Master of War

2




Blackstone and his brother rode with Sir Gilbert and forty other mounted archers wearing Lord Marldon’s livery over their russet brown tunics. The surcoats, of a black hawk on a blue field, were faded and bleached from many years of service, and from being beaten against river stones by the estate’s washerwomen. Faint, speckled stains could still be seen; blood spots from older battles.

The archers’ leather belts held their arrow bags, made of laced waxed linen for protection against moisture – an arrow with wet feathers would not fly straight. The bag was stiffened by withies to keep the arrows separate, which helped protect the goose-feather fletchings. As well as the bag the archers carried a short-bladed bastard sword that cost sixpence in the local town – the cheapest sword men could buy. A long dagger and the archer’s bow, carried snugly in its leather case, were their only other weapons. In a small pouch was a spare hemp bowstring, which Blackstone, as his father had taught him, impregnated with beeswax to ward off the damp. Fine thread was kept for repairing damaged fletchings, a leather guard to protect the fingers of the right hand from the bowstring and a brace to cover the inside of the left forearm, the arm that held the bow. Like all archers, the brothers kept their bows unstrung when travelling to reduce the tension in the wood. Each man carried a small haversack for food. They were the lightest-armed and fastest-moving soldiers on the battlefield; and at sixpence a day they were paid twice as much as archers on foot.

Lord Marldon was contracted by the King to supply forty mounted archers and a dozen men-at-arms, all of whom would come under the command of Sir Reginald Cobham, a veteran whose fifty years made him no less able to lead his men from the front.

The invasion fleet being anchored at Portsmouth meant the roads became increasingly congested as supply carts clogged highways already packed with horsemen and infantry. It was near the end of June and the heat and dust made the going seem even slower than it was. Blackstone had never seen so many people or such a hive of activity in his life. There were thousands on the road. Craftsmen, wagoners and soldiers jostled with knights riding palfreys, their pages leading their master’s destriers, the powerful war stallions whose unpredictable temperament made them kick out at those crowding them from the rear. Squabbles and short-tempered curses flew between those of equal rank, while the nobles and knights kept a haughty disdain for anyone of lesser stature. Banners, denoting the nobles and knights banneret, fluttered in the freshening breeze. Blackstone knew that a poor knight such as Sir Gilbert was not permitted to display a pennon. Instead, he wore his arms painted on his shield, a black sword, like a crucifix, startling in its clarity against an azure field, the same design repeated on his surcoat. He wanted to be noticed by friend and enemy alike.

Sir Gilbert had spoken little since they set out from the manor house, where the county’s archers had gathered. Blackstone knew most of them from the market days and archery competitions. The younger men, gathered from the villages and hamlets, were of mixed humour. Most were ready to serve and take their pay, proud that their lord had provisioned them with horses and weapons. John Nightingale was not much older than Blackstone, and his good humour and stories of a drunken father, a mother who produced a child a year and the girls he had bedded kept the men amused for the day’s journey to the coast.

They were mostly men of eighteen and nineteen years of age, though three or four of the men-at-arms were in their mid-twenties and had fought in the Low Countries. Some of the young men’s boisterous enthusiasm for the adventure that lay ahead was allowed free rein; the veterans kept to themselves and Sir Gilbert spoke more with them than the others. Blackstone felt the exclusion from their comradeship but did not share the visceral excitement of the younger men. How, he wondered, could he protect his brother in the turmoil that was surely to follow? The quiet, uneventful life they led at home, despite the lack of comfort, gave them a sanctuary of sorts where the world seldom intruded. June was the month for haymaking, a second ploughing and sheep-shearing. Now war had ploughed a deep furrow through their lives.

His brother, by contrast, rode without concern. The sun warmed him and the freshening south-westerly wind played on his face. Released from the daily back- breaking work at the quarry, to him the freedom of riding across the chalk hills with the tantalizing tang of the sea carried on the breeze was elixir. His grunting happiness caused little rebuke from the county men who knew him, but a knight slapped him across the shoulder and told him to stay silent.

Blackstone was uncertain what to do. The man had seniority and Blackstone had no rights to challenge him, but felt compelled to offer some kind of defence for his brother.


‘He cannot hear you so when you strike him he has no understanding.’

‘Then perhaps I should strike him harder to give him whatever understanding he needs. Get him to stop that snuffling grunt. It’s worse than having a pig on the end of a rope. Though a pig would at least serve a purpose.’

