Defiant Unto Death (38 page)

‘War is a risk,' said Blackstone.

‘Victory benefits us all,' the priest answered.

Blackstone knew it was a simple statement of fact. The common soldier pillaged at the point of a sword for his profit; the bankers weighed the odds and backed those they thought could win. The more blood spilled on the battlefield, the greater the profit to the bankers.

‘Ride and warn him that he stands alone against the French. His only escape is to retreat south to Bordeaux. In time a fleet can be sent,' Father Niccolò said.

‘When?'

The priest shrugged.

‘His retreat might already be cut off,' Blackstone said.

‘Quite so.'

‘Then what?'

‘The French Pope would do all he can to favour the French King. His cardinals will try to sue for peace. The Prince has plundered great wealth; he will be anxious to keep it because his army is so weak. The French could extract favourable terms.'

‘You believe the Prince'll agree to peace?' Blackstone said.

Father Niccolò nodded. ‘Of course. His army is in no condition to fight a major battle and his father does not want his son killed or captured and ransomed. Prince Edward must make the best of it. You must relay the King's wishes.'

Blackstone looked out across the swathes of forest that blanketed the hills. He had no idea how far away the Prince's army might be. A messenger would have to travel quickly through those forests and hope not to be seen by French scouts or brigands. King John was making a final, desperate attempt to regain stature in the eyes of his people. He was bankrupt. Taxes could be raised only if the people were safe from raids by the barbaric English, whose depredations laid waste the countryside. Crushing the English would secure the people's loyalty and silence his critics. The retribution wreaked against the conspirators in support of Charles of Navarre was almost complete. Only Blackstone remained alive.

Torellini related what informers in the French court had reported. It was the French King's time for victory. The anxious King who suspected betrayal at every corner could finally restore France to her rightful place as the greatest kingdom in Christendom. Even royal astrologers had predicted a great shift of power for France. Encouraged by all the signs of potential victory John had forced an agreement with the thousands of French noblemen, who would bring their knights and soldiers to fight, that they would no longer have the baronial right to quit the field of battle when it suited them. For the first time, they could leave only when victory was complete or when the King allowed it. It was a binding agreement with a nobility driven by their sense of personal status and obligations of honour. It was what gave them their undeniable courage. Blackstone had witnessed enough evidence of that when the French knights kept advancing into the storm of English arrows at Crécy.

‘So,' Torellini asked, ‘will you ride to save your Prince?'

Blackstone knew his family would be safe under Torellini's protection – he represented not only the power of the Church but the wealth of Florence. Blackstone nodded. ‘I will – but Prince Edward won't surrender,' he said. He knew the lion Prince that he had once saved loved war, but suing for peace with booty and honour intact was a temptation for any fighting man. Blackstone had fought for his King and suffered loss and injury but something of his own father's spirit had always held him close: a belligerent and unyielding duty to be honour-bound to those who deserved such loyalty. His father was once an archer loyal to his sworn lord as Blackstone had been to Sir Gilbert when they invaded Normandy all those years before. Loyalty to one another was what Killbere believed in. Men fighting side by side. The King had honoured Blackstone at Crécy and the Prince had awarded him his coat of arms at Calais. Blackstone held his towns in the King's name. He was an Englishman whose forebears stood at his back: ghosts of fighting men who denied him any choice other than to be what he was. There was no simple explanation to what lay in Blackstone's heart; he knew it was a cat's cradle of emotions that entwined his sworn lords – the King and his son – his family, friendship, and the abiding affection he held towards his men. Whatever name could be put on it, it had to be honoured. Retribution would be inflicted on those who caused any of them harm.

Edward must not retreat. The priest had offered him a means to seek his own revenge against the French monarch and his assassin – and to do that he needed a battle.

‘The Prince won't surrender,' he said again.

