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'I'll go up with Agnes. Block the door with the beam; can you do that on your own?' she said. 'I can do it. The rope's up there. I'll need the light.' Christiana handed him the candle. Her torn hem caught a cross bar; she ripped it free, then clambered up into the darkness. She eased herself into the sullen chapel. It was empty. Windowless, it had only one door. She turned around and lowered her hand to Agnes. Henry waited until his sister's ankles kicked free of the beam and then he carefully placed the candle into a recess of an empty cresset lamp and manhandled the beam away from the hatch. As he dragged its weight towards the doorway he could hear no sound from the cellar. The mob must have been more interested in what lay in the house, but he could smell smoke. They were burning down the manor. Henry wedged the beam at a low angle, felt its foot bite into the rough stone floor and turned back towards the escape route. Complete darkness blanketed the chapel. The dull spluttering glow from the candle in the underground passageway barely offered enough light for her to see Agnes.
'The rope!' whispered Henry from below the hole. She lowered the rope whose one end was tied around a pillar. It was eight or nine feet to the floor below. Henry speared the point of his sword beneath the candle, reached up, twisted the rope around his left arm and hauled himself up far enough for his mother to wrap the torn strip from her dress around the palm of her hand and reach down to grasp the sharp-edged sword and its life-giving light. As Henry climbed up she reached down and grabbed his belt to haul him onto the chapel's floor. For a moment he lay with his face pressed against cool stone. Christiana laid a hand on his head. 'Your courage never failed you. And it saved our lives,' she said. Henry got to his knees, his hands trembling after the blood-rush of the killing during their escape. 'I was frightened, Mother – so scared of what they might do to you and Agnes. They're burning the house. I smelled smoke when I blocked the door. What should we do now?' 'Wait here a moment. Agnes, hold Henry's hand.'
The chapel was barely big enough to hold twenty people. As she raised the candle she could see wooden benches that straddled the chapel's width and a plank table that held the silver crucifix, a small casket and silver candlesticks. She made her way to the iron-studded door and prayed it had not been locked from the outside. 'Mother! Don't take the light away, please,' whimpered Agnes. Henry eased her to him, and put his arms around her. 'Hush now – be brave, little sister. Mother has to see if we can get away from here.' The child had known terror like this before, when a killer had held them on a castle's battlements and threatened their lives. Since then there had been safety and the warmth of a home with her mother. There had been no menace, no frightening voices except those that came in her dreams. And when she woke kicking away the bedclothes and crying in fear, her mother's soft arms cuddling her, and the warm smell of her mother's body, comforted her and soothed away the memories. Her father had killed the man who had threatened them, but then he had left them, and she did not know why. She remembered a field of flowers and the snow-capped mountains that day when he held her in his strong arms and promised to return and fill her bedtime with stories. But he had not yet come back.
'Is Father coming?' she asked Henry as Christiana took the light further away. 'I don't think, so, sister. He does not know we are here, so how can he come? Mother and I will find a way. I promise. But we cannot do it without you.' 'What must I do?' 'Be brave, and say a prayer.' Agnes thought about it, and nodded, words failing her. Henry tried to see his sister's features in the near darkness. She was nine years old, but she was like a child. Perhaps it was different for a girl. He had heard the men-at-arms and the squire say such things when they talked about women. Sir Marcel had been a kindly mentor and although his squire beat Henry at times for failing in his duty, the gentle knight had always explained that it was a man's duty to protect women. Now Henry hoped he had done his best. Christiana turned the iron ring that lifted the latch. Before she pulled open the door she hesitated, worried that the dull glow from the candle might give away their hiding place to those in the manor house. Yet if she extinguished the flame the darkness would be complete and fear could strangle them. She placed the candle a few feet from the door so that when it opened there would be the barest glimmer of light showing. She eased back the door and breathed in the night air, sweeter than the dank chapel. She dared herself to step out further, and de Lorris family gravestones rose up from the ground, throwing cruciform shadows towards her as flames began to eat away at the manor house roof. She saw the dark forms of the mob as they began to filter away from their destruction, but two embers of light were bobbing their way up the path towards the chapel. She recognized one of the torchbearers as the knight who had called for the mob to kill Sir Marcel.
There was no escape. She pushed her weight against the door and wished there had been a key in the lock. That at least would stop these rogue knights from coming into the chapel. Picking up the candle she moved back quickly through the benches to her children. 'We have to go back down into the passage. Men are coming.' She saw the fear in her daughter's face. Christiana smiled bravely, and glanced quickly at Henry, a look that told him not to contradict her. 'They might be coming to help us,' she said. 'But we have to wait and make sure. Do you understand? We have to be quiet, and we will have to wait in the dark.' She felt the child stiffen. 'Remember what I said,' Henry told her. Her bottom lip trembled but she nodded, and reached out to grip his hand. 'There might be smoke down there,' said Henry. 'We must tie cloth around our mouths and noses.' Christiana pushed the knife blade into the stitched seams of her dress and tore back the material, then fashioned it into a mask around Agnes's face. Then she and Henry did the same. It was awkward trying to climb back down the hole. She took the weight on her forearms until she could grip the rope between her feet. Henry held on to her arm, took some of her weight and then watched as she went down the rope hand over hand.
He lowered Agnes down after her as he heard men's voices outside; their words had a guttural edge. Then the iron latch turned in the lock. Henry blew out the candle and grasped the side of the hole, felt the rope as his mother took up the slack and lowered himself down. As he did so the door of the chapel swung open with a heavy thud. They huddled together like creatures fearing for their lives when hunting dogs sniffed them out. The voices were indistinct, but the scrape of armour against stone grated on their nerves. Christiana tried to listen to the sounds beyond the hammering in her head from her heart's pounding and to picture what the men were doing. Their laughter was a sharp echo from the vaulted roof. She heard the sound of objects clanking and realized they were taking the silverware. And then one man said something and the others fell silent. She tightened her embrace around her children, squeezing hard to contain their panic – and her own. * 'You can't smell that?' said von Groitsch. 'It's candle wax.'
'It's smoke from the house,' replied von Lienhard. 'No, he's right,' said Martens. 'Candle wax. Someone's here.' Von Lienhard lifted the burning torch higher as the other man tied off the sack holding the chapel's silver. 'There's nowhere to hide in here. They killed everyone in the house and there'd be no priest this far from any village.' He sniffed the air, lifting the smell of the burning tallow away from his face, throwing the light further. He saw the edge of a raised stone slab just behind the pillar. He stepped towards it, knocking aside a bench. * Christiana heard the unmistakable sound of a sword being unsheathed from its scabbard. They cowered from the imminent threat, taking slow, shallow breaths as the smoke seeped around them from beneath the barred door of the cellar. Light spilled down the hole. They couldn't be seen unless someone was foolhardy enough to clamber down into the passage. They held their breath. And then Agnes coughed. * Von Lienhard scraped the edge of the hole with his sword blade. 'Come out, or I seal the passage and you can choke to death in the darkness.'
He heard hurried whispers from below and then saw a woman, whose auburn hair caught the flickering torchlight. She looked to be no more than thirty years old, and although her dress was not of such fine quality as that worn by the nobility he could see she was no servant woman. She was petite, and her face was splattered with blood specks and dirt. Her dress was torn, and in her fist with scraped knuckles she gripped a knife. What he saw was a she-wolf protecting her cubs, as two children appeared at her side and gazed up at him. He glanced back at the other two knights, who made their way towards him; now all three gazed down at the survivors from the slaughter. Christiana had whispered her instructions quickly to the children. She had made Henry pull off his jupon that bore Sir Marcel's badge. There was no choice but to seek mercy from these rogue knights. She pressed Agnes's face close to her own. 'Do not speak to these men. They must not know who your father is. Do as I say.' She turned her head and whispered so that only Henry could hear her. 'These men are with the Jacques. Say nothing.'
Before Henry could question her Christiana looked up at the knights. 'We are afraid,' she said, gazing directly into the fair-haired knight's face. 'It might be better for me and my children to die down here.' One of the men spoke quietly to this knight, but she couldn't make out the words. 'Who are you?' the other knight demanded. 'I am the widow of Sir Guyon de Sainteny,' she lied, giving her deceased father's name. To have mentioned Blackstone would either incite violence or elicit respect – she could not take that risk. No sooner had she brought up her father's name than the memory of who had been responsible for his death stabbed at her. She quickly shook the image from her mind, determined not to let the truth that still haunted her expose her lie. The men looked at each other and turned their faces away for a moment. 'You heard of him?' von Lienhard asked. The other two men shook their head. There were thousands of knights across France. 'We should leave them down there,' said von Groitsch. 'Let the rats have them. I've no taste for rape or using my sword on them.'
'We can use them,' said Martens. 'How long do you think that mob will go on? There will be a reckoning. We've seen a dozen places burned down now and taken enough silver to see us through.' 'She's a nobody,' said von Groitsch. 'No, wait a minute, Siegfried is right,' said von Lienhard. 'We can use them to buy ourselves time. This silver is no great haul. We keep the rest hidden and use this as a token of our good intent to the Church.' 'And if they know we're involved?' asked von Groitsch. Von Lienhard, sighed and shrugged. 'Then we do what must be done.' He looked down at Christiana. 'We don't know of your name.' 'My... husband was a poor knight from Normandy. He died at Poitiers.' 'We're German knights,' said von Lienhard. 'We too fought with the King of France... Where were you when the mob swarmed?' 'The cellar.' 'And the blood?' he said, pointing the sword tip at her. 'Two peasants attacked us. My son and I killed them.' 'You saw the mob approach then?' he asked, trying to establish whether she had seen him and his companions.
'No. We were travelling... to... Paris but we were told it was held by the Provost who supports these Jacques. The lord of this manor gave us overnight shelter. When he heard the attack he sent us to the cellar. And we found this tunnel.' 'You saw nothing then?' 'No, we only heard the screams.' Von Lienhard looked at his companions. They considered their decision for a moment. Von Groitsch shrugged; Martens nodded and whispered. 'They can serve as our own safe passage. The nobility won't let the mob have free rein much longer. They'll find a way to stop them. Best we should be on the winning side.' Von Lienhard looked down at Christiana's upturned face. There was a beauty to it and she had spirit. A widow young enough to need a man for protection. Who knew – she might even have a dowry or land that might be worth considering? 'We saw the flames and got here too late, not that we would have been able to save the good knight of this house. We thought to at least secure what silver there might be for the Holy Church. So, my lady, we will escort you on your journey.'
Christiana knew it was a terrible risk to accept but to refuse meant certain death. 'Then my children and I are grateful for such honourable men to rescue us,' she said, and forced a smile of gratitude. Von Lienhard put aside his sword and lowered his arm into the hole. 'Then take my hand, Lady de Sainteny. My name is Werner von Lienhard.' Two days later, three hours after daylight, as distant church bells rang for terce, Blackstone and his men continued to ride south-east at a steady canter, keeping the weak morning sun behind their left shoulder. They had forded streams and eased their way across rivers that gave them a better direction than roads. Rivers were carved in the landscape forever. There were occasional signs of horsemen on the horizon, but no great body of men had shown themselves and, if routiers still plagued this area, then it seemed they had taken what they could and moved on. Half a dozen hamlets had been burned days, if not weeks, before Blackstone and the men eased their way past the destroyed hovels. Squeezed between grasping landowners and savage raiders there was little wonder the peasants had taken themselves south to join the mob, Blackstone thought, but this understanding of the peasants' plight was soon dispelled.
A road curved down into a belly of land, an area rich for crops and livestock, but the meadows were trampled and the vines smashed. What had been chicken and goose pens were torn down and the smouldering, skeletal remains of a manor house bled smoke into the morning air. They halted, watching for any signs of ambush around the distant manor. Killbere pointed to the bodies scattered in the manor's yard. 'Can't be more than two days since this happened. I'll go down.' 'No. I'll do it,' said Blackstone. Killbere reached out for the horse's rein. 'Thomas, there's a woman and child down there among the dead. Let me go.' 'If it's them then it makes no difference when I find out,' he said. Will Longdon held back the archers, placing them on the edges of the meadow and ruined vineyards. If any intruders attempted to surprise the men they would be halted far enough away to allow the men to counter-attack. Blackstone and the others eased their horses into the yard. Scavengers had already been at work. The naked men's flesh was pockmarked with crow pecks, and foxes or feral dogs had gnawed their private parts, tearing off the softest flesh first, then their faces and buttocks. It would not be long before wild boar deep in the forest caught the scent and then muscle and bone would be devoured. Blackstone dismounted and walked towards the child's broken body. She lay face down, fair hair matted with blood and dirt, arms splayed, showing that she had fallen while running. Close to her was the blood-soaked body of a woman, her blackened throat cut, her face puffed with decay and maggots, making identification impossible. Blackstone slipped his hand beneath the child's body and tenderly tried to lift it. It was as rigid as a wooden crucifix, but he managed to ease her over. The girl's eyes were open, opaque, the broken bones disfiguring her beauty. He felt the shudder of relief that it was not Agnes.
