by David Gilman
Blackstone wished he had asked Jean de Harcourt where the Norman Lord de Graville prayed during his frequent trips to the city because he would have approached him and sought protection. Testing him. Wanting to see if de Graville was meeting anyone from the court and passing on information – because to betray Blackstone in Paris would secure the King’s blessing. Who had informed on William de Fossat and found the means to lure Christiana to the city? But time was now too short. An old man being guided towards a corner of the cemetery by a woman caught his eye. He had shoulder-length white hair and carried himself in a dignified manner. As would an old poverty-stricken knight who had only ever had his pride to help keep him upright. He must have poor eyesight, by the way the woman eased him between the obstacles towards two figures who waited in the lee of the wall, an archway shielding their faces. Blackstone made his way towards them as one of the women stepped forward and reached up, cupping his whiskered face in her hands. Another step closer. The morning light fell on her face and the look of disappointment etched on it.
Christiana.
Blackstone was about to call her name when a commotion at the entrance made him turn. The priest from the church was being held by some of the men he had seen raiding the Half Wheel and voices around them were raised in angry protest. One of the men gripped the priest’s hood, twisting it for purchase, forcing him to scan the crowd. They had somehow discovered the church and forced the priest onto the streets to see if he could identify Blackstone. The crowd might have set upon the men – some of those nearest had challenged them for their behaviour – but the priest pacified them, stopping them from taking any action that might cause bloodshed. Moments later a half-dozen Provost’s men appeared, adding authority to those menacing the priest, who shook his head as if answering the men’s questions, obviously indicating that he did not recognize anyone as they pushed him deeper into the cemetery. Time and again the priest shook his head as the men guided him through the enclosure. Blackstone had gone down on one knee, as if in prayer at the open trench, obscured by the grave diggers and mourners, but the men moved closer to the archway where Christiana and Joanne stood. It was obvious the priest had seen them but he turned his back, not wishing to draw attention to them. He had believed the stranger who had come into his church looking for the gentlewomen to warn them of danger. His instincts had been proven correct. These rough-looking men seemed intent on violence and the Provost’s men lent them their authority. No woman, of gentle birth or otherwise, should be surrendered to such men. It might well have ended there had it not been for Joanne’s Norman arrogance and sense of outrage. She gathered her skirts and pushed through those standing in her way.
‘Stop what you are doing!’ she cried, loud enough to scare a flock of pigeons from the walls.
The men turned back to face her, and Blackstone saw the look of anguish on the priest’s face. Despite his brave efforts, the woman he sought to protect had revealed herself.
‘This is a priest of God! You do not manhandle him like a drunken sot. Whoever you are, be warned that you will be punished by the King’s officers. Release him!’
Blackstone moved further around the crowd of onlookers who were now drawn to the noblewoman’s outburst. Her command did not fall on deaf ears, because her rank was obvious by her manner and dress – which reflected a woman of maturity, her hair styled in ram’s horn fashion, plaited over her ears and covered by her pinned wimple. One of the mercenaries spat in contempt.
‘He has information,’ said the brigand.
‘Priest or no priest,’ another added. There was little respect to be had from men who served their savage master with the power of the King behind him.
The Provost’s men quickly showed deference before the noblewoman’s anger caused problems for them all. Dipping his head respectfully, one of them placed a restraining hand on the brigand who held the priest. ‘And you are, my lady?’
‘It makes no difference who I am! You are committing an act that will be punished,’ Joanne insisted arrogantly, and Blackstone had to admit that in that moment he warmed to the woman’s defiance.
‘My lady, we seek a fugitive, an English spy and assassin,’ the man answered. ‘And this priest can identify his wife. If we seize her, he will surrender.’
Blackstone moved closer to Christiana, who had stepped further back against the sanctuary of the wall, her attention riveted on the confrontation. She had no means of escape if the men came any closer. Joanne de Ruymont’s face barely registered the shock but she had the presence of mind not to turn and look towards Christiana, for which Blackstone felt a surge of gratitude.
