Master of War

15




Jean de Harcourt stood at the window and looked down to where grooms and pages prepared mounts for the day’s hunt. To one side, almost out of sight of the early morning activity, he saw Blackstone going through his training ritual. The Englishman was there every day and he had secretly watched him since his guests had arrived. The sense of loss from not training with Blackstone was something he had not anticipated. A master—pupil camaraderie had been forged between the two men, who were obliged to live within the same castle walls. He had given Thomas Blackstone freedom of speech at the previous night’s meeting in the library and the Englishman had stripped bare his guests’ emotions. Now he wondered whether those men would rebel against the long-term plans that he and de Graville had considered for Thomas Blackstone. There was still much to discuss with the barons, but they needed to tread carefully, for the betrayal of even their conversations meant certain death at the hands of King Philip. The English King had promised much, but still the war had not ended and the Normans needed to control their own destiny. De Harcourt’s plans were little more than a will-o’-the-wisp, a restive spirit that could not be captured – so too his ideas for Blackstone. They were as yet unformed, but carried the hope that they might prove feasible. Having a young, trained man-at-arms in the heart of Normandy who carried the favour of the English King might well, in good time, serve King Edward’s interests and the French who sided with him. But not yet. To think of using Blackstone now as an instrument of their ambition was premature.

On these cold winter mornings, de Harcourt would stand at the window wrapped in his cloak against the freezing air and watch his pupil practise time and again. Secretly observing Blackstone gave him mixed feelings of both satisfaction and envy. Blackstone still lacked the capability of fighting effectively toe to toe, but his skills were sufficient for de Harcourt to think that he could pit him against any of the squires who had accompanied their masters over the past weeks. In truth, he could pit him against some of the knights themselves, because Blackstone’s ferocity was something only the most skilled swordsman would be able to parry and turn to his advantage. There was still a fundamental flaw in the way Blackstone attacked an opponent, but de Harcourt could not yet see how to change the archer’s faults. The twinge of envy came from the knowledge that someone from a humble beginning had the quick intelligence to learn and to speak plainly about the meaning of honour. There was no doubt in de Harcourt’s mind that the knight who had been Blackstone’s sworn lord, Sir Gilbert Killbere, had played a profound role in the boy’s maturity.

De Harcourt had another concern. There were those among his guests who had taken Blackstone’s comments as personal insults. If they could not rise above their feelings and see that what the Englishman had said was true, then there might be one among them who would try to exact revenge. The older men had taken Blackstone’s words at face value, for, like de Harcourt himself, they knew that the impetuousness and poor decision-making of the French King still underlay his poor leadership. It was the younger men who bridled at the hurtful truth. It would most likely be William de Fossat who would make some kind of challenge against Blackstone. And his violence would be difficult to temper and almost impossible for de Harcourt to stop once his hospitality ended. If emotions ran high enough then a collective anger from the younger men could result in a direct assault against the archer. And if that happened de Harcourt would have no choice but to defend him and that would drive a wedge as sharp as any blade between him and the others.

He was about to turn back into the room when he saw one of the barons making his way towards Blackstone in the training yard. He couldn’t see the man’s face but he knew it wasn’t de Fossat. Then he realized that it was instead Louis de Vitry, who had been inflamed by Blackstone’s comments about the French monarch.

‘Blackstone!’ de Vitry called.

Blackstone turned and saw the young nobleman, flushed with anger and determination.

‘You want me, my lord?’ Blackstone said, feeling his own belligerence rise. He was already warmed up from his sword practice and if this Norman wanted a fight Blackstone would not back down. The wooden sword in his hand would be useless against the blade that de Vitry carried and he quickly looked around for another weapon. There was a pitchfork near the feed store but it would take half a dozen strides to reach it by which time de Vitry could have his sword clear of its scabbard and deliver a fatal blow. No sooner had he dismissed the thought than de Vitry unbuckled the scabbard and picked up a training sword.

‘You need to be taught some manners. I’m a guest here, but beating a servant means nothing.’

‘I serve no one in this house, so that’s your first mistake,’ Blackstone answered, watching the man’s eyes, reading his intentions. ‘And your second is that you’re not used to fighting a common man.’ Blackstone taunted him with a smile. ‘You could get hurt.’