Blackstone eased the child down and turned to where Killbere stood watching. He shook his head. It was not his child. 'Praise God and his angels, Thomas,' the grizzled veteran said with as much kindness as he could muster. 'Over here,' he added, turning back to where the charred remains of a man lay like cooked meat in the cinders. 'The man has good armour on him. Probably the knight, and these were his family. The woman, the girl and a headless corpse of a boy who's dressed well enough – most likely his son. Bastards must have tormented him first.' John Jacob and Meulon had sent the men into the ruins of the burnt-out house. 'No bodies inside. Everything either went up in flames or was taken. They left a clear enough trail,' Jacob said. Meulon pointed beyond the fields where the trampled ground was signposted with abandoned pieces of pottery and furniture. 'They couldn't carry everything.' Caprini had clambered beyond the house towards the chapel. He called back, 'In here, Sir Thomas.' Blackstone gestured towards the fallen men and family. 'Meulon, you and Gaillard go among the dead, have the men drag them together. Not the peasants, only the others,' he said; then he pushed through the stench of death towards Caprini, with Killbere and Jacob a pace behind.
When they reached the chapel, Caprini struck a flint and lit a fallen torch, holding it aloft inside the gloom. 'If there was silver here, it's gone, but that was the only desecration. There are benches kicked aside. Nothing has been broken. And there is this,' he said as he led them to the open hole. 'An escape tunnel,' said Killbere. 'It'll lead back to the house. Perhaps someone got out in time.' 'Or lies wounded,' said Caprini, loosening his cloak and lowering himself down, pushing his shoulders through the narrow passage. Moments later he emerged and clambered free of the claustrophobic space. 'The end is blocked, masonry and a door brought down by the fire. I saw no blood. And there is none here on this floor,' he said, sweeping the torch across the stone slabs. 'A manor house with armed men. Far enough away from Paris to be considered safe. Could the Dauphin's family be those outside?' Killbere suggested. 'Was his wife pregnant?' John Jacob asked. 'I don't know,' said Blackstone. 'We've all been witness to murder and killing, but this was a torment as bad as the Hungarians in Italy.'
'These weren't routiers, Sir Thomas,' said Jacob. 'You saw how much ground was trampled out there. There weren't many horses. These were men on foot. Hundreds of them. And some of the bodies – they weren't fighting men.' 'I know, John. We've found the peasant army, or one of them,' said Blackstone. Caprini made the sign of the cross. 'What you have found is Satan's host.' * Blackstone rested the horses, allowing time to feed the men and bury the dead despite his impulse to ride on after the sight of the pregnant woman's corpse and her murdered children. It pleased Caprini to offer prayers for the dead and he made the failed acolyte, Bertrand, serve penance by dragging more than his fair share of the bodies to their shallow, hastily dug graves. The unknown knight and his family were brought together in one grave and covered with stones gathered from a pile on the border of a tilled field. Blackstone refused to bury the twenty or so scattered peasants' bodies brought down by crossbow and sword. Even Caprini made no objection to them being left for the beasts.
Blackstone's men left the manor behind them, following the trampled ground until it petered out into pebble-strewn riverbanks. There were no mudflats or riverbanks to show where the horde had gone, but John Jacob had taken Meulon and Gaillard ahead as scouts and they had found tracks, half obscured by the water, on a mudbank in the centre of the shallow river. Blackstone led his men onto a broader road towards the fringes of the vast forests that lay across the horizon. It was better to be in the open where they could see others approach rather than enter unknown woodland where horse and man could be easily ambushed. Within hours the torn ground told its own story of hundreds of men and carts having gone before them – although the tracks led not from the burnt manor house but from the opposite direction. Blackstone brought the men to a halt. The open plain would not conceal fifty men, let alone hundreds. 'This is more than sheepherders,' said Meulon. 'And we are close on their heels.' 'They'll be in those woods,' said Blackstone. 'There's nowhere else.'
They gazed towards the fringed treeline more than a thousand paces away. 'There's colour there that shouldn't be,' said Jack Halfpenny from halfway back in the column where the archers rode behind the hobelars. 'You see it, Sir Thomas?' A thousand yards and the lad saw a colour in the dark scratch that etched the skyline. Blackstone's archer's eye sought it out but failed. 'Where, Jack? I'm damned if I can see it.' 'A fistmeil left from the forest's edge,' said Halfpenny. Blackstone and the others clenched a fist and extended a thumb. A dab, little more than a bird's speckled feathers, moved in the darkened treeline. 'I have it,' said Blackstone. 'No peasant, then,' said John Jacob. 'Knights most likely.' 'And not routiers. Holy Mother of God, it's likely to be a gaggle of Frenchmen hunting while their neighbours burn,' said Killbere, turning in the saddle to Blackstone. 'Christ, you don't think it's the Dauphin and his army, do you, Thomas? Then we'd have a fight on our hands.' He grinned, relishing the thought of slaughtering more of his sworn enemy.
'I hope not; we're caught in the open here and a hundred of us fighting an army is a distraction I can ill afford, despite your wishes, Gilbert – though we might exhaust them on the run.' Blackstone raised himself in the stirrups. 'Not that there's anywhere to run or hide. They hold the advantage, whoever they are.' 'We might soon find out, Sir Thomas,' said Gaillard. 'Some of them are riding towards us.' 'Scouting party,' said Killbere. 'Fifteen, twenty perhaps.' Blackstone saw the flutter of pennons and the spread of horsemen. 'Eighteen men. Knights or squires?' he said. 'Sniffing us out, Sir Thomas. Shall we knock a few from their perches?' said Will Longdon. The archers followed his lead and pulled their war bows from the waxed linen carrying bags. 'Not yet, Will, there's no need to antagonize a swarm if there's only a couple of bees buzzing. Meulon, you and Gaillard take ten men, ride ahead a couple of miles, see that there's no one coming from our flank.' The two Normans turned their horses, calling for the men they named to follow.
'Shall we ride out to them?' asked Killbere. 'If there's a horde of the bastards in those trees and we've to outrun them, it would be better to test their intentions sooner. A few insulting words should see to it.' 'Let's do that,' said Blackstone and turned to Jacob. 'John, hold back. If there's trouble ride for that gap between the two forests. Will! Ready yourself and six others to cover our arses if we run into trouble. Fra Stefano, this isn't your fight, so choose your own ground.' 'It has been chosen for me,' said Caprini and spurred his horse forward with Blackstone and Killbere. * As they approached the horsemen drew rein, but made no sign of aggression as Blackstone slowed the eager horse until they halted thirty paces from the waiting men, who wore a mixture of mail and armour and were confident in their numbers. These three men who had ridden towards them could pose no threat. One of the eighteen urged his horse forward and halved the distance. He could not yet see the men's shields slung on the side of their horses, though to him these three horsemen looked like routiers with their mud-splattered jupons and cloaks, yet their manner was confident, which made him doubt this first impression.
'I am Louis Mézières, squire to my lord, Sir Philippe de Guisay,' he said with the haughtiness that French nobility carried like a banner for all to see. A declaration of superiority. Blackstone said nothing, and leaned against the saddle's pommel. He let his eyes wander over the other squires, who seemed to bristle, making their horses edgy. It was an act of indifferent insolence on Blackstone's part. Killbere hawked and spat. 'You look like peacocks on a lawn. You and your friends are dressed up for a tournament. Is there a party somewhere?' Mézières recoiled as if he had been struck with a gauntlet. 'I hope you will excuse Sir Gilbert Killbere,' said Blackstone. 'His last squire bled to death from his tongue-lashing,' he added, letting the squires knows they were in the company of a knight. Mézières looked confused. The man who spoke to him showed as little respect as the English knight at his side. 'You are not his squire?' 'I am not sufficiently trained to serve as a squire,' answered Blackstone.
The Frenchman looked from one man to the other. The third man in the black cloak, darker in skin and beard, had remained silent. 'With respect, Sir Gilbert, your man is as impertinent as a stable-hand.' 'He is worse on his bad days,' said Killbere. 'If he doesn't kill three or four men a day he gets very irritable. He favours French blood.' Mézières's jaw opened and closed a couple of times. He glanced back towards his companions before, in a vain attempt to establish some authority, facing the three men again. 'We are required to question you. And your intentions in riding here.' 'On whose authority?' said Blackstone, straightening himself in the saddle. The inflection in his voice left no doubt that he was to be answered. It made Mézières suppress his irritation – it was obvious he could not be dismissive of this man. 'My Lord Charles, King of Navarre, leads troops against the peasant uprising.' Navarre. The great liar and manipulator who plagued the royal houses of both England and France. Blackstone had no intention of being caught up in the usurper's show of strength to impress the nobles. It was likely to be little more than posturing to gain support in his bid for the crown.
'How many men do you have?' said Blackstone. 'There has been a coming-together of several hundred noble lords and knights to halt the vile slaughter,' Mézières said, showing sufficient respect. 'May I ask your name?' If they weren't to be hindered in their journey Blackstone had to identify himself. 'I am Thomas Blackstone,' he answered and pushed his knee against the shield strapped to his saddle, turning it enough for the squire to see its blazon. The man licked his lips. Blackstone's name was known well enough among the knights of France. Rumours of brutality and murder curdled stories of his exploits like sour milk. Blackstone – the Englishman who had tried to kill Jean le Bon, King of France, at Poitiers. The very crown that Navarre now sought. He was an ally. 'My lord,' said Mézières, dipping his head. 'I am honoured. I am certain you and your men will be made most welcome. Our army rests in the forest behind me.' 'Barely an army. More like a midsummer dance,' said Killbere. Blackstone leaned to Killbere and whispered: 'If Navarre learns we are to secure the Dauphin's family, he'll set the dogs on us. They're our prize, not his.' He eased the horse forward, closer to Mézières. 'And the Dauphin? Where is he?'
'Burgundy. Far from here, trying to raise an army. It is a futile effort, Sir Thomas. Once we inflict justice on the mob we will take Paris. There will be no resistance from the citizens once the uprising is put down,' said the squire confidently, as if fired by a quest to find the Holy Grail. 'Master Mézières, you say your lord, Navarre, has several hundred men?' 'Six... seven hundred,' the squire answered. 'Enough to defeat the rabble.' 'I have heard they number in their thousands,' said Blackstone. 'Unless you can find small groups of them in their hundreds, your army will be pulled from their saddles and their own weapons used against them. I am on... family business. Give your lord my best wishes, Master Mézières.' With that Blackstone heeled the horse around and turned back. He had gathered useful information. The Dauphin was in Burgundy and Charles of Navarre was playing at being a general. If the mob did not lie before him and had not breached the city walls then the road to Meaux beckoned.
He could see Will Longdon and his archers standing ready with bows strung and a half-dozen arrows per man stuck into the ground in front of them. Bodkins, Blackstone thought to himself, barely able to suppress a smile. Goose-feathered shafts a yard long that would whisper through the air, causing it to shudder as they fell, pinning man to horse, piercing plate, driving their pile through any armour a nobleman's wealth could buy. A part of him wished those behind him would try to exert their authority so that he might hear the war bow's song again. Thousands of men moving across the countryside did more than leave trampled meadows and their burnt-out victims: they left a stench of excrement. No latrines were dug; those on the march stepped a few paces from where they slept and squatted. 'There is shit from here and beyond,' said Perinne when he returned with a scouting party. He and his men had found two peasants, abandoned by the others because they had collapsed in a stupor, drunk from a nobleman's looted wine. They were foul to the eye as well as the nostrils. 'And these two must have rolled in most of it.'
'Keep them well back,' said Killbere, gesturing the men to haul the two unfortunates further back. Their wrists were bound with a length of rope and they had been forced to keep up or be dragged by the horsemen. By the look of them they had not kept up too well. 'Did you question them?' asked Blackstone. Perinne nodded. 'They are from Picardy. I barely understood them, Sir Thomas. Their dialect is like a dog with its throat cut. It seems the mob's got itself a man who can read and write to lead them. These are pig-ignorant shit dwellers. Inbred with goats. What little brain they have is soused with wine.' Haunted eyes stared up at Blackstone from unshaven faces caked in filth, bruised and battered from their ordeal. They trembled, sinking to their knees, uncaring about their stench or what it was that clung to their rags. 'Are these part of the mob who burned that manor house down, do you think?' asked Killbere. 'Does it matter? We're going to hang them anyway,' said Blackstone. 'It doesn't matter, Thomas, so why waste good rope? Cut their throats and be done with it, but if they know anything, anything at all, then we should give them a chance to talk. There are a hundred castles, walled towns and fortified manors and we cannot search every one of them. It would be easier to find a celibate monk in the whole of Christendom than the Dauphin's family in this ravaged country.'
