by David Gilman
‘Rancé,’ the official answered and turned his back on another grateful stonecutter who could always have his earnings squeezed for the favour of employment.
Blackstone straightened and stepped towards a vacant mason’s work area. A plan lay spread across the worktop. Blackstone lifted the two stones that held it and let it roll into his hand.
‘Thomas?’ said Christiana.
‘I’m not here to build a wall, but one day I’ll tear it down if I have the chance,’ he said and guided her towards the breach in the wall where the guards stood their watch.
‘Keep walking. They might not stop us,’ he told Christiana.
As they were about to pass through the gap in the wall, one of the guards called out. ‘And where do you think you’re going?’
Blackstone behaved as if he belonged on the building site. ‘The earthworks. The foundations for the new wall over there. I’m a specialist mason,’ he said, tapping the rolled-up drawings.
‘On whose authority?’
‘M’sieu Rancé,’ Blackstone answered.
The two soldiers looked at each other; the one shrugged and the other waved him through. ‘And who’s she?’ the sentry asked.
‘Oh, she’s my assistant,’ Blackstone said, and smiled. ‘She’s there to hold my mallet,’ he added suggestively.
The men laughed as Christiana lowered her head in feigned embarrassment. They made a crude suggestion between themselves, and then ignored the man whose capture would have brought them a King’s ransom. Blackstone gripped her arm, his strength soothing her trembling limbs. ‘We get across these fields to those hills and we’ll be safe,’ he assured her.
There was mist gathering in the distance to his left and he sensed the river lay in that direction. The gallows he saw when he came upriver would be close to the bend in the Seine and they stood at the base of the plain that now faced them. Over his right shoulder he could see the abbey that de Ruymont had spoken of, but the vast open space lying before them would prove the most dangerous for them to cross. How long could it be before word reached every city perimeter guard post? He needed to find sanctuary in the forests on the hills. Stray swirls of smoke curled in the breeze from campfires belonging to itinerants who were forced to settle on this inhospitable plain beyond the city walls.
The marshland stench came from more than the fetid bog. The stream that ran through it was an open sewer. They struggled across the plain, but too slowly for Blackstone’s liking. The city walls seemed not to diminish no matter how hard they pressed on. Christiana stumbled again, and he could see she would not be able to continue much longer. Her dress was soaked and stank of the foul water. Strands of matted hair clung to her face where the coif had fallen free. He wrapped an arm around her waist and took much of her weight, and cleared the hair away.
‘We have to keep going. They’ll see us soon enough.’
‘I’m all right,’ she said bravely with gasping breath.
He knew she wouldn’t last the distance and turned towards the road that led from the city’s northern gate into the distance. If they could make firm ground without being seen then there was a chance they could pay a wagoner returning from the city to carry them into the forests. Clouds were coming from the sea, as if guided by the twisting river, and would soon shroud the city rooftops. The rain they carried would help obscure their movement, but it would also make the going harder, and its chill would stiffen muscles. They were racing the storm and by the time they reached the roadway the first splashes of rain were swept in by the strengthening breeze. Christiana grunted with effort as Blackstone encouraged her to keep going. To stop would make it more difficult to start again.
‘You can’t rest, you must keep going,’ he urged her. The city gates were plainly in sight and when traffic came through they would be seen. They needed to make another three or four hundred paces along this road before they could stop and take refuge in the huts that spread out from the road.
The going was easier now and she staggered as fast as she could towards the low-roofed hovels. Smoke seeped through the houses’ thatched roofs, but there was little sign of life. Without warning Blackstone pulled her down into the mud behind a chicken house as two riders clattered down the road towards the city gates. They were soldiers, perhaps returning from a patrol, but they slowed their horses from a canter to a trot when they passed by. Blackstone gauged the distance between himself and them, preparing for action should they stop. If he could kill them quickly enough he could seize their horses. The decision was taken out of his hands as the men spurred their mounts away.