It was enough to ignite the man’s injured pride and with a yell he lunged. Blackstone sidestepped, positioned his guard, blocked the strikes, found his footing and attacked with a flurry of blows. De Vitry’s initial ill-tempered attack was soon brought under disciplined control and Blackstone knew that he was fighting a man who had as much skill as de Harcourt. But Blackstone’s demanding training and his tutor’s painful lessons now served him well. His opponent made an error in his stance, Blackstone struck him with a mighty blow and he staggered back. Blackstone’s focus saw nothing but the man’s face and, fearless of impending blows in retaliation, he took control of the encounter and pressed home his advantage. Instinctively he felt he could break the man’s defence, but then de Vitry counter-attacked with such skill that Blackstone was taken by surprise. Stinging blows from the wooden sword struck his thigh, chest and neck. The pain told him that he would have been dead in a real fight. He recovered quickly, held his guard, and pressed de Vitry back again, landing blows on arms and legs that would also have proved fatal in combat. For a moment neither man had the advantage and then, moving on the balls of his feet, Blackstone feinted left, drew in his opponent and struck with such force that de Vitry’s wooden sword broke in two. He stumbled back against the wall but Blackstone’s violence was such that he saw nothing more than beating the nobleman to his knees.

De Vitry snatched up the pitchfork and lunged. The fight was now deadly. Blackstone parried, but like a pikeman in the front line of battle his opponent had the advantage. Blackstone twisted away from the deadly tines, but his leg failed him and he fell. De Vitry’s eyes were wide and a shout of victory left him as he lunged downwards. Blackstone half-turned, kicked, and caught the man’s legs. De Vitry lost his footing, the pitchfork slipping free from his muddied hands.


Blackstone’s vision blurred. The violent concentration was no different from when he had cut and thrust his way towards his dying brother. He grappled forward, snatching at the man’s clothing, going for his throat, ready to strangle him. They closed and Blackstone grabbed de Vitry’s belt and head-butted him, barely missing his nose but slamming his forehead between his eyes. The nobleman howled in pain but held onto Blackstone. Their combined weight was too much for his weakened leg and they fell, giving de Vitry the chance he needed. The dagger from his belt was suddenly in his hand and raised back to strike down into Blackstone’s exposed throat.

The moment before the blade fell another man suddenly blocked Blackstone’s vision. The bear of a man wrapped an arm around de Vitry’s chest and held him as if he were little more than a child. De Vitry struggled, almost smothered by the embrace, but kept there until the intruder’s words pierced his blind anger.

‘Louis! LOUIS! Enough! That’s enough! Listen to me! Do you hear? It’s enough now!’

De Vitry back-pedalled in the dirt as William de Fossat loosened his grip. The most aggressive of Blackstone’s critics stood between the two men, calming the young Norman baron. ‘You cannot kill him, Louis. He’s done nothing to warrant that. Do you hear me now?’ he demanded of de Vitry, who gathered his senses and looked blankly up at the man who stood over him. He spat the phlegm and dirt from his mouth and nodded. ‘I hear you, William,’ he acknowledged and accepted the extended hand to pull him up.

Blackstone was already on his feet, still alert for another attack. For all he knew de Fossat could take over from where he had stopped his friend and continue the assault.

De Fossat looked at Blackstone. ‘You fight like a bear-baiting dog, Master Thomas.’

‘I’m a mongrel born and bred, my lord,’ Blackstone answered.

Before any more could be said Jean de Harcourt stood at the entrance. ‘What is this? Do you assault my guests, Blackstone?’ he said, knowing full well what had happened, having seen everything from his vantage point.

‘I apologize, lord,’ Blackstone answered. ‘The count was keen to give me instruction and I caught him by surprise with my common brawling. I was trying to show him how we fight in an alehouse.’

De Harcourt looked at de Vitry. ‘Is that how it was, Louis?’

The young count’s anger had been quenched by the fight but he still hesitated in answering. ‘He does not explain things with the clarity that he did last night, Jean.’

‘Are you saying he’s lying?’

