Defiant Unto Death (15 page)

‘I know this argument, Jean,' Blackstone interrupted. ‘I have five hundred pounds a year stipend from the English treasury. It's not enough. It's a reward for my loyalty and what I did at Calais, that's all. I still have to raid and fight to keep those towns in his name. If Edward calls for my help, he shall have it.'

‘And us?' de Harcourt said angrily.

Blackstone turned his face away and stared into the crackling fire. A spark in the wrong place could set Normandy ablaze. King John would go to war with the Normans if he was forced to – they were playing a fool's game. They were not ready to strike, not yet. They needed the Dauphin to side with them, to be guided under the tutelage of Charles of Navarre. Here was a man whose charm could sway the nobility to secure the crown for the teenage Dauphin. And then what game would follow? Would Edward see the boy as a weaker opponent? Would Navarre use his own royal blood to claim the crown? Blackstone silently cursed the power-hungry ambitions of them all. He was a fighting man who held his domains, fed his family and men. But he was an Englishman sworn to his King. He barely disguised a sigh as the truth stared him in the face. Was he any better? He had fought for and seized land to extend his own territory. There was no doubt there were men who desired what he had and would take it if they could. It was a game that would never play itself out.

‘Edward waits too long, Thomas,' said de Harcourt. ‘We must do what we must to rid ourselves of this King. And the sooner the better.'

‘Tread carefully,' said Blackstone. ‘Navarre is not to be trusted. I can't know Edward's mind, but he plans carefully. As should you. He'll strike when he's ready. Slow down, for God's sake; history will wait for you.'

De Harcourt was suddenly on his feet, a fist clenched in rage. ‘We
are
fucking history! Damn you, Thomas! Look to your own forefathers. It wasn't the French who invaded your barbaric island, it was us! Normans! We changed history and we will change it again. Your Kings come from here!'

A vein pulsed in his temple. Blackstone could not remember seeing him this way before. What could be done to calm him?

‘Jean, is my presence here in Normandy a hindrance?'

The question flustered de Harcourt's thoughts for a moment. ‘What!'

‘My being here. After what happened down at Saint-Clair. Does King John want my head so badly that he would cut through Normandy to take it? Am I his excuse for coming after you now rather than waiting for you to make your next move?'

‘He cannot strike us and he knows it,' de Harcourt answered, his mind distracted by Blackstone's questioning.

‘Because if that was the case I would take my family south to Bordeaux. Edward's seneschals will give us refuge among the Gascons until your business is settled.'

‘Sweet Jesus, Thomas! One minute you're as wise as Solomon and the next playing the village idiot! I want you
here
! I want you ready to raise your men and support us.'

‘Then, when that time comes, and Edward needs you, I will be ready. I serve my King, Jean, no matter where his ancestors came from.' He smiled and let his assurance mollify his friend. De Harcourt gritted his teeth. It was a good enough answer. He nodded in acceptance, but said nothing. Blackstone wondered how long it would take for these Normans to make their move. He looked out of the château's window; he was in the heartland that had nurtured him and given him life. That he was in Jean's debt was undeniable, as was his love for the man and his family that was almost as deep as that for his own. He knew his friend yearned for peace, but not at any price. His was a great family burdened with honour, and lesser nobles looked to de Harcourt for leadership. Fighting men needed to find strength – seldom spoken of but shown by gesture and courage – that often came from those who fought alongside them.

‘Jean, I serve my sovereign lord, but I would lay down my life for you,' Blackstone said quietly.

De Harcourt's grim demeanour became a sullen scowl as his eyes welled with tears.