Blackstone could not afford to antagonize a war veteran of senior rank and the nervousness in the pit of his stomach halted any immediate response. Sir Gilbert was riding ahead but he turned on the saddle and looked at Blackstone. It seemed he was waiting to see what Blackstone would dare to say in response.

‘His value lies not in his deafness or with him being mute, but in the strength of his bow arm. He will be of great use to a knight on foot facing heavy cavalry.’ Blackstone paused and then said respectfully, ‘My lord.’

Sir Gilbert nodded and turned away. The boy’s father must have told him how, when knights and men-at-arms stood shoulder to shoulder as common infantry in the Scottish wars, facing their enemy’s cavalry charge, the English and Welsh archers had slaughtered the Scots. The English army had learnt its lessons from its defeats; bloody experience had taught them the value of the war bow and cloth-yard long arrows with their armour-piercing bodkin heads. It was men like Blackstone’s father who had saved men like the arrogant knight in past battles. And similar men who would do so again.

The knight spurred his horse forward. ‘Your men border on the insolent, Gilbert.’

‘I taught them myself,’ Sir Gilbert answered. The disgruntled knight rode on. In that moment Sir Gilbert had spoken for his men; defended them to an outsider. A simple lesson in leadership. Blackstone felt a surge of loyalty towards the impoverished man-at-arms.


As the long day’s light began to fade the horsemen crested the high ground behind Portsmouth. Thousands of small fires burned across the hillsides, their smoke drifting on the wind. The lantern-lit armada nestled in the care of the protective harbour. Blackstone had never seen the sea – a vast field of dark water spreading to the horizon. The last of the daylight reflected on the bay showed up the black hulls of hundreds of ships bobbing on the tide. Blackstone drew level with Sir Gilbert who had reined his horse to a halt.

‘Sweet Jesus, we must be going to Gascony,’ Sir Gilbert said.

Blackstone looked at him, not understanding the significance.

‘It’s before your eyes, Thomas. Our King must be going to secure his lands in south-west France. There must be five hundred ships down there.’

Blackstone had already quartered the harbour in his mind’s eye, broken the scene into accurate measurements – a mason’s skill, second nature now. ‘More like eight hundred,’ he said without thinking that he was contradicting Sir Gilbert, who turned to him, saw his unblinking gaze. Sir Gilbert acknowledged Blackstone’s calculation.

‘Then eight hundred it is.’

He nudged his horse forward, past some of the thousands of men settling down for the night, towards one banner among the many, a black and white ermine-patterned lion with several small crosses on a red field, that of Sir Reginald Cobham.

An old armourer stood outside the knight’s tent beating a steady rhythm with his hammer against a breastplate curved onto an anvil.

‘My lord keeps you busy as always, Wilfred,’ Sir Gilbert said to the armourer.

‘Aye, that he does, Sir Gilbert. How many times have I advised him that the iron from the Weald of Kent is not as strong as that from the Forest of Dean, but he says he likes it well enough and doesn’t want to spend the extra money. It’s cheaper to have me beatin’ out his dents.’

‘It’s more unusual that any man lives long enough to lay a blade against his armour. Is he inside?’

‘That he is,’ said the armourer and went back to his work.

The brothers lay on the trampled grass with the other archers in their company. The sea’s chill would cramp them by morning, but nothing could dampen their spirits. As Lord Marldon’s men cooked their pottage and ate the dried fish issued by one of Sir Reginald’s captains, Sir Gilbert beckoned Blackstone and his brother to follow him.

‘I’m to talk to the men, make sure we don’t have any deserters in the night. Promise them they’ll be paid. Warn them who’s to fight alongside them.’

‘Warn them?’ asked Blackstone, keeping up with Sir Gilbert.

‘Aye.’ He gave no further explanation.

‘Then what am I and my brother to do?’

‘Nothing. I want these scab-pickers to see who you are and who you’re with. I’m doing Lord Marldon’s bidding, Blackstone, I can’t wet nurse you once we’re off those boats.’

They made their way through the campfires until they were close enough to the water’s edge. Sir Gilbert turned and faced the men who would share the danger of battle.

‘I am your captain, Sir Gilbert Killbere. Some may know of me, those who do not can ask their neighbour.’

A voice called from a group of men somewhere in the distance.

‘I was with you at Morlaix, Sir Gilbert! We kicked their arses and slit their bellies then!’

