Defiant Unto Death

by David Gilman

‘Let him up,’ Blackstone ordered.

  For a moment doubt made Gaillard hesitate, but then he obeyed.

  Sir Rolf stood like a cornered animal, trembling before the pack of men who surrounded him. Gone was any arrogance of rank and privilege.

  ‘You said that no one was to know that William de Fossat was being held here,’ he asked.

  Sir Rolf nodded.

  ‘But a Norman lord received word that my friend had been captured and brought here. And that information was passed to me. It was expected that I would try to rescue him. How many men did this Savage Priest ride with?’

  ‘Only two of his men survived. De Fossat killed the others.’

  Blackstone realized that this was no strike against Norman lords. No great band of routiers or the King’s men had ridden through Normandy. If such an incursion had taken place their presence would have been noted. This had been little more than an ambush party. Whoever had planned it had drawn Blackstone away from the safety of his own domain and the Normans who surrounded him. They knew he would attack here in force and that he could not be taken.

  ‘So I am not their prey,’ Blackstone muttered to himself, the hollow pit of his stomach chilled with fear. ‘Meulon! Give him your sword!’

  Meulon gave it quickly and stepped back into the press of men.

  ‘You deserve no mercy but you can die with dignity,’ Blackstone told him, drawing Wolf Sword.

  Sir Rolf looked once more towards his wife and children, raised the sword in a high guard and took three determined strides towards Blackstone.

  His attack was well paced, his balance firm, and his strike could have proved deadly had Blackstone not quickly moved outside the sweeping cut. By the time Sir Rolf’s momentum took him a stride beyond the Englishman, his severed head pitched forward into the mud as his flailing body staggered on a few more paces and then crumpled in a final spasm.

  Fire consumed the castle, sweeping Blackstone’s anger through every cranny. The billowing smoke would be seen for miles but it was doubtful any Frenchmen would venture beyond the safety of their own walls until the sky cleared. Blackstone had Lady de Sagard and her children escorted to a local lord by her husband’s surviving soldiers. Sooner or later scouts would venture out and they would confirm the destruction of Sir Rolf’s stronghold and that his severed head adorned a pole in front of the main gate. And they would know who had made a rapid and successful raid on the castle and slain one of King John’s trusted knights.

  William de Fossat’s body was packed in salt, swaddled in linen and stitched into canvas to be accompanied home by a dozen of Blackstone’s men. His friend’s burial was his widow’s affair. The man’s soul had passed through Blackstone’s embrace and a prayer would be said and an invocation made to the goddess whose image hung at his neck. Angels or pagan spirits could do the rest. There was little doubt that de Fossat being tortured in such a manner was a declaration of an enemy who cared little for the blessings of angels. So what strike would come next? If de Fossat had been used as bait to draw out Blackstone and his men then for all he knew an attack to retake his towns might have already started. He had raked his spurs into King John’s flanks when he had seized Saint-Clair-de-la-Beaumont and yet the more he thought it through the more he realized that it made no sense. King John would not, could not, risk such an enterprise. Even with routiers in his pay there were not enough men to lay siege to several towns at once and risk turning the Norman barons against him. Despite his doubts he sent Meulon, Gaillard and Guinot and the men hastily back to their duties. Patrols would be doubled and the towns made ready to bring the villagers inside the walls. Blackstone gave his willing horse full rein with Guillaume at his side. They would sleep in the saddle and stop only when the horses needed rest.

  Talons clawed his heart.

  The Savage Priest’s threat was aimed closer to home.

  15

  Blackstone’s children were safe. He arrived at Castle de Harcourt to be greeted by Blanche and Jean with their usual warmth and affection, but with the worrying news that Christiana had grown impatient and, despite their objections, had travelled to Paris in search of her father.

  Both men and their horses were exhausted, but Blackstone gathered the children to him, pushing his anger with Christiana away from the tenderness he allowed for Agnes, and a more reserved yet no less affectionate embrace for his son, Henry.

  ‘Father, I told Mother that she shouldn’t leave without you, but she wouldn’t listen to me,’ Henry said, standing respectfully in front of his father.

