcy.
De Marcy’s routiers chanted for death, their blood-lust wanting to see Blackstone finished. Killbere could barely restrain the desire to go forward. He’s unarmed, for Christ’s sake, he said to himself. ‘Take up the sword, man! TAKE UP THE SWORD!’ he yelled, but the first man had already lunged and Blackstone had still not reached for the forged steel with the mark of the running wolf etched onto its blade. An axe seemed to appear in his hand as if by sorcery, but it had been held in his crooked arm beneath the cover of his shield as he feigned injury, and as the knight struck at him, he moved deftly to one side, a movement so quick that his attacker faltered. Blackstone swung the axe down, striking between poleyn and greave. The armour that protected the man’s knee and leg split, and the severed leg spewed blood across the grass. As the screaming knight went down the axe fell again across the open visor.
The second man faced Blackstone, who had still not retrieved his sword. He had no need; the axe rested in his hand, his battered shield ready for any blow. The knight knew the better man faced him and that to advance another step could signal his own death. A thousand raucous voices settled into an unearthly silence.
Blackstone gazed back at the knight.
‘You think they care if you live or die?’ he said, meaning the massed routiers. ‘You think they understand honour?’ Still the man did not move, weighing his chances. ‘You can live. You’ve fought well. You can join us. De Marcy is going to die.’
The knight shook his head. ‘I’ve seen him fight. He’s better than you know. And you’re injured,’ he said.
The lance had caught the flesh on Blackstone’s side; the gash was held by his mail, but the blood seeped through and the wound would hinder him. He knew that. And so did the man facing him.
‘If I step away his bowman will cut me down before I make five paces,’ said the knight. It was a statement that couldn’t be countered. The man dropped his shield, lowered his visor and gripped his sword with both hands. ‘Defend yourself,’ he said, and attacked.
The men watching could count the seconds before the knight died. One: Blackstone braced. Two: he threw his shield at the surprised man who sidestepped. Three: the axe struck him between neck and collarbone. Four: the man fell unde
r the impact. Five: Blackstone cleaved his armour and mail with three more mighty blows. The dead man’s head fell.
Blackstone tossed the axe away and turned to face de Marcy.
Killbere, the belligerent knight who had fought the great battles for the greatest King, raised his sword arm and marched forward. ‘Now!’ he yelled and hundreds of men surged from the trees and raced to where he stood twenty paces ahead. Blackstone was a hundred paces beyond that, and the Savage Priest’s men two hundred further on.
‘I will kill you for your savagery, and your abominations,’ Blackstone called to de Marcy.
The Savage Priest saw Killbere stride forward and the trees spawn men. No longer did he hold the power that only minutes ago was his. Blackstone’s men might still be outnumbered but their blood-lust would inflict a punishing damage before they were defeated. If he did not fight Blackstone those who followed him would turn their backs, denying him the Visconti’s wealth and power. Gilles de Marcy would have nothing after all these years, except that which he could steal from the dead.
‘Hold her!’ the Savage Priest ordered his men. Two soldiers grabbed Christiana. She screamed, knowing what he was about to do. He snatched Agnes in one hand and grabbed Henry’s collar and hauled them onto the battlements, the sixty-foot drop a toehold away.
‘Blackstone!’ de Marcy bellowed. ‘Choose! Which one should live, which to die?’
Blackstone stared up at his children being held teetering on the edge.
‘Choose! Or they both die.’
Blackstone knew everything had been to no avail. De Marcy would kill his children. Agnes’s plaintive voice drifted across the battlefield.
‘Papa … help us … Papa …?’
Blackstone’s desperation shook him. He pulled his archer’s knife and cut free the leather straps that held what little protection he wore on his legs and sword arm. ‘De Marcy! I’ll fight you without armour. You have the advantage! Leave them!’
The armour fell to the ground, exposing his wound and his vulnerability.
‘Suffering cleanses the soul, Blackstone; you have not suffered enough before I send you to meet your maker. Choose! Now!’
Blackstone knew there could be only one choice. He needed his son to carry on his name. Agnes had to die.
‘It’s all right, Father! Henry called, his voice wavering in fear, but finding courage enough to be heard clearly. ‘Save Agnes. Save her, Father!’
‘All right, boy! You stay strong. Stay with your courage!’ he called back.
De Marcy pushed his arms forward, the children nearly losing their footing. The men below gasped in anticipation. ‘Well? Who – shall – live? Who do you save?’
Beyond love, necessity demanded Blackstone choose Henry, but the moment he made the decision he knew that de Marcy would kill him. It was a game of bluff.
‘Who do you give life to?’ de Marcy bellowed impatiently.
‘Agnes,’ Blackstone answered, knowing de Marcy needed to inflict the most pain. Agnes was a moment away from death. Then Christiana shrieked. The child fell backwards; something had happened on the ramparts. Men screamed; the children disappeared from Blackstone’s view.
John Jacob.
‘Bowmen!’ a voice cried out, the alarm ringing inside the castle walls.
The first six men each side of the Savage Priest died from Will Longdon’s archers, the others turned to face the ragged, soaked men who had already loosed another volley. De Marcy lost twelve men before the shock of the attack turned soldiers and crossbowmen to face the invaders. John Jacob and his men ran along the ramparts; a hundred paces behind them Longdon and his archers killed more men on the walls. A dozen more of Jacob’s hobelars fought in the courtyard, slaying guards with sword and blunt-edged axes, hammering skulls, hacking bones.