De Vitry shook his head. ‘It was my intention to thrash him for his insulting remarks. It seems you’ve taught him a great deal in the months he’s been here. Had he been armed I believe he could have killed me. The fault of this is mine and mine alone. Blackstone suffocates the truth in order to spare me humiliation.’ He bowed his head towards Blackstone in acknowledgement. ‘My humiliation is nothing compared to what my country endures, Master Blackstone, but I don’t need the likes of you to spare my feelings.’ He turned away, brushing the mud from his tunic, and then turned back. ‘Oh, and should we fight again, I’ll kill you before you have the opportunity to inflict injury upon me. Now, Jean, excuse me as I must change my clothes if we’re to hunt.’

William de Fossat waited until the nobleman was out of earshot. His smile broke the darkness of his beard. ‘You’re a violent bastard, Thomas Blackstone. You get that leg of yours stronger and I’d think twice about challenging you myself.’ He snorted the cold morning moisture from his nose and spat. ‘Count de Vitry is a good swordsman and you need more practice, lad,’ he said and then turned to de Harcourt. ‘Jean, we’re all running a risk being here with this self-proclaimed mongrel. Pray that Louis doesn’t leak word to the King’s men. It’d be a pity to hand him over now he’s come this far.’ He laid a hand on de Harcourt’s shoulder. ‘Now, my balls are already freezing, can we get on with this damned hunt and kill ourselves a boar?’


Wire-haired hounds and two mastiffs peered out from their wooden cages on the back of a cart that rumbled away down the forest track. Their wet noses sniffed the air but none whined, having not yet scented the boar. These hounds were trained to hunt the wild boar and corner it and they were mature, seasoned trackers that had survived many an encounter with that most dangerous of forest animals. Many a foolish young dog had tried to attack a boar, whose tusks could disembowel a horse. Once the hounds had run down the boar and the beast was cornered the mastiffs would be loosed. Their huge weight could hold down a boar’s muscled strength and then their jaws would clamp over its ears and neck. Only then when the creature had been subdued would a spear be thrust into its heart. There were exceptions to killing it from the safety of a spear’s length, for if the boar was not too big a bold hunter could go forward on foot and plunge a knife into its throat. But de Harcourt expected to lose dogs this day if they came across the particular boar he sought. He was an old survivor that carried scars from spear and arrow, and in all the years he had been rooting through these forests no one had dared go into the thickets after him. De Harcourt’s father had come close to killing him once, but this boar’s tusks were long and razor-sharp and projected a dozen inches from its lower jaw. De Harcourt had seen this huge boar rip dog and man when he charged from a thicket. Jean’s father had lost three dogs and a servant that day, when the cornered beast made his stand. This boar was a legend and when he was last seen de Harcourt’s forest workers had run for their lives. There was no necessity to exaggerate the beast’s size and weight. It would take more than one man to kill it and they would have to spear it quickly and pray no horses went down. It was this sense of anticipation, of facing down a worthy opponent, that sent the men impatiently ahead of the women and their escorts.

The women rode astride their horses, accompanied by the knights’ pages as the squires rode ahead with their spear-carrying masters. Although the morning fog clung stubbornly to the treetops it would melt away within the next hour or so, and once they were deep inside the forest those shafts of sunlight would allow them to follow the dogs and their handlers. De Harcourt’s villeins had been watching for signs for months and reported that the furrows ploughed by the great boar’s snout were concentrated in one area. Everyone’s spirits were high. The women laughed and chattered.

‘It will be the perfect Christmas,’ Blanche de Harcourt shouted as the horses broke into a canter. ‘What better feast than a wild boar on a spit and its head on the table!’


After his conflict with de Vitry, Jean de Harcourt had chastised his pupil. ‘You let him break your guard. You were thinking too much. Killing with a sword has to be as instinctive as using your war bow. Your eye and brain told you when to release a shaft. Neither is separate from the other. Each is attuned – heart, mind and eye. Instinctive – every damned part of you. I’ll not have you fail me, boy. I’ll take the sword to you myself and thrash you with it.’

Blackstone had stood silently and taken his admonition. Jean de Harcourt seemed to be thinking something through, almost as if he struggled with himself to make a decision. His gaze followed the muddied figure of Louis de Vitry as he went back into the castle to change his clothes.


‘All right, let’s see if we can get your brain to work as well as that right arm of yours. Come with me.’

