Master of War

22




Christiana worried a handkerchief between her fingers. She and Blackstone stood opposite each other in the confines of her room.

‘I saw them saddle a horse. One of the pages told me it was for you. I didn’t know if I would see you before you left.’

‘I would ask you once again to come to England with me,’ said Blackstone, keeping his distance from her, feeling the churning emotions inside him.

She smiled sadly and shook her head. ‘I can’t leave my people. This is where I belong and all I know.’

‘I’m afraid,’ he said.

She looked surprised. ‘Not you.’

Blackstone felt they were caught in an invisible current that swirled between them. The wind still howled through the battlements and eaves, so the warm room was a sanctuary, yet they seemed unable to approach each other because of some force that kept them apart.

‘I’m afraid because of what I now know. Why didn’t you tell me?’

She looked confused and turned away from him. ‘You can’t know.’

‘You must have told Countess Blanche.’

‘I never breathed a word.’ She sat on a stool by the window. ‘Perhaps she saw I had changed.’

Blackstone moved closer to her. He had seen no change, what was there to see? What he suspected, though, was that women were like God’s other creatures that had a sixth sense. A man’s instincts could save his life but the unknowable world of women’s intuition was as deep as a mire. ‘I’m excited and I’m fearful because having a child is like stumbling through a dark forest. You can’t see your way clear,’ he said uncertainly.

‘I would not use the child to hold you.’

‘But you wanted to, outside that door, when you begged me not to abandon you.’

‘I couldn’t force you to stay. Besides, I have only missed my monthly time once.’

He sat next to her, unable to grasp that a seed had taken hold in her. After what seemed a long and awkward silence she placed her hand on his. ‘You must follow your own instincts, Thomas. There’s no need for you to stay because of this. Blanche will discreetly take the child in, and I will be its wet nurse and governess. Shame can be hidden like a swelling stomach beneath flowing robes. Your child will be safe, and you can come back whenever you wish to see it. No one need ever know. Perhaps that’s better for us all, including the child.’

He waited a moment before answering, searching for the right words that made sense of what he felt. ‘When you refused to come to England with me, and you told me how much you hated the English, I thought even our feelings could not bridge such a gulf. The father of your child is an Englishman, and nothing can ever change that. And my son will know about his father, and my son will know about his family because that will be his gift to carry him through this life.’

‘It may not be a boy,’ she said.

‘It will be,’ he told her. ‘And I’ll not let any man take my place. And no one will take our child. I don’t know how we will live, but we’ll do it here in France, so that you’ll be safe and surrounded by those who care for you.’

She bowed her head, her hands gripping his tightly, as the tears spilled and her shoulders trembled.


He pulled her to him. ‘I didn’t pull you across that river to let you drift away from me now. And we won’t let our child come into this world as a bastard. Go and see the countess and ask if the priest is still here.’

She laughed and wiped the tears from her cheeks, then buried her face into his shoulder. ‘Oh, Thomas, I was so afraid to lose you.’

He held the warmth of her body close to him. How many twists and turns lay on the road ahead he could not know. But if he had unknowingly slain her father, now he had sired her child.

He and this woman were tied together as surely as his sword by its blood knot to his right hand.


Jean de Harcourt led the way into the library and gestured Blackstone towards the trestle table where rolled parchments sat snug against each other.

‘Find the grubbiest parchment there. The one that’s been handled the most,’ de Harcourt told him as he poured two glasses of wine.

Blackstone fingered his way through the scrolls and noticed one with a wine stain. He had seen it before.

‘That’s it,’ said de Harcourt, and handed Blackstone the wine. Then with his free arm he swept all the other documents onto the floor. ‘Unroll it,’ he said and lifted a paperweight onto the unfurled parchment. ‘Have you seen this before, when you spent your nights in here?’

Blackstone looked down at the map. It had the crosses in circles on it, the same crude drawing he had seen before and which still made no sense. ‘Yes, I’ve seen it.’

‘Then you’ll know it’s a map of divided France,’ de Harcourt explained, his finger tapping the markings. ‘This is the Duchy of Normandy, this is Burgundy, Aquitaine, and every red cross denotes a walled town or castle held by those loyal to the French King. Those marked by a circle and a cross are held in the name of Edward and these,’ his finger pointed to the small black dots that freckled the map, ‘these infestations are held by independent captains.’

