Master of War

Part 3


Sworn Lord





23




The Feast of Epiphany, twelve days after Christmas Day, celebrated the arrival of the three wise men, the Magi, bearing gifts for the holy child. But on this particular bleak day Blackstone bore no gifts of goodwill.

‘You’ll grant us mercy,’ said the peasant whose twisted face Blackstone gazed down on from his horse. The man sneered and laughed as he turned to look at the thirty or more villagers armed with pitchforks, billhooks and axes. They were in no mood to pander to a lone impoverished knight with only two men at his side. Meulon and Gaillard looked uneasily about them.

‘So you believe I should offer leniency to those who butchered an unarmed man and messenger of the King of England?’ Blackstone answered.

The peasant took a threatening step forward, half raising the billhook. ‘You’d best be on your way, bastard Englishman. Our protector Saquet, le poigne de fer, will be upset if we kill you ourselves, but he’ll not chastise us if we lop off a leg or an arm.’

A few of the men laughed, their bravery growing every moment. Killing the English messenger was easy, but three armed men on horseback might cause some of them injury. Blackstone had not yet taken Wolf Sword into his hand as he eased his horse forward a stride. The peasant’s uncertainty was matched by his own small retreat.


‘This “Iron Fist” you talk about. I’ve heard of him. They say he’s as strong as an ox and twice as stupid. I’m here to punish, not be threatened.’

‘You’ve a nerve coming here. Leave before we set on you!’ the man shouted, encouraged by the others, but their courage slipped away quickly when women’s screams suddenly broke the early morning air. The men turned. Flames were taking hold of three houses as armed men bearing torches stepped from the forest in a necklace of fire.

‘There’s no gift of mercy today,’ said Blackstone, wrapping his hand around the sword’s grip.


The houses blazed fiercely as every man, woman and child who had not escaped the encircling men was herded into the muddy thoroughfare. The bitter smoke swept across them and their tears of fear and self-pity mingled with those from the smoke. Blackstone had little trouble in identifying the half-dozen men who had caged William Harness like a pig awaiting slaughter and who had butchered Harness’s friend. In their fear the villagers quickly turned on each other, giving up those responsible for the emasculation and killing of the young messenger. They were made to cut down his violated body and bury him in a deep grave so that wild animals could not root up his remains.

And then, as his men held back wailing women, Blackstone hanged the ringleaders and set their houses alight. The village blacksmith who had branded William Harness was held and burned with the same fleur-de-lys branding iron onto his forehead. And after this justice had been meted out every man, woman and child knelt in the mud and begged Blackstone to spare them.

‘I am riding towards the coast to find other villagers who mistreated my King’s messengers,’ Blackstone told them. ‘Saquet cannot protect you now. Remember that. I have relented and shown you mercy. I should have every one of you branded and sent off into the forest to survive like the beasts you are. Remember my giving of life and my name.’

Blackstone led the men out of the village.

‘Not much chance of them thinking you’re the Virgin Mary in disguise. More like the Grim Reaper,’ said Meulon.

‘Either way they’ll remember,’ said Blackstone.

‘We can’t ride to the coast, Master Thomas,’ Gaillard said, ‘those villagers will have run like rabbits to Chaulion and we’ll have Saquet breathing down our necks.’

‘Of course they will. It’s what I want,’ said Blackstone.

‘You think we can win a pitched fight out here? They’ll ambush us at their first chance. And I’ll lay odds they outnumber us at least three to one,’ Meulon said, adding his voice to the men’s concerns. The Englishman might have the balls of a bull but that didn’t mean he couldn’t be brought down by a pack of ravenous wolves.

‘We’re not going to the coast. Saquet will spend the better part of a week looking for us. I needed him out of the way for a while. We’ll be waiting when he returns. We choose the ground where we fight. Find me a slow road to the monastery at Chaulion and give our peasant friend time enough to do his work.’ He spurred his horse, forcing the others to follow.

Riding out with the men had brought an unexpected sense of freedom. As a ventenar he had commanded twenty archers and now there was a similar number in his charge. These ordinary soldiers were simple, uncomplicated men. This was an experience that filled him with hope, unshackling him from the confines of the castle with its rules of behaviour. Christiana was safe and he would have a modest dowry, and if he succeeded in securing even one town he would be able to justify de Harcourt’s trust. He had already demonstrated that his actions were tempered with leniency, and as he hanged the ringleaders the ghost of Sir Gilbert rode at his shoulder and grunted agreement. It took a few more miles of riding before he realized what it was that had changed in him. He was happy.

