Defiant Unto Death (14 page)

‘It's done, Thomas. You can't stop murder when people are set on it.'

Blackstone remained silent and threw a cloth for de Harcourt to wipe his face. His friend and mentor staggered to his feet and began to pull off his clothes until he stood in only his shirt. He slumped into a chair and poured wine, his eyes watching Blackstone over the rim of the goblet as he drank thirstily as if waiting for Blackstone's anger and disapproval.

Instead, he was tossed a bed covering for warmth. ‘You're no murderer, Jean. I know that.'

De Harcourt dragged the blanket over himself and turned his gaze away. The Norman countryside stretched to the horizon as far back as his inheritance reached – to the days of the Vikings. His noble family had served French Kings since the first holy scribe could be found to set down their history. That history had already been fractured by divisions, but despite the intrigue and conspiracy, all de Harcourt had ever wanted was for the Normans to remain autonomous and decide to which lord their fealty should be pledged. If only King Edward had seized the crown when he had the chance after the great battle at Crécy all those years before. If only.

Blackstone sat on a stool, watching his mentor and friend, whose involvement in his life was like a tapestry of his past. Each woven knot bound them together ever more tightly. After Blackstone's first great battle it had taken a year for his wounds to heal, and another before his strength returned, by which time the Great Pestilence had swept across Europe from the plague-ridden ports of Genoa and Marseilles. Back then the harsh winter had isolated the villages and towns around Castle de Harcourt, checking the plague's onslaught and extending life until the following spring. Fifty thousand died in the papal city of Avignon alone; even more in Paris. Throughout France black flags were raised above each village blighted by the plague. Bodies were tipped into mass graves; some stricken families were walled into their houses and burned.

But no plague threatened when the young Blackstone had been kept secure in the castle's safety on the orders of the English King. The threat at that time was from other Norman noblemen who loathed the archers who had slain so many of their countrymen. Blackstone had spent hours each day building strength back into his body. His broken arm meant he would never draw a war bow again, but would instead carry a shield that absorbed the heaviest of blows delivered by sword, axe and mace. It was these months of harsh training in sword skills under the tutelage of Jean de Harcourt that turned the archer into a fighting man-at-arms and neither de Harcourt nor any of the battle-experienced knights he counted as friends could best Blackstone in combat. Rather than risk injury they yielded when he beat them into submission. The relentless savagery of his attack reminded the French of other Englishmen they had witnessed in the van of battle: Cobham, Killbere and de Bohun, but they could not know that what seeped into Blackstone's muscle and sinew was caged anger and remorse. Each blow delivered with the sword seized from the German knight who had slaughtered his brother at Crécy was a desperate attempt to hack away his guilt for failing to protect him. It was a violence harnessed over the following years as he took town and village and left his mark on the French. And now he had been called to save his friend – from what?

‘I didn't raise my hand in time to stop it,' de Harcourt answered, and related the foul act. ‘We killed a man we thought was leading us into a trap. A clandestine meeting with the King's son was arranged. One of the others became suspicious. And we were mistaken in our suspicions.' De Harcourt shook his head. ‘We discovered the poor bastard was innocent of any deception. And worse still … a distant cousin … to Blanche. Sweet Jesus, she has no idea the lad was involved. If she ever finds out …' He swilled out his mouth again and spat. ‘We buried him and slunk home like feral dogs.'

Blackstone knew that his friend would never forgive himself for not stopping the killing. He was branded with the invisible mark of a thief: a thief who had stolen his own honour. There was no point in dragging out the man's misery. This was no time for sympathy.

‘Stay silent and she'll never know. Trust me, I know about keeping secrets that blacken the soul. For Christ's sake, he was a victim. You play this game of kings, Jean, and people will die. See it for what it is,' Blackstone said, deliberately provoking his friend to stir him from self-pity.

‘Don't you understand? It's not just the lad's death. The risks increase the more we gather other barons to our cause. We cannot find our way clear to remove this King. We are too few. We're helpless!'

