Defiant Unto Death (39 page)

‘You'll not take Henry,' she bargained.

‘You had him for seven years. You taught him to read and write, you gave him what a child needed …'

‘He's still a child!'

‘Only to you! He's in his ninth year! He has to learn about war, Christiana. I've already broken tradition by keeping him with me. By now he should have been with another family serving as a page. He has to learn. Better he does it under my protection.'

‘No. He stays with me and Agnes. He's proved his courage already. He stays with us, Thomas, I mean it. I won't have him dragged to the slaughter, there'll be enough killing to come in his life, but I won't have him sacrificed for your vengeance.'

Blackstone smothered the rising anger that threatened to inflame their argument. Tears of defiance welled in Christiana's eyes.

‘We part on bad terms, Christiana. I don't want that.'

‘Then leave Henry with me.'

‘You blackmail me.'

‘Only because my love is not enough.'

There, in that moment, she broke down his resistance. ‘You use a velvet glove to wield a mace. I always give in to you,' he said.

‘Only when you know I'm right.'

‘Which seems to be more often than not.' He nodded. ‘The boy can stay.'

She stepped up to him and he embraced her. He smelled the fragrance of rosemary soap she had used to wash her hair, and felt the warmth of her soft skin as he laid his lips on her neck.

Paradise or hell.

When the bells sounded at sext, the midday sun was only a promising glow behind the cloud. Blackstone and Guillaume rode down the escarpment to the edge of the forest. Guillaume looked back towards the monastery, where, for at least a short while, they had been safe. Blackstone had spoken to the English soldiers who escorted the Italian priest and offered them silver coin for their ongoing protection of Christiana and the children.

‘We are on the King's business, Sir Thomas,' the sergeant had said. ‘And our orders were to deliver the priest to Prince Edward. There's nothing in 'em that says we have to go to Avignon. You can see how this makes it difficult for us to honour your request.'

‘I have agreed to relieve Father Niccolò of his responsibility so I'll be riding to the Prince, and the information I have for him is vital. The priest will deliver my family to the Pope. No one will strike at them there. If I leave this monastery and go my own way, you'll be dead by nightfall. The forest and valleys crawl with Frenchmen and those they pay to hunt and kill us. You'll stumble like blind men in the battle. This way, you'll reach safety and have the pleasure of the whores at Avignon.' Blackstone had tossed the bag of coins to the sergeant, who felt its weight in his hand. He looked at the others.

‘Take the money,' one of his men said. ‘The King's business will still be attended to. It makes no difference who takes the message to the Prince. It's a fair bargain.'

‘When you reach Avignon, Father Niccolò will reward you with another payment. And I will be in your debt,' Blackstone told them.

One of the soldiers snorted and spat. ‘My lord, if what you say is true, there's as much chance of you living as a rat in a dog pit.'

His sergeant rounded on him. ‘Quiet, Rudd. Sir Thomas is right. One man who knows the lie of the land could get through better'n us riding with the Italian. And if there's a wager to be made, my money is on him.' He tossed the coins back to Blackstone. ‘We'll take the payment from the priest, Sir Thomas. Havin' your bond is worth more'n a few coins.'

Rudd snarled: ‘It's us as well! It's not for you to say! Take his money!'

Without warning the sergeant struck the man down. ‘You'll do as I command, you whore's son, or I'll cut your hamstrings and leave you in the forest to fend for yourself!' He faced Blackstone. ‘You leave the priest and your family to us. And when you reach Avignon you'll know where to find us.'

Blackstone looked to the others. They nodded. The fallen man got to his feet.

The agreement had been made.

Guillaume faced the road ahead. Blackstone had not given even a backward glance.

They parted several miles to the north. Blackstone sketched a map into the dirt.

‘Send word to the towns. Leave half the men, those with women and children – they'll have more to fight for – and gather the rest. Meet me somewhere about here,' he said, pointing at a scrape that served as the river that ran north of Poitiers's walled city. ‘The Count of Poitiers has his army to the west and he'll move south with King John. I have to catch up with Edward. If they get behind him he has nowhere to go and the French will crush him. His only chance of escape would be surrender.'

