Master of War

20




Those who worshipped retired for the warmth of the fire and food before de Harcourt brought his guests together for the sacred day’s celebration, although, Blackstone thought, it would take little to find some comfort from the droning liturgy of the invited priest who had conducted the Mass. He was impervious to the rain as he waited for Christiana to come out of the chapel with Blanche de Harcourt, who insisted on paying the priest with silver from her own purse. With a calm patience he believed his plan had worked, because the noblemen and their wives had acknowledged, though grudgingly, his presence. It was only when Guy de Ruymont escorted his wife from the chapel into the half-hearted storm that it seemed his subterfuge had not gone unnoticed.

De Ruymont said, ‘A hard bench and a cold floor focus a man’s mind like a hangman’s rope, Master Thomas. I know which I prefer, but a man of rank should be able to pay a begging monk to take the penance.’ He smiled at Blackstone before his wife turned back to see what held him in the cold rain and her glaring disapproval changed his expression to a scowl. ‘Smiling at the enemy is a sin in our household, but the day will come, I hope, when you will not be considered as such. Good Christmas Day to you, young Englishman.’ He stepped after his wife, but then turned. ‘Praying with the enemy was a clever ploy,’ he said quickly, and then caught up with his wife and escorted her inside.

Was it that obvious? thought Blackstone. Guy de Ruymont was shrewd and seemingly less malevolent than most of the others and Blackstone would happily gamble that no one else considered that his own attendance, seated humbly at the rear of the chapel, was anything other than it appeared. Perhaps, though, Guy de Ruymont’s gesture was one of possible acceptance and forgiveness for the carnage wrought at Crécy. It was not unknown for knights from opposing armies to join together to fight for a common cause. Which cause? And when? he wondered. Moments later Christiana came through the door, her arm linked through the countess’s. With short, quick steps, like two village girls rushing to get out of the rain, they ran past Blackstone. Blanche barely glanced in his direction and Christiana modestly kept her eyes down. This time he allowed the rejection to sweep over him. Just as Blackstone had to play a game, so had she. Blackstone abandoned the cold courtyard. If the French followed the English traditions de Harcourt would be gathering gifts of cloth and new livery for his servants to mark St Stephen’s Day, once this day’s feasting and prayers ended.

He decided he would let the Normans break their fast from the previous night, and wait until he was summoned. A pinprick of conscience, as sharp as a splinter from Christ’s cross, insisted he apologize to de Harcourt for the remark he had made to William de Fossat. It was a calculated taunt, and ill-mannered. His decision came quickly: he would not do so. The belligerent Frenchman could choke on his own hatred. Blackstone’s plan was to leave for Calais as soon as William Harness was able to travel. He had grown to like the man and felt a duty to return the King’s messenger safely. Everything was now clear. King Edward would take the French crown, and he would take Christiana home to England. The rain eased and for a few moments the watery sun showed itself, spear shafts of light piercing the grey clouds. God’s angels were showing him the way.


Christiana helped Blanche change out of her damp dress and the sombre woollen garment, worn for the Mass, slipped from her shoulders. A more colourful and elegant gown was chosen. As Christiana draped the jewelled necklace around her guardian’s neck, she glanced out of the window, seeing Blackstone walking the ramparts.

‘You know they’re going to use him,’ said Blanche de Harcourt, catching her attention.

‘Who will?’ Christiana asked, aware that her attention had wandered.

‘Those who gather here with my lord and husband.’

Blanche de Harcourt fussed the necklace until it sat squarely. The largest stone was the emerald and she nestled it between her throat and her cleavage. ‘He’s an asset to them, and he has a fearlessness that they are prepared to squander.’

Christiana’s fingers hesitated as she fastened the necklace’s clasp. How much of her care or interest in Thomas Blackstone should she allow the countess to see? ‘No one can make Blackstone do anything that he would not choose to do himself,’ she said.

Blanche sat in a chair by the window, glancing down to see Blackstone preferring the bite of the weather to the comfort of his room. She pulled her needlepoint stand towards her. She would have an hour of privacy before the day’s festivities began.

‘He’s a weapon in their hands,’ said Blanche, easing the needle through the cloth.

