Master of War (35 page)

‘Encircle! Arm yourselves!’ he shouted to the pages who, despite their youth, showed no sign of panic as they obeyed his command. The screaming became louder and then suddenly stopped. In that chilling moment of silence, barely a heartbeat passed before the disparate voices, closer than before, called again, and were muffled as a horse’s anguished whinnying screeched from the depth of the forest. Blackstone had heard those death throes on the battlefield when the English lanced and disembowelled the French war horses.

‘Help me! Here!’ a man’s voice begged. And again: ‘Here!’

‘That’s Jean!’ Blanche de Harcourt cried, pulling the reins towards the cry.

‘Stay here!’ Blackstone shouted at her without any regard for her rank, cuffing her horse’s head, forcing it back into the throng of riders as he spurred his horse forward. It was pure instinct that forced him on through the trees, bending low across the horse’s withers as branches whipped at him. The old palfrey served him well, fearlessly pushing through the forest as Blackstone yanked him this way and that to avoid the trees.

Sunlight splintered the woodland where it had been coppiced and the unmistakable metallic taste of spilt blood caught at the back of his throat. His horse fought the reins as he broke through the saplings into an oasis of light, not unlike the clearing he had just left. What lay before him was a gladiatorial arena of gore-splattered ferns. A man’s torso lay ripped apart, his gaunt death mask hinged on a broken neck, arms akimbo as his fists curled into the fern stems. Much of the area was trampled. The dead man was one of de Harcourt’s dog handlers and two of the hounds lay dead with him. Less than fifty paces away a dense bramble thicket as high as a horse blanketed the far side of the clearing. Here and there new tree growth had pushed its way through the ferns and Jean de Harcourt lay pinned beneath a horse so badly injured it could barely raise its head.

Standing off the corpses and the entrapped man was a wild boar slaked in blood from a spear wound to its neck, its flanks heaving from exertion. When they were growing up Blackstone and his brother had run through Lord Marldon’s forests, snaring rabbits and squirrels for the pot, and watched the hunt from their hiding places, but the nobles had never killed a boar bigger than a growing boy or one that stood higher than a man’s knee. This creature was more frightening than any sword-wielding man. The cornered beast had defended itself and its malevolent eyes showed nothing more than an animal in fear of its life as they fastened onto the intruder. Blackstone fought the frightened horse, which pushed him against a tree, the lower branches scratching at his face. Easing himself onto the ground he let the horse run from its terror, his own mouth dry from fear, the only comfort was his hand squeezing the sword’s grip so tightly that his knuckles ached. What use was a damned sword, he thought, killing it would be easy if I could draw a bow. I’d nock a broadhead arrow and the beast would be shot through. No one need get hurt. But there was no bow, no archer’s arm to hold it. The day could end badly and it could end in the next couple of minutes.

The boar must have been more than twice Blackstone’s weight, at least four hundred pounds, and stood higher than a cloth-yard arrow, taller than a man’s hip. Judging from the sprawled remains of the dead man the boar was longer than six feet. Its tusks and snout were smothered in flesh and blood from its victims, but other than the slight movement of its head as it watched Blackstone edge closer to de Harcourt, it remained motionless. Blackstone prayed that by moving slowly he would allow the boar to escape and either turn back into the bramble thicket to hide or run through the saplings that lay behind his right shoulder.

De Harcourt lay still, face turned to watch the Englishman’s wary approach.

‘Is your leg broken?’ Blackstone asked, in what seemed barely a whisper.

‘No. Trapped. I wounded him. He went to ground in the thicket. I swear it ambushed us,’ he said quietly.

All Blackstone wanted to do was to get out of the boar’s way and give it a clear run past him. He had no interest in killing it and he sensed that if he moved slowly it would give them all a chance of life, but as he shuffled carefully through the ferns that snagged at his ankles, he looped the leather thong around his wrist from the sword’s crossguard. If the boar charged it would take all his strength to keep hold of the sword and the blood knot would give him a second chance should it be yanked from his grip.

‘Christ Jesus, Thomas… use the spear,’ de Harcourt hissed. ‘You’ll never stop it if it charges.’

Blackstone saw the spear shaft lying a dozen feet away, half tangled in the ferns. He shook his head. ‘Too far. It’ll be on me as soon as I give it a chance.’ Each thud of his heart pounded through his brain like the hammer on a bell. It rang out the moments before death was surely upon him. He eased further away, barely daring to look at the wounded boar. Had the spear thrust weakened it or enraged it? For an animal that grubbed roots and worms it seemed more dangerous than a carnivorous wolf.

