Defiant Unto Death (2 page)

Blackstone gazed through the haze-laden room. The logs in the grate crackled and spat and men's eyes watered from its smoke. Figures swayed and moved to and fro; a gust of cold air swept through the room when the door opened and closed, but the stench of stale sweat lingered as men slept where they fell. The alehouse woman kicked them and swore, but, like tufted stumps of marsh grass at low tide, they remained unmoving. Marshland. Could a boat get upriver? Had he asked the question or had it formed only in his thoughts? Someone said that only a madman would attempt an attack upriver even if a ship could ever get that far along the storm-ravaged coast and, in case the Englishman didn't know, a cog, with its flat bottom, couldn't sail in a headwind.

Did Jennah of Hythe know those waters? Blackstone was nearly as drunk as the wine-sodden ship's master, a vainglorious plan forming in his mind, a plan that would put coin in his purse and inflict a defeat on the French: his King's enemy. He was sworn by honour to Edward and his son.

The sailor's face was the colour of tanned leather. Broken veins from drink or weather reddened his cheeks and nose. He wiped an arm across his lips that dribbled wine through blackened teeth. ‘Know it? These past twenty years' worth of knowing. I've run m'ship from Bordeaux to Southampton and back carrying my King's wine from Gascony. I've had twenty-odd men lashed together like barrels when we invaded France back in '46. Twenty! No other carried more than a dozen. Less! I took them lads across and they had dry feet when they landed. You were there, were you, Master Blackstone?'

Blackstone nodded. He could never forget that hellish crossing even when drunk, though it had been nothing compared to what awaited him on the battlefields.

Master Jennah grasped Blackstone's shoulder, his eyes nearly closed with impending drunken slumber, and slurred a stumbling declaration. ‘I have never slaked my thirst with a knight before, Sir Thomas. The honour is mine, and had my ship not been arrested by the serjeant-at-arms, and pressed into service, and my cargo taken – my cargo! Aye! I've lost my contract, right enough. I'm out of pocket serving my King – but … that said … if she were mine to offer … she would be yours if she could ever be of service.' Jennah's head slumped onto the table, the wine spilled. Blackstone stumbled across the floor, shouldered the door into the night and took his ambitious idea to the Gascon commander.

Jean de Grailly, whose sworn troops fought for the Crown, belonged to one of the noblest families in the Bordelais. It was the English King's good fortune to have him on his side. He was one of the youngest and ablest commanders, from an august family, who had secured some of King Edward's greatest victories and who still carried the feudal title, Captal de Buch. He was known across France for his audacious attacks that bolstered the English King's territorial claims. He was, Blackstone decided as he stood before this great seigneur, perhaps two or three years younger than his own twenty-six. It was unusual for such a high-ranking lord to grant an audience to anyone he regarded as of lesser rank, but Blackstone's reputation and acceptance by Edward and, if rumour did not lie, the Norman lords, was not to be denied. De Grailly studied the dishevelled man before him. Blackstone was at least a two-week ride from home. Over the years the scarred knight had enjoyed sanctuary with and protection from local English seneschals and Gascon nobles when he raided cattle and food in the warmer climes beyond Normandy. Blackstone was not involved in the fighting and the Prince had made no demands on the Englishman. Here in the south-west, noblemen carried on ancient feuds between themselves. Some could be bought, others defeated to secure territory in war, so why had Thomas Blackstone come to his headquarters? de Grailly wondered. The Englishman had already turned for home with the fifty men who rode with him, herding livestock and carting victuals to replenish his winter supplies. Had the Englishman made a new alliance with a feudal lord so far south from his own domain?

Blackstone was sober, but when he explained his daring plan it felt as cold and hard in his heart as the morning frost underfoot. What had fired his ambition the drunken night before now seemed a damned foolish idea and he had no need to suggest it, but it had been a long, hard winter that was not yet over, and Blackstone was always in need of money and weapons for his men. He accepted the cup of spiced wine he was offered and, keeping his uncertainty at bay, he outlined his plan.

De Grailly listened attentively; he was one of the few who could put aside the arrogance of rank when a seasoned fighter offered a plan that could bring victory, and personal glory.

‘You want me to release his ship?' said de Grailly, surprised not so much by the request itself as by the objective that Blackstone had outlined.

‘I do. And if he gets us through, return his cargo and let the man make a profit if he gets back to England.'

‘Thomas,' de Grailly said, uncertain whether the boldness of the plan was that of a man possessed or a feat of daring that would allow him to strike farther north into French territory than he could ever have hoped, ‘you know how many men that small cog can take? A dozen – perhaps a handful more. It can't be done.'

Perhaps de Grailly was right, Blackstone thought. To throw himself on the mercy of the sea and then sail upriver with a fast-turning tide behind an enemy stronghold, with little knowledge of its fortifications, could be a quick way to die. The ship's master had told him that a spit of land, like a small island, lay to the seaward side of the stronghold and provided the tides had not risen too high and made the ground impassable, then men could get across it and scale the walls. Beyond that, little was known. Blackstone hoped to burn down the main gate and force the garrison of – how many? Sixty or more? – to defend themselves within the courtyard. De Grailly's weight of numbers had to arrive in support and on time.

De Grailly said: ‘The French control the river and the road. They will have barges patrolling downriver. A barge can turn and outrun a ship. They will be waiting for you.'

‘Master Jennah tells me the tide will be in our favour, running from the sea. We run with it. Barges from upriver won't go against the tide.'

Silence settled between de Grailly and Blackstone as both men considered the idea. De Grailly realized that if he could swoop north and deliver a deep wound into the French underbelly, he could then turn his troops inland and drive south in a pincer movement that would throw his enemy off guard and allow him to seize Périgueux, a major French-held city. He tapped his finger nervously on the table. Too far too fast? Too exposed on his flank? How much longer could this English knight lead a charmed life?

Blackstone broke their silence. ‘Take the garrison, seize their armoury and you inflict a wound that'll bleed them dry. You'll control the river, your men will command the road north, your back will be protected and the Prince will kiss you on both cheeks and shower you with glory.'

‘And for you, Thomas? What is in it for you?'

‘I take whatever weapons I can carry. I take their plate and silver, relieve them of the coin they'll have for paying the garrison and those local nobles who support King John. You take the victory; I take the rewards. I can't pay my men with glory alone.'

De Grailly was nodding. The Englishman was taking the greater risk.

‘You would have to be on that road to secure it,' Blackstone said, knowing the route to the castle was the key. Reinforcements could pour down it and overwhelm Blackstone's small force. ‘Be there when I burn down those gates and get inside the walls. If you don't I'm trapped.'

‘And if you don't get inside? Then I'm exposed. I can't turn back six hundred men. The French see my approach and they have me. My head would be delivered to the French King and the Prince becomes vulnerable.'

‘And a horse could stumble walking across a stable yard, throw you and break your neck, or a thief could slip a knife between your ribs. Death is waiting for us all. The trick is to cheat it long enough,' Blackstone answered.

The wave that took Guillaume tumbled him away along the deck. A pitch and a roll and he would be lost. Blackstone could do nothing; his hand already bled from the coarse rope, and as he swung like a flailing pulley-block in a tempest, making a final, desperate effort to grab him, he saw a dark shape separate itself from the huddled mass. The burly figure, his eyes barely visible, his black beard matted with salt, threw the weight of his body onto the helpless man, wresting Guillaume from the roiling water. It was Meulon who pulled the smaller man to him like a shield, and he in turn was grabbed and held by Gaillard. They had enough muscle between them to force half a dozen men to the ground with ferocious ease. The sea god's anger was denied its sacrifice – and, like a burrowing animal, Guillaume disappeared beneath the shield wall.

Blackstone took a tighter grip on the rope, lost his footing, and was slammed into the ship's side. Pain burst through him, but gave him a surge of anger that doubled his strength. And then the boat shuddered, the ominous sound of wood scraping across the sand bar. The clinker-built cog was like a fat-bellied sow; its bowed ribs made it wallow, but its flat-bottomed hull allowed it to enter shallow waters, and with a following tide the ship lurched across the gravelled mouth of the estuary. There was an immediate halt to the violence as the ship found calmer water in the broad reach of the river. For two hundred paces each side of the ship, the mudflats rose into a stubbled landscape of rotted tree-stumps that caught the wind and howled dismally.

