Master of War (60 page)

A wave of devout prayer soon followed when the monastery rang out the prayer times during the day and night. Blackstone was thankful for it. It kept the townspeople’s minds focused and lessened the chance of panic. Blackstone gave strict orders that the gates of Chaulion would remain closed until the plague passed them by. At first he thought there would be panic, but they listened to what he had to say and the councilmen supported him. They had two good wells in the town and enough food for weeks ahead. If anyone fell sick they would be taken to a house especially chosen and kept isolated.

‘What can we do to protect Henry?’ Christiana asked.

‘Brother Simon told me to keep the air scented. Use whatever herbs you have. He said juniper should be burned and we should drink apple syrup, can you do that?’

She nodded and then eased into his arms. ‘We have a new son born that could be taken back by God,’ she whispered into his chest.

He could not disguise the irritation in his voice. ‘Is this God’s work? To smite down the lowly who have so little in the first place? It’s not God, it’s nature. Like a pestilence that smites the cattle. God doesn’t hold a grudge against a poor cow. It’s beyond our reasoning. We can do nothing more than wait it out.’

‘Do nothing? Is that what you expect of me? Burn incense and drink sweet apple water? There are doctors in Paris, many of them Jews. They will know what to do,’ she said, her voice rising in exasperation.

Blackstone closed a window. ‘Christiana, when this pestilence reaches Paris it will slay pauper and nobleman alike, quicker than a horde of barbarians. You stay in the house and garden and keep the servants in their own quarters, away from you and the child.’

‘And where will you be?’

‘Everywhere,’ he said, ‘and there will be days when I cannot come back inside these walls. I daren’t risk bringing it in so I’ll stay outside and make sure I’m free of it.’

‘You’re going outside?’ she said in disbelief.

‘The villagers need warning,’ he told her. ‘My men need re­-assurance.’

She turned on him angrily, like a she-wolf protecting her young. ‘No, Thomas! I won’t allow it! You’re the boy’s father! They’re peasants who live and die in their own filth on any given day of the week. Your responsibility is here with us. To protect us!’

She wiped the tears of anger from her eyes and Blackstone made no attempt to calm her. He saw that she had let the fear take hold. He understood that; had seen it in men who caved in under its muscle-sapping virulence. It was as powerful an enemy as a battle-crazed soldier wielding a war axe. And to see someone close to your heart succumb to the panic was little different than seeing them swept away on a tide. He grabbed her wrists and let her struggle, his voice soothing her, bringing her back from her panic and anger.

‘Christiana… Christiana… hush now… listen to me… listen… take a deep breath… and listen to me.’

She stopped writhing, unable to move this way or that because of his strength. He kissed her tears, and then released her, cradling her face in his hands.

‘I am the protector of these people. It’s my duty, as much to them as to you. They have to be warned, otherwise I am as worthless as the man who held this town before me. These people will look to you when I’m not here. They’ll see a young mother who’s as frightened as they are, but who’s strong and who puts trust in her faith. Be that woman, Christiana, not only for me, but for the townspeople and our son.’

Her body relaxed and she stepped away from him. ‘Blanche asked me to be strong when they brought you to the castle. I vomited when I saw your wounds, but I put my hands into them and cleansed them. I cared for you. This is different.’

He said nothing more and gathered his cloak and sword belt.

‘I’ll watch for you from the walls,’ she said gently, relenting from her anger. ‘God protect you, Thomas. All of us.’

Past experience reminded Blackstone that God was often busy elsewhere.

The townspeople shared responsibility for their own safety and Guinot made sure that his guards on the city walls were reinforced by men from the town. At first light Blackstone rode out with four other men, including Meulon and Gaillard, and although he wanted to take two archers with him for distance killing he did not wish to risk losing them to the pestilence. A couple of English archers with half a bag of arrows were worth a dozen hobelars and were too precious a resource. When Talpin and the guard at the monastery barricades saw that Blackstone was prepared to ride out it strengthened them against the fear that sat heavily in their chests and which could soon creep into their minds and blind their reason. Abandoning their posts would be like running into a haunted wood at night where wraiths of the dead would seize them. One of the archers, a man known as Waterford, watched the horsemen disappear across the skyline and then took to wiping his stave soothingly along its length with an oiled cloth, a slow, calming caress. The scarred knight could scare the shit out of Satan himself, he told Talpin and the others, and if the pestilence saw him coming it would turn back to where it came from. And who among them could argue with that? Blackstone’s reputation and fierce looks were all that stood between them and the devil’s seed. Matthew Hampton twirled an arrow shaft in his fingers and eased an errant goose-feather fletching into place.

