To kill a king master of.., p.3
To Kill a King (Master of War), page 3
Meulon shrugged. ‘Then that would be an improvement.’
Longdon knew the leadership of even his hard-bitten Welsh archers was best served with jibes between the men. He turned to address them. ‘All right, before I give you rations of horse cake, I will see if Jack Halfpenny has kept a tight enough rein on you in my absence. The wind is freshening from the east, the air is cold, there’ll be snow soon enough. A day without food or drink standing in the butts will see how prepared you are for a battle line.’ He glanced at Blackstone. ‘We’ll be facing an enemy soon enough.’
‘Soon enough,’ said Blackstone.
*
The Prince of Wales and Aquitaine stood at the palace walls gazing over forest and village and across the breadth of the River Garonne beyond the flat countryside. Out of sight, two hundred miles south, lay the Pyrenees, his gateway to Spain. Blackstone and Killbere had been summoned and waited respectfully at the far end of the walkway until the Prince broke his reverie, glanced their way and smiled. Blackstone saw his cloak was wrapped closely around him. Whatever ailed the Prince had its claws into him more than the biting wind. The Prince beckoned them to join him. Blackstone felt a warm sense of welcome.
‘You are to go back to Castile, Thomas. Our father wishes it.’
‘To seize back the throne for Pedro?’ said Killbere.
The Prince sighed. ‘Aye.’
‘Highness, he is not worthy of your efforts,’ said the veteran knight.
‘We know. But he is a rightful king; his half-brother is a bastard usurper.’
‘Lord, this cruel and vindictive man will ruin you,’ said Blackstone.
‘Pedro is an ally,’ said the Prince. ‘We must honour our treaties.’
Blackstone shook his head. ‘You risk everything. For this man.’
‘Are you suggesting we will fail to win against Henry of Trastámara?’
‘If he is foolish enough to meet us face to face on the battleground, you will defeat him.’
‘Then,’ said the Prince, irritation creeping into his voice, ‘there is nothing more to discuss.’
Blackstone dared to block his path as he turned for the palace.
‘Highness, you open a door to a future fraught with danger for you and for Aquitaine. Gascony is not rich; the taxes you can raise will not cover the cost of an army. Can you not see how this will unfold?’
‘Thomas, do not lecture your Prince! Damn you. What do you know of our business?’
Blackstone did not back down. ‘I know my men will die and you risk more than the loss of a battle.’
Killbere grabbed Blackstone’s arm to restrain him. Blackstone tugged free. His head was up, his eyes challenging the Prince.
‘Pedro has agreed to pay for the cost of the war. For everything,’ insisted the Prince.
‘And you believe him?’ said Blackstone. ‘How? We brought him out of Castile with the clothes on his back and the jewellery he carried. He has no wealth. Castile is already wounded and war-weary. Sire, you will pay for this war and he will betray you.’
‘And you are now a fortune teller?’ said the Prince.
‘I speak out of loyalty. You will lose because you will have to pay thousands of men to do your bidding. Your own and those of the routiers. The French will send Henry troops, and when you are ruined, you will raise taxes and your loyal noblemen will object. And that is when the French King will strike against you. You will be weak. And he will declare war. All that you have gained here might be lost.’
The Prince turned away, controlling his temper. No one other than Thomas Blackstone would dare challenge him in such a defiant manner; and everything Blackstone had said was nothing more than he had already considered. ‘We have our duty, Thomas. You must lead us across the mountains.’ His eyes stung in the wind. His voice softened. ‘Come, we’ll talk in the warmth.’
Killbere gave Blackstone a wary look as they followed. If the Prince was this determined then nothing Blackstone could say would deter him from his course of action. He touched Blackstone’s arm.
‘I love a good fight as much as the next man, Thomas. He won’t be swayed.’
‘I know,’ said Blackstone. ‘But he’s wrong.’
