Master of War

26




After two weeks at the monastery where the ailing men recovered, plans were made to demolish more redundant buildings and agreement was reached with the prior, Brother Marcus. The monastery would be given another defensive wall and a rotating contingent of four men who were God-fearing and who welcomed the prayers offered by the monks. Blackstone and his men would honour the monastic Rules of St Benedict, as they were called, in that no man would carry a weapon inside the monastery, and to adhere to this a place would be built adjoining the walls where these men might live. They would eat with the lay brothers, and if trouble passed their door or tolls were refused, then the monastery bell would be rung and men from Chaulion would ride to their aid. It was an enclave held by men who months earlier had never imagined that they could not only co-exist but even fight shoulder to shoulder.

Prior Marcus would send chosen brothers out to the local villagers to proclaim that the killer Saquet was dead, slain by Sir Thomas Blackstone, and that they would no longer be raided. Chaulion and the monastery were held in the name of King Edward of England and no messenger or Englishman who served him was to suffer. In return for their tithes, which would feed Blackstone’s men, they would share the same protection as that offered to the monastery. When spring came there would also be a market held in Chaulion each month where trade and barter would take place and where a tax of two per cent would be levied on each trader from beyond the area. Crime would be punished, enforced by Sir Thomas or his captains. Hangings of miscreants would coincide with market day as a warning to others and for the entertainment of the people. No slaughter of animals was to take place within Chaulion’s walls and no river upstream from the town or monastery would be used for slurry, the washing of carcasses or as a privy. It was to be a new beginning.

Blackstone rode at the head of his men towards Chaulion. It was time to see if the townspeople had honoured their word. The gates were closed as he drew to a halt.

‘Inside!’ Meulon bellowed. ‘Open the gates!’

A dozen faces appeared on the walls, spears and swords were displayed to show the men were armed. It was a good sign and the men knew that Blackstone was now the master of town, monastery and surrounding villages. Within moments of Blackstone being identified there were shouts from within and the gates were opened as the same delegation who had offered their ransom hurried forward to greet the man who had rid them of Saquet and his killers.

Now to make sure the town stayed in their hands.


The weeks passed by rapidly and news came that the King of France had failed to raise an army to challenge Edward’s siege of Calais, thus reinforcing many noblemen’s belief that Philip was a spent force and that the Estates General, those who controlled the government’s purse, were voicing their disappointment more openly to their monarch, insisting that he had not pressed the English hard enough. A hearth tax was raised in Normandy, but unrest spread into the Duchy of Burgundy, where the King’s brother-in-law was challenged by rebels in the pay of the English King. More nobles, ruined by the war, offered their services to Edward, making it increasingly difficult for French revenue collectors to travel across the countryside and raise taxes from the hard-pressed lower ranks of nobility.

In his own corner of the troubled kingdom, Blackstone oversaw the building of a new dormitory and stables at the monastery to house his guards. These men ate in the lay brothers’ refectory, leaving the monks to their privacy, their manuscripts and their prayers. But there had been a notable alteration since Blackstone had taken control. On two days a week Brother Marcus sent the monks into the fields with the others, and by the season’s end the crops and animal husbandry had doubled in value. The acreage under crops was extended and the monastery began to reclaim disused land and increase its wealth. By the end of that first summer goat’s cheese and other products were sold and bartered at Chaulion’s market, alms were distributed to the poor and the area became known as a place of safety and refuge for those seeking the Englishman’s protection.

Thomas Blackstone’s accomplishment was all the more remarkable given the few men he commanded, but as the stability of Chaulion and the surrounding area grew others travelled to offer their services. Most were from Edward’s army now that the siege of Calais was over and Edward held his gateway into France. But Blackstone took few men into his company and used his captains Guinot and Meulon to assess the newcomers’ worth, leaving him to make the final decision as to who should be allowed to join the group of men who had come to rely on each other. Logistics of food and pay determined how he could sustain his soldiers, who now numbered seventy or more, with still only fifteen English archers – now led by Matthew Hampton – most of whom had come from Edward’s reserve battalion, their services no longer needed. While convalescing at Castle de Harcourt after Crécy, Blackstone had learnt patience, and now his daring was tempered with caution as he extended his territory. He avoided any drawn-out siege that could sap his meagre force.