‘You're weak!' Blackstone retorted. ‘You whimper. You stumble around like blind men in a dark room. Keep those you trust close to you. Be your own master. Sooner or later the King will discover just how much his son is prepared to listen to you, that you plot with Navarre to put him or the Dauphin on the throne. And then he will strike against you. He will wait for the moment. He wants you to put your own head in the noose. He's a hot-tempered fool but he will not strike against you until he is ready. Whatever path you take, keep your nerve. Choose your ground and fight.'

De Harcourt stood dazed, as if slapped by Blackstone's response. After a moment he nodded. He was a Norman lord and this common man he had entrusted with his friendship had brought him to his senses.

‘Get dressed,' said Blackstone, ‘I'll have food sent to the library.'

De Harcourt grimaced.

‘Not for you, dammit. I'm starving.'

The library was as it always had been. Crammed with scrolls and manuscripts, maps spread out across the slab of chestnut that served as a table, the room warmed by the arc of heat radiating from the stone fireplace as Blackstone finished the plate of food ordered for him. No mention had been made of what had happened in the bedchamber. Sober, de Harcourt seemed more like his old self, but there was still an unmistakable tension to him.

‘You were to be here in a week, Thomas, that's what you promised.'

‘I made no promise, Jean. It's what you asked for. I could not leave home before now,' said Blackstone, pushing the plate away.

‘A man's wife should not hold his shirt tail,' de Harcourt answered, pouring them both wine.

‘I have villagers to attend to and accounts to be tallied. And I wanted to spend some time with Christiana and the children.'

Blackstone watched his friend shrug and turn his attention to the flames.

‘There are bigger issues pressing upon you. I'll listen, but don't ask me to be involved.'

It was obvious that the Norman barons had not yet agreed on a course of action to support Charles of Navarre in his quest to usurp the French crown. Messengers rode daily between each of their domains, safe in the knowledge that French troops would not infiltrate their lands, but cautious enough to ensure that the messages were brief so that should one of the messengers fall by chance into the French King's hands, his knowledge of the information that he carried was limited. But no matter what course of action was eventually taken, de Harcourt would prefer to have Blackstone and his men, from those scattered towns across Normandy, to be ready to fight on their side should the need arise.

‘The Prince of Wales slashes his way across the south, Thomas,' said de Harcourt as he pushed another log into the fire. Blackstone was scratching one of the dog's ears as it rested across his knee, its wet snout comforted by the smell of his cloak. ‘And we, as docile as that hound, await King Edward's word of support,' he added, unable to keep the edge of irritation from his voice.

‘What of the others? Are they in agreement? You're in contact with them?' Blackstone asked.

‘Daily. All except de Graville …' He hesitated, uncertainty in his voice.

‘What about him?'

‘He spends time in Paris,' de Harcourt admitted.

‘Is he talking to the King?' Blackstone asked. Traitors could be found anywhere.

De Harcourt shook his head. ‘He courts the Dauphin and stays quietly in the background, whispering words of encouragement when he must. The Dauphin is our key to the door.'

‘But the Dauphin is mostly in Rouen. Not Paris.'

De Harcourt knew what Blackstone was asking. ‘De Graville is loyal, Thomas. He sent you his old servants as a goodwill gesture, didn't he?'

‘Then why Paris? Is there a favoured whore there?' Blackstone insisted.

‘De Graville!' De Harcourt laughed derisively. ‘He's not like our friend de Fossat, who rides away from that sour-faced wife of his each week to bed a merchant's daughter.'

‘William has a lover?' Blackstone said.

‘Aye. Milk-white tits and as shy as a rosebud in spring. I hear she blossoms at his touch. He's promised her father to help buy an ennoblement. No, de Graville goes to Paris to see a priest. You know how damned religious he is. Hard with it.' He raised a finger quickly. ‘And before you ask, it's the priest who confessed him at Rouen for twenty years and is now in Paris. A man and his confessor can be closer than a man and a favoured whore.' De Harcourt refilled their glasses.

