Shadow of the Hawk Page 10

  ‘We can avoid this conflict,’ said one of the Breton lords.

  ‘We cannot,’ said Chandos.

  John de Montfort glanced at the Prince’s trusted adviser. ‘Sir John, let us at least hear what they offer.’

  Chandos shrugged. ‘As you wish. Hurry, my Lord de Beaumanoir, the day is waiting.’

  The Breton lord curbed his irritation. ‘We wish to save good men from dying here today. We can divide Brittany. My Lord de Blois has considered what we, his advisers, have suggested.’

  Blackstone’s horse took a dislike to de Beaumanoir’s mount and lunged against the reins, yellow teeth bared, intent on causing harm. Blackstone restrained its impulse.

  ‘Your horse is like a pit bull dog,’ said Charles de Blois after controlling his own mount. ‘I know you, Sir Thomas, and am surprised the Prince sends you.’

  ‘My horse senses fear, my lord. He does not tolerate it. Neither my Prince nor my King has sent me for, as you know, this does not concern them or your King. As for my presence, I heard that those who urged you into this war are now pissing their breeches at the thought of a fight and I wanted to see these wretches for myself.’

  ‘You insult us all,’ de Beaumanoir said before de Blois could answer. ‘There are no cowards on this field today. Your manner is offensive, Blackstone.’

  ‘His manner is always offensive,’ said Killbere. ‘I have lived with it for many years. It’s something I encourage when addressing those who wish to retreat from battle.’

  Killbere’s additional insult was as vinegar poured into a wound.

  ‘Are Killbere and Blackstone your mouthpiece, my Lord de Montfort?’ said Charles de Blois.

  ‘They are not.’

  ‘Then let us parley before blood is spilt. For twenty-two years there has been civil war here. My French and Breton lords are advising me with Brittany’s best interests at heart. Sir John Chandos, most respected Constable of Aquitaine, can offer his voice of reason. I believe you will see the wisdom in my advisers’ suggestions.’ De Blois nodded for de Beaumanoir to offer the terms.

  ‘We will partition Brittany. Lord de Montfort will have the south and the west including the city of Nantes. My Lord of Blois will hold the north and east. We will submit these claims for the peerage and the title to our respective Kings.’

  ‘These are the same terms you offered the Prince months ago,’ said Blackstone. ‘They were agreed and then my Lord of Blois reneged because his wife who holds the purse strings refused to abide by it.’

  The sour look on de Blois’s face confirmed Blackstone’s comment. ‘And I have relented and she has agreed. It is time for peace.’

  ‘And you, Lord de Beaumanoir, you and the Breton barons agree to this?’ said Sir John Chandos.

  ‘We do, and we are certain that when you speak to those who support your claimant that they will see this is the way the matter should conclude.’

  Blackstone leaned forward and curled his fist over one of the bastard horse’s ears. ‘I don’t want my horse to hear men of honour grovelling for a corner of this worthless place. His disgust would result in violence. You, Lord de Beaumanoir, I last saw at Bergerac when my Prince came to receive fealty from the lords of Aquitaine and Brittany. You said his wife dressed like a whore. I warned you then to keep a curb on your tongue and I warn you now that if you or any of your snivelling Bretons come to parley again, I will kill you where you stand.’

  The Bretons reined their horses.

  ‘You should have died in that sewer in Bergerac,’ said de Beaumanoir.

  ‘And miss this fight against you? Why do you think I fought for my life? I knew you and your kind would one day need to be whipped like a village cur. This is the day.’

  Charles de Blois heeled his horse.

  Blackstone and the others watched them canter away to where their men had formed up, readying themselves for the fight should the talks fail. Shouted commands ordered the armoured knights to dismount. Blackstone yanked de Montfort’s reins, startling the younger man; the expression of dread on his face was plain to see.

  ‘You wanted a fight: this is how it begins. They are seething with anger from our insults. It will make them reckless. Look to your front and see the four thousand men who want you dead. Look left and right and see those who will keep you alive. Are you ready?’

  ‘I am,’ said John de Montfort in a whisper full of fear.

