Master of War

18




Jean de Harcourt watched the blood-spattered escort return. Their arrival caused a flurry of activity in the courtyard as the injured men were helped. Blackstone briefly explained what had happened and that mercenaries held the town of Chaulion.

‘We knew it had been taken, but that they were raiding this far is worrying news,’ said de Harcourt.

‘Is the King testing those of us he doubts?’ Louis de Vitry asked.

‘There’s no saying they’re being paid by our King,’ Guy de Ruymont said, ‘they are as likely to be serving their own ends as that of his.’

‘My lord,’ said Blackstone, ‘the Englishman wears the livery of the King of England, and there was another man hanged in the village. I don’t know what they were doing so far south.’

‘What they were doing, young Blackstone, is telling Frenchmen that Edward would protect them if they swore allegiance,’ said de Mainemares, the noblemen’s elder statesman, who pushed his way through the group and tugged at the wounded man’s livery as he was being carried into the castle. ‘He’s sending out runners and without much success. Perhaps your King’s authority and influence is not what we believe it to be.’ He nodded for the litter bearers to take the man inside.

‘Put him next to Sir Thomas’s quarters,’ de Harcourt commanded. ‘Thomas, stay with him and see what you can find out when he regains consciousness, you’re the only one who speaks the language.’

There had been no condemnation of Blackstone’s actions, but neither had there been praise for stopping the mercenaries. The gathered nobles stood aside as the young knight followed the litter through the castle doors.

William de Fossat pulled his fingers through his thatch of beard.

‘A good kill, Jean. It’ll teach those thieving bastards to keep their distance.

De Vitry agreed. ‘If they hold Chaulion, they control the trade that passes on those roads. We should burn them out before more skinners join them.’

Jean de Harcourt remained silent. Murmurs of agreement joined de Vitry and Fossat.

‘Meulon!’ de Harcourt called as the soldier attended to his injured man near the stables. ‘Inside. Now.’

De Harcourt turned on his heel, followed by the others. He needed to know whether Thomas Blackstone’s actions had been foolish and disturbed a hornet’s nest that could bring raiders onto his lands, or whether he had started a chain of events that would suit the Norman barons and their long-term plans.


The servants put the unconscious man onto a fresh litter and gathered their medicines and herbs. As they washed the grime from his face and hands he stirred and muttered something in his delirium.

‘Master Blackstone,’ Marcel called. ‘He said something.’

Blackstone sat next to the unconscious man. ‘What have you given him?’

‘Comfrey for the burn on his forehead and his broken ribs. His foot is at the wrong angle so we will also use it in the binding. We have stitched the wound on his head as best we can and we’ll prepare more herbs.’

‘And what’s this?’ Blackstone asked.

‘Common rue heals many things and wards off evil spirits,’ Marcel said.

‘Perhaps prayer might do that,’ Blackstone suggested.

Marcel took back the pouch of herbs. ‘We must take all precautions, Sir Thomas. Lady Christiana prayed three times a day for your recovery but we also tended you with these same potions once Master Jordan returned to the English army. Evil spirits find their way into our souls when we are helpless. No one should risk being caught in the jaws of hell through the lack of a few herbs.’

Blackstone couldn’t argue. Not with his own superstitions. He unconsciously touched the silver lady at his throat and saw Marcel’s glimmer of a smile.

The injured man turned his head and half opened his eyes. ‘Do I live?’ he said in barely a whisper.

Blackstone lowered his face to hear more clearly. The man repeated his question. ‘Yes,’ Blackstone told him, ‘and you’re safe.’ He beckoned for Marcel and the other servant in the room to raise the man so he could drink. They eased the liquid to his lips. He sipped and then closed his eyes. Blackstone waited, and moments later he recovered again.

‘Who are you?’ Blackstone asked him.