  Blackstone held Agnes on his knee, brushing strands of the child’s hair behind her ear. As he kissed her forehead she wrinkled her nose. ‘You smell like a horse,’ she said.

  ‘Shall I go away until I’ve bathed or will you put up with the smell?’ he asked.

  ‘You can stay,’ she told him and settled into her privileged position, scraping a nail on the dirt and blood-encrusted jupon.

  ‘Was she angry?’ Blackstone finally said to his son.

  ‘No, Father, but she was unhappy that you weren’t here.’

  There could be no denying that he expected anything less. ‘I had work to do,’ he answered.

  ‘Did you save Lord de Fossat?’ Henry asked, his palm resting on the silver scabbard of the knife in his belt.

  ‘No, but I held him as he died.’

  ‘Did you kill the man who captured him?’

  ‘One of them,’ Blackstone said, and eased his daughter to the floor. ‘I have to go now, Agnes.’

  ‘To bathe?’ she asked, brushing a hand down her skirts, smoothing the material as he had seen Christiana do a thousand times.

  ‘I’ll bathe when I come back,’ he reassured her.

  ‘Are you going away again?’ she asked, reaching for his filthy hands and slipping her small fingers into his palm.

  ‘Yes, I’m going to find your mother.’

  Blackstone rejoined Jean and Blanche de Harcourt in the great hall and told them what had happened: that he thought the ambush had been staged to draw him away from his home. He spared no detail of the torture inflicted or the revenge he exacted. The wine they drank did little to ease the sour taste of how de Fossat had died. Blanche crossed herself. There would be prayers said in their chapel for him.

  ‘There’s been no incursion anywhere near your domain, Thomas,’ Jean told him. ‘No troops, no routiers. Nothing. None of us believe that the ambush was anything other than a personal matter. There is no sign of any build-up of troops.’

  ‘Is it coincidence that de Fossat is taken when Christiana finds a token she believes is her father’s?’ Blackstone asked.

  ‘What else? Joanne told me herself that she had sent it to her,’ said Blanche.

  ‘Who told you about the ambush?’ Blackstone said, studying Jean de Harcourt’s face, looking for any tell-tale signs of dishonesty, while cursing himself for having such thoughts.

  ‘De Graville. One of his informers in Paris sent word when we were at Guy’s castle.’

  ‘His confessor?’ Blackstone said and swallowed the last of his wine, but keeping his eyes on his friend’s face.

  De Harcourt shrugged. ‘Thomas, I’ve no idea. De Graville wouldn’t tell us even if we asked; it would be too dangerous for whoever gave him the information.’

  Blackstone knew de Harcourt was not lying. But the fact that de Graville spent a lot of time in Paris, praying with and confessing to a priest he’d known for years, was both a risk and an ideal subterfuge – if one was needed. Doubt festered. Was the pious de Graville a traitor? He had not only sent word of de Fossat’s capture but had placed Old Hugh and Beatrix in Blackstone’s household. Such a betrayal would only show itself when the Norman lords made their move against the King. And the Normans’ strength could be blunted by killing Blackstone.

  ‘And nothing else unusual? No further agreements with Navarre or the King’s son?’ said Blackstone, seeking out anything that might give him a clue as to the cause of recent events.


  ‘None. Other than extra guards at the city gates,’ de Harcourt said without suspicion.

  ‘For what reason?’

  ‘The King gets nervous. It happens now and then.’

  Blackstone helped himself to more wine. ‘Christiana should never have left the children. She promised me she would wait for me to sort this out.’

  Blanche touched his arm and tried to reassure him. ‘The children are safe and have been well cared for, Thomas. Marcel keeps Agnes amused and Jean instructs Henry every day,’ she said as Blackstone let the flames from the grate warm him.

  ‘Thomas,’ Jean urged. ‘Christiana is self-willed. Were she not she wouldn’t have ignored our advice and married you!’ He smiled in a vain attempt to relieve Blackstone’s anxiety. ‘And Henry is coming along. He strikes well and he’s becoming more aggressive with a training sword every day.’

  Blackstone’s mood could not be soothed. ‘She’s abandoned her children for an impatient quest that might place us all in danger.’ He looked at them both, wishing he could explain why he knew with certainty that what he said was the truth. ‘Her father is dead,’ he said coldly.

