Master of War

by David Gilman

  On these cold winter mornings, de Harcourt would stand at the window wrapped in his cloak against the freezing air and watch his pupil practise time and again. Secretly observing Blackstone gave him mixed feelings of both satisfaction and envy. Blackstone still lacked the capability of fighting effectively toe to toe, but his skills were sufficient for de Harcourt to think that he could pit him against any of the squires who had accompanied their masters over the past weeks. In truth, he could pit him against some of the knights themselves, because Blackstone’s ferocity was something only the most skilled swordsman would be able to parry and turn to his advantage. There was still a fundamental flaw in the way Blackstone attacked an opponent, but de Harcourt could not yet see how to change the archer’s faults. The twinge of envy came from the knowledge that someone from a humble beginning had the quick intelligence to learn and to speak plainly about the meaning of honour. There was no doubt in de Harcourt’s mind that the knight who had been Blackstone’s sworn lord, Sir Gilbert Killbere, had played a profound role in the boy’s maturity.

  De Harcourt had another concern. There were those among his guests who had taken Blackstone’s comments as personal insults. If they could not rise above their feelings and see that what the Englishman had said was true, then there might be one among them who would try to exact revenge. The older men had taken Blackstone’s words at face value, for, like de Harcourt himself, they knew that the impetuousness and poor decision-making of the French King still underlay his poor leadership. It was the younger men who bridled at the hurtful truth. It would most likely be William de Fossat who would make some kind of challenge against Blackstone. And his violence would be difficult to temper and almost impossible for de Harcourt to stop once his hospitality ended. If emotions ran high enough then a collective anger from the younger men could result in a direct assault against the archer. And if that happened de Harcourt would have no choice but to defend him and that would drive a wedge as sharp as any blade between him and the others.

  He was about to turn back into the room when he saw one of the barons making his way towards Blackstone in the training yard. He couldn’t see the man’s face but he knew it wasn’t de Fossat. Then he realized that it was instead Louis de Vitry, who had been inflamed by Blackstone’s comments about the French monarch.

  ‘Blackstone!’ de Vitry called.

  Blackstone turned and saw the young nobleman, flushed with anger and determination.

  ‘You want me, my lord?’ Blackstone said, feeling his own bel­liger­ence rise. He was already warmed up from his sword practice and if this Norman wanted a fight Blackstone would not back down. The wooden sword in his hand would be useless against the blade that de Vitry carried and he quickly looked around for another weapon. There was a pitchfork near the feed store but it would take half a dozen strides to reach it by which time de Vitry could have his sword clear of its scabbard and deliver a fatal blow. No sooner had he dismissed the thought than de Vitry unbuckled the scabbard and picked up a training sword.

  ‘You need to be taught some manners. I’m a guest here, but beating a servant means nothing.’

  ‘I serve no one in this house, so that’s your first mistake,’ Black­stone answered, watching the man’s eyes, reading his intentions. ‘And your second is that you’re not used to fighting a common man.’ Blackstone taunted him with a smile. ‘You could get hurt.’

  It was enough to ignite the man’s injured pride and with a yell he lunged. Blackstone sidestepped, positioned his guard, blocked the strikes, found his footing and attacked with a flurry of blows. De Vitry’s initial ill-tempered attack was soon brought under disciplined control and Blackstone knew that he was fighting a man who had as much skill as de Harcourt. But Blackstone’s demanding training and his tutor’s painful lessons now served him well. His opponent made an error in his stance, Blackstone struck him with a mighty blow and he staggered back. Blackstone’s focus saw nothing but the man’s face and, fearless of impending blows in retaliation, he took control of the encounter and pressed home his advantage. Instinctively he felt he could break the man’s defence, but then de Vitry counter-attacked with such skill that Blackstone was taken by surprise. Stinging blows from the wooden sword struck his thigh, chest and neck. The pain told him that he would have been dead in a real fight. He recovered quickly, held his guard, and pressed de Vitry back again, landing blows on arms and legs that would also have proved fatal in combat. For a moment neither man had the advantage and then, moving on the balls of his feet, Blackstone feinted left, drew in his opponent and struck with such force that de Vitry’s wooden sword broke in two. He stumbled back against the wall but Blackstone’s violence was such that he saw nothing more than beating the nobleman to his knees.

  De Vitry snatched up the pitchfork and lunged. The fight was now deadly. Blackstone parried, but like a pikeman in the front line of battle his opponent had the advantage. Blackstone twisted away from the deadly tines, but his leg failed him and he fell. De Vitry’s eyes were wide and a shout of victory left him as he lunged downwards. Blackstone half-turned, kicked, and caught the man’s legs. De Vitry lost his footing, the pitchfork slipping free from his muddied hands.

  Blackstone’s vision blurred. The violent concentration was no different from when he had cut and thrust his way towards his dying brother. He grappled forward, snatching at the man’s clothing, going for his throat, ready to strangle him. They closed and Blackstone grabbed de Vitry’s belt and head-butted him, barely missing his nose but slamming his forehead between his eyes. The nobleman howled in pain but held onto Blackstone. Their combined weight was too much for his weakened leg and they fell, giving de Vitry the chance he needed. The dagger from his belt was suddenly in his hand and raised back to strike down into Blackstone’s exposed throat.