Jean de Harcourt strode into his library, his dogs trotting at his heels. Their master clicked his fingers and pointed and they quickly settled themselves in front of the fire, their eyes still following his movements. The library had been his father’s, but his own upbringing of study and learning meant that he had spent many hours under the strict tutelage of a monk whose broken, dirt-engrained nails and stinking cassock were forever imprinted in his memory, as much as the lessons learnt and the beatings permitted by his father. His father had insisted on an education beyond that given a squire before he took on the years of service to become a knight.

His was a great family whose ancestors reached back to Bernard the Dane, who was granted the territory that became Normandy. One of his forefathers, the Sire de Harcourt, commanded the archers who fought with William the Conqueror, the bastard Duke of Normandy, when he claimed the English throne. Another, Robert II, rode with Richard the Lionheart in crusade and served as a loyal and valued retainer. That both his father and his uncle, Sir Godfrey, had split the family over their diverse loyalties was a wound that would need longer healing than the young Englishman’s injuries. And more painful. His father was old-fashioned, proud and arrogant, dismissive of a weak French King but who would never waiver in his allegiance to the crown. He was Captain of Rouen, the greatest city in Normandy. The son had begged the father to support Sir Godfrey. The English King had a legitimate right to the French throne. But his father’s deep-seated pride caught him by surprise. Jean de Harcourt was thirty years old, strong and lean, with strength to fight for hours on end, but the old man’s blow came so fast it put Jean on his knees. A Norman’s honour was his own, not for sale at a whorehouse, his father had spat at him. Jean would have gone with Sir Godfrey, but his duty lay with his father. And so it was that the family faced each other across that killing field. The battle’s savagery was beyond description and when his father went down, Jean helplessly watched him die, sword slaked in blood, visor up, blood spilling between his teeth as the arrows struck him. He went down with his charger, the churned ground holding him like a pagan spirit, refusing to release his dying body until the armoured horses in the following rank swept him up beneath their hooves, rolling and pounding his body into a battered mass of bone and blood.

Jean’s hand found the document he sought. He turned to face the soaking wet Blackstone, who stood well back from the warmth of the fire, waiting for permission to move closer. There was arrogance and defiance in that act alone, de Harcourt realized. Blackstone would not give anyone the satisfaction of seeing his need. Well, that suited de Harcourt. He felt no compulsion to allow him such comfort. There were moments when his memory made him want to punish the English archer, not help him, and having Blackstone under his roof was causing a rift between him and his friends, nobles he needed to have on his side. It took a few moments for de Harcourt to subdue his nagging anger, but he reminded himself that fighting a war was a gamble. Good fortune had deserted them at Crécy and one young Englishman, placed in his care, could not be the whipping boy for a nation’s humiliation. Besides, he grudgingly admitted to himself, Blackstone’s character and courage demanded respect.

He tossed the scroll to Blackstone. ‘You don’t need to be able to read to understand that,’ he said and then joined the dogs at the fireside as Blackstone unfurled the scroll.

‘My ancestors brought that back when they fought the Saracens. They understood the human body in a way we do not. Our physicians are ignorant peasants compared to them. You can read a builder’s plan, so you should be able to comprehend that,’ he said and waited while what he hoped might be the missing keystone to Blackstone’s fighting skills was given to him. What he held was a faded drawing of a naked man, arms outstretched to touch the circle around him. Another line bisected the torso across his waist, and two matching lines in the form of a cross cut the man’s body from each shoulder down through his hip. Within each segment vital organs were shown – heart, lungs, liver, stomach – it was a drawing of God’s perfect cathedral.

‘You understand it?’ de Harcourt asked.

‘It’s geometry,’ he answered.

‘It’s heresy. The Holy Church bans dissection, but that was done by a Muslim physician before my father was born. Now when you fight a man you think of that and strike accordingly. Keep it to yourself.’ He turned his face away; he had now given the young archer everything he needed to kill effectively.

‘Is that leg ready yet to straddle a horse?’ de Harcourt asked.

‘I believe so, lord,’ said Blackstone hopefully.

‘Then it needs to be tested. It’s time you got out from behind these walls. I’ll have a groom pick out a horse that won’t throw you.’

Blackstone could barely believe his luck. At last he was being allowed freedom from the castle; not only that but it was to be with the hunt.

