Defiant Unto Death

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Defiant Unto Death Page 12

by David Gilman


  Blanche’s chamber was a place of comfort where the large window gave her good light to sit and concentrate on her needlework. But her concentration wavered and the stitches were often pulled out when, at times like this, her hands trembled. She was frightened of the dangerous game that her husband was playing. She had been almost relieved that Blackstone had been absent on campaign these previous months, because it gave her a reason to share Christmas with Christiana and then to stay with her, giving Jean the excuse that a woman needed comfort when her husband was away fighting. Christiana might well be married, but in Blanche’s heart she was still her ward. Except now it was the guardian who needed the comfort of the younger woman’s company. As a countess she would never confess her fears to the younger woman, but simply being in the company of youth, with its resilience to misfortune and blessed ignorance of what might lie beyond the horizon, was soothing.

  Her eyes settled on the rich velvet cloth beneath her fingers, through which she stitched green and gold threads. She heard voices from the inner ward and peered down as Jean and Blackstone walked across to the southern bridge between the half-towers. She noticed that there was no animosity between them and for that she was grateful. After the execution in Paris her husband and the other Norman lords seemed determined to avenge d’Aubriet’s death. She had never before seen her husband so coiled with tension. Something had gone wrong two nights ago and despite her gentle influence with him she knew there were some matters that would never be shared. Perhaps, she reasoned, her husband sought to keep her ignorant as a means to protect her. Blackstone must have calmed him – how a man so steeped in war could do that she did not know, but was thankful for it nonetheless.

  She would let them talk longer: seeing them together steadied her hand as she stitched silver thread onto the gold strand. The figures were taking shape and their richness would soon display her widely envied skill. The English had developed a much-admired style of stitching with gold and silk – opus anglicanum – but she had brought a special finesse to the technique and had spent weeks carefully sewing the figure of a dark-haired boy enticing a dove from a small tree. The aumônière was a gift for Henry Blackstone, so that the boy could have something of quality and beauty tied on his belt for his coins. She hesitated as the needle was about to pull through the silk. Was she being naive? Seeing the hardened knight now raised doubt in her mind. Would the gift be a problem? she wondered. Christiana’s son was attracted to these fine purses – his mother had a dozen of them – but Blackstone himself preferred a plain and simple leather drawstring pouch. Blanche mentally chastised herself for being foolish. Blackstone was an Englishman. His French mother had died when he was two years old; he would never appreciate the delicate intricacy of such things, no matter how much they had taught him. Perhaps that was why Fate had smiled on Henry, who would have as a legacy the formidable legend of his father and the appreciation of beauty from his mother. A fine purse was a sign of a gentleman.

  Blanche smiled at the thought. The barbaric archer had been made civilized under this very roof and now the next generation had been nurtured to appreciate beauty and courtly ways. Christiana had always insisted that Blackstone had a tender heart, but Blanche was convinced the de Harcourts’ influence and duty had smoothed the Englishman’s inherent roughness. She knew that, God willing, they would all come through this turbulent time. She prayed every day that Blackstone would stand ready to help them, kneeling on the cold uneven floor of her chapel until she was certain of it. She and Jean had been instrumental in forging the individual strengths of Thomas and Christiana into one. Not unlike what Blackstone called his Wolf Sword. A blade tempered by ancient skills at the hands of a master. She liked that comparison. It gave her fortitude.

  ‘All is well, my lord?’ Guillaume asked guardedly as they rode away from Castle de Harcourt, twisting in the saddle to look back at the white towers and speckled flint walls.

  ‘Never look back, Guillaume,’ said Blackstone, spurring his horse gently forward as it mounted the rising earthworks that were part of the château’s defence.

  ‘You always say that, Sir Thomas.’

  Blackstone shrugged. ‘There’s no point looking to where you’ve been or to those you leave behind. The road ahead is what must always concern you.’

  Guillaume said nothing for a moment. ‘Your friends stand and wave farewell, though.’