  The moment before the blade fell another man suddenly blocked Blackstone’s vision. The bear of a man wrapped an arm around de Vitry’s chest and held him as if he were little more than a child. De Vitry struggled, almost smothered by the embrace, but kept there until the intruder’s words pierced his blind anger.

  ‘Louis! LOUIS! Enough! That’s enough! Listen to me! Do you hear? It’s enough now!’

  De Vitry back-pedalled in the dirt as William de Fossat loosened his grip. The most aggressive of Blackstone’s critics stood between the two men, calming the young Norman baron. ‘You cannot kill him, Louis. He’s done nothing to warrant that. Do you hear me now?’ he demanded of de Vitry, who gathered his senses and looked blankly up at the man who stood over him. He spat the phlegm and dirt from his mouth and nodded. ‘I hear you, William,’ he acknowledged and accepted the extended hand to pull him up.

  Blackstone was already on his feet, still alert for another attack. For all he knew de Fossat could take over from where he had stopped his friend and continue the assault.

  De Fossat looked at Blackstone. ‘You fight like a bear-baiting dog, Master Thomas.’

  ‘I’m a mongrel born and bred, my lord,’ Blackstone answered.

  Before any more could be said Jean de Harcourt stood at the entrance. ‘What is this? Do you assault my guests, Blackstone?’ he said, knowing full well what had happened, having seen everything from his vantage point.

  ‘I apologize, lord,’ Blackstone answered. ‘The count was keen to give me instruction and I caught him by surprise with my common brawling. I was trying to show him how we fight in an alehouse.’

  De Harcourt looked at de Vitry. ‘Is that how it was, Louis?’

  The young count’s anger had been quenched by the fight but he still hesitated in answering. ‘He does not explain things with the clarity that he did last night, Jean.’

  ‘Are you saying he’s lying?’

  De Vitry shook his head. ‘It was my intention to thrash him for his insulting remarks. It seems you’ve taught him a great deal in the months he’s been here. Had he been armed I believe he could have killed me. The fault of this is mine and mine alone. Blackstone suffocates the truth in order to
spare me humiliation.’ He bowed his head towards Blackstone in acknowledgement. ‘My humiliation is nothing compared to what my country endures, Master Blackstone, but I don’t need the likes of you to spare my feelings.’ He turned away, brushing the mud from his tunic, and then turned back. ‘Oh, and should we fight again, I’ll kill you before you have the opportunity to inflict injury upon me. Now, Jean, excuse me as I must change my clothes if we’re to hunt.’

  William de Fossat waited until the nobleman was out of ear­shot. His smile broke the darkness of his beard. ‘You’re a violent bastard, Thomas Blackstone. You get that leg of yours stronger and I’d think twice about challenging you myself.’ He snorted the cold morning moisture from his nose and spat. ‘Count de Vitry is a good swordsman and you need more practice, lad,’ he said and then turned to de Harcourt. ‘Jean, we’re all running a risk being here with this self-proclaimed mongrel. Pray that Louis doesn’t leak word to the King’s men. It’d be a pity to hand him over now he’s come this far.’ He laid a hand on de Harcourt’s shoulder. ‘Now, my balls are already freezing, can we get on with this damned hunt and kill ourselves a boar?’

  Wire-haired hounds and two mastiffs peered out from their wooden cages on the back of a cart that rumbled away down the forest track. Their wet noses sniffed the air but none whined, having not yet scented the boar. These hounds were trained to hunt the wild boar and corner it and they were mature, seasoned trackers that had survived many an encounter with that most dangerous of forest animals. Many a foolish young dog had tried to attack a boar, whose tusks could disembowel a horse. Once the hounds had run down the boar and the beast was cornered the mastiffs would be loosed. Their huge weight could hold down a boar’s muscled strength and then their jaws would clamp over its ears and neck. Only then when the creature had been subdued would a spear be thrust into its heart. There were exceptions to killing it from the safety of a spear’s length, for if the boar was not too big a bold hunter could go forward on foot and plunge a knife into its throat. But de Harcourt expected to lose dogs this day if they came across the particular boar he sought. He was an old survivor that carried scars from spear and arrow, and in all the years he had been rooting through these forests no one had dared go into the thickets after him. De Harcourt’s father had come close to killing him once, but this boar’s tusks were long and razor-sharp and projected a dozen inches from its lower jaw. De Harcourt had seen this huge boar rip dog and man when he charged from a thicket. Jean’s father had lost three dogs and a servant that day, when the cornered beast made his stand. This boar was a legend and when he was last seen de Harcourt’s forest workers had run for their lives. There was no necessity to exaggerate the beast’s size and weight. It would take more than one man to kill it and they would have to spear it quickly and pray no horses went down. It was this sense of anticipation, of facing down a worthy opponent, that sent the men impatiently ahead of the women and their escorts.

