Defiant Unto Death (20 page)

Glory would be his and the King of France would reward him for delivering the head of the man who had plagued him for so long.

Blackstone and his fighters knelt, shield straps tightened and locked above their heads as the thud of rubble and spears pounded down upon them. Their boiled leather knee guards protected them from the stony ground but it would not be long before the shields would crack like eggs and then Blackstone and his men's mangled bodies would join those of the slaughtered men.

‘Holy Mother! He'd best hurry!' Meulon shouted above the noise of the assault hammering down.

Blackstone twisted his head and looked at the black-bearded man whose eyes glared from behind his helmet's nose guard. Meulon and the others – Gaillard, Perinne: sworn men at his side for these past years – crouched like beasts in the field fearful of being struck by lightning.

‘He'll be here!' Blackstone yelled, and prayed that his squire had done exactly as ordered because his own attack was a feint to draw the men in the castle to the front wall.

Guillaume Bourdin clambered across the rear parapet from the scaling ladder that had wobbled precariously when four of the rungs gave way beneath his weight. He led the assault but almost lost his grip when he crashed the length of his body down the ladder. His feet slammed into the man below, a muffled grunt and a curse was all the nineteen-year-old squire heard as he hauled his weight up hand over hand. Shield and sword were strapped across his back, which meant that he would be vulnerable as he breached the wall. But no soldiers lay in wait; the cries of battle were beyond him from where Blackstone led the frontal assault. Despite the broken ladder men poured across the wall after him, running along the battlements, peeling left and right to secure the walls and watch towers. They ran silently, bringing their shields across their bodies, readying axe and spear. None wore armour, their swiftness of foot and agility in battle demanding that they wore only mail shirts beneath a gambeson that bore Blackstone's coat of arms. There was no distinction between knight and common soldier. The castle's inner ward was protected by a curtain wall and as Guillaume ran towards the front battlements he saw others clamber like rats across a sinking ship's bows to the keep, where soldiers would be guarding the garrison knight's family. The young squire gave them little thought. If the men followed Blackstone's orders the women and children would not be harmed, but if any showed resistance they would be slaughtered.

Guillaume and his men had got further than they thought possible before being detected as the defenders concentrated their efforts on destroying those below the shield wall. Ten men ran behind him in support, another dozen or more raced along the other parapet and they would soon meet resistance from the watchtower, but the men on the ground who had run down the steps to the courtyard would have to secure the gate as rapidly as they could, while those above took control of the tower and raised the portcullis. Guillaume saw the rolling gait of Guinot the stocky Gascon, his short hair bristling grey in the dull light, his leather jerkin stretching tight across a broad back as he wielded an axe in one hand and a mace in the other. He and the men with him carried no shields for protection; they were going to carve a path into the soldiers behind the gates. Fifty men were now inside the castle walls. Guillaume knew that despite every one of his men being worth two of Sir Rolf de Sagard's, Blackstone had, for once, attacked with a superior force.

The garrison commander half turned as men behind him screamed a warning. Sir Rolf's worst fears were realized as he saw the enemy swarming within the castle walls. He yelled a command and ran at Guillaume along the parapet, which was only wide enough to allow two men shoulder to shoulder. Blackstone had spent the past five years training each day with his young squire, and the remorseless demands Blackstone made on his men were what secured the towns he held and the fear he created. Ferocity in attack, he always told them, drives the heart and strengthens the sword arm, but also puts the fear of Christ into others. Now, however, the greatest challenge Guillaume faced was to carry out his lord's command not to slay Sir Rolf. He wanted him alive. How, the young squire asked himself, was he supposed to do that and survive? The garrison commander held back, ordering his men-at-arms to halt the attacking men. Guillaume bent his shoulder behind his shield and scraped its edge along the parapet wall, allowing another of his men to squeeze in next to his shoulder. As the man cut viciously low into the legs of the soldiers defending Sir Rolf, Guillaume skewered and jabbed his sword beneath raised arms and exposed throats. They fell gasping and squirming and were kicked to the yard below.

Sir Rolf turned to retreat to the safety of the keep but Guillaume screamed to Guinot below: ‘Guinot! Stop him!' and jabbed with his sword in the direction of the knight.

