Master of War

14




Over the following days more of de Harcourt’s friends arrived to celebrate Christmas. Some of the Norman lords brought their wives, two did not. They were all unknown to him until he was tutored by the Countess’s servant Marcel. Blackstone made a point of remembering their names and their coats of arms. Louis de Vitry, Jacques Brienne, Henri Livay, Bernard Aubriet. Every one of them was still at war with England, each had answered King Philip’s call, and all of them had now gathered at the castle of one of the most loyal French families. Jean de Harcourt’s father, killed at Crécy, lay dead in the family crypt, honoured by the King of France and remembered by the court. So, Blackstone wondered as he watched these men return with their bloodied spoils from the day’s hunt, why were they gathering here when he was living under the same roof? Who was in the most danger, he or the Frenchman who sheltered him?

The weather turned colder, blustering winds came and went, as indecisive as Blackstone’s feelings about the presence of so many nobles. There were some who were similar in age to de Harcourt himself; others had ten years or more on him. These older men must, Blackstone thought, have more influence on events than those who were younger. Blackstone kept himself in the training yard out of sight, left alone by Jean de Harcourt, who now spent his time with his guests. When they didn’t hunt they stayed in the library behind closed doors. It seemed to be less of a festive celebration than a council of powerful lords. If the women did not join their men riding out to hunt they gathered in Blanche’s rooms or were entertained in the great hall by minstrels, summoned by de Harcourt from Paris to entertain his guests and to pass on the news or gossip gleaned from the capital.

Lord de Graville, grey twists in his beard, sat hunched in his cloak. His page and squire, in charge of two pack horses loaded with their lord’s personal weapons and gifts, were smoothly practised at their duties. They knew the castle, asked no directions, and ordered de Harcourt’s servants and grooms with an ease borne of long-standing superiority. De Graville was a voice of authority in Normandy, as was the man who rode through the gates with him that day – the Lord de Mainemares – whose face seemed to be set in a permanent scowl, even when greeted by de Harcourt. The men embraced and kissed, and it was obvious that the guests were trusted friends and both believed in the divine will of God. Blackstone would see them go to pray in the chapel three times a day, more on a holy day. Blackstone knew these devout nobles were about the same age as Sir Godfrey, the renegade of the de Harcourt family.

Each nobleman’s arrival would be marked by another feast with music, and so it went on over the course of a week. Christiana spoke with more candour than Marcel ever could, and warned him that these Normans swore allegiance to those who would benefit them the most.

‘You sound bitter,’ he told her as they watched another group arrive.

‘My father is an impoverished knight. He holds no land and serves his lord in the west, and his allegiance was to the King of France. These men who come here can be bought. He could not.’

Blackstone felt a shiver of uncertainty whenever she mentioned her father. The English had swept down the Cotentin peninsula and beaten French forces back at every turn and Sir Godfrey, his benefactor’s uncle, had been in the vanguard, pursuing and destroying those loyal to the French crown using Killbere and the mounted archers.

‘I still don’t know what’s happened to him,’ she said. ‘I’m hoping one of these lords can tell me.’ She touched his arm. ‘Be careful of that man, Thomas,’ she said fearfully, pointing out one of the nobles, a man no more than twenty or twenty-one years old.

‘Who is he?’

‘William de Fossat. He rode at the side of the Count of Alen?on at Crécy.’ Her voice was tinged with dislike. ‘They slaughtered the Genoese bowmen so they could charge at your Prince.’ She smiled. ‘Perhaps it’s just as well – otherwise you might not be here today.’

‘They were helpless anyway. We’d killed so many of them it made no difference,’ he said, aware as soon as he’d spoken that his words were emotionless and matter-of-fact. The English were exhausted when Alen?on made his charge, but they had stopped him anyway. And killed him. Blackstone watched de Fossat pull off his riding gloves and take Blanche de Harcourt’s outstretched hand, his lips hovering above her fair skin. His face reminded Blackstone of Jean de Harcourt’s falcon – a sharp, beaked nose and eyes that never settled. William de Fossat, she told him, had fallen foul of John, Duke of Normandy, the King’s son, and lost most of his estates.

