Master of War

27




Prior Marcus stood at the crossroads with a family of travellers. They looked exhausted. The man and woman carried their worldly possessions on their backs, and five children, their ages somewhere between three and seven, Blackstone estimated, sat huddled at their parents’ bare, blackened feet supping from a wooden bowl of pottage. Talpin was guard commander and came forward to hold Blackstone’s bridle as he and the half-dozen men who rode with him dismounted.

‘They’re the fifth lot this morning, Master Thomas – came up on the road from the south. We thought nothing of it at first, but now these wretches tell us there’s another horde following on their heels. Something’s going on. Brother Marcus isn’t telling us anything.’

Blackstone nodded, scanned the hillsides, but saw no sign of anyone else. ‘Keep the gates closed, Talpin. No matter what Prior Marcus wants, you follow my orders.’

Blackstone strode across to the family, who quickly got to their feet and bowed at his approach.

‘Sir Thomas, these people have travelled from the south where there’s pestilence. Many have died, they say hundreds, perhaps thousands,’ Prior Marcus explained.

It was doubtful the peasant could count the fingers on his hands but if he had seen a lot of bodies it did not matter.

‘Have you fed others today?’ Blackstone asked Prior Marcus.

‘They were all needy. Of course,’ the prior replied.

‘Who approached them?’

‘I don’t understand,’ Brother Marcus answered, perplexed at the question.

‘Did you attend them? Feed them?’

‘I and Brother Robert. Why?’

‘Have any looked ill? Fever, or raging thirst?’

‘No. They move ahead of the plague. It has come from the ports. They say Bordeaux burns the bodies in vast pits and in Narbonne they are blaming the Jews and hanging them. The Pope has issued a decree to stop them but terror grips the people.’

Blackstone knew how virulent the plague was. ‘My men and I were riding south a few weeks ago, we heard of a pestilence sweeping up the Rh?ne valley from Marseilles but I didn’t think it would turn towards us.’

‘God will prevail,’ said the prior.

‘God has abandoned us like some of your religious brethren. The Pope may well stay at Avignon, but the cardinals have fled. Lock the doors. Stay inside. Help no one,’ Blackstone told him and turned back towards Talpin and the guard. The prior tugged at his arm.

‘Not help? We cannot let these people pass without food. Look at them. They have nothing. Most haven’t eaten in days.’

Blackstone signalled Talpin to him. He answered the prior, ‘If you are lucky then these refugees haven’t brought the plague with them. You and Brother Robert will be kept in the cow byre for two or three days. If you don’t succumb you’ll be allowed back inside the monastery.’


The prior’s jaw dropped. Blackstone did not know whether it was the thought of being contaminated or the fact that he was to be kept in the stench of the byre. It didn’t matter.

‘You understand, Brother Marcus, that this pestilence will be on us quicker than the wind, and most likely carried on it. I have heard how people died. Check your armpits and groin for lumps. You have two days before the signs appear. I suggest you pray as you have never prayed before. For your life.’

Talpin stood waiting.

‘Did you touch or go near any of the travellers today?’

‘We kept them at spear length,’ he answered.

‘Keep it that way. We barricade the road.’

There was a drawn look of fear on Talpin’s face. ‘Plague?’

There was no need for Blackstone to answer.

‘And you’ll leave us out here? Alone?’ Talpin asked.

‘What you risk, so will I,’ Blackstone answered and then he told Talpin what he wanted done.


Blackstone’s father had once shown him a diseased cow with a pestilence that had killed the beasts in three of the local villages. The infected animals were isolated and left either to recover or die. It was the same with people. By the end of that day a barricade of wicker palisades, taken from the vegetable gardens, was used, along with fallen timber, brush and bramble, to cut off the road from the monastery to Chaulion, and then the bridge was closed. Two of the English archers were added to the monastery guard with orders to bring down anyone who tried to breach the palisades before they could even reach a spear’s blade. In Chaulion a ripple of fear ran through everyone when they learnt of the invisible assassin that sought them out. Many thought God had sent the dark angel for them, for past and current sins.

Blackstone had a pious monk taken into Chaulion where a chapel was made inside an old stable block.