‘I am a messenger for the King of England. I had a warrant of safe passage.’ He sighed, closed his eyes, rested a moment and then spoke again. ‘I should have used it to wipe my arse.’ He wheezed, as if his lungs could not fill with air. It took a few seconds for him to recover. ‘Those bloody French heathens tore us down like a pack of wolves.’ He grimaced. ‘I feel as though I’ve been kicked and trampled by a bloody war horse. I’m no fighting man, I’m a runner for the King.’ He sighed again and once more closed his eyes, his ability to speak coming in fits and starts.

Blackstone brushed the man’s hair from his face and looked again at the brand burned into his forehead. It was difficult to determine how old he was but he guessed he was a few years older than himself. That he was a commoner was obvious. He would have been part of the King’s retinue, serving the chamberlain and used for delivering proclamations. A trickle of blood seeped from the corner of the man’s mouth.

‘Marcel?’ Blackstone asked, indicating the blood.

‘His lungs. They must be pierced by a rib. I don’t know if that can be healed,’ Marcel answered. ‘I’ll burn some coltsfoot, it is said that can help with poor breathing.’ Marcel left the room in search of more herbs.

‘So I said to myself…’ the man said, as if carrying on from a conversation, ignorant that he had once again slipped into unconsciousness, ‘… I said, a dog’s bollocks couldn’t squeeze through the gap in this cage – did I tell you that? – that they put me in a wicker cage once they beat and branded me? I did, didn’t I? After they slaughtered poor old Jeffrey, strung him up like a cat at a village fair… for the sport of it…’

He faltered again, perhaps it was the pain-killing herbs that jumbled the man’s thoughts.

‘What’s your name?’ Blackstone asked.

The man looked bewildered, as if he had to remember an obscure message that eluded him. ‘It’s… Harness, William Harness, and I am a runner for the King of England. Did I tell you that?’


‘Yes. My name is Thomas Blackstone. I’m an Englishman. Do you know of Sir Gilbert Killbere? He was close to the Prince at Crécy.’

‘Is that where they cut you?’ Harness said, gazing at Blackstone’s scar.

‘Yes. Do you know him?’

‘Am I in England? What’s your name?’

‘Thomas. My name is Thomas. You’re in France. In Normandy. What about Sir Gilbert? Does he live?’

‘Are you a prisoner?’

Blackstone held his impatience in check. ‘No, I rescued you from that village.’

‘That’s right. I remember. I was in the cage when I saw your horsemen. I thought… Sweet Jesus, God bless my King for sending troops to find us. Then a voice that gave me hope. Piss! Piss on them! That’s what I heard. Only an Englishman would say that, I thought. Piss on them. Too right, I said to myself. I broke through the cage with my last ounce of strength. I wanted to be back with my lord King, and my friends. Those… bastards… they… tore at us… Sir Gilbert Killbere. I’ve heard the name. I don’t know. We slaughtered the French. Were you there?’

Harness was losing his grasp on reality again. It was too soon to question him.

‘Yes,’ Blackstone said again, ‘I was there.’

His grip closed on Blackstone’s arm. ‘I’m frightened. Frightened. Fearful of the dark and what awaits me. Don’t let them take me. Swear you won’t let them take me again.’

‘I swear. You’re safe here. You’re protected from all harm.’

The man sighed and closed his eyes, drifting into sleep.

If they were attacking and killing the English King’s messengers, then there was still a core of resistance embedded in the French countryside. No matter that a great victory had been won months ago, Edward’s influence was failing, and if that was the case then Blackstone knew his own life might once again be in jeopardy.


In the great hall Meulon stood to attention in front of the silent barons.

‘Sir Thomas went into the village against my wishes. As he went inside one of the hovels we saw a man held in a pigpen struggling to break out. At first we thought he may have belonged to one of the local lords. We saw another man had been beaten and strung up, and Sir Thomas commanded us to take the man we’d found with us. We got about a couple of miles from the village when the Englishman came to and said something to Master Thomas, which I didn’t understand. Then a few days later we saw the routiers. I did all I could to make him leave the Englishman, but he insisted we fight. It could have gone badly for us, but he positioned us on the track and sent me and another man to outflank them. He taught them a good lesson. He was right and I was wrong. I beg your forgiveness, lord, for not being able to fulfil your command and avoid danger.’

