Master of War (63 page)

Hampton smiled. ‘He’s learning right well, is our Frenchie friend. Come on, Thomas, let’s be at them, it’s a hard ride to Calais.’

The men had cheered, eager to get beyond the walls and try their strength. There would be silver belts and coin to be filched and taken off the French dead.

Blackstone had the loyalty he needed.

‘You have to take Gaillard,’ Meulon told him. ‘It’s marshland around Calais. He was born and raised near there. If there’s a fight to be had he knows the causeways and paths to firm ground.’

Doubt clouded Blackstone’s thoughts. Could he risk going back to de Harcourt? There was still the matter of the plan de Harcourt had devised to seize the mint. Like a foul case of dysentery, mistrust griped in his gut.

He took them to within sight of the castle and then he and Meulon rode forward alone and called to the sentries. The gates soon opened and Jean de Harcourt rode out in full armour with twenty or more of his men. For a moment Blackstone’s hand went to Wolf Sword, but Meulon turned to him.

‘Sir Thomas, I served my Lord de Harcourt for many years, and I know he would not harm you. It would be insulting to draw your sword.’

Blackstone let his hand rest on the pommel as Jean de Harcourt pulled up his horse.

‘So here you are again, Thomas. Back at my door.’

‘It’s been a long time, Jean.’

‘It’s Christmas again, Thomas, I always see you at Christmas! Would summer be such a hard time to visit? Are you my Christmas­time gift? You’re a wanted man and there’s a fair price on your head for those who would deliver it.’

‘I’m at your mercy, my lord,’ Blackstone answered to the smiling de Harcourt.

‘Well, I cannot be seen to welcome you back until King Edward settles matters once more. You know the truce is broken and that Geoffrey de Charny and Louis de Vitry plan to attack Calais? And there are some mighty names of France who ride with them.’

De Charny’s reputation was one of the greatest in France. His chivalry and courage were legend, and if he led then Blackstone knew that other great knights would follow him.

‘Word reached me of Count de Vitry’s agreement with the King. If Calais falls then everything is lost. It’s the key to Edward’s plans for France,’ Blackstone answered.

De Harcourt smiled. ‘Indeed it is. Is this you getting involved in politics? I thought such things were of no interest to you.’

‘I don’t care anything for intrigue or conspiracy. I serve my King and
his
interests. But I don’t know how many of the barons have gone over to King Philip. Henri Livay is dead, taken by the plague, but they tried to buy his support. Who else besides de Vitry has turned?’

‘None that I know.’

‘De Fossat?’

‘William’s a law unto himself. I can’t tell. I think he’s already in Calais swearing allegiance but to whom I don’t know. If Louis de Vitry takes the citadel, he’s reclaimed the key to France and the rewards will be great. Who knows what our Lord de Fossat will accept if tempted to sell his loyalty to the King? De Vitry hates you, Thomas, but de Fossat… I don’t know… both men would benefit from your death. You humiliated them both. What better place to reclaim their pride than on the battlefield?’

‘And you, Jean? Where do you stand?’ Blackstone said without taking his gaze from the man’s eyes.

There was no sign of dishonesty when he answered. ‘With Edward, when the time is right.’

Blackstone nodded. The answer was good enough, and one he expected. ‘I need Gaillard.’

De Harcourt hesitated, not understanding for a moment, then he realized the man’s value. ‘Of course.’ Without turning in the saddle he commanded that Gaillard be brought from the castle. ‘Christiana is well? And Henry?’

‘Yes. She appreciates your letters and misses you and my lady Blanche.’

De Harcourt looked at him for a moment as if he were address­ing his brother, and could barely keep the regret from his voice. ‘And we you, Thomas. There’s affection for you both in our home.’ The moment passed quickly. ‘Meulon,’ he said, ‘there’s grey in your beard. Has Sir Thomas aged you that much?’

‘And more, my lord,’ he answered.

De Harcourt laughed. ‘You’re learning to answer like him! Yes, I can imagine, but you’ve honoured me with your loyalty to him. You were my best captain.’

Meulon’s chin lifted in an unmistakable surge of pride from such praise.

Gaillard rode out from the castle and waited at a respectful distance.