‘Aye,’ he said quietly, ‘but I’m glad he didn’t take me out there with him.’

The first two villages were still safe havens and Blackstone instructed the villagers how to block the pathways. Palisades, cut brush and sharpened stakes would be warning enough to any itinerant refugee. No helping hand could be offered to anyone outside of their own community. They should slaughter what animals remained and ration their corn and smoked fish stocks. Perhaps, Blackstone hoped, the plague had bypassed them altogether. Small villages were usually safer than towns or cities when disease took hold. Fewer people meant less chance of contagion.

Several miles on, woodcutters’ tracks led them to where five families of thirty or so people lived and who had not yet seen travellers on the road. Most likely their isolation had so far saved them. Once Blackstone told them of what might be approaching down the rutted track that led to their hamlet, it ignited terror as if a flaming torch had been tossed into their reed-covered hovels. Meulon barged one man with his horse as he tried to run free. Blackstone shouted his orders. Run into the woods and they would die, he told them. Stay and keep strangers and other villagers out and they had a chance to live. No trade, no bartering. If one man’s wife or her family lived in another village there was to be no contact. He had them cut wattle and make six-foot fences to block the tracks leading to them and then to hang dead crows as a warning to anyone who thought to approach. Those who sickened and died must be burned in their houses.

‘And when will we know if the plague has passed?’ one of the woodcutters asked.

‘When I return and tell you,’ Blackstone answered.

‘Lord, if you are taken, how will we know?’ the man persisted.

‘If I die another will come. And if no one comes, then it makes no difference.’

Before they reached the next village Blackstone pulled up.

‘Gaillard, dismount,’ he said, getting down from the saddle. Gaillard looked perplexed, but did as he was told. Blackstone handed him his reins. ‘I have the best horse – take him and ride to my Lord de Harcourt and warn him of the plague. Tell him what we’re doing here, and that he should blockade the road to his villages and keep those within the castle from leaving. Ride hard and stop for no one. Stay in open country as much as you can. If anyone gets in your way, kill them. It doesn’t matter whether it’s a priest or a monk, or a nobleman running for his life. Don’t hesitate. Lord de Harcourt and his family must be warned. You stay and serve him till this is over. Do you understand?’

‘Yes, Sir Thomas,’ Gaillard answered, the burden of responsi­bility for the safety of de Harcourt now placed squarely on his shoulders.

‘I trust you with this, Gaillard.’

‘God bless you, Master Thomas; no man has ever treated me so well. And God bless you, my friends,’ said Gaillard.

Gaillard’s distressed look prompted Meulon. ‘You serve Sir Thomas, Gaillard, and you’ve done well for him to choose you. Spit on the devil and when he blinks, ride past him,’ Meulon said as the men laughed, easing the tension.

‘With a horse like this, he’ll never catch me anyway,’ Gaillard answered more confidently.

‘Ride him steady and find him water. Give my respects to the count. Tell him I will pursue the matter we discussed once this evil has passed. He’ll understand.’ Blackstone took the waterskin from Gaillard’s horse and wrapped it around the pommel. ‘Don’t stop, don’t accept food or shelter.’

He stepped back and let Gaillard kick the horse away.

‘And no whores either!’ one of the men called after him. Gaill­ard raised a hand showing he had heard. The men laughed among themselves. Gaillard was all right, he had the strength to fight two men at once, but the brains to know when he should run.

Meulon nodded at Blackstone; that was why he had been chosen.

Riding back to the main route that flowed like a stream of mud between the villages and town they saw the first signs of death on the road. Four bodies lay no more than three hundred paces from each other. They were peasants from God-knew-where, and Blackstone hoped they were not those who had passed by the monastery. It was doubtful, because he and the men were now more than a half-day’s ride away and those he had seen at the monastery were already exhausted. They would have reached the woodland and settled there until what little strength they had had returned, he thought.

