by David Gilman
‘Now!’ Meulon shouted and his men plunged from the treeline and attacked the searchers. Three of the skinners had made it past Meulon’s line when one of them saw the panicked boy try to break free from Beyard. The Gascon raised himself, dropped his sword and snatched at the lad, holding him tight, but was defenceless except for his shield. That saved him from the first attack. Meulon hurled his spear into the routier’s back and, as Beyard fell, smothering the boy, reached the second mercenary, who was jabbing at Beyard. Meulon’s sword blade rammed beneath the man’s shoulder blade, caught in his ribs and had to be kicked free, which gave the third man time to reach down and seize Beyard. The Gascon captain twisted, slamming his shield upward, smashing the man’s mouth. The man staggered, spat teeth and blood, and died quickly as Meulon dragged his knife across his throat.
As quickly as it started, the attack faltered when the others saw their victim still lived and his attackers lay dead. Meulon’s men had killed seven and suffered three dead from their own ranks. The routiers turned and ran. Meulon looked around him. The camp was safe. He pulled the blanket off ben Josef. The old man flinched.
‘It’s all right; they’ve gone. Help the wounded.’
Meulon strode across to where fearful attendants peered from the trees. ‘Get yourselves back here! Carry the dead away. Hurry. Move your arses.’
They came out, tentatively at first, and then, as the men-at-arms cursed them, they did Meulon’s bidding. They were more frightened of the big bearded man than any chance of the routiers returning.
Meulon helped Beyard to his feet. ‘Are you hurt?’
‘No, but I’d be dead if it wasn’t for you.’ He tugged the shivering boy to him.
‘We lost three men but we gave a good account of ourselves.’ Meulon flashed a grin from behind his thick black beard. ‘I didn’t know you were worth so much. Being de Grailly’s captain must carry a ransom worth risking a fight for.’
The Gascon shook his head. ‘Not me. They wanted the boy.’
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
They were dragging the bodies away as Blackstone strode into camp. A breathless Killbere was not far behind. It didn’t take long for Meulon to recount the fight.
‘The boy? Why did they want him?’
‘I don’t know, Sir Thomas,’ said Meulon. ‘Beyard? You’re sure about this?’
The weakened Gascon leaned his weight against a wagon. ‘When they breached the defences they saw the lad. I thought it was me they wanted but when they came at me they reached for the boy. “Come on you little bastard,” one of them said. Definitely the boy, Sir Thomas.’
‘Where is he now?’ said Killbere.
Meulon gestured to where ben Josef tended to the wounded. ‘Helping him. Whatever’s happened to the lad he’s scared for his life and I thought the old man might help soothe him by speaking his own language.’
‘All right,’ said Blackstone. ‘I’ll have him watched and talk to ben Josef. I don’t want the boy running off. We need to find out more.’
‘He won’t run,’ said Beyard. ‘He sticks to me like shit to a blanket. He was in that cell with me long enough to watch the others die. I was the only one who helped him. He’ll stay with me and I’ll feed him.’
Blackstone looked across the battlefield. ‘Ranulph de Hayle took no part in the battle. He must have a reason for snatching him. He’s playing both sides and as the boy has nothing to do with us then he must be of value to the French. Beyard, you’re stronger?’
‘The potions strengthen me every hour.’
‘Then you will stay as the boy’s guardian until we find out more.’
Blackstone looked to where the baggage attendants were heaping dirt on the burning tar barrel until they extinguished it. ‘De Hayle hadn’t expected to have a fight on his hands. I thank God you’re healing, Meulon.’
Meulon looked at ben Josef again. ‘He has a touch and a skill I have not seen before, Sir Thomas. I’m glad of it.’
‘We need wine and food. Fighting sucks a man’s vitals,’ said Killbere. ‘Thomas, let’s rid ourselves of mail and plate and wash the stench of the fight from us. I’ll get the attendants to fetch water.’
Killbere placed a hand on Meulon’s arm as he passed. ‘Well done, my friend.’
Will Longdon followed. ‘This was a quiet camp when we left you in charge. Now we have to share it with the dead. I hope my loot was not in that wagon.’
