Master of War

by David Gilman

  ‘I am Jean, fifth count of Harcourt and head of this family.’

  Being in the presence of a noble family demanded common courtesy, and although Blackstone had been knighted by no less a personage than the Prince of Wales on the field of battle, with the blessing of Edward, King of England, Jean de Harcourt was his superior. Blackstone’s broken arm was still bound and splinted, and the wounded leg that Christiana had exposed, de Harcourt silently acknowledged to himself, would cause pain at every movement. Blackstone reached out with his good arm and steadied himself against the barrel. And then slowly forced his body to obey his will. He lowered his uninjured knee towards the ground.

  De Harcourt watched the sacrifice to pain, and when Black­stone’s knee was almost halfway to the ground, he raised a hand, unable to allow needless suffering from a brave fighter.

  ‘Enough. There is no need,’ he said.

  Blackstone ignored him, fought the agony of the wound and rested his knee into the dirt, and then raised his head to look directly at de Harcourt.

  ‘Lord,’ Blackstone said, and pulled himself up, the wound now leaking blood through the yellow pus.

  De Harcourt nodded acknowledgement, realizing that Sir Godfrey’s description of the defiant archer had been accurate – Black­stone would not yield. He indicated that Blackstone should sit on the barrel.

  He gazed down through the layers of society, to a level with which he had had little contact other than to have beaten, forgiven or killed. Little of the middle option. It was necessary to keep such low-life in its place. But there were men who fought and secured favour and fortune, and these men earned respect. And Blackstone was somewhere along that road to securing a place in the telling.

  ‘King Edward still lays siege to Calais. The war goes on,’ he said.

  ‘Without us, my lord,’ Blackstone answered.

  ‘Without us,’ de Harcourt agreed. ‘I’m told you can read.’

  ‘I can.’

  ‘How so?’

  ‘My mother was French. She taught my father, he taught me.’

  ‘Her name?’

  ‘Annie.’

  ‘That’s not French.’

  ‘It’s what my father called her. It was Anelet.’

  ‘Is she alive?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘And your father?’

  ‘Dead.’

  ‘An archer?’

  ‘The best. I carried his war bow.’

  ‘He died in battle?’

  ‘In a stone quarry, where I served my apprenticeship as a stone­mason and freeman.’

  ‘And can you write?’

  ‘A little.’

  ‘Not quite the barbarian, then.’

  ‘Enough to do my sworn lord’s bidding and kill my King’s enemies,’ Blackstone said, unable to keep a disrespectful tone from his answer.

  De Harcourt ignored it. ‘Yes. I have experience of English warmongering. Who is your sworn lord?’

  ‘Sir Gilbert Killbere.’

  ‘Does he live?’

  ‘Dead beneath a war horse at Crécy.’

  ‘I don’t know of him.’

  ‘Had you faced him in war you would.’

  ‘You’re impertinent.’

  ‘So I have been told, my lord.’

  De Harcourt could see that Blackstone showed no sign of fear, and his size and strength defied his age.

  ‘What am I to do with you, young Thomas Blackstone?’

  ‘I don’t know, my lord, but my wounds are healing and in another month I’ll be strong enough to go back to the army.’

  ‘You will only leave when I tell you to leave,’ de Harcourt said. ‘Has Christiana told you why you are here? Why the English King commanded the marshal of the army, my uncle, who fought for him against his own family, to have you brought here?’

  ‘I can only think my King wished to irritate Sir Godfrey,’ Black­stone said.

  De Harcourt suddenly laughed. ‘Yes, that’s a distinct possibility.’ He flicked at a pile of horse dung with the stick. How friendly should he be with this hulking archer? His own uncertainty sur­prised him. The man who stood before him had a difference to him that he had not come across before in a peasant. Perhaps his upbringing had been influenced by the mother.

