by David Gilman
Lázaro nodded but did not relax his grip on Beyard’s arm. ‘Come back... my... lord. Will you... p-p-promise?’
Beyard placed his hand over the boy’s white knuckles. ‘It is God and my destiny that decide such things. Just as we were saved together and rescued from torture and death. Shall we make a pact?’
Tears overcame the boy’s resolve and cut lines through the grime in his face. ‘A pact?’
‘Yes. An agreement that we pledge to each other. If I return you will tell me and Sir Thomas everything.’ He saw uncertainty on the boy’s face. ‘It is time for us to know the truth, Lázaro. Shall that be our pact?’
The boy released his grip and smeared away the tears. ‘I... will... tell you.’
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
Renfred and his half-dozen men followed the riderless horse at a distance. It became confused at times and stopped, losing its sense of direction. It grazed and then trotted off again when the breeze shifted, led on when its instincts returned. Renfred waited patiently and followed downwind in case the horse caught their scent and turned back, seeking companionship and safety with their mounts.
It was late afternoon when they crested a hill and saw the horse standing, ears pricked forward. They heard screams from a small town a mile ahead, likely to have no more than two hundred burghers. Wails of misery carried on the breeze, tormented, ghostly sounds that sent shivers down men’s spines. Men other than Blackstone’s. This was no haunted graveyard possessed by devils; Ranulph de Hayle’s men were the demons. It was a defenceless place without walls or gates, an ancient town that had once been no more than a village. It was likely that in the war those who lived there would have sought refuge in a bigger town under the protection of a manorial lord. But now there was no war. Heralds had travelled the land announcing the treaty between the English and the French. Even the civil war would not have touched them because there was no benefit for the warring sides in seizing the small enclave. The casual violence had fallen on them from routiers as if God and Satan had rolled the dice.
The lone horse shuddered, stepped forward and then skittishly danced away from what it knew to be danger.
‘Fetch it,’ said Renfred to one of his men. ‘It’s served its purpose. We know where de Hayle is now. If it went into the town, it would warn the bastard. We’ll keep the odds on our side now.’
The hobelar urged his horse forward at a slow trot, making sure the lone horse saw it. He held back, letting the horse come to him, eager as it was for the company of another. Renfred’s man lifted the trailing rein and led it back to where the others waited. Then, with a final glance at the doomed town, they rode back to meet Blackstone. There would be no need for Killbere or the archers to hold back; the German captain knew what Blackstone would do. Attack and kill.
*
The autumnal night wind blew spectral clouds across the starlit sky. Shadows danced as the moon held court over the fleeting images of men running across the open plain. They dropped into a shallow ditch eighty yards from the beleaguered town, hidden from sight, cloaked by the next tranche of darkness.
‘We don’t know this place,’ said Killbere, wheezing from the effort of the dash. ‘It could be as deadly as a bear pit.’
‘We don’t need to know it, Gilbert. The streets are narrow, the houses small. De Hayle’s men have had their sport and they’ll be sleeping it off. There are no high walls for crossbows to shoot down on us.’ Blackstone stared through the scattered light. Now that they were closer he saw the bank around the town more clearly; it was spoil from a defensive ditch dug so many years ago it was now nothing more than a grassy mound thick with weeds and meadow flowers. The narrow wooden bridge across the ditch was sturdy enough for a cart and horse. Blackstone looked along the line of men awaiting his command. Beyard’s men would race around to the rear of the town as Meulon’s clambered over the bank left of the main assault, with Renfred’s on the right flank. All eyes were on Blackstone. They were ready.
Blackstone signalled Beyard, who peeled away into the night. They would wait long enough for him to get into position. Blackstone looked back across the dappled fields. On the ridge, two woodlands faced each other across a gap: Will Longdon was hidden in one edge of the forest with Jack Halfpenny in the trees opposite. If anyone escaped Blackstone’s attack and rode for safety away from Beyard’s cut-off group, then that was where they would die.
