Master of War (44 page)

‘A token, is it?’ he said, in barely a whisper. ‘Let’s see it, then.’

Blackstone laid it in his hand and Harness turned it this way and that. ‘That’s very clever, that is. Whichever way you look at it the bird is swooping. Your lady give you that, did she?’

Blackstone nodded and let the man’s insistence of being told the story finally make him relate the events of how he first met Christiana and then carried her across the river at Blanchetaque.

Harness sat, like a child being told a fable. When Blackstone finished he said, ‘I was with the King then. You archers made him glow with pride, you and the men-at-arms that were at your shoulder. You lads did a grand job but I never saw you swim that river with the girl. I wish I had. That would be something to tell your children about. I had no idea who you were, young Master Blackstone.’

‘There was no reason you should.’

He wheezed indignantly. ‘Nah! What? Me the King’s mouth­piece? Me what carries the messages? We heard of the young archer. We heard all right. We knew what had happened. Soldiers like nothing better than to spin a line and catch a fish or three. Your stature, and that’s a word I’ve heard used by Cobham himself talking about our sovereign lord, the stature of the young archer grew like a beanstalk. You must have killed a hundred men by now if they’re still talking about it, which they will be. And why not? Sir Thomas Blackstone, eh? But I know you now and when I get back I’ll be telling them all about you and that you’re alive.’

They talked of the war and how the King’s messenger had seen so little of it, being held in the rear echelon waiting for the command to ride just like the other twenty or so men who were paid by the King’s purse to carry his word. Harness was too lowly to know the great fighting earls, and the battles fought were a mystery to him. The sound of warfare and killing was what he remembered, the clash of battle and screams that came in a wave of anger and fear sweeping up over the hills. The conversations were stilted as it did not take long for Harness to tire, slipping away into sleep, and always with a sad exclamation of what the villagers had done to the young man who rode with him into that village.

St Stephen’s Day followed Christmas Day and the servants were granted their favours and gifted with presents. Villagers brought humble offerings to their lord and he in turn, along with the other noblemen, handed out alms to the poor, the blind and lame. De Harcourt walked among them with Blanche as Blackstone watched from a distance. Some of the noblemen handed the coins to their squires to give to the outstretched hands, not wishing to have physical contact with the villeins. It was also a day of remembrance for Blackstone to reflect upon. His father had always made him pray before they set off for Lord Marldon’s favour. St Stephen the martyr was the patron saint of stonemasons and every artisan should honour his saint, insisted his father. Blackstone knew nothing more than that, but he would always honour the hour with a prayer for his father. And now for his brother. No vision of St Stephen ever appeared to bless him or thank him for his prayers, so Blackstone kept the prayer brief and the memory of father and brother bright.

De Harcourt and the others made no attempt to hunt or ride out during the holy week as one saint’s day followed another, and meat was forsaken for fish, and fish for fowl and it seemed that whatever flew free in the sky ended up on a platter. Woodcock, pigeon or common housebird, swan or goose cooked in wood-fired ovens or nestled in their embers, they were smothered in honey and saffron, a delicacy for the noblemen. And Blackstone took a morsel from each meal, the rich palette of sauces more disagreeable than common fare, but he fed William Harness, and ordered less exotic fare from the kitchen for himself. It seemed by week’s end that the surfeit of food and prayer tired even the most stalwart of de Harcourt’s guests and none had raised argument against him. He hoped that the jester called Luck was turning the wheel of good fortune towards him.

He was walking the battlements, having a word or two with the soldiers on duty – unimportant matters: the weather, the possi­bility of approaching storms, the silence and the emptiness of the landscape in this, their place of duty – when a movement caught Blackstone’s eye. It was not unusual for low-lying mist to cling to the belly of land, stubbornly refusing to shift until late in the day. A ghostly haze of lemon-tinged vapour lay beyond the landscape at the edge of the forest where the silver ground remained untouched by villagers or horsemen. Now, shadows moved across it. A banner fluttered, still too far away for him to make it out. He glanced quickly at the sentries who stood on the walls between him and the next side tower; another sentry was down at the bridge across the moat checking villagers who needed access to the castle.

‘Horsemen!’ he called, and saw the sentries scan the horizon.

Meulon ran out of the watchtower’s guardroom, pulling on his helmet. ‘Stand to arms!’ he shouted, then leaned over the parapet. ‘Below!’ he called to the man at the bridge. ‘Inside!’

The bridge sentry pushed the villagers clear of the entrance and ran for the gate. If this was an attack they would go under the sword before he would.

‘I’ve lost them,’ one of the sentries called, scanning the horizon.

Blackstone peered into the poor light, but his eyesight was keen and he saw the brief flutter of the banner as it showed itself from the undulating ground.

‘Your lord’s banner! North-east!’ he cried, pointing out to where the column of horsemen would soon appear in the distance. It was the de Harcourt armorial flag of red and gold bars, followed by a half-dozen riders who turned and headed straight for the castle. Before the men’s faces could be seen Blackstone already knew that it was the bull-like figure of Sir Godfrey who led them. Was the war won?

Blackstone pounded down the steps into the courtyard, a grim satisfaction that the tug of the leg wound was a tightening of his muscle and nothing more. As he reached the gatehouse he saw Jean de Harcourt moving down the castle’s steps followed by the other noblemen.

The wind carried the thudding sound of hooves as de Harcourt peered through the spy latch in the gate, the soldiers ready to open the main gate once he gave the command. Blackstone stood back, watching de Harcourt’s concern. Obviously his uncle was not expected.

‘It’s Sir Godfrey, my lord. I’d recognize him at five hundred paces,’ Blackstone said.

‘You’ve an archer’s eye, Thomas, but dishonourable men can hide beneath a surcoat and a helm and bring enemies into your house.’

‘It’s him. I swear it,’ Blackstone answered confidently.

De Harcourt peered towards the distant fringe of woodland, waiting until the approaching men were less than two hundred yards away. ‘Open the gates!’ he commanded, and moments later when the great doors swung open the horses were already clattering across the wooden bridge. Noblemen and servants alike pressed back as the marshal of the English army rode into the outer bailey. The horses billowed steam, their flanks heaving. They had been ridden hard.

Sir Godfrey dismounted with the ease of a man half his age. He quickly embraced his nephew and glanced at the gathered men. Blackstone saw that a mixture of emotions ran among them. Sir Godfrey was their enemy but kinsman to their host. All had fought the English but here was the open traitor among them. Antagonism towards their own King was one thing, but for some of those present to welcome a man who had helped lay waste to their lands was another.

‘Cool them down, then feed and water them,’ Sir Godfrey commanded the stable-hands who ran forward to hold the bridles. ‘Pack food and drink for my men! We leave within the hour!’

Then he turned quickly, taking Jean de Harcourt by the elbow, and limped towards the great hall, followed by the half-dozen mud-spattered men who fanned out protectively behind him. He had not glanced in Blackstone’s direction, which made him feel an inexplicable pang of loss.

‘You’re safe here,’ Blackstone heard Jean de Harcourt say to his uncle, glancing nervously at the men who came behind them, each with a hand resting on the pommel of his sword.

‘Nowhere is safe for me, Jean. Not any longer,’ Sir Godfrey told him without breaking his limping stride.

‘Sir Godfrey!’ de Fossat called after him. ‘Are you here to give us the English terms of surrender?’

The noblemen bristled as the old warrior turned to face them. ‘I’m here to see my nephew. If I’d have known you’d be here, de Fossat, I’d have brought more men to protect my back.’

‘Damn you, Godfrey, we’re here at his invitation and you know why!’ de Fossat spat back, unafraid of the older man’s status.

‘Then you’ll wait until you’re sent for,’ Sir Godfrey told him.

‘Have you won?’ Henri Livay asked. ‘Has Edward taken the crown from Philip?’

‘While you hunt and gossip the war has ground to a halt. The great King Philip is in Paris behind bolted doors,’ Sir Godfrey told him, his emphasis on
great
heavy with sarcasm. ‘Edward is with his Queen, starving out Calais. I’ll summon you when I’m ready!’ And with that dismissal he urged his nephew up the steps of the inner ward towards the great hall.

William de Fossat made as if to step forward and confront Sir Godfrey, but de Mainemares held his arm.

‘There’s trouble. Leave him be. He’ll tell us in his own time. We’re in this together. Like it or not, we have to wait for him,’ he said.

