SCOURGE OF WOLVES
David Gilman
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About Scourge of Wolves
Winter, 1361
After two decades of conflict, Edward III has finally agreed a treaty with the captive French King, John II. In return for his freedom, John has ceeded vast tracts of territory to the English. But for five long years mercenary bands and belligerent lords have fought over the carcass of his kingdom. They will not give up their hard-won spoils to honour a defeated king’s promises.
If the English want their prize, they’ll have to fight for it.
As he battles to enforce Edward’s claim, Thomas Blackstone will see his name blackened, his men slaughtered, his family hunted. He will be betrayed and, once again, he’ll face the might of the French army on the field. But this time there will be no English army at his back. He’ll face the French alone.
Contents
Welcome Page
About Scourge of Wolves
Dedication
Epigraph
Character List
Prologue
Map: 1391
Part One: In the King’s Name
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Part Two: The Valley of Sighs
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Chapter Twenty-Five
Chapter Twenty-Six
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Chapter Thirty
Chapter Thirty-One
Chapter Thirty-Two
Chapter Thirty-Four
Chapter Thirty-Five
Chapter Thirty-Six
Chapter Thirty-Seven
Chapter Thirty-Eight
Chapter Thirty-Nine
Chapter Forty
Chapter Forty-One
Chapter Forty-Two
Chapter Forty-Three
Chapter Forty-Four
Chapter Forty-Five
Chapter Forty-Six
Chapter Forty-Seven
Chapter Forty-Eight
Chapter Forty-Nine
Chapter Fifty
Chapter Fifty-One
Part Three: Brotherhood of the Sword
Chapter Fifty-Two
Chapter Fifty-Three
Chapter Fifty-Four
Chapter Fifty-Five
Chapter Fifty-Six
Chapter Fifty-Seven
Chapter Fifty-Eight
Chapter Fifty-Nine
Chapter Sixty
Chapter Sixty-One
Chapter Sixty-Two
Chapter Sixty-Three
Chapter Sixty-Four
Chapter Sixty-Five
Chapter Sixty-Six
Chapter Sixty-Seven
Chapter Sixty-Eight
Chapter Sixty-Nine
Chapter Seventy
Historical Notes
Acknowledgements
About David Gilman
About the Master of War series
Also by David Gilman
An Invitation from the Publisher
Copyright
For Suzy, as always
And also for my friend James McFarlane, who was there at the beginning and helped shape the words
After twenty-three years of fighting King Edward III has agreed a treaty and released the French monarch from captivity in England, allowing him to return home. France is in chaos, flayed by mercenary bands, a situation which initially suits Edward as it keeps the French King from regaining control. But the vast tracts of territory gained by the English need to be claimed – by force if necessary. French cities’ and towns’ loyalties cleave them to their own King but reluctantly, one by one, they succumb and agree to be ruled by the English. However, not all towns are so easily convinced. Belligerent lords and self-serving mercenary captains refuse. Thomas Blackstone and the renowned knight and King’s negotiator, Sir John Chandos, are tasked with bringing the recalcitrant defaulters under English control.
Outnumbered and still hunted by the French, Thomas Blackstone and his men face betrayal and a final suicidal mission.