Blackstone turned to Will Longdon. 'Give them food,' he said. The centenar widened his eyes. 'Me, Sir Thomas? I'd catch the plague if I went downwind of 'em.' 'You snared and cooked coneys yesterday. They're in your bags. They're only coneys, for God's sake, Will.' Longdon moaned as he undid the satchel tied to his saddle. 'Still, Sir Thomas, why send these buggers to the devil with our food in their belly?' 'A knife in an eye would get them talking, Thomas. Longdon's not wrong,' Killbere said quietly, though loud enough for only Blackstone to hear. 'I know. If there are thousands of these Jacques, then no matter what they've taken from a nobleman's house there still won't be enough food for them. They've gained nothing from these killings – neither meat or freedom,' he answered. Killbere grunted. 'No meat? They've herded swine, cow, chicken and goose. How many smoked hams or cheese and fruit have they pilfered? These peasants will be as fat as ticks on a dog's belly.' 'Gilbert,' Blackstone said patiently. 'They own none of it. They have secured nothing. They are as they have always been; only now they will pay a price that far exceeds what little they have gained.' He turned to Longdon. 'Give it to them.'
'Bertrand!' Longdon ordered the failed monk. 'Here. Take it to them. You heard Sir Thomas.' The archer's rank gave him command of the lowest in their group, and Bertrand stepped carefully forward as if approaching chained dogs; then, when close enough, he tossed the roasted rabbits to the prisoners, who fell on them like ravening dogs, the one fighting the other for the scraps. 'Are we afraid of two shit-caked and starving peasants?' Blackstone muttered. Killbere shrugged. 'Do not complain, Thomas. Your order is obeyed. It's your own goodwill towards them that causes your despair. That and their stench.' 'Sweet Jesus, forgive these men,' said Caprini. 'That they are brought down below the level of animals.' 'You pray for their forgiveness, Fra Stefano? For the state that God has already placed them in? Prayer won't help them. Would you care to offer them water to quench their thirst?' said Blackstone. Caprini didn't shirk from the challenge and slid from the saddle, then took his water skin to the two creatures. He stood over them and they cowered as if he were the Pope.
Killbere said quietly. 'Perhaps they think he's the angel of death with that cloak.' 'I had that thought myself one night in the forest,' Blackstone admitted as he watched Caprini administer the water. The men drank thirstily, their tied hands clasped as if in prayer, eyes raised towards the Tau knight. 'I do not speak their language,' Caprini said, turning towards Blackstone. 'Perinne, ask them what they know of the peasant army. Where it goes next. Is there any plan to their killing?' The men became animated when the hardened soldier swore and threatened them in something that was as close to their own dialect as he could muster. Food and spittle competed for lodgings in their beards. Perinne shrugged. 'Sir Thomas, they don't understand numbers, they say the peasants are as many as ants in a dung heap.' 'I could have told you that,' said Killbere. 'Sir Gilbert, all I can understand is that they were heading towards the town of Mello near Clermont to join a bigger group. Looking at all the shit we found out there, that means a lot of villeins with an urge to kill driving them on like a spear up their arse.'
'You know this Clermont?' asked Blackstone. Perinne nodded. 'If it's where I think it is, we'll have to go through them, sooner or later. We could keep avoiding them as best we can, Sir Thomas, but they're bloody near everywhere.' Blackstone spat. Damn. Thousands of peasants coming together would be a formidable army and he had no desire to get caught up trying to fight his way past them. Better to let someone else do that. 'We're riding back to Navarre,' he said to Killbere. Killbere grunted. It made sense. 'Let the French slaughter the bastards. That's all they're fit for.' 'The French to kill or the peasants to be slain?' asked Blackstone. 'Both. They deserve each other,' said Killbere. Blackstone tugged his rein and nodded at Perinne. 'Hang them. They need to be seen.' * Blackstone could see the concern crease Navarre's face. Was it fear or dumb stupidity? What did he think awaited him in the valley below? Blackstone wondered. It was obvious that Charles of Navare was shocked by what he saw. The horde looked more like a trained army than the undisciplined mob he had expected. Trumpets blew over drumbeats as they waved tattered flags and raised fists clenching weapons. Navarre had sworn to destroy the uprising, a political manoeuvre to show support for the nobility, because the Dauphin had abandoned the aristocrats to their fate when he went south-east to raise an army to seize back Paris. Navarre's promises had drawn seigneurs and knights from Normandy and Picardy determined to finally put up a shield of resistance against this horde.
'If he's to keep these nobleman at his back, he had better do his killing well,' said Blackstone as he watched the look of uncertainty on Navarre's face. 'He's no fighter, Thomas, look at him,' said Killbere. 'His arse pinches tighter than his lying lips. How in the name of Christ have we ended up here?' 'We use him as he intends to use us,' answered Blackstone, studying the army that had formed up in front of them in their strong defensive position. 'They've chosen their ground well,' he said. It was no vast army such as the French had fielded at Crécy or Poitiers, no heaving body of knights and war horses, but the thousands of peasants before them, who held the plateau near the town of Clermont, looked to be well organized. And men with weapons forged with a village smith's skills had enough steel to bring down horses. Peasants armed with crossbows joined those in the front rank; armour could be pierced as easily as an aristocrat's arrogance. Several hundred horsemen held the rear; and in between a couple of thousand armed men stood in line. There was military know-how in this peasant army – and Blackstone was not the only one to see it.
'He's a clever-enough bastard, this leader of theirs,' said Killbere. 'Those trenches he's dug and the wagons protecting his flanks will make it difficult to dig his men out. Like scraping shit out of a horse hoof, you have to be careful the beast doesn't kick you in the face.' 'Navarre has the numbers – just – but we've both seen how men on the ground can stop horsemen,' Blackstone said. 'Aye, but if Cale has any military sense he'll let Navarre throw himself at them and then swarm over us like rats from a burning barn,' answered the veteran knight. 'You heard what Will and Halfpenny said. They could take Cale out of the saddle when he's in range. Wouldn't take a dozen bodkins to punch through his miserable skin.' 'Killing Cale would be short-sighted, Gilbert. He's got three armies elsewhere, and information we could use.' 'God's tears, Thomas, you still think we'll find the Dauphin's family with a turd like this?' 'Which turd? Cale or Navarre?' Blackstone answered and smiled. 'A good fight is worth the effort, but I have no wish to risk wounds and death to any of my men on these murdering scum. We've better causes waiting for our risk.' He gathered the reins. 'Remember my orders, Gilbert. My life depends on it.'
He spurred his horse along the low ridge to where Charles of Navarre waited, still undecided how best to attack the ranks of peasants, who now seemed eager to fight. * The army of peasants had burned their way across the landscape as effectively as any king's troops plundering in war. Ranks were swelled with minor noblemen and landowners who saw advantage in attacking those with richer domains, whose wealth could be stripped from them. Long-standing vendettas could now be settled by using the mob in their favour. News had reached them that the Provost of Merchants in Paris had sent a separate mob of citizens south of the capital to join their cause. Who could stop them now? The Jacquerie army to the north, and another to the east, would soon control every approach to the city, and once the citizens rejected Charles of Navarre and closed its gates to the Dauphin, denying him governance of his kingdom, then the villeins would hold the nation for themselves. They were led by men who knew how to fight. Guillaume Cale was a local man who had taken them to victory with the promise of greater prizes awaiting them – once they had pulled down these knights of Charles of Navarre.
Two long ranks of peasants bayed an incoherent war cry extolling their excesses, and crying for the blood of the noblemen who waited in the distance. Who could stand against them? A peasant's delusion had become a chimera let loose. * When Blackstone had returned to Navarre's men he was greeted coolly, but his information as to where Navarre's enemy might take a stand had proved correct and the emblazoned knights curved their way across the countryside like a glittering rainbow. If grandeur and pomp could have won the day then no sword would ever need to be drawn. The gathered knights were ready to strike, the mass of horsemen, flags and pennons, surcoats and horse trappers a surge of colour that was meant to intimidate. Now Blackstone rode to where Navarre gazed out uncertainly at the gathered mass. 'My lord,' Blackstone said as he snatched the bastard horse's reins, stopping it from barging the war horse of a wealthy knight in Navarre's entourage. Navarre looked faintly surprised that Blackstone had addressed him directly without permission, but his worry about the possible humiliation at the hands of the peasants facing him swept aside his irritation.
'Is the Englishman impatient to kill more Frenchmen?' Navarre said, a thin smile advising those around him that this was an attempt at wit. A dutiful titter of laughter was offered up, but a few of those close to him remained grim-faced. These knights deserved better than Navarre. They had hitched their fate to his so that each might gain what he desired. Among them were Normans who still sought autonomy, hoping that Navarre would not renege on any surety given to their cause. Despite Blackstone being an Englishman he was considered one of them – his love and respect for Jean de Harcourt and his fight for justice at the Norman's death would never be forgotten. One such veteran knight, the Norman lord Sir Robert de Montagu, his armour draped in a surcoat of azure and gold with a stag's head crest, sat on a destrier as grandly adorned as if in a royal procession. The horse's trapper copied the device and reached almost to the ground; the trimmed etched-leather reins were studded with silver – all denoting a man of high rank and prestige. By contrast Blackstone looked little more than a common hobelar, wearing his mail, jupon and boiled-leather breastplate for protection.
'Thomas, we're all impatient, but a decision has not yet been made. Be respectful of our lord's dilemma,' de Montagu said in obvious warning, but with sufficient weariness to let Blackstone know that the Norman was tired of Navarre's indecision. 'You'll lose good men down there, my lord,' said Blackstone, ignoring him and addressing himself to Navarre. 'You'll win, but there'll be a price to pay.' 'Christ, Thomas, hold your tongue. We've no need for further doubt,' said de Montagu, alarmed at Blackstone's suggestion. 'You think we lack courage?' snarled the knight closest to Navarre. It was his brother Philip, the hot-headed younger man who would rather kill than negotiate with an enemy. 'No, my lord, I remember when you murdered the unarmed Constable of France four years ago. My friend Jean de Harcourt told me of your courage that night,' answered Blackstone. Two of the Norman knights blocked Philip of Navarre's horse as he spurred it towards Blackstone, ready to strike at his insolence. 'De Harcourt was weak! As was his choice of low scum for friendship. We seized the moment!'
Taunting Navarre's brother gave some pleasure and it might snap Charles of Navarre into a more belligerent state of mind. Blackstone answered, keeping his eyes on Charles. 'My friend was intelligent and loyal and your actions spurred King John into retribution that cost de Harcourt his life and those of your brother's supporters. The murder you committed that night unleashed a vile killer against my family, so I know what comes from a bad decision.' The horses fussed and were cursed at as they were brought under control. Charles of Navarre was devious enough to know when he had been offered an alternative disguised by defiance. 'What price do I pay, Sir Thomas? I have the support of the nobles. Men die in battle.' 'Would you exchange a denier for a gold crown? Or a rouncey for a stallion? There's no point in getting any man of noble birth killed, my lord. Any such death against these vermin will reflect badly. It weakens your cause and strengthens theirs.' 'Let's be done with this,' said Philip.
Blackstone remained unperturbed. Navarre's brother served only as the sword arm for the family's ambitions. Navarre raised a hand to quieten any further interruption and nodded consent for Blackstone to speak. 'And how do I avoid this?' 'Bring their leader, this Cale, to the table to negotiate. Without him they become rabble again.' 'Offer him a truce?' Navarre asked as the others murmured their disapproval. 'He has the status of a general. Or so he thinks. And you are King of Navarre.' Navarre was a poor war leader, but his years of political deceit and intrigue gave him an instinct like a viper slithering from an entangled mass of snakes. He immediately saw what the others had not. 'Go down and bring him to me then, Sir Thomas.' Blackstone had expected Navarre would want him to be the means of betrayal, then Blackstone's would be the name linked to duping the peasant leader. 'Sire,' he said, flattering the monarch of the small mountain province in the Pyrenees, 'I will convince him, but it needs a king to offer the truce and a nobleman to promise it.'
