Defiant Unto Death

by David Gilman

  The city had every possession and enticement anyone could desire. Paris was like a kept whore that could provide pleasures on demand. It was a far cry from the stillness of the countryside where strangers were noticed and homes provided their own food and entertainment.

  Blanche had explained that the Grand’Rue that led to the city’s northern gate housed the nobility and those who, through their commercial success, aspired to be part of them, and it would be there that de Ruymont would rent rooms. Fearful for Christiana’s safety, Blanche had wanted to accompany him but he and Jean convinced her that it was foolish to draw more friends into jeopardy at a time when the Norman lords were playing their own dangerous game. Christiana had been in Paris for only two days with Guy and Joanne and Blackstone and Jean agreed that there was little reason for King John and his Savage Priest to strike against any Norman lord in the city if Blackstone’s suspicions of a trap were well founded. They would let the deception play out so that Blackstone would be drawn to her. She would, Blackstone thought, be safe while she attempted to trace the whereabouts of her father. Those who hunted him would be waiting in the shadows.

  Despite his reasoning Blackstone still felt the pull of two conflicting objectives. As much as the need to find her and escape home pressed him, he also wanted to discover who had sold the piece of cloth to Joanne de Ruymont. If this was a trap to seize him then he had to find who had sold the bait. Like a snag on a piece of linen, the unravelling thread would lead him to them. Then, when he exposed the deception to Christiana, she would accept that her father had died years before.

  And Blackstone’s secret would remain buried with him.

  As Blackstone moved away from the embroiderers through the alleyways, the old woman Isabeau scurried towards one of the bathhouses. She loitered at the corner of the building waiting for the boy to appear, then grew impatient and beckoned a man going in to bathe.

  ‘There’s a boy inside who helps with the water. Send him out to me.’

  The man knocked aside her outstretched hand. ‘I’m not here to do your bidding, old woman.’

  He was a common man, no different from any other who went through the bathhouse doors, and she knew that if there was a chance of saving a coin in his purse then he would.

  ‘You’ll not pay for the water if you do as I ask,’ she told him. ‘The boy will see to that.’

  The man considered for a moment, and then without agreement went inside. By the time the old woman had settled on the steps Raoul had appeared from the bathhouse.

  ‘You have the money?’ she asked the urchin.

  The boy watched, his feral instincts twitching like a rat’s whiskers. If the old woman had brought him news of a stranger asking about a certain piece of cloth, then he would be rewarded again by the man who had snatched him at the execution. They had beaten him and thrown him into a shit-fouled dungeon in the Châtelet until the Norman’s men had hauled him out weeks later. From a shadowed doorway they pointed out a noblewoman who shopped among the cloth sellers. Be the beggar you are, they told him, and sell this embroidery to the woman. Take whatever she offers, they ordered, and when she asks, as she surely would, tell her it was sold to you by an old man who lives among the poor and begs near the cemetery and at Les Halles. It made no sense to Raoul, a fairy tale to lure a lady to the marketplace, next to a graveyard where the dead were buried in vast trenches. If it was rape they were after they could have picked a less severe-faced woman. In fact he could have pointed them in the right direction for any of their carnal desires. They had slapped him, drawing blood from a split lip, and making his ears ring from the blow. Did he understand? He did. And when he had done as ordered, then he was to go back to his wretched life. Wretched it might be, but the street stench never smelled sweeter. There was no chance to abscond with the coins they had given him with the promise of more when he did their bidding, because Raoul was a shit collector who was known to most. And he was cunning enough to know how the streets worked. Betray a man of status and wealth and they would dig him out as a dog would a rat. It was an offer that would give him a way out of the stinking streets.

  ‘Two deniers, as promised,’ he answered the old woman.

  She nodded and held out her hand. She wouldn’t try to squeeze more from him, because she knew that if she did it would not be long before the bastard child would have someone step from an alleyway and slip a knife into her ribs. Or do it himself. Where the boy got the money from she had no idea, but he spent all his days now helping at the bathhouse, he no longer cleared human waste from doorways. He had placed word with some of the women on the stalls for information. And for once luck had blessed her. No, she wouldn’t take anything more from this one, she decided; there was another way to make money from this.

