Master of War (40 page)

The servants put the unconscious man onto a fresh litter and gathered their medicines and herbs. As they washed the grime from his face and hands he stirred and muttered something in his delirium.

‘Master Blackstone,’ Marcel called. ‘He said something.’

Blackstone sat next to the unconscious man. ‘What have you given him?’

‘Comfrey for the burn on his forehead and his broken ribs. His foot is at the wrong angle so we will also use it in the binding. We have stitched the wound on his head as best we can and we’ll prepare more herbs.’

‘And what’s this?’ Blackstone asked.

‘Common rue heals many things and wards off evil spirits,’ Marcel said.

‘Perhaps prayer might do that,’ Blackstone suggested.

Marcel took back the pouch of herbs. ‘We must take all pre­cautions, Sir Thomas. Lady Christiana prayed three times a day for your recovery but we also tended you with these same potions once Master Jordan returned to the English army. Evil spirits find their way into our souls when we are helpless. No one should risk being caught in the jaws of hell through the lack of a few herbs.’

Blackstone couldn’t argue. Not with his own superstitions. He unconsciously touched the silver lady at his throat and saw Marcel’s glimmer of a smile.

The injured man turned his head and half opened his eyes. ‘Do I live?’ he said in barely a whisper.

Blackstone lowered his face to hear more clearly. The man repeated his question. ‘Yes,’ Blackstone told him, ‘and you’re safe.’ He beckoned for Marcel and the other servant in the room to raise the man so he could drink. They eased the liquid to his lips. He sipped and then closed his eyes. Blackstone waited, and moments later he recovered again.

‘Who are you?’ Blackstone asked him.

‘I am a messenger for the King of England. I had a warrant of safe passage.’ He sighed, closed his eyes, rested a moment and then spoke again. ‘I should have used it to wipe my arse.’ He wheezed, as if his lungs could not fill with air. It took a few seconds for him to recover. ‘Those bloody French heathens tore us down like a pack of wolves.’ He grimaced. ‘I feel as though I’ve been kicked and trampled by a bloody war horse. I’m no fighting man, I’m a runner for the King.’ He sighed again and once more closed his eyes, his ability to speak coming in fits and starts.

Blackstone brushed the man’s hair from his face and looked again at the brand burned into his forehead. It was difficult to determine how old he was but he guessed he was a few years older than himself. That he was a commoner was obvious. He would have been part of the King’s retinue, serving the chamberlain and used for delivering proclamations. A trickle of blood seeped from the corner of the man’s mouth.

‘Marcel?’ Blackstone asked, indicating the blood.

‘His lungs. They must be pierced by a rib. I don’t know if that can be healed,’ Marcel answered. ‘I’ll burn some coltsfoot, it is said that can help with poor breathing.’ Marcel left the room in search of more herbs.

‘So I said to myself…’ the man said, as if carrying on from a conversation, ignorant that he had once again slipped into uncon­sciousness, ‘… I said, a dog’s bollocks couldn’t squeeze through the gap in this cage – did I tell you that? – that they put me in a wicker cage once they beat and branded me? I did, didn’t I? After they slaughtered poor old Jeffrey, strung him up like a cat at a village fair… for the sport of it…’

He faltered again, perhaps it was the pain-killing herbs that jumbled the man’s thoughts.

‘What’s your name?’ Blackstone asked.

The man looked bewildered, as if he had to remember an obscure mes­sage that eluded him. ‘It’s… Harness, William Harness, and I am a runner for the King of England. Did I tell you that?’

‘Yes. My name is Thomas Blackstone. I’m an Englishman. Do you know of Sir Gilbert Killbere? He was close to the Prince at Crécy.’

‘Is that where they cut you?’ Harness said, gazing at Black­stone’s scar.

‘Yes. Do you know him?’

‘Am I in England? What’s your name?’

‘Thomas. My name is Thomas. You’re in France. In Normandy. What about Sir Gilbert? Does he live?’

‘Are you a prisoner?’

Blackstone held his impatience in check. ‘No, I rescued you from that village.’