  ‘That’s good manners. They’re nobles. It’s a sentiment. You know what I mean by that?’

  His squire hesitated. ‘I’m not sure,’ he said.

  ‘It’s a yearning within them to feel they’re a part of you.’

  Guillaume thought about that for a minute. ‘Friendship and loyalty mean the same thing, don’t they?’

  Blackstone smiled. As a boy he had once asked his sworn lord, Sir Gilbert Killbere, a similar question when they first embarked for France – ten lifetimes ago. ‘It might well be so, but behind you is the past, it’s already gone. And there may be no remnant of it when you return. Sentiment, Guillaume – that’s the rope’s knot that sits beneath your ear before Fate kicks the stool away. Don’t die with regret in your heart.’

  Guillaume Bourdin was not certain he understood exactly what his lord meant: it was something his master felt deeply, that was certain. Perhaps looking back was the first step towards regret. At leaving.

  Sir Thomas was not a man to talk unnecessarily. They could ride for days and barely speak, except perhaps a few words to explain the flight of a goshawk or falcon, the settling of grass that showed where a fawn had lain and the way the clouds changed shape to tell him what would happen to the weather. He would point out hunting tracks through the forest and grassland, scars across the earth where animals travelled, guided by their instincts. Smell the wind, and you know where men are, Blackstone would tell him. Look to the land and sky to tell you where you are and what might befall you. And so it had always been for Guillaume under the training and protection of his lord, Sir Thomas Blackstone.

  ‘Now, Guillaume, you tell me. Is all well at my friend’s domain? I know you’ve spoken to the servants. How many horses a day come and go?’

  ‘Their feed stores are full, but my Lord de Harcourt brings more in each day to replenish what is used.’

  ‘From his villages?’

  ‘Aye, Sir Thomas. He takes what they have. At least two riders a day are sent out and return with messages. There’s a lot of activity between all the Norman lords. Servants work late into the night. Men ride by torchlight with escorts.’

  ‘And my Lord de Harcourt? What scandal and lies do the servants tell about him?’

  Blackstone always expected his squire to move among the servants, to listen at the kitchen table and to take note while their horses were tended.

  ‘He uses harsh words at times, worse than he has ever done before. He whips a man for not performing his duty, but then relents and gives him extra food or pay. No one knows what to do. The soldiers stand long night watches. I doubt they are lies and no one would dare spread scandal. Marcel would not speak of his injuries, but I could tell he is distressed. He’s served them the longest and whatever’s going on causes him worry. Perhaps Lord de Harcourt is too heavy-handed with everyone,’ he said finally, clearly implying that Marcel’s master had been the one responsible for his injuries.

  Blackstone glanced at his squire. There was as much trust and loyalty between them as there was between him and Jean de Harcourt. Guillaume always gave a straight answer and his eyes and ears were for Blackstone alone.

  ‘Was I too harsh in what I said or how I said it?’ Guillaume asked, concerned at his master’s silence.

  Blackstone shook his head. ‘I already knew it. The Count admitted as much to me himself. The Norman barons are a gathering storm. They rumble with dissatisfaction and uncertainty as to how the King will deal with them or they with him. Count de Harcourt carries too much responsibility and wishes none of the Norman families to suffer needlessly. His temper is short. I grieve for
him.’

  ‘If you grieve for him, then … is that not sentiment, Sir Thomas?’

  ‘Most likely,’ he answered.

  The young squire thought for a few moments. ‘Then you do not look back because you carry them with you,’ he said, finally understanding. ‘In your heart.’

  Blackstone glanced at him; then he turned his eyes back to the road. And without the young squire seeing, allowed a smile. A smile tinged with regret. He was grateful he had no part in the Norman conspiracy. His was a straightforward life of soldiering, with men who fought their enemies face to face. Being a common man had its advantages. Still, it was with a sense of unease that he rode home to his own wife and family.

