Master of War

3




The brothers trudged uphill in silence towards the village of Quettehou, a mile inland from the beachhead. Sir Gilbert spoke only once of the matter as they approached the church of St Vigor.

‘You’re a free man; behave like one. Those scum may be fighters but they stand in your father’s shadow. You’re better than they are. Start thinking and behaving like him.’

Blackstone saw heavily armed knights and their retinues, jostling in a flurry of activity. The King had landed at midday, Sir Gilbert told him. And now that they were on Norman soil the royal household and senior commanders gathered to hear him declare his campaign against King Philip VI of France.

‘Is that the King?’ Blackstone asked, as one of the royal party, whose quality of armour was unmistakable, passed by them in the crowd.

Killbere caught a glimpse of the man. ‘Him? That peacock? No, he’s Rodolfo Bardi, the King’s banker. He’s here to make sure the money’s well spent.’

Sir Gilbert led them past the crowd to a small door at the side of the church. ‘Sheath your bow and tell your brother to keep his grunting silent. He’s to stay at this door.’

Blackstone did as he was ordered. Richard sat on the grass, his back against the wall. Blackstone felt a pang of regret at leaving his brother alone, but he had no wish to receive another rebuke from the knight.

Sir Gilbert leaned his shoulder against the heavy oak. It creaked open wide enough for them to ease through. They stood in the cold shadows behind the packed congregation of knights and commanders. Heraldic devices rich in colour, emblazoned on banners, shields, pennons and surcoats, filled the small church. Blackstone had never seen such a gathering, nor even imagined it. The low murmur of voices from the altar could not be heard distinctly, but Blackstone could see the man who stood facing his lords and barons.

‘That’s your sovereign lord,’ Sir Gilbert whispered.

Blackstone felt a surge of excitement – a common man witness to a royal ceremony. The King was in his mid-thirties, about the same age as Sir Gilbert, Blackstone guessed, but he looked magnificent. He was tall, his stature and bearing made even more impressive by his armour and quartered surcoat of three golden lions on a field of red and the scattering of lilies on a field of blue. This was a King ready for war. Even from the back of the crowded church Blackstone caught the tint of blue in his eyes and the light touched his blond beard. A handsome young man bowed his head to the King, then knelt, yielding a sword before him, held like a cross. Blackstone could not hear what was said, but Sir Gilbert whispered again.

‘Young nobles are to be knighted. It’s good for morale. Makes them slaughter the enemy more.’ He smiled. ‘Chivalry. Good for killing. That’s the King’s son. He’s the same age as you.’

Blackstone stood on tiptoe to try to see the ceremony. The young man wore the same livery as the King, except for the addition of a horizontal line with three short vertical lines below it. King Edward laid his hands on the boy’s head. Chivalry was not dead – it couldn’t be; Blackstone just knew it. The King’s voice carried. He charged his son to behave with honour and stay loyal to his liege lord. Blackstone heard those words and knew Sir Gilbert must surely be an embittered knight not to believe in the glory that the King stood for.

The Prince of Wales, taller than his father, moved to one side. Blackstone could barely believe that a boy so young could lead the vanguard of the English army even if his guardians were to be the marshals of the army. His sense of awe eased when he remembered his own age. Caring for Richard had made him older than his years.

‘Remember these nobles, Blackstone, and their coats of arms. You’ll be fighting alongside them sooner or later and you’d best know who you’re going to die for – other than me and your King.’

As each young man knelt before his sovereign Sir Gilbert whispered some of their names: Mortimer, de la Bere, Salisbury, de la Warre. Then a lame middle-aged noble limped forward, his surcoat of red and gold horizontal bars catching the rays of the July sun through the church’s west window. He knelt and did homage to Edward.

‘That’s Godfrey de Harcourt,’ Sir Gilbert said quietly as the Norman baron swore his allegiance and recognized Edward as King of France.

Then lions and lilies unfurled as the King’s standard was raised.

‘Now we’re at war,’ Sir Gilbert said and tugged the reluctant Blackstone to the door.


Sir Gilbert was pursuing his duty to Lord Marldon. He hoped that giving Blackstone his protection and then chastising him harshly would teach the boy quickly and help him find the courage needed for what lay ahead.

