Viper's Blood

by David Gilman

  Without hesitation Will Longdon’s archers turned their bows towards the snarling faces in the shimmering torchlight and as Blackstone raced for the steps screams echoed against the walls. The bowmen were slaughtering the townspeople, but, shields held high against the arrows, the French soldiers came on, trampling their bodies underfoot. To French eyes, this was to be an easy victory. Fewer than fifty men appeared to have breached the walls. They looked to be routiers and they were now trapped in the confines of the square. Crossbowmen sheltered behind the advancing soldiers and four of Longdon’s archers died on the walls.

  Blackstone reached the windlass. He jammed in the turning pole. Normally it took two men to turn the drum but, letting Wolf Sword dangle from its blood knot, he grasped the handle and heaved his weight against it. The chain bit and the great door creaked. Meulon was suddenly at his side and lent his weight. The door was barely halfway up. ‘Enough!’ Blackstone said and Meulon jammed the holding rod into position.

  They turned for the square. A hay cart blazed; shadows loomed high on the walls. They hurled themselves into the fray. Renfred, Perinne and John Jacob were shoulder to shoulder holding ground; Killbere was to one side and it looked as though he had been separated by a mixed group of troops and townsmen. The townsmen’s fury and terror made a heady mix as the torches illuminated a scene from the underworld. Dogs howled and barked; some driven mad by the smell of blood panicked, snapping and snarling at both attackers and defenders. Both sides slew them. Will Longdon ordered some of his men to keep shooting at the surging crowd as Jack Halfpenny and Thurgood ran further along the wall with three other bowmen and loosed arrows into the Frenchmen’s flanks.

  Blackstone glanced over his shoulder. Where was Chandos? He turned around and saw the flames illuminating the throng of men and women who were still surging forward. Their weight of numbers might push Blackstone’s few men back through the very gate they had raised. Killbere had cut down four of the attackers but he was overwhelmed and fell beneath repeated blows. Blackstone turned again, Meulon at his shoulder.

  ‘John! Perinne!’ Blackstone yelled. They saw him move towards Killbere and within a few strides joined him. Thirty paces away Gaillard and his men had raised a shield wall and that had slowed the French advance; his men were thrusting beneath the wall into those who pressed against them, making no distinction between those they struck, turning the square into a charnel house more terrifying than any priest’s threat of purgatory. Women writhed, screaming from their wounds; soldiers fell to their knees, hands grasping at entrails spilling from pierced bellies.

  ‘Get him back,’ Blackstone shouted to the men-at-arms who had manoeuvred themselves to join him. Two men grabbed Killbere and dragged him into an abandoned building. ‘Stay with him!’

  Several men were now at Blackstone’s shoulder and with a skill born from years of efficient killing they moved forward in a wedge like a broadhead arrow, forcing the French back yard by yard in a grunting, sweating trial of arms that few could match. Blackstone reached Gaillard, saw the arrows still cutting into the French. Panic was claiming the enemy.

  As John Chandos and his men stormed through the half-raised gate the looming shadows of Blackstone’s men methodically killing anyone who challenged them almost made the veteran knight falter. He had never seen so many being slaughtered by so few.

  And then he brought his men to bear and the surge forced the French to turn and run.

  CHAPTER NINE

  Blackstone and his men drew breath and allowed Chandos’s men to relieve them. They had done what had been asked of them. They gathered in the corner of the town square and let the sounds of the killing recede down the alleyways. Will Longdon accepted the resupply of arrows from Sir John’s levies and distributed two sheaves to each man. They had lost four archers; one of the Cheshire men and three of the Welsh had been brought down by crossbow bolts and their bodies now lay against the wall alongside the four men-at-arms killed in the fighting. Meulon and Gaillard set a defensive screen around the men who rested and guzzled water, sluicing the smeared blood from their faces. Blackstone was inside the room where John Jacob and Perinne attended Killbere. The space looked to have been used by guards. A couple of old stained straw mattresses lay abandoned, one of which now gave some comfort to Killbere, who was still unconscious.

  ‘I see no sign of injury, Sir Thomas,’ said Perinne as he unbuckled Killbere’s breastplate while Jacob eased off the veteran knight’s helm.

