Defiant Unto Death (47 page)

Killbere slumped and splashed water onto his face. It would take time for the dried blood to be completely scrubbed away. ‘Edward won't see you,' he said finally. ‘You will not be allowed to question John.'

‘I need an answer, Gilbert, that's all,' Blackstone said.

‘You've caused embarrassment and displeasure to a Prince of the realm. He'll forgive you in time, but for Christ's sake, Thomas, you tried to kill the King of France after he'd surrendered. Cobham and Warwick think you should be flogged, hanged and left out there to rot with the rest of them.'

‘I almost had him,' Blackstone said. ‘But I need to know where de Marcy is. That at least.'

Elfred and Will Longdon squelched across the soggy ground to where Killbere and Blackstone sat. Meulon and Gaillard carried baskets of food and wine.

‘Sir Thomas,' Longdon said, handing a wineskin to Blackstone and dropping an armful of food seized from the French camp. ‘They had more food than they could eat. And I'll wager that wine won't scour your bowels.'

Blackstone drank deeply and passed it to Killbere. ‘You should be gathering clothing and valuables,' Blackstone said.

‘Most of it's gone,' Longdon said, his mouth full, gratefully accepting the wineskin from Guillaume, swilling away the food in his overfilled mouth. ‘Bastard peasant French robbing their own. We should go and burn the whoresons out of their villages. Need this first …' he said, pointing to the next mouthful of food being ripped between his teeth.

‘Where's Perinne?' Blackstone asked.

‘Attending to Guinot's body. We said we'd keep whatever booty and food we found for him to share,' Meulon said, and slumped onto the ground, pulling back his sweat-soaked mail from his head.

Elfred cut a thick slice of bread for each man. ‘They nearly finished us, Thomas,' he said.

‘And if the Dauphin and Orléans had not left the field they would have done,' said Killbere. ‘Mad bastards couldn't see that. God knows why they went.'

‘Perhaps they missed the comfort of their beds and the softness of their whores,' Will Longdon grinned. ‘I care not. We beat them.'

The men fell silent as they drank and ate, their exhaustion sobering their thoughts. Recounting in their mind's eye what they saw, where a false step or unlucky blow could have brought any of them down.

‘If the French had not dismounted they'd have worn us down,' said Meulon. ‘They thought to fight like us.'

‘None can fight like us,' said Will Longdon. ‘We gave 'em a lesson this time, by God. They won't forget this one, Thomas. We'll drink and whore on stories of this day for years to come.'

Elfred showed no sign of sharing his archer's enthusiasm. ‘Most of my men were killed. God knows how many English and Gascons lie out there. It was close-run. Our Prince will need to supply us with more arrows next time.'

Blackstone stood and pulled on his leather jerkin. ‘There'll be no next time, Elfred. The King is taken. France is finished. There'll be no more war. Better get used to the idea of being a peasant swineherd.' Swallowing a final mouthful of wine he stepped away. ‘Stay with my horse,' he instructed Guillaume.

‘Thomas?' Killbere called. ‘Where are you going?'

‘I told you. I need an answer,' Blackstone said as Meulon and Gaillard got up to accompany him but he gestured them to stay, and made his way towards the royal pavilion.

Killbere groaned. ‘Sweet Jesus, he'll find himself at the end of a rope if he doesn't show some respect.'

Longdon shoved a wedge of food into his mouth. ‘Best get the rope ready then, Sir Gilbert,' he said as a weary Killbere got to his feet to follow Blackstone.

The captured nobles were in Prince Edward's custody. There was no need for them to be guarded, their word was their bond, but an English picket was in place to protect them from further theft of their possessions by light-fingered Englishmen.

Killbere caught up with Blackstone, who squatted, watching the sentries. ‘I feared you would end the day on a gibbet,' he said. ‘So I came to help.'

‘Then you would be guilty by association,' Blackstone answered.

‘But I wouldn't do anything to antagonize my King or Prince,' Killbere said, his gaze challenging Blackstone.

Blackstone pointed to the pavilion of scarlet silk where the King's young son was kept.

‘Would those sentries know you?'

‘The whole army knows me,' Killbere said, but then relented and looked towards the men. ‘Perhaps not. They're Oxford's men.'