‘All right, Thomas, go and clean off that filth and change. Take the drawing to your room to study later.’

‘Thank you,’ Blackstone said, unable to find any other words to express his gratitude for the Saracen’s drawing and the chance to ride out. ‘But I’ve never used a spear against wild boar – or anything, come to that.’

‘You won’t have to. Personal protection is all you’ll need. Bring that sword of yours. You ride with the women and the pageboys.’

Blackstone’s heart sank. ‘The women? Can’t I hunt with the men?’

‘Don’t test my generosity, Thomas. The women need protecting at the rear. You and the pageboys should be able to manage that, don’t you think?’


And so Blackstone had sluiced the stench of sweat from his body and changed his clothes, but rode behind the ladies as they followed their knights. De Harcourt had found a scabbard for Wolf Sword that now hung from the horse’s pommel. It was the first time he had taken the sword from his quarters and he felt a strange mixture of pride and self-consciousness. Before he slid the pointed blade into its covering he felt a twinge of uncertainty. Sir Gilbert had taught him to keep his sword ready, but this was not combat and to parade the fine weapon was unnecessary. For a few spellbound moments he held its perfect balance, the weight positioned below the crossguard allowing the blade the freedom to do its work. It seemed a shame to hide its beauty, but he slid it into the scabbard.

Food and drink was carried by the pages and the oldest of them, including the ten-year-old Guillaume, were given the task of laying out the blankets and coverings for the midday refreshment of which the hunters would partake. The day would be short and the light gone within a few hours, but wood was gathered and fires lit for the winter picnic beneath a sapphire-clear sky. A cry went up as a roe deer was flushed from a coppice into an open meadow and the women spurred their horses to surge after their men. The startled creature darted left and right, zigzagging away from the yelling men. The dogs howled but were restrained by their handlers. A deer was an easy kill. The women shouted their encouragement.

‘Louis! It’s yours!’ Henri Livay called to de Vitry as the deer gracefully evaded his efforts to spear it.


Once again the terrified animal veered left and right, skittishly unsettling the horses’ strides. Blackstone kept pace with the women whose gowns and headdresses fluttered behind them. Like angel wings, Blackstone thought as he guided the horse closer to Christiana’s. The look on her face, though, was anything but angelic. Eyes wide, gasping for breath with the excitement of the impending kill, she and Blanche de Harcourt rode side by side, laughing with lust for the deer’s death. Her passion for the hunt caught him unawares and in that moment his own longing for her deepened. A wild thought ran through his head: if he could separate Christiana from the others he’d take her to a glade and lay down a blanket where he would undress her slowly and smother her shivering body with his own. Could there be a better time to slake their lust? he wondered.

Those thoughts took his attention off the hunt for a few scant seconds, long enough for his horse to veer sharply from a tufted clump of grass for no apparent reason. As the shouts of victory and the baying cry of the speared and dying animal travelled across the field, Blackstone’s foot came free of the stirrup, his balance shifted and his wild grab at the horse’s mane could not save him from tumbling into space. It seemed a long time before he hit the ground that rushed up to greet him, but when he did it felt like a mighty hammer blow that knocked the wind out of him.

He could hear the hoof beats pounding away, their vibration trembling through the ground into his spine. Richard Blackstone had been able to feel the sound of trumpet and drum, perhaps this was what it was like when his brother died in his silent world, Blackstone thought, as he lay unmoving in silence, his ears flooded with the pulsing of his own blood. He groaned and eased himself up.

The dogs could barely be restrained by their handlers as the deer’s throat was cut by one of the runners, its blood spurting from its dying heartbeat. De Vitry’s spear was yanked from the carcass and the servants set about gutting the animal before its eyes had even glazed in death. They would be given the heart and liver as a special Christmas treat and the lungs would go to the dogs when the hunt returned home. By the time Blackstone noted all of this his horse had been caught by one of the men, and the group’s attention turned back to where he staggered to his feet. The laughter that greeted his hobbling stance felt like a barrage of arrow shafts flying across the meadow.

He saw one of the squires holding his horse and then de Harcourt’s gestures indicated that Christiana was to take the horse back to Blackstone. Clearly the men thought Blackstone deserved the additional humiliation of having his mount returned by a woman. He smiled foolishly as she got closer, and then laughed as she pulled the horse up sharply. She was scowling so much that plumes of breath funnelled from her nostrils.

