Master of War (15 page)

Blackstone sat crouched from his vantage point and watched as the attackers fell under the archers’ volley. They died to a man twenty paces from Sir Godfrey and his men, who threw back their cloaks and ran onto the bridge. No words were uttered, no battle cry shouted; all that could be heard was the pounding of hooves as the lone figure of Sir Gilbert charged from the trees to secure the gate’s opening. As the defenders shouldered the iron-clad doors his sword swept down and blood sprayed the gates. He hacked his way past the desperate men who shouted their warnings to others inside, but the ferocity of the attack and the sudden rush of the men-at-arms caught them off-guard. They were expecting half their number to return with a knight’s ransom; instead they were cut down where they stood.

Blackstone watched the efficient killing. It was only when the screams of men being slaughtered reached the forest that Christiana jerked awake.

‘It’s all right,’ he told her.

She gathered her cloak about her and went to where he stood watching the attack. Elfred’s archers moved from the treeline down the gentle slope towards the clearing to recover whatever arrows could be reused and to slit the throats of the wounded.

Christiana flinched but did not turn away.

Within an hour the dead had been dragged to a ditch filled with dry kindling and branches ready to be burned. Four of the mercenaries were wounded and knelt before Sir Godfrey, their arms tied behind their backs. They whimpered in pain and begged for mercy. The lame knight had not been as quick to reach the castle gates as his more able-bodied men, but he had done his share of killing. He beckoned Christiana forward. Blackstone stayed with the archers who stood idly waiting for the executions to be done with.

‘These men killed my family’s servants and villagers who sought my brother’s protection. What shall we do with these who live? I leave their fate to you.’

A couple of the men raised their heads and implored Christiana for their lives. They were as young as Blackstone. Christiana had tears in her eyes as she looked down on the men. Blackstone quietly cursed de Harcourt for making her face those who had wreaked havoc.

One of them smiled up at her.

‘My lady, your tears are well spent. I went with these men because I was afraid of the battle. Save me, I beg you, and I will serve you for the rest of my life.’

Christiana wiped her tears and turned to Sir Godfrey.

‘I weep for those loyal in my lady’s house and the atrocity these men committed on them. Do what justice demands, my lord.’

She walked away. The archers parted to let her through. Any thoughts of a vulnerable girl subdued by her emotions were as defeated as the kneeling men. Swords swung down and heads thudded onto the ground. A final scream and cry for mercy was cut short. The bodies were dragged from the blood-soaked ground and thrown onto the pyre.

Godfrey de Harcourt’s men dug a communal grave and laid the dead servants and villagers to rest. He spoke a prayer in Latin and then turned his men towards their mission at the river. Christiana rode behind Blackstone with no choice but to wrap her arms around him. The gibes and taunts from the men would be saved for later, when Blackstone was alone.

Behind them the deserted Castle de Harcourt was protected by the dead. A dozen heads stuck on poles served as a warning to any other marauding bands.

Godfrey de Harcourt’s relentless search for a river crossing took his force back north to a curl of the Seine. As the baron sat on a crested rise, hunched across his saddle’s pommel, Blackstone and the others waited fifty paces behind.

‘Holy God,’ Will Longdon muttered when he saw the host gathered in the city. ‘I thought there were only twice as many as us.’

‘My money says that’s not even their whole army,’ Elfred said.

The battlements and suburbs of Rouen confirmed King Edward’s information that the French army had called its
arrière ban
, the conscription of every able-bodied man and knight. The banners and pennons of French noble pride fluttered across the skyline. Smoke rose from thousands of fires. And Elfred was correct. The King and the main force defended Paris. King Edward’s army was going to be crushed between the hammer and anvil of French might.

‘We won’t be going across the river here, that’s for certain,’ Blackstone said. He scanned the flock of banners. Amidst the royalty and honour of France, the gold and red colours of the de Harcourt family drew the eye to the bloodline of the Norman who sat on this side of the river having sworn loyalty to the English King. Godfrey de Harcourt, his thoughts his own, turned his horse. His men followed.

Blackstone looked across the wide river. The division between himself and Richard was as great as that between de Harcourt and his brother.