‘Then you won't be involved with me if you go and tell them that the King's servants are commanded to attend him at the Prince's pavilion.'

Killbere's discomfort was obvious. ‘John's lad? He's a fourteen-year-old boy. You can't hold him responsible for his father's deeds. Thomas, I'll not be party to murder.'

‘And I would not ask it of you. Trust me.'

Killbere sighed, his indecision brief, then without any further questioning went forward to the sentry.

There were four servants attending to the boy who duly left the pavilion once the guard had delivered Killbere's message. By then Blackstone had already slipped between the silken folds and waited. There was no one else, other than the boy Prince and a clergyman, to raise the alarm. The King's son had been bathed and dressed; a table was laden with food, some half-eaten on a gold plate. The boy knelt in prayer on a richly woven rug, the priest next to him. Low murmurs of entreaty escaped the old man's lips. It was unlikely his creaking joints would allow him to stand quickly and raise the alarm.

Blackstone spoke softly; Wolf Sword hovered at the boy's chin. ‘Do we share the same God, you and I?'

Their eyes opened and the boy recoiled, but Blackstone kept the sword's point steady. ‘You'll stay on your knees, priest, and go back to your prayer. Now.'

The priest's bony hands quivered, but he clasped them together and squeezed his eyes shut. The boy hadn't flinched despite his fear.

‘I saw you, sir knight. On the battlefield.'

‘And I you, my lord,' said Blackstone. ‘You called out a warning to your father at each blow aimed by our men-at-arms.'

‘Do you kill me now?' the boy asked.

‘Can a French Prince be trusted to keep his word and remain silent?'

‘I am Philip and I give you my word.'

Blackstone read the boy's eyes, and then lowered his sword.

‘I want to know where Gilles de Marcy is and why he was not with your father when we took the battle.'

‘Why is he important?'

‘This is not a discussion, young Prince,' Blackstone answered and then relented. ‘But he professes that God is cruel and that he acts as the hand of God.'

The priest opened his eyes. ‘He is an abomination. De Marcy's soul hovers between earth and hell.'

The boy looked at Blackstone. ‘None the less, he was trusted by my father. If I do not tell you, will you kill me?'

‘No,' said Blackstone. ‘I didn't come here to cause you harm.'

‘And do I have
your
word, sir knight?'

‘I am Thomas Blackstone, my lord, and I give it. So there's no reason now why you shouldn't call the guards.'

‘Except we are bound by our honour,' said the boy.

Blackstone waited. The young Prince got to his feet. ‘Very well. Gilles de Marcy was instructed to take my older brother from the field. For his safety.'

‘Where was the Dauphin taken?'

‘I don't know. But de Marcy was released from the King's service. A bargain was struck. He escorted the Dauphin to safety rather than stay on the field. Brutal cowards are easily bought, Sir Thomas. He has almost five hundred men with him. Routiers. He is his own man now.'

Blackstone nodded, realizing that was all the information he could expect. He eased away to look through the folds of silk, checking that the alarm had not yet been raised. As he was about to make his escape the boy knelt once again in prayer and said: ‘May merciful God grant our father forgiveness for any wrongdoing, Sir Thomas.'

Blackstone hesitated. ‘Then it's a good thing God never sleeps, because the list is long.'

‘De Marcy rides south to Provence,' the boy said, closing his eyes and bowing his head. ‘There is nothing left here to plunder.'

Blackstone stepped out of the tent but his way was blocked by a sergeant-at-arms and an escort of ten men.

‘Sir Thomas,' the sergeant said, ‘you will surrender your weapons. On my Prince's command, you're under arrest.'

Blackstone stood before the marshals of the army in Edward's pavilion. The Prince had bathed and changed; his armour was laid to one side, a table prepared for his meal. No one spoke as the Prince ran a hand carefully along the flat surface of Blackstone's sword. His sullen mood belied the great victory he had just achieved.

‘Your violence is well regarded, Thomas, we value your skills in battle, and our gratitude has been generous, has it not?'

‘It has, my lord,' Blackstone answered.