‘You think the Englishman thought it through?’ asked de Graville. ‘Or was he trying to impress you and your men?’

‘Oh yes, lord, he thought about it. We could have run from the fight, but he knew exactly what he was doing. It was a good ambush.’

‘And then?’ Fossat asked.

‘Then he stopped me from killing the last man alive. I wanted to gut the pig and put his head on a stake. But he wouldn’t have that. No, my lords, he promised the man his life if he would give him more information. Said he would keep his word. That his word was his honour. The bastard had never heard such a promise. And once we had it, the information I mean, that’s when he took the man’s fingers from his hand and sent the bastard back. He never faltered. Like taking the head off a chicken. That was the message he sent. To tell Saquet that he was not to raid into my Lord de Harcourt’s territory again or he, I mean Sir Thomas, would kill him.’

The questioning men fell silent, the tension was palpable. Meulon felt fear nip at his stomach, his eyes blinked with uncertainty.

‘You would say he has ability?’ asked de Harcourt. ‘Or was it luck?’

‘Lord, we all need luck in a fight, but in the time it took for us to kill those skinners, Sir Thomas led the way. He was unhorsed, but I think that was because his leg weakened. It made no difference to his courage. He has guts, sir. I didn’t see a sign of fear even on his face. His hands were steady. I thought for a minute he was relishing the idea. Of getting stuck in. There’s a word for it, my lords… means… he’s ready to fight.’

‘Belligerent,’ suggested de Graville.

‘I think that’s the word, sir,’ said Meulon. ‘Sounds right. And when he took the bastard’s fingers, well, we knew then he had what it takes.’ Meulon licked his lips; his throat was getting dry from all the talk and a sudden fear that he may have upset his own master by praising the young Englishman.

‘How did he treat you?’ Jean de Harcourt asked his captain.

‘Sir?’

‘Did he treat you as an equal? He is a common man. The fact that he was honoured on the battlefield means nothing when he rides into a fight with other soldiers. You are my captain and you have experience of taking men forward into the fight. So how did he behave with you?’

Meulon thought about that for a moment, because his lord’s question was asked with his usual authority, but its curious nature troubled the soldier. When violence took place and a man fought for his life, then he put his trust in God and his sword and the man who led them. Some men pissed and shat their breeches in battle when the terror gripped them, and there would be none who would sneer at another if they lived through it. Others created that terror.

‘Sir Thomas might be a common man, lord, he carries no burden of nobility, that’s for sure, and if he had tried to befriend us common soldiers then he would have raised doubts about his ability to take command. That’s what he did and why we obeyed. He took command and proved his worth, my lord.’

The nobles exchanged glances as Meulon waited nervously, still standing rigidly, not daring to look at any of these powerful men for fear of being insubordinate.

It was Henri Livay who broke their silence. ‘Meulon, you’ve fought with your master, so too the men who rode with you today.’

Meulon hesitated. Everyone knew they had served with Jean de Harcourt and his father. Was it a question he was being asked? ‘I don’t understand, lord. Forgive me.’

‘It’s simple. Would Sir Thomas be the kind of man you and your soldiers – all of you, experienced as you are – would follow? To fight?’

Meulon paused before answering. The Englishman meant nothing to him. There was no fealty. But he had saved Gaillard from a flogging, had earned his loyalty. And Meulon’s. You had to believe in someone if they put you into danger.

‘I think… we all would, my lord. Aye, we’d follow Master Blackstone.’


