Master of War

by David Gilman

  Only a year ago, and now look where he was. He had been close to death, but the angels he saw that day when he lay at Crécy had sent him back to this world, to serve out his penance for not looking after his brother. There was no denying the heaviness of his doubt, for he did not know what lay in store for him. The pull he felt, like a silken thread that refused to break, was the desire to return to England. It was becoming stronger, made more tangible by the wounded William Harness. The man’s despair at the loss of his companion echoed Blackstone’s feelings about his brother. Both wanted retribution. Was it as simple as a need for vengeance? It seemed more complex than that. He didn’t know, but whatever it was, it now steered his life. The Christmas celebrations were a time to ask for favours and if William Harness survived the next two or three days he would ask de Harcourt to release him from his patronage and let him make his way back, with the wounded herald, to the English lines at Calais. Once there he would present himself to his Prince and the King and then see where this new life would take him. Christiana would come with him because the two of them were now entwined in a passion that could only be destroyed by the Church’s condemnation or the forced separation inflicted by Jean de Harcourt. Either one, Blackstone knew, he would ignore.

  The boar’s head occupied pride of place on the table, its eyes gazing sightlessly at the bejewelled and colourfully dressed men and women who laughed and shouted above the minstrels’ music. Blackstone sat at the end of the table again but Christiana had been placed between Guy de Ruymont and his wife Joanna, with Jacques Brienne, an unmarried knight, sitting opposite her. He had already danced three times with her, and Christiana had studiously ignored Blackstone. Was he being punished for something? he wondered. Were Jean and Blanche de Harcourt making it clear that they knew of his intimacy with Christiana? Alone, and ignored, he sat and watched, a hapless spectator. None of the wives looked his way, and he had the sense of being shunned by the women, as if ordered by their husbands not to engage with him. He ate as delicately as he had been taught, but drank more wine than usual. There was little to do other than look interested in the goings-on and resent the finesse of Jacques Brienne as he guided Christiana in the dance with the other similarly adroit men and their wives.

  Blackstone seized the opportunity to approach de Harcourt. ‘My lord, my dancing skills are not required this evening. I would like to take William Harness some food.’

  ‘Thomas, you have no dancing skills. You’ve the grace of a root­ing boar snorting and grunting on the forest floor,’ de Harcourt said, smiling to ease his protégé’s discomfort.

  ‘I can’t argue with that, lord,’ Blackstone said.

  ‘You should show us a peasant dance, Blackstone,’ said de Fossat who sat close by. ‘We would be amused and informed as to how your kind celebrate.’

  ‘My kind, lord, would be in a hovel with a smoking fire from damp wood, because the local lord does not permit dry kindling to be taken from his forest. We would have a jug of ale from the priest and a snared hare if we were lucky. There would be little cause to celebrate, and barely enough room to sleep, let alone dance.’

  De Fossat reached out with his knife and pierced a piece of meat. ‘Then you should go on bended knee before Lord de Harcourt every day and beg his forgiveness for being foisted upon him, and thank him for the onerous task he has had to perform.’

  Blackstone knew he was being baited.

  ‘I would go on my knee to him whenever he stood before me, but he has been gracious enough to demand little of me. To respect a man like my Lord de Harcourt is an honour a simple man like myself rarely has the privilege of doing. For others, it’s a case of watching them squirm in the mud with a yard-long arrow sprouting from their gullet.’

  ‘Mother of God, Thomas, you go too far,’ said de Harcourt in a pained and angry whisper.

  ‘My kind usually does, lord,’ Blackstone answered and bowed his head.

  William de Fossat choked and spluttered the chewed pieces of meat into his beard, and needed assistance from a servant, whom he pushed away angrily. His face darkened as his lungs fought for air, but he kept his eyes on Blackstone, who, without being seen by de Harcourt, smiled.

  A baited trap could be sprung.

  De Fossat lunged, but it was a foolish attempt from unrestrained anger and Blackstone needed only to take a step back as his attacker sprawled across the table. The sudden disturbance made the others turn towards him.