Rebuffed by Sir Godfrey, the humiliated noblemen shook them­selves like peacocks, choking on their anger; only de Mainemares and de Graville seemed unconcerned as they moved away together like two men who understood that patience was needed.

De Mainemares’ words to de Fossat were not lost on Blackstone, but he ignored the flustered nobles and made his way discreetly behind Sir Godfrey and his nephew. What was the old fighter doing here now? he wondered. It had to be important and he offered little if any respect to the other noblemen. They may be enemies, but there’s obviously a link between all these men, he thought.

Sir Godfrey’s men looked efficient and alert despite what must have been a long ride. Blackstone desperately wanted to reach the small gallery that overlooked the hall from one of de Harcourt’s private rooms before the doors below were guarded. He turned down the passageway where a small oak door gave access to steps up to a half-landing and then another dozen more that opened into the solar. He prayed that Blanche de Harcourt was not there with the other wives, or that personal servants were not in the family’s private room. He paused, held his breath, and listened beyond the thudding of his heart. The solar was empty. He crossed the floor, then went up a few more steps. He pressed his back against the wall and carefully lifted the wooden spindle latch, closing the door behind him. A floorboard creaked under his weight. He froze, not daring to move and look over the edge of the gallery. The men had already entered, the heavy chestnut doors below buffeting the air as they shut.

‘Mother of God, Jean, this is an unholy mess. But I had to come and warn you.’

There was the clink of glass, a bottle glugged its contents and a metal object – that had to be Sir Godfrey’s helm, Blackstone thought – clattered onto the table.

‘About what? My King can’t doubt me or the others. We bled for Philip!’

‘Aye, that’ll keep suspicion at bay for a while. There’s a death sentence on me now, Jean,’ Sir Godfrey said after slurping the drink. ‘More. I need it.’ Again the sound of liquid being poured reached Blackstone.
You want to hear a rabbit move? Or a deer step ladylike through the forest? Open your jaw, lad
– let the sound reach you. Every poacher learns that
. Blackstone slackened his jaw slightly, easing the tension, remembering his father’s lesson. The words below became subdued but Blackstone could hear the muted tension clearly enough.

‘Edward is not going to pursue Philip into Paris.’

‘He’s given up?’

‘No, he’s settled for the territory he wanted. Imagine fighting through that warren of streets – Christ, it’d be worse than Caen! Every pot maker and whore could trap and kill the men.’

‘Then they’ve signed a truce?’ Jean asked.

‘Not yet, and there’s no sign of one. So this grand war of con­quest has turned out to be nothing more than a goddamned raid!’ A glass smashed.

‘Then Edward has abandoned you?’ said Jean incredulously. ‘After giving him the Cotentin, St Lô, Caen? And how much more slaughter could you have done against us at Crécy? We chose badly, but I couldn’t convince Father to relinquish his duty to the King. You’ll have more than bitterness to contend with here, uncle! These men were waiting for a treaty. They were waiting to side with you! Is there nothing you can say to Edward?’

‘He’ll take Calais eventually – that gives him everything he needs. It’s his gateway into France. No, he’s not abandoned me, but I’m adrift in the slurry of shit that will sweep down upon me. The garrison at Caen has broken out and slaughtered the men we left to guard the city. My men have been killed at home. What remained of my lands is seized. The French have regained much of what we took. Edward doesn’t have the money to pursue this war and Philip is bankrupt. Christ Jesus! I have to go and beg forgiveness in Paris or we’ve lost everything.’

‘The King will never forgive you. Never. He’s a vengeful man. He’ll want your head on a pike for us all to see.’

There was silence and the sound of a weary man slumping into a chair. ‘It has to be done. It’s more than my life that matters now. Edward will come back. Normandy must be sworn to the English crown. Then we control our own destiny.’

‘I followed my father and saw him die. This family stands divided because of Philip and his weakness, but I won’t give myself to the English, nor will the others. Not now!’

Sir Godfrey sighed. ‘I know that. Sweet Jesus, I thought Edward was going to sweep all before him. Listen, Jean, we need to keep the others under control. If I am reprieved it means we take longer to coerce the King. He has lost this war, and if Edward cannot finish the job now the time will come when he will. One day he’ll call on us again and we have to be ready.’