Master of War

by David Gilman

  ‘Do you know how expensive this oil is? It’s healing the wound. Shall we read that poem again?’

  ‘I don’t have any interest in this, why are you trying to get me to learn it?’ he said, frustrated with her insistence that he spend each night reading the cantering words across the page. ‘It’s boring. There are better things to be doing than sitting here.’

  He pushed his thigh against hers and for a moment she did not resist, but then edged an inch or two away from him and put her finger back onto the page at the place where he had stopped reciting the poem.

  ‘You must appreciate beauty, Thomas, and poets spend years of their lives finding a way to share such things with us,’ she answered.

  ‘I know all about beauty,’ he told her. ‘Every day on my way to the quarry I used to pass the brook and see the fish glide through the weed like a silver comb through a woman’s hair. You don’t see beauty in scratchings on a page. Whoever wrote this has never spent months on horseback through forests and fields of wildflowers. I don’t want to do this any more,’ he said and placed his hand on her thigh. ‘I have enough beauty right here. I don’t need a poet’s imagination to tell me about such things.’

  The half-light disguised the livid wound and allowed her to ease forward and gently kiss his unmarked cheek in an almost dismissive manner. But she hesitated too long before pushing herself away from him as he snatched her back and kissed her lips, his hand reaching for her breast. Once again her resistance was momentary but as his other hand moved further up her thigh she pulled away and stood up from the bench they shared at the table.

  Even in the candlelight he could see the flush creep up her neck into her face and saw her nipples harden through the weave of her dress. Unlike her guardian the countess, and despite the chilled air, she never wore a mantle. The cleft between her breasts was just visible and he watched as she placed a hand across them, as if calming her heartbeat.

  She poured a half glass of wine, its red juice colouring her lips. ‘You’re expected to be aware of more tender things than going to war. A knight should be able to recite poetry for his friends and family to show the gentle side of his nature.’

  ‘I don’t have friends or family and the gentle side of my nature lies beyond these walls in the countryside where I grew up. Don’t try and make me something I am not,’ he said, feeling the annoyance of rejection and his faltering place in the world of courtly manners.

  Her anger flared, but she held a tight rein on it. ‘The de Harcourt family are your friends and family now! These are the people in your life who have offered you shelter and the chance to better yourself.’

  ‘I’m still an English archer to them! In their hearts they still hate me, there’s no friendship, there’s no family; what they do they do out of duty,’ he answered sharply.

  ‘And that duty serves you well. Everything you’re being taught is to make you behave in a civilized manner. This is the challenge you have been given, to improve yourself, to meet a standard of behaviour that is acceptable in a house such as this.’

  ‘I have the respect of the English King, that’s enough for any man. I’ll learn to fight because then I can be of some use to him so don’t expect me to stand up and sing for my supper like a minstrel. I shall wash my arse after I shit and wipe my mouth after drinking from one of your fancy glasses, but who I am is who I am!’

  ‘You’re deliberately being crude and unpleasant. You’re talking like a peasant,’ she said.

  ‘Because that’s what I am to you and the people here. I’m a peasant archer, I’m crude and I’m brutal, and no matter how many fine clothes you give me, or dainty cuts of meat on a silver platter, I prefer my life to be simple and rough-edged.’

  She moved quickly to the door, avoiding his quickly outstretched hand. ‘Then you’ll never have me in your bed, Thomas Blackstone, because I see greater things in you than you can see yourself. And if you cannot meet the challenge to be a better man, then I am wasting my time trying to help you,’ she said, and closed the heavy door behind her, causing the candle flames to lean away from her anger.

  His leg slowed him, but Blackstone yanked open the door and yelled down the corridor after her. ‘I’ll not be a damned pet monkey to the French! And I won’t be held prisoner here! And when I take you to my bed you’ll wish you’d have done it sooner!’ He threw the bound manuscript after her, hitting one of the terrified servants curled in a doorway. He slammed the oak door, and cursed the pain that stretched from his leg wound. He needed time to finish his training and then he would be gone from this place and make his way back to England. He pulled aside the shutter from the window; the candles faltered and then died from the cold blast of air. Blackstone let the sleet gust into the room and watched it swirl into the blackness outside. A nagging question bothered him: was Christiana worth more to him than his freedom? Could he leave this place without her? Perhaps his defiance was so deep-rooted that he could never learn the subtle manners demanded by any house of nobility.

