Master of War (19 page)

Blackstone, exhausted, was still on all fours when the men around him went down on one knee. Edward of Woodstock, Prince of Wales, stood before Thomas Blackstone.

‘Who is this archer?’

Sir Godfrey bowed. ‘His name is Thomas Blackstone,’ he said.

‘We feel such courage should not be rewarded with punish­ment,’ the Prince said. ‘Get up, Master Blackstone,’ he gently commanded.

Blackstone got to his feet. For a moment he kept his head bowed, not wishing to force the heir to the throne of England to look up at one of his humble subjects. Blackstone was taller. Then he realized that the Prince stood a few feet away on the higher ground. He raised his head and looked into the face of a boy the same age as he.

‘Who is the girl?’ the Prince asked de Harcourt.

‘She is a lady who serves my nephew’s wife, Blanche, Countess de Harcourt, sire,’ Sir Godfrey answered. The Prince had kept his eyes on Blackstone, observing the boy’s features and the strength in his shoulders and arms. This was one of his archers who served in his division. He turned to the lame knight.

‘And her husband and your brother serve with King Philip.’

‘Yes, sire. My nephew and brother are sworn men to him. They could not be persuaded otherwise. The girl was trying to rejoin her mistress at Noyelles.’

The Prince nodded. The de Harcourts were a divided family. He looked back at Blackstone who lowered his eyes.

‘Why did you go back for the girl?’

‘I had given her my word that I would see her safely returned to the service of her lady, sire.’

‘A pledge kept is honour gained. What reward would you have, Thomas Blackstone?’

‘None, sire.’

‘Well answered. We are pleased. But it is also our pleasure that you be rewarded. What shall it be?’

Blackstone dared to look up. The young Prince had a kindly face, but his eyes were unflinching as they studied him.

‘Some food for the company of archers that led the way across the river, sire.’

‘There is little food left, but we shall see it is given. They have earned that and more.’ The Prince turned to de Harcourt. ‘We are now in the county of Ponthieu, my father’s inheritance from my grandmother. Your family is here. Take the girl to them and assure the lady countess and her mother that we wish them no harm. Sir Godfrey, we acknowledge your fealty. See them safe.’

‘I will, sire.’

The Prince nodded. ‘And see my archers fed.’

He made his way back through the ranks, offering words of encouragement and thanks to his fighting men, who cheered him.

‘There’ll be food and wine,’ said Sir Godfrey, ‘but you’d best re-arm yourself, Blackstone. Noyelles will be burning by nightfall.’

Chaos surged through the town’s streets. The English soldiers, still charged with blood-lust from the bitter fighting at the ford, slaughtered the survivors from the beachhead and looted and burned the houses. King Edward expected his supplies from England to be waiting at Le Crotoy, a few miles up the coast. Noyelles was in the way of his raiding force.

Sir Gilbert led the way towards the town’s castle. Choking, acrid smoke carried across rooftops, drifting into back alleys, forcing the citizens to flee. Behind Sir Gilbert the archers and men-at-arms shielded Christiana and Sir Godfrey from any final desperate act by townsmen or surviving levies. The flames of their hatred for the English had been fanned by despair at their King’s failure to stop the invaders. Godfrey de Harcourt sent a herald forward with an armed escort to declare his identity at the castle and then issued orders for Sir Gilbert to secure the town from further destruction, placing it under his protection.

The castle gates were opened reluctantly by servants once de Harcourt’s promise of safety had been relayed to the countess. Sir Godfrey and his men dismounted in the courtyard as the massive doors swung closed behind them. Blackstone looked at the high walls and parapets. A marshal of the English army and a company of archers with ten men-at-arms would have a hard time fighting their way out should this be an ambush. And why would it not be? Godfrey de Harcourt was a traitor and the women who waited for him in the keep might well be prepared to exact revenge. Blackstone checked himself, his thoughts now concentrated on preparing for the worst. He gave his reins to Richard and waited, hovering near Christiana, hoping he might be instructed to help her dismount.

‘Bring her,’ de Harcourt ordered.

Before Blackstone could reach up and help her from the saddle, Christiana dismounted without aid. She gave Blackstone barely a glance, but pressed a piece of embroidered linen into the fold of his jacket and then turned away quickly to follow Sir Godfrey towards the four-storey tower. The lame man climbed the steps to the great hall without effort. Blackstone followed three men behind Christiana who had not looked back at him once. Uncertainty gnawed at him. Her warmth and sentiments seemed to have been swept away as if by the tide. Was she now a lady delivered safely, unconcerned about a common archer’s feelings? Was the piece of linen only a token of gratitude?

‘String your bows,’ Elfred ordered the archers. He pointed at four of the men. ‘Two here, two at those windows.’ The archers moved into position. Blackstone knew that Elfred’s natural inclina­tion was the same as his own. Had the gates been opened too easily? Godfrey de Harcourt was a tenacious fighter who could ride a man half his age into the ground, but inbred arrogance could blind the most far-sighted man.

‘Thomas, take your brother. Cover Sir Godfrey and his men inside.’

Elfred sent other men onto the walls. This bear pit of a place needed archers in good firing positions.

‘Tom, Henry, search those stables. Matthew – top of those stairs!’

Blackstone looked at the archers as he followed de Harcourt, whose men-at-arms fell back, taking up posts at doorways and passage entrances.

Tom Brock and Matthew Hampton were old hands, Warwick’s men like Will Longdon.

‘Find a loophole, Thomas, we’ll need some cover from up there,’ Matthew said as he took up position. ‘And don’t get separated from the others. It’s easy done in twisting corridors. Have your knife ready if you do.’

Blackstone nodded and went into the castle’s gloom and chilled air. Men moved hurriedly, and the scraping of armour on stone walls along narrow passageways heralded de Harcourt’s approach. One of the men cursed as his couter, an elbow guard, caught a protruding piece of badly mortared stone. If Blackstone had laid a wall in such a manner his master stonemason would have beaten him. The memory of that past life, abandoned only weeks ago, seemed so distant now. So too the times he shared with Richard, who, despite his affliction, could express laughter and joy. That had all been murdered and swept away like the bodies cast into the river at Caen.

Blackstone put his brother at a stairwell and had him watch through the arrow loops into the courtyard. Blackstone stayed ten paces behind Christiana and Sir Godfrey, who pushed open the doors into the great hall. He held his place and watched the girl rush forward, out of sight. Women’s voices uttered cries of delight as Christiana was welcomed. And then one of the women stepped into view. Blackstone thought her to be about ten years older than himself. Her raven hair was curled into a knot at her shoulder, framing the beauty of her face. She was slightly taller than Christiana, who now stood by her side. However, the woman’s fine features could not distract from the armour she wore, nor the sword in her hand. Blackstone edged closer to the half-opened door.

‘My lady, we will cause no harm here,’ de Harcourt told her.

‘Your Englishmen do not share your sentiments,’ she replied, but laid the sword down across an oak table in a gesture of acceptance. ‘But you brought Christiana to us. I thank you for that.’

‘Sir Godfrey and his Englishmen rescued me, my lady,’ Christi­ana said. She looked towards de Harcourt who had his back to the door. Her eyes caught Blackstone. She pointed. ‘He’s the one who saved my life.’

Blackstone quickly stepped back as de Harcourt turned. Before he could admonish Blackstone for being so close, the armoured woman called, ‘Let me see you!’

Christiana came forward and opened the door fully. Blackstone felt a flush of blood colouring his neck and face as he stood in the doorway under de Harcourt’s glare. He stepped forward as ordered by de Harcourt’s gesture.

‘An archer.’ She crossed herself. ‘Dear sweet mother of God! I don’t want these murderers in my sight. Get him out of this place,’ she said.

Blackstone faltered. Christiana looked wounded. The older of the three women, dressed in the clothes of a noblewoman and with a bearing that commanded respect, stepped into view. ‘Blanche, that will do,’ she said quietly, but firmly.

In that moment Blanche de Harcourt looked as if she could snatch up the sword and attack Blackstone. ‘Mother, you know what these men have done. You know their reputation.’

‘I also know that my brother was a Norman, that the French King took his land and that four years ago he died fighting in alliance with the English.’ She spoke directly to Blackstone. ‘And he spoke of rough, crude men, English archers, and said he wished we had such men fighting for us. I am Countess d’Aumale and this lady who would strike at you is my daughter, Countess Blanche de Ponthieu, wife of Sir Godfrey’s nephew. Your enemy.’

Blackstone tried to find words through his confusion and embar­rass­ment, but none came. He went down on one knee.

‘You have some manners, young English archer. Perhaps not all of you are as savage as your reputation suggests. Get up,’ she told him.

Blackstone glanced at Christiana, who lowered her eyes. The girl had thought that the pride of showing her rescuer might have been a cause for gratitude.

‘Christiana is dear to us all.’ She glanced at the humbled girl. ‘How might we reward you?’

Before Blackstone could reply, de Harcourt, irritated by the women’s interest in a common archer, spoke for him. ‘He’s already refused the heir to the throne of England’s offer of reward. He wants nothing.’

‘If the Prince of Wales has been refused then we cannot suggest anything more, other than to offer our thanks.’

‘My lady…’ Blackstone stuttered.

‘Get out,’ Godfrey de Harcourt ordered.

Blackstone turned away, but not before seeing Christiana smile briefly at him, and a look in her eyes that he could not compre­hend, but which made him feel flushed again. He stepped into the passage. Sir Godfrey slammed the door. The voices from the room were dulled by the heavy chestnut panels.

Blackstone waited a moment longer. He heard Sir Godfrey tell the women that he had seen his brother’s banner at Rouen, also his nephew’s. There was no doubt the French and English armies would soon clash.

‘Surrender to me and you shall be protected,’ Sir Godfrey said.

Blanche de Ponthieu’s voice was still bitter. ‘You go to fight your own family!’

De Harcourt was a man who would yield to no one, and no woman would have the better of him. His voice thundered around the hall. ‘Their loyalty to King Philip is misplaced! You have no love for him! You tried to convince your husband, as I attempted to convince my brother, to side with me! You know the English will win.’

Blackstone moved away from the raised voices, needing to distract himself from the girl who was now with his enemy’s family. Men-at-arms stood at their posts; his brother’s back was towards him as he peered out of the arrow loop to the courtyard below where Elfred’s men remained vigilant. Blackstone almost reached out to touch his shoulder. What care or love was left within his own family? He turned away and tugged out Christiana’s small token of gratitude. On the square of cloth was embroidered a small bird – sharp-beaked, black-eyed, with blue plumage. It seemed familiar somehow, but he wasn’t sure why. Little else of beauty had come his way in this war; he would keep it as a memento. All he could do now was to wait for Sir Godfrey.

Her presence startled him. She had slipped out of the hall and moved silently behind him. His hand had gone quickly to the knife at his belt. He muttered an apology and took a step back until he bumped into the wall. Damn, he was acting like a country oaf. She smiled. Her voice barely rose above a whisper, preventing her words from echoing through the stone corridors.

‘I wish I could ask Sir Godfrey to leave you here, but my Lady de Harcourt would object,’ she said.

‘Why would you ask that?’ he answered, forcing his voice to remain low, finding the words catching in his throat, as if they were two lovers meeting secretly.

‘To protect us,’ she said, and tentatively took a step closer to him.

He could smell the sweet oils from her hair.

‘And…’ she continued, placing her hand on his, ‘to keep you safe.’

Blackstone glanced nervously past her, hoping to God that none of the others happened to wander from their posts and catch sight of them. ‘I’m a soldier. And I have to care for my brother. I couldn’t stay, even if your lady did permit it.’

She nodded. She knew that. ‘Will I see you again, Thomas Blackstone?’

‘Would you wish to?’ he answered, feeling the blood warm his face.

She smiled, her tenderness reaching out to him. ‘Yes. I owe you my life. And you’re the only one who cared enough to save it.’

Voices were raised again in the great hall. Christiana glanced anxiously over her shoulder. ‘I must go.’ She gripped his big, work-roughened hand that still held her embroidered cloth. ‘Think of me,’ she said.

Other than when her hand had rested on his they had hardly touched, and more than anything he wanted to pull her to him. But he didn’t. It was too late. She had stepped away.

Men were moving somewhere along the corridors. She hesi­tated before going back towards the great hall, then glanced over her shoulder to him. ‘I’ll pray for your safe return,’ she said. And was gone.

Elfred’s voice carried, berating one of the men. Blackstone turned down an unguarded passage, distancing himself from the hall and the patrolling men-at-arms. It took a few moments for his head to clear. The castle’s chill seeped into his hand from where he leaned against the stone wall. The rubble that had been used was smoother here; the mason had taken greater care to lay the lime mortar flush between the stone contours. Blackstone ran his palm against the castle’s skin. This had been a better mason. A man who, more than a century earlier, had taken pride in his workmanship. Perhaps the cut base stone would yield the man’s mark or initials. His eyes followed the line of mortar and saw the gouge in its dry curve. Someone had stumbled against it. To cut the surface they must have been wearing armour. The scar was at shoulder height and the dull stain was fresh. Blackstone looked down onto the floor. The granite slabs hid the colour of the blood but could not disguise its sheen.