‘And he could beat any of them now,’ Christiana said defensively, feeling a flush of emotion warm her neck.

Blanche de Harcourt noticed that her ward kept her eyes lowered as she splayed the damp dress across a screen in order to deter the creases, but that her hands trembled. These two young people were being drawn together and she had played a part in it. If Christiana was in love with Thomas Blackstone then a poor knight’s daughter would be yielding to a man who, she felt, would one day achieve notoriety. If he lived long enough.

‘Yes, Thomas is a fine swordsman,’ said Blanche. ‘I’ve watched him practise, but we women have to ask ourselves whether we wish that the men we love and honour should be more than blunt instruments that can club others to death.’

Christiana was becoming flustered. It was unusual, Blanche decided. She knew that when Sir Godfrey’s men had captured the brigands those months ago, Christiana had denied them clemency. She had the makings of a strong woman, of that there was no doubt. Nursing Blackstone and softening his rough edges with music and poetry had helped subdue the man’s coarseness, and yet Christiana was barely able to contain her temper.

‘He’s more than that,’ Christiana said, lifting her head to gaze directly at Blanche. ‘He is… aware. Of beauty and nature. His father taught him many things and he cared for and loved his brother who was a deaf mute. He’s more than you think, my lady.’

That was better, thought Blanche. Spirited, but controlled, a bold response. ‘And you presume to know my thoughts, child?’ she said coldly, deliberately wanting to see what kind of response she could elicit.

‘I do not, but you don’t know him as I do,’ Christiana said carefully, knowing she could so easily blurt out her true feelings for the Englishman. ‘I’ve seen his courage; he rescued me when my enemies almost captured me. He disobeyed orders to come back for me. He risked a flogging.’

‘Then perhaps he’s an opportunist, Christiana. Foolhardy acts of bravery mean nothing. There has to be more than a man being driven by lust.’

‘No, you are wrong about him,’ Christiana answered, desperately trying to keep the fog of anger from her mind. ‘I was there when the English Prince told everyone that Thomas had honoured his word when he went back across the river to rescue me.’

‘Like I said, a blunt instrument,’ said Blanche, dismissively, keeping her eyes deliberately on her needlepoint. ‘Coarse and rough.’

‘He has honour, and tenderness! He has a kindness that you have not seen, a gentleness that is unusual in a man. He speaks softly and beautifully when we…’ She bit her lip. Her mouth had gone dry, but perspiration beaded her brow. She needed to breathe slowly, to suffocate the passion that threatened everything.


Blanche looked kindly at her ward. ‘When you – talk?’

Christiana nodded, helpless and obvious in her guilt.

Blanche de Harcourt made no further comment. Her fingers held the taut linen, the needle pierced the cloth, pulling the thread through as she finished a section of the embroidery: a dragon representing the threat to all women and the blood-red heart held in its talons.


The day went well, with entertainment and enough dancing and eating to last Blackstone a month. He kept his presence as far in the shadows as he could, never yielding to the dance, or being drawn into conversation by any of the barons whose aim would surely be to antagonize him and lure him into confrontation. There were moments when Christiana happened to find herself standing close to him as she waited for one of the wives or their husband to draw her back into the celebrations. The two barely spoke, though there was an anticipation between them, but Blackstone knew that the festivities meant that he would not have her in his bed again soon in the coming days. Jean de Harcourt and his guests played games; the older barons, de Graville and Mainemares, huddled over a chessboard; all gave him plenty of opportunity to slip away and return to William Harness where they would sit before the fire and talk of England. The injured man was still weak; at times his breathing was laboured and he often drifted off to sleep, sometimes in mid-sentence. Blackstone kept the fire going, content to be the sleeping man’s guardian. Once when Harness awoke Blackstone was fingering the embroidered piece of cloth that Christiana had given him. Harness reached out his hand.

‘A token, is it?’ he said, in barely a whisper. ‘Let’s see it, then.’

Blackstone laid it in his hand and Harness turned it this way and that. ‘That’s very clever, that is. Whichever way you look at it the bird is swooping. Your lady give you that, did she?’

Blackstone nodded and let the man’s insistence of being told the story finally make him relate the events of how he first met Christiana and then carried her across the river at Blanchetaque.