CHARACTER LIST
*Sir Thomas Blackstone
*Henry: Blackstone’s son
THOMAS BLACKSTONE’S MEN
*Sir Gilbert Killbere
*Meulon: Norman captain
*John Jacob: captain
*Perinne: wall builder and soldier
*Renfred: German man-at-arms and captain
*Will Longdon: veteran archer and centenar
*Jack Halfpenny: archer and ventenar
*Ralph Tait: man-at-arms
*Quenell: archer and ventenar
*Beyard: Gascon captain
*Haskyn: archer
*Fowler: archer
*Peter Garland: archer
*Othon: man-at-arms
FRENCH NOBLEMEN AND MEN-AT-ARMS
Count Jean de Tancarville: French Royal Chamberlain and general of the northern army
Jacques de Bourbon, Count de la Marche, Constable of France
John de Montfort
Marshal Jean de Boucicaut; chief French commissioner
Marshal Arnoul d’Audrehem
Count de Vaudémont: Royal Lieutenant of Champagne
Charles de Blois
Louis de Harcourt: Royal Lieutenant of Normandy
Jean de Grailly, Captal de Buch: Gascon lord
*Alain de la Grave
*Mouton de la Grave: Lord of Sainte-Bernice
*Guillouic: Breton mercenary
*Robert de Rabastens
*Sir Godfrey d’Albinet
*Bernard de Charité
*Countess Catherine de Val
ENGLISH KNIGHTS AND NOBLEMEN
Henry of Grosmont, Duke of Lancaster
Sir John Chandos
Sir William Felton: Seneschal of Poitou
Sir Henry le Scrope: governor of Calais and Guînes
ENGLISH AND WELSH MERCENARIES
*William Cade
James Pipe
Robert Knolles
John Amory
John Cresswell
*Gruffydd ap Madoc
ENGLISH ROYALTY
King Edward III of England
Edward of Woodstock, Prince of Wales
FRENCH ROYALTY
King John II (the Good) of France
The Dauphin Charles: the French King’s son and heir
Charles, King of Navarre: claimant to the French throne, King John’s son-in-law
ITALIAN ROYALTY, KNIGHTS AND CLERICS
Joanna, Countess of Provence, Queen of Naples
Marquis de Montferrat: Piedmontese nobleman
Count Amadeus VI of Savoy
*Niccolò Torellini: Florentine priest
ITALIAN ASSASSIN
Filippo Bascoli
FRENCH CLERICS, OFFICIALS AND MERCENARIES:
Pope Innocent VI
&
nbsp; Jean de la Roquetaillade: Franciscan monk
*Prior Albert: Prior of Saint-André-de-Babineaux
*Brother Pibrac: monk
*Brother Dizier: monk
*Brother Gregory: monk
Simon Bucy: counsellor
Hélie Meschin: Gascon mercenary
* Indicates fictional characters
PROLOGUE
Leicester, England
March 1361
King Edward III stood at the entrance to the room where Henry of Grosmont, Duke of Lancaster, his lifelong friend and adviser, lay dying. Lancaster raised his hand to stop the King from entering his bedchamber, fearing that the plague, which had once again started its journey of death across Europe, had now reached him.
Edward hesitated. He was blessed by God in victory and peace: should he challenge his own divine good fortune? He strode into the room and pulled an embroidered stool towards his friend’s bed. The servants had been dismissed the moment the King mounted the stairs. The words exchanged between these two old warriors would be as private as any confessional. No whispers were to filter down towards waiting servants.
‘No, my lord. I beg you. I know not what ails me but it will take me. Step away.’
Edward reached out a hand and clasped his friend’s. ‘Age will bear us all away when it is good and ready, Henry. It is all in God’s hands.’
The dying man wheezed, ‘I am glad it takes me before you, sire. I would not bear the grief were it otherwise.’
Edward squeezed his friend’s cold fingers. ‘So many battles, so many victories and so many of us leaving less than our own shadow on the land,’ he said.
‘You’re wrong.’
‘We are never wrong. We are the King,’ said Edward, smiling.
‘Ah, were it so, eh? No struggle with our own conscience or with those who would try to defeat us by fair means or foul.’ Lancaster relented and reached out to grip the King’s arm. ‘You bless the realm with a burning sunlight that will cast your shadow across this great nation for lifetimes to come.’
Edward’s gaze settled with compassion on his ailing friend. How much time was there for any of them? The peace with France was barely delivered; more trials and contests would come their way. But those who had been at Edward’s side since he seized the throne as a boy were becoming fewer and fewer in number. The Duke was one of those few.
‘What is it we can do for you?’
