Master of War (7 page)

‘Aye!’ Elfred and Bray answered.

‘Yes, here, Sir Gilbert,’ Blackstone heard himself say. He was gazing down at an old man, the French knight whose gauntlet-covered fist had been raised, ready to trigger the ambush. Black­stone’s arrow had taken him through the collarbone into his chest and out of his groin, piercing his chain mail as if it were nothing more than a nightshirt. He lay on his back, his body contorted in a frozen spasm of shock, then death. The blood from his gaping mouth was already buzzing with flies. His jupon of pale apple green with a vivid blue swallow was darkened by the seeping stain. Blackstone couldn’t take his eyes from the man’s deathly gaze.

Two of Sir Gilbert’s soldiers hacked at the hedgerow and then Sir Gilbert himself pushed through the gap. He was grinning. Blood splattered his surcoat and legs.

‘We killed a dozen or more,’ he said happily. ‘Is he one of yours?’ he asked, following Blackstone’s gaze. Blackstone nodded.

‘Well, there’s a feather in your cap, lad. Your first kill a knight. A piss-poor one with no arms worth taking, perhaps, but praise God there’ll be plenty more. France has the greatest host of knights in the world. They’re magnificent fighters, I’ll say that for them. Though not so magnificent with a yard of English ash gutting them, eh?’ He laughed and touched Blackstone’s shoulder. ‘Well done, lad.’

Dying men had soiled themselves and the smell of ordure, together with that of copiously spilled blood, mingled into a throat-gagging stench.

Blackstone turned away and vomited.

The men around him laughed.

‘First time is the worst time, lad. Get used to it. This is as much glory as you’ll see in a battle,’ Sir Gilbert said. He raised a flask to his lips and swilled the wine before spitting it out. He unbuckled the dead knight’s scabbard and looked at the chipped blade.

‘An old sword, older than him, but it has a good balance to it.’ Sir Gilbert sheathed it and tossed it to Blackstone.

‘Spoils of war. It’s better than that bastard toothpick of yours. Attach it to your saddle, but get rid of the scabbard if you fight with it. Damned scabbard is no good to a man on the ground with a sword in his hand, it’ll trip you and then you’re done for.’

The wounded men in the hedgerow were quickly despatched by the hobelars. ‘There’s fifteen or more here, I’ll wager,’ Sir Gilbert said. ‘Did we lose anyone?’

‘Attewood,’ Bray answered, as he unstrung his bow. ‘Back there in the field.’

‘Well, that’s a poor bargain. An English archer for these scum,’ said Sir Gilbert.

‘Do we bury him, Sir Gilbert?’ Elfred asked.

‘No time. Foxes and carrion crows will pick his bones. Was he Christian?’

‘He never said,’ Bray answered.

‘Then we’ll let God decide. Get his weapons.’

Elfred nodded and turned back towards the fallen archer.

One of the wounded attackers, his lower back pierced by an arrow, was trying to drag himself away through the meadow grass. He muttered words that sounded pitiful to Blackstone – words he did not understand. Sir Gilbert picked up a cumbersome crossbow and tossed it to one side.

‘Genoese crossbowmen. They’re the best in the world, but not good enough today. Philip’s bought himself some mercenaries. If there’s half a dozen all the way back here then you can be sure there’s another few thousand between us and Paris. Put the man out of his misery, Blackstone, and gather up any arrows you men can use again. Let’s be on our way,’ Sir Gilbert commanded, and then pushed his way back onto the track. The soldiers followed him.

Bray slit the throat of another wounded man, then turned and looked at Blackstone. ‘Come on, lad, we can’t let the poor bastard die like that. Use your knife. Quick now. No different than slitting a pig. And he won’t squeal as much.’

Blackstone felt another horror squeeze his chest. He took a few uncertain steps towards the crawling man, felt the knife in his hand, though he had no memory of drawing it. He hesitated. It sounded as though the man’s pitiful whispers were pleading to God, or to his mother. All Blackstone had to do was reach down, grab a handful of hair, pull back his head and slide the blade across his throat.

His hand was shaking. The arm that had tirelessly wielded a stonemason’s hammer for hour after hour, that could pull back a mighty war bow, could not bring itself to sever the man’s throat. It trembled like a virgin’s body before being loved for the first time. Someone nudged him aside, stepped forward, bent down and with a quick, decisive stroke, killed the wounded man.

Richard wiped the knife blade, put an arm on Blackstone’s shoulder and turned his brother towards the road.