Harness sat, like a child being told a fable. When Blackstone finished he said, ‘I was with the King then. You archers made him glow with pride, you and the men-at-arms that were at your shoulder. You lads did a grand job but I never saw you swim that river with the girl. I wish I had. That would be something to tell your children about. I had no idea who you were, young Master Blackstone.’

‘There was no reason you should.’

He wheezed indignantly. ‘Nah! What? Me the King’s mouthpiece? Me what carries the messages? We heard of the young archer. We heard all right. We knew what had happened. Soldiers like nothing better than to spin a line and catch a fish or three. Your stature, and that’s a word I’ve heard used by Cobham himself talking about our sovereign lord, the stature of the young archer grew like a beanstalk. You must have killed a hundred men by now if they’re still talking about it, which they will be. And why not? Sir Thomas Blackstone, eh? But I know you now and when I get back I’ll be telling them all about you and that you’re alive.’

They talked of the war and how the King’s messenger had seen so little of it, being held in the rear echelon waiting for the command to ride just like the other twenty or so men who were paid by the King’s purse to carry his word. Harness was too lowly to know the great fighting earls, and the battles fought were a mystery to him. The sound of warfare and killing was what he remembered, the clash of battle and screams that came in a wave of anger and fear sweeping up over the hills. The conversations were stilted as it did not take long for Harness to tire, slipping away into sleep, and always with a sad exclamation of what the villagers had done to the young man who rode with him into that village.

St Stephen’s Day followed Christmas Day and the servants were granted their favours and gifted with presents. Villagers brought humble offerings to their lord and he in turn, along with the other noblemen, handed out alms to the poor, the blind and lame. De Harcourt walked among them with Blanche as Blackstone watched from a distance. Some of the noblemen handed the coins to their squires to give to the outstretched hands, not wishing to have physical contact with the villeins. It was also a day of remembrance for Blackstone to reflect upon. His father had always made him pray before they set off for Lord Marldon’s favour. St Stephen the martyr was the patron saint of stonemasons and every artisan should honour his saint, insisted his father. Blackstone knew nothing more than that, but he would always honour the hour with a prayer for his father. And now for his brother. No vision of St Stephen ever appeared to bless him or thank him for his prayers, so Blackstone kept the prayer brief and the memory of father and brother bright.

De Harcourt and the others made no attempt to hunt or ride out during the holy week as one saint’s day followed another, and meat was forsaken for fish, and fish for fowl and it seemed that whatever flew free in the sky ended up on a platter. Woodcock, pigeon or common housebird, swan or goose cooked in wood-fired ovens or nestled in their embers, they were smothered in honey and saffron, a delicacy for the noblemen. And Blackstone took a morsel from each meal, the rich palette of sauces more disagreeable than common fare, but he fed William Harness, and ordered less exotic fare from the kitchen for himself. It seemed by week’s end that the surfeit of food and prayer tired even the most stalwart of de Harcourt’s guests and none had raised argument against him. He hoped that the jester called Luck was turning the wheel of good fortune towards him.


He was walking the battlements, having a word or two with the soldiers on duty – unimportant matters: the weather, the possibility of approaching storms, the silence and the emptiness of the landscape in this, their place of duty – when a movement caught Blackstone’s eye. It was not unusual for low-lying mist to cling to the belly of land, stubbornly refusing to shift until late in the day. A ghostly haze of lemon-tinged vapour lay beyond the landscape at the edge of the forest where the silver ground remained untouched by villagers or horsemen. Now, shadows moved across it. A banner fluttered, still too far away for him to make it out. He glanced quickly at the sentries who stood on the walls between him and the next side tower; another sentry was down at the bridge across the moat checking villagers who needed access to the castle.

‘Horsemen!’ he called, and saw the sentries scan the horizon.

Meulon ran out of the watchtower’s guardroom, pulling on his helmet. ‘Stand to arms!’ he shouted, then leaned over the parapet. ‘Below!’ he called to the man at the bridge. ‘Inside!’

The bridge sentry pushed the villagers clear of the entrance and ran for the gate. If this was an attack they would go under the sword before he would.

