Master of War

by David Gilman

  ‘Don’t tread too heavily on my affection for my King,’ Sir Gilbert said coldly, his voice a warning that instilled fear without effort. Blackstone felt the threat.

  The man yielded. ‘I want to get paid for my loyalty is all. I’ll spill blood, but I need to feed my household.’

  The argument seemed set to deteriorate. Sir Gilbert stepped away from the fire. ‘We’ll get paid,’ he said finally, ‘just make sure you earn it. We’ll show them what an Englishman can do when he fights for his King! And how much booty he can carry!’

  ‘God bless you, Sir Gilbert,’ someone shouted, and the cheer went up.

  ‘And you too, lads,’ the knight replied.

  They moved a few paces from the huddled men, and Blackstone turned to Sir Gilbert. ‘Is that what this fight is about? Money?’

  ‘You expected it to be about honour? Chivalry?’

  In truth Blackstone didn’t know what he thought, but he sensed it was about a wrong being righted. ‘Something like that. The King is claiming what’s rightfully his or stopping the French King from taking it.’

  Sir Gilbert stopped, and looked at the thousands of small fires burning across the hillsides. ‘Everyone’s here for the money. We all need to be paid. The banks have collapsed, the taxes are high. The King needs a war. I need to fight and find myself a nobleman to ransom, and then I can go home with some wealth. If you survive you go back to your stone quarry, your sheep and pigs, and you’ll wait until you’re called again, because war is how we live.’

  ‘There has to be some honour. My father saved Lord Marldon.’

  ‘Aye, he did, but that was different; that was about men fighting for each other.’

  ‘Then that’s why you’re here. To fight for your King.’

  Blackstone had touched on Sir Gilbert’s honour. The knight chose to ignore him. ‘Get some sleep. We board the boats at first light.’

  He turned away, leaving Blackstone to gaze across the army. The murmur of fifteen thousand voices drifted upwards like bees swarming on a summer’s day. He suddenly realized how frightened he was. Killing would be the order of the day once they landed in France. A pang of sorrow for his home squeezed his throat. ‘Dear God, help me to be brave and forgive me for bringing Richard into this. I should have left him at home – in torment, but in safety,’ he whispered to the buffeting clouds.

  He crossed himself and wished there was a chapel to offer more prayers.

  You don’t need a chapel when you talk to God, his father had once told him, but Blackstone craved the sanctuary and silence it would offer, away from the crush of bodies, the stench of shit and the rising tide of violence that would soon engulf him.

  The wind hissed and shrieked relentlessly through the rigging, drowning out the agonized groans of the men. The round-ships of the English fleet could not sail close to the wind and the strength­ening south-westerlies from the Atlantic held them in the choppy Solent for almost two weeks. Confined aboard the rolling tubs, men would have sold their souls as easily to God or the devil if either would give them calmer water, but the torment went on. Vomit sluiced around the decks, drained into holds, ran like a sewer’s slick onto the legs of men too ill to move, too far gone to care.

  Misery was having its day.

  Blackstone could barely lift his head to retch. Whatever food had been in his stomach had long since departed to feed the fishes. Only one man was unaffected, and he went among the others, carrying them to the ship’s side to retch blood and gall, and to hold them to the wind, the spray slapping their faces, helping to keep the next gut-twisting retch at bay. Blackstone, as helpless as the others, as weak as a child, saw his brother, the grunting deaf mute, earn himself the comradeship of men during those days.

  And then the wind shifted. The fleet followed the King’s flag­ship the George away from the coast and into the Channel. Blackstone stood at the bulwark, his legs steadying him against the pitch and roll of the vessel, his salt-encrusted hair matted like chain mail. The ships’ banners, snaking tails of colour, were unfolded. It was a stirring sight, the undertaking of a warrior King taking his army to war. Sir Gilbert spat over the side. He was smiling, looking at the sky, watching the banners. He turned to Blackstone.

  ‘We’re not going to Gascony, boy! I can tell you that!’ His face shone with a fierce joy. ‘I wondered why Godfrey de Harcourt was made a marshal of the army.’

  ‘I don’t understand, Sir Gilbert.’

  ‘You’re not paid to. Godfrey’s a Norman baron with no love for King Philip. Our noble liege is slapping King Philip in the face. We’re going to Normandy.’