'And you will want something in return,' said Navarre. 'I want the right to choose how he dies,' Blackstone answered. In that moment Charles of Navarre recognized the skill of the Englishman and the ruthless streak of a great commander. Blackstone would lay a trap and he, Charles of Navarre, was to spring it. The peasants watched as Guillaume Cale rode forward to speak to the two men riding at a walking pace to meet him in the space that lay between the two armies. A parlay had been arranged and perhaps, some muttered among themselves, they would be paid by these frightened aristocrats to leave the field of battle. More wealth, more possessions and the rewards for their savagery lay within their grasp. Beyond them, beneath the glory of gold-threaded flags, Navarre knew Blackstone had made a good choice in choosing Sir Robert de Montagu to ride with him to meet the peasant commander. The grandeur of the man and his horse next to Blackstone made a sharp contrast, extolling the man's rank. Blackstone drew up his horse, leaving a half-dozen paces between him and the peasant commander. Guillaume Cale would have been considered handsome by some women: a strong-looking man whose dark eyebrows curved like flared wings over his beaked nose. His assortment of arms and armour gave him the look of a fighting man and he showed no fear as he gazed at Navarre's envoys. This was his home ground. The small town of Clermont where he was born and raised was only a few miles away. A man grew confident on his own territory, Blackstone thought, a confidence that could blind him.
Sir Robert de Montagu held back, as had been agreed with Blackstone, who would do the talking until Cale rose to the bait. If Blackstone was correct Cale would demand that the reviled nobleman debase himself by entering into the negotiation – believing himself closer in rank to de Montagu rather than Blackstone. 'You're to be offered a truce,' said Blackstone. 'Whose puppet are you?' demanded Cale. 'I'm a fighting man. You can't win here today. I've seen better scabs on a dog's arse than those men behind you,' Blackstone deliberately taunted. 'Scabs that cover the wounds of France. You're an Englishman?' 'I am.' 'A routier,' Cale sneered. 'And you insult me? Behind me are common men and women that the likes of you rape and murder.' 'You don't need any lessons in that, general,' Blackstone said, tingeing his insolence with a casual deference. It had its effect. Guillaume Cale turned his attention to the richly dressed nobleman who obviously spent more money on his horse than a villein could earn in a lifetime. By comparison Blackstone's horse with its blotched coat and nondescript bridle reflected its rider's low rank. He was talking to the wrong man.
'Why am I spoken to by a man like this?' Cale demanded. 'Is it beneath your dignity to discuss terms with me when I'm the one holding this place with twice as many men as you have?' The nobleman looked down, as if being shamed, keeping up the pretence that Blackstone had insisted upon. Blackstone answered for him. 'You've some education, like me, general, and I hear you own land, also like me. We're different from these noblemen. I know what it means to be poor. I give you my word that—' 'Be quiet!' Sir Robert suddenly barked. 'This man leads an army, you do not.' Blackstone looked suitably chastised, anger barely held in check as he continued the ruse. 'You pay him off when we can beat him!' he challenged the Norman. 'Neither of us wants unnecessary bloodshed,' de Montagu said in a reasonable tone, making Blackstone seem even more coarse than he appeared. De Montagu faced Cale. 'I can give you a King's word that you will be given safe passage and welcomed to discuss terms of truce that, he feels certain, will satisfy you.'
Sir Robert waited patiently as Cale considered the proposition. Charles, King of Navarre, was the French King's son-in-law who sought the crown. And to do that he needed to gain the support of the citizens of Paris, which meant bringing the Provost of Merchants onto his side. And the Provost had already despatched men to support the uprising. A treaty would benefit Navarre as it could the future of the common man. It might even secure rights that few had even dreamed of. 'I hold the field,' he answered. 'You will not defeat us today. And when noblemen fall under the billhook of a peasant your whole class bleeds.' Sir Robert remained silent, but Blackstone fuelled Cale's confidence with a whispered plea. 'Don't do this, my lord, we can beat them.' De Montagu played his part perfectly. He glared at Blackstone, and then shook his head. Cale grinned. He had them. 'We would need pardons for what has occurred in the heat of our unrest,' said Cale. 'Charles of Navarre believes we all should seek pardon for our deeds,' said de Montagu. 'Which is why he extends this offer of a truce to you.'
Cale looked a hundred paces beyond the two men, to where five squires and a knight waited, pennons aloft, ready to escort him to the parlay with a king. Blackstone let his eyes settle on the man from Picardy whom the great swathe of murdering villeins had turned to as their leader and who now controlled their hate and the terror they inflicted. His thousands of peasants had burned and destroyed a dozen towns and might even, for all Blackstone knew, have slain Christiana and his children. So far they had broken the yoke of servitude and bested men-at-arms when those knights tried to defend their families and land. If Cale accepted the word of a king, even a king of such an insignificant and distant place, but who might one day wear the crown of France, then Cale's own vanity would seal his fate. And if he did as Blackstone expected then he and Sir Robert might have only moments to live. 'We will stand our ground here until you return,' said de Montagu, gently closing the trap. 'As surety.'
He and Blackstone were no more than thirty long paces from the front line of peasants. They would be overwhelmed the moment anything happened to Cale. Cale nodded. 'One sign of falsehood and you'll be dead,' he said, and then spurred his horse past them towards the waiting escort. A ragged cheer swelled up from the peasants as Cale raised a clenched fist as if in victory. Blackstone turned to Sir Robert. 'Keep a tight rein, my lord; don't touch your sword yet,' he said quietly. 'Be ready to raise your shield.' His eyes watched the distorted faces in front of him. These peasants would like nothing more than to hack the two of them to pieces. Blackstone had seen those self-same faces as a boy when villagers dangled a cat over a dog pit for sport and then screamed their blood-lust as it was torn apart. Dark hovels and smoke-filled rooms caged such people, a lord's demands clawing at their backs like a flail. Noblemen, bailiffs, sheriff, sovereign and Church: all took their share of these creatures' pitiful existence. Their time would come – but not today. Not after what they had done.
How many breaths would it take before the snarling, debased horde cut them down? Without turning to watch Cale's progress towards Navarre, Blackstone listened to the retreating hoofbeats. Cale would be close to the escort now. When he and Sir Robert had walked their horses slowly towards the eager-to-kill mob he had counted out a man's pace mark in his mind. 'How many yards to their front line?' he had asked his centenar of archers before riding up to Navarre. 'Two hundred and four,' Longdon had answered. 'And nine,' the young Halfpenny had suggested. His own archer's eye told him the distance lay somewhere in between – and when he had approached Guillaume Cale to offer the truce he had drawn up the bastard horse at what he deemed to be a hundred and seventy five yards from the archers. There was a sudden cry as Cale was seized by the squires. No honour was lost when a pledge to a peasant was broken. It was whom you gave your word to that counted. The shockwave that was about to surge towards them was the blink of an eye away.
Blackstone swore he heard the creak of a forest's trees bending before a mighty wind – but knew it was the sound of English archers drawing back their war bows. And when that wind swept down in a rippling storm it cut into the dangerous crossbowmen and those who tried to shoulder them aside to attack. They got within twenty paces. Sir Robert de Montagu held his nerve as the air ripped around them a second time. The thudding of steel-tipped ash driving through bone and muscle sounded like a dog tearing flesh. The attackers faltered. Bodies lay writhing, effectively blocking those behind. A few of the crossbowmen loosed their bolts. One thudded into Sir Robert's shield, but he was already spurring his horse as a swarm of knights hurled forwards and archers loosed volleys from two flanks flaying a path for them. The peasants' hopeless attempt at attack faltered as hundreds died within the first few minutes. No man had got closer than ten paces to Blackstone. As Navarre's knights swept past Blackstone he kept his horse reined tight, holding back its desire to join the fray. Peasants were trampled, hacked and speared, as behind the horsemen dismounted knights walked through the field of blood, slashing at the wounded, hacking limbs, inflicting the noblemen's revenge. Navarre was well out of danger as he helped slaughter the wounded.
Will Longdon and his archers bent their bows and eased the cords from their nocks. Their part was over. They had held their ground, following Blackstone's orders not to join the fight. There was no booty to be had, no prize worth losing a valuable archer for. Blackstone turned his horse and saw Killbere where he had left him. There was no glory or honour in this slaughter. It was as simple as clubbing rats in an infested hovel. But to the peasants' rear a knot of armoured men spurred their horses away from Navarre's attack. A winged creature bobbed and weaved as the harpy-emblazoned shield glared from their midst. Those of the lesser noblemen who had joined the peasants' cause now sought escape from the disorganized rabble who refused to obey their commands. Killbere watched as Blackstone raised Wolf Sword and spurred forward his horse. 'Sweet Jesus, what's he doing? He said to stay back,' Killbere muttered as his eyes followed Blackstone's attack. John Jacob pointed with his sword. 'The harpy!'
Killbere had no time to ask the question; his baffled look was enough. 'We were attacked at Windsor,' said Caprini. 'By that knight and others.' He grinned at Killbere. 'It seems that Satan's horde shall not go unpunished!' he added, digging spurs into his horse's flanks, quickly followed by Jacob. 'Mother of God!' Killbere cursed. 'Will! Keep your lads here! Meulon! Gaillard! You and your men kill some of those turds before they swamp Sir Thomas!' The orders given, he urged his horse forward, following the Tau knight as the two Normans peeled away at an angle to drive a wedge between the swirling ranks of Cale's army. Will Longdon was fitting his bow cord again. The fight might turn if those knights abandoning the field galloped towards them and managed to avoid Blackstone. He had faced armoured French cavalry before and knew how to bring them down. * The great horse trampled men flailing helplessly at Blackstone as he swung Wolf Sword up and down and then left and right, the blood knot biting into his wrist. Iron-shod hooves smashed bones as the horse barged through the men with Blackstone urging him on. Men screamed; others fell back wide-eyed as the shock of pain seared through their final moments. Blackstone saw Navarre's men to his right, but the harpy still gathered others around it, its outstretched talons clawing its way free from the mêlée. Blackstone pulled the horse at a sharper angle in an effort to cut off the knight's escape. A blade slashed the greave on his leg, glanced upwards and tore a line across his thigh. The raw cut was insignificant, but he felt its stinging pain as he pressed the horse's flank to make him turn.
And then he was among them. He barged aside a man-at-arms riding a big courser whose head yanked to one side as the muscled neck and misshapen head of Blackstone's savage horse struck it. A heavy thud, a wide-eyed stare. The man's sword was held too high as he half turned to strike. Blackstone swept his blade across the man's chest, slashing its razor edge against mail, knowing that it was useless as a cut but its force would rock the man back – letting him drive Wolf Sword's point into his groin. The strangled cry was swallowed in the man's helm; his feet slammed forward in the stirrups and he tumbled across the back of the saddle. Other riders charged from Blackstone's blind side. It was Caprini and John Jacob forcing the knot of men to splinter, hacking into peasants and men-at-arms, leaving the German knight to pound through the gap. He was ahead of Blackstone and rode a faster horse. Sweat stung Blackstone's eyes. The leather grip on his gauntlet was wet with blood; he felt Wolf Sword's grip slip from his hand but it was saved by the blood knot and, twisting his wrist, he reclaimed it, letting the reins loosen, giving the bastard horse its head. He felt its energy surge like an arrow propelled from a war bow – it would need the devil and his helpers to pull it back under control.
The German tried to swerve, but the horses were side by side, Blackstone's shield covering his body from the smashing blows of the flanged mace being slammed against it. A glancing blow caught the top of his helm, whipping back his head; a burst of pain exploded behind his eyes and he rocked in the saddle, his falling weight slowing his horse so that it faltered a pace behind. Had it not been so mean-spirited a beast determined to bite the other horse Blackstone would have been carried away from the attack in a wild gallop. He lurched forward, brought back his shield arm and slammed it across the man's shoulder onto his helm. He too swayed as Blackstone used the horse's barging motion to bring a hammering strike down onto his helm. The German's horse veered; the man lost his stirrups and, despite the saddle's cantle, slid off onto the ground. Blackstone let Wolf Sword dangle from the blood knot, grabbed the reins with both hands, pushed himself back in the saddle, and sawed the bit left and right in a harsh attempt to slow the horse. He pressed his wounded leg into its flank and kicked hard with the other. Like a lumbering cog trying to turn on a running tide the great beast curved around to face the fallen knight, who was on his feet again, mace thrown down, sword in hand. Blurred images swept back and forth as peasants fought a running battle with Navarre's men-at-arms. There was no order to their retreat; they stumbled and fell, craved mercy and were given none. Horses ran loose; torn flags fell into the bloodied field. Blackstone's horse finally slowed, flanks heaving, nostrils flaring as it bellowed air, while Blackstone tried to get it to face the man who now ran at him, sword raised for a blow that would take his leg off. It was impossible to turn in time to fend off the attack.