‘I’ve lost them,’ one of the sentries called, scanning the horizon.

Blackstone peered into the poor light, but his eyesight was keen and he saw the brief flutter of the banner as it showed itself from the undulating ground.

‘Your lord’s banner! North-east!’ he cried, pointing out to where the column of horsemen would soon appear in the distance. It was the de Harcourt armorial flag of red and gold bars, followed by a half-dozen riders who turned and headed straight for the castle. Before the men’s faces could be seen Blackstone already knew that it was the bull-like figure of Sir Godfrey who led them. Was the war won?


Blackstone pounded down the steps into the courtyard, a grim satisfaction that the tug of the leg wound was a tightening of his muscle and nothing more. As he reached the gatehouse he saw Jean de Harcourt moving down the castle’s steps followed by the other noblemen.

The wind carried the thudding sound of hooves as de Harcourt peered through the spy latch in the gate, the soldiers ready to open the main gate once he gave the command. Blackstone stood back, watching de Harcourt’s concern. Obviously his uncle was not expected.

‘It’s Sir Godfrey, my lord. I’d recognize him at five hundred paces,’ Blackstone said.

‘You’ve an archer’s eye, Thomas, but dishonourable men can hide beneath a surcoat and a helm and bring enemies into your house.’

‘It’s him. I swear it,’ Blackstone answered confidently.

De Harcourt peered towards the distant fringe of woodland, waiting until the approaching men were less than two hundred yards away. ‘Open the gates!’ he commanded, and moments later when the great doors swung open the horses were already clattering across the wooden bridge. Noblemen and servants alike pressed back as the marshal of the English army rode into the outer bailey. The horses billowed steam, their flanks heaving. They had been ridden hard.

Sir Godfrey dismounted with the ease of a man half his age. He quickly embraced his nephew and glanced at the gathered men. Blackstone saw that a mixture of emotions ran among them. Sir Godfrey was their enemy but kinsman to their host. All had fought the English but here was the open traitor among them. Antagonism towards their own King was one thing, but for some of those present to welcome a man who had helped lay waste to their lands was another.

‘Cool them down, then feed and water them,’ Sir Godfrey commanded the stable-hands who ran forward to hold the bridles. ‘Pack food and drink for my men! We leave within the hour!’

Then he turned quickly, taking Jean de Harcourt by the elbow, and limped towards the great hall, followed by the half-dozen mud-spattered men who fanned out protectively behind him. He had not glanced in Blackstone’s direction, which made him feel an inexplicable pang of loss.

‘You’re safe here,’ Blackstone heard Jean de Harcourt say to his uncle, glancing nervously at the men who came behind them, each with a hand resting on the pommel of his sword.

‘Nowhere is safe for me, Jean. Not any longer,’ Sir Godfrey told him without breaking his limping stride.

‘Sir Godfrey!’ de Fossat called after him. ‘Are you here to give us the English terms of surrender?’

The noblemen bristled as the old warrior turned to face them. ‘I’m here to see my nephew. If I’d have known you’d be here, de Fossat, I’d have brought more men to protect my back.’

‘Damn you, Godfrey, we’re here at his invitation and you know why!’ de Fossat spat back, unafraid of the older man’s status.

‘Then you’ll wait until you’re sent for,’ Sir Godfrey told him.

‘Have you won?’ Henri Livay asked. ‘Has Edward taken the crown from Philip?’

‘While you hunt and gossip the war has ground to a halt. The great King Philip is in Paris behind bolted doors,’ Sir Godfrey told him, his emphasis on great heavy with sarcasm. ‘Edward is with his Queen, starving out Calais. I’ll summon you when I’m ready!’ And with that dismissal he urged his nephew up the steps of the inner ward towards the great hall.

William de Fossat made as if to step forward and confront Sir Godfrey, but de Mainemares held his arm.

‘There’s trouble. Leave him be. He’ll tell us in his own time. We’re in this together. Like it or not, we have to wait for him,’ he said.

Rebuffed by Sir Godfrey, the humiliated noblemen shook themselves like peacocks, choking on their anger; only de Mainemares and de Graville seemed unconcerned as they moved away together like two men who understood that patience was needed.

