Defiant Unto Death (19 page)

Stable-hands knew better than to enter its winter stall alone. It took two determined men to put a halter on it and coax the beast out. Blackstone's other horses, especially his big courser that he rode when hunting, was kept apart from this wild-eyed animal, which would tolerate no competition from stallion, gelding or mare. It had smashed stalls and bitten and kicked lesser horses that raised their heads and stiffened their ears, muzzles snorting in naive expectation of exerting their superiority over it. When mounting Blackstone always held taut the opposite rein, tugging the horse's head away from where the snap of teeth would nip him if he were so careless as to forget past experience, but Blackstone had never laid a whip on the beast. Each measured the other – and each gave way when necessary. Every week Blackstone rode the horse hard, ridding it of its aggression, pounding across meadow and hills, plunging him into swollen rivers to clamber up mud-slicked embankments, placing his life into the horse's care as they challenged the demands of twisting currents and uneven ground, neither rider nor horse prepared to shy away. And Blackstone swore that he loved this horse more than any other because it bore as fiery a soul as any fighting warrior he had witnessed.

His dogs had faltered miles back, lolling tongues slavering as they lay with heaving ribs. Despite their loyalty to their master they could not keep pace when he rode out with the dappled black horse whose coat looked as though it had been singed by hell's embers. The dogs would soon recover, then lope home where they would wait until the wind brought them knowledge of man and horse returning.

Guillaume followed a good half-mile behind Blackstone, his horse unable to catch up, but that suited the squire; it allowed him to keep an alert eye open for any sign of danger. His sworn lord was a wanted man and, despite the Normans' protection, it was not impossible for a lone assassin to penetrate their domains and lie in wait. Movement was easily observed in a landscape that never changed except by the seasons or where it was grazed or cultivated, so its landmarks were familiar to those who knew it. Blackstone had taken a hard route but it was a shorter distance than the usual road. There was no doubt that he was heading for Guy de Ruymont's castle where the Count de Harcourt and others were meeting. It was the fluttering of birds rising from the depth of the forest that alerted Guillaume. Blackstone would have been close enough to the treeline to think he had disturbed them. The squire spurred his horse, cutting diagonally across the uneven ground, risking his horse stumbling. The birds had been disturbed by horsemen who emerged from the forest.

Guillaume's anxiety should have been tempered with more confidence in his master and the horse he rode, but fealty to a knight like Sir Thomas was a privilege that could be bestowed only once in a lifetime and the young fighter would die before an enemy struck down the Englishman owing to any failure of duty on his part. He needn't have worried. Blackstone's horse had already alerted him. Its ears had picked up movement even before the birds rose from the branches; and Blackstone too had heard the snap of dry twigs from the weight of horsemen approaching. By the time the men appeared Wolf Sword was in his hand and the devil's horse was turned to face them: rock steady, ears forward, muscles quivering momentarily as it smelled the other beasts. His master's shift in weight told him a contest was approaching.

Jean de Harcourt rode through the edge of the forest, twenty men or more at his back, pennons flying. He raised a hand when he saw the lone knight waiting, and in the distance Guillaume Bourdin at full gallop towards them.

‘Thomas! God's blood, man! You ride alone?' de Harcourt said, easing his horse forward.

Blackstone sheathed Wolf Sword and tugged a rein. ‘Just as on any other day, Jean. I was going to Guy's. I thought you'd be there with the others.'

‘Aye, well, after what's happened we're biding our time and staying behind our own walls until we see what lies ahead.'

‘Has trouble befallen them? I need to speak to Guy and Joanne.'

Guillaume slowed his horse, cantering the last hundred yards, then stopped and bowed his head towards de Harcourt, who nodded acknowledgement and then answered Blackstone.

‘No. They're safe. But we are uncertain whether the King is planning a strike against us. We think not, but we'll keep ourselves to ourselves for a few days and watch out for each other. When I saw you ready to fight I thought you might have heard, but of course you could not. A messenger came from Paris. One of Guy's informers at court. They've taken William.'

For King John to strike at a Norman lord, especially one whose domain straddled the Breton marches, was a daring move. ‘They attacked his castle?' Blackstone asked, knowing that if that were the case then men might now be attacking his own manor.