Lancaster shook his head. ‘Nothing for me, Edward. Everything for England.’ Even lying on his deathbed the renowned Duke’s abiding concern was for the nation he had helped Edward build. ‘A month past we saw the portents, the lights in the sky, the eclipse. They say the rain turned to blood in Boulogne. It heralds hard times again, Edward. The pestilence comes more quickly than the dawn. You must look to who can control the territories you have fought so hard for.’
‘Our firstborn, Edward, will govern Aquitaine. Lionel will go to Ireland. The Scottish already give us their allegiance.’
‘And your sons and those they command will serve you well, but our old fraternity is lost. Brave Northampton is dead; Thomas Holland and Reginald Cobham are ailing and many others are frail, taken one by one as night steals away the day. All gone. And I soon to follow. You have pursued your ambition, Edward. You have achieved greatness for this kingdom and such an inheritance must have its guardian. When the time comes who among the many leads by common consent? A man of loyalty who will speak his mind even at great risk to himself?’
Lancaster gave Edward a querying look. The King knew full well of whom he spoke.
‘Blackstone,’ said the King quietly.
Lancaster smiled. ‘As you said, dear friend. You are never wrong.’
1361
FROM SAINT-AUBIN-LA-FÈRE TO CALAIS
PART ONE
IN THE KING’S NAME
Limousin France
December 1361
CHAPTER ONE
Thomas Blackstone’s men rode to their deaths.
As they eased their horses through the town’s narrow streets Sir Gilbert Killbere watched the townspeople who moments before had cheered their arrival. Now, their faces filled with panic, some quickly turned away; others scuttled behind pillars. Killbere knew immediately that he and his men had been lured into a trap by the ill-named Breton lord, Bernard de Charité, who commanded the citadel of Saint-Aubin-la-Fère. Before he could call out a warning crossbowmen appeared on the walls and the first bolts struck home. Horses reared; men fell. An animal-like cry then soared up from the citizens as lust for the Englishmen’s death twisted their features anew. Some dared to dash forward onto the bloodied ground and seize the fallen men’s weapons. Soldiers appeared from the side streets and shop doorways and roughly pushed the townsmen aside to plunge sword and knife into Blackstone’s wounded and dying men.
Killbere heeled his mount as his sword slashed two soldiers reaching up for him. Swinging the blade in swift practised arcs he slew three more as his war horse kicked and turned. Killbere was no stranger to the mêlée of war. He had fought at Blackstone’s side since the boy became a man and together they had taken part in every great battle and victory the English had secured in France and Italy. Now he was going to die in a piss-stinking alleyway.
Swordsmen, jabbing low, thrust their blades deep into his horse’s flanks and chest. The wild-eyed animal bellowed in pain and Killbere cursed as he crashed down into the mud. Desperately trying to parry the blows that assaulted him, he ripped his shield free from its saddle ties and rammed his sword upwards into the groin of one of his attackers. In his agony the man barged into the others while Killbere, twisting, managed to haul the shield across his body. He felt the heavy impact as a mace slammed into it. A blade jabbed at his side; slithering away, he struck out at the man’s ankles and felt the steel cut deeply through unprotected flesh. The man fell, writhing, further obstructing the attackers, his screams joining the cacophony that echoed off the town’s walls.
One of the attackers threw himself across Killbere’s shield, smothering him with his weight as others grabbed his arms and yanked him upright. They had him now. Sweat and blood stung his eyes. He saw Blackstone’s men going down from the overwhelming assault. Jack Halfpenny’s archers had had no chance to unsheathe their war bows so the battle-hardened men, the backbone of King Edward’s army, fought with archer’s knife, sword and raw courage. An English archer’s bow was of little use in such a confined place. Crossbowmen were better suited to close-quarter ambush and de Charité had used them well. Killbere saw the young ventenar jig left and right, crying out for the twenty archers he commanded to fall back, but most were already dead or dying so Halfpenny made one last desperate assault on the two men who cornered him. His archer’s strength gave him the advantage and he smashed his left fist into one man’s face, half turned on his heel and slashed the long archer’s knife across the other’s throat. Killbere struggled, brought up an elbow and felt bone break in his captor’s face. In that split second he saw Halfpenny take a stride towards him. The lad was already wounded in his side but, seeing Killbere being held, was coming to his aide.
