Defiant Unto Death

by David Gilman

  ‘Then why are they still waiting in the hills before they make their way into Italy? They wait for you, Sir Thomas.’

  Christiana’s anger was barely contained. ‘You believe de Marcy’s men will cross the mountains?’

  ‘Yes,’ Torellini said. ‘Once his demands are met here, and they will be, he will join forces with the Germans and Hungarians who are already in the north of Italy. They have aligned themselves to the Visconti of Milan against the Pope and the Papal States. My lady, there is nowhere safe now except with me in Florence.’

  ‘I’ll not leave my husband again,’ she said, with a brief glance at Blackstone.

  Blackstone hesitated. She would be safer with Torellini. The priest had kept his word and delivered her and the children to safety. If Henry had not tried to attack de Marcy their presence at Avignon would have gone unnoticed. That, he knew, was not why she was afraid of leaving him. What mattered was that the last time he had left her she had been hurt.

  ‘We’ll stay together,’ Blackstone said.

  The threat of excommunication against Gilles de Marcy had no effect on the Savage Priest. Under pressure from the papal politicians the Pope made, some would say, a pact with the devil. He would save the vital trade routes that brought the Holy See its wealth.

  And that, as Father Niccolò explained while he led the Blackstone family through labyrinthine passages to safety, was why the Savage Priest had dined with Pope Innocent and was fêted like a prince. The payment would be made, his demands would be met and Blackstone’s life was worthless within the confines of the city. Palace guards were already raiding their rooms. But Pope Innocent had played one card that de Marcy did not yet know of. Torellini emphasized the importance of the documents he had given to Blackstone. The Pope, by affixing his great seal to the folded parchments, had endorsed them. They secured arms and payment once Blackstone reached the transalpine Princes whose provinces straddled the border between France and Italy. If he would lead, then others would follow. Father Niccolò had assured His Holiness that Florence would finance the contract to fight the Visconti and those routiers, such as de Marcy, drawn to their wealth and power. With that seal of approval Blackstone’s fortunes had changed again.

  It gave him the authority and the means to wage war against the Church’s enemies.

  Blackstone carried Agnes as the dank passageways, lit by cresset lamps, gave way to a gate below the outside walls of the city. Alerted by Torellini’s messengers, Guillaume and John Jacob with his two remaining armed men waited with the horses. Agnes smiled and waved at them both as the protectors greeted Christiana, who seemed reassured by their presence.

  Father Niccolò made the sign of the cross and blessed them as Sir Thomas Blackstone knelt and kissed the hand of the priest who had held him in his arms all those years ago.

  ‘I grant you absolution for any previous wrongdoing, Thomas, and pray that you find safe passage through the mountains. I will see you again.’

  Blackstone held Agnes in one arm and climbed into the saddle. ‘Guillaume, lead the way,’ he said.

  Hooves clattered across the cobblestones as Torellini waited at the gate, an arm raised in benediction and farewell, but Blackstone never looked back.

  Killbere spat in disbelief: ‘God’s work?’

  Blackstone showed him the sealed documents. ‘The Vicar of Christ’s,’ he said.

  ‘As good as! You don’t attend mass or go on bended knee enough for the privilege, Thomas. Sweet Jesus! Forgive me, but you’re only one step removed from being a heathen.’

  ‘I’ll be happy to have Him on our side, Gilbert, and I’ll make sure you get to pray on behalf of us all, seeing that you’ve already sworn your sword to Him.’

  ‘Aye, but that was a pact to save my own worthless skin! You’ve been handed the keys to heaven.’

  Killbere looked to where Guillaume had fashioned a canopy for Christiana and the children. ‘It’s a risk having them along,’ he said.

  ‘What would you have me do? Abandon them?’ Blackstone answered sharply.

  Killbere put a placating hand on his friend’s arm. ‘Thomas, not for us. For them. You’ve already dragged them across the whole of France with ravenous wolves at their heels. Anyway, no matter; they’ll be as safe as anywhere with us. We’ve nearly two hundred men, but we need more.’

  ‘They’ll come,’ Blackstone said. ‘Gilbert, I gave my men over to you. Now I have to take them back. I want no ill feeling between us.’