‘We have tolerated much, enduring your impudence with good humour and grace as befits our father's son. And yet you persist in your disrespect. You defy a King's surrender, you threaten his son who is under
our
protection and hospitality! You defy us!' Prince Edward's temper broke and he rammed the sword into the ground at Blackstone's feet. ‘You are still a common man, Thomas, and ever will be. We will not hang you for your disrespect. But we will not tolerate you any further. Our battle is won. The towns you hold in our father's name will no longer be yours, your plunder from this great victory will be forfeit and you are banished from our King's realm and our territories in France. Our debt to you from those years ago is paid in full. Take your sword and your defiance elsewhere.'

Guillaume laid his master's habergeon across the war horse's pommel. The mail had been scrubbed clean, as had his jupon, of bloodstains. A day wearing only a linen shirt beneath his leather jerkin would keep the iron links from rasping against the wounds on Blackstone's back.

Blackstone fixed his spurs as Killbere blew snot from his nose and then drank more of the wine looted by Will Longdon. ‘A servant saw you go into the boy's pavilion. We're getting careless, Thomas.'

‘It was a long day, Gilbert, but you're right, I should have seen him.'

‘God spared a King and robbed you of your vengeance. It cannot be argued that Jean le Bon is not favoured – not to win a fight but to live on.'

‘Perhaps he's saved for another day. Revenge is never discarded, Gilbert.' He looked at his old mentor; words barely necessary. ‘I'll bide my time,' said Blackstone with a chilling edge to his voice.

Killbere's face creased. What if Blackstone took it upon himself to defy the Prince again and wait for darkness to try and strike at the French King?

‘Now, Thomas, let the bastard go. We are fighting men not skulking assassins.' He grinned and grasped Blackstone's arm. A restraint behind his meaning, lightness in his words. ‘Ah, what difference does it make now? You never got to de Marcy, Thomas. And you didn't kill the King. And now both are beyond your reach.'

‘De Marcy will cross my path again.'

Killbere saw that Blackstone was not to be convinced otherwise. ‘It's a pitiful state of affairs, Thomas. You lost most of your men in the fight; others have looted enough to return to their whores and children. You've less than when you started. Serving England has its cost.'

It was a bitter truth. Blackstone's hard-won gains over the past ten years had been snatched away by a wave of belligerent defiance. He cared little for the loss of hearth and home – but exile and the death of those loyal to him cut deeply. Comfort now lay in the love of his family and the knowledge that he still had the strength to wield Wolf Sword.

‘I've a few men left. They can go their own way if they choose. I'll put it to them. You've men-at-arms to ransom, though,' Blackstone said.

‘Hardly worth a piss in a pot. Half these Frenchies claim penury. It'll take years to get anything out of them. Either that or they'll die from their injuries.'

‘We were lucky in the fight though, Gilbert.'

‘That we were. Lucky and quicker on our feet. I'll give Edward that. He took a risk going on the attack. God, but that was a fight, was it not? A fight to end all fights. A good way to end. A good way.' Killbere gazed across the field of slaughter. ‘We'll need to move before the wind shifts.'

Blackstone eased into the saddle. ‘Edward's for Bordeaux now. He's sailing for Plymouth, taking back the prize of prizes,' he said as he took up the reins, the bastard horse fighting the bit.

‘And you're for Provence?' said Killbere.

‘Yes, Avignon. My family,' Blackstone said, easing the reins through his fingers. ‘I need to see to their welfare now.'

‘Aye. South. A good thought. De Marcy is south,' Killbere said.

Blackstone stayed silent. His eyes shifted across to the horizon. The Savage Priest was out there somewhere and there would only be justice when he was found and killed. But first he must attend to Christiana and the children. ‘And you?'

‘I was thinking of Lombardy,' Killbere said. ‘There are those who offer good contracts for the likes of me. They need soldiers. Lots of small wars. This town hates that town; this city wants that city. Nothing too dangerous. Good money. So I'm told by a Frenchman who went across the Alps and did some work there. Bought himself an estate from it. Warmer there too. And good wine. I think their women smell but they say it's a pleasant odour and makes a man salivate with desire.'

‘You'll travel past Avignon, then.'

‘So I was thinking.'

Blackstone smiled and nodded, then turned and looked at his men who still followed him: Guillaume, Meulon, Gaillard and Perinne, their wounds dressed, their weapons cleaned. There was no question of them being anywhere other than where their sworn lord led. Blackstone urged the horse forward.