Free Defiant Unto Death by David Gilman

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.
    The Norman lords watched as the cart drew level with the scaffold’s steps. Soldiers stood aside as d’Aubriet found his footing on them – steadying himself; willing his legs not to tremble and expose his fear. The crowd roared when he appeared on top of the platform. The hooded executioner stood to one side as the captain of the guard released d’Aubriet’s bonds. He rubbed his wrists, eyes scanning the crowd, seeking out the brightly coloured tabards of his fellow barons. Sir Godfrey raised an arm.
    â€˜Bernard! Your friends are here!’
    The condