Master of War (50 page)

‘We’re not going to the coast. Saquet will spend the better part of a week looking for us. I needed him out of the way for a while. We’ll be waiting when he returns. We choose the ground where we fight. Find me a slow road to the monastery at Chaulion and give our peasant friend time enough to do his work.’ He spurred his horse, forcing the others to follow.

Riding out with the men had brought an unexpected sense of freedom. As a ventenar he had commanded twenty archers and now there was a similar number in his charge. These ordinary soldiers were simple, uncomplicated men. This was an experience that filled him with hope, unshackling him from the confines of the castle with its rules of behaviour. Christiana was safe and he would have a modest dowry, and if he succeeded in securing even one town he would be able to justify de Harcourt’s trust. He had already demonstrated that his actions were tempered with leniency, and as he hanged the ringleaders the ghost of Sir Gilbert rode at his shoulder and grunted agreement. It took a few more miles of riding before he realized what it was that had changed in him. He was happy.

By the next morning they sat on a low crest of a hill gazing down at the lifeless, frozen landscape. They could see quite clearly that the crossroads had not carried much traffic since the last sprinkling of snow. It was a small, single-storey monastery, conceived as a reclusive hermitage in ancient times and then built up over the years as others sought out the solitude and reflective life of a monk. Over the years such hard-working self-sacrifice had eased from the monks, who relied on their lay brothers to do all the manual work. Villagers paid tithes and tilled the land – labour they could well have put to better use tending their own meagre crops. Monks attended to prayer every three hours, day and night. It was a life that no fighting man Blackstone had ever known could contemplate, though there were benefits of ale and wine – and it was not unknown for a prior or an abbot to have a mistress for other worldly comforts.

Smoke curled from the monastery chimneys. They had warmth, so they weren’t too uncomfortable in their seclusion. Some of the outer walls had crumbled, but the main structure still stood and was kept in good order by the monks. A wood and stone bridge lay across the river, which was shallow in places as indicated by the boulders keeping ice from forming. But the pockets of still water showed there were deep pools that were frozen. An attempt to cross without that bridge would be difficult. In the old days monks must have seen the value of building such a bridge and Blackstone thought that the abbot most likely charged a toll.

He could see that some of the old storage barns and stables had fallen into complete disrepair, so over the years the monastery had brought everything within the walls of the existing building. That made sense because then brigands or common thieves would have to scale the walls to steal grain or drink.

‘Why are we here?’ asked Meulon. ‘The town is miles away.’

Blackstone pointed to the churned road that led away in one direction. ‘Chaulion’s down there, and it looks as though horsemen have travelled down this way in the last day or so.’

‘Saquet looking for us,’ said Meulon.

‘The abbot is under Saquet’s protection and the King favours him. His hands will be smooth, his belly fat. There’s no resistance in a kept man. Weak with good food, wine and a warm bed.’

‘That sounds all right to me,’ Gaillard said, and the other men muttered their agreement.

‘And when men like us come to take it from you, what then?’ said Meulon. ‘You’d have your fat arse kicked and a begging bowl and a whore to keep you if you’re lucky.’

‘Jesus, Meulon, having a soft tit and a skinful of wine isn’t much to ask,’ Gaillard answered.

‘Best keep your mother out of this, Gaillard,’ said one of the men.

Gaillard took the insult good-naturedly and allowed the men’s jibes as Meulon turned his attention back to the landscape, where Blackstone pointed out the features. ‘It’s a good location for a monastery – on the crossroads. If a man who knew about such things pulled down those old buildings and rebuilt a wall you could stop anyone using the road. A few men could control the passage of trade and anyone would find it hard to ford the river,’ said Blackstone.

Meulon raised himself in his stirrups and looked left and right. ‘The ground falls away, and rises across the stream, so it would be a good strategic place to hold.’

Blackstone smiled. Those were his thoughts exactly.

Meulon sighed, and blew the cold phlegm from his nose. ‘You’re taking a stick to a hornet’s nest is what you’re doing. You interfere in one of his villages, and now you’re going to take the monastery. Saquet is going to be very pissed off with you,’ he said, and then smiled. This Englishman was like a bed louse, he’d get under your skin and you’d scratch until you bled.

Blackstone and his men urged their horses downhill. It was getting colder and one thing Blackstone knew for certain was that men hated fighting in winter. It was a time when wars ground to a halt. Horse forage was scarce and men needed food and warmth to fight effectively. He hoped that Saquet’s wild goose chase would give him the time he needed to secure the road that led to Chaulion.