By the next morning they sat on a low crest of a hill gazing down at the lifeless, frozen landscape. They could see quite clearly that the crossroads had not carried much traffic since the last sprinkling of snow. It was a small, single-storey monastery, conceived as a reclusive hermitage in ancient times and then built up over the years as others sought out the solitude and reflective life of a monk. Over the years such hard-working self-sacrifice had eased from the monks, who relied on their lay brothers to do all the manual work. Villagers paid tithes and tilled the land – labour they could well have put to better use tending their own meagre crops. Monks attended to prayer every three hours, day and night. It was a life that no fighting man Blackstone had ever known could contemplate, though there were benefits of ale and wine – and it was not unknown for a prior or an abbot to have a mistress for other worldly comforts.

Smoke curled from the monastery chimneys. They had warmth, so they weren’t too uncomfortable in their seclusion. Some of the outer walls had crumbled, but the main structure still stood and was kept in good order by the monks. A wood and stone bridge lay across the river, which was shallow in places as indicated by the boulders keeping ice from forming. But the pockets of still water showed there were deep pools that were frozen. An attempt to cross without that bridge would be difficult. In the old days monks must have seen the value of building such a bridge and Blackstone thought that the abbot most likely charged a toll.

He could see that some of the old storage barns and stables had fallen into complete disrepair, so over the years the monastery had brought everything within the walls of the existing building. That made sense because then brigands or common thieves would have to scale the walls to steal grain or drink.

‘Why are we here?’ asked Meulon. ‘The town is miles away.’

Blackstone pointed to the churned road that led away in one direction. ‘Chaulion’s down there, and it looks as though horsemen have travelled down this way in the last day or so.’

‘Saquet looking for us,’ said Meulon.

‘The abbot is under Saquet’s protection and the King favours him. His hands will be smooth, his belly fat. There’s no resistance in a kept man. Weak with good food, wine and a warm bed.’

‘That sounds all right to me,’ Gaillard said, and the other men muttered their agreement.

‘And when men like us come to take it from you, what then?’ said Meulon. ‘You’d have your fat arse kicked and a begging bowl and a whore to keep you if you’re lucky.’

‘Jesus, Meulon, having a soft tit and a skinful of wine isn’t much to ask,’ Gaillard answered.

‘Best keep your mother out of this, Gaillard,’ said one of the men.

Gaillard took the insult good-naturedly and allowed the men’s jibes as Meulon turned his attention back to the landscape, where Blackstone pointed out the features. ‘It’s a good location for a monastery – on the crossroads. If a man who knew about such things pulled down those old buildings and rebuilt a wall you could stop anyone using the road. A few men could control the passage of trade and anyone would find it hard to ford the river,’ said Blackstone.

Meulon raised himself in his stirrups and looked left and right. ‘The ground falls away, and rises across the stream, so it would be a good strategic place to hold.’

Blackstone smiled. Those were his thoughts exactly.

Meulon sighed, and blew the cold phlegm from his nose. ‘You’re taking a stick to a hornet’s nest is what you’re doing. You interfere in one of his villages, and now you’re going to take the monastery. Saquet is going to be very pissed off with you,’ he said, and then smiled. This Englishman was like a bed louse, he’d get under your skin and you’d scratch until you bled.


Blackstone and his men urged their horses downhill. It was getting colder and one thing Blackstone knew for certain was that men hated fighting in winter. It was a time when wars ground to a halt. Horse forage was scarce and men needed food and warmth to fight effectively. He hoped that Saquet’s wild goose chase would give him the time he needed to secure the road that led to Chaulion.


The voice called from the main gate, ‘You there! What are you doing? Be off with you! Off!’

Blackstone and his men were carrying the fallen stones from the old tumbled walls down to the bridge. They barely paused in their work. It was already three hours after dawn.

‘You’ve been at prayer, good brother,’ said Blackstone. ‘It’s going to be a fine day, I think. The sky’s cleared. Cold, mind you, and the wind will pick up again, I suppose, so we’ll have that accursed rain and snow again. No matter, we’ll be finished in a couple of days.’

The perplexed monk left the gate open and, gathering his habit, traipsed down to where the men continued their labours. He saw that a couple of hundred yards away in each direction a horseman guarded the road.

‘You’re taking our stone,’ said the monk, unable to grasp why anyone would do such a thing.