He took twenty hobelars – light cavalry who looked as if they could ride down wolves – attended by twenty archers, and rode south to scout the land. Sir Gilbert had chosen veterans and half a dozen of Lord Marldon’s men to ride on the sortie. Nicholas Bray rode at their head. Norman forces loyal to Philip were light on the Cotentin peninsula, but every step towards the River Seine and Paris, the French capital, would take its toll on Edward’s forces. There had already been brief skirmishes with other units and one of the marshals, the Earl of Warwick, had been ambushed, but had fought his way clear. The few hundred retreating French troops would harry and snap at the army’s flanks.

And now Edward had made a proclamation that, out of respect for de Harcourt, and to show that these French were Edward’s vassals, no Norman manor houses or towns were to be looted or burned. That beggared belief as far as Nicholas Bray and the other veterans were concerned. How was the army to feed itself? How could lowly paid men be kept willing to fight if they could not plunder? Scouring the land was accepted practice. Sir Gilbert knew it was a promise that the King could not keep, and told them so. The army was a disciplined fighting force against any enemy, but villages needed to be looted and burned – that was a fair warning to his King’s enemies. This war was not about mercy.



And Blackstone needed to be blooded. For days they rode south, criss-crossing the peninsula. Villages were deserted; some had already been burned by foragers and those that remained Sir Gilbert’s men put to the torch. The message was being sent to the French King that the English army was coming. As each day passed the frustration of not engaging with the enemy made Sir Gilbert more bad-tempered than usual. Like all the nobles and knights he craved the joy of battle and the glory and wealth it could bring. The dragging pace of the baggage train kept Edward’s main division well behind the vanguard. And thank God for it, Sir Gilbert let it be known. They needed to get their arses out of the confines of this suffocating landscape before the French King brought up his army and trapped them with their backs to the sea. If the Prince of Wales’s vanguard of four thousand troops could smash their way through to the cities of St L? and Caen then they would be on their way to Paris. Sir Gilbert knew the land. He’d irrigated the French soil with his enemies’ blood before. That’s why he was leading a reconnaissance of pox-scarred, drunken, throat-slitting archers across a godforsaken landscape with nothing but the mocking crows to taunt him. And he told the archers so. Every day.

Blackstone had no idea where he was. The names of places meant nothing to him, nor to most of the others. What he did know was that the expectation of the unknown scared him. They had skirted the marshlands, moving down the narrow tracks between high hedgerows. This bocage was the most dangerous terrain and the men were forced to ride close together. A couple of miles to their front the ground rose to the west and then spread out into more open meadows. The burning villages were far behind them and the roving Welsh spearmen and English infantry had not yet reached this far south.

It was Richard who raised the alarm. His guttural cry alerted Sir Gilbert, who turned in the saddle prepared to issue a rebuke, but then he saw the boy explaining to Blackstone what he had seen. He halted the horsemen.

‘He saw a man half a mile away push into the hedgerow,’ Blackstone explained.

‘A peasant?’ Sir Gilbert asked.

Blackstone shook his head. ‘He wore mail.’

Sir Gilbert looked at Blackstone’s brother. ‘Tell him if he is wrong I’ll have him whipped. I need to move faster.’

‘With respect, Sir Gilbert, being dead is as slow as you can go,’ Blackstone said. ‘If he says he saw a man wearing mail, then that’s what he saw.’

Within minutes Sir Gilbert had ordered a plan of attack. Blackstone and the archers dismounted, climbed a high bank and pushed through the hedgerow. The track ahead looped to the left and the hedgerow followed the curved route. An ambush by French troops would be on that bend and the archers would be shielded as they approached their firing position, half-concealed by tall meadow grass and a drainage ditch.

‘My life is in your hands,’ Sir Gilbert said to Bray and the archers before they scurried away, their bows already strung.

Elfred led the way, crouching as he ran, seeking out the best position: a place that allowed them to kill the enemy without fear of their arrows striking Sir Gilbert and the horsemen. They heard the men continuing their way down the track as they prepared to draw the ambush.

On Bray’s silent command the dozen archers spread out a yard apart, nocked an arrow each and waited. Stillness gives a hunter the edge over his prey, but the shadows in the hedgerow, now two hundred yards away, shuffled nervously, readying themselves to strike and so revealing their position. The memory of the men working across the valley on Lord Marldon’s estate flashed into Blackstone’s mind. That idle game was now a deadly reality.

