Master of War

9




Chaos surged through the town’s streets. The English soldiers, still charged with blood-lust from the bitter fighting at the ford, slaughtered the survivors from the beachhead and looted and burned the houses. King Edward expected his supplies from England to be waiting at Le Crotoy, a few miles up the coast. Noyelles was in the way of his raiding force.

Sir Gilbert led the way towards the town’s castle. Choking, acrid smoke carried across rooftops, drifting into back alleys, forcing the citizens to flee. Behind Sir Gilbert the archers and men-at-arms shielded Christiana and Sir Godfrey from any final desperate act by townsmen or surviving levies. The flames of their hatred for the English had been fanned by despair at their King’s failure to stop the invaders. Godfrey de Harcourt sent a herald forward with an armed escort to declare his identity at the castle and then issued orders for Sir Gilbert to secure the town from further destruction, placing it under his protection.


The castle gates were opened reluctantly by servants once de Harcourt’s promise of safety had been relayed to the countess. Sir Godfrey and his men dismounted in the courtyard as the massive doors swung closed behind them. Blackstone looked at the high walls and parapets. A marshal of the English army and a company of archers with ten men-at-arms would have a hard time fighting their way out should this be an ambush. And why would it not be? Godfrey de Harcourt was a traitor and the women who waited for him in the keep might well be prepared to exact revenge. Blackstone checked himself, his thoughts now concentrated on preparing for the worst. He gave his reins to Richard and waited, hovering near Christiana, hoping he might be instructed to help her dismount.

‘Bring her,’ de Harcourt ordered.

Before Blackstone could reach up and help her from the saddle, Christiana dismounted without aid. She gave Blackstone barely a glance, but pressed a piece of embroidered linen into the fold of his jacket and then turned away quickly to follow Sir Godfrey towards the four-storey tower. The lame man climbed the steps to the great hall without effort. Blackstone followed three men behind Christiana who had not looked back at him once. Uncertainty gnawed at him. Her warmth and sentiments seemed to have been swept away as if by the tide. Was she now a lady delivered safely, unconcerned about a common archer’s feelings? Was the piece of linen only a token of gratitude?

‘String your bows,’ Elfred ordered the archers. He pointed at four of the men. ‘Two here, two at those windows.’ The archers moved into position. Blackstone knew that Elfred’s natural inclination was the same as his own. Had the gates been opened too easily? Godfrey de Harcourt was a tenacious fighter who could ride a man half his age into the ground, but inbred arrogance could blind the most far-sighted man.

‘Thomas, take your brother. Cover Sir Godfrey and his men inside.’

Elfred sent other men onto the walls. This bear pit of a place needed archers in good firing positions.

‘Tom, Henry, search those stables. Matthew – top of those stairs!’

Blackstone looked at the archers as he followed de Harcourt, whose men-at-arms fell back, taking up posts at doorways and passage entrances.

Tom Brock and Matthew Hampton were old hands, Warwick’s men like Will Longdon.

‘Find a loophole, Thomas, we’ll need some cover from up there,’ Matthew said as he took up position. ‘And don’t get separated from the others. It’s easy done in twisting corridors. Have your knife ready if you do.’

Blackstone nodded and went into the castle’s gloom and chilled air. Men moved hurriedly, and the scraping of armour on stone walls along narrow passageways heralded de Harcourt’s approach. One of the men cursed as his couter, an elbow guard, caught a protruding piece of badly mortared stone. If Blackstone had laid a wall in such a manner his master stonemason would have beaten him. The memory of that past life, abandoned only weeks ago, seemed so distant now. So too the times he shared with Richard, who, despite his affliction, could express laughter and joy. That had all been murdered and swept away like the bodies cast into the river at Caen.

Blackstone put his brother at a stairwell and had him watch through the arrow loops into the courtyard. Blackstone stayed ten paces behind Christiana and Sir Godfrey, who pushed open the doors into the great hall. He held his place and watched the girl rush forward, out of sight. Women’s voices uttered cries of delight as Christiana was welcomed. And then one of the women stepped into view. Blackstone thought her to be about ten years older than himself. Her raven hair was curled into a knot at her shoulder, framing the beauty of her face. She was slightly taller than Christiana, who now stood by her side. However, the woman’s fine features could not distract from the armour she wore, nor the sword in her hand. Blackstone edged closer to the half-opened door.