Joanne stepped closer to the armed men. ‘No Englishman’s wife would be in this place. Why should she be?’
‘Because she believes her father lives when the poor old bastard lies dead in a Norman field these past ten years,’ one of the Savage Priest’s tavern men taunted, grinning.
Blackstone was within twenty strides of Christiana when he saw her sag and raise a hand to her lips. Yet she did not fall. She was strong enough not to succumb to the emotions that swept over her about the truth of her father, made more dreadful by the knowledge that she was responsible for drawing in Blackstone. If these men sought her husband then he must be in the city.
Blackstone looked for an escape route. There was none. If the entrance was guarded they were trapped within the ten-foot walls. He scanned the enclosure: there was only one thing he could do and that was to tip a handcart against the wall and take Christiana across it, then lower her down the other side and run through the marketplace of Les Halles. The covered stalls would be as congested as the alleyways and that would give them their best chance.
Joanne de Ruymont placed her hand on that of the armed man and addressed the Provost’s officers. ‘This humble priest hears many confessions of the King’s subjects; those who need forgiveness. By forcing him to this place you deprive these loyal people, especially the common men like these around us, of having that burden lifted from their souls.’
Blackstone was grateful for the pious speech as others in the crowd voiced their support. ‘Now, let us return him to where he can do most good,’ Joanne de Ruymont said with the kind of authority that only a woman of privileged rank could muster, a command that sounded like an invitation to those around her. Those close enough to have heard the exchange cheered Joanne, who remained stoically unafraid and bravely eased the priest free from the men’s grip. The Provost’s men relented, argued briefly with de Marcy’s men, but then exerted their authority and flanked Joanne as she escorted the parish priest through the crowd towards the entrance.
Christiana seized the moment and turned away. There seemed to be no escape from the cemetery, but instinct had taken over. Blackstone stepped from behind a pillar and quickly grabbed her. There was barely time for her to struggle for within a moment she knew who it was that embraced her, and let him smother her into his chest.
‘Thomas! I must have led them … here … to trap you,’ she gasped, words and thoughts fighting each other.
He was already guiding her away. ‘Joanne has led them away; we must follow,’ he said urgently, seeing the opportunity that presented itself.
‘Thomas, I don’t … understand … You found me … How …?’
‘Not now, Christiana. We’ll slip behind that crowd.’ Without waiting for her to say anything he tugged her away and joined the gaggle of people following Joanne. As they went through the entrance they saw Guy de Ruymont standing in the street talking to more of the Savage Priest’s men, his attention taken by the sight of his wife leading the priest to his freedom. For a moment Blackstone was uncertain why his friend was there and then realized he must have been waiting for his wife and Christiana as they spent time in the cemetery. And then the Provost’s men had come upon the very place where the women thought Christiana’s father might be found. De Ruymont saw Blackstone with Christiana and the shock registered on his face. Joanne had knelt in the street and kissed the priest
’s hand, an act of humility that smothered the crowd’s chatter and kept everyone’s attention on her.
De Ruymont was the only one who was not watching his wife. Instead, with a quick nervous look about him, he nodded in a direction away from the crowded street.
‘He means for us to go to our rooms,’ Christiana said and pulled Blackstone behind her as de Ruymont went forward and brought his wife from her knees.
Christiana led Blackstone northwards from the broad thoroughfare and within minutes was passing the doors of the great houses. Blackstone glanced over his shoulder and saw Guy and Joanne following at a distance. Christiana pushed open a tall, studded oak door.
‘It’s here,’ she said.
