The Last Horseman (45 page)

They were in no hurry now and the landscape almost demanded that they slow the horses’ pace to a walk. Sir Gilbert hadn’t spoken since they left the town and Blackstone saw no reason to make idle conversation. The natural beauty of his surroundings touched something deep inside of him – a gentleness that almost suggested a mother’s love. Despite the hardship of their lives his father had always said they were God’s children and that nature was their comforter.

Sir Gilbert looked at him, as if reading his thoughts. ‘Your mother ruined a good fighting man,’ he said. ‘She sucked the will to fight from him like marrow from a bone. He gave up war and worked every God’s minute to be with her and then raise you and the donkey after she died.’ He saw the flash of anger in Blackstone’s eyes, but noted the boy’s self-control. Once these brothers were sent away from the sanctuary of their own hamlet and surrounding villages, strangers would taunt and Blackstone would have to defend his brother, but he would need a cool head to do it, because the men who would do the taunting knew about killing on a grand scale.

Blackstone let the insult go. ‘Why did my father do that?’

Sir Gilbert snorted and spat out a globule of phlegm. ‘Because he loved her more than any man should love a woman.’

The road opened before them, the manor’s gates came into view. Sir Gilbert spurred his horse.

Blackstone hoped their bad luck was behind them.

Misery was yet to unsheath her infected claws.

*

Once through the huge, arched entrance gates they dismounted and handed their horses’ reins to an ostler. The courtyard seemed alive with servants coming and going as Sir Gilbert went ahead and spoke to Chandler, who gestured them towards the great hall. Blackstone had helped repair its walls and Lord Marldon’s bridges, but had never been inside the manor house.

The brothers gazed up at the oak timbers that curved high to the apex of the ceiling. Banners and tapestries hung from the walls and freshly gathered reeds covered the cut stone floor. Two wolfhounds and half a dozen assorted other dogs raised themselves from the front of the massive fireplace where logs burned despite the heat of the day outside. They growled and barked, Sir Gilbert ignored them and they sniffed and settled. Lord Marldon sat close to the fire, his cloak gathered around him, his face gaunt from twenty years of living in pain seldom dulled by the rich red wine from his holdings in Gascony.

Blackstone bowed his head in respect; his brother, a pace behind him, did the same. His lordship gazed at them for a few moments and Blackstone could not help but look at the half-leg that rested on a cushioned support. All that anyone knew was that Lord Marldon had fought in the Scottish wars and a battleaxe had severed his leg at the knee joint. That he had survived was a miracle. The injury had never stopped him riding across his estates, with the half-leg secured to the stirrup straps to keep his balance. Once or twice over the years Blackstone had seen Lord Marldon ride past the Blackstone land and speak quietly to his father.

‘You saved them from the hangman, then, Sir Gilbert.’

‘He did it himself at the end of the day, my lord.’

Despite being a free man, Blackstone knew Lord Marldon still carried the authority and influence to affect his life. It would do no harm to pay more respect than was obligatory. ‘My lord, it is you who saved our lives today. Sir Gilbert told me that you had told my father the value of learning the Psalm of Contrition.’

Lord Marldon laughed. ‘Your father was right to devote himself to your well-being. You’ve intelligence and wit and there’s something of your mother’s beauty. A boy as good-looking as you are should never pay a woman for her pleasures. Your father would have beaten you. Perhaps I should for the trouble you’ve caused me.’

‘I apologize, my lord. It was not my intention to be arrested,’ Blackstone said, and then, risking a rebuke, added, ‘and I have never paid, my lord.’

Lord Marldon laughed again. ‘I miss your father. Perhaps I should have made myself better acquainted with his son.’ The smile gave way to a look of what Blackstone thought to be sadness as he turned his gaze onto his brother. ‘At least one who could humour me and answer when spoken to.’

Sir Gilbert had moved away from the fire and stood stroking one of the hounds that sat at his side. Blackstone glanced quickly at him, uncertain how to respond to the remark, but Sir Gilbert showed no expression to indicate that the boy should answer. Blackstone felt he was being tested.

‘My lord, my brother is strong, and works long hours, so there is benefit for his lordship in his being without speech. For he labours without complaint.’

‘A good answer – but the constant searching of his eyes disturbs me.’

Blackstone touched his brother’s shoulder. The boy turned and looked at him and Blackstone raised a finger and touched below his own eye and spread his hand in a calming sign. The boy nodded and remained still.

‘You’re going to war, Blackstone. King Edward raises an army. Commissioners of array are moving through the land, contracts are being made between knights and men-at-arms and free men must go and serve their King. Sir Gilbert will muster the men from my estates and you will wear my livery.’

The straightforwardness of his lordship’s comments took Blackstone by surprise. His whole world was about to change. ‘Who will we fight?’ was his stumbling response.

‘If you paid more attention to the proclamations posted by the sheriff in town you’d know well enough. The King and Parliament have asserted that the French seek to deny him his right of lands in France. War has not yet been declared, but it’ll be the French. It always is.’

Blackstone was aware of the rumours over the past months, and of the King’s men purchasing grain and livestock, but the thought that he’d be taken and sent to fight had never occurred to him. His daily life was already one of survival.

‘You should know, Blackstone, about your father. I gave his family my protection. That was the debt I owed him, and that was all he asked. When that axe took my leg he tied the tourniquet that saved my life. He carried me miles to safety. I was barely conscious. It was he who poured burning pitch on the stump to seal the wound. And I loved him for it. I doubt there was a more loyal sworn man in the realm.’