  The women rode astride their horses, accompanied by the knights’ pages as the squires rode ahead with their spear-carrying masters. Although the morning fog clung stubbornly to the treetops it would melt away within the next hour or so, and once they were deep inside the forest those shafts of sunlight would allow them to follow the dogs and their handlers. De Harcourt’s villeins had been watching for signs for months and reported that the furrows ploughed by the great boar’s snout were concentrated in one area. Everyone’s spirits were high. The women laughed and chattered.

  ‘It will be the perfect Christmas,’ Blanche de Harcourt shouted as the horses broke into a canter. ‘What better feast than a wild boar on a spit and its head on the table!’

  After his conflict with de Vitry, Jean de Harcourt had chastised his pupil. ‘You let him break your guard. You were thinking too much. Killing with a sword has to be as instinctive as using your war bow. Your eye and brain told you when to release a shaft. Neither is separate from the other. Each is attuned – heart, mind and eye. Instinctive – every damned part of you. I’ll not have you fail me, boy. I’ll take the sword to you myself and thrash you with it.’

  Blackstone had stood silently and taken his admonition. Jean de Harcourt seemed to be thinking something through, almost as if he struggled with himself to make a decision. His gaze followed the muddied figure of Louis de Vitry as he went back into the castle to change his clothes.

  ‘All right, let’s see if we can get your brain to work as well as that right arm of yours. Come with me.’

  Jean de Harcourt strode into his library, his dogs trotting at his heels. Their master clicked his fingers and pointed and they quickly settled themselves in front of the fire, their eyes still following his movements. The library had been his father’s, but his own upbring­ing of study and learning meant that he had spent many hours under the strict tutelage of a monk whose broken, dirt-engrained nails and stinking cassock were forever imprinted in his memory, as much as the lessons learnt and the beatings permitted by his father. His father had insisted on an education beyond that given a squire before he took on the years of service to become a knight.

  His was a great family whose ancestors reached back to Bernard the Dane, who was granted the territory that became Normandy. One of his forefathers, the Sire de Harcourt, commanded the archers who fought with William the Conqueror, the bastard Duke of Normandy, when he claimed the English throne. Another, Robert II, rode with Richard the Lionheart in crusade and served as a loyal and valued retainer. That both his father and his uncle, Sir Godfrey, had split the family over their diverse loyalties was a wound that would need longer healing than the young English­man’s injur­ies. And more painful. His father was old-fashioned, proud and arrogant, dismissive of a weak French King but who would never waiver in his allegiance to the crown. He was Captain of Rouen, the greatest city in Normandy. The son had begged the father to support Sir Godfrey. The English King had a legitimate right to the French throne. But his father’s deep-seated pride caught him by surprise. Jean de Harcourt was thirty years old, strong and lean, with strength to fight for hours on end, but the old man’s blow came so fast it put Jean on his knees. A Norman’s honour was his own, not for sale at a whorehouse, his father had spat at him. Jean would have gone with Sir Godfrey, but his duty lay with his father. And so it was that the family faced each other across that killing field. The battle’s savagery was beyond description and when his father went down, Jean helplessly watched him die, sword slaked in blood, visor up, blood spilling between his teeth as the arrows struck him. He went down with his charger, the churned ground holding him like a pagan spirit, refusing to release his dying body until the armoured horses in the following rank swept him up beneath their hooves, rolling and pounding his body into a battered mass of bone and blood.

  Jean’s hand found the document he sought. He turned to face the soaking wet Blackstone, who stood well back from the warmth of the fire, waiting for permission to move closer. There was arro­gance and defiance in that act alone, de Harcourt realized. Blackstone would not give anyone the satisfaction of seeing his need. Well, that suited de Harcourt. He felt no compulsion to allow him such comfort. There were moments when his memory made him want to punish the English archer, not help him, and having Blackstone under his roof was causing a rift between him and his friends, nobles he needed to have on his side. It took a few moments for de Harcourt to subdue his nagging anger, but he reminded himself that fighting a war was a gamble. Good fortune had deserted them at Crécy and one young Englishman, placed in his care, could not be the whipping boy for a nation’s humiliation. Besides, he grudgingly admitted to himself, Blackstone’s character and courage demanded respect.

  He tossed the scroll to Blackstone. ‘You don’t need to be able to read to understand that,’ he said and then joined the dogs at the fireside as Blackstone unfurled the scroll.

  ‘My ancestors brought that back when they fought the Saracens. They understood the human body in a way we do not. Our phys­icians are ignorant peasants compared to them. Y
ou can read a builder’s plan, so you should be able to comprehend that,’ he said and waited while what he hoped might be the missing keystone to Blackstone’s fighting skills was given to him. What he held was a faded drawing of a naked man, arms outstretched to touch the circle around him. Another line bisected the torso across his waist, and two matching lines in the form of a cross cut the man’s body from each shoulder down through his hip. Within each segment vital organs were shown – heart, lungs, liver, stomach – it was a drawing of God’s perfect cathedral.