Defiant Unto Death

by David Gilman

  ‘You want him to find you?’

  ‘Just give him the information. What he does with it is his decision.’ There was nothing more Guillaume could tell him. ‘When you leave, do so quietly. Don’t raise suspicion. Behave as if you’re going to scout ahead. Give the authority of leading the others to one of your men. Understand?’

  The archer nodded.

  ‘I’ll pick a better horse for you. Ride hard, and earn my gratitude.’ Guillaume stepped away. Longdon would do as asked, if only to keep Sir Thomas’s squire in his debt.

  The mountain mist was slow to clear, clinging tenaciously to the valleys as Guillaume checked his bridle and rein, wishing he too could linger. By the time Christiana had attended mass Will Longdon was already away from the kinsman’s sanctuary, leading the men towards Blackstone. The old man begged Guillaume to change his mind.

  ‘All routes are dangerous; you’ll ride into more routiers. They’re seeping out of France like pus from a squeezed boil.’

  ‘My lady asks for my protection; I can’t deny her.’

  ‘Wait here a few more days – let Sir Thomas make his way back and convince her otherwise.’

  Guillaume shook his head. ‘If I don’t escort her and the children she’ll ride off alone.’

  ‘High-born or low-, women will ruin a man,’ the old man said. ‘I swear they’re Satan’s gate.’ He paid no heed to the young man’s look of disapproval. ‘She’s your master’s woman, but if I were you I would tie her to a stake and keep her here until he came back for her.’

  The escort of a dozen hobelars waited as Christiana climbed into the saddle, and a household servant lifted Agnes into her arms. Marazin scowled and, ignoring the young squire, strode towards Christiana.

  ‘Madam, you place yourself and your children in harm’s way. I beg you to reconsider. I have given my pledge to Father Niccolò, and am obliged to the Holy Father to secure your safety as you pass through these mountains,’ he said, grabbing her horse’s rein.

  ‘I thank you, Lord Marazin, but I have a journey of my own,’ she said.

  ‘You commit a felony by not obeying your lord and husband. I have the right to detain you until word reaches him,’ the old man answered.

  Christiana spoke kindly to him: ‘My husband’s squire would then be obliged to stop you in my defence. You outnumber us so he, and these men, would die. The enmity from my husband would never be erased. You’ve shown us kindness and offered your protection, and I’ve prayed in the chapel of our Holy Mother, the Virgin Mary. I lay myself upon her grace as any mother would do. Beyond that my life rests in Master Guillaume’s hands.’

  ‘Very well, madam, but you’ll take heed of the advice I give to him? He needs a better route from here than you’ve planned,’ he said.

  She nodded her assent.

  Marazin returned to Guillaume. ‘You’ve barely a chance to reach the river. Go north – then west. There’s more than one mountain trail. I’ll send a guide with you,’ he offered.

  ‘I’m grateful, my lord; that was my intended route. I’ve already sent word to Sir Thomas in the hope he’ll intercept us,’ Guillaume said quietly.

  ‘Then you’ve more sense than I gave you credit for. We’ll offer our prayers for your safe delivery into Sir Thomas’s hands.’

  Lord Marazin’s guide led them from the fortified manor’s sanctuary. The old man watched as the stubborn mist closed about them.

  Like ghosts of the unforgiven, they were gone.

  De Marcy’s slow-moving train of horsemen and wagons, clerks, monks and whores who straggled behind his main force, needed an uncontested route through the mountains to a place held by one of Visconti’s commanders, Alfonso Girolami, who held a fort that guarded a pass into Visconti’s territory. It needed few men to hold such a castle, because the narrow valley allowed enemies to be easily halted.

  Less than half a day’s ride from the Savage Priest’s column, Lord Marazin’s guide found that the intended route was blocked by a rockfall; there was no alternative but to turn back and find another way. He took Guillaume and his charges across a high ridge, a steep but shorter route to the other track, and while silhouetted against the skyline they were seen by a group of de Marcy’s scouts. A half-dozen men, a woman and children were of little interest, except that the Savage Priest had alerted his outriders to watch out for Blackstone. If these stragglers proved to be Blackstone’s family who had been left to catch up with his main force, de Marcy realized that the great English knight had made a grave error.