  ‘Manners, William!’ Louis de Vitry cried light-heartedly. ‘Too much wine and you’ll miss midnight Mass! Or is that the idea?’

  Some of the younger barons laughed, as did their wives, but de Mainemares scowled disapprovingly.

  ‘No laughter at the expense of our Lord Jesus,’ he said to de Vitry, who did not know how to respond to the public reprimand, so he allowed a smile and an inclination of his head to acknowledge the older man’s authority and religious commitment.

  While de Fossat recovered, Jean de Harcourt gave a small gesture of dismissal to Blackstone. ‘Go, Thomas, and don’t come back. Words can be more cruel than actions. It is something you should remember.’ Blackstone bowed and left the room. The music had not stopped and few heard what de Fossat said to his friend and host.

  ‘I’ll not be insulted, Jean. He must answer to me.’

  ‘No, William, I’ll not have you fight him,’ de Harcourt answered, leaning across to make sure his answer was understood.

  ‘First blood and I’ll be satisfied,’ de Fossat insisted. ‘First blood,’ he insisted.

  De Harcourt shook his head and gripped his friend’s arm. ‘William, you cannot beat him.’

  De Fossat’s shocked face showed that de Harcourt’s warning had aggravated the insult. De Harcourt shook his head in almost sad confirmation at his friend’s disbelief.

  ‘No man in this room can.’

  Blackstone laid another piece of wood on the fire in the room where Harness sat propped up in bed. Warmth had built up during the day from its constant burning, but a wounded man was still vulnerable to the night chills.

  ‘Now will you eat the food I’ve brought?’ Blackstone asked, having been bidden to stoke the fire.

  ‘A morsel might pass my lips, Thomas.’

  ‘Aye, you’d rip the haunch off a sheep and call it a morsel,’ Blackstone said, and settled the tray with its plate of food on the man’s lap. He held the cup of mulled wine to his lips and let him sip slowly, being careful not to let him gag and cause a coughing fit.

  ‘That goes to the groin. Another day of this luxury and I’ll take myself a whore. My God, Thomas, you’ve found yourself a nest. Like a damned cuckoo you’ve got them feeding you without thinking twice.’

  Blackstone noticed that Harness had some colour in his face, though his eyes were still sunken and his cheekbones stretched the skin of his face. ‘Yes, I’ve been well protected. My life was lost, but here I am.’

  Harness nodded, chewing the meat with his mouth open. There were few teeth at the back of his jaw and those at the front were blackened. He gnawed on the cuts like a rabbit, saliva dribbling and tongue working the flesh into manageable pieces to swallow. Blackstone was surprised at his own reaction. The manners he had been taught and the delicacy with which those who sat at the table in the great hall ate were more a part of him now than he had realized. Harness slurped the wine, giving a contented belch and sigh.

  ‘You’d be a smart lad to milk this whore’s teat, Thomas. Oh yes, very smart. You’ll put some fat on your bones that’ll get you through the winter, then you’ll be fit and ready to be coming home.’

  Blackstone didn’t answer. His birthday had come and gone weeks ago without mention, and the memory of his birthplace and life before the war still burned bright. ‘Yes,’ he finally said, ‘I’d like to go home. I’d like to be a mason again. That means something. It has a value that a man can live by.’

  Harness shook his head. ‘Not these days. You need a lord’s blessing and his purse. Builders are ten a penny. Me
n can’t feed themselves or their families. No, no, lad, you do some fighting to earn your keep. That’s how fortunes are made, let me tell you. I’ve seen knights ransom their enemy captives and buy estates. Men who were little more than squires. Piss-poor. Not a decent nag to ride nor sword that’d cut a loaf of bread. But…’ he ate and drank again, gulping air so words could get past the tortured meat on his tongue, ‘… a few lucky strokes, and a wealthy bastard ready to put himself on parole until his ransom is paid, and suddenly they’re drinking from glass or silver and marrying ugly women for their dowry and fucking maidservants for their pleasure.’

