by David Gilman
‘Don’t kill him!’ de Marcy called.
One of the mercenaries snarled, spitting blood from his mouth from where de Fossat had smashed his sword’s pommel. The command halted his knife’s lunge into de Fossat’s throat, but was not enough to stop his retribution of plunging it into his thigh. The Norman cried out but twisted free, swinging his fist into the routier’s neck and having the satisfaction of hearing bones crack from the force of the blow. Grasping one of the men by his belt he yanked the man off balance and pulled the dagger from his belt. He left the blade embedded in his leg to slow the blood flow and ducked beneath a flange-tipped mace that skimmed close to his head. The attacker was off balance and de Fossat rammed his own knife beneath the man’s armpit, then feinted, using his weight to shoulder away another. What was supposed to be a simple ambush had now turned into a deadly battle of life and death as de Fossat picked up the fallen mace and his sword. The knife still protruded from his leg, hampering his agility, but the force and speed of his sword strokes maimed and killed. Within minutes four more men lay dead and another two fatally wounded. Blood was splattered across the crushed ferns as he edged back on the track. There was little doubt in his mind he was going to die. He was too far from home for anyone to hear the men’s screams and not close enough to any village for a runner to bring help, but if he could kill these remaining two then there was only the man on the horse to kill. His life was not yet forfeit. Not yet. There was always hope. But a glimpse of the man astride the horse brought a brief, almost unconscious realization that he had seen the man before. Years ago. But where? There was no time to remember. These brigands had been paid good money and the surviving pair put their shoulders together and threw themselves at the embattled knight. Better to fail against de Fossat than endure the slow death that le Prêtre sanguinaire would inflict.
One of the men struck at the knife blade in de Fossat’s leg and the fierce pain caused him to drop his shoulder, allowing the second mercenary to slash down with his blade which de Fossat parried, but he was unable to keep the other man from seizing the advantage and ramming him, punching his sword’s pommel into his head. The renowned Norman fighter went down and would have been killed had the men’s orders not forbidden it. The soldiers kicked and pummelled him until, breathless, heaving from the exertion, they staggered back from his unconscious, battered body.
The Savage Priest spurred his horse forward and looked down at the fallen man. He had no recollection of this knight ever being at Castle de Harcourt all those years before when he rode with the King’s routiers, but the Norman traitor had told Simon Bucy that de Fossat was there. It made no difference. He was not here for the whoring knight; he was here to find his bait. A wounded lamb staked out for the wolf.
13
Blackstone waited patiently as Christiana sat in front of the fire in their great hall, twisting the piece of linen in her hands. She laid it on her lap and spread it lovingly, resting her palms on the image of the small blue bird in flight. It was a similar emblem of love that she had once given to the young Thomas Blackstone as he went into battle. A token of her affection for him and her desire for him to return to her safely that had always nestled beneath Blackstone’s tunic. But now the distress that Christiana felt made Blackstone’s mind seethe with uncertainty.
‘And who told you about this?’ Blackstone asked, keeping his own anxiety hidden. He had returned that morning from de Harcourt’s, and in his two-day absence unsettling news had arrived at his doorstep, bringing with it fear that could tear his family apart.
‘Joanne de Ruymont sent it by messenger.’
‘From Paris?’
‘Yes.’
‘And you questioned the rider who brought it?’
‘No, I was with Henry and his lessons. He is learning a poem for his birthday recital. Old Hugh brought it to me. It was wrapped and enclosed with a note from her. She came across this in Paris,’ she said, lifting the embroidered cloth as if it were rare silk. ‘She bought it from a street seller.’ Her voice hovered between joy and distress. ‘And when she questioned further she learnt that an old man, living in poverty, had sold it.’
‘And the note is in Joanne’s hand?’
‘Yes … of course.’
‘But you can’t be certain?’
‘But who else?’
Blackstone could see that she was barely able to suppress her excitement.