Blackstone waited for the moon to go behind the clouds. He stood and the line of men rose with him. He strode forward, walking not running. Meulon and Renfred’s men peeled away, a slow and silent approach. Blackstone’s boots thudded across the planked bridge. Ten more yards and they were past the first buildings. Shadows slipped over the ditch wall, steel blades catching what light there was – barely any showed from the houses. Dark shapes lying in the dirt streets revealed themselves as corpses of the slain townspeople.
Laughter suddenly pierced the silence. It came from deeper within the town. Blackstone gestured his men to fan out as they crept from corner to corner, stepping over the dead. A door creaked; a drunken routier staggered outside the house to relieve himself. He leaned an arm against the wall, gazing down at the stream of piss; then he yawned and farted. He finished and turned. John Jacob’s arm wrapped around his throat as Killbere’s knife plunged into his heart. John Jacob stepped back as Blackstone entered the small room. A candle flickered. A man was stretched out on the floor, dead; a naked woman, her face bruised from an assault, lay shivering on a palliasse, knees drawn up to her chest. Her mouth opened to scream but Blackstone raised a finger to his lips and the unusual gesture from such a fearsome man caught her by surprise.
‘I am here to help you,’ Blackstone said, keeping his distance, palm outstretched to calm her. ‘Where are the routiers?’
She shook her head, eyes fixed on the giant who loomed even larger from the shadow thrown from the candle glow. ‘Where are they?’ he asked again.
She licked her cracked lips and pointed vaguely. ‘Everywhere,’ she whispered.
‘Did they take over the houses?’
She nodded.
‘Where are the majority of them? Is there a town square?’
She nodded again. ‘They hanged our mayor and his officials. The square. Yes. The square. They took some of the women there.’
Blackstone glanced down at the dead man. ‘Your husband?’
She nodded again, too exhausted and hurt for more tears. There was evidence enough on her stained face that she had wept until she could weep no more. She licked her lips again. ‘They are everywhere. They will kill you. You will die here like the others. There are so many of them.’
Blackstone reached for a blanket and draped it over her. ‘Stay here. The man who hurt you is dead. I will come back when it’s finished and we will help you bury your husband.’ He turned at the door. ‘Don’t be alarmed when you hear screams, they’ll be from the routiers when we kill them.’
*
Blackstone’s men ran silently through the alleyways. Voices rose from the darkness. Killbere laid a restraining hand on Blackstone’s arm. ‘Over there.’
They crouched as thirty or more drunken men tumbled out of the tavern and across the town square. One taunted another; a fight broke out. Those sober enough to stand encircled the two men, who slashed at each other with knives. The onlookers cheered their favourites until one fell dead. Someone kicked the body to make sure the knife wound was fatal and then those who could still walk staggered back inside the tavern. Blackstone signalled for a dozen men to follow him. They dashed from shadow to shadow until they reached the tavern’s window. Men sprawled on the floor; even more slumped across the crude wooden tables and benches. If thirty men had spilled into the night there would be another twenty too drunk to join them. Two women were tied to an upright post, their clothing torn, their hair soaked from the routiers pouring wine over them. One was not young, a matron of childbearing age, the other likely her daughter: mother and child licensed to run the ta
vern. These men were followers of le Bête, and beasts begat beasts. No woman or child of any age was safe from their violence.
Blackstone scrunched down. ‘Fifty men crammed into one room. Kill them and we reduce our odds.’
John Jacob pointed to a blacksmith’s shop. ‘Let’s burn them out. There’ll be a coal bed there.’
Blackstone looked around the scattered houses; his men all edged closer to the square. He beckoned Meulon and Renfred. ‘We’ll burn down the tavern. Send ten more men to me and then position yourselves in the alleyways. When it catches fire, de Hayle’s men in the houses will arm themselves. Kill as many as you can. If others escape, Will and his archers will finish them.’
‘We found their horses,’ said Renfred. ‘They’re split up. We don’t have enough time to cut them all loose.’
‘Ignore them. The flames will frighten them and they’ll break free without any help from us. Bring bundles of faggots and any lamp oil you can find.’