  The two men stared at each other. Read my eyes, Blackstone willed him. See what I saw that day when my arrow gutted the old man.

  De Harcourt felt Blackstone’s intensity, and realized that whatever secret his friend held it was obviously something that could never be spoken aloud. By whatever means Blackstone had come across the knowledge, it was obvious Christiana’s father was dead.

  Blanche de Harcourt mistook Blackstone’s unspoken agony as worry for Christiana. She touched his arm and smiled. ‘I’ve arranged hot water and food for you and Guillaume.’

  Blackstone’s hair was matted; the grime in his hands and face witness to the days of travel and conflict. Whatever weariness nagged his muscles he ignored. ‘I’m not staying, Blanche, I have to go and find her.’

  ‘Did we think you would not?’ said Jean, handing him another glass of red wine. ‘Eat and bathe at least.’

  Blackstone shook his head. ‘If I go into Paris I have to be seen as a peasant.’

  ‘Even those of low birth in Paris bathe, Thomas. Don’t worry, you’ll stink enough by the time you get there.’

  He could not deny that a hot bath would ease the discomfort in his mind as well as sluice the foulness from his skin. He dipped his head in acknowledgement to Blanche. She smiled and turned away to instruct her servants.

  Blackstone waited until she had left the great hall. ‘Jean, listen to me. If I am hunted by the King’s killer how best would I be taken? In my domain? Here, in the heart of Normandy?’ he asked quietly.

  ‘No. They could never take you here. So, they draw you away by capturing William. Then why not kill you when you went to try and rescue him?’

  ‘Because I had my men with me. Sir Rolf’s castle was not that well defended. I rose to their bait, Jean. I went to honour a debt to a friend and my wife was deceived into going to Paris. Can I take my men into Paris?’

  It was a question that needed no answer.

  De Harcourt wrung his hands. ‘Sweet Jesus, Thomas, you go alone into a trap.’

  ‘What else can I do? Christiana is in danger. They know I’ll go.’

  De Harcourt shook his head. ‘Joanne de Ruymont would not be a part of this. She cares as much for Christiana as Blanche does. These women are bound with care for each other.’

  ‘Jean, a simple piece of embroidery by Christiana’s hand has been used to entice her away. What better way to draw her in than by using a friend? With every good intention Joanne de Ruymont has unwittingly played into the King’s hands. She and Guy might also be in danger.’

  ‘A Norman lord would never be harmed in Paris, Thomas. Even the King is not that stupid. Dear Christ, have I brought this upon you with our plotting?’

  Blackstone leaned forward and gripped his friend’s arm. ‘No, Jean. They must want me because I hurt the King by taking Saint-Clair.’ Blackstone drank the last of his wine. ‘You say they’ve doubled the guards, then how do I get past them? And how do I find Christiana?’

  One of de Harcourt’s allies had a contract with the city to supply grain and food and his barges travelled down the Seine into the city. A peasant with a strong back was always welcome, especially when no coin changed hand and it was done as a favour that would one day be repaid.

  The barge carrying Blackstone eased its way along the twisting current. Stripped of his mail and jupon, he looked no different from any other peasant working on the transport barges. The boatman steered with a confidence learnt since boyhood, but he eyed his broad-shouldered passenger with curiosity. He was no aristocrat, that was certain. His grime and muscles denoted a working man but his manner was too sophisticated to be that. He had spoken quietly when he came aboard, offering his thanks and asking what he should do. Whoever thanked a bargeman? Sit down and keep quiet and he’d be told when the time was right, is what he was ordered to do, and like a damned sheep he had done exactly that.

  It would be unwise to question the stranger, but a safe passage without mishap would do the boatman no harm in his employer’s eyes. A man’s business was his own, but he would wager his payment from these sacks of grain that the man ushered aboard twenty miles upstream was up to no good. A killer, perhaps. A score to settle. River trade seethed with men with knives, but that was for tavern brawls, nothing more. No, this man was put aboard in secrecy for a reason that he had no wish to learn. Christ’s tears, he thought, it wasn’t only the Seine that ran deep with treacherous currents a man couldn’t see. He was grateful he had only the wharfside authorities to deal with, and hoped scar-face did nothing stupid if challenged because then they could all be for the lash.

