Master of War (8 page)

Three men stumbled into them. They huddled together for a moment, each seeking a way of escape. A farm wagon, hidden in the smoke, rested in the corner of the barn. Fire was already spreading across it, hungry for the tallow that greased its wheel axles. Blackstone pointed – to talk meant inhaling lung-destroying smoke. The cart seemed their only chance. If they could push it hard enough through the burning timber walls they might have a way of breaking out. Burnt straw swirled through the air, the fire’s updraught sucking it from the floor as sparks and splintered timbers tumbled from the roof that would soon fall in. The doors of hell had been opened.

They pressed their bodies against the cart, but despite the archers’ strength its weight could not be moved. They retreated beneath its broad oak planking. Blackstone covered his mouth with his hand, trying to draw air into his lungs.

‘There!’ he shouted above the roaring fire. ‘That corner!’ He pointed. The fire smothered everything, but one corner burned more slowly. ‘They made repairs! That’s new wood. It’s the weakest part!’

There was no time left. He ran at the corner planking, his hair singeing, the heat blistering his face, and threw his shoulder against it. The freshly cut, slower burning wood gave an inch or two. He tried again and this time his brother hurled his bulk against it. The wood nearly splintered away. The other two men began kicking the planks and when Richard shouldered the loosest, it gave.

They burst through the fire into the night. Stumbling and gasping, they dragged each other but then could run no more and fell again, retching from the smoke, eyes streaming. Men ran towards them; Sir Gilbert took one of Blackstone’s arms, a horseman the other, soldiers did the same with the other survivors and dragged them to the safety of the trees. Two soldiers ran from a trough carrying buckets and threw water over the choking, smouldering men. The barn collapsed, sending a fireball of sparks pluming high into the darkness.

Blackstone lay on his back. As his eyes cleared, the stars were red, glittering in the firmament, sucking up the dead men’s souls. Clutched to his chest, like a priceless prize of war, was his father’s war bow. The leather case was singed, but the weapon was unharmed. He needed luck to stay alive, and his superstition was strong enough to know that as long as the war bow remained in his keeping its good fortune would protect him. As dawn broke the smoke-blackened men gazed at the smouldering barn. Their comrades’ remains lay indistinguishable from the charred timbers. The survivors drank thirstily, trying to ease their raw throats.

‘Sir Gilbert!’ one of the hobelars called.

The men turned to see where he pointed. John Nightingale was on all fours crawling from the bushes. His hair was matted with dried blood and he retched vomit into the dirt and over his jerkin. He sank back on his haunches staring blankly at the charnel house that had been a place of safety and laughter for his comrades.

Sir Gilbert strode quickly to him as two of his men hauled Nightingale to his feet. The boy squinted. His sour, dry mouth croaked. ‘Water, Sir Gilbert… water. If you please.’

Sir Gilbert gripped the boy’s chin. The stench of vomit and stale cider confirmed what he already knew. One of the hobelars picked up the stone bottle and tipped it upside down. It was dry.

‘Give him water!’ Sir Gilbert commanded, then turned to the survivors. ‘Was this man posted as sentry?’

Except for Blackstone’s brother, who could not hear the demand, the men averted their eyes.

Sir Gilbert would have none of it. He grabbed Will Longdon roughly. ‘Did Bray post this man?’ he demanded. Longdon had no choice. He nodded.

Sir Gilbert pushed him back and turned to Nightingale, who drank desperately from a waterskin. Sir Gilbert snatched it away. ‘Where’s your bow stave and arrow bag? Where’s your goddamn sword, you pig shit? And your knife?’ The knight’s threatening voice was chilling. Blackstone could feel that something terrible was about to happen, something perhaps more terrible than the barn’s destruction.

‘Get a rope,’ Blackstone commanded one of his men.

Blackstone’s heart thudded with helplessness.

Nightingale mumbled, his befuddled brain still trying to grasp what had happened.

‘Sir Gilbert, I don’t know… I went for a piss… I’m sorry,’ Night­ingale stuttered.

‘Fourteen archers dead, Master Bray among them. The King values his bowmen. They are the gold in his crown. And they are dead because you supped too long and hard like a suckling pig on a sow’s teat. Men came and took your weapons. Men came and slaughtered my archers! Because of your neglect!’

One of the hobelars had knotted and thrown a rope across the limb of a chestnut tree. Two others dragged Nightingale towards it. The boy struggled.