‘This means my father could be alive after all these years,’ she said. ‘No one could know I embroidered such things.’
Blackstone’s stomach fluttered. He knew that his own token of her affection, given to him years before, which he had carried through battle, still bore the bloodstains ingrained in its weave. It was the exact same coat of arms that had been embroidered on the tunic of the first man he had killed during the great invasion ten years before. The old man was a poorly armed knight with a group of crossbowmen who had lain in ambush, but Blackstone, raw and frightened, had outflanked him. It had been the young archer’s arrow that had killed the French knight and allowed the English to move safely through the crossroads. It was only weeks later, as the battles progressed and Blackstone’s heart had been captured, that he realized the old man must have been Christiana’s father.
And that secret could never be revealed.
‘You lived at Harcourt for years. What about the servants? They knew. Other wives knew. Women talk about embroidery, don’t they? It was hardly a secret.’
‘Quite so,’ she said patiently, ‘it is not a secret, but no one could copy my needlework. This is by my hand.’
‘Surely there’s doubt?’ he asked carefully. ‘That embroidery could have been taken by one of the servants when you were living at Harcourt. Some of them go to Paris with Jean and Blanche. Who’s to say that when you lived with them it wasn’t stolen and sold in the city?’
‘Perhaps,’ she conceded. She examined it again, as if the simple pattern on the old and worn material might expose more of its journey. ‘A simple piece of linen, Thomas. Worth barely anything, but still precious, and to be kept close to one’s heart.’
Blackstone tugged his own piece of linen free from the folds of his shirt and laid it open in the hope that there would be a difference between the two squares of cloth. Christiana took it from his fingers and laid it on her lap next to the other.
‘Look, Thomas,’ she said in hushed tones, ‘what little difference there is shows only in the threads I used. He must be alive and living somewhere in Paris.’
Blackstone had no idea how he could convince her otherwise without confessing his part in the old knight’s death. Life’s mystery had brought Christiana to him and the misfortune and coincidence of her father’s death burdened him whenever she told stories of how they once lived. Time had passed and their lives had moved on, but this news felt like a jagged piece of broken mirror reflecting a ghost.
‘Christiana, remember all those years ago when Godfrey de Harcourt came to warn Jean about King Edward being unable to pursue the French crown, he told you then – I was there; we were all there – that your father was dead. I can understand how you would wish it otherwise, but this piece of cloth proves nothing.’
She folded Blackstone’s piece of linen carefully and brought it to her lips and then passed it back to him. ‘Thomas, you have never relinquished this token from me. No matter what happened to you, you held it tightly, as a symbol of our love for each other. And so it was between my father and me. If he is alive, he’s desperate enough to sell it to stave off hunger, and if it was stolen from him then the thief must know where he is.’
‘Christiana! How many pieces of this embroidery have you ever done? How many times have you left a piece of cloth such as this lying around over the years? See it for what it is! Taken by a servant and sold in the city. It’s nonsense to think otherwise,’ he said, unable to keep the agitation from his voice. Or, as he admitted to himself, the sense of panic that refused to settle. His words were badly chosen and he regrette
d uttering them as soon as he saw the pain on her face.
‘Why would I not hold onto the dream of him being alive?’ she said, looking at him in disbelief.
Blackstone quickly softened his voice. ‘I would do anything to have him live, Christiana, because that would soothe every blemish in your heart caused by his loss. But it’s been ten years and if he were alive surely we would know of it by now?’
She wiped a tear from her cheek, but showed him a brave face. ‘Well,’ she tried to reason, ‘an old man caught up in battle, most probably wounded, and taken to a monastery, and then, when his wounds were healed, and perhaps with his memory as injured as his body, he would wander penniless and without knowledge of who he was from village to village, like a beggar. How many beggars have we seen who fought?’
Blackstone’s hands smothered her own that held the cloth. ‘It cannot be, Christiana, it cannot.’