  ‘I saw him go down under the blows,’ said Jacob. ‘There’s no blood on his scalp but he took some hard strikes.’

  Blackstone knelt and raised Killbere’s head, and using a wet cloth wiped away the splattered evidence of the close-quarter fighting. Killbere, as always, had stood firm in the attack; he could sustain wounds better than other men. His lips moved as the cool water soothed him. Blackstone dribbled brandy onto them from the flask. Killbere spluttered, his eyes half opened, and he gazed at the man leaning over him. Shadows cast from the burning torches shimmering across his face. A scarred face, hair matted with sweat, features caked with dirt and blood.

  ‘Mother of God, Thomas, you look like a devil’s imp. Don’t grin so. You would scare a child from the womb,’ he said weakly. ‘I was clubbed is all, leave me be,’ he protested, trying to rise and push Perinne away, his fist curling in the stocky man’s leather jerkin, but he had no strength and lay back, sighing with the effort. ‘A few moments’ rest and I shall be ready,’ he said. He grunted, allowing Blackstone to half raise him and put a ragged blanket behind his head as a pillow. His eyes closed again. Blackstone took a swig of the brandy and passed it to the others. The three knelt for a few moments, unwilling to leave Killbere’s side. Blackstone looked over his shoulder into the night.

  ‘They’ll take the keep without us,’ he said, ‘and that means they’ll seize the gold. Chandos will take the glory for it and the King will reward him.’

  Killbere’s eyes opened. ‘Gold…?’ he muttered. ‘Thomas… do we not have it? The fight goes on…?’ He tried to raise himself but Blackstone placed a hand on his chest, gently restraining him. ‘Keep your hands… to yourself…’ Killbere complained, resisting the pressure. Then: ‘Do your work, man!’ he hissed, his fierce countenance startling all those around him. ‘Get off your arse and find the damned gold,’ he demanded. The effort proved too much and he slipped back onto the pillow, but his eyes glared at Blackstone and the others as if asking what it was they were waiting for.

  Without another word Blackstone obeyed the man who had first taken him to war and who in Blackstone’s eyes was the bravest of men on the battlefield. Pulling on his helm he stepped back out into the night. His men raised their eyes.

  ‘We go back to the fight,’ he said. ‘We’ll not let Sir John’s fingers alone caress the Lamb of God.’

  The men grinned and got to their feet.

  Blackstone turned to Will Longdon. ‘Choose six archers to stay. Jack will be in command, Robert with him.’

  Halfpenny and Thurgood stood eagerly awaiting Blackstone’s orders. ‘You’ll take position and shield Perinne and six men-at-arms,’ said Blackstone. ‘You are to defend Sir Gilbert who is in Perinne’s care until we return.’

  ‘Aye, lord,’ said Halfpenny as Perinne and Longdon quickly chose the men to stay. There was no need for Blackstone to linger; each man knew his duty, and all would die before anyone breached their defence of the veteran knight now lying unconscious.

  *

  Blackstone led his men across the square, stepping across the torn bodies, which lay three deep from the earlier assault. They moved cautiously into the darkened alleys narrow enough to allow only four men abreast through them. It was unlikely any of the townsmen would strike out at them now that the initial defence of the town had failed and Chandos’s men had forced their way towards the keep. Here and there bodies lay in doorways, blood smears showing they had been caught outside and had tried to beat down the doors that those inside would not open. Some o
f the wounded moaned and squirmed but Blackstone’s men ignored them; there was no need to give them a quick death, they had tried to kill the English and now they had to suffer. Suffering was good for the soul.

  Villagers’ livestock wandered through the town, some panicked by the scent of blood and the cries of fighting. Backlit by the flames from a burning stall a cow stood in the street gazing forlornly at Blackstone’s men; sheep the size of dogs flocked in groups of ten or more, running and stopping and running again, unsure where to seek safety. The fighting must have broken down or burnt their pens. Blackstone’s men ignored the bizarre sight. If they survived the night they would feast on mutton. Somewhere a pig squealed. It had fallen under a blade.