‘Sir Gilbert! I beg you!’ He almost broke free, the fear sober­ing his mind, adding strength to his archer’s muscles. One of the hobe­lars struck him across the back of the head, and as suddenly as he had resisted, he yielded to the inevitable.

‘I’m sorry,’ he called to the five archers who had not moved. ‘I’m sorry, lads. Forgive me.’

His hands were quickly bound. There was no ceremony. The two hobelars hauled on the rope and the kicking, choking boy was dragged into the air.

Sir Gilbert turned away. ‘Get the horses!’

Blackstone could not look at the bulging face. Nightingale’s swollen tongue turned purple, blood seeped from his eyes, his legs kicked violently, but less so than a moment before.

By the time the men rode past him a few minutes later, the first crow had settled.

No prayers for the dead were said, or needed. The army’s priests could pray for departed souls because that was their role. Professional soldiers would spit and curse the devil, swear vengeance against their enemies and say a private prayer of their own in thanks that they still lived – and then share their dead comrade’s plunder among themselves. It took the morning to track down the villagers. They ran across the skyline between the saddle of ground that connected two corners of a forest, their silhouetted figures visible from miles away.

The horsemen gave chase and encircled them. One man who carried Nightingale’s bow and arrow bag attempted to draw it but managed only to pull it back halfway and the arrow loosed was easily avoided. Fear and panic gripped the peasants. They babbled in French, tears came to their eyes. Sir Gilbert and two of his men-at-arms dismounted and drew their swords. No one spoke. Anger and revenge raised the men’s swords and Blackstone watched as the knight and his men clove the Frenchmen’s bodies with their war swords.

One man remained. He knelt in supplication before Sir Gilbert. Blackstone watched as his captain indicated the coat of arms on his jupon, and told the man his name. Then he ordered the man to run. At first he hesitated, but when Sir Gilbert raised his sword, he did as commanded.

The warning would race like the barn fire.

The English were coming and Sir Gilbert Killbere would lead the slaughter.

Sir Gilbert and his men returned to the vanguard as Edward’s army moved relentlessly down the Cotentin peninsula, cutting a swathe seven miles wide across the countryside. Blackstone watched the tide approach across the hills. Like a voracious caterpillar it devoured everything in its path.

Once the vanguard had camped for the night, Sir Gilbert reported to Godfrey de Harcourt and Sir Reginald Cobham. The old knight, with his close-cropped grey hair, was a soldier who would sleep in his armour and share the privations of the common man. When battle commenced Cobham would lead the assault, and the marshal of the army, the pugnacious William de Bohun, Earl of Northampton, would be shouting encouragement to the knight who had fought for years at his side. It was such relish for engaging and defeating the enemy that drove men like these and Sir Gilbert Killbere.

‘There’ll be no resistance,’ Sir Gilbert reported. ‘Sporadic attacks like the ambush is all we can expect.’

‘We’re beyond the peninsula now. We should strike eastwards and attack Caen,’ Sir Reginald said. ‘The city is like a boil on your arse. It needs lancing.’

The Earl of Northampton scratched two lines in the dirt with his dagger. ‘It’s the major obstacle in our path towards Paris; the King knows that. Battle has to be joined there before we can move on. We need to cross the Seine and then the Somme, and the devil will task us on that. We can’t leave Bertrand’s thousands at our backs. On to Caen before he fortifies the place further.’

‘St Lô first,’ de Harcourt told them.

‘Godfrey, there’s no point. We all know of your enmity for Bertrand, but he has enough sense to know he can’t defend that against us,’ Northampton told him.

‘If he’s there I want the bastard’s head on a pole. Three of my friends were butchered there. Their skulls are on the gateway. They were Norman knights who swore fealty to Edward. He’ll want his revenge as much as I. St Lô, I say, and then Caen,’ de Harcourt insisted.

Sir Reginald looked to the earl. ‘Well, it’s a rich city. There’s wine and cloth for the taking.’

‘But it slows the advance!’ Northampton argued. ‘It’s what Bertrand wants. To slow us down. God’s teeth! There’s a French army coming from the south-west and Philip is moving to cut us off at Rouen. This diversion will cost us more than it’s worth.’

‘When the King learns of its riches, and the fate of the men loyal to him, he will want St Lô plundered and burned,’ the baron replied.

Sir Gilbert stayed silent. He had no definite proof that the French harassing force had gone to defend the rich city. The Earl of Northampton looked to his knight. ‘Not much to argue there, Gilbert, but you have an opinion, no doubt. You always have.’