All Agnes needed now was sleep and nourishment. Christiana bathed and fed her, then opened the shutters and looked out across the monastery's grounds. Guillaume and Henry were not in the adjoining room. Satisfied that Agnes was asleep and no longer needed constant vigilance, she pulled her cloak around her and went out into the chill wind that now blew from the north. Guests' movements within the grounds were restricted, so she could not imagine where Guillaume and Henry had gone, or why her husband had not returned. Her thoughts flew beyond the monastery walls. It was urgent that they leave once Agnes had recovered sufficiently to travel. But where would the family go? Their home had been destroyed and she had no idea of Blanche de Harcourt's fate since her escape from Rouen. How many had survived the King's revenge? All she knew was that the life they once had – all they had built – had been destroyed.

By the time she had examined the options for the family's well-being she had reached the stables. Guillaume had saddled and prepared her husband's war horse, and Henry was making final adjustments to the bridles on the two coursers. Guillaume turned to face her, but said nothing. He already knew there would be conflict between his master and Henry's mother.

‘Where is Sir Thomas?' Christiana asked.

‘He's talking to the priest, my lady,' the squire answered, securing Blackstone's cleaned and honed sword to the pommel.

Christiana's eyes followed the movement. Her husband was leaving her and going off to fight.

‘Where are they?' she demanded.

‘I don't know,' he answered. ‘Somewhere in the monastery.'

Christiana saw Henry avert his eyes and fiddle needlessly with his horse's stirrup.

‘Henry, are you riding with Guillaume and your father?'

‘Yes, Mother,' the boy answered reluctantly, torn between affection for his mother and obedience to his father.

Christiana turned away. Her husband could not abandon her and her child at such a time.

Father Niccolò Torellini eased a ring from his finger and handed it to Blackstone. ‘Take this and use it as proof that you speak on my behalf and at the command of the King. In today's world it is a matter of trust. Men can be bought and a King's messenger could be murdered,' he said.

Blackstone's fingers were all too thick to accept the gold band with its blood-red stone. Torellini smiled and offered a small drawstring pouch. ‘Here, use this.'

‘Offering this as a token means nothing. I could have killed you on the road and taken it,' said Blackstone.

‘True, but when you see the Prince, tell him that he was present when his father gave it to me and that the chapel where we prayed that day bore the sign of St Peter. Then he will know I have sent you.'

‘I might ride for days without finding Prince Edward. I may already be too late,' Blackstone said. ‘No matter what happens, I need your word that my wife and daughter will be kept safe at Avignon.'

‘You have it,' said the priest and grasped his arm. ‘When you lay before me at Crécy I saw the body of a boy torn apart by war – not even the physicians thought you would live. Now, here is the man made whole by a generous God and given great strength to serve his King. God be with you, Sir Thomas. I shall see you at Avignon.'

Blackstone caught a movement in the corner of his eye. The auburn-haired woman, her full dress pushed against her body by the freshening breeze, walked out of the stables and turned to face him. There were a hundred paces between them, but he could see the glimmer of anger in her green eyes.

‘Father, I have another hurdle to clear before I leave.'

Torellini saw her and nodded. ‘Good luck.'

‘With my wife or in finding the Prince?'

‘Whichever you perceive as the greater challenge, my son,' he said.

Christiana saw Blackstone walking towards her accompanied by a cleric dressed in a white habit. He was not of the same order as those in the monastery, who were now about their daily labour. His complexion was smooth, like that of the Spanish people. He took two steps to every one of Blackstone's, his busy hands punctuating his words. When Blackstone saw her from a distance he stopped. The priest nodded in response to something Blackstone said and moved away towards the abbey. Blackstone continued until he reached her.

‘Is Agnes all right?' he asked, concerned.

‘She's sleeping. They say she'll be well enough to travel in two or three days. When were you going to tell me you were leaving? Do you intend to abandon us now?'

