Defiant Unto Death

by David Gilman

  King John remembered loyalty as much as he did treachery.

  ‘De Sainteny? He was a Norman. Yes, he served our father against Godfrey de Harcourt and the English. What happened to de Sainteny?’

  Bucy barely withheld the sigh that threatened to escape from his chest. The King was easily distracted.

  ‘I don’t know, sire. Killed in the fighting before Crécy, no doubt. He was of little importance. What we know is that he was poor and a widower who could not keep his child in safety. Even a convent was no sanctury.’

  ‘Then this creature violated his daughter? Is that it?’

  ‘No. He attempted to entice her into marriage. He threatened Sir Guyon but the old knight was made of sterner stuff and knew he would never be able to offer the protection his daughter needed because he was often away from home serving his sworn lord, so he sent her to a household that he would never dare challenge.’ Bucy paused for effect. ‘Countess Blanche de Harcourt.’

  The glass of wine was held suspended without reaching the King’s lips. Bucy knew in that moment that John’s interest was finally caught.

  ‘Harcourt?’ the King murmured. He sipped the wine, his mind whirring with anticipation of taking the first steps towards wounding the Norman lords, enticing him to consider engaging this beast of a man.

  ‘If he kills Blackstone let him have all that Blackstone possesses. His territory. His towns. It is what he desires. Or part of it, anyway. Pardon him and use him,’ Bucy urged him.

  The King faltered. His agreement would give the killer official status and a lawful source of income. John thought about it. The fear this man created from the violence he inflicted was worth more than could be bought.

  ‘Is he Satan’s spawn?’

  ‘He professes to be the instrument of God’s anger, sire.’ Bucy hesitated, considering whether he should mention the killer’s sobriquet to the devout monarch. ‘He is known as “le Prêtre sanguinaire”.’

  King John swallowed hard, the flutter in his chest a quiver that rippled through him. ‘His name?’

  ‘Gilles de Marcy.’

  It meant nothing to John. A fear of God was most men’s inheritance. But clearly not this man. Great lords stripped their wealth and prostrated themselves before the Church as they neared death in an attempt to renounce worldly desires and success. Such desperation for absolution and to expunge pride from their souls was a final plea for mercy before being swept into the heavens with Satan’s imps biting and clawing at the ankles. But a man who claimed to embrace such heavenly vengeance was possessed … of what?

  ‘This Savage Priest. A fanatic, then. Dangerous,’ said King John.

  Bucy did not try to hide his own sense of disgust about de Marcy’s macabre past, his savage acts that had become a scourge, despised by any God-fearing man, be they peasant or aristocrat. ‘More than dangerous, my lord. He is a twisted creature. He takes pleasure from torture, salivates at the thought of pain and inflicts it with relish. As for being an instrument of God’s anger – if that’s what he believes – then he is unstoppable,’ said Bucy.

  King John understood the game. He knew Bucy was holding back, waiting for the moment when he would reveal some vital scrap of information. ‘Very well. What else does he want?’

  ‘We give him the woman he has always desired. De Sainteny’s daughter.’

  ‘She could be anywhere.’

  Bucy hesitated again, wanting to draw out the final moments of suspense as the traitor baron had done to him.

  ‘She is Blackstone’s wife, and may God help her if we let loose this man.’

  The King gasped quietly as a sense of victory eased his disquiet.

  The winter sun had burned the river mist into vapour. He would ride out with his favourite falcons and watch them tear the flock of helpless doves into bloodied terror.

  8

  Blackstone had waited almost three weeks before visiting his friend, needing time to reflect on his decision not to campaign for the remainder of that year and to keep his towns intact, well fed and disciplined during the coming months. Meulon and Gaillard could be relied upon to keep their garrisons in order, and Guinot would never allow anyone to challenge his authority. But Blackstone would still have to travel throughout the summer to ensure that his own leadership remained unquestioned among those smaller garrisons and manors that had sworn fealty to him. Fighting men needed to fight and if there was no common enemy they could turn upon their own. Count Jean de Harcourt was due the respect and friendship of a visit and Blackstone was happy to accord it to him – on his own terms. He was an independent captain of men who sought favour from no one.