‘How many fighting men can the town support?’ he had asked the captains.

‘Easily a hundred,’ said Guinot.

‘There are new quarters for them. Some have taken in women, they’ll be breeding like rabbits,’ Meulon told Blackstone.

Blackstone laid out the map that Jean de Harcourt had given him. ‘I don’t want too many men in any place we hold. Fifty here at the most. It can be defended with less. Others will come now the war’s ended and there’ll be those who will challenge us. Soldiers without war are like a pack of wolves. I want to go further south, pluck what we can and bring whoever’s there onto our side.’ He paced the room that he had taken for his own use in the merchant’s house, containing a simple cot and a table for the maps and a plate of food. He knew they had been lucky so far. The nagging uncertainty of how to fulfil his promise to those he had offered to protect was always with him. Men now looked to him for their welfare and reward, and since he had rejected the Norman lords’ stipend they had raided further away from the security of Chaulion. Blackstone’s name and reputation had grown, but the coffers had shrunk as French loyalty had been fractured by the war, spawning other bands of routiers who would tear the heart out of an area that lacked protection.

‘We’ve achieved much this year, but we need to secure provisions for winter,’ Blackstone told them. ‘Start choosing men the others respect and give them the responsibility of command. We need to rely on the men we have.’ He tapped the map, which showed several smaller hamlets and manor houses. ‘Choose those places that are scattered within a few miles of the walled towns. By taking them we keep those who command the towns from using the roads and moving across country. Seize and hold.’

For those first few months his men had raided beyond Chaulion, ignoring walled towns and concentrating on smaller fortified manor houses whose defences could be quickly overwhelmed and then improved enough to be held by only a few men. His strategy of picking off these easily captured manors and hamlets meant that the smaller garrisons of the lesser nobility were hampered in their movements and their access to food when their villages were brought under the English knight’s protection. Two of these towns, smaller than Chaulion, with ancient, crumbling walls offering little protection, fell by the autumn. Their men had been barely able to travel five miles without being attacked and harassed by Blackstone’s marauders. It was this slow and deliberate plan, executed by surprise attack, and the ability to change tactics rapidly that often caught the French off-guard. Despite their small numbers – the raiding parties were often no more than a dozen men – they were used to attacking trade routes and traders and Blackstone rode and fought with his men until towns and hamlets further south were held. It was this capacity to strike an enemy in different places that he likened to inflicting multiple wounds on a stronger opponent. Sooner or later the bloodletting would weaken them and they would fall to their knees. Blackstone’s incursion became the silken thread that held these places together and festered in French flesh. It had been a daring start to a campaign, but now the men were becoming weary and it would soon be time to secure what they had.

‘We can’t fight through another winter,’ Meulon said. ‘It would exhaust us.’

‘My men fight as long as I fight, Meulon. I eat what they eat. I take no special favour for myself,’ Blackstone said, but knew as he said it that the edge to his voice was due to tiredness.

Meulon stood his ground. He was the one sent by Lord de Harcourt as Blackstone’s right-hand man, and had been at Blackstone’s shoulder in every attack. ‘We are not you, Master Thomas. We’ve lost men, some are still wounded. Too far, too fast and we could lose some of what we’ve gained.’

Blackstone looked at Guinot, who shrugged. ‘He’s right. We’re secure, we’ve food. It would rebuild the men’s strength. And the horses are being punished harder than the men.’

Blackstone knew that man and horse could be pushed further but he also knew that he was in danger of abandoning his own strategy of seize and hold. Before he could make his decision a messenger from Castle de Harcourt was announced and one of de Harcourt’s soldiers was ushered into the room. He bowed his head to Blackstone, and acknowledged Meulon who had once commanded him. The messenger had obviously ridden without rest. His clothes were wet and mud-splattered and he had the gaunt look of a man who had not slept for a couple of days.

‘I serve my Lord de Harcourt,’ he said.

‘We know that, you idiot,’ Meulon chastised him. ‘What is it you want?’

‘I have a message for Sir Thomas,’ the courier said.

‘Then hand it over and get to the kitchen for food,’ said Meulon, a sense of despair creeping into his voice at being reminded how slow-witted some of the garrison soldiers were.