‘My lady, we will cause no harm here,’ de Harcourt told her.

‘Your Englishmen do not share your sentiments,’ she replied, but laid the sword down across an oak table in a gesture of acceptance. ‘But you brought Christiana to us. I thank you for that.’

‘Sir Godfrey and his Englishmen rescued me, my lady,’ Christiana said. She looked towards de Harcourt who had his back to the door. Her eyes caught Blackstone. She pointed. ‘He’s the one who saved my life.’

Blackstone quickly stepped back as de Harcourt turned. Before he could admonish Blackstone for being so close, the armoured woman called, ‘Let me see you!’

Christiana came forward and opened the door fully. Blackstone felt a flush of blood colouring his neck and face as he stood in the doorway under de Harcourt’s glare. He stepped forward as ordered by de Harcourt’s gesture.

‘An archer.’ She crossed herself. ‘Dear sweet mother of God! I don’t want these murderers in my sight. Get him out of this place,’ she said.

Blackstone faltered. Christiana looked wounded. The older of the three women, dressed in the clothes of a noblewoman and with a bearing that commanded respect, stepped into view. ‘Blanche, that will do,’ she said quietly, but firmly.

In that moment Blanche de Harcourt looked as if she could snatch up the sword and attack Blackstone. ‘Mother, you know what these men have done. You know their reputation.’

‘I also know that my brother was a Norman, that the French King took his land and that four years ago he died fighting in alliance with the English.’ She spoke directly to Blackstone. ‘And he spoke of rough, crude men, English archers, and said he wished we had such men fighting for us. I am Countess d’Aumale and this lady who would strike at you is my daughter, Countess Blanche de Ponthieu, wife of Sir Godfrey’s nephew. Your enemy.’

Blackstone tried to find words through his confusion and embarrassment, but none came. He went down on one knee.

‘You have some manners, young English archer. Perhaps not all of you are as savage as your reputation suggests. Get up,’ she told him.

Blackstone glanced at Christiana, who lowered her eyes. The girl had thought that the pride of showing her rescuer might have been a cause for gratitude.

‘Christiana is dear to us all.’ She glanced at the humbled girl. ‘How might we reward you?’

Before Blackstone could reply, de Harcourt, irritated by the women’s interest in a common archer, spoke for him. ‘He’s already refused the heir to the throne of England’s offer of reward. He wants nothing.’

‘If the Prince of Wales has been refused then we cannot suggest anything more, other than to offer our thanks.’

‘My lady…’ Blackstone stuttered.

‘Get out,’ Godfrey de Harcourt ordered.

Blackstone turned away, but not before seeing Christiana smile briefly at him, and a look in her eyes that he could not comprehend, but which made him feel flushed again. He stepped into the passage. Sir Godfrey slammed the door. The voices from the room were dulled by the heavy chestnut panels.

Blackstone waited a moment longer. He heard Sir Godfrey tell the women that he had seen his brother’s banner at Rouen, also his nephew’s. There was no doubt the French and English armies would soon clash.

‘Surrender to me and you shall be protected,’ Sir Godfrey said.

Blanche de Ponthieu’s voice was still bitter. ‘You go to fight your own family!’

De Harcourt was a man who would yield to no one, and no woman would have the better of him. His voice thundered around the hall. ‘Their loyalty to King Philip is misplaced! You have no love for him! You tried to convince your husband, as I attempted to convince my brother, to side with me! You know the English will win.’


Blackstone moved away from the raised voices, needing to distract himself from the girl who was now with his enemy’s family. Men-at-arms stood at their posts; his brother’s back was towards him as he peered out of the arrow loop to the courtyard below where Elfred’s men remained vigilant. Blackstone almost reached out to touch his shoulder. What care or love was left within his own family? He turned away and tugged out Christiana’s small token of gratitude. On the square of cloth was embroidered a small bird – sharp-beaked, black-eyed, with blue plumage. It seemed familiar somehow, but he wasn’t sure why. Little else of beauty had come his way in this war; he would keep it as a memento. All he could do now was to wait for Sir Godfrey.

