Defiant Unto Death (7 page)

Like a common street entertainer the Chancellor captured his audience's uncertain expectation. A salt tax would be raised, he told them. That had a calming effect, because salt was an expensive commodity, enjoyed only by those who could afford it. And the rich would be taxed 4 per cent on their wealth. Now it was the bourgeois's and nobles' turn to feel the Crown's lash. Their loyalty would be proven by agreeing to these terms. Refusal was the first step towards treason.

Godfrey de Harcourt turned to those close to him. ‘He's using the taxes to bind us to him. Can we bargain for d'Aubriet's life by agreeing?'

Guy de Ruymont, who was one of the younger nobles and had a less forcible approach than most, was at de Harcourt's shoulder. He had befriended Blackstone when the young archer was still recovering from his wounds at Jean de Harcourt's castle all those years ago. He had helped close the gulf between common fighting man and nobles. It had been a slow journey of friendship, because his wife Joanne had lost family beneath the archers' arrows at Crécy and her hatred for the English intensified when she learnt Blackstone had been one of the men who had slaughtered French nobility. The glue that now bound the two families was her friendship with Blackstone's wife, Christiana, and their children. Joanne de Ruymont had been kind to Christiana over the years and at times seemed to have softened her animosity towards Blackstone. When there were feasts and celebrations de Ruymont and his family would share it with the Blackstones and their children often played together. They were less than half a day's ride from the Englishman's manor, which made them and the de Harcourts the closest neighbours.

He bent low, his voice barely audible above the rumble of disconcerted voices in the great hall. ‘He will want taxes, our loyalty and Bernard's life. We should swear it and plead for mercy.'

The barons considered what he said, and quickly nodded their agreement.

The older Baron de Mainemares said, ‘Swear it and test his intentions. If he then executes Bernard, we know he'll bear down on us all sooner or later. Swear it and we will deal with the consequences in our own time. Edward will invade from the north sooner or later. We buy such time as we need until he does.'

The King waited impassively, observing the hubbub as it went back and forth among the delegates, but the Norman lords said nothing. He knew he had cornered them and that they would be forced to swear their allegiance, at least for the time being, and that was all he needed, because events could alter men's decisions and loyalty. The more time he had to root out those who plotted against him, the better. He had already found one of the Norman lords was prepared to betray the others. A promise of greater wealth and additional domains that bequeathed his family and their successors riches for generations. Give a traitor such wealth that he would fear losing it and he was enslaved to the Crown.

He gazed at them, relishing the thought that they did not know there was a Judas among them.

John turned to face the Provost of Merchants, chosen by the leading citizens, who bowed his head and addressed the King directly.

‘Our loyalty is undiminished, despite the losses our beloved France has endured, but we see no point in protecting the realm by defence alone. Our great King should gather the army and call for the
arrière-ban
, to bring together every lord, knight and soldier and then to attack!'

There were cheers from the crowded hall. The Provost raised an arm, as if sweeping the wave of enthusiasm across the audience towards the King. ‘If France is to survive, the English must be defeated, not contained. Defeated and made to suffer such grievous losses that they dare not set foot again in France,' he said with a flourish.

‘Ignorant bastard knows nothing of war and killing,' said de Graville and spat casually down at those below him.

The hall settled into a murmur. The Estates had gained the great concession of having their own officers in charge of collecting the taxes. The business of the day was almost done. The King was about to rise, but as Godfrey de Harcourt moved to stand, Jean de Harcourt grabbed his arm. ‘No, Uncle. I'm head of the family. I'll do it.'

And before the seasoned campaigner could get to his feet Jean de Harcourt was standing, calling across the hall, his voice clear and challenging. ‘Sire!'

King John and those next to him looked at the man who now stood as if ready to throw down a gauntlet. The King raised a hand, indicating that de Harcourt should speak, and as the gesture ended he picked a piece of imaginary lint from his garment in a gesture of disregard that was not lost on the gathered Norman lords.

Jean de Harcourt ignored the slight. ‘Sire, we too seek a benevolent concession from your highness.'