  He closed out the storm and relit the candles – if there was reading to be done the subject would be of his own choosing. Jean de Harcourt had manuscripts in his library, bound parchments that documented ancient battles, drawings that showed the con­struction of the castle, something that would make sense to a common stonemason and archer.

  Poets be damned. They were scribes trying to capture the glow of a candle; Blackstone preferred to feel the flame’s heat between finger and thumb when he extinguished that light.

  Jean de Harcourt made a relentless attack on Blackstone, who not only took the blows but used every guard taught him to parry and return the attack. Both men were drenched in sweat despite the cold north wind. De Harcourt, though, still had the edge of experience and pressed closely upon Blackstone, despite the younger man being bigger and stronger.

  ‘Strike from over the right shoulder! No wide or useless pos­itions. Keep your fighting stance! Break my attack! Break it, man!’ The litany of commands hammered down on Blackstone as rapidly as the blows.

  Blackstone’s feet were planted firmly but he moved onto the balls of his feet and altered his balance, blocking de Harcourt’s blows, which in an instant allowed him to counter-attack. Blade met blade and Blackstone remembered the lesson: Feel the pressure of your opponent’s blade and react! He struck at de Harcourt left and right, but could not unbalance the wily swordsman. Sweat stung his eyes, and he was beginning to lose focus. And then de Harcourt came at him hard and fast. Blackstone confronted him without altering his stance, solid in defence – ready to deliver a killing blow. He was only two sword strokes away from finally beating his tutor. De Harcourt’s face snarled with effort, his eyes locked on his opponent’s. And then, just as Blackstone blocked the attack and brought his sword down towards the man’s exposed neck, he was suddenly flung backwards into the mud. And yet again de Harcourt had the sword at his throat.

  De Harcourt stepped back. ‘You’ve done well, Thomas. I’m pleased. You learn quickly and your strength serves you well. Once your wounds finally heal you’ll have learnt as much in months as it takes a young squire to learn in years.’

  Blackstone crawled up from the mud, shaking it from his hands and regripping the wooden sword.

  ‘What happened? I blocked and counter-attacked, my balance was good, and still you put me down.’

  De Harcourt waited for him to get onto his feet and prepare for another attack. ‘You close with a man, you come under his guard; he’s waiting for the strike. Wrap, grip and pull. Press yourself against him, seize his belt and yank and he’ll go down.’ De Harcourt smiled. ‘It doesn’t matter how big your opponent is.’

  The two men were preparing to fight again when a cry came down from the sentry. ‘Horsemen approaching!’ And then after a moment, when the riders’ armorial banner became clearer, ‘It’s Sir Guy de Ruymont!’

  The gates opened and horses clattered into the yard as de Harcourt abandoned Blackstone and walked quickly to where grooms ran to hol
d the nobleman’s bridle. A page and a squire rode behind a woman accompanying de Ruymont, who climbed quickly down from his horse and embraced de Harcourt, each kissing the other’s cheek.

  ‘Jean, your wounds! Look at you! My God, they’re healed! How are you, dear friend? How are you?’

  ‘I’m well, and as you can see, I’m fit again. The wounds were nothing,’ de Harcourt said, dismissing his old injuries, and then stepped towards the woman. ‘Joanna, if you’ll allow me,’ he said and reached up to help her down.

  ‘It’s been too long, Jean,’ she said.

  Servants ran from the house, escorting Blanche de Harcourt down the steps and across the wooden bridge that spanned the inner moat and into the outer bailey to greet her guests.

  Blackstone watched as the old friends exchanged their pleasant­ries and the knight’s page and squire took control of the horses, following the grooms towards the stables.

  ‘Who’s this?’ de Ruymont asked, looking towards Blackstone. ‘He’s got a face like a cow’s arse. Are you teaching the servants to fight now? Sweet Christ, Jean, is France that hard up for recruits?’