De Harcourt eased his helm and mail away from his sweat-matted hair and rubbed his scalp. ‘No. Men took him on his way to visit the girl I told you about. It was an ambush, pure and simple. The fool rode right into it. There's been no threat made to others. No sign of troops, no indication that King John is planning to ride against us. From what we have gathered, they were mercenaries. We had hoped for a ransom demand, but none has been asked for.'

‘When was he taken?'

‘Three, perhaps four days ago. He's being held by one of the King's seneschals, Sir Rolf de Sagard, but whether John has sanctioned this we don't know. He's either picking us off one by one or this is a rogue attack by bastard routiers who have taken refuge behind his walls.'

‘A planned attack, then?'

‘God knows. You remember I told you that William had promised to help the girl's father buy an ennoblement? Well, our friend had not yet fulfilled his promise. Too interested in cunny. So, I wouldn't be surprised if her father isn't behind his capture.'

‘Are you riding to meet the other barons to release him?' Blackstone asked, looking at the well-armed soldiers.

‘Save William? And show our hand? If it is the King's work then we'll need to be ready, if it's not then our plans are still in place and we'll go ahead with our meeting with the Dauphin and Navarre.'

‘De Fossat's one of you!' Blackstone said sharply.

‘And his own man!' de Harcourt retorted.

‘He's been your ally throughout. He deserves your help.'

‘No, Thomas. If William's cock has brought about his downfall then he'll have to sweat it out in the man's dungeon until demands are made.'

Their tempers eased. A friend and ally, no matter how self-serving a character, was in danger, but Blackstone knew that de Harcourt was right.

‘I'd get home if I were you. Stay watchful for a few days,' the Count said.

Blackstone felt a nagging conflict rise within him. William de Fossat's ambush and capture could not have happened at a worse time. De Harcourt saw the concern crease Blackstone's face and knew his friend only too well. ‘Sweet merciful Christ, Thomas, you can't be thinking of an oath made years ago.'

‘I'm in his debt. He saved my life. He's my friend.'

‘A fair-weather one!'

‘A friend! It's who you pledge your word to that counts!'

De Harcourt snatched at Blackstone's bridle, but the horse's strength was too great and it snorted, yanking itself clear of the grasping fist. ‘I'm your friend too. And I beg you not to be foolish. Who would care if a pledge was not kept because a man couldn't keep his cock under control?'

Blackstone brought the horse back under control. ‘I gave my word, Jean,' he said quietly.

Their rush of blood had settled. De Harcourt sighed, and nodded in defeat. ‘I know.'

‘Listen, Jean. It's better I ride south with my men. That keeps you and the Norman lords out of it. If I can free William then we'll get him home and lock the horny bastard in his own dungeon until this blows over. You must see I'm right.'

De Harcourt grunted, refusing to answer immediately, but he already knew that Blackstone had made up his mind. ‘Sir Rolf de Sagard has about sixty or seventy men behind those walls. Does that make you think twice?'

Blackstone's men were weary from their winter raiding and the battle at Saint-Clair, but now he would demand even more from them.

‘Ride straight to Christiana and take her and the children to Harcourt. Keep her there until I return. Two weeks. No more.'

‘Merciful God, Thomas. Her spleen will burst. You promised her no more campaigns or fighting this year. You gave
her
your word as well.'

‘And you think I could sit by the hearth and do nothing for William?'

De Harcourt settled his helm. ‘We'll ride there now. And tell William when you see him that he should be more diligent in his prayers and thank God he has you as a friend.'

He nodded in farewell and yanked his horse away, cantering for the road that led to Blackstone's manor – and Christiana's displeasure.

The retreating soldiers squelched through blood-soaked mud, their labouring breath desperate from exertion as they ran for their lives, pursued by men as breathless as themselves but who sensed victory was in their grasp. Swords' tips cut through the air, their sting nicking hamstrings and leg muscles. Those who fell tried to turn and raise a sword arm in defence but their attackers snarled their venom and plunged sword, knife or axe into the screaming men. Bodies split open, entrails spilled across their legs as feeble hands tried to gather their guts moments before blades severed heads and limbs. Fighting men stood in their enemies' innards and then clawed their way up the hillside. A butcher's yard slick with gore.

