Master of War (48 page)

‘And who would betray us to the highest bidder.’

Blackstone felt the tingle of excitement, similar to what he felt when closing in on hunted prey. ‘You need someone you trust to take those towns and hold them without you being involved. Someone who would have the blessing of the English King, and who would not interfere, because those towns are the silken thread that hold those territories together. It could take years.’

De Harcourt looked at him with an expression of regret. ‘Yes, my young friend, that’s correct. And if such a person died or was captured trying to do those things, he would have no link to us at all. We would not be implicated and we would not offer any help.’

Blackstone’s heartbeat settled. War had beaten out of him any foolish thoughts of conflict being an adventure. Battle and conquest were best approached with cold-blooded skill and determination. Blood-lust came at the sword’s point, when death promised its agonizing embrace.

He sat and gazed into the fire, letting the flames entice him. He could offer his sword to Edward and remain an impoverished knight in France with a wife and child, or serve his King in another fashion and hold land in his name; be his own man.

‘Sir Godfrey was wrong. What you need is a rogue Englishman,’ he said quietly.

The noblemen gathered that night. De Vitry was surly, Guy de Ruymont cautious, and the most senior among them, de Graville and de Mainemares, who had hoped more than any other for a strong King to lead their nation, continually urged the bickering men to settle their differences, support the venture that de Harcourt proposed and await the outcome. If this young Englishman died it would not harm their long-term plans; if he succeeded it would be the first stone laid on the bridge that would carry them to success. This plan was not going to benefit them immediately; they had to give thought to the future. King Philip might reign for years. Henri Livay thought the gout would kill the King in less than a year, Jacques Brienne had it on good authority from a kinsman at court that the King had suffered an apoplexy, while another baron believed the King’s son John would usurp the throne.

As the bantering went back and forth Jean de Harcourt and Blackstone waited silently. De Graville finally raised a hand to silence them all.

‘This plan comes too early for us. We can’t expect support from King Edward, so how are we to stay in the shadows and let an inexperienced man-at-arms ride out and begin an assault that seems doomed before it has even started?’

‘He needs men, and the only way to get them is to pay them,’ said Henri Livay.

‘And they will take what they want and then desert, because that’s the kind of scum you get for such an undertaking,’ said de Vitry.

Blackstone hoped, when they all turned to look at him, that they were not still thinking that he was the scum in question. He said, ‘My lords, sometimes inexperience can be a benefit. Seeing things in a different way can bring success. I would need men, but I would need those who would serve me in your name.’

Guy de Ruymont said, ‘We cannot hide our livery and ride out under false pretences. No man of honour would do such a thing. Such deception would bring disgrace once the ploy was discovered.’

Blackstone thought quickly, searching for the answer that would satisfy the men’s honour and yet shield them from recrimination.

‘All of you have men who have served and fought with you. If you release them from their duty to you, then they could fight as free men. They would wear no livery and they would fight under the captain of your choosing. And to secure their loyalty you would pay them as you do now.’

The room fell silent. It was a simple plan and one that could still offer them anonymity.

‘Blackstone is right,’ said de Harcourt. ‘We have bankrolled the King on many occasions and all we have in return is defeat and higher taxation. I say we have nothing to lose. I’ll speak to my soldiers and offer them their release. Their loyalty will still be to me, and Thomas Blackstone will, in time, gather those about him who will offer their loyalty to him alone.’

Each of them considered the proposal. It was William de Fossat who broke the silence.

‘I have no lands, and my fortune is taken by the King. So I am the most impoverished of us all, but I still have wealth enough to support an adventure, and if a town falls then I will take my share of its possessions and the land it holds. Blackstone can ride under my command. I’ll take ten of my own men with me. I’m not afraid for our King’s mercenaries to see my colours.’

De Harcourt kept a rein on his impatience. ‘No, William. That defeats the purpose of having an Englishman to be seen leading men. He holds any captured towns for
his
King. To all intent and purpose he’s not our man. Surely that is obvious? He fights and secures territory for King Edward. Unless you offer fealty to Edward and ride openly in defiance of Philip.’

‘Then I’ll cover my shield because who in their right mind is going to follow Thomas Blackstone? Ask yourselves that!’