  ‘There is none. I’m glad of it. I’ve been scratching my arse for the last few days thinking how best to go on. Now you’ve returned the problem is no longer mine. I wish I could tell you you’re the answer to my prayers but I can’t because no supplication passed my lips.’

  Blackstone looked across the river towards the hills. ‘We have to get past de Marcy’s troops, and reach a safe haven until more men can be found.’

  ‘They’re not the only ones we have to worry about. We stopped merchants yesterday and helped lighten their journey,’ he said, and then scowled as Blackstone was about to question him. ‘Thomas, it was food and drink and a few bolts of cloth; we didn’t cut a throat, I swear. But there are more horsemen, several hundred by all accounts, moving across Provence. From what the merchants said, they’re scorching their way along the plains to the north and towards the mountains. We won’t stand a chance if we’re caught between the two.’

  ‘We’re few and we travel fast. And we’ve always had luck in our killing,’ Blackstone answered.

  Blackstone presented John Jacob to the Chaulion men as their captain; since losing Guinot at Poitiers, those English and Gascon troops had no one to command them and Perinne who commanded the Chaulion monastery made a better lieutenant – a man who could follow orders and see them carried out. He gave Perinne and the men permission for any man to go his own way, but no one was prepared to leave Blackstone and Perinne, like Sir Gilbert Killbere, knew when it was best to step aside.

  ‘We’ll grow in numbers and there are victories to be had. We take what we need when we need it – and pay for it. There’ll be no rape, no slaughter of children – my men know me for this – and I’ll punish any man who disobeys. We forget our past belligerence towards each other; we’re a mix of men as good as can be found, and we’ll take our fight into Italy and be paid for it. Turn your backs on France; she has no need of us now. We serve a new cause and we serve each other,’ he told them.

  Blackstone instructed a bodyguard of men, commanded by Guillaume, to protect his family and then ordered them to strike camp. The Savage Priest would know soon enough that he had slipped away. By nightfall they had made ten miles, with sightings of horsemen on distant ridgelines, but he would not let them stop for rest or food. The cloudless, moonlit night aided the men sent ahead to scout the tracks that meandered through the valleys and climbed into the low, tree-covered hills.

  After a week of tiring travel, Blackstone led them into a broad valley where a fortified manor house stood. Its ancient walls, laid centuries ago by a Roman legion, divided field and vineyard from pasture and pens, and looked to be easily assaulted. But the manor house and its courtyard had a greater strength than its walls; it belonged to a kinsman of the transalpine Prince, the Marquis of Montferrat, who had agreed to invite Blackstone’s men into Piedmont where they would be hired by the Vicar-General of Italy to fight anti-papal forces. The fortified manor house served as a beacon for one of the routes through the mountains. If harm befell the Seigneur of this territory, then those responsible would find their way ahead blocked, their troops constantly ambushed and a revenge exacted in blood. No money would buy redemption.

  Marazin, lord of the manor, greeted Blackstone, who had gone ahead with Killbere to make certain that no trap was about to be sprung. The bearded old man who greeted them looked as noble as a dirt-caked hobelar. A broad belt held a stomach straining against a grease-slicked leather jerkin that bore witness to years of hand-wiping after meals.

  ‘You’ve a
document?’ he demanded, standing in the courtyard, unarmed and unafraid, as a couple of dozen crossbowmen on the ramparts levelled their weapons at the two knights.

  Blackstone offered one of the sealed documents that vouched for him and which gave assurances of money and indulgences.

  ‘There’s little by way of defence, my lord,’ Killbere said. ‘A whore with a flagon and a knife could breach these walls.’

  The man squinted up at the pockmarked knight. ‘You’d have experience of such women, then. We’ve no whores here; we’re a God-fearing house, and you’d best not have any such women in your group back in those trees.’

  Blackstone let Killbere answer for himself, taking a moment of pleasure as the tavern-loving fighter offered a stumbling apology.

  ‘I meant no offence, my lord. It was a coarse, unbecoming phrase. We are grateful for your pledge of safety.’