A horse swept into view; its rider, his sword raised, made a sweeping cut from on high, curving the strike down onto the side of the German's head. The man dropped like a sack of grain; a spurt of blood held for a moment in the air as delicately as a woman's torn veil and then splattered across him. The retreat was in full flight and by the time Blackstone reached the fallen man Killbere had turned his horse back. He pulled back his visor. 'Tears of Christ, Thomas, you should rid yourself of that ox-of-a-horse!' he cried. Blackstone yanked his helm free and tore off his gauntlet, pulling fingers through his sweat-soaked hair. 'It's not the horse; it's more likely the rider who can't handle it. Thank you for that.' 'Is he dead?' Killbere said. 'With half his head missing, he should be. Clean through helm and skull.' 'Good! It's as I intended,' said Killbere. 'The Italian said you weren't on speaking terms with this whoreson.' Blackstone knelt and eased the split visor from the mangled remains of the man's head. The side and back of his skull were shattered but his face was plain to see.
'He's nobody's son now, Gilbert, whore or not. We barely spoke at all, but this wasn't him. It's one of the men who was at his side.' 'Ah,' said Killbere, as if he had failed. 'But,' said Blackstone as he looked across the field of slaughter, 'where one shows her talons so too will another. At least I know he's close.' * They used hot irons on Guillaume Cale's stripped body, laying the glowing tips across back and chest, pressing the searing heat onto the inside of his thighs and the soles of his feet, inflicting the most pain they could think of. They were practised in the art of suffering. They asked no questions and sought no confession; this was a simple exercise in torture to burn the man's screams into the townspeople's minds. In Clermont's town square the bloodied man was forced to kneel before the terrified townspeople, flanked by Navarre's men, the gore not yet cleaned from their blades. A forge had been brought where a smith beat iron, taking the white-hot metal and shaping it as ordered by Navarre.
'We bring your son home!' Navarre called to the crowd. 'We return him to the whore that spawned him and this sewer that bred him!' Blackstone and Killbere sat astride their horses looking across at the heads of the crowd watching the ceremony of humiliation. A rough-timbered platform had been quickly built and Navarre and those close to him stood on it as the bound Cale was forced onto a stool. 'Hanging witches was always good for business,' said Killbere, 'but there are no piemen or jugglers here today. Navarre has a cruelty to him that takes the pleasure out of public spectacle.' 'They're not finished with him yet,' Blackstone said, tasting the throat-clawing fumes from the forge mingled with the smell of burning flesh. He took the wineskin from his saddle and swilled out his mouth, spitting the foulness onto the ground. 'You waste good wine, Thomas. Why are we still here? I've no taste for this and neither have you.' 'I need him alive for a while longer. I made a bargain with Navarre.' Killbere grunted. 'You can see how far that might get you.'
'It was given in front of the noblemen. He'll be obliged to keep it or lose their trust,' Blackstone answered. Navarre beckoned the smith, whose tongs held the glowing metal in the coals. 'There were those who thought this man could be a King of the Jacques,' he told the crowd. 'Their wish is granted.' Guards tightened their grip on the ropes holding Cale. 'Behold your King!' Navarre shouted as the smith clumsily placed the band of hot iron onto Cale's forehead. Flesh and hair burned, and even Navarre was obliged to cover his face with a linen cloth as Cale screamed and writhed. 'Kill the poor bastard and be done with it,' Killbere muttered. Cale slumped forward, the pain too great to bear, as Navarre and his entourage stepped down from the platform, leaving Cale's blistered body to regain consciousness and ready itself for the final horror. The crowd tried to turn their backs on the spectacle but soldiers prodded and jabbed them to face the pitiful sight. Blackstone pushed his way through to the platform.
'Not too close, my lord,' said one of the soldiers. 'There's enough shit and piss come out of him to make a pig faint.' Blackstone ignored him and clambered up onto the platform. The guard snatched at his arm. 'Take your hands off me or you'll know the pain that he feels,' Blackstone said. The guard hastily withdrew his hand and turned back to the peasants where his authority lay. Knights like this Englishman held sway over common soldiers and he had no desire to end up like that poor bastard on the platform. Blackstone eased himself closer to the slumped man. He reached down and took the smith's leather pail of water, soaking the cloth Navarre had discarded. Squeezing the water over the man's burnt head he waited until Cale muttered something, his shoulders hunched as he gritted his teeth. Hot irons were an agony that grew worse as the flesh continued to fight the pain. Blackstone tilted back the man's chin, letting the water run into his parched lips. Cale's eyes opened and focused on the man who had tricked him and who now gave him comfort.
He nodded. There was no pride left to sustain him; arrogance had been scalded from him. 'Thank you,' he rasped. The stench around the man was as foul as the guard had warned, but Blackstone used the bucket to sluice the man's waste away and then knelt close to him. The iron crown, now cold, squeezed Cale's head like a vice, the cruel symbol scarring his face beyond recognition. 'You are going to be hanged soon,' Blackstone told him unhurriedly, making sure that his words were heard clearly, holding the man's attention. 'They will hang you by the neck and then draw you, spilling your guts into those coals so that they'll burn in front of you. Then each limb will be hacked and tossed to dogs. Then they'll take your head.' Cale's body shuddered, its pain settling ever deeper. From somewhere in the darkness within he drew up the strength to answer Blackstone. 'You... torment me... further.' 'No,' said Blackstone, 'I can end this suffering. It will soon be Midsummer's Eve and the celebration of St John the Baptist. You can die like him. Tell me what I want to know and Navarre will behead you. There will be no more torture.'
A tear welled in Cale's eye and spilled down his fractured cheekbone to join the phlegm from his nose that soaked his beard. He nodded. 'Do the Jacquerie seek out the Dauphin's family?' Blackstone asked. He gave the man time to answer, letting him ease the words from his cracked lips. Cale nodded. 'They do,' he whispered. 'Who leads the mob?' 'Vaillant. Jean Vaillant. From Paris. And... Pierre Gilles...' Cale said slowly. 'Where?' 'East... to Meaux.' Blackstone did not wish to put words into the suffering man's mouth. If the royal family were there he had to hear it from the one man who knew for certain. 'Why? Why Meaux?' They... and many other... noblemen's families... Meaux. They go... for them.' His body trembled, his voice cracking. Blackstone had his answer. He needed nothing further from this broken man. 'We could not stop...' whispered Cale. Blackstone hesitated, waiting for him to finish what he was trying to say. 'We... had seized... a lion's tail... We did not... know how to let go.' Blackstone made no reply. There were still thousands more out there who were not afraid of their grip on terror.
Part 4 Blood Oath Christiana followed the two German knights through the narrow, crooked streets of Meaux, her thoughts only of escape. Exhaustion had tugged at her over every yard, and she had slept in the saddle, jolting awake when Agnes nearly tumbled from her arms. Von Lienhard had tried to engage her in conversation in an attempt to tease out information, but she begged his forbearance for her tiredness and the German soon became bored with her. She served a purpose for them and beyond that they had no interest. They had travelled in near-silence for the better part of the day and then they came upon the great curve of the river and the walled city that stood on its northern bank. Before the city gates were opened to them she saw the towers and battlements of the fortress rising up in the background and knew that once inside they would at last be safe. The labyrinth took them, turning this way and that along streets only wide enough to accommodate a laden donkey, where daylight barely reached because of the density of the overhanging windows and roofs.
As they rode slowly, one horse behind the other, she saw no way to avoid staying with the two men who had pretended to rescue them. The killers would go into the fortress with her and who there would believe her story of their part in the slaughter of Sir Marcel de Lorris and his family? It would make no sense. Why would they risk their own lives to bring her to safety and why had they turned over the silver from de Lorris's chapel to the bishop? She knew that gratitude and honour would be afforded them. Until she could relate the images of their part in the killing she would have trust in her own instincts, because once the accusation was made there would be a judicial hearing and then her own life and those of her children would be at risk. Women sitting outside their houses raised their heads from their sewing as the horses ambled past them. Christiana was bedraggled and bloodstained. She was obviously another nobleman's woman rescued by knights. Another one to be locked into the fortress where they thought themselves to be untouchable.
Their indifferent glances told Christiana that escape could be more dangerous than staying with the killers in the stronghold known as the Marché. There would be no welcome or hiding place among these old houses that sagged, timbers creaking, almost touching each other from either side of the thoroughfare. Their doorways opened into near-darkness where children picked hems from scavenged cloth in light from hearth-fires barely bright enough for visibility, their fingers close to their faces. Beeswax candles cost money and only the Church and noblemen would indulge in such extravagance. For families crammed into one room, animal fat was scraped and saved then turned into pungent candles by a chandler. Agnes squirmed in Christiana's arms as the small procession pushed aside street hawkers and water carriers. She looked this way and that along city streets that clanged and hammered from the noise of furriers and shoemakers, coopers beating metal rings into place and locksmiths tapping away diligently at their trade. This small city was prosperous. At each narrow side street she strained to see how they might fare if for any reason they had to run. Artisans' signs competed with each other outside the wooden houses. A vintner's board, as big as a door, with its painted symbol of a bush, proclaimed a cellar to drink in; an apothecary's sign of three gilded pills glistened in the rays of sunlight that managed to penetrate the narrow street and she glimpsed the white pole, striped red, for a barber-surgeon. There was wealth here. That was good. That meant these people had something to lose and would resist if the mob descended. The city gates would remain closed.
Women haggled at poultry stores as chickens and ducks, their legs trussed, floundered on the ground with rabbits and hares. Five deniers for a rabbit, four for a chicken. The stallholders' cries fought each other. Down another street a butcher's offal swarmed with flies, the beast slain in the street, its blood pooling in the gutters. Harness makers, spice and salt sellers: all of these trades would surely fight for what they had. She felt a growing sense of confidence. Wealth and food. These townsmen were no part of the Jacquerie; they would not sacrifice what they had. The sky opened again as they emerged from the cluttered streets. The stone-built fortress rose up before them across the narrow stone bridge on the opposite bank. It was a strong defensive citadel, cushioned from attack by the outer walls of Meaux itself, and surrounded by water on all sides. As the horses clattered across the bridge, the portcullis cranked upwards. Christiana kissed Agnes's hair and turned in the saddle to give Henry an encouraging smile. Safety, food and warmth lay within.
She put a finger to her lips. Stay silent. * Once behind the stronghold's walls Christiana and Agnes were accommodated in the vast dormitory made ready by the Marché's commander. She soon learnt that hundreds of women had been given safe haven, many of whom would never see their husbands again, nor their burnt-out homes. The lesser noblewomen were obliged to suffer the indignity of being herded into rooms and corridors, even though their status might have normally afforded them the comfort of their own chamber. But they were alive, witnesses to horror, and that kept any such discontent unspoken, but they all still felt their vulnerability, no matter how thick the walls of the fortress or the rank they held. Twenty or more banners and pennons fluttered but Christiana saw little sign of the noblemen whose coat of arms they were. She wrestled with the urge to confront von Lienhard now they were safe. An outburst would bring those noblemen running, but no sooner had they been accepted into the stronghold than she and Agnes were separated from Henry and taken to where the women were billeted. Von Lienhard was welcomed and praised for his courage in bringing her and the children to safety and, as other women ushered her away to their quarters, Christiana's final sight of Henry was of him being ordered to join other young pages and squires who had survived – though from what the women had said, their numbers were few. He would be given weapons to clean and other duties to perform: she hoped one task would be to serve on tables so she might have the chance to see and speak to him again. Von Lienhard had glanced her way and with a noncommittal expression placed a hand on Henry's shoulder. There had been enough fear in her life these past days but the thought that von Lienhard might suspect that she or Henry had seen his acts of brutality closed around her like bands of steel. His gesture had been obvious.
If Henry was to live – she must remain silent. Perinne scratched an inverted triangle in the dirt as Blackstone and his captains gathered around him. He placed a stone at each corner and then pointed out what knowledge he had of the area. 'Up here on the left, that's Beauvais, and from what we've been told, Sir Thomas, that's swarming with these peasants. Across here,' he said, hovering a stick to the right, 'this is Compiègne, and we're between the two.' 'Paris is there,' said Blackstone, pointing to the bottom of the triangle, 'and Compiègne is a stronghold for the Dauphin. They have held firm against the Jacques, and we don't need to stir that nest – we'll have problem enough getting down to Meaux,' he added, jabbing in the dirt a few inches to the right of Paris. Gaillard extended his spear shaft and gently curved a line that extended from the east of Meaux and then let it taper off as it nudged below Paris. 'Sir Thomas, we cannot go directly south – if the Parisians march as you have been told we will ride into them and I heard a man-at-arms say he was from a stronghold of Navarre's men at La Ferté-sous-Jouarre on the river. But where that is I don't know.'
