Defiant Unto Death

by David Gilman

  Gilles de Marcy turned his gaze on Bucy and saw him shuffle back a half-step. ‘What drives a man, my lord, is lust. Our King for complete authority and power, you for status and wealth, and me to kill my enemy with a ferocious appetite that turns men’s bowels to water when they hear of me. I lust for what Blackstone has and I will tear those he loves from him. What I desire has been denied me because you protect a traitor and your Provost’s men got in the way,’ the Savage Priest answered. ‘I will kill Blackstone but I suspect it will not be tonight.’

  He walked away from Bucy towards the riverbank, and then turned.

  ‘Tell the King that Thomas Blackstone has escaped. He’ll soon be back in one of his lairs. And when his highness is willing to cause havoc among his enemies, tell him I will lead the slaughter.’

  Simon Bucy, his mind plagued by the prospect of failure, watched as the black-cloaked figure reached the far bank and disappeared into the warren of alleyways. He would pray until dawn that Blackstone would be captured, but he prepared himself to tell the King that the opportunity to seize the Englishman and weaken the Norman lords had been lost.

  The lit torches on the boats moved through the mist glowing like fireflies, and the river went silently by.

  It took several days for them to reach safety. Blackstone kept away from main routes that bore traffic to and from the city and, once they crossed the river – paying the ferryman extra for his silence – they made good time on their journey home. They spent their nights holding each other against the cold, lying beneath makeshift shelters that Blackstone made, eating whatever could be snared. The sense of danger never left them, and it drove them together in a passion that was desperate in its intensity. To have come so close to losing the other gave each of them a hunger that could only be satisfied by almost frantic lovemaking. On a clear, bright day they walked free of the forest, still served faithfully by the old horse, and gazed down across the frost-laden meadow to the riders who called them by name.

  Guillaume and half a dozen men had spent days riding beyond the edge of his lord’s domain waiting for any news or sight of his master. The squire had taken extra mounts with him to carry Blackstone and Christiana on the final leg of their journey home. There was a raucous welcome from the men, their language tempered out of respect for Christiana. Once their questions were answered about his escape and he had been assured that no horsemen had come near his domain, Blackstone instructed one of the men to guide the swayback home at a walking pace. It deserved a reward of oats and fresh fodder, and it would see out its days in the comfort of Blackstone’s stables.

  Once home extra guards were posted while the other Norman lords followed Jean de Harcourt’s example and sent out patrols that covered their territory in case King John chose to strike at them. But no such attack came and by the time the Norman barons’ spies reported back from Paris it was obvious that there would be no incursion against them. King John still needed their support in case of war with Edward, and he was prepared to let Blackstone wriggle off the hook.

  Christiana’s relief and joy at being safely returned to Agnes and Henry helped assuage her guilt at deserting them to pursue the chance of finding her father. Blackstone trod carefully as he watched the tears shed in private give way to acceptance of his death. It was better, he decided, not to attempt to comfort her by praising the old man’s loyalty to his sworn lord and his death in service to the French King. The fact that he had died opposing the English invasion could only sharpen her grief, given that she was married to one of those men who had stormed ashore a decade before. The warning voice in his head told him that to try and talk about a soldier’s death might cause a slip of the tongue – an old knight leading his men, lying in ambush, outfoxed by his enemy. Within a few words the truth could easily slip out and within a breath she would be asking how he knew these things.

  He stayed silent and waited until she settled back into the security of family life before explaining that the man behind William de Fossat’s death and their pursuit in Paris was the same man who had once pursued her. She took the news badly and he regretted telling her, but had he not, then someone else would have spoken of the plot to entrap Blackstone that had been brought about by those incidents from her past.

  Over the days that followed he comforted and reassured her and saw her fear turned into a resilience and then anger that such a creature could still cast his shadow across her life. When she and Blackstone married he had cut a silver penny in half as a token of his love for her, with the promise that wherever the two halves might be then so too would they. She wore hers as a necklace and his had been embossed into Wolf Sword’s pommel. One morning when she returned from prayer she carried his sword and scabbard from where Guillaume burnished and cleaned his lord’s weapons and armour and placed it in her husband’s hands.