‘Routiers?’ said Blackstone.

‘Which often change hands. They terrorize an area and bleed it dry; some of them cage themselves within the walls, not daring to come out in case local populations rise up against them. They are victims of their own greed and once they’ve ravaged the town they leave it.’

Blackstone studied the map. ‘That’s the coast to the north, this borderline here?’

‘That’s Brittany. There’s been conflict there for centuries. It’s a wilderness of discontent.’

Blackstone’s eyes followed his finger that traced across the map. ‘A lot of these towns are held by my King, these are French. Brittany is strong in his favour.’

‘And the further south you go into Gascony, you can see that your King also has many well-placed towns,’ de Harcourt said, and waited as Blackstone studied the markings, wondering if the strategic importance of what he had briefly explained meant anything to him.

‘This is Rouen. And we are here,’ Blackstone said, then let his finger travel south-east. ‘Paris. Your King is tucked away like a swaddled child. He’s safe there.’

‘Everything else is what’s important,’ de Harcourt said.

Blackstone nodded, seeing the landscape in his mind, remembering again his march from the invasion and riding with Sir Godfrey as they skirted Rouen. I’m here, he thought, and further south was the village where they killed Edward’s messengers. So, Chaulion is here and the border country is…

He looked up at de Harcourt who waited expectantly.

‘These places are held by the French and routiers. Why don’t the French take them?’ he asked.

‘Because the King lets them take what they want from the people. They raid and kill. It’s cheaper for him than paying them, but they have his approval. As we have just witnessed with those scum from Paris.’

Blackstone saw how close some of the markings were to the border. His finger went down, left and right, a small pattern emerged.

‘King Edward blockades Calais in the north, but when he invaded he came through – here. The peninsula. That’s why there was little fighting when we landed. Sir Godfrey knew that most small towns wouldn’t resist. Except Caen, but that’s different – it’s a huge city.’

‘And don’t forget your King holds Gascony to the south, Bordeaux is his.’

Blackstone felt the thrill of understanding; like a building’s design on a master mason’s plan, the intricacies offered themselves up. He gulped the wine, excited by the discovery, eager to find out more. ‘When we landed we were worried that the French would come from the south and trap us, but you couldn’t get to us in time because we had men down there. If the King ever loses Calais he needs to invade from these two places again. Normandy in the north and Bordeaux in the south. This is where he’s weak. Here, in this border country. There are towns that could harass any troop movements.’

He lifted his finger and let the parchment roll into itself.

‘Why are you showing this to me?’

‘You’re an Englishman,’ de Harcourt said and turned to sit next to the fire. ‘And we had hoped to use that fact.’ He paused. ‘In time,’ he admitted.

Blackstone followed him; de Harcourt had caught his interest. ‘I’m a common man, my lord, and I have nothing to offer anyone other than my willingness to fight.’ He sat opposite de Harcourt, but the man’s face showed no reaction. He was waiting for Blackstone to grasp the reality of the situation. He stoked the fire and flames devoured the dry wood.

Blackstone said, ‘Those towns pose a threat should King Philip try to impose more pressure on you and the others, to bring you more under control, to crush your – what’s the word? – when you wish to govern yourself?’

‘Autonomy,’ de Harcourt said.

‘That.’ Blackstone hesitated, trying to see the sequence of events that could inflict themselves on Jean de Harcourt and his friends. ‘You can’t attack and hold those towns because you’re still sworn to King Philip.’ The reasoning unfolded in his mind like a map, each crease revealing a hidden place. ‘But if my King had taken the French crown, Normandy would have sworn allegiance to him and with his help you would have been free to do what you wanted to protect your borders.’

De Harcourt relented and poured more wine for Blackstone. Could someone like him understand the great nation of France and its divisions? His own history weighed like an anvil. ‘We swear allegiance to those we choose. But we are trapped now that your King has taken what he wants.’

‘There are men out there who would fight for your cause if you paid them,’ he said.

‘And who would betray us to the highest bidder.’

Blackstone felt the tingle of excitement, similar to what he felt when closing in on hunted prey. ‘You need someone you trust to take those towns and hold them without you being involved. Someone who would have the blessing of the English King, and who would not interfere, because those towns are the silken thread that hold those territories together. It could take years.’