‘An archer?’ Sir Gilbert called back to the unseen man.

‘Will Longdon of Shropshire.’

‘I remember you, Will Longdon of Shropshire! I thought the pox had taken you when you deserted with that French whore. Should I warn the men not to share the same spoon in the cooking pot?’

The men laughed.

‘Can you still draw a bowcord or is your arm exhausted from self-abuse?’ Sir Gilbert asked.

There was more laughter and jeers.

‘That and more, Sir Gilbert. Enough to squeeze a French whore’s tit.’

‘Then, we shall oblige you, Will Longdon – and you know I am a man of my word.’

‘I do, sir.’

‘Good, because what I tell you now is as if it comes from the King’s own lips. Courage will be rewarded, victory will bring more than honour. Your lord, Sir Reginald Cobham, needs no tales embroidered about him. There is no finer nobleman on the field of battle. He’s our commander and we will fight with the Prince’s division. Us, the Earl of Northampton, Godfrey de Harcourt, marshal of the army, and the Earl of Warwick. We’re the vanguard, lads! We’ll get to the French bastards first and we’ll wallow in their blood!’

There was a raucous cheer. ‘And the plunder!’ one of the men shouted.

‘That’s right!’ Sir Gilbert shouted back. ‘The French like their finery, and they hoard coin like a moneylender. When you come home you’ll be living like kings! Though you’ll still stink like sons of whores born in a piggery!’

The men laughed and cheered. Ale and a full belly helped, though the food was little more than oats, barley or beans boiled with wild garlic and herbs. Nutritious and light to carry, it was a staple diet. Bread was for those who could afford it and meat only for the nobles.

‘There are two men standing with me,’ Sir Gilbert said. ‘They are archers and I would wager there are few men here who have the strength to draw their bows. This one…’ he half turned and pulled Blackstone to his side, ‘… is Thomas Blackstone who carries his father’s war bow. He is guardian of a dumb creature, his brother.’ He tugged Richard forward so that now all three men stood shoulder to shoulder in the firelight. Richard’s size loomed over them both. ‘A creature that God in his wisdom chose to suffer this imperfect creation in silence. Let it be known that these are my sworn men. Any act against them is an act against me.’


The men fell silent. No one jeered or called out against the lumbering, crooked-jawed boy.

‘Then it is settled and no more need be said.’ He waited a moment before speaking again. ‘But one more thing. There’s a few thousand spearmen on the other side of that hill. They’re to be with us.’ He paused, to lend more weight to his words. ‘Welsh spearmen.’

Men shouted insults and swore in disapproval.

He raised a hand to settle the men’s taunts. ‘And I’m told they wouldn’t leave home until they’d been paid in full. Let’s not forget we’re Englishmen. Those bog rats will steal your boots without you knowing it. And if you bend to take them off they’ll mount you as if you were black-faced sheep.’ The taunt lessened the men’s animosity.

‘Where are we going, Sir Gilbert?’ one of the men called.

‘Does it matter?’ Sir Gilbert replied. ‘You’re paid to kill the enemies of the realm. It’s at your King’s pleasure. I don’t know, lads, but I look at the fodder being loaded; I see hundreds of sacks of grain and all the sheaves of arrows and that tells me we are in for a long campaign. I hear there’s good, strong wine in Gascony!’

A hard-looking man pulled off his leather cap and rubbed the sweat from his scalp.

‘All well and good, Sir Gilbert, but I was in the Low Countries with the King six years ago and his treasury was empty then. He had to borrow money from the locals to pay us archers; he even sent the horses back home to be fed. You think this time will be any different?’ he said.

‘Don’t tread too heavily on my affection for my King,’ Sir Gilbert said coldly, his voice a warning that instilled fear without effort. Blackstone felt the threat.

The man yielded. ‘I want to get paid for my loyalty is all. I’ll spill blood, but I need to feed my household.’

The argument seemed set to deteriorate. Sir Gilbert stepped away from the fire. ‘We’ll get paid,’ he said finally, ‘just make sure you earn it. We’ll show them what an Englishman can do when he fights for his King! And how much booty he can carry!’

‘God bless you, Sir Gilbert,’ someone shouted, and the cheer went up.

‘And you too, lads,’ the knight replied.

They moved a few paces from the huddled men, and Blackstone turned to Sir Gilbert. ‘Is that what this fight is about? Money?’

