Defiant Unto Death

by David Gilman

  They gazed across the moonlit square, both knowing they were to die.

  ‘Forgive me, Guillaume. It was I who brought you to this,’ she whispered, praying he could hear her plea for absolution. ‘There has never been such allegiance as yours and you deserve an honourable death. My children and your sworn lord will speak your name whenever words of loyalty and courage are needed.’

  His head slumped back onto his chest, and Christiana snuggled up to her children, the silence of the night taunting her thumping heart.

  As sunlight flooded the square, de Marcy strode out flanked by men and the Italian, Girolami, a stocky man of rough features with wind-burnt face and cropped hair, his jerkin buckled tight against a swordsman’s chest. Despite the castle being his domain he walked a pace behind the Savage Priest.

  ‘Cut him down,’ de Marcy ordered, and then walked to the cage as men cut Guillaume’s ropes and supported him.

  ‘How shall I kill him?’ he asked Christiana, who knelt like an animal, unable to stand in the small cage as Henry shielded Agnes.

  ‘Don’t kill him. He’s worth ransom to my husband. He has gold and he’ll pay for his squire’s life.’

  ‘Answer the question or I’ll slit his throat now,’ de Marcy said without emotion.

  Guillaume’s eyes found hers. He nodded at her.

  ‘Let him die with a sword in his hand,’ she said.

  ‘But he’s weak, look at him, he can barely stand, and if a man is to fight he must have strength. So I’ll help him. I shall be merciful and give him the vigour he needs.’ He stepped back, allowing two soldiers to open the cage and drag Christiana into the square. Agnes cried out for her mother but Henry held her close to him, whispering words to soothe and reassure her. The villagers, whores and soldiers crowded around the square’s edge as a soldier placed a knotted rope into the Savage Priest’s outstretched palm.

  ‘We shall see if punishing the whore that he was sworn to protect will spark a fire within him,’ he said as the men threw Christiana onto the ground. ‘You will crawl for forgiveness around this square twelve times beneath my punishment, which is the ritual laid down by the Church, but if you beg for mercy, then I shall kill him where he stands.’

  De Marcy lashed the knotted rope down onto her back, the pain punching through her ribs. She cried out, trying to smother the scream that would terrify her daughter, and as each bruising blow fell, forced herself to remain silent, allowing little more than a gasp to escape her lips.

  De Marcy worked his arm in a rhythmic thrashing until she could crawl no more. Her discoloured skin and blood-flecked welts showed through her linen shift, and blood from a misjudged blow seeped through her auburn hair. The exhausted Guillaume begged de Marcy to stop the beating and, perhaps tired of the monotony, the Savage Priest granted the wish. Guillaume knew it would hasten his own death. De Marcy had Christiana taken to the battlements and Guillaume released into the meadow, where several hundred men camped on the castle’s flanks jeered at his enfeebled state.

  De Marcy followed and tossed Guillaume’s sword at the squire’s feet.

  ‘My men want entertainment, Master Guillaume. They need to see how I kill. It is a requirement that they understand my cruelty. Fear of me condemns them to a life of service. Do what you can before you die,’ he said.

  Guillaume picked up the sword thrown at his feet. Exhaustion was banished from his mind. How often had he and Blackstone sparred until both could stand no longer, and how many times had they fought against the odds, denying fatigue until their enemy lay defeated?

  He attacked.

  De Marcy was taken by surprise. His own skills with a sword were better than most, but Guillaume struck with the heart of a veteran fighter. The Savage Priest was forced onto the back foot, fighting hard against the raining blows. It was Guillaume’s weakened body that finally betrayed him. He parried a blow, but where once he would have shouldered his enemy off balance, his strength now deserted him. De Marcy wheeled and plunged his sword into an unprotected shoulder. Guillaume dropped his sword, and fell to his knees. De Marcy stepped back, not yet ready to kill.

  ‘Come, boy, you’re still alive. Your pain tells you so.’

  ‘Guillaume!’ Christiana cried from the battlements.

  De Marcy glanced at her. ‘The whore cries for her lover. Did you take your pleasures with her once she’d played her part with a common soldier on that barge?’ the Savage Priest taunted him.