‘I think they saw us,’ he told her. ‘We have to run.’
He hauled her to her feet, dragging her between the hovels and back onto the road. Blackstone forced the pace, his long strides making her punish her body to keep going. Looking back he saw that the rain squall had obscured most of the walls, but the men on horseback were shouting to others on the wall. And then they turned their horses back onto the road. They had been told of the fugitives. The rain chased Thomas and Christiana faster than the horsemen and she fell headlong, her legs finally giving way. He gathered her in his arms and carried her between the houses, searching for a place to hide. A hunched figure, a woman whose face was half covered by a veil of cloth, stood back from the entrance of one of the huts. She made no gesture of welcome or invitation to enter the house, but by standing aside she seemed to convey that they should.
The gloomy interior was lit only by the fire’s embers, and the sodden reed flooring did little to keep the mud from squelching beneath his feet. He laid Christiana down next to the doorway, and let his eyes adjust to the inside of the hut. The woman entered and moved to the fire, whose bed of embers were confined by river stones that supported a cooking pot. She bent over and dropped in a handful of what looked to be herbs into the steam. Blackstone realized that, hunched against the far wall, there were others similarly clothed. Blackstone glanced outside at the sound of horses on the road and saw that the riders had reined them in near the chicken house where he had first sheltered. There were others running from the city gate, but the horsemen seemed reluctant to bring their mounts among the houses. Blackstone looked back at those huddled in the hut. The stench of rotting flesh finally overcame that of his fouled clothing. They were lepers. That explained his pursuers’ reluctance to come into the settlement. Christiana opened her eyes and Blackstone laid a restraining hand on her.
‘There are men outside,’ he told her quietly. ‘Don’t be afraid, but we have stumbled into the leper colony.’
Christiana was shivering, fear and exhaustion mixing their own apothecary’s brew. She crossed herself, eyes widening in horror.
‘If we run from this place they’ll have us. If we stay until they give up the search we can be on our way,’ he told her, and took her trembling hands in his own. ‘These people are the living dead, but they can save us.’
She looked up at him and nodded, holding her hand across her mouth and nostrils to filter some of the smell from those confined within the hut. Blackstone watched the soldiers milling on the road, going up and down looking towards the leper colony, not daring to venture within. He heard someone shout a command, ordering the soldiers to spread out into the marshland and see if those they hunted had sought shelter among the itinerants’ camps. No one in their right mind would go into a leper colony. Half a dozen formed a picket line along the road with twenty paces between each man, as the others spread out in an extended line and made their way towards the campfires in the marshland. The rain became more persistent, forcing the men to hunch up against the water trickling down their necks. These were not the Savage Priest’s men; they were garrison soldiers reluctantly carrying out their orders to search for whoever had been seen running across the open plain and hiding behind a chicken hutch. There was no certainty that it was the fugitives. Blackstone guessed they would do as much as they were obliged to, and then get back to the shelter beneath the city walls.
No o
ne in the hut spoke and no one made any approach towards Blackstone and Christiana, who still shivered despite Blackstone covering her with his jerkin. All they could do was wait until the men in the picket line moved away and the search was called off. The abbey’s bells rang in the distance; Blackstone guessed it was mid-afternoon and daylight would soon be fading. Cold and hungry, they would be unable to travel on a moonless night, but the thought of the alternative – spending the night in the lepers’ hut – made him even more uneasy. The huddled lepers wore rough, black cloaks and hoods over their clothes, all were shod in leather shoes and, as desperately poor as the room appeared to be, Blackstone could see that each had a cot and bedding. All carried a wooden clapper hung by a cord around their necks. No leper was allowed to get close to the public without signalling their approach. The old woman moved towards them and Blackstone felt Christiana flinch, but the leper kept her distance and extended her diseased and disfigured hands towards them. She was offering a bowl of broth from the pot Blackstone had seen her drop the herbs into. He felt an involuntary gag at the back of his throat at the thought of the leper’s hands touching the food. He eased himself forward and took the bowl from the woman’s hands. He could see that the last thing Christiana wanted to do was drink from it, but the hot broth would give them strength. Blackstone lifted the bowl to his lips; the vegetables in the watery liquid and another smell of some kind of herb made the tasting easier, as it took away the odour in the hut. As he swallowed the broth he felt its warmth seep into his muscles. Then he held the bowl for Christiana and nodded that she should drink from it.