  10

  Far beyond Blackstone’s horizon to the east, a fire burned in the smothered light of a forest. Gaunt-faced men, teeth bared, ran gasping for breath from the terror that pursued them. Thick smoke curled beyond the treetops as their village burned. The survivors grunted with exertion, pushing aside children who slowed their escape into the clearing. Women sobbed, their stricken faces showing clearly the bitter choice they must make; cast aside the infants they carried or cleave them to their bodies and falter. Most dropped them or threw the frightened infants into the spring-flooded streams. More children could be born, but a mother needed to be alive.

  Those villagers who had escaped the brutal attack tore their flesh against bramble and thorn as they squirmed desperately through the undergrowth. Bewildered children stumbled, arms raised, their filthy bodies soiled further in their distress, their cries and screams soon silenced by sword and spear. The killers laughed and shouted, alerting each other to where survivors had broken free, giving pursuit as if on a boar hunt.

  The terror revealed itself to the two riders who had tried to settle their horses as they witnessed the assault but the bloodletting and screams came upon them too quickly. The killers were behind them, sweeping onto the clearing’s flank, so those being pursued were caught in the grassland arena.

  Had it not been for their livery and the quality of their horses the bloodied mercenaries who hacked down the escaping villagers would have slain them. The horses spooked, the men fell and quickly went on to their knees, hands clasped in prayer, calling out their master’s name, yelling at the top of their lungs that they were messengers. One of the men’s bowels gave way in fear, its stench adding to that of the dead and dying. A bearded blood-cloaked ruffian noticed their livery and heard their pleas.

  ‘Not these!’ he ordered, and ran towards the villagers who were being quickly surrounded.

  Two of the routiers put their boots’ heels into the messengers’ backs, slamming them down into the wet grass, where they were held, unmoving, stricken by fear. The encircled men, women and children retreated back to back into a circle, crossing themselves in supplication, yielding to the inevitable. The routiers barely paused for breath as they hacked into them.

  The messengers were bound and dragged towards the burning village. Little more than a handful had escaped the settlement to be slain in the clearing; here in the ruins at least seventy or more villagers lay, slaughtered. The pathways between what remained of the hovels were churned to mud glistening with silken ribbons of blood. The stench of charred flesh caught the back of the men’s throats as it mingled with the smell of smouldering thatch.

  Wide-eyed with fear they squelched in the footsteps of their captors as they were dragged towards the small stone church that indicated the centre of the village. A fire burned, flames spurting as the deep-seated embers were fed with more dry wood, fuel that would have seen the villagers through to summer.

  There was no sign of monk or priest and the church seemed not to have been violated, unlike the screaming women being assaulted and raped by routiers. A man stood by the flames tormenting the embers with a stick as he watched their approach. His dark cloak concealed his mail and his bare head was free from the aventail. A broad silver-studded belt held a silver-pommelled sword, which indicated he was a rich man or a killer who had taken it. A heavy wet patch of blood darkened the black cloth further beneath an ebony crucifix. Both men averted their eyes. They were kicked to their knees, hands clasped, despite their bound wrists, utterances of prayer and pleas for mercy. Neither man dared raise his eyes to face what they thought to be the devil’s disciple.

  The man who had soiled himself shuddered, unable to control his fear; he rambled incoherently, spilling his words as he told the mercenary leader whom he served and why they were sent and how his own master was a voice for the King. The second man finally gathered courage, raised his head and delivered the message that his lord had told must be given clearly to this murdering brigand.

  ‘We are to tell you, my lord de Marcy, that Thomas Blackstone has killed Henri, Count of Saint Clair-de-la-Beaumont, and seized the fortress, handing it over to King Edward’s allies. He is rich in coin and weapons.’

  De Marcy’s brow furrowed. Blackstone. The Englishman went from strength to strength. Blackstone raided with impunity and then returned to the sanctuary of the Norman lords. And now the French King was suddenly willing to use Bucy as a go-between. Gilles de Marcy knew he was a pariah. The nobility abhorred his actions; some of them had tried at times to entrap him and put a rope around his neck. But it was they who suffered the terror from his retribution. They and their families. He fingered the ebony crucifix at his neck. Divine violence was his to dispense. It served his purpose to employ God’s anger for his own benefit. It was a blessing that protected him. The closest he had come to being apprehended was buried in the past, a few weeks after the English had invaded and fought their way across Normandy into the streets of Caen where a quick-witted archer had slashed the finger from his hand. A chance encounter. A brief moment of pain. But he had escaped from a despised enemy. The memory slipped away from his thoughts.