Blackstone saw a gauntleted arm raised from the greenery, a command to attack about to be given. He raised his bow and, as one, the others followed his lead. Goose-feather fletchings hissed through the air and the yard-long arrows struck home moments before the ambush. Despite the distance the sound of steel-tipped arrows ripping into flesh could be heard by the archers.

The wounded enemy’s screams were drowned by the attacking cries of Sir Gilbert’s men. Metal clashed, more screams, horses whinnied, half a dozen figures burst from the hedgerow to retreat across the meadows, running for shelter in the woodland five hundred yards away – a distance no retreating man could make when an English archer followed his run. Hemp cords released another flurry of arrows and the helpless men fell, most with two shafts tearing through bone, cartilage and vital organs. Those who did not die instantly would bleed to death within minutes, the shock from the impact of the arrows crippling and fatal. The battle was still being fought on the track. Blackstone broke cover, running instinctively, breathless with excitement mingled with fear, but with a focused certainty that he needed a better firing position. If Sir Gilbert had advanced along the track then he and his men would be in danger from his own archers. Something blurred past his face and one of the Englishmen cried out as a crossbow bolt slammed into his chest. An archer’s padded jacket offered insufficient protection against a direct strike.

‘Kneel!’ yelled Bray. From a dense patch of brambles half a dozen more bolts snapped over their heads; the range was down to a hundred yards. The crossbowmen had placed themselves between brambles and hedgerow, out of sight from an attacking force from the rear. Without conscious thought Blackstone and the others adjusted their bows’ angle and loosed a concentrated hail of arrows into the confines of the bramble patch. The enemy’s cries of pain ended quickly – the hammer-like force of a shaft striking a body stunned most into breathless pain. Except for the agonized moans of the wounded, the fight was over – the killing had taken less than ten minutes.

Blackstone and the others advanced carefully.

‘Bray! Elfred! Blackstone!’ Sir Gilbert’s voice carried from the other side of the hedges.

‘Aye!’ Elfred and Bray answered.

‘Yes, here, Sir Gilbert,’ Blackstone heard himself say. He was gazing down at an old man, the French knight whose gauntlet-covered fist had been raised, ready to trigger the ambush. Blackstone’s arrow had taken him through the collarbone into his chest and out of his groin, piercing his chain mail as if it were nothing more than a nightshirt. He lay on his back, his body contorted in a frozen spasm of shock, then death. The blood from his gaping mouth was already buzzing with flies. His jupon of pale apple green with a vivid blue swallow was darkened by the seeping stain. Blackstone couldn’t take his eyes from the man’s deathly gaze.

Two of Sir Gilbert’s soldiers hacked at the hedgerow and then Sir Gilbert himself pushed through the gap. He was grinning. Blood splattered his surcoat and legs.

‘We killed a dozen or more,’ he said happily. ‘Is he one of yours?’ he asked, following Blackstone’s gaze. Blackstone nodded.

‘Well, there’s a feather in your cap, lad. Your first kill a knight. A piss-poor one with no arms worth taking, perhaps, but praise God there’ll be plenty more. France has the greatest host of knights in the world. They’re magnificent fighters, I’ll say that for them. Though not so magnificent with a yard of English ash gutting them, eh?’ He laughed and touched Blackstone’s shoulder. ‘Well done, lad.’

Dying men had soiled themselves and the smell of ordure, together with that of copiously spilled blood, mingled into a throat-gagging stench.


Blackstone turned away and vomited.

The men around him laughed.

‘First time is the worst time, lad. Get used to it. This is as much glory as you’ll see in a battle,’ Sir Gilbert said. He raised a flask to his lips and swilled the wine before spitting it out. He unbuckled the dead knight’s scabbard and looked at the chipped blade.

‘An old sword, older than him, but it has a good balance to it.’ Sir Gilbert sheathed it and tossed it to Blackstone.

‘Spoils of war. It’s better than that bastard toothpick of yours. Attach it to your saddle, but get rid of the scabbard if you fight with it. Damned scabbard is no good to a man on the ground with a sword in his hand, it’ll trip you and then you’re done for.’

The wounded men in the hedgerow were quickly despatched by the hobelars. ‘There’s fifteen or more here, I’ll wager,’ Sir Gilbert said. ‘Did we lose anyone?’