  ‘You must kill this Savage Priest, Thomas. One day, when you have news of him, seek him out and rid us of him. Show him no mercy and cast him into hell,’ she told him.

  She had once defied her guardians by marrying Blackstone and he had defied his birth.

  They were as one again.

  There was no complaint from Christiana when Blackstone rode out with his men to patrol the forest tracks that might lead assassins to their door. Blackstone had sent orders for additional vigilance to Meulon and Guinot and the other commanders of his towns and then when two weeks had passed without incident or warning he allowed his men to stand down from their duties and share time with their families – something he was obliged to do himself. It was a time to be grateful as the mood settled into laughter and joy as the children became more boisterous the closer the time drew to celebrate Henry’s birthday.

  Blackstone and his son walked through the stables and petted the horses, the boy’s excitement heightened by Blackstone allowing him to choose which horse he would ride to Harcourt.

  ‘Henry, will you be ready to recite your poem?’ Blackstone asked.

  ‘I will, Father,’ he said.

  ‘And your knife is kept clean? The Norman lords will be impressed with such a fine weapon and they’ll ask you to show it to them.’

  Henry eased the blade from its silver scabbard tucked in his belt and laid it across the palm of his hand.

  ‘That’s good. Did Guillaume clean it for you, or did you do it yourself?’

  ‘I did it.’

  ‘Good. Keep it sharp and close to you,’ he told his son.

  Gratified by his praise, Henry reached out to touch the bastard horse’s muzzle, then quickly pulled his hand back, avoiding the snap of its teeth.

  ‘Don’t trust so easily,’ Blackstone told him. ‘A man can turn savage in an instant as well. Be watchful of those you deal with. Some snap because it is their temperament, but it doesn’t make them less worthy to be your friend.’

  ‘Like Lord de Fossat? Mother told me you were once enemies.’

  ‘We fought and then we sided together. There was a bond between us. He was a very brave fighter – reckless at times, and he had a bite worse than this one,’ he said, meaning the horse.

  ‘Can I come with you when you fight again?’ asked Henry. ‘Guillaume has been training me and I could serve as his page.’

  ‘There’s to be no more fighting this year. I gave your mother my word. And after Lord de Fossat’s death I’ve no cause to go to war. There’s work to be done on the house and in the fields. But we have to think about your training. You’re getting older now. Don’t you think it’s time to leave the books behind? You need to learn to fight before the real thing comes along. And trust me, sooner or later you’ll be called on.’

  The boy fell silent for a moment and considered his answer. ‘I would like to study more because then I can be wise as well as brave,’ he answered.

  There was no denying that the boy was intelligent, but the concern lingered that his only son was still tied to his mother’s skirts and a student’s desk.

  ‘I have another birthday present for you,’ Blackstone sai
d, wishing, as soon as he had spoken, that he had kept the gift until they had reached Castle de Harcourt and the celebrations, but he wanted the boy to feel closer to him. His own father had been softened by his mother; a tenderness had been imparted and something of that had been passed to Blackstone. Was it possible to keep that feeling intact despite the viciousness of war and the pain of loss? He acknowledged the conflict within himself – his own son would be better educated than him – but he still needed to learn the art of war.

  ‘You must go to another knight to be trained, that’s the tradition,’ he said, and seeing his son’s look of uncertainty, added quickly, ‘but I will have you as my page.’

  The boy’s joy was a gift in itself. ‘Father! Thank you!’

  Henry embraced Blackstone and then stepped back, embarrassed at his behaviour. Blackstone wanted to drag him back into his arms, but the boy beamed with delight.

  ‘My lord, I will serve you,’ he said proudly, and a bit stiffly, as if he were a courtier to a king.

  ‘Yes, well, I’m sure you will, but it will be Master Guillaume who will be your tutor first and foremost. Do as he says. Behave well and learn your skills.’

  ‘I will, Father. I will.’

  ‘And don’t mention this to your mother. Not yet. I’ll tell her after your birthday celebrations. All right? A secret between us? For a short while at least.’

