Defiant Unto Death (25 page)

Stroking the dog's ear evoked a memory of home and the pleasure of his own dogs sprawled at his feet by the fire as Christiana sat opposite while she read or embroidered, despite the poor light offered by the flickering candles. They were long, slow evenings that teased them both into passion. But there were nights when each time the needle pierced the cloth his conscience felt its stab. Never look back, he would remind himself. The past was over and done with. It did not exist. Only its ghosts lingered in the present. And some would never be laid to rest, another voice persisted. His secret would die with him, but how could he ever hope to track down Christiana in the vastness of the city? He brought Arianrhod to his lips and asked the goddess to guide him to her. No soothing answer came from his request, but with a simple act of faith that she would lead him to the mother of his children, he allowed himself to drift into sleep as church bells chimed – guardians to his dreams.

The city was in darkness; only the crossroads and the great squares were lit by burning torches. Isabeau huddled in the cold doorway and wrapped her shawl tighter around her. The wind was picking up off the river and the spluttering torches made the buildings' shadows move. She had promised a beggar half her profit from the information given to Raoul and sent his undernourished frame across the darkened street to the Half Wheel tavern. If he did as she instructed it was an investment that she would recoup many times over.

The side door creaked but was little more than the sound of a man turning in his sleep on the wooden floorboards. The night candle flickered from the breath of air that followed the man through the door. He stood for a moment and let his eyes become accustomed to the dimness. A dozen men lay on benches or were slumped across the tables; another three or four had found space on the floor. He saw the tavern dog to one side and the big man who lay behind it with an arm resting across its chest. The dog lazily raised its head and with dreamy eyes lowered it back to the floor, uninterested in yet another who sought a night's sleep.

The intruder raised the candle, searching out whom he had come for. It was clear that there were few who matched the size of the man described by the old woman. Only the man with the dog seemed to fit the description. He stepped carefully over sleeping bodies and eased himself down onto one knee, extending the back of his hand to allow the dog to sniff him without raising the alarm. In that moment a hand snatched his wrist and he found himself staring at the wide-awake man who now held a knife at his throat. The dog squirmed away, disturbing a sleeping man who grunted as it jumped over him.

Blackstone said nothing, his eyes holding the man's frightened gaze. His slight build had allowed him to tread silently across the floorboards but now he trembled like a leaf. The whispered words were barely audible as he delivered his message.

‘I mean no harm. I was sent to warn you.'

Without releasing the man's wrist or lowering the knife Blackstone got swiftly to his feet. A few men stirred but none awoke and the dog had moved to the hearth, whose dying embers still gave some warmth. Blackstone loosened his grip and nodded. The nervous messenger held the quivering candle and led them through the sleeping tavern to the side door. Once outside Blackstone pressed the man against the wall and eased the candle from his hand.

‘Sir,' the man said, his voice strangling now that he could see the scar-faced man more clearly. ‘Across the street is an old woman who has information for you.'

‘Which couldn't wait until morning?'

‘A question I asked myself. By then it will be too late.'

Blackstone stayed silent, listening for any footfall, or sound of exhaled breath in the cold air that might be a warning of an ambush.

‘Take me to her,' he said, and blew out the candle flame.

Isabeau paid the frightened man and watched as he slipped away into the shadows, his silhouette briefly caught by the crossroads' torchlight.

Blackstone stood over her. ‘Who are you?'

‘I'm one of the women from the embroiderers' stalls. Will you pay me for the information I have? I'm already out of pocket by paying that beggar.'

‘Why wouldn't I put a knife to your scrawny throat to find out what you know?'

‘Because you couldn't be certain if the fear made me lie or not. Besides, you paid Mathilde more than her stitching was worth. No labourer would do that, so you have some honour – you're more than you appear to be. You're searching for someone and it has to do with that piece of cloth you carry.'

‘My wife,' Blackstone told her. ‘What could you know of her?'

‘Nothing. But there are others who share your interest.'