Blackstone followed her down a passageway. Some of the houses’ doors opened directly into the living areas, others had narrow passages between them which led to a small yard at the rear where merchants could deliver fuel. This passage led to such a yard and a set of steps which went up to the storeys above. Christiana held onto Blackstone’s hand as she led the way. By the time they reached the end of the passage and stepped into the yard Blackstone heard the heavy door open and close behind them again. Beyond the yard the passage continued through outbuildings and the vegetable garden beyond. Christiana was already on the stairs when Blackstone looked up to the windows above: light reflected against the uneven glass. If they went into those rooms there would be no escape should the Savage Priest’s men realize where they were. If Joanne’s behaviour had aroused suspicion and they were being followed then Blackstone would be trapped inside.
‘Wait!’ said Blackstone.
He heard shuffling feet following down the passageway. Guy de Ruymont emerged with Joanne behind him.
‘Thomas! My God! That you are here! Hurry, up into the rooms, we’ll be safe there, and then we’ll find a way of getting you out of the city,’ he said and embraced Christiana. ‘It all happened so quickly I had no chance to warn you when I saw the Provost’s men and those others going to the cemetery.’
Joanne’s face was flushed from the exertion of getting to the house and finally accepting how fearful the situation had been.
‘Guy, the house is a death trap if they know you’re here,’ said Blackstone, and then turned to Joanne. ‘My lady, I’m in your debt for what you did this morning.’
‘Yes,’ added Christiana, hugging her friend. ‘I have never seen such cool courage as you showed us today, Joanne. You saved me.’
Joanne de Ruymont kissed Christiana’s forehead, and then looked directly at Blackstone. ‘I could not let them take you,’ she said.
Blackstone realized her long-standing enmity towards him had never cooled and that what she had done, she did for Christiana. ‘Where does that lead to?’ he asked, looking towards the ongoing passage.
‘A garden, and then fields,’ de Ruymont answered.
‘And the city walls?’
‘Three, four hundred yards. The north gate at Porte Saint-Denis is heavily guarded; it’s flanked by towers for crossbowmen. There’s no escape, Thomas. You must stay until we make a plan,’ he urged, ‘And then—’
Joanne de Ruymont surprised her husband by interrupting him. ‘And then it will be too late, Guy. I was tricked by someone who knew of my connection to Christiana. They will find us here. Thomas, there is a place before the north gate which is being rebuilt; they use it to gain access to the new earthworks beyond the city. You might be able to pass through the wall there. I have seen it from the rooms upstairs. Beyond that is the abbey—’
‘Wasteland!’ de Ruymont insisted, cutting his wife short. ‘It’s where the undesirables live. A stinking marsh where they dump the city’s shit! There’s a damned leper colony there.’
Blackstone saw the look of fear on Christiana’s face. ‘All right. We won’t go that way,’ he said. ‘Can we cut back to Les Halles from the fields?’
‘Yes.’
‘Then we’ll go through the market and back to the river. That’s how I came here.’
‘Thomas,’ de Ruymont said quickly, ‘wait for us and we’ll meet you there. I’ll rent a barge and then we can get you both out.’
Blackstone shook his head. ‘I have money. You and Joanne must stay a few more days in Paris. You can’t risk being connected to me. Act normally; go about your business. You and Jean and the others must not be drawn into my affairs.’
De Ruymont was about to object but a shuffling of feet and scraping of the door at the street end of the passage alerted them.
Without another word Blackstone turned and pulled Christiana with him.
‘I’ll delay them!’ de Ruymont called.
19
Blackstone and Christiana ran through the vegetable plots at the back of the house. As they moved through the barren potager Blackstone snatched servants’ clothes drying on a wicker fence. There was no sound of pursuit behind them and by the time they had made their way around the palisades that filled the gaps between ancient hedgerows, they were clear of the houses. Blackstone checked that no one had come beyond the outbuildings and gave the clothes to Christiana.
‘Get changed. You can’t be seen dressed like that running across the fields.’
Christiana’s fingers fumbled nervously with the ties on her gown, hampered by the buttoned skin-tight sleeves. There was no time; Blackstone ripped it free and shoved it out of sight beneath the bushes as she pulled on the plain clothes over her shift.
‘Thomas, forgive me. I’m sorry I came here without telling you.’