‘I believe it can,’ she said quietly.
He knew there could be no argument. Once she had decided on a course of action there would be no deterring her. He had proven that to himself over the years, and it had started with her determination, in defiance of her guardians, to love a wounded Englishman.
‘All right,’ he said. ‘I’ll speak to Guy and Joanne and ask them to send people into the city to find out what they can. You know I cannot go; King John’s soldiers would like nothing better. Will you be patient and let me deal with this? I’ll pay for any information that we can get. It will take some time. Can you be patient?’
She nodded and smiled through her tears. ‘Thank you, Thomas.’
He eased her face to him and kissed her gently, as he would an injured child. And as he left her at the fireside he cursed himself for the lies he had told her, but thanked God that he had bought time and the means to convince her that her father was long dead.
‘Hugh!’
The old man turned from directing men stacking sacks of grain in one of the barns as Blackstone strode towards him.
‘My lord?’
‘Did you recognize the man who brought the message for Lady Christiana?’
‘No, Sir Thomas. He was not known to me. The sentries did not recognize him either and refused him entry through the gates.’
‘Was he from these parts? Could you tell by his accent?’
‘He was a common man, my lord, and he barely spoke. He said he had come from my Lord de Ruymont’s domain and that being a day’s ride away I offered him food and shelter for the night and to stable his horse, but he refused.’
‘Then he would be travelling back in darkness?’
‘Aye, my lord, but he seemed intent in doing so.’
‘You think that strange?’
‘I thought it commendable that he would serve his master so well,’ Hugh answered.
Blackstone thought on it for a moment. A servant with the opportunity to spend a night under a roof lying on dry straw with a belly full of hot food was more likely to seize the chance of such comfort.
‘And he did not ask for me?’
‘No. Only that I deliver what he offered to Lady Christiana.’
Blackstone nodded and turned away. What to do? How long could he ignore Christiana’s request? For as long as possible was the only answer he could find, but sooner or later Guy or Joanne de Ruymont would visit, or send a message to enquire as to the outcome. Damn. He would have to speak to them. But not this week, or the next. He would wait until Henry’s birthday party and hope that before then something would occur to him on how to handle the matter. It was foolish to think that – and he knew it. This was a threat that had to be dealt with sooner.
Haunted, he walked to the stables with the dogs at his heels, glad of their company. The freshening breeze raised their nostrils; one of them barked. They had freedom to go wherever they chose, but they would not leave the immediate confines of the house and grounds where invisible chains of familiar scents held them. But if their master chose to go further afield then they skipped and jostled each other as they did now, knowing Blackstone’s mind before he had made the decision. Guilt and uncertainty gave out its own stench. Dogs knew it, horses too, as did soldiers who crowded at your shoulder waiting to strike. If such feelings lingered like stale sweat then it was best that they be flushed away.
‘Hugh!’ he called back to the old man. ‘Have them saddle my horse!’
It was a bastard of a horse – an ugly beast. The fine French heritage of his dam had been spoiled by a rogue stallion and what came from their breeding was a creature unyielding in its belligerence. A neck as thick as a man’s waist supported a head like a ship’s prow, oversized and misshapen, that was lowered in battle like a battering ram. His yellow teeth, as firm and strong as grindstones, bit at Blackstone whenever opportunity offered. Its ears would swivel in opposing directions in a constant state of alertness as they sought whispers of movement from here and there. Its hooves, the breadth of a man’s hand and powered by bulging shoulder muscles that encased a tireless heart, bore iron shoes that tore the ground. Battle-scarred, it was cast – so it was said – into this world by the devil forging a pact with the animal kingdom. There had been few men who could abide its awkward gait when it ambled, but when the reins were eased and a strong rider gave it his trust, the horse would run without faltering day and night.