‘It is not written, it was given to me by my Lord de Harcourt with orders to speak only to Sir Thomas,’ the man said.

‘And you remember your lord’s words, Bascard?’ Meulon asked, remembering the man’s name.

‘I do. I was made to repeat them many times before my lord sent me.’

‘Aye, well, I’m surprised he didn’t hang a slate around your neck to remind you,’ said Meulon, as he and Guinot left the room.

Blackstone had given little thought to de Harcourt because time had passed quickly. When he slept he dreamt of lying across Christiana, and that arousal would wake him to the cold reality of whatever floor or cot he slept on alone. Some of his men had taken women and others had made use of the town’s whores, but Blackstone had busied himself with making war.

‘Give me your message and you’ll be fed and quartered until your return,’ Blackstone said.

The man stood rigidly, gazing straight ahead so that his eyes did not meet that of a superior and began reciting the words that had been drilled into him. ‘Your absence for these many months has caused concern and as this year draws to a close my lord notes that you have made no effort in another regard.’

‘What regard?’ Blackstone asked.

The man looked perplexed, not expecting his orders to be questioned. ‘I don’t know, Sir Thomas. But my lord commands you to attend the wilful neglect of your duty.’ The man swallowed nervously. ‘That’s what he said.’

Blackstone had no idea what the message meant. He had secured territory in the name of his sovereign lord, Edward, and had extended the buffer between the Norman barons and those who might threaten them. Long, hard months of raiding had forged a small company of men who fought as if they were twice their number. What other duty? And then it became obvious where his neglect lay. Christiana.

‘How does my Lord de Harcourt command me?’

‘By returning until the matter is settled.’

With a sickening wrench Blackstone realized the master was pulling the leash on his dog. After months of freedom it was being curtailed and despite the sudden reminder of his lust for Christiana and de Harcourt’s goodwill, he could not help feeling resentment. He was being taken from his men. He knew them as well as he had known the English archers with whom he had served. And he did not wish to lose such a close bond again. Could he defy de Harcourt? Why not? He was independent of them, he had proved his worth. But honour and a promise made to his wife that he would return had to be reconciled.


He gave his instructions to Guinot and Meulon to do as they suggested and give the men rest. Then, on the following day, he rode back to Castle de Harcourt.


The castle’s imposing walls loomed before him, and as he clattered across the wooden bridge memories of time lost flooded over him.

Jean de Harcourt looked at the man before him. His wild hair was matted like a dog that had hunted its prey through bramble and hedgerow and his gaunt, unshaven face was weather-beaten, the skin taut against his cheekbones, tightening his scar like a bowstring. He had seen that haunted look in fighting men’s eyes before; it was one of constant wariness, of always being alert. He stepped forward and embraced Blackstone.

‘Thomas, it’s good to see you after so long. I’m pleased you’re well and have suffered no injuries.’

Blackstone felt a familiar comfort within the castle walls. In one sense it was like coming home and yet there was also the feeling that they were imprisoning the part of him that wished to ride freely across the countryside and strike at his enemy.

‘I’ve been fortunate, lord. How is your standing with King Philip? Has everything gone as you had hoped?’

‘Thanks to you, yes.’ He poured wine as Blackstone restlessly went to the window. ‘De Fossat came back with enough evidence to convince the King that we were hunting you in his name. If there had been any suspicion that Norman lords had connived at your success in the towns to the south it was a doubt soon pushed from the King’s mind when the severed heads were tipped from the sacks with great ceremony by our friend William. The King’s chancellor vomited because of their putrefaction, but Philip was keen to see if your scarred face was among the heads that rolled around his courtyard. William de Fossat has regained some of his lands, although the King’s son resents him for it, but it’s politics and de Fossat knows how to get the best yield from a well-sown crop.’

‘Then your plan worked, though you might have warned me, lord. I thought we were about to fight our last when he appeared.’

‘Better not to signal where you place your knight on the chessboard,’ said de Harcourt, handing Blackstone a glass of wine, which he swallowed down as de Harcourt sipped his own. ‘I had prayers said for you, Thomas. But what had happened between you and William was common knowledge and I used that because he was the only one of us the King would believe.’

‘Then you gambled with my life. He’d have killed me if he had to.’

‘No, I knew that he would not because he owed you a debt.’