He guided her away from the building, not wanting his explanation to be given within the walls of the portal, nor their voices to carry. The abbey had offered sanctuary, but travellers came and went, and should strangers appear in the next few days he did not want his plans whispered by gossiping monks who might wish to relieve the monotony of chanting their prayers.

‘I was coming to the room to speak to you,' he said. ‘There's been much to arrange since morning prayers.'

He told her what Father Niccolò had related to him.

‘One man cannot save an army,' she told him after listening patiently. ‘You tried to save Jean and the others, but matters are out of your hands now. Your English Prince has to defend himself with the help of others, not you. You must find a place of safety for your family, there's no other duty for you right now. We've been blessed that Agnes has survived; are you prepared to risk her life again?'

‘I've struck a bargain with the Italian priest,' he said. ‘I'll ride to warn Prince Edward, and Father Niccolò and his escort will take you to safety.'

‘I'm in a place of safety. Do you intend us to be taken to a convent? Do you think those men who hunt you would respect undefended nuns? Thomas, there's nothing more you can do to avenge Jean and the others. We'll find a new home together, we'll start again, your name alone will bring men to serve with you,' Christiana said, trying to keep herself from pleading with him.

Blackstone turned back to look at the monastery walls. Above the arched tympanum of the sanctuary's entrance were carved images of the Last Judgement. Angels blew horns above the figure of Christ offering an open hand in blessing. Was he welcoming the righteous, or giving a warning to guard against the evil that consumed men? The blessed gathered next to Christ's right hand, while below His feet the bared jaws of a creature swallowed the damned. Carvings of man-like creatures crowded together in suffocating closeness, mouths gaping in terror of being eaten alive by the devil, stared back at him.

Paradise or hell.

He would risk one for the other.

‘The Duke of Lancaster is on the north side of the Loire. He'll never get across to join Edward,' he told her.

How many times had he ridden with the Harcourts across those northern plains and stood in wonder at one of nature's great defensive barriers? The Loire's swirling eddies and currents could drag man and horse down. English forces had struggled to find a crossing all those years ago before Crécy, but now it would be impossible.

‘What the Prince doesn't realize is that the river will be flooded from the heavy rains. He has no reinforcements. And if he surrenders to King John, then our family will never know peace.'

‘This is not about saving Edward, it's to quench your anger.' She fell silent for a moment, knowing it was useless trying to convince him to stay. ‘What would you have us do?'

‘There's a bargeman who will take you and the priest, with his escort, downstream. You'll make good time, and it will take you far enough south to avoid the men who hunt us. Then they'll take you by road to Avignon.'

‘Avignon! The French Pope?'

‘You'll be safe there. The Italian has influence. I'll join you when matters are settled.'

She looked up into his face, searching for what hidden meaning lay behind his eyes.

‘I want the man who tortured and slaughtered our people,' he told her. ‘You want him dead. I promised you that.'

‘No, it's more than that. We are too far south for de Marcy's men to find us. He will be raiding elsewhere.'

‘Or rides with the King to fight Edward.'

He was using de Marcy's name to convince her but she saw through him. She caught her breath. How well she knew him.

‘No, Thomas. It's the King you really want. And they will kill you before you even get close to him.'

‘He butchered Jean, hacked him to death, gave him no confessor. My friend deserved a better death and I swore to avenge him. This bastard French King set loose the Savage Priest who flayed William and crucified Old Hugh and slaughtered our people. My people! I want them both feeling Wolf Sword through their heart.'

‘You cannot abandon us now. Damn you,' she whispered, ‘damn you. We have everything we need as long as we are together with the children. You're a fool, Thomas. There's no glory left to fight for. Only us.' She waited for him to say something, to rebuke her for challenging him. But he stayed silent and let his gaze stay on her. She touched the scar on his face. ‘You have tested God's patience too many times. You've bargained with Him once too often. He'll take you this time. You'll widow me and I shall be left to beg on the strength of your name.'

‘Then you will never starve,' he said, bitter that she had stepped away from him when he needed her embrace.