Master of War (37 page)

‘I did. I don’t like being attended to, lord.’

‘Well, I cuffed the bastard around the head for leaving you. And my wishes are not to be questioned in my house. I offered you friendship for what you did. You must tolerate me offering my thanks. I’m a proud man, Thomas. I can’t change that. None of us can.’

Blackstone bowed his head in acknowledgement. ‘Then may I beg a favour, lord?’

‘In friendship, yes.’

‘Do not invite me to dine with you and the nobles. I am uncom­fortable in such exalted company. I’m a coarse man, and I can never be anything other than that, even though you and my lady teach me manners. I beg you, let me eat alone.’

De Harcourt’s frustration spun him away from Blackstone. ‘Have you eaten this morning? No. I thought not. I’ve watched you. Every day, Thomas. You think you’re the only one who braves the cold? Well, you’re wrong. I’m there. Every day. Every time you wield that sword arm of yours I’m watching,’ de Harcourt said rapidly, answering his own questions. He placed his hand on Blackstone’s shoulder, suddenly relenting. ‘I’m trying to make it easier for you. If I am to fulfil my obligations to your King, then I open the doors to my home and my heart. You need the company of men who understand war. And we have to learn to tolerate someone like you in our midst. Now, don’t square those shoulders of yours because you feel insulted; they’re broad enough, for God’s sake. We all have to learn not to be so quick to take offence. All of us. Now, what would you have me do with you?’

‘Let me ride out alone. I want to see the countryside and the villages.’

‘You’re not a mendicant monk, Thomas, you’re a fighting man.’

‘Then it’s even more important for me to know the lie of the land.’

De Harcourt turned to his wife. ‘These English – they have an answer for everything. They are consummate liars; their nobles hide their duplicity through good manners and in battle their commoners carry a shield of disregard for nobility the likes of which I’ve never come across.’ He nodded to Blackstone. ‘Get yourself dressed, find a horse and you can go.’

‘I’m grateful, lord.’

‘Well, you might not be when I send an escort with you.’ He sipped his wine and locked eyes with Blackstone. ‘I trust you, Thomas. You saved my life. But I can’t have a lone Englishman riding through my lands. If the King’s men come across you we’ll have to lie and tell them you’re a prisoner. Understand?’

‘Yes. Thank you.’

‘I doubt you’ll come across any more vicious boars. You’ve already killed a legend in these parts. Unless he has relatives. You have to be careful of families, Thomas, they can hold grudges.’

Blackstone was uncertain if that was a veiled warning. Was de Harcourt telling him that no matter what had happened between them, an act against the family honour would never be forgiven? He bowed and left the room. De Harcourt threw another log on the fire. Blanche smiled and extended her hand to him. ‘You’re a good man, my husband. You’re generous and honourable.’

He brought her hand to his lips. ‘And I’m no fool, Blanche. He’s had her. I could smell it on him.’

There were shouts from beyond the walls as men who had trudged from the forest, laden with firewood like beasts of burden, were held by the sentries at the far end of the bridge that spanned the moat. No one would enter the citadel until daylight made identification easier. Brigands had once talked their way into the castle, now it was obvious that Jean de Harcourt would not allow the same mistake again.

Ever since the castle had been attacked and its servants and villagers slaughtered, the household had had few replacements. A temporary steward was in command of the servants and it was obvious that everyone worked almost without rest in order to prepare for the Christmas celebrations. The war was costing the nobility money and stripping them of their resources – a level of poverty they were unused to, and which meant that some servants were not as skilled in their duties.

Blackstone had been granted the right to leave the castle provided four armed men accompanied him. That was no hardship and would not stop him from getting a better picture of the surrounding countryside should the day come when he was forced to make his escape. When King Edward had scorched across Normandy and Sir Godfrey had brought him and the others to the castle earlier, they had travelled from the north and west. Now Blackstone wanted to venture further south.

De Harcourt came into the stables as a stable-hand finished cinching a horse’s saddle. The sudden look of anger that crossed de Harcourt’s face made the man flinch.

‘Who chose this horse?’ de Harcourt demanded.