‘We know, Count de Harcourt, but we are a prisoner of circumstance. Our hands are tied,' the King said, knowing full well what question would be put to him.

De Harcourt took a step forward, a pace away from the others, so that he might be seen even more clearly by the hundreds of delegates and advisers. Best to make his Norman sentiments known, in public, so that the King could be seen for the unjust monarch he was. ‘Sire, my father and I fought alongside your father at Crécy. We suffered and bled for France, as did Bernard d'Aubriet. He has caused you no harm. Release him, sire, is what we ask.'

‘The Lords of Normandy ask this of us?' the King answered.

‘We do, my lord,' said de Harcourt.

‘Then you side with a traitor of France,' said the King with the flicker of a smile.

‘Bernard d'Aubriet is no traitor. He has given more than most here for his country.'

The King gestured towards the gathered delegates. ‘These men represent France on our behalf, Count de Harcourt. Your friend surrendered vital land to our enemy. To France's enemy. What choice do we have but to punish him for placing Frenchmen in jeopardy?'

The King's gentle taunting was too much for Godfrey de Harcourt who stood and pointed at the gathered men. ‘You do France an injustice! These men in this hall are merchants and artisans who will go to the people and ask for money to pay for the army. It is not these
tax collectors
,' he said with as much derision as he could muster, ‘who will take up the sword, but men like Count d'Aubriet, who bind themselves to their honour!'

This time Simon Bucy could not prevent King John from giving rein to his temper.

‘Honour, Sir Godfrey! You speak of honour? You who sided against our father! Who fought for the English!'

A decade before Godfrey de Harcourt had risked execution by begging forgiveness from the old King. The defeated French monarch pardoned the lame knight's treason and settled for Godfrey's oath of allegiance and public humiliation. Wearing nothing but a shirt, and with a hangman's noose around his neck, Godfrey had been paraded before the court. King Philip was aware that the Norman barons would sip long from the cup of resentment if he put Godfrey to death. But Philip, like John who followed him, was a poor decision-maker, whose failings had been shown up starkly during the English invasion – and sparing the duplicitous Godfrey de Harcourt was certainly a mistake. Ten years after the battle of Crécy, the traitor's heart was about to turn again.

Godfrey de Harcourt was not to be cowed by an intemperate King cocooned by such self-serving men as Bucy. ‘Honour is every man's creed as he understands it. I fought your father because of a wrong done against me. One of his favourites was given my lands. My honour demanded I sided with he who would help me recover them. If honour is our shield then pride is our downfall. I begged forgiveness. I was humiliated. I bore myself through these streets of Paris in nothing more than an undershirt with a halter around my neck. I prostrated myself before your father!'

‘And he forgave you!' said King John.

‘He forgave me because he knew that if justice was to be served then he would need me to fight for the Crown again. You make the same mistake, my Prince: you kill a man who could be put to better use.'

‘His death is the better use!'

‘No!' Jean de Harcourt pushed his uncle aside, because he could see the King's mood was becoming dangerous. Simon Bucy was at the King's shoulder, his hand hovering close to his sovereign's arm in case the King went forward to face the Norman lords. The armed guards had shifted position, readying themselves. ‘Sire,' he said in a more measured tone. ‘When Bernard d'Aubriet was captured by the English last year his ransom was more than he could secure in a lifetime.'

Bucy's closeness and de Harcourt's even-handed manner mollified the King momentarily. ‘He gave his castle to the English in payment and now they occupy it. Our border is compromised,' said the King.

‘Every border has its weakness, sire,' de Harcourt answered.

‘Aye, as Normandy is to France!'

The direct insult to the Norman lords went unchallenged as Jean de Harcourt held up a restraining hand, warning the others to remain silent, but the challenge caused a rippling murmur among the delegates.

‘You gave Count d'Aubriet little choice,' de Harcourt said, raising his voice, wanting even those who stood at the back of the hall to hear his accusation. ‘You had confiscated his lands to recoup taxes, land that could have been redeemed to pay his ransom. He had no choice but to surrender what he had left. Give him his life, sire. An act of justice, an act that would show your gracious mercy.'