'Perinne?' Blackstone said. The hobelar shrugged. 'No idea, Sir Thomas.' Blackstone looked at Gaillard hopefully. The big Norman shook his bearded head. 'Upriver from Meaux is all I heard,' he answered. 'The gap for us to squeeze through is getting tighter,' said Killbere. 'Peasants on the rampage, Dauphin's men in castles and Navarre's men close enough to get too nosey. It's tight.' Will Longdon squatted, chin resting on his fists. 'Tighter than a nun's cunny,' he muttered to himself. Gaillard eased his boot against him. 'No holy woman would let you close enough to empty her pisspot,' he said, tipping the archer over. Longdon instinctively rolled and came up with his archer's knife in his hand and a snarl on his face. 'You stupid ox! I'll geld you and then cut your fucking throat if you ever touch me again!' Gaillard took a step towards him but Meulon was big enough to block him as John Jacob grabbed Longdon's knife arm. 'Drop the knife, Will. Drop it!' The archer's forearm was corded muscle and it took a strong man to squeeze it that hard. Longdon's glazed eyes cleared for a moment. He had been one lunge away from stabbing the Norman.
In that moment Blackstone regretted not bringing Elfred on this mission. The older man had the most influence over Longdon. Will Longdon had been at Blackstone's side since they had first run across the invasion sands twelve years before. Before everything. Young men, vigorous and scared, sworn to Killbere and the King, sworn to each other, and Longdon had wafted their fears away with disrespect and humour. 'You grow mean in your years, Will,' said Blackstone calmly. 'There'll be no gelding done among my captains unless I wield the knife.' The men fell silent, but the tension was still evident. The aftermath of killing stirred men's humours, and the bile took time to settle. It would take only a moment of madness for a killing to occur in the oppressive summer heat, and then there would be a hanging. Which meant that two of Blackstone's men would die needlessly. Two of his best. Killbere broke the simmering resentment that threatened to boil into violence. 'I loved a woman who was a nun,' he said quietly, a seldom-heard hint of regret in his voice.
The remark caused the men to look towards him in a moment of uncertainty. Sir Gilbert Killbere never spoke of his life or offered any glimpse into his past. 'An aristocratic lady placed in a nunnery by her father to keep her from me,' he said. 'I was prepared to take holy orders to stay in her embrace.' Killbere shrugged. 'Alas, it was never consummated. I was unworthy of the Church. And her.' He had sacrificed part of himself so that the others might not take a step that would tear this close-knit band of men apart. But there was to be no intimacy beyond that. He grinned. 'Will's right: a nun would be tight and, as Gaillard said, none here are fit to empty their pisspots. We are who we are and we have only ourselves to blame for it.' He kicked away the scratches in the sand. 'I know how to get us through to Meaux.' * They rested beyond the forest, where a stream provided fresh water and the trees security from any groups of peasants who had escaped the slaughter. Free of mail and armour, Killbere swabbed his face and neck with a cloth soaked in the stream's cold water. The summer heat was already fierce enough to make them wring sweat from their shirts. Blackstone sat half-propped, with his wounded leg exposed, as Caprini knelt in front of him and prepared a dressing; Bertrand, at last given more responsibility than caring for horses, acted as his assistant, boiling a torn piece of linen in a pot over the fire. The Tau knight had cut a strip of bark from one of the trees, and carefully separated it from the moist sap behind it, easing the fibrous thread onto Blackstone's wound. The cut was six inches across his upper leg and was already discoloured, now that they had swabbed away the congealing blood and dirt. He then gently padded the wound with dried lichen scraped from the rocks by the stream.
Bertrand looked over his shoulder from where he attended the boiling water and linen. 'Sir Thomas, I have skills enough from my time in the monastery to stitch your wound.' Caprini concentrated on laying his dressing into the gash. 'There is no need to stitch this wound. A week from now, with the binding of the clean linen the flesh will heal itself and there will be no risk of infection. And if you do not attend to the task I have set you, Bertrand, I will stitch your lips. You do not speak to me unless you are spoken to.' Bertrand turned back to his task as Caprini stood and inspected his effort. 'It is done. Let the air get to it now, and when the linen is dry I will bind it.' 'I'm grateful, Stefano, but we need to press on.' 'And we shall, but man and horse need rest and food. A few hours will do more good than harm.' Blackstone would have protested further, but he knew Caprini was right. He nodded agreement as the Tau knight stood. 'I have bound it with fern leaf and strands for now.' Caprini nodded in satisfaction at his work and turned away. 'Take away the soiled cloths,' he said as he walked past Bertrand. 'Once this strip is done, boil them. We'll have need of them again.'
Bertrand quickly bent to his task, lowering his eyes respectfully as he followed the Tau knight's command and seized the bloodied strips of linen used to clean Blackstone's wound. When he had retreated out of earshot, Killbere spread his washing cloth across a boulder. 'I wouldn't let Bertrand sew a badge onto a jupon,' he said. 'He'd have your cock stitched to your eyebrows.' Blackstone smiled, too tired to continue a ribald conversation. 'Was it true what you said about your woman?' he asked. 'Does it matter? It served its purpose. Thomas, the men have no care for the reason, they follow you because of loyalty. But when they risk their lives for you it brings instincts to the fore. Once this business is done it might be time for your captains to be separated and given their own commands.' 'I know. I see it.' 'Will's an archer, Thomas. He doesn't give a dog's turd for anyone other than you and old Elfred.' He thought for a moment and then smiled. 'Do you remember when he pissed in the river in front of the French at Blanchetaque?'
'And you telling him it would rust your armour. Christ, Gilbert, that was a time.' He let the memory show itself to him again. 'It wasn't Will. It was John Weston. He died in front of me at Crécy.' 'Ah. So it was. I had forgotten.' He grunted. 'So many dead over the years.' He swallowed his regret. 'You archers, your insolence obscured your names and your fear. And I was glad of it.' 'I've known fear before and since, but I swear the river ran with my own piss that day,' said Blackstone. 'Will's all right. He's taken to being made centenar. He thinks – and safeguards his men. He'll not do anything to betray my trust in him.' 'Be better for us all if we could follow a flag of war and fight the French as we did. That's what we're best suited for.' It was unusual for Killbere to reminisce. And Blackstone had never looked back over his shoulder to that which he had left behind, but the mood took them for a moment. 'I despair, Thomas. There are no great battles to be fought any longer. I pray that Edward will never reach a treaty with the King of France or that his ransom is ever paid. If it were within my power to send out heralds, I would have them proclaim to every French nobleman that they should gather their arms and renew their allegiance to their sovereign lord. And then they would gather on some vast field in their thousands, with ranks of drums and trumpets, and raise their war banners and show their colours for us all to see. And then we few Englishmen would form ranks, tighten the blood knot on our swords and dig in our heels to fight our enemy. Will we ever again see thirty or forty thousand Frenchmen shoulder to shoulder, armour glistening, honour-bound to die on the battlefield? Sweet Jesus! I miss it – badly. It tears at me. It was the breath that kept me alive. Now what do we have? Skirmish and attack, seize a town, slay peasants in an uprising, and sell our swords to the highest bidder. I want a war, Thomas. It is what I was born for. It is how I want to die.'
Blackstone let the moment settle and then said quietly, 'I made a promise to the King that I would make the Dauphin's family safe. It means nothing to me and I know he uses our efforts to further his bargaining with King John. We are expendable, Gilbert; by now he may have already sent men to fight alongside Navarre and what we do has no meaning.' 'We serve the King,' said Killbere with a weariness born of long service. 'We serve the King,' repeated Blackstone. After a moment of considering all that such loyalty meant, he intruded again into Killbere's past. 'Gilbert, how do you know the Marne and the towns that lie on it? We've more than a hard day's riding and we're going to be lucky to slither our way through those who can cause us harm.' 'After I went under that horse at Crécy I was nursed and then wandered wherever my sword found employment. I made and lost money. I went east. Local lords fought; routiers pillaged. I covered some ground. When Gaillard mentioned La Ferté-sous-Jouarre, I remembered there was a fine brothel there. At least I think it was at La Ferté. Too many of these French towns have similar names.'
Killbere stood and extended his arm to Blackstone, who grasped it and pulled himself upright onto his wounded leg. 'I hope you're remembering the right brothel, Gilbert. Whatever I do for the King I also do in hope of finding Christiana and my children.' They made their way through the trampled undergrowth to where his captains had made their fire. A tantalizing smell of roasting meat caught their nostrils. 'Will Longdon's snared and cooked something,' said Blackstone. 'As long as it's not Gaillard's balls,' said Killbere. * A great heaving mass spilled across the countryside from Paris, its citizen army dressed in their red and blue hoods. With cries of brotherhood and victory they joined forces with the surging hordes that still inflicted their terror. Word had not yet reached them of the defeat of Guillaume Cale at Mello or of his torture and beheading at Clermont. All they knew was that they were now strong enough to storm the Marché and seize the Dauphin's family. 'He was telling the truth,' said Blackstone as he and his men watched the horizon quiver with the dark tide of peasants shading the line between sky and land.
'They won't get there before tomorrow,' said Killbere. 'They've no horsemen, and they'll wait until everyone is at the gates, but I'll wager they won't breach the walls of the city, never mind the fortress. They'll be out of food in no time, and empty bellies make for a poor siege.' John Jacob and Halfpenny rode towards them with a dozen of the archers. 'Nothing ahead, Sir Thomas. It seems they're all where you see them.' 'Let's hope,' said Blackstone and spurred the horse on, racing ahead of the gathering storm. * Blackstone's men faced the mayor and magistrates as they stood before the city gates. These wealthy burghers controlled the running of Meaux and it would be impossible to gain access without their permission. For so few armed men to attempt to force their way past these officials would be useless; narrow streets and those who lived there would punish them soon enough. 'I am Mayor Jehan de Soulez. The Dauphin's family are secure in the Marché,' said the mayor in answer to Blackstone's question. 'Wife, and child, protected by Lord de Hangest and a small bodyguard. There are nearly three hundred ladies who have been brought here and twenty knights – men of rank,' he said, the insult intended and understood. He glanced nervously at the rough-looking men. 'You understand that your men have no permission to be in the town. That will not be tolerated.'
'We understand,' said Blackstone. 'We wish only to enter the fortress.' The mayor considered the request a moment longer. 'Your business?' he said, his tone changing, daring to take a few steps closer. 'My own,' said Blackstone. The mayor's hand went to his lips, a small nervous gesture telling Blackstone that he had not yet decided to give them permission. 'Before he left I promised the Dauphin his wife would be safe. How can I know you do not seek to harm her?' 'You cannot know,' said Blackstone. 'But would I commit suicide by trying to harm her inside a fortress, where she has a bodyguard and with other men-at-arms at her side, and then try to escape through your city streets?' The mayor saw the sense of it. 'Our promise has brought us a burdensome responsibility – one that we did not seek.' 'Then you had better prepare to defend your honour and your city. Barricade your gates, mayor, because there's an army of Jacques several thousand strong a day behind us.' The shock registered on the magistrates and the mayor. He turned quickly to confer with his fellow burghers. A decision was quickly made.
'Ride through at the walk, do not stop at any tavern and do not cause damage or distress to our townspeople. The fortress is across the river. There is a gate each side of the bridge. The first will be opened for you, the second on the far side must be opened by those willing to welcome you,' he commanded tersely and then turned back with his councilmen into the city. Blackstone urged his horse forward into another city that smothered a man's soul. Its confines closed in on him as he took in its threat. These people were surrounded by filth, and contagion could take hold in a man's mind as well as his body. When a threat loomed the city's closed gates sealed its citizens into a tomb of their own making. If a drinking well became polluted sickness would follow, and when rumours took in the threat beyond the walls then panic would grip the city. Fear and claustrophobia were an enemy's greatest weapons against those trapped within. Shared cookfires, cellars and rooms were all any of these people could expect, living in a city. They existed with each other's stench and when pestilence struck they could not avoid its agony. Blackstone shuddered and yearned for sight of a horizon.
By the time he and his men had made their slow passage through the narrow, teeming streets, the sun had begun to dip behind the high fortress walls. Every man's eyes took in its strength. An assault would need thirty-foot ladders to scale their ramparts, but with the river encircling the walls the only point of attack would be across the bridge. That was its weakness. Put enough flaming tar barrels there and the portcullis and the gates behind it would yield. Then there would be no escape from within and although the long summer night was a blessing that held the day's warmth and light longer, that same light allowed the mob to get closer, and it was unlikely they would be stopping to pray when the bell for vespers rang. Blackstone led his column of men across the stone bridge, Killbere and Caprini at either shoulder. He glanced behind him and saw that Will Longdon and his archers were gauging the distance between the walls and the edge of the town across the river. Fighting in the town would make it difficult to use bows, but a broad expanse across the river could give them targets in the open should they need them. Blackstone counted the stanchions.