  Other than the animal pens the town had not been torched; it was to be kept intact because Chandos wanted to claim it in the name of King Edward and leave sufficient troops to hold it. It could serve as a defence in the east once Edward had seized Paris. A chain of encircling towns clawed back from the French would form a belt of steel to help protect the city. The men trudged through the streets, senses alert, eyes straining in case anyone threw missiles from the upper floors. Rain came and went, flurries dashing against man and beast as the cold, hard drops danced on the cobbles yet Blackstone’s men still sweated from their previous efforts, their undershirts stiff with it, and breath and perspiration steamed from their bodies in the biting cold.

  The clamour of the fighting ahead – together with screams of agony from man, woman and beast, and the plaintive howling of an infant – guided Blackstone to where the streets grew wider until they flared into another broad open square in the middle of which stood the squat three-storey keep. There were enough bodies lying at its gates to show that the French troops had retreated inside and Chandos and his men had pursued them. The stench from the killing would soon be foul and Blackstone was in no doubt that the devil would be dancing with joy.

  Blackstone halted the men. Some of Chandos’s soldiers were killing the wounded in the square and from the darkness of the streets howls from women told their own story. The French knight’s banner still flew from the top of the keep – he had not yielded the last of his defences but was fighting to the bitter end. Such fierce resistance meant the defenders retained their honour in their attempt to protect the Dauphin’s gold. Blackstone knew he would have to get inside and force his way to the strong rooms or cellars, wherever the defence was the heaviest, because that was where the prize would be held. Narrow corridors and tight stairwells were hard places to fight in. A man could barely wield a sword and the ground favoured the defenders. His archers would be useless. He spat. There was no other way. Get inside and rout the bastards out and pray to God there would be no conflict between his men and Chandos’s over the plunder.

  He was about to stride across the square when he saw movement in the shadows beyond the keep. Had it not been for the shifting clouds and the moonglow, which momentarily made the shadow become a man, he would not have seen the priest who scurried with half a dozen soldiers at his back. They carried no torches and their stooped figures moved furtively but rapidly into the church door that was only just visible down the length of the dark street. The soldiers’ shields did not bear the three black stripes and ram’s head that was the town commander’s blazon. The glint of light showed a silver lion on a black background, claws unfurled, its hungry red tongue protruding from the gaping jaws: a savage beast whose silent roar was known to the fighting men in Normandy and Picardy – and Englishmen had faced it at the battle of Poitiers. The blazon belonged to an old warrior, Robert de Fiennes, now Constable of France. As the first officer of the Crown he commanded the army, and his authority was second only to the King. But now he served the Dauphin.

  Darkness swallowed the men. The noise of fighting increased from the keep; those of Chandos’s men who had been killing in the square ran into the building. Blackstone turned for the dark passageway leading to the church. Let the devil have his fun: an angel had just touched Blackstone’s shoulder. Sir John Chandos was fighting in the wrong place. The French commander’s defence was a ruse. If the Constable’s men were in the town they were there for only one reason. The gold.

  CHAPTER TEN

  They reached the church door and squatted by the walls, letting their breathing settle as they listened for any movement that might warn of approaching danger. Longdon’s archers would struggle using the long bows in the narrow street but he positioned them so that they could cover the square surrounding the keep. Should any French defenders try to escape they would run into English arrows.

  Blackstone laid the palm of his hand against the iron-studded church door and pressed it gently with his shoulder as John Jacob took hold of the iron ring to raise the latch. Together they eased open the door. The smell of damp from the cold church wafted across their faces and somewhere beyond the vast stone floors echoed the scrape of metal on metal. Blackstone crouched and ran quietly towards one of the great stone pillars that supported the vaulted roof. A few windows offered scant moonlight and as his men filtered in and waited, bent at the knee, swords in hand, they listened, heads turning slightly trying to locate where the soldiers had gone with the priest. They heard another door close somewhere near the altar, and after a quick look to see that there were no men waiting in ambush, Blackstone strode towards the sound. Their boots creaked and the jangle of belt and mail seemed deafening in the stillness. Blackstone raised a hand to slow those following. There was barely enough light for the dark forms behind him to see his command, but their senses were sharpened and they obeyed.

