by David Gilman
‘There’s a wet nurse here?’ he asked, because there had never been women servants at Harcourt.
‘I feed him. I’ve enough milk for every child in Normandy,’ she said, without any coyness in her voice and an impish look in her eye.
‘What do we call him?’ Blackstone asked, imagining the child suckling at her breast, lying in her arms as she stroked its face and cooed a sweet lullaby. And wishing he were that child.
‘Henry, to honour your father, Guyon, to honour mine, and Jean, to acknowledge his godfather.’
Blackstone realized that he had never known her father’s name. And learning it now made the circumstances of his death more painful than it had been before. She saw the shadow that fell across his face.
‘Did I do wrong in my choosing?’
Blackstone recovered quickly. ‘No, it’s perfect. Henry Guyon Jean Blackstone. Just that it’s a mouthful,’ he lied, covering himself, ‘I hope I can remember them.’ He broke her frown with a smile, and bent down to the petite girl who had become his wife and mother to his child and kissed her. He reached out for the baby.
‘You’re filthy,’ she said, putting a restraining hand against his chest. ‘You stink of horse sweat and greasy leather.’ And then kissed his lips lightly and whispered, ‘We should bathe.’
The following days were easy. They made love frequently and the tension of commanding men and seeing to their welfare gave way to languid nights after vespers, where she would return from her prayers and satisfy their lust for each other, so that she would have to spend even longer praying for forgiveness for her lascivious thoughts and acts. Blackstone would have none of it, and begged her not to pray for him, or she would be all night in the chapel.
Hours of the day passed slowly; soldiers begged leave to approach him and ask about their comrades who now served with him, to learn who lived and who had not. He slept in Christiana’s feather bed with her in his arms, but most nights after their entangled bodies eased away from each other into sleep, he felt the bite of his back muscles, more accustomed to a hard cot with a straw mattress, and she would wake and find him curled on the mat with his cloak over his naked body. Each day seemed to pass more slowly than he had remembered. The way he lived with the men at Chaulion had smudged his memory of how quiet and simple life could be within the castle walls. Marcel still hovered as his mistress’s servant and, Blackstone suspected, informer, but he showed a particular skill with the baby, and would often be sent by Blanche to bring mother and child to her rooms. Christiana seemed not to give it a second thought when Marcel went down onto the carpet where Henry lay on his back mewling, small arms and legs wriggling, like a beached fish with limbs, and plucked the child into his arms, wrapping him in a shawl. Servant, mother and child seemed like a family unto themselves, as Blackstone watched the ease with which his son was embraced. Blackstone had not yet gauged how much tenderness should be applied to a body that felt like a boned chicken. That it was his seed that had grown into the bleating infant was still a cause for wonderment. Part of him lived in another creature now, just as he had been spawned by his father. A regret caught him unawares: he would not be able to pass on his archer’s skills as his father had done. But, he told himself, there was little sense in becoming too sentimental about the child. If it lived a year it was lucky, two was fortunate, beyond that it had a chance. Arianrhod came to his lips, as he closed his eyes in a silent prayer to the two mystical women – the Celtic goddess and the Virgin Mary, Mother to all children – and asked that the infant might live so he could share its life.
‘Hoi! Hoi!’ Jean de Harcourt cried as one of his falcons battered through the dull sky in pursuit of a doomed woodpigeon. He doted on his new falcons, with their perches in almost every room of the castle except the bedchamber, the one place where Blanche’s prohibition was inviolate. De Harcourt stroked and pampered them, cooing tender sentiments as if to a child on his knee; an unlikely sight. The hunting season was as good as over, but he wanted Blackstone to ride out and see the beauty of his birds. Blackstone had always felt what he could only describe as resentment when he was a boy watching Lord Marldon hunt with his falcons. It was a nobleman’s sport, easy kills that came with little effort, so different from the woodsman skills he and his brother had learnt. If they could not snare a cony or bring down a bird with a sling, they might not know the taste of meat for weeks, and using a sling brought eye and arm together, perfect training for bowmen. That same feeling had risen again when he was convalescing at the castle and had watched de Harcourt ride out with his birds. Now, though, as the hooded raptor on his master’s glove was given sight of its prey and released, Blackstone had a different thought: he was like that bird – trained, held and sent in pursuit.