‘You think this is funny?’ she said angrily.

‘You look so ferocious, Christiana, like a snorting devil,’ he said. ‘What’s wrong? Didn’t you join everyone else to laugh at my misfortune?’

She threw down his reins. ‘Can my embarrassment get any worse? You were thrashed this morning by Count de Vitry and now you fall from a docile palfrey? These people are laughing at you, Thomas. You’re not an English peasant any longer; you’re in the company of men of rank. Riding a horse is the least skill demanded of you.’

Blackstone took the reins and steadied the horse and spoke to her as if he were already her lord and husband. ‘Don’t act like a child. I had the better of de Vitry. Those barons are masters of hypocrisy, Christiana. They play a game of divided loyalties and one day either my King or yours will make them pay. They’re a squirming nest of adders and I wouldn’t trust any of them. Are they your kind of people?’

‘I’m my father’s only child and he served his lord faithfully and sent me here for safekeeping!’

‘That doesn’t make you one of them! Are you embarrassed or ashamed? There’s a difference.’

His challenge confused her, which made her angrier still. She wheeled her horse and rode back to where the hunting party waited for her. Blackstone pulled himself into the saddle, wishing more than anything that he was back with his own kind. How far was it to Calais? he wondered.


The day grew shorter, with only a few hours remaining before the sun dipped below the treetops. The clear sky would have made a glorious day for falconry, but none had been taken out, the sole purpose of today’s hunt being to provide meat from the forest, especially boar, for the Christmas table. Blackstone had meandered with the women, some of whom were beginning to complain about the cold as the shafts of light narrowed, taking what little warmth remained with them. Now that they moved through the forest Blackstone’s senses sharpened and he stayed vigilant. He quietly guided the horse through saplings and mature trees, remembering another forest across the river at Blanchetaque when he pulled Christiana to freedom away from the Bohemian soldiers. It was easy to hide in woodland; if a man stayed still it was almost impossible for him to be seen. Even slow movement was masked by the trees and now he feared outlaws who might run from a thicket and pull him from his horse. Then those he protected would be vulnerable and he would have failed in his duty. Turning the horse in and out between the trees he kept the splashes of colour from the women’s garments and the shadows of the pages who diligently followed them in sight. The women’s chatter still carried so that when his eyes looked through the forest, tree to tree, yard by yard, penetrating the woodland, his ears placed their whereabouts.

The men’s distant voices were muffled by the trees as they called to each other. They had obviously split up and their shouts told others where each man was, or thought they were. Henri Livay was lost, and as he called Blackstone heard a distant shout that sounded like Guy de Ruymont telling him where to ride. Then silence fell again, leaving only the crunch of horse’s hooves on the forest floor and the calls of birds going to roost.

They passed through clearings, treeless islands where foresters had once camped. Luxuriant ferns blanketed the ground where deer had not grazed. Bramble thickets crept into these places, as did the failing sun, but Blackstone saw no sign of habitation, no cold embers of fires long past, and if men still used this part of the forest they would have camped here for the warmth the sunlight offered and a soft bed of ferns. As he turned the horse into the clearing a scream shattered the quiet as dogs yelped and barked, then fell silent. The women quickly reined in their startled horses, their own cries of alarm stifled as the man’s scream intensified. Men’s distant voices cried out, desperately seeking the location of the terrifying sounds.

‘Into the clearing! Now!’ Blackstone yelled, driving the horse forward, forcing the women into the open space. Blanche de Harcourt’s spirited courser veered away violently from the mêlée as the women whipped and reined their horses into the middle of the open ground. Blackstone’s injured leg crushed against its flank, but he ignored the pain and grabbed her bridle, his strength forcing the horse to behave.

‘Encircle! Arm yourselves!’ he shouted to the pages who, despite their youth, showed no sign of panic as they obeyed his command. The screaming became louder and then suddenly stopped. In that chilling moment of silence, barely a heartbeat passed before the disparate voices, closer than before, called again, and were muffled as a horse’s anguished whinnying screeched from the depth of the forest. Blackstone had heard those death throes on the battlefield when the English lanced and disembowelled the French war horses.