  Blackstone watched the tableau of village and countryside drift by, but as the boat eased around a bend he saw the distant pillars of smoke rising from house chimneys that seemed to fill the horizon. As far as he could see the city walls embraced Paris. If Edward’s great war ever reached here he would need to lay siege to it for a man’s lifetime. The river could be blockaded, but Blackstone knew that if Edward wanted this crown then the French King would have to be drawn from this stronghold and defeated outside its walls.

  As they passed the outskirts of the city birds swirled over gibbets, the victims’ bodies hanging for raven and crow that feasted on their rotting flesh. One great structure was built to hang ten or twenty at a time, standing like a monument to death in the wasteland beyond the city walls.

  Blackstone’s wondering gaze was snatched here and there as they passed beneath the arches of a massive bridge. He had never seen such activity as the river traffic bustling back and forth under power of sail and oar. From the low-lying river the houses surged into the sky: saw-toothed roofs one after the other. Row upon row of buildings were built on the bridges; shutters opened and scraps of food were tipped into the river. Voices carried, mingling with broken sounds of street music as the barge passed along the river. Monks’ solemn, eerie chanting came and went as streets funnelled their echoing voices from whatever church they sang in. Waterwheels creaked and groaned, slapping the water slowly by the half-timbered watermill, whose lower stanchions were green from sitting in river slime. Beyond them spires and turrets stood arrogantly proclaiming their dominance over the cramped city streets. The bargeman steered his boat towards sloping banks that reached down to the river from a broad square where houses built of timber and clay and cut stone overlooked the open space. Places of importance. Grain barges, bigger than other vessels, took up most of the strand as smaller boats bobbed and weaved for a berth. Cut timber, stacked higher than a man, lined the shore; sacks and barrels were checked by merchants’ officers and municipal officials as fruit baskets and caged livestock were hauled from barges.

  The boatman used the current to bring his vessel to the riverbank, calling out to others whose vessels jostled for a mooring. As the boat was steered into position curses flew as easily as greetings between men who kne
w each other from a lifetime on the river. The boatman had been instructed by his master to deliver his unknown passenger safely to Paris, past the unsuspecting eyes of the guards on the bridges – the bustling wharfside served as the perfect means for him to discharge this duty.

  The boat eased alongside and men jumped ashore, well practised in securing their boat.

  ‘You!’ the bargeman called to Blackstone. ‘When we dock you take one of the sacks and follow the other men. Do as they do.’

  Blackstone nodded and as the boat was tied off the crew began to heave the sacks of grain and walk with ease across the unstable plank that joined boat and shore. The bargeman stood watching each man as he laboured under the weight of his load as Blackstone waited his turn to go ashore.

  ‘This is no place for a man from a village where he knows his neighbour. There are leagues and brotherhoods in this city, guildsmen sworn to protect each other. You’d be wise not to trust anyone,’ he said to Blackstone.

  ‘I’ll remember that,’ he answered.

  ‘Aye, well, you look to be the sort who wouldn’t do much trusting anyway. But a warning won’t be amiss if word reaches my master that I gave it.’

  ‘He’ll hear of it.’

  ‘Good. He’ll press silver into my hand and that feeds a family in these hard times.’ He turned his face back in the direction they had come from. ‘Stay away from the Châtelet over by that bridge there,’ he said, pointing to an unseen place beyond the last bridge they had sailed beneath. ‘You get put in the cells there and like as not you’ll stay there.’

  ‘And why would I end up in a cell?’ Blackstone asked, hoping the man did not know his true identity.

  ‘Because you seem to be a man who can look after himself – a brawler. And back there are the butchers’ and tanners’ quarters and they’re hard men. Vicious bastards at the best of times. If there’s a riot to be had you can bet your last sou that they’ll be in the front rank with their cleavers and hooks. So if they take a dislike to you – and you don’t appear to be the kind to walk away from a fight – if they don’t kill you then the cells is where you’ll end up. And the stench! That’s where the blood and shit is sluiced through the sewers into the river from the slaughtered beasts.’