Master of War

by David Gilman

  ‘Is that you, Blackstone?’ the older man asked, raising the flame to cast its glow.

  ‘It is, lord.’

  ‘I thought you barbarian archers desecrated churches, not prayed in them,’ he said, the wind fanning sparks from the tallow.

  ‘I’m no longer an archer, my lord. Besides, I saw the light.’

  ‘Is that humour or has Jesus’ benevolence reached even your dark soul?’

  ‘I meant I saw the light from the chapel,’ Blackstone said, noting the scowl on de Graville’s furrowed brow.

  ‘Aye, well, I thought it too much to expect that you would offer prayers before the morning’s Mass. I’m off to piss and then get back on my knees. Leave the chapel be, Master Thomas, if you’ve no intention of begging forgiveness from the Almighty. De Harcourt’s ward has been in there longer than I have and she shouldn’t be disturbed or frightened by young men prowling like tomcats in the night.’

  De Graville pushed past him, leaving him in the darkness of the windswept yard.

  Blackstone closed the church door quietly behind him. The dozen candles flickering in the chapel added no warmth. It was as cold as a tomb. Of the dozen or so long benches and stools only one held a figure, who sat huddled in the corner. She was wrapped in her heavy cape, the cowl pulled over her head, her shoulders hunched, a murmur of prayer from her lips barely showed her breath in the chilled air. Blackstone moved closer, walking as quietly as he could and then sitting at the far end of the bench from her. He waited silently, gazing at the crucifix and the shadow it cast. Mankind was damned, he knew that, every monk and priest confirmed those of this world were conceived and born in sin. Life was a perilous journey with the sole aim of seeking salvation. That’s why the rich shed their wealth and fine clothes and were dressed in sackcloth or the habit of a mendicant monk or nun when they died. Humble before the Lord. Blackstone snorted and his unconscious sound of disbelief caused Christiana to turn. She seemed to have been in a dream state; her eyes blinked at him and looked red from tears.

  ‘Thomas, you’ve come to Mass,’ she said, with a note of disbelief.

  Should he lie? He feared God’s unseen hand as much as any man, but would he be struck down beneath the shadow of the cross if he did? How far could Blackstone allow his defiance?

  ‘Yes. I didn’t know you would be here.’ Only half a lie then.

  She smiled with unconcealed relief and her hand reached out for him. He moved next to her, hating the chapel’s dank smell and the threatening images of the wall paintings, wishing he could take her into the wilderness and let the winter months pass elsewhere – just the two of them.

  ‘You didn’t come at midnight,’ she said.

  ‘No, I was with the Englishman. He needed help to get out of bed and pray. So I stayed with him,’ he told her, without mention of his jealousy. And no candle flickered or sky broke with lightning as the half-truths slipped from his lips. ‘Why did you ignore me at the banquet?’

  She bowed her head. ‘I wanted to punish you. For your harsh­ness towards me,’ she whispered.

  ‘When have I ever been that to you?’

  ‘Here. You blasphemed. You ignored my wishes and my feelings.’

  It was a simple choice, he realized. Either he asked for her forgiveness or she asked for his. He wanted her and perhaps that was worth the surrender. He was about to speak when she saved his pride.

  ‘But now I see how wrong I was to do that,’ she said, and held his rough hand in hers. ‘Forgive me, Thomas. I know you carry pain at the loss of your brother, but by coming here you’ve shown a willingness to seek God’s help.’

  So, he realized, she thought him contrite. He could not have wished for a better outcome had he prayed for one.

  She waited for his answer, frowning her concern that he might deny her.

  He knew what he felt for her. That he loved her was beyond question and now his doubts about her were unfounded. All was well again, but if vows were made in a place of worship then his were that he would never allow those uncontrolled emotions to seize him again. He smothered her hand with his own. Remaining in this uninviting and penitent place for Mass would impress the noblemen and bind her to him better than any words he might conjure.

  ‘There’s nothing to forgive,’ he told her.

  The distant bell rang again, beckoning the Christmas Day dawn to bring light into the world.