‘I did,’ Blackstone answered uncertainly.

De Harcourt snatched a riding whip from a rack and thrashed the hapless groom three or four times until he stepped back and went down on his knee. In the moments that Blackstone resisted the urge to lunge forward and grab his whip hand the punishment was over and de Harcourt threw the whip onto the straw-covered floor.

‘Get a courser,’ he commanded the servant whose welts now streaked his face and neck.

As the man scurried back into the darkness of the horse stalls Blackstone challenged de Harcourt. ‘Why did you do that? Did I pick the wrong horse?’

‘Don’t question what I do in my house, Thomas. I have given my friendship but you have no rights here other than what I grant you.’

‘If you punish a man for something that I did, then I have a right to know what I did wrong.’

‘You chose a mare. All my servants know you are knighted, and a knight never rides a mare.’

‘And you thrashed him for that? Have some pity.’

‘I barely laid the whip on him. He should have corrected your choice. Now, let the piece of shit get your horse saddled. I’ll not have you ride out from here and make me a laughing stock.’

Blackstone’s instincts were to go to the beaten man who had paid for his mistake, but he resisted the temptation in case his actions brought further punishment on an innocent man. This new-found land of privilege was a foreign shore and he wished for the day when he was as far from it as possible.

Christiana had not been pleased. Why would he wish to venture beyond the forests to the far reaches of de Harcourt’s land and influence? Violence lay in wait for the unwary traveller. Brigands and murderers could conjure themselves like night spirits in a dream. Why risk that now? Why not wait? Wait until he was stronger still and had the company of de Harcourt himself?

He allowed her anxiety to wear itself out. He was learning that there were times when her emotions ran like a swollen stream and it was best to let them flood across him. It took only a few moments for her to remember that she had no right to stand in his way, but her deep, passionate kiss in farewell left him with the taste and promise of a welcome return.

Blackstone eyed the soldiers who were to accompany him. De Harcourt had chosen the biggest and strongest from his small garrison force, knowing it would take four strong men to have any chance of stopping Blackstone should he try to disobey their master’s orders. All of the men wore de Harcourt’s livery and were several years older than Blackstone.

‘Meulon,’ he said, pointing at one of the men, ‘is in charge of your escort. He’s a good fighter – listen to what he tells you. You’ll go no further than a week’s ride. My influence extends only so far and there are towns held by the King’s men and routiers, and those mercenary bastards will take your skin as a trophy if they discover you’re an Englishman and then sell it to the King. Butchery is their business. You’re not to stray from the main tracks through the forests and if you see armed men you keep out of their way. And keep your mouth shut, your accent isn’t from these parts.’

‘I’m surprised you’re letting me go at all,’ Blackstone told him.

‘If I don’t you’ll find your own way out sooner or later, some­thing you can probably do already,’ de Harcourt said. ‘You’ve spent nights in my library. I suppose you know every passage and doorway by now.’

Blackstone had not realized such a close watch had been kept on his movements during the hours of darkness. ‘I’m a stonemason, I like drawings of buildings, and you had them from your father’s days,’ said Blackstone by way of a stumbling apology.

‘Understand this, once and for all, Thomas. I gave my word to my uncle that you would be under my protection and he gave his word to your King, don’t ever forget that. This is a debt of honour.’

‘But you haven’t asked me to give you my word that I won’t try and escape. You think I’m not worthy of honour?’

De Harcourt looked at him and smiled. ‘I don’t have to ask you. You’ll come back,’ he said and signalled for the gates to be opened.

‘You don’t know that.’

‘Yes, I do. Christiana is here.’

De Harcourt turned back towards the house, his dogs loyally following. Blackstone was as free as he wished, but the Norman baron was right; the ties that bound him lay within the castle’s walls.

Blackstone’s wounded leg protested as he heeled the horse forward across the narrow wooden bridge, making those same clattering sounds that had echoed when Sir Gilbert Killbere had thundered to the attack only a few months earlier, in what seemed another lifetime. Now the young archer himself rode out as a knight, with four armed men as escort and Wolf Sword at his side.