Blackstone's pulse quickened but his voice remained calm. ‘How much do you want?'

Isabeau had considered what her information might be worth, but her grasp of wealth was limited to what her embroidery sold for. She had earned pennies, and now she was failed by her ignorance. Her toothless mouth opened and closed with uncertainty. ‘What's it worth?'

‘What is the night air worth? You've told me nothing.' He realized she had no idea what to ask for. ‘If your information is what I need then I'll give you ten silver crowns.'

He heard her gasp. Such an amount would normally lie beyond her grasp. Her bent fingers could rest from the work that became more demanding each cold winter.

‘If it is not then you shall have nothing other than your life,' said Blackstone.

‘My life is forfeit if the people who are out for your skin discover my part in this.' She hesitated. ‘You have that kind of money? The purse on your belt looks too light.'

Blackstone eased another pouch from inside his leather tunic, its generous weight confirming it contained enough coin to settle a debt such as this.

First light would soon wake the city, so if there was danger approaching he needed to know about it. He sensed her nod in the shadow.

‘A street urchin who has bettered himself promised payment if a man searched out information on that embroidered cloth you carry. He works at a bathhouse, so he's paid by someone else. I told him you had visited the stall and that I had sent you to the Half Wheel. Whoever pays him will come for you by dawn.'

It was what he feared. The trap was for him and they had used Christiana as the bait.

‘Hold out your hand,' he told her, and fingered coins into her palm.

She clawed the money and stuffed it into her purse, then clambered to her feet. Blackstone pulled her back down into the doorway.

‘You stay here until these men arrive. For all I know you would betray me again to them.'

‘It's too dangerous for me to stay. What if they should see me?'

‘Then they'll kill you. So best to stay still and think about spending that money.'

They came swiftly and silently. The woman flinched but Blackstone shielded her with his arm, afraid she might panic and bolt. Her ragged breathing rasped like the wind across the rough stone walls. He saw a street urchin lead a dozen or more armed men to the tavern's door. The poor light prevented Blackstone from identifying the man who led them, the black cloak and clothing he wore masking his features.

Half the men pushed through the main entrance, the others into the alleyway to secure the side door. Blackstone knew he'd been lucky; he would have been trapped like a rat. There were shouts and cries of alarm from inside the Half Wheel.

‘That's the boy I told you about,' the old woman said.

‘Who's the man wearing the black cloak?' he asked, his voice barely loud enough for the woman to hear.

She shook her head. ‘I don't know the others.'

Blackstone knew this was his chance to run, but the urge to identify the black-clothed man held him.

‘What churches are there where the noblemen live?'

She shrugged. ‘How would I know?'

‘You embroider for the ladies. You've been there. What churches?'

‘The Holy Sepulchre … no, they're still building … Saint Catherine, and the … I don't know. The monks at Saint Catherine are responsible for the travellers who die on the road. Are those you seek alive or dead?'

‘Where else?' Blackstone insisted.

Isabeau thought for a moment. ‘I don't know, I swear. The only other place nearby is the parish church. Saint-Leu–Saint-Gilles.'

‘Where?'

‘Far side of the Innocents.'

She saw that he did not understand.

‘The cemetery. You can't miss it. Halfway between the river and the north gate.'

It was as good a chance as he was likely to get. If Joanne de Ruymont stayed true to her prayers she would be on her knees somewhere at this time of day, and Christiana would be praying with her, begging for guidance to find her father.

They watched as the men kept a firm hand on the boy who led them and then dragged him inside. He resisted, but his cry of pain reached them as his arm was twisted.

‘You have escaped, but they'll kill him,' Isabeau whispered.

The stench of urine caught his nostrils; the old woman's bladder had given way. He lowered his arm. If she ran now she would not be seen. She needed no more invitation than that: she scuttled away into the next alley.

