Master of War (58 page)

‘I had work to do. We’ve secured a corridor that gives Edward an opportunity to strike through the heart of France should he need to.’

‘And he’s aware of it. We have our ways of telling the English King what he needs to know. You refused our payments, Thomas. Is our money not good enough?’

‘I wanted to be independent and to save you and the others from being associated with me, but, unless I can find someone to capture and ransom or strike lucky with another attack, then I shall come back with my begging bowl. I have enough to get through another winter.’

‘You’ll never be seen as a beggar by anyone in this house, or those associated with me. We’ve watched you hurl yourself through the countryside like an angry storm. We could never have acted with such abandon.’

Blackstone allowed the warmth of the compliment to calm him. ‘I have good men. Every one of them. Tell the barons that they chose well when they sent them. And I should be with them.’

‘Every man has more than one duty, Thomas. Christiana was under our guardianship, but you can’t abandon your wife and child.’

De Harcourt’s words caught him like a flail. ‘Child? Already?’

The Norman lord looked at the man he had taught to fight, the boy who went out a mercenary and returned a seasoned leader. ‘Sweet Jesus, Thomas, you can count the months.’

Blackstone looked blank, trying to recount how many sorties and attacks he had undertaken. The months went hand in hand with conquest. How many men lived and died, and when, was his calendar. ‘Eight?’

‘Ten, damned near eleven.’

‘A child,’ he whispered to himself. ‘What am I to do now?’ he asked like a fool. And then, ‘What kind of child?’

‘Well, there are no signs of horns or cleft hoof, so most likely one sent by the angels. You should see him.’

A son.

Christiana was different. Her face had softened and there was a warmth to her skin like a blush; she looked somehow younger; childlike, he thought as he gazed at her. Her body pushed more against the soft cloth of her dress and her breasts, he noticed, were fuller and the taste of desire for her caught in his throat.

As he stepped into the room she was blowing gently on a cord to which were tied a dozen or more strips of coloured material that swayed above a small bundle lying swaddled in a crib. She whispered a soothing sound that would have caused the wildest heart to quieten. Except that when he saw her his heart beat faster. She turned as he made a movement, a sudden look of alarm giving way to surprise and joy as she ran and leapt at him, her lips covering his own with that unmistakable taste. She whispered his name a dozen times and then lowered her legs to the floor, gazing up at him, holding his face in her small hands, and letting her finger trace his scar.

‘Thomas, my beloved husband. I have missed you so much and prayed every day for your safe return.’ She tugged his hand. ‘Come, come and see your son.’

She lifted the sleeping infant from its crib and handed the swaddled child to him. He held it awkwardly away from his body, his big hands like grain shovels compared to the tiny bundle. ‘It’s like a loaf of bread,’ he said curiously. Bringing the child to his face he sniffed. It was a delicate smell that he had never experienced before.

‘I’ve just fed him,’ she said and eased the baby from his arms. She kissed the infant’s forehead and Blackstone could see that she was like a child with a new kitten.

‘There’s a wet nurse here?’ he asked, because there had never been women servants at Harcourt.

‘I feed him. I’ve enough milk for every child in Normandy,’ she said, without any coyness in her voice and an impish look in her eye.

‘What do we call him?’ Blackstone asked, imagining the child suckling at her breast, lying in her arms as she stroked its face and cooed a sweet lullaby. And wishing he were that child.

‘Henry, to honour your father, Guyon, to honour mine, and Jean, to acknowledge his godfather.’

Blackstone realized that he had never known her father’s name. And learning it now made the circumstances of his death more painful than it had been before. She saw the shadow that fell across his face.

‘Did I do wrong in my choosing?’

Blackstone recovered quickly. ‘No, it’s perfect. Henry Guyon Jean Blackstone. Just that it’s a mouthful,’ he lied, covering himself, ‘I hope I can remember them.’ He broke her frown with a smile, and bent down to the petite girl who had become his wife and mother to his child and kissed her. He reached out for the baby.

‘You’re filthy,’ she said, putting a restraining hand against his chest. ‘You stink of horse sweat and greasy leather.’ And then kissed his lips lightly and whispered, ‘We should bathe.’