Those in retreat saw the man leading the killers in pursuit was always a half-dozen strides ahead of those who followed – all seasoned fighters anxious for victory and the spoils of war. As the fight crested the hill ten horsemen from the castle spurred their horses forward to trample the attackers beneath their hooves. Those on the run, those men who had survived the baying horde behind them, somehow managed to run between their own cavalry's mounts, buffeted by the riders' careless disregard for their safety. Relief surged through the survivors. Safety! The savage bastards who sought to take the stronghold had failed because now the castle's horsemen would set about their killing. They were wrong. The moment of exhilaration faded as quickly as it had occurred. When the riders crested the hill they were at their most vulnerable. The snarling horde levelled pike and spear and lunged at the horses' bellies. The beasts' agonizing screams echoed across the hills to the castle walls.

Disembowelled and mortally wounded horses reared up, throwing riders into the attackers' midst who swarmed across them in an unforgiving and relentless tide. Sweat stung knights' eyes, their vision a narrow slit through a helm's visor, unable to see the mayhem being wrought. It was a half-blindness that became a terrifying claustrophobia when the horse beneath them fell, throwing them and the eighty pounds of armour that encased them like a worm in an iron coffin to the ground. One of the first to fall felt a final, helpless terror, piss spilling down his leg as the final sight of life was of a wild-eyed attacker snarling a curse as a knife came through the narrow slit and pierced eye and brain. Heels drummed the ground in death throes – flailing into the darkness, realizing that the howling scream was his. And that God did not exist.

Before the man's bowels let go his killer was already stepping on his lifeless body and attacking another.

Almost there! Suck the air and spit the fear. Wild-eyed and unstoppable, the attacking men surged over the brow of the hill and saw the enemy run for the safety of the castle walls. The portcullis was up; men on the battlements screamed for survivors to hurry. A siren wail of pain and terror told the defenders that unless the portcullis was dropped death would be among them. Those being pursued were overtaken by the lone surviving man-at-arms who mercilessly spurred his horse to escape the savagery that pursued him. The retreating men heard the bastard screaming to lower the portcullis as soon as he reached the castle's gate. Their hatred for the privileged horseman lent power to their legs. They heard his horse's hooves clatter across the bridge. Fifty yards. Forty. Only thirty now. Thirty rapid strides to safety. A groan came from the chain tower as the mighty winch holding the portcullis released the tension of its burden. The portcullis slammed into the ground. The survivors were only ten yards from safety and their screams of anguish echoed up the walls. They were dead men.

The dozen or so soldiers, bloodied and exhausted, turned to face the men who would kill them. Their backs against the barred gate they threw down their weapons and knelt in supplication. Mercy was their only hope.

None was given.

The butchery lasted only minutes despite spears and rocks being hurled down onto those doing the killing. There would be no burning pitch or oil, no siege was in place, there had been no warning to defend the castle. The assault had caught the garrison by surprise when the supply wagons were attacked on the approach road. There had been so few men surging from the forest that the garrison commander thought they could only be a roving band of disorganized routiers – mercenaries who raided for supplies. And that was why Sir Rolf de Sagard had sent out troops and horsemen to inflict punishment and rescue his supplies – but the ragged band soon formed into a cohesive knot of disciplined fighters led by one man at the point of the phalanx. Now the attackers were closer, the Frenchman saw the man's armorial blazon: a mailed fist clenching the cruciform of a sword. His heart sank – Sir Thomas Blackstone. There was only one reason for him to venture this far south into such hostile territory; Blackstone was after the prisoner held in the castle's dungeon. But how could the Englishman hope to secure the castle with so few men? Was this the best he could muster – fewer than fifty fighting men? Perhaps Blackstone's legend had been embellished? He seemed to be little more than a common brigand with ambition beyond his capability. Sir Rolf de Sagard's hopes soared. Below his gate the scar-faced Englishman and his men huddled beneath their shields, sheltering from his men's barrage. He bellowed his orders to his men on the wall. ‘Kill them! We have them! More rocks!'