They travelled another ten miles without incident. Nightingale chattered like a monkey on a pole, convinced he had killed more in the ambush than even the veterans. He had loosed a dozen arrows and wanted to know from the others if they had seen his targets fall. The veterans ignored him, the local lads argued back, until Bray yelled they’d best be quiet before Sir Gilbert made them ride through the night until they found themselves another scourge of Frenchmen to slaughter. Killing was thirsty work and they needed water and a soft hay barn for themselves. An hour before the light faded in the west, they came to a deserted village. The villagers would have seen smoke drift across the horizon from the torching of other towns and been told by French soldiers to move south towards St Lô and Caen. They carried away as much as they were able, but there were still a few free-running chickens for the taking.

Sir Gilbert and the men penned their horses, posted a sentry and went looking for a place to sleep. There was nothing of value in any of the hovels. The archers, preferring their own company, settled in a barn on the edge of the village where the freshly cut hay’s scent reminded Blackstone of home. John Weston foraged and uncovered an apple rack covered in straw. He found what the villagers had left behind, stone jars of cider.

‘All right, lads, this is the fruit of the land. We’ve to keep up our strength for Sir Gilbert, I reckon,’ he said as he handed out the jars to the approving men. ‘We keep this to ourselves. No need to let the cracked-arsed cavalry know about it.’

By the time darkness nudged away the day, Bray’s archers had eaten and settled into the barn’s comfort. Nightingale’s stories made the archers laugh and his own escapades with village girls caused doubts about such virility. Nightingale put it down to his mother’s milk and his father’s skill at poaching venison.

Richard watched carefully as Elfred showed him how to repair and clean the arrows used in the ambush. The older man grunted to emphasize each stage of the task, as if Richard would understand more easily. If nothing else, Blackstone thought, his brother was being accepted by the archers.

Sir Gilbert took the best village house for himself, as was his right, but he went among the men before taking his own share of the cooked chickens and eggs.

Blackstone sat away from the others as he ate, his brother cleaning the bodkin arrowheads in between tearing mouthfuls of chicken, oblivious of the grease running down his chin.

Sir Gilbert squatted, fingering the edge of the old knight’s sword.

‘You need a keener blade than this. Get one of the hobelars to whet it.’

‘I can do that myself, Sir Gilbert.’

‘So you can. And so you should. There’ll come a time when arrows won’t be enough and you have to close with the enemy. Elfred and Nicholas told me you did well today. Nicholas said you were the one who moved forward.’

Blackstone shrugged, not wanting special attention above the other archers. ‘I could hear you fighting. I knew you’d taken the fight to them.’

Sir Gilbert nodded and stabbed the sword into the ground. ‘We could have been in your line of fire if you hadn’t moved. It was good thinking.’

Blackstone felt relieved no mention was made of the wounded man, that he was not questioned further. But he also knew that Sir Gilbert’s tone had altered. That the killing had raised his status in the knight’s eyes.

‘Do we know who the men were we killed today?’ Blackstone asked.

‘I wasn’t on friendly terms with them,’ Sir Gilbert said, and smiled. He put a stone jug to his lips, the strong Normandy brew cutting across the back of his throat. ‘Spies tell us there’s five hundred or so under the command of Sir Robert Bertrand, he’s the Signeur de Bricquebec. That was one of his raiding parties. He’s an old enemy of de Harcourt’s. His force is too small to face Edward’s thousands, but he’ll try to slow our pace by harassment and ambush and by burning bridges across the main rivers until Philip’s army gets to us.’

‘When will the battle be?’ Blackstone asked.

‘When our King finds a good place for killing them,’ he said.

He handed back the jug and sought out Nicholas Bray. ‘You’ll post a sentry, Nicholas. We’ll leave before dawn, so save that devil’s brew for another night.’

‘I were going to use it for stripping the rust off this old sword of mine, Sir Gilbert.’

‘That’s not rust, you blind old bastard, that’s dried French blood,’ he answered.

‘Well, I never, I must’ve slaughtered more o’them than I thought. You sleep tight in your bed now, Sir Gilbert, and be sure to keep a grip on your own blade,’ he said, the crude reference making the men laugh.

‘God help the whores when you and Will Longdon press a coin in their hand,’ said Sir Gilbert.

‘That won’t be all being pressed in their hands neither,’ Will Longdon told him.

Sir Gilbert gave him a friendly kick. ‘Trouble is, Will, the whores will be giving you change from your coin.’

