by David Gilman
The men fell silent and gathered their cloaks. It would be hard to see d’Aubriet die. He was one of their own.
The crowd gathered, jostling and pushing forward to get closer to where the King’s soldiers formed a barricade twenty feet in front of the scaffold. Godfrey de Harcourt limped to take his place with the other Norman lords and to give their friend sight of them. Even if he could not draw courage from their presence, his pride would be strengthened enough for him to die well in front of his friends.
The Place de Grève was almost full; the jugglers and street entertainers had taken what few coins they could, but the crowd was eager for more brutal entertainment. Men and women peered over the heads of others; children were lifted onto shoulders.
Jean de Harcourt could barely contain his seething anger. ‘These bastard peasants should be chased into the Seine. Let them drown like the rats they are.’ He beckoned de Ruymont. ‘Send some of our retainers into the crowd, let them mingle. Have them keep their ears open for any words of dissent against the King. It will help us to know just how much unrest there is among the people of Paris.’
Guy de Ruymont nodded and pushed his way through the merchants and city officials who crowded behind them. Beyond the enclosure where the privileged lords and merchants stood to witness the execution, Raoul twisted his way through the crowd. He kept his short-bladed knife beneath his sleeve, and as soon as the drum beats started to announce the arrival of the condemned man, necks would crane and eyes would peer towards the place of execution, and then he would slip quickly through the crowd. By the time the nobleman’s head was severed, so too would a handful of purses be separated from their victims’ belts. An execution was a profitable time for those even less fortunate than an arrogant lord fallen foul of the King.
Bernard d’Aubriet was held in the Châtelet’s ancient building, a small fortress that once guarded the entrance to the city. The passing years had seen the city walls extend and the Châtelet’s role become redundant so it was turned into the state prison that also housed the Provost’s offices. As its gates opened the crowds were already gathered to accompany d’Aubriet on his final journey to the scaffold. Stripped to his undershirt, wrists bound by coarse rope that chafed his skin, he gripped the side of the tumbril, not wishing to endure further humiliation by losing his balance and falling before the jeering crowds. The cart’s iron-shod wheels rattled onto the streets within sight of the Seine and, as it passed the Grand Pont that led to the Royal Palace on the Île de la Cité, the King’s banner and pennons fluttered mockingly, as if celebrating his victory over a Norman lord. D’Aubriet shivered from the chill breeze coming off the great river, but his trembling was also from fear of his fast-approaching death. They had at least granted him a priest, who assured him that the kingdom of heaven awaited his immortal soul, but it was his mortal body that would suffer beheading. A death in battle was forged in the fire of desperation and urgency, but the thought of this cold-blooded demise put ice water in his bowels.
Had he been a common criminal the tumbril would have continued along the Grand’Rue, north towards the plain beyond the city where such men were executed, but instead it turned east, away from the sprawling suburbs where merchants’ bourgeois mansions flaunted their wealth beyond the butchers’ stalls of Paris’s market quarter and the stench it held. The narrow irregular streets gave the crowds an opportunity to spit and shout abuse at the condemned man, who kept his eyes resolutely on the streets ahead and the light that shone into the open space of the Place de Grève. At least his title meant that no torture had been inflicted upon him in the King’s name; no part of his body had been torn with red-hot pincers and burning oil poured into the wounds. The privilege of his rank would give him a clean death. Not for him the crude hacking of the executioner’s axe on a block, but a swift blow of the sword. The last thing he would hear, other than the crowd’s gasp, would be the long blade whispering through the air.
The Norman lords watched as the cart drew level with the scaffold’s steps. Soldiers stood aside as d’Aubriet found his footing on them – steadying himself; willing his legs not to tremble and expose his fear. The crowd roared when he appeared on top of the platform. The hooded executioner stood to one side as the captain of the guard released d’Aubriet’s bonds. He rubbed his wrists, eyes scanning the crowd, seeking out the brightly coloured tabards of his fellow barons. Sir Godfrey raised an arm.
‘Bernard! Your friends are here!’
The condemned man gave a rueful smile and nodded; then, as if eager for it to be over, he took the gold coin kept for him by the captain and handed it to the executioner, who cupped his hands like a begging bowl and dipped his head in acknowledgement. The executioner’s assistant stepped forward, but d’Aubriet made a small gesture declining his help and tucked the hair from the nape of his neck under the plain white linen cap. He turned once again to face his friends, ignoring the baying of the crowd, and held up his palms to them – man leaves this world empty-handed.