‘You expected it to be about honour? Chivalry?’

In truth Blackstone didn’t know what he thought, but he sensed it was about a wrong being righted. ‘Something like that. The King is claiming what’s rightfully his or stopping the French King from taking it.’

Sir Gilbert stopped, and looked at the thousands of small fires burning across the hillsides. ‘Everyone’s here for the money. We all need to be paid. The banks have collapsed, the taxes are high. The King needs a war. I need to fight and find myself a nobleman to ransom, and then I can go home with some wealth. If you survive you go back to your stone quarry, your sheep and pigs, and you’ll wait until you’re called again, because war is how we live.’

‘There has to be some honour. My father saved Lord Marldon.’

‘Aye, he did, but that was different; that was about men fighting for each other.’

‘Then that’s why you’re here. To fight for your King.’

Blackstone had touched on Sir Gilbert’s honour. The knight chose to ignore him. ‘Get some sleep. We board the boats at first light.’

He turned away, leaving Blackstone to gaze across the army. The murmur of fifteen thousand voices drifted upwards like bees swarming on a summer’s day. He suddenly realized how frightened he was. Killing would be the order of the day once they landed in France. A pang of sorrow for his home squeezed his throat. ‘Dear God, help me to be brave and forgive me for bringing Richard into this. I should have left him at home – in torment, but in safety,’ he whispered to the buffeting clouds.

He crossed himself and wished there was a chapel to offer more prayers.

You don’t need a chapel when you talk to God, his father had once told him, but Blackstone craved the sanctuary and silence it would offer, away from the crush of bodies, the stench of shit and the rising tide of violence that would soon engulf him.


The wind hissed and shrieked relentlessly through the rigging, drowning out the agonized groans of the men. The round-ships of the English fleet could not sail close to the wind and the strengthening south-westerlies from the Atlantic held them in the choppy Solent for almost two weeks. Confined aboard the rolling tubs, men would have sold their souls as easily to God or the devil if either would give them calmer water, but the torment went on. Vomit sluiced around the decks, drained into holds, ran like a sewer’s slick onto the legs of men too ill to move, too far gone to care.

Misery was having its day.

Blackstone could barely lift his head to retch. Whatever food had been in his stomach had long since departed to feed the fishes. Only one man was unaffected, and he went among the others, carrying them to the ship’s side to retch blood and gall, and to hold them to the wind, the spray slapping their faces, helping to keep the next gut-twisting retch at bay. Blackstone, as helpless as the others, as weak as a child, saw his brother, the grunting deaf mute, earn himself the comradeship of men during those days.

And then the wind shifted. The fleet followed the King’s flagship the George away from the coast and into the Channel. Blackstone stood at the bulwark, his legs steadying him against the pitch and roll of the vessel, his salt-encrusted hair matted like chain mail. The ships’ banners, snaking tails of colour, were unfolded. It was a stirring sight, the undertaking of a warrior King taking his army to war. Sir Gilbert spat over the side. He was smiling, looking at the sky, watching the banners. He turned to Blackstone.

‘We’re not going to Gascony, boy! I can tell you that!’ His face shone with a fierce joy. ‘I wondered why Godfrey de Harcourt was made a marshal of the army.’

‘I don’t understand, Sir Gilbert.’

‘You’re not paid to. Godfrey’s a Norman baron with no love for King Philip. Our noble liege is slapping King Philip in the face. We’re going to Normandy.’

A day later, on the twelfth of July, the vast fleet filled the horizon as the leading ships swept into the bay of St Vaast la Hogue, their shallow draught allowing them to run easily aground well in to shore. Sir Gilbert had prepared his men and, with Blackstone at his shoulder and Richard a pace behind, splashed ashore at their head. A great roar came from the vanguard of archers and horseless men-at-arms. Blackstone heard himself yelling like the others, spurring himself on. All along the waterline Blackstone saw what must have been a thousand archers pounding across the rippled wet sand towards the hundred and fifty-foot escarpment. But no enemy fire rained down on them. He felt the strength return to his legs, his lungs sucking the energy into them. Everything was so crystal-clear, so bright. Every ship was etched on the sea and every man’s surcoat, no matter how dulled, seemed a patch of strident colour.

Blackstone, grinning at the joy of it, turned his head and saw his brother loping effortlessly a pace behind. As they crested the rising ground, a dozen or so levies were running for their lives – fishermen or townspeople, Blackstone didn’t know which – but within moments death whispered through the air. The veteran archers had drawn and loosed before Blackstone had even perceived them as a threat.


