Master of War (47 page)

Christiana pressed her face against the heavy door and whispered to Blackstone. ‘Thomas, you must not bear ill feeling towards my guardian. He saved your life the only way he could.’

His voice was tight with anger. ‘Did they send you to convince me?’

‘No, no, they did not. I came because I am grateful to them for saving you. One of those who came to the gate was the man who had promised to cause me harm. I think sweet Jesus has blessed us because he had no idea I was here.’

The mention of the threat against her eased his anger. He knew the story of why she had been sent to the protection of de Harcourt and his family. If the man who once threatened her had happened upon her refuge then it gave him another chance to convince her to return to England with him. Once again destiny had given him an opportunity.

His voice lowered. ‘Are you alone?’

‘Yes.’

‘Were you frightened?’

‘At first. But then the count gave up your Englishman and they rode away. But it made me realize how an enemy can stumble upon you.’

‘It was like a freak storm, Christiana. You have to let it pass.’

‘But he could come back.’

‘Then I’d kill him. But if you were in England he could never reach you.’

A door slammed at the end of the passageway and footsteps echoed on the stone floor.

‘Thomas, someone’s coming. I have to go.’

‘Come with me!’ he whispered desperately. ‘I’m not staying here now. Decide, Christiana. I’ll look after you.’

‘No. I can’t. Don’t force me, Thomas. Don’t abandon me, I beg you,’ she said hesitatingly, the devil’s own choice being offered her.

Blackstone had to risk everything. ‘I’m leaving, Christiana. I won’t stay here. You have to come with me.’

Blackstone could not see her tears as she steadied her voice to disguise her anguish. ‘I cannot,’ she whispered.

And in that moment he knew that he had to harden his heart and go home without her.

She moved away quickly, moments before Jean de Harcourt turned into the passageway. He hesitated outside the locked door, and then threw it open.

It was dark and airless in there and Blackstone blinked as the light flooded in. De Harcourt took a pace back to allow Blackstone to do whatever he chose. He expected the young archer to lunge and strike at him, and if he did he would be hard-pressed to save himself from injury. Blackstone’s aggression was well known to him now and de Harcourt was unarmed and unaccompanied. Blackstone stepped into the corridor.

De Harcourt averted his eyes. ‘There was no other way, Thomas. I offer my regret. You knew he was dying. His lung was punctured, he would not have survived.’ He made a small gesture towards the corridor. ‘There’s a horse saddled for you, and another for pro­visions. They’re yours to do with as you wish. The road to Calais lies to the north and if you travel first to Rouen you’ll probably avoid any French skirmishers. Within a week you can be at your King’s side.’

Blackstone remained silent. Jean de Harcourt had expressed his contrition. And despite Christiana’s plea for him to stay he was ready to follow his desire and be free of the castle.

‘You caused the death of a good man, who never raised a hand against any of your countrymen,’ Blackstone said.

‘I made a promise to Sir Godfrey that I would not hand you over to murdering scum, no matter whose warrant they carried.’

‘And he asked you whether I had been told what it was you wanted with me.’

De Harcourt suddenly realized that Blackstone must have over­heard everything.

‘Where were you?’

‘The gallery.’

De Harcourt pondered for a moment. ‘So you knew that they were coming to arrest you and yet you stayed.’

‘You gave your pledge to Sir Godfrey to save me but I never thought you would give them William Harness. Where’s my sword?’

‘With the horse.’

‘What were you and the others planning?’

‘To tell you would be to put our lives into your hands.’

‘As you held mine,’ Blackstone answered.

De Harcourt shook his head. ‘It’s too great a game, Thomas. Stay, and you’ll be told.’

Blackstone let the desire to know slip away. ‘Goodbye, my lord.’ He turned on his heel to make his way to the stables.

‘Did she beg you to stay?’ de Harcourt called after him.

Blackstone turned to face him. ‘I go my own way now.’

‘As all men should. And I wish you well, Thomas.’

Blackstone took another three strides and then de Harcourt’s next words bit like a bodkin point through his spine into his heart.

‘Christiana is pregnant.’