‘He’s been known to commit murder,’ she added.

‘Soldiers die in battle.’

‘No. He killed his cousin for refusing to meet a challenge and then killed the man who made that challenge. Most of these men in their own way are dangerous, Thomas. Stay away from them.’


Blackstone had done his best to do just that. Whenever de Harcourt and the lords rode forth or returned he kept out of sight. He had become invisible to everyone except Christiana, who now spent more time with the other women, all revelling in the opportunity to gossip, since they so often lived alone in their husband’s manor houses or castles, with no other women of equal rank for company, save perhaps a daughter. It was an ideal time for Blackstone to take advantage of the men’s absence and the women’s gathering in order to use the library. The servants barely had time to notice him being there, but piles of warm ash in the fireplace told him that de Harcourt and the nobles were spending hours locked in the room.

The room was not large – big enough for a bolstered chair, stools and a table beneath the window. The fireplace dominated the room, candle holders the main source of light. There were rolled documents tied with ribbon, layered like firewood on shelves, and cut sheets of parchment, stitched and bound, laid like a stonemason’s dry wall. A woven rug covered the tiled floor instead of cut reeds. The room suggested a sanctuary for the lord of the manor.


On an age-polished slab of chestnut that served as a table was a rolled parchment. Blackstone made sure that there was no activity in the yard that might herald de Harcourt’s return, and then unfurled what turned out to be a crude, hand-drawn map of France, an uneven line sketched down one quarter of the country, splitting the kingdom. Blackstone traced his finger down from Paris and located Castle de Harcourt. There were dozens of marks made on the map, speckling the parchment – small red crosses, black dots and circles spread like the pox down from Normandy, across to Brittany and south into Bordeaux.

They were locations marking something of importance, and if Castle de Harcourt had been identified then perhaps, Blackstone thought, these were other castles scattered across the countryside. He worked out where the English army had landed and the route he must have taken as he fought his way across Normandy. There was no mark for Crécy, and he had no idea where it might lie. Only the cities of Caen, Rouen, Paris and Bordeaux were shown and in his mind’s eye he tried to imagine what lay beneath his fingertips. He had never seen a map like this before and his imagination took him like an eagle soaring across the route they had marched.

He rolled the map and went back to the shelves, running his fingers lightly over the parchments and bindings. How could one man read so many books? On a lower shelf he found sheets of drawings embellished with Latin text, bound with an illuminated cover showing a monk wielding a sword. Blackstone eased it from its resting place and moved to the window for better light, and to watch for de Harcourt’s return. As he turned each sheet he saw that the images were drawings showing the guard positions that Jean de Harcourt had taught him. It was a book on swordsmanship. Blackstone slipped the manuscript beneath his jacket. He had found a book that interested him.


It seemed to Blackstone that the guests would be staying for some time. Christmas seemed an on-going feast, one to which he had not been invited. He took his meals in his room, brought by a servant, sometimes joined by Christiana, who gently continued to coax his table manners. It was a far cry from the Holy Day’s rest in his village, when the local priest would give them a serving of Christmas ale, and they would rest for a day, and be brought together in prayer in the church that was as cold as a grave. They were good memories of hard work and brotherly love, such as the Christmas when Richard Blackstone had bent that malformed face of his into an idiot’s grin and bellowed with joy as he skinned and gutted a snared rabbit for the Christmas pot.

Dear Lord and all Your angels, Blackstone’s thought went out in prayer, look after my brother as I could not.

‘Thomas?’ Christiana asked, breaking his reverie.

‘What?’

‘Where were you?’

‘Remembering another time.’

She moved closer to him, her fingers touched her lips and then laid them on his scar.

‘It’s healing well. When summer comes and you get some warmth on your face there’ll only be a white line.’

He held her to him and lowered his lips to hers. ‘How long must I wait?’

‘Until it’s time,’ she said, her voice almost a whisper, but she did not turn away.