  A day later, on the twelfth of July, the vast fleet filled the horizon as the leading ships swept into the bay of St Vaast la Hogue, their shallow draught allowing them to run easily aground well in to shore. Sir Gilbert had prepared his men and, with Blackstone at his shoulder and Richard a pace behind, splashed ashore at their head. A great roar came from the vanguard of archers and horseless men-at-arms. Blackstone heard himself yelling like the others, spurring himself on. All along the waterline Blackstone saw what must have been a thousand archers pounding across the rippled wet sand towards the hundred and fifty-foot escarpment. But no enemy fire rained down on them. He felt the strength return to his legs, his lungs sucking the energy into them. Everything was so crystal-clear, so bright. Every ship was etched on the sea and every man’s surcoat, no matter how dulled, seemed a patch of strident colour.

  Blackstone, grinning at the joy of it, turned his head and saw his brother loping effortlessly a pace behind. As they crested the rising ground, a dozen or so levies were running for their lives – fishermen or townspeople, Blackstone didn’t know which – but within moments death whispered through the air. The veteran archers had drawn and loosed before Blackstone had even perceived them as a threat.

  ‘Blackstone! Here and here!’ Sir Gilbert shouted, pointing to places on the cliff top. ‘If it looks like a threat kill it.’ He made the same command to another fifty men, placing them in defensive positions.

  Nicholas Bray, who commanded the company of archers, spat a curse at him. The climb had taken its toll on the forty-five-year-old centenar’s lungs.

  ‘You turd! Sweet mother of God, Blackstone, who’s the idiot? You or the donkey? Sir Gilbert’ll crack your skull!’

  It took a second for Blackstone to realize it was no good facing the bay – the enemy was behind him. The blood rushed to his face, but no one else had noticed the mistake.

  ‘You stay here until you’re told otherwise, we’ll be moving inland soon enough.’

  ‘Do we get the horses?’ Blackstone asked, wanting more than anything to involve himself.

  ‘Horses’ll be like mad bastard lunatics after being cooped up on ship for two weeks, ’specially them bloody destriers. They’ll gallop ’emselves free of it up and down this goddamn forsaken beach. You can say a prayer of thanks that our Lord King fooled the French. If they’d been waiting for us we’d be crow meat.’

  He turned and walked the line of defensive archers, cursing their mothers and blessing their King as he went. Blackstone and his brother did the centenar’s bidding. They stayed in their positions and watched for a counter-attack. None came.

  Ten yards away John Nightingale called, ‘I’ll kill more than you and Richard both when I see them!’

  ‘If they don’t see you first,’ Blackstone told him, aware that the older veterans were casting looks in their direction, aware that none of the village lads had ever been in a battle, other than a tavern fight with the bailiff’s men. Nightingale was fiddling with his belt, testing his bow, checking the arrows as he covered his own nervousness.

  One of the older men, whose bow was unstrung, squatted next to him.

  ‘Loosen the cord, lad, it’ll only take a second to arm yourself if the French try their luck. I doubt we’ll spill any blood for a few days yet. Your stave’ll thank you for it.’

  Blackstone immediately did the same, and nudged his brother to f
ollow his example. The veteran moved to them.

  ‘You lads listen to your centenar. Nicholas is an old soldier and he’ll keep you alive as long as he can. You just keep your eyes open, that’s all that’s asked of you right now.’

  Blackstone nodded.

  ‘I’m Elfred. I knew your father,’ he said to Blackstone. His voice gave nothing away. He and Blackstone’s father could have been either friends or enemies, but before Blackstone could ask, the man moved down the line, talking to old friends, gently advising the new recruits. Nightingale smiled nervously at Blackstone, who turned his attention towards the village and the countryside beyond. Just in case.

  The hours passed and ships came and went, there being far too many for the small bay to handle all at once. Blackstone had no idea how big France was, but surely no threat could stand in their way, not with this fleet and these thousands of men.

  Chaos reigned on the beachhead: horses galloped uncontrol­lably as horse­masters tried to gather them; wagons were reassembled, their cargoes loaded; livestock, baggage carts and supplies all needed to be organized, and, slowly but surely and with great skill, they were. As the beachhead cleared Blackstone saw smoke plumes miles inland – towns were burning.