Christiana worried a handkerchief between her fingers. She and Blackstone stood opposite each other in the confines of her room.

‘I saw them saddle a horse. One of the pages told me it was for you. I didn’t know if I would see you before you left.’

‘I would ask you once again to come to England with me,’ said Blackstone, keeping his distance from her, feeling the churning emotions inside him.

She smiled sadly and shook her head. ‘I can’t leave my people. This is where I belong and all I know.’

‘I’m afraid,’ he said.

She looked surprised. ‘Not you.’

Blackstone felt they were caught in an invisible current that swirled between them. The wind still howled through the battle­ments and eaves, so the warm room was a sanctuary, yet they seemed unable to approach each other because of some force that kept them apart.

‘I’m afraid because of what I now know. Why didn’t you tell me?’

She looked confused and turned away from him. ‘You can’t know.’

‘You must have told Countess Blanche.’

‘I never breathed a word.’ She sat on a stool by the window. ‘Perhaps she saw I had changed.’

Blackstone moved closer to her. He had seen no change, what was there to see? What he suspected, though, was that women were like God’s other creatures that had a sixth sense. A man’s instincts could save his life but the unknowable world of women’s intuition was as deep as a mire. ‘I’m excited and I’m fearful because having a child is like stumbling through a dark forest. You can’t see your way clear,’ he said uncertainly.

‘I would not use the child to hold you.’

‘But you wanted to, outside that door, when you begged me not to abandon you.’

‘I couldn’t force you to stay. Besides, I have only missed my monthly time once.’

He sat next to her, unable to grasp that a seed had taken hold in her. After what seemed a long and awkward silence she placed her hand on his. ‘You must follow your own instincts, Thomas. There’s no need for you to stay because of this. Blanche will discreetly take the child in, and I will be its wet nurse and governess. Shame can be hidden like a swelling stomach beneath flowing robes. Your child will be safe, and you can come back whenever you wish to see it. No one need ever know. Perhaps that’s better for us all, including the child.’

He waited a moment before answering, searching for the right words that made sense of what he felt. ‘When you refused to come to England with me, and you told me how much you hated the English, I thought even our feelings could not bridge such a gulf. The father of your child is an Englishman, and nothing can ever change that. And my son will know about his father, and my son will know about his family because that will be his gift to carry him through this life.’

‘It may not be a boy,’ she said.

‘It will be,’ he told her. ‘And I’ll not let any man take my place. And no one will take our child. I don’t know how we will live, but we’ll do it here in France, so that you’ll be safe and surrounded by those who care for you.’

She bowed her head, her hands gripping his tightly, as the tears spilled and her shoulders trembled.

He pulled her to him. ‘I didn’t pull you across that river to let you drift away from me now. And we won’t let our child come into this world as a bastard. Go and see the countess and ask if the priest is still here.’

She laughed and wiped the tears from her cheeks, then buried her face into his shoulder. ‘Oh, Thomas, I was so afraid to lose you.’

He held the warmth of her body close to him. How many twists and turns lay on the road ahead he could not know. But if he had unknowingly slain her father, now he had sired her child.

He and this woman were tied together as surely as his sword by its blood knot to his right hand.

Jean de Harcourt led the way into the library and gestured Black­stone towards the trestle table where rolled parchments sat snug against each other.

‘Find the grubbiest parchment there. The one that’s been han­dled the most,’ de Harcourt told him as he poured two glasses of wine.

Blackstone fingered his way through the scrolls and noticed one with a wine stain. He had seen it before.

‘That’s it,’ said de Harcourt, and handed Blackstone the wine. Then with his free arm he swept all the other documents onto the floor. ‘Unroll it,’ he said and lifted a paperweight onto the unfurled parchment. ‘Have you seen this before, when you spent your nights in here?’

Blackstone looked down at the map. It had the crosses in circles on it, the same crude drawing he had seen before and which still made no sense. ‘Yes, I’ve seen it.’

‘Then you’ll know it’s a map of divided France,’ de Harcourt explained, his finger tapping the markings. ‘This is the Duchy of Normandy, this is Burgundy, Aquitaine, and every red cross denotes a walled town or castle held by those loyal to the French King. Those marked by a circle and a cross are held in the name of Edward and these,’ his finger pointed to the small black dots that freckled the map, ‘these infestations are held by independent captains.’

