by David Gilman
The story of how Blackstone came by the sword, with its maker’s mark of the running wolf, had been known for years and Guillaume never tired of the telling. The great swordsmiths of Passau in Germany had learnt their skills from the Saracens following the crusades. And Wolf Sword had been a gift from a German count to his son, who campaigned with the King of Bohemia, an ally of the French. It had been the German’s misfortune to have slain Thomas Blackstone’s brother on the field at Crécy. It was there, Guillaume thought, that his master’s demons had been unleashed. For, as the German knight came within striking distance of the young Prince of Wales, the English archer took the fight to him and killed him despite being badly wounded himself. No devil or god could have expected muscle and sinew to do what Blackstone did. And every time Guillaume burnished his lord’s armour, he would recite the legend to Blackstone’s son, Henry, who had yet to learn the ways of fighting men. He was still like a child who played with younger children, a source of contention that Guillaume was aware of, but it was not his place to pass comment or to encourage the boy beyond telling him stories and pleasing Lady Christiana by playing with the children when time from his duties permitted.
He suspected that Blackstone shared her gratitude, but it was a matter that was never discussed between them when they campaigned together. And now that there would be no fighting for the rest of this year, Guillaume would spend more time with the boy and help him with his Latin studies. He knew, though, that Sir Thomas would never cease their training schedule and that when the weight of his domestic life bore down they would ride out to the other walled towns so that Blackstone could be with his men and ensure their readiness to fight. And to absent himself from the women who would visit Lady Christiana and share his hearth. And gossip.
Blackstone’s manor was not large: a cluster of buildings in the yard housed stables and a few servants; its kitchen stood close to the great hall. Although each room had a fireplace all the socializing was done where the fire burned the brightest, in the great hall, its chestnut bressummer mantel spanning four cloth yards. Blackstone was gracious enough to spend time with these infrequent visitors, grateful that they showed sufficient concern to be with Christiana while he was away campaigning, but he did not have the luxury of those Norman barons who had sufficient income from their lands. The tithe that Blackstone took from his villagers was sufficient to keep the house warm and food on the table for the handful of hobelars who lived with their women and guarded the manor’s boundary. Each town under Blackstone’s control took a similar patis, offering protection for the peasants in return for the feeding of his soldiers and a percentage of any goods sold in local markets. But payment for these men had to be in plunder and that was why he undertook the campaigns that he did, reaching ever further from the safety of his home to take on those loyal to King John and stripping them of coin, plate and livestock. In attacking other men-at-arms or noblemen he deprived them of their own supplies, which meant that those peasants who farmed their lord’s land would suffer. Some might even starve. But they were of no consequence to him. His own people looked to him for protection and to ensure they got through the winter with enough food on their tables. That was his duty to them as much as they had theirs to him.
Blackstone was held in esteem by those who knew his worth and feared by those who thought him a common butcher, elevated by the English royal house from the lowest ranks, renowned for their slaughter of the greatest knights in Christendom: the archers.
In the chill barn where Guillaume cleaned his lord’s armour he glanced at Blackstone, who seemed to be concentrating too hard on sharpening his archer’s knife.
‘Is Henry going to be so useless that he’ll be packed off to a monastery?’ Blackstone asked. The dumping ground for weaklings, half-witted children of the nobility or the inbred peasant.
Guillaume knew Blackstone’s son was a worry to him. ‘My lord,’ he said, ‘he’s intelligent in his studies and well versed in other matters as befits an educated boy.’
Blackstone had taught Henry to ride and swim, taking him out into the river’s deep pools so he could feel the cold, teaching him how to cease the shivering by concentrating his mind and ignoring his body’s suffering.
‘He’s not that strong,’ Blackstone argued, wanting to hear that he was wrong and that his son had shown the squire a side to his nature that he himself had not seen.
‘No,’ Guillaume answered, ‘he’s not, Sir Thomas. But he tries hard.’
That was the truth, and he could always rely on his squire to be truthful. It was a virtue that sometimes bordered on the painful. Blackstone loved his son; cherished him as much as he adored the boy’s sister, Agnes. It was a joy kept hidden from most lest anyone think the poorer of him, though who that might have been was a question he could never answer. Still, showing too much affection to a son could be detrimental to the boy himself. He would be thought weaker than he was, derided by other children as being shielded and protected by an overprotective father. Eyebrows had been raised when he forbade the priest from whipping Henry because of his lack of progress in his Latin studies. What damned difference did it make if he could not learn the language of lawyers and monks? Unless he became one.
‘I should spend more time with him. He’ll be nine this year.’
‘Yes, lord. Let him feel the weight of your sword in his hand and experience what it is you feel when you grasp it.’
Blackstone knew that the surge of power and violence that coursed through him when Wolf Sword lay in his grip and the blood knot was fastened around his wrist would never be experienced by his son. Those feelings had nothing to do with the balance or the finely honed steel of its blade.
‘Aye, let him feel its weight, but find more time to spend with the training sword. He needs to feel what its edge can do to a careless boy who does not shield himself properly.’