‘The English will be hard pressed to move at speed. Their wagons are loaded with months of plunder. How long before they're trapped?' said Guillaume.

‘Probably no more than two or three days.'

‘And if you aren't there, what do I do?' Guillaume asked.

Blackstone climbed into the saddle. ‘Serve the Prince, then ride to Avignon. I'll be dead.'

Blackstone found his way through the countryside from memory. Landmarks were few and far between, but the lie of the land and the prevailing winds helped him gauge direction. By the end of the first day he had crisscrossed forest trails and negotiated his way across a fast-flowing river. By nightfall, soaked through and numb with cold, he rode as far as the dwindling light would permit, then curled the reins round his fist and slept with his back against a tree and his shield across his body. He awoke before first light when the breeze shifted and brought the smell of woodsmoke into the trees. Men had moved into the forest during the night, but there was little smoke, which meant the men would be some distance away. He listened, but there was no sound: no disgruntled voices complaining of the cold or of the hard ground where they slept.

He led the horse, feeling his way forward in the darkness with the length of his sword, tapping the trees like a blind beggar. By the time he reached the open ground he could see distant pinpricks of light from a half-dozen fires scattered across the landscape, small speckles of red, giving off wispy smoke in the still, predawn air.

He wondered if Guillaume could make it as far as the towns where his men awaited their orders. If the French had scouting parties scattered across the land, neither he nor his squire would get through unless the gods smiled or Arianrhod covered his journey with her gossamer wings. At a time when a morning mist was most wanted, the land was clear from the fresh breeze that allowed men to see for miles.

The fires to the east were the most distant, and the broken ground and gorges between him and those men offered a buffer. But those who were closer – whose fire he could smell in the damp air but could not see – they were the most dangerous. How long could he ride before they came upon him? Men's limbs would be stiff, and they would be slow to react, still groggy from a night's sleep. Now was the time for risk. He gathered the reins and spurred the horse. To ride slowly and with caution could invite a sudden, unexpected attack. If he rode hard the horse's hoof beats would probably alert some of the men, but at least he would have the momentum to outdistance anyone in pursuit.

There was no track across the broad meadows and no sign of men labouring in the fields. He knew there were villagers scattered across the hills, but they had either been frightened by marauding brigands or word had reached them from travellers on the road to and from Poitiers that the English were close. Most in this area were loyal to King John, so Blackstone knew he would be given no shelter.

Once Blackstone had raced across the open plain, he eased his horse into the edge of another forest. Dismounting, he walked the horse through the dense woodland, then tethered it and made his way back to the forest's edge. He had a clear view across the open valley into the foothills and the woodland he had travelled through. It did not take long for him to see the distant riders – half a dozen or more – making their way down onto the track and then cantering as they followed one man who scouted ahead of the group. This man halted them and pointed to Blackstone's tracks. The galloping horseman they had heard meant the rider sought no comfort from a campfire. And who might risk avoiding them? An English messenger might, and he would be a valuable prize. The horsemen looked towards the forest, where Blackstone unconsciously took a step further back into the undergrowth. One of the riders, who appeared to be in charge, raised himself in the stirrups and swung his sword arm in a broad arc, evidently a signal. There must be another group of men on Blackstone's side of the valley. The riders turned their horses onto the meadow and made their way towards him.

Blackstone pushed through the trees. Branches clawed out from the lower trunks – they would rip a man's face off if he tried to ride through them. He led the horse and cleared the path with his sword until he was deeper still into the forest. With luck the men would be slowed by the same problem, but he had to make headway before they entered the woods and heard the slashing of his blade. He redoubled his efforts, desperate not to be entrapped in such a confined fighting area. Shafts of sunlight suddenly penetrated the canopy. The wind had cleared the morning cloud and showed him the way to a track made by woodcutters and charcoal burners from one of the nearby villages. Blackstone climbed into the saddle and listened. There was the crack of dry wood beneath horses' hooves, and muted cursing. They had not yet dismounted and fought their way through the labyrinth.