De Harcourt looked at him with an expression of regret. ‘Yes, my young friend, that’s correct. And if such a person died or was captured trying to do those things, he would have no link to us at all. We would not be implicated and we would not offer any help.’

Blackstone’s heartbeat settled. War had beaten out of him any foolish thoughts of conflict being an adventure. Battle and conquest were best approached with cold-blooded skill and determination. Blood-lust came at the sword’s point, when death promised its agonizing embrace.


He sat and gazed into the fire, letting the flames entice him. He could offer his sword to Edward and remain an impoverished knight in France with a wife and child, or serve his King in another fashion and hold land in his name; be his own man.

‘Sir Godfrey was wrong. What you need is a rogue Englishman,’ he said quietly.


The noblemen gathered that night. De Vitry was surly, Guy de Ruymont cautious, and the most senior among them, de Graville and de Mainemares, who had hoped more than any other for a strong King to lead their nation, continually urged the bickering men to settle their differences, support the venture that de Harcourt proposed and await the outcome. If this young Englishman died it would not harm their long-term plans; if he succeeded it would be the first stone laid on the bridge that would carry them to success. This plan was not going to benefit them immediately; they had to give thought to the future. King Philip might reign for years. Henri Livay thought the gout would kill the King in less than a year, Jacques Brienne had it on good authority from a kinsman at court that the King had suffered an apoplexy, while another baron believed the King’s son John would usurp the throne.

As the bantering went back and forth Jean de Harcourt and Blackstone waited silently. De Graville finally raised a hand to silence them all.

‘This plan comes too early for us. We can’t expect support from King Edward, so how are we to stay in the shadows and let an inexperienced man-at-arms ride out and begin an assault that seems doomed before it has even started?’

‘He needs men, and the only way to get them is to pay them,’ said Henri Livay.

‘And they will take what they want and then desert, because that’s the kind of scum you get for such an undertaking,’ said de Vitry.

Blackstone hoped, when they all turned to look at him, that they were not still thinking that he was the scum in question. He said, ‘My lords, sometimes inexperience can be a benefit. Seeing things in a different way can bring success. I would need men, but I would need those who would serve me in your name.’

Guy de Ruymont said, ‘We cannot hide our livery and ride out under false pretences. No man of honour would do such a thing. Such deception would bring disgrace once the ploy was discovered.’

Blackstone thought quickly, searching for the answer that would satisfy the men’s honour and yet shield them from recrimination.

‘All of you have men who have served and fought with you. If you release them from their duty to you, then they could fight as free men. They would wear no livery and they would fight under the captain of your choosing. And to secure their loyalty you would pay them as you do now.’

The room fell silent. It was a simple plan and one that could still offer them anonymity.

‘Blackstone is right,’ said de Harcourt. ‘We have bankrolled the King on many occasions and all we have in return is defeat and higher taxation. I say we have nothing to lose. I’ll speak to my soldiers and offer them their release. Their loyalty will still be to me, and Thomas Blackstone will, in time, gather those about him who will offer their loyalty to him alone.’

Each of them considered the proposal. It was William de Fossat who broke the silence.

‘I have no lands, and my fortune is taken by the King. So I am the most impoverished of us all, but I still have wealth enough to support an adventure, and if a town falls then I will take my share of its possessions and the land it holds. Blackstone can ride under my command. I’ll take ten of my own men with me. I’m not afraid for our King’s mercenaries to see my colours.’

De Harcourt kept a rein on his impatience. ‘No, William. That defeats the purpose of having an Englishman to be seen leading men. He holds any captured towns for his King. To all intent and purpose he’s not our man. Surely that is obvious? He fights and secures territory for King Edward. Unless you offer fealty to Edward and ride openly in defiance of Philip.’

‘Then I’ll cover my shield because who in their right mind is going to follow Thomas Blackstone? Ask yourselves that!’

Blackstone knew that de Fossat was still smarting from the perceived insult at the dinner. He was spoiling for a fight, and if that happened and Blackstone beat him he might feel such bitterness and humiliation that he could defy them all and betray their plan to the French King. If, on the other hand, Blackstone lost, then the others would think less of his ability, which might cause them to withdraw their support. And where would that leave Blackstone? But how was he to achieve anything with the animosity of a Norman lord clinging to him like a rash on a whore’s back?