As de Harcourt and other knights led their scouting parties search­ing for a crossing, the King and the army reached Poissy, twelve miles from Paris, and found the town undefended. Fear had made the wealthy citizens abandon the town favoured by French royalty for its beauty and where the King of France had his mansion next to the Dominican nuns’ priory. The unwalled town lay deserted on a bend of the Seine, less than twenty miles from Paris. God whispered in Edward’s ear that He would give him a chance, a slim chance, to cross the river. The retreating French had destroyed the bridge but had left the stanchions. The carpenters began to cut wood.

By the time de Harcourt and his men returned to the main force, Edward’s carpenters had managed to lay a single sixty-foot beam across the stanchions at Poissy. There was no opposition on the far bank; the French, believing that they had destroyed the bridge, had retreated to Paris.

Roger Oakley beckoned Blackstone forward from the com­pany. ‘Thomas, there’s not many can please the lame baron, but you must have done some good in rescuing this girl. He wants you. Take yourself to him.’

As Blackstone eased the horse past Elfred he asked a favour.

‘Elfred, will you keep Richard with you? I don’t know what it is Sir Godfrey wants with me.’

‘I will. I’ll have food kept for you,’ the centenar answered.

Blackstone approached de Harcourt and Sir Gilbert. Sir Godfrey spoke to Christiana. ‘This man will take you to the King’s baggage train. You’re a courageous young woman. Your mistress will be proud,’ de Harcourt said. ‘Sir Gilbert! We’ll report to the King.’ He spurred the horse forward.

Sir Gilbert sidled alongside Blackstone and Christiana. ‘I want you back here, not supping delicate foods stolen from the King’s kitchen. Speak to one of the King’s captains. Tell him Sir Godfrey wishes her safe.’ He looked at the girl. ‘You’re fortunate Thomas Blackstone found you. He’s my sworn man.’ He paused, as if considering what he said next. ‘I would trust him with my life.’

He urged the horse forward, following Sir Godfrey towards the King’s banner flying outside the new palace Philip had built for himself.

‘Sir Gilbert honours you,’ she said.

‘I don’t know why,’ Blackstone said modestly. But his captain’s compliment meant more than anyone would ever know.

Her arms tightened around his waist as he turned the horse. ‘I wasn’t brave,’ Christiana said quietly. ‘I was frightened. More frightened than I have ever been in my life.’

Not, Blackstone thought, as frightened as he felt with her body pressed tightly against his.

Sir Gilbert stood at the water’s edge, anxious to remove the burden of his plate armour after the days of riding, but while Godfrey de Harcourt still spoke to the King, he had been sum­moned by William de Bohun, Earl of Northampton. The rebuilding of the bridge could never be fast enough for the marshal’s liking.

‘Get your arses moving, or by Christ I’ll cut off your ears and have you sent out as treasonable bastards who are deliberately slowing your King’s progress.’ He turned to Sir Gilbert. ‘From what you and Godfrey said, we’re caught between the millstones of Philip’s armies.’

‘We are if we don’t get across the river.’

‘Aye, and there’s another ninety miles north if we’re to meet up with Hastings and his Flemish whoresons. We can catch Philip by surprise if we’re quick enough. We’re a spit away from Paris. The King believes this is God’s gift.’

‘And what do you think?’

‘That we’ve ended in the buttery on our arses. Once your lads are fed I need a company of archers ready to get across this damned ditch and defend the other side. If we’re to feint to Paris and—’

‘My lord!’

Northampton and Sir Gilbert looked to where the carpenter pointed. Beyond the far bank a line of French horsemen appeared, with infantry running at their flanks.

‘The butter’s just curdled,’ Northampton said and grabbed his helm.

Even Sir Gilbert’s experience of war did not prepare him for what Northampton did next. The pugnacious earl pulled on his helm, drew his sword and began to move across the foot-wide plank towards the enemy. Encased in eighty pounds of armour and chain mail, on a slippery footing across a swirling river, the mad bastard was going to attack.

‘Sound the alarm!’ Sir Gilbert called.