Now that Blackstone and Christiana had tasted the pleasure of each other, she would come down the narrow staircase, its rough stone damping any footfall. She would hesitate and look down the passageway to see that those who slept in the doorways had their backs to her, or were curled against the cold of the stone floor, huddled in sleep. It was then a few short paces to Blackstone’s room. Their nights spiralled into a restless, indulgent passion that carried them beyond any care of discovery. Only the cold arrival of each dawn awoke them to the dangers of being found out. They could not know that Blanche de Harcourt was aware of every moment they shared and that she, in turn, played a delicate game against her husband. His tolerance could only be stretched so far, but she knew that he and the others were planning to use Blackstone. She did not yet know what scheme they were hatching, but the moment it was finalized, Thomas and Christiana would have little chance to continue their illicit lovemaking. It might only be a matter of time.



The devils’ cleft tongues snaked from their jaws as the tumbling bodies of sinners were consumed, like a rabid dog would savage a child. The ladder to heaven pierced the underworld where unfortunates held on grimly with fingers torn and bleeding as they were dragged below the earth’s crust. A plaintive cry for forgiveness could almost be heard as their eyes were raised to the calm beauty of God whose extended hand blessed all of those good men and angels around him.

Blackstone had no idea when the murals had been painted in de Harcourt’s chapel, but the flickering candlelight made the figures look as if they chased and scorched their way across the walls. The images were faded but still clear enough to show mankind’s fall from grace and the eternal damnation that awaited sinners. Repent, the angels cried, and be loved by God. Blackstone and Christiana sat huddled in the cold, damp chapel. No light yet penetrated the high, small windows; only the spluttering candles fought against this almost total darkness. He held his cape around her as she shivered, despite her own thick woollen gown, while he banished the chill from his own mind.

Christiana had convinced him that they should show themselves to God and ask for forgiveness for their lust and to make a promise before the altar that their passion was an extension of their love for each other.

It took some convincing.

She prayed, and as her whispers of confession to the Almighty recounted her base feelings, pushing her head lower in repentance, Blackstone felt himself aroused. Was it a mortal sin to fornicate in a church or would the fires of hell just singe his arse? he wondered.

She eased herself up from her knees, face flushed with the excitement of unburdening herself.

‘We could never confess to the priest,’ she said. ‘His stipend is paid by my Lord de Harcourt.’

‘I don’t intend confessing anything to anyone. Lust is part of my feelings for you. I’d lie with you all day and night if I thought we wouldn’t be noticed. Not that there would be much chance of that – the way you scream into the pillow could still wake the dead.’

Her eyes flared with anger as she hissed at him. ‘Thomas, have some respect for where we are! Don’t shame me further.’

‘There’s no shame to be had from pleasure, Christiana. God knows all about us and what we do.’

This had been the one morning that he had not gone out into the cold hour before dawn. And he already regretted submitting to her insistent demands to avail themselves of God’s forgiveness.

‘You’ll attend Mass with me on Christmas Day, Thomas,’ Christiana said. ‘It will be expected.’

The fear of God was a tangible emotion for Christiana, but for him their desire for each other held God’s wrath at bay.

‘I’ll not go to Mass. I’m not yet ready to forgive God.’

The candlelight bathed them in a warm glow but he saw the blood drain from her face as she crossed herself. ‘That’s blasphemy,’ she whispered.

‘I lay dying in the mud of Crécy and saw the burning cross. Warrior angels gathered around me and I begged forgiveness, but they barred my way to heaven. It’s an argument I carry with the Almighty.’

‘Stop that! I won’t hear another word,’ she said, her echoing words bright and sharp.

She tried to avoid his embrace but he held her. ‘Listen to me. I see God’s work everywhere. I don’t have to go into a cold stone building to speak my thoughts to Him. I see the spirits in the forest and His angels in the clouds. Don’t bury me in your fear, Christiana. Besides, I’m safe from any retribution because you’ll pray twice as hard and save us both.’

The sound of servants moving in the corridor stopped her from arguing further. She pulled her cloak around her, checked the passageway and then stepped quickly onto the stairs, leaving Blackstone alone in the tomb of silence.

