Defiant Unto Death (11 page)

Bucy strode towards the altar and the candlelit figure of the suffering Christ. There was little humility within Simon Bucy – he was a political survivor – but he bent his knee. The Norman lord who was to betray his friends settled onto a bench. Bucy rose and approached him. He pulled his own cloak tighter around himself, the chill damp of the chapel penetrating his old bones, although he felt a gratifying sense of warmth at being another step closer to finding the means of destroying Thomas Blackstone. Neither man spoke for a few moments and Bucy sensed that this Norman was teetering in his betrayal.

‘Are we to sit in silent prayer?' he prompted, his breath pluming in the chilled atmosphere.

‘The garrison at Saint-Clair-de-la-Beaumont has fallen. Blackstone seized it,' said the traitor. A brutal hammer blow that had the desired effect.

Bucy's eyes widened; then his shoulders slumped. A vital stronghold had fallen and Bucy was the one who would have to break the news to the King.

‘I have the name of a man you can use to entrap and kill Blackstone,' the traitor said. ‘But I want the King's assurance that I and my family will be granted protection.'

Bucy recovered quickly. ‘It is I who will ensure your protection. That you and I meet is a gesture of the King's gratitude. Tell me what you have so we may rid ourselves of your Norman troublemakers and the damned Englishman.'

The Norman wiped a dribble of snot away. The cold air was as punishing as Lent. ‘I have two sources that I can use against Blackstone. One is someone close to him.'

‘Who?' Bucy asked.

‘That is for me alone to know. But it is someone that the Englishman or his family would never suspect.'

‘Very well. Who is the other?'

‘Years ago I was at Castle de Harcourt where Thomas Blackstone was being sheltered after suffering injuries at Crécy. The old King heard that an Englishman was there and sent men to seize him but de Harcourt tricked them and handed over a wounded messenger that Blackstone had rescued from a mob in one of the villages. The King's men took him but he died less than a day later. It was a good trick and Blackstone was saved.'

The Norman was taking his damned time. Leaking the story like a barber surgeon bleeding the sick. Bucy kept a rein on his impatience, but there was no soft cushion to sit on, and the cold stone floor made his legs ache. That the traitorous Norman could not have chosen a ride in the countryside beyond the city walls was annoying, but his actions reflected the fear and uncertainty that he felt. Perhaps, Bucy thought, being in sight of the tortured son of God, who died for mankind's sins, offered some solace – and if that was the case then perhaps this Norman hoped his own sins, now witnessed, would be forgiven. Bucy almost shrugged as he thought of it: forgiveness was not his to give, so let it be in the hands of the Almighty.

‘Yes, we know Thomas Blackstone leads a charmed life, but how does that event so many years ago help us now?'

‘It is a case of understanding where the seeds of fear are planted,' said the Norman. ‘And then you harvest the crop.'

‘Quite so,' Bucy answered, ‘but my fear is that I'll be catching my death if I sit in this dank place much longer.'

‘Too much soft living, my lord.'

‘A state of comfort I intend to continue,
my lord
.'

The traitor held back any further retort. ‘There was a man who rode with the King's mercenaries that day. He was an underling then, a scab on the arse of the routiers; but he has power now; he has built a raiding band of routiers. And he can be bought.' He paused, letting Bucy's thoughts churn a moment longer. ‘This man is the weapon you use to kill Blackstone.'

Bucy tasted the pleasure of imminent success. Could he use this man to destroy the King's enemy without the King being involved? The King might still have a chance to negotiate with the barons once the threat of Blackstone had been removed. Events might then unfold that could force the Norman lords to yield their ambitions with the English crown and Charles of Navarre and swear fealty to John.

The traitor leaned forward. ‘I know where he is. Send for him – and he will come to you.' His voice fell to a whisper. ‘But be careful. Be guided by fear. He is the great destroyer.'

Blackstone seldom ventured beyond the walls of the manor without taking a diversion through the kitchen. Scent-laden steam filtered through the open window and the sound of ladles scratching iron pots as the pottage was stirred always brought back childhood memories. If ever there could be contentment in his life it was here, at home.