‘They have nothing to give, but they’ve shared this with us,’ he told her.
There was the slightest movement of her head as she refused.
‘Drink from where I put my lips,’ he said gently. ‘You need food.’
Reluctantly she took the bowl from his hands and did as he ordered. After swallowing the first mouthfuls she paused and looked to the old woman. ‘Thank you,’ she said and then finished drinking. Her trembling eased as she trusted her fate to a leper’s good will.
Blackstone took the empty bowl from her and put it back into the woman’s hands. And in it he placed a purse. The woman made a muffled sound and shrank back to the others where he heard the sound of coins being spilled from the leather pouch. Two men separated from those who huddled and came forward; their clothes were tattered and hid their disfigurement but Blackstone saw their eyes looking at him and after a brief pause the men stepped outside into the rain. Blackstone could not see where they went, but saw the soldiers making their way back across the marshland, the two horsemen already riding towards the city. A voice carried from the ragged formation of men in the distance and the picket line turned for the gates.
‘The soldiers are leaving,’ he told Christiana. ‘We’ll wait until they’re back inside the walls and then try again. Can you go on?’
She smiled and drew his hands to her lips. ‘I want to see my children again, Thomas. Take me to them.’
A shadow fell across the entrance as one of the lepers came back inside with a tied bundle and dropped it at their feet. His face was obscured by his hood from where his broken voice whispered. ‘Clothes,’ he said. ‘Charity from the church. We have not worn them. They are clean. For the woman.’ He gestured with the stump of a hand towards Christiana.
She leaned forward and untied the cord, unwrapping an almost threadbare woollen bodice and a cloak. Without hesitation she looked up to the man and began dressing. ‘I am grateful,’ she said. And then as she pulled the warmth of the old cloak around her, she stood and addressed the shadows in the back of the hut beyond the fireplace. ‘We are not criminals and have done no wrong. And you help return a mother to her children. I will pray for you all in gratitude. God bless you and may He ease your suffering.’ And she crossed herself. Blackstone saw the others do the same and heard what he took to be a murmur of appreciation for her words.
The rain and mist swept in across the plain, diminishing the great walled city as Blackstone and Christiana followed the man outside to where the other leper stood holding the rope halter of an emaciated palfrey. The undernourished horse might have ten or twenty miles left in him if he bore no weight and was not asked to do anything more than a walking pace. Blackstone lifted Christiana up onto the animal’s back and took the halter the leper had let drop. Blackstone hesitated, and then extended his hand in thanks, but the leper took a pace backwards and bowed in gratitude for Blackstone’s gesture.
‘Monsieur, I was once a man of the law, who was accorded dignity and respect. You have already shown your courage and compassion,’ the man said, his weakness apparent from his faltering voice. ‘There is no need for you to take further risk. Five miles from here is a chapel of sanctuary where the monk cares for travellers. You will be safe there tonight.’
Blackstone led the horse onto the road; the further they could get from the city the better and by the next day he would have them both at the far reach of the river. Then, once they reached the sanctuary of the Norman barons’ domains, there would be no pursuit.
Blackstone kissed the silver goddess at his throat. She had thrown her mantle of care about him and in the city he had been lucky, something a fighting man was always grateful for. He had gone into the heart of the whore and rescued his wife from those who would have trapped and killed him, and in so doing had laid to rest the uncertainty of her father’s death.
The cold, hard rain became a comfort as it washed him free of his secret.