‘Which is now wiped clean.’

‘Listen to me, Thomas, what happened at Chaulion with Saquet and de Fossat bought us time.’

‘Perhaps so, but I don’t understand him. He said he would fight alongside me in a common cause but if we faced each other on the battlefield he would kill me. And that can be done by a crossbow easier than a sword.’

De Harcourt laid a hand on his friend’s shoulder. ‘William will choose whatever course best suits him. Treat him as you would a chained war dog. Don’t get too close and don’t make him strain against it. He’s strong enough to make it snap.’

Blackstone had been caught up in the Norman lords’ web and although his friendship for Jean would hold him, they both knew he had already cut himself free from their entanglement.

‘Now, Thomas… there are other matters that must be attended to.’

Blackstone felt another kind of trepidation, different from the brief moments of fear that gripped him before battle. He had to face Christiana after months of absence.

‘Where is she?’ he asked.

‘In her rooms. She knows you’re here.’

‘She’s well?’

‘Yes. She and Blanche accompany each other every day. She’s happy here. But she misses you, though she never complains. It was time to bring you back, Thomas. It’s been too long.’

‘I had work to do. We’ve secured a corridor that gives Edward an opportunity to strike through the heart of France should he need to.’

‘And he’s aware of it. We have our ways of telling the English King what he needs to know. You refused our payments, Thomas. Is our money not good enough?’

‘I wanted to be independent and to save you and the others from being associated with me, but, unless I can find someone to capture and ransom or strike lucky with another attack, then I shall come back with my begging bowl. I have enough to get through another winter.’

‘You’ll never be seen as a beggar by anyone in this house, or those associated with me. We’ve watched you hurl yourself through the countryside like an angry storm. We could never have acted with such abandon.’

Blackstone allowed the warmth of the compliment to calm him. ‘I have good men. Every one of them. Tell the barons that they chose well when they sent them. And I should be with them.’

‘Every man has more than one duty, Thomas. Christiana was under our guardianship, but you can’t abandon your wife and child.’

De Harcourt’s words caught him like a flail. ‘Child? Already?’

The Norman lord looked at the man he had taught to fight, the boy who went out a mercenary and returned a seasoned leader. ‘Sweet Jesus, Thomas, you can count the months.’

Blackstone looked blank, trying to recount how many sorties and attacks he had undertaken. The months went hand in hand with conquest. How many men lived and died, and when, was his calendar. ‘Eight?’

‘Ten, damned near eleven.’

‘A child,’ he whispered to himself. ‘What am I to do now?’ he asked like a fool. And then, ‘What kind of child?’

‘Well, there are no signs of horns or cleft hoof, so most likely one sent by the angels. You should see him.’

A son.


Christiana was different. Her face had softened and there was a warmth to her skin like a blush; she looked somehow younger; childlike, he thought as he gazed at her. Her body pushed more against the soft cloth of her dress and her breasts, he noticed, were fuller and the taste of desire for her caught in his throat.

As he stepped into the room she was blowing gently on a cord to which were tied a dozen or more strips of coloured material that swayed above a small bundle lying swaddled in a crib. She whispered a soothing sound that would have caused the wildest heart to quieten. Except that when he saw her his heart beat faster. She turned as he made a movement, a sudden look of alarm giving way to surprise and joy as she ran and leapt at him, her lips covering his own with that unmistakable taste. She whispered his name a dozen times and then lowered her legs to the floor, gazing up at him, holding his face in her small hands, and letting her finger trace his scar.

‘Thomas, my beloved husband. I have missed you so much and prayed every day for your safe return.’ She tugged his hand. ‘Come, come and see your son.’

She lifted the sleeping infant from its crib and handed the swaddled child to him. He held it awkwardly away from his body, his big hands like grain shovels compared to the tiny bundle. ‘It’s like a loaf of bread,’ he said curiously. Bringing the child to his face he sniffed. It was a delicate smell that he had never experienced before.

‘I’ve just fed him,’ she said and eased the baby from his arms. She kissed the infant’s forehead and Blackstone could see that she was like a child with a new kitten.

‘There’s a wet nurse here?’ he asked, because there had never been women servants at Harcourt.