The sweat-slicked Gascon ran forward, cutting off the man's escape, and, as Sir Rolf killed two of his attackers, Guinot hurled his mace straight at the man's head. The strike whipped the knight's head back, rocking him onto his heels, and then one of his knees gave way as he staggered. Stunned, he half turned, desperately sweeping the sword in a wide arc, catching another of Guillaume's men across the throat. By then Guinot was on him, throwing his weight over him, ripping free the helm and punching him in the temple. Sir Rolf de Sagard lay unconscious in the mud, his beard clogged, his ears and nose leaking blood. As the cry went up that their commander was down his soldiers grouped together and formed a defensive knot, crowding themselves into a corner. They had already witnessed the lack of mercy given to those who had tried to surrender on the other side of the portcullis. There was no choice other than to fight. Guillaume shouted for others to assault the gatehouse and as the men he led plunged spear and sword into the fifteen or so men who stood their ground he joined those who were using a granite horse trough as a battering ram against the keep's stubborn oak door.

He heard the portcullis clank upwards and men heaving aside the gates. Blackstone strode into the outer ward flanked by the bear-like figures of Meulon and Gaillard. Within half a dozen strides Blackstone had barked out an order to spare the few remaining survivors who now crowded behind their fallen comrades. The moment the order was given the French threw down their weapons and knelt in surrender. Blackstone's men reached into the group and hauled them into the open yard.

‘Where's de Sagard?' Blackstone called as he and the others walked between the fallen men.

‘My lord!' Perinne shouted from where he had propped the hapless commander against the wall, wrists bound and shackled to an eyelet in the wall. Sir Rolf was still groggy from the blows and blinked uncertainly as Blackstone reached him and lifted his chin with his gauntleted fist.

‘Where is William de Fossat?'

The battered man shook his head, mumbled and dropped his head down onto his chest.

Blackstone pinched the knight's nose. ‘Don't feign unconsciousness with me, you turd!'

Sir Rolf gasped for air.

‘You know who I am,' Blackstone said threateningly through gritted teeth.

Sir Rolf nodded.

‘Good,' said Blackstone, as he heard the keep door shatter and saw Guillaume lead the men inside. He twisted the man's head so he could see what was happening. There was a clash of steel and shouts of alarm from within. Men cried out; a woman screamed. ‘But you don't know my men. And what they'll do to your wife and children. Where is de Fossat?'

‘He's not here.'

Blackstone pushed his head back against the wall, making him grimace as the rough stone rubbed his scalp.

‘You'll spare them? I beg you, Sir Thomas, don't let your men dishonour my wife and daughter.'

Blackstone glared at the beaten man, saying nothing – and then relented. ‘I'll spare them,' knowing full well his orders already stood for them to remain unharmed.

‘The truth, Sir Thomas. William de Fossat is not here. He is no longer my prisoner.'

This time Blackstone slammed Rolf's head back hard, stunning him. ‘Stay with him, Guinot. Keep the bastard alive. Give him water when he comes to. Meulon, with me. Gaillard, you and Perinne take the men. Search everywhere.' He strode quickly to the keep and pushed his way through the crowded stairwell as his men came down with bolts of fine cloth, silver plate and jewellery.

‘Stand aside!' Meulon cried up the stairwell. ‘My lord is here!' And forged through the throng of men as Blackstone followed on his heels. Blackstone's men pulled the bodies of dead defenders out of his path. Men pressed themselves back against the wall of the twisting stairs. Blackstone spoke a word here and there, mentioning men by name, congratulating his fighters.

‘Next landing, my lord. Master Guillaume has them,' one of the soldiers said as Blackstone pushed past him.

Blackstone stepped into the broad room where long-plank floors creaked under his weight. Murder holes sent slits of light into the chamber where the last of his men pillaged tapestries from the wall and grabbed pewter cups from cupboards. Candlesticks and table coverings were already stripped and one of the men had a woman's fur-collared cloak over his shoulder. Blackstone pulled it from him and muted any protest of stealing the man's booty. ‘I'll pay you for this, Betyn. More than it's worth.'

‘Aye, my lord,' the soldier answered. Silver from Sir Thomas was better, easier than trading the cloak for a whore's pleasures for a month or more.