A muffled drum roll began to silence the crowd.
The cut-purse Raoul felt the wave of silence engulf the onlookers, their attention locked onto the scaffold and the kneeling man. The masked executioner quickly bent, took the sword from beneath its cloth covering and with practised concentration swung the blade.
The sound of its edge biting bone was plain to hear. The crowd gasped. The dull thud of a head falling held their attention a moment longer.
Raoul parted a purse from its owner’s belt as voices roared approval. The corpse jerked, spraying blood. No sooner had the boy cut the purse than he felt a man’s grip on his neck and looked up into the scowling face of one of the Norman lord’s men.
Jean de Harcourt and the others had already turned their backs on the bloodied platform and saw nothing of a street urchin being apprehended.
‘We must ready ourselves,’ Guy de Ruymont said.
‘And Blackstone could be useful to us in these coming months,’ added the Lord de Graville. ‘Where is he?’
They shouldered their way out of the throng, feeling the chill winter air even more. ‘I don’t know,’ Jean de Harcourt answered. ‘Raiding somewhere.’
‘You don’t know? We might need him,’ said the older Norman. ‘He’s your man!’
Sir Godfrey de Harcourt answered before his nephew. ‘He’s no one’s man; you should know that by now. Wherever he is, he’ll come home, and then we’ll approach him.’
4
When Blackstone had recovered from his wounds, sustained those years ago at Crécy, and shown his skill with Wolf Sword, Jean de Harcourt had taken him to the arsenal at Clos des Galées, near Rouen, and paid for a suit of armour, its steel made from the best iron ore in the region, mined at Pont-Audemer. Impoverished knight that he was, the armour not only protected Blackstone but also proclaimed his status as a man with powerful friends. It was while journeying back to Castle de Harcourt on this occasion that he and Christiana discovered the place that would become their new home. The Risle valley, north-west of Harcourt, had known mixed fortunes. The English had pillaged it; the plague had caused the deaths of many more; but Thomas and Christiana had found an old fortified manor, abandoned and partly ruined, in a hamlet within sight of the river, protected from the north-east wind by a forest of ancient chestnut trees.
Several families farmed the surrounding land and, when the young, battle-hardened knight claimed the manor and its domain as his own, they submitted to his vow of protection. Now the fifty or so peasants were well fed and prospered through their own efforts and the generosity of their warlord, who had declared them free men. Lord de Graville had bequeathed Blackstone a retainer, Hugh, to act as his steward. The old man could read and write and was accepted as Blackstone’s authority on the land when he was absent. Christiana, though, was a strong voice when it came to organization and she often clashed with the old steward. It was a contest she seldom won because the hunchback knew the land and could gauge a shift in the weather better even than Blac
kstone himself. The Englishman whose bent arm would never pull a war bow again and the crooked-backed Norman understood each other perfectly – and both knew that Lady Christiana would inspect the ledgers and spot any errors. To that end she was mistress of her husband’s lands. Mutual respect was established.
As Blackstone led his weary troops along the forest track, the scent of woodsmoke pulling him home like an invisible thread, he turned to smile at those who followed. Guinot, the Anglo-Gascon, raised his bent and aching back from the saddle and caught the smell from the fires and the mouth-watering aroma of freshly baked bread. The half-dozen soldiers urged their horses forward, their long ride almost behind them. Food, rest and safety were within sight.
There were horses tethered in Blackstone’s yard and he saw that they and the squire and page who attended them belonged to Jean de Harcourt. And there were other horses at hitching rings. The sudden anticipation of returning home turned quickly into uncertainty as the sight of a dozen soldiers loitering by the stables with the horses told him it could not simply be a social call from his old friend.
‘Should we hold back, my lord?’ asked Guinot.
‘No, they’re friends. Take the men and the supplies to the stable yard.’ Blackstone spurred the horse forward as his own men-at-arms appeared, hands on sword hilts in case the approaching horsemen were enemies. They quickly recognized Blackstone.