  ‘The truth of the matter is that the Harcourt family have long been divided in their loyalty. Some of my ancestors went to England with William of Normandy. They still hold estates there. Distant cousins, probably best kept that way. We Normans do not take kindly to authority we do not respect. Perhaps you and I share common ground in that matter. My father died at Crécy because of his loyalty to King Philip. I served out of loyalty to my father, but now that he is dead and I am head of the family, I will choose where my fealty lies. The English King will claim the throne of France and my family will be part of his success. That’s why you’re here, because Sir Godfrey was charged by our future King to save you. Otherwise he’d have left you on the side of the road to rot in a ditch and die of your wounds. No matter how well you fought in defence of your Prince.’ De Harcourt eased himself up. ‘And he’d have taken that fine sword for himself.’ He reached the stable door and turned back, adding, ‘Had he been able to prise it from your fist.’

  He hobbled away, leaving Blackstone still uncertain of his immediate fate.

  Christiana waited until she saw her guardian’s lord and husband limp back towards the great hall. She didn’t ask Blackstone what had been said, he would tell her in his own time, as he usually did, offering brief glimpses of the guilt that lay in his heart at his brother’s death and his sense of urgency to return to those men he had fought beside. Little by little she learnt more of Thomas Blackstone. She spent nights watching him as each nightmare unveiled a few more of his demons and each day cast them back into their cage. She dressed his wound and helped him back to the north tower, where a servant awaited them.

  The man hunched and bowed his shoulders. ‘My lady, I have been instructed by my lord to take Sir Thomas to his new quarters.’

  It was the first time Blackstone had heard himself referred to in honoured terms.

  ‘What’s your name?’ Blackstone asked.

  ‘Marcel, Sir Thomas.’

  Blackstone looked at the now empty room. The sword was missing.

  ‘Who took my sword?’

  ‘Lord de Harcourt took it away,’ the servant answered.

  It was pointless to question him further. Blackstone allowed the servant to help him along the passageways. As they passed each window overlooking the castle’s walled yards to the forests beyond, the moat’s glistening water became a mirror to his mem­ory, reflecting back events that had brought him here, to the place where he had first saved Christiana. That fate should twist his life into a knot with this family was beyond his reasoning, but the girl was still at his side and his enemy had not yet cut his throat. He would take what comfort he could from that, and then build his strength to determine his own destiny. And hoped she would be a part of it.

  The room, compared to the cell-like quarters in the north tower, was bright and spacious. A fire burned in the grate, logs and kind­ling were stacked in its hearth and there was a privy a few paces along the corridor. There was a bowl and a jug of water on a table with a linen cloth so he might wash. A bench stood beneath a window that looked south into the warmth of the autumn sun. Animal skins, stitched into a bed cover, lay across the mattress, which had been made up with blankets. The room had been prepared as if for an invited guest, with the addition of clean clothes, a long, loose shirt to accommodate Blackstone’s bound-up arm and injured leg. And the sword lay on the deep sill, sunlight glinting from its burnished steel. Christiana slid beneath his arm as he pulled her to him and kissed her hair.

  He was safe.

  For now.

  Over the following weeks Jean de Harcourt extended his own training to regain his strength so that each day he could assess Blackstone’s progress. As he watched him break through the chal­lenging pain it became a
competition in de Harcourt’s mind to gain the upper hand over the young archer.

  Each man sweated from his efforts, and de Harcourt knew that youth and a lifetime of hard labour gave the young knight the advantage. As every day passed he learnt a little more about his charge. Blackstone would soon be strong enough to learn to fight as a man of honour would conduct himself, sword in hand, not by slaying an opponent from a distance with a war bow. Each man extended himself because each was determined to outdo the other.

  Little was said between nobleman and peasant until de Har­court felt ready to extend his courtesy. Then, slowly but surely, he drew the yeoman archer into his world. As each day’s exercise session ended de Harcourt had wine, bread and cheese brought down to the courtyard. He and Blackstone sluiced the sweat from their bodies in a trough of cold water and then Christiana would be summoned to minister to Blackstone’s wounds. De Harcourt realized that Blackstone had been right; another month had gone by more rapidly than anticipated – and he could see that Blackstone would soon be able to leave of his own free will – if he permitted it.