The King turned to face the packed audience, averting his gaze from de Harcourt and the others. ‘The punishment is just,' he declared. And then he faced the Normans. ‘All those who weaken France by betrayal and false fealty shall meet their reckoning.'

He strode from the hall. Bucy spared a non-committal glance towards de Harcourt.

‘By the blood of Christ, this King is a worthless man and a bad ruler,' said Jean de Harcourt, pushing his way through the crowd.

The men fell silent and gathered their cloaks. It would be hard to see d'Aubriet die. He was one of their own.

The crowd gathered, jostling and pushing forward to get closer to where the King's soldiers formed a barricade twenty feet in front of the scaffold. Godfrey de Harcourt limped to take his place with the other Norman lords and to give their friend sight of them. Even if he could not draw courage from their presence, his pride would be strengthened enough for him to die well in front of his friends.

The Place de Grève was almost full; the jugglers and street entertainers had taken what few coins they could, but the crowd was eager for more brutal entertainment. Men and women peered over the heads of others; children were lifted onto shoulders.

Jean de Harcourt could barely contain his seething anger. ‘These bastard peasants should be chased into the Seine. Let them drown like the rats they are.' He beckoned de Ruymont. ‘Send some of our retainers into the crowd, let them mingle. Have them keep their ears open for any words of dissent against the King. It will help us to know just how much unrest there is among the people of Paris.'

Guy de Ruymont nodded and pushed his way through the merchants and city officials who crowded behind them. Beyond the enclosure where the privileged lords and merchants stood to witness the execution, Raoul twisted his way through the crowd. He kept his short-bladed knife beneath his sleeve, and as soon as the drum beats started to announce the arrival of the condemned man, necks would crane and eyes would peer towards the place of execution, and then he would slip quickly through the crowd. By the time the nobleman's head was severed, so too would a handful of purses be separated from their victims' belts. An execution was a profitable time for those even less fortunate than an arrogant lord fallen foul of the King.

Bernard d'Aubriet was held in the Châtelet's ancient building, a small fortress that once guarded the entrance to the city. The passing years had seen the city walls extend and the Châtelet's role become redundant so it was turned into the state prison that also housed the Provost's offices. As its gates opened the crowds were already gathered to accompany d'Aubriet on his final journey to the scaffold. Stripped to his undershirt, wrists bound by coarse rope that chafed his skin, he gripped the side of the tumbril, not wishing to endure further humiliation by losing his balance and falling before the jeering crowds. The cart's iron-shod wheels rattled onto the streets within sight of the Seine and, as it passed the Grand Pont that led to the Royal Palace on the Île de la Cité, the King's banner and pennons fluttered mockingly, as if celebrating his victory over a Norman lord. D'Aubriet shivered from the chill breeze coming off the great river, but his trembling was also from fear of his fast-approaching death. They had at least granted him a priest, who assured him that the kingdom of heaven awaited his immortal soul, but it was his mortal body that would suffer beheading. A death in battle was forged in the fire of desperation and urgency, but the thought of this cold-blooded demise put ice water in his bowels.

Had he been a common criminal the tumbril would have continued along the Grand'Rue, north towards the plain beyond the city where such men were executed, but instead it turned east, away from the sprawling suburbs where merchants' bourgeois mansions flaunted their wealth beyond the butchers' stalls of Paris's market quarter and the stench it held. The narrow irregular streets gave the crowds an opportunity to spit and shout abuse at the condemned man, who kept his eyes resolutely on the streets ahead and the light that shone into the open space of the Place de Grève. At least his title meant that no torture had been inflicted upon him in the King's name; no part of his body had been torn with red-hot pincers and burning oil poured into the wounds. The privilege of his rank would give him a clean death. Not for him the crude hacking of the executioner's axe on a block, but a swift blow of the sword. The last thing he would hear, other than the crowd's gasp, would be the long blade whispering through the air.