‘I’ll take whatever men will follow me according to your generosity,’ he said, and faced each nobleman in turn. ‘But if my Lord de Fossat is intent on leading the assault on Chaulion then the game is up before it has even started. His honour is too great for him ever to deny his name if called upon to identify himself. Covering your shield and obscuring your coat of arms is not enough.’ He turned to face de Fossat squarely. ‘My lord, it is obvious I’ve caused you offence, and for that I apologize. But if you challenge any decision of my command, I won’t back down.’

De Fossat smiled. ‘Then consider your defeat already complete.’

De Harcourt was on his feet. ‘No! William, I’ve warned you already. Don’t make matters worse.’

‘A scarred upstart of a knight carries no fear for me, Jean. In God’s name! You’ve been training a pup.’

Blackstone concealed his nervousness, and determined to brazen it out, he stepped closer to de Fossat. It was no time to show any trepidation about facing down a man of superior rank. ‘And what will defeating me prove to everyone in this room? That you are the better swordsman? That your pride is restored? What good is your pride to these lords’ cause?’ Blackstone said.

De Fossat lunged, aiming a blow to Blackstone’s face, but he turned quickly, making de Fossat lose his balance, stumble across a chair and fall. The others shuffled back hastily. There was no avoiding a fight now; de Fossat had forced the issue and Blackstone had staked his claim for their support.

‘Stop it, William!’ Guy de Ruymont shouted. ‘It serves no purpose!’

‘It satisfies me!’ yelled back de Fossat and drew his sword.

De Harcourt quickly stepped between the two men. ‘William! Hear this! Give every man in this room your word that if you lose you will not pursue revenge; you will not stand in his way to do our bidding.’

‘I give it!’ de Fossat spat.

‘Dishonour your word and we will kill you,’ said de Harcourt.

The words struck de Fossat and seemed to sober his impassioned challenge. De Harcourt and the others waited.

‘I understand,’ said de Fossat. ‘I pledge my allegiance; that will never change.’

‘Then you fight outside,’ said de Harcourt and led the noblemen into the night.


Each of them held a flaming torch and encircled the training yard. The wind whipped the flames but the flickering light made no difference to the two men fighting. Soldiers gathered in the shadows as Meulon permitted the men to watch. Squires and their pages left their beds in the stables and gathered as steel clashed against steel.

De Fossat gripped his sword with two hands, cleaving the air with a blow that could be heard whipping the air despite the buffeting wind. Blackstone half turned his body and the blades clashed. De Fossat’s weight turned him, but Blackstone’s balance was solid. He allowed the blow to fall away, and took a step forward, ramming his shoulder into de Fossat, forcing him onto the defensive. Blackstone’s weight and height were an advantage, but de Fossat was a big man, skilled in close-quarter battle, and went on the offensive with a low strike that Blackstone parried. The force of the assault was like two powerful mountain goats ramming into each other. They sweated, grunting with exertion. If de Fossat could use his skills and tricks learnt from combat he could beat the younger man. Blackstone’s sword criss-crossed his body like a whip, so fast that de Fossat barely managed to close his guard. He staggered back a pace. Blackstone could have strode after him and finished it there and then, but he waited as each man drew the cold night air into heaving lungs. They had already fought for nearly half an hour and Blackstone wanted the man’s defeat to be complete, to be seen as indisputable evidence that he could earn by his skill with the sword the respect he needed. The grunts and gasps were not only from the combatants, the noblemen’s own fighting instincts made them twitch and shift from one foot to the other, shoulders half turning as each blow fell, was struck or parried. Every word and punishing blow that de Harcourt had laid on Blackstone was carved into his mind just as the leaping wolf was etched into the hardened steel. Blackstone moved rapidly but de Harcourt cursed him under his breath. Blackstone was not moving enough. His stance changed by only slight corrections, a pace here and there, but never yielding ground, whereas de Fossat was trying everything to break through his opponent’s defence. However, it was a wall that could not be breached and de Fossat’s efforts were as useless as a wave trying to smash a rock. And still Blackstone let the man recover, allowed him to suck in the air and wipe the sweat from his eyes, and waited for the next attack What was he doing? de Harcourt wondered. Move man! Move! And then it dawned on him that Blackstone was showing his strength. He was telling his enemy that he could move as rapidly as he wished or he could stand his ground and beat off an attack. He was humiliating de Fossat even further.