‘Help me! Here!’ a man’s voice begged. And again: ‘Here!’

‘That’s Jean!’ Blanche de Harcourt cried, pulling the reins towards the cry.

‘Stay here!’ Blackstone shouted at her without any regard for her rank, cuffing her horse’s head, forcing it back into the throng of riders as he spurred his horse forward. It was pure instinct that forced him on through the trees, bending low across the horse’s withers as branches whipped at him. The old palfrey served him well, fearlessly pushing through the forest as Blackstone yanked him this way and that to avoid the trees.

Sunlight splintered the woodland where it had been coppiced and the unmistakable metallic taste of spilt blood caught at the back of his throat. His horse fought the reins as he broke through the saplings into an oasis of light, not unlike the clearing he had just left. What lay before him was a gladiatorial arena of gore-splattered ferns. A man’s torso lay ripped apart, his gaunt death mask hinged on a broken neck, arms akimbo as his fists curled into the fern stems. Much of the area was trampled. The dead man was one of de Harcourt’s dog handlers and two of the hounds lay dead with him. Less than fifty paces away a dense bramble thicket as high as a horse blanketed the far side of the clearing. Here and there new tree growth had pushed its way through the ferns and Jean de Harcourt lay pinned beneath a horse so badly injured it could barely raise its head.

Standing off the corpses and the entrapped man was a wild boar slaked in blood from a spear wound to its neck, its flanks heaving from exertion. When they were growing up Blackstone and his brother had run through Lord Marldon’s forests, snaring rabbits and squirrels for the pot, and watched the hunt from their hiding places, but the nobles had never killed a boar bigger than a growing boy or one that stood higher than a man’s knee. This creature was more frightening than any sword-wielding man. The cornered beast had defended itself and its malevolent eyes showed nothing more than an animal in fear of its life as they fastened onto the intruder. Blackstone fought the frightened horse, which pushed him against a tree, the lower branches scratching at his face. Easing himself onto the ground he let the horse run from its terror, his own mouth dry from fear, the only comfort was his hand squeezing the sword’s grip so tightly that his knuckles ached. What use was a damned sword, he thought, killing it would be easy if I could draw a bow. I’d nock a broadhead arrow and the beast would be shot through. No one need get hurt. But there was no bow, no archer’s arm to hold it. The day could end badly and it could end in the next couple of minutes.

The boar must have been more than twice Blackstone’s weight, at least four hundred pounds, and stood higher than a cloth-yard arrow, taller than a man’s hip. Judging from the sprawled remains of the dead man the boar was longer than six feet. Its tusks and snout were smothered in flesh and blood from its victims, but other than the slight movement of its head as it watched Blackstone edge closer to de Harcourt, it remained motionless. Blackstone prayed that by moving slowly he would allow the boar to escape and either turn back into the bramble thicket to hide or run through the saplings that lay behind his right shoulder.

De Harcourt lay still, face turned to watch the Englishman’s wary approach.

‘Is your leg broken?’ Blackstone asked, in what seemed barely a whisper.

‘No. Trapped. I wounded him. He went to ground in the thicket. I swear it ambushed us,’ he said quietly.

All Blackstone wanted to do was to get out of the boar’s way and give it a clear run past him. He had no interest in killing it and he sensed that if he moved slowly it would give them all a chance of life, but as he shuffled carefully through the ferns that snagged at his ankles, he looped the leather thong around his wrist from the sword’s crossguard. If the boar charged it would take all his strength to keep hold of the sword and the blood knot would give him a second chance should it be yanked from his grip.

‘Christ Jesus, Thomas… use the spear,’ de Harcourt hissed. ‘You’ll never stop it if it charges.’

Blackstone saw the spear shaft lying a dozen feet away, half tangled in the ferns. He shook his head. ‘Too far. It’ll be on me as soon as I give it a chance.’ Each thud of his heart pounded through his brain like the hammer on a bell. It rang out the moments before death was surely upon him. He eased further away, barely daring to look at the wounded boar. Had the spear thrust weakened it or enraged it? For an animal that grubbed roots and worms it seemed more dangerous than a carnivorous wolf.