He stopped looking across the fields and gardens for any signs of pursuit and kissed her.
‘You sought someone you loved; I can’t hold that against you,’ he said. ‘And I wasn’t at home as I promised.’
She nodded in gratitude and joy. He understood why she had broken her promise and had risked everything to save her. ‘You had good cause to try to help William. Is he well?’
‘The same man who hunted you on these streets tortured and killed him,’ he told her and watched as the blood drained from her face. ‘Listen to me, Christiana. We’ve gone through worse together. Right now they’re searching the streets for us, but we’ll be home in a few days, once we’re through the wall and across the marsh.’
‘But the river … you told Guy.’
‘No, we’ll go across country. They’ll have the barges watched and if they make any connection between Guy and us then it won’t take much to get information from him.’
She realized he had thought it through and that if anyone could get them home it would be her husband. They had once forded a swollen river pursued by horsemen determined to kill them, but they had clung to each other and survived.
‘I’m ready,’ she said.
A work party of thirty men were encamped at a section of the north-west wall. Women cooked over open fires, mortar was mixed and there were piles of rubble that would be sorted and handed to the masons. Blackstone recognized these men, who wore the same apron and tools that he had once carried as a young man. Guards were sitting on the rubble in the broken gap as Blackstone and Christiana edged closer, approaching from behind the canopied work places where men cut and shaped the stone as labourers laid them into hods.
‘They will have alerted the main gates from the city,’ Blackstone said, ‘but those two guards won’t have been told yet, I’m sure of it. This work party is too far from the main thoroughfares.’
‘You!’ a voice challenged from beside one of the tented areas. ‘What’s your business?’
Blackstone took the man to be a works official of some kind. ‘I’m a mason. The Provost of Merchants’ office sent me here to work.’
‘And your tools?’ said the man suspiciously. There were always men trying to be paid for work who lacked the proper skills.
‘Stolen last night. We were set upon when we slept.’
The man eyed them both. It was not unusual for itinerant workers to bring their women into the city to wash and cook, and sometimes to help carry the loads of
stone.
‘Colard!’ he shouted to a mason who was working beneath an awning twenty paces away. ‘Come here!’
The dust-covered man approached them and looked Blackstone up and down.
‘Says he’s a mason,’ said the official. ‘Had his tools filched.’
The man seemed indifferent and took Blackstone’s hands in his own, turning and feeling the callouses and ridges of rough skin with his own coarse hands. ‘Could be. God knows we could use more men.’
Blackstone waited subserviently, letting the man make his judgement.
‘What tools?’ asked the mason.
‘Half a dozen chisels, lump hammer and mallet,’ Blackstone answered.
The man grunted. ‘This way,’ he said and turned back to where he had been working. A set of tools lay across a bench. ‘You’ll have your arse kicked from here to the Châtelet if you’re wasting my time,’ he said and pointed at one of the chisels. ‘This?’
‘Punch chisel,’ Blackstone answered.
The mason’s finger went down the row, and Blackstone answered each time.
‘Claw – straight – pitcher.’
‘Make your mark,’ the mason said, indicating a flat slab of stone. A genuine mason would not hesitate to pick up the straight chisel and mallet and etch his initials or mark to show the work he had done. Blackstone chose a name at random and notched the stone with expert ease.
‘T.B.?’ said the official.
‘Tassart Bazin,’ answered Blackstone. He gave a knowing look to Christiana, who averted her eyes. Thomas Blackstone had left his mark in Paris.
‘Good enough,’ the mason said. ‘He’ll do,’ he said to the official. ‘We’ll scrounge tools for him.’
The mason ignored them and went back to his work.
‘What guild?’
‘Rouen,’ Blackstone lied, that being the nearest city to his home.
The official nodded. ‘You’ll be put on my work roster. Find yourself a place to sleep.’
Blackstone bowed his head, cupping his hands in gratitude, as did Christiana. ‘Our deepest thanks, M’sieu …?’