Blanche de Harcourt was a noblewoman in her own right. When her father, the Count of Aumale, died sixteen years ago, the inheritance and title passed to her. She had independent wealth and authority within her home region but that had been put to one side when she took on the role of mistress of Castle de Harcourt and wife to a warrior lord. Years before, when the English had invaded and her husband had gone to war against them, she had armed herself and defended her mother's castle at Noyelles. It was there – when the Englishmen had forged across Blanchetaque and slain so many knights of Burgundy – that she had offered sanctuary to a wounded pageboy and his dying lord. How close that memory was: her ward Christiana had been saved by one of King Edward's archers. Blanche had been assured that the castle would not come under assault; had she not she would have struck down the man who accompanied the girl: the archer she came to know as Thomas Blackstone. Nothing would have made her countenance the company of such a loathed enemy had she not learnt later that this enemy had offered succour to the wounded knight to whom she had given sanctuary and hidden in a side chamber. Even then there had been little forgiveness in her heart … but God's mystery unfolded further after Crécy when Thomas Blackstone was brought to them near death. As Christiana nursed him Blanche had slowly learnt to tolerate his presence and then …

She lowered the embroidery in her hands and let the images unfold from across the years. And then … they had come to embrace and love the man-at-arms he had become.

Now she was content to safeguard her husband's well-being. Behind the scenes she ensured that her husband's steward attended to his estate duties and that the household servants went about their business in an efficient manner. The celebration of Henry Blackstone's birthday was only weeks away and that would bring all the families together. She was glad. At least there would be some entertainment and the women could catch up on news, gossip and rumour. And it was a distraction, thank the Lord: a time when she could shrug off all the fatigue of her daily life that had become so fragile in its uncertainty. She quickly pushed the needle through the stretched material, the image slowly but surely taking shape. Anything that would alleviate this mounting tension was welcome. No matter what happened she was determined the party would go ahead, and admitted to herself that it benefited her and their friends more than the children.

Blanche's chamber was a place of comfort where the large window gave her good light to sit and concentrate on her needlework. But her concentration wavered and the stitches were often pulled out when, at times like this, her hands trembled. She was frightened of the dangerous game that her husband was playing. She had been almost relieved that Blackstone had been absent on campaign these previous months, because it gave her a reason to share Christmas with Christiana and then to stay with her, giving Jean the excuse that a woman needed comfort when her husband was away fighting. Christiana might well be married, but in Blanche's heart she was still her ward. Except now it was the guardian who needed the comfort of the younger woman's company. As a countess she would never confess her fears to the younger woman, but simply being in the company of youth, with its resilience to misfortune and blessed ignorance of what might lie beyond the horizon, was soothing.

Her eyes settled on the rich velvet cloth beneath her fingers, through which she stitched green and gold threads. She heard voices from the inner ward and peered down as Jean and Blackstone walked across to the southern bridge between the half-towers. She noticed that there was no animosity between them and for that she was grateful. After the execution in Paris her husband and the other Norman lords seemed determined to avenge d'Aubriet's death. She had never before seen her husband so coiled with tension. Something had gone wrong two nights ago and despite her gentle influence with him she knew there were some matters that would never be shared. Perhaps, she reasoned, her husband sought to keep her ignorant as a means to protect her. Blackstone must have calmed him – how a man so steeped in war could do that she did not know, but was thankful for it nonetheless.

She would let them talk longer: seeing them together steadied her hand as she stitched silver thread onto the gold strand. The figures were taking shape and their richness would soon display her widely envied skill. The English had developed a much-admired style of stitching with gold and silk –
opus anglicanum
– but she had brought a special finesse to the technique and had spent weeks carefully sewing the figure of a dark-haired boy enticing a dove from a small tree. The
aumônière
was a gift for Henry Blackstone, so that the boy could have something of quality and beauty tied on his belt for his coins. She hesitated as the needle was about to pull through the silk. Was she being naive? Seeing the hardened knight now raised doubt in her mind. Would the gift be a problem? she wondered. Christiana's son was attracted to these fine purses – his mother had a dozen of them – but Blackstone himself preferred a plain and simple leather drawstring pouch. Blanche mentally chastised herself for being foolish. Blackstone was an Englishman. His French mother had died when he was two years old; he would never appreciate the delicate intricacy of such things, no matter how much they had taught him. Perhaps that was why Fate had smiled on Henry, who would have as a legacy the formidable legend of his father and the appreciation of beauty from his mother. A fine purse was a sign of a gentleman.