  ‘If the King declares war on the English, will we join the Norman lords?’ the boy asked excitedly.

  ‘There’s a time for everything, Henry. And this year we keep ourselves to ourselves. There’ll be no fighting here; it’s all down south, so we won’t be getting involved. Now, I’m going to build a wall for your mother’s vegetable plot. We’ll take down the wattle fencing and make her a proper garden. Will you help me do that? It’ll help to give you some muscle for wielding a sword,’ said Blackstone, trying to enthuse the boy.

  Before Henry could answer Old Hugh entered the stables and dipped his head. ‘Sir Thomas, my lady wishes Master Henry back in the house. His lessons await.’

  The boy looked at his father. ‘Do I have your permission, Father? I am learning about the great King Charlemagne.’

  Refusal was on Blackstone’s lips. Henry was an Englishman’s son and it was time he learnt about England’s great leaders. But who would teach him? His own knowledge was scant beyond that of seeing Edward and the Prince of Wales on the battlefield, and his ignorance kept him mute. He nodded his approval.

  Henry ran from the stable, eager for his lesson, and Old Hugh bowed again.

  Blackstone watched the hunchback crab his way across the yard. Suspicion had sat within him since before the danger in Paris when he learnt that de Graville, at the heart of the Norman conspiracy, spent a great deal of time there on his knees in prayer. And it was he who had sent his ageing servants, Old Hugh and Beatrix, into Blackstone’s service. His sense of mistrust was seeping into his blood like an infected wound.

  The smell of the stable and the thought of England triggered a rare memory of his homeland. Of a brother and a sworn lord who had taken them both to war, away from their village and the few acres they owned. He yearned to hear his own language again and the irreverent taunts of common Englishmen, who stood their ground against an overwhelming enemy.

  It was a feeling of almost unbearable loss.

  He shook it free. There was no future in looking back.

  Death had sought him out and he had evaded its clutches yet again. Neither King John nor his assassin would dare strike into the heart of Normandy. Not any time soon. But the day would surely come when the Norman lords played out their conspiracy and terror would sweep across the land. He wanted no part in their plans, but he would wait, and watch, and then seek out and kill the Savage Priest.

  Part 2

  Tide of War

  21

  ‘Mercy, my lord! We beg you!’ cried the boy, going down on one knee before the scar-faced knight who stood over him.

  Blackstone’s voice addressed the ragtag army that now yielded. ‘Your surrender comes too late. You were given the opportunity before the battle, but now I’ll slaughter everyone. Even the children and dogs will die. And then I will destroy your defences so that no one may ever raise an army and challenge me again. Those are the rules of war.’ Blackstone glanced at his squire at his side. ‘What do you say, Guillaume? Shall we hang them or have them beheaded?’ he asked.

  ‘I think they have learnt their lesson in being defeated at your hands, Sir Thomas,’ Guillaume Bourdin replied, sheathing his sword.

  Blackstone looked back to the expectant faces. ‘You always urge me to show leniency. Why shouldn’t I finish these wretched traitors off?’ He walked across to the boy who had begged for mercy. ‘Give me your sword.’

  The boy hesitated.

  ‘The sword or your life,’ Blackstone threatened.

  He took the proffered weapon. ‘Now it is forfeit. You will have to earn the right to have it returned.’

  ‘How will I do that, Father?’

  ‘By being a better soldier. You and the others could have outflanked Guillaume and me when we went through the western gate. We’re outnumbered twelve to one. You’re lucky it’s your birthday party, Henry, or we would have had you and your miserable army thrown to the dogs.’ Blackstone smiled and touched his son’s face. ‘Now, you and the others run down to the stream and see if you can build a bridge across it.’

  ‘Will I get my sword back?’ Henry Blackstone asked his father.

  ‘You build the bridge and you’ll need this fine wooden sword to fight the enemy. Off with you. Go on!’ Henry and his dozen friends who had fought the losing battle ran off.

  From within Castle de Harcourt’s walls voices raised in anger echoed across the courtyard. Blackstone turned towards the great hall.

  ‘Have Marcel keep an eye on them, he’s better with the children than any of us,’ he told Guillaume. ‘I don’t want to face his mother’s wrath if he falls in the moat.’