De Harcourt nudged his horse forward. ‘Thomas, I see your sword is without that expensive scabbard I gave you, so obviously you are ready to fight anyone who tries to stop you. In which case I shall escort you and your men from my lands, by way of safe passage in case others try to impede you, though you understand, I am not helping you. As you outnumber us there is to be an honour­able agreement between us that you will not raid or plunder. You will agree to this for the sake of formality so I am not obliged to lie to the King’s officers if I am questioned.’

‘Of course. You have my word.’

‘Then let us ride together as far as we can and I will show you the quickest and safest route to Calais.’

De Harcourt escorted the men north beyond Rouen, into Ponthieu and the castle at Noyelles, and then bade his farewell. The road ahead would stir too many memories, he told Blackstone. It was a place that Blackstone had no desire to revisit either.

They skirted the woodlands above Crécy, where the charred remains of the windmill stood as testament to the burnt-out lives of those thousands who lay buried in the fields below. Matthew Hampton cast a glance at Blackstone. It was the last great battle they had fought and the place where so many of their friends lay dead beneath the undulating ground. Blackstone’s eyes lingered on the site as they rode past. He saw Hampton’s grim expression and gave a nod in his direction. The past would always haunt them and to experience it meant they were alive. Ghosts would always accompany them no matter how far they travelled.

On the fifth day they halted on the heights and looked down across the marshlands surrounding Calais. Its streets could clearly be seen, laid out neatly within the rectangular walled town, and the citadel with its keep and curtain walls sat snugly in the north-west corner that faced the inlet whose harbour Edward had successfully blockaded, three years earlier, starving out the thousands of inhab­it­ants. Once Calais was in his possession Edward had brought in hundreds of English merchants to occupy the town, which was well fortified with high double walls sur­rounded by a moat and a long, fortified dyke that could be flooded, not unlike the one that Blackstone had built at Chaulion. There was no sign of Louis de Vitry and Geoffrey de Charny or their army. It was the first time Blackstone had seen Calais and now he understood why his King had besieged it for so long; a direct attack would be impossible. Other than being starved out, having a traitor within the walls would be the only way to seize it. Blackstone studied the shifting sands and marshlands. They gave little choice of approach for an army and he reasoned that de Vitry and the others would line up on the wet sand banks between the castle’s gate tower and the sea. Once that drawbridge was down and the portcullis up they would be inside the walls and the slaughter would begin.

‘You’re going into a part of England now, Meulon,’ Blackstone told him, pointing out the town.

‘Sweet Jesus save us, then. I hear your food is terrible,’ he answered.

They gained entry and were met by twice their number of men-at-arms who defended the inner walls. John de Beauchamp, Captain of Calais, had been in Prince Edward’s division at Crécy and knew of Thomas Blackstone, but his caution was understandable when allowing a band of armed riders into the city walls. King Edward and the Prince of Wales had sailed secretly from England and were in the citadel.

‘Then my Prince and my sovereign lord will vouch for me. We came to defend Calais,’ Blackstone told him, and repeated the names of the towns and manor houses he held in the south for the benefit of the men who remained with arms at the ready.

‘Put your men there,’ Blackstone was ordered. ‘And wait.’

‘Do you know who has betrayed you?’ Blackstone asked.

‘We do and it’s of no consequence to you, Sir Thomas. I’ll tell the King you’re here. Every man will have his place when the French come.’

Blackstone settled with his men on the wet ground, backs against the inner walls, their horses taken by others to be stabled. No food was offered and none asked for. As far as Blackstone was concerned there was no point in showing any need for comfort. The men rolled out their blankets and made do with the salted meat and fish they carried with them.

‘Like old times,’ Matthew Hampton said and he cut a slice of meat and fed himself.

‘And as wet and damp as it always has been,’ Blackstone answered.

Hampton lowered his voice so that Meulon and the other Normans didn’t hear. ‘Good to be killing Frenchies again, Thomas,’ he said, knowing Blackstone would most likely allow the familiar­ity. ‘But if we’re stuck in here we won’t get much booty.’

Blackstone chewed on his own food. ‘Don’t you worry about that, Matthew. You just keep your bowcord dry. There’ll be enough killing for us all.’

Hampton grinned, teeth ragged with meat, and tapped his leather helmet. That’s where his bowcord was and it would stay there until the Frenchies came within range.

