Master of War

by David Gilman

  ‘Sir Thomas. This humble monastery can be of no interest to your English King. Surely?’

  ‘That is for me to decide. Now I can either search every nook and cranny and drag them out, or you can tell me how many monks are here. Or would you prefer a starvation diet for a week to lose some of that blubber?’

  The abbot swallowed hard. If he co-operated, then at least he might be fed meat, something he had become accustomed to. Not for him the modest food of a humble monk. The kitchen smells made him salivate. ‘Fourteen monks and as many lay brothers.’

  ‘Good. I’ll need them all to help my men.’

  ‘What can possibly be done here?’

  ‘I have only a few days to build a wall and if I thought that having you carry rocks would be of benefit I’d have you whipped into the fields, but you’d be too slow and cumbersome.’ Blackstone nodded to Gaillard, who stepped forward to escort the abbot to his quarters.

  ‘A wall?’ His incomprehension, as if Blackstone spoke in tongues, only added to his look of stupidity. ‘The days are short. A wall?’

  ‘You have tallow and oil so we’ll have torchlight. You’ll see. It will be a fine wall.’

  Gaillard grabbed the confused abbot and forced him to quicken his step.

  Blackstone turned to Meulon. ‘Have the men fed, the horses stabled. Then take an inventory of food and supplies. Keep every­one behind the walls until we organize work parties. And ignore tradition – keep them armed. Two sentries at all times. Day and night.’

  Meulon nodded and turned away without question. Whatever this young Englishman had planned he’d know soon enough and he was happy to be left to deal with the men. None had yet asked too many questions about why they had been put under Blackstone’s command, but they would, so he decided to bring them together and, in a soldier’s way, cut out any discontent that might be brewing. Thomas Blackstone commanded, but Meulon was their captain and he would make sure there was no chance of dissent.

  Blackstone stood in the empty room and imagined the abbot’s corrupt life of comfort and warmth when it should have been one of humility and hard work, of going among the verminous poor to offer healing and alms. He wandered alone through the monastery, noticing that the kitchen fires were well tended, the flour sacks in the bakery were dry, the flour coarsely milled. Not yet finely ground as for a nobleman’s taste then, he thought. Perhaps the abbot had not elevated his aspirations as high as he might. The chapel was modest but functional; the infirmary clean, with boiled linen bandages neatly folded, the tinctures, herbs and ointments stored and labelled. An elderly monk bowed before him and when asked his name cupped a curved palm to his ear. He was Brother Simon; his eyes clear, his back bent and although age pulled the skin taut across his hands, there was no tremor in his fingers. Blackstone knew he would be able to stitch a wound with skill. He would not work in the fields, Blackstone explained to him, and he would not be asked to do anything other than what he did. Muscles would bruise and bones could break when working with rocks, and backs would need liniment, and shoulders would need putting back into place when pulled out of joint.

  Wherever he went, everything was in an orderly state. The lay brothers were leather-skinned men used to hard work in all weathers, compared to the flabbier monks, mostly stooped and pale from bending over their manuscripts. The manner in which the lay brothers held back and bowed their heads respectfully when he walked past made Blackstone think that they were probably harshly disciplined on the orders of the prior as instructed by the abbot. These were the men who laboured to serve the self-indulgent monks as they scoured scripture and copied their pages in the warmth of the scriptorium. After inspecting the various parts of the monastery he walked the base of the walls until he was finally satisfied that they were in good order and gave little chance of being breached because of poorly laid masonry. There was always the risk that Saquet could mount an attack before Blackstone could find a way of seizing the town. The monastery was his men’s safe haven and would remain their sanctuary until he could defeat the mercenary, Iron Fist.

  The men’s spears and shields were stacked against each other so that they could be reached quickly should the alarm be raised. Each man carried stone from the fields and the ruined buildings, which Blackstone had ordered torn down. The monastery’s two donkeys were saddled with pannier baskets and used to carry more of the boulders. Blackstone’s days in the quarry with his master mason had taught him how to organize work parties, and the monks worked obediently once they had made their protests at having their prayer times restricted to matins and vespers for the next few days. The monks had become lazy in their coddled life of prayer and scripture reading and they would have to sweat more to match their lay brothers. A monk’s life was one of obedience, Blackstone had told them, and their prayers could be said while they worked. God would still hear them and the Lord admired those who laboured. Was it not a monk’s duty to build something that would last? Then he, Blackstone, would give them the opportunity to please God and reacquaint themselves with obedience and humility. And, he promised them, for those who faltered a knotted rope would remind them of how weakness of the flesh could be banished.