  That would not be allowed to happen. Not yet. Not until his uncle, Godfrey de Harcourt, sanctioned it. He needed to reach this rough-hewn boy, to find a means of gaining his trust, and hope that the lad had sense enough to know that the honour con­ferred on him was more than a reflection of the King’s will, it was God’s blessing. There was no common ground between them, other than the conflict they had both experienced. That might serve the purpose.

  ‘I was in the third division with my family and troops,’ de Harcourt said as he pulled off his shirt and turned his back for a servant to wipe dry. Another retainer went to help Blackstone tug free his soaked shirt, but was denied. Blackstone preferred to struggle with the arm that was still bent, held by strips of wood and cut leather that had been soaked and had dried into a tight binding, bracing the broken bones.

  ‘I saw no such division,’ Blackstone told him. ‘All I saw were thousands of armoured men coming at us as if they were riding out of hell. The ground shook beneath our feet and all we could think of was to slay you before you reached us, for then we would have been at your mercy, and there was none to be had that day.’

  De Harcourt nodded as the servant poured two tumblers of wine, gave one to his master and was about to hand the second to Blackstone when de Harcourt personally handed his own to Blackstone. Blackstone acknowledged the small gesture of – what? Friendship? In these past weeks the men had spoken briefly, neither admitting their pain, neither accusing the other of slaughter on the battlefield. The servant stepped away.

  The older man sipped his wine. ‘Your arrows put the fear of Christ into us. You felled us like trees. I took one of your shafts in my side, deflected by my armour; another in my leg that pinned me to the saddle. Our charge pounded the horses against each other and broke the shaft. My squire pulled me free from the horse when I fell. He died as he got me to safety. I can still hear the screams of the horses and the men. I prayed that God would send a fireball from the heavens and sweep you archers from the face of the earth. I hated your slaughter. I hated you all. You destroyed all that I knew.’ He spoke without anger or recrimination, but out of an experience that would be impossible to recount to anyone who had not endured that massacre. Of all in the confines of the castle only he and Blackstone shared the memory of the battle. ‘You will never pull a war bow again, not with that arm,’ said de Harcourt. ‘You have to learn to fight as a man-at-arms. And I have yet to see you touch that sword.’

  The truth of what de Harcourt said about his injury caused more pain than the broken arm itself. Those final moments of the battle were as vivid as a sunset across the fog-laden fields of his homeland, conjuring ghosts and demons alike from the magical shroud. ‘That sword killed my brother,’ Blackstone said and swallowed a mouthful of wine. ‘I killed the man who did it. If I take hold of its grip I cannot stop the violence that tries to explode out of me.’

  ‘Then you have the advantage over many. All you have to do is learn the skill to use it properly. When you’re ready, I’ll teach you.’

  ‘Why?’ Blackstone asked.

  ‘Because it is my duty,’ de Harcourt answered. ‘Something you must learn to understand and honour.’

  ‘You question my courage, my lord?’ Blackstone asked, the flush of anger creeping up his neck.

  ‘No. But you are no longer what you were, Thomas. You are of no use to anyone unless you can be trained. Do you think the English army would take back an archer who cannot pull a bowcord, a man who has no fighting skills? You’d be lucky if they let you pack the supply mules. You’re not stupid, Thomas, you’re a fighter. Learn to fight.’

  De Harcourt rinsed his mouth and spat out the wine. The servant gathered his shirt and draped a cloak about his master’s shoulders against the creeping damp and cold of the autumn dusk.

  Blackstone watched them a moment longer and then took a knife to the leather bindings that held the splints. He rubbed the blood into the muscles, which had wasted these past months, and tested the length of his arm. He squeezed his fingers into a fist, and looked down the line of sight of his bow arm. Once the stiffness had eased he tried to turn his wrist as if holding a bow. The bones had knitted badly and the forearm resisted his efforts. There was a permanent bend in the arm. De Harcourt was right, he would never be an archer again, but perhaps God had given him a crooked limb so he could carry a shield.

  The fingers of the night air tickled his skin as he walked, unaided, and with only a slight limp, back to his room and Christi­ana, waiting at the window.