‘We’ll clear the stench for you,’ Blackstone told him. ‘Those who wish to pray can stand in the yard. It’ll be cold and wet, but there’s nothing else we can do.’

The young monk had calluses on his hands and a weather-beaten face. He was no stranger to hard work, having been a late arrival at the monastery.

‘The stable is appropriate, Master Thomas, wouldn’t you say? And God’s love will ease their discomfort in the yard.’

A wave of devout prayer soon followed when the monastery rang out the prayer times during the day and night. Blackstone was thankful for it. It kept the townspeople’s minds focused and lessened the chance of panic. Blackstone gave strict orders that the gates of Chaulion would remain closed until the plague passed them by. At first he thought there would be panic, but they listened to what he had to say and the councilmen supported him. They had two good wells in the town and enough food for weeks ahead. If anyone fell sick they would be taken to a house especially chosen and kept isolated.

‘What can we do to protect Henry?’ Christiana asked.

‘Brother Simon told me to keep the air scented. Use whatever herbs you have. He said juniper should be burned and we should drink apple syrup, can you do that?’

She nodded and then eased into his arms. ‘We have a new son born that could be taken back by God,’ she whispered into his chest.

He could not disguise the irritation in his voice. ‘Is this God’s work? To smite down the lowly who have so little in the first place? It’s not God, it’s nature. Like a pestilence that smites the cattle. God doesn’t hold a grudge against a poor cow. It’s beyond our reasoning. We can do nothing more than wait it out.’

‘Do nothing? Is that what you expect of me? Burn incense and drink sweet apple water? There are doctors in Paris, many of them Jews. They will know what to do,’ she said, her voice rising in exasperation.

Blackstone closed a window. ‘Christiana, when this pestilence reaches Paris it will slay pauper and nobleman alike, quicker than a horde of barbarians. You stay in the house and garden and keep the servants in their own quarters, away from you and the child.’

‘And where will you be?’

‘Everywhere,’ he said, ‘and there will be days when I cannot come back inside these walls. I daren’t risk bringing it in so I’ll stay outside and make sure I’m free of it.’

‘You’re going outside?’ she said in disbelief.

‘The villagers need warning,’ he told her. ‘My men need re-assurance.’

She turned on him angrily, like a she-wolf protecting her young. ‘No, Thomas! I won’t allow it! You’re the boy’s father! They’re peasants who live and die in their own filth on any given day of the week. Your responsibility is here with us. To protect us!’

She wiped the tears of anger from her eyes and Blackstone made no attempt to calm her. He saw that she had let the fear take hold. He understood that; had seen it in men who caved in under its muscle-sapping virulence. It was as powerful an enemy as a battle-crazed soldier wielding a war axe. And to see someone close to your heart succumb to the panic was little different than seeing them swept away on a tide. He grabbed her wrists and let her struggle, his voice soothing her, bringing her back from her panic and anger.

‘Christiana… Christiana… hush now… listen to me… listen… take a deep breath… and listen to me.’

She stopped writhing, unable to move this way or that because of his strength. He kissed her tears, and then released her, cradling her face in his hands.

‘I am the protector of these people. It’s my duty, as much to them as to you. They have to be warned, otherwise I am as worthless as the man who held this town before me. These people will look to you when I’m not here. They’ll see a young mother who’s as frightened as they are, but who’s strong and who puts trust in her faith. Be that woman, Christiana, not only for me, but for the townspeople and our son.’

Her body relaxed and she stepped away from him. ‘Blanche asked me to be strong when they brought you to the castle. I vomited when I saw your wounds, but I put my hands into them and cleansed them. I cared for you. This is different.’

He said nothing more and gathered his cloak and sword belt.

‘I’ll watch for you from the walls,’ she said gently, relenting from her anger. ‘God protect you, Thomas. All of us.’

Past experience reminded Blackstone that God was often busy elsewhere.