  Guillaume grasped the sword’s grip in his left hand and lunged, but de Marcy was waiting, parried the blow and then forced his blade into Guillaume’s thigh muscle. He fell, squirming face down in his own blood, and de Marcy’s voice came from behind him: ‘Your suffering is not yet finished.’

  Guillaume’s young life’s memories were as fleeting as a valley mist burned away by a searing sun. He tried to cling to them, but they melted and left him only with pain.

  A crushed flower nestled in the grass close to his face, a teardrop of dew still on its petals.

  36

  Blackstone’s men and de Harcourt’s routiers emerged from the forest a couple of hours before nightfall. As they faced a broad reach of meadow, a hundred men-at-arms emerged from the distant trees.

  They advanced in line across the open space. Two banners were unfurled in the late daylight: three castles against an azure background fluttered next to a white flag struck with a horizontal red ordinaire.

  ‘That’s Marazin’s banner,’ said Killbere of the three castles.

  ‘And the other’s de Montferrat. Something has happened,’ said Blackstone and spurred his horse forward.

  The guide had followed de Marcy’s column for several miles until his intended route became obvious. He returned to his master and gave him the news, and the Seigneur Marazin ordered a rider to summon his kinsman de Montferrat and, with fifty men apiece taken from their garrisons, set out to warn and help the English knight.

  Blackstone’s worst fears were realized.

  Aiding Blackstone helped line their own pockets, but seeing the Countess’s extra troops, de Montferrat realized he had an opportunity to seize Alfonso Girolami’s fortress; control of another mountain crossing increased a prince’s power.

  Blackstone questioned them tirelessly about the route and the fortress’s strengths and weaknesses. Of the latter there were none, according to de Montferrat, but Blackstone saw where the greatest risk lay and knew that if they took it then the fortress would be breached. He called his captains and told them they would be riding by moonlight, and how he planned to attack. The most dangerous part of the plan, with the most risk of failure, he gave to John Jacob, who would need archers.

  Will Longdon – for the first time in his life – volunteered.

  Countess de Harcourt’s men, with Marazin’s and de Montferrat’s soldiers, followed Blackstone’s two hundred. They filtered through the forest on a broad front, like beaters on a hunt. When they were within sight of the forest edge, they stopped and settled into gulleys. Only Blackstone’s men would go beyond the trees. The long and punishing ride had not dulled his impatience to reach Christiana, but he had waited for his scouts to report back on the strength of his enemy.

  The fortress stood foursquare, its walls so deep it was doubtful that any assault could break them down, built on sheets of granite, its contours following the natural line of the rock face, its flanks protected by de Marcy’s routiers. The rear of the fortress, which rose sheer from the rock, with a fat belly of a lake lapping against its base, was lightly guarded. Above the battlements flew a great banner, its size declaring power and strength with its image of a coiled viper swallowing a child proclaiming it a stronghold of the Visconti of Milan. The approach to the castle lay through the avenue of trees leading to the open meadow, and it was here that Blackstone found the bodies of his men who had escorted Guillaume and Christiana.

  As they rode beneath the macabre sight they finally came upon a gibbet built within sight of the battlements. Spread-eagled on roug
hly hewn wooden beams were the remains of Guillaume Bourdin. He was naked; two deep wounds, one in his shoulder, the other in his thigh, had blackened, but he had been blinded and tortured and his evisceration soured the men’s throats. Killbere and the others held back as Blackstone rode forward to stand beneath his squire’s corpse.

  Not a man spoke; a few spat the taste from their mouths as Blackstone eased his horse slowly around the body. Tears stung his eyes. Through his rage and despair he quietly cursed God for His cruelty in giving a creature like de Marcy the will to commit such an atrocity.

  He looked back to where the men kept a respectful distance. He and Guillaume had fought and travelled together over the years and now the boy’s lifeblood soaked into Italian soil, so far from home. Many had fallen at Blackstone’s side but the brutal slaying of Guillaume seemed in that moment to be the worst. It no longer made any difference for what cause a man fought, what mattered was who stood with you. And Guillaume Bourdin’s courage had shone brighter than burnished steel.

  Blackstone’s shoulders slumped. The tears welled from deep within his chest, choking his breath. In the long nights of his recovery after Crécy, he had wept bitterly for the loss of his brother and it had been then that Christiana came by candlelight to soothe and hold him. His spirit had been broken, but had risen again to become a ferocious force. Now, as he touched the cold flesh of the tortured man, it was more than grief that raked his heart; his slumped shoulders caged the rage in his chest.