‘Routiers?’ said Blackstone.

‘Which often change hands. They terrorize an area and bleed it dry; some of them cage themselves within the walls, not daring to come out in case local populations rise up against them. They are victims of their own greed and once they’ve ravaged the town they leave it.’

Blackstone studied the map. ‘That’s the coast to the north, this borderline here?’

‘That’s Brittany. There’s been conflict there for centuries. It’s a wilderness of discontent.’

Blackstone’s eyes followed his finger that traced across the map. ‘A lot of these towns are held by my King, these are French. Brittany is strong in his favour.’

‘And the further south you go into Gascony, you can see that your King also has many well-placed towns,’ de Harcourt said, and waited as Blackstone studied the markings, wondering if the strategic importance of what he had briefly explained meant anything to him.

‘This is Rouen. And we are here,’ Blackstone said, then let his finger travel south-east. ‘Paris. Your King is tucked away like a swaddled child. He’s safe there.’

‘Everything else is what’s important,’ de Harcourt said.

Blackstone nodded, seeing the landscape in his mind, remem­bering again his march from the invasion and riding with Sir Godfrey as they skirted Rouen. I’m here, he thought, and further south was the village where they killed Edward’s messengers. So, Chaulion is here and the border country is…

He looked up at de Harcourt who waited expectantly.

‘These places are held by the French and routiers. Why don’t the French take them?’ he asked.

‘Because the King lets them take what they want from the people. They raid and kill. It’s cheaper for him than paying them, but they have his approval. As we have just witnessed with those scum from Paris.’

Blackstone saw how close some of the markings were to the border. His finger went down, left and right, a small pattern emerged.

‘King Edward blockades Calais in the north, but when he invaded he came through – here. The peninsula. That’s why there was little fighting when we landed. Sir Godfrey knew that most small towns wouldn’t resist. Except Caen, but that’s different – it’s a huge city.’

‘And don’t forget your King holds Gascony to the south, Bor­deaux is his.’

Blackstone felt the thrill of understanding; like a building’s design on a master mason’s plan, the intricacies offered themselves up. He gulped the wine, excited by the discovery, eager to find out more. ‘When we landed we were worried that the French would come from the south and trap us, but you couldn’t get to us in time because we had men down there. If the King ever loses Calais he needs to invade from these two places again. Normandy in the north and Bordeaux in the south. This is where he’s weak. Here, in this border country. There are towns that could harass any troop movements.’

He lifted his finger and let the parchment roll into itself.

‘Why are you showing this to me?’

‘You’re an Englishman,’ de Harcourt said and turned to sit next to the fire. ‘And we had hoped to use that fact.’ He paused. ‘In time,’ he admitted.

Blackstone followed him; de Harcourt had caught his interest. ‘I’m a common man, my lord, and I have nothing to offer anyone other than my willingness to fight.’ He sat opposite de Harcourt, but the man’s face showed no reaction. He was waiting for Black­stone to grasp the reality of the situation. He stoked the fire and flames devoured the dry wood.

Blackstone said, ‘Those towns pose a threat should King Philip try to impose more pressure on you and the others, to bring you more under control, to crush your – what’s the word? – when you wish to govern yourself?’

‘Autonomy,’ de Harcourt said.

‘That.’ Blackstone hesitated, trying to see the sequence of events that could inflict themselves on Jean de Harcourt and his friends. ‘You can’t attack and hold those towns because you’re still sworn to King Philip.’ The reasoning unfolded in his mind like a map, each crease revealing a hidden place. ‘But if my King had taken the French crown, Normandy would have sworn allegiance to him and with his help you would have been free to do what you wanted to protect your borders.’

De Harcourt relented and poured more wine for Blackstone. Could someone like him understand the great nation of France and its divisions? His own history weighed like an anvil. ‘We swear allegiance to those we choose. But we are trapped now that your King has taken what he wants.’

‘There are men out there who would fight for your cause if you paid them,’ he said.