'Will? What do you make of it?' 'Two hundred and forty-three paces end to end and another thirty or so for the open square on the town side,' the centenar answered. 'Aye!' confirmed a few of the others. Somewhere in the confines of the castle a guard commander barked out an order to raise the portcullis. A vast yard opened up before them. This citadel lacked any of the sophistication of the great castles of France, but there was no denying that it could withstand a siege provided its well did not run dry and there was enough food. And that depended how many had by now sought shelter from the uprising. Stable-hands and servants went about their duties, some running from the commands of a steward, others keeping their heads down, pitching hay in the open-fronted stalls that lay along one side of the castle walls. 'You there! Sir knight!' a voice beckoned. Blackstone turned to see who called him and saw an older man hurrying over. Fingers of white flecked through his hair and beard, his cloak was trimmed with fur and his quilted jacket sufficiently embroidered to proclaim his status according to the sumptuary laws that dictated how a man might dress according to his rank.
'My lord?' answered Blackstone. 'No room at the inn!' he bellowed, but then guffawed at his own quip. 'Stables are full, man. You can see that for yourself. Have your men use the tethering rings on the walls; we've hay enough to feed the horses – for now! You and your two companions,' he said, waving a finger at Caprini and Killbere, 'inside with you.' Without another word the older man turned on his heel, then halted and called back. 'Archers eh? Mercenaries? Brigands? Don't get any ideas in this place.' 'English,' said Blackstone. 'Same thing!' the man said. 'We need men and in here you'll behave yourselves or we'll throw you to the dogs – before we're forced to eat them!' He guffawed again and strode across the yard, shouting once or twice to amend a steward's orders, cursing the fact that the fortress was becoming little more than a dormitory. 'Whoever he is, he seems to be in charge,' said Killbere, easing himself from the saddle. 'I can smell food; perhaps they've hot water to bathe. My arse aches and my beard crawls' – he tugged his helm free – 'and I swear I've more lice than Jacques on my head.'
Blackstone ordered his captains to secure the horses and to roll out their blankets next to the wall; there would be no accommodation inside for them. They were English archers, despised and feared, and no one wanted them close. 'I'll sniff out the kitchens, see what I can find,' said Will Longdon. 'No thieving and no trouble, Will. I'll see to the food. Stay here with the horses. See to them first.' Longdon made a pained gesture, shoulders raised and arms open. 'Will, we're caught in this place as surely as are prisoners in a gaol. We cannot fight our way out, not with the town at our back and these men inside. I want no trouble. And keep Bertrand away from any women – not that I've seen one yet.' The fortress's servants would likely be men, in kitchen, chamber and yard, but if there were so many ladies sheltering, then there would be female servants with them – and a lascivious monk, even a failed one, could cause a conflict that would be certain to end in violence. Bad enough that the noblewomen had been brought here to avoid dishonour; to have it happen within these walls would spell disaster. Perhaps he should have the grinning idiot tethered with the horses.
The three knights walked across the yard. It was cobbled in places, paved in others. This was no poor knight's stronghold: money had been spent on it. Workshops and feed stores leaned against the far wall. Men patrolled the ramparts. 'If the Dauphin's family are in here, Thomas, then our work is done,' said Killbere. 'Let's see it to be true,' said Blackstone. 'Every refugee here will have information – perhaps they will know of Christiana.' Killbere and Caprini kept their thoughts to themselves. Finding Blackstone's family amid the turmoil of a ravaged land would be nothing less than a miracle. As they clambered up the steps that led to the galleried loggia and chambers, Blackstone recognized one of the pennons among the flags: five scallops set against a black cross, the arms of Jean de Grailly, the Captal de Buch. 'Beyard must be here!' Blackstone said. 'Who?' Killbere asked. 'De Grailly's man at the alpine pass. He saw us safely across France,' Blackstone told him and turned towards a pair of heavy wooden doors from behind which he could hear voices. Before he got halfway, the doors opened and the older man from the courtyard stepped out.
'Come, man! Hurry. Did I not tell you to come to the great hall?' 'No, my lord,' said Blackstone, conscious that the stairs had pulled his leg wound and that he limped more than he would have liked. 'Then I should have done,' he said, without it sounding like an apology. As the three men followed him into the room a squire on the other side of the doors closed them. Blackstone's attention was held by the two knights who stood looking at a rolled-out map spread across a planked table. The huge granite hearth behind them was stacked with wood, but remained unlit. The men's cloaks lay where they had been tossed and Blackstone immediately recognized one of them. It was not Beyard, but his sworn lord, the Captal de Buch himself. 'Sir Thomas,' said de Grailly. 'Fate brings us together again.' The circumstances did not negate the fact that a high lord such as Jean de Grailly would not normally conduct an audience with someone of Blackstone's lower rank – that he did meant either that Blackstone was there under sufferance on the word of the older knight or that the Captal had seen him arrive and had broken protocol out of respect for the Englishman.
'I saw you ride in,' he said, honouring Blackstone. 'And asked my Lord de Hangest to bring you here right away.' Blackstone bowed his head, and then introduced Killbere and Caprini. 'I know of you, Sir Gilbert. You have a ferocious reputation. Always in the vanguard,' said the Gascon. 'I am greatly honoured, my Lord de Grailly,' said Killbere. 'And although I am familiar with the great work of the Knights of the Tau, I do not know Fra Caprini. Let us hope these unfortunate circumstances allow us to better acquaint ourselves.' Caprini, gaunt and monk-like, barely showed any sign of being honoured and acknowledged. As ever his dark eyes expressed no flare of emotion, and as ever, Blackstone wondered what turmoil and violence lay cloaked beneath the sign of the Tau. The two other knights in the room were robust-looking men, their cloaks concealing their blazons. One of them, squat and pug-faced, betrayed an arrogant disregard for those of lesser status, the eyes of the other, younger by a few years, quickly assessed Blackstone, as one fighting man does another.
'This good knight is Loys de Chamby,' said de Grailly, indicating the squash-faced knight, 'and with him Bascot de Mauléon, who rode with us on crusade.' They nodded a curt acknowledgement of the introduction. Blackstone did not recognize the fourth knight in the room, but it was clear by his clothing and his manner that he too held high rank. 'This gentle knight,' said de Grailly, turning towards his companion, 'is our cousin, Gaston Phoebus, Count of Foix.' Blackstone knew that de Grailly was two years or so younger than his own twenty-eight years and the nobleman seemed more or less the same age. Reputations preceded men and these two were known across Christendom, de Grailly for his loyalty and fighting skills given to Edward, and Phoebus for his family's loyalty to the French Crown. Gaston Phoebus, though, had parlayed with the Prince of Wales during his great raid before the Battle of Poitiers that rendered France inconsolable, bereft of its monarch and vulnerable to the violence that had swept across it since. He was a great feudal lord of two Pyrenean principalities whose father had been a staunch supporter of the Valois King. The son, though, wanted independence for his territories and his antagonism towards the French Crown was well known.
'The Captal has told me of your daring, Sir Thomas. You once delivered up a valuable stronghold to him.' 'Some years back now, my lord.' 'Not in the telling of it. He relates it as if it were yesterday,' said the Count, his charming manner easily camouflaging his reputation for ferocity in war. The pleasantries over, the Captal nodded to the squire, who quickly brought beakers of wine. 'You and your men will have food as soon as we hear of what you have seen.' Killbere and Caprini drank as Blackstone ignored his thirst and looked at the map drawn of the surrounding suburbs and countryside. Blackstone let his finger trace from where he thought his route had brought him. 'Here,' he said, 'further north at Clermont, Navarre destroyed two or three thousand peasants. Their leader is dead but he told me that the Parisians have sent men to bolster the Jacques.' 'Navarre will block them,' said the Count of Foix confidently. 'No, he won't,' Blackstone told him bluntly. 'He pursued survivors from Clermont, but has now gone back to Paris to try to secure the city. He'll change sides again, my lord, you know Navarre. He'll strike a bargain with the Provost, even at the risk of losing the nobles' support.'
There was no disagreement around the table about the reality that they and the few men they had were all that stood between the Jacquerie and a slaughter of the innocents. Blackstone curved a track on the map. 'We came down this route here, and there're probably several thousand Jacques heading this way.' 'Then we must pray that the Dauphin, although our sworn opponent in all matters royal, returns with his army from Burgundy,' said Jean de Grailly. De Hangest tapped the table. 'Do not forget yourself, my lord. I serve him and his family,' he said robustly. 'And I've no great affection for the English. I led the cavalry against Walter Bentley and his troops in '52 and we bled beneath their Lucifer arrows. Archers are on the dark side of creation.' The older man looked directly at Blackstone, who held his gaze defiantly. 'But times dictate with whom we must fight, and which devils we embrace!' de Hangest added, teeth bared in a grin. 'Our differences are already set aside,' the Count of Foix acknowledged. 'There is a mutual agreement to save these women and children.'
Blackstone sipped wine, and cautiously ventured a question. 'Then you will not be here in support of the Dauphin, but rather with Charles of Navarre.' The Count of Foix looked shocked at the suggestion that he aligned himself with the house of Valois. The Captal smiled. 'Thomas, you tease a feudal lord. We were returning from a crusade in Prussia with the Teutonic Knights when we heard of these noble ladies' plight and that they were undefended except for my Lord Jean de Hangest's bodyguard.' The old man had remained silent. These young lords and knights were the strength he needed to protect the royal family. His own efforts had sufficed so far but if the townspeople failed in their duty, then his would become impossible to honour. 'Can you get your bowmen on the walls?' he asked. 'We need to defend the Marché if it comes to it.' 'The Jacques would have the devil of a job reaching us in this stronghold, my lord,' said Killbere. 'I like to plan ahead,' said de Hangest. 'I have the royal household to protect and fewer than twenty men to do it with. There are damned near three hundred women in this place now. The garderobes stink, there are not enough servants to cater for them, no one bathes, except the Dauphin's wife and a few of her ladies. We've kept the meat for the women; we men eat pottage, cheese and bread. A siege would see us finished and a concerted attack would make this place a charnel house.'
'You think they can fight through the townsmen and still reach you?' asked Caprini. 'The mayor has sworn his loyalty.' 'Good Fra Caprini, you hospitallers have an unquenchable belief in a man's word. My own grandfather fought with the Templars, much good it did him, and your brotherhood of Saint James will no doubt one day be destroyed by lords and kings who once offered you protection.' He slammed the empty beaker on the table to emphasize his point. 'Men are lesser creatures than incorruptible angels.' He turned his gaze back to Blackstone. 'Your archers. Can we use them?' 'No,' Blackstone said. 'You refuse?' de Hangest said disbelievingly. 'They are useless to you, my lord. The battlements are high; there are only rooftops beyond the bridge. The only place to stop an assault is on the small square on the other side of the river and that's close to a bow's range.' 'If the peasant army attacks, and I do not believe they would breach the city walls, but if... then they must be stopped before they reach the portcullis,' said de Grailly.
'My lord, these are English archers. Their bows are near seven foot long; they would not be able to angle them over the walls. They could blindly loose arrows high and try to bring them down on any assault, but they would not be enough to stop an attack of thousands.' 'But they would cause enough fear and terror to make the bastards think again,' said de Hangest. 'Aye, my lord,' said Killbere, 'those yard-long shafts will put the fear of God into any who hear their release, but our archers have precious few arrows to fly. We took back what we could from the dead at Clermont, but there's not enough.' The men in the room fell silent. 'We must hope the Dauphin returns in time to sweep clean the countryside,' said de Hangest. De Grailly said brusquely, 'He won't. He wants Paris before Navarre gets there. These ladies' safety is in our hands. We will make the best of it, when the time comes. Thomas, see to your men and what can be done.' He raised the beaker to his lips, his eyes across its rim looking directly at Blackstone. Just in case, they seemed to urge.
Blackstone and the others acknowledged the two feudal lords and turned for the door. 'Is there any word of my wife and children?' he asked, turning at the door held by the squire. 'They were in Picardy?' de Hangest asked. 'Yes. Somewhere... I don't know where. My boy's a page to one of the local lords... I think. Christiana is her name. My boy is Henry and my daughter Agnes.' 'There is no one bearing your name, here. I'm sorry, Sir Thomas,' said the older knight. * Christiana had settled Agnes with the other children. A hierarchy had been established within the various rooms of the stronghold. The Dauphin's wife, the Duchess of Normandy, with her daughter, and his sister, the Duchess of Orléans, were kept away from the other noblewomen, many of whom were wives who had these past few days become widows of knights loyal to the French Crown. The rooms could accommodate no more than thirty or forty women and children and so the corridors were also utilized for dormitories. It was here, with an opportunity to have light and air from the courtyard below, that Christiana chose to sleep with Agnes. The women possessed only the clothes they wore and cloaks for warmth; some of the more fortunate had blankets, but none – other than the royal family – had any bedding.