  Blackstone nudged his horse onto the path around Castle de Harcourt’s outer moat; its breadth and depth still as formidable as when he first paddled across it as a young archer on the orders of Sir Godfrey de Harcourt. Richard, his brother, had stood in the skiff and his great strength had supported Blackstone as he clambered through the lower window that he could now see as they turned their horses towards the outer walls. Hidden within the confines of the castle had been brigands who had slaughtered the servants, but thankfully not the de Harcourt family who were elsewhere. But the treasure that Blackstone found hidden in a narrow passageway was the young girl he took to safety: Christiana.

  ‘My Lord de Harcourt holds you in great esteem, Sir Thomas,’ Guillaume said as they rode within sight of the castle. ‘I see they’ve cut the treeline back further beyond the north gate as you suggested.’ He raised himself in the saddle. ‘And there are more men on the walls.’

  ‘Each of us must prepare for the worst, Guillaume,’ said Blackstone as the gate sentries called out their challenge, which Guillaume answered.

  ‘Then do you think we should bring Gaillard and Meulon with some extra men to the manor?’ asked the squire as their horses passed under the arch, and de Harcourt’s sentries called for servants to run forward and take their horses.

  ‘By the time anyone came through the valley we would know about it in good enough time, and no one can lay siege to us with Norman lords at their back. And remember, Guillaume, no one in Paris knows which of my towns I’m in at any given time, so the King would not risking alerting us by a random strike.’

  Blackstone saw Blanche de Harcourt appear from under the raised portcullis and cross the wooden bridge over the inner moat. Ahead of her, Marcel, her personal servant, ran towards them and bowed his head respectfully.

  ‘My lord, Sir Thomas, welcome as always to my master’s home. We rejoiced in your victory. My Lady Blanche bids me to take you to her.’

  Blackstone looked at Blanche’s faithful servant. He had been there when Christiana had nursed his wounds and it had taken some time for him to realize that the old man was Blanche’s confidant rather than her husband’s. Marcel nodded in acknowledgement to the squire.

  ‘Master Guillaume, it is good to see you again.’

  The horses were led away by stable-hands and Blanche de Harcourt was almost within earshot.

  ‘Are you well, Marcel?’ asked Blackstone as he looked at the bruising on the servant’s neck and face.

  ‘I am, Sir Thomas,’ he answered without a moment’s hesitation, making light of the injury. ‘I took a fall down the cellar steps. I fear that age has made me more clumsy than I would wish.’

  Blackstone saw the momentary look of distress in the man’s eyes. He was lying.

  ‘Aches and pains are the curse of us all who live in this clinging damp place, Marcel.’ Blackstone extended his crooked arm as far as he could. ‘I too feel its pinch in my bones, and I have some years yet to go before I reach your age. And by the way you ran across the outer ward there is little sign of it getting the better of you.’

  Blanche de Harcourt joined them and kissed Blackstone on each cheek.

  ‘At last, Thomas, you come to us. Now, let me take you to Jean, who is in the library. He will be even more pleased to see you.’ She turned to Marcel. ‘Take Master Guillaume to the kitchens and make sure he
has whatever he needs.’

  Guillaume bowed in thanks. ‘My lady.’

  Blanche put her arm through Blackstone’s and led him towards the château’s entrance. He let his eyes follow the line of curtain walls, interrupted by half-towers. They had been reinforced in several places since he had last visited the castle.

  Blanche de Harcourt seemed nervous, though she controlled her voice carefully. ‘Jean is fervent in his prayers. He’s still bitter about Bernard d’Aubriet’s execution, and I can’t blame him, Thomas. The King made a cruel and unjust decision. Since my husband returned from Paris he spends his time between the chapel and the library. He locks himself in there and plans what should be done.’ Blackstone felt the squeeze of her hand on his arm. ‘He needs you, Thomas. At times the tension is unbearable because he feels that this is the breaking point for Normandy and his chance to influence what happens with the King.’

  ‘And he fears an attack,’ Blackstone said, glancing at the walls.

  She knew Blackstone was observant enough to notice the changes in the place where he had spent those years recovering from his wounds and being drawn into the Harcourt family, where he and Christiana still visited every few months. She nodded and he sensed more sadness than fear.