Her presence startled him. She had slipped out of the hall and moved silently behind him. His hand had gone quickly to the knife at his belt. He muttered an apology and took a step back until he bumped into the wall. Damn, he was acting like a country oaf. She smiled. Her voice barely rose above a whisper, preventing her words from echoing through the stone corridors.

‘I wish I could ask Sir Godfrey to leave you here, but my Lady de Harcourt would object,’ she said.

‘Why would you ask that?’ he answered, forcing his voice to remain low, finding the words catching in his throat, as if they were two lovers meeting secretly.

‘To protect us,’ she said, and tentatively took a step closer to him.

He could smell the sweet oils from her hair.

‘And…’ she continued, placing her hand on his, ‘to keep you safe.’

Blackstone glanced nervously past her, hoping to God that none of the others happened to wander from their posts and catch sight of them. ‘I’m a soldier. And I have to care for my brother. I couldn’t stay, even if your lady did permit it.’

She nodded. She knew that. ‘Will I see you again, Thomas Blackstone?’

‘Would you wish to?’ he answered, feeling the blood warm his face.

She smiled, her tenderness reaching out to him. ‘Yes. I owe you my life. And you’re the only one who cared enough to save it.’

Voices were raised again in the great hall. Christiana glanced anxiously over her shoulder. ‘I must go.’ She gripped his big, work-roughened hand that still held her embroidered cloth. ‘Think of me,’ she said.

Other than when her hand had rested on his they had hardly touched, and more than anything he wanted to pull her to him. But he didn’t. It was too late. She had stepped away.

Men were moving somewhere along the corridors. She hesitated before going back towards the great hall, then glanced over her shoulder to him. ‘I’ll pray for your safe return,’ she said. And was gone.

Elfred’s voice carried, berating one of the men. Blackstone turned down an unguarded passage, distancing himself from the hall and the patrolling men-at-arms. It took a few moments for his head to clear. The castle’s chill seeped into his hand from where he leaned against the stone wall. The rubble that had been used was smoother here; the mason had taken greater care to lay the lime mortar flush between the stone contours. Blackstone ran his palm against the castle’s skin. This had been a better mason. A man who, more than a century earlier, had taken pride in his workmanship. Perhaps the cut base stone would yield the man’s mark or initials. His eyes followed the line of mortar and saw the gouge in its dry curve. Someone had stumbled against it. To cut the surface they must have been wearing armour. The scar was at shoulder height and the dull stain was fresh. Blackstone looked down onto the floor. The granite slabs hid the colour of the blood but could not disguise its sheen.

Blackstone’s heart thumped. This passage was no place to draw his bow. He slung it across his back and unsheathed his long archer’s knife. Stepping slowly, placing his feet carefully on the cold floor, he followed where the light glinted on the bloodstains. They led to a side chamber, its entrance covered with heavy, embroidered drapes hung from a pole. He slowed his breathing, listening for any sound that might indicate immediate danger. Standing in front of where the drapes met he took out an arrow and slowly pushed it between the two hangings. He eased aside the one and took a half-step back, his grip tightening on the knife handle, ready to meet any attack.

What he saw was a boy, probably no more than nine or ten years old, who sat on the floor, his back against the bare chamber’s wall. The child sweated, hair matted to his forehead, dried blood and mud covered his hose and jupon that bore the coat of arms of the knight who defended the river crossing, Godemar du Fay. The boy’s breathing shuddered in fear and the dagger he held at arm’s length, pointing at Blackstone, shook noticeably. The child was defending a bare-headed knight who lay next to him. He’d taken a savage beating and was barely conscious. An arrow shaft had punched through his shoulder plates. The bones would be shattered, the pain excruciating. A wound in his side seeped dark blood below his breastplate. Blackstone realized his liver must have been punctured. The man, who looked to be in his early twenties, was in du Fay’s service, and the brave, shivering boy must have been his page. They were obviously survivors who had sought sanctuary with the countess. And they would be killed if Godfrey de Harcourt or his men saw them. De Harcourt had no need to ransom a wounded knight.