  As Blackstone moved into the castle his daughter ran to him. He scooped her up. ‘Agnes, where’s your mother?’

  Before the child could answer, Christiana appeared and took the girl from his arms.

  ‘Thomas, do something,’ she said.

  ‘About what?’

  ‘The Countess and Sir Godfrey are arguing with Jean and the others.’ The little girl squirmed in her arms. ‘Agnes, go and find the other girls,’ Christiana ordered.

  ‘Mama, Father promised’

  ‘Don’t argue. Go.’

  Blackstone’s gut wrenched. Had Blanche finally learnt of her young cousin being killed? If she had it would tear the Harcourt family apart. He went down on one knee, and, as she often did, the child traced the scar that ran from his hairline down across his face and disappeared below his jaw into his tunic.

  ‘I have to talk to Uncle Jean. I won’t be long,’ he said tenderly and kissed her head.

  ‘You’ve been with Henry all day,’ she said, knowing it was her brother’s day to have the full attention of her father.

  ‘And you know why, don’t you?’ Christiana said.

  Agnes nodded.

  ‘Then kiss your papa and tell him that you love him and whisper that you will wait like a good daughter. And then I will tell you a story as I promised. Is that agreed?’

  She nodded, hugged Blackstone, kissed his mutilated face and whispered into his ear.

  Agnes ran back into the shadowed passages calling for her friends.

  ‘You spoil her,’ Christiana said, though not disapprovingly. ‘Now go and soothe your friends’ tempers.’

  Blackstone sighed, allowed her to kiss his cheek, and pushed open the doors into the great hall.

  Sparks flew from the log pushed into the massive fireplace by Sir Godfrey de Harcourt’s boot. ‘It’s foolish! You take up this invitation by the Dauphin and they have you at their mercy!’ the lame knight shouted at his nephew.

  Blanche de Harcourt and the half-dozen noble
s in the room turned as Blackstone closed the doors behind him. He looked at their faces and instinctively knew that this argument was nothing to do with a tragic death that happened weeks earlier. The Normans were courting the King’s son again.

  ‘Thomas! Talk some sense into his piss-pot head!’ Sir Godfrey begged.

  ‘We came here to celebrate my son’s birthday. I’m not the one to interfere in politics. I don’t even know what’s happening,’ Blackstone answered.

  ‘In God’s name you don’t!’ Sir Godfrey said, worrying the fire again. ‘You’re as much a part of this household as I am! And your friend here is taking up an invitation to dine with that sallow-faced half-wit of a King’s son. At Rouen! They’ll slam the city gates closed on him. It’s a damned trap if ever I heard of one.’

  Blanche de Harcourt’s hand rested on her husband’s arm. ‘Jean, Godfrey is right. You cannot trust the King, you know that.’

  ‘The King won’t be there,’ Guy de Ruymont said. ‘We will be the Dauphin’s guests and have his protection. He is the Duke of Normandy and even the King would not violate his son’s given word for our protection.’

  Blackstone circled the men, watching their faces, noting their determination to sweep aside uncertainty and anxiety. They were gambling on winning the crown of France. To lose meant everything would be forfeit.

  ‘Guy, how many times have you sat at my table and told me that the King’s shadow falls across everyone? Have you forgotten so quickly how William was slain and how I was nearly trapped when his men tricked Joanne? Your wife is no fool but she was duped and Christiana used as bait for me. The King has raised his game. Only a week ago he had a Paris merchant butchered for speaking his mind to friends about the monarchy!’ said Blackstone, trying to shock the determined men into reality. ‘Hanged on a meat-hook and left to die in agony.’

  ‘Jean, listen to Thomas,’ Sir Godfrey urged his nephew.

  ‘No. Guy’s right,’ Jean answered. ‘I will be under the Dauphin’s roof and have his protection. He needs us, don’t forget that. If Normandy pledges him its loyalty and our plans work then he’ll become King.’ Jean spoke directly to Blackstone, as if urging his friend to support him. ‘It’s the opportunity we’ve been looking for.’