Blanche smiled at the thought. The barbaric archer had been made civilized under this very roof and now the next generation had been nurtured to appreciate beauty and courtly ways. Christiana had always insisted that Blackstone had a tender heart, but Blanche was convinced the de Harcourts' influence and duty had smoothed the Englishman's inherent roughness. She knew that, God willing, they would all come through this turbulent time. She prayed every day that Blackstone would stand ready to help them, kneeling on the cold uneven floor of her chapel until she was certain of it. She and Jean had been instrumental in forging the individual strengths of Thomas and Christiana into one. Not unlike what Blackstone called his Wolf Sword. A blade tempered by ancient skills at the hands of a master. She liked that comparison. It gave her fortitude.

‘All is well, my lord?' Guillaume asked guardedly as they rode away from Castle de Harcourt, twisting in the saddle to look back at the white towers and speckled flint walls.

‘Never look back, Guillaume,' said Blackstone, spurring his horse gently forward as it mounted the rising earthworks that were part of the château's defence.

‘You always say that, Sir Thomas.'

Blackstone shrugged. ‘There's no point looking to where you've been or to those you leave behind. The road ahead is what must always concern you.'

Guillaume said nothing for a moment. ‘Your friends stand and wave farewell, though.'

‘That's good manners. They're nobles. It's a sentiment. You know what I mean by that?'

His squire hesitated. ‘I'm not sure,' he said.

‘It's a yearning within them to feel they're a part of you.'

Guillaume thought about that for a minute. ‘Friendship and loyalty mean the same thing, don't they?'

Blackstone smiled. As a boy he had once asked his sworn lord, Sir Gilbert Killbere, a similar question when they first embarked for France – ten lifetimes ago. ‘It might well be so, but behind you is the past, it's already gone. And there may be no remnant of it when you return. Sentiment, Guillaume – that's the rope's knot that sits beneath your ear before Fate kicks the stool away. Don't die with regret in your heart.'

Guillaume Bourdin was not certain he understood exactly what his lord meant: it was something his master felt deeply, that was certain. Perhaps looking back was the first step towards regret. At leaving.

Sir Thomas was not a man to talk unnecessarily. They could ride for days and barely speak, except perhaps a few words to explain the flight of a goshawk or falcon, the settling of grass that showed where a fawn had lain and the way the clouds changed shape to tell him what would happen to the weather. He would point out hunting tracks through the forest and grassland, scars across the earth where animals travelled, guided by their instincts. Smell the wind, and you know where men are, Blackstone would tell him. Look to the land and sky to tell you where you are and what might befall you. And so it had always been for Guillaume under the training and protection of his lord, Sir Thomas Blackstone.

‘Now, Guillaume, you tell me. Is all well at my friend's domain? I know you've spoken to the servants. How many horses a day come and go?'

‘Their feed stores are full, but my Lord de Harcourt brings more in each day to replenish what is used.'

‘From his villages?'

‘Aye, Sir Thomas. He takes what they have. At least two riders a day are sent out and return with messages. There's a lot of activity between all the Norman lords. Servants work late into the night. Men ride by torchlight with escorts.'

‘And my Lord de Harcourt? What scandal and lies do the servants tell about him?'

Blackstone always expected his squire to move among the servants, to listen at the kitchen table and to take note while their horses were tended.

‘He uses harsh words at times, worse than he has ever done before. He whips a man for not performing his duty, but then relents and gives him extra food or pay. No one knows what to do. The soldiers stand long night watches. I doubt they are lies and no one would dare spread scandal. Marcel would not speak of his injuries, but I could tell he is distressed. He's served them the longest and whatever's going on causes him worry. Perhaps Lord de Harcourt is too heavy-handed with everyone,' he said finally, clearly implying that Marcel's master had been the one responsible for his injuries.