‘Yes. And it’s good stone,’ was the reply.

‘It’s not yours to take!’

Blackstone wiped his hands on his tunic. ‘But you don’t need it. It’s just lying out there in the fields.’

The monk’s mouth opened and closed like a fish. ‘The abbot must know about this.’ He turned on his heel and Blackstone strode by his side. ‘I think you’ll find the abbot will be happy to donate the stone to the cause.’

‘Cause?’

They were close to the open gate.

‘Our cause,’ said Blackstone. ‘I’ll explain to the abbot when I see him.’

‘You can’t see him. Who do you think you are? He wouldn’t allow armed men in here,’ the monk protested.

‘In here?’ said Blackstone as he stood beneath the gate and eased it open further. ‘Think of us as pilgrims seeking shelter, brother. Only we’re going to outstay our welcome.’

Blackstone took the dumbfounded monk through the gate as Meulon and the other men followed. They had seized the monastery near Chaulion.


No one had ever dared challenge Abbot Pierre’s authority. Even the odious and threatening Saquet had given way because the abbot was favoured by his King, and the mercenary had understood the terms of his own contract. The abbot might well have argued with himself that he had placed villagers in danger by abandoning them, but Abbot Pierre had, in his own mind, given them life by aligning his own aims with those of the routiers. A simple justification for a simple, venal man. But now the comfort of his massaged conscience was about to be stripped from him. Abbot Pierre visibly trembled. Thomas Blackstone’s face sent a chill like ice water down to his privates. The Englishman had introduced himself, but without due courtesy shown to the abbot’s status.

‘You’re confined to your lodgings,’ Blackstone told him as he sniffed the succulent aroma of roasted meat suffusing the air. ‘And you’ve a good kitchen by the smell of it. Roast pig is far too rich for humble monks. No matter, my men need feeding.’

‘You’re mistaken if you believe that you and your brigands can escape retribution. You have no idea of the wrath you have incurred.’

‘Not from you, I think.’

‘Your arrogance is insufferable,’ spluttered the abbot.

Meulon said, ‘A leader of men has to be arrogant, Brother Abbot – you set a fine example yourself.’

‘Don’t worry, your silver plate and artefacts are safe from plunder,’ Blackstone told him. ‘King Edward hanged men who looted churches and monasteries. We won’t pillage your sacraments. You’ve splinters of the cross, though, have you? To sell to peasants? To give them hope?’

‘Of course,’ said the abbot warily. ‘Do you intend to take them?’

‘I’ll burn them when I find them,’ he said.

‘May God forgive such violation,’ the abbot whispered and crossed himself.

Blackstone seized a handful of the abbot’s cloak that he wore over his habit, pulling him to where Gaillard waited. ‘Worthless shards of wood, peeled from any scrap timber and used to prey on an ignorant peasant’s fears. You offer them hope for salvation and don’t even have to uncurl their hand to seize their hard-earned coin. If every splinter of the cross was gathered from every monastery or church our Lord Jesus would need to have been crucified a thousand times on as many crosses. Pray for your own forgiveness. Off to your quarters, my big fat crow, and I’ll have one of the brothers bring you bread and water.’

The abbot’s jowls wobbled, his prissy mouth unable to utter a word.

‘Your lips are as puckered as a cat’s arse,’ Blackstone said and pushed him towards Gaillard. ‘Understand this: your life of ease has now ended. You have how many monks here? Ten? More?’

The abbot had always had a simple understanding of where power lay and who wielded it. He steepled his trembling fingers together and lowered his eyes. A man of low breeding like this Englishman obviously needed his status as leader of his men acknowledged.

‘Sir Thomas. This humble monastery can be of no interest to your English King. Surely?’

‘That is for me to decide. Now I can either search every nook and cranny and drag them out, or you can tell me how many monks are here. Or would you prefer a starvation diet for a week to lose some of that blubber?’

The abbot swallowed hard. If he co-operated, then at least he might be fed meat, something he had become accustomed to. Not for him the modest food of a humble monk. The kitchen smells made him salivate. ‘Fourteen monks and as many lay brothers.’

‘Good. I’ll need them all to help my men.’

‘What can possibly be done here?’

‘I have only a few days to build a wall and if I thought that having you carry rocks would be of benefit I’d have you whipped into the fields, but you’d be too slow and cumbersome.’ Blackstone nodded to Gaillard, who stepped forward to escort the abbot to his quarters.