Blackstone glanced quickly behind him. One of the men-at-arms had passed by the end of the passage. Blackstone hesitated and then stepped into the chamber, closing the embroidered cloth behind him. The boy whimpered, tears welled in his eyes and the knife trembled even more violently. The knight whispered something, his eyes locked onto the English archer who approached, still holding the gutting knife. Blackstone stopped. If the boy lunged he might get in a lucky hit. Again the man whispered and this time Blackstone understood what he said.

‘Spare the boy,’ the wounded man asked.

Blackstone raised a hand and spoke gently to the terrified page. ‘I shall look at your lord’s wound,’ he said quietly, anxious not to be heard by anyone down the passage. Then he turned to the wounded man, saying, ‘I will not harm either of you. You have my word.’

He faced the boy and put a finger to his lips, then sheathed his knife. Open-handed he went down on one knee three feet from the boy. Blackstone kept his eyes on the boy’s, then eased forward, allowing him the chance to attack. The dagger was only inches from his face.

The French knight sighed a command and the boy reluctantly lowered the pointed blade. Blackstone dared not ease the man’s breastplate for fear that he would cry out, but the wound still seeped. There was nothing he could do about the arrow, its white fletching now saturated to a dark, sticky mass. The page had obviously tried to staunch the stomach wound, for a piece of fine linen was packed below the armour’s edge – the kind of fine linen a countess would have on her person. This wounded knight must have arrived only moments before de Harcourt and his men.

Blackstone tugged the linen further. It was soaked. He unslung his bow and loosened his own jupon, then rolled it and with great care eased it beneath the plate. The man grimaced but bore the pain in silence. The pressure from the rolled cloth would hold the wound a while longer.

The man nodded in thanks.

‘My lord,’ Blackstone said, barely above a whisper, ‘you are dying. I cannot help you. I cannot find you a priest and I cannot offer you any comfort. I will leave you now and hope the good lady of this place will soon be at your side.’


The knight nodded, reached out and touched Blackstone’s sleeve. Blackstone took his hand away with a gentle pressure, then placed it into those of his page. ‘Stay quietly with your brave master until we are gone. The lady will come for you,’ Blackstone said. He stood and picked up his bow. Godfrey de Harcourt had summoned his men to leave. The knight’s hushed voice was barely audible. ‘I shall ask God when I see Him to give you His blessing and pray someone will show mercy to you in your hour of need.’

‘No one will ever show me mercy,’ Blackstone said. ‘I’m an English archer.’

He checked that the passage was clear and stepped out, leaving the man to die.


The French army had stood impotently across the ford, the river being too high to contemplate a crossing. They waited for two tides to come and go before deciding that the English-held shore could not be assaulted. They had no choice but to retreat as far as Abbeville, cross the river and gain the northern bank to pursue Edward. What was obvious to everyone on the English side, from noble lord to common stable lad, was that the French army, recognized as the finest fighting force in Europe, was at least twice as large as Edward’s.

The English reinforcements and supplies that should have been on ships from England, and waiting at Le Crotoy, had not even left their home port. The raiding party ransacked the town and surrounding countryside. At least the army would eat, but they would do battle with the weapons and men they had. A messenger brought news from Sir Hugh Hastings and the Flemish army. They had pushed south from France’s northern border, but their attacks on the French fortified towns had failed and they had retreated into Flanders. The two armies could not join up; Edward was on his own. He marched his army eastwards through the county of Ponthieu, moving into the oak and beech trees of the vast forest of Crécy-en-Ponthieu, slipping out of sight of King Philip’s army, which, with de Harcourt’s brother and nephew, was less than ten miles away.

There would soon be no choice. The English would have to stand and fight.