The townspeople shared responsibility for their own safety and Guinot made sure that his guards on the city walls were reinforced by men from the town. At first light Blackstone rode out with four other men, including Meulon and Gaillard, and although he wanted to take two archers with him for distance killing he did not wish to risk losing them to the pestilence. A couple of English archers with half a bag of arrows were worth a dozen hobelars and were too precious a resource. When Talpin and the guard at the monastery barricades saw that Blackstone was prepared to ride out it strengthened them against the fear that sat heavily in their chests and which could soon creep into their minds and blind their reason. Abandoning their posts would be like running into a haunted wood at night where wraiths of the dead would seize them. One of the archers, a man known as Waterford, watched the horsemen disappear across the skyline and then took to wiping his stave soothingly along its length with an oiled cloth, a slow, calming caress. The scarred knight could scare the shit out of Satan himself, he told Talpin and the others, and if the pestilence saw him coming it would turn back to where it came from. And who among them could argue with that? Blackstone’s reputation and fierce looks were all that stood between them and the devil’s seed. Matthew Hampton twirled an arrow shaft in his fingers and eased an errant goose-feather fletching into place.


‘Aye,’ he said quietly, ‘but I’m glad he didn’t take me out there with him.’


The first two villages were still safe havens and Blackstone instructed the villagers how to block the pathways. Palisades, cut brush and sharpened stakes would be warning enough to any itinerant refugee. No helping hand could be offered to anyone outside of their own community. They should slaughter what animals remained and ration their corn and smoked fish stocks. Perhaps, Blackstone hoped, the plague had bypassed them altogether. Small villages were usually safer than towns or cities when disease took hold. Fewer people meant less chance of contagion.

Several miles on, woodcutters’ tracks led them to where five families of thirty or so people lived and who had not yet seen travellers on the road. Most likely their isolation had so far saved them. Once Blackstone told them of what might be approaching down the rutted track that led to their hamlet, it ignited terror as if a flaming torch had been tossed into their reed-covered hovels. Meulon barged one man with his horse as he tried to run free. Blackstone shouted his orders. Run into the woods and they would die, he told them. Stay and keep strangers and other villagers out and they had a chance to live. No trade, no bartering. If one man’s wife or her family lived in another village there was to be no contact. He had them cut wattle and make six-foot fences to block the tracks leading to them and then to hang dead crows as a warning to anyone who thought to approach. Those who sickened and died must be burned in their houses.

‘And when will we know if the plague has passed?’ one of the woodcutters asked.

‘When I return and tell you,’ Blackstone answered.

‘Lord, if you are taken, how will we know?’ the man persisted.

‘If I die another will come. And if no one comes, then it makes no difference.’


Before they reached the next village Blackstone pulled up.

‘Gaillard, dismount,’ he said, getting down from the saddle. Gaillard looked perplexed, but did as he was told. Blackstone handed him his reins. ‘I have the best horse – take him and ride to my Lord de Harcourt and warn him of the plague. Tell him what we’re doing here, and that he should blockade the road to his villages and keep those within the castle from leaving. Ride hard and stop for no one. Stay in open country as much as you can. If anyone gets in your way, kill them. It doesn’t matter whether it’s a priest or a monk, or a nobleman running for his life. Don’t hesitate. Lord de Harcourt and his family must be warned. You stay and serve him till this is over. Do you understand?’

‘Yes, Sir Thomas,’ Gaillard answered, the burden of responsibility for the safety of de Harcourt now placed squarely on his shoulders.

‘I trust you with this, Gaillard.’

‘God bless you, Master Thomas; no man has ever treated me so well. And God bless you, my friends,’ said Gaillard.

Gaillard’s distressed look prompted Meulon. ‘You serve Sir Thomas, Gaillard, and you’ve done well for him to choose you. Spit on the devil and when he blinks, ride past him,’ Meulon said as the men laughed, easing the tension.

‘With a horse like this, he’ll never catch me anyway,’ Gaillard answered more confidently.

‘Ride him steady and find him water. Give my respects to the count. Tell him I will pursue the matter we discussed once this evil has passed. He’ll understand.’ Blackstone took the waterskin from Gaillard’s horse and wrapped it around the pommel. ‘Don’t stop, don’t accept food or shelter.’

He stepped back and let Gaillard kick the horse away.

‘And no whores either!’ one of the men called after him. Gaillard raised a hand showing he had heard. The men laughed among themselves. Gaillard was all right, he had the strength to fight two men at once, but the brains to know when he should run.

Meulon nodded at Blackstone; that was why he had been chosen.


