Master of War (36 page)

Blackstone walked back towards the castle and as he strode past those who laboured in the stables, they stopped what they were doing, and bowed at his presence.

That life was long gone.

Blackstone returned to his room, where the wooden tub lined with linen steamed from hot water and the unmistakable scent of rosemary and lavender. A dozen candles or more burned and fresh underclothes and a doublet were laid out on his bed, woollen socks and clean boots arranged next to them. Blackstone looked at the servant who stood, head bowed, with linen towels draped over the crook of his arm.

‘Marcel, what is this?’

‘It is your bath, Sir Thomas.’

‘I can see that, but what are you doing here?’

‘I am your attendant, Sir Thomas,’ the servant replied.

‘To do what?’ said Blackstone, placing the sword on the window­sill, and opening the window to let cold air into the scent-laden room.

‘To help you undress and bathe, lord.’

Blackstone stripped off his bloodied tunic and swirled his hand into the hot water, touching his fingertips to his lips. ‘It tastes like medicine.’

‘The heat and the herbs cleanse the body,’ Marcel said.

‘You’ve tried it, then?’

Marcel’s shocked expression at being asked such a provocative question left no doubt that he had never immersed his body in such luxury.

Blackstone nodded. ‘All right, Marcel, you can go now. I can undress myself and I daresay I can get into there without drowning.’

‘With all due respect, if I do not attend to you, as my Lord de Harcourt has instructed, then I will be flogged.’

The momentary stalemate gave Blackstone no alternative. ‘Stand… there,’ he said, flicking a finger somewhere further back. ‘I’ll undress and get into the water.’

Marcel bowed his head and stepped back to the rear of the wooden tub as Blackstone dropped his clothes and eased him­self slowly into the hot water. It was a sensation never before experienced, and as the water reached the top of his chest the water’s embrace seeped away the stiffness from his aching muscles, and the scented steam cleared his nostrils from the stench of the kill. With a long-drawn-out sigh, he lowered his head backwards and could not erase the image of a fat sow wallowing with pleasure in mud.

He dunked his head and scratched through his long, matted hair. Marcel stood next to him and handed him a block of soap. The brief moment of uncertainty as Blackstone brought it to his nose allowed Marcel to make small gestures to his head and his crotch.

‘I may be a common man, Marcel, but I know what it is and what it’s for. I’ve washed my hair and balls before now.’

Marcel retreated again as Blackstone rubbed the block of soap through his tangled hair, then plunged his head one more beneath the water. As he bent forward, Marcel washed his back and apologized before Blackstone could reprimand him.

‘I have my orders, Sir Thomas. I beg you – please allow me to do my duty. My Lord de Harcourt’s hand can be heavy. When you are ready I shall dry you.’

‘Marcel, if I give you my word that I will not tell our Lord de Harcourt, will you at least allow me to dry myself? I’m not a damned child.’

‘As you wish, Sir Thomas. Thank you for your kindness. Now, can I finish scrubbing your back?’

Blackstone relented and bent forward, admitting to himself that the experience of bathing was not unpleasant, but he could see the disadvantage of doing it too often. Christmas was probably a good enough occasion, but any more frequently than that would sap a man’s strength.

The vigorous rubbing motion scoured neck and shoulders and down onto the packed muscle that came from those years in the quarry and the pulling of a war bow. His mind drifted, thinking of what his life might be in the future. His choices were limited. If he became proficient with the sword he could approach one of the lords back home in England. Perhaps become a reeve, or a bailiff. He could read and write and could defend a lord’s manorial interests. But to be the instrument of exacting another tax or levy on those who had so little would cause him to hesitate in that duty. It was obvious: there could only be a soldier’s life for him once he left this place.

Marcel’s ministrations softened, pressing the warmth of the cloth into his neck and shoulders, and then dragged fingers through his hair.

‘Marcel, if you continue in that manner, I’ll fall asleep and drown in here. Then what would your master say?’

‘I don’t know,’ Christiana answered, as she moved around so he could see her. ‘What would he say, my lord?’

Blackstone jolted so that the water splashed. Marcel was gone. Blackstone barely managed a pathetic utterance: ‘Christiana.’