  ‘Infantry got there before us. Welshmen, probably,’ said an archer as he relieved himself over the edge of the cliff. His face whiskered from the voyage and cropped hair beneath a leather cap made him seem more gaunt than he was. ‘Nothing like a good piss on Frenchie’s home turf.’ He tied the cords on his hose and moved closer to Blackstone. ‘I’m Will Longdon. So, you’re Henry’s son, eh? And the dumb one as well.’

  Blackstone nodded, unwilling to be drawn by the stranger who went down on one knee next to them.

  ‘I knew him. I was about your age when we first went north. He had a name for himself even then. He was a hard bastard, but he looked after the youngsters. He did all right by me anyways.’ Longdon examined what he had just picked from his nose, and then flicked it away. ‘Is he not with us?’

  ‘He died,’ Blackstone told him, not wanting to explain further.

  Longdon grunted and scratched his arse. ‘I hate boats,’ he said by way of reply. ‘That’s the trouble when you have to invade the Frenchies, y’always have to do it by boat. Why the bloody carpenters can’t build a bridge across I don’t know. Still, here we are, not drowned or nothing. That’s a good start, I always think.’

  Blackstone remained silent. His natural suspicion of stran­gers, especially in safeguarding his brother, made him wary of an un­invited approach.

  ‘We’ve a bit of a wager going. Me and some of the lads.’ He tilted his head, back towards the line of archers defending the cliff top. ‘See if I could draw his bow, your father’s, given Sir Gilbert seems to think less of us than you two.’ His grin exposed broken, brown-stained teeth; his eyebrows questioned Blackstone.

  The man seemed to offer no threat so Blackstone stood and bent the stave, hooking the cord onto the horn nock. He handed his bow to the man. He was shorter than Blackstone by a good few inches, and not as broad-shouldered, but his barrel chest and muscular arms suggested he could match the boy’s strength without a second thought. Longdon examined the honey-coloured wood. ‘This yew came from Italy, I remember him telling us that.’ He slid his hands lovingly along the war bow’s curve, more tenderly than he had touched any woman. He gave a gentle, testing tug of his fingers on the cord, and then, in a swift, fluid motion, bent his torso into the bow, angled it upwards and pulled back the cord. With a straining arm he got it as far as his chin, hesitated and then eased the bow down. His look of disappointment mingled with uncertainty. He handed the bow back.

  ‘Maybe Sir Gilbert was right after all,’ he said.

  Blackstone shrugged, not wanting to best a veteran. The other archers were watching.

  ‘Or is he protecting you because of your father’s reputation? You and the dumb ox here.’ The grin became a sneer. Blackstone turned his back to the man. Richard could see there was trouble brewing but Blackstone’s eyes told him to stay back.

  ‘Archers earn their respect, young Blackstone. It’s not given just because a fighting knight says so or because of who your father was. You earn it,’ he repeated with emphasis.

  The challenge could not be ignored, not in front of these men. Blackstone tugged an arrow from the bag, nocked it, turned with­out a word, drew back the cord to his ear and loosed the arrow in an arc towards a crow perched on the topmost branch of a tree over 150 yards away. It cawed its old-woman croak for a few seconds longer then fell under the arrow strike, the shaft’s velocity forcing it right through the bird, which tumbled soundlessly onto the heads of some infantrymen.

  The archers jeered at the cursing men.

  Longdon spat in his hand and offered it to Blackstone, who took it in his own.

  ‘We’ll have to find some black-hooded priests for you to knock off their perches. They croak a lot better ’n that.’ He walked back to the others. Richard smiled and grunted at the small victory.

  The sense of achievement lasted less than five minutes. Sir Gilbert strode from the village’s outlying buildings. Blackstone was about to tell him what had happened but never had the chance. Sir Gilbert struck him hard across the head, the blow so heavy it put Blackstone down onto one knee.

  ‘Stay down! You dog’s turd.’

  Richard lunged forward but Sir Gilbert suddenly held a dagger in his hand; its point touched the skin beneath the boy’s neck, stopping him from taking another step. ‘You ever raise a hand to me again, you deformed donkey, and I’ll have you dancing from the end of a rope on that damned tree!’ He kicked Blackstone hard, sending him sprawling. The knife never wavered. ‘Tell him!’ the knight demanded.