‘A wall?’ His incomprehension, as if Blackstone spoke in tongues, only added to his look of stupidity. ‘The days are short. A wall?’

‘You have tallow and oil so we’ll have torchlight. You’ll see. It will be a fine wall.’

Gaillard grabbed the confused abbot and forced him to quicken his step.

Blackstone turned to Meulon. ‘Have the men fed, the horses stabled. Then take an inventory of food and supplies. Keep everyone behind the walls until we organize work parties. And ignore tradition – keep them armed. Two sentries at all times. Day and night.’

Meulon nodded and turned away without question. Whatever this young Englishman had planned he’d know soon enough and he was happy to be left to deal with the men. None had yet asked too many questions about why they had been put under Blackstone’s command, but they would, so he decided to bring them together and, in a soldier’s way, cut out any discontent that might be brewing. Thomas Blackstone commanded, but Meulon was their captain and he would make sure there was no chance of dissent.

Blackstone stood in the empty room and imagined the abbot’s corrupt life of comfort and warmth when it should have been one of humility and hard work, of going among the verminous poor to offer healing and alms. He wandered alone through the monastery, noticing that the kitchen fires were well tended, the flour sacks in the bakery were dry, the flour coarsely milled. Not yet finely ground as for a nobleman’s taste then, he thought. Perhaps the abbot had not elevated his aspirations as high as he might. The chapel was modest but functional; the infirmary clean, with boiled linen bandages neatly folded, the tinctures, herbs and ointments stored and labelled. An elderly monk bowed before him and when asked his name cupped a curved palm to his ear. He was Brother Simon; his eyes clear, his back bent and although age pulled the skin taut across his hands, there was no tremor in his fingers. Blackstone knew he would be able to stitch a wound with skill. He would not work in the fields, Blackstone explained to him, and he would not be asked to do anything other than what he did. Muscles would bruise and bones could break when working with rocks, and backs would need liniment, and shoulders would need putting back into place when pulled out of joint.


Wherever he went, everything was in an orderly state. The lay brothers were leather-skinned men used to hard work in all weathers, compared to the flabbier monks, mostly stooped and pale from bending over their manuscripts. The manner in which the lay brothers held back and bowed their heads respectfully when he walked past made Blackstone think that they were probably harshly disciplined on the orders of the prior as instructed by the abbot. These were the men who laboured to serve the self-indulgent monks as they scoured scripture and copied their pages in the warmth of the scriptorium. After inspecting the various parts of the monastery he walked the base of the walls until he was finally satisfied that they were in good order and gave little chance of being breached because of poorly laid masonry. There was always the risk that Saquet could mount an attack before Blackstone could find a way of seizing the town. The monastery was his men’s safe haven and would remain their sanctuary until he could defeat the mercenary, Iron Fist.


The men’s spears and shields were stacked against each other so that they could be reached quickly should the alarm be raised. Each man carried stone from the fields and the ruined buildings, which Blackstone had ordered torn down. The monastery’s two donkeys were saddled with pannier baskets and used to carry more of the boulders. Blackstone’s days in the quarry with his master mason had taught him how to organize work parties, and the monks worked obediently once they had made their protests at having their prayer times restricted to matins and vespers for the next few days. The monks had become lazy in their coddled life of prayer and scripture reading and they would have to sweat more to match their lay brothers. A monk’s life was one of obedience, Blackstone had told them, and their prayers could be said while they worked. God would still hear them and the Lord admired those who laboured. Was it not a monk’s duty to build something that would last? Then he, Blackstone, would give them the opportunity to please God and reacquaint themselves with obedience and humility. And, he promised them, for those who faltered a knotted rope would remind them of how weakness of the flesh could be banished.

He and Meulon worked out a roster so that everyone would be fed and have four hours’ sleep in every twelve-hour period. The monastery’s grain stores were full and there was enough salted fish and mutton to carry a whole village through a winter, let alone a couple of dozen monks. Blackstone ordered the kitchener to prepare and cook cauldrons of pottage and ensure that the bakery provided rough grain bread for the men. The kitchens were to be kept in use around the clock. A main meal of nourishing grains would be served at midday and the same warming food given at midnight to those who worked through the hours of darkness. A cup of hot, spiced wine would give the men fortitude against the icy rain, swept along by the north wind, that could sap a man’s strength after only a few hours. There would be salted fish after matins and cheese and bread after vespers; then the work parties would continue by torchlight. By the time the winter sky darkened on that first day a stone cairn had already grown near the bridge, and another between it and the monastery gate. Torches flickered throughout the night. Those monks who proved too frail to carry out heavy work he sent to the kitchens to help their lay brothers, and to suffer the indignity of being under their control as they were instructed to prepare food, wash pans and scrub floors.