20
The day was closing in as the Savage Priest waited on the bridge that linked the Royal Palace to the city. Behind him, isolated from the seething streets, the King and his advisers awaited news of Blackstone’s capture. The bureaucracy that plagued the King had stifled the mercenaries’ raid on the Half Wheel tavern and by the time the Provost’s men had been commanded to do everything that the mercenary leader instructed, the opportunity had been lost. Had those men not interfered a cordon in the streets could have seized Blackstone who, de Marcy believed, must still have been close to the tavern. The Englishman could not have been gone more than a few minutes.
Simon Bucy walked past the palace guards, cursing the fact that he was still expected to deal with this loathsome creature. The Savage Priest’s men had infiltrated street after street as had the Paris constables, but Thomas Blackstone had disappeared and every effort was now being made to trap him on this, his only escape route.
‘De Marcy! The darkness will be upon us soon,’ he said to the black-cloaked figure who had not acknowledged his presence and whose silence smacked of insolence, placing the President of the Parlement in the position of an underling.
The Savage Priest kept his eyes on the riverbank. There were only so many places from which the woman he once desired could escape. When she first came into Paris he had watched her briefly, keeping his presence hidden as he sought out that which once ensnared him. She was as beautiful as he remembered but he could not recapture the feeling he once had for her. The years had burned away that moment. Now he just wanted her, to do as he liked with her and know that his actions would inflict inconsolable pain on Blackstone.
‘The river is his means of evasion. His only way out of the city,’ said Bucy. ‘You have done everything I’ve instructed?’
More men had been sent into the city, others stationed along the river, mingling with the merchants and the labourers who brought their barges to the banks. When darkness came torches would be lit and patrols sent out; no one would escape by river. Barges were being searched even now, rough-hewn river men forced to allow the King’s men to board their vessels. The city gates were closed; extra guards had been posted on the wall and the Provost’s patrols doubled. Thomas Blackstone was trapped.
Bucy walked to each side of the bridge. The Seine, the lifeblood of Paris, was going to bleed the King dry of his victory over Blackstone if the Englishman slipped away by boat. ‘I should have known better than to allow you t
o bring your vileness into Paris,’ he said, agitated. ‘Your thugs damned near caused a riot and allowed him to escape.’
Gilles de Marcy ignored the accusation. His own frustration was a torment. A blood-lust had not been sated. ‘I was so close I could smell the bastard,’ he muttered to no one in particular.
‘And the woman?’ Bucy taunted, hugging his cloak tighter about him. The river’s mist and its chill competed with the fearful presence of the man next to him. ‘Merciful Christ, Blackstone’s wife was with Joanne de Ruymont!’
‘Then arrest her.’
‘We cannot. You know that. Your men had the woman trapped in the cemetery. In plain sight! And your thugs were so stupid they let her escape.’
‘They have been dealt with.’
The simple statement caused Bucy a shiver of revulsion. He banished from his thoughts the image of what this man would do to those who failed him. By now, no doubt, what was left of them was being fought over by street dogs.
‘There were reports of a man and woman beyond the north wall,’ said the Savage Priest.
‘A servant and a labourer. The Provost’s men searched. It was a false alarm. Itinerants probably,’ said Bucy dismissively.
‘The Provost’s men searched,’ de Marcy repeated, as if the statement beggared belief.
‘He will leave Paris by the river. There is no other way for him,’ insisted the King’s adviser.
‘If he’s not caught by dawn then he has gone. Slipped away somehow,’ said the Savage Priest. ‘Loose me and my men and burn every hovel that might offer them shelter, and flay every man, woman and child between here and his manor and put the fear of Christ into all those who protect him.’
‘No one is to ride through Norman domains and do anything! Least of all you!’ Bucy spat. ‘You pig-ignorant beast! You have no idea of what the King plans or what is at stake. It’s far more than your desire to take all that Blackstone has or your lust for a woman you’ve never ravaged.’