  De Marcy stabbed at the messenger’s livery with the charred stick.

  ‘Bucy sent you?’ he said, dark eyes settling on the messenger’s terrified face, who quickly averted his gaze.

  The men nodded vigorously.

  ‘To tell me of the Englishman’s success? News I would hear soon enough from travellers I rob and kill?’

  ‘My lord,’ said the stronger of the two men, ‘our master wishes you to enter Paris and meet with him.’

  ‘With my men at my back? He wants us inside the walls?’ he said disbelievingly.

  ‘Alone, lord, with a small escort. To meet with him in secret.’

  ‘And what is his offer?’

  ‘For you to be the instrument of the Englishman’s death. To succeed where others have failed. To be offered a pardon, wealth and acceptance as the King’s man.’

  The Savage Priest’s attention hovered on a ring on his finger. Ten years ago the great killing field at Crécy had given him enough wealth from the slaughtered French nobility’s jewellery and weapons to hire men of his own. And now the King summoned him – welcoming his thirst for killing. De Marcy grunted and worried the stick’s smouldering tip into the man’s chest. These messengers would have no more information other than what they had given. Was it a trap? Mercenaries were bleeding the countryside dry. King John did not have the resources to fight them, but drawing in those who commanded the routiers, one by one, that could diminish their strength.

  ‘Who else has been summoned?’

  ‘Lord?’ the messenger asked uncertainly.

  ‘Who else has been sent for, to rid the King of the Englishman?’

  The man shook his head. He looked bewildered. ‘None. We are our master’s messengers, we have served him all our lives, we are trusted. No others from our master’s house have been sent. But I cannot answer for what my King might have done.’

  That was the truth, de Marcy decided. Bucy was the King’s confidant, he was a power behind the throne, and the King would not send his own messengers and risk being seen to align himself openly with such a ruthless mercenary. The politicians were fools; they saw armed men as blunt instruments. A com
mander needed his wits about him to draw out his enemy, to outflank him, to have the animal instinct to savage a foe after he had out-thought him. These men carried no sealed document, there was nothing to link the King to their mission, but Bucy would not dare sanction a pardon without the King’s permission.

  ‘And nothing else was said?’

  The man hesitated. ‘A benefit that would please you.’

  ‘He offers me a place at high table?’ the mercenary sneered.

  The messenger faltered. Bucy had spoken the woman’s name almost as an afterthought when he had given them their orders. ‘Sainteny. Christiana de Sainteny. I do not understand everything that I am commanded to say, but that name was given to me.’

  The Savage Priest’s reaction to the name that was a long-abandoned desire was barely visible, but his breath faltered. His pulse quickened. How easily the years had erased the youth who had first laid eyes on the auburn-haired girl. That once shining instant had never left him. A boy, already a killer, had seen a woman whose beauty had cleaved a path through his darkness. A rare moment of light in a life of lust and violence. It lasted less than the blink of an eye. Whatever it was that had seized his heart had also squeezed it dry when she had rejected him.

  It was a decade or more past. A scurrying de Marcy was shouldering his way through the crowded market place, eager to leave the stench of the alleyway behind him. The girl was carrying a basket over her arm, her back to him; he was no more than a half-dozen strides away when he saw the stooped figure of the old beggar neatly slice the purse from the cord around her waist. Why de Marcy faltered in his escape across the square he never knew. A petty thief was none of his concern, but he altered his stride, gripped the old man’s arm, his strength forcing the beggar to open the palm of his hand. In the instant when the old man yelped with pain the girl he came to know as Christiana de Sainteny turned.

 

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