CHAPTER FOUR
Blackstone and Killbere followed the Prince as a heavily studded chestnut door swung open. A servant stepped back as the Prince and his guests swept into an antechamber. Men-at-arms stood at strategic points in the corridors. The high office of the Prince’s chamberlain belonged to Sir Nigel Loring, not only an honoured Knight of the Garter and adviser to the Prince, but also the man responsible for the Prince’s safety. Blackstone caught sight of the tall, sallow-faced chamberlain at the far end of the corridor, standing ramrod straight, obviously waiting for his master to return. He bowed when he saw the Prince and ordered more doors to be opened; then he led the approaching men deeper into the palace.
The further they went, the more extravagant became the surroundings. Gold and silver plate; richly embroidered tapestries; silk coverings over windows rustling in the river’s breeze; fine wood tables the length of a room to seat a hundred guests; benches decorated with hand-carved birds; ceilings painted in varying colours: the skilled hands of craftsmen were evident everywhere. Blackstone had visited the Prince at Bordeaux before, but the palace’s furnishings were now even more magnificent. The Château de Langoiran had held Blackstone at the Prince’s pleasure: no dismal prison, it had sufficient comfort for any lord of a manor, but nothing could compare to this splendour. No wonder the Prince of Wales and Aquitaine was renowned for his lavish entertainment and extravagant generosity.
‘We fight and die for this,’ said Killbere under his breath.
‘We fight and die for the King and his son the Prince,’ Blackstone answered quietly.
Sir Nigel led the Prince into a room more intimate in scale than the others, yet the fireplace burning split logs was large enough that six men could stand shoulder to shoulder inside its opening. The Prince shrugged free of his cloak.
‘There is nothing more to discuss. You take us through the mountains, Thomas. You know the route. We put the King back on the throne at Burgos.’
Killbere glanced out of the window towards the Pyrenees he could not see. ‘Highness, at this time of year? Another month or two, perhaps, when the thaw begins further south.’
The Prince smiled. ‘When have we ever shied away from the difficult, Gilbert? Not once since we shared the battlefield at Crécy. We will not delay our duty to our father. We know our enemy. Who did you fight to get the King here?’
‘The Breton, du Guesclin. He was their best commander. The French paid for enough routiers to kick Pedro’s arse hard. If we hadn’t dragged him out of Burgos, he’d’ve been skinned and fed to the crows,’ said Blackstone.
‘Aye, but don’t forget Hugh Calveley,’ said Killbere. ‘He made a damned fortune fighting against Pedro.’
‘But he never raised a blade against us,’ said Blackstone. ‘Had he done so, we would be crow bait. He had a right to sell his sword.’
‘Sir Hugh is now fighting with us again,’ said the Prince.
Killbere snorted. ‘He helps puts the bastard half-brother on the throne, makes his fortune and then returns to serve you, highness?’
Blackstone levelled his gaze at the Prince. ‘An English knight who has defied his Prince. Can he ever be trusted?’
‘The order not to support Pedro’s brother was received too late to stop him. So, this is why we must strike back now, Thomas. Henry of Trastámara holds Castile, but he has paid off the Bretons and the routiers and now he is isolated. He has too few troops to muster against us. Calveley and others now sell themselves to my cause, Thomas. We are all soldiers of fortune.’
‘But Trastámara will soon have reinforcements,’ said Blackstone. ‘The moment we start through the mountains, the French will make sure he is supported.’
The Prince leaned against the mantelpiece and pushed the heel of his boot against a log. Sparks flew. ‘Before your return to our good favour and need of you, Thomas, our brother John sailed from Portsmouth. He leads five hundred men, mostly archers. He will await us at Dax.’
Blackstone glanced at Killbere, who shrugged. The Prince’s younger brother John of Gaunt might be travelling the length of western France through the extended territory now held by the English, but his archers were still too few to wage war. Were their numbers nothing more than a gesture from the English King to his son, the Prince?
‘Highness, five hundred bowmen?’ said Blackstone. ‘We would be fortunate to hold one flank against a concerted attack. We cannot retake Castile with only them and the men-at-arms you have here. Man and horse will die in the passes, snow and ice will lose us supplies—’
The Prince’s raised hand silenced Blackstone’s complaint. ‘Our own retinue accompanies us, and we have drawn Gascons and English captains to us. Eustache d’Aubricourt brings his men; Sir John Chandos has recruited more from the east. Loyal Gascons and Bretons already approach Dax as the rallying point. We have the men, Thomas.’