Meulon ushered the last few men out of the room as Blackstone looked towards the huddled family. A woman, beyond her thirtieth year, he guessed, held a protective arm around a girl of about eight years. She would have been raped by now had it been anyone other than Blackstone leading the assault. A boy of similar age stood to the front of his mother holding a broken-shafted spear. As Blackstone stepped forward towards the shivering woman the boy made a stabbing motion. Guillaume half sat on the edge of an oak table, his sword point resting on the floor, waiting to see if the boy was going to lunge. He was unconcerned at the feeble threat. ‘A memory, my lord, of another boy in another castle in another time.'

‘Aye, but not as determined as you were,' Blackstone said, and nodded for the boy to be taken care of.

His squire moved so quickly that the child had no chance to bring the spear point to bear. Guillaume snatched it, pulled the boy off balance and cuffed him behind the ear. The woman gasped; the girl cried out. Blackstone held the cloak for her.

‘Madam, the castle is taken. No one here will harm you. It's cold and you will need this.'

She snatched the proffered cloak and wrapped it about her, pulling the trembling girl in beneath it. Guillaume hauled the boy to his feet and smiled at Blackstone. He picked up a fallen bench and sat the boy on it and then gestured for the woman and her daughter to sit with him. They did as they were told, but kept darting nervous looks at the black-bearded man who hovered behind them.

‘Meulon, you're making the lady nervous. Step this side of her,' said Blackstone.

‘It is said his mother died of fright when she gave birth,' Guillaume said to the wide-eyed boy. ‘He was born with that beard.'

Meulon grinned and did as ordered.

‘That's enough,' Blackstone told Guillaume. ‘We've no time for humour here.' He looked unsmiling at the woman. ‘Your husband was not prepared to save you, my lady,' he said. ‘He lied to me. I know William de Fossat is here.'

She shook her head.

Blackstone pushed Wolf Sword, still wet from blood, through its holding ring on his belt. ‘I will give you safe passage to the nearest lord who supports King John, but I need to know where my friend is being held. I see no place for a dungeon.'

‘I don't know anything of William de Fossat. I know he was brought here and I believe he was taken away after spending only one night chained in the outer ward.'

‘Who brought him?'

‘I do not know the man.'

He could see her confidence was returning. She was the Lady de Sagard again, disdainful of the barbarian soldiers in her home. Blackstone had given his word that she would not be harmed and that gave her security. He put his face closer to hers, watching as her eyes widened fearfully again. Blackstone lowered his voice and spoke to her in measured terms so that she would gather in his words. ‘You and your children are safe but your husband will die today unless you tell me what has happened in this place. You will be a widow without protection. Your children orphaned. I will burn this place to the ground. The King will take your lands. Save yourself and your lord.'

She faltered, but the thought of being widowed like so many others she knew, and the hardship that it could bring, broke her resolve.

‘There is a dungeon, beneath the north wall. A trapdoor … in the armoury.'

Gaillard dragged his boot across the straw-laden floor as Blackstone and Guillaume stood by with Meulon and half a dozen others who held burning torches.

‘It's here,' said Gaillard, grunting as he bent down and grasped the iron ring of the trapdoor and heaved the heavy wooden slats up, then let the weight of it crash down. ‘There are steps, my lord.' But as he spoke he recoiled from the stench that wafted up from the darkened cellar. The smell reached the others and they pulled an arm across their nose and mouth. Blackstone took one of the torches and eased himself down the steep stairway.

‘Stay here,' he ordered.

As he descended the smell became worse and he could hear the muted buzz of flies. He realized he must be at least fifteen feet below the floor, and could see the rough-hewn stone foundations. As his hand reached out to steady his step on the narrow staircase he felt water running down the wall. The place seeped with moisture from the ground above and the sticky smell of putrefaction mingled with the damp air. When the steps ended he was in a vast space where the flames from his torch did not reach. As he made his way forward he saw manacled chains hanging from wall rings and a brazier, cold, its grey ash half burying the irons used for torture that pierced its dead embers. He listened but there was no sound except that of the spluttering torch that he held away from him, sweeping through the darkness.