De Fossat feinted, the blade nearly slicing into Blackstone’s crooked arm. The noblemen gasped. De Fossat had him! For a moment the Norman had the advantage, and every dead friend and humiliated Frenchman at Crécy was about to be vindicated with a decisive thrust. Blackstone caught the blade on his crossguard and twisted. It was enough to turn it away but the feint had given de Fossat confidence and he brought the full weight of his attack onto the Englishman.

As de Fossat crabbed, seeking an opening, Blackstone allowed his eyes to glance across de Fossat’s shoulder into de Harcourt’s stare. The implacable message in de Harcourt’s eyes was obvious. Finish it.

Blackstone spat the phlegm from his mouth and felt the mail links bite through his undershirt as his bunched muscles gathered the power that until this moment had been called upon to do only what was necessary to halt or turn the assault. Now they would be brought into the fray like a surprise attack.

The dragon rose up, its talons tearing through his chest. Crécy’s slaughterhouse, the nightmare that never left him, loomed in the broken torchlight. Bodies jumbled through his mind as horses screamed and the lone knight cut down his brother. Mouths gaped and spat blood. A knight laid the Prince’s banner across his fallen body, silent, desperate screams to hold the line! Hold! But Blackstone had surged forward, cutting a wedge into the enemy, like a meat cleaver through a carcass, slipping in men’s guts and gore into that carnage. Shattered bodies, ripped and trampled, screams and cries, curses and dying breath.

He punished de Fossat’s pride with a relentless and calculated act of power and defiance.

And then he heard the grunting and smelled the sweat as he closed in on him, smashing him into the torchbearers, seeing a flame fall and splutter as he grabbed the man’s belt, and tipped him into the dirt.

De Fossat’s bloodied face stared up at him. Terror at the death about to claim him.

‘Mercy! MERCY!’ a disconnected voice cried.

‘Thomas!’ de Harcourt’s voice. ‘Enough!’

Arms grappled him.

‘Lower the blade, Thomas. It’s done.’ De Harcourt straddled the fallen man in front of Blackstone’s glaring eyes, protecting de Fossat. Then, more quietly, ‘You’ve won.’

De Harcourt nodded to the others, who released their restraint.

The men shuffled away uneasily. Blackstone had gone in for the kill. Even if a wound had been inflicted on him they all knew that something would have driven him on.

‘Jesus Christ,’ de Fossat muttered, and spat blood. ‘Jesus…’

De Harcourt helped the beaten man to his feet. There was no anger lingering in him. And even humiliation had no place to rear its spiteful head from such a defeat. He seemed dazed at the outcome, took his fallen sword from one of the others and nodded gratefully to de Harcourt.

Jean de Harcourt eased the bruised and exhausted man away. The Norman lords looked at Blackstone. They knew about fighting, of how men would tear each other’s eyes out or beat a skull with a helm when the terror took hold. And they also knew that what they had witnessed that night was a fighter possessed of a kind of power given to few. Divine or satanic they couldn’t tell. But it frightened them.

They walked away silently. No one spoke and no one approached Blackstone. His sword hand sweated and the leather blood knot bit into his wrist. He pulled off his open-faced helm and let it drop into the dirt and then raised his face to the rain. The shadows moved as soldiers whispered among themselves and returned to their quarters. The only one who ventured forward was a page. Guillaume Bourdin stopped and picked up Blackstone’s helm.

‘I’ll clean this for you, my lord.’

He looked at the boy and nodded. Then he walked towards the inner yard. Mercy, cried that voice again.

Blackstone knew there was no such thing.

Not from the beast that clawed within him.


Had he remembered the fight? de Harcourt had asked him. Yes, every stroke and guard. And had he deliberately let de Fossat dash himself against him? Yes. He knew the man would tire and then experience greater fear when he was set upon, realizing he would be beaten. Blackstone was aware of every thought and saw every memory and felt everything.