  He and Meulon worked out a roster so that everyone would be fed and have four hours’ sleep in every twelve-hour period. The monastery’s grain stores were full and there was enough salted fish and mutton to carry a whole village through a winter, let alone a couple of dozen monks. Blackstone ordered the kitchener to prepare and cook cauldrons of pottage and ensure that the bakery provided rough grain bread for the men. The kitchens were to be kept in use around the clock. A main meal of nourishing grains would be served at midday and the same warming food given at midnight to those who worked through the hours of darkness. A cup of hot, spiced wine would give the men fortitude against the icy rain, swept along by the north wind, that could sap a man’s strength after only a few hours. There would be salted fish after matins and cheese and bread after vespers; then the work parties would continue by torchlight. By the time the winter sky darkened on that first day a stone cairn had already grown near the bridge, and another between it and the monastery gate. Torches flickered throughout the night. Those monks who proved too frail to carry out heavy work he sent to the kitchens to help their lay brothers, and to suffer the indignity of being under their control as they were instructed to prepare food, wash pans and scrub floors.

  Blackstone gathered the men and explained what had to be done. He took small stones and pebbles and marked the outline of the monastery, then the bridge and how the roads crossed and disappeared into the forest towards unknown destinations. All soldiers, no matter who they served, would be used to building fortifications of one kind or another; they did not have to be sappers in order to build walls. A good stone layer could put down three or four yards a day of double-skinned wall, and he had thirty men and as many monks.

  ‘We work with the monks and lay brothers. We have two, perhaps three days. We can all lay rocks and boulders, but I need someone to supervise the work and make sure the damned thing stays up. Are there any among you who have worked with stone?’

  Two of the men raised their hands.

  ‘I’m Talpin, I built my father’s barn with him when I was a boy.’

  ‘And you?’ Blackstone asked the other, who was one of de Graville’s men.

  ‘Perinne. I built a wall for my village to keep thieving Bretons from raiding us and they never breached it.’

  ‘Good. Then you two will be in charge of each shift of men who work,’ said Blackstone, noting that their elevation in responsibility pleased them. ‘If I had a choice I’d build an earth-rammed, double-skin wall.’ The men nodded their agreement. ‘And then plant whitethorn in it to repel intruders. But we can’t, the ground is hard and this is only a temporary defence.’

  Perinne hawked and spat. ‘No, Master Blackstone, this wall will be here for years to come. The way I build walls, that is. Don’t know about Count Livay’s man,’ he said, meaning Talpin. �
�I bet that barn came down the first time his old man farted in the cow byre.’

  The men threw more good-natured scorn and jibes at each other. That was fine, Blackstone thought. They were coming together as a body of men despite being soldiers from different sworn lords. Talpin smiled. ‘I built a barn, my friend; a double-height, vaulted barn. Even the English couldn’t pull it down when they came through.’

  The men laughed, but then suddenly realized who it was that commanded them. They fell silent.

  Blackstone filled the moment of unease with a quick response. ‘If the English couldn’t pull down that barn and the Bretons couldn’t cross that wall, then you’re the men for the job.’

  This cheered them again. He went on, ‘All we can do is make life difficult for anyone trying to bypass us or breach the wall. Double stone the base, bigger stones for support, dry wall, no mortar, no cut stone, pick your shape and lay. Show the monks if they’ve never done it before, though I’ll wager some have, and those that don’t learn quickly enough – use them to load and carry the stone. Build the wall chest high…’

  ‘Your chest or ours!’ one of the soldiers called out, causing the men to dare laughter again. Meulon waited patiently and said noth­ing. Like Blackstone, he knew that each time these rough and ready men insulted each other and then carefully, but respectfully, prodded a man of rank who was their leader, it bound them together. It was not something any man would dare say to a French lord; nor, he guessed, would an Englishman risk it with one who held rank. But this Englishman had a way with the men, and seemed able to take a fighting man’s humour.

