by David Gilman
They followed the tracks made by Blackstone’s horsemen that skirted the woodland to their left and led on towards the hollow ground that would afford the men some cover from a biting wind. The smell of woodsmoke lingered and here and there a wisp of it hovered in the still air. Their leader raised a hand. His eyes scanned the bare landscape. There was no smell of food being cooked and no sign of the men camping where the scouts had reported. He turned in the saddle and snarled at the men behind him: ‘Where are they? You said you saw them settle before dark. Out there. In the open.’
‘Aye. We did. They hobbled their horses and lay down their blankets and lit their fires,’ answered one of the men, knowing that the brigands’ leader would as soon cut his throat as tolerate failure.
‘Then where the fuck are they?’ he snarled.
The routiers on the left of the column raised their eyes. The wind carried a different sound, like a flock of birds rising from the forest. As they squinted into the half-light the source of the fluttering sound became obvious. The riders cried out a warning as their horses panicked. Too late. The dark storm of arrows falling from the sky already had a second wave of shadows following behind. Those routiers who wore breastplates escaped the glancing strike of the bodkin-tipped arrows on their chests, but the hurtling missiles pierced thigh, neck and arm. Steel tips caught those who gazed up stupidly at the sky in the face, punctured horses’ necks and haunches. The whinnying beasts and screaming men formed an uncontrolled mass of fear. Men fell; horses landed on top of them. Their leader was already dead, pinned through the throat.
Amid the panic the routiers saw the surge of mounted men-at-arms swarm from the treeline behind the hailstorm of arrows. The skinners cursed, screaming at each other to face the attack, realizing that the English had fooled them by laying down tracks into the open meadow and then moving into the forest at night. And now those who had fallen into the trap were being slain. Most of the routiers tried to flee – they were now too few to fight a pitched battle – but the confusion prevented any easy escape. Fallen horses kicked and screamed and suddenly the three hundred paces from the forest were not enough and the Englishmen were on them. Some, moments before they died, saw the Englishman’s blazon and knew who it was that had tricked them and who would show no mercy.
Blackstone’s horse barged into the routiers’ flank, Meulon, Gaillard and Killbere led their own charge either side, and John Jacob had already ridden past Blackstone. Steel struck bone and shields thudded on impact. A hacking, desperate defence was no use against the impetus of the charging horses whose hooves smashed men on the ground and reared over dead horses. The English slashed their way through; unhorsed routiers tried to turn and run but were clubbed or speared to the ground. Within minutes, fewer than twenty men were left amid the carnage. Back to back they stood their ground, shields raised, swords ready; those who wore stolen armour lowered their visors. The English horsemen barely took breath as they carried their killing forward. The bare-faced knight who spurred his great beast of a horse towards them showed no hesitation, no glimmer of mercy. If nothing else, the routiers knew they were going to die. They had been soldiers, Hainaulters and Germans, Englishmen and French, deserters and pillagers who had formed bands of thirty men or more and then joined others until they numbered in their hundreds and were strong enough to take towns and seize plunder after slaughter. The mercenaries, screaming curses, broke ranks, hurling themselves at the English horsemen. Killbere was tumbled from his horse. They fell on him, raining blows, but he smothered himself with his shield. A cry was heard: ‘Sir Gilbert!’ and others came to his defence; men who were clothed no differently than the attackers cut the routiers down. They were bludgeoned to death and one huge man dismounted and quickly cut their throats.
One routier fought better than the rest and, as the companion at his shoulder went down wounded onto one knee, he stepped in front of him to protect him. The scarred-face Englishman shouted a command and those who were about to attack him stayed their hand and turned their horses. The lone man stood amid the fallen, lungs heaving.
‘Are these all the men in your band?’ Blackstone demanded.
‘There are more, Sir Thomas. They roam the hills and plains. They are everywhere. You English will meet more of them,’ the man answered, raising his visor. His sweat-streaked face was that of an older man. Older than Sir Gilbert Killbere, it seemed to Blackstone.
‘You know me?’
‘Aye. Your blazon and your reputation. I was at Poitiers when you tried to kill the French King.’
‘Which side?’