The following days were easy. They made love frequently and the tension of commanding men and seeing to their welfare gave way to languid nights after vespers, where she would return from her prayers and satisfy their lust for each other, so that she would have to spend even longer praying for forgiveness for her lascivious thoughts and acts. Blackstone would have none of it, and begged her not to pray for him, or she would be all night in the chapel.

Hours of the day passed slowly; soldiers begged leave to approach him and ask about their comrades who now served with him, to learn who lived and who had not. He slept in Christiana’s feather bed with her in his arms, but most nights after their entangled bodies eased away from each other into sleep, he felt the bite of his back muscles, more accustomed to a hard cot with a straw mattress, and she would wake and find him curled on the mat with his cloak over his naked body. Each day seemed to pass more slowly than he had remembered. The way he lived with the men at Chaulion had smudged his memory of how quiet and simple life could be within the castle walls. Marcel still hovered as his mistress’s servant and, Blackstone suspected, informer, but he showed a particular skill with the baby, and would often be sent by Blanche to bring mother and child to her rooms. Christiana seemed not to give it a second thought when Marcel went down onto the carpet where Henry lay on his back mewling, small arms and legs wriggling, like a beached fish with limbs, and plucked the child into his arms, wrapping him in a shawl. Servant, mother and child seemed like a family unto themselves, as Blackstone watched the ease with which his son was embraced. Blackstone had not yet gauged how much tenderness should be applied to a body that felt like a boned chicken. That it was his seed that had grown into the bleating infant was still a cause for wonderment. Part of him lived in another creature now, just as he had been spawned by his father. A regret caught him unawares: he would not be able to pass on his archer’s skills as his father had done. But, he told himself, there was little sense in becoming too sentimental about the child. If it lived a year it was lucky, two was fortunate, beyond that it had a chance. Arianrhod came to his lips, as he closed his eyes in a silent prayer to the two mystical women – the Celtic goddess and the Virgin Mary, Mother to all children – and asked that the infant might live so he could share its life.

‘Hoi! Hoi!’ Jean de Harcourt cried as one of his falcons battered through the dull sky in pursuit of a doomed woodpigeon. He doted on his new falcons, with their perches in almost every room of the castle except the bedchamber, the one place where Blanche’s prohibition was inviolate. De Harcourt stroked and pampered them, cooing tender sentiments as if to a child on his knee; an unlikely sight. The hunting season was as good as over, but he wanted Blackstone to ride out and see the beauty of his birds. Blackstone had always felt what he could only describe as resentment when he was a boy watching Lord Marldon hunt with his falcons. It was a nobleman’s sport, easy kills that came with little effort, so different from the woodsman skills he and his brother had learnt. If they could not snare a cony or bring down a bird with a sling, they might not know the taste of meat for weeks, and using a sling brought eye and arm together, perfect training for bowmen. That same feeling had risen again when he was convalescing at the castle and had watched de Harcourt ride out with his birds. Now, though, as the hooded raptor on his master’s glove was given sight of its prey and released, Blackstone had a different thought: he was like that bird – trained, held and sent in pursuit.

He was relieved to ride without the company of women, for after being regaled by Christiana and Blanche with the events of the past months he had quickly tired of their chatter. During his absence there had been visits by other lords and there had been feasts that brought with them all the attendant gossip. De Harcourt’s summons provided a welcome escape from the two women, who had begun to talk yet again of the protracted labour pains that Christiana had endured.

When Blackstone and de Harcourt returned home the birds were settled by the falconer and de Harcourt guided Blackstone into the library, where they warmed themselves by the open fire, dogs at their feet and a map beneath their fingertips. Jean de Harcourt and the other Norman lords enjoyed relative safety in their heartland even though the war between the French and Anglo-Gascon forces in the south went on regardless of the treaty made between the two kings at Calais, while to the west con­flict continued unabated as independent captains, mostly loyal to Edward, fought and gave weight to the opposing side in the civil war that sapped resources and men with its unrelenting violence against the dukes of Brittany.