No sooner had he felt the brief comfort of advantage than he heard an excited cry. One of the men was already on the track a few hundred paces behind him. Some of them must have found an easier way through the forest. The man called out again, telling the others that he had found their quarry.

Blackstone spurred his horse along the track. Within half a league it became wider, with grass verges and wildflowers mixed with a tangle of new saplings. His horse smashed through easily as he pulled it off the track and plunged back into the forest. Men had been at work in this part of the woodland, which was less dense, allowing him to manoeuvre the horse through it. He needed another woodcutter's trail before they surrounded him. If there were crossbowmen among them they could have him down and at their mercy.

Now voices carried back and forth in the forests behind and to one side. The men had spread themselves out in their search for him and called so their sweep was broad and thorough. Whoever came across Blackstone first would soon summon the rest. He listened to the sound of their progress around him. They were close. He eased forward in the saddle and rested his hand on his horse's face. Stay calm, stay calm, he whispered in his mind. One man appeared thirty paces to his left, bending over his pommel as he ducked below a low branch.

The man's eyes looked right at him for a second or more, but did not see any movement so the glance yielded nothing and the man pushed on forwards. Blackstone turned at the sound of another approaching horseman. He was making his way through the trees, jinking left and right as he avoided branches and fallen boughs; his head was down, looking to see how to guide his horse through the fetlock-snapping undergrowth on the forest floor. He was within ten paces; if he looked up now he would see Blackstone. Another voice cried out beyond the man, and the rider turned in that direction, away from Blackstone's position. The voices fell silent and only a faint crushing of undergrowth could be heard. Blackstone eased the big horse forward, though he knew that the sound of its passage must be heard by the searchers. He hoped they would think horsemen moving so close to them must be one of their own. The trees thinned, a narrow track presented itself and he urged the horse forward.

A few hundred yards further on Blackstone lost his advantage. The track broadened out into a clearing – a disused woodcutters' encampment containing several old fire pits.

Blackstone reined in his horse. The shadows of the forest moved from the trees into the clearing. It was the second group of horsemen. The men-at-arms urged their mounts forwards and then stopped. Behind him the same movement told him he was surrounded. He glanced back. Ten men waited, their nervous mounts sensing their riders' anxiety: wanting to kill him, but hesitating. Ten behind, ten to the front. No crossbowmen. Some wore pieces of armour, others mail, a few nothing more than a hobelar's jerkin. Twenty men. A scouting party for the bigger force? Which was where? Or were they brigands – roaming bands of looters? Had these been the men who had attacked his home and slaughtered his people? Blackstone did not move. If they struck at him with urgency he would not survive. Their manner indicated they were overconfident, convinced that one man could not harm them.

The track ahead, his way out beyond the clearing, was barred by six of the men, three behind three. The others' formation had been determined by the space between the trees. He felt his horse's muscled bulk fight against the rein, its hooves back-stepping, gathering energy, waiting for its rider's command.

To his right, beyond the men, the forest offered a tantalizing refuge, but by the time he could forge past the swordsmen and blunder through the low branches he would be more vulnerable than safe – and that was provided he could hack his way through sufficient numbers of the men.

There was a better way. He would feint to the right, draw the men from the front rank off the track, and attack the three in the rear. These men rode poor quality mounts, rounceys and palfreys; his horse's strength would give him the advantage of momentum. Those who encircled him would hesitate long enough for him to kill at least two of them and then the track ahead would be clear. He could outrun them.

He gathered the reins, held Wolf Sword low, ready for a slashing cut to the unguarded neck of the first man's horse. Blackstone followed a simple rule in battle: inflict the most violence on the enemy in the shortest time. Striking fear into opponents was as potent a weapon as a sword thrust.