  Hours later Guillaume’s horses picked their way down the hillside, and then settled more sure-footedly on the track. Guillaume turned back to watch Christiana, who needed to balance herself and Agnes as her horse swayed downhill. It was then that a group of de Marcy’s men simultaneously attacked both ends of the track. Panic gripped Guillaume’s party, restricted as they were to fighting on the narrow road, unable to retreat back up the hillside or plunge downhill on the other side of the track.

  Guillaume reached for Christiana’s bridle and yanked the horse to him to keep her close. The escort was outnumbered, but the narrowness gave them an unexpected advantage, allowing them to defend against the dozen men at each end whose horses jammed and shouldered each other. Two lost their footing and slid downhill, unseating their riders.

  ‘This way!’ Guillaume cried, wheeling the horses to the weakened end of the track, taking the lead with another hobelar to drive a wedge among the enemy’s panicking mounts. The ferocity of their attack, and their deliberate blinding of the horses as their first strike, caused the congested riders to flounder. Screaming horses reared and fell; men tumbled onto stony ground as Guillaume’s sword blows maimed and killed. They had fought their way clear, but had lost half their men. Spurring their horses, pursued by the surviving enemy, they galloped hard. The road ahead swept downwards and the guide shouted for Guillaume to swerve into the spindly new growth of a forest. Christiana cried out as she almost lost her grip on Agnes. Guillaume reached out, snatched the child and pulled her to him. Christiana fought the horse, holding the pommel for balance, and then whipped its flank with the reins.

  Riding hard, they could see that their pursuers had slowed, for losing sight of their prey meant they in turn could be ambushed; but Guillaume urged his group on to the lower reaches of the valley. If they could make the open ground and ford the small river that lay below, they would have the advantage of turning and facing vulnerable horsemen. It seemed they were going to make it, but as the horses barged around the final bend of forest track, Christiana’s horse stumbled again, and she fell into the bushes and undergrowth. Guillaume reined in his horse, and turned back as Christiana painfully got to her feet, the frightened horse already cantering into the forest.

  ‘Go! Save Agnes!’ she cried.

  Guillaume’s hesitation, and that of the men around him as they wheeled their horses, lost them their slender lead. Three of their pursuers were upon her as the others slowed and halted. Guillaume’s men had their backs to a rock face; their only escape still lay in the valley, but de Marcy’s men now held the high ground.

  ‘Surrender and live!’ one of de Marcy’s men called.

  ‘Attack, Master Guillaume,’ one of his men urged. ‘Drop the child and go at them.’

  Before Guillaume could answer one of the men held a knife at Christiana’s throat. Agnes screamed, Henry urged his horse forward, but one of the men grabbed his reins. ‘It’s too late for that, lad. They have us.’

  As Guillaume and the men threw down their weapons, the guide turned his horse and galloped for the valley. De Marcy’s men let him go; he was of no interest to them. They already held the prize.

  35

  Will Longdon’s horse shivered with exhaustion, its flanks lathered white with sweat, its blood-filled nostrils flaring for air. The poor beast had been whipped by one of the archer’s arrows as he urged it across the demanding terrain for hours on end in a desperate attempt to reach his friend and warlord. Within minute
s of him finding Blackstone and Killbere breaking camp at the burnt-out village, it went down on its knees and shuddered in its death throes.

  Longdon’s gaunt face showed the strain of what must have been a terrifying ride. Blackstone listened to the message sent by Guillaume. He rested a hand on the archer’s shoulder, his thoughts desperate to understand what might have prompted Christiana’s decision to ride back to Normandy.

  ‘Tell me everything that happened when you got back to the men,’ he instructed Longdon. He recounted the instructions he had been ordered to relate to the young squire, but then his hesitation in the telling of it made him realize that he must have played some part in the events that followed. Blackstone saw the shadow of doubt cross the man’s face.

  ‘I may have spoken out of turn, Sir Thomas. I reminded her that we had fought together, as common men, as archers. I forgot the hatred the French held for us.’

  Blackstone considered for a moment and then shook his head. ‘She holds no malice for us now, Will. She’s not a frightened girl any longer. Did she say anything when you told her?’