‘Aye, lord, but what kind of men? I have loyal Gascons among my own, but who is it that Chandos brings with him?’ said Blackstone.
‘Garciot du Châtel, Bertucat d’Albret, among others. They have hundreds with them.’
‘Murdering bastards, them and their followers,’ Killbere blurted, followed by a look of remorse at his outburst.
The Prince showed no sign of irritation. ‘Gilbert, we have need of battle-hardened men. They will be commanded by us, our brother and Chandos. You and Thomas will lead and do what is necessary when the time comes. But now is the time to strike.’
‘But at this time of year we will make slow progress through the passes, lord,’ said Killbere.
‘How long to breach the mountains?’ said the Prince.
‘How many men?’ said Blackstone.
The Prince hesitated. ‘Seven, perhaps eight thousand or more.’
Blackstone’s mind’s eye saw the snaking column of men and horses laden for war, encumbered by royal servants. They would have to move through the King of Navarre’s territory and if he had been bought off by the enemy, then blocking passes before they reached Castile would require only a handful of men at every turn in the road.
The Prince read his thoughts. ‘Charles of Navarre has agreed not to contest the passes. We made our feelings clear to him. Better for him not to stand in our way. He had struck a deal with Henry of Trastámara to deny us access but that deal is no more. He will not fight with us, but he will not impede our approach.’
‘How did you convince him?’ said Blackstone. ‘We have no men near Pamplona.’
‘It is well known now that you are the only man who can threaten a king. We told him we would send you.’
So, the Prince was one step ahead and had secured the route through the untrustworthy Navarre’s territory. Yet Blackstone knew the self-serving King Charles would protect those passes in word, not deed, no matter what threat was levelled. And the new King Henry of Castile would trust Charles of Navarre as little as did Blackstone. There would be raiders waiting to ambush them; not as many, perhaps, as the Castilian would like, but enough to hamper and kill. Once again, it would be Blackstone’s men who would root them out. And then, once past Pamplona, they could strike at Burgos. It was a wretched business to put a vile king back on his throne.
Blackstone saw the flush of blood on the Prince’s face. Was it the heat of the fire or the prospect of battle that invigorated the warrior prince? His spirits had lifted, his demeanour now more like the fighting man Blackstone knew. Despite his reservations about the campaign, Blackstone felt it too. The surge of aggression that flung men into war fuelled their very existence.
‘Thomas?’ said the Prince. ‘How long to get through the mountains and reach Pamplona?’
‘With good fortune on our side, ten days.’
‘Then we tread the pilgrim’s route and I shall pray to God to embrace our cause and bless us with good fortune.’
Killbere snorted snot back into his throat and spat, then wiped an arm across his mouth. ‘Let us hope He has time to listen. There’s many a voice needing him when the killing starts.’
CHAPTER FIVE
Blackstone and his captains looked across the landscape to where pennons and banners fluttered in the stiffening breeze. Flecks of cold rain, the advance guard of threatening snow, swept across the gathered army.
‘God’s tears, Sir Thomas, we’re leading an army as large as the Prince had at Poitiers,’ said John Jacob. ‘There must be near enough eight thousand gathered here.’
Blackstone grinned. ‘And more. Closer to ten. And better that we are in the vanguard to make the choices needed to put that evil bastard back on his throne, John. The less we have to do with him, the better.’ He turned in the saddle. ‘William, you served in the Prince’s guard. He would be pleased to greet you if you care to ride to his pavilion and rouse him and the murdering dog turd of a king. Tell him we advance for Saint-Jean-Pied-de-Port and he is to follow. Be sure to say, “at his pleasure”.’
‘At his leisure, more like,’ said Killbere.
William Ashford spurred his horse forward from where he rode with the other captains, Renfred, Meulon and the Gascon, Aicart. ‘With respect, Sir Thomas, would the Prince not prefer to be told by you?’
‘I dare say, but he has already advised against me being too close to Pedro, who remains convinced I killed his High Steward.’