Blackstone also moved, quickly finding another alley corner from which to observe the tavern raid and in time to see men tumbling out, chased by the soldiers, and hear the sound of furniture being thrown and the dog's yelping echoing across the street. The bell for matins rang, doors were being opened, shutters pushed back and night pots tipped into the street. Three of the armed men grappled with one of the customers. He was a thick-set man and tall, though not as tall as Blackstone, and it seemed that he could have been mistaken for him.

‘My Lord de Marcy!' the armed man called, forcing their victim to his knees.

Blackstone tensed. The man who had ambushed William de Fossat was here. Blackstone slowed his breath, his hand already gripping the knife at his belt. He slowed his breath and focused on the black-cloaked figure who emerged from the tavern. De Marcy grabbed a handful of the man's hair, pulling his face back so he could be seen more clearly. It took only a moment for the Savage Priest to discount him from being the one he sought. His hand loosed the man's hair and his henchmen gave him a kick to see him on his way.

Blackstone half crouched, ready to run into the throng of men. De Marcy should be killed there and then, but there was no chance of that when he had a dozen men at his side. He restrained the urge to use the buildings as cover and get close and then to scatter them with an unexpected attack. One man with a knife wreaking a sudden vengeance. Strike, kill and run. It was a foolish thought and he knew it. Christiana was in more danger now because these men who hunted him knew he was in the city and that they had missed capturing him.

Raoul had made a mistake and he knew it. He had waited too long to report to the place where the Norman lord had instructed him to go when there was news of anyone asking about the scrap of cloth. He had expected him to be there, readying for prayers, his rich ermine-trimmed cloak pulled up against the night chill and a gloved hand prepared to untie his weighted purse in reward. Instead he found a group of rough-looking men in the outer rooms of the house – cold dank rooms that were used as their quarters – and when he was ushered into the presence of the sallow-faced man who gazed at him with eyes as black as river pebbles it put the fear of Christ into him despite the crucifix that hung from the man's neck. In his few years of life the street urchin had known violence and threat, but cunning and feral caution had kept him alive. When this man spoke his words were weighted with an accent that came from further south. Raoul had heard it before, belonging to wagoners from outside the city, places he had never heard of, but whose descriptions were of another great river and a countryside rich in fruit and crops. It had been of no interest to him as he had watched them drink away their misery in the taverns while he waited to relieve them of their purses. This man was someone of authority. The sword and knife were expensive; the cloth he wore was of a fine weave that would keep all but the most wicked wind from penetrating it. And the black garments made him look as big and threatening as a winter storm cloud.

He reported everything Isabeau had told him and without a question being asked the man suddenly leapt to his feet and shouted orders to his henchmen. Raoul protested that his reward was due, but they cuffed his head and grabbed his arm and hauled him to the Half Wheel. Payment would be his only when the man they hunted was found. He knew better than to argue. And prayed for Christ's mother to protect him.

The tavern owner's protests were met with threats that his flea pit would be closed down by the city authorities if he dared to intervene. When questioned he confirmed that such a man as described had been in the tavern, but had left before dawn. It was not a satisfactory answer for the Savage Priest and the men inside the tavern were hauled to their feet; those who resisted were roughly handled by the henchmen. Raoul was held as de Marcy gazed into the men's faces. One had a scar that splintered his face from hairline to ear, but he was not as tall as the man they sought. But a man's legend could put a foot in height on him, so he was pushed outside for a closer examination.

The cries of alarm and protest soon drew a crowd and hecklers began cursing the armed men for their violence. It made no difference that they formed a half-circle and drew knives and swords; a Paris mob could swarm quickly and Blackstone saw from where he hid that the raiders were being threatened by the increasing numbers in the street. The black-cloaked figure shouted above the crowd's rising anger and Blackstone heard the words ‘King's business'. And that enraged the crowd even more. The unpopular King was already resented and to have men raid a tavern as the city awoke and its citizens made their way to church or work was a stinging rebuke to the Provost of Merchants and the guilds of the city who were essential for King John to sustain taxes and authority. The Savage Priest, Blackstone realized, had just overplayed his hand.