  Longdon shrugged, and then remembered. ‘She asked if I had really fought at your side, at the crossroads that day.’

  ‘What?’ said Blackstone. ‘The crossroads? When?’

  ‘Normandy. The ambush,’ Longdon answered tentatively.

  ‘You told her about that?’

  ‘Yes,’ said Longdon, seeing Blackstone’s look of concern.

  ‘Why?’ Blackstone asked uncertainly.

  Longdon couldn’t explain his need for the acknowledgement of being more than Blackstone’s comrade-in-arms. ‘I … gave her the cloth, Sir Thomas. The one you carry with you. You dropped it when we fought in the forest.’

  Blackstone’s hand involuntarily went to his jerkin, already knowing his wife’s token would not be there. ‘You returned it to her?’

  ‘Aye. I told her how you’d cut it from the dead knight’s jupon. As a talisman.’

  Blackstone groaned, as if the sky and earth were millstones and he the grain of wheat between them.

  ‘Jesus, Thomas. What’s wrong?’ Longdon asked, forgetting rank, remembering the boy who rode at his side.

  ‘Oh God, Will. You weren’t to know. I learnt when she nursed me that her father had sent her to the Harcourt family for protection. That cloth was a gift from her. I never cut it from him – the man I killed that day was her father.’

  Killbere shouted from the mounted men that they were ready to move. Will Longdon’s stricken face roused Blackstone’s compassion. ‘I lay no blame on you, Will,’ he said, placing a hand on his shoulder. ‘Get some food and drink, and catch up with us.’

  Blackstone turned towards the waiting men and climbed into the saddle. Blanche de Harcourt and Killbere realized that Will Longdon had brought news from the men at Marazin’s.

  ‘Will Longdon rode ahead of the others. They’re hours behind him. Guillaume sent word that he and a dozen men are escorting Christiana and the children.’

  ‘On their own?’ Killbere asked. ‘Is he stupid?’

  ‘No, Gilbert, he’s fulfilling a pledge to protect my family.’

  ‘Where is she?’ said Blanche de Harcourt.

  Blackstone shook his head. ‘In one of the passes. He’s buying time for us to reach him.’

  For a moment no one spoke, bewildered by the task of finding a small group in those unknown mountains.

  ‘I’ll take twenty men,’ Blackstone said, ‘and backtrack. We’ll meet at de Montferrat’s castle.’

  Killbere spat into the grass. ‘Sweet Mother of God, Thomas, we can’t sit on our arses while you search for your missing woman! We could be there for days. How many damned needles in haystacks do you find in one life? No, we’ll all go because if de Marcy is within farting distance we’ll smell his stench or you’ll be nailed to a tree with your balls in your mouth and I’ll be without a damned contract with the Italians.’

  Killbere did not wait for a response but jammed his heels into the horse’s flanks. Blackstone saw Longdon find a fresh horse, ready to lead them back. ‘I should apologize for him, Blanche. He smothers his emotions with blasphemy and curses but he has my interests at heart.’

  ‘He’s an Englishman, Thomas, there are not enough apologies in the world for that,’ she said, wheeling her horse. ‘I only make one exception for your barbaric race – and that’s you.’

  The valley was a place of staggering beauty. Snow had already fallen on the high ground but thousands of feet below the peaks the sun shone warmly from a clear blue sky. A meadow this high in the passes should have been bereft of any alpine flowers, but this place was known for its beauty where the sun lingered. The plateau of wildflowers, protected by the distant giants and the warmth of the forest that encircled it, laid a welcoming carpet for any traveller or pilgrim.

  A jangling bridle and a choking man who kicked, face bulging, as the rope squeezed the life out of him, broke the cathedral-like silence.

  Christiana wiped the tears from her eyes. ‘These men guarded me under orders; hanging them serves no purpose,’ she said.

  De Marcy rode next to her. ‘The purpose, Lady Christiana, is that it gives me pleasure,’ he answered.

  When his men had brought her to him he had touched her face. Her smooth skin peach-gentle beneath his calloused fingertips. She had recoiled and lashed out at him but he had snatched at her neck and gripped it, ready to crush it. And then relented. He would think on how to deal with her but whatever he had once felt was already charred ash on his tongue. She was of no use to him now other than as bait for Thomas Blackstone.