Guillaume began burnishing the armour again. He had no desire to contradict his sworn lord, nor did he wish him to see the doubt in his eyes. Henry lacked the grim determination that every boy needed to go through the punishment of training. ‘My Lady Christiana will notice any bruising, lord.’
‘Then strike him where it will not show. He has to learn, Guillaume.’
The squire faced his master. ‘I will lose his trust if I hurt him, Sir Thomas. He’s not—’
‘Strong?’ Blackstone interrupted. ‘You think I don’t know that? I don’t care if he hates us both. If we do not teach him, then the day will soon arrive when he must go to a nobleman’s house and learn the harsh reality of being alone and punished for every wrong step.’
Blackstone left his squire to continue his duties and took away his own doubts about his son and his inability to be a good father.
Simon Bucy, the man who wanted to deprive Henry Blackstone of his father, pondered the fate of France and the vital role he could play in saving her. From his magnificent urban estate close to the Abbey of Saint-Germain-des-Prés he gazed from the window of his mansion across the gardens towards the Royal Palace. So much turmoil had been endured by the people of this great city. It was only a few years ago that half its population, some fifty thousand, lay in wretched death on its streets. The great paved streets that led through the city suburbs to the countryside had seen no royal procession but bore witness to the crippled rhythm of cartwheels as they lumbered, stacked with the dead, towards the communal graves. But now Paris was alive with street traders and commerce, and must never fall into the hands of the barbaric English soldiers. Let Edward increase his foothold in Gascony for now if he must, but those who secretly supported him, and who could hand the keys of this great city to his King’s enemies, must be stopped. He had to find a way to cut the root of the Norman lords’ power, to disinherit them of the strength they possessed. There could be no sudden violence inflicted upon them; instead they must be drawn in, snared and dispatched. But how to destroy the man who could rise up in their support, bringing hundreds of the men who garrisoned his towns? What was h
is weakness that could be exploited? If Thomas Blackstone stayed entrenched at his home in Normandy, as the King’s spies informed Bucy, then little could be done to draw him out.
A servant’s footsteps scuffed the floor. Bucy gestured the man forward and took the folded note from the silver tray that was offered. The ink-smudged paper showed a decent hand from a poorly sharpened quill, but it had been written in haste. Bucy had sent word to the one Norman lord who might answer the question that preyed on his mind. The traitor could not be seen visiting Bucy’s residence; instead a messenger would rendezvous with him and unsigned notes would pass between them. No seal or mark to reveal the writer.
Honour and fealty, or a quest for wealth, could take a man across the world to fight an enemy he never knew. But what kept such a man at home? He needed to find the means to geld the scarred Englishman. He tore open the note.
Bucy swept down the cloisters of the abbey church of Saint-Magloire that stood north of the city. Messengers had gone before him to keep the monks out of sight. This secret meeting needed no witnesses and the church had been endowed with enough money for the prior to know when absence was required. Two of Bucy’s guards stood at the great doors that led to the vaulted darkness of the church. As he stepped across their threshold they closed behind him, their sullen echo reverberating across the flagstones. A cloaked figure stepped out from the shadows, his tabard hidden; the hood of his ermine-lined cloak covering his face. Bucy glanced left and right, a matter of habit to ensure there were no other witnesses to the meeting, that no monk lay prostrate in the near darkness, humbling himself before God. He knew it was unnecessary, because his guards had already swept through the side altars and pressed beyond the massive pillars to explore the shadows by torchlight. Only the traitor stood waiting.
Bucy strode towards the altar and the candlelit figure of the suffering Christ. There was little humility within Simon Bucy – he was a political survivor – but he bent his knee. The Norman lord who was to betray his friends settled onto a bench. Bucy rose and approached him. He pulled his own cloak tighter around himself, the chill damp of the chapel penetrating his old bones, although he felt a gratifying sense of warmth at being another step closer to finding the means of destroying Thomas Blackstone. Neither man spoke for a few moments and Bucy sensed that this Norman was teetering in his betrayal.
‘Are we to sit in silent prayer?’ he prompted, his breath pluming in the chilled atmosphere.
‘The garrison at Saint-Clair-de-la-Beaumont has fallen. Blackstone seized it,’ said the traitor. A brutal hammer blow that had the desired effect.
Bucy’s eyes widened; then his shoulders slumped. A vital stronghold had fallen and Bucy was the one who would have to break the news to the King.
‘I have the name of a man you can use to entrap and kill Blackstone,’ the traitor said. ‘But I want the King’s assurance that I and my family will be granted protection.’
Bucy recovered quickly. ‘It is I who will ensure your protection. That you and I meet is a gesture of the King’s gratitude. Tell me what you have so we may rid ourselves of your Norman troublemakers and the damned Englishman.’
The Norman wiped a dribble of snot away. The cold air was as punishing as Lent. ‘I have two sources that I can use against Blackstone. One is someone close to him.’
‘Who?’ Bucy asked.
‘That is for me alone to know. But it is someone that the Englishman or his family would never suspect.’