‘That’s right. I remember. I was in the cage when I saw your horsemen. I thought… Sweet Jesus, God bless my King for sending troops to find us. Then a voice that gave me hope. Piss! Piss on them! That’s what I heard. Only an Englishman would say that, I thought. Piss on them. Too right, I said to myself. I broke through the cage with my last ounce of strength. I wanted to be back with my lord King, and my friends. Those… bastards… they… tore at us… Sir Gilbert Killbere. I’ve heard the name. I don’t know. We slaughtered the French. Were you there?’

Harness was losing his grasp on reality again. It was too soon to question him.

‘Yes,’ Blackstone said again, ‘I was there.’

His grip closed on Blackstone’s arm. ‘I’m frightened. Fright­ened. Fear­ful of the dark and what awaits me. Don’t let them take me. Swear you won’t let them take me again.’

‘I swear. You’re safe here. You’re protected from all harm.’

The man sighed and closed his eyes, drifting into sleep.

If they were attacking and killing the English King’s messengers, then there was still a core of resistance embedded in the French countryside. No matter that a great victory had been won months ago, Edward’s influence was failing, and if that was the case then Blackstone knew his own life might once again be in jeopardy.

In the great hall Meulon stood to attention in front of the silent barons.

‘Sir Thomas went into the village against my wishes. As he went inside one of the hovels we saw a man held in a pigpen struggling to break out. At first we thought he may have belonged to one of the local lords. We saw another man had been beaten and strung up, and Sir Thomas commanded us to take the man we’d found with us. We got about a couple of miles from the village when the Englishman came to and said something to Master Thomas, which I didn’t understand. Then a few days later we saw the routiers. I did all I could to make him leave the Englishman, but he insisted we fight. It could have gone badly for us, but he positioned us on the track and sent me and another man to outflank them. He taught them a good lesson. He was right and I was wrong. I beg your forgiveness, lord, for not being able to fulfil your command and avoid danger.’

‘You think the Englishman thought it through?’ asked de Graville. ‘Or was he trying to impress you and your men?’

‘Oh yes, lord, he thought about it. We could have run from the fight, but he knew exactly what he was doing. It was a good ambush.’

‘And then?’ Fossat asked.

‘Then he stopped me from killing the last man alive. I wanted to gut the pig and put his head on a stake. But he wouldn’t have that. No, my lords, he promised the man his life if he would give him more information. Said he would keep his word. That his word was his honour. The bastard had never heard such a promise. And once we had it, the information I mean, that’s when he took the man’s fingers from his hand and sent the bastard back. He never faltered. Like taking the head off a chicken. That was the message he sent. To tell Saquet that he was not to raid into my Lord de Harcourt’s territory again or he, I mean Sir Thomas, would kill him.’

The questioning men fell silent, the tension was palpable. Meulon felt fear nip at his stomach, his eyes blinked with uncertainty.

‘You would say he has ability?’ asked de Harcourt. ‘Or was it luck?’

‘Lord, we all need luck in a fight, but in the time it took for us to kill those skinners, Sir Thomas led the way. He was unhorsed, but I think that was because his leg weakened. It made no difference to his courage. He has guts, sir. I didn’t see a sign of fear even on his face. His hands were steady. I thought for a minute he was relishing the idea. Of getting stuck in. There’s a word for it, my lords… means… he’s ready to fight.’

‘Belligerent,’ suggested de Graville.

‘I think that’s the word, sir,’ said Meulon. ‘Sounds right. And when he took the bastard’s fingers, well, we knew then he had what it takes.’ Meulon licked his lips; his throat was getting dry from all the talk and a sudden fear that he may have upset his own master by praising the young Englishman.

‘How did he treat you?’ Jean de Harcourt asked his captain.

‘Sir?’

‘Did he treat you as an equal? He is a common man. The fact that he was honoured on the battlefield means nothing when he rides into a fight with other soldiers. You are my captain and you have experience of taking men forward into the fight. So how did he behave with you?’

Meulon thought about that for a moment, because his lord’s question was asked with his usual authority, but its curious nature troubled the soldier. When violence took place and a man fought for his life, then he put his trust in God and his sword and the man who led them. Some men pissed and shat their breeches in battle when the terror gripped them, and there would be none who would sneer at another if they lived through it. Others created that terror.

‘Sir Thomas might be a common man, lord, he carries no burden of nobility, that’s for sure, and if he had tried to befriend us common soldiers then he would have raised doubts about his ability to take command. That’s what he did and why we obeyed. He took command and proved his worth, my lord.’

