by David Gilman
Blackstone rode at the head of his men towards Chaulion. It was time to see if the townspeople had honoured their word. The gates were closed as he drew to a halt.
‘Inside!’ Meulon bellowed. ‘Open the gates!’
A dozen faces appeared on the walls, spears and swords were displayed to show the men were armed. It was a good sign and the men knew that Blackstone was now the master of town, monastery and surrounding villages. Within moments of Blackstone being identified there were shouts from within and the gates were opened as the same delegation who had offered their ransom hurried forward to greet the man who had rid them of Saquet and his killers.
Now to make sure the town stayed in their hands.
The weeks passed by rapidly and news came that the King of France had failed to raise an army to challenge Edward’s siege of Calais, thus reinforcing many noblemen’s belief that Philip was a spent force and that the Estates General, those who controlled the government’s purse, were voicing their disappointment more openly to their monarch, insisting that he had not pressed the English hard enough. A hearth tax was raised in Normandy, but unrest spread into the Duchy of Burgundy, where the King’s brother-in-law was challenged by rebels in the pay of the English King. More nobles, ruined by the war, offered their services to Edward, making it increasingly difficult for French revenue collectors to travel across the countryside and raise taxes from the hard-pressed lower ranks of nobility.
In his own corner of the troubled kingdom, Blackstone oversaw the building of a new dormitory and stables at the monastery to house his guards. These men ate in the lay brothers’ refectory, leaving the monks to their privacy, their manuscripts and their prayers. But there had been a notable alteration since Blackstone had taken control. On two days a week Brother Marcus sent the monks into the fields with the others, and by the season’s end the crops and animal husbandry had doubled in value. The acreage under crops was extended and the monastery began to reclaim disused land and increase its wealth. By the end of that first summer goat’s cheese and other products were sold and bartered at Chaulion’s market, alms were distributed to the poor and the area became known as a place of safety and refuge for those seeking the Englishman’s protection.
Thomas Blackstone’s accomplishment was all the more remarkable given the few men he commanded, but as the stability of Chaulion and the surrounding area grew others travelled to offer their services. Most were from Edward’s army now that the siege of Calais was over and Edward held his gateway into France. But Blackstone took few men into his company and used his captains Guinot and Meulon to assess the newcomers’ worth, leaving him to make the final decision as to who should be allowed to join the group of men who had come to rely on each other. Logistics of food and pay determined how he could sustain his soldiers, who now numbered seventy or more, with still only fifteen English archers – now led by Matthew Hampton – most of whom had come from Edward’s reserve battalion, their services no longer needed. While convalescing at Castle de Harcourt after Crécy, Blackstone had learnt patience, and now his daring was tempered with caution as he extended his territory. He avoided any drawn-out siege that could sap his meagre force.
‘How many fighting men can the town support?’ he had asked the captains.
‘Easily a hundred,’ said Guinot.
‘There are new quarters for them. Some have taken in women, they’ll be breeding like rabbits,’ Meulon told Blackstone.
Blackstone laid out the map that Jean de Harcourt had given him. ‘I don’t want too many men in any place we hold. Fifty here at the most. It can be defended with less. Others will come now the war’s ended and there’ll be those who will challenge us. Soldiers without war are like a pack of wolves. I want to go further south, pluck what we can and bring whoever’s there onto our side.’ He paced the room that he had taken for his own use in the merchant’s house, containing a simple cot and a table for the maps and a plate of food. He knew they had been lucky so far. The nagging uncertainty of how to fulfil his promise to those he had offered to protect was always with him. Men now looked to him for their welfare and reward, and since he had rejected the Norman lords’ stipend they had raided further away from the security of Chaulion. Blackstone’s name and reputation had grown, but the coffers had shrunk as French loyalty had been fractured by the war, spawning other bands of routiers who would tear the heart out of an area that lacked protection.
‘We’ve achieved much this year, but we need to secure provisions for winter,’ Blackstone told them. ‘Start choosing men the others respect and give them the responsibility of command. We need to rely on the men we have.’ He tapped the map, which showed several smaller hamlets and manor houses. ‘Choose those places that are scattered within a few miles of the walled towns. By taking them we keep those who command the towns from using the roads and moving across country. Seize and hold.’
For those first few months his men had raided beyond Chaulion, ignoring walled towns and concentrating on smaller fortified manor houses whose defences could be quickly overwhelmed and then improved enough to be held by only a few men. His strategy of picking off these easily captured manors and hamlets meant that the smaller garrisons of the lesser nobility were hampered in their movements and their access to food when their villages were brought under the English knight’s protection. Two of these towns, smaller than Chaulion, with ancient, crumbling walls offering little protection, fell by the autumn. Their men had been barely able to travel five miles without being attacked and harassed by Blackstone’s marauders. It was this slow and deliberate plan, executed by surprise attack, and the ability to change tactics rapidly that often caught the French off-guard. Despite their small numbers – the raiding parties were often no more than a dozen men – they were used to attacking trade routes and traders and Blackstone rode and fought with his men until towns and hamlets further south were held. It was this capacity to strike an enemy in different places that he likened to inflicting multiple wounds on a stronger opponent. Sooner or later the bloodletting would weaken them and they would fall to their knees. Blackstone’s incursion became the silken thread that held these places together and festered in French flesh. It had been a daring start to a campaign, but now the men were becoming weary and it would soon be time to secure what they had.
‘We can’t fight through another winter,’ Meulon said. ‘It would exhaust us.’
‘My men fight as long as I fight, Meulon. I eat what they eat. I take no special favour for myself,’ Blackstone said, but knew as he said it that the edge to his voice was due to tiredness.
Meulon stood his ground. He was the one sent by Lord de Harcourt as Blackstone’s right-hand man, and had been at Blackstone’s shoulder in every attack. ‘We are not you, Master Thomas. We’ve lost men, some are still wounded. Too far, too fast and we could lose some of what we’ve gained.’
Blackstone looked at Guinot, who shrugged. ‘He’s right. We’re secure, we’ve food. It would rebuild the men’s strength. And the horses are being punished harder than the men.’
Blackstone knew that man and horse could be pushed further but he also knew that he was in danger of abandoning his own strategy of seize and hold. Before he could make his decision a messenger from Castle de Harcourt was announced and one of de Harcourt’s soldiers was ushered into the room. He bowed his head to Blackstone, and acknowledged Meulon who had once commanded him. The messenger had obviously ridden without rest. His clothes were wet and mud-splattered and he had the gaunt look of a man who had not slept for a couple of days.
‘I serve my Lord de Harcourt,’ he said.
‘We know that, you idiot,’ Meulon chastised him. ‘What is it you want?’
‘I have a message for Sir Thomas,’ the courier said.
‘Then hand it over and get to the kitchen for food,’ said Meulon, a sense of despair creeping into his voice at being reminded how slow-witted some of the garrison soldiers were.
‘It is not written, it was give
n to me by my Lord de Harcourt with orders to speak only to Sir Thomas,’ the man said.
‘And you remember your lord’s words, Bascard?’ Meulon asked, remembering the man’s name.
‘I do. I was made to repeat them many times before my lord sent me.’
‘Aye, well, I’m surprised he didn’t hang a slate around your neck to remind you,’ said Meulon, as he and Guinot left the room.
Blackstone had given little thought to de Harcourt because time had passed quickly. When he slept he dreamt of lying across Christiana, and that arousal would wake him to the cold reality of whatever floor or cot he slept on alone. Some of his men had taken women and others had made use of the town’s whores, but Blackstone had busied himself with making war.
‘Give me your message and you’ll be fed and quartered until your return,’ Blackstone said.
The man stood rigidly, gazing straight ahead so that his eyes did not meet that of a superior and began reciting the words that had been drilled into him. ‘Your absence for these many months has caused concern and as this year draws to a close my lord notes that you have made no effort in another regard.’
‘What regard?’ Blackstone asked.
The man looked perplexed, not expecting his orders to be questioned. ‘I don’t know, Sir Thomas. But my lord commands you to attend the wilful neglect of your duty.’ The man swallowed nervously. ‘That’s what he said.’
Blackstone had no idea what the message meant. He had secured territory in the name of his sovereign lord, Edward, and had extended the buffer between the Norman barons and those who might threaten them. Long, hard months of raiding had forged a small company of men who fought as if they were twice their number. What other duty? And then it became obvious where his neglect lay. Christiana.
‘How does my Lord de Harcourt command me?’
‘By returning until the matter is settled.’
With a sickening wrench Blackstone realized the master was pulling the leash on his dog. After months of freedom it was being curtailed and despite the sudden reminder of his lust for Christiana and de Harcourt’s goodwill, he could not help feeling resentment. He was being taken from his men. He knew them as well as he had known the English archers with whom he had served. And he did not wish to lose such a close bond again. Could he defy de Harcourt? Why not? He was independent of them, he had proved his worth. But honour and a promise made to his wife that he would return had to be reconciled.
He gave his instructions to Guinot and Meulon to do as they suggested and give the men rest. Then, on the following day, he rode back to Castle de Harcourt.
The castle’s imposing walls loomed before him, and as he clattered across the wooden bridge memories of time lost flooded over him.
Jean de Harcourt looked at the man before him. His wild hair was matted like a dog that had hunted its prey through bramble and hedgerow and his gaunt, unshaven face was weather-beaten, the skin taut against his cheekbones, tightening his scar like a bowstring. He had seen that haunted look in fighting men’s eyes before; it was one of constant wariness, of always being alert. He stepped forward and embraced Blackstone.
‘Thomas, it’s good to see you after so long. I’m pleased you’re well and have suffered no injuries.’
Blackstone felt a familiar comfort within the castle walls. In one sense it was like coming home and yet there was also the feeling that they were imprisoning the part of him that wished to ride freely across the countryside and strike at his enemy.
‘I’ve been fortunate, lord. How is your standing with King Philip? Has everything gone as you had hoped?’
‘Thanks to you, yes.’ He poured wine as Blackstone restlessly went to the window. ‘De Fossat came back with enough evidence to convince the King that we were hunting you in his name. If there had been any suspicion that Norman lords had connived at your success in the towns to the south it was a doubt soon pushed from the King’s mind when the severed heads were tipped from the sacks with great ceremony by our friend William. The King’s chancellor vomited because of their putrefaction, but Philip was keen to see if your scarred face was among the heads that rolled around his courtyard. William de Fossat has regained some of his lands, although the King’s son resents him for it, but it’s politics and de Fossat knows how to get the best yield from a well-sown crop.’
‘Then your plan worked, though you might have warned me, lord. I thought we were about to fight our last when he appeared.’
‘Better not to signal where you place your knight on the chessboard,’ said de Harcourt, handing Blackstone a glass of wine, which he swallowed down as de Harcourt sipped his own. ‘I had prayers said for you, Thomas. But what had happened between you and William was common knowledge and I used that because he was the only one of us the King would believe.’
‘Then you gambled with my life. He’d have killed me if he had to.’
‘No, I knew that he would not because he owed you a debt.’
‘Which is now wiped clean.’
‘Listen to me, Thomas, what happened at Chaulion with Saquet and de Fossat bought us time.’
‘Perhaps so, but I don’t understand him. He said he would fight alongside me in a common cause but if we faced each other on the battlefield he would kill me. And that can be done by a crossbow easier than a sword.’
De Harcourt laid a hand on his friend’s shoulder. ‘William will choose whatever course best suits him. Treat him as you would a chained war dog. Don’t get too close and don’t make him strain against it. He’s strong enough to make it snap.’
Blackstone had been caught up in the Norman lords’ web and although his friendship for Jean would hold him, they both knew he had already cut himself free from their entanglement.
‘Now, Thomas… there are other matters that must be attended to.’
Blackstone felt another kind of trepidation, different from the brief moments of fear that gripped him before battle. He had to face Christiana after months of absence.
‘Where is she?’ he asked.
‘In her rooms. She knows you’re here.’
‘She’s well?’
‘Yes. She and Blanche accompany each other every day. She’s happy here. But she misses you, though she never complains. It was time to bring you back, Thomas. It’s been too long.’
‘I had work to do. We’ve secured a corridor that gives Edward an opportunity to strike through the heart of France should he need to.’
‘And he’s aware of it. We have our ways of telling the English King what he needs to know. You refused our payments, Thomas. Is our money not good enough?’
‘I wanted to be independent and to save you and the others from being associated with me, but, unless I can find someone to capture and ransom or strike lucky with another attack, then I shall come back with my begging bowl. I have enough to get through another winter.’
‘You’ll never be seen as a beggar by anyone in this house, or those associated with me. We’ve watched you hurl yourself through the countryside like an angry storm. We could never have acted with such abandon.’
Blackstone allowed the warmth of the compliment to calm him. ‘I have good men. Every one of them. Tell the barons that they chose well when they sent them. And I should be with them.’
‘Every man has more than one duty, Thomas. Christiana was under our guardianship, but you can’t abandon your wife and child.’
De Harcourt’s words caught him like a flail. ‘Child? Already?’
The Norman lord looked at the man he had taught to fight, the boy who went out a mercenary and returned a seasoned leader. ‘Sweet Jesus, Thomas, you can count the months.’
Blackstone looked blank, trying to recount how many sorties and attacks he had undertaken. The months went hand in hand with conquest. How many men lived and died, and when, was his calendar. ‘Eight?’
‘Ten, damned near eleven.’
‘A child,’ he whispered to himself. ‘What am I to do now?’ he asked like a fool. And then, ‘Wha
t kind of child?’
‘Well, there are no signs of horns or cleft hoof, so most likely one sent by the angels. You should see him.’
A son.
Christiana was different. Her face had softened and there was a warmth to her skin like a blush; she looked somehow younger; childlike, he thought as he gazed at her. Her body pushed more against the soft cloth of her dress and her breasts, he noticed, were fuller and the taste of desire for her caught in his throat.
As he stepped into the room she was blowing gently on a cord to which were tied a dozen or more strips of coloured material that swayed above a small bundle lying swaddled in a crib. She whispered a soothing sound that would have caused the wildest heart to quieten. Except that when he saw her his heart beat faster. She turned as he made a movement, a sudden look of alarm giving way to surprise and joy as she ran and leapt at him, her lips covering his own with that unmistakable taste. She whispered his name a dozen times and then lowered her legs to the floor, gazing up at him, holding his face in her small hands, and letting her finger trace his scar.
‘Thomas, my beloved husband. I have missed you so much and prayed every day for your safe return.’ She tugged his hand. ‘Come, come and see your son.’
She lifted the sleeping infant from its crib and handed the swaddled child to him. He held it awkwardly away from his body, his big hands like grain shovels compared to the tiny bundle. ‘It’s like a loaf of bread,’ he said curiously. Bringing the child to his face he sniffed. It was a delicate smell that he had never experienced before.
‘I’ve just fed him,’ she said and eased the baby from his arms. She kissed the infant’s forehead and Blackstone could see that she was like a child with a new kitten.