The devils danced but Blackstone turned his back on them.

Damnation was already his travelling companion.


He checked on the English messenger, who slept fitfully, slipping in and out of consciousness. The servant whose duty it was to sit with the injured man told Blackstone he had stayed silent most of the night and that the administered draught had numbed his pain. Food was being sent from the kitchen. Blackstone dismissed the servant and sat next to Harness’s bed. It seemed to him that other than the obvious wounds the man’s body was broken inside.

He wrung out a cloth in a bowl of water and dabbed Harness’s head. The brand was livid, but might one day be borne as a badge of honour. A servant came in with a bowl of soup.

‘I was told the man must be fed as often as he was able to eat,’ the man said.

‘I’ll see to it,’ Blackstone told him, taking the bowl of broth, pungent with herbs.

Harness awoke at the disturbance.

‘William, I’m told you’ve slept through most of the night. You’re on the mend. Here, let’s sit you up.’

He eased Harness into a sitting position. ‘Is there ale?’ Harness asked, dragging his tongue from the roof of his mouth as he stared at the room. ‘Where am I?’

‘In Castle de Harcourt, and there’s no decent ale in these parts, I can vouch for that. There’s wine or water.’

‘Water?’

Blackstone smiled at Harness’s reaction. He was pale, his face gaunt, and his hands trembled. The dried blood from his lungs moistened again now that he was conscious and talking. Blackstone put the damp cloth onto his lips. ‘This will moisten your mouth. You’ll have wine after you’ve eaten.’

Harness sucked the moisture and nodded his thanks.

‘No food. I’ve a thirst. All right, I’ll take wine if that’s all there is.’

Blackstone held a small bowl of red wine and let him drink as best he could, his ragged breath making it difficult for him to swallow. ‘The Virgin Mary herself must have sent you to save me,’ he gasped, the effort making him tremble even more. ‘Finding another Englishman among all these bastard Frenchies, Blessed Mother of Christ be praised, I’ll spend the rest of my life on my knees in any cock-arsed priest’s church.’ He lapsed into a quiet exhaustion again, but smiled, and rested his hand on Blackstone’s arm.

‘You should rest,’ Blackstone told him, ‘talking will weaken you.’

‘Fornication weakens me but I don’t get enough of that either,’ he laughed, but then spluttered. Blackstone put the cloth to his lips again and noticed the speckles of blood.

Harness raised his hand, and breathed slowly. ‘I woke up… sometime… don’t know when. Candles were burning… thought I was in heaven… a woman came in… bloody angel, I said to myself, God’s sent an angel, and all I could think about was putting my hand up her gown and my cock in her. Where did you say I was?’

‘You’re in a Norman baron’s castle and I think you were dreaming,’ Blackstone told him. None of the noblewomen would venture this far down the corridors, and Christiana lay in his arms all night. He raised the bowl of soup to Harness’s mouth. He crinkled his nose.

‘It’s the herbs,’ Blackstone told him. ‘They’ll nourish you.’

‘A piece of salted mutton would do me good,’ he said looking over the bowl’s rim to Blackstone.

‘Take what you can of this and I’ll see what I can do,’ Blackstone told him.

‘She was here, y’know, I saw her clear as I see you. And a damned sight prettier than your mangled face. Who did that to you?’


‘It doesn’t matter. He’s dead.’

Harness thought for a moment. ‘They castrated my friend, Jeffrey. Do you know that? The lad they hanged in the village. No mercy shown. We offered them the King’s protection and they took a knife to him and strung him up. They were saving me for something special. Can you kill them? Teach ’em a lesson?’

‘It’s Christmas, William. The holiest of times. Forgiveness for all.’