Riding back to the main route that flowed like a stream of mud between the villages and town they saw the first signs of death on the road. Four bodies lay no more than three hundred paces from each other. They were peasants from God-knew-where, and Blackstone hoped they were not those who had passed by the monastery. It was doubtful, because he and the men were now more than a half-day’s ride away and those he had seen at the monastery were already exhausted. They would have reached the woodland and settled there until what little strength they had had returned, he thought.

‘Give me that,’ he said to Meulon, extending an arm for his spear. He dismounted and prodded the face-down corpse, which was that of a man. The body was not long dead, the flesh and the limbs gave way to the pressure but there was a rigidity to it that spoke of an agonizing death. The man’s hands were clenched. Blackstone wondered if that was because his soul had been dragged gasping from the body. He turned the body over. A grotesque face glared back at him. As the head lolled a black swollen tongue squirmed from the open jaws. The man’s bloodshot eyes were frozen in horror. The stench caught the back of Blackstone’s throat and he smothered his face with his crooked arm.

‘Sir Thomas! Don’t touch him!’ Meulon shouted from where he and the other men stayed safely with the horses.

Blackstone laid the tip of the spear against the man’s shirt and sliced through the worn material. The arms were splayed and once the shirt fell free Blackstone could see the buboes in his armpits. Some were small like overripe crab apples; others the size of an orange, and they had burst, weeping a black slime that stank like nothing Blackstone had ever smelled before. Even a battle’s gore was less offensive.

He pulled back his head as if struck, and after a few paces went down on his knees and vomited until his stomach muscles knotted. There was no prayer yet uttered by the holiest of men that could save anyone from this malignant enemy.

Going quickly to another body he knew it was unnecessary to see if they had all suffered the same fate; his purpose was to try to identify any of the fallen and establish which village they came from.

He turned a big man over with the spear and saw a face like a church’s gargoyle. Perhaps this look of terror on the dead was the devil’s imprint, he thought.

‘It’s spread fast,’ he called as he walked back to his horse. ‘It’s missed the villages to the east. It’s travelling north,’ he told them.

‘You’re certain?’ Meulon asked.

‘These people were heading towards Chaulion and the monastery,’ Blackstone told him.

‘They needed prayers said for them by the monks,’ Meulon replied.

‘Nothing to do with redemption, Meulon,’ he said.

They spurred on their horses, leaving behind the suppurating body of the big bearded man who carried not only the dark angel’s mark, but also that of the fleur-de-lys that Blackstone had branded him with months earlier.

The village of Christophe-la-Campagne had not learnt the lessons from Blackstone’s punishment after killing the English messenger and beating William Harness. They had done as he expected and betrayed him to Saquet, but they were still riven with hatred for the Englishman. And when the pestilence had struck they had turned in on themselves like a snared wolf chewing off its own leg.

‘It came here first,’ said Blackstone as they stood off from the village watching for movement among the houses. ‘Came here like an enemy through a back gate. They weren’t seeking a monk’s prayers, Meulon, they wanted to strike back at me. They wanted to get inside our walls before the plague showed its full force on their bodies.’


The men crossed themselves.

‘Sweet Jesus on the cross! That’s hatred, Sir Thomas,’ said one of the men.

Meulon looked up and down the muddied road. ‘This is the main highway for most anyone in these parts. If a pilgrim steps across that threshold they’ll be dead within a week and infect others.’

The men remained uneasy, some looking over their shoulder as if malign spirits could sweep down from the treetops. They could see animals untended in the fields; the cow byre was empty. Only one or two houses seeped smoke through their thatch. No dogs barked; no babies cried.

‘Many of them will lie where they fell,’ Blackstone told the men. ‘Wild boar and carrion will feed on them, the disease will spread. Get a fire going, make torches. We’ll go down and burn them out.’


Blackstone and his men tore strips from their shirts to cover mouths and noses and rode slowly into the sullen village. He and Meulon carried the burning torches as the other two men acted as guards with their spears at the ready. Every mud and wattle house they went to calling out for anyone still alive, was in darkness, the stench of human and animal waste rising up to meet them, mixing with the foulness of the putrefaction of the scattered bodies that lay in the muddied track. It was as if a sudden, silent blow from Heaven had slain them where they stood. In reality some had tried to crawl into their hovels but succumbed in the gaps between them, or fell straddled half in doorways; others simply lay in the street. The wealthier villeins’ houses were half-timbered and had windows covered with oiled cloth, but the privilege gave them no protection, and inside families lay in grotesque embrace.