  Countess Blanche de Harcourt sat at the linen-draped table and washed her hands in the silver bowl offered by a servant while another cut and placed food on her platter. She towelled her hands dry, concentrating on the act, debating in her mind how to answer the question that her husband had asked only moments earlier.

  ‘Is she sleeping in his bed?’ de Harcourt asked again.

  ‘Jean, how am I to know?’ she answered.

  ‘She’s our ward and she’s in your charge. Is she?’

  ‘I think,’ she said carefully, ‘there is some affection between them.’

  ‘Beneath the covers?’

  Blanche lowered the piece of meat from her eating knife onto her plate, and delicately wiped her mouth before sipping from the goblet of wine. ‘He doesn’t sleep in the bed. She tells me that he pulls a blanket and a covering onto the floor. He doesn’t desire comfort. Besides, I suspect his wounds prohibit him from…’ She let her thoughts remain unspoken, and put another piece of meat into her mouth. Chewing was a convenient escape from her husband’s cross-examination.

  ‘His wounds wouldn’t stop him. I’ve seen that much for myself.’ He pushed the plate to one side and reached for his wine. ‘Speak to her. I’ll not have a bastard child from an English barbarian conceived in this house. Do I make myself clear? They’ll do it soon enough, no doubt; she’s a headstrong woman who should have been married off by now. If her father survives the war he can take back his responsibility. Until then it’s our burden.’

  ‘She’s no burden. She has shown spirit and courage,’ Blanche answered in Christiana’s defence.

  ‘And drawn to an Englishman like an arrow to his bow. He must be educated, Blanche. I can teach him to fight, but you and Christiana have to teach him some manners. He should be able to sit at a table in a civilized fashion.’

  ‘He’s a common man. I never wanted him here in the first place,’ she told him, abandoning her food, her appetite spoiled.

  ‘No matter. We have him. Speak to Christiana and decide how you’re going to do it. He’s your responsibility.’ De Harcourt pushed away from the table, tossed the meat from his plate to the dogs, and left his wife to deal with her growing anger and frustration in her own way. How she did so was up to her. He had no understanding of the process.

  The rotting skulls were still impaled on the poles beyond the gates of Castle de Harcourt, slack-jawed, gaping a
t the scatter of clouds flitting across the face of the moon. Their flesh had rotted and the bones were picked clean, but still they served as a warning to any deserter or marauding band who thought of attacking the stronghold. Each day, as the dawn crept through the woodland, Blackstone could see them from his window, with their lifeless gaze, guardians of the forest road that could lead to his freedom. The days had worn on and his sense of confinement grew ever stronger. Christiana had gently refused his clumsy advances. She had not done so in anger, but no matter how gentle her rejection had been it added to a confusing sense of loss and loneliness. The silence and darkness of these nights that followed began to suffocate Blackstone’s thoughts. The French countryside showed no lights from nearby villages, and once the Angelus Bell rang the Harcourt household retreated to their private chapel to recite prayers in honour of the Lord’s Incarnation; and then until the curfew bell rang, they would retire to the great hall and private rooms. Blackstone was in conflict with his feelings for the God that had saved him and destroyed his brother. The silver token around his neck gave more comfort, and Arianrhod’s cool touch to his lips was all the blessing he could offer by way of gratitude.

  In the hours between the ringing of the bells Blackstone walked the walls, ignoring the sentries and their muttered greetings to the enemy who now lived in their midst. The freedom of the night wind chilled him but he welcomed its reminder of another life spent in the wild forests and open pastures with his brother before the act of murder that had sent them to war.

  As each day passed his body grew stronger, but his mind began its own torment. Those skulls were his gaolers. He missed the friendship of the archers with their coarse jokes and laughter, men who had gathered him and his brother into their fold. There was a desperation in him to hear an English voice call out in greeting or insult, to challenge him to a drunken brawl having spent his last coin on an alehouse whore and drink. He yearned to hear the rambling dialect of a fletcher or bowyer, a blacksmith’s cursing, or the scolding commands of his sworn lord, Sir Gilbert Killbere. They were as lost to him as surely as the morning mist was ripped from the treetops. There was only one way he could defeat these poisonous torments – sweat them out.