Blackstone knew that de Fossat was still smarting from the perceived insult at the dinner. He was spoiling for a fight, and if that happened and Blackstone beat him he might feel such bitterness and humiliation that he could defy them all and betray their plan to the French King. If, on the other hand, Blackstone lost, then the others would think less of his ability, which might cause them to withdraw their support. And where would that leave Blackstone? But how was he to achieve anything with the animosity of a Norman lord clinging to him like a rash on a whore’s back?

‘I’ll take whatever men will follow me according to your gener­osity,’ he said, and faced each nobleman in turn. ‘But if my Lord de Fossat is intent on leading the assault on Chaulion then the game is up before it has even started. His honour is too great for him ever to deny his name if called upon to identify himself. Covering your shield and obscuring your coat of arms is not enough.’ He turned to face de Fossat squarely. ‘My lord, it is obvious I’ve caused you offence, and for that I apologize. But if you challenge any decision of my command, I won’t back down.’

De Fossat smiled. ‘Then consider your defeat already complete.’

De Harcourt was on his feet. ‘No! William, I’ve warned you already. Don’t make matters worse.’

‘A scarred upstart of a knight carries no fear for me, Jean. In God’s name! You’ve been training a pup.’

Blackstone concealed his nervousness, and determined to brazen it out, he stepped closer to de Fossat. It was no time to show any trepidation about facing down a man of superior rank. ‘And what will defeating me prove to everyone in this room? That you are the better swordsman? That your pride is restored? What good is your pride to these lords’ cause?’ Blackstone said.

De Fossat lunged, aiming a blow to Blackstone’s face, but he turned quickly, making de Fossat lose his balance, stumble across a chair and fall. The others shuffled back hastily. There was no avoiding a fight now; de Fossat had forced the issue and Blackstone had staked his claim for their support.

‘Stop it, William!’ Guy de Ruymont shouted. ‘It serves no purpose!’

‘It satisfies me!’ yelled back de Fossat and drew his sword.

De Harcourt quickly stepped between the two men. ‘William! Hear this! Give every man in this room your word that if you lose you will not pursue revenge; you will not stand in his way to do our bidding.’

‘I give it!’ de Fossat spat.

‘Dishonour your word and we will kill you,’ said de Harcourt.

The words struck de Fossat and seemed to sober his impassioned chal­lenge. De Harcourt and the others waited.

‘I understand,’ said de Fossat. ‘I pledge my allegiance; that will never change.’

‘Then you fight outside,’ said de Harcourt and led the noblemen into the night.

Each of them held a flaming torch and encircled the training yard. The wind whipped the flames but the flickering light made no difference to the two men fighting. Soldiers gathered in the shadows as Meulon permitted the men to watch. Squires and their pages left their beds in the stables and gathered as steel clashed against steel.

De Fossat gripped his sword with two hands, cleaving the air with a blow that could be heard whipping the air despite the buffeting wind. Blackstone half turned his body and the blades clashed. De Fossat’s weight turned him, but Blackstone’s balance was solid. He allowed the blow to fall away, and took a step forward, ramming his shoulder into de Fossat, forcing him onto the defensive. Blackstone’s weight and height were an advantage, but de Fossat was a big man, skilled in close-quarter battle, and went on the offensive with a low strike that Blackstone parried. The force of the assault was like two powerful mountain goats ramming into each other. They sweated, grunting with exertion. If de Fossat could use his skills and tricks learnt from combat he could beat the younger man. Blackstone’s sword criss-crossed his body like a whip, so fast that de Fossat barely managed to close his guard. He staggered back a pace. Blackstone could have strode after him and finished it there and then, but he waited as each man drew the cold night air into heaving lungs. They had already fought for nearly half an hour and Blackstone wanted the man’s defeat to be complete, to be seen as indisputable evidence that he could earn by his skill with the sword the respect he needed. The grunts and gasps were not only from the combatants, the noblemen’s own fighting instincts made them twitch and shift from one foot to the other, shoulders half turning as each blow fell, was struck or parried. Every word and punish­ing blow that de Harcourt had laid on Blackstone was carved into his mind just as the leaping wolf was etched into the hardened steel. Blackstone moved rapidly but de Harcourt cursed him under his breath. Blackstone was not moving enough. His stance changed by only slight corrections, a pace here and there, but never yielding ground, whereas de Fossat was trying everything to break through his opponent’s defence. However, it was a wall that could not be breached and de Fossat’s efforts were as useless as a wave trying to smash a rock. And still Blackstone let the man recover, allowed him to suck in the air and wipe the sweat from his eyes, and waited for the next attack What was he doing? de Harcourt wondered.
Move man! Move!
And then it dawned on him that Blackstone was showing his strength. He was telling his enemy that he could move as rapidly as he wished or he could stand his ground and beat off an attack. He was humiliating de Fossat even further.