Blackstone gathered the men and explained what had to be done. He took small stones and pebbles and marked the outline of the monastery, then the bridge and how the roads crossed and disappeared into the forest towards unknown destinations. All soldiers, no matter who they served, would be used to building fortifications of one kind or another; they did not have to be sappers in order to build walls. A good stone layer could put down three or four yards a day of double-skinned wall, and he had thirty men and as many monks.

‘We work with the monks and lay brothers. We have two, perhaps three days. We can all lay rocks and boulders, but I need someone to supervise the work and make sure the damned thing stays up. Are there any among you who have worked with stone?’

Two of the men raised their hands.

‘I’m Talpin, I built my father’s barn with him when I was a boy.’

‘And you?’ Blackstone asked the other, who was one of de Graville’s men.

‘Perinne. I built a wall for my village to keep thieving Bretons from raiding us and they never breached it.’

‘Good. Then you two will be in charge of each shift of men who work,’ said Blackstone, noting that their elevation in responsibility pleased them. ‘If I had a choice I’d build an earth-rammed, double-skin wall.’ The men nodded their agreement. ‘And then plant whitethorn in it to repel intruders. But we can’t, the ground is hard and this is only a temporary defence.’

Perinne hawked and spat. ‘No, Master Blackstone, this wall will be here for years to come. The way I build walls, that is. Don’t know about Count Livay’s man,’ he said, meaning Talpin. ‘I bet that barn came down the first time his old man farted in the cow byre.’

The men threw more good-natured scorn and jibes at each other. That was fine, Blackstone thought. They were coming together as a body of men despite being soldiers from different sworn lords. Talpin smiled. ‘I built a barn, my friend; a double-height, vaulted barn. Even the English couldn’t pull it down when they came through.’

The men laughed, but then suddenly realized who it was that commanded them. They fell silent.

Blackstone filled the moment of unease with a quick response. ‘If the English couldn’t pull down that barn and the Bretons couldn’t cross that wall, then you’re the men for the job.’

This cheered them again. He went on, ‘All we can do is make life difficult for anyone trying to bypass us or breach the wall. Double stone the base, bigger stones for support, dry wall, no mortar, no cut stone, pick your shape and lay. Show the monks if they’ve never done it before, though I’ll wager some have, and those that don’t learn quickly enough – use them to load and carry the stone. Build the wall chest high…’

‘Your chest or ours!’ one of the soldiers called out, causing the men to dare laughter again. Meulon waited patiently and said nothing. Like Blackstone, he knew that each time these rough and ready men insulted each other and then carefully, but respectfully, prodded a man of rank who was their leader, it bound them together. It was not something any man would dare say to a French lord; nor, he guessed, would an Englishman risk it with one who held rank. But this Englishman had a way with the men, and seemed able to take a fighting man’s humour.

‘Four and a half feet high…’ said Blackstone.

‘Ah, that’s short-arse Renouard, then!’ one of the men said, and the jeers rose again.

‘With nine-inch-high copes,’ Blackstone said, quieting them down. The promise of hot wine and roasted pig had already smoothed any sharp edges of doubt about the hard task that lay before them. ‘Twenty-four inches wide at the base above the foundation stones and thirteen inches wide under the coping stones. Scatter unused rocks outside the perimeter along with cut branches and fallen timber – that should slow anyone trying to breach it at the run.’

Talpin and Perinne nodded their agreement. The Englishman knew what he was talking about.


Darkness was Blackstone’s friend. He knew no one from Chaulion would venture several miles on a forest track at night. The ghostly wind that moaned through the trees would carry fear into many a soul, no matter how devout. And even if Saquet was to ignore the frightened villagers’ warning of this band of English and French routiers then he would come hours after first light. Blackstone waited patiently as Meulon positioned some of his crossbowmen in an ambush on the approach, despite Blackstone’s concern that once they had fired their first salvo they would be vulnerable because of the time it took them to reload. His thoughts made him yearn for the rough-hewn archers he had once been a part of. If only he could have had a half-dozen of them now he could fight off three times as many raiders. Meulon assured him that if an attack came the first horsemen would be brought down, and by the time anyone behind them forced their way through the low branches, his bowmen would have retreated to safety. As the building of the wall continued he and Meulon stayed watchful. Chance could always surprise even the most careful commanders, so he was happy to take the time for such precautions. Men of violence seldom exercised patience, but for those who did, victory could be gained more readily. At first light there were no riders and no one appeared on the skyline. It was time to reconnoitre the town.