‘Attewood,’ Bray answered, as he unstrung his bow. ‘Back there in the field.’

‘Well, that’s a poor bargain. An English archer for these scum,’ said Sir Gilbert.

‘Do we bury him, Sir Gilbert?’ Elfred asked.

‘No time. Foxes and carrion crows will pick his bones. Was he Christian?’

‘He never said,’ Bray answered.

‘Then we’ll let God decide. Get his weapons.’

Elfred nodded and turned back towards the fallen archer.

One of the wounded attackers, his lower back pierced by an arrow, was trying to drag himself away through the meadow grass. He muttered words that sounded pitiful to Blackstone – words he did not understand. Sir Gilbert picked up a cumbersome crossbow and tossed it to one side.

‘Genoese crossbowmen. They’re the best in the world, but not good enough today. Philip’s bought himself some mercenaries. If there’s half a dozen all the way back here then you can be sure there’s another few thousand between us and Paris. Put the man out of his misery, Blackstone, and gather up any arrows you men can use again. Let’s be on our way,’ Sir Gilbert commanded, and then pushed his way back onto the track. The soldiers followed him.

Bray slit the throat of another wounded man, then turned and looked at Blackstone. ‘Come on, lad, we can’t let the poor bastard die like that. Use your knife. Quick now. No different than slitting a pig. And he won’t squeal as much.’

Blackstone felt another horror squeeze his chest. He took a few uncertain steps towards the crawling man, felt the knife in his hand, though he had no memory of drawing it. He hesitated. It sounded as though the man’s pitiful whispers were pleading to God, or to his mother. All Blackstone had to do was reach down, grab a handful of hair, pull back his head and slide the blade across his throat.

His hand was shaking. The arm that had tirelessly wielded a stonemason’s hammer for hour after hour, that could pull back a mighty war bow, could not bring itself to sever the man’s throat. It trembled like a virgin’s body before being loved for the first time. Someone nudged him aside, stepped forward, bent down and with a quick, decisive stroke, killed the wounded man.

Richard wiped the knife blade, put an arm on Blackstone’s shoulder and turned his brother towards the road.


They travelled another ten miles without incident. Nightingale chattered like a monkey on a pole, convinced he had killed more in the ambush than even the veterans. He had loosed a dozen arrows and wanted to know from the others if they had seen his targets fall. The veterans ignored him, the local lads argued back, until Bray yelled they’d best be quiet before Sir Gilbert made them ride through the night until they found themselves another scourge of Frenchmen to slaughter. Killing was thirsty work and they needed water and a soft hay barn for themselves. An hour before the light faded in the west, they came to a deserted village. The villagers would have seen smoke drift across the horizon from the torching of other towns and been told by French soldiers to move south towards St L? and Caen. They carried away as much as they were able, but there were still a few free-running chickens for the taking.


Sir Gilbert and the men penned their horses, posted a sentry and went looking for a place to sleep. There was nothing of value in any of the hovels. The archers, preferring their own company, settled in a barn on the edge of the village where the freshly cut hay’s scent reminded Blackstone of home. John Weston foraged and uncovered an apple rack covered in straw. He found what the villagers had left behind, stone jars of cider.

‘All right, lads, this is the fruit of the land. We’ve to keep up our strength for Sir Gilbert, I reckon,’ he said as he handed out the jars to the approving men. ‘We keep this to ourselves. No need to let the cracked-arsed cavalry know about it.’

By the time darkness nudged away the day, Bray’s archers had eaten and settled into the barn’s comfort. Nightingale’s stories made the archers laugh and his own escapades with village girls caused doubts about such virility. Nightingale put it down to his mother’s milk and his father’s skill at poaching venison.

Richard watched carefully as Elfred showed him how to repair and clean the arrows used in the ambush. The older man grunted to emphasize each stage of the task, as if Richard would understand more easily. If nothing else, Blackstone thought, his brother was being accepted by the archers.

Sir Gilbert took the best village house for himself, as was his right, but he went among the men before taking his own share of the cooked chickens and eggs.

Blackstone sat away from the others as he ate, his brother cleaning the bodkin arrowheads in between tearing mouthfuls of chicken, oblivious of the grease running down his chin.

Sir Gilbert squatted, fingering the edge of the old knight’s sword.

‘You need a keener blade than this. Get one of the hobelars to whet it.’