‘Very well. Who is the other?’
‘Years ago I was at Castle de Harcourt where Thomas Blackstone was being sheltered after suffering injuries at Crécy. The old King heard that an Englishman was there and sent men to seize him but de Harcourt tricked them and handed over a wounded messenger that Blackstone had rescued from a mob in one of the villages. The King’s men took him but he died less than a day later. It was a good trick and Blackstone was saved.’
The Norman was taking his damned time. Leaking the story like a barber surgeon bleeding the sick. Bucy kept a rein on his impatience, but there was no soft cushion to sit on, and the cold stone floor made his legs ache. That the traitorous Norman could not have chosen a ride in the countryside beyond the city walls was annoying, but his actions reflected the fear and uncertainty that he felt. Perhaps, Bucy thought, being in sight of the tortured son of God, who died for mankind’s sins, offered some solace – and if that was the case then perhaps this Norman hoped his own sins, now witnessed, would be forgiven. Bucy almost shrugged as he thought of it: forgiveness was not his to give, so let it be in the hands of the Almighty.
‘Yes, we know Thomas Blackstone leads a charmed life, but how does that event so many years ago help us now?’
‘It is a case of understanding where the seeds of fear are planted,’ said the Norman. ‘And then you harvest the crop.’
‘Quite so,’ Bucy answered, ‘but my fear is that I’ll be catching my death if I sit in this dank place much longer.’
‘Too much soft living, my lord.’
‘A state of comfort I intend to continue, my lord.’
The traitor held back any further retort. ‘There was a man who rode with the King’s mercenaries that day. He was an underling then, a scab on the arse of the routiers; but he has power now; he has built a raiding band of routiers. And he can be bought.’ He paused, letting Bucy’s thoughts churn a moment longer. ‘This man is the weapon you use to kill Blackstone.’
Bucy tasted the pleasure of imminent success. Could he use this man to destroy the King’s enemy without the King being involved? The King might still have a chance to negotiate with the barons once the threat of Blackstone had been removed. Events might then unfold that could force the Norman lords to yield their ambitions with the English crown and Charles of Navarre and swear fealty to John.
The traitor leaned forward. ‘I know where he is. Send for him – and he will come to you.’ His voice fell to a whisper. ‘But be careful. Be guided by fear. He is the great destroyer.’
6
Blackstone seldom ventured beyond the walls of the manor without taking a diversion through the kitchen. Scent-laden steam filtered through the open window and the sound of ladles scratching iron pots as the pottage was stirred always brought back childhood memories. If ever there could be contentment in his life it was here, at home.
He stepped inside to find four boys from the village preparing trenchers of coarse-grain bread ready to receive the topping for Blackstone’s men. As he entered, the boys stopped what they were doing and bowed their heads and when Beatrix caught sight of him she dipped her knee. The kitchen was a domain of its own; Christiana seldom went into it, but Blackstone did not care for servants to rule without an occasional challenge.
The heat from the fire and the steaming pots made Beatrix’s face seem more flushed than usual. She seldom saw Blackstone even when he was not on campaign and had to gather herself for a moment, not wishing to be seen flustered in front of the kitchen boys.
‘Beatrix, the men are hungry, so I pray you won’t be offering salted fish; we’ve had a belly full of that,’ he said, smiling at her. But she was a peasant Frenchwoman who had no understanding that her English lord’s ways meant his words were often spoken in gentle jest. It was better not to try and interpret them in any other way than what she heard.
‘You will have pottage and mutton, my lord.’
‘No white sauce or beef?’ he said, once again gently mocking her.
Beatrix scowled. ‘There’s never been delicate food from this kitchen except when my Ladies de Harcourt and de Ruymont have visited and then my mistress commands me to serve fine cuts with a sauce. You’ve no need to worry about your men, Sir Thomas. They’ll bed down in the straw with full bellies and sleep like farting pigs.’
She fussed the boys and gave a gentle slap to the back of the head of one of them, urging them to carry on with their duties and to lower their eyes when their lord and master came into the kitchen.
Blackstone looked
around the shelves laden with pottery storage jars. There was honey and butter and he could smell mint and sage, and one of the boys was grinding fresh garlic with the pestle and mortar. In a cool corner of the kitchen there was wine and olive oil that had been traded with merchants or taken on one of his raids. He dipped a finger in a jar of congealed honey and sucked the cloying sweetness to the roof of his mouth. There was an astringent tang of herbs that tasted like rosemary and lavender. He grimaced. There were delights to be had from having a home surrounded by the richness of its countryside, but this was not the best honey he had tasted. Beatrix could blend seasoning to suit most palates when guests visited, but Blackstone’s requirements for food remained simplicity and quantity. He swallowed and scraped a finger across the roof of his mouth, then reached for a morsel of meat.
‘Put venison on the table as well. They deserve it,’ he said. ‘I have Gascons with me, so make sure there’s extra garlic and they’ll have ale instead of cider, but keep the cider ready because they’ll have a thirst on them. You’ve been told how many men?’