Within the hour he and Meulon were on the heights that rose almost a hundred feet above Chaulion, the undulating hillside curving like a limestone-faced wave. Blackstone and Meulon had taken a circuitous route, dismounting and then walking their horses through the low branches. A hundred yards from the edge they tethered their mounts and crept forward to lie on the forest’s floor to study the town. The brisk wind whipped away woodsmoke from house fires, and the sentries who stood hunched in the two watchtowers, which stood diagonally across from each other on the town’s walls, would only be alerted by anyone approaching through the clearing in the forest.

‘Do you know how many people live there?’ asked Blackstone, without turning to face Meulon next to him. He sensed the man shrug.

‘No idea. It could be a thousand people crammed ten to a room or a third of that living in the houses. There’ll be tradesmen, blacksmiths and bakers and the like, but look at it, just like a village behind walls. The main square is where Saquet would live, probably in a merchant’s house. This was a good trading route before he seized the town, but no longer.’

Blackstone watched for any movement beyond the town’s walls. It was quiet enough to believe that Saquet had already left in his pursuit of the Englishman. ‘Do you think he’s bedded down for winter?’ he asked.

Meulon nodded. ‘No one likes to raid and fight at this time of year. He’ll have stored his grain and feed just like the good abbot – most of it for his men – which means the townspeople are on poor rations and that keeps everyone weak enough not to try anything.’

The sentries had barely stirred from where they jammed their backs into the watchtower walls so as to gain whatever protection they could from the biting wind. They’d feel it more in those towers, Blackstone thought, and were likely to keep their heads down in their misery. He was about to tell Meulon to go back to the crossroads when the wind lifted a cry of pain upwards from the town’s walls. The sentries turned lazily and looked down into the square that neither of the two watchers could see, but the sentries’ lack of alarm meant that the sound was not unusual in Chaulion and posed no threat to the remaining mercenaries. Within moments of the agonized shriek muted laughter reached them from the square.

‘They’re hurting some poor bastard,’ Meulon said. ‘And enjoying it.’

One of the sentries called down to those below him in the unseen square, but his words did not reach Blackstone.

‘Did you hear?’ he asked.

Meulon shook his head. Another scream of pain rose above the sound of the wind.

‘He’s telling whoever’s down there to hurt him again. Bastards. For once I wish we had a couple of your English archers, I’d have ’em skewered where they stand.’

Blackstone lay silent, chin resting on his fists, looking down into the town.

‘How do we take Chaulion?’ he asked. ‘We can’t lay siege. I don’t see any repaired walls on this side to undermine. I don’t know. I could ambush Saquet before he gets back. But then… I don’t know how many men he has.’

‘Are you asking me or talking to yourself?’ Meulon asked.

‘Asking.’

Meulon sighed and let his eyes linger on the walled town. Thomas Blackstone had enough courage and madness in him to scare the devil out of hell, but he was prepared to ask advice from an old soldier like him. ‘Escalade is best,’ he said. ‘We build ladders, get them up on the wall at night and kill as many as we can while we have time. Before Saquet comes back.’

‘Have you done that before?’

Meulon pulled off his helmet and scratched his scalp, then dug a horny fingernail into his matted hair and eased out a louse. ‘A couple of times. My Lord de Harcourt didn’t hold with it. He thought it a dishonourable way to fight, fit only for brigands.’

‘But you think differently.’

Meulon rubbed his fingers together, crushing the louse. ‘Why do you think he sent me with you?’

Blackstone studied the walls again. The watchtowers lay east and west, one giving a view of the approach road from the monastery, the other of a single track that disappeared into the rising ground and forest after two hundred yards.

‘Those walls are twenty feet high.’

‘Twenty-five,’ Blackstone corrected him. ‘Where do we go over? This wall closest to us, do you think? It’s the one most shadowed by the forest, and will cast the darkest shadow at night.’