Blackstone made no objection to his escort’s silence as they travelled along the known roads that petered out into tracks used by villagers to and from their hamlets. The surly guards kept twenty paces behind him, but he occasionally heard them grumbling about the duty they had been given. Each night they camped it was obvious from the snippets of conversation he heard that they had no love for the Englishman, but also that Jean de Harcourt would not be disobeyed. Even if they killed him on the road and made it look as though they were ambushed by brigands, their own lives would be forfeit. Blackstone was as safe as he could be for the time being.

In the clear morning air the dusting of snow that had frozen in the night crunched underfoot, and because the day was windless the distant drifting smoke from village fires told him where each settlement lay. The landscape drew itself as a map in his mind; angled edges of forests gave way to rolling hills, a skein of geese that followed the winding river told him which direction the water took once it disappeared into the distant woods. But the further they rode from the castle, the more nervous his escort became. They drew up closer to him and two of them took it upon themselves to ride fifty paces ahead. As they reached a crossroads the countryside opened up before them in a vast swathe of meadowland on each side of which stood broadleaf forests, their now-bare branches writhing starkly upwards – witches’ claws beseeching the darkening sky. Superstition was religion’s bedmate. Even Blackstone felt there was something sinister lurking just out of sight within the trees, and when a crow glided down from the treetops across their front and then settled in a nearby branch, its beady-eyed stare gazing down at them, the men crossed themselves, and Blackstone kissed the silver charm at his neck. Superstition warned them all that death disguised itself in the devil’s form and that a hooded crow was a portent of something more sinister than bad luck.

Blackstone turned his horse away and went in the opposite direction. There was no point in proving bravery against evil spirits. As the horsemen followed him he heard their murmur of agreement. It seemed the Englishman was now less of a liability. Neither they nor the man they guarded could guess that their misplaced confidence in playing safe would soon disappear like their plumed breath.

They reached the edge of de Harcourt’s influence on the fifth day. Village hovels squatted like fat sows in mud. Chickens pecked the dirt and a cur yelped from a peasant’s brutal kick. As they rode through the thoroughfare men’s hollow-eyed stares gazed back at them from fearful yet resentful eyes. The shelters tumbled back from the opening into the forest so it was impossible for Blackstone to know how many people lived in the village of Christophe-la-Campagne.

The fields were empty of sheep. They’d have been slaughtered a month ago and most likely eaten; any spare mutton would be salted for the coming dark months. Blackstone saw little sign of activity. Winter sowing of barley would have been done by now and the mounds of turnips piled next to many of the hovels were proof that their winter food had already been gathered.

There was the bitter smell from a forge in the air, so a blacksmith was at work somewhere, though there was no tell-tale clanging of hammer against metal. Sodden roofs still dripped from the night’s frost, the houses held in the shade, too low in the landscape to get warmth from the sun’s shallow arc. Smoke snagged the reed thatch like silk on a thorn bush.

This place was no different from any other that Blackstone and the mounted archers had burned to the ground on their way to Caen.

‘How many people live here?’ he turned and asked one of the men.

‘No one knows. They breed like fleas on a dog’s back,’ the man answered and spat into the mud.

‘Does your master safeguard them?’ Blackstone said. ‘Are they part of the manor?’

‘I don’t know, my lord, some of these places are in our juris­diction, there’s no abbey close by, no other manor house. Maybe they’re Lord de Harcourt’s scum, maybe somebody else’s. We shouldn’t stay here. They hate the English and there’s enough of them to cause trouble.’

‘You think they’d start a hue and cry against me?’

‘A mob gets going here and we’d have shit for dinner. They’re like damned creatures of the night coming out of nowhere. And a peasant with a billhook can take a horseman’s leg off as good as any cursed English man-at-arms, begging your pardon, sir.’

Blackstone ignored the taunt. If this were England Blackstone would know which village belonged to which manor. County fairs and feast days would bring the villeins together and news and gossip would pass between them and each hamlet would learn from the other. Here, these peasants lived in the darkness of the forest and seemed turned in on themselves, probably fornicating with their own and with a sour disposition towards any stranger.