Viper's Blood

by David Gilman

  The men turned and shuffled their way out. ‘Captains stay here,’ he said. ‘Gaillard, there’s air enough down here for these torches to burn. Go forward and see where this crow was sending the soldiers with these chests. Take one of the men with you.’

  Gaillard ordered Renfred to join him from the other side of the door and picked up one of the fallen torches, then went on down the narrow, dark passage with the man-at-arms at his heels. The priest pushed himself back against the wall, knees drawn up, a hand clutching the silver crucifix at his chest, lips silently moving in prayer. Blackstone nodded to Meulon, who threw open the chests. The church’s silver plate was in one, gold and silver coin in the other.

  John Jacob sighed. ‘This would buy a town, Sir Thomas. We could all retire with this.’

  ‘Priest,’ Blackstone snarled, ‘how much is here?’

  The priest’s desperation to find the right answer was obvious. He stuttered. ‘I don’t know, thousands… Spare me… Twenty, thirty thousand…’

  Meulon’s eyebrows rose. It was a fortune.

  The priest barely drew breath. ‘We had yet to finish counting… I beg you, do not kill me…’

  ‘Do you not have enough faith in your saviour to meet him in the afterlife?’ said Blackstone. The tip of his blade hovered beneath the man’s chin. ‘What good are you to the people that were forced at sword point to fight us?’

  ‘I could not stop Sir Louis… He… he is fiercely loyal to the King and to the Dauphin… We were ordered on pain of death to secure the coin.’

  ‘How long have the Constable’s men been here?’

  ‘Yesterday. They came yesterday for the coin.’

  ‘But English troops have been watching the town. They saw no sign of them.’

  ‘The passage… it runs two hundred yards; there’s a barred entrance behind bushes and trees and then open ground to the forest,’ said the priest.

  ‘Their horses must be back in the trees,’ Meulon said, poking one of the bodies with his boot.

  The priest nodded. ‘Yes, yes. That’s true.’

  Gaillard and Renfred returned from the passageway.

  ‘Does it go beneath the walls?’ said Blackstone.

  The Norman nodded. ‘And then there’s open ground to the woodland beyond.’

  Blackstone looked down at the priest and pressed the sword point into flesh. A trickle of blood ran from the slight cut. It was enough to frighten him more. ‘Lucky you told the truth. Why shouldn’t I kill you? You serve no purpose.’

  ‘There’s more,’ the priest gasped. ‘Another five thousand… please… I’ll show you where.’

  They dragged the priest to his feet and he winced as his sandalled foot stepped in blood. He was bundled back into the stairwell and up to the nave where Blackstone’s men waited.

  ‘Across the street,’ the priest whispered.

  Once outside they could hear that the fighting continued in the keep. Blackstone called in the darkness to Will Longdon, who quickly shuffled past his archers.

  ‘Have the French broken out of the keep?’

  ‘No. They’re being butchered where they stand. I reckon they must be holding every room and passage. Sir John’s men have a fight on their hands.’

  ‘Will, stay here. We’re going across the street. No one must get into the church.’

  Blackstone quickly followed the priest and as they went into the building opposite they could taste the sharpness of a furnace that was long since cold.

  ‘Light them, my lord,’ said the priest, gesturing to the cresset lamps on the walls. Meulon and Jacob touched flames to the oil lamps and the glow filled the room, revealing the blackened coals of the furnace and four stout wooden workbenches where roughly hewn stools showed that five or six men would have worked at each bench. Leather buckets sat at the foot of each stool. Blackstone ran his hand across the work surfaces, scarred with the signs of men striking iron-tipped dies to mint coins. He picked up the broken pieces of a die and rubbed his thumb across the iron cast on the end of the stub of wood. It was not difficult to picture the gold and silver being smelted and, when cold, hammered into coins. Each die would have a life of a few thousand strikes before becoming unusable. These dies were not that old: the ends of the punches not sufficiently flattened by repeated blows from a mallet.

  ‘The soldiers made sure the dies were destroyed so my lord Sir Louis could not mint more coin.’

  ‘And the gold and silver?’ said Blackstone.