Four more heartbeats and Blackstone thought he had moved far enough away but then the crashing sound of a horse pushing through the undergrowth changed everything. A horseman forced his way through the forest’s edge and the startled boar charged straight at Blackstone, who still stood in the way of its escape. It came at him head down, tusks ready to slash. Black­stone’s heart banged against his ribs so hard he could barely breathe. Thoughts flashed through his mind, telling him his leg might not allow a quick pivot to one side, and if he fell there would be no defence. There was no time even to consider what action to take. All the lessons he had endured disappeared from his mind as he instinctively raised the sword with a double-handed grip, his crooked left arm bent at the elbow, the blade held high across his shoulder.

He could smell the wild pig’s laboured breath, which billowed into the chill air. Like a premonition he knew, right at that moment, that a strike from this high guard could not save him.
Choose your ground!
There was a mound pushing up the ferns, several paces ahead, and he realized it was a fallen tree, rotten, barely knee high and long consumed by the foliage. Perhaps it had even been responsible for Harcourt’s horse going down. Blackstone leapt forward, straight at the charging boar. If it didn’t veer away from the attack it would have to jump across the tree. He dropped to one knee, buried his fist and the sword’s pommel into the ground and took the boar full on as its forelegs rose up. The speed and weight of the charge threw him backwards, and the mighty boar trampled over him. A sudden, blurred image of the vicious yellow tusks passed close to his face, as he felt his chest and arm muscles wrenched from the impact as the blood knot tightened on his wrist. Pulling himself in like a hedgehog he gathered the blade to him, hugging it as a drowning man in a violent sea cradles a lifesaving piece of wood.

The stench of foul liquid spurted over him. He rolled clear and got to one knee, telling himself he was still alive and that if the tusks had cut him he didn’t yet feel the pain. The boar went on for another three yards, then crumpled, snout first into the deep ferns, its back legs kicking for purchase, a pitiful, grunting scream coming from its gaping jaws. Blackstone’s sword had taken it in the chest, its momentum burying the honed steel deeper into its innards.

Blackstone stepped forward, swung down the blade in a high, sweeping arc and severed the head.

He stood over the slain beast for a moment, and then dropped a hand to his tunic and breeches. The gore and liquid were not his. His hands began to shake as he sank to his knees and wiped the blade against the foliage, staying hunched down to let the moment pass.

It had been William de Fossat who had crashed through the trees and watched helplessly as the young Englishman took the boar’s charge. He had dismounted the moment Blackstone killed the boar and dispatched his friend’s horse with a knife thrust, and then eased de Harcourt from under the dead animal. Others soon arrived. Louis de Vitry dismounted and saw that there was nothing more to be done, the carnage told its own story and there was no need for explanation. Blanche de Harcourt forced her unwilling horse, skittish from the smell of death, into the clearing. Thanks to God were uttered as husband and wife embraced. Blackstone got to his feet and, without thinking, raised the talisman to his lips and kissed the Celtic goddess in thanks for her protection. Perhaps, he thought, God allowed angels and goddesses to share His kingdom so they might shadow the likes of him who constantly sinned through lack of prayer and who harboured doubt about His existence. The smeared blade cleaned easily, and as he undid the blood knot and turned his wrist the mark of the running wolf below the crossguard seemed to move, as if leaping after its prey. He ran his fingers through his matted hair, which stuck to the blood on his face, and then wiped his hand.

As servants and squires gathered, and the dog handlers lifted their dead animals into their arms, Henri Livay commanded them to lay the dead man on the cart to be taken back for burial.

Blanche turned to Blackstone. ‘There’s an old French proverb, Thomas: “Gratitude is the heart’s memory.” You have my thanks.’

Jean de Harcourt eased his wife aside, and limped towards Blackstone as the others watched.

‘Are you hurt, Thomas?’

‘No, my lord, but I stink,’ he answered, wondering why he was saying something so self-consciously stupid.

De Harcourt smiled and reached for Blackstone’s shoulders, pulling his face down so he could kiss each bloodied cheek. Blackstone could barely believe he had been honoured by a mark of friendship and affection that was never given lightly. ‘You have to be alive to smell your own stench, my friend. You need a hot bath scented with dried rose petals and lavender.’