‘I fed the flames with it,’ said Meulon.
Longdon grinned. ‘I would expect nothing less.’
Blackstone pulled fingers through his wet hair. ‘Has Renfred returned?’
Meulon shook his head.
Blackstone winced. ‘I sent him into a viper’s nest. Post sentries. Let’s not give de Hayle a chance to mount a sneak attack when the army is scattered and our guard is down. He tried once; if I were him I would strike again when an enemy thought an attack had failed.’
Meulon grunted, cleared his throat and spat. ‘But he’s not you, Sir Thomas.’
*
Blackstone regrouped his men-at-arms and archers. While others ate and drank, Blackstone’s men cleaned their weapons ready to fight again. Once that was done they gathered together, a company of men bonded over the years by Thomas Blackstone, separate from Chandos and de Montfort’s men. Will Longdon had lost seven archers, killed when they ran into the fight; more had light wounds. William Ashford brought his contingent back to camp after chasing the enemy survivors. His weariness was plain to see and as his sergeants organized his men, Blackstone went to greet him. He handed him a wineskin.
‘You must have chased them halfway to Paris,’ said Blackstone.
Ashford gulped down the wine, uncaring that it spilled over his beard. He dragged the back of his hand across his mouth. ‘Merciful Christ, Sir Thomas, the assault swept us along with Chandos. Once Blois’s banner fell Lord de Montfort went over those hills like a hound chasing a rabbit. You must have put fire in his belly.’
‘He did well; we cannot deny him that. You have prisoners?’
‘Me and the sergeants took a few for ransom. Nothing like Chandos, mind – my God, he bagged Bertrand du Guesclin; he’ll be worth thousands. More than. No, we got some of the lesser knights; they’ll bring in enough. We’ll put them with the others so we all share in the spoils. And you, Sir Thomas?’
‘Norman lords and their knights. They surrendered quickly enough once we overwhelmed them. I have their parole. We won’t have to fight again until next year, thanks to the money from their ransoms. What of Charles of Blois? Any word?’
‘We came across him lying dead surrounded by his men. It looked as though he put up a good fight but...’ Ashford shrugged. ‘Fate abandoned him.’
‘Where are de Montfort and Chandos now?’
‘Their heralds are going among the dead identifying their blazons. Chandos has pickets out to stop locals robbing the bodies.’ The two men watched as men streamed back in ones and twos, small groups of comrades who joked and laughed at their victory and their survival. Tales of exaggerated prowess already being bantered back and forth. All of them carried booty.
‘He allows the men to take what they find providing it is not from a high-ranking nobleman,’ said Ashford. He drank again and corked the wineskin, handing it back to Blackstone. ‘We were outnumbered but it worked in our favour. We moved faster and carved into them.’
‘Have they made a count of the French and Breton dead?’
‘The heralds think eight hundred or more killed. Hundreds died in the crush when they fell and were trampled from those pressing behind them, and near enough two thousand captured. When they fought their divisions were jammed like debris in a river. We went around them and through them. They ended in chaos but it must be God’s blessing that we escaped with so few casualties.’
‘The blessing was having strong men determined to fight harder than the enemy with a sword arm that never tired.’
William Ashford smiled. ‘That too. I must get to
my men.’
‘Did you see Renfred anywhere?’
‘He’s not here?’
‘No.’
‘You think he fell in the fight?’
‘I don’t know.’
Ashford went on to his men as Blackstone stood gazing at the devastation on the battlefield. Behind him smoke rose from campfires; men prepared food and quaffed wine. Others stripped and bathed in the river. Servants hastily erected pavilions for the noblemen who would return with de Montfort. The aftermath of battle: the banality of everyday duties.
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
Jack Halfpenny and his archers were on the battlefield pulling arrows from the dead so that the shafts might be used again when the victorious John de Montfort returned with Chandos. A sergeant-at-arms and his men escorted a bound prisoner. Men gathered to watch the wretched man manhandled up to de Montfort’s pavilion. Halfpenny ran hard and fast uphill to where Blackstone and Killbere sat with John Jacob next to their fire. Killbere was reclining, an arm across his eyes as he dozed. Remnants of de Montfort’s army were scattered haphazardly across the fields: fires lit, food cooked, men claimed by exhaustion and relief at being alive and, for many, without serious wounds. It was only Blackstone’s men who had regrouped and formed a tight body. If a command were given to rise up and take arms, only they would be ready.
‘Jack?’ said Blackstone as the distressed archer reached them.
‘Sir Thomas, they’ve got Renfred. He’s going to hang.’
No sooner had Halfpenny spoken than Blackstone and Killbere were on their feet.
‘Who’s going to hang him?’ said Killbere.
‘Lord de Montfort.’
‘Where?’ said Blackstone buckling on Wolf Sword.
Jack Halfpenny pointed to the far end of the encampment where de Montfort and Chandos’s pavilions were surrounded by their knights and noblemen. Blackstone set off, his stride twice that of the others, who doubled their pace as they picked their way through the disorganized troops resting on the ground. Will Longdon and Meulon, who had been arguing about the merits of fat whores over that of skinny ones, saw Blackstone leading John Jacob, Halfpenny and Killbere. The veteran archer and throat-cutter sensed trouble and went after them. Blackstone’s men rose and followed like a ripple of danger lifting a flock of birds from the ground.
At the centre of the camp, servants were bringing seated noblemen food and refreshment. They watched as their men threw a rope over pavilion poles hastily bound to make a gallows. De Montfort, stripped of armour, gambeson and shirt, wore an embroidered robe. He sipped wine from a silver goblet, his hair combed back, still damp from plunging his head into a bucket of fresh water to sluice away the grime. He was flushed with victory and spoke animatedly with his noblemen. His laughter subsided when he saw half a dozen men-at-arms step into Blackstone’s path. They were there to stop any unauthorized approach to their lord and were as confident with their success in battle as their master. Their leader raised a hand and called for Blackstone to stop and state his business. It was a mistake. The force from Blackstone’s fist threw him against the others. They reached for their swords but Killbere and John Jacob already had theirs drawn. De Montfort’s shock caused him to take a step back. The goblet fell from his hand. Beyond Killbere, Blackstone’s men ranged themselves, hands resting on weapons, ready to cause violence the moment Blackstone gave the signal.
‘You dare?’ said de Montfort, gasping at Blackstone’s audacity. His knights and noblemen were on their feet, but unprepared. Their weapons were being cleaned by servants.
Blackstone looked to where Renfred knelt, hands bound behind him, a rope around his neck forcing his head back as the two men ready to haul him onto the cart and his death were pushed away by Killbere and Jack Halfpenny.
‘Renfred is my man. You have no right to take his life. He is my man.’ Blackstone signalled to Killbere. ‘Cut him free.’
A flustered John de Montfort looked panic-stricken as he searched across the heads of the men drawn to the confrontation but saw no sign of John Chandos. ‘Sir John!’ he called.
Blackstone was so close he could have reached out and taken him by the throat. ‘Don’t call for your wet nurse. You will not be suckling off victory’s teat after today if you hurt my man. Why have you taken Renfred?’
‘You dare...’ de Montfort repeated himself, trying vainly to find authority in his voice. ‘... to challenge me? To question my authority here?’
‘Your authority ended when Charles of Blois was found dead on the field of battle. Sir John Chandos and I gave you triumph over your enemy. You may be the Duke of Brittany but you do not seize my men without my permission.’
‘He is a thief!’ said de Montfort – a proclamation to anyone within earshot.
‘He is my captain and he is no thief. I vouch for him.’
Servants ran forward with their master’s weapons and now Blackstone stood facing men whose sworn lord had been threatened and insulted. Blackstone’s obvious contempt was enough to make one of them stride forward. An arrow thumped into the ground barely a yard in front of him. De Montfort’s knights saw Will Longdon and twenty archers with arrows nocked.
‘You overstep the mark,’ said Blackstone to the chastened knight. ‘I have come for Renfred and I will leave with him and then you, my Lord de Montfort, can return to your bragging of how you won the battle.’
The gathered men’s mood was turning more belligerent and as word spread of the confrontation soldiers raised themselves from their cooking fires and began to move towards de Montfort’s pavilion. The sight of those approaching boosted de Montfort’s confidence but before he could preen his feathers Chandos’s gruff voice separated the crowd.
‘Can’t a man have a shit in peace? What is this?’
‘Sir Thomas insults and threatens me. I demand he is reprimanded, Sir John. You are the Prince’s Constable; you outrank him and his behaviour is intolerable. I will ensure the King and the Prince hear of it.’
John Chandos was renowned for his diplomatic skills. He had negotiated with the French after the Treaty of Brétigny, had mollified the Dauphin, brought French towns under the English flag and in the past few hours had achieved his King’s desire and helped deliver the Duchy of Brittany into the hands of de Montfort. Such skills were not enough to restrain him.
‘God’s blood, you should kiss Sir Thomas’s arse. It is he who delivered the day to you. Whatever he says or does is beyond reproach when you have been handed such a prize.’
De Montfort’s face flushed with colour. There was a collective gasp from those close enough to hear the rebuke.
‘Now what have you done to deserve Sir Thomas’s displeasure? That is the question, my Lord de Montfort, Duke of Brittany,’ Chandos continued.
For a moment de Montfort’s jaw did not respond to his swirling thoughts. It opened and closed and then finally he regained his composure.
‘I will be treated with respect,’ he said.
‘Aye, you’ve earned a modicum of that, I’ll grant you, but you should find humility before God and go on bended knee and give thanks for victory and for having Sir Thomas Blackstone at your side. Respect is due to him and his men. They have scant reward for their efforts – unlike you. I await your answer, de Montfort. What act have you committed that has caused this disagreement?’
‘My men caught a thief. It is one of Blackstone’s men.’
Chandos looked to where Renfred stood, dried blood on his face, flanked by Killbere and Jack Halfpenny.
‘You mean Sir Thomas? Respect, my lord. Remember?’
De Montfort grimaced. Perhaps from the bile that rose into his throat. ‘As you wish, but they found his man with some of my gold and silver coin. More than two thousand francs were stolen before the battle.’
Chandos looked at Blackstone.
‘Renfred is no thief,’ Blackstone told him.
De Montfort pointed a finger, stopping Blackstone from offering any further defence. ‘You do not have th
e evidence. My blazon was on the satchel, stolen from my pavilion.’
Chandos had no choice but to question Blackstone. ‘Thomas? What’s happened here? I know your captain. Renfred would not steal.’
‘Of course he wouldn’t,’ said Blackstone. ‘I stole the money.’
Blackstone might as well have struck de Montfort across the face. He staggered back, dazed by the revelation. Even Chandos could not mask his surprise.
‘I asked you for gold and silver, de Montfort, but you cosseted it like a hen sitting on eggs. Money is to be used. The odds against us were too great. No matter how valiantly our men fought, the sheer weight of numbers would have crushed us. Therefore I came into your pavilion and took the coin, and then I sent Renfred with it into the heart of the enemy. The Bretons are greedy: whoever offers them more they will take it. You saw them desert. Why did they leave the battle? Abandon a leader such as du Guesclin? Renfred – risking his life – told them that if they deserted they would be paid. Better to collect gold and silver for certain than risk dying before getting the chance to loot the battlefield, no? It was a gamble, but it worked. Your gold weakened the enemy. It helped give you victory. You must learn who to trust. Decide, young Lord of Brittany. Do you wish to put a rope around my neck? Or even try?’
The dumbfounded silence was all the answer Blackstone needed. He looked at Chandos.
‘My men and I will leave at dawn. We’ve done our part. Let us hope we helped the right man win.’
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
A week later Blackstone and the men looked at the twenty or more defenders who had been hanged from Villaines’s town walls. Wisps of smoke persisted from smouldering timbers on torched houses. Blackstone kneed the bastard horse towards the gates. The town’s captain Godfrey de Claville, who had accepted payment for ben Josef and given safe passage so that Meulon could be treated, hung over the main entrance to the town. His limbs had been severed; his entrails spilled from the open cavity. His mutilated body was an obscene act of violence from the vile creature Ranulph de Hayle who rightly called himself le Bête.