The nobles exchanged glances as Meulon waited nervously, still standing rigidly, not daring to look at any of these powerful men for fear of being insubordinate.

It was Henri Livay who broke their silence. ‘Meulon, you’ve fought with your master, so too the men who rode with you today.’

Meulon hesitated. Everyone knew they had served with Jean de Harcourt and his father. Was it a question he was being asked? ‘I don’t understand, lord. Forgive me.’

‘It’s simple. Would Sir Thomas be the kind of man you and your soldiers – all of you, experienced as you are – would follow? To fight?’

Meulon paused before answering. The Englishman meant noth­ing to him. There was no fealty. But he had saved Gaillard from a flogging, had earned his loyalty. And Meulon’s. You had to believe in someone if they put you into danger.

‘I think… we all would, my lord. Aye, we’d follow Master Blackstone.’

Now that Blackstone and Christiana had tasted the pleasure of each other, she would come down the narrow staircase, its rough stone damping any footfall. She would hesitate and look down the passageway to see that those who slept in the doorways had their backs to her, or were curled against the cold of the stone floor, huddled in sleep. It was then a few short paces to Blackstone’s room. Their nights spiralled into a restless, indulgent passion that carried them beyond any care of discovery. Only the cold arrival of each dawn awoke them to the dangers of being found out. They could not know that Blanche de Harcourt was aware of every moment they shared and that she, in turn, played a delicate game against her husband. His tolerance could only be stretched so far, but she knew that he and the others were planning to use Blackstone. She did not yet know what scheme they were hatching, but the moment it was finalized, Thomas and Christiana would have little chance to continue their illicit lovemaking. It might only be a matter of time.

The devils’ cleft tongues snaked from their jaws as the tumbling bodies of sinners were consumed, like a rabid dog would savage a child. The ladder to heaven pierced the underworld where unfor­tunates held on grimly with fingers torn and bleeding as they were dragged below the earth’s crust. A plaintive cry for forgiveness could almost be heard as their eyes were raised to the calm beauty of God whose extended hand blessed all of those good men and angels around him.

Blackstone had no idea when the murals had been painted in de Harcourt’s chapel, but the flickering candlelight made the figures look as if they chased and scorched their way across the walls. The images were faded but still clear enough to show mankind’s fall from grace and the eternal damnation that awaited sinners. Repent, the angels cried, and be loved by God. Blackstone and Christiana sat huddled in the cold, damp chapel. No light yet penetrated the high, small windows; only the spluttering candles fought against this almost total darkness. He held his cape around her as she shivered, despite her own thick woollen gown, while he banished the chill from his own mind.

Christiana had convinced him that they should show themselves to God and ask for forgiveness for their lust and to make a promise before the altar that their passion was an extension of their love for each other.

It took some convincing.

She prayed, and as her whispers of confession to the Almighty recounted her base feelings, pushing her head lower in repentance, Blackstone felt himself aroused. Was it a mortal sin to fornicate in a church or would the fires of hell just singe his arse? he wondered.

She eased herself up from her knees, face flushed with the excitement of unburdening herself.

‘We could never confess to the priest,’ she said. ‘His stipend is paid by my Lord de Harcourt.’

‘I don’t intend confessing anything to anyone. Lust is part of my feelings for you. I’d lie with you all day and night if I thought we wouldn’t be noticed. Not that there would be much chance of that – the way you scream into the pillow could still wake the dead.’

Her eyes flared with anger as she hissed at him. ‘Thomas, have some respect for where we are! Don’t shame me further.’

‘There’s no shame to be had from pleasure, Christiana. God knows all about us and what we do.’

This had been the one morning that he had not gone out into the cold hour before dawn. And he already regretted submitting to her insistent demands to avail themselves of God’s forgiveness.

‘You’ll attend Mass with me on Christmas Day, Thomas,’ Christiana said. ‘It will be expected.’

The fear of God was a tangible emotion for Christiana, but for him their desire for each other held God’s wrath at bay.

‘I’ll not go to Mass. I’m not yet ready to forgive God.’

The candlelight bathed them in a warm glow but he saw the blood drain from her face as she crossed herself. ‘That’s blasphemy,’ she whispered.