De Mainemares’ words to de Fossat were not lost on Blackstone, but he ignored the flustered nobles and made his way discreetly behind Sir Godfrey and his nephew. What was the old fighter doing here now? he wondered. It had to be important and he offered little if any respect to the other noblemen. They may be enemies, but there’s obviously a link between all these men, he thought.

Sir Godfrey’s men looked efficient and alert despite what must have been a long ride. Blackstone desperately wanted to reach the small gallery that overlooked the hall from one of de Harcourt’s private rooms before the doors below were guarded. He turned down the passageway where a small oak door gave access to steps up to a half-landing and then another dozen more that opened into the solar. He prayed that Blanche de Harcourt was not there with the other wives, or that personal servants were not in the family’s private room. He paused, held his breath, and listened beyond the thudding of his heart. The solar was empty. He crossed the floor, then went up a few more steps. He pressed his back against the wall and carefully lifted the wooden spindle latch, closing the door behind him. A floorboard creaked under his weight. He froze, not daring to move and look over the edge of the gallery. The men had already entered, the heavy chestnut doors below buffeting the air as they shut.

‘Mother of God, Jean, this is an unholy mess. But I had to come and warn you.’

There was the clink of glass, a bottle glugged its contents and a metal object – that had to be Sir Godfrey’s helm, Blackstone thought – clattered onto the table.

‘About what? My King can’t doubt me or the others. We bled for Philip!’

‘Aye, that’ll keep suspicion at bay for a while. There’s a death sentence on me now, Jean,’ Sir Godfrey said after slurping the drink. ‘More. I need it.’ Again the sound of liquid being poured reached Blackstone. You want to hear a rabbit move? Or a deer step ladylike through the forest? Open your jaw, lad – let the sound reach you. Every poacher learns that. Blackstone slackened his jaw slightly, easing the tension, remembering his father’s lesson. The words below became subdued but Blackstone could hear the muted tension clearly enough.

‘Edward is not going to pursue Philip into Paris.’

‘He’s given up?’

‘No, he’s settled for the territory he wanted. Imagine fighting through that warren of streets – Christ, it’d be worse than Caen! Every pot maker and whore could trap and kill the men.’

‘Then they’ve signed a truce?’ Jean asked.

‘Not yet, and there’s no sign of one. So this grand war of conquest has turned out to be nothing more than a goddamned raid!’ A glass smashed.

‘Then Edward has abandoned you?’ said Jean incredulously. ‘After giving him the Cotentin, St L?, Caen? And how much more slaughter could you have done against us at Crécy? We chose badly, but I couldn’t convince Father to relinquish his duty to the King. You’ll have more than bitterness to contend with here, uncle! These men were waiting for a treaty. They were waiting to side with you! Is there nothing you can say to Edward?’

‘He’ll take Calais eventually – that gives him everything he needs. It’s his gateway into France. No, he’s not abandoned me, but I’m adrift in the slurry of shit that will sweep down upon me. The garrison at Caen has broken out and slaughtered the men we left to guard the city. My men have been killed at home. What remained of my lands is seized. The French have regained much of what we took. Edward doesn’t have the money to pursue this war and Philip is bankrupt. Christ Jesus! I have to go and beg forgiveness in Paris or we’ve lost everything.’


‘The King will never forgive you. Never. He’s a vengeful man. He’ll want your head on a pike for us all to see.’

There was silence and the sound of a weary man slumping into a chair. ‘It has to be done. It’s more than my life that matters now. Edward will come back. Normandy must be sworn to the English crown. Then we control our own destiny.’

‘I followed my father and saw him die. This family stands divided because of Philip and his weakness, but I won’t give myself to the English, nor will the others. Not now!’

Sir Godfrey sighed. ‘I know that. Sweet Jesus, I thought Edward was going to sweep all before him. Listen, Jean, we need to keep the others under control. If I am reprieved it means we take longer to coerce the King. He has lost this war, and if Edward cannot finish the job now the time will come when he will. One day he’ll call on us again and we have to be ready.’

There was an uncomfortable silence. Then Jean de Harcourt said, ‘I’ll get the others. You tell them yourself.’

Blackstone heard de Harcourt move across the floor.