  ‘He’s a big man with a scar down his face. He carries his left arm slightly bent like a broken wing. He stands taller than most. I sent him to the Half Wheel. He’ll be there before the Angelus. He doesn’t look the kind of ruffian who’d want to be questioned by the constables after dark.’

  Raoul pressed the reward into Isabeau’s hands. It was too late to run to the Norman lord who had paid – and threatened – him. It was likely he would be on his knees at vespers. So he would wait until morning and then, as the faithful were summoned to prayer, he would count each bell strike as that of a tinkling coin falling into the palm of his hand. And then he would try his luck on the Grand Pont and use his skills as a cut-purse on those who frequented the money changers and silver- and goldsmiths who traded there. Misfortune would be sidestepped like a dollop of shit in the street.

  17

  There were no linen sheets on a feather mattress or pewter plates to eat from in the Half Wheel tavern. The straw-covered floor and the burning grate was as much comfort as any traveller with a few coins in his pocket could expect. Blackstone ordered food and drink and found a table in a half-lit corner. Easing himself onto the bench he sat with his back against the wall. The main entrance to the tavern was clearly in view and a side door, nearer to him, would make a convenient escape. It would be impossible for those hunting him to find him in the seething mass of this part of the city. But a chance encounter with the Provost Marshal’s men might expose him. It was always better to have caution as a travelling companion. His urgency had bypassed his hunger but now he felt ravenous. He ate a plate of rough milled bread and sausage, and ordered ale rather than wine. He spoiled the tavern’s undernourished cur with its bowed ribs and fed it tidbits. As darkness fell the tavern became choked with men seeking shelter for the night. No one made any approach to him and the men he watched showed no sign of violence or bad temper. As the evening lengthened and the Angelus bell rang, the ale and cheap wine, its grapes picked too late making it a sour and cloudy drink rejected by better hostelries, soon played their part and eased the tavern into a melancholy hum of muted voices and snoring men. Blackstone claimed the dark corner as his own and lay down, pressing his back into the security of the wall. The dog whimpered and crawled nervously the few feet to him on its belly. Blackstone laid a hand on its neck, soothing it. Like all dogs grateful for not being kicked away it gave Blackstone its trust and lay close to him.

  Stroking the dog’s ear evoked a memory of home and the pleasure of his own dogs sprawled at his feet by the fire as Christiana sat opposite while she read or embroidered, despite the poor light offered by the flickering candles. They were long, slow evenings that teased them both into passion. But there were nights when each time the needle pierced the cloth his conscience felt its stab. Never look back, he would remind himself. The past was over and done with. It did not exist. Only its ghosts lingered in the present. And some would never be laid to rest, another voice persisted. His secret would die with him, but how could he ever hope to track down Christiana in the vastness of the city? He brought Arianrhod to his lips and asked the goddess to guide him to her. No soothing answer came from his request, but with a simple act of faith that she would lead him to the mother of his childre
n, he allowed himself to drift into sleep as church bells chimed – guardians to his dreams.

  The city was in darkness; only the crossroads and the great squares were lit by burning torches. Isabeau huddled in the cold doorway and wrapped her shawl tighter around her. The wind was picking up off the river and the spluttering torches made the buildings’ shadows move. She had promised a beggar half her profit from the information given to Raoul and sent his undernourished frame across the darkened street to the Half Wheel tavern. If he did as she instructed it was an investment that she would recoup many times over.

  The side door creaked but was little more than the sound of a man turning in his sleep on the wooden floorboards. The night candle flickered from the breath of air that followed the man through the door. He stood for a moment and let his eyes become accustomed to the dimness. A dozen men lay on benches or were slumped across the tables; another three or four had found space on the floor. He saw the tavern dog to one side and the big man who lay behind it with an arm resting across its chest. The dog lazily raised its head and with dreamy eyes lowered it back to the floor, uninterested in yet another who sought a night’s sleep.