  Guillaume and the remaining man, bound and tethered by rope to a routier’s pommel, had been forced to keep up on foot with the horses. Five men from the escort had already been hanged every hundred paces on the approach through the forest to the fortress that guarded the pass. Now, de Marcy prepared to hang the sixth man. Guillaume sank to his knees in exhaustion. Most of the condemned men had been dragged beyond their endurance to keep up. There was no struggle left. As they pulled the man to his feet he cried out in a final attempt to save his life.

  ‘Will you spare me? I will fight for you as I fought for him.’

  ‘You didn’t fight that well, otherwise you would already be dead. What use is such a soldier to me?’ the Savage Priest answered as his men placed the noose about the man’s neck and took up the slack, readying themselves to haul him up.

  ‘I have information, my lord. About Sir Thomas’s lady!’ the man cried desperately.

  De Marcy’s gesture stalled the execution. He nodded. ‘If the information has worth and serves me, then I’ll let you live.’

  The man nodded, ignoring the chafing hemp on his neck. ‘I was an escort on the barge that took us to Avignon—’

  Christiana’s despair broke involuntarily: ‘Say no more! I beg you. He’ll kill you anyway.’ Her horse was startled, but de Marcy grabbed its bridle and easily brought it under control. He smiled at her.

  ‘You have secrets from me, my lady?’

  The soldier tried to approach but de Marcy’s men kicked him to his knees.

  Guillaume cried out: ‘Finn! Listen to what she says! He’ll hang you no matter what you tell him. Go to God with a clear conscience, man.’

  De Marcy looked down at the man. ‘Buy your life,’ he said.

  ‘She’s with child. One of the men on the barge raped her. John Jacob, my sergeant, killed him and swore us to secrecy.’

  Guillaume’s shock couldn’t be hidden. Christiana turned away in shame, but de Marcy gripped her chin and forced her head back. ‘So, Blackstone’s wife is a whore carrying a bastard child. You’re worthless to me now. He’ll never come back for you.’

  ‘My Lord de Marcy, he will come! He will come for his children!’ Guillaume cried out, knowing he might not save Christiana’s life, but that there was still hope for Henry and Agnes. ‘He gave his oath to the de Harcourt family that he would serve and protect her for as long as he live
d! You know he will come!’ Guillaume’s desperation had created the lie. Blackstone was never likely to have made any such pledge. But he also knew his sworn lord.

  De Marcy said nothing. He turned his back on the condemned man, and those at the end of the rope heaved his kicking, choking body into the branches.

  The rope tightened on Guillaume’s wrists as he was yanked behind the horse. They rode into the valley towards the fortress, presiding like a stern gatekeeper over a rare beauty. A thousand and more of the Savage Priest’s horsemen trampled the flowers into the ground.

  Alfonso Girolami held the fortress with barely a hundred soldiers. The narrow pass beneath the castle walls needed no greater defence and the garrison was as much as the remote villages could sustain. Beyond the stronghold was a dangerous route into Lombardy known as ‘La Porta dei Morti’. For those who survived its rigours and reached the warm land of the Italians, it was said they would never return to the world they had known through this Gate of the Dead.

  Village women cooked, and whores were kept to service Girolami’s men. The ongoing track through the mountains was treacherous, and the monks who lived nearby served as guides: a service that gave them protection from Girolami who held the fortress in the name of Visconti.

  Christiana had been stripped of her dress and left wearing only an undershift. She shivered, aching with the cold, held with the children in a cage in the castle’s main square. Henry and Agnes slept, embracing for warmth. Thirty feet away Guillaume was slumped on his knees, hands tied behind his back secured to a stake in the square. His breeches and shirt were bloodied from being dragged across rough ground. The cold night tightened like wet rope on his muscles.

  ‘Guillaume,’ Christiana whispered, face pressed against the bars, fearing that even her plumed breath would attract a guard from the ramparts. ‘Guillaume …’

  She waited until her voice slipped into his mind, then saw him raise his head. That brave young face she’d known for so many years, that boy who had served de Harcourt and then Blackstone, lifted and smiled at her. His parched lips offered no words, but he nodded silently.