  ‘Stolen plate. I salvaged what I could for the church but the Constable’s men insisted they take that as well. We are all helpless when men desire gold and silver.’

  Blackstone tossed the broken pieces aside. ‘And the five thousand?’

  The priest went to a corner of the room and took a metal spike from a workbench. He levered up a floor plank, went down on his knees, reached inside and strained to lift a sack out of the hole. Gaillard quickly smashed his heel down and broke another plank and then bent to lift the weight clear. He dumped the sack on a bench and untied the cord that held the opening. He dipped a hand inside and came out with a fistful of minted gold and silver coins. He grinned in the flickering light. ‘The Lamb of God has been saved.’

  ‘So you too were helpless when it came to gold and silver,’ said Blackstone to the priest.

  ‘It can buy food for the people.’

  ‘It can buy escape and a life of comfort in a convent,’ Blackstone said.

  ‘Sir Thomas, we could rest through the winter without more effort,’ said Gaillard.

  ‘We’ll all benefit from it,’ said Blackstone, ‘but we stay silent about this until I say otherwise,’ he told the men. He pulled the priest to him. ‘What’s your name, priest?’

  ‘I am Robinet Corneille.’

  The men laughed. The priest shrugged. There were times he wished his name did not mean what it did. There was always fun to be had with the sobriquet. Especially with the English.

  ‘So… Corneille the “crow” priest, what is this?’ Blackstone asked, touching the small pewter emblem of a flask stitched to the priest’s cloak. ‘This is from Canterbury. You’ve travelled in England as a pilgrim?’ The flask was supposed to contain drops of water from a miraculous well.

  ‘Years ago, my lord.’

  Blackstone grunted. Perhaps this crow priest knew the ways of the English, which might make him less troublesome than another rural French cleric. ‘Do you have medicine here? Can you administer to the wounded?’ he said.

  ‘I have little skill, lord, but I have stitched and treated wounds and I have some knowledge of how to bleed veins and administer potions.’

  ‘Then you have some use after all,’ said Blackstone. ‘Your miserable life might still be spared.’ He pushed him into Meulon’s arms. ‘Bring this thieving crow and see where else he’s feathered his nest.’

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  As Blackstone withdrew his men from the church and the area around the keep, the bodies of the citadel’s defenders were being tossed from the windows into the street below. The search was going on inside for the money but Blackstone had already ordered the chests removed from the crypt. He and his men made their way back to the town square where Jack Halfpenny still held a defensive cordon around Killbere. Blackstone hauled the priest into the building where his friend lay unconscious.

  Perinne looked worried. ‘He’s taken a turn for the worse.’

  ‘Use your skills on this man,’ said Blackstone to the priest. ‘If he dies you die with him.’

  The priest sank to his knees and pulled open the bag of medicines that had been retrieved from the church. ‘If he dies it is God’s will.’

  ‘Then pray it is not His will that you die with him,’ said Blackstone. ‘Perinne, stay with him and watch the priest. If he does anything that you think causes Sir Gilbert harm, kill him.’

  He went outside to where the men were gathered and saw his son lead two donkeys into the square through the gate.

  ‘That’s the
third time your boy has come inside the walls,’ said Jack Halfpenny. ‘Once Sir John’s men had stormed through the gate and we held this position he came looking for you. And then he saw the hay carts and brought in the donkeys, said our horses could do with the fodder before Sir John’s men took it.’ Halfpenny grinned. ‘Did it all on his own, Sir Thomas. I offered him no help because we were protecting Sir Gilbert.’

  Blackstone watched a moment longer as Henry whipped the donkeys and guided the remaining hay cart towards the gate. The boy was soaked from the night’s rain and his efforts must have made him sweat as much as any of the fighting men, but he looked neither left nor right as he went about his task. He gave no glance towards the men-at-arms or archers who now gathered around his father as Sir Gilbert was being attended to. The boy sought no acknowledgement or sign of approval.

  ‘He left his post and the horses,’ said Blackstone and Halfpenny’s smile faltered.

  ‘But, Sir Thomas, the lad –’

  ‘Left his post. I’ll deal with him later.’ He pointed to the chests that had been brought from the church. ‘Secure them in one of the rooms. Post a guard.’