He was relieved to ride without the company of women, for after being regaled by Christiana and Blanche with the events of the past months he had quickly tired of their chatter. During his absence there had been visits by other lords and there had been feasts that brought with them all the attendant gossip. De Harcourt’s summons provided a welcome escape from the two women, who had begun to talk yet again of the protracted labour pains that Christiana had endured.
When Blackstone and de Harcourt returned home the birds were settled by the falconer and de Harcourt guided Blackstone into the library, where they warmed themselves by the open fire, dogs at their feet and a map beneath their fingertips. Jean de Harcourt and the other Norman lords enjoyed relative safety in their heartland even though the war between the French and Anglo-Gascon forces in the south went on regardless of the treaty made between the two kings at Calais, while to the west conflict continued unabated as independent captains, mostly loyal to Edward, fought and gave weight to the opposing side in the civil war that sapped resources and men with its unrelenting violence against the dukes of Brittany.
‘Edward has little interest in the west,’ de Harcourt explained as his finger traced a map. ‘The ports are his but the Ushant Reef is treacherous and Brittany offers no convenient port of entry into France, so he continues his support simply to stop the French from going south to his lands in Bordeaux. If they ever struck there they would deny him his shipping routes to England and make the defence of Gascony more difficult and expensive than it is already. Both Kings jockey for position. Both seek revenues to pay for others to possess territory in their name.’
Blackstone pointed out the scattered outposts he had secured inland. ‘These are my towns and villages. I’m vulnerable from here and here,’ he admitted, his hand sweeping east and then west to the marches of Brittany. ‘But those that I hold, be they manor houses or hamlets, are defended and within easy distance of the others for reinforcements.’
‘But you don’t have enough men, Thomas. You must be prepared to take those of low character into your ranks. Prisons are being emptied, footsoldiers and horsemen roam in bands taking what they can.’
‘I don’t want scum. Those I have wouldn’t grace a halfway-decent tavern, but alehouse whores like them and they pay for what they take. Besides, as I told you, money goes quickly. Perhaps I should go to Edward and ask.’
De Harcourt let the map roll into itself. ‘The cost of keeping his garrison at Calais puts a strain on his coffers. Take those who offer their services and let them live from patis. It’s how men like that survive.’
Blackstone knew more of how these soldiers of fortune lived than did de Harcourt. Patis was nothing less than protection money – a contract between mercenaries and surrounding towns and villages to take what they wanted, when they wanted it and with the agreement that the villagers would not be attacked by them. The trouble was that it gave those men independence and allowed them to live by their own rules. For Blackstone to allow groups of men to do so meant he would have no control over them. His own patis was protected by his sword arm.
‘If I do that it would take only a few incidents to have the locals rise up and attack my men. I have a core of soldiers that serve me and those I have given authorit
y to. I can only do what I can with those that I have. It was never your intention for me to ride at the head of an army. Small groups of us in strategic places are worth more to me than hundreds scavenging the countryside for food.’
De Harcourt knew it was dangerous to be too ambitious. Sir Godfrey had miscalculated the King of England’s ability to finance war away from home. Blackstone was right, it was better to have control over a smaller and more vital area than to gain a greater territory and risk losing all. But he thought he knew how Blackstone could strike a blow for the Norman lords and seize enough French coin to buy himself the kind of men he wanted.
‘We’ll talk more of this later,’ he said, wanting to think on it further. ‘You’ll stay for Christmas, Thomas. The other lords will be here.’
Christmas was something he dreaded. The whirl of coloured dresses and jewellery would brighten the heavy walls and bring gaiety and laughter to a house that had nurtured him. He would always be grateful to de Harcourt, Blackstone knew, but to have to endure another Christmas would feel like a punishment.
‘Lord, I cannot leave my men that long. I’ll return with Christiana and my son and we’ll make the best of it there. Isn’t that why you summoned me from Chaulion – to do my duty to my family?’
De Harcourt nodded his agreement. ‘As every man must, Thomas. But don’t let those responsibilities hinder your enterprise. Let Christiana have the boy until he’s old enough to serve as a page. I’ll take him when the time is right; when he’s able to read and write and wipe his own arse. But do you understand how this places a greater burden on you?’
‘I have to support them, that’s natural.’
‘And if you die?’