‘Sir Thomas! My Lords de Harcourt and de Ruymont are here,’ one of them told him, standing aside as Blackstone’s horse clattered through the archway into the courtyard. Guillaume dismounted and held Blackstone’s reins.
‘Christiana!’ he called. Servants were scurrying back and forth, bobbing in curtsy or bowing their heads as they saw him.
There was a sudden flurry of people from the entrance hall. Christiana lifted her skirts and almost ran towards him; Jean de Harcourt and Blanche were only a few steps behind, as was Guy de Ruymont and his wife, Joanne.
‘Thomas!’ Christiana cried, and embraced him.
Blackstone’s uncertainty was soon explained when Jean de Harcourt gripped his arm. ‘We had news that you were dead. God has answered our prayers.’
Christiana wiped tears away, bravely bringing her emotions back under control, as befitted a knight’s wife. Blanche had moved to her side. ‘Thomas, you caused your family and friends great distress. The moment we heard we all came here to be with Christiana and the children.’
‘Don’t look so mystified, Thomas,’ said Guy de Ruymont, ‘we never know where your raids take you. News of your death should come as no surprise to any of us.’
‘As you can see,’ Blackstone said, ‘I may stink, but I’m alive.’
‘We had news from Brittany that a ship sank in foul weather and that your shields were washed ashore in the wreckage. There were no survivors, and only three bodies were found.’
Blackstone felt a pang of regret at hearing the news. So, Master Jennah of Hythe had drowned.
‘We used the boat to attack a stronghold to the south. The ship’s master was a good man. His skill gave us success.’
‘Then we’ll offer up prayers for him,’ Blanche de Harcourt said.
‘You’ve been away from us too long. There’s a lot to tell you,’ de Harcourt said quietly. He was more subdued than usual, thought Blackstone. His friend looked drawn and pale; his features were gaunt, like those of a man recovering from a wound.
‘Bernard has been executed in Paris and the King does not realize the mistake he’s made,’ added de Ruymont quickly.
‘D’Aubriet? For surrendering land? Are the King’s men riding into Normandy?’ Blackstone asked. If this was a determined strike against the Norman lords, then they needed to prepare their defences.
‘No, it was a gesture to show us his authority. He is in no position to come here,’ said de Harcourt. Blackstone could see the concern and anger on the men’s faces.
De Ruymont’s wife intervened. ‘Guy, this is not the time or the place to berate the King or—’
The amiable Norman turned suddenly on his wife. ‘Do you presume to know when I should speak on matters of importance?’
Joanne de Ruymont blushed and lowered her head.
The embarrassed silence was quickly broken when de Ruymont smiled at Blackstone. ‘Now, we must leave you to celebrate your safe return.’
‘No, we’ll stay!’ said de Harcourt. ‘This calls for a party, surely. Something at last to cheer us!’
There was still an awkwardness between Guy and his wife. Blanche de Harcourt, being from the senior family present, exercised her right of decision. ‘Another time, Jean,’ she said gently. She knew the passion she had for her husband whenever he had returned from battle and Christiana and Blackstone would need their privacy.
‘You are all welcome to stay,’ said Christiana hospitably, hoping the invitation would be seen for the social politeness it was.
It was Guy de Ruymont who stepped down to his friend de Harcourt and murmured something into his ear. De Harcourt’s sudden look of understanding could not be disguised. He laughed. ‘It’s been too long since I fought, Thomas; I’m getting old and fat and dull-witted. When your wounds have healed and you have rested,’ he said, ‘then ride over and spend a day with us so we can tell you what has been happening in your absence and hear of your success.’
‘And we will discuss the arrangements for Henry’s party. It won’t be all politics,’ said Blanche de Harcourt.
The women kissed each other’s cheeks and Guy de Ruymont pressed Blackstone’s shoulder. ‘Is it true Saint-Clair has fallen? We heard rumours.’
Blackstone nodded. ‘We took it.’
‘You are a madman, Thomas, I’ve always known it,’ said de Ruymont, then lowered his voice so that his wife would hear no blasphemy: ‘Sweet Jesus, you have either an angel or a demon at your shoulder.’
Despite de Ruymont’s caution his wife heard what he said and, risking her husband’s admonition, could not resist a barbed comment. ‘Your wife is your angel, Thomas; it is you who gives sanctuary to the demon. More time on your knees in a chapel would not serve you ill. You seek treasure and fortune elsewhere, but they are here under your own roof. You should stay at home more often.’