‘No!’ bellowed Killbere. ‘Get Thomas!’ The warning shout was barely out when those who held him clubbed him to the ground. The last thing Killbere saw before a sickening darkness engulfed him was Jack Halfpenny running for his life. If anyone had a chance to escape it was the lithe archer. That, at least, gave the old fighter a sense of satisfaction.
* * *
By nightfall the lifeless bodies of Thomas Blackstone’s men hung from the gibbet in the town’s square. Every man displayed evidence of the wounds resulting from the betrayal and ambush by the town’s lord. Shadows danced in the torchlight as Saint-Aubin’s men and women, relieved from the usual curfew, were permitted to desecrate the dead with knives and staves, making the corpses sway from the assault. Nineteen more of Blackstone’s fighters dangled outside of the high town walls as a warning from Bernard de Charité.
Halfpenny had escape
d the slaughter amid a hue and cry that echoed around the walls. Clasping a hand over the wound in his side he had forced himself to run hard and fast despite the pain through the labyrinthine alleys until he found a niche in a wall that he could just squeeze into. When darkness fell he had concealed his bow in a narrow crevice between pillar and lintel. It had been his father’s war bow and its heartwood that had bent beneath father and son’s hand was as precious to Jack Halfpenny as the memory of the man who had taught him to use it. Pushing aside his regret he made his way through the shadows until he reached the high walls. Once the night watch had turned their backs to cheer the brutality being inflicted on the corpses in the square below, he skirted the parapet. Grasping the hemp rope that held the dangling body of one of his men on the outside wall he lowered himself twenty feet down. The corpse sagged as Halfpenny clutched at its clothing. Dried blood soiled the gaping mouth and swollen tongue, half severed by its teeth when the noose tightened. Halfpenny turned his face away from the man he had once commanded, hoping his weight would not tear the man’s head from his neck as he slithered down the body, using it to gain extra length before having to release his grip and plunge into the dense briar patch thirty feet below. He prayed that the scattered moonlight did not conceal rocks beneath the thick foliage as he let go of the dead man and fell into the night.
* * *
The following day’s weak sun failed to burn away the mist that clung to the frost-covered land. Ignoring the morning chill and the skin-splitting roughness of the stone they handled, Perinne and Meulon worked alongside their men to heft stone onto the defensive wall of a ruined building. The rising ground gave the derelict barn a commanding position over the surrounding countryside. They were twelve miles from where the ambush took place in Saint-Aubin-la-Fère and even though the shelter was temporary Blackstone had demanded a low defensive wall be built. He and his men were tasked by the King’s negotiator, Sir John Chandos, with securing towns ceded to King Edward in the peace treaty. At each village or town the burghers were called upon to pledge their allegiance to the English King. Some bemoaned what was asked of them, but eventually agreed when they gazed down from their walls at the battle-hardened men who made the demand. Others quickly saw the advantage of being under the protection of a strong warrior king while their own recently released monarch languished in Paris, bankrupt and sorely pressed to keep control over what was left of his kingdom. France was soured by destroyed crops, poisoned wells and the bitterness of defeat. Mercenaries who had fought on both sides of the war ravaged what little food and supplies remained. There were some French lords who resisted handing over their towns to Blackstone and Chandos until money was exchanged, at which point French loyalties were switched with remarkable ease. Those who resisted most fiercely were mercenaries who served the Breton lords. A civil war was raging in Brittany and lands as far south as the Limousin and Poitou were held by each of the warring factions. Saint-Aubin-la-Fère was one such town. Payment had been agreed for the Breton lord to turn over the town and for the burghers to swear allegiance to the English Crown. Sir Gilbert Killbere had taken twenty archers and as many hobelars into the fortified town to deliver the payment and receive their signed agreement.