‘Then they take what I have.’
‘And what you have are scattered places of land with modest crop yields and ignorant peasants who’ll give themselves like whores to the next man with a sword who can protect them. Your son needs an inheritance; if you have more children, a girl perhaps, then you’ll need a dowry. Poverty is not for the likes of us, Thomas. You’re no aristocrat, but you’ve a better understanding than most of what survival is about. God did not spare you at Crécy to remain a yeoman archer; he took that from you and gave you a greater gift.’
‘He took my archer’s arm and a brother in my care.’
‘And in exchange he brought you here and gave you anger and ambition. For a murdering bastard you have a sense of honour, and I dare say that came from your father and your sworn lord, but you’ve crossed a line, Thomas.’
Blackstone’s possession of the dark secret of Christiana’s father made him feel like a thief in the night who dreads a sudden knife to his throat. He poured himself more wine as a diversion, in case his guilt was apparent.
‘How so, my lord?’ he asked, raising the glass, his eyes watching de Harcourt over its rim.
‘Those who travel the roads, tinkers and monks, merchants and scavengers, they all have stories to tell. And your name is already known. Yours is a strange way, Thomas Blackstone.’ De Harcourt stretched his legs in front of the fire and rubbed one of the dog’s ears. ‘You’re more complicated than I took you to be. You burn and you kill but you don’t allow women to be raped or children to be slaughtered. You have no breeding and you mocked our notion of chivalry. And yet you practise it.’
They left Castle de Harcourt with extra provisions and a bag of silver coin, provided by de Harcourt as a dowry for Christiana. Promises of an early reunion between Blanche and Christiana were made, women’s tears were shed and de Harcourt’s priest was summoned to give them a blessing for a safe journey home. God’s protective mantle was bolstered by another ten men, who were to follow at a discreet distance and then return when their charges were in sight of Chaulion.
‘We should have stayed, Thomas,’ said Christiana. ‘It’s Christmas season, and it would have been my last chance to see everyone.’
He glanced at her. She seemed happy enough but who could tell with a woman? She wasn’t pouting, which was good, and her lip did not curl in self-pity, which was better.
‘I know you don’t like to dance, and perhaps you feel some envy of the lords who speak beautiful verse, but it’s soothing to one’s soul, like a prayer said in humility,’ she went on, seemingly without taking a breath. ‘And the weather will be upon us, I feel sure of it, and my cloak will be soaked. I wish it would make up its mind. Rain or snow. Nothing is as it should be. Did you know they lost their harvest last autumn in the south? It rained so hard. There’ll be famine.’
He did know. It was why de Harcourt had told him his plan. The further south, the greater the conflict. Rival captains on the same side fought for town and castle, and the French King’s soldiers engaged in running battles from citadel to citadel in a continuous war of attrition. De Harcourt knew that the regional mint was secured in the town of St Aubin and a large sum of money was being put together, most likely to pay one of the French garrisons. If Blackstone and his men could find a way to slip through the warring factions and secure the mint or waylay the money in transit, he would inflict a heavy blow against the French King’s ability to pay his troops in the south. What better way to serve one’s own King, hamper the enemy and secure much-needed money for his own men? It was a plan fraught with danger, but a plan that Blackstone would consider nonetheless.
Christiana was not yet prepared to let him free of her gentle chiding. ‘And Henry was safe at Harcourt. Safe and warm. Marcel was wonderful. Like my right hand. No, Blanche was my right hand; he was like my left. I shall miss them.’
He had learnt forbearance while at Harcourt and knew he was asking much of her. He remained silent, watching her lips that enticed him as much as when she spoke, as when she kissed him. Blackstone pulled up his horse. She didn’t notice. Her monologue continued for a few more strides and then she realized he was not at her side.
He glanced back to where the escort shadowed them a few hundred yards away. They too stopped, watching their charge to see what he was doing.
‘Is the baby all right?’ she said with sudden concern.
Henry was swaddled in his crib, fastened on one side of a pannier saddle that carried Christiana’s trunk of clothes on the other. There was no sound from the child and Blackstone assumed the swaying of the palfrey’s gait was as good as a rocking cradle. He let his gaze wander, taking in the spindly boughed woodland.
