Flames leapt as oil and dry kindling ignited. Within moments the tongues of flame reached hungrily for the roof. The heavy thatch, matted with moss and age, smouldered with brown, choking smoke. Blackstone and Killbere joined the men at the rear as billowing smoke obscured the moon, sparks swirling upwards as the thatch beneath caught and then leapt through the support timbers. Blackstone nodded to John Jacob, who wrenched open the door. Blackstone and Killbere lunged inside. The smoke was lower than the ceiling. Drunken men blinked in confusion. The two Englishmen pushed past the first tables and reached the bound women, wide-eyed with terror. Killbere’s axe cut into the rope and wooden beam as Blackstone shoved them to the door into the arms of the waiting men. They were pushed swiftly away.

Blackstone and Killbere came out, an arm across mouth and nose, eyes streaming from the smoke. The night air soon cleared their stinging eyes. Two of Blackstone’s men stood on each side of the door. De Hayle’s men fought each other to escape, jamming the door frame. Axes fell; their bodies tumbled. Men shocked sober by the fire gathered their wits and kept pushing through, the weight of their numbers forcing the men ahead over the threshold. Those who escaped the axe fell onto the raised shields and soul-stealing blades of Blackstone’s men.

Chaos swept the town. Doors slammed open as half-dressed routiers ran into the night. Meulon and Renfred’s men blocked the streets. Some of the mercenaries tried to fight their way through but they were unready and died in agony. Those that turned to escape ran into the square where hell’s jaw gaped, ready to devour them. Heat sucked air from men’s lungs and seared their skin. They faced armed men and were killed as efficiently as those trying to escape the tavern. The roof collapsed; a whoosh of air and debris flared into the night sky, hurtling the condemned remains into the devil’s embrace. Timbers crackled; clay walls burned red. Killers more disciplined than the mercenaries pressed down the narrow streets, driving the desperate before them into the square. The encircled men, those who survived, threw down their arms. They knelt in surrender and heard a voice call out from somewhere in the night’s torment that they be spared. The man who issued the command strode out of the night’s conflagration. One of the mercenaries cursed, recognizing the scar-faced knight who stood before them as Thomas Blackstone and calling him a son of a whore. The veteran knight at Blackstone’s side rammed his sword point into the man’s throat.

No one else damned Thomas Blackstone that night.

CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT