by David Gilman
‘Aye, and it was earned, Thomas Blackstone. You’ve a way to go before I can let you loose in polite company, but you’ve proved yourself to me, without question. But there won’t be a wedding notice posted, or celebratory feast given. The minstrels have been paid off. So your day will be one of quiet and no different than any other. And that’s the way it must be. I’ll bargain with the priest to take us into the chapel and perform the ceremony without the usual custom of banns being read.’
Blanche raised her eyebrows. There was one more thing to be said, but de Harcourt scowled.
‘Is this a poor bargain, Christiana?’ Blackstone asked gently, as if seeing her doubts.
‘For my part it’s the best of bargains, Thomas, and you must never doubt it. You found me in this castle and took me to Sir Godfrey and then you risked your life again for me. There’s more than gratitude involved. I’ll treasure you for the rest of my life, as will our child.’
Blackstone reached out a hand and smothered hers. ‘Don’t listen too closely to what my lord says. There’s much joy coming our way and we’ll be together once I’ve secured a place for us. I’m responsible for you now, but my Lord Jean, and his good Lady Blanche, will protect you until I send for you.’
Blanche de Harcourt had waited long enough for her husband to finalize the arrangement. ‘My lord and husband will also offer Thomas a dowry on behalf of your father.’
Christiana grabbed de Harcourt’s hand and pressed it to her lips. ‘My lord. God bless your kindness and generosity. I shall say a prayer for you every day for the rest of my life.’
De Harcourt sighed and eased her away, so that she and Blanche might embrace. ‘We have done our duty, child. How God came to place the two of you under my roof is indeed a mystery, but we have honoured His wishes – though His ways mystify me more often than my wife.’ He spread his hands in supplication. ‘Now can we eat? Marriages are arranged for whatever purpose is suitable. All this talk of undying love and childbearing squirms in my stomach like a worm that demands feeding.’
The following day the four of them went into the chapel and knelt before the priest as if it were a regular time for prayer. The priest was well paid and did as de Harcourt instructed. Special prayers were said in thanks for Sir Godfrey’s life and then the priest said the nuptial Mass. Blanche gave Christiana one of her lavender and grey velvet gowns, embroidered with silver and thread, set off with a necklace of precious stones. Over her braided hair, which had been washed with rosemary water, Blanche had arranged a filigree of gold.
Blackstone had surrendered to the ritual and bathed. He wore fresh clothes and tunic, and parted his long hair in the middle. De Harcourt instructed Marcel to trim Blackstone’s whiskers that now stubbled his face and prickled the whitening scar. Marcel was the only servant trusted enough who knew of the ceremony and, without speaking of it, he suspected why the marriage had been so quickly arranged. These events held Blackstone briefly in wonder, and for their wedding night Blanche had prepared a guest room fit for a nobleman and his bride, embellished with dried rose petals and fragrant perfume.
‘I have no gift of jewellery,’ Blackstone told her as they sat naked before the warmth of the fire. He extended the palm of his hand, showing her the silver coin neatly cut in two. ‘But this is a token of my love for you. Wherever the two halves may be, then there will we also be. Complete. As one.’ He kissed her tenderly and hoped the words he had read in one of de Harcourt’s books had been well remembered.
Days later, when he had embraced his new wife in farewell and accepted Blanche’s good wishes for a safe return, he had been taken aside by Jean de Harcourt before he and the twenty armed men rode out.
‘Honour and glory will be yours in time, but temper your killing with compassion for those who deserve it, Thomas. For those who do not, strike the fear of your name into their hearts.’
Part 3
Sworn Lord
23
The Feast of Epiphany, twelve days after Christmas Day, celebrated the arrival of the three wise men, the Magi, bearing gifts for the holy child. But on this particular bleak day Blackstone bore no gifts of goodwill.
‘You’ll grant us mercy,’ said the peasant whose twisted face Blackstone gazed down on from his horse. The man sneered and laughed as he turned to look at the thirty or more villagers armed with pitchforks, billhooks and axes. They were in no mood to pander to a lone impoverished knight with only two men at his side. Meulon and Gaillard looked uneasily about them.
‘So you believe I should offer leniency to those who butchered an unarmed man and messenger of the King of England?’ Blackstone answered.
The peasant took a threatening step forward, half raising the billhook. ‘You’d best be on your way, bastard Englishman. Our protector Saquet, le poigne de fer, will be upset if we kill you ourselves, but he’ll not chastise us if we lop off a leg or an arm.’
A few of the men laughed, their bravery growing every moment. Killing the English messenger was easy, but three armed men on horseback might cause some of them injury. Blackstone had not yet taken Wolf Sword into his hand as he eased his horse forward a stride. The peasant’s uncertainty was matched by his own small retreat.
‘This “Iron Fist” you talk about. I’ve heard of him. They say he’s as strong as an ox and twice as stupid. I’m here to punish, not be threatened.’
‘You’ve a nerve coming here. Leave before we set on you!’ the man shouted, encouraged by the others, but their courage slipped away quickly when women’s screams suddenly broke the early morning air. The men turned. Flames were taking hold of three houses as armed men bearing torches stepped from the forest in a necklace of fire.
‘There’s no gift of mercy today,’ said Blackstone, wrapping his hand around the sword’s grip.
The houses blazed fiercely as every man, woman and child who had not escaped the encircling men was herded into the muddy thoroughfare. The bitter smoke swept across them and their tears of fear and self-pity mingled with those from the smoke. Blackstone had little trouble in identifying the half-dozen men who had caged William Harness like a pig awaiting slaughter and who had butchered Harness’s friend. In their fear the villagers quickly turned on each other, giving up those responsible for the emasculation and killing of the young messenger. They were made to cut down his violated body and bury him in a deep grave so that wild animals could not root up his remains.
And then, as his men held back wailing women, Blackstone hanged the ringleaders and set their houses alight. The village blacksmith who had branded William Harness was held and burned with the same fleur-de-lys branding iron onto his forehead. And after this justice had been meted out every man, woman and child knelt in the mud and begged Blackstone to spare them.
‘I am riding towards the coast to find other villagers who mistreated my King’s messengers,’ Blackstone told them. ‘Saquet cannot protect you now. Remember that. I have relented and shown you mercy. I should have every one of you branded and sent off into the forest to survive like the beasts you are. Remember my giving of life and my name.’
Blackstone led the men out of the village.
‘Not much chance of them thinking you’re the Virgin Mary in disguise. More like the Grim Reaper,’ said Meulon.
‘Either way they’ll remember,’ said Blackstone.
‘We can’t ride to the coast, Master Thomas,’ Gaillard said, ‘those villagers will have run like rabbits to Chaulion and we’ll have Saquet breathing down our necks.’
‘Of course they will. It’s what I want,’ said Blackstone.
‘You think we can win a pitched fight out here? They’ll ambush us at their first chance. And I’ll lay odds they outnumber us at least three to one,’ Meulon said, adding his voice to the men’s concerns. The Englishman might have the balls of a bull but that didn’t mean he couldn’t be brought down by a pack of ravenous wolves.
‘We’re not going to the coast. Saquet will spend the better part of a week looking for us.
I needed him out of the way for a while. We’ll be waiting when he returns. We choose the ground where we fight. Find me a slow road to the monastery at Chaulion and give our peasant friend time enough to do his work.’ He spurred his horse, forcing the others to follow.
Riding out with the men had brought an unexpected sense of freedom. As a ventenar he had commanded twenty archers and now there was a similar number in his charge. These ordinary soldiers were simple, uncomplicated men. This was an experience that filled him with hope, unshackling him from the confines of the castle with its rules of behaviour. Christiana was safe and he would have a modest dowry, and if he succeeded in securing even one town he would be able to justify de Harcourt’s trust. He had already demonstrated that his actions were tempered with leniency, and as he hanged the ringleaders the ghost of Sir Gilbert rode at his shoulder and grunted agreement. It took a few more miles of riding before he realized what it was that had changed in him. He was happy.
By the next morning they sat on a low crest of a hill gazing down at the lifeless, frozen landscape. They could see quite clearly that the crossroads had not carried much traffic since the last sprinkling of snow. It was a small, single-storey monastery, conceived as a reclusive hermitage in ancient times and then built up over the years as others sought out the solitude and reflective life of a monk. Over the years such hard-working self-sacrifice had eased from the monks, who relied on their lay brothers to do all the manual work. Villagers paid tithes and tilled the land – labour they could well have put to better use tending their own meagre crops. Monks attended to prayer every three hours, day and night. It was a life that no fighting man Blackstone had ever known could contemplate, though there were benefits of ale and wine – and it was not unknown for a prior or an abbot to have a mistress for other worldly comforts.
Smoke curled from the monastery chimneys. They had warmth, so they weren’t too uncomfortable in their seclusion. Some of the outer walls had crumbled, but the main structure still stood and was kept in good order by the monks. A wood and stone bridge lay across the river, which was shallow in places as indicated by the boulders keeping ice from forming. But the pockets of still water showed there were deep pools that were frozen. An attempt to cross without that bridge would be difficult. In the old days monks must have seen the value of building such a bridge and Blackstone thought that the abbot most likely charged a toll.
He could see that some of the old storage barns and stables had fallen into complete disrepair, so over the years the monastery had brought everything within the walls of the existing building. That made sense because then brigands or common thieves would have to scale the walls to steal grain or drink.
‘Why are we here?’ asked Meulon. ‘The town is miles away.’
Blackstone pointed to the churned road that led away in one direction. ‘Chaulion’s down there, and it looks as though horsemen have travelled down this way in the last day or so.’
‘Saquet looking for us,’ said Meulon.
‘The abbot is under Saquet’s protection and the King favours him. His hands will be smooth, his belly fat. There’s no resistance in a kept man. Weak with good food, wine and a warm bed.’
‘That sounds all right to me,’ Gaillard said, and the other men muttered their agreement.
‘And when men like us come to take it from you, what then?’ said Meulon. ‘You’d have your fat arse kicked and a begging bowl and a whore to keep you if you’re lucky.’
‘Jesus, Meulon, having a soft tit and a skinful of wine isn’t much to ask,’ Gaillard answered.
‘Best keep your mother out of this, Gaillard,’ said one of the men.
Gaillard took the insult good-naturedly and allowed the men’s jibes as Meulon turned his attention back to the landscape, where Blackstone pointed out the features. ‘It’s a good location for a monastery – on the crossroads. If a man who knew about such things pulled down those old buildings and rebuilt a wall you could stop anyone using the road. A few men could control the passage of trade and anyone would find it hard to ford the river,’ said Blackstone.
Meulon raised himself in his stirrups and looked left and right. ‘The ground falls away, and rises across the stream, so it would be a good strategic place to hold.’
Blackstone smiled. Those were his thoughts exactly.
Meulon sighed, and blew the cold phlegm from his nose. ‘You’re taking a stick to a hornet’s nest is what you’re doing. You interfere in one of his villages, and now you’re going to take the monastery. Saquet is going to be very pissed off with you,’ he said, and then smiled. This Englishman was like a bed louse, he’d get under your skin and you’d scratch until you bled.
Blackstone and his men urged their horses downhill. It was getting colder and one thing Blackstone knew for certain was that men hated fighting in winter. It was a time when wars ground to a halt. Horse forage was scarce and men needed food and warmth to fight effectively. He hoped that Saquet’s wild goose chase would give him the time he needed to secure the road that led to Chaulion.
The voice called from the main gate, ‘You there! What are you doing? Be off with you! Off!’
Blackstone and his men were carrying the fallen stones from the old tumbled walls down to the bridge. They barely paused in their work. It was already three hours after dawn.
‘You’ve been at prayer, good brother,’ said Blackstone. ‘It’s going to be a fine day, I think. The sky’s cleared. Cold, mind you, and the wind will pick up again, I suppose, so we’ll have that accursed rain and snow again. No matter, we’ll be finished in a couple of days.’