Four more heartbeats and Blackstone thought he had moved far enough away but then the crashing sound of a horse pushing through the undergrowth changed everything. A horseman forced his way through the forest’s edge and the startled boar charged straight at Blackstone, who still stood in the way of its escape. It came at him head down, tusks ready to slash. Blackstone’s heart banged against his ribs so hard he could barely breathe. Thoughts flashed through his mind, telling him his leg might not allow a quick pivot to one side, and if he fell there would be no defence. There was no time even to consider what action to take. All the lessons he had endured disappeared from his mind as he instinctively raised the sword with a double-handed grip, his crooked left arm bent at the elbow, the blade held high across his shoulder.

He could smell the wild pig’s laboured breath, which billowed into the chill air. Like a premonition he knew, right at that moment, that a strike from this high guard could not save him. Choose your ground! There was a mound pushing up the ferns, several paces ahead, and he realized it was a fallen tree, rotten, barely knee high and long consumed by the foliage. Perhaps it had even been responsible for Harcourt’s horse going down. Blackstone leapt forward, straight at the charging boar. If it didn’t veer away from the attack it would have to jump across the tree. He dropped to one knee, buried his fist and the sword’s pommel into the ground and took the boar full on as its forelegs rose up. The speed and weight of the charge threw him backwards, and the mighty boar trampled over him. A sudden, blurred image of the vicious yellow tusks passed close to his face, as he felt his chest and arm muscles wrenched from the impact as the blood knot tightened on his wrist. Pulling himself in like a hedgehog he gathered the blade to him, hugging it as a drowning man in a violent sea cradles a lifesaving piece of wood.

The stench of foul liquid spurted over him. He rolled clear and got to one knee, telling himself he was still alive and that if the tusks had cut him he didn’t yet feel the pain. The boar went on for another three yards, then crumpled, snout first into the deep ferns, its back legs kicking for purchase, a pitiful, grunting scream coming from its gaping jaws. Blackstone’s sword had taken it in the chest, its momentum burying the honed steel deeper into its innards.

Blackstone stepped forward, swung down the blade in a high, sweeping arc and severed the head.

He stood over the slain beast for a moment, and then dropped a hand to his tunic and breeches. The gore and liquid were not his. His hands began to shake as he sank to his knees and wiped the blade against the foliage, staying hunched down to let the moment pass.

It had been William de Fossat who had crashed through the trees and watched helplessly as the young Englishman took the boar’s charge. He had dismounted the moment Blackstone killed the boar and dispatched his friend’s horse with a knife thrust, and then eased de Harcourt from under the dead animal. Others soon arrived. Louis de Vitry dismounted and saw that there was nothing more to be done, the carnage told its own story and there was no need for explanation. Blanche de Harcourt forced her unwilling horse, skittish from the smell of death, into the clearing. Thanks to God were uttered as husband and wife embraced. Blackstone got to his feet and, without thinking, raised the talisman to his lips and kissed the Celtic goddess in thanks for her protection. Perhaps, he thought, God allowed angels and goddesses to share His kingdom so they might shadow the likes of him who constantly sinned through lack of prayer and who harboured doubt about His existence. The smeared blade cleaned easily, and as he undid the blood knot and turned his wrist the mark of the running wolf below the crossguard seemed to move, as if leaping after its prey. He ran his fingers through his matted hair, which stuck to the blood on his face, and then wiped his hand.


As servants and squires gathered, and the dog handlers lifted their dead animals into their arms, Henri Livay commanded them to lay the dead man on the cart to be taken back for burial.

Blanche turned to Blackstone. ‘There’s an old French proverb, Thomas: “Gratitude is the heart’s memory.” You have my thanks.’

Jean de Harcourt eased his wife aside, and limped towards Blackstone as the others watched.

‘Are you hurt, Thomas?’

‘No, my lord, but I stink,’ he answered, wondering why he was saying something so self-consciously stupid.

De Harcourt smiled and reached for Blackstone’s shoulders, pulling his face down so he could kiss each bloodied cheek. Blackstone could barely believe he had been honoured by a mark of friendship and affection that was never given lightly. ‘You have to be alive to smell your own stench, my friend. You need a hot bath scented with dried rose petals and lavender.’

‘I’ve never had a bath in my life, my lord,’ said Blackstone.

‘Then now is the time,’ de Harcourt told him.