As the men worked their way through the village they counted fourteen houses, some with reed roofs, others little more than shelters with animal skins stretched over them. There had probably been seventy or so people living in the village. Broken pigpens and scattered chicken feathers from an unlocked chicken house told a story of predators and untended animals for at least a week.

Meulon suddenly pointed: ‘There!’

A group of men, women and children sat huddled at the far end of the village, their haunted eyes staring fearfully at the approaching men.

‘Speak to them,’ Blackstone told Meulon. ‘Find out how many have survived.’

Blackstone stood back as Meulon cautiously advanced and spoke to the cowering villagers.

‘Twenty or more went into the forests,’ he reported. ‘Others were buried in a pit in the meadow. They don’t know what to do so they’ve kept themselves back here. No food to speak of, but there’s water.’

Blackstone turned and cut free a stretched goatskin from its curing rack and then carefully grabbed a corpse’s wrist by its clothing and dragged the body onto the hide. He called to the spearmen. ‘Take down some of those roofs and use them,’ he said, dragging the corpse to the threshold of a hut. The men were hesitant, but seeing how Blackstone gathered the dead they soon followed.

‘Get their help!’ Blackstone commanded, pointing at the villagers. ‘At spear point if necessary.’

Meulon dragged a body onto a cow hide cut down from one of the roofs. ‘We can’t do this in every village we come across. The risk is too great.’

‘I know,’ Blackstone admitted, realizing their task was going to prove too difficult, ‘but this place is a danger to others and if there are more survivors then we give them a chance. We can’t know how far or fast this plague has gone. We burn everything. If any of these people survive they can rebuild what they had.’

By the day’s end they had gathered thirty-seven bodies of men, women and children and placed them in one of the houses. They pulled down the reed roofs of other houses and laid them over the bodies. Blackstone wiped the sweat from his face, and dreaded the thought that the tang of salt he felt on his lips might harbour the disease. Meulon approached him once the last of the bodies was covered.

‘The villagers ask permission to speak to you, Sir Thomas,’ he said.

Blackstone looked to where they stood, heads bowed, caps taken off respectfully.

Blackstone gave Meulon a quizzical look, but the man could only shrug.

Meulon herded forward the reluctant men and women who, unlike the children who gazed fearfully at his scarred face, kept their eyes lowered.

One of the men prodded another, urging him to speak. The reluctant spokesman shuffled another half-step forward. ‘Lord, we have paid dearly in this village. There has been no priest here for years, and no monk from the monastery at Chaulion has ventured this far.’

‘There’s nothing I can do about that,’ Blackstone told them, a fragment of memory reminding him of the villagers’ brutality.

‘Lord,’ the man continued, ‘we beg you to speak for those who have died. Without a priest or monk, only a man of rank like yourself would know the words to bless their souls and to bear witness to our sins.’

Blackstone could not grasp what they asked of him. Meulon raised his eyebrows.

‘They want you to say a prayer for the dead and confess them. They’re scared of dying without confession,’ he said.

Blackstone pulled Meulon aside and kept his voice barely above a whisper. ‘I’m no confessor or priest. Why do they ask it of me? I’m the one who hanged and branded them.’

‘I’ve heard of this before. Better to be confessed even by a common man than die burdened. You’ll be their saviour, Sir Thomas,’ he answered, and then dared to add, ‘that would make a change, would it not?’

His men retreated to their horses as Blackstone sat on a milking stool and heard each confession from those who knelt in the mud before him. And then as he and his men thrust the torches into the huts he said a boyhood prayer for the dead, barely remembered from his own village priest’s incantations.

That night, a mile or more from the village, Blackstone and his men sat naked, wrapped in their cloaks, their own clothes washed in the river and drying by a campfire. In the distance the sky glowed as flames from the burning pyre released flickering sparks of departing souls into the dark heavens.