‘That’s because they feel ashamed for charging a man what gives ’em so much pleasure.’

The men jeered, letting Sir Gilbert return to his men-at-arms. Nicholas Bray pointed a finger. No need for a veteran to lose his sleep.

‘Nightingale, that’s enough drink. Ready yourself to stand watch.’

The men slept heavily. The sea journey, the hard riding and the ambush had taken their toll. As had the fermented cider that could strip a rat’s pelt from its bones when it fell in the vat.

Nightingale felt the injustice of being chosen, but the day’s killing still excited him and he knew he probably would not have slept even if he were inside with the snoring men. He would tell of the attack when he rejoined the untested archers who waited back at the coast. The tavern ale would be bought by those who had yet to face the danger. Young lads needed the advice of veteran archers – and that’s what he was now. A veteran archer.

He loosened his jerkin and tugged free the stone jar of contra­band.

In the early hours before dawn a group of men crept close to the barn. These men were not soldiers, but villagers resentful of the betrayal by some of the Norman barons. They had no weapons to face the English, but they did not wish to succumb without trying to kill at least some of the invading army. They had watched, hidden in nearby orchards, as the horsemen and archers ransacked and occupied their homes. They could not have guessed that the Englishmen would drink so heavily, but that realization came to them as the night wore on. A breeze favoured them as they moved downwind from the horses. The peasants would not dare venture too far into the village for fear of alerting the better armed cavalrymen, who slept close to their mounts, in a farm’s courtyard.

The village men saw that the barn’s doors were already closed, and only one man stood post, the Englishmen inside secure in the belief that any unlikely attack from armed men could be re­pulsed between the cavalry and the archers whose positions in the village created a natural ambush for any attacking force. But these villagers were not armed, except with their hatred of the English and the traitor Godfrey de Harcourt. They hesitated. Who among them would be brave enough to sneak up on the sentry and silence him? The question held them fast, none dared risk the confrontation. And then the question was answered for them. The sentry eased himself to his feet from where he had sat, his back propped against the barn planking, and took a few uneasy steps forwards. He had left his bow against the wall. The men looked at each other. The archer was young. And he was drunk.

After a few yards the boy stopped. There was the steady sound of piss hitting the ground. One of the men carried a hoe as a weapon. In a moment of daring he stepped out of the shadows and swung the metal-headed stave against the archer’s head. The boy crumpled.

Emboldened by their act the dozen men quietly rolled a haycart across the barn doors to stop any attempt by the men inside to escape, and bundled crisp hay along its length. The high, dry weeds and grass around the old building would do the rest. Without a sound they spread tallow across the main doors. They sparked a flint, and by the time they had reached the safety of the woods, the summer grass and tinder-dry wood were ablaze.

Blackstone was in the depths of a dream. He had cut and laid the cornerstone for Lord Marldon’s great hall. The laying ceremony was attended by the King and his son, Edward of Woodstock. The speeches praised the stonemason’s skill, promised him wealth and entry to the stonemasons’ guild. A great feast and tournament followed. An ox turned on a spit, flesh sizzling, fat dripping. The smoke stung his eyes.

He dragged himself awake. Thick choking smoke filled the barn and fire hungrily licked the walls. Somewhere in the distance behind the crackling sound of the burning wood men shouted and horses whinnied. He was near blind from stinging tears and each breath scoured his throat and lungs, plunging him to his knees in spasms of coughing. Pulling his jacket over his head he reached out blindly, trying to find his brother, but found his own sheathed bow instead. Like a blind beggar he used it to stab the hay around him until it prodded a body. He reached down and felt the man’s face. The stubbled jaw told him it was not Richard but he kicked the man time and again until he awoke. Fear quickly sobered him and he stumbled against Blackstone for support.

‘The others!’ Blackstone yelled from beneath his self-made cowl. ‘The others!’

Whoever it was fell to his knees, pulled his jacket across his head like Blackstone, and swept his hands in front of him. The fire took hold and in a great surge clawed towards the roof. The heat would soon kill them, if the building did not collapse first. Blackstone scrambled, felt his brother’s crooked face and tried to lift him. But the bulk and weight of the boy was too much even for Blackstone’s strength. His hands touched a stone jug. He splashed the fluid into his brother’s mouth. The gush of liquid choked him and he sat gasping for breath. Blackstone shook him and the boy reached out, grabbing the lifeline that was his brother.