‘Thomas. Sir Gilbert wants you,’ Will Longdon said as he picked his way through the trees. The army had camped in the forest for the night along the ridge between Crécy and the hamlet of Wadicourt. The dawn’s chill crept into the aching muscles of the battle-weary men. Blackstone rolled out of his blanket, hunched his shoulders against the damp forest air, yawned and stretched out the stiffness. Richard still slept as he always had done, resting his cheek on his hands like a child.

‘Where?’

‘Hundred yards. That way. Edge of the forest.’

Blackstone nodded. ‘D’you have food?’

‘A piece of mutton from what Despenser’s men foraged yesterday.’

‘Will you stay with Richard until I’m back? Give him something to eat. We got little from the supplies.’

‘Course I will. Here.’ He offered a palm-sized piece of wrapped meat. Blackstone took a small bite and swilled it down with a mouthful of wine. He rubbed his eyes and scrubbed his fingers through his hair. He slung his bow and fastened his belt. The bristles on his face itched. The two men nodded at each other in farewell.

‘Thomas.’

Blackstone turned.

‘Say yes,’ Longdon said and without further explanation settled himself into his friend’s still-warm blanket.


Blackstone picked his way through the forest past hundreds of huddled men, the smell of their stale sweat mingling with the horses’ musky odour, and caught sight of a horseman through the trees. He sighted from tree to tree, working his vision deeper into the forest. It was the King and his nobles edging their horses through the forest. Was the King leaving his troops? Perhaps at last he had decided to call a truce. Blackstone felt a flutter of panic: God knows the men were worn down with fatigue, but they were in good spirits. They had beaten the French twice when outnumbered. If Edward called a truce they would be going home; to return to the hamlet and the life he had had with his brother. The memory of that place followed him as he made his way down the slope. Could he ever return home, even if given the choice? His father’s war bow had been the archer’s inheritance that poured strength into his arm every time he drew it. The warrior’s spirit, his father had once told him, lives on in his deeds and the weapons he cherished. But what of his duty towards Richard that had been bequeathed him? The boy had fought at his shoulder, even carrying Sir Gilbert to safety. Perhaps Richard was the better soldier after all. If there was a truce could he stay? Would a common man ever be allowed to see such a girl as Christiana again? She wasn’t nobility, unlike the family she served. If she was ever to be more than a simple desire, what would happen to his brother? There was something else his father had told him: A man’s duty only ended in death.

He found Sir Gilbert with Elfred, the knight’s horse already saddled.

‘You sleep like the dead,’ Sir Gilbert said. ‘Dreaming of the girl, were you?’

‘I was too tired to dream of anything,’ Blackstone answered.

‘Tiredness is a soldier’s pay. Elfred said you fought well at the river.’

‘We all did,’ Blackstone answered.

‘Aye, but you served me at Poissy with that shooting of yours. And you’ve a good eye for what’s what. I always thought you had.’

Blackstone didn’t know what he was supposed to say. ‘I see the King and the earls are riding out, Sir Gilbert. Are we moving on?’

Sir Gilbert climbed awkwardly into the saddle, barely able to hide the grimace of pain from his wounds. ‘Shall I tell the King his archer Thomas Blackstone is concerned?’

‘It was just a thought, Sir Gilbert.’

‘That’s what you do, Thomas, you think. I told Lord Marldon as much, but I didn’t know you had the courage to overcome it. Too much thinking can get in the way of a soldier’s life. I’ve tried to avoid it wherever I can. Roger Oakley died at the crossing.’

Blackstone nodded. ‘I saw him fall. He led us well.’

‘And he’s probably leading the devil a merry dance now. The King’s waiting. I’m late. Elfred, tell him.’ He urged the horse away to join the retinue whose rich colours moved through the forest until they disappeared from view among the trees.

‘Our lads are mostly farmers’ boys and craftsmen, but they’ve not shied away from what’s been asked of them. They’re as good a company of archers as I’ve seen,’ Elfred said.

‘They’ve got their tails up now. Even John Weston’s saying we’ve fought their best and won,’ Blackstone said.

‘He’s right, but it’s not over yet, Thomas. We’re not running no more. The King’s picked his spot, the French scouts were on that hill at first light.’

‘We’re to fight here?’