  He looked at her. ‘Marcel has never tripped over his own feet in all the years I’ve known him. He could walk around this castle at night in pitch darkness and not stumble. He’s loyal to you, Blanche. What’s going on?’

  For a moment she did not answer. Blackstone felt her body sag, as if grief claimed her – it was barely noticeable but he felt it; then she stiffened in resolve, iron in her bones, and relented. ‘Guy de Ruymont was here last week. Jean saw him talking to Marcel in the stables. He gave Marcel a silver penny. Jean thought Guy was questioning him about what went on here – that Guy did not trust him to take this burden on his shoulders.’

  ‘Jean beat Marcel.’

  She nodded. ‘It was stupid. Guy was rewarding him for attending to Joanne and the children when they were here. You know Marcel is good with children; they ride him like a donkey. Jean’s fears grow out of all proportion. He thought he was being betrayed and he hit Marcel. I had to stop it. Trying to keep the lords who support Charles of Navarre in line is proving difficult. Jean takes the strain badly. And if he goes on like this he’ll make an even bigger mistake. We all know Navarre is not to be trusted. What would it take for him to turn his back on Jean and the others? Nothing more than another arrangement with the King.’

  They reached the inner hall, where burning torches in iron sconces threw uneven light down the corridors. Blackstone thought it made the stone corridors feel like a crypt as its chill settled in the gloom. A sudden crash of something thrown echoed from the great hall followed by the yelp of a dog. She suddenly held his arm, unmistakable concern etched on her face. ‘Thomas, be careful. He’s been drinking.’

  Jean, the fifth Count of Harcourt, one of Normandy’s most prominent families, was drunk. He raged against the shadows that tormented him in the great hall as firelight cast its demons across the walls. His bellowing anger and cries of self-pity kept servants and family alike away from his violent outbursts. Stools and benches were thrown and usually favoured dogs cowered in the far reaches of the room, whimpering with fear and bewilderment.

  De Harcourt stumbled, drew his sword and slashed at the tapestry that mocked him: a great hunting scene of a nobleman with a falcon striking a dove, a deer pierced through the heart by a spear and an adoring woman by his side. Golden threads were woven through the figures’ finery. A noble lord and his lady. A time of great joy. And what else? Wealth. Confidence. Authority.

  Wine spilled down his gown as he slurped from the glass. Honour had deserted him. What greater shame could befall a man?

  Blackstone waited a moment longer before putting his weight against the heavy door. Blanche de Harcourt’s face was gaunt with strain.

  ‘How long has he been in there?’ Blackstone asked.

  She hesitated, not wishing to condemn her husband’s actions. ‘He arrived home just after dawn. He’s been in there all day. I have never seen him like this, Thomas.’ She turned away from him. ‘He met William de Fossat and Rabigot Dury. There were others. I don’t know how many.’ She turned her face towards him, as if accepting the inevitable. ‘And Charles of Navarre.’

  William de Fossat was once Blackstone’s adversary, but they had since fought side by side. However, now de Harcourt’s association with Charles of Navarre and other disaffected nobles raised the spectre of violent men intent on inflicting their will against the French King.

  ‘I don’t know where he’s been these past three days but when he came back this morning his clothes were bloodstained.’

  Blackstone pushed open the door into the great hall and then closed it carefully behind him. Firelight was the only illumination in the room and he had to look into the shadows to find the half-slumped form of Jean de Harcourt. Blackstone moved forward warily. A drunken knight with a dagger at his belt and a sword in hand could draw an army of demons from within himself.

  ‘Jean,’ Blackstone called gently. ‘Jean, it’s Thomas. Do you hear me?’

  De Harcourt raised himself, staring uncertainly towards his friend. Blackstone stood head and shoulders above many men and the firelight cast an eerie, looming shadow behind him. The Norman lord recoiled as if one of Satan’s imps had come for his soul. And as the scar-faced Blackstone stepped closer de Harcourt pushed his back against the wall, ready to fight.

  ‘Keep back! No closer!’ de Harcourt snarled.

  Blackstone saw the drunken fear and knew his friend had not recognized him. Trapped within his own torment de Harcourt would see nothing but what his distorted mind projected.