‘I feed him. I’ve enough milk for every child in Normandy,’ she said, without any coyness in her voice and an impish look in her eye.

‘What do we call him?’ Blackstone asked, imagining the child suckling at her breast, lying in her arms as she stroked its face and cooed a sweet lullaby. And wishing he were that child.

‘Henry, to honour your father, Guyon, to honour mine, and Jean, to acknowledge his godfather.’

Blackstone realized that he had never known her father’s name. And learning it now made the circumstances of his death more painful than it had been before. She saw the shadow that fell across his face.

‘Did I do wrong in my choosing?’

Blackstone recovered quickly. ‘No, it’s perfect. Henry Guyon Jean Blackstone. Just that it’s a mouthful,’ he lied, covering himself, ‘I hope I can remember them.’ He broke her frown with a smile, and bent down to the petite girl who had become his wife and mother to his child and kissed her. He reached out for the baby.

‘You’re filthy,’ she said, putting a restraining hand against his chest. ‘You stink of horse sweat and greasy leather.’ And then kissed his lips lightly and whispered, ‘We should bathe.’


The following days were easy. They made love frequently and the tension of commanding men and seeing to their welfare gave way to languid nights after vespers, where she would return from her prayers and satisfy their lust for each other, so that she would have to spend even longer praying for forgiveness for her lascivious thoughts and acts. Blackstone would have none of it, and begged her not to pray for him, or she would be all night in the chapel.

Hours of the day passed slowly; soldiers begged leave to approach him and ask about their comrades who now served with him, to learn who lived and who had not. He slept in Christiana’s feather bed with her in his arms, but most nights after their entangled bodies eased away from each other into sleep, he felt the bite of his back muscles, more accustomed to a hard cot with a straw mattress, and she would wake and find him curled on the mat with his cloak over his naked body. Each day seemed to pass more slowly than he had remembered. The way he lived with the men at Chaulion had smudged his memory of how quiet and simple life could be within the castle walls. Marcel still hovered as his mistress’s servant and, Blackstone suspected, informer, but he showed a particular skill with the baby, and would often be sent by Blanche to bring mother and child to her rooms. Christiana seemed not to give it a second thought when Marcel went down onto the carpet where Henry lay on his back mewling, small arms and legs wriggling, like a beached fish with limbs, and plucked the child into his arms, wrapping him in a shawl. Servant, mother and child seemed like a family unto themselves, as Blackstone watched the ease with which his son was embraced. Blackstone had not yet gauged how much tenderness should be applied to a body that felt like a boned chicken. That it was his seed that had grown into the bleating infant was still a cause for wonderment. Part of him lived in another creature now, just as he had been spawned by his father. A regret caught him unawares: he would not be able to pass on his archer’s skills as his father had done. But, he told himself, there was little sense in becoming too sentimental about the child. If it lived a year it was lucky, two was fortunate, beyond that it had a chance. Arianrhod came to his lips, as he closed his eyes in a silent prayer to the two mystical women – the Celtic goddess and the Virgin Mary, Mother to all children – and asked that the infant might live so he could share its life.


‘Hoi! Hoi!’ Jean de Harcourt cried as one of his falcons battered through the dull sky in pursuit of a doomed woodpigeon. He doted on his new falcons, with their perches in almost every room of the castle except the bedchamber, the one place where Blanche’s prohibition was inviolate. De Harcourt stroked and pampered them, cooing tender sentiments as if to a child on his knee; an unlikely sight. The hunting season was as good as over, but he wanted Blackstone to ride out and see the beauty of his birds. Blackstone had always felt what he could only describe as resentment when he was a boy watching Lord Marldon hunt with his falcons. It was a nobleman’s sport, easy kills that came with little effort, so different from the woodsman skills he and his brother had learnt. If they could not snare a cony or bring down a bird with a sling, they might not know the taste of meat for weeks, and using a sling brought eye and arm together, perfect training for bowmen. That same feeling had risen again when he was convalescing at the castle and had watched de Harcourt ride out with his birds. Now, though, as the hooded raptor on his master’s glove was given sight of its prey and released, Blackstone had a different thought: he was like that bird – trained, held and sent in pursuit.