‘I can do that myself, Sir Gilbert.’

‘So you can. And so you should. There’ll come a time when arrows won’t be enough and you have to close with the enemy. Elfred and Nicholas told me you did well today. Nicholas said you were the one who moved forward.’

Blackstone shrugged, not wanting special attention above the other archers. ‘I could hear you fighting. I knew you’d taken the fight to them.’

Sir Gilbert nodded and stabbed the sword into the ground. ‘We could have been in your line of fire if you hadn’t moved. It was good thinking.’

Blackstone felt relieved no mention was made of the wounded man, that he was not questioned further. But he also knew that Sir Gilbert’s tone had altered. That the killing had raised his status in the knight’s eyes.

‘Do we know who the men were we killed today?’ Blackstone asked.

‘I wasn’t on friendly terms with them,’ Sir Gilbert said, and smiled. He put a stone jug to his lips, the strong Normandy brew cutting across the back of his throat. ‘Spies tell us there’s five hundred or so under the command of Sir Robert Bertrand, he’s the Signeur de Bricquebec. That was one of his raiding parties. He’s an old enemy of de Harcourt’s. His force is too small to face Edward’s thousands, but he’ll try to slow our pace by harassment and ambush and by burning bridges across the main rivers until Philip’s army gets to us.’

‘When will the battle be?’ Blackstone asked.

‘When our King finds a good place for killing them,’ he said.

He handed back the jug and sought out Nicholas Bray. ‘You’ll post a sentry, Nicholas. We’ll leave before dawn, so save that devil’s brew for another night.’


‘I were going to use it for stripping the rust off this old sword of mine, Sir Gilbert.’

‘That’s not rust, you blind old bastard, that’s dried French blood,’ he answered.

‘Well, I never, I must’ve slaughtered more o’them than I thought. You sleep tight in your bed now, Sir Gilbert, and be sure to keep a grip on your own blade,’ he said, the crude reference making the men laugh.

‘God help the whores when you and Will Longdon press a coin in their hand,’ said Sir Gilbert.

‘That won’t be all being pressed in their hands neither,’ Will Longdon told him.

Sir Gilbert gave him a friendly kick. ‘Trouble is, Will, the whores will be giving you change from your coin.’

‘That’s because they feel ashamed for charging a man what gives ’em so much pleasure.’

The men jeered, letting Sir Gilbert return to his men-at-arms. Nicholas Bray pointed a finger. No need for a veteran to lose his sleep.

‘Nightingale, that’s enough drink. Ready yourself to stand watch.’


The men slept heavily. The sea journey, the hard riding and the ambush had taken their toll. As had the fermented cider that could strip a rat’s pelt from its bones when it fell in the vat.

Nightingale felt the injustice of being chosen, but the day’s killing still excited him and he knew he probably would not have slept even if he were inside with the snoring men. He would tell of the attack when he rejoined the untested archers who waited back at the coast. The tavern ale would be bought by those who had yet to face the danger. Young lads needed the advice of veteran archers – and that’s what he was now. A veteran archer.

He loosened his jerkin and tugged free the stone jar of contraband.

In the early hours before dawn a group of men crept close to the barn. These men were not soldiers, but villagers resentful of the betrayal by some of the Norman barons. They had no weapons to face the English, but they did not wish to succumb without trying to kill at least some of the invading army. They had watched, hidden in nearby orchards, as the horsemen and archers ransacked and occupied their homes. They could not have guessed that the Englishmen would drink so heavily, but that realization came to them as the night wore on. A breeze favoured them as they moved downwind from the horses. The peasants would not dare venture too far into the village for fear of alerting the better armed cavalrymen, who slept close to their mounts, in a farm’s courtyard.

The village men saw that the barn’s doors were already closed, and only one man stood post, the Englishmen inside secure in the belief that any unlikely attack from armed men could be repulsed between the cavalry and the archers whose positions in the village created a natural ambush for any attacking force. But these villagers were not armed, except with their hatred of the English and the traitor Godfrey de Harcourt. They hesitated. Who among them would be brave enough to sneak up on the sentry and silence him? The question held them fast, none dared risk the confrontation. And then the question was answered for them. The sentry eased himself to his feet from where he had sat, his back propped against the barn planking, and took a few uneasy steps forwards. He had left his bow against the wall. The men looked at each other. The archer was young. And he was drunk.