Blackstone found his voice. ‘He never told me.’

‘You did not know because he was sworn to silence. To have it known that I favoured your family would have caused greater resentment than that already shown against your brother.’

Blackstone’s heart beat harder – it felt like panic – like the time a quarryman ran to tell him of the rockfall. Wild thoughts and terrifying images of his father lying crushed under rock crowded his mind. ‘He always honoured you, my lord. He always offered prayers for your safety and long life,’ Blackstone replied, feeling the burden of loyalty increasing its weight.

Lord Marldon nodded, his voice softened with genuine affection. ‘And I honoured him as I have no other. I made him a free man and whenever the King called his veterans to war I paid his quittance. By arranging a good price for your father’s wool I found a way for him to pay for your apprenticeship. When the rockfall took him in the quarry I continued my promise to him and shielded his sons from those who would have their land.’

Blackstone stood as dumbfounded as his silent brother.

‘But now you must take your own chances in the world, Thomas. Your King needs you. My life will be over soon and I have done my duty. Now you must do yours.’

Blackstone looked at Sir Gilbert again, and this time he nodded. The lord of the manor was dying. His protection would die with him.

‘We’ll serve you loyally, my lord, as my father would have done,’ Blackstone said.

Lord Marldon shook his head. ‘Only you, Thomas. Your brother is of no use in a war. We’ll send him to the monks, they can put him to work and protect him from ridicule.’

‘The Franciscans care for dumb animals,’ Sir Gilbert added.

The younger brother looked startled as Blackstone gripped his arm. ‘He can fight. He’s the best archer in three counties.’

‘And he’s fourteen years old, for Christ’s sake,’ said Sir Gilbert. ‘He’s deaf and dumb!’

Blackstone laid a hand on Richard’s chest, to allay the fear he saw in the boy’s face. ‘He can hear well enough, Sir Gilbert. My lord, he feels the vibrations of drumbeat and the force of trumpets. The air reverberates with shouts and loud voices. He’s worked alongside my father and me since he could walk. No one I know can match his strength. His eyes are as sharp as a bodkin. He looses more arrows a minute than any man I’ve seen draw a bowcord.’

‘Fifteen is the youngest we can send men to war,’ Sir Gilbert said roughly, exasperated by Blackstone’s insistence.

‘I am his guardian, my lord, just as you gave your protection to my father and his sons.’ He knew he was running out of argument. ‘Look at him. Does he look to be the age he is? By the time the harvest is in, he’ll be old enough. He’s big enough to be half his age again. Would any man doubt it?’

Lord Marldon and his man-at-arms fell silent for a moment.

‘There’s not a whisker on his face,’ Sir Gilbert said finally.

‘And he has goose down on his head,’ Blackstone answered. ‘Others will take him as he is. Better he endures the mockery of soldiers and has me at his side, than be whipped by monks for not hoeing their carrot patch to their liking.’

Lord Marldon coughed hard and long. Sir Gilbert quickly poured wine into a goblet and held his master’s shaking hand, easing it to his lips.

‘Sweet Jesus Christ! I wish your father and I could have ended our lives as men should. Not crushed like an ant and eaten alive from within,’ wheezed the old warrior. He steadied his breathing. ‘Wait outside. I’ll make my decision. God bless you, Thomas Blackstone. Always remember who your father was and honour his memory. Go.’

Blackstone bowed his head, his brother did the same.

When the doors closed behind them Lord Marldon wiped the wine-mingled blood from his lip.

‘Chandler wants their land and I doubt I’ll be able to stop him. Do I send the boy with his brother?’

Sir Gilbert poured wine for himself. ‘He’s like a bullock. I doubt the rockfall that killed his father would have done the same to him. And I think he’s got a temper if it’s aroused.’ He took a mouthful and wondered if his lord needed to hear his thoughts about Blackstone. There was little choice. Time dictated honesty. ‘The oaf’s an archer all right, but Blackstone’s a lying shit. I’ve watched from the woods and seen him practise. He’s the better man. He can loose enough arrows to kill a small army.’

Lord Marldon’s voice was barely a whisper. ‘He protects his brother at the cost of his own stature.’

‘If the dumb beast is with him then at least he’ll slaughter his fair share of poxy Frenchmen. I’d let him go. Why not?’ He hesitated. ‘But Blackstone? Loosing arrows at a straw target isn’t a way to take his measure. He’s not a shadow of his father. He has no instinct to kill. He shies away from violence. I doubt he’d manage to kill a suckling pig. There’s a weakness in him. Like his mother corrupted his father. I think he’ll be dead or a deserter after the first battle.’ He swallowed the wine.

Lord Marldon nodded. Henry Blackstone had not beaten the boy enough. Sentiment and love needed to be tempered with unflinching courage in the slaughter of war. How often had he spoken to his sworn man about the boy’s gentle nature? His lordship’s friend had argued that in addition to the skills of war a nobleman was encouraged to appreciate poetry and the finer things in life; why, then, should a common man not have the same attraction?

‘Do what you can. Even the tenderest heart can be turned to war,’ Lord Marldon told him. ‘And if they are to die, let it be with anger in their blood and love for their King in their hearts.’

D
AVID
G
ILMAN
enjoyed many careers, including firefighter, soldier and photographer before turning to writing full time. He is an award-winning author and screenwriter.