  Muffled voices murmured somewhere close by.

  John Jacob, at his shoulder, whispered, ‘The crypt.’

  Blackstone nodded and went forward, feeling his way past the altar towards a gaping black hole whose steps led downward. The palm of his hand against the rough stone wall guided him for he was soon in pitch darkness and fearful of stumbling and alerting those who were somewhere ahead. He widened his eyes, desperate for any mote of light to reach them, and then he saw a flicker some indeterminate distance ahead. Torchlight glimmered behind the door frame. He told John Jacob what he had seen and each man in turn passed back the information. Blackstone edged forward along the passage – like the street, too narrow to swing a sword. As they got closer to the light the voices became more distinct and they heard what sounded like a metal rod or blade sliding against a metal ring with a high-pitched screech. Blackstone blindly felt around the door frame until his fingers touched an iron sliding bolt, its worn handle big enough for a man’s fist to curl around. He reached back to touch John Jacob and moved his face close to his ear.

  ‘There’s no room to fight here,’ he whispered. ‘The crypt must be behind this door. Ease past me; there’s a bolt halfway down the right-hand side. The hinges are inside so it will open inwards. Heave it open, John, and we’ll go in. Wait for my command.’

  He felt rather than saw John Jacob nod his understanding as his squire eased past him. The next man in line was Meulon and Blackstone pressed his hands against the big man’s chest. ‘Step back. Be ready. We go through the door,’ he whispered, needing to give themselves room to rush the crypt once the door was opened.

  Blackstone’s right hand curled around Wolf Sword’s grip, his gloved left hand held its blade halfway down. He would thrust and stab the moment he was inside.

  ‘Now,’ he hissed.

  The door slammed open into a broad, low-ceilinged room. Stacked four-high on each side were stone coffins that bore the chiselled blazon of the ram’s head. The final resting place of the lord’s ancestors. In the middle of the room a priest bent over two chests. One was closed with an iron bar fitted through steel rings at each end that would enable men to bear its weight. The half-dozen soldiers were bending to the task of lifting one chest and readying the other. None held a weapon in their hands and their sudden cries of alarm were deadened by the crypt’s confines and the coffins. Blackstone’s men attacked silently. The priest cried out an
d was pushed to the ground as the soldiers dropped the chest and attempted to draw their swords. Blackstone went for the farthest men, barging aside the two nearest. The force of his charge allowed Meulon time to kill one and for John Jacob, who was a pace behind him, to thrust his knife into the other’s neck. Blackstone rammed Wolf Sword’s tip into the open-face helmet of one of the men on the far side of the chest and slammed his elbow into the other, who collapsed. Blackstone leaned against Wolf Sword’s hilt as the blade pierced the fallen soldier’s chest. He writhed but Blackstone’s boot pressed hard into his stomach as Blackstone withdrew the blade and pushed it into the man’s throat.

  The other two soldiers of the half-dozen men had been behind the open door, which caught one in the face when it was slammed open. Gaillard struck him with his fighting axe, which gave the other Frenchman time to draw his dagger and lift his shield. He was ready to fight but John Jacob’s momentum carried him forward and he wrapped his arms around the shield, smothering the Frenchman’s efforts.

  ‘Kill him!’ Jacob yelled as the knife’s blade skidded off his shoulder guards. He might not be as lucky with the next strike. There was no room for spear or sword in the corner where Jacob grappled with the man. Meulon half turned and lunged bare-handed past Jacob’s face at the soldier’s throat. Bones cracked. The man gasped and then Jacob’s thumbs were in his eyes as the man tumbled with Jacob on top. His knife hand wavered but the Englishman tore the dagger away and pushed its blade hard and fast beneath the rim of the man’s helmet.

  Meulon grabbed Jacob’s belt and, despite his weight, hauled him free from the sprawled man and then, in case the twitching body was not dead enough, snapped the man’s neck with the heel of his boot.

  The priest cowered as Blackstone stood over him. The crypt was suddenly crowded with men who barely had room to move.

  ‘Outside!’ Blackstone ordered. ‘Tell Will to keep his men in the street. Everyone else in the church. Stay silent. Wait for me.’