  ‘Then do as we say and follow our lead and we will give you the Duchy of Brittany this day,’ said Blackstone.

  De Montfort nodded. Words failed him as he watched the massed troops he needed to defeat.

  ‘There’s the priest,’ said Chandos. ‘No man wants to die unshriven. It’s Sunday. Get to mass, my lord, and pray for your soul.’

  A cart had pulled up in front of the army. They had brought the priest from Auray to give thanks to God and absolution to the men who were about to kill or die. The priest found his balance and stood in the back of the open wagon before the gathered host with raised hands. Charles de Blois and his knights would adhere to the same ritual on their side of the river. A man’s sins needed to be washed away, just as the river would sluice away their blood.

  De Montfort spurred his horse. Blackstone and Killbere watched him.

  ‘Well?’ said Chandos. ‘Will he come through this?’

  ‘We’ll make sure he does,’ said Blackstone. He and Killbere turned their horses and rode along the flanks to the rear. Meulon was strapping on his broad leather belt. Ben Josef stood next to a wagon where the rescued boy and Beyard still lay. Blackstone saw the crease in Meulon’s belt. He had tightened it an extra notch.

  ‘You’re not to fight, Meulon. Not in this battle at least.’

  ‘Sir Thomas, I am healed enough. I’ll not have my men fight without me.’

  Blackstone glanced past him to where ben Josef shook his head.

  ‘You’re tightening your belt to aid the wound,’ said Blackstone.

  ‘The Jew has starved me. He feeds me little more than goat’s milk and crushed grain. I shrink from his ministrations.’

  ‘Goddammit, Meulon, you’re twice the size of any man here. An ancient oak does not have the same girth,’ said Killbere. ‘You fight with that wound and it will tear. We bartered to have ben Josef with us so we may continue the fight when we are able.’

  ‘I have fought with worse injury,’ Meulon said.

  ‘I want you here,’ said Blackstone. ‘You and twenty men are to guard Beyard, ben Josef and the boy. The bastard who killed Kynith is not among the enemy ranks. Beyard was his ransom and I doubt he’ll let him escape so easily. I need you and Beyard alive and ready to fight again. The Prince has plans for us that go beyond this fight. Arm yourself, set up a perimeter and let no man approach within fifty paces without warning. You can be sure that if Ranulph de Hayle comes he will present himself as an English captain not as Ronec le Bête. I need you here, my friend.’

  Meulon looked from Blackstone to Killbere. ‘Very well, Sir Thomas. I’ll do as you command.’

  ‘And if he does get close, kill the whoreson,’ said Killbere.

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  Blackstone rode back to the front of the army. Sir John Chandos took up position, as did Killbere. Their horses were taken to the rear by the pages. Blackstone pulled the bastard horse up next to de Montfort.

  ‘My lord, you are shriven?’

  De Montfort nodded. ‘And you, Sir Thomas?’

  ‘God knows where I am if He needs me.’

  De Montfort glanced at the pagan symbol nestling next to a small gold crucifix. ‘You give yourself to Christ and the Goddess of the Silver Wheel?’

  ‘I give myself to my sword that bears the swordmaster’s mark of the running wolf. Beyond that it doesn’t matter.’ Blackstone looked across the enemy host, whose ranks were so tightly packed it would be hard to put a blade between one man and the next. Every man carried a five-foot-long spear and a short-handled battleaxe at his side as well as his sword and knife
. ‘They’ll aim to come at us in unbroken ranks. It will be like hacking our way through a forest. The archers will slow them but men on foot do not yield as easily as if they were mounted – a screaming horse pierced with broadhead arrows thrashes in its agony and creates confusion. Today we’ll have to attack when the men close ranks and cover themselves with shields against arrows raining down. That’s when we’ll break them.’

  De Montfort licked his lips, his nervousness palpable. Blackstone handed him a wineskin. ‘Drink,’ he told the young knight.

  ‘I am not afraid,’ he said.

  ‘Then you’re a fool,’ said Blackstone. ‘They outnumber us. They are led by Bertrand du Guesclin, who is the best commander the French have. They are well armed, seasoned in war. Their sheer weight could crush us.’