  ‘I’ll tell you later,’ de Harcourt said, and in as much of a flurry as they had arrived the guests were ushered through the castle doors. Moments later the squire came out of the stables and ran after them, carrying his lord’s sword and scabbard.

  A devil wind of activity caught up everyone except Blackstone, who stood alone, the sweat chilling on his body. One of the soldiers went past him and picked up the discarded wooden sword and offered it to Blackstone without hiding the sneer on his face.

  ‘You might need this if the King of France finds out you’re here,’ he said.

  Blackstone took it from him. There would be another training session soon. But the way the soldier spoke made Blackstone realize that other nobles, like the one who had just ridden in, might not be so protective towards an English bowman.

  Blackstone had finished washing and was dabbing the puckered face wound with a clean piece of linen when there was a tap on his door, and a voice beckoned him from the corridor. ‘My lord, Countess Blanche has requested you join her in the great hall.’

  Blackstone pulled on his tunic and opened the door to where Marcel waited.

  ‘The great hall?’ Blackstone asked. He had never been invited into the heart of Castle de Harcourt before; it was a place where the family lived and where invited guests would gather.

  The servant bowed his head again and replied. ‘Yes, Sir Thomas.’

  ‘Do you know why?’ Blackstone asked.

  ‘No, Sir Thomas,’ Marcel answered.

  ‘And if you did, it is not your place to tell me.’

  ‘Quite so, my lord.’

  ‘Are all those who serve in this household as discreet as you?’

  ‘I am an old man and my life is as comfortable as I could wish it to be, thanks to Countess Blanche. How could I jeopardize that, Sir Thomas?’

  ‘Then, Marcel, I won’t embarrass you further, or test your loyalty to your mistress.’

  Blackstone guessed the man was already more than forty years old and was most likely right; his life was the best he could hope for. He carried himself stooped from a lifetime of subservience and the effect on his bones of the penetrating damp from the cold stone walls.

  ‘Thank you, Master Blackstone,’ he said, but hesitated as he led Blackstone down the corridor. ‘We have all heard of your bravery, my lord, and that you are here under the protection of this family, but there are some things that they will not discuss with you, and it is for someone base, like myself, to explain these in a crude manner.’

  ‘I don’t know what you’re talking about,’ Blackstone said.

  ‘They have prepared a table in the great hall. There’s food and wine. And…’

  ‘And?’

  ‘I would remind you not to pick your teeth with a knife or wipe your mouth on your sleeve, they’ll give you a napkin for that.’ Marcel increased his pace, his suggestions tumbling quickly as they got closer to the great hall where once again he hesitated.

  ‘And, Master Blackstone, don’t spit, belch or fart.’

  Blackstone waited outside the huge doors as Marcel stepped through and announced his presence. He was ushered inside. There was a blazing fire in the hearth, big enough for ten men to stand shoulder to shoulder, with logs stacked to one side and bushels of kindling at the other. Fresh reeds covered the floor and there was the scent of lavender drifting into the room from the flames. There were neither dogs nor their master in sight; instead Countess Blanche de Harcourt and Christiana stood waiting for him in the middle of the room. Behind them was a long trestle table covered in linen and laid with platters of cut meats with small silver bowls filled with salt and sauces. Three or four servants stood against the wall, strategically placed for their stations at the table.

  Blackstone quickly calculated the size of the room. It was similar to Lord Marldon’s, but this one seemed to offer more warmth. De Harcourt could probably have fitted a hundred or more men in this hall, with no man’s shoulder touching another’s. The vaulted ceiling towered sixty feet above Blackstone, with arched timber trusses and woven tapestries hanging from cast-iron bars. Light streamed in from the half-wall of leaded win­dows with stone sills big enough for a grown man to sit in and covered in brightly coloured cushions. De Harcourt had employed painters to decorate the walls in whitewash, with an earth-coloured border rising two feet above the stone floor. One wall looked as though it were a massive window looking out through the painted branches of a flowering tree in a flower-filled meadow. It was the kind of decoration that was, perhaps, under the control of the countess, who now stood before him.

  ‘My lord and husband is with his friend Guy de Ruymont, and so Christiana and I thought this an opportune moment to introduce you to certain…’ she hesitated, searching for the right word, ‘customs, when we are gathered to dine here.’