  20

  Those who worshipped retired for the warmth of the fire and food before de Harcourt brought his guests together for the sacred day’s celebration, although, Blackstone thought, it would take little to find some comfort from the droning liturgy of the invited priest who had conducted the Mass. He was impervious to the rain as he waited for Christiana to come out of the chapel with Blanche de Harcourt, who insisted on paying the priest with silver from her own purse. With a calm patience he believed his plan had worked, because the noblemen and their wives had acknowledged, though grudgingly, his presence. It was only when Guy de Ruymont escorted his wife from the chapel into the half-hearted storm that it seemed his subterfuge had not gone unnoticed.

  De Ruymont said, ‘A hard bench and a cold floor focus a man’s mind like a hangman’s rope, Master Thomas. I know which I prefer, but a man of rank should be able to pay a begging monk to take the penance.’ He smiled at Blackstone before his wife turned back to see what held him in the cold rain and her glaring disapproval changed his expression to a scowl. ‘Smiling at the enemy is a sin in our household, but the day will come, I hope, when you will not be considered as such. Good Christmas Day to you, young Englishman.’ He stepped after his wife, but then turned. ‘Praying with the enemy was a clever ploy,’ he said quickly, and then caught up with his wife and escorted her inside.

  Was it that obvious? thought Blackstone. Guy de Ruymont was shrewd and seemingly less malevolent than most of the others and Blackstone would happily gamble that no one else considered that his own attendance, seated humbly at the rear of the chapel, was anything other than it appeared. Perhaps, though, Guy de Ruymont’s gesture was one of possible acceptance and forgiveness for the carnage wrought at Crécy. It was not unknown for knights from opposing armies to join together to fight for a common cause. Which cause? And when? he wondered. Moments later Christiana came through the door, her arm linked through the countess’s. With short, quick steps, like two village girls rushing to get out of the rain, they ran past Blackstone. Blanche barely glanced in his direction and Christiana modestly kept her eyes down. This time he allowed the rejection to sweep over him. Just as Blackstone had to play a game, so had she. Blackstone abandoned the cold courtyard. If the French followed the English traditions de Harcourt would be gathering gifts of cloth and new livery for his servants to mark St Stephen’s Day, once this day’s feasting and prayers ended.

  He decided he would let the Normans break their fast from the previous night, and wait until he was summoned. A pinprick of conscience, as sharp as a splinter from Christ’s cross, insisted he apologize to de Harcourt for the remark he had made to William de Fossat. It was a calculated taunt, and ill-mannered. His decision came quickly: he would not do so. The belligerent Frenchman could choke on his own hatred. Blackstone’s plan was to leave for Calais as soon as William Harness was able to travel. He had grown to like the man and felt a duty to return the King’s messenger safely. Everything was now clear. King Edward would take the French crown, and he would take Christiana home to England. The rain eased and for a few moments the watery sun showed itself, spear shafts of light piercing the grey clouds. God’s angels were showing him the way.

  Christiana helped Blanche change out of her damp dress and the sombre woollen garment, worn for the Mass, slipped from her shoulders. A more colourful and elegant gown was chosen. As Christiana draped the jewelled necklace around her guardian’s neck, she glanced out of the window, seeing Blackstone walking the ramparts.

  ‘You know they’re going to use him,’ said Blanche de Harcourt, catching her attention.


  ‘Who will?’ Christiana asked, aware that her attention had wandered.

  ‘Those who gather here with my lord and husband.’

  Blanche de Harcourt fussed the necklace until it sat squarely. The largest stone was the emerald and she nestled it between her throat and her cleavage. ‘He’s an asset to them, and he has a fearlessness that they are prepared to squander.’

  Christiana’s fingers hesitated as she fastened the necklace’s clasp. How much of her care or interest in Thomas Blackstone should she allow the countess to see? ‘No one can make Blackstone do anything that he would not choose to do himself,’ she said.

  Blanche sat in a chair by the window, glancing down to see Blackstone preferring the bite of the weather to the comfort of his room. She pulled her needlepoint stand towards her. She would have an hour of privacy before the day’s festivities began.