He pressed her against him, her lips softened with balm, and he felt them part as the tip of her tongue gently teased his own. And then she eased back.

‘Too tight. You crush me,’ she said softly.

He hadn’t realized how hard he held her, and once again his clumsiness embarrassed him. ‘I’m sorry.’

‘You’ll learn. I’m not as frail as I sound, it’s just that you’re stronger than you realize. Now, we must go.’

‘I’ve no place to go.’

‘You’ve been invited to the great hall.’

He pulled away from her as if she had slapped him across his wounded face.

‘Don’t be alarmed. You know how to behave,’ she said.

‘With you and Countess Blanche perhaps, but not with all those noblemen and their wives. Why?’

‘You know why. You’re a curiosity. You’re a common man blessed by a King. They want to take the measure of you.’

‘They can go to hell.’

‘They’ll pay a priest to save them from that,’ she said, soothing his fear as best she could. ‘Listen, my love, these are some of the most powerful men in Normandy and you are under Count Jean’s protection.’

Blackstone turned away from her.

‘Thomas, don’t act like a child,’ she said carefully.

He spun around, anger ready to explode, but she stood her ground and smiled, waiting patiently for the man she loved to appear before her. Her demeanour stopped him.

‘I can’t go down there,’ he said, already defeated before he had stepped beyond his own room.

‘When you served Sir Gilbert and your centenar that you told me about…’

‘Elfred.’

‘Yes, Elfred. What did they teach you when you fought?’

‘How to kill my enemy.’

‘In anger?’

‘No, for each other and the love of my King.’ He paused and then understood. ‘In a disciplined and determined way.’

‘Then that is all you have to do tonight. If you lose your temper you confirm why they despise you.’

‘Do they?’

‘They despise the brutal archer you were, but they’re intrigued to see the man-at-arms you’re being trained to become. Find that place inside you that is disciplined and determined and you’ll have beaten them.’ She kissed him tenderly. ‘Again,’ she added.


Shadows danced across the great hall’s walls from two huge iron chandeliers, ten feet across, their metal rims hoisted by pulleys to the ceiling, each holding forty or more candles. Around the hall spiked iron stands impaled candles the thickness of a man’s arm and the fireplace crackled and roared from blazing oak and ash logs.

At the high table Jean de Harcourt and Blanche sat with the nobles and their wives. As Blackstone walked past the cloth-covered trestle table near the entrance, the half-dozen squires, most of them older than Blackstone, stared at the Englishman who had already gained knighthood and honour without their years of service and training. Blackstone barely saw them from the corner of his eye, his attention fixed on the far table and the nobles who displayed their wealth and power with fur-edged, richly embroidered clothing and jewellery. He stopped, knowing he was expected to kneel. These men were his superiors. Instead, he stood defiantly and looked at each face in turn, noting with some satisfaction the glare of annoyance from each of the Normans and the ripple of discomfort at his ill-mannered and contemptuous behaviour. I am a humble English archer in this great Norman hall and I’ve faced you and your kind before – and beaten you. His thoughts resonated as though they had painstakingly been chiselled in stone. Only when his eyes moved back to Jean de Harcourt did he bow his head and then kneel before him.

Jean de Harcourt made him stay on his knee longer than was usual. The wound would soon complain but Thomas Blackstone needed to be taught a lesson.

‘Join us,’ de Harcourt said at last.

It still took effort for him to rise but he disguised his discomfort as best he could. There would be little satisfaction given to the Frenchmen. The usher guided Blackstone to the furthest seat at the end of the table and placed Christiana at his side. The gathered nobles and their wives could not take their eyes from him; he was physically bigger than any grown man at the table, which made the petite girl at his side look more frail than she was.


‘I have never had a man of such low status sit at my table,’ said one of the nobles with apparent disgust. He was a barrel-chested man, with a full beard and jet black hair, thick as a horse’s mane, brushed back onto his shoulders. Blackstone could see the dark eyes glaring, but also noticed the man’s strength. Without doubt he was a fighter.