The voice called from the main gate, ‘You there! What are you doing? Be off with you! Off!’

Blackstone and his men were carrying the fallen stones from the old tumbled walls down to the bridge. They barely paused in their work. It was already three hours after dawn.

‘You’ve been at prayer, good brother,’ said Blackstone. ‘It’s going to be a fine day, I think. The sky’s cleared. Cold, mind you, and the wind will pick up again, I suppose, so we’ll have that accursed rain and snow again. No matter, we’ll be finished in a couple of days.’

The perplexed monk left the gate open and, gathering his habit, traipsed down to where the men continued their labours. He saw that a couple of hundred yards away in each direction a horseman guarded the road.

‘You’re taking our stone,’ said the monk, unable to grasp why anyone would do such a thing.

‘Yes. And it’s good stone,’ was the reply.

‘It’s not yours to take!’

Blackstone wiped his hands on his tunic. ‘But you don’t need it. It’s just lying out there in the fields.’

The monk’s mouth opened and closed like a fish. ‘The abbot must know about this.’ He turned on his heel and Blackstone strode by his side. ‘I think you’ll find the abbot will be happy to donate the stone to the cause.’

‘Cause?’

They were close to the open gate.

‘Our cause,’ said Blackstone. ‘I’ll explain to the abbot when I see him.’

‘You can’t see him. Who do you think you are? He wouldn’t allow armed men in here,’ the monk protested.

‘In here?’ said Blackstone as he stood beneath the gate and eased it open further. ‘Think of us as pilgrims seeking shelter, brother. Only we’re going to outstay our welcome.’

Blackstone took the dumbfounded monk through the gate as Meulon and the other men followed. They had seized the mon­astery near Chaulion.

No one had ever dared challenge Abbot Pierre’s authority. Even the odious and threatening Saquet had given way because the abbot was favoured by his King, and the mercenary had understood the terms of his own contract. The abbot might well have argued with himself that he had placed villagers in danger by abandoning them, but Abbot Pierre had, in his own mind, given them life by aligning his own aims with those of the routiers. A simple justification for a simple, venal man. But now the comfort of his massaged conscience was about to be stripped from him. Abbot Pierre visibly trembled. Thomas Blackstone’s face sent a chill like ice water down to his privates. The Englishman had introduced himself, but without due courtesy shown to the abbot’s status.

‘You’re confined to your lodgings,’ Blackstone told him as he sniffed the succulent aroma of roasted meat suffusing the air. ‘And you’ve a good kitchen by the smell of it. Roast pig is far too rich for humble monks. No matter, my men need feeding.’

‘You’re mistaken if you believe that you and your brigands can escape retribution. You have no idea of the wrath you have incurred.’

‘Not from you, I think.’

‘Your arrogance is insufferable,’ spluttered the abbot.

Meulon said, ‘A leader of men has to be arrogant, Brother Abbot – you set a fine example yourself.’

‘Don’t worry, your silver plate and artefacts are safe from plun­der,’ Blackstone told him. ‘King Edward hanged men who looted churches and monasteries. We won’t pillage your sacraments. You’ve splinters of the cross, though, have you? To sell to peasants? To give them hope?’

‘Of course,’ said the abbot warily. ‘Do you intend to take them?’

‘I’ll burn them when I find them,’ he said.

‘May God forgive such violation,’ the abbot whispered and crossed himself.

Blackstone seized a handful of the abbot’s cloak that he wore over his habit, pulling him to where Gaillard waited. ‘Worthless shards of wood, peeled from any scrap timber and used to prey on an ignorant peasant’s fears. You offer them hope for salvation and don’t even have to uncurl their hand to seize their hard-earned coin. If every splinter of the cross was gathered from every monastery or church our Lord Jesus would need to have been crucified a thousand times on as many crosses. Pray for your own forgiveness. Off to your quarters, my big fat crow, and I’ll have one of the brothers bring you bread and water.’

The abbot’s jowls wobbled, his prissy mouth unable to utter a word.

‘Your lips are as puckered as a cat’s arse,’ Blackstone said and pushed him towards Gaillard. ‘Understand this: your life of ease has now ended. You have how many monks here? Ten? More?’

The abbot had always had a simple understanding of where power lay and who wielded it. He steepled his trembling fingers together and lowered his eyes. A man of low breeding like this English­man obviously needed his status as leader of his men acknowledged.