  ‘He’s a weapon in their hands,’ said Blanche, easing the needle through the cloth.

  ‘And he could beat any of them now,’ Christiana said defensively, feeling a flush of emotion warm her neck.

  Blanche de Harcourt noticed that her ward kept her eyes low­ered as she splayed the damp dress across a screen in order to deter the creases, but that her hands trembled. These two young people were being drawn together and she had played a part in it. If Christiana was in love with Thomas Blackstone then a poor knight’s daughter would be yielding to a man who, she felt, would one day achieve notoriety. If he lived long enough.

  ‘Yes, Thomas is a fine swordsman,’ said Blanche. ‘I’ve watched him practise, but we women have to ask ourselves whether we wish that the men we love and honour should be more than blunt instruments that can club others to death.’

  Christiana was becoming flustered. It was unusual, Blanche decided. She knew that when Sir Godfrey’s men had captured the brigands those months ago, Christiana had denied them clemency. She had the makings of a strong woman, of that there was no doubt. Nursing Blackstone and softening his rough edges with music and poetry had helped subdue the man’s coarseness, and yet Christiana was barely able to contain her temper.

  ‘He’s more than that,’ Christiana said, lifting her head to gaze directly at Blanche. ‘He is… aware. Of beauty and nature. His father taught him many things and he cared for and loved his brother who was a deaf mute. He’s more than you think, my lady.’

  That was better, thought Blanche. Spirited, but controlled, a bold response. ‘And you presume to know my thoughts, child?’ she said coldly, deliberately wanting to see what kind of response she could elicit.

  ‘I do not, but you don’t know him as I do,’ Christiana said carefully, knowing she could so easily blurt out her true feelings for the Englishman. ‘I’ve seen his courage; he rescued me when my enemies almost captured me. He disobeyed orders to come back for me. He risked a flogging.’

  ‘Then perhaps he’s an opportunist, Christiana. Foolhardy acts of bravery mean nothing. There has to be more than a man being driven by lust.’

  ‘No, you are wrong about him,’ Christiana answered, desper­ately trying to keep the fog of anger from her mind. ‘I was there when the English Prince told everyone that Thomas had honoured his word when he went back across the river to rescue me.’

  ‘Like I said, a blunt instrument,’ said Blanche, dismissively, keep­ing her eyes deliberately on her needlepoint. ‘Coarse and rough.’

  ‘He has honour, and tenderness! He has a kindness that you have not seen, a gentleness that is unusual in a man. He speaks softly and beautifully when we…’ She bit her lip. Her mouth had gone dry, but perspiration beaded her brow. She needed to breathe slowly, to suffocate the passion that threatened everything.

  Blanche looked kindly at her ward. ‘When you – talk?’

  Christiana nodded, helpless and obvious in her guilt.

  Blanche de Harcourt made no further comment. Her fingers held the taut linen, the needle pierced the cloth, pulling the thread through as she finished a section of the embroidery: a dragon representing the threat to all women and the blood-red heart held in its talons.

  The day went well, with entertainment and enough dancing and eating to last Blackstone a month. He kept his presence as far in the shadows as he could, never yielding to the dance, or being drawn into conversation by any of the barons whose aim would surely be to antagonize him and lure him into confrontation. There were moments when Christiana happened to find herself standing close to him as she waited for one of the wives or their husband to draw her back into the celebrations. The two barely spoke, though there was an anticipation between them, but Blackstone knew that the festivities meant that he would not have her in his bed again soon in the coming days. Jean de Harcourt and his guests played games; the older barons, de Graville and Mainemares, huddled over a chessboard; all gave him plenty of opportunity to slip away and return to William Harness where they would sit before the fire and talk of England. The injured man was still weak; at times his breathing was laboured and he often drifted off to sleep, sometimes in mid-sentence. Blackstone kept the fire going, content to be the sleeping man’s guardian. Once when Harness awoke Blackstone was fingering the embroidered piece of cloth that Christiana had given him. Harness reached out his hand.

  ‘A token, is it?’ he said, in barely a whisper. ‘Let’s see it, then.’