‘Then we are both at a disadvantage, my Lord de Fossat,’ said Blackstone, pleased to see the man react to the fact that he knew his name, ‘because I have never dined in such distinguished company.’

His response caused a ripple of amusement.

‘And with the greatest respect, this is my lord, the Count de Harcourt’s table.’ There was a murmur of intrigue at the Englishman’s impertinence, which Blackstone quickly turned to his advantage, adding, ‘Unless, of course, he’s sold it to you.’

Jean de Harcourt laughed, and the others followed, even de Fossat smiled.

‘I told you he had a mind of his own,’ de Harcourt said, and then urged his guests to eat, but as they did so their eyes kept glancing to the far end of the table.

A servant placed a large loaf of bread in front of Blackstone. He instinctively reached out to tear a chunk from it, but as his hands went forward he felt, rather than heard, Christiana’s intake of breath. Blackstone corrected himself and carefully sliced a piece of bread.

Christiana’s knee pressed against his beneath the tablecloth.

He had learnt some manners.

All he had to do now, Blackstone thought, was to learn to stay alive among these powerful men.


Blackstone managed to get through the meal without causing offence from any lack of table manners, though it was not without help. When he was about to stab a piece of meat Christiana quite casually mentioned that she always thought he preferred a less tender cut. Blackstone gratefully followed her prompt and passed the finer cuts of meat to others. Her influence was so natural it went unnoticed, except by Blanche de Harcourt whose smile of encouragement settled Christiana’s own nervousness. No one spoke to Blackstone, no one included him in their conversation, and he was glad of it. Being ignored allowed him to keep his eyes down and his ears open. Snippets of conversation filtered through the chatter; gossip about the King and his anger that his son John, Duke of Normandy, had not marched quickly enough from the south to fight in the great battle of Crécy; that the King’s wife was too young; that widows from the war left with great estates now looked for younger men to wed so their inheritance might be defended and then passed on when their children came of age. The war had torn France apart. Perhaps those who chattered didn’t care what he heard. To them Blackstone was still little more than a servant whose blindness and deafness were guaranteed if he wished to continue to be fed with a roof over his head. But when Blackstone did raise his eyes he caught some of those around the table glancing in his direction; nervous looks, penetrating stares that darted away quickly when he looked back. The dinner seemed to go on forever as course after course arrived. Blackstone had never washed his hands so often and the rich food churned his stomach. A hunk of bread and cheese and a bubbling pot of pottage was all he wanted – that and a mighty thrust of Wolf Sword to burst this bubble of chivalric behaviour that seemed more important than anything else.

Blackstone’s own charade was nearly exposed when the musicians were commanded to play dance music and the nobles took their wives to where the reeds had been swept aside, exposing the tiled floor. Guy de Ruymont’s wife, long-faced, her wimple bound so tightly on her forehead that Blackstone wondered if the blood had been cut off from her pale face, leaned across to him and said, ‘Will you be asking any of the ladies other than Christiana to dance, Master Thomas? I suspect we all are rather frightened of you, but something as gentle as a dance might soothe those fears.’

Blackstone could barely hide his panic. Guy de Ruymont saw it and knew that his wife was playing devil’s advocate. Dancing, or the lack of it, was one element of Blackstone’s tutoring that would expose his common character.

‘My dear lady, you expect too much of Master Blackstone, you must remember he still bears his wounds.’

‘Of course, forgive me, how could I forget that you fought at Crécy?’ she said, but this time there was a chill in her voice and a frown on her thin-lipped face as she brushed past him.

‘I’m grateful, my lord,’ Blackstone said to de Ruymont as he passed by.

‘I’ve seen fear in men’s eyes before,’ de Ruymont said. ‘We are all soldiers in the field of battle, and dancing doesn’t come easily to many of us, as you might observe when I accompany my wife.’ He took a pace away but then, almost as an afterthought, and to explain his wife’s jibe, he said, ‘She lost her brother and four kinsmen at Crécy. Time has not yet healed her wounds.’