‘The French. I’m Philippe Bonnet. I’m no knight, Sir Thomas, but my family were not low-born. They held land but lost everything to the English.’
‘And you ride with brigands.’
‘I do. My King’s army had no need for many of us after Poitiers. And I hate you English for the plague of violence you brought on us.’
‘You’re a routier. Don’t preach to me of violence.’
‘Hate can carry a man on a long and desolate road and I have travelled it willingly. But I have need of plunder. How else are we to live?’
‘By not killing your own.’
‘Peasants have no souls to return to God. They’re like beasts of the field. I’m tired. Let’s be done with it.’
‘Where else are the skinners?’
‘Everywhere. They’ll catch you soon enough.’
‘Me?’
‘You’re worth money, Sir Thomas. Dead or alive.’
It was not unusual for those with a thirst for glory and reward to try and kill Thomas Blackstone. The Savage Priest had tried years before and now his body hung on a mountain pass, his skin shrivelled to his bones, blackened by the bitter winds.
‘Your wounded friend?’ Blackstone said, nodding towards the man Bonnet protected.
‘Just that. A friend.’
It seemed to Bonnet that the Englishman understood sacrifice for friendship.
‘It is as it is,’ said the Frenchman.
‘It is as it is,’ said Blackstone.
Blackstone heeled the bastard horse around and the horsemen next to him spurred theirs forward. It took only seconds for Bonnet to be slain and his friend dispatched.
Killbere was carried back to the forest. It took an hour for him to recover his senses after the blow to his helm, whereupon he cursed and slaked his dry throat from a wineskin. Blackstone had never seen him so unsteady on his feet, but Killbere demanded that he be left alone, and the others finally succumbed to his threats and backed away. Henry Blackstone returned with John Jacob and Jack Halfpenny. A dozen men-at-arms and half a dozen archers had backtracked the mercenaries’ route. They returned with a small hay cart pulled by a pair of donkeys and laden with food and wine. There had been a small rearguard with the victuals but John Jacob and his men had not even had to draw their weapons. Halfpenny and his archers killed them from a hundred paces. It had been a successful morning’s killing and the men now needed food – and sleep too, for Blackstone had kept them alert throughout the night in case the routiers had dared to strike in darkness. It would have been uncommon for such men to do so but in the past Blackstone himself had used skittering clouds and temperamental moonlight to assault sleeping troops. Vigilance and the loss of a night’s sleep was a small price to pay to avoid a surprise attack.
The dead were left in the open; what horses survived were hobbled and taken as spare mounts. Anything of value was taken from the dead mercenaries. A good knife, a purse of coins, a fine leather jerkin that would fit well once the blood was wiped from it: all manner of plunder was chosen or discarded as befitted its use or value. Will Longdon took the contingent of Welsh and Cheshire archers among the dead to salvage what arrows they could. Blackstone would let his men rest for the day and night and then take up the ride to meet Sir John Chandos.
Blackstone posted sentries and had fires lit and food cooked. His men ignored the contorted bodies nearby as they ate hungrily.
�
��Ah, Sir Thomas,’ said Jack Halfpenny, his mouth gorged with meat, ‘we should declare this a feast day, the Feast of the Dead!’
‘Aye, Jack, perhaps we should. Let’s not forget there are more of them out there and their swords might well feast on us if we don’t keep one eye on the horizon.’
‘Only need one eye, my lord.’ Halfpenny grinned. ‘An archer’s eye!’ Those around him cheered as Blackstone smiled too, and shared their laughter.
There was a town to be attacked and it was Blackstone’s men who would take the brunt of its assault, and that meant some of those he walked among and who nodded their respect at his presence would soon be carrion for the rooks and crows who now descended on the slain mercenaries. He spoke to those he had seen fight well that day, praised the archers for their skill, shared with the Welshmen the story of how he came by Arianrhod, and then made his way through the slender saplings into the deeper forest seeking a place of quiet and solitude and the stream he knew meandered at the far edge of the forest. He needed to wash the bloodstains from him and try to rid himself of the stench of death.