  De Marcy stood with Girolami on the battlement beneath the mighty flag that cracked in the breeze. He watched as Blackstone stayed motionless in the saddle. The stench of his squire’s death and the manner in which he died would blind Blackstone with despair and rage. And that weakness would deliver the Englishman into his hands. The day had finally arrived when Blackstone would die under de Marcy’s hand.

  Blackstone suddenly spurred his horse towards the castle walls, his eyes seeking out the man standing beneath the banner. The Savage Priest was unmistakable. De Marcy gazed down at him and pulled free his gauntlet, then held out his hand, palm outwards. The stump of a finger was plain to see.

  ‘You are legend, Blackstone. Your squire made a feeble attempt to taunt me before he slithered into hell. He said we had met once before,’ the Savage Priest called down to him. ‘You’re a common man who gained respect and honour through your sword. But I’m the better man because I have already beaten you. I have taken from you everything you hold dear and from today you will be less than a shadow. I tortured your squire to death. He fought well but he didn’t carry your rage or my cruelty. He screamed when I took my knife to him. And as I cut his eyes and his tongue and split his body, I laid claim to being the most brutal of God’s creatures. I sell my destruction to the highest bidder. Will you turn back and retreat into France and join the defeated or shall we settle this here?’

  ‘I challenge you to single combat,’ Blackstone called, his words echoing against the walls for both armies to hear.

  ‘You’ll fight on my terms, Blackstone. To reach me you must first test yourself against four of my best knights. Honour plays no part in this. I want you dead, but I want your suffering to be witnessed. Your debasement will live on by the time I’ve finished with you.’

  ‘Send a hundred men with them, de Marcy, nothing will keep me from killing you. What of my family?’

  De Marcy signalled; the men at the ramparts moved aside so that Christiana and the children could be brought forward. Christiana’s face was bruised, and he could see the blood had dried on her scalp. He wanted to call out and assure her, but he had no desire to expose his fear for them to de Marcy. Henry looked brave, his jaw clenched, his eyes locking onto his father. Agnes had been weeping, and she trembled.

  ‘Allow my squire a Christian burial,’ Blackstone urged de Marcy.

  ‘No,’ de Marcy said. ‘He can rot. You care so much, I’ll nail you next to him.’

  ‘Then you’re a fool!’ Blackstone answered. ‘I wish it for the sanctity of his soul, but if he stays exposed like this, then you’ll inflame my men beyond hatred, and as few as we are, your own men will be attacked with a ferocity that would put any other battle to shame. And if that happens, we will not meet in single combat.’

  De Marcy’s men held ranks on either side of the castle, but he could see that Blackstone’s men bristled to attack. Despite their two hundred being so few against his fifteen hundred, their captains held them back. Their force was too puny – and de Marcy knew it – but the English were unpredictable. If they attacked, Blackstone was right: he would die in the slaughter. The Savage Priest would be denied.

  De Marcy thought on it for a moment: ‘Be quick. The breeze has already turned his stench towards us. And be ready when the bell tolls,’ he said. ‘You will fight me when you have first fought my champions.’ De Marcy’s cruel face twisted into what was a smile. ‘I only fight those I consider worthy opponents.’

  He watched as the scar-faced knight turned away without another word or backward glance at his family.

  They buried Guillaume’s body wrapped in a blanket, covering the grave with stones and rocks to deter scavengers. Blackstone knelt at the graveside in clear view of the castle walls and the men who waited behind him. Blanche de Harcourt knelt at his side and Killbere stood ten paces back, stubbornly refusing to kneel within sight of de Marcy. There’d be time for prayers once the killing was done.

  ‘I thought my revenge was over,’ said Blanche. ‘But I’ll stay here until this Savage Priest is dead. Let us raze this place to the ground, Thomas, and trample his bones into the ashes.’

  ‘Blanche, you must keep your men back with Montferrat’s,’ Blackstone told her. ‘Stay hidden until the right moment. We have to buy time.’

  ‘They’ll be hidden until you or Sir Gilbert command otherwise,’ she said. ‘We still avenge those who were ours, Thomas. Live long enough to see it through.’