  Halfpenny pointed to several men and did as he was ordered. Will Longdon waited for his orders but stood close enough to Blackstone so that only he could hear what he had to say.

  ‘Henry used his noggin, Thomas. Thought it through, saw the opportunity to help us all. A punishment would be unkind.’ He pulled his helmet from his head and rubbed his sweat-soaked hair. ‘And, dare I say, unjust,’ he added.

  ‘You sound like Sir Gilbert. Why does everyone think I am an ogre to my son?’

  Will Longdon shrugged. ‘He’s a boy who yearns for your approval. It doesn’t matter that he’s your son; he knows he won’t get special treatment. Thomas, I remember waiting with the Shropshire men at Portsmouth before the invasion in ’46 and Sir Gilbert arrived with a sixteen-year-old archer in tow. Him and his brother were wet behind the ears. Neither had known the fear of battle but Sir Gilbert spoke up for you. I remember him telling us veterans your name, said none of us could pull the draw weight of your father’s war bow that you carried, and said that you protected your brother and that you were both his sworn men. I remember them words from all them years back because he said any act against you and your brother was an act against him. You was given protection and if that’s not special treatment then I don’t know what is.’ Longdon pulled his helmet back on. ‘Begging your pardon, Thomas.’ He turned back to his men.

  ‘Will,’ Blackstone said, halting Longdon. ‘Well said. Have one of the men fetch my saddlebags.’ Longdon nodded and walked away.

  Blackstone remembered the trepidation he had felt when first taken to war and the uncertainty at being placed with the veteran archers. Will Longdon was right. Blackstone and his brother had been given a chance to prove themselves under Killbere’s protection. And there was no harm in one of those archers who had shared his journey through the war years reminding him.

  ‘Sir Thomas!’ a voice called from across the square. Blackstone turned to see Sir John Chandos leading his bloodied men. Behind him twenty or so Frenchmen, some wounded, were being herded forward. One of them had the bearing of a nobleman. Chandos grabbed the proffered flask from Blackstone and guzzled water. He slurped, spat water into his hand and sluiced the sweat and blood from his face. His men settled in the town square and availed themselves of the water troughs. ‘God was merciful, Thomas. We killed more of them than they us. We will have a mass said for our fallen and get about burying our dead.’

  ‘There must be close to a hundred townspeople slain, Sir John.’

  ‘Aye, I know.’ He took another drink and looked back to where the bodies still lay three deep across the cobbles. ‘We’ll drag them into one of the houses and burn them.’ He cleared his throat and spat phlegm. ‘We were hard pressed. The bastards had courage. And him,’ he said, nodding towards the knight who stood, unbowed by the possibility of imminent death or the wound that trickled blood on his bare head. ‘De Joigny fought well but refuses to tell us where the gold is. There was nothing in the keep.’

  Blackstone was no stranger to fighting in the narrow streets of city and town and knew that those citizens who had been slain would be fewer than those who remained hidden. ‘You still want to hold this town for the King?’

  ‘I do. I’ll leave two-thirds of my men here; that’s a strong enough garrison. I brought only a small contingent with me. I’ll not be short-handed for the war. We found food and wine stored in the cellars. It will be enough until spring.’

  ‘Then bury their dead,’ Blackstone said. ‘Give them a Christian funeral. Ease their resentment at us killing them and at them losing the town. Share the food; leave them with a fair-minded captain. There’s less chance of them coming out their hovels and alleyways to cut your men’s throats at night.’

  ‘Good reasoning, but it was de Joigny and his men who pushed these people at sword point onto our blades. And I have promised to ransom him.’

  ‘You give your word of honour to men of honour, Sir John, not a man who uses the people he is sworn to protect as shields for his men. Spare the Frenchman and you’ll lose the town in weeks. Hang his men and behead de Joigny as his rank demands and hold the town for Edward.’

  ‘Christ, Thomas, you’ve a ruthless heart.’ Chandos sighed. ‘Aye. I understand what you’re saying. But although they’ve stripped the dead there’s little plunder to be had for my men; I can at least ransom him.’