De Harcourt had gathered the others in the great hall without Blackstone present. They pledged what money they could and what few men could be spared after their losses at Crécy. It was agreed that Blackstone would have thirty men at his back, a dozen from de Harcourt, with Meulon as their captain. And no man present would utter a word of their involvement with the Englishman. Only he, de Harcourt, would keep a line of communication open. The next day the noblemen returned home and soldiers from their estates were sent to de Harcourt stripped of their livery. All were commanded by their sworn lord to follow Blackstone.

De Harcourt had explained as much as he could to Blackstone. ‘Christophe-la-Campagne, where you found the Englishman, is under the control of Abbot Pierre. He is a loyal supporter of Philip. There’s a small monastery – a dozen monks or so – on the crossroads a few miles from Chaulion. The key to capturing Chaulion is to control the road, but how you do that, and how you draw out this Saquet, is up to you, Thomas. The abbot is safe from attack because the Pope favours our King and he and the abbot pay Saquet to hold Chaulion, which means he’s the abbot’s protector of sorts. The Breton is a vile creature. Despite being on the King’s payroll he’s allowed to take whatever he wishes from villages that lie in the abbot’s diocese. The godly Pierre, in his hypocrisy, urges the villagers to pay protection to save the blessed Mother Church and their own sinful lives.’

‘How do you know this?’ Blackstone had asked.

‘When you returned I sent a trusted monk from my priory to Chaulion. Stay away from the village, Thomas. They’re dyed-in-the-wool supporters of the French King, and Saquet will ride out and hunt you down before you’ve even formed a plan of how to take the town.’

‘I made a promise to William Harness, my lord,’ Blackstone had said. ‘And those people will know of it.’

‘You risk everything from the start,’ de Harcourt had warned.

‘I gave my word. What other honour is there for someone like me?’


When the noblemen had left the castle Jean and Blanche de Harcourt sat with Christiana and Blackstone. It was arranged that the following afternoon they would meet in the chapel and the priest would officiate at their wedding. De Harcourt and his wife would bear witness.

‘Were we not permitted to marry with the barons in attendance because of my shame?’ asked Christiana.

‘No one knows you’re with child. We said nothing to them because for now your marriage should remain private,’ said Blanche. ‘We did not want to risk them speaking of it. A Christmas wedding is something women will gossip about and if Gilles de Mar?y is still in Normandy with those men we don’t want him to hear of it.’

De Harcourt said, ‘Half the nobles in France are probably born out of wedlock, Christiana. We care for you now as would your father. His sacrifice will not go unrecognized in this house.’

Blackstone averted his eyes from de Harcourt. There was no possibility that he could know of Blackstone’s involvement in those early days of the invasion, but mention of her father made him uncomfortable.

‘You have to realize that Thomas will be in danger, as will this family, if what he does is traced back to us. We’ve heard from Paris that my uncle was made to wear a halter around his neck and nothing more than an undershirt, and they paraded him through the streets like that. The King spared his life, but his humiliation is complete.’


Blanche said, ‘There is no youthful joy left for you, Christiana. You’re a woman now and you’ll stay with us until Thomas returns.’

‘And if he fails then he fails alone,’ de Harcourt added. ‘Your marriage must remain a secret for now. This contract between you would guarantee a life of penury were it not for what Thomas has agreed to undertake. His success determines not only your well-being but ours too.’

Christiana nodded her understanding. Marrying a man for affection or love alone was seldom allowed and never considered a good match. And Thomas Blackstone was dirt-poor. Had Jean and Blanche de Harcourt not been her guardians her own life could have ended in a convent or a whorehouse, or she could have been raped and murdered by Gilles de Mar?y.

De Harcourt wiped the wine from his lips with a folded napkin. ‘Besides, you should have been spoken for years ago. It was something your father should have considered more seriously. A girl past twelve or thirteen is going to find it difficult to be suitably matched,’ he said, with a glance of disapproval from Blanche.

‘My lord and husband knows only that affection grows over the years. He never experienced it in his youth.’ She paused and then smiled. ‘Only when he married me.’