‘Blackstone! Here and here!’ Sir Gilbert shouted, pointing to places on the cliff top. ‘If it looks like a threat kill it.’ He made the same command to another fifty men, placing them in defensive positions.

Nicholas Bray, who commanded the company of archers, spat a curse at him. The climb had taken its toll on the forty-five-year-old centenar’s lungs.

‘You turd! Sweet mother of God, Blackstone, who’s the idiot? You or the donkey? Sir Gilbert’ll crack your skull!’

It took a second for Blackstone to realize it was no good facing the bay – the enemy was behind him. The blood rushed to his face, but no one else had noticed the mistake.

‘You stay here until you’re told otherwise, we’ll be moving inland soon enough.’

‘Do we get the horses?’ Blackstone asked, wanting more than anything to involve himself.

‘Horses’ll be like mad bastard lunatics after being cooped up on ship for two weeks, ’specially them bloody destriers. They’ll gallop ’emselves free of it up and down this goddamn forsaken beach. You can say a prayer of thanks that our Lord King fooled the French. If they’d been waiting for us we’d be crow meat.’

He turned and walked the line of defensive archers, cursing their mothers and blessing their King as he went. Blackstone and his brother did the centenar’s bidding. They stayed in their positions and watched for a counter-attack. None came.

Ten yards away John Nightingale called, ‘I’ll kill more than you and Richard both when I see them!’

‘If they don’t see you first,’ Blackstone told him, aware that the older veterans were casting looks in their direction, aware that none of the village lads had ever been in a battle, other than a tavern fight with the bailiff’s men. Nightingale was fiddling with his belt, testing his bow, checking the arrows as he covered his own nervousness.

One of the older men, whose bow was unstrung, squatted next to him.

‘Loosen the cord, lad, it’ll only take a second to arm yourself if the French try their luck. I doubt we’ll spill any blood for a few days yet. Your stave’ll thank you for it.’

Blackstone immediately did the same, and nudged his brother to follow his example. The veteran moved to them.

‘You lads listen to your centenar. Nicholas is an old soldier and he’ll keep you alive as long as he can. You just keep your eyes open, that’s all that’s asked of you right now.’

Blackstone nodded.

‘I’m Elfred. I knew your father,’ he said to Blackstone. His voice gave nothing away. He and Blackstone’s father could have been either friends or enemies, but before Blackstone could ask, the man moved down the line, talking to old friends, gently advising the new recruits. Nightingale smiled nervously at Blackstone, who turned his attention towards the village and the countryside beyond. Just in case.

The hours passed and ships came and went, there being far too many for the small bay to handle all at once. Blackstone had no idea how big France was, but surely no threat could stand in their way, not with this fleet and these thousands of men.

Chaos reigned on the beachhead: horses galloped uncontrollably as horsemasters tried to gather them; wagons were reassembled, their cargoes loaded; livestock, baggage carts and supplies all needed to be organized, and, slowly but surely and with great skill, they were. As the beachhead cleared Blackstone saw smoke plumes miles inland – towns were burning.

‘Infantry got there before us. Welshmen, probably,’ said an archer as he relieved himself over the edge of the cliff. His face whiskered from the voyage and cropped hair beneath a leather cap made him seem more gaunt than he was. ‘Nothing like a good piss on Frenchie’s home turf.’ He tied the cords on his hose and moved closer to Blackstone. ‘I’m Will Longdon. So, you’re Henry’s son, eh? And the dumb one as well.’

Blackstone nodded, unwilling to be drawn by the stranger who went down on one knee next to them.

‘I knew him. I was about your age when we first went north. He had a name for himself even then. He was a hard bastard, but he looked after the youngsters. He did all right by me anyways.’ Longdon examined what he had just picked from his nose, and then flicked it away. ‘Is he not with us?’

‘He died,’ Blackstone told him, not wanting to explain further.

Longdon grunted and scratched his arse. ‘I hate boats,’ he said by way of reply. ‘That’s the trouble when you have to invade the Frenchies, y’always have to do it by boat. Why the bloody carpenters can’t build a bridge across I don’t know. Still, here we are, not drowned or nothing. That’s a good start, I always think.’

Blackstone remained silent. His natural suspicion of strangers, especially in safeguarding his brother, made him wary of an uninvited approach.

