Free Master of War by David Gilman Page A

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.

4
    Sir Gilbert and his men returned to the vanguard as Edward’s army moved relentlessly down the Cotentin peninsula, cutting a swathe seven miles wide across the countryside. Blackstone watched the tide approach across the hills. Like a voracious caterpillar it devoured everything in its path.
    Once the vanguard had camped for the night, Sir Gilbert reported to Godfrey de Harcourt and Sir Reginald Cobham. The old knight, with his close-cropped grey hair, was a soldier who would sleep in his armour and share the privations of the common man. When battle commenced Cobham would lead the assault, and the marshal of the army, the pugnacious William de Bohun, Earl of Northampton, would be shouting encouragement to the knight who had fought for years at his side. It was such relish for engaging and defeating the enemy that drove men like these and Sir Gilbert Killbere.
    ‘There’ll be no resistance,’ Sir Gilbert reported. ‘Sporadic attacks like the ambush is all we can expect.’
    ‘We’re beyond