Intuition guided him through the rising shrouds of morning mist that burned free from the forest floor. A small pond shimmered, its surface disturbed by the air from the fluttering wings of small woodland birds, scared into flight by his approach. A crow crawked its rasping annoyance as the tall creature ventured into its domain. Avoiding brambles, Blackstone stepped carefully over tufted grass as the breeze rattled the bare claws of the high canopy. Forests were where spirits dwelt that could draw a man into their dark embrace. Where once he might have been fearful of legends and folklore, he now ignored his own instinctive warning. He had vowed nothing would ever make him fearful again. Not after seeing the mutilation and murder of his wife and daughter. That fear could never be surpassed.
Chain mail of light freckled through the branches and as he walked deeper sunlight speared the trees until he stepped onto the edge of a small glade. A movement, barely noticeable, caught his eye. He stopped and used a tree trunk to help obscure his position. A fawn raised its head and snuffled the air and then a gentle whimper reached its ears. Its wide-eyed mother edged carefully into the sunlight, alert to danger but not yet aware of the man’s scent. The fawn delicately stepped up to its mother and then the two were gone. There was a brief haunting of colour as the mottled and dead foliage still clinging to the bushes shimmered. Dry amber leaves took the form of a woman’s hair and a splash of sunlight created a face in the hollows. For a brief, stomach-churning moment Blackstone saw Christiana as he had first seen her when he was a young archer. Her copper hair the colour of autumnal leaves and the light on her face. A sixteen-year-old boy falling in love with the woodland image of the girl he would rescue and marry. The breeze turned, the sunbeam shifted and she was gone, vanished like the deer. In the instant he saw her his hand had been outstretched towards her. The illusion had snared him. He rested his face against the weathered tree trunk; it was covered in florets of moss and the lichen clinging to the bark was rough against his cheek. He cursed the grief that still held him, but the memory was quickly put aside as a sudden movement out of the corner of his eye alerted him to danger.
A sparrowhawk swooped at waist height. Despite its eye-blinking speed Blackstone’s gaze followed it. Suddenly its wings rose, stalling its arrow-fast flight, its talons unfurled and it struck down into the grass. There was a writhing struggle as the hawk gripped a viper. The hawk’s beak opened as it tried to tear at the snake, but the viper curled itself so quickly the sparrowhawk suddenly became the victim. Despite the talons piercing its flesh, the snake’s coils wrapped themselves beneath the bird’s wings and around its chest. No matter how it tried to free itself the snake had a firm grip. Blackstone moved quickly but the struggle had ceased: the hawk was motionless, its yellow-ringed eyes staring at him, its tongue moving in silent alarm in its gaping beak. The raptor’s beauty would soon be crushed and without another thought Blackstone put his hands beneath the snake’s coils in an attempt to deliver the hawk. The snake’s head struck at his hand; he pulled back quickly, just in time: a viper’s poison could kill a man or at the very least incapacitate him for days. He tried again; found the place behind the snake’s head, used his free hand to unwind the coils and release the bird. The serpent fought his grip and tried to wrap its yard-long body around his arm. He flicked his wrist, pulled it free and then threw it into the grass. Defeated, it slithered away beneath the brambles.
The sparrowhawk’s wings were still unfurled, its beak, like its eyes, open, but then they closed in an almost silent whisper of breath. It appeared dead. Blackstone turned the hawk curled-talons down, spread the wings in his hand and placed a palm beneath its softly feathered chest. It lay unmoving. Blackstone realized he was holding his breath. He’d now seen that no matter how swift a killer might be, its victim could turn and strike back with equal speed.
The wings suddenly beat as quickly as had his heart in the glade. The sparrowhawk took rapid flight and the woodland hunter was gone. The glade’s light shifted; the pond’s surface remained unblemished. Blackstone waited a moment longer, letting the silence settle over him. Then he turned his back on the forest’s heartbeat, suddenly craving the open landscape and the chance to see the distant horizon.
CHAPTER SEVEN
The following day, after four hours’ ride, Perinne led a dozen men across a shallow ford on the River Aisne. He had chosen the crossing well for the shallows and sparse grasses on either bank offered no cover for an enemy ambush and the way ahead was open countryside. The advance party spread out, searched the ground for half a mile in a great semi-circle and then signalled it was safe for Blackstone and the others to cross. Another hour saw Blackstone’s force riding across undulating plains where pockets of forests blotted the landscape but where there was still no sign of Sir John Chandos. Perinne, riding ahead of the others, raised his arm, beckoning Blackstone to him.