Elfred nodded. ‘Centenars are bringing their archers out of the woods, soon as the captains tell us where the marshals want us. They’ve gone with the King to see the ground.’

Blackstone let the information sink in. He gazed across the hillside. The woods would form a good defence at their rear. A series of long-abandoned radaillons – steep, contoured cultivation terraces – offered protection to the army’s left. The undulating ground would funnel the enemy around and into the centre. Pick your ground, is what Sir Gilbert had told him: choosing where you fight can make the difference between winning and losing. The French would be forced to attack uphill through the gap that the forest and hillside presented.


‘It’s a good place, Elfred.’

‘I’ll be sure to let the King know you approve.’

Blackstone smiled. ‘I want my breakfast, what do you want with me?’

‘There’s to be no reinforcements. Hastings has lost the north. A messenger came after the crossing. It’s us and the King; we’re what’s got to stop the French, and Thomas, none of these lads, except for some of the older hands like John and Will, have ever seen a heavy cavalry charge. It’s something that can crack the strongest man’s courage,’ Elfred told him, biting into a stale oatcake. He passed the other half to Blackstone, who took it gratefully.

‘They’ll stand their ground. They won’t let their fear grip them. They haven’t so far,’ Blackstone said.

‘I’ve spoken to the men and they agree with me that you should be my ventenar. The twenty men you’ll command have all spoken in your favour, except your brother who’ll go where you go. Sir Gilbert’s given the decision his blessing.’

Blackstone swallowed the dry biscuit.

‘Following someone like you and Master Oakley was what I did. That’s all,’ he said.

‘Up to you, lad. If you don’t want the responsibility, you say so now.’

‘What about Will Longdon, or John or any of the others?’

‘Lot of the old hands don’t want other men’s lives depending on their decisions. We fight for each other, but commanding men is a different thing altogether.’

‘I’ve a lot to learn still,’ Blackstone said, the weight of the decision lying heavily on him.

‘And there’s them around who’ll still show you what’s necessary. You think of Nicholas Bray, Roger and Sir Gilbert – you learnt from them and I hope from me since you’ve been here.’

‘I have, Elfred.’

‘Well, then. What do I tell Sir Gilbert?’


Blackstone led his company of archers down the centre of the battle lines as the English banners and pennons were raised. The marshals placed a thousand archers at either flank, forming them up into a triangular wedge that shielded each side of the men-at-arms and knights. The archers would have first contact with the French, their arrows killing and driving the attackers into the centre – the killing ground. Blackstone and his company joined the hundred archers sent between the ranks to loose their arrows directly into the faces of the heavy cavalry when they charged.

Blackstone and his men dug pits a foot square and a foot deep to make the great destriers stumble.

‘I saw you boys do that at Morlaix in ’forty-two,’ a Welsh spearman said as he sat sharpening his spearhead. ‘Crippled the horses, brought them down lovely it did. Had them French bastards falling arse over tit. You could hear their bones breaking like corn being ground in milling stones. Lovely sound. Meant they didn’t struggle much when we stuck them like flailing pigs.’ The Welshman spat and went back to his sharpening, the men with him nodding in agreement.

‘Aye, well, I was at Morlaix and you’re the same lazy Welsh bastards now that you were then. Instead of sitting on your arse you could lend a hand,’ Will Longdon told them as he dug another pit-trap, cutting turf and scraping the hole with his long knife.

‘No, no, we wouldn’t want to stop a skilled man like yourself from doing what he does best. And when you’ve done that you could dig us fighting men a shit pit,’ the spearman said. The Welshmen laughed but the humour did not touch the archers.

‘We’re digging them just deep enough so we can bury you bastard bog rats after the horses trample you into the ground, ’cause that’ll be as much as there is left of you,’ John Weston said, and spat a globule that landed dangerously close to the Welshman’s feet.

The spear flicked quickly and Weston found the killing end of the spear shaft hovering close to his throat.

‘You have to be careful in a battle. Easy to get taken down by your own side,’ the Welshman said, his voice low with intent. ‘We bog rats have seen that happen before.’