  A bell rang out from the castle’s tower. The heavy gates opened and four knights rode out, armed with mace, sword and axe.

  ‘De Marcy wants you beaten and wounded and then he’ll kill you himself. For God’s sake, let’s risk what we must and strike them now,’ said Killbere.

  ‘And lose my family?’

  ‘Dear Christ, you think he’s going to let them live, whatever happens? They’re already dead. Let’s finish this. Let me go out there,’ Killbere urged him.

  ‘Not yet, Gilbert. He has to see me fight and he has to know he can beat me. That’s the only way we can lower his guard.’ He called Elfred forward. ‘Your men know their positions?’

  The older man nodded. ‘I’ll have fifty Englishmen with a hundred arrows apiece, divided each side of the field. If they come we’ll send the first lot of bastards to the devil. Then it’s up to Countess Blanche and the others or we’ll be dog meat.’

  ‘Trust each other, Elfred. It’s how we’ve always won,’ he said.

  ‘Aye, that and having bull’s balls,’ Elfred answered.

  Blackstone settled into the saddle and said nothing more. He gathered his shield and Killbere offered his flail, the three-spiked ball held by a length of chain to its handle.

  ‘Take my holy water sprinkler, it’s always good for a first strike, then it’s the axe and sword. Kill the bastards, Thomas. Maim them and then kill them, and we’ll piss on their graves.’

  Blackstone nodded and spurred the horse.

  ‘There’s little time for John Jacob and the men,’ Blanche de Harcourt said to Killbere as she watched Blackstone gallop across the field.

  ‘Jacob’ll do what’s asked of him and then we’ll slaughter every one of these pig-shite-filled dogs when he does. Provided Thomas survives long enough.’

  ‘Whether he does or not we must save Christiana and the children,’ she added.

  ‘Aye. If we must,’ Killbere answered, though he saw no point if Blackstone lay dead on the field of combat.

  The meadow became an arena, the late flush of the wildflowe
rs a surge of colour before the season closed in. Snow-capped peaks, like pavilions on a battlefield, cast long shadows across the forests, as the opposing routiers held the perimeters and watched the lone knight wait for the charge against him.

  Killbere and Blanche de Harcourt rode back to the treeline and Blackstone’s men. Behind them in the gulleys several hundred more waited, hidden from view. Elfred looked up to the battlements where soldiers crowded to view the contest.

  ‘That’s right, you sons of whores, you keep looking this way,’ he muttered to himself. ‘Sweet Jesus, keep an eye on that idiot Will Longdon, he needs your blessing and strength today if Thomas’s family are to live.’

  At the rear of the castle John Jacob led forty men stripped down to shirt and breeches. They had waded through the slime and bulrushes that fringed the cold waters of the lake for the past hour – the time the burial had bought them. Will Longdon had ten of his archers with him, their bow cords kept dry beneath their caps. Their war bows nestled in sleeves bound with cord and smeared with pig fat, as were their arrow bags. The English archers were vital to the success of John Jacob’s task. Each of the other men was armed with a sword and a fighting axe whose bevelled blade would help in scaling the cliff. Sacking bound their feet to give purchase on the rock face. By the time Blackstone rode out to face his enemy the men were already clinging to the wet granite as Jacob reached up and smashed the blade’s edge into a fissure. It rendered the cutting edge useless but its haft gave him grip. The shivering men trod water as he hauled himself upwards and found a meagre foothold. If he could reach the point where the castle’s walls met the rock face he could lower the coarse rope slung around his body. The soaking men waited as he crawled agonizingly slowly upwards, his fingers desperately seeking every purchase. As a distant roar went up Jacob heaved himself onto the narrowest of ledges. The master builders who had constructed the fortress a century ago had needed a foundation for the cut stone; the rib of granite that remained was enough for him to press his heels into and brace his back against the castle’s wall. He lowered the rope and took the strain, and prayed his strength would hold. One of Jacob’s men lost his grip. He slithered down the rock face, his body torn, his screams broken by the violent impact on his face, but the roar from the battlefield smothered his final cry. Slathered in sweat despite the cold, the men pressed themselves against the stone, desperate not to lose their own footing. Jacob’s hands were already cut from his efforts and the weight he’d borne from the men on the rope laid a welt, speckled with blood, across his back.