Before Guy de Ruymont could say anything, Christiana stepped between them. ‘Joanne, Thomas knows what he has, and what will always be here when he returns,’ she said, slipping her arm through his.
Attendants brought the horses forward; the escort of soldiers was already formed up. Jean de Harcourt gathered his reins. ‘You forget, Joanne, Thomas did not inherit his wealth, he fought for it. Christiana, I’m counting on you to make him come and see us.’
She nodded, grateful for her friends’ companionship and care. Blanche de Harcourt had turned out to be more than the guardian she once was. ‘I thank you all, for being here and comforting me.’
‘We’re the closest thing you have to family beyond these walls, and Normans look after their own,’ said de Harcourt. ‘Thomas! We’ll want to hear everything! A week! No longer! There’s only so much sleep and – rest – a man needs,’ he added gruffly, and then turned his horse and led the others from the manor’s courtyard.
There were times, Blackstone thought, that it might seem to others as if Christiana cared more for his squire than she did for him. Whenever they rode home from their time away it was always the same, her greeting to him was always controlled and then she would turn her attention to Guillaume. Blackstone’s youngest child, Agnes, would throw herself into his arms, her chestnut hair flicking like a pony’s tail from beneath her embroidered linen cap. This time was no different. No sooner had the horses left the yard than the children ran from the house. Blackstone felt a surge of affection for the freckle-faced child whose eyes were as green as her mother’s; Blackstone cherished her joyful innocence. Village children worked; noblemen’s were cosseted; but this child knew happiness. Her giggling and shrieks of laughter as Blackstone nuzzled her with his close-trimmed whiskers made her h
ide her face behind her hands. His son Henry stood, as always, at a respectful distance and waited to be called, unlike the dogs that snuffled and whined at their master’s feet. The handful of servants scurried from room to room of the small manor house, making a last-minute attempt to replace any soiled reed flooring with freshly cut stalks and to sprinkle fragrant herbs into the fires.
‘There was no word of you coming home other than the news of the shipwreck. Would it have been so difficult to send a messenger?’ Christiana asked as she touched his face tenderly and kissed his lips.
‘A messenger can be waylaid, and then the next thing it would be routiers or the King’s men trying to ambush me. Best I just arrive. Besides, I thought you liked surprises?’
‘Of your well-being – not that you lie in the depths of a savage sea.’
His daughter wriggled and demanded to be hoisted on his shoulders as Christiana murmured a non-committal sigh. ‘I age a year with every day you are away,’ she said, regret tingeing her voice.
‘No you don’t,’ he said and kissed her lightly, but the child was turning his head, running her finger down his scarred face.
‘Agnes may have you for now, but I will need you soon,’ she said, letting Blackstone see the lust for him in her eyes. She turned her back and eased Guillaume away to flatter him, telling him how much the children missed the games he played with them. She would patiently tease from the young squire where her husband and his men had been and what they had done, because she knew that Blackstone would give her few details of the danger they had faced. Christiana’s comfort of knowing that the young squire had become such a fine soldier meant that there was yet another determined fighter at her husband’s side. Such family reunions after a raid were a ritual, not unlike the courtly dance that Blackstone had never mastered. Christiana gave little away in public in front of her husband, a few words here and there, almost with a sense of indifference, but it was all to do with her being mistress of the house. Her emotions seethed, but she maintained a cool composure. On the one hand, Blackstone liked the way the other ladies, Blanche de Harcourt and Joanne de Ruymont, had versed her in the duties expected of a knight’s wife in command of her own household; on the other, he wished the wild, temperamental, auburn-haired girl, with the fire of passion in her eyes, who had once held her favours from him for so long and then had given herself with abandon was still that spontaneous. As Blackstone had learnt during his recovery, the woman who had bathed his broken and bleeding body and who slept by his side breathed the same rebellious air as her mistress, the Countess Blanche de Harcourt et Ponthieu. If a woman was to be accorded respect beyond the role of bearing children, a steely determination and a willingness to suffer hardship for the honour of their men and their family name must overshadow their lives. It had taken all of Blackstone’s patience to wait until the true expression of her love and passion could be experienced in the privacy of their own bedchamber.