Within a few hours there was a flurry of activity as the inner gates were opened and an entourage of knights and men-at-arms came towards Blackstone’s men. The man who led them, wearing full armour, was the same age as Blackstone and almost as tall, and wore his hair long and parted in the middle and, unlike the last time Blackstone had seen his Prince, he now sported a short beard. But the striding confidence of the King’s son had not altered. He was a fighter like his father. How many sovereign lords would have sailed secretly through the night to aid even a key town like Calais that was under threat? He could have stayed at home like Philip, Blackstone thought to himself as he quickly went down on one knee, followed by the others.

‘You arrive like will-o’-the-wisps from the marshlands, Thomas, but far more frightening than creatures of super­stition and nightmare. Get up.’ The Prince of Wales looked critically at the band of men who stood before him.

‘To defend our lord’s good name and safety of his city, my Prince,’ Blackstone answered.

‘And your Prince. You’ve come to defend me, I hope? You seemed rather good at that,’ he said and stepped forward to gaze more carefully at the archer’s ruined features.

Blackstone faced the man who had honoured him at Crécy, but averted his eyes for fear of being thought impertinent. ‘My lord, you need no help in that matter. Your fighting skills are known across the land.’

‘As are yours, Thomas. We hear that mothers tell their child­ren that if they don’t behave, the scar-faced-devil of an Englishman will come for them in the night and carry them away to purgatory. Merciful God, Thomas, we didn’t expect you to live after Crécy, perhaps you
have
come back from the dead to terrify us all?’

He laughed and his entourage visibly relaxed. ‘There are so few of you. What? Sixty, seventy men? A mongrel bunch, Thomas, by the look of them.’

‘It’s not how many, lord; it’s how they fight.’

‘A good answer. You please us. And if memory serves, your mind is as quick as your impertinence. So, my knight, you ride here not knowing we were already hidden behind the walls. We accept your loyalty and daring with gratitude.’ He paused and looked slightly askance at Blackstone’s men, who appeared little better than brigands. ‘You have no colours, no coat of arms. Unless you are part of the conspiracy and have found a way to exploit our trust and gain entry by subterfuge.’

There was no hesitation in Blackstone’s answer. ‘If that were the case, my Prince, you and these men would already be dead.’

Some of those in the entourage visibly flinched. The Prince also looked taken aback for a moment as Blackstone’s eyes dared to look into those of his lord.

‘Yes, we believe that would be the case as well,’ he said. He held out his gloved hand. ‘We see you still carry the sword.’

Blackstone’s hand reached for the grip and as he drew the blade from the metal ring that held it some of the men behind the Prince went to draw their own, but the King’s son made a small gesture that stopped them.

‘We know this man. We knelt with him in the mud at Crécy. Many of you were not with us that day, but we shared a moment that will only be forgotten when death takes us. Not so, Thomas?’ He paused and then took the sword that was offered, hilt first. The Prince felt its weight and balance. ‘It’s as we sus­pected, Thomas. As perfect a sword as could be made. When you lay injured you gripped it as a man going to the grave clings to life.’

The Prince turned the sword and held the blade in front of him, holding it like a crucifix. ‘You were God’s instrument, to save our life. Will you give us this sword?’ he asked quietly.

‘Everything is my sovereign lord’s,’ Blackstone answered.

‘We are not your King, Thomas. Will you give
me
your sword?’

‘Gladly,’ said Blackstone without hesitation, and hoped the flutter of apprehension he felt at losing Wolf Sword did not show on his face.

The Prince of Wales still held the cruciform forward. And then after a moment he said, ‘In truth, we think it would see better service in your hands, Sir Thomas. Take it from us.’

Blackstone grasped the blade above the Prince’s hand. It was a gesture of unspoken fealty.

Prince Edward released his grip and stepped back. ‘Very well. Remember our King’s orders. The leaders of this army must be taken alive. Ransom and shame in defeat are bedmates to a French King. We wish to exploit that. So, choose your ground.’

‘Where will the enemy strike first?’

‘Here. Between these walls. Through those gates. And then we pursue them and finish them off so that Philip doesn’t dare try again.’

‘Then this is where we fight,’ said Blackstone.

The young Prince studied him for a moment and then, in a rare gesture, laid his hand on Blackstone’s shoulder.