  As Blackstone stepped closer, he raised a calming hand to try and soothe the wine-fuelled madness. ‘Jean, put down your sword. It’s me, Thomas Blackstone. You’re scaring the shit out of Blanche and the children.’

  Like a cornered beast, de Harcourt readied himself to strike out.

  ‘Lower your sword!’ Blackstone shouted, hoping the command would penetrate the man’s consciousness.

  It had the opposite effect. With a defiant yell de Harcourt lunged, a high guard sweeping the blade down and across, enough to sever an arm, or cleave a man from neck to chest. Blackstone turned on the balls of his feet, allowing the attack to throw de Harcourt off balance. He clubbed his fist into his friend’s skull and his friend fell as if pole-axed. As Blackstone bent forward and grabbed his friend’s clothing to haul him onto a chair one of the faithful dogs ran snarling to his master’s defence. Blackstone half turned, offered his tunic-clad arm and felt the crushing jaws close on him as the other dogs began their attack. Blackstone drew his knife, severed the dog’s throat and kicked its quivering carcass at them. For a moment their companion’s blood unsettled and confused them, leaving precious moments before they resumed their attack. Blackstone dragged his friend to the door and unceremoniously threw him into the passageway, slamming closed the doors as the barking dogs reached him, their snuffling and scratching persisting as he faced the shocked servants and Blanche de Harcourt.

  ‘Take my lord to his rooms and care for him!’ Blackstone commanded, breaking the spell of uncertainty.

  Willing hands gathered the crumpled body of their master.

  ‘Sweet Jesus, Blanche, what has he done?’

  She shook her head, a fist unconsciously clenched and pressed to her mouth. Blackstone saw tears well in her eyes, and then she quickly brought herself under control. ‘Whatever he’s done, it’s torn into him and blackened his heart.’ She reached up and kissed the Englishman’s scarred face in gratitude. ‘Stay with him through the night, Thomas. He won’t want to see me until his head is clear and his turmoil subdued.’ She turned on her heel.

  Blackstone muttered curses. Wet-nursing de Harcourt might test the ties of friendship. He’d slain a favoured dog and pummelled the Lord of Harcourt to the ground. There was nothing
to be done other than to follow the sounds of the straining servants as they carried their master. It would be a long night.

  Daylight brought its bone-aching chill. De Harcourt retched, his hands clasped in supplication across the privy’s seat. He vomited again, spitting the residue clear from his lips. He groaned like a man suffering a battlefield wound, and then rolled clear of the stench. Blackstone offered him a pitcher of water; he took it with shaking hands and tipped it over his head, heedless of the water that soaked his clothes and puddled on the floor.

  ‘It’s done, Thomas. You can’t stop murder when people are set on it.’

  Blackstone remained silent and threw a cloth for de Harcourt to wipe his face. His friend and mentor staggered to his feet and began to pull off his clothes until he stood in only his shirt. He slumped into a chair and poured wine, his eyes watching Blackstone over the rim of the goblet as he drank thirstily as if waiting for Blackstone’s anger and disapproval.

  Instead, he was tossed a bed covering for warmth. ‘You’re no murderer, Jean. I know that.’

  De Harcourt dragged the blanket over himself and turned his gaze away. The Norman countryside stretched to the horizon as far back as his inheritance reached – to the days of the Vikings. His noble family had served French Kings since the first holy scribe could be found to set down their history. That history had already been fractured by divisions, but despite the intrigue and conspiracy, all de Harcourt had ever wanted was for the Normans to remain autonomous and decide to which lord their fealty should be pledged. If only King Edward had seized the crown when he had the chance after the great battle at Crécy all those years before. If only.

  Blackstone sat on a stool, watching his mentor and friend, whose involvement in his life was like a tapestry of his past. Each woven knot bound them together ever more tightly. After Blackstone’s first great battle it had taken a year for his wounds to heal, and another before his strength returned, by which time the Great Pestilence had swept across Europe from the plague-ridden ports of Genoa and Marseilles. Back then the harsh winter had isolated the villages and towns around Castle de Harcourt, checking the plague’s onslaught and extending life until the following spring. Fifty thousand died in the papal city of Avignon alone; even more in Paris. Throughout France black flags were raised above each village blighted by the plague. Bodies were tipped into mass graves; some stricken families were walled into their houses and burned.