‘If I were Bertrand I would abandon St Lô. Sir Reginald is right, it’s rich and it’s a temptation that’s hard to resist, but Bertrand will run like the fox he’s proving to be. He won’t leave troops there; he’ll already be fortifying Caen. St Lô is the bait to keep us wriggling a while longer.’

‘But it’s a fat worm,’ the Earl of Northampton conceded.

The men turned away, but Godfrey de Harcourt caught Sir Gilbert’s arm.

‘If we are to attack St Lô, there is another matter for you and your men,’ he said.

Except for Blackstone, the archers replenished their weapons from the wagonloads of white-painted staves. They tested and drew the hemp cords, discarded one stave in favour of another, until each man was satisfied he had the bow that best suited him. They were made mostly of English ash and elm, fine weapons for any archer, but inferior to Blackstone’s yew bow.

The men each took another two dozen arrows in an arrow bag, and readied themselves to ride out again with men chosen by Elfred, who had been made centenar by Sir Gilbert. There was a solemn mood among the survivors of the fire. Comrades had been lost in the barn and Blackstone’s friend was a rotting corpse hanging from a broad-leafed chestnut tree. Combat at least offered men the chance to die fighting their enemy, but dying trapped like rats and burned alive was a perverse act of the devil, defying God’s will. So God would not help any villagers who found themselves at the archers’ mercy – there would be none.

Blackstone was sitting with his brother and Elfred, as Will Longdon cursed the bastard French cowards to the dead men’s replacements.

‘Blackstone!’ Sir Gilbert bellowed.

He got to his feet, gestured for his brother to stay, and walked quickly to his captain, who turned on his heel towards their com­manders’ banners. The lame de Harcourt watched the young archer as he bowed, but Blackstone’s eyes had gone past the Norman. Twenty paces away, talking to Sir Richard Cobham and the Earl of Northampton, was the young Prince of Wales. His pavilion had been pitched and servants scurried, as cooks prepared food. Blackstone’s mouth watered, he could not remember when he had last tasted meat. A dozen knights stayed a respectful distance from the Prince, but it was clear they were there to protect the heir to the throne. Now that he was closer than in the church Blackstone could see the boy’s fine features more clearly.

‘Your captain tells me you have skills; that your father was an archer who married a French woman, and that she was not a whore, and you speak French. And that you have a head on your shoulders,’ de Harcourt said.

Blackstone could not help but wonder what accident of birth determined their fate. Perhaps God had his favourites. The boy looked strong, but could he wield a sword for hours on end as Blackstone could swing a mason’s hammer? Perhaps too much was being asked of such a young Prince who had yet to prove himself in battle. Perhaps…

Sir Gilbert cuffed him across the back of the head.

‘Wake up! My lord speaks to you.’ Sir Gilbert grimaced at de Harcourt. ‘Apologies, my lord, perhaps I chose badly. His dumb ox of a brother might have been a better choice. His is only a dumb insolence.’

Godfrey de Harcourt ignored him, and stared at Blackstone, who went down on one knee in penance. ‘Forgive me, lord.’

‘Common men seldom get so close to the King’s son. Stand up,’ de Harcourt commanded. Blackstone obeyed but kept his eyes averted for fear of appearing impertinent.

‘You would serve your Prince?’ de Harcourt asked Blackstone. ‘Look at me, boy.’

Blackstone looked into the deep brown eyes of a man who was considered by most in France, except for other feudal lords in Normandy, as a traitor.

‘I would, lord. With all that I have.’

‘And what you have, according to Sir Gilbert, is the ability to use what lies between your ears. And the knowledge of how a fortress is built.’

Blackstone had never cut stone for more than Lord Marldon’s manor, but he could read a plan and understand geometric designs. Did that qualify him? Sir Gilbert obviously thought so and to deny it would surely place Sir Gilbert in a poor light.

‘I have, my lord.’

‘Then you know where a weakness may lie. And how to breach such a place.’

Blackstone was uncertain whether it was a statement or a ques­tion, so he simply nodded.

‘Then you will ride with Sir Gilbert to Caen. We will scourge St Lô tomorrow, but Bertrand has four thousand men-at-arms with Genoese crossbowmen waiting for us, and a citizenry ready to fight at Caen. If they decide to defend the city then we cannot afford to be held there. I have not seen it since before I was exiled to England. We need your eyes to find the weakest defences. The Prince leads the attack. We must seize the city, but the fortress is impregnable. You will see what is for the taking.’