She had not seen von Lienhard since they had arrived and, although Henry had been put to work, she had glimpsed him occasionally in the yard below and called his name; he had looked up, searching for her, and then waved. He was all right. The boy was working hard and he would soon be tasked with bringing leather pails of water into the corridors for the women to drink; she could question him then. Knights and squires talked among themselves and Henry was intelligent enough to listen for any clues that might tell when the Dauphin's army would return, or where next the Jacquerie had swarmed. Earlier she had heard horsemen clatter into the yard, but there were so many women who crowded the windows she was unable to see out. There was a sense of disappointment from the women, who soon turned away, complaining that it seemed to be a band of ruffians, most probably routiers here to sell their services. Their souls were already sold to the devil, one of the women said, garnering agreement from those around her. Back and forth the women complained. What they needed were knights like the Captal and his cousin the Count of Foix. Thank God de Hangest had been left to guard the royals. But a bodyguard was sufficient only for personal protection. The Dauphin could not have known that dissent and rebellion would rise so quickly. A scorched earth lay beyond the city walls. Abandoned they might be, but they were safe – for now. And tears were shed again and again as the women recounted the savagery inflicted upon their husbands and children. Stories of escape inflamed each group as women comforted each other, while others took children to their skirts, refusing to yield to their grief in public, each embracing what was perhaps the only survivor of her family. Children had been raped, tortured, butchered, and more than once a woman's memory caused an inconsolable cry of despair to shatter the stifling, airless rooms.
Christiana watched Henry carrying two pails of water from the well; a brief glance up and a smile as he balanced their weight, stepping quickly towards the entrance below. She saw men emerge from around the corner where the horses were stabled and a lurching surge of hope forced its way from her chest to her throat. Half a dozen hobelars were walking towards the well, two big dark-bearded men with them, and ahead were four bantering archers, their war bows bound and protected in their linen bags slung from their shoulders, but still with their few arrows held in their belts. Fletchings uppermost, bodkin points down. These archers had a swagger to their muscled gait. Cocky bastards, Thomas had always called them. Cocky hounds of war, tails up and ready to fight. She knew these men. They were the curse of the French. Loathed and hated by every noble house because almost every family had lost a loved one beneath their arrows. And the women who sheltered behind her would soon be screaming abuse when they saw them. But not her. One of the men had helped rescue her from the alpine fortress eighteen months before and his face was as clear now as it had been then. Will Longdon.
She raced along the open gallery, trying to stay ahead of the ambling men far below, so she could see their faces more clearly. The two bearded men were the Normans, Meulon and Gaillard. The others she did not know. These were men who had followed Blackstone into Italy and now they were here. Thomas! Her heart raced from a mixture of fear and excitement, confusing her. She had lied about her name, used her father's, and now it did not matter. Uncertainty gripped her. Was Thomas even here? Longdon and the others were Fortune's men. Perhaps the women were correct – they were routiers. She lost sight of them as she ran into the stairwell. Three young squires struggled up the steps, slopping water from the pails. At the far end of the long passageway de Hangest and three other men stepped out of a room, its thudding door echoing down the wooden-planked floor and stone walls. It was a long, gloomy passage – small windows barely giving light to see; it was where the knights were quartered – an area kept free of women. The men walked briskly towards her, faces still in the gloom, cloaks billowing, their weight creaking the boards. She could feel the vibration shudder through the planking. At de Hangest's left shoulder was a thin, angular man with close-cropped dark hair and beard, and a black cloak that seemed too big for him. On the opposite side was a man, almost bow-legged, with wisps of grey in his beard caught by the light, creaking mail and huffing breath, as if quietly complaining at the length of corridor. Behind all three, but head and shoulders above them all, was the shadowed figure that she knew bore a scar from hairline to chin and more elsewhere on his body.
Feet scuffed and armour rattled below the pageboys who had thirty more stairs before they reached the landing. At the turn of the steps below them two knights emerged, their gaze catching sight of Christiana. 'My Lady de Sainteny!' von Lienhard called, his voice echoing. Henry turned fearfully, pressing his back against the wall as he waited for the Germans to pass. Christiana looked from them to her husband, who had heard her name called and pushed past the others, striding towards her. The bitter memory of their parting was banished in that moment of relief at seeing him. Some part of her wanted to scream 'Murderer!' at von Lienhard, who had faltered on the steps, sensing something had happened, but completely unable to fathom what it was. He saw her pull back the thick russet hair from her face. Christiana smiled at him. And then Thomas Blackstone stepped into view and embraced her. Von Lienhard felt his breath punched from his lungs and staggered back a step as the boy next to him dropped the pails of water and cried out:
'Father!' The knights were gathered in the great hall, seated in a half-circle, having listened again to Christiana's accusation against Werner von Lienhard and his fellow German knight, Conrad von Groitsch. She had levelled the accusation the moment Blackstone pressed his hands into her arms and pulled her to him. She had breathed in his smell of stale sweat and woodsmoke as if it were an elixir, reigniting the lust she felt for him. Her strength returned, banishing the burden she had carried for so long. De Hangest, Killbere and Caprini had stepped into the void as von Lienhard had lunged up the steps, sword half-drawn and a curse spitting from his lips. Killbere had blocked his attack, and de Hangest had commanded his obedience as Caprini's sword was already in hand. Lord de Hangest and Jean de Grailly were the senior men in the room, but de Grailly and the Count of Foix held the highest rank. It was de Grailly who spoke to Christiana standing in front of them. 'You have brought a damning charge against the men who saved you and your children. We have heard of the enmity between Werner von Lienhard and your husband Thomas Blackstone. We must consider that you make such accusations against him because of this bad blood.'
Despite her tiredness from the previous days, Christiana braced her shoulders; she knew full well her own life was now in danger. She looked directly at the Captal de Buch. 'I have sworn an oath of what I saw that night at Sir Marcel's home.' 'Why wait until now?' the Count of Foix asked. 'I was a woman alone without protection, not daring to challenge the man who threatened my child with harm if I spoke out.' 'No one heard this threat,' said de Hangest. 'No words were needed, lord,' she answered. 'You could have approached any knight in this room,' said de Grailly. 'And who would have been my champion?' said Christiana a little too fiercely. De Grailly broke the embarrassed silence. 'I would have defended your honour, as all knights here defend the women caught up in the terror,' he said, not unkindly. She bowed her head. 'I spoke too hastily, my Lord de Grailly, but it seemed to me that the threat outside these walls took precedence over my own misfortune and judicial combat is to the death. How could I expect anyone to bear witness for me?'
'But now you place yourself above such a threat,' said de Hangest. 'Come along, Lady Christiana, what's all this? Admit you're wrong and let's get about the business at hand and see to our defence. For God's sake, woman!' Christiana refused to be cowed, and Blackstone half wished she would show some restraint, keep her head bowed, act as though she was contrite, and still keep the accusation in place. But that was not Christiana. She stood as defiantly as had he on many occasions. The Count of Foix smiled at de Hangest's impatience. 'We must let words define our actions, my lord. We sit as a judicial court.' The older knight grimaced. He had been sucked into a conflict between this woman and the German knight, and he had no wish for it to be prolonged any further. His duty was plain enough: protect the royal family. He cooled his irritation. 'You lied about your name, so why should we take this accusation to be anything than another falsification?' 'My father was Guyon de Sainteny. I sought protection in his name as I had done before...' She hesitated, barely managing not to glance at Blackstone. '...he was killed defending France. My husband has many enemies and I had enough trouble at my door. There were others who rode at the back of the villeins but it was that knight' – she raised her arm and pointing accusingly at von Lienhard – 'who helped murder Sir Marcel and it was he and two other knights with him who took the silver from the chapel.'
'And who returned it to the Bishop here,' said de Hangest. 'In a true and Christian gesture towards the Church.' 'I am certain there is other booty hidden,' she said. 'The third man rode away before we reached here.' 'Von Lienhard's denial is corroborated by his companion knight, Conrad von Groitsch,' said de Grailly carefully. 'Their word against yours. This places you in a fearful situation, my lady. Think hard and recant before this matter goes beyond the necessity of a simple apology for mistaken identity.' 'It was him,' she insisted. 'It was dark, madam. There were hundreds of peasants in the attack and the horsemen would have been some distance from you,' said de Grailly, trying to give Christiana a way to change her mind, even to show doubt. 'You risk death if this accusation is proven false.' 'The moonlight could not hide him. He wore no helm and urged the rabble to slaughter. He placed the stake for them to burn a good Christian knight to death while he still lived. You have heard of the horrors told by other women; mine is no less terrible. These vile men provoked violence. The peasants tore a child from its mother's womb! Do you not wish to see those who countenanced this action brought to justice? These men are dishonoured!' Christiana's voice had grown intemperate, blood flushed her face, and Blackstone knew that her fiery spirit would not be controlled much longer.
De Hangest scowled and pointed a finger, about to discipline her, when Blackstone spoke quickly, delaying the moment. 'My lords, when we faced the peasants on the plateau at Mello, I fought a knight who bore von Lienhard's arms. The harpy blazon cannot be mistaken. He rode with the Jacquerie.' Von Lienhard responded quickly. 'You attacked a man who bore my shield. Who is to say it had not been taken foully by another? For all I know my kinsman had gone to help Charles of Navarre – it is possible a brigand slew him and took his armour. Blackstone attacked this man believing it was me!' he said brusquely, mindful of keeping the semblance of a respectful tone in front of his peers. Jean de Grailly stared at Blackstone. He could not show any favour in this matter, knowing as he did that von Lienhard was a master swordsman. Blackstone drew strength from the fury that lay within him when he fought, but the German was known to be cold-blooded in his ability to kill. Werner von Lienhard could beat Blackstone.
'Thomas?' 'Yes, I thought it was him. As this court has already been told, my King denied him judicial combat at Windsor. And he and this knight who stands with him attacked the Italian Caprini, John Jacob, who is my captain, and me. The third man was also at his side that night. Von Lienhard has no honour, my lord,' said Blackstone, driving home the accusation. The German was in danger of losing his composure. 'Blackstone slew my brother at Crécy – the sword he carries bears the running-wolf mark. A brave knight treacherously slain by a common archer! I should be given the chance to retrieve my family honour,' von Lienhard insisted. 'And that was twelve years gone,' de Hangest reminded him. 'And honour is not bound by time,' von Lienhard answered quickly. There were murmurs of agreement from the other knights. De Grailly spoke calmly, sensing that the hearing might cause dissent among them at a time when they needed to stand as one. The peasants were swarming towards the city and every man would be needed. 'Sir Thomas's actions were witnessed by noble knights and the royal Prince at Crécy, and he was justly rewarded. This other issue bears the gravest of consequences. If you are proven to be dishonoured you will die; if Lady Christiana is lying then she will be hanged.' De Grailly sighed with the displeasure of the situation. 'All right. Bring in the boy.'
Von Lienhard took a step forward, eager to press his case. 'The boy will protect his mother!' 'Stay silent. There must be no intimidation directed towards him,' de Hangest instructed. A squire brought Henry Blackstone into the hall. He looked uncertainly at the great knights who sat in a half-circle, his mother stood before them in the middle of the room, his father to one side of the lords, the German and his kinsman on the other. De Hangest beckoned the boy forward so that the accuser and the accused were behind him. 'We know the terrible events that occurred at your master's house and your part in saving your mother and sister from the slaughter. There is only one question we have for you.' De Hangest's gaze went quickly from son to mother and then back to the young pageboy. 'Did you see this knight' – he pointed – 'bear arms with the peasants and commit atrocity against your master or his family?' Henry Blackstone looked uncertain. His answer could save or condemn his mother. He dared a glance at his father, who showed no sign of encouragement but looked sternly at him. He hesitated again. All eyes were on him. He tried to find the courage he knew had been with him that night – disguised fear that had given him strength.
'Tell the truth, son,' Blackstone said quietly. 'On your honour.' Henry felt his father's strength reach out to him. He turned to the inquisitor. 'I did not see it,' he said. Firelight flickered across the stronghold's walls as groups of men squatted close to the flames, prodding the embers, worrying the flames with stick or blade. The contest was due to be held the next morning and the hobelars and archers cursed the bastard Germans for their vileness and slaughter that had placed their sworn lord's woman in mortal danger. 'I overheard the Italian talking to Sir Gilbert,' said Jack Halfpenny. 'He says Sir Thomas cannot beat this man.' 'And you believe an Italian?' said Will Longdon, his face crumpling in disgust. 'Hearing is not believing, Master Longdon, I am simply relating what it was I heard.' 'What you heard, lad, was the utterances of a fool. A man who believes a man's soul can be saved by pilgrimage, a man who slays a transgressor, a man who has a past as violent as any man's, I've heard. Shit for brains is what you have, Halfpenny. Do not listen to your betters' tittle-tattle.'