  De Montfort blinked. His eyes focused on the enemy; his heart thudded with the prospect of his own death. Of course he was scared. Sweat mottled his face beneath his helm.

  ‘My lord, they raised you as ward of my King. He is the greatest warrior king known to any of us. Draw on his courage and steadfastness. And wet your throat. You must ride along the ranks and lift the men’s hearts.’

  ‘I... I would not know what to say to them. They are fighting men, Sir Thomas, and I am not yet tested.’ De Montfort met Blackstone’s eyes. Reality faced him. It was no time for false bravado. ‘Ride with me. Let them see you.’

  ‘My lord, this is your army. You must show them the way to victory.’

  ‘Then tell me what to say,’ de Montfort said, his voice edged with desperation.

  Blackstone placed a hand on the young man’s trembling arm. ‘What you feel is common to us all. I will ride behind you and give you the words – softly – but you must rouse yourself and let every man of our two thousand hear you. Think that you are speaking to the men at the rear ranks. The breeze is at our back and will carry your words. We’ll canter across the front rank, turn and then slow the horses so your voice will carry to everyone. Is that agreeable, my lord?’

  ‘It is, and I am in your debt.’

  ‘The only debt is to those men waiting to die for you. Now, give them the courage they need.’

  De Montfort took a firm grip on the reins and dug in his heels. His courser lurched forward, eager to run off the bunched tension in its muscles. It was a fine horse, with a steady gait, and made de Montfort look like a man born in the saddle. He raised his arm as he rode past the men, the sense of occasion and Blackstone’s encouragement giving him the appearance of a man ready to lead. Blackstone and the bastard horse with its uneven gait followed close behind. It snorted, fighting the bit, already sensing battle. Blackstone cursed; he needed the beast to behave long enough so he could prompt de Montfort, who turned at the end of the line and then calmed his horse and eased it back to a trot. Blackstone fell in on his blind side so the men would not see him guiding de Montfort’s words.

  ‘Today is a sacred day when God hears our prayers and blesses us with His grace because we have humbled ourselves before him,’ de Montfort repeated what Blackstone told him. ‘We fight the French again because they wish to deny our King’s rightful claim over Brittany in my name: John de Montfort. We must fight twice our number but we are worth four times... FOUR times the value of every man who faces us. Look at them, how they huddle, shoulder to shoulder, fearful of fighting alone; they step forward with spears because they fear your sword and axe. They are already lost souls. To win this day is to gain great honour.’

  De Montfort’s voice rose as he warmed to his task and the mention of honour. Blackstone nudged the bastard horse closer so he was at his shoulder. ‘Now you tell them there’s looting and booty to be had,’ he said.

  De Montfort scowled. ‘Today is about honour,’ he insisted.

  ‘No, today is about those men killing enough of your enemy so they can strip silver buckles, rich silks and weapons from the dead while leaving alive any worthy prisoners to be ransomed. Honour is for the knightly class, looting the dead for the others. Repeat what I tell you again and this time draw your sword, rise up in the stirrups and bellow so that even your enemy can hear you. Ready yourself, my lord, for now you must unleash the devil.’

  De Montfort did and said everything Blackstone told him. He stood in the stirrups, sword aloft. ‘You will find riches on the dead. They are yours for the taking! Fill your belly with fire and your hearts with lust for their silver! Kill them and take your rewards!’

  A thunderous roar rose from the men. It swept across the hillside, rolling across the river and striking the French in a mailed fist of defiance and threat that wounded men’s souls.

  Blackstone pulled his horse away. ‘Now we stand and fight,’ he said.

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  The French came forward so tightly packed the line of men wavered like an uncertain tide disrupted by the undulating ground beneath their feet. Blackstone stood a yard behind John de Montfort so that the divisions behind him saw him as their commander. Charles de Blois led his own men from the front, taking them across the shallow ford. French spears bobbed up and down as men stumbled and fell, the weight of their armour slowing their advance and their feet snagging on rocks and river stones. Men behind trampled them underfoot for the unrelenting march forward could not be stopped. Crossing the river fractured the tightly packed formation and only when they reached the near bank where Blackstone and the English army waited did they re-form. As each rank clambered up the hill those behind struggled to find their footing in the wet grass churned into mud by those ahead. The waiting men could hear their curses.