Meulon studied the sky and sucked on a piece of fallen twig, rubbing it like a tooth cleaner. ‘No. Not there. The wind’s from the north.’ He pointed. ‘That north-east corner is the coldest, wettest part of the town. And there’s a gully that drops another five feet down. That’s good concealment. If a sentry walks the walls, which I’ll wager they won’t because they’re lazy, half-asleep bastards who think no one could ever threaten them, they wouldn’t linger there. They’ll turn their backs to that bitch of a wind. We go over there and both watchtower sentries will be looking the other way.’

‘I can’t take men into a town unless we know how many we’re up against. We know there are sixty or more of them, but how many would Saquet take to chase us?’

Meulon flicked the chewed stick away and eased his helmet back on. ‘You challenged and threatened him. Thirty of us – he’d take at least forty. If there’s twenty or thirty men left in there it would be good to know where they are, because we need surprise on our side, otherwise we’ll be hard-pressed to gain the advantage. And there’s no telling how the townspeople will react.’

Blackstone thought it through quickly. It was his responsibility to gain the town. No, it was more than that, he told himself. It was his ambition. If anything was going to be lost or gained it would fall on him. He didn’t want to go back to the Normans leaving most of their men lying dead on a winter’s field.


Blackstone returned to the monastery, where Meulon had lay brothers build the scaling ladder. Blackstone’s wall was taking shape. Wooden frames had been made, wider at the bottom than the top, as templates to get the height as consistent as possible. The turf had been broken to lay out the shape of the wall and then lengths of twine were strung taut between the frames to guide the stone-layers. Talpin and Perinne used plumb bobs to make sure it stayed vertical. Course by course the wall would grow and be interlocked with tie stones every yard or so. Blackstone liked what he saw. The men knew what they were doing. Stones were laid with a slight downward angle that would shed the rain, and as each yard went up a group of older monks spilled baskets of smaller stones and pebbles into the void. It would never be as solid as Blackstone would like, but the speed at which the men worked boded well. As each shift took over from the other they saw how many stones had been laid. Neither Talpin nor Perinne wanted to be outdone by the other and that competition took hold with the men. The work rate had increased as the soldiers formed alliances to outdo each preceding shift and that in turn caused despair among the monks until the prior, Brother Marcus, saw salvation in their more demanding work. The competition was God showing them the way, he told them. The sooner they completed the wall the quicker they could return to their life of prayer. Arduous endeavour would grant them relief from the Englishman’s yoke.


Blackstone noticed the change; so did Talpin and Perinne.

‘Do they follow the prior willingly?’ he asked his two wall builders.

Talpin said, ‘It seems so. From what I understand the abbot was put here a year or more ago when the Mother house got rid of him. The monks didn’t want him – when the old abbot died, they’d voted for the prior. Somehow Abbot Pierre had connections and got the favour of the King and he was placed here. Who could challenge that? The villagers farm the land; he collects their tithes and sits on his fat arse.’

‘They seem to listen to the prior, though,’ Perinne confirmed.

‘Good. Are you satisfied with their work?’

Perinne gestured with a sweep of his arm. ‘You can see for yourself, Sir Thomas. The night work has doubled our efforts. Aye, they’re working well.’

Blackstone was as pleased as his wall builders. ‘Then encourage them. Don’t beat them.’

The two Normans looked at each other.

‘A rope across a lazy back is no real punishment, Sir Thomas,’ said Talpin.

Blackstone nodded. ‘I worked in a quarry from the age of seven. The quarryman thrashed me every day until the master stonemason saw my efforts and eased the whip. See that we do the same for them. Praise their work. And for every extra yard laid ahead of schedule we give the men and the brothers extra rations of bread and at the end of each shift extra wine or ale. Make sure the kitchener is told.’

For a moment it seemed Talpin and Perinne would question his order, but they understood the value of fresh bread to a man, and the promise of extra ale was better than an apple in front of a donkey. Their sworn lords’ promise of full pay while they served Blackstone and the possibility of making more from this venture had been reason enough to step forward and swear the oath of silence and obedience. The first, to deny where their true allegiance lay, and the second, to do the bidding of this young Englishman. All these men had followed their lords into battle. They had seen stupidity and careless disregard for their lives take many of their comrades. So far Blackstone had avoided both pitfalls. That he was French-speaking didn’t alter the fact that he was still a bastard Englishman, and an archer to boot, although that was slowly being forgiven as they began to see a man like themselves emerge – a soldier who had gained rank through skill and courage.

They could live with that.