He was relieved to ride without the company of women, for after being regaled by Christiana and Blanche with the events of the past months he had quickly tired of their chatter. During his absence there had been visits by other lords and there had been feasts that brought with them all the attendant gossip. De Harcourt’s summons provided a welcome escape from the two women, who had begun to talk yet again of the protracted labour pains that Christiana had endured.

When Blackstone and de Harcourt returned home the birds were settled by the falconer and de Harcourt guided Blackstone into the library, where they warmed themselves by the open fire, dogs at their feet and a map beneath their fingertips. Jean de Harcourt and the other Norman lords enjoyed relative safety in their heartland even though the war between the French and Anglo-Gascon forces in the south went on regardless of the treaty made between the two kings at Calais, while to the west conflict continued unabated as independent captains, mostly loyal to Edward, fought and gave weight to the opposing side in the civil war that sapped resources and men with its unrelenting violence against the dukes of Brittany.

‘Edward has little interest in the west,’ de Harcourt explained as his finger traced a map. ‘The ports are his but the Ushant Reef is treacherous and Brittany offers no convenient port of entry into France, so he continues his support simply to stop the French from going south to his lands in Bordeaux. If they ever struck there they would deny him his shipping routes to England and make the defence of Gascony more difficult and expensive than it is already. Both Kings jockey for position. Both seek revenues to pay for others to possess territory in their name.’

Blackstone pointed out the scattered outposts he had secured inland. ‘These are my towns and villages. I’m vulnerable from here and here,’ he admitted, his hand sweeping east and then west to the marches of Brittany. ‘But those that I hold, be they manor houses or hamlets, are defended and within easy distance of the others for reinforcements.’

‘But you don’t have enough men, Thomas. You must be prepared to take those of low character into your ranks. Prisons are being emptied, footsoldiers and horsemen roam in bands taking what they can.’

‘I don’t want scum. Those I have wouldn’t grace a halfway-decent tavern, but alehouse whores like them and they pay for what they take. Besides, as I told you, money goes quickly. Perhaps I should go to Edward and ask.’

De Harcourt let the map roll into itself. ‘The cost of keeping his garrison at Calais puts a strain on his coffers. Take those who offer their services and let them live from patis. It’s how men like that survive.’


Blackstone knew more of how these soldiers of fortune lived than did de Harcourt. Patis was nothing less than protection money – a contract between mercenaries and surrounding towns and villages to take what they wanted, when they wanted it and with the agreement that the villagers would not be attacked by them. The trouble was that it gave those men independence and allowed them to live by their own rules. For Blackstone to allow groups of men to do so meant he would have no control over them. His own patis was protected by his sword arm.

‘If I do that it would take only a few incidents to have the locals rise up and attack my men. I have a core of soldiers that serve me and those I have given authority to. I can only do what I can with those that I have. It was never your intention for me to ride at the head of an army. Small groups of us in strategic places are worth more to me than hundreds scavenging the countryside for food.’

De Harcourt knew it was dangerous to be too ambitious. Sir Godfrey had miscalculated the King of England’s ability to finance war away from home. Blackstone was right, it was better to have control over a smaller and more vital area than to gain a greater territory and risk losing all. But he thought he knew how Blackstone could strike a blow for the Norman lords and seize enough French coin to buy himself the kind of men he wanted.

‘We’ll talk more of this later,’ he said, wanting to think on it further. ‘You’ll stay for Christmas, Thomas. The other lords will be here.’

Christmas was something he dreaded. The whirl of coloured dresses and jewellery would brighten the heavy walls and bring gaiety and laughter to a house that had nurtured him. He would always be grateful to de Harcourt, Blackstone knew, but to have to endure another Christmas would feel like a punishment.

‘Lord, I cannot leave my men that long. I’ll return with Christiana and my son and we’ll make the best of it there. Isn’t that why you summoned me from Chaulion – to do my duty to my family?’

De Harcourt nodded his agreement. ‘As every man must, Thomas. But don’t let those responsibilities hinder your enterprise. Let Christiana have the boy until he’s old enough to serve as a page. I’ll take him when the time is right; when he’s able to read and write and wipe his own arse. But do you understand how this places a greater burden on you?’

‘I have to support them, that’s natural.’

‘And if you die?’

‘Then they take what I have.’