  ‘Four and a half feet high…’ said Blackstone.

  ‘Ah, that’s short-arse Renouard, then!’ one of the men said, and the jeers rose again.

  ‘With nine-inch-high copes,’ Blackstone said, quieting them down. The promise of hot wine and roasted pig had already smoothed any sharp edges of doubt about the hard task that lay before them. ‘Twenty-four inches wide at the base above the foundation stones and thirteen inches wide under the coping stones. Scatter unused rocks outside the perimeter along with cut branches and fallen timber – that should slow anyone trying to breach it at the run.’

  Talpin and Perinne nodded their agreement. The Englishman knew what he was talking about.

  Darkness was Blackstone’s friend. He knew no one from Chaulion would venture several miles on a forest track at night. The ghostly wind that moaned through the trees would carry fear into many a soul, no matter how devout. And even if Saquet was to ignore the frightened villagers’ warning of this band of English and French routiers then he would come hours after first light. Blackstone waited patiently as Meulon positioned some of his crossbowmen in an ambush on the approach, despite Blackstone’s concern that once they had fired their first salvo they would be vulnerable because of the time it took them to reload. His thoughts made him yearn for the rough-hewn archers he had once been a part of. If only he could have had a half-dozen of them now he could fight off three times as many raiders. Meulon assured him that if an attack came the first horsemen would be brought down, and by the time anyone behind them forced their way through the low branches, his bowmen would have retreated to safety. As the building of the wall continued he and Meulon stayed watchful. Chance could always surprise even the most careful commanders, so he was happy to take the time for such precautions. Men of violence seldom exercised patience, but for those who did, victory could be gained more readily. At first light there were no riders and no one appeared on the skyline. It was time to reconnoitre the town.

  Within the hour he and Meulon were on the heights that rose almost a hundred feet above Chaulion, the undulating hillside curving like a limestone-faced wave. Blackstone and Meulon had taken a circuitous route, dismounting and then walking their horses through the low branches. A hundred yards from the edge they tethered their mounts and crept forward to lie on the forest’s floor to study the town. The brisk wind whipped away woodsmoke from house fires, and the sentries who stood hunched in the two watchtowers, which stood diagonally across from each other on the town’s walls, would only be alerted by anyone approaching through the clearing in the forest.

  ‘Do you know how many people live there?’ asked Blackstone, without turning to face Meulon next to him. He sensed the man shrug.

  ‘No idea. It could be a thousand people crammed ten to a room or a third of that living in the houses. There’ll be tradesmen, blacksmiths and bakers and the like, but look at it, just like a village behind walls. The main square is where Saquet would live, probably in a merchant’s house. This was a good trading route before he seized the town, but no longer.’

  Blackstone watched for any movement beyond the town’s walls. It was quiet enough to believe that Saquet had already left in his pursuit of the Englishman. ‘Do you think he’s bedded down for winter?’ he asked.

  Meulon nodded. ‘No one likes to raid and fight at this time of year. He’ll have stored his grain and feed just like the good abbot – most of it for his men – which means the townspeople are on poor rations and that keeps everyone weak enough not to try anything.’

  The sentries had barely stirred from where they jammed their backs into the watchtower walls so as to gain whatever protection they could from the biting wind. They’d feel it more in those towers, Blackstone thought, and were likely to keep their heads down in their misery. He was about to tell Meulon to go back to the crossroads when the wind lifted a cry of pain upwards from the town’s walls. The sentries turned lazily and looked down into the square that neither of the two watchers could see, but the sentries’ lack of alarm meant that the sound was not unusual in Chaulion and posed no threat to the remaining mercenaries. Within moments of the agonized shriek muted laughter reached them from the square.

  ‘They’re hurting some poor bastard,’ Meulon said. ‘And enjoying it.’

  One of the sentries called down to those below him in the unseen square, but his words did not reach Blackstone.

  ‘Did you hear?’ he asked.

  Meulon shook his head. Another scream of pain rose above the sound of the wind.