After a few yards the boy stopped. There was the steady sound of piss hitting the ground. One of the men carried a hoe as a weapon. In a moment of daring he stepped out of the shadows and swung the metal-headed stave against the archer’s head. The boy crumpled.

Emboldened by their act the dozen men quietly rolled a haycart across the barn doors to stop any attempt by the men inside to escape, and bundled crisp hay along its length. The high, dry weeds and grass around the old building would do the rest. Without a sound they spread tallow across the main doors. They sparked a flint, and by the time they had reached the safety of the woods, the summer grass and tinder-dry wood were ablaze.

Blackstone was in the depths of a dream. He had cut and laid the cornerstone for Lord Marldon’s great hall. The laying ceremony was attended by the King and his son, Edward of Woodstock. The speeches praised the stonemason’s skill, promised him wealth and entry to the stonemasons’ guild. A great feast and tournament followed. An ox turned on a spit, flesh sizzling, fat dripping. The smoke stung his eyes.

He dragged himself awake. Thick choking smoke filled the barn and fire hungrily licked the walls. Somewhere in the distance behind the crackling sound of the burning wood men shouted and horses whinnied. He was near blind from stinging tears and each breath scoured his throat and lungs, plunging him to his knees in spasms of coughing. Pulling his jacket over his head he reached out blindly, trying to find his brother, but found his own sheathed bow instead. Like a blind beggar he used it to stab the hay around him until it prodded a body. He reached down and felt the man’s face. The stubbled jaw told him it was not Richard but he kicked the man time and again until he awoke. Fear quickly sobered him and he stumbled against Blackstone for support.

‘The others!’ Blackstone yelled from beneath his self-made cowl. ‘The others!’

Whoever it was fell to his knees, pulled his jacket across his head like Blackstone, and swept his hands in front of him. The fire took hold and in a great surge clawed towards the roof. The heat would soon kill them, if the building did not collapse first. Blackstone scrambled, felt his brother’s crooked face and tried to lift him. But the bulk and weight of the boy was too much even for Blackstone’s strength. His hands touched a stone jug. He splashed the fluid into his brother’s mouth. The gush of liquid choked him and he sat gasping for breath. Blackstone shook him and the boy reached out, grabbing the lifeline that was his brother.

Three men stumbled into them. They huddled together for a moment, each seeking a way of escape. A farm wagon, hidden in the smoke, rested in the corner of the barn. Fire was already spreading across it, hungry for the tallow that greased its wheel axles. Blackstone pointed – to talk meant inhaling lung-destroying smoke. The cart seemed their only chance. If they could push it hard enough through the burning timber walls they might have a way of breaking out. Burnt straw swirled through the air, the fire’s updraught sucking it from the floor as sparks and splintered timbers tumbled from the roof that would soon fall in. The doors of hell had been opened.

They pressed their bodies against the cart, but despite the archers’ strength its weight could not be moved. They retreated beneath its broad oak planking. Blackstone covered his mouth with his hand, trying to draw air into his lungs.

‘There!’ he shouted above the roaring fire. ‘That corner!’ He pointed. The fire smothered everything, but one corner burned more slowly. ‘They made repairs! That’s new wood. It’s the weakest part!’

There was no time left. He ran at the corner planking, his hair singeing, the heat blistering his face, and threw his shoulder against it. The freshly cut, slower burning wood gave an inch or two. He tried again and this time his brother hurled his bulk against it. The wood nearly splintered away. The other two men began kicking the planks and when Richard shouldered the loosest, it gave.

They burst through the fire into the night. Stumbling and gasping, they dragged each other but then could run no more and fell again, retching from the smoke, eyes streaming. Men ran towards them; Sir Gilbert took one of Blackstone’s arms, a horseman the other, soldiers did the same with the other survivors and dragged them to the safety of the trees. Two soldiers ran from a trough carrying buckets and threw water over the choking, smouldering men. The barn collapsed, sending a fireball of sparks pluming high into the darkness.


Blackstone lay on his back. As his eyes cleared, the stars were red, glittering in the firmament, sucking up the dead men’s souls. Clutched to his chest, like a priceless prize of war, was his father’s war bow. The leather case was singed, but the weapon was unharmed. He needed luck to stay alive, and his superstition was strong enough to know that as long as the war bow remained in his keeping its good fortune would protect him. As dawn broke the smoke-blackened men gazed at the smouldering barn. Their comrades’ remains lay indistinguishable from the charred timbers. The survivors drank thirstily, trying to ease their raw throats.

