Master of War (41 page)

‘I lay dying in the mud of Crécy and saw the burning cross. Warrior angels gathered around me and I begged forgiveness, but they barred my way to heaven. It’s an argument I carry with the Almighty.’

‘Stop that! I won’t hear another word,’ she said, her echoing words bright and sharp.

She tried to avoid his embrace but he held her. ‘Listen to me. I see God’s work everywhere. I don’t have to go into a cold stone building to speak my thoughts to Him. I see the spirits in the forest and His angels in the clouds. Don’t bury me in your fear, Christiana. Besides, I’m safe from any retribution because you’ll pray twice as hard and save us both.’

The sound of servants moving in the corridor stopped her from arguing further. She pulled her cloak around her, checked the passageway and then stepped quickly onto the stairs, leaving Blackstone alone in the tomb of silence.

The devils danced but Blackstone turned his back on them.

Damnation was already his travelling companion.

He checked on the English messenger, who slept fitfully, slipping in and out of consciousness. The servant whose duty it was to sit with the injured man told Blackstone he had stayed silent most of the night and that the administered draught had numbed his pain. Food was being sent from the kitchen. Blackstone dismissed the servant and sat next to Harness’s bed. It seemed to him that other than the obvious wounds the man’s body was broken inside.

He wrung out a cloth in a bowl of water and dabbed Harness’s head. The brand was livid, but might one day be borne as a badge of honour. A servant came in with a bowl of soup.

‘I was told the man must be fed as often as he was able to eat,’ the man said.

‘I’ll see to it,’ Blackstone told him, taking the bowl of broth, pungent with herbs.

Harness awoke at the disturbance.

‘William, I’m told you’ve slept through most of the night. You’re on the mend. Here, let’s sit you up.’

He eased Harness into a sitting position. ‘Is there ale?’ Harness asked, dragging his tongue from the roof of his mouth as he stared at the room. ‘Where am I?’

‘In Castle de Harcourt, and there’s no decent ale in these parts, I can vouch for that. There’s wine or water.’

‘Water?’

Blackstone smiled at Harness’s reaction. He was pale, his face gaunt, and his hands trembled. The dried blood from his lungs moistened again now that he was conscious and talking. Blackstone put the damp cloth onto his lips. ‘This will moisten your mouth. You’ll have wine after you’ve eaten.’

Harness sucked the moisture and nodded his thanks.

‘No food. I’ve a thirst. All right, I’ll take wine if that’s all there is.’

Blackstone held a small bowl of red wine and let him drink as best he could, his ragged breath making it difficult for him to swallow. ‘The Virgin Mary herself must have sent you to save me,’ he gasped, the effort making him tremble even more. ‘Finding another Englishman among all these bastard Frenchies, Blessed Mother of Christ be praised, I’ll spend the rest of my life on my knees in any cock-arsed priest’s church.’ He lapsed into a quiet exhaustion again, but smiled, and rested his hand on Blackstone’s arm.

‘You should rest,’ Blackstone told him, ‘talking will weaken you.’

‘Fornication weakens me but I don’t get enough of that either,’ he laughed, but then spluttered. Blackstone put the cloth to his lips again and noticed the speckles of blood.

Harness raised his hand, and breathed slowly. ‘I woke up… sometime… don’t know when. Candles were burning… thought I was in heaven… a woman came in… bloody angel, I said to myself, God’s sent an angel, and all I could think about was putting my hand up her gown and my cock in her. Where did you say I was?’

‘You’re in a Norman baron’s castle and I think you were dream­ing,’ Blackstone told him. None of the noblewomen would venture this far down the corridors, and Christiana lay in his arms all night. He raised the bowl of soup to Harness’s mouth. He crinkled his nose.

‘It’s the herbs,’ Blackstone told him. ‘They’ll nourish you.’

‘A piece of salted mutton would do me good,’ he said looking over the bowl’s rim to Blackstone.

‘Take what you can of this and I’ll see what I can do,’ Blackstone told him.

‘She was here, y’know, I saw her clear as I see you. And a damned sight prettier than your mangled face. Who did that to you?’

‘It doesn’t matter. He’s dead.’

Harness thought for a moment. ‘They castrated my friend, Jeffrey. Do you know that? The lad they hanged in the village. No mercy shown. We offered them the King’s protection and they took a knife to him and strung him up. They were saving me for something special. Can you kill them? Teach ’em a lesson?’