‘Hear that?’ said Perinne.
As they drew closer they heard the steady thud of axe against wood and the murmur of men cursing from the forest that lay four hundred paces ahead.
‘Sounds as though they couldn’t wait to start,’ said Killbere. ‘The more work they do the less there is for us.’ His body trembled. Blackstone looked at him with concern.
‘You’re sick,’ he said.
‘I’m not,’ he insisted irritably. ‘I’m cold. I’m wet and cold. This damned weather is worse than home. Christmas has come and gone and all we’ve had is rain and cold. Cold and rain. Whichever way you say it it’s misery. A man fights no matter what the weather but this time of year there should be snow underfoot. Snow softens the world, brings with it its own warmth, settles like an angel’s wing feathers and cloaks a man in its mantle. My undershirt is soaked in sweat and the wind bites like fleas on an inn’s mattress.’ He drank thirstily from his wineskin. ‘And we should talk less and get on with the King’s business.’
‘I’m pleased to hear you’re in a good mood,’ said Blackstone. There was little point in arguing with Killbere. He had the strength of a bull and despite chills seemed as willing to fight as ever. Men died on campaign from the sweating sickness, others coughed blood from ruined lungs, but Killbere would not be one of them.
As they approached the forest they saw a knight sitting on a tree trunk. His head was bare, his squire standing ten feet away holding his horse and helm. The shield that was hooked across the saddle bore a weathered blazon with a stark red inverted triangle against a dull yellow background. There appeared to be no other soldiers but those who laboured in the forest and the exalted knight Sir John Chandos who casually watched over them.
His teeth tugged at a piece of smoked meat. His beard, cut square a hand’s breadth beneath his chin, broadened his face; a white line was etched across his forehead from where his helm usually sat above his weather-beaten features. Chandos was not born of the nobility but this had not hampered his success as a knight. He was continually rewarded for n
ot only his skill as a fighter but also as a negotiator, a man who could parlay a peace treaty on behalf of the Prince or act as envoy for the King.
‘Sir Thomas,’ he said without standing. ‘I thought I would let my men make a start on your scaling ladders. You’ll not object, I hope?’
Blackstone dismounted and, without looking at the working men, strode towards the seated knight. ‘You can make them and use them if you so choose, Sir John,’ he answered.
Chandos grinned. ‘Ah, no. That’s the risk you must take.’ He stood and gripped Blackstone’s hand. ‘Good to see you again, Thomas.’
Blackstone tried to remember whether he had ever shared the knight’s company. He looked to be at least ten years older than Blackstone, a sturdy man, muscles bunched on his shoulders from the years of fighting, his grey-blue eyes unflinching in their gaze. Chandos saw the crease in Blackstone’s forehead.
‘We nudged each other at Poitiers. You were busy killing. I was at the Prince’s side.’
‘Then forgive me. I had other things on my mind. Am I late?’
‘No. I am early. My men are half a mile back. We raided for four days up country and all we came away with was food. No plunder to be had, but that will soon change when we breach the town walls. If we don’t the day will soon come when I’ll have to pay the men myself and that’s something I would prefer to avoid.’
The knights who recruited troops were paid a regard of a hundred marks a quarter for every thirty men-at-arms they raised. Chandos was held in such esteem by the Crown that he earned twice that. He gave Blackstone an enquiring look; it would always be good to know what others might be paid in the service of their King. Chandos’s face broke into a grin, teeth uneven through the unruly beard. ‘I heard the King paid for your men at Calais when you were pissed and disappeared for all those months. You were honoured.’ Chandos’s blunt approach was both a query and a challenge. Was Thomas Blackstone still such a common man that he would be subservient to the renowned Knight of the Garter or would he take umbrage at being taunted as a drunk? If his pride was offended then Thomas Blackstone’s reputation was ill founded. Chandos needed the legend to be intact if they were to prevail against a well-defended town. Anything less meant that Chandos had a weakened man as part of the assault.