Christiana let her weight fall from the man who held her, the sudden dead weight forcing him off balance. Longdon’s arrow took him in the throat; he tumbled backwards onto the rocks below. Killbere’s men roared.
Men still died from the English archers and hobelars. There could be no victory from within the walls. Jacob’s men reached the gates. De Marcy made no move to escape. If Blackstone’s men had wanted to kill him they would have done so already. A thickset, broad-shouldered, crop-headed man, older than Blackstone, his shirt matted with sweat and blood, strode towards him, a gore-slicked falchion in his hand.
‘John!’ Christiana cried, pulling the children to her. She and the children were still close enough to de Marcy for him to strike out. They could not reach Jacob without passing him on the narrow rampart. He lunged for them but Jacob had foreseen the threat and stopped his advance, the falchion poised, ready for a maiming blow. De Marcy abandoned his attempt to snatch Christiana.
‘Are you one of Blackstone’s routiers?’
‘I’m his captain and sworn man.’
De Marcy allowed a sigh, and nodded. The man could not be bought.
Jacob looked over the battlement, letting Blackstone see him.
A thousand men bellowed.
The castle gates swung open.
Blackstone pressed Arianrhod to his lips – and lifted Wolf Sword from the bloodied grass.
38
John Jacob and his surviving men, with Longdon and the archers, escorted Christiana and the children, riding palfreys, from the castle gates.
Blackstone had not moved. He waited for the Savage Priest.
John Jacob stopped ten paces from him.
‘All is well, my lord,’ John Jacob said.
‘Thank you, John. Will?’ he said, seeing a bloodied Longdon being helped along by two other archers.
‘Aye, Sir Thomas?’
‘I’m pleased to see you.’
Will Longdon smiled, the compliment easing the pain. ‘And I you.’
‘You’ll mend?’
‘Providing you find me enough brandywine,’ he answered.
Blackstone nodded. ‘We will. And have these men given an extra ration. Tell one of the captains to send a hundred men into the castle and secure it.’
Longdon smiled and hobbled away.
Blackstone looked up to his son. ‘You made my heart swell with pride, Henry.’
He could see the boy’s tears forming, but Blackstone’s stern look gave him no permission to yield to emotion. He lifted Agnes from Christiana’s arms, flinching from his wound. ‘Were you scared?’ he asked the child who clung to him.
She nodded, nuzzling his neck.
‘So was I,’ he told her.
‘You’re never scared,’ she said.
‘Always, if I think of anything happening to you.’
‘But I’m all right now, Papa.’
He kissed her forehead and returned her to her mother’s arms. He could see bruises and welts through Christiana’s grubby shift.
‘We have clothes for you, and a physician,’ he said, laying a hand gently on her thigh.
‘You would have had our daughter killed,’ she said.
Blackstone could not bring himself to answer the accusation.
‘It would have been better had he killed me. He beat your whore with knotted rope and had me crawl around the yard a dozen times in penance,’ she said. ‘A woman raped who conceives a child is complicit in the act. De Marcy took my last shred of dignity, Thomas. And I am left with the guilt of an honourable squire’s death. I mourn Guillaume more than my own shame. He was the best among us.’
The men stepped away; only Jacob stayed close, holding the lead to her horse, deferentially turning his face away.
Blackstone ignored his presence. ‘You’re my wife, mother of my children, lady of my house.’
She tugged the love token from her cuff and tossed down the embroidered cloth, the winged bird still entrapped – as were they by their destiny.
‘My father’s coat of arms. Did you know?’
Blackstone knew denial was useless. ‘Some years later, yes. It was my burden.’
Neither spoke. Whatever they had was lost
in a long sorrowful look. She finally nodded and kicked the horse forward, tugging the lead from Jacob’s hand, forcing him to step aside. Henry’s horse followed skittishly.
At the forest’s edge, Blanche de Harcourt shook her hair free from her bascinet and rode forward to meet Christiana. Blackstone and Jacob watched the beaten woman press her mentor’s hand to her lips.
‘She’ll be cared for, Sir Thomas. Her wounds will heal,’ Jacob said.
‘Yes,’ Blackstone answered. ‘You’ll have more than my thanks, John.’
‘I’ll take friendship as payment if it’s on offer, Sir Thomas.’
‘Given,’ said Blackstone.
Killbere cantered his horse forward. ‘The castle?’ he said looking at Jacob.
‘Eighty or more of his men dead. Will Longdon’s archers did most of the killing. I’ve left twenty men at the gate; they’re guarding de Marcy and Girolami. Ten of ours dead. Some wounded. His plunder’s in there. Wagon-loads.’
‘Holy Blood of the Cross, a bargain at that! We’ll live like kings. Right, Thomas, are we to fight these dog turds? There’ll be enough slaughter today to last us a while.’
‘Get to your men, John. Be ready for de Marcy’s routiers, they’ll want their plunder one way or the other.’
‘Aye, my lord,’ Jacob answered and ran back towards the line of men formed up for battle.
‘Gilbert, they’ll strike whatever happens to me. They’ll come at you straight on, at the run. You’ve told the men what to do?’