‘Oh aye?’ His face hardened and tears formed in his eyes. ‘Piss on that. He was a lad, younger than you and me both. Loved his King and his horse in equal measure, I reckon. Proud to have been chosen. God, that boy could ride day and night, taking the King’s word. Would’ve rode through hell for his sovereign lord.’ He wiped the tears from his face. ‘Hurt him something cruel. Pitiful to watch it was. And once they’d beaten me half to death they made me look at ’em doing it.’ He shook his head. ‘When I’m able, I’ll borrow me a horse and I’ll ride back to them vermin and I’ll put a torch to them. Then they can try and kill me again.’ He spluttered again as his rattling chest released more fluid. ‘I’m no soldier but I’m the King’s man. And I’ll see them dead before I go.’

The broth remained untouched. Blackstone understood Harness’s hatred. Every time he thought of his brother’s death the squirming in his stomach always rose like a serpent and squeezed his heart. Perhaps that desire for vengeance could keep Harness alive as it had done for Blackstone.

‘We’ll burn them out together. How about that?’

‘You swear?’

‘I do.’

‘That’s a grand idea. You’re a fighting man, I can see that. I’ll take your lead, and we’ll burn the scum out.’ He sighed and closed his eyes again. ‘Aye, we’ll teach them. Poor lad… killing’s one thing… but for what they did… they’ll burn.’ He stayed silent for a while until Blackstone knew he could do no more good by sitting with him. Best to let him sleep. As he stood to leave the room, Harness half opened his eyes.

‘She was here. I saw her. Braided hair and blue gown. Like the Virgin Mary she was. Came to see William Harness in his hour of need.’

Blackstone did not reply as Harness fell asleep but he knew the man had not seen a vision in his delirium. It was Blanche de Harcourt who had come into the room, and if she had been this close to Blackstone’s quarters then perhaps she knew of Christiana being in his bed.

Desperation crept into him. How long could he and Christiana sleep together without being discovered? The servant, Marcel, already knew, but Jean de Harcourt had made no accusation. He must know, he must! How could such a powerful man, who would use his authority to have any man punished most brutally, not know what went on under his roof?

Unless, of course, his interests and concerns lay only in political matters and the pursuit of power against a feeble King. Blackstone realized he had not understood the emotions that ran through the de Harcourt family. When he had rescued Christiana and they had gone to the castle at Noyelles it had been Blanche de Harcourt who held the family together while her lord and husband fought the English. Sir Godfrey de Harcourt might well have offered her protection, but Blackstone remembered the relief that Blanche showed when Christiana had been returned to her safekeeping. And her armed aggression would have cut men down if her family were threatened. She was a force to be reckoned with. After that the family meant nothing to Blackstone and certainly, once he was wounded, he cared little about who nursed him. Christiana was a ward and it was the countess who kept her close. And so too Marcel. Marcel! What a fool I’ve been, he thought. Marcel wasn’t his master’s servant, his loyalty lay with Blanche de Harcourt. Christiana may have thought that she had bribed the servant to allow her to slip into his room the night of the hunt, but he would not have dared to risk disobeying the one person who controlled his life. Blanche de Harcourt. Christiana was the daughter of a knight, but, in truth, she carried no authority within the de Harcourt household. Marcel would only have let her into his room if he knew that his mistress would not be offended. Blanche de Harcourt knew they could not be kept apart much longer. She allowed it to happen.

Blackstone had not thought it through clearly enough. Blanche de Harcourt could never be her lord and husband’s equal in this house, but she was a born noblewoman, with land and title of her own, and would influence her husband in any way she could to ensure his power. Blackstone’s desperation was clearer now. It was as if he had to fight two battles at the same time. He had to discover why she would permit Christiana to become so intimate with him, and yet, as he believed, not tell her husband. Christ Jesus, he thought, I’m being pulled into something here that I have no control over. Jean de Harcourt had given friendship, and Blanche had allowed her ward to lose her virginity and fall in love with an Englishman.

It was Blanche who moved the pieces on the chessboard.

And Blackstone needed to find out what they were going to be.