‘When I snatched you from those Bohemians in the forest and we nearly drowned you were feisty, like a peasant’s ratting terrier; and then when you cared for me you were brave and selfless and subdued your own suffering. But since you’ve been with Blanche it’s been like a tide creeping upriver. The dark water swallows everything that was once there. That’s what’s happened to you. You’ve become a housebound woman drowning under frivolous gossip and fine clothes.’
She scowled in protest. ‘Thomas, I have spent—’
‘Christiana. I haven’t finished speaking yet,’ he said firmly, without anger in his voice. ‘I wish I could offer you more. I cannot. And our fortunes will be mixed. You shall have everything that is mine but you’re a soldier’s wife, not the lady of a nobleman, and there will be hardship and danger for us all. You’ll have no gentle company and at best a merchant’s wife to help with the child if that’s what you need. There will be weeks when I’ll be away. My heart and my bed are yours, but everything else demands my attention. Accept this life or go back and be with Blanche. She’ll take you gladly. I’ll visit once in a while. You’ll have the child until he’s seven and then he’s mine. You must decide what it is you want. And I pray it is me.’
He handed her the palfrey’s reins, then heeled his horse forward. It was a gamble, but one that had to be taken. It was up to her if she followed. And if she did then she would have turned her back on the comforts afforded her at Harcourt and they would face their uncertain future together.
By spring Christiana had long rid herself of the despair at the state of the house that Blackstone had taken as the
ir home. He had lived in one room, ignoring the distressed state of the others that Saquet and his men had occupied. She demanded from Blackstone, and got, a dozen townsmen and their women to remove all traces of filth and scrub the house with vinegar from top to bottom. And once chimneys were cleaned and fires lit she scoured the area for rosemary and other herbs to burn and sweeten the fetid atmosphere of unwashed men and dogs and the fouling they had left behind. Fresh reeds alone would suffice for those rooms she visited infrequently but for all others she insisted on woven rush matting laid over the floors. No woman could trail her skirts across loose floor coverings until they had been crushed flat underfoot over months. Blackstone realized to his quiet satisfaction, and amazement, that Blanche de Harcourt’s influence had played a role. Christiana was mistress of her own house, though without putting a resentful distance between herself and the townspeople. That she was the daughter of an impoverished French knight gave her an advantage in addressing them, artisan or labourer, washerwoman or seamstress, with a simple dignity that demanded respect. Brother Simon shared his knowledge of herbs and she scattered wormwood and fleabane, crushed with chamomile, throughout the house to keep infestations under control. Servants were interviewed and put to work, as was a steward to supervise them. He was given responsibility for the household accounts and, as a member of the town’s council, he presented Blackstone with the expenditure and requirements for sustaining the town and its people through the coming year. In a few short months Christiana created a home and organized a small workforce to sustain it and its vegetable gardens. When Blackstone returned from reconnoitring for a way to secure King Philip’s mint he found a house that may have lacked tapestries and ornament, but was nonetheless a place of warmth and comfort, befitting a man who had taken the town and now gave it his protection.
During the following weeks Blackstone prepared his plan. The mint was held in a small castle at the head of an escarpment, above cliffs rising two hundred feet. The road to the main gate was guarded by a small garrison of about fifty men, which allowed no direct assault, and a siege was out of the question. Before Blackstone’s force could reach the objective they had to strike into the heartland of the warring factions, a raid that had to be swift and carefully executed. Either side might see his incursion into their territory as a direct threat. During his reconnaissance he had bribed a goatherd to show him paths scratched into the hillside by which Blackstone’s men could approach from below the castle’s most vulnerable wall and where they might scale the cliffs. Once they had breached the walls, the archers, who would stay concealed in nearby woodland, would strike at those guarding the road, and drive them inside. Matthew Hampton would hold the road and Blackstone’s men would hold the keep. Their enemy, trapped between two hostile forces within the inner and outer walls, would be held fast, unable to advance or retreat. Blackstone put the plan to Meulon and Guinot, who, since recovering, had been placed back in command of Chaulion. They would halve the garrison in early July when the weather warmed and grazing was plentiful. By then their horses would have regained their strength after winter. Chaulion and the other places held in Blackstone’s name would be bringing in their winter-sown wheat and he wanted to be back for the harvest to ensure the crop was safely stored and protected from any scavenging routiers. It seemed a good plan.