Blackstone wondered how far de Harcourt and the other Norman lords would go to take the crown from John. Would they try to kill him, as rumour had it? He had heard that a plot by the King's cousin and son-in-law, Charles of Navarre, and other unnamed barons had been foiled months ago, but the fact that the King's son, the Dauphin, was allegedly involved had brought no recrimination. Hearsay was that he had bought off his son's debts in an effort to keep the boy close. Who knew? Rumours were as common as fleas on the dog that was snuffling his hand for attention.

‘Jean, you know as well as I do that Edward doesn't trust Navarre. You told me so yourself. How many times has the man made deals with Edward and then used those promises to negotiate a better contract with King John? Navarre plays both sides and you and the others can't see it.'

De Harcourt worried the burning logs with an iron bar. ‘We use him to influence the Dauphin. If the boy can be influenced by anyone it will be by Navarre. Charles is of royal blood – let's not forget that – and has charmed half the French court, so little by little we will get closer to securing what we want. I'm leaving tomorrow for a meeting at Guy de Ruymont's. Some of the others will join me.'

He stopped stabbing at the fire and threw down the bar in a small gesture of frustration. ‘Edward will see that Navarre's charm and silver-tongued persuasion will yield us the crown. We will use Navarre to help us convince the Dauphin that he should rule in his father's place or we will let Charles settle the crown on his own head. Either way we will triumph – and we Normans will at last have control of our own destiny. What Edward must do is invade and come at King John hard and fast through Normandy – the Prince of Wales in the south and Edward in the north. We'll deliver Normandy to him and I swear even more French lords will come onto our side,' he said, flopping into the fireside chair. He savoured the comfort that there had been no incursion into any Norman territories after the news of Blackstone's success, which had deprived King John of a strategic garrison, and which had allowed the Gascons to go on and secure an even greater victory.

‘It's a sign, Thomas.' De Harcourt pushed his boots onto the hearth. ‘John's weak, he has no money; the best he can do is to fortify Paris. Why do you think he had Bernard executed? He needs the people and the merchant's guilds ready to fight. But you hurt him. You took his money and stung his pride and weakened him. And he can do nothing about it. Nothing!' he said with barely contained triumph. ‘We will finish this King if we can convince Edward to come sooner rather than later. We are starving John of taxes. None of us here will pay.'

Blackstone eased the dog away and leaned forward. The Normans were blinding themselves to reality. ‘That's the wrong decision. That will give him further excuses to find a way to strike at you, and withholding your taxes is treasonable. You escalate the stakes unnecessarily. Pay what you owe. That buys you more time and gives him no cause.'

Jean de Harcourt looked at the man ten years his junior; long gone was the boy he had trained to become a man-at-arms. This weather-beaten knight before him had survived and succeeded where many thought he would die in failure. He had a good head on his shoulders that worked as deftly as his sword. ‘We should have made you our ambassador to Edward. You see the issue clearly and quickly. You're right; I'll ensure some of them pay, as a showpiece. That's all. Not support. We will suffocate his treasury, but would he dare risk sweeping us aside without an army?'

He needed Blackstone to join them, but Blackstone was right, they were too fractured in their conspiracy. All the greater reason to persuade him. De Harcourt weighed his words carefully. ‘Thomas, the King can raise an army of thirty thousand if he calls for the
arrière-ban.
Our barons have only a few hundred, mostly peasants, a handful of fighting men. You can see our problem.'

What Blackstone could see was that the Norman lords were playing with fire and that he was in de Harcourt's debt for his friendship and protection all these years. ‘Then pay what he asks and keep him at bay as long as you can,' he answered. Blackstone had no desire to be drawn into his friend's conflict. ‘Do as you think best, Jean. Navarre has troops. He can bring them on ships from the south to Normandy ports; he has garrisons here, he has the support of the other lords. You don't need me.'

He could see that de Harcourt would not hold onto his patience for long and he did not wish to strain their enduring friendship – a spirited friendship that had often seen disagreement, but the two men's mutual respect formed as close a bond as a sword to its scabbard.

‘You hold your towns in the name of Edward—'