  Blackstone gestured, small signs that the boy understood. His brother stepped back away from the knife point. ‘Get up,’ Sir Gilbert commanded.

  Sir Gilbert sheathed his knife. ‘You think I give you my pro­tection so you can sell yourself like a tavern whore? You waste an arrow on damned carrion? I’ll take it out of your pay.’ Sir Gilbert looked to the other archers. ‘Which one of you made the boy use a good shaft that could kill a Frenchman?’

  Blackstone wiped the trickle of blood from his face. ‘It wasn’t them, Sir Gilbert. You were right; I was showing them my father’s bow. The fault is mine.’

  Sir Gilbert was no fool and he could read his men. ‘So, was I right? Can anyone draw that bow other than Henry Blackstone’s son?’

  Longdon spoke up from the ranks of archers: ‘I doubt they could, Sir Gilbert, if anyone were to try.’

  ‘Aye, if anyone were to try.’ Sir Gilbert pointed in the direction of the infantrymen beneath the tree. ‘Blackstone, send your brother to retrieve the arrow, then follow me.’

  He turned his back and moved towards the village. Blackstone sent Richard to do the knight’s bidding and then picked up their haversacks and arrow bags. Will Longdon had drawn him into making a stupid mistake of vanity, but Blackstone had learnt the lesson and kept the man’s involvement to himself. He was learning. Longdon grinned as Blackstone passed him.

  ‘You’ll do all right.’

  Blackstone hoped that was true.

  3

  The brothers trudged uphill in silence towards the village of Quet­tehou, a mile inland from the beachhead. Sir Gilbert spoke only once of the matter as they approached the church of St Vigor.

  ‘You’re a free man; behave like one. Those scum may be fighters but they stand in your father’s shadow. You’re better than they are. Start thinking and behaving like him.’

  Blackstone saw heavily armed knights and their retinues, jost­ling in a flurry of activity. The King had landed at midday, Sir Gilbert told him. And now that they were on Norman soil the royal household and senior commanders gathered to hear him declare his campaign against King Philip VI of France.

  ‘Is that the King?’ Blackstone asked, as one of the royal party, whose quality of armour was unmistakable, passed by them i
n the crowd.

  Killbere caught a glimpse of the man. ‘Him? That peacock? No, he’s Rodolfo Bardi, the King’s banker. He’s here to make sure the money’s well spent.’

  Sir Gilbert led them past the crowd to a small door at the side of the church. ‘Sheath your bow and tell your brother to keep his grunting silent. He’s to stay at this door.’

  Blackstone did as he was ordered. Richard sat on the grass, his back against the wall. Blackstone felt a pang of regret at leaving his brother alone, but he had no wish to receive another rebuke from the knight.

  Sir Gilbert leaned his shoulder against the heavy oak. It creaked open wide enough for them to ease through. They stood in the cold shadows behind the packed congregation of knights and commanders. Heraldic devices rich in colour, emblazoned on banners, shields, pennons and surcoats, filled the small church. Blackstone had never seen such a gathering, nor even imagined it. The low murmur of voices from the altar could not be heard distinctly, but Blackstone could see the man who stood facing his lords and barons.

  ‘That’s your sovereign lord,’ Sir Gilbert whispered.

  Blackstone felt a surge of excitement – a common man witness to a royal ceremony. The King was in his mid-thirties, about the same age as Sir Gilbert, Blackstone guessed, but he looked magnif­i­cent. He was tall, his stature and bearing made even more impressive by his armour and quartered surcoat of three golden lions on a field of red and the scattering of lilies on a field of blue. This was a King ready for war. Even from the back of the crowded church Blackstone caught the tint of blue in his eyes and the light touched his blond beard. A handsome young man bowed his head to the King, then knelt, yielding a sword before him, held like a cross. Blackstone could not hear what was said, but Sir Gilbert whispered again.

  ‘Young nobles are to be knighted. It’s good for morale. Makes them slaughter the enemy more.’ He smiled. ‘Chivalry. Good for killing. That’s the King’s son. He’s the same age as you.’