  ‘Your men will be honoured and rewarded by the King. The mint here is no more. The dies are broken. The silver and gold was hidden in the church’s crypt. The Constable’s men were already here to take the coin back to Paris or to pay routiers to attack us day and night.’

  Sir John’s jaw hung open. He blinked. ‘What?’

  ‘I have the gold. Probably thirty thousand moutons and a chest of silver plate that I want as reward for my men. We scaled the walls and found the gold for the King. It’s a small enough payment.’

  ‘It’s yours!’ said Chandos, slapping Blackstone on the shoulder. ‘The coin. It’s safe?’

  ‘Over there. Guarded by my archers.’

  ‘I’ll be damned. Any other surprises you have for me?’

  ‘There are probably a handful of the Constable’s men beyond the south wall in the woods. Nothing more than a rearguard with their horses.’ He glanced up at the clearing sky. ‘It’ll be light soon. Can your men flush them out and kill them?’

  Chandos nodded. ‘We didn’t see them when we kept watch on the town so, yes, we’ll sweep the shit from our own stable.’ He glanced back at Sir Louis de Joigny. ‘But… I gave him my word that he would be ransomed.’

  ‘He has lost everything. The town, the gold, the trust of the Dauphin. He’ll pay the ransom and then he will come back and take the town to regain his honour. You need the people here to declare for Edward. Peasants need to be shown that those sworn to protect them will do so. No matter how poor they are and how desperate their lives, they need to see justice done. Kill him.’

  Chandos hesitated and then shook his head. ‘I cannot.’

  Blackstone’s voice took on an edge. ‘You are not seeing this clearly, Sir John. Your honour is not in question but your King has asked you to secure this town. When this Frenchman comes back with five times as many men he will slaughter Englishmen, hard fighting men who were prepared to follow you in battle. You risk their lives over your word to a vicious lord and, worse, they will have died for nothing when the town is retaken. The King must need this town and others like it to protect his flank. We serve the King, Sir John; we should do what is in our power to give him what he needs from us.’

  Chandos studied the man who stood head and shoulders above him. The eyes bore down on him and were he a lesser man he would have buckled to the demand – because that’s what it was, a demand to execute the town’s commander.

  ‘You confuse me, Thomas. Your own honour forbids rape and the murder of women
and children, and yet you expect me to break my word no matter what the cost.’

  ‘Hang his men and take the gold,’ Blackstone advised and turned away. There was no point pursuing an argument that could not be won. He left Sir John striding across to where the gold and plate was being guarded. Blackstone had secured enough treasure without betraying his King. Let Chandos think he had his due by allowing Blackstone to keep the plate. The King was expecting twenty thousand moutons; he was going to receive more. The sack containing five thousand would reward Blackstone’s men and be enough money to keep them for a year if needed.

  ‘How is he?’ he asked the priest. A fire had been lit in the hearth, Killbere had been undressed down to his undershirt and the priest looked more concerned than before.

  ‘My skills are limited, Sir Thomas,’ he said, having learnt Blackstone’s name from the men who served him. ‘His fever comes and goes. I have given him drops of hemlock in wine to ease the pain and I have cleaned his wound.’

  ‘Wound?’ said Blackstone. ‘I saw no wound. He took a blow to the head.’

  ‘Not that,’ said the priest and gestured for Perinne to help him turn Killbere. Perinne eased Killbere over onto his side and the priest lifted his shirt to expose the hand-sized wound Blackstone had seen at the siege at Rheims days before. The ointment Killbere had smeared on after the fight had been cleaned away but the puckered and raw skin was inflamed and full of pus; the stench of rotting flesh could not be ignored.

  ‘There is poison inside him. A barber surgeon would cut away the rotten flesh but I do not think it will save him. How long has he been sick?’

  ‘Days,’ said Blackstone. ‘We thought he was weakened by the chills.’

  The priest helped ease Killbere onto his back and covered him with a blanket. ‘I suspect the wound has festered on its own or what was put on the wound was… poisoned.’

  French monks had sold Killbere the balm. Perhaps they wrought their own vengeance on the English invaders.