In that brief moment Blackstone felt an enormous gratitude to the French nobleman whose gentle manner and quick thinking had saved him from the embarrassment they had all been waiting for. He was also under no illusion that he was seen as the butcher who sat at their table, and who had slaughtered their loved ones. How far could their civility be stretched before someone drank from the poisoned chalice and betrayed his presence to the French court? Jean de Harcourt was seen as a loyal subject to King Philip but harbouring an Englishman, and an archer at that, could easily lead to a charge of treason. De Harcourt risked a great deal to fulfil his uncle’s wishes, and Sir Godfrey himself would be beheaded if he were ever captured by French forces. Why, Blackstone wondered, had Jean de Harcourt exposed himself to such a risk by inviting these influential men to his home for Christmas and allowing them to see him? Whatever the reason, it would unfold in its own time.

And once again Blackstone’s instincts told him not to wait too long to find out. Sooner or later he must seize his own destiny.


The minstrels’ music lilted across the hall as Blackstone fidgeted, squirming inside as he remembered Christiana trying to teach him the courtliness of the dance: men and women facing each other, three steps back, a bow, forward, take the lady’s hand, three more lightly taken steps, a pause, a faltering stutter of a walk in Blackstone’s case, clumsy and uncoordinated, leading the lady by the hand, keep going, keep going, now pause again, turn in the opposite direction, walk, turn, face your partner! Thomas! You’re like a wandering cow! Enough had been enough.

While Christiana danced Blackstone quietly eased away into the night air. One of de Harcourt’s dogs followed him, perhaps as tired of the music as was Blackstone. He looked across the glittering sky and the frost that settled across the landscape. Sentries stood at their posts and the world seemed to have eased into silence. Moonlight illuminated the silhouettes of the forests but their darkness soon absorbed what light there was. If he were to defend this castle, he decided, he would cut back the trees another hundred yards from the north gate and use the timber to build another palisade beyond the outer moat. Defence was everything when facing an enemy, and King Edward had proved that when he chose his ground to fight. All the lessons Blackstone had learnt this past year were clear in his mind and he knew instinctively that he would use them again when he eventually left this place. The dog sat at his side as Blackstone stroked its velvety ears, but he felt it tense, its muscles shivering in anticipation. Blackstone looked along the passageways; the shadows showed no sign of movement, yet he knew the darkness held someone.


‘Who’s there?’ he called.

The dog uttered a low rumbling growl as Blackstone braced himself for any sudden attack.

‘If you please, sir, hold the dog. I don’t wish you any harm,’ a young voice answered from somewhere ahead.

Blackstone comforted the dog, and took hold of its broad leather collar. ‘Then come forward and show yourself,’ he replied.

A small figure stepped from the darkness into a shaft of moonlight; it was a boy.

‘The dog could pull me down,’ the boy said.

‘I have him, you come forward and give him your scent.’

The boy came closer, his arm extended towards the dog’s nose. It was a pageboy who, despite his fear of the dog, had stepped forward confidently on Blackstone’s command. The dog whined, strained at the collar and then, tail wagging, licked the boy’s hand.

The pale light kept the boy’s features indistinct. ‘Who are you?’ Blackstone asked.

‘My name is Guillaume Bourdin,’ the boy answered, and gazed up at Blackstone’s scarred face, made to look even more vicious by the shadows.

‘And who do you serve?’ Blackstone asked.

‘Countess de Harcourt had me placed with Lord Henri Livay,’ the boy answered.

Blackstone gazed at him, there was something about him that seemed familiar, but he had no idea what it was.

‘All right, Master Bourdin, why aren’t you with the other pages in the stable? Isn’t that where you’re supposed to be while the squires dine with their masters?’

‘I saw you training, Sir Thomas, but I could not approach you without being seen, and so I waited for a moment when I might thank you and tell you how pleased I am that you have recovered so well from your terrible wounds.’

‘I don’t know you, boy, so why would you need to thank me? And what do you know of my wounds?’