‘Edward has little interest in the west,’ de Harcourt explained as his finger traced a map. ‘The ports are his but the Ushant Reef is treacherous and Brittany offers no convenient port of entry into France, so he continues his support simply to stop the French from going south to his lands in Bordeaux. If they ever struck there they would deny him his shipping routes to England and make the defence of Gascony more difficult and expensive than it is already. Both Kings jockey for position. Both seek revenues to pay for others to possess territory in their name.’

Blackstone pointed out the scattered outposts he had secured inland. ‘These are my towns and villages. I’m vulnerable from here and here,’ he admitted, his hand sweeping east and then west to the marches of Brittany. ‘But those that I hold, be they manor houses or hamlets, are defended and within easy distance of the others for reinforcements.’

‘But you don’t have enough men, Thomas. You must be pre­pared to take those of low character into your ranks. Prisons are being emptied, footsoldiers and horsemen roam in bands taking what they can.’

‘I don’t want scum. Those I have wouldn’t grace a halfway-decent tavern, but alehouse whores like them and they pay for what they take. Besides, as I told you, money goes quickly. Perhaps I should go to Edward and ask.’

De Harcourt let the map roll into itself. ‘The cost of keeping his garrison at Calais puts a strain on his coffers. Take those who offer their services and let them live from
patis
.
It’s how men like that survive.’

Blackstone knew more of how these soldiers of fortune lived than did de Harcourt.
Patis
was nothing less than protection money – a contract between mercenaries and surrounding towns and villages to take what they wanted, when they wanted it and with the agreement that the villagers would not be attacked by them. The trouble was that it gave those men independence and allowed them to live by their own rules. For Blackstone to allow groups of men to do so meant he would have no control over them. His own
patis
was protected by his sword arm.

‘If I do that it would take only a few incidents to have the locals rise up and attack my men. I have a core of soldiers that serve me and those I have given authority to. I can only do what I can with those that I have. It was never your intention for me to ride at the head of an army. Small groups of us in strategic places are worth more to me than hundreds scavenging the countryside for food.’

De Harcourt knew it was dangerous to be too ambitious. Sir Godfrey had miscalculated the King of England’s ability to finance war away from home. Blackstone was right, it was better to have control over a smaller and more vital area than to gain a greater territory and risk losing all. But he thought he knew how Blackstone could strike a blow for the Norman lords and seize enough French coin to buy himself the kind of men he wanted.

‘We’ll talk more of this later,’ he said, wanting to think on it further. ‘You’ll stay for Christmas, Thomas. The other lords will be here.’

Christmas was something he dreaded. The whirl of coloured dresses and jewellery would brighten the heavy walls and bring gaiety and laughter to a house that had nurtured him. He would always be grateful to de Harcourt, Blackstone knew, but to have to endure another Christmas would feel like a punishment.

‘Lord, I cannot leave my men that long. I’ll return with Christi­ana and my son and we’ll make the best of it there. Isn’t that why you summoned me from Chaulion – to do my duty to my family?’

De Harcourt nodded his agreement. ‘As every man must, Thomas. But don’t let those responsibilities hinder your enterprise. Let Christiana have the boy until he’s old enough to serve as a page. I’ll take him when the time is right; when he’s able to read and write and wipe his own arse. But do you understand how this places a greater burden on you?’

‘I have to support them, that’s natural.’

‘And if you die?’

‘Then they take what I have.’

‘And what you have are scattered places of land with modest crop yields and ignorant peasants who’ll give themselves like whores to the next man with a sword who can protect them. Your son needs an inheritance; if you have more children, a girl perhaps, then you’ll need a dowry. Poverty is not for the likes of us, Thomas. You’re no aristocrat, but you’ve a better understanding than most of what survival is about. God did not spare you at Crécy to remain a yeoman archer; he took that from you and gave you a greater gift.’

‘He took my archer’s arm and a brother in my care.’

‘And in exchange he brought you here and gave you anger and ambition. For a murdering bastard you have a sense of honour, and I dare say that came from your father and your sworn lord, but you’ve crossed a line, Thomas.’