  The man seemed to have a begrudging spirit. ‘I take the Pope’s coin, I don’t house scum from that Babylon called Avignon. We honour the holy mass and all times of prayer. You’ll have less sleep here than in the saddle. Bring your family and sworn knights in, Sir Thomas Blackstone, and leave your horsemen outside the walls. We’ve food and drink for three or four days. No more. Then you’ll be on your way to my kinsmen at the border.’

  He turned his back. Killbere looked crestfallen.

  ‘A sin-free house,’ Blackstone said, easing the horse away. ‘The power of prayer is something to behold. I feel we’ve been led here for your salvation.’

  Killbere saw no humour in Blackstone’s words. ‘I’ll fight my way to heaven’s door, Thomas, not crawl on my knees sober and chaste.’ As they rode back to the trees the manor house’s chapel bell rang for morning prayers. ‘I’ll stay outside the walls with the men,’ Killbere said.

  An agreement was reached with the Seigneur. Christiana and the children, along with Guillaume and all the men, except the sixty that Blackstone would take on ahead, would stay at the manor house. Blackstone and Killbere would take Meulon and Gaillard with John Jacob and secure their next place of rest, almost within sight of the crossing point. Leaving a day ahead of the others would allow them to travel with the lumbering wagon on the uneven tracks. Guillaume and the French knights would bring the remainder of the men and Blackstone’s family from the manor house and rendezvous at the chosen place. Until they left Christiana and the children would be safe under the old man’s protection, and with the larger part of the force with her she would be able to travel swiftly under their escort to where Blackstone waited for them.

  The Seigneur beckoned Blackstone. ‘Your well-being is of no concern to me once you leave my protection. I’ve honoured my part, but my men report that de Marcy and his routiers have left Avignon. They’re riding from the south. And there are more horsemen on the northern hills. Hundreds of them. They’ve destroyed three towns and half a dozen villages, places loyal to King John. Is your Prince still raiding?’

  ‘No, he sailed for England. Are they de Marcy’s men?’

  The old man shook his head. ‘No, another band of brigands. Does it matter? They’re worse than the plague; they’re insensible to the fear of God.’ Even if the Pope had not paid him to offer safe passage to the fearsome-looking Blackstone, he would have done so: his instincts told him that the man was to be aided and trusted. The day would come when his own alliances would not save him and any act of kindness might contribute towards an easier death. ‘The Savage Priest is a son of iniquity; his cruelty is unbridled. No church is safe, no village spared. He’s drawn even more scum than he had before he sided with John. Bankers take his plunder; lawyers document a town’s extorted tributes. He’s equipped like a king, with his own surgeons and priests, blacksmiths and whores, so he can’t travel fast. You have a chance to outrun him and reach de Montferrat.’

  ‘And the other routiers?’

  ‘There’s no bargain to be made with those skinners, no ransom asked. They’re looting and killing. God help anyone who ever raised a voice in support of King John. Perhaps he promised them money and didn’t pay. Who knows? Landowner and peasant alike are dying because of it. And if these two armies come together, then nothing will stand in their way.’

  Blackstone walked with Christiana through the vineyards, knowing he was due to leave her again in a few hours. The gentle warmth of the day and the clear, bright sky seemed to ease her spirits. She spoke of living with the Harcourts and how their two families were entwined following the bloodbath at Crécy, and the joy of the life she had shared with her English archer who had risen in rank and honour. He was the breath of her life.

  ‘I lived with Jean and Blanche as my protectors, Thomas,’ she told him. ‘That was my home after my mother died and my gentle father placed me in their care. I swore I would never be forced from my home again.’

  ‘I brought that upon you, Christiana, but this war was not of my doing,’ he told her gently.

  She brought his hand to her lips, and then placed its rough palm against her cheek, as would a child with a parent. ‘You have always fought with honour, Thomas. For your King and your Prince; for Jean and for us – but now we go to another country without cause.’

  She trembled in his embrace. The past few weeks had torn France and its people apart, and the savagery that pursued their family had suddenly reappeared and the fear it brought diminished her.