She closed the window, her nipples already pressing against her undershift, the only clothing she wore. She blew out some of the candles so that a deepening shadow settled from their warm yellow glow. ‘Is my lord likely to drown?’ she said.

He shook his head.

Blackstone could not take his eyes from the swell of her breasts. Since that day he took her across the river he’d imagined her being naked.

‘Is my lord’s silence still one of anger with a foolish woman?’ she said gently and slipped her undershift free. Blackstone’s racing heartbeat made him gasp for breath as she lowered herself into the water. He felt her legs touch him as her hands reached for his face and raised his lips to her own.

The fullness of her breasts touched his face as she leaned for­ward and he hungrily squeezed them, sucking a nipple like a starving man. She gasped and drew back from him. The urge that flooded through her own body was as startling as his yearning for her. He wrapped his arms around her – not too tightly, for fear of breaking the spell. Her breasts crushed against him and he felt her heart beating as rapidly as his own. His mind urged him to measure the moment, to savour it as long as possible. He cupped her breasts and teased the puckered nipples with his tongue, and then eased her legs apart so he could reach for her. Tantalizing moments passed before he stroked her sex, and then, as she gasped he enfolded her in his arms and eased them both from the water.

He covered her in a linen sheet and dried the moisture from her body as she leaned into him, her hand moving behind to touch his hardness. The logs in the fireplace sparked, and she jumped, her nervousness so acute that she spun into him. Their tension made them laugh, then Blackstone pushed her back gently onto the bed.

He caressed her with his tongue and tried to keep the scar’s ugly welt from her, but she turned his head and kissed it.

‘Every scar is earned, I’ll not have you hide any part of you from me. Ever.’

He hesitated at her tenderness. Guilt stroked his conscience. The first man he had killed wore a surcoat bearing the same design as the embroidered cloth she had once given him. What connection was there between them? She mistook his hesitation as being that of a young lover. She drew him to her, letting her own desire guide her hands onto him. It was not fear that made her struggle against him, it was her impatience. All doubts were washed away from Blackstone’s thoughts. The past did not matter. His strength held her as he teased her, and kept her legs apart until she whimpered and writhed beneath him. As he finally went into her, he released her arms. She clung to him, and gave a small cry; pain and pleasure mingling for the first time. Blackstone moved slowly, watching her eyes, their pupils flaring and her lips trembling as she pushed her hips against him, twisting her head against the bolster. She seemed to suffocate, as if it was impossible to catch her breath, and as she arched her back, their sweat mingled and ran between her breasts. She reached out for him, clinging to his neck, holding onto the surging pleasure that peaked time and again, until finally she gave a shuddering cry.

The wind rattled the shutters as a beckoning dawn struggled against the low-lying clouds. Blackstone had always risen before dawn so he could feel the chill of the night giving way to the easing warmth of the lightening sky. It had become his habit to spend the first hour going through the ritual of practising his sword stroke, by which time de Harcourt’s house buzzed with activity. This morning would be no different. Blackstone rekindled the fire and slipped away quietly, easing the door closed behind him. Marcel lay hunched in the opposite door embrasure, where he always slept. Blackstone nudged him with the toe of his boot and the startled servant was quickly awake.

‘You were paid?’ asked Blackstone.

Marcel nodded.

‘By Lady Christiana?’

‘Yes, lord.’

‘And now you will report to your master, I suppose.’

‘Sir Thomas, I took your lady’s coin, and gave my word that I would not tell Lord de Harcourt,’ Marcel answered.

Marcel had still not raised his eyes to meet Blackstone’s. ‘Look at me,’ Blackstone told him.

The old man obeyed.

‘Now tell me again that you will not tell his lordship.’

‘I will not,’ Marcel said.

Blackstone nodded, satisfied. ‘Go about your duties, there’s no need for you to see Lady Christiana when she leaves my room.’

Marcel’s shoulders hunched in servile obedience, as he shuffled away down the passageway – on his way to report the news that the young Englishman had taken Christiana to his bed. His promise to Blackstone was as sound as the granite walls – Lord Jean de Harcourt would have thrashed the flesh from his bones for relaying such information. However, he served Countess Blanche and it was she who had instructed him to watch Blackstone and report when he and the girl fornicated.