The two captains ran back to their men. Blackstone pointed to three of those with him and gestured them to kill those that had been too senseless with drink to return to the tavern. A dozen fast strides later they were dead.
‘There are two women in there,’ said Blackstone. ‘There’s a front and a back door. Pile anything that will burn around the place. John, fire up the coals, light torches.’
‘You’ll let those women die?’ said Killbere. ‘I’ll get them.’
‘You think I’d leave them there? When the flames bite I’ll go in the back door. You come with me. Use your axe and cut them free. We’ll drag them out.’
Killbere grunted. ‘At least let’s slit a couple of throats in there while we’re about it.’
‘There’ll be no time.’
‘Cutting a throat takes no time at all,’ said Killbere.
Men scurried back and forth as they raided winter log stores and brought sheaves of dry kindling, then stacked them against the wattle-and-clay-built tavern. As each man settled his bundle another spilled lamp oil on them. Blackstone saw John Jacob’s face glow as he pumped the blacksmith’s bellows. Torches flared. Blackstone beckoned the men to him. ‘Surround the tavern. Kill everyone who gets out. When it’s alight, Sir Gilbert and I are going in the back door to bring out two women.’
Blackstone’s men waited, torch flames exposing grim features, eyes stark in the light, teeth grinning though their beards: eager to kill a foul enemy. He looked to where Meulon and Renfred slipped out of sight into the passages between the houses. They stayed out of the moon’s glow so when de Hayle’s men emerged they would not know the buildings’ shadows concealed those intent to kill them.
‘Burn it,’ said Blackstone.
Flames leapt as oil and dry kindling ignited. Within moments the tongues of flame reached hungrily for the roof. The heavy thatch, matted with moss and age, smouldered with brown, choking smoke. Blackstone and Killbere joined the men at the rear as billowing smoke obscured the moon, sparks swirling upwards as the thatch beneath caught and then leapt through the support timbers. Blackstone nodded to John Jacob, who wrenched open the door. Blackstone and Killbere lunged inside. The smoke was lower than the ceiling. Drunken men blinked in confusion. The two Englishmen pushed past the first tables and reached the bound women, wide-eyed with terror. Killbere’s axe cut into the rope and wooden beam as Blackstone shoved them to the door into the arms of the waiting men. They were pushed swiftly away.
Blackstone and Killbere came out, an arm across mouth and nose, eyes streaming from the smoke. The night air soon cleared their stinging eyes. Two of Blackstone’s men stood on each side of the door. De Hayle’s men fought each other to escape, jamming the door frame. Axes fell; their bodies tumbled. Men shocked sober by the fire gathered their wits and kept pushing through, the weight of their numbers forcing the men ahead over the threshold. Those who escaped the axe fell onto the raised shields and soul-stealing blades of Blackstone’s men.
Chaos swept the town. Doors slammed open as half-dressed routiers ran into the night. Meulon and Renfred’s men blocked the streets. Some of the mercenaries tried to fight their way through but they were unready and died in agony. Those that turned to escape ran into the square where hell’s jaw gaped, ready to devour them. Heat sucked air from men’s lungs and seared their skin. They faced armed men and were killed as efficiently as those trying to escape the tavern. The roof collapsed; a whoosh of air and debris flared into the night sky, hurtling the condemned remains into the devil’s embrace. Timbers crackled; clay walls burned red. Killers more disciplined than the mercenaries pressed down the narrow streets, driving the desperate before them into the square. The encircled men, those who survived, threw down their arms. They knelt in surrender and heard a voice call out from somewhere in the night’s torment that they be spared. The man who issued the command strode out of the night’s conflagration. One of the mercenaries cursed, recognizing the scar-faced knight who stood before them as Thomas Blackstone and calling him a son of a whore. The veteran knight at Blackstone’s side rammed his sword point into the man’s throat.
No one else damned Thomas Blackstone that night.
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
The stench of burnt flesh and old thatch lingered. First light revealed men smudged with soot and sweat, eyes red-rimmed from the acrid smoke. The townspeople emerged, fear still etched on their faces as they stared at the battle-hardened men who had come in the night and killed those who had inflicted violence on them. Meulon and Renfred told them to drag the dead routiers from the streets and alleys into the square. One by one the bodies were laid out alongside those Blackstone had spared and who sat with hands bound. Blackstone’s men guarding the prisoners made no attempt to stop the women from spitting at the routiers.