Blackstone had ridden to the rear of the column with Christiana. Camp followers and whores were kept furthest from the milling activity of this community of non-combatants. The baggage train carried all the King’s personal effects, the royal kitchen and its cooks. There were carpenters, masons and horsemasters. Blacksmiths and farriers unloaded portable forges and the charcoal to heat them. Two-pence-a-day grooms cared for the beasts of burden and war. Wagons stacked with bushels of corn, peas and beans as fodder for the war horses, which needed more than grass as their diet, were drawn up to one side of the town. Sacks of oats were carried for the heavy carthorses. More food for the beasts than the men, Blackstone thought as he guided the horse through the coming and going of servants.

Surgeons had their own retinues, clerks kept records, the hier­archy of officials and attendants seemed a natural state of affairs to those involved, but Blackstone was used to the uncomplicated structure and discipline of an archers’ company and the milling of these people confused him.

As wagoners unbridled their large carthorses, armourers stood watch over two wagons that carried saltpetre and sulphur for the three bombards strapped below. These cannons would fire stone shot, though Sir Gilbert had told him that such bombards caused more noise – like a clap of thunder – than killing: that was left to the King’s archers.

Blackstone eased the horse forward to a robed official who was directing others to their duties.

‘Sir, I’m charged by Sir Godfrey de Harcourt to deliver this lady into safekeeping.’

The man looked up at the weather-scoured archer whose matted hair clung to his dirt-streaked face, and whose jupon was so faded that its coat of arms was unrecognizable. He looked little better than a vagabond. Archers were thieves and killers. The King fav­oured their strength, which was why half his army consisted of these scum from the shires. Was this a rescued lady from one of the ransacked towns or a noble’s whore needing protecting? One could never tell and discretion could make the difference between demotion and a flogging or a favourable mention from the marshal’s woman.

The official looked the girl over. Her face showed no sign of the pox and her delicate hands bore no raw redness from lime soap. She was too slight for heavy work and her cloak was of good quality. She was no whore or working woman, the official determined.

‘The lady shall be safe here. Assure Sir Godfrey I shall arrange as much comfort as is possible under the circumstances.’

Blackstone quickly dismounted and reached up to Christiana. As she allowed him to ease her down a small crucifix swung clear from her neck. Blackstone held her a moment longer than he could have hoped for.

‘Thank you. I can feel the ground beneath my feet. I don’t think I shall stumble now,’ she said.

He released his hands from her waist. She came to no higher than his chest but she kept her gaze on his. ‘I owe you a kindness,’ she said.

The thoughts of a kiss rushed through his mind. He bent his head but she smiled and raised the crucifix.

‘Rather let your lips touch the cross of Christ and then I can pray you will be blessed and kept safe.’ She held the small gold crucifix to his lips but her eyes stayed on his. ‘Kiss the cross of Christ if you believe in His… love.’ The whispered final word seemed carefully chosen to Blackstone’s ears.

He had no thoughts of whether God even existed. The Church said so, as did the whoring village priest at home – a landowner’s son who had taken the cloth instead of the sword. But if it meant Blackstone could spend another moment with this girl whose dark green eyes still looked into his, he would have joined the priesthood himself.

He put his face close to hers and smelled the fragrance of her hair as he kissed the crucifix.

‘Bless you, Thomas Blackstone. I shall pray for your safety.’

The moment passed. She turned and walked quickly away to where the official waited, glaring in the archer’s direction.

Blackstone was about to call after her when he heard a trumpet sounding the alarm from the river.

Armoured men in single file balanced their way across the narrow plank. Blackstone looked down from the hillside and watched as the first of them, Northampton and others, including Sir Gilbert, gained the other bank. By the time the French reached the slope twenty or so English banners were raised. It was too slender a force to hold the shore and there was no time to find and load boats with infantry. A thousand Frenchmen, for that was about the number that Blackstone gauged was swarming towards the river, would crush the courageous Northampton and his knights. Despite the unquestionable courage of the men following, Blackstone knew that if this bridge could not be repaired, or if the French gained sufficient strength to hold the shore, then they would all be trapped like rats. And Christiana was part of the English camp.

He spurred the horse forward. Archers were running into pos­ition. Elfred’s men were still at the rear being fed after their arduous time in the saddle, but there were a dozen or more archers, guards for the carpenters, running for the bank and levelling their bows. Blackstone dismounted and unslung his bow. It was obvious that these next few minutes would be vital.