‘Sir Thomas. This humble monastery can be of no interest to your English King. Surely?’

‘That is for me to decide. Now I can either search every nook and cranny and drag them out, or you can tell me how many monks are here. Or would you prefer a starvation diet for a week to lose some of that blubber?’

The abbot swallowed hard. If he co-operated, then at least he might be fed meat, something he had become accustomed to. Not for him the modest food of a humble monk. The kitchen smells made him salivate. ‘Fourteen monks and as many lay brothers.’

‘Good. I’ll need them all to help my men.’

‘What can possibly be done here?’

‘I have only a few days to build a wall and if I thought that having you carry rocks would be of benefit I’d have you whipped into the fields, but you’d be too slow and cumbersome.’ Blackstone nodded to Gaillard, who stepped forward to escort the abbot to his quarters.

‘A wall?’ His incomprehension, as if Blackstone spoke in tongues, only added to his look of stupidity. ‘The days are short. A wall?’

‘You have tallow and oil so we’ll have torchlight. You’ll see. It will be a fine wall.’

Gaillard grabbed the confused abbot and forced him to quicken his step.

Blackstone turned to Meulon. ‘Have the men fed, the horses stabled. Then take an inventory of food and supplies. Keep every­one behind the walls until we organize work parties. And ignore tradition – keep them armed. Two sentries at all times. Day and night.’

Meulon nodded and turned away without question. Whatever this young Englishman had planned he’d know soon enough and he was happy to be left to deal with the men. None had yet asked too many questions about why they had been put under Blackstone’s command, but they would, so he decided to bring them together and, in a soldier’s way, cut out any discontent that might be brewing. Thomas Blackstone commanded, but Meulon was their captain and he would make sure there was no chance of dissent.

Blackstone stood in the empty room and imagined the abbot’s corrupt life of comfort and warmth when it should have been one of humility and hard work, of going among the verminous poor to offer healing and alms. He wandered alone through the monastery, noticing that the kitchen fires were well tended, the flour sacks in the bakery were dry, the flour coarsely milled. Not yet finely ground as for a nobleman’s taste then, he thought. Perhaps the abbot had not elevated his aspirations as high as he might. The chapel was modest but functional; the infirmary clean, with boiled linen bandages neatly folded, the tinctures, herbs and ointments stored and labelled. An elderly monk bowed before him and when asked his name cupped a curved palm to his ear. He was Brother Simon; his eyes clear, his back bent and although age pulled the skin taut across his hands, there was no tremor in his fingers. Blackstone knew he would be able to stitch a wound with skill. He would not work in the fields, Blackstone explained to him, and he would not be asked to do anything other than what he did. Muscles would bruise and bones could break when working with rocks, and backs would need liniment, and shoulders would need putting back into place when pulled out of joint.

Wherever he went, everything was in an orderly state. The lay brothers were leather-skinned men used to hard work in all weathers, compared to the flabbier monks, mostly stooped and pale from bending over their manuscripts. The manner in which the lay brothers held back and bowed their heads respectfully when he walked past made Blackstone think that they were probably harshly disciplined on the orders of the prior as instructed by the abbot. These were the men who laboured to serve the self-indulgent monks as they scoured scripture and copied their pages in the warmth of the scriptorium. After inspecting the various parts of the monastery he walked the base of the walls until he was finally satisfied that they were in good order and gave little chance of being breached because of poorly laid masonry. There was always the risk that Saquet could mount an attack before Blackstone could find a way of seizing the town. The monastery was his men’s safe haven and would remain their sanctuary until he could defeat the mercenary, Iron Fist.

The men’s spears and shields were stacked against each other so that they could be reached quickly should the alarm be raised. Each man carried stone from the fields and the ruined buildings, which Blackstone had ordered torn down. The monastery’s two donkeys were saddled with pannier baskets and used to carry more of the boulders. Blackstone’s days in the quarry with his master mason had taught him how to organize work parties, and the monks worked obediently once they had made their protests at having their prayer times restricted to matins and vespers for the next few days. The monks had become lazy in their coddled life of prayer and scripture reading and they would have to sweat more to match their lay brothers. A monk’s life was one of obedience, Blackstone had told them, and their prayers could be said while they worked. God would still hear them and the Lord admired those who laboured. Was it not a monk’s duty to build something that would last? Then he, Blackstone, would give them the opportunity to please God and reacquaint themselves with obedience and humility. And, he promised them, for those who faltered a knotted rope would remind them of how weakness of the flesh could be banished.