‘It’s Christmas, William. The holiest of times. Forgiveness for all.’

‘Oh aye?’ His face hardened and tears formed in his eyes. ‘Piss on that. He was a lad, younger than you and me both. Loved his King and his horse in equal measure, I reckon. Proud to have been chosen. God, that boy could ride day and night, taking the King’s word. Would’ve rode through hell for his sovereign lord.’ He wiped the tears from his face. ‘Hurt him something cruel. Pitiful to watch it was. And once they’d beaten me half to death they made me look at ’em doing it.’ He shook his head. ‘When I’m able, I’ll borrow me a horse and I’ll ride back to them vermin and I’ll put a torch to them. Then they can try and kill me again.’ He spluttered again as his rattling chest released more fluid. ‘I’m no soldier but I’m the King’s man. And I’ll see them dead before I go.’

The broth remained untouched. Blackstone understood Har­ness’s hatred. Every time he thought of his brother’s death the squirming in his stomach always rose like a serpent and squeezed his heart. Perhaps that desire for vengeance could keep Harness alive as it had done for Blackstone.

‘We’ll burn them out together. How about that?’

‘You swear?’

‘I do.’

‘That’s a grand idea. You’re a fighting man, I can see that. I’ll take your lead, and we’ll burn the scum out.’ He sighed and closed his eyes again. ‘Aye, we’ll teach them. Poor lad… killing’s one thing… but for what they did… they’ll burn.’ He stayed silent for a while until Blackstone knew he could do no more good by sitting with him. Best to let him sleep. As he stood to leave the room, Harness half opened his eyes.

‘She was here. I saw her. Braided hair and blue gown. Like the Virgin Mary she was. Came to see William Harness in his hour of need.’

Blackstone did not reply as Harness fell asleep but he knew the man had not seen a vision in his delirium. It was Blanche de Harcourt who had come into the room, and if she had been this close to Blackstone’s quarters then perhaps she knew of Christiana being in his bed.

Desperation crept into him. How long could he and Christiana sleep together without being discovered? The servant, Marcel, already knew, but Jean de Harcourt had made no accusation. He must know, he
must
! How could such a powerful man, who would use his authority to have any man punished most brutally, not know what went on under his roof?

Unless, of course, his interests and concerns lay only in political matters and the pursuit of power against a feeble King. Blackstone realized he had not understood the emotions that ran through the de Harcourt family. When he had rescued Christiana and they had gone to the castle at Noyelles it had been Blanche de Harcourt who held the family together while her lord and husband fought the English. Sir Godfrey de Harcourt might well have offered her protection, but Blackstone remembered the relief that Blanche showed when Christiana had been returned to her safekeeping. And her armed aggression would have cut men down if her family were threatened. She was a force to be reckoned with. After that the family meant nothing to Blackstone and certainly, once he was wounded, he cared little about who nursed him. Christiana was a ward and it was the countess who kept her close. And so too Marcel.
Marcel!
What a fool I’ve been, he thought. Marcel wasn’t his master’s servant, his loyalty lay with Blanche de Harcourt. Christiana may have thought that she had bribed the servant to allow her to slip into his room the night of the hunt, but he would not have dared to risk disobeying the one person who controlled his life. Blanche de Harcourt. Christiana was the daughter of a knight, but, in truth, she carried no authority within the de Harcourt household. Marcel would only have let her into his room if he knew that his mistress would not be offended. Blanche de Harcourt knew
they could not be kept apart much longer. She
allowed
it to happen.

Blackstone had not thought it through clearly enough. Blanche de Harcourt could never be her lord and husband’s equal in this house, but she was a born noblewoman, with land and title of her own, and would influence her husband in any way she could to ensure his power. Blackstone’s desperation was clearer now. It was as if he had to fight two battles at the same time. He had to discover why she would permit Christiana to become so intimate with him, and yet, as he believed, not tell her husband. Christ Jesus, he thought, I’m being pulled into something here that I have no control over. Jean de Harcourt had given friendship, and Blanche had allowed her ward to lose her virginity and fall in love with an Englishman.

It was Blanche who moved the pieces on the chessboard.

And Blackstone needed to find out what they were going to be.