De Fossat feinted, the blade nearly slicing into Blackstone’s crooked arm. The noblemen gasped. De Fossat had him! For a moment the Norman had the advantage, and every dead friend and humiliated Frenchman at Crécy was about to be vindicated with a decisive thrust. Blackstone caught the blade on his crossguard and twisted. It was enough to turn it away but the feint had given de Fossat confidence and he brought the full weight of his attack onto the Englishman.

As de Fossat crabbed, seeking an opening, Blackstone allowed his eyes to glance across de Fossat’s shoulder into de Harcourt’s stare. The implacable message in de Harcourt’s eyes was obvious. Finish it.

Blackstone spat the phlegm from his mouth and felt the mail links bite through his undershirt as his bunched muscles gathered the power that until this moment had been called upon to do only what was necessary to halt or turn the assault. Now they would be brought into the fray like a surprise attack.

The dragon rose up, its talons tearing through his chest. Crécy’s slaughterhouse, the nightmare that never left him, loomed in the broken torchlight. Bodies jumbled through his mind as horses screamed and the lone knight cut down his brother. Mouths gaped and spat blood. A knight laid the Prince’s banner across his fallen body, silent, desperate screams to hold the line! Hold! But Blackstone had surged forward, cutting a wedge into the enemy, like a meat cleaver through a carcass, slipping in men’s guts and gore into that carnage. Shattered bodies, ripped and trampled, screams and cries, curses and dying breath.

He punished de Fossat’s pride with a relentless and calculated act of power and defiance.

And then he heard the grunting and smelled the sweat as he closed in on him, smashing him into the torchbearers, seeing a flame fall and splutter as he grabbed the man’s belt, and tipped him into the dirt.

De Fossat’s bloodied face stared up at him. Terror at the death about to claim him.

‘Mercy! MERCY!’ a disconnected voice cried.

‘Thomas!’ de Harcourt’s voice. ‘Enough!’

Arms grappled him.

‘Lower the blade, Thomas. It’s done.’ De Harcourt straddled the fallen man in front of Blackstone’s glaring eyes, protecting de Fossat. Then, more quietly, ‘You’ve won.’

De Harcourt nodded to the others, who released their restraint.

The men shuffled away uneasily. Blackstone had gone in for the kill. Even if a wound had been inflicted on him they all knew that something would have driven him on.

‘Jesus Christ,’ de Fossat muttered, and spat blood. ‘Jesus…’

De Harcourt helped the beaten man to his feet. There was no anger lingering in him. And even humiliation had no place to rear its spiteful head from such a defeat. He seemed dazed at the outcome, took his fallen sword from one of the others and nodded gratefully to de Harcourt.

Jean de Harcourt eased the bruised and exhausted man away. The Norman lords looked at Blackstone. They knew about fight­ing, of how men would tear each other’s eyes out or beat a skull with a helm when the terror took hold. And they also knew that what they had witnessed that night was a fighter possessed of a kind of power given to few. Divine or satanic they couldn’t tell. But it frightened them.

They walked away silently. No one spoke and no one approached Black­stone. His sword hand sweated and the leather blood knot bit into his wrist. He pulled off his open-faced helm and let it drop into the dirt and then raised his face to the rain. The shadows moved as soldiers whispered among themselves and returned to their quarters. The only one who ventured forward was a page. Guillaume Bourdin stopped and picked up Blackstone’s helm.

‘I’ll clean this for you, my lord.’