  The intruder raised the candle, searching out whom he had come for. It was clear that there were few who matched the size of the man described by the old woman. Only the man with the dog seemed to fit the description. He stepped carefully over sleeping bodies and eased himself down onto one knee, extending the back of his hand to allow the dog to sniff him without raising the alarm. In that moment a hand snatched his wrist and he found himself staring at the wide-awake man who now held a knife at his throat. The dog squirmed away, disturbing a sleeping man who grunted as it jumped over him.

  Blackstone said nothing, his eyes holding the man’s frightened gaze. His slight build had allowed him to tread silently across the floorboards but now he trembled like a leaf. The whispered words were barely audible as he delivered his message.

  ‘I mean no harm. I was sent to warn you.’

  Without releasing the man’s wrist or lowering the knife Blackstone got swiftly to his feet. A few men stirred but none awoke and the dog had moved to the hearth, whose dying embers still gave some warmth. Blackstone loosened his grip and nodded. The nervous messenger held the quivering candle and led them through the sleeping tavern to the side door. Once outside Blackstone pressed the man against the wall and eased the candle from his hand.

  ‘Sir,’ the man said, his voice strangling now that he could see the scar-faced man more clearly. ‘Across the street is an old woman who has information for you.’

  ‘Which couldn’t wait until morning?’

  ‘A question I asked myself. By then it will be too late.’

  Blackstone stayed silent, listening for any footfall, or sound of exhaled breath in the cold air that might be a warning of an ambush.

  ‘Take me to her,’ he said, and blew out the candle flame.

  Isabeau paid the frightened man and watched as he slipped away into the shadows, his silhouette briefly caught by the crossroads’ torchlight.

  Blackstone stood over her. ‘Who are you?’

  ‘I’m one of the women from the embroiderers’ stalls. Will you pay me for the information I have? I’m already out of pocket by paying that beggar.’

  ‘Why wouldn’t I put a knife to your scrawny throat to find out what you know?’

  ‘Because you couldn’t be certain if the fear made me lie or not. Besides, you paid Mathilde more than her stitching was worth. No labourer would do that, so you have some honour – you’re more than you appear to be. You’re searching for someone and it has to do with that piece of cloth you carry.’

  ‘My wife,’ Blackstone told her. ‘What could you know of her?’

  ‘Nothing. But there are others who share your interest.’

  Blackstone’s pulse quickened but his voice remained calm. ‘How much do you want?’

  Isabeau had considered what her information might be worth, but her grasp of wealth was limited to what her embroidery sold for. She had earned pennies, and now she was failed by her ignorance. Her toothless mouth opened and closed with uncertainty. ‘What’s it worth?’

  ‘What is the night air worth? You’ve told me nothing.’ He realized she had no idea what to ask for. ‘If your information is what I need then I’ll give you ten silver crowns.’

  He heard her gasp. Such an amount would normally lie beyond her grasp. Her bent fingers could rest from the work that became more demanding each cold winter.

  ‘If it is not then you shall have nothing other than your life,’ said Blackstone.

  ‘My life is forfeit if the people who are out for your skin discover my part in this.’ She hesitated. ‘You have that kind of money? The purse on your belt looks too light.’

  Blackstone eased another pouch from inside his leather tunic, its generous weight confirming it contained enough coin to settle a debt such as this.

  First light would soon wake the city, so if there was danger approaching he needed to know about it. He sensed her nod in the shadow.

  ‘A street urchin who has bettered himself promised payment if a man searched out information on that embroidered cloth you carry. He works at a bathhouse, so he’s paid by someone else. I told him you had visited the stall and that I had sent you to the Half Wheel. Whoever pays him will come for you by dawn.’

  It was what he feared. The trap was for him and they had used Christiana as the bait.

  ‘Hold out your hand,’ he told her, and fingered coins into her palm.