He stepped inside to find four boys from the village preparing trenchers of coarse-grain bread ready to receive the topping for Blackstone's men. As he entered, the boys stopped what they were doing and bowed their heads and when Beatrix caught sight of him she dipped her knee. The kitchen was a domain of its own; Christiana seldom went into it, but Blackstone did not care for servants to rule without an occasional challenge.

The heat from the fire and the steaming pots made Beatrix's face seem more flushed than usual. She seldom saw Blackstone even when he was not on campaign and had to gather herself for a moment, not wishing to be seen flustered in front of the kitchen boys.

‘Beatrix, the men are hungry, so I pray you won't be offering salted fish; we've had a belly full of that,' he said, smiling at her. But she was a peasant Frenchwoman who had no understanding that her English lord's ways meant his words were often spoken in gentle jest. It was better not to try and interpret them in any other way than what she heard.

‘You will have pottage and mutton, my lord.'

‘No white sauce or beef?' he said, once again gently mocking her.

Beatrix scowled. ‘There's never been delicate food from this kitchen except when my Ladies de Harcourt and de Ruymont have visited and then my mistress commands me to serve fine cuts with a sauce. You've no need to worry about your men, Sir Thomas. They'll bed down in the straw with full bellies and sleep like farting pigs.'

She fussed the boys and gave a gentle slap to the back of the head of one of them, urging them to carry on with their duties and to lower their eyes when their lord and master came into the kitchen.

Blackstone looked around the shelves laden with pottery storage jars. There was honey and butter and he could smell mint and sage, and one of the boys was grinding fresh garlic with the pestle and mortar. In a cool corner of the kitchen there was wine and olive oil that had been traded with merchants or taken on one of his raids. He dipped a finger in a jar of congealed honey and sucked the cloying sweetness to the roof of his mouth. There was an astringent tang of herbs that tasted like rosemary and lavender. He grimaced. There were delights to be had from having a home surrounded by the richness of its countryside, but this was not the best honey he had tasted. Beatrix could blend seasoning to suit most palates when guests visited, but Blackstone's requirements for food remained simplicity and quantity. He swallowed and scraped a finger across the roof of his mouth, then reached for a morsel of meat.

‘Put venison on the table as well. They deserve it,' he said. ‘I have Gascons with me, so make sure there's extra garlic and they'll have ale instead of cider, but keep the cider ready because they'll have a thirst on them. You've been told how many men?'

‘Aye, Sir Thomas. And we've made up a balm for those with any wounds,' she said, taking from him the jar whose contents he had just tasted.

Blackstone hid his foolishness as Beatrix reclaimed her authority in the kitchen. A fighter knew when to retreat and Blackstone left the heat of the kitchen for the cool air of the open fields. There was a wall to be built, and his skill in choosing and laying the stones was a welcome distraction. He remembered that there had been some unhappiness from the men who served in the kitchen when Beatrix came to the house, shuffling down the road with her bundle on her shoulder, bent as double as Old Hugh, whom she followed. Where one was sent the other trailed behind, and so Christiana inherited not only a steward to look after Blackstone's affairs while he was away fighting, but a cook from Lord de Graville's castle, a woman, ruddy-faced from years standing over flames and steaming pots, with broken veins in her face that crawled like rivers on a map. Thirty years in the kitchens was experience that would benefit the Englishman and his wife, de Graville had decided. It was a known fact among the French noblemen that the English scorched their food and ate coarse bread, and if Christiana insisted on breaking tradition by breastfeeding her children, then it would do no harm to have a woman cooking in the kitchen rather than a male servant. And Lord de Graville had not gifted the servants simply out of the goodness of his heart or a wish to help Blackstone and his wife in their new home. The servants were old and their strength would soon fail, and then they would be mouths to feed without any return of work.