‘Jean! Wait. There’s a reason I needed to talk to you first. Blackstone, did he live?’

Blackstone could barely resist taking the few paces forward and calling down. I’m here, Sir Godfrey, he wanted to shout. There were questions tumbling from his mind. Who lived, who died at Crécy? Did any of my archers survive? He felt his heart pulse in his throat at the mention of his own name and what might be said about him.

‘Thomas? Yes.’

‘Is he strong? Capable?’

‘He’s a fighter. Crude, belligerent, and damned insolent. But he saved my life and I offered him my friendship. And you should tell your Prince and your King that the man he asked our family to protect is safe and well. We honour our pledges, Godfrey, even to our enemies. Let Edward mark that and remember us for it. For the future.’

‘His presence could cause your arrest. Philip is using mercenaries to root out Englishmen and Gascons who hold French towns. They’ll come here and they’ll want him. A man who saved the Prince at Crécy is a prize. He’s worthless for ransom, so they’ll kill him and make an example of him.’

Blackstone’s mind raced. Was that why Sir Godfrey had brought his men? To take him prisoner? Would he be offered as a sacrifice to the King of France to help Sir Godfrey save his own life? The voice in his head told him to calm down, but it fought the surge of anger that threatened to overtake him. Escape from the castle and back to the English lines was his only hope.

Jean de Harcourt said, ‘They have no idea he’s here. How could they know?’

‘Because he killed some of the mercenaries who hold Chaulion and sent a message warning them to stay off your land!’

‘Then so what? They’re bastard skinners who don’t need any mercy.’

‘Jean, those who hold Chaulion do so at the command of Philip.’

Both men fell silent for a moment.

‘He’s using them to keep the English from taking towns,’ said Sir Godfrey. ‘He can’t pay them so they take what they want without fear of being stopped. They offer protection to those who want it. It serves the King twice over. Why do you think I came here? To warn you. Blackstone let one of them live but he saw your men’s livery.’

‘How do you know this?’

‘We intercepted one of their messengers. He spewed bile and information before we killed him but the other escaped. They’ve sent word to Paris that you harbour an Englishman favoured by Edward. The King will send a warrant of arrest and he’ll have routiers riding for him. Those scum will be here, Jean. Be warned. They’re coming.’

‘I’ll not hand him over to mercenaries,’ said de Harcourt, ‘even with a royal warrant.’

Blackstone’s gratitude and relief nearly swamped him.

‘You do what you want, but you’ll have barely a few days to decide. Have you told Blackstone what role he was to play in our plans?’

There it was, Blackstone realized, the snare that held him was being tightened by the grand poacher himself.

‘Not yet.’

‘Then say nothing. If he’s taken he could have every one of you hanged. All right, get the others in here; I’ll tell them about Edward at Calais and try to keep them on the leash until fortune favours us again. But I wouldn’t count on them helping you to shield Blackstone.’

Blackstone eased away from the gallery as gently as he could down the stairs into the lower corridor. He had heard enough. There was a conspiracy between these men and he needed to find out what had been planned for him. He did not yet know how he would find out, but when he did he would take Christiana to Calais and serve King Edward again.


Sir Godfrey’s arrival caused a flurry of activity, but also unsettled the servants and the men who guarded the walls. That he had been allowed free entry into the castle showed that Jean de Harcourt was allowing the English King’s ally into the heart of his enemy.

Meulon saw Blackstone make his way through the colonnade. He raised his hand to attract his attention and, when he stopped, ran down to him. ‘Sir Thomas, can you tell me what’s going on? Are the English coming to attack us?’

‘There’s no attack, Meulon.’ He hesitated. ‘It’s family business.’

‘There are rumours that my Lord de Harcourt is in danger from our King. Some of the servants gossip that there’s a conspiracy between Sir Godfrey and the other barons.’

Blackstone gripped the man’s arm and turned him away from some of the soldiers who stood on the wall watching them. ‘You’re their captain. You know as well as I do that rumours can tear men apart. Keep them disciplined. Your lord will depend on you, as he has done in the past.’

Meulon nodded. He wasn’t happy, but he accepted the Englishman’s explanation.

