Master of War (49 page)

He looked at the boy and nodded. Then he walked towards the inner yard.
Mercy
,
cried that voice again.

Blackstone knew there was no such thing.

Not from the beast that clawed within him.

Had he remembered the fight? de Harcourt had asked him. Yes, every stroke and guard. And had he deliberately let de Fossat dash himself against him? Yes. He knew the man would tire and then experience greater fear when he was set upon, realizing he would be beaten. Blackstone was aware of every thought and saw every memory and felt everything.

De Harcourt had gathered the others in the great hall without Blackstone present. They pledged what money they could and what few men could be spared after their losses at Crécy. It was agreed that Blackstone would have thirty men at his back, a dozen from de Harcourt, with Meulon as their captain. And no man present would utter a word of their involvement with the Englishman. Only he, de Harcourt, would keep a line of communication open. The next day the noblemen returned home and soldiers from their estates were sent to de Harcourt stripped of their livery. All were commanded by their sworn lord to follow Blackstone.

De Harcourt had explained as much as he could to Blackstone. ‘Christophe-la-Campagne, where you found the Englishman, is under the control of Abbot Pierre. He is a loyal supporter of Philip. There’s a small monastery – a dozen monks or so – on the crossroads a few miles from Chaulion. The key to capturing Chaulion is to control the road, but how you do that, and how you draw out this Saquet, is up to you, Thomas. The abbot is safe from attack because the Pope favours our King and he and the abbot pay Saquet to hold Chaulion, which means he’s the abbot’s protector of sorts. The Breton is a vile creature. Despite being on the King’s payroll he’s allowed to take whatever he wishes from villages that lie in the abbot’s diocese. The godly Pierre, in his hypocrisy, urges the villagers to pay protection to save the blessed Mother Church and their own sinful lives.’

‘How do you know this?’ Blackstone had asked.

‘When you returned I sent a trusted monk from my priory to Chaulion. Stay away from the village, Thomas. They’re dyed-in-the-wool supporters of the French King, and Saquet will ride out and hunt you down before you’ve even formed a plan of how to take the town.’

‘I made a promise to William Harness, my lord,’ Blackstone had said. ‘And those people will know of it.’

‘You risk everything from the start,’ de Harcourt had warned.

‘I gave my word. What other honour is there for someone like me?’

When the noblemen had left the castle Jean and Blanche de Harcourt sat with Christiana and Blackstone. It was arranged that the following afternoon they would meet in the chapel and the priest would officiate at their wedding. De Harcourt and his wife would bear witness.

‘Were we not permitted to marry with the barons in attendance because of my shame?’ asked Christiana.

‘No one knows you’re with child. We said nothing to them because for now your marriage should remain private,’ said Blanche. ‘We did not want to risk them speaking of it. A Christmas wedding is something women will gossip about and if Gilles de Marçy is still in Normandy with those men we don’t want him to hear of it.’

De Harcourt said, ‘Half the nobles in France are probably born out of wedlock, Christiana. We care for you now as would your father. His sacrifice will not go unrecognized in this house.’

Blackstone averted his eyes from de Harcourt. There was no possibility that he could know of Blackstone’s involvement in those early days of the invasion, but mention of her father made him uncomfortable.

‘You have to realize that Thomas will be in danger, as will this family, if what he does is traced back to us. We’ve heard from Paris that my uncle was made to wear a halter around his neck and nothing more than an undershirt, and they paraded him through the streets like that. The King spared his life, but his humiliation is complete.’

Blanche said, ‘There is no youthful joy left for you, Christiana. You’re a woman now and you’ll stay with us until Thomas returns.’

‘And if he fails then he fails alone,’ de Harcourt added. ‘Your marriage must remain a secret for now. This contract between you would guarantee a life of penury were it not for what Thomas has agreed to undertake. His success determines not only your well-being but ours too.’

Christiana nodded her understanding. Marrying a man for affection or love alone was seldom allowed and never considered a good match. And Thomas Blackstone was dirt-poor. Had Jean and Blanche de Harcourt not been her guardians her own life could have ended in a convent or a whorehouse, or she could have been raped and murdered by Gilles de Marçy.

De Harcourt wiped the wine from his lips with a folded napkin. ‘Besides, you should have been spoken for years ago. It was some­thing your father should have considered more seriously. A girl past twelve or thirteen is going to find it difficult to be suitably matched,’ he said, with a glance of disapproval from Blanche.

‘My lord and husband knows only that affection grows over the years. He never experienced it in his youth.’ She paused and then smiled. ‘Only when he married me.’

‘Emotions without restraint are a woman’s business, Blanche. If Thomas had bothered himself to learn gentle words through poetry he might have understood that.’ He looked at Blackstone. ‘That’s one thing you’ve failed in. Learning the skills of courtly love is a means of honouring your beloved, Thomas. We go to war and fight because of the love we have for our women.’ He returned Blanche’s look, which he knew well.
Stay silent and guard your words
, she was saying. ‘He has nothing to offer the girl, as far as I can see, except his strength and courage and love for her. Though I daresay that will be enough,’ he temporized.

‘And they are both blessed with your friendship. They are richer than most, my lord,’ added Blanche.

She was not going to let him heap more ruin on a wedding ceremony that could not be acknowledged. A day when a bride had to suffocate her own joy. De Harcourt had to give in gracefully. If he did not, the winter nights could grow colder and seem longer.

‘Aye, and it was earned, Thomas Blackstone. You’ve a way to go before I can let you loose in polite company, but you’ve proved yourself to me, without question. But there won’t be a wedding notice posted, or celebratory feast given. The minstrels have been paid off. So your day will be one of quiet and no different than any other. And that’s the way it must be. I’ll bargain with the priest to take us into the chapel and perform the ceremony without the usual custom of banns being read.’

Blanche raised her eyebrows. There was one more thing to be said, but de Harcourt scowled.

‘Is this a poor bargain, Christiana?’ Blackstone asked gently, as if seeing her doubts.

‘For my part it’s the best of bargains, Thomas, and you must never doubt it. You found me in this castle and took me to Sir Godfrey and then you risked your life again for me. There’s more than gratitude involved. I’ll treasure you for the rest of my life, as will our child.’

Blackstone reached out a hand and smothered hers. ‘Don’t listen too closely to what my lord says. There’s much joy coming our way and we’ll be together once I’ve secured a place for us. I’m responsible for you now, but my Lord Jean, and his good Lady Blanche, will protect you until I send for you.’

Blanche de Harcourt had waited long enough for her husband to finalize the arrangement. ‘My lord and husband will also offer Thomas a dowry on behalf of your father.’

Christiana grabbed de Harcourt’s hand and pressed it to her lips. ‘My lord. God bless your kindness and generosity. I shall say a prayer for you every day for the rest of my life.’

De Harcourt sighed and eased her away, so that she and Blanche might embrace. ‘We have done our duty, child. How God came to place the two of you under my roof is indeed a mystery, but we have honoured His wishes – though His ways mystify me more often than my wife.’ He spread his hands in supplication. ‘Now can we eat? Marriages are arranged for whatever purpose is suitable. All this talk of undying love and childbearing squirms in my stomach like a worm that demands feeding.’

The following day the four of them went into the chapel and knelt before the priest as if it were a regular time for prayer. The priest was well paid and did as de Harcourt instructed. Special prayers were said in thanks for Sir Godfrey’s life and then the priest said the nuptial Mass. Blanche gave Christiana one of her lavender and grey velvet gowns, embroidered with silver and thread, set off with a necklace of precious stones. Over her braided hair, which had been washed with rosemary water, Blanche had arranged a filigree of gold.

Blackstone had surrendered to the ritual and bathed. He wore fresh clothes and tunic, and parted his long hair in the middle. De Harcourt instructed Marcel to trim Blackstone’s whiskers that now stubbled his face and prickled the whitening scar. Marcel was the only servant trusted enough who knew of the ceremony and, without speaking of it, he suspected why the marriage had been so quickly arranged. These events held Blackstone briefly in wonder, and for their wedding night Blanche had prepared a guest room fit for a nobleman and his bride, embellished with dried rose petals and fragrant perfume.