There was a buzz of excitement in the air as the servants prepared the Christmas Day feast. It was a time of the year when they would share in the joy and benevolence of their master who would grant them an audience to consider any grievance and to gift alms and food. Everyone would eat well and the pageboys would share in the festivities and help serve at the tables.

Blackstone climbed the ramparts and walked along the walls. The sentries respectfully lowered their eyes; none would dare show disrespect after what happened. Gaillard’s wound was healing, and Meulon, the blacksmith’s son who, all those years ago, had run away from home and gained seniority in his lordship’s service, made it clear that they owed their lives to the Englishman. A French knight wouldn’t save a man from a flogging and he wagered those bastard English knights wouldn’t either.

Blackstone gazed across the landscape, watching the veering wind sweep the clouds along, taking his thoughts with them. Where was this place that he had been brought to? That he was south of Rouen and not that far from Paris he had discovered from snippets of conversation. Even Christiana did not know where the great cities lay, or where the powerful landowners held their estates. The world was a small place, defined only by their immediate surroundings and the tales of travellers. Men tramped to battlefields and left their blood to soak into a part of France of which they had no knowledge. To die without any understanding of a cause was a heresy, Blackstone thought. A man needs to know why his precious life is being offered into the hands of his enemy. And when had these thoughts begun? he asked himself. Thoughts and feelings that were once alien now possessed him as strongly as the anger that gave strength to his sword arm.

Had it only been a year ago that he was still leading his con­tented life in the village, and indulging in laughter and games at the village fair? He remembered the long run across the meadows and the swarming bees, with a ducking in the river to save himself from their stings. Times of being up to no good when the holy days kept them from working. How a man put food on his table with all those restrictions had never really occurred to him, but it all seemed so much simpler then. He was a free man blessed by the good grace of his lord and in care of a lumbering brother who could neither speak nor hear but who felt the breath of a moth’s wings and sensed the hoof-fall of a newborn fawn. How had so much happened in such a short time? It had been only one Christmas past when they had taken food from the hands of Lord Marldon, and earned a cuff around the head from his reeve, for insolence. Would there be trout this far upstream again, Marldon had asked the young archer, and if there were would Blackstone and his brother leave enough for his lordship’s keeper to have on his table? Blackstone could not remember his exact words in reply, but a cheeky response had made the reeve strike him. Lord Marldon had let it go at that because the boy was ignorant of the bond between his father and his lord.

Only a year ago, and now look where he was. He had been close to death, but the angels he saw that day when he lay at Crécy had sent him back to this world, to serve out his penance for not looking after his brother. There was no denying the heaviness of his doubt, for he did not know what lay in store for him. The pull he felt, like a silken thread that refused to break, was the desire to return to England. It was becoming stronger, made more tangible by the wounded William Harness. The man’s despair at the loss of his companion echoed Blackstone’s feelings about his brother. Both wanted retribution. Was it as simple as a need for vengeance? It seemed more complex than that. He didn’t know, but whatever it was, it now steered his life. The Christmas celebrations were a time to ask for favours and if William Harness survived the next two or three days he would ask de Harcourt to release him from his patronage and let him make his way back, with the wounded herald, to the English lines at Calais. Once there he would present himself to his Prince and the King and then see where this new life would take him. Christiana would come with him because the two of them were now entwined in a passion that could only be destroyed by the Church’s condemnation or the forced separation inflicted by Jean de Harcourt. Either one, Blackstone knew, he would ignore.

The boar’s head occupied pride of place on the table, its eyes gazing sightlessly at the bejewelled and colourfully dressed men and women who laughed and shouted above the minstrels’ music. Blackstone sat at the end of the table again but Christiana had been placed between Guy de Ruymont and his wife Joanna, with Jacques Brienne, an unmarried knight, sitting opposite her. He had already danced three times with her, and Christiana had studiously ignored Blackstone. Was he being punished for something? he wondered. Were Jean and Blanche de Harcourt making it clear that they knew of his intimacy with Christiana? Alone, and ignored, he sat and watched, a hapless spectator. None of the wives looked his way, and he had the sense of being shunned by the women, as if ordered by their husbands not to engage with him. He ate as delicately as he had been taught, but drank more wine than usual. There was little to do other than look interested in the goings-on and resent the finesse of Jacques Brienne as he guided Christiana in the dance with the other similarly adroit men and their wives.