  The effort of talking and eating caused him to pause to steady his breathing. The spittle in the corner of his mouth was tinged with blood. Blackstone had heard that a man on his deathbed might suddenly recover and eat like a starving man, and then be dead within a day or two. It was as if the body needed nourish­ment for its final journey. Harness settled back against the pillows, and placed his hand on Blackstone’s arm. ‘Good. That was good. You’ve done William Harness proud, Master Thomas. You’ve saved his life and given him succour, and he’s grateful, he is.’ He nodded, agreeing with himself. ‘And look at us. Eh? Two scrag-end shanks of mutton lying in feather beds with linen and pillows. I’ve never known it before.’

  ‘No. Nor me,’ said Blackstone, easing away the tray. ‘I still sleep on the floor when I’m alone.’

  Harness had quietened, sated by the food and warmth. ‘Alone? Then you’ve a woman in your bed when you’re not,’ he said.

  Blackstone matched the man’s smile. ‘I have.’

  ‘Even with a face that could make a horse shy in fright?’

  ‘Even with.’

  ‘You either pay her too much or you have her heart.’

  Blackstone eased the bedding up onto the man’s chest. ‘I’ve never paid, William. Not yet at least.’

  Harness closed his eyes ready for sleep. ‘We all pay, lad. We all pay. Be it with pain or money. Satan’s bait will ruin us one way or the other. You’ll see.’

  That night Blackstone waited for Christiana, but she did not come to his room. He realized he had probably gone too far when he was with her in the chapel, because her feelings of guilt were not his. It could have been that or the deliberate snub at the banquet that had given her the power over him because he could not deny the feelings that welled up inside of him. Being outspoken and, at times, uncaring could cost him more than retribution from the Norman baron, who could also tear away the woman who held his affection. It seemed to be another lesson to bring him out of the uncomplicated life he once had. It was obvious that if he were to succeed in his own plans and fight once more for his sovereign lord, then his affections must be controlled and reined in so that he would be in command. If not, he would fall to a woman’s whim. There could be no thought of subjugation, nor was there much doubt in his mind that whatever road lay ahead it was probably a lonely one. He would fight for Christiana, because that is what he had done from the beginning, but there would be no bending of his will. He could not challenge the superiority of noble families, and would always have to bow before them. He reached out his hand to the sword that lay on the sill, then, resting his open palm on the cold steel, promised himself that he would never allow himself to be humiliated by the word or deed of others, and especially not of his own heart.

  Surely, he thought, she could not have abandoned him so freely for another man, and certainly not one who danced like a girl? Blackstone remembered what it had felt like when he was a boy with the body of a man and one of the village girls had taunted him. His inexperience when they were having sex had caused him embarrassment, but there had been no jealousy when she had gone off with another of the boys. The moment with the girl had passed, and he remembered there had been no anger, only the desire to make sure his humiliation didn’t happen again. He soon learnt how to be with a woman. Perhaps he and Richard, being the two strongest boys in their shire, stood out from other peasants. Both were better bowmen and both took every day as it was offered. A carefree freedom, punished only by hard work and those in authority. Being a freeman had already set him on a path different to most. And the war had plucked him from that small community and hurled him into the greater world. Now another kind of force was tugging at him. Christiana’s rejection was nothing compared to what he had already endured, but the thought of her being with another man stabbed like a knife beneath his breastbone. And that was something he had never experienced before.

  A few paces away from his door Marcel lay curled in another doorway. Blackstone nudged him with the toe of his boot and the servant quickly awoke and got to his feet. Darkness smothered both of them, but the shifting clouds allowed some light from the moon.

  ‘Take me to Lady Christiana,’ Blackstone said.

  He saw the man’s eyes widen, and then his head nod. The wind moaned through the corridor’s open archways as Marcel reached for a tallow-soaked torch to light. ‘You don’t need that. It will alert a sentry on the wall. You know this place inside out; you could take me there with your eyes closed.’

  ‘As you wish, Sir Thomas,’ the man whispered obediently.

  Blackstone followed him along the corridor and up one of the narrow staircases. It became virtually pitch black and Blackstone found himself reaching out with one hand to hold Marcel’s belt as his other followed the rough walls. Like a blind man being led he stumbled once or twice, feet catching a sleeping servant, and then another narrow corridor opened before them and once again he could see brief reflections from the night sky. There was only one door. Marcel stopped.