John Weston didn’t give a damn and stayed where he was, with the spear point quivering close to his neck, as the others watched the standoff. ‘Then count yourself lucky that the back of your skull’s too thick for a bodkin-tipped arrow to pierce.’

One of the other Welshmen joined in. ‘Lad’s got a point there, Daffyd. Take more than an Englishman’s arrow to get between your ears.’

The spear leveller drew it back, the rumble of agreement and laughter among the Welshmen easing the tension.

The archers went back to digging but the surly Welshman had kept his eye on Weston, a look that Blackstone realized might turn to something more when the mayhem of close-quarter battle engulfed them all. He wiped the dirt from his hands across his jacket.

‘My father was a bowman, he said he’d learnt how to pull his war bow from a Welsh archer. So, when the French come, we’ll bring them down and you finish them. That seems a fair bargain,’ he said, looking at the Welshman.

The act of conciliation was not lost on the Welshman and the belligerent spearman nodded but then his eyes locked onto the medallion that had come free from Blackstone’s jacket and the truce melted away.

‘You stole that?’ he said.

Blackstone took it in his fingers and tucked it away. ‘A Welsh archer gave it to me at Caen.’

The other Welshmen had heard and now took an interest in Blackstone himself.

‘A Welshman wouldn’t give that away. Not to a bastard Englishman and Christian. Not that,’ one of the others said. ‘He’d have to be a dead man for you to have it.’

Blackstone looked at them; his company of archers had stopped digging and stood behind him. If there was trouble to be had they were willing to finish it.

‘He was dying. I helped him. If any of you know a Welshman by the name Gruffydd ap Madoc he’ll tell you. If you don’t, then I don’t care what you think.’

‘Gruffydd ap Madoc? He’ll vouch for you?’

Conciliation had passed. It was time to stand his ground. ‘Repeat his name often enough and perhaps you’ll remember it. Ask him,’ Blackstone said. ‘I’ve work to do.’ He turned his back on the scowling Welshman and looked at his men. His men. Their loyalty was already being tested. Richard stood full square, knife in hand, understanding the belligerent looks. Will Longdon, John Weston, the others, none of them took their eyes from the Welshmen.

‘Pick up your bows. We’re done here,’ Blackstone said.

‘What would an Englishman know of a pagan talisman?’ the spearman asked, and as Blackstone turned, the spearhead pressed against his chest.

He half raised an arm, stopping the archers from making any aggressive moves. Soldiers, when they fought each other, be the grievance perceived or real, would not stop until someone lay dead. And soon after someone else would swing from the end of a rope.

He stared down the Welshman. ‘It’s Arianrhod. Goddess of the Silver Wheel. She protects you in this life and then carries you across to the next. He gave it to me with his blessing. And you’re as close as you’re going to be to seeing if she can help you.’

Before the man could do or say anything, there was a flurry in the ranks as men were pushed aside. A figure, obscured by the others, cuffed the Welshman to the ground. Blackstone recognized the white-haired fighter from the battle for Caen.


‘He’s pig-shit ignorant, Thomas Blackstone. He fell from his sow-mother’s belly into a ditch and has been trying to crawl out of it ever since. Are these your men?’

‘They are, Gruffydd ap Madoc.’

He scowled. ‘I’m not surprised. They look rougher than a thistle-eating hog’s arse.’

The Welshmen laughed and a moment later so did the archers. Gruffydd enveloped Blackstone in a bearhug, and then punched him on the arm. Blackstone managed not to grimace in pain.

‘Are we to have your archers in our ranks?’

‘Between you and the men-at-arms.’

Gruffydd turned to his wild-looking men. ‘Treat these boys with courtesy if you want them to leave you some French to kill.’ He kicked the fallen man who had stayed down. ‘And you would do well to remember that Arianrhod has her arms around this fellow. I will see you again, young Thomas Blackstone.’

‘And I you.’

Gruffydd nodded at Blackstone and turned back to deploying his men. For a moment Blackstone felt a pang of fear, though less for himself, it seemed, than for those French who were yet to die at the hands of fierce Welsh spearmen, battle-hungry knights and the most lethal of killers on the battlefield, the archers.