  ‘He’s telling whoever’s down there to hurt him again. Bastards. For once I wish we had a couple of your English archers, I’d have ’em skewered where they stand.’

  Blackstone lay silent, chin resting on his fists, looking down into the town.

  ‘How do we take Chaulion?’ he asked. ‘We can’t lay siege. I don’t see any repaired walls on this side to undermine. I don’t know. I could ambush Saquet before he gets back. But then… I don’t know how many men he has.’

  ‘Are you asking me or talking to yourself?’ Meulon asked.

  ‘Asking.’

  Meulon sighed and let his eyes linger on the walled town. Thomas Blackstone had enough courage and madness in him to scare the devil out of hell, but he was prepared to ask advice from an old soldier like him. ‘Escalade is best,’ he said. ‘We build ladders, get them up on the wall at night and kill as many as we can while we have time. Before Saquet comes back.’

  ‘Have you done that before?’

  Meulon pulled off his helmet and scratched his scalp, then dug a horny fingernail into his matted hair and eased out a louse. ‘A couple of times. My Lord de Harcourt didn’t hold with it. He thought it a dishonourable way to fight, fit only for brigands.’

  ‘But you think differently.’

  Meulon rubbed his fingers together, crushing the louse. ‘Why do you think he sent me with you?’

  Blackstone studied the walls again. The watchtowers lay east and west, one giving a view of the approach road from the mo­nastery, the other of a single track that disappeared into the rising ground and forest after two hundred yards.

  ‘Those walls are twenty feet high.’

  ‘Twenty-five,’ Blackstone corrected him. ‘Where do we go over? This wall closest to us, do you think? It’s the one most shadowed by the forest, and will cast the darkest shadow at night.’

  Meulon studied th
e sky and sucked on a piece of fallen twig, rubbing it like a tooth cleaner. ‘No. Not there. The wind’s from the north.’ He pointed. ‘That north-east corner is the coldest, wettest part of the town. And there’s a gully that drops another five feet down. That’s good concealment. If a sentry walks the walls, which I’ll wager they won’t because they’re lazy, half-asleep bastards who think no one could ever threaten them, they wouldn’t linger there. They’ll turn their backs to that bitch of a wind. We go over there and both watchtower sentries will be looking the other way.’

  ‘I can’t take men into a town unless we know how many we’re up against. We know there are sixty or more of them, but how many would Saquet take to chase us?’

  Meulon flicked the chewed stick away and eased his helmet back on. ‘You challenged and threatened him. Thirty of us – he’d take at least forty. If there’s twenty or thirty men left in there it would be good to know where they are, because we need surprise on our side, otherwise we’ll be hard-pressed to gain the advantage. And there’s no telling how the townspeople will react.’

  Blackstone thought it through quickly. It was his responsibility to gain the town. No, it was more than that, he told himself. It was his ambition. If anything was going to be lost or gained it would fall on him. He didn’t want to go back to the Normans leaving most of their men lying dead on a winter’s field.

  Blackstone returned to the monastery, where Meulon had lay brothers build the scaling ladder. Blackstone’s wall was taking shape. Wooden frames had been made, wider at the bottom than the top, as templates to get the height as consistent as possible. The turf had been broken to lay out the shape of the wall and then lengths of twine were strung taut between the frames to guide the stone-layers. Talpin and Perinne used plumb bobs to make sure it stayed vertical. Course by course the wall would grow and be interlocked with tie stones every yard or so. Blackstone liked what he saw. The men knew what they were doing. Stones were laid with a slight downward angle that would shed the rain, and as each yard went up a group of older monks spilled baskets of smaller stones and pebbles into the void. It would never be as solid as Blackstone would like, but the speed at which the men worked boded well. As each shift took over from the other they saw how many stones had been laid. Neither Talpin nor Perinne wanted to be outdone by the other and that competition took hold with the men. The work rate had increased as the soldiers formed alliances to outdo each preceding shift and that in turn caused despair among the monks until the prior, Brother Marcus, saw salvation in their more demanding work. The competition was God showing them the way, he told them. The sooner they completed the wall the quicker they could return to their life of prayer. Arduous endeavour would grant them relief from the Englishman’s yoke.