by David Gilman
Blackstone turned, but Christiana was walking away. More than anything else at that moment he wanted to hold her and comfort her pain. But he could not approach her in public. She caught his eye as Blanche eased her away to the solitude of her quarters. He knew she would come to him, but the anticipation of being with her again was tinged with dread.
An ambush, an archer’s skill, and a dead knight bearing her father’s livery was a memory that would never be erased.
21
Where there had been some feeling of light-heartedness among the noblemen there was now tension, taut as a bowcord. For two days the men buried themselves in the small library, leaving the women to their own devices. Blackstone had no opportunity to approach de Harcourt, who was never alone, but always earnestly in conversation with one or other of the noblemen. On one occasion as Blackstone crossed de Harcourt’s path, he and Guy de Ruymont watched him for a moment and then turned their faces away, heads bowed in low-voiced conversation. What part in their lives was Blackstone to play, he wanted to know, and more importantly, when could he prepare to escape? If routiers were coming to arrest him on the French King’s orders then these barons could not refuse the command without placing themselves squarely in defiance. Blackstone regretted not taking Meulon’s advice to kill the mercenary. His own desire to send a warning, to raise his banner in a way, had blinded him to the possible consequences. His natural instinct now was to escape, even though de Harcourt had promised Sir Godfrey he would not hand him over, but he had risked much for Christiana and that held him.
On the second night Christiana slipped into his room, shivering with grief. He held her, calming her uncertainty and fear and made no attempt at intimacy. She slept like a child in his arms in front of the firelight. When she woke in the early hours he was not next to her, but was sitting on a stool in front of the flames, ensuring it stayed fed, keeping its warmth through the night. She whispered his name and he went to her. At first he did not understand what drove her hunger for his embrace or her demand for sex, but he quickly undressed her and lay between her thighs. She closed her eyes and it seemed to him that she had a desperate sense of pain and pleasure that forced her to move quickly against him, her hips thrusting hard, drawing him in, biting into his shoulder, her nails clinging to his back, gasping like a drowning child, afraid and desperate. She shuddered and wept when she fell into the void and felt his warmth seep into her. Blackstone realized her demands from him were nothing as simple as desire, but a crying need for their passion to exorcise her despair and grief.
When they were spent they lay without speaking, his hand resting across her breast, watching it gently quivering from her heartbeat. Neither spoke and he felt his own guilt torment him. Should he tell her? Would she ever find out if he did not? Was it not better to let the war take its own victims and bury them where they fell? Had he killed her father? Could he be certain the old man at the crossroads was her father? It could have been any of those who fought for Sir Godfrey’s enemy. Why did it have to be him?
The dawn would soon be upon them and she began to dress.
‘Christiana…’
She paused and looked at him, then kissed him tenderly. ‘Thomas, forgive me. I needed you more than I can explain. I’m all right now.’
Blackstone knew events were moving his destiny beyond his control. ‘Christiana, come with me. We need to leave,’ he said.
She looked at him uncertainly. ‘Why would I leave? We’re both safe here. The war isn’t over. No one has signed a truce yet. There’s nowhere for us to go. What do you mean?’
‘I want you to come to England with me.’
She stared at him as if she had not understood.
He said carefully, ‘I can go to the King and I can ask him to let me serve one of the English lords. I will have employment and you will be safe with me.’
Panic widened her eyes and for a moment she struggled to find the words she needed and when she did it was his turn to try and stay calm. ‘England? I could never go to England. How could you ask that of me? The English killed my father. I could never live with my father’s killers.’
His heart nearly choked him. It was a cruel twist of fate that had brought him to this place. He bowed his head and she reached for him.
‘Not you, Thomas, it’s not you, I promise. I know you fought. I know that. I prayed every night not to love you. I prayed that my guardians’ hatred of you would soften. And it has. You have shown yourself to be unlike any of them.’
In that moment Blackstone felt a gulf between them wider than the sea that had brought him to war. He could not tell her what he had overheard for fear that she might run to de Harcourt and challenge him. Then she would demand to know if it were true that the French King had ordered Blackstone be taken. Everything would unravel like a fallen bobbin of cotton. De Harcourt would have to tell her, and she would turn her back on them. And then what would happen to them both? How would they live if such a confrontation forced her to leave? If she would not go to England how could he stay?
‘It’s war,’ he said. ‘We have all lost those we love in this conflict. But I’ve been taken in by my enemy and you have loved your enemy. I came for you that day because I had to. I was compelled. And so are you. Isn’t that true?’
‘Yes,’ she whispered. ‘And I have not admitted my love for you to anyone else for fear they would send you away. They wouldn’t allow it, Thomas, even though you have proved yourself.’
‘Then that’s another reason to leave. I am in favour with the King. He’ll grant me a modest request.’
‘Not England. I cannot.’ She shook her head. ‘Not with the English.’
She pulled her cape around her shoulders and brushed past him.
‘Then what am I, Christiana?’
‘Your mother was French. You are different.’
She went to the door and he did not try to stop her.
No one travelled at night. The darkness held terrors and the roads were too treacherous when the moon kept its glow behind storm clouds. Even for those who knew the landscape, it would have been foolhardy even to try. When the riders came it was three hours after dawn and the household had settled into its routine. A bitter gale blew from the north as sleet fell in great sweeping walls like a starlings’ swarm, curving this way and that as the wind twisted across the undulating land.
Their voices demanding to speak to de Harcourt barely carried to the sentry on duty, who then called Meulon. De Harcourt was summoned and he strode out to meet the half-dozen horsemen with Meulon and the guard at his back. Christiana watched from Blanche de Harcourt’s room as the countess sat and spoke about the duties demanded of a woman to her husband.
‘Christiana,’ she said. ‘I’ve been talking to you.’
She stood quickly when she saw the girl grip the sill and her shoulders stiffen.
‘What is it?’ Blanche stared into the storm and saw her drenched husband talking to the leader of the men, who handed him a document that he snatched and then turned his back. The horsemen waited patiently, obviously unconcerned about Jean de Harcourt’s ill temper. He said something to Meulon as he strode back into the confines of the castle and Meulon gestured the riders to stay where they were.
The King’s men and the mercenaries were not invited into the castle for shelter or food and were made to wait in the storm.
‘What is it, child?’ Blanche asked softly in deference to her ward’s obvious fear.
Christiana’s panic made her step back from the window. ‘Does he know I’m here?’
‘Who? Does who know?’
She gestured to the men below. ‘The man at the back. It’s Gilles de Marçy. Did someone tell him I was here?’
Blanche looked as concerned as the girl. ‘The man who pursued you last year? That’s him?’
Christiana nodded. Gilles de Marçy was a priest whose family had bought his benefice. He was a cruel and wanton man, known for savage violence, and such had been his threatening pursuit of C
hristiana that her father had sent her to the de Harcourt family, deep in Normandy, for protection.
‘He cannot know you are here. I swear to you, this is coincidence. Do you understand?’ She turned the girl to face her. ‘He cannot harm you. He does not know you are here,’ she repeated reassuringly. She made Christiana look at her, grabbing her shoulders and making her realize the truth.
‘But I’ve just learnt of my father’s death. And now he is here.’
Blanche de Harcourt gestured to a servant and eased Christiana into a chair. ‘Stay with her,’ she told the servant. ‘Christiana, I’ll find out what’s happening. Don’t leave this room until I return,’ she commanded.
Blanche swept out of the room. If Christiana was correct and had identified the man who had plagued her life all those months ago then his appearance at the gates of her sanctuary was either a frightening twist of fate or he had gained some authority to take her. There was no reason to suspect he had any such authority. He rode at the rear of the horsemen, an underling, or someone who had now joined the routiers.
‘Jean!’ she called when she saw her bedraggled husband. ‘Those men.’
De Harcourt’s beard held the rain, his hair plastered to his head, his cloak black with water on his shoulders. ‘The King’s men with a warrant.’
‘For Christiana?’ she asked fearfully.
His confusion was apparent. ‘What? What are you talking about?’
‘She says one of them is Gilles de Marçy.’
‘He’s one of them? Is she certain?’
‘Yes.’
‘Go back and stay with her, Blanche. Keep her out of sight. They’re not here for her. They have a warrant for Thomas.’
Before she could register her shock, he eased her aside and signalled Meulon and the four soldiers with him to advance down the corridor towards Blackstone’s room.
‘Do as I ordered,’ he told them, and then turned back into the storm.
Blackstone had trained in the exercise yard and returned to his room pouring the warm water that Marcel had provided to sluice away the sweat from his arms and chest. The shutters were closed against the storm and he had not seen the riders approach. As he pulled on his undershirt and reached for his tunic there was banging on the door.
‘Sir Thomas, my lord needs you now,’ Meulon called.
The urgency in Meulon’s voice made Blackstone open the door immediately. There was no one else in the corridor except the veteran soldier.
‘What is it?’ he asked as he hurriedly finished dressing.
‘Come with me,’ said Meulon and turned on his heel, which made Blackstone follow him without further questioning. They had gone no more than a dozen paces when Meulon swung open the door that Blackstone knew led to one of the rear staircases of the castle. Meulon stood back in deference to Blackstone. ‘In here, Master Thomas, my lord is waiting.’
For a vital few seconds the urgency to respond to Jean de Harcourt’s request dulled his instincts, which alerted him to danger only as he stepped past Meulon and saw the man’s eyes. It was a trap. The door at the end of the passageway was locked. As he spun around Meulon slammed the door closed behind him. Blackstone wrenched at the heavy wood, but it was bolted.
‘Meulon! What’s happening?’
Blackstone pressed his ear against the wood and heard the scuffling of other guards. In that instant he knew.
‘No! Not him! Meulon! I beg you! Leave him!’
On the other side of the door Meulon’s men had carried William Harness from his bed and the semi-conscious man had called out, ‘What’s happening? Where are you taking me?’ He heard Blackstone slamming his fist against the door and cried out weakly, ‘Thomas, they have me. Thomas, help me, for God’s sake, I beg you.’
The soldiers hauled him away quickly and his cries soon faded. Meulon waited a moment on the other side of the door. He laid his hand on the solid oak, as if wishing to calm the man behind it. He understood the loyalty of men to each other.
‘Sir Thomas, he dies so you might live,’ he said simply.
Meulon followed his soldiers down the passageway pursued by the echoing sound of Blackstone’s helpless rage.
Harness was placed on a horse, his legs bound to the stirrups, hands tied to the pommel. Meulon’s men had, as Jean de Harcourt had ordered, dressed the injured man in his livery, making plain the fact that he was the Englishman favoured by the King of England. His rambling curses made it even more convincing that they had the right man.
Jean de Harcourt strode among the horsemen. Now that he had handed him over he berated them for taking a wounded man and declaring his own shame in allowing it to happen. But he emphasized that he had followed the command as issued in the warrant and signed in the King’s name. And as he pushed his way through the horses so that he could look at each man he sought out Gilles de Marçy, whose black robes marked him to be different from the others. De Harcourt wanted to see more closely the man who had terrorized his ward. He made no particular gesture or confrontation to him but wanted to set the man’s face in his memory. The one thing that he noticed, despite de Marçy’s riding gloves, was that the little finger on one hand was missing.
The leader of the horsemen showed little respect for de Harcourt’s nobility.
‘We’ll be sure to tell his highness that you have obeyed. But that you gave the man shelter in the first place might still cause displeasure.’
‘Then you will respectfully remind him that I, my father and my brother fought at Crécy and defended his good name and cause with our blood. And if he sends scum like you to do his bidding then we pray we did not suffer and die in vain for him.’
The leader of the horsemen sneered, and spat to one side. William Harness was already slumped in the saddle and if the ride or cold didn’t kill him soon then no doubt these men would. He served no purpose to them other than to be delivered to the King who paid their blood money.
Jean de Harcourt stayed on the bridge, watching the riders disappear into the storm. It was even colder now and the sleet fell more heavily. He welcomed the stinging punishment as a flagellant welcomed the flail.
‘You should have told me,’ Blanche told her husband when they were alone.
‘I could not,’ he answered, feeling her anguish. ‘There was no honour in what I had to do, but it was the only way I could think of to save Thomas. But now I fear whatever trust has been built between us might be lost.’
De Harcourt left Blackstone locked in the narrow passageway for a day and a night, hoping that his anger would settle and there would be an understanding of what had been necessary. Christiana had been calmed and assured that the vicious man who had caused her exile from her home had no idea that she was in Castle de Harcourt.
Blanche eased herself across her husband’s chest as they lay in bed. It was barely light and they were naked from the previous night’s lovemaking. Her breasts pushed against him as he opened his eyes and turned on his back, throwing wide his arm so that she could be pulled closer to him.
‘You’re awake,’ he said, and yawned. ‘I heard you go to the garderobe in the night; couldn’t you sleep?’
‘Did I disturb you?’
‘No, but you were fidgeting and I was going to kick you out but decided I would rather have you squirming next to me than landing on the floor and cursing me. It was a difficult choice.’
She smiled and enjoyed the stale smell of sweat from their night’s exertions. She traced one of the white scars that ran from his shoulder onto his chest. ‘I was thinking about us and the children, and what will happen if the King forfeits to Edward. Do you serve him or challenge him?’
‘Since when does Norman loyalty trouble you?’
‘You forget, Jean, I am Countess de Ponthieu and I have to make my own decisions about whom I should support,’ she said quietly and rubbed a finger across the top of his nipple.
He groaned, less from pleasure and more from anticipation of where her questioning was leading. He turne
d so they faced each other. She raised her knee enticingly to his groin. ‘So, my countess might join the other side and we would become enemies. Is that what you’re saying?’
‘I could always offer you an alliance,’ she said and felt him harden against her leg.
‘And I suppose there’d be terms.’
‘I could tailor them to suit your needs, my lord.’
He did not flinch as she reached forward and held his erection. ‘And I cannot be so easily bribed,’ he said, easing her wrist from him, taking back control.
She winced because his grip hurt her. ‘Must you always be the stronger of us both? Can’t I rule for even a few moments?’ she asked, deliberately letting her eyes well with tears as she held his gaze.
‘No, Blanche, because then you would get the taste of power, and this is a game, because you never cry. You were no more thinking of Edward and the King than I was thinking of rebuilding the hovels in the village.’ The playfulness had lost its edge slightly and he waited for her confession. He eased her back, pushing aside her arms and letting her breasts settle so he could lean across her and tease them with the lightest touch of his lips. He suddenly jerked his head back. ‘Sweet Jesus! Those tears of yours. You’re not pregnant, are you?’
‘And whose fault would it be if I were?’ she answered carefully.
‘Yours! Blanche, my wounds have barely healed and I have a serpents’ nest of Norman lords to untangle and you think I should take the news well? Another day perhaps, but now?’ He watched her. ‘Are you? Tell me the truth.’
‘I’m twenty-six years old, I’m becoming an old hag, my breeding years are coming to an end.’
‘Blanche,’ he said sternly.