  Blackstone saw de Montfort’s impatience. ‘Wait, my lord, they are not yet sufficiently tired. They still have to gather themselves. Sweat will blind them and chafe beneath their armour. Let them come.’

  De Montfort nodded, still eager for the attack to begin. Blackstone looked away to the right flank where Will Longdon’s archers stood ready, interspersed between Chandos’s men-at-arms and where Killbere stood with Blackstone’s men. The approaching French armour clanked and scraped as they shuffled tighter together. Their shields encumbered them, colourful blazons of beasts of the forest and birds of the air. Pennons bobbed, banners furled, dipped and rose again as their bearers struggled on, trying to keep their footing. Drumbeats drove them on. Steady, steady, another pace, another yard. Bellowing voices rose, commands to wheel centre and face the waiting army above them.

  ‘Now?’ said de Montfort.

  ‘No,’ said Blackstone.

  De Montfort watched as Blackstone slipped Wolf’s Sword blood knot over his wrist and settled his shield. It would be soon.

  The rhythmic thump of drumbeat and men’s footfall shook the ground. Any moment now and the archers would loose. Blackstone counted the seconds. Every stride nearer brought the French closer to death. Memory stirred in him. An extended arm, back bent from the effort of pulling the draw weight of his bow. The picture in his mind of where his arrow should fly. And then the release. Bend, pull another yard-long shaft from the cluster rammed in the ground at your feet. Bend, nock, draw and loose. Over and over as the air whistled and fluttered with thousands of arrows. The thud of impact. Hailstones on armour. Clattering, drowning out pain.

  ‘Now?’ de Montfort’s voice eager. Jarring. Breaking the memory.

  Blackstone felt rather than heard the creak of the yew bows. The intake of breath from the archers as they heaved their cords back. And then Will Longdon’s cry. ‘Loose!’

  Whoosh. Bird flight. Startled from the ground. Beating rapidly upwards. And again.

  The French crouched, shields raised. Hundreds of drumbeats pounding down on them. And again. They bent a knee. Huddled. The storm hammered them. And again.

  ‘Now!’ said Blackstone and set off at the run.

  De Montfort was taken by surprise and was immediately yards behind Blackstone and John Jacob. He gathered his wits and charged after them. The French were still bent beneath the onslaught of the archers’ arrows. The final flight of death
from the sky would be moments before Blackstone reached the enemy front division. Will Longdon understood how close his archers could shoot to the attacking men-at-arms. Once they clashed it would be time for the lightly armed archers to lay down their bows and join the fray.

  The French raised themselves to meet the onslaught. Their spears wavered, and were then knocked aside by the attackers’ impetus. Some caught men’s groins or legs. De Montfort’s front rank kept on, jumping over men writhing in pain. Blackstone and John Jacob broke through. Shields battering men aside, sword blades slashing and stabbing. Blackstone sensed rather than saw Chandos and Killbere press forward from the flank. The ripple ran across the French front division, a wave turning from striking a cliff face. Blackstone saw de Montfort pushing into the fractured front line three yards from him. The force of the attack had caused the French to falter but they quickly recovered and the weight of men from the rear began to trample over their own who lay wounded. It was as Blackstone planned. Tired men succumbing quickly to the onslaught and then being killed by their own weight of numbers. Their bodies slowing the enemy advance as they tried to clamber over their fallen comrades.

  John Chandos and Killbere move forward from the sawtooth deployment, their men-at-arms plunging into the enemy’s flank, protecting the archers. They pierced the French front division, forcing aside the shield wall that had been slow to recover from Will Longdon’s bowmen’s assault. The ferocious attack that had caused the ripple down the line forced Blackstone and de Montfort to hold their ground and stop the surge of desperate Frenchmen whose ranks broke into isolated pockets of men.