But Beatrix and Old Hugh had shown a willingness to serve their new master with what seemed to be grim determination. Perhaps it was the generosity with which Blackstone and Christiana governed their house. There was firm rule, but both Christiana, the daughter of a penurious knight, and Blackstone, a village stonemason whose strength and courage had brought him honour, understood how peasants could be treated. Beatrix had proved more competent than expected. Her previously undernourished body gained weight and, despite her slender frame, she had no difficulty hauling the chains above the great fireplace in the kitchens when meat had to be smoked and roasted, or when lifting the cauldrons of boiled ham or pottage when Blackstone fed his men.

Christiana saw to it that older children from the village were employed to fetch and carry and scrub floors in the kitchens, and the discontent among the men who would have served as cooks was soon quelled when Blackstone suggested they might prefer to return to being bondsmen rather than have the freedom he had given them. Over time the Blackstone domain became productive and well organized, its master liking nothing better than taking his son into the forests with Guillaume, showing Henry the tracks of fox and wolf while they hunted venison and boar whose meat was smoked or salted for the winter months. The manor's grain stores had been repaired and were dry and airy, keeping the bushels free of mould. Old Hugh supervised the crop rotation, instructed the blacksmith and beat the stable-hands if they were not diligent in their duties. He was as tireless as his master. There was little time for rest except on holy days and special occasions when the peasants did not work. But on any of those days Blackstone was seldom behind the stone walls that surrounded the courtyard. The outlying domains of the Norman lords offered him protection, but he created his own defences, cutting back the treeline, using the timber as a palisade that created an additional barrier to anyone wishing to strike suddenly. A stream had been dammed to form a small lake with sluice gates, where fish bred and were caught when the winter frosts were not too heavy. It had all taken great effort because he was so often absent, but the rewards were there for all to see.

Blackstone remembered the ruined manor when they first rode into the weed-grown courtyard. They had both worked like peasants to clear it, and the villagers gradually submitted to his promise of protection. Over the months that followed Christiana decorated their chambers with tapestry and silk, covered floors with carpets that Blackstone brought home from his raids on French lords. Her own resourcefulness was often tested, not least when Blackstone was away fighting. Once, a thief had slipped through Blackstone's patrolling soldiers; she had remained calm despite the desperate man menacing her with a knife. She talked to him until he eventually agreed that she would have him fed and given food for the road. She gave him her word to cement the promise. When the man had gorged and had a sack of supplies given to him, Blackstone's men held him, ready for their lord's return and the hanging that was sure to follow. Christiana demanded they release him. Her word was Blackstone's bond as well as her own. Reluctantly they did as she ordered but, like all vagabonds, he left a mark on a stone near the manor, a sign to tell others like him that there were easy pickings to be had with the lady of the house. The next thief who slipped through the kitchen window held Beatrix at knife point, but this time Christiana summoned the sentry. The promise she made the intruder was also straightforward. Harm the cook and he would be hanged, drawn and quartered by Count Jean de Harcourt, on whose land the thief had trespassed in order to reach Blackstone's domain, or surrender and be hanged on a full stomach without mutilation. The thief surrendered, she fed him, and had him strung up at the crossroads. No thief ever again entered the manor's land.

The handful of soldiers who served in the village were never idle, often working alongside their sworn lord as he reinforced broken walls, or carted fresh stone for another. They were low-caste men; some had committed murder; all had served in one army or another. Some were deserters, others men displaced by fractured treaties, but as Blackstone seized towns and garrisoned them with soldiers drawn by his reputation, he handpicked some of the basest characters to settle in his village with their women. Such men, he knew, would fight with great viciousness in defence of the privilege bestowed on them. Their worth had been proven on the occasions when the King sent marauders into the duchy. The Norman lords would send word to Blackstone and it was men from his village who would ride out and do the killing. It was a strange relationship between the English knight and these men, but he had shown a firm hand and paid them well and they served as his first line of defence should intruders ever slip through the forests and assault the village. The domain served them all and its master was unrelenting in his determination to see it prosper further still. He wondered if the time might come when the violence between France and England would cease and that King Edward would relinquish his desire for the French crown. Even if such a thing came to pass, the killing would not stop in such places as Brittany and Gascony, because local lords would feud and the last thing men trained for war wanted was peace.