Free Master of War by David Gilman Page B

the peninsula now. We should strike eastwards and attack Caen,’ Sir Reginald said. ‘The city is like a boil on your arse. It needs lancing.’
    The Earl of Northampton scratched two lines in the dirt with his dagger. ‘It’s the major obstacle in our path towards Paris; the King knows that. Battle has to be joined there before we can move on. We need to cross the Seine and then the Somme, and the devil will task us on that. We can’t leave Bertrand’s thousands at our backs. On to Caen before he fortifies the place further.’
    ‘St Lô first,’ de Harcourt told them.
    ‘Godfrey, there’s no point. We all know of your enmity for Bertrand, but he has enough sense to know he can’t defend that against us,’ Northampton told him.
    ‘If he’s there I want the bastard’s head on a pole. Three of my friends were butchered there. Their skulls are on the gateway. They were Norman knights who swore fealty to Edward. He’ll want his revenge as much as I. St Lô, I say, and then Caen,’ de Harcourt insisted.
    Sir Reginald looked to the earl. ‘Well, it’s a rich city. There’s wine and cloth for the taking.’
    ‘But it slows the advance!’ Northampton argued. ‘It’s what Bertrand wants. To slow us down. God’s teeth! There’s a French army coming from the south-west and Philip is moving to cut us off at Rouen. This diversion will cost us more than it’s worth.’
    ‘When the King learns of its riches, and the fate of the men loyal to him, he will want St Lô plundered and burned,’ the baron replied.
    Sir Gilbert stayed silent. He had no definite proof that the French harassing force had gone to defend the rich city. The Earl of Northampton looked to his knight. ‘Not much to argue there, Gilbert, but you have an opinion, no doubt. You always have.’
    ‘If I were Bertrand I would abandon St Lô. Sir Reginald is right, it’s rich and it’s a temptation that’s hard to resist, but Bertrand will run like the fox he’s proving to be. He won’t leave troops there; he’ll already be fortifying Caen. St Lô is the bait to keep us wriggling a while longer.’
    ‘But it’s a fat worm,’ the Earl of Northampton conceded.
    The men turned away, but Godfrey de Harcourt caught Sir Gilbert’s arm.
    ‘If we are to attack St Lô, there is another matter for you and your men,’ he said.
    Except for Blackstone, the archers replenished their weapons from the wagonloads of white-painted staves. They tested and drew the hemp cords, discarded one stave in favour of another, until each man was satisfied he had the bow that best suited him. They were made mostly of English ash and elm, fine weapons for any archer, but inferior to Blackstone’s yew bow.
    The men each took another two dozen arrows in an arrow bag, and readied themselves to ride out again with men chosen by Elfred, who had been made centenar by Sir Gilbert. There was a solemn mood among the survivors of the fire. Comrades had been lost in the barn and Blackstone’s friend was a rotting corpse hanging from a broad-leafed chestnut tree. Combat at least offered men the chance to die fighting their enemy, but dying trapped like rats and burned alive was a perverse act of the devil, defying God’s will. So God would not help any villagers who found themselves at the archers’ mercy – there would be none.
    Blackstone was sitting with his brother and Elfred, as Will Longdon cursed the bastard French cowards to the dead men’s replacements.
    ‘Blackstone!’ Sir Gilbert bellowed.
    He got to his feet, gestured for his brother to stay, and walked quickly to his captain, who turned on his heel towards their com­manders’ banners. The lame de Harcourt watched the young archer as he bowed, but Blackstone’s eyes had gone past the Norman. Twenty paces away, talking to Sir Richard Cobham and the Earl of Northampton, was the young Prince of Wales. His pavilion had been pitched and servants scurried, as cooks prepared food. Blackstone’s mouth watered, he