Blackstone sluiced the sweat away in a horse trough after break­ing the sliver of ice on its surface. The colder weather would soon make itself felt, he thought, and winter behind these walls seemed unavoidable unless an opportunity to escape presented itself. But the thought of escape had now become a much more complicated matter.

His desire to stay at Christiana’s side was now more com­pelling, but habit and necessity had forced him from the warmth of her embrace. She had barely moved as he slipped away from her. Some excuse would have to be found for not attending the previous night’s dinner, and if he had broken his habit of practising each morning, perhaps Jean de Harcourt would suspect that something more enticing than sleep had held Blackstone in his bed. Christiana was de Harcourt’s ward, and taking the girl’s virginity while under her guardian’s protection, no matter that she was willing, might prove a more dangerous prospect than facing a man-killing boar. He knew he had to continue his routine as before, and become bolder still in his requests to be allowed time away from the castle. Alone.

‘Thomas!’

Blackstone turned and saw de Harcourt, wrapped in his cloak, beckoning him from an upper window. He was being summoned. Had he been discovered already? Marcel! The bastard. How could Blackstone deny what had happened? He pulled his tunic over his shirt, the goose bumps from the cold settling on his wet skin. Or was that fear? he wondered. Of what? Not violence. He could deal with that. Banishment. And losing Christiana. That was the chill that prickled his skin.

De Harcourt turned back into the room from the window. ‘More wood, for Christ’s sake! Get a blaze going, you useless pig!’ he shouted at a servant. Blanche sat at a small table eating cold cuts, a thick winter gown, rich with fur trimming, tugged up around her neck.

‘Jean. It’s nearly Christmas,’ she admonished him.

De Harcourt poured a glass of wine, his eyes bleary from the previous night’s excess. ‘And a fine time will be had by all. What?’ he asked as she stared him down.

‘Blasphemy, particularly now, is unforgivable.’

‘What’s unforgivable is that my damned English hero did not attend dinner. But there he is, before daybreak, with only torchlight to see his way, slashing away the darkness. God’s blood, Blanche, the man has no joy in him.’ He swallowed the wine and poured another. His pause was deliberate. ‘And where was she?’ he said, eyeing his wife’s expression over the rim of his glass.

The servant threw bundled kindling and dry wood onto the grate and the fire flared. ‘Get out,’ de Harcourt told him, as Blanche moved closer to the warmth.

‘I hate winter,’ she said. ‘We should go south. De Foix still holds Provence. You know him. We could invite ourselves. It would make a nice change. I tire of the fog and the damp. Don’t you?’

‘This is where we’re safe, Blanche. This is where the barons control. So, where was she?’

Blanche de Harcourt sighed. ‘I made her stay in her room. She behaved like a child. She insulted Thomas.’

Jean de Harcourt stared at his wife, who never blinked as she lied.

‘My lord?’ Blackstone said as he entered the room and went down on one knee. De Harcourt turned.

‘Get up. Get up. There’s a time and a place for that, Thomas, and now is neither.’

Blackstone got to his feet, glanced at the countess, who turned away to face the fire.

‘Well? What do you have to say for yourself?’ de Harcourt demanded.

Blackstone’s mind raced. Should he try and lie his way out of the truth? He could accept the blame and say he forced himself on her.

‘I don’t know what to say, lord,’ Blackstone answered, trying to buy time.

‘You don’t usually have a problem controlling your tongue,’ de Harcourt said, waiting a moment longer. ‘You did not grace us with your presence last night. Am I to be continually insulted? Am I expected to go on forgiving your misdemeanours?’ he said, exasperated.

Perhaps, Blackstone thought, they did not know the truth, so the lie could be altered. ‘I fell asleep, lord.’

‘What?’ de Harcourt asked, as if he had not understood the answer.

‘The bathing. It lulled me into a state I had never experienced before. Its warmth took me. I daresay it was the day’s events that tired me more than I knew.’

De Harcourt was close to him, then moved behind him, sniffing the air. ‘You still smell of lavender, Thomas. And something else,’ he said.

Blackstone did not move.

‘It’s the rose petals, my lord,’ Blanche said. ‘Their oils seep into the water.’

For a moment Blackstone thought de Harcourt did not believe her. Then he nodded. ‘I’m pleased you enjoyed the experience, Thomas. I questioned Marcel this morning. He said he left you in the tub. That you commanded him to leave.’