‘Sir Gilbert!’ one of the hobelars called.

The men turned to see where he pointed. John Nightingale was on all fours crawling from the bushes. His hair was matted with dried blood and he retched vomit into the dirt and over his jerkin. He sank back on his haunches staring blankly at the charnel house that had been a place of safety and laughter for his comrades.

Sir Gilbert strode quickly to him as two of his men hauled Nightingale to his feet. The boy squinted. His sour, dry mouth croaked. ‘Water, Sir Gilbert… water. If you please.’

Sir Gilbert gripped the boy’s chin. The stench of vomit and stale cider confirmed what he already knew. One of the hobelars picked up the stone bottle and tipped it upside down. It was dry.

‘Give him water!’ Sir Gilbert commanded, then turned to the survivors. ‘Was this man posted as sentry?’

Except for Blackstone’s brother, who could not hear the demand, the men averted their eyes.

Sir Gilbert would have none of it. He grabbed Will Longdon roughly. ‘Did Bray post this man?’ he demanded. Longdon had no choice. He nodded.

Sir Gilbert pushed him back and turned to Nightingale, who drank desperately from a waterskin. Sir Gilbert snatched it away. ‘Where’s your bow stave and arrow bag? Where’s your goddamn sword, you pig shit? And your knife?’ The knight’s threatening voice was chilling. Blackstone could feel that something terrible was about to happen, something perhaps more terrible than the barn’s destruction.

‘Get a rope,’ Blackstone commanded one of his men.

Blackstone’s heart thudded with helplessness.

Nightingale mumbled, his befuddled brain still trying to grasp what had happened.

‘Sir Gilbert, I don’t know… I went for a piss… I’m sorry,’ Nightingale stuttered.

‘Fourteen archers dead, Master Bray among them. The King values his bowmen. They are the gold in his crown. And they are dead because you supped too long and hard like a suckling pig on a sow’s teat. Men came and took your weapons. Men came and slaughtered my archers! Because of your neglect!’

One of the hobelars had knotted and thrown a rope across the limb of a chestnut tree. Two others dragged Nightingale towards it. The boy struggled.

‘Sir Gilbert! I beg you!’ He almost broke free, the fear sobering his mind, adding strength to his archer’s muscles. One of the hobelars struck him across the back of the head, and as suddenly as he had resisted, he yielded to the inevitable.

‘I’m sorry,’ he called to the five archers who had not moved. ‘I’m sorry, lads. Forgive me.’

His hands were quickly bound. There was no ceremony. The two hobelars hauled on the rope and the kicking, choking boy was dragged into the air.

Sir Gilbert turned away. ‘Get the horses!’

Blackstone could not look at the bulging face. Nightingale’s swollen tongue turned purple, blood seeped from his eyes, his legs kicked violently, but less so than a moment before.

By the time the men rode past him a few minutes later, the first crow had settled.


No prayers for the dead were said, or needed. The army’s priests could pray for departed souls because that was their role. Professional soldiers would spit and curse the devil, swear vengeance against their enemies and say a private prayer of their own in thanks that they still lived – and then share their dead comrade’s plunder among themselves. It took the morning to track down the villagers. They ran across the skyline between the saddle of ground that connected two corners of a forest, their silhouetted figures visible from miles away.

The horsemen gave chase and encircled them. One man who carried Nightingale’s bow and arrow bag attempted to draw it but managed only to pull it back halfway and the arrow loosed was easily avoided. Fear and panic gripped the peasants. They babbled in French, tears came to their eyes. Sir Gilbert and two of his men-at-arms dismounted and drew their swords. No one spoke. Anger and revenge raised the men’s swords and Blackstone watched as the knight and his men clove the Frenchmen’s bodies with their war swords.

One man remained. He knelt in supplication before Sir Gilbert. Blackstone watched as his captain indicated the coat of arms on his jupon, and told the man his name. Then he ordered the man to run. At first he hesitated, but when Sir Gilbert raised his sword, he did as commanded.

The warning would race like the barn fire.

The English were coming and Sir Gilbert Killbere would lead the slaughter.