  Christiana smiled at him and move forward in an attempt to ease his awkwardness.

  ‘Thomas, my lady and I are going to explain how best to behave when in the company of honoured guests.’

  Blackstone bristled. ‘I doubt someone like me is ever going to share a table with honoured guests. What would I be? A figure for discussion? A curiosity to see how my callused hands daintily put pieces of meat into my mouth?’

  Christiana blushed with embarrassment and Blackstone immedi­ately regretted his words, which confirmed his lack of good manners and coarseness of character. Blanche de Harcourt showed no such sign of intemperance.

  ‘Your wounds are healing, Thomas. Are you being well looked after?’ she said, ignoring his unpleasantness.

  ‘I am, my lady, thank you,’ Blackstone said, immediately humbled by her kindness, knowing her good manners were like the paint covering the walls, a smothering of what lay beneath.

  She moved closer to him, making him even more uncertain of what to do next. He bowed – and kept his head down.

  ‘Thomas,’ she said more gently than he deserved, ‘lift up your head.’

  He averted his eyes, but she reached out her hand and turned his chin so that she could examine his face more carefully. The Englishman towered over her, but he remembered her fierceness when he’d first seen her at Noyelles, wearing a breastplate of armour and gripping a sword she had been prepared to wield. Women like her confused him.

  ‘It’s still an ugly wound, the skin looks inflamed, but I suspect the scar will be a good one. Better than I expected.’

  ‘I owe that to Christiana’s skill, my lady.’

  ‘So you do, and much else. She’s been your constant companion at her own request, and with my permission.’

  Blackstone sensed an opening, a moment when she might allow him some leeway.

  ‘I won’t be kept here forever, will I, countess? I wonder why you’re taking so much trouble to teach me courtly manners. I have no interest in poetry or dance, and I eat when I am hungry, as quickly and as simply as I can. I�
�m never going to be admitted to your high table, am I?’

  She did not move her gaze from his face. ‘I doubt you ever will. No.’

  ‘Then why play this game, my lady?’

  ‘Because one day, if you live long enough, you might be asked to sit at a nobleman’s table, and when that happens I do not want them knowing that you were in our care and remained in your half-civilized state. The shame would be ours, not yours.’

  Blackstone knew that, had the same proposal been put to his once sworn lord, Sir Gilbert Killbere, he’d have turned on his heel and left these trumped-up lords who were more concerned with table manners than with loyalty to their King.

  But something stopped him. Sir Gilbert’s words, once uttered at the invasion beach when an inexperienced Blackstone had boasted of his skills with his war bow echoed from the past. You’re a free man; behave like one, Killbere had berated him. No matter how good the men around him had been, the knight had told him that they stood in his father’s shadow. You’re better than they are. Start thinking and behaving like him. Blackstone had learnt the ways of battle and if the de Harcourt family saw him as little more than an efficient and brutal killer, then so be it. He owned his dignity and he would not let them get the better of him, even if they had helped save his life. All he had to do was keep his wits about him and he would soon walk away from this place – and take the girl with him.

  Blackstone bowed his head, only slightly this time. ‘My lady, I would prefer the shame was mine alone, for being such a worthless pupil.’

  Her eyes widened. ‘My word, Thomas, you learn quickly,’ she said and turned to Christiana, who made no attempt to hide her smile at his cleverness. ‘Let us show our guest to the table.’

  14

  Over the following days more of de Harcourt’s friends arrived to celebrate Christmas. Some of the Norman lords brought their wives, two did not. They were all unknown to him until he was tutored by the Countess’s servant Marcel. Blackstone made a point of remembering their names and their coats of arms. Louis de Vitry, Jacques Brienne, Henri Livay, Bernard Aubriet. Every one of them was still at war with England, each had answered King Philip’s call, and all of them had now gathered at the castle of one of the most loyal French families. Jean de Harcourt’s father, killed at Crécy, lay dead in the family crypt, honoured by the King of France and remembered by the court. So, Blackstone wondered as he watched these men return with their bloodied spoils from the day’s hunt, why were they gathering here when he was living under the same roof? Who was in the most danger, he or the Frenchman who sheltered him?