‘And what you have are scattered places of land with modest crop yields and ignorant peasants who’ll give themselves like whores to the next man with a sword who can protect them. Your son needs an inheritance; if you have more children, a girl perhaps, then you’ll need a dowry. Poverty is not for the likes of us, Thomas. You’re no aristocrat, but you’ve a better understanding than most of what survival is about. God did not spare you at Crécy to remain a yeoman archer; he took that from you and gave you a greater gift.’

‘He took my archer’s arm and a brother in my care.’

‘And in exchange he brought you here and gave you anger and ambition. For a murdering bastard you have a sense of honour, and I dare say that came from your father and your sworn lord, but you’ve crossed a line, Thomas.’

Blackstone’s possession of the dark secret of Christiana’s father made him feel like a thief in the night who dreads a sudden knife to his throat. He poured himself more wine as a diversion, in case his guilt was apparent.

‘How so, my lord?’ he asked, raising the glass, his eyes watching de Harcourt over its rim.

‘Those who travel the roads, tinkers and monks, merchants and scavengers, they all have stories to tell. And your name is already known. Yours is a strange way, Thomas Blackstone.’ De Harcourt stretched his legs in front of the fire and rubbed one of the dog’s ears. ‘You’re more complicated than I took you to be. You burn and you kill but you don’t allow women to be raped or children to be slaughtered. You have no breeding and you mocked our notion of chivalry. And yet you practise it.’


They left Castle de Harcourt with extra provisions and a bag of silver coin, provided by de Harcourt as a dowry for Christiana. Promises of an early reunion   between Blanche and Christiana were made, women’s tears were shed and de Harcourt’s priest was summoned to give them a blessing for a safe journey home. God’s protective mantle was bolstered by another ten men, who were to follow at a discreet distance and then return when their charges were in sight of Chaulion.

‘We should have stayed, Thomas,’ said Christiana. ‘It’s Christmas season, and it would have been my last chance to see everyone.’

He glanced at her. She seemed happy enough but who could tell with a woman? She wasn’t pouting, which was good, and her lip did not curl in self-pity, which was better.

‘I know you don’t like to dance, and perhaps you feel some envy of the lords who speak beautiful verse, but it’s soothing to one’s soul, like a prayer said in humility,’ she went on, seemingly without taking a breath. ‘And the weather will be upon us, I feel sure of it, and my cloak will be soaked. I wish it would make up its mind. Rain or snow. Nothing is as it should be. Did you know they lost their harvest last autumn in the south? It rained so hard. There’ll be famine.’

He did know. It was why de Harcourt had told him his plan. The further south, the greater the conflict. Rival captains on the same side fought for town and castle, and the French King’s soldiers engaged in running battles from citadel to citadel in a continuous war of attrition. De Harcourt knew that the regional mint was secured in the town of St Aubin and a large sum of money was being put together, most likely to pay one of the French garrisons. If Blackstone and his men could find a way to slip through the warring factions and secure the mint or waylay the money in transit, he would inflict a heavy blow against the French King’s ability to pay his troops in the south. What better way to serve one’s own King, hamper the enemy and secure much-needed money for his own men? It was a plan fraught with danger, but a plan that Blackstone would consider nonetheless.

Christiana was not yet prepared to let him free of her gentle chiding. ‘And Henry was safe at Harcourt. Safe and warm. Marcel was wonderful. Like my right hand. No, Blanche was my right hand; he was like my left. I shall miss them.’

He had learnt forbearance while at Harcourt and knew he was asking much of her. He remained silent, watching her lips that enticed him as much as when she spoke, as when she kissed him. Blackstone pulled up his horse. She didn’t notice. Her monologue continued for a few more strides and then she realized he was not at her side.

He glanced back to where the escort shadowed them a few hundred yards away. They too stopped, watching their charge to see what he was doing.

‘Is the baby all right?’ she said with sudden concern.

Henry was swaddled in his crib, fastened on one side of a pannier saddle that carried Christiana’s trunk of clothes on the other. There was no sound from the child and Blackstone assumed the swaying of the palfrey’s gait was as good as a rocking cradle. He let his gaze wander, taking in the spindly boughed woodland.