  She clawed the money and stuffed it into her purse, then clambered to her feet. Blackstone pulled her back down into the doorway.

  ‘You stay here until these men arrive. For all I know you would betray me again to them.’

  ‘It’s too dangerous for me to stay. What if they should see me?’

  ‘Then they’ll kill you. So best to stay still and think about spending that money.’

  They came swiftly and silently. The woman flinched but Blackstone shielded her with his arm, afraid she might panic and bolt. Her ragged breathing rasped like the wind across the rough stone walls. He saw a street urchin lead a dozen or more armed men to the tavern’s door. The poor light prevented Blackstone from identifying the man who led them, the black cloak and clothing he wore masking his features.

  Half the men pushed through the main entrance, the others into the alleyway to secure the side door. Blackstone knew he’d been lucky; he would have been trapped like a rat. There were shouts and cries of alarm from inside the Half Wheel.

  ‘That’s the boy I told you about,’ the old woman said.

  ‘Who’s the man wearing the black cloak?’ he asked, his voice barely loud enough for the woman to hear.

  She shook her head. ‘I don’t know the others.’

  Blackstone knew this was his chance to run, but the urge to identify the black-clothed man held him.

  ‘What churches are there where the noblemen live?’

  She shrugged. ‘How would I know?’

  ‘You embroider for the ladies. You’ve been there. What churches?’

  ‘The Holy Sepulchre … no, they’re still building … Saint Catherine, and the … I don’t know. The monks at Saint Catherine are responsible for the travellers who die on the road. Are those you seek alive or dead?’

  ‘Where else?’ Blackstone insisted.

  Isabeau thought for a moment. ‘I don’t know, I swear. The only other place nearby is the parish church. Saint-Leu–Saint-Gilles.’

  ‘Where?’

  ‘Far side of the Innocents.’

  She saw that he did not understand.

  ‘The cemetery. You can’t miss it. Halfway between the river and the north gate.’

  It was as good a chance as he was likely to get. If Joanne de Ruymont stayed true to her prayers she would be on her knees somewhere at this time of day, and Christiana would be praying with her, begging for guidance to find her father.

  They watched as the m
en kept a firm hand on the boy who led them and then dragged him inside. He resisted, but his cry of pain reached them as his arm was twisted.

  ‘You have escaped, but they’ll kill him,’ Isabeau whispered.

  The stench of urine caught his nostrils; the old woman’s bladder had given way. He lowered his arm. If she ran now she would not be seen. She needed no more invitation than that: she scuttled away into the next alley.

  Blackstone also moved, quickly finding another alley corner from which to observe the tavern raid and in time to see men tumbling out, chased by the soldiers, and hear the sound of furniture being thrown and the dog’s yelping echoing across the street. The bell for matins rang, doors were being opened, shutters pushed back and night pots tipped into the street. Three of the armed men grappled with one of the customers. He was a thick-set man and tall, though not as tall as Blackstone, and it seemed that he could have been mistaken for him.

  ‘My Lord de Marcy!’ the armed man called, forcing their victim to his knees.

  Blackstone tensed. The man who had ambushed William de Fossat was here. Blackstone slowed his breath, his hand already gripping the knife at his belt. He slowed his breath and focused on the black-cloaked figure who emerged from the tavern. De Marcy grabbed a handful of the man’s hair, pulling his face back so he could be seen more clearly. It took only a moment for the Savage Priest to discount him from being the one he sought. His hand loosed the man’s hair and his henchmen gave him a kick to see him on his way.

  Blackstone half crouched, ready to run into the throng of men. De Marcy should be killed there and then, but there was no chance of that when he had a dozen men at his side. He restrained the urge to use the buildings as cover and get close and then to scatter them with an unexpected attack. One man with a knife wreaking a sudden vengeance. Strike, kill and run. It was a foolish thought and he knew it. Christiana was in more danger now because these men who hunted him knew he was in the city and that they had missed capturing him.