‘I’ve never had a bath in my life, my lord,’ said Blackstone.

‘Then now is the time,’ de Harcourt told him.

By the time the hunting party returned to the castle, neither the dead dogs nor their savaged handler were of any concern to the noblemen. The peasant could be replaced more easily than the dogs; more importantly, the trophy boar’s head would grace the Christmas table and its carcass would be spit-roasted. Servants rejoiced in their lord’s safe return, and the steward commended his master’s hunting abilities. As the women retired to attend to their dressing, de Harcourt, ignoring his aching leg, bounded triumphantly up the steps as if he were an all-conquering Caesar. He turned to where Blackstone stood near the stables.

‘Thomas! We’ll freshen up and then we’ll dine after prayers. You’ll join us? Of course you will! By God, we’ll have a party!’

He did not wait for a reply, and none escaped Blackstone’s lips. The bustle of activity as grooms and stable-hands attended to the horses was where he wanted to be. Christiana had mocked him and then, after the kill, had tried to approach him, but he had turned away from her, a deep, unsettling dissatisfaction resting heavily in his chest. The smell of the stables and the sweat of the horses made him want to take hold of a bridle and vigorously rub a horse down with straw. The heavy scent of the beasts and the stale, metallic taste of blood mingled in his mouth. Like a fading dream, he was being disconnected from the life of a village stonemason. A slow, living death, where there was nothing to hold onto. Even de Harcourt’s servants, who worked feverishly to satisfy their lord’s demands, saw him as being different. They too had their own hierarchy. Older boys kicked and beat the younger ones, as the grooms’ coarse language berated the stable-hands. Obey and live in fear.

He plunged Wolf Sword’s grip into the horse trough and scrub­bed away the dried blood. I’m lying in the land between two armies, he thought, watching the pageboys diligently cleaning their masters’ weapons, the strenuous efforts of the stable-hands to get the horses cleaned, fed, and then bedded down with fresh straw forked into their stalls. He rubbed harder. Finger and thumb flecking away the dark stains. You’re alone, Thomas Blackstone, and you’d better learn to accept it, nagged the voice in his head. You’re neither noble nor peasant, you’re a creation born out of blood and fear. And anger, don’t forget anger, he told himself. He shook his head, answering his own doubt: I’ll always be a stonemason and an archer. I don’t care to join anyone’s hunting pack. I’ll do what my father and Sir Gilbert would expect of me.

Guillaume Bourdin carried Henri Livay’s saddle and boots to be cleaned. He bowed his head. ‘My lord Blackstone, shall I clean your sword?’

Blackstone looked at the boy’s eager expression. ‘Master Bour­din, what is it that makes you so eager to attend me? You’ve your own master’s work to settle.’

‘It would be an honour, Sir Thomas,’ the boy said.

‘Is Lord Livay all you know of family? Are you an orphan?’

‘Yes, lord.’

‘Have you ever known a mother’s comfort?’

‘Only until I was six, Sir Thomas, then she died and my uncle placed me with the good knight and gentleman whom I served when you found us at the castle at Noyelles.’

‘You were at the river crossing at Blanchetaque?’ Blackstone already knew the answer. How else could the terrified boy’s knight be so badly wounded? But it was worth asking, to see if the boy had false bravado. Like so many others.

The boy nodded, the memory casting a shadow of fear across his eyes.

‘And you were frightened?’ Blackstone asked him.

He nodded again. ‘I am ashamed of my fear, Sir Thomas.’

Blackstone studied the youngster for a moment longer. ‘Don’t be. You can use it. Turn it to your advantage. It’s only a beast that hides in the bushes. You flush it out and it either dies or runs away. Never be ashamed of fear, Master Bourdin.’ He offered the boy a comforting smile, which tugged at his raw, scarred face. ‘I need no help today with my sword – perhaps another time.’

Guillaume bowed his head and accepted his dismissal. When he was that age, Blackstone remembered, his father was teaching him to draw his war bow, though no thoughts of war or killing entered his head back then. They were long, hard days at the quarry, with regular beatings from the master stonemason, but afterwards in those wide meadows, where oak and ash spread cool shadows from the summer’s heat, there was laughter and high jinks with a brother who knew where the wild bees made their honey, and larks’ eggs nestled under tufts of grass – a yearned-for life more distant now than his home village.