‘When I snatched you from those Bohemians in the forest and we nearly drowned you were feisty, like a peasant’s ratting terrier; and then when you cared for me you were brave and selfless and subdued your own suffering. But since you’ve been with Blanche it’s been like a tide creeping upriver. The dark water swallows everything that was once there. That’s what’s happened to you. You’ve become a housebound woman drowning under frivolous gossip and fine clothes.’


She scowled in protest. ‘Thomas, I have spent—’

‘Christiana. I haven’t finished speaking yet,’ he said firmly, without anger in his voice. ‘I wish I could offer you more. I cannot. And our fortunes will be mixed. You shall have everything that is mine but you’re a soldier’s wife, not the lady of a nobleman, and there will be hardship and danger for us all. You’ll have no gentle company and at best a merchant’s wife to help with the child if that’s what you need. There will be weeks when I’ll be away. My heart and my bed are yours, but everything else demands my attention. Accept this life or go back and be with Blanche. She’ll take you gladly. I’ll visit once in a while. You’ll have the child until he’s seven and then he’s mine. You must decide what it is you want. And I pray it is me.’

He handed her the palfrey’s reins, then heeled his horse forward. It was a gamble, but one that had to be taken. It was up to her if she followed. And if she did then she would have turned her back on the comforts afforded her at Harcourt and they would face their uncertain future together.


By spring Christiana had long rid herself of the despair at the state of the house that Blackstone had taken as their home. He had lived in one room, ignoring the distressed state of the others that Saquet and his men had occupied. She demanded from Blackstone, and got, a dozen townsmen and their women to remove all traces of filth and scrub the house with vinegar from top to bottom. And once chimneys were cleaned and fires lit she scoured the area for rosemary and other herbs to burn and sweeten the fetid atmosphere of unwashed men and dogs and the fouling they had left behind. Fresh reeds alone would suffice for those rooms she visited infrequently but for all others she insisted on woven rush matting laid over the floors. No woman could trail her skirts across loose floor coverings until they had been crushed flat underfoot over months. Blackstone realized to his quiet satisfaction, and amazement, that Blanche de Harcourt’s influence had played a role. Christiana was mistress of her own house, though without putting a resentful distance between herself and the townspeople. That she was the daughter of an impoverished French knight gave her an advantage in addressing them, artisan or labourer, washerwoman or seamstress, with a simple dignity that demanded respect. Brother Simon shared his knowledge of herbs and she scattered wormwood and fleabane, crushed with chamomile, throughout the house to keep infestations under control. Servants were interviewed and put to work, as was a steward to supervise them. He was given responsibility for the household accounts and, as a member of the town’s council, he presented Blackstone with the expenditure and requirements for sustaining the town and its people through the coming year. In a few short months Christiana created a home and organized a small workforce to sustain it and its vegetable gardens. When Blackstone returned from reconnoitring for a way to secure King Philip’s mint he found a house that may have lacked tapestries and ornament, but was nonetheless a place of warmth and comfort, befitting a man who had taken the town and now gave it his protection.

During the following weeks Blackstone prepared his plan. The mint was held in a small castle at the head of an escarpment, above cliffs rising two hundred feet. The road to the main gate was guarded by a small garrison of about fifty men, which allowed no direct assault, and a siege was out of the question. Before Blackstone’s force could reach the objective they had to strike into the heartland of the warring factions, a raid that had to be swift and carefully executed. Either side might see his incursion into their territory as a direct threat. During his reconnaissance he had bribed a goatherd to show him paths scratched into the hillside by which Blackstone’s men could approach from below the castle’s most vulnerable wall and where they might scale the cliffs. Once they had breached the walls, the archers, who would stay concealed in nearby woodland, would strike at those guarding the road, and drive them inside. Matthew Hampton would hold the road and Blackstone’s men would hold the keep. Their enemy, trapped between two hostile forces within the inner and outer walls, would be held fast, unable to advance or retreat. Blackstone put the plan to Meulon and Guinot, who, since recovering, had been placed back in command of Chaulion. They would halve the garrison in early July when the weather warmed and grazing was plentiful. By then their horses would have regained their strength after winter. Chaulion and the other places held in Blackstone’s name would be bringing in their winter-sown wheat and he wanted to be back for the harvest to ensure the crop was safely stored and protected from any scavenging routiers. It seemed a good plan.

And then one day the monastery’s bell rang out its distress.