‘I was at the castle at Noyelles when you were brought there after the battle. And before that you tried to help my master and spared my life. And so I will always be in your debt, Sir Thomas.’

Blackstone realized it was the boy who had guarded the wounded knight concealed behind the curtain. The incident seemed so long ago.

‘Surely your master couldn’t have survived those wounds?’ said Blackstone, already knowing the answer.

‘No, Sir Thomas, he died less than an hour after you left the castle.’

‘How long did you serve him as a page?’

‘Nearly four years. I’m almost eleven now.’

‘And so Countess Blanche placed you with a new lord. Who did you say?’

‘My Lord Henri Livay,’ the boy said, his smile telling Blackstone that Blanche de Harcourt had been careful in the boy’s placement.

‘Is he a good master?’

‘He is, Sir Thomas. He is kind and I’m learning quickly.’

‘Does his squire beat you?’

‘Only when I fail in my duty.’

‘Is that often?’

‘No, Sir Thomas, I am determined to serve well and with courage.’

‘You have courage already,’ Blackstone said. ‘I saw that for myself back at Noyelles. I’m pleased that you’ve been placed under such good care as that of Lord Livay and that you will learn all the skills to become a good squire,’ Blackstone said, feeling a satisfied warmth that out of all the slaughter and pain, this boy had survived and been given the chance to serve an honourable master.

‘All right, get back to the others before the squires return and check on you. Obey them and learn, young Master Guillaume. It seems we have both been given a second chance to change our lives.’

The boy bowed and turned away, disappearing quickly into the shadows, using the darkness to mask his return. The boy’s instincts serve him well, Blackstone thought, and then stepped back himself into the darkness offered by a pillar as a servant opened the door, spilling a yellow glow from inside the great hall. The musicians had fallen silent as the servant looked left and right. Blackstone stepped forward, allowing the man to see him.

‘Sir Thomas, the ladies have retired and my lord commands me to take you to the library.’

Blackstone followed the man and was ushered into the candlelit room. The fire’s blaze threw its warmth into the small room and cast the men’s shadows behind them onto the walls, making them appear even more threatening than Blackstone felt them to be.

‘You continue to show bad manners, Thomas,’ de Harcourt said. ‘A social inferior does not leave his host’s table until given permission to do so. I’ll not be embarrassed in front of my friends again, you understand?’

Blackstone bowed his head. ‘Please accept my apologies, lord. I thought my presence at your table had outstayed its welcome.’

‘He has an answer for everything,’ said William de Fossat. ‘Were he not knighted by a Prince I’d have the impertinence beaten out of him.’

No one else spoke, but they held glasses of wine in their hands and gazed towards the Englishman in their midst. Most seemed less concerned about Blackstone’s presence than their aggressive companion, de Fossat.

‘But a Prince has honoured him,’ said de Harcourt, ‘and that is why we have agreed to allow him among us. Sit down, Thomas; we want to talk to you. And you’ll speak freely, understood?’

Blackstone nodded and sat on a bench to face his inquisitors.

‘You’re being taught swordsmanship,’ one of the men asked.

‘I am, lord.’

‘And the lance?’

‘No, lord. No lance. I see no purpose.’

The murmur of disapproval made it obvious that Blackstone had no understanding of how a man-at-arms should fight.

Henri Livay smiled indulgently. ‘You see no purpose? A knight is often measured by his prowess with a lance when he rides in the lists.’

‘I’ve never seen a tournament, though I’ve heard noblemen and men-at-arms have died from their injuries when they joust. It seems a waste of a good fighting man – dying just to wear pride on your sleeve.’ Blackstone’s comments made the men look at each other in disbelief, but he knew his antagonism was justified. ‘A lance is a useless weapon on horseback. You never reached us with your lances. We killed your horses. We dug pits and we pulled you down. My lords, the day of the lance is finished unless it is held on the ground by two or three men and used to kill charging horses.’

‘I’ll not have a bastard archer sit there and talk of damned tactics and tell me how he slaughtered us!’ shouted de Fossat.