‘Even though it has been firmly denied by the Prince,’ said Killbere. ‘Pedro was barely placated by his insistence on our innocence in the matter.’
‘Which proves he is not as stupid as he looks,’ said Will Longdon.
‘It’s a pity you could not have cut Pedro’s throat that night,’ said Killbere, ‘but that would have dishonoured the good men we lost in his rescue. William, he would not take kindly to being so close to Thomas and if the fool lost his head and there was bloodletting, then the King’s Master of War would rot in a dungeon never to be seen again.’
William Ashford smiled. ‘Then best I deliver the message. Is there an order of march, Sir Thomas?’
‘Tell him we lead, and our scouts will be three hours ahead. Chandos follows – we’ll need men-at-arms at our back if there’s fighting in the passes. Then the Prince with his brother John and his archers at his rear, and finally d’Aubricourt and any of the other skinners.’
Ashford needed no further command and spurred his horse towards the heights and the Prince’s pavilion.
Killbere sighed as he gathered his reins. ‘Well, Thomas, if I thought we could convince Henry of Trastámara not to side with the French, I would happily arrange for Pedro to have an accident as we cross the mountains and beg the forgiveness of those we lost. Then no blame can be laid at our door.’
Blackstone heeled the bastard horse forward. ‘Do you not see it yet, Gilbert? Our time with the Prince is drawing to a close. Getting Pedro back to Burgos will be only a small part in our lives, as surely as what ails the Prince will eventually take him back to England and then… then the French will declare war. And if the Prince abandons Aquitaine then he has no need for us. This is a fool’s errand. We endure it while thinking beyond Pedro of Castile.’
*
Aquitaine’s coast lay shimmering in the distant west as Blackstone led the army higher. They had little time to traverse the mountains. Daylight hours were short. The Prince had gambled and amended Blackstone’s order of march by splitting the army into separate groups over two separate days for the crossing. Blackstone led the vanguard, followed by Sir John Chandos and John of Gaunt. Once they were across, backmarkers would guide the Prince. The decision risked missing what was at the moment undemanding weather. Three miles beyond Saint-Jean-Pied-de-Port’s town gate, the road climbed uphill and several miles further became little more than a track. Heavily laden men in full armour with their weapons would soon have to negotiate a narrow passage where a wrong-footed horse could send man and beast plummeting to their death.
‘Chandos and Gaunt’s men move slowly, Sir Thomas,’ said John Jacob. ‘Waiting through December and January for his brother to arrive was hard for them, and made them unfit – and we’re barely through the foothills. Steeper ground will slow them even more.’
The veteran knight grunted. ‘He’s right, Thomas. And every guide who has ever taken pilgrims through the mountains to Compostela warns not to travel in winter. That knowledge has been passed down for a hundred years and more. And here we are barely out of Saint-Jean and half of them have not yet reached the town. We are not even six hundred feet up and they drag their arses. How will it be when we scale four thousand? Thomas, we have only a few daylight hours to travel in. This plan is going to go wrong. I feel it in my water.’
‘You piss too often,’ said Blackstone. ‘We press on and they follow. There can be no other way. It is a simple plan. It’s the only plan. Seventeen miles and nine hours of daylight to get through the pass. It is what it is.’
The veteran knight cleared his throat and spat. ‘I look ahead, Thomas, and can’t see the peaks for the mist. Rain, hail, snow and treachery await us.’
‘And?’ said Blackstone.
‘And? There’s nothing more to be said.’
‘Then we are blessed with the chance of silence,’ said Blackstone. ‘Spur them on, Gilbert, I need to see matters for myself. Will? John? With me.’
Blackstone heeled the bastard horse as John Jacob and Will Longdon followed.
Meulon rode alongside Killbere. ‘Sir Thomas doesn’t see any honour in this venture. He’s anxious to sniff out the murdering scum who lie in wait,’ he said. ‘He has better skills than a hunting dog.’
Killbere sighed. ‘After what we endured getting Pedro to safety, he’s right. And the Prince knows it as well. It’s the King who demanded we put the vile creature back on his throne. I fancy I would rather be in bed with a big-hipped woman than shrinking my balls atop a freezing cold mountain.’