‘And if you hear anyone gossip, beat him. Protect your lord and his family from such rumours and keep the servants in their place.’ As Blackstone gave his orders there was a voice in his own mind. You, a common man, telling a soldier to beat a servant. He dismissed the self-condemnation and turned on his heel. There was no sign of Christiana anywhere; she would be with the women, most likely the countess, so there was no point trying to find her. The barons had filed into the great hall and by the time Sir Godfrey came out an hour later the horses had been refreshed and food supplied for the onward journey. Once again Jean de Harcourt accompanied his uncle towards the main gate flanked by Sir Godfrey’s men. Blackstone saw Blanche and Christiana emerge from a side door and the lady’s call to Sir Godfrey checked his step.

‘Blanche, forgive me, there is no time.’

Christiana held back as Blanche de Harcourt stepped forward to question him. ‘Sir Godfrey, it seems you have always brought distress to my house – is my family in danger?’

‘Blanche,’ said Jean, aggrieved at her intrusion. ‘My uncle is leaving – don’t delay him.’

The feisty countess did not yield. ‘I have young children and there are other families as my guests. So if there is danger following on your heels I need to know just as much as my lord and husband.’ She tilted her chin slightly, as if declaring her own rank. ‘I have the right.’

Blackstone moved closer to the old warrior, eager to be noticed by him.

‘There is no danger for you or your family,’ Sir Godfrey told her, ‘I give you my word. I am the one in jeopardy and I came here to help Jean. You must believe me.’


She studied him for a moment and then nodded with gratitude. ‘Thank you.’

Sir Godfrey looked beyond her and saw Christiana. And, just as he did the previous time, Blackstone saw the hard man of war soften. ‘Child, come here.’

Christiana did as he commanded and bent her knee before him. ‘You have prospered since I saw you last, and I will tell you what I have told your guardians: you are safe here.’

‘Thank you, Sir Godfrey, for your kindness and your good wishes.’

‘I knew your father well, and although we fought on opposite sides, it was I who told him to send you to the countess for safety’s sake. So I’m pleased that at least one decision I made was the correct one.’ The comment had no meaning for her because she had no knowledge of the difficulties Sir Godfrey now found himself in.

‘Have you seen my father?’ she asked hopefully.

Blackstone saw Jean de Harcourt turn his face away. Sir Godfrey stumbled for a moment as he too was caught unawares. Blackstone felt his heart go out to her and a sickening sense of ill fortune clutched at him.

‘Have you not told her?’ Sir Godfrey asked his nephew in a low voice.

The look of quiet despair on the count’s face needed no further explanation. Christiana stepped back. ‘He’s dead, isn’t he?’

Sir Godfrey nodded. ‘In the early days when we came ashore. He fought for his sworn lord Robert Bertrand. My enemy. I thought he might have escaped into Caen, but there was no report of him fighting there and we swept through all those early defences. I’m sorry, child.’

The marshal of the army climbed into the saddle. Blackstone hesitated as Blanche reached out to hold Christiana’s hand and comfort her. Tears welled in her eyes, but Blackstone knew she would not break down in front of the servants. His opportunity to ask whether Sir Gilbert had survived the battle had passed. To approach now would serve no purpose. Christiana’s grief could not be usurped.

Instead he grabbed the horse’s bridle, steadying it as soldiers jostled to open the gate. The grey beard stared down at him.

‘Thomas Blackstone,’ he said, recognizing him despite his scar.

‘My lord.’

‘Your day will come, but whether I’ll be alive to see it is another matter. You owe a debt to your Prince and to the King, and you’ll honour my nephew’s commands. We don’t need a rogue Englishman in our midst thinking for himself. You can leave those matters to others better qualified.’ He nodded curtly and spurred the horse free of Blackstone’s grip. The soldiers followed and the gates closed behind them.

Blackstone turned, but Christiana was walking away. More than anything else at that moment he wanted to hold her and comfort her pain. But he could not approach her in public. She caught his eye as Blanche eased her away to the solitude of her quarters. He knew she would come to him, but the anticipation of being with her again was tinged with dread.

An ambush, an archer’s skill, and a dead knight bearing her father’s livery was a memory that would never be erased.