‘Shame! Shame on you, Jean! You bring this butcher into our circle of friendship?’ another challenged de Harcourt.

De Harcourt raised a hand to pacify their anger. ‘Does he not speak the truth?’ he said calmly. ‘How many of us reached their lines? And those who did, what weapons did we use? Eh? Sword, mace and axe.’

‘And it wasn’t enough,’ added another. The men began arguing until one of them stood and strode towards Blackstone. He wore a dark blue cloak, edged in gold braid with an ermine collar. He had wealth and authority and was used to showing both. Like most of the men in the room he was shorter than Blackstone by nearly six inches, but his bulk was muscle and his stocky appearance carried the menace of a man used to close-quarter battle. That’s a powerful man, Thomas, Christiana had told him when she had pointed him out earlier. Lord de Graville is a close friend of Sir Godfrey’s, but he didn’t go over to the English.


‘Listen to me, boy. There’s a code of chivalry that we hold as dear to us as the lance. A knight will always carry both into battle,’ he said, the spittle from his disgust clinging to his beard.

Blackstone let the others mutter their agreement, but de Harcourt stayed silent. He had given his pupil free rein. If Blackstone was cowed by these men then he was little more than a worthless yeoman who could no longer draw a war bow. If he had the making of a fighting man he would defend himself using his brain and his tongue as his weapons. So far, Jean de Harcourt noted, Blackstone had defied his enemies in the room.

‘I believe I understand honour, my lords. My own sworn lord told me that a man is measured by his honour and loyalty. But chivalry?’

‘Aye!’ Louis de Vitry shouted. ‘A knight’s chivalry is his birthright and duty.’

Blackstone allowed a moment to pass. There was no point in jumping into the angry fray, he knew that choosing his words was as important as choosing his ground for a fight. ‘I’m a coarse man from a plain background, taught by my father to use a war bow. But what I see of chivalry is like a cloak that hides a leper’s body. What kind of chivalry was it that caused you to trample down your own peasant infantry and put your own bowmen to the sword? If that’s chivalry I’ve no use for it. I’ll fight to the death for my King and my friends around me. I’ll kill because I want my enemy dead, and that can’t be disguised as anything else.’

For a moment there was little more than the sound of the men’s laboured breathing. It was incomprehensible that a base English archer had made such impertinent comments. Blackstone didn’t flinch under their glare.

De Vitry got up from his chair. ‘Jean, I’ll not stay in the same room as this vile creature. Perhaps we have overestimated the King of England for allowing this low fellow to be honoured.’

De Harcourt stood quickly and blocked his friend from reaching the door.

‘Louis, we must let him speak. He’s not one of us, he never can be. But what he did was an act of great courage. He has suffered his own loss in battle and he’s endured wounds that would have many of us still lying in our beds. He’s no fool and he has the making of a swordsman. Killing the English is not enough. We need to understand them.’

Louis de Vitry, barely six years older than Blackstone, but, like de Harcourt, a son and heir of one of Normandy’s greatest families, allowed his friend’s words to calm him. He returned to his seat by the fire, but kept his gaze on the flames.

De Harcourt faced Blackstone. ‘Impertinence such as yours is something we have little experience of, Thomas.’

‘I apologize, lord. I don’t mean to offend. I can only speak plainly.’

‘The thing is, Thomas, you never sound as though you mean it when you apologize,’ said de Harcourt without anger.

One of the older men refilled his glass, but did not offer Blackstone a drink. ‘We fought with a ferocity that should have swept your English King and his army back into the ditch that separates our two countries. Our humiliation is more painful than the wounds we endured,’ he said.

The silence indicated that Blackstone should answer. ‘Our King warned us of your ferocity, my Lord de Mainemares. He said you were the greatest army in Christendom and that you would crush us if we faltered.’

‘The question still remains: why did you not falter against such overwhelming odds?’ Guy de Ruymont asked.

Blackstone could find no obvious reason for being questioned but knew that his answers would be important to these touchy and violent men. ‘We had a great advantage over you.’