‘Emotions without restraint are a woman’s business, Blanche. If Thomas had bothered himself to learn gentle words through poetry he might have understood that.’ He looked at Blackstone. ‘That’s one thing you’ve failed in. Learning the skills of courtly love is a means of honouring your beloved, Thomas. We go to war and fight because of the love we have for our women.’ He returned Blanche’s look, which he knew well. Stay silent and guard your words, she was saying. ‘He has nothing to offer the girl, as far as I can see, except his strength and courage and love for her. Though I daresay that will be enough,’ he temporized.

‘And they are both blessed with your friendship. They are richer than most, my lord,’ added Blanche.

She was not going to let him heap more ruin on a wedding ceremony that could not be acknowledged. A day when a bride had to suffocate her own joy. De Harcourt had to give in gracefully. If he did not, the winter nights could grow colder and seem longer.

‘Aye, and it was earned, Thomas Blackstone. You’ve a way to go before I can let you loose in polite company, but you’ve proved yourself to me, without question. But there won’t be a wedding notice posted, or celebratory feast given. The minstrels have been paid off. So your day will be one of quiet and no different than any other. And that’s the way it must be. I’ll bargain with the priest to take us into the chapel and perform the ceremony without the usual custom of banns being read.’

Blanche raised her eyebrows. There was one more thing to be said, but de Harcourt scowled.

‘Is this a poor bargain, Christiana?’ Blackstone asked gently, as if seeing her doubts.

‘For my part it’s the best of bargains, Thomas, and you must never doubt it. You found me in this castle and took me to Sir Godfrey and then you risked your life again for me. There’s more than gratitude involved. I’ll treasure you for the rest of my life, as will our child.’

Blackstone reached out a hand and smothered hers. ‘Don’t listen too closely to what my lord says. There’s much joy coming our way and we’ll be together once I’ve secured a place for us. I’m responsible for you now, but my Lord Jean, and his good Lady Blanche, will protect you until I send for you.’

Blanche de Harcourt had waited long enough for her husband to finalize the arrangement. ‘My lord and husband will also offer Thomas a dowry on behalf of your father.’

Christiana grabbed de Harcourt’s hand and pressed it to her lips. ‘My lord. God bless your kindness and generosity. I shall say a prayer for you every day for the rest of my life.’

De Harcourt sighed and eased her away, so that she and Blanche might embrace. ‘We have done our duty, child. How God came to place the two of you under my roof is indeed a mystery, but we have honoured His wishes – though His ways mystify me more often than my wife.’ He spread his hands in supplication. ‘Now can we eat? Marriages are arranged for whatever purpose is suitable. All this talk of undying love and childbearing squirms in my stomach like a worm that demands feeding.’

The following day the four of them went into the chapel and knelt before the priest as if it were a regular time for prayer. The priest was well paid and did as de Harcourt instructed. Special prayers were said in thanks for Sir Godfrey’s life and then the priest said the nuptial Mass. Blanche gave Christiana one of her lavender and grey velvet gowns, embroidered with silver and thread, set off with a necklace of precious stones. Over her braided hair, which had been washed with rosemary water, Blanche had arranged a filigree of gold.

Blackstone had surrendered to the ritual and bathed. He wore fresh clothes and tunic, and parted his long hair in the middle. De Harcourt instructed Marcel to trim Blackstone’s whiskers that now stubbled his face and prickled the whitening scar. Marcel was the only servant trusted enough who knew of the ceremony and, without speaking of it, he suspected why the marriage had been so quickly arranged. These events held Blackstone briefly in wonder, and for their wedding night Blanche had prepared a guest room fit for a nobleman and his bride, embellished with dried rose petals and fragrant perfume.

‘I have no gift of jewellery,’ Blackstone told her as they sat naked before the warmth of the fire. He extended the palm of his hand, showing her the silver coin neatly cut in two. ‘But this is a token of my love for you. Wherever the two halves may be, then there will we also be. Complete. As one.’ He kissed her tenderly and hoped the words he had read in one of de Harcourt’s books had been well remembered.

Days later, when he had embraced his new wife in farewell and accepted Blanche’s good wishes for a safe return, he had been taken aside by Jean de Harcourt before he and the twenty armed men rode out.

‘Honour and glory will be yours in time, but temper your killing with compassion for those who deserve it, Thomas. For those who do not, strike the fear of your name into their hearts.’