  Blackstone laid it in his hand and Harness turned it this way and that. ‘That’s very clever, that is. Whichever way you look at it the bird is swooping. Your lady give you that, did she?’

  Blackstone nodded and let the man’s insistence of being told the story finally make him relate the events of how he first met Christiana and then carried her across the river at Blanchetaque.

  Harness sat, like a child being told a fable. When Blackstone finished he said, ‘I was with the King then. You archers made him glow with pride, you and the men-at-arms that were at your shoulder. You lads did a grand job but I never saw you swim that river with the girl. I wish I had. That would be something to tell your children about. I had no idea who you were, young Master Blackstone.’

  ‘There was no reason you should.’

  He wheezed indignantly. ‘Nah! What? Me the King’s mouth­piece? Me what carries the messages? We heard of the young archer. We heard all right. We knew what had happened. Soldiers like nothing better than to spin a line and catch a fish or three. Your stature, and that’s a word I’ve heard used by Cobham himself talking about our sovereign lord, the stature of the young archer grew like a beanstalk. You must have killed a hundred men by now if they’re still talking about it, which they will be. And why not? Sir Thomas Blackstone, eh? But I know you now and when I get back I’ll be telling them all about you and that you’re alive.’

  They talked of the war and how the King’s messenger had seen so little of it, being held in the rear echelon waiting for the command to ride just like the other twenty or so men who were paid by the King’s purse to carry his word. Harness was too lowly to know the great fighting earls, and the battles fought were a mystery to him. The sound of warfare and killing was what he remembered, the clash of battle and screams that came in a wave of anger and fear sweeping up over the hills. The conversations were stilted as it did not take long for Harness to tire, slipping away into sleep, and always with a sad exclamation of what the villagers had done to the young man who rode with him into that village.

  St Stephen’s Day followed Christmas Day and the servants were granted their favours and gifted with presents. Villagers brought humble offerings to their lord and he in turn, along with the other noblemen, handed out alms to the poor, the blind and lame. De Harcourt walked among them with Blanche as Blackstone watched from a distance. Some of the noblemen handed the coins to their squires to give to the outstretched hands, not wishing to have physical contact with the villeins. It was also a day of remembrance for Blackstone to reflect upon. His father had always made him pray before they set off for Lord Marldon’s favour. St Stephen the martyr was the patron saint of stonemasons and every a
rtisan should honour his saint, insisted his father. Blackstone knew nothing more than that, but he would always honour the hour with a prayer for his father. And now for his brother. No vision of St Stephen ever appeared to bless him or thank him for his prayers, so Blackstone kept the prayer brief and the memory of father and brother bright.

  De Harcourt and the others made no attempt to hunt or ride out during the holy week as one saint’s day followed another, and meat was forsaken for fish, and fish for fowl and it seemed that whatever flew free in the sky ended up on a platter. Woodcock, pigeon or common housebird, swan or goose cooked in wood-fired ovens or nestled in their embers, they were smothered in honey and saffron, a delicacy for the noblemen. And Blackstone took a morsel from each meal, the rich palette of sauces more disagreeable than common fare, but he fed William Harness, and ordered less exotic fare from the kitchen for himself. It seemed by week’s end that the surfeit of food and prayer tired even the most stalwart of de Harcourt’s guests and none had raised argument against him. He hoped that the jester called Luck was turning the wheel of good fortune towards him.

  He was walking the battlements, having a word or two with the soldiers on duty – unimportant matters: the weather, the possi­bility of approaching storms, the silence and the emptiness of the landscape in this, their place of duty – when a movement caught Blackstone’s eye. It was not unusual for low-lying mist to cling to the belly of land, stubbornly refusing to shift until late in the day. A ghostly haze of lemon-tinged vapour lay beyond the landscape at the edge of the forest where the silver ground remained untouched by villagers or horsemen. Now, shadows moved across it. A banner fluttered, still too far away for him to make it out. He glanced quickly at the sentries who stood on the walls between him and the next side tower; another sentry was down at the bridge across the moat checking villagers who needed access to the castle.