‘We’ve a bit of a wager going. Me and some of the lads.’ He tilted his head, back towards the line of archers defending the cliff top. ‘See if I could draw his bow, your father’s, given Sir Gilbert seems to think less of us than you two.’ His grin exposed broken, brown-stained teeth; his eyebrows questioned Blackstone.

The man seemed to offer no threat so Blackstone stood and bent the stave, hooking the cord onto the horn nock. He handed his bow to the man. He was shorter than Blackstone by a good few inches, and not as broad-shouldered, but his barrel chest and muscular arms suggested he could match the boy’s strength without a second thought. Longdon examined the honey-coloured wood. ‘This yew came from Italy, I remember him telling us that.’ He slid his hands lovingly along the war bow’s curve, more tenderly than he had touched any woman. He gave a gentle, testing tug of his fingers on the cord, and then, in a swift, fluid motion, bent his torso into the bow, angled it upwards and pulled back the cord. With a straining arm he got it as far as his chin, hesitated and then eased the bow down. His look of disappointment mingled with uncertainty. He handed the bow back.

‘Maybe Sir Gilbert was right after all,’ he said.

Blackstone shrugged, not wanting to best a veteran. The other archers were watching.

‘Or is he protecting you because of your father’s reputation? You and the dumb ox here.’ The grin became a sneer. Blackstone turned his back to the man. Richard could see there was trouble brewing but Blackstone’s eyes told him to stay back.

‘Archers earn their respect, young Blackstone. It’s not given just because a fighting knight says so or because of who your father was. You earn it,’ he repeated with emphasis.

The challenge could not be ignored, not in front of these men. Blackstone tugged an arrow from the bag, nocked it, turned without a word, drew back the cord to his ear and loosed the arrow in an arc towards a crow perched on the topmost branch of a tree over 150 yards away. It cawed its old-woman croak for a few seconds longer then fell under the arrow strike, the shaft’s velocity forcing it right through the bird, which tumbled soundlessly onto the heads of some infantrymen.

The archers jeered at the cursing men.

Longdon spat in his hand and offered it to Blackstone, who took it in his own.

‘We’ll have to find some black-hooded priests for you to knock off their perches. They croak a lot better ’n that.’ He walked back to the others. Richard smiled and grunted at the small victory.

The sense of achievement lasted less than five minutes. Sir Gilbert strode from the village’s outlying buildings. Blackstone was about to tell him what had happened but never had the chance. Sir Gilbert struck him hard across the head, the blow so heavy it put Blackstone down onto one knee.


‘Stay down! You dog’s turd.’

Richard lunged forward but Sir Gilbert suddenly held a dagger in his hand; its point touched the skin beneath the boy’s neck, stopping him from taking another step. ‘You ever raise a hand to me again, you deformed donkey, and I’ll have you dancing from the end of a rope on that damned tree!’ He kicked Blackstone hard, sending him sprawling. The knife never wavered. ‘Tell him!’ the knight demanded.

Blackstone gestured, small signs that the boy understood. His brother stepped back away from the knife point. ‘Get up,’ Sir Gilbert commanded.

Sir Gilbert sheathed his knife. ‘You think I give you my protection so you can sell yourself like a tavern whore? You waste an arrow on damned carrion? I’ll take it out of your pay.’ Sir Gilbert looked to the other archers. ‘Which one of you made the boy use a good shaft that could kill a Frenchman?’

Blackstone wiped the trickle of blood from his face. ‘It wasn’t them, Sir Gilbert. You were right; I was showing them my father’s bow. The fault is mine.’

Sir Gilbert was no fool and he could read his men. ‘So, was I right? Can anyone draw that bow other than Henry Blackstone’s son?’

Longdon spoke up from the ranks of archers: ‘I doubt they could, Sir Gilbert, if anyone were to try.’

‘Aye, if anyone were to try.’ Sir Gilbert pointed in the direction of the infantrymen beneath the tree. ‘Blackstone, send your brother to retrieve the arrow, then follow me.’

He turned his back and moved towards the village. Blackstone sent Richard to do the knight’s bidding and then picked up their haversacks and arrow bags. Will Longdon had drawn him into making a stupid mistake of vanity, but Blackstone had learnt the lesson and kept the man’s involvement to himself. He was learning. Longdon grinned as Blackstone passed him.

‘You’ll do all right.’

Blackstone hoped that was true.