  ‘Sir Thomas,’ he said, barely above a whisper, ‘my lord and lady’s quarters are on the floor below.’ He took a breath. ‘Sound travels,’ he said, daring to warn the Englishman, who seemed so intent as to disregard any thoughts of discovery, which meant that the servant would face the more severe punishment.

  ‘Wait here,’ Blackstone told him quietly and felt the man stiffen from the unexpected command.

  Would she have dared to take Jacques Brienne to her bed? Blackstone asked himself. And if she had, what was he going to do? He dared himself to go into her room. It was the knowing that was important. His hand closed on the wooden bolt; it was worn from years of use, but he slid it carefully, making the rasp of wood little more than a whisper. The dull embers from the fire gave enough light for him to see the bed. He stepped further into the room. The bed was empty and had not been slept in. She’s gone to him, he said to himself, the bitterness of his own thoughts surprising him. Heady wine and music and the courtly attention of a nobleman was perhaps no different from a raucous alehouse with a fiddle player. Men drank, women flirted and both lusted for the pleasures of the flesh.

  He stepped back to where Marcel waited, back pressed against the wall. ‘Where is Count Brienne’s room?’

  Marcel shook his head. ‘I dare not, Sir Thomas. If you do that everything is lost. You condemn yourself to breaking the code of trust given to you by my Lord de Harcourt,’ he begged plaintively.

  Jealousy gripped Blackstone as tightly as he now held Marcel’s tunic. ‘Is she there? You follow her like a dog. You know where she is. Is she with him?’ As he muttered the words he regretted them immediately. He had exposed his true feelings to a servant who could betray him for reward. He let the man go, and steadied his breathing.

  The wind carried the faint sound of a distant monastery’s bell calling the monks to prayer, rousing them from their beds a bare few hours before dawn. Three hours earlier Blackstone had sat with William Harness as the bell for midnight Mass rang out. ‘Angel’s Mass, Thomas, we should pray,’ the wounded man had said, and tried to get out of bed to go onto his knees. Tears had welled in his eyes. ‘That poor boy still hangs rotting without a Christian burial. It’s ungodly, Thomas. We must pray for his soul.’

  Blackstone had lifted him carefully and eased him from the bed and Harness let his bare knees press onto the stone floor. He leaned across the bed for support
, clasping his hands together in fervent thanks that the light of salvation would be granted at this, the darkest hour of the darkest night of the year. Blackstone remembered when, as a child, he had been whipped by the village priest for keeping his eyes open as he searched the church’s grim darkness for both the light and the angels. Neither had appeared.

  It’s pagan, Thomas. The winter solstice has been celebrated before that village whoremonger of a priest ever uttered a prayer. His father’s words echoed back to him as he treated the beaten boy. The dawn bell for the Shepherd’s Mass would soon ring and more hours of prayer would consume the faithful. Had she slept with Brienne between the call for prayer? She was a virgin when he took her that night; had he released an uncontrolled passion within her? The persistent doubts muddied his thoughts.

  ‘Master Thomas,’ Marcel said, ‘what must I do?’

  The man’s whispers brought Blackstone’s mind back to the dark corridor. He sighed. There was a line a man should not cross, especially when a woman was involved. ‘Guide me back to my room, Marcel. It’s Christmas Day – there should be charity in a man’s heart.’

  As he reached the corridor that led to his room the wind gusted and made him turn his face from its stinging chill. As he did so he saw the thin line of flickering light across the courtyard. He dismissed Marcel, whose duty beckoned him to attend the household that would soon rise. Blackstone made his way down the passageways, guided by the intermittent light from the shift­ing sky. By the time he reached the courtyard his hearing adjusted to the sheltered area. The light he had seen was gone, but then appeared again as a heavy door creaked back and forth. It was the chapel. A figure stepped outside the door, briefly silhouetted and then plunged into darkness, only to reappear a moment later carrying a flaring torch. The hulking shadow of the devout Jean Malet, Lord de Graville, came towards him on the same path where he stood.