The perplexed monk left the gate open and, gathering his habit, traipsed down to where the men continued their labours. He saw that a couple of hundred yards away in each direction a horseman guarded the road.
‘You’re taking our stone,’ said the monk, unable to grasp why anyone would do such a thing.
‘Yes. And it’s good stone,’ was the reply.
‘It’s not yours to take!’
Blackstone wiped his hands on his tunic. ‘But you don’t need it. It’s just lying out there in the fields.’
The monk’s mouth opened and closed like a fish. ‘The abbot must know about this.’ He turned on his heel and Blackstone strode by his side. ‘I think you’ll find the abbot will be happy to donate the stone to the cause.’
‘Cause?’
They were close to the open gate.
‘Our cause,’ said Blackstone. ‘I’ll explain to the abbot when I see him.’
‘You can’t see him. Who do you think you are? He wouldn’t allow armed men in here,’ the monk protested.
‘In here?’ said Blackstone as he stood beneath the gate and eased it open further. ‘Think of us as pilgrims seeking shelter, brother. Only we’re going to outstay our welcome.’
Blackstone took the dumbfounded monk through the gate as Meulon and the other men followed. They had seized the monastery near Chaulion.
No one had ever dared challenge Abbot Pierre’s authority. Even the odious and threatening Saquet had given way because the abbot was favoured by his King, and the mercenary had understood the terms of his own contract. The abbot might well have argued with himself that he had placed villagers in danger by abandoning them, but Abbot Pierre had, in his own mind, given them life by aligning his own aims with those of the routiers. A simple justification for a simple, venal man. But now the comfort of his massaged conscience was about to be stripped from him. Abbot Pierre visibly trembled. Thomas Blackstone’s face sent a chill like ice water down to his privates. The Englishman had introduced himself, but without due courtesy shown to the abbot’s status.
‘You’re confined to your lodgings,’ Blackstone told him as he sniffed the succulent aroma of roasted meat suffusing the air. ‘And you’ve a good kitchen by the smell of it. Roast pig is far too rich for humble monks. No matter, my men need feeding.’
‘You’re mistaken if you believe that you and your brigands can escape retribution. You have
no idea of the wrath you have incurred.’
‘Not from you, I think.’
‘Your arrogance is insufferable,’ spluttered the abbot.
Meulon said, ‘A leader of men has to be arrogant, Brother Abbot – you set a fine example yourself.’
‘Don’t worry, your silver plate and artefacts are safe from plunder,’ Blackstone told him. ‘King Edward hanged men who looted churches and monasteries. We won’t pillage your sacraments. You’ve splinters of the cross, though, have you? To sell to peasants? To give them hope?’
‘Of course,’ said the abbot warily. ‘Do you intend to take them?’
‘I’ll burn them when I find them,’ he said.
‘May God forgive such violation,’ the abbot whispered and crossed himself.
Blackstone seized a handful of the abbot’s cloak that he wore over his habit, pulling him to where Gaillard waited. ‘Worthless shards of wood, peeled from any scrap timber and used to prey on an ignorant peasant’s fears. You offer them hope for salvation and don’t even have to uncurl their hand to seize their hard-earned coin. If every splinter of the cross was gathered from every monastery or church our Lord Jesus would need to have been crucified a thousand times on as many crosses. Pray for your own forgiveness. Off to your quarters, my big fat crow, and I’ll have one of the brothers bring you bread and water.’
The abbot’s jowls wobbled, his prissy mouth unable to utter a word.
‘Your lips are as puckered as a cat’s arse,’ Blackstone said and pushed him towards Gaillard. ‘Understand this: your life of ease has now ended. You have how many monks here? Ten? More?’
The abbot had always had a simple understanding of where power lay and who wielded it. He steepled his trembling fingers together and lowered his eyes. A man of low breeding like this Englishman obviously needed his status as leader of his men acknowledged.