Blackstone swung himself around to face the huddled men. ‘On your feet! Up! Now!'

The men staggered uncertainly, found what balance they could, locking arms, bracing legs, weapons in one hand, comrades held fast in the other. There had been enough vomit spewed that day to empty men's stomachs and Blackstone saw the gaunt look of illness on every man's face. As the ship steadied, Master Jennah ordered the sail lowered and secured.

‘Wind's against us good and proper now, but this tide will carry us upstream,' he shouted to Blackstone. ‘Get the water out!'

The ship was heavy with seawater trapped knee-deep with nowhere to go. Blackstone grabbed a bucket and followed the mariners' example, scooping water and passing it to the next man. Without needing to be told his men slung their shields and, ignoring the cramped deckspace, bent to the task. The boat would settle if they did not empty it of the shipped water. Jennah watched the veering wind scatter spray and foam and shouted his helmsmen to keep their course. The command was merely a ritual in these shallow rivers, but the men who steered the ship had been pressed into service most of their lives and had taken trading vessels like the
Saint Margaret Boat
up many inlets.

Master Jennah had told Blackstone of the river's long, twisting curves, of the mudbanks that broke the shallow surface and the wasteland that stretched into the distant forests. If they reached the river mouth by the time the sun was above their heads, he had told Blackstone with a look of misgiving, then when they heard a distant church bell ring for prayers they had less than half the daylight remaining. That was when they would turn the final bend in the river. Blackstone looked at the riverbank and guessed they were moving as quickly as a horse trotted. If Master Jennah was correct, then by the time they reached the garrison there would be only a short time before darkness fell. That was the better choice. It was what he had hoped for: a few short hours to get close to the walls, then fight and secure. They would attack and hold until the next morning. De Grailly would not bring his troops up in darkness. With luck the Gascon commander would be waiting a few miles away, hidden in the forest so that at first light he could secure the road. A soldier needed good fortune on his side, a calming hand from the angels that allowed him to survive; looking at the state of his men, shivering and hunched, limbs aching and bellies empty, he reckoned he needed the earth spirits' blessing as well.

It was not given.

Blackstone threw the bucketful of water over the side. It was whipped away by the wind, half of it stinging his face. The wind had turned.

He looked to where Jennah stood with his helmsmen and the ship's master nodded in silent acknowledgement. The wind was now behind them and, with the flowing tide pushed them ever faster towards the enemy, they would reach the castle with more daylight than he had wished.

There had been no appetite for the ship's rations of salted fish, so once the water had been cleared he gave each man a generous ration of brandywine. It would settle the effects of the voyage and put strength back into their limbs, and Blackstone knew its effect would calm the uncertainty that sat in every man's mind. There were only twenty of them – two more counting Blackstone and Guillaume – and there could be no expectation that the mariners would join in the assault. There was likely to be at least twice the number behind the castle walls to hold a stronghold such as this, but Blackstone prayed that their meandering approach through the mudflats would go unnoticed. The French nobleman who commanded the garrison would expect any challenge to be made from beneath the castle walls. Men of honour did not slip quietly behind the enemy like assassins in the night.

Honour, Blackstone told himself, meant different things to different men.

There was no church bell ringing as the
Saint Margaret Boat
eased around the headland of the river's final bend. His men crouched below the ship's sides as Blackstone stood with Jennah and watched the stronghold ease into view. What he saw was a poor defensive structure that depended on the natural lie of the land. A timbered wall faced the river and Blackstone guessed that the wet ground had been too yielding to secure a stone fortification, which he could see extended beyond the rear wall of the castle where the ground must have been firmer. Drainage ditches had been dug and abandoned over time. There had been little need to expend further effort on a defensive wall where the quagmire and tide formed seemingly impregnable defences. The timber would be chestnut or oak, strong as iron, but with its feet in the soft ground. The castle rose fifteen feet above the river and he could see that what was once a broad reach of water narrowed into smaller channels, finally disappearing into little more than fingers of water that seeped into a distant water meadow. No wonder the castle held the road; there was little chance of an assault by land.