‘I have no gift of jewellery,’ Blackstone told her as they sat naked before the warmth of the fire. He extended the palm of his hand, showing her the silver coin neatly cut in two. ‘But this is a token of my love for you. Wherever the two halves may be, then there will we also be. Complete. As one.’ He kissed her tenderly and hoped the words he had read in one of de Harcourt’s books had been well remembered.

Days later, when he had embraced his new wife in farewell and accepted Blanche’s good wishes for a safe return, he had been taken aside by Jean de Harcourt before he and the twenty armed men rode out.

‘Honour and glory will be yours in time, but temper your killing with compassion for those who deserve it, Thomas. For those who do not, strike the fear of your name into their hearts.’

The Feast of Epiphany, twelve days after Christmas Day, celebrated the arrival of the three wise men, the Magi, bearing gifts for the holy child. But on this particular bleak day Blackstone bore no gifts of goodwill.

‘You’ll grant us mercy,’ said the peasant whose twisted face Blackstone gazed down on from his horse. The man sneered and laughed as he turned to look at the thirty or more villagers armed with pitchforks, billhooks and axes. They were in no mood to pander to a lone impoverished knight with only two men at his side. Meulon and Gaillard looked uneasily about them.

‘So you believe I should offer leniency to those who butchered an unarmed man and messenger of the King of England?’ Blackstone answered.

The peasant took a threatening step forward, half raising the billhook. ‘You’d best be on your way, bastard Englishman. Our protector Saquet,
le poigne de fer
, will be upset if we kill you ourselves, but he’ll not chastise us if we lop off a leg or an arm.’

A few of the men laughed, their bravery growing every moment. Killing the English messenger was easy, but three armed men on horseback might cause some of them injury. Blackstone had not yet taken Wolf Sword into his hand as he eased his horse forward a stride. The peasant’s uncertainty was matched by his own small retreat.

‘This “Iron Fist” you talk about. I’ve heard of him. They say he’s as strong as an ox and twice as stupid. I’m here to punish, not be threatened.’

‘You’ve a nerve coming here. Leave before we set on you!’ the man shouted, encouraged by the others, but their courage slipped away quickly when women’s screams suddenly broke the early morning air. The men turned. Flames were taking hold of three houses as armed men bearing torches stepped from the forest in a necklace of fire.

‘There’s no gift of mercy today,’ said Blackstone, wrapping his hand around the sword’s grip.

The houses blazed fiercely as every man, woman and child who had not escaped the encircling men was herded into the muddy thor­ough­fare. The bitter smoke swept across them and their tears of fear and self-pity mingled with those from the smoke. Black­stone had little trouble in identifying the half-dozen men who had caged William Harness like a pig awaiting slaughter and who had butchered Harness’s friend. In their fear the villagers quickly turned on each other, giving up those responsible for the emasculation and killing of the young messenger. They were made to cut down his violated body and bury him in a deep grave so that wild animals could not root up his remains.

And then, as his men held back wailing women, Blackstone hanged the ringleaders and set their houses alight. The village black­smith who had branded William Harness was held and burned with the same fleur-de-lys branding iron onto his forehead. And after this justice had been meted out every man, woman and child knelt in the mud and begged Blackstone to spare them.

‘I am riding towards the coast to find other villagers who mis­treated my King’s messengers,’ Blackstone told them. ‘Saquet cannot protect you now. Remember that. I have relented and shown you mercy. I should have every one of you branded and sent off into the forest to survive like the beasts you are. Remember my giving of life and my name.’

Blackstone led the men out of the village.

‘Not much chance of them thinking you’re the Virgin Mary in disguise. More like the Grim Reaper,’ said Meulon.

‘Either way they’ll remember,’ said Blackstone.

‘We can’t ride to the coast, Master Thomas,’ Gaillard said, ‘those villagers will have run like rabbits to Chaulion and we’ll have Saquet breathing down our necks.’

‘Of course they will. It’s what I want,’ said Blackstone.

‘You think we can win a pitched fight out here? They’ll ambush us at their first chance. And I’ll lay odds they outnumber us at least three to one,’ Meulon said, adding his voice to the men’s concerns. The Englishman might have the balls of a bull but that didn’t mean he couldn’t be brought down by a pack of ravenous wolves.