Stable-hands knew better than to enter its winter stall alone. It took two determined men to put a halter on it and coax the beast out. Blackstone’s other horses, especially his big courser that he rode when hunting, was kept apart from this wild-eyed animal, which would tolerate no competition from stallion, gelding or mare. It had smashed stalls and bitten and kicked lesser horses that raised their heads and stiffened their ears, muzzles snorting in naive expectation of exerting their superiority over it. When mounting Blackstone always held taut the opposite rein, tugging the horse’s head away from where the snap of teeth would nip him if he were so careless as to forget past experience, but Blackstone had never laid a whip on the beast. Each measured the other – and each gave way when necessary. Every week Blackstone rode the horse hard, ridding it of its aggression, pounding across meadow and hills, plunging him into swollen rivers to clamber up mud-slicked embankments, placing his life into the horse’s care as they challenged the demands of twisting currents and uneven ground, neither rider nor horse prepared to shy away. And Blackstone swore that he loved this horse more than any other because it bore as fiery a soul as any fighting warrior he had witnessed.
His dogs had faltered miles back, lolling tongues slavering as they lay with heaving ribs. Despite their loyalty to their master they could not keep pace when he rode out with the dappled black horse whose coat looked as though it had been singed by hell’s embers. The dogs would soon recover, then lope home where they would wait until the wind brought them knowledge of man and horse returning.
Guillaume followed a good half-mile behind Blackstone, his horse unable to catch up, but that suited the squire; it allowed him to keep an alert eye open for any sign of danger. His sworn lord was a wanted man and, despite the Normans’ protection, it was not impossible for a lone assassin to penetrate their domains and lie in wait. Movement was easily observed in a landscape that never changed except by the seasons or where it was grazed or cultivated, so its landmarks were familiar to those who knew it. Blackstone had taken a hard route but it was a shorter distance than the usual road. There was no doubt that he was heading for Guy de Ruymont’s castle where the Count de Harcourt and others were meeting. It was the fluttering of birds rising from the depth of the forest that alerted Guillaume. Blackstone would have been close enough to the treeline to think he had disturbed them. The squire spurred his horse, cutting diagonally across the uneven ground, risking his horse stumbling. The birds had been disturbed by horsemen who emerged from the forest.
Guillaume’s anxiety should have been tempered with more confidence in his master and the horse he rode, but fealty to a knight like Sir Thomas was a privilege that could be bestowe
d only once in a lifetime and the young fighter would die before an enemy struck down the Englishman owing to any failure of duty on his part. He needn’t have worried. Blackstone’s horse had already alerted him. Its ears had picked up movement even before the birds rose from the branches; and Blackstone too had heard the snap of dry twigs from the weight of horsemen approaching. By the time the men appeared Wolf Sword was in his hand and the devil’s horse was turned to face them: rock steady, ears forward, muscles quivering momentarily as it smelled the other beasts. His master’s shift in weight told him a contest was approaching.
Jean de Harcourt rode through the edge of the forest, twenty men or more at his back, pennons flying. He raised a hand when he saw the lone knight waiting, and in the distance Guillaume Bourdin at full gallop towards them.
‘Thomas! God’s blood, man! You ride alone?’ de Harcourt said, easing his horse forward.
Blackstone sheathed Wolf Sword and tugged a rein. ‘Just as on any other day, Jean. I was going to Guy’s. I thought you’d be there with the others.’
‘Aye, well, after what’s happened we’re biding our time and staying behind our own walls until we see what lies ahead.’
‘Has trouble befallen them? I need to speak to Guy and Joanne.’
Guillaume slowed his horse, cantering the last hundred yards, then stopped and bowed his head towards de Harcourt, who nodded acknowledgement and then answered Blackstone.
‘No. They’re safe. But we are uncertain whether the King is planning a strike against us. We think not, but we’ll keep ourselves to ourselves for a few days and watch out for each other. When I saw you ready to fight I thought you might have heard, but of course you could not. A messenger came from Paris. One of Guy’s informers at court. They’ve taken William.’