‘Give me that,’ he said to Meulon, extending an arm for his spear. He dismounted and prodded the face-down corpse, which was that of a man. The body was not long dead, the flesh and the limbs gave way to the pressure but there was a rigidity to it that spoke of an agonizing death. The man’s hands were clenched. Blackstone wondered if that was because his soul had been dragged gasping from the body. He turned the body over. A grotesque face glared back at him. As the head lolled a black swollen tongue squirmed from the open jaws. The man’s bloodshot eyes were frozen in horror. The stench caught the back of Blackstone’s throat and he smothered his face with his crooked arm.

‘Sir Thomas! Don’t touch him!’ Meulon shouted from where he and the other men stayed safely with the horses.

Blackstone laid the tip of the spear against the man’s shirt and sliced through the worn material. The arms were splayed and once the shirt fell free Blackstone could see the buboes in his armpits. Some were small like overripe crab apples; others the size of an orange, and they had burst, weeping a black slime that stank like nothing Blackstone had ever smelled before. Even a battle’s gore was less offensive.

He pulled back his head as if struck, and after a few paces went down on his knees and vomited until his stomach muscles knotted. There was no prayer yet uttered by the holiest of men that could save anyone from this malignant enemy.

Going quickly to another body he knew it was unnecessary to see if they had all suffered the same fate; his purpose was to try to identify any of the fallen and establish which village they came from.

He turned a big man over with the spear and saw a face like a church’s gargoyle. Perhaps this look of terror on the dead was the devil’s imprint, he thought.

‘It’s spread fast,’ he called as he walked back to his horse. ‘It’s missed the villages to the east. It’s travelling north,’ he told them.

‘You’re certain?’ Meulon asked.

‘These people were heading towards Chaulion and the mon­astery,’ Blackstone told him.

‘They needed prayers said for them by the monks,’ Meulon replied.

‘Nothing to do with redemption, Meulon,’ he said.

They spurred on their horses, leaving behind the suppurating body of the big bearded man who carried not only the dark angel’s mark, but also that of the fleur-de-lys that Blackstone had branded him with months earlier.

The village of Christophe-la-Campagne had not learnt the lessons from Blackstone’s punishment after killing the English messenger and beating William Harness. They had done as he expected and betrayed him to Saquet, but they were still riven with hatred for the Englishman. And when the pestilence had struck they had turned in on themselves like a snared wolf chewing off its own leg.

‘It came here first,’ said Blackstone as they stood off from the village watching for movement among the houses. ‘Came here like an enemy through a back gate. They weren’t seeking a monk’s prayers, Meulon, they wanted to strike back at me. They wanted to get inside our walls before the plague showed its full force on their bodies.’

The men crossed themselves.

‘Sweet Jesus on the cross! That’s hatred, Sir Thomas,’ said one of the men.

Meulon looked up and down the muddied road. ‘This is the main highway for most anyone in these parts. If a pilgrim steps across that threshold they’ll be dead within a week and infect others.’

The men remained uneasy, some looking over their shoulder as if malign spirits could sweep down from the treetops. They could see animals untended in the fields; the cow byre was empty. Only one or two houses seeped smoke through their thatch. No dogs barked; no babies cried.

‘Many of them will lie where they fell,’ Blackstone told the men. ‘Wild boar and carrion will feed on them, the disease will spread. Get a fire going, make torches. We’ll go down and burn them out.’

Blackstone and his men tore strips from their shirts to cover mouths and noses and rode slowly into the sullen village. He and Meulon carried the burning torches as the other two men acted as guards with their spears at the ready. Every mud and wattle house they went to calling out for anyone still alive, was in darkness, the stench of human and animal waste rising up to meet them, mixing with the foulness of the putrefaction of the scattered bodies that lay in the muddied track. It was as if a sudden, silent blow from Heaven had slain them where they stood. In reality some had tried to crawl into their hovels but succumbed in the gaps between them, or fell straddled half in doorways; others simply lay in the street. The wealthier villeins’ houses were half-timbered and had windows covered with oiled cloth, but the privilege gave them no protection, and inside families lay in grotesque embrace.