  In Blackstone’s eyes the girl he first saw, whose hair was the colour of autumn leaves, had never changed, nor had his happiness at being with her. But now, as he listened to her sadness and regret, she seemed as beaten as the country itself. Most men would have already abandoned her to a convent after learning of her rape, but he feigned ignorance of it; the shame seemed more his than hers. He had failed her.

  ‘Forgive me,’ he said quietly.

  ‘There is nothing to forgive,’ she said, putting her hands across his, her small fingers barely covering his palm. ‘Unless you’ve given your affection to another,’ she added, and smiled.

  ‘And who might that be? Do you see any ladies in our company? And Sir Gilbert hasn’t one feminine trait worth considering.’

  ‘I shall tell him you said that.’

  ‘Dear God, don’t. He’d carve me up. He’s been cursing me since I was a boy in my village. I’ve felt the cuff of his hand more than once.’

  ‘But not recently,’ she said, and smiled again.

  ‘No. He’s getting old, I think. I’ve known him a long time. He berated me for going back across the river for you at Blanchetaque.’

  ‘I thought that was Elfred?’

  ‘I forget. It was a lifetime ago. Do you remember when I found you in the village, when the Bohemian cavalry were breathing down our necks?’

  ‘I was terrified, but you made me feel strong. I remember that. And when I clung to you on the back of that horse I remember you smelled. Really stank. Archers stink. It’s why we French feared you.’

  ‘I knew I should have let you drown.’

  ‘I thought we would – or that they’d capture us. They nearly did.’

  ‘Nearly. We were young, and we were going to live forever. Nothing was going to deny me having you. That’s what I remember.’

  She took his arm and leaned into him. The vineyard ran down towards a small river, disappearing from view into the forest, and then reappearing again beyond the hills. Like the lifeline on her palm that lost itself in the creases and valleys of her hand. ‘You remember Malisse,’ she asked.

  ‘The old hag who was Blanche’s chambermaid?’

  She nodded, and laughed. ‘Godfrey de Harcourt always said she was a witch that should be burned. Slowly. She read my palm once and told me I would marry you.’ She hesitated: ‘She said we would have three children.’

  ‘Then perhaps we should prove her right,’ Blackstone said, and pulled her face to his lips. In that moment it seemed the Christiana he had always loved returned to him. She eased away tenderly, not wishing to face him.

  ‘It’s too late for t
hat,’ she said. ‘I’m having a child.’

  Blackstone had no control over his response. His first thought was that it could not be his. She read the pain in his eyes and in that moment realized he already knew what had happened on the barge.

  ‘Who told you? Jacob? Henry?’

  Blackstone tried to clear his mind of the images that refused to go. He shook his head. ‘Neither. Jacob defended you, said nothing. Nothing at all, only that you’d been attacked.’

  ‘I didn’t fight,’ she said, surrendering to the inevitable admission.

  ‘What?’

  ‘He had a knife at Agnes’s throat. I didn’t struggle. I couldn’t.’

  Blackstone knew he had lied to himself about the fact that the rape did not matter. She would have fought – he’d always known that. She was Christiana; she would have fought rather than be shamed. But she had not.

  ‘Would you rather Agnes had her throat cut?’ she asked calmly.

  ‘No. Of course not. No.’ He had convinced himself that the assault did not matter because he had never lost his love for her. The child was not his. It was a bastard child from a rapist. His stomach plunged with the same wrench that he felt before going into battle. He loathed his own reaction and fought it.

  ‘I’ll not purge it away, Thomas. The infant cannot be condemned for what happened. Can you understand that?’

  ‘Yes, I understand.’

  ‘Then do I stay with you and my children or shall I seek refuge in a convent and throw myself on the mercy of the Church?’

  As the sun’s rays glanced across the treetops and caught the copper-leaved vines, he reached out and touched her hair. Who would forgive Thomas Blackstone for the sins he had committed?

  ‘You have no need of mercy or forgiveness from any man. Least of all me. We have been blessed with each other and with our children. The ways of the child are not the way of the father. We’ll stay together and see what becomes of us.’

  It was the best he could do. A thread of hope for them both, a slender lifeline.