‘Yes, you had archers that slaughtered from a distance. There’s no honour in that,’ said one of the other men.

‘If you had broken through our lines, as you did in places, then you would have slaughtered us archers because we carried no means of defence against you. And that’s why we killed you as quickly as we could and without mercy, just as your King raised the Oriflamme against us. Would you have stopped killing us had we surrendered? I don’t think so. And our knights were better suited for the fight than you,’ Blackstone said.

‘You bastard!’ de Fossat spat and made a move towards Blackstone, who stood quickly to defend himself.

‘William!’ de Harcourt commanded, making the impetuous knight hold back.

No one spoke for a moment. Blackstone knew he had gone too far. ‘Not that they were braver. But their courage had been tested many times. They were experienced from the Scottish wars and they were committed to their King.’

‘And we were not?’ said Henri Livay.

‘You were not, my lord, not in the same way.’

‘Christ’s suffering, Jean. Why do we have this murdering butcher here at all?’ said another nobleman.

‘Because,’ de Graville interrupted, ‘he was there, facing our might. He could see the battle and how it went. And he’s an Englishman who thinks differently than us. Explain yourself.’

‘I don’t have the wisdom of a King or a Prince, or any of the men-at-arms who fought you. I can tell you what I heard and what I saw, lord. My King chose his ground. You gave your bowmen no protection. You were impatient to kill us.’

‘What in God’s name does that mean? You taunt us with insults now, Blackstone?’ de Fossat yelled.

‘I mean that you did not serve your King as we served ours.’

This time it was the elder Lord de Mainemares who snatched at de Fossat’s arm to hold back his lunge. ‘Control yourself, damn you! Or go and sit with the women and their tittle-tattle. This man and those with him caused us great slaughter. Our nobles are held to ransom, our King licks his wounds behind the walls of Paris. We can learn from this humble archer.’

‘Who, as Jean said, has proved his bravery as much as any man here,’ Henri Livay acknowledged.

‘And is no longer a bowman,’ Guy de Ruymont said. ‘Tell us what you mean, Master Blackstone.’

Blackstone controlled his breathing, steadying the panic that threatened to take hold of him as he faced the Norman war lords.

‘My lords, from what I understand, you fight for your honour, and your honour alone. You fight together as families, as men who are kin to each other and who compete with others to see who can kill us English first. You won’t be denied your day of battle – and it was this impatience that killed you.’

The men stared at Blackstone, as if chastised by him.

Blackstone didn’t wait for any further question or challenge. He needed to tell these mighty Frenchmen how their own arrogance had caused them to lose. ‘We were rallied by my sovereign lord. He spoke to us all. He held us close and we fought for him and for him alone.’ They were silent. Not one man turned his eyes from Blackstone. What he said smothered their pride. ‘Our King was the greater King,’ he said, and waited for another outburst. And it came immediately.

‘You will not insult the King of France!’ said Louis de Vitry harshly.

The men’s voices rose in anger again, each shouting over the other, but Blackstone had faced down men like these thundering towards him riding their great war horses. Their angry words were harmless. Only Jean de Harcourt and Lord de Graville stayed silent, a glance between them that Blackstone noticed. A glance that told they knew the young knight’s words were the truth.

Blackstone stood, and for some reason he did not understand, the men fell silent.


‘A great King does not lose a great battle,’ he said quietly.

He paused and then bowed to Jean de Harcourt, who nodded, giving permission for Blackstone to leave. There was nothing more the young archer could say that night.

As the doors closed behind him the cold night air chilled the sweat-drenched shirt that clung to his body. He finally let the coiled tension seep away and steadied himself against the wall, took a deep, slow breath and for a moment tried to understand what had just happened in that room. He had challenged and probably insulted men of rank who knew his identity, who were probably still his enemies. But no one had struck him, no one demanded of Jean de Harcourt that he be cast out from these walls. Blackstone had stood his ground and given no quarter. Strength surged through him.

A change had taken place within him.

And the taste of it made him smile.