Killbere and Blackstone stood at one of the town’s wells. Killbere plunged his head into a bucket and shook free the sweat and fatigue.
‘How many dead?’ Blackstone asked Meulon.
‘We lost three men, but we killed forty-seven. It was like trapping rats in a sewer. They were full of ale and wine; most were half asleep when we killed them. We finished off their wounded.’
‘Forty-seven in the streets and another twenty-eight from the tavern,’ said Killbere. ‘A good night’s work. And I’ll wager there were another ten or more in that tavern who never got out.’
‘Has Ranulph de Hayle’s body been found?’ said Blackstone.
‘Not so far,’ said Renfred.
Blackstone looked at the huddled prisoners. He pointed to one of the older men. ‘He looks like a veteran. He should have served de Hayle long enough. Pull him out and take him among the dead, see if he can identify him.’
‘Shall we call in Will and Jack from the forest?’ said Meulon.
‘Not yet. We killed near enough ninety of de Hayle’s men but where are the others? If they’re out there, then we still need the archers in place. Send a runner, tell them we won’t stay here much longer but for them to stay vigilant.’
The crowd gathered more confidently when they realized that Blackstone’s men posed no threat. One man stepped forward.
‘Sir knight, what are we to do with these bodies?’
‘Strip them of any clothing, boots and weapons, then bury them,’ said Blackstone.
‘The nearest monastery is two days away. We have no place for burial here.’
‘You have a defensive bank around the town. Drag them into the ditch and pull down the dirt onto them. Then close the gap with a wooden palisade. When skinners come you must stand together and show some resistance. Better to die fighting for what you cherish than to lie down and let them tear you apart.’
The man looked uncomfortable. ‘We are farmers; we have no skills with weapons. We don’t know how to fight.’
‘You have a manorial lord?’
‘We never see him. He’s a week’s journey from here.’
‘You pay your taxes?’
‘Aye, my lord.’
‘Send word and tell h
im what happened here. Ask him to give you instruction. If the town falls again, he will get no taxes; if that happens he cannot pay the King; and if the King does not get the money he needs, then your lord will forfeit his land to another. Do you understand how it works?’
The spokesman grinned. ‘I do now, lord.’
‘Good.’
‘How do we repay you for saving us?’
‘Find me lengths of rope so I can tie these men together, and when you send the men to your master, tell him that Sir Thomas Blackstone, the English King’s Master of War, who serves the Prince of Wales and Aquitaine, saved this town. Can you remember all of that?’
Blackstone saw the man chiselling the information into his memory. He finally nodded.
‘And don’t forget the rope,’ said Blackstone.
*
Lázaro watched as Blackstone’s men began walking back from the town across the hillside’s meadow in small groups led by their captains. They were weary but seemed no less determined than when they left. They were in good spirits. Blackstone and Killbere were among them. Will Longdon and Jack Halfpenny had remained vigilant as Blackstone had ordered. Outlying scouts had reported no sign of routiers but the archers stood at their posts guarding Blackstone’s return.
Lázaro looked at the men. His pounding heart squeezed the breath from his throat. There was no sign of Beyard. He counted eighteen prisoners roped together, shuffling in line towards their fate. The men moved past him. Further along the line they carried three bodies on makeshift stretchers. Trembling, the boy took a few faltering steps forward. Blackstone and Killbere broke off their conversation when they saw him. The look on his face told Blackstone all he needed to know.
‘Lázaro, come here.’
The boy shook his head. It could only be the worst of news. It rooted him to the spot.
Blackstone took pity on him and strode towards him. Lázaro gazed up at the looming figure. ‘You fear for your friend Beyard.’ He took the boy’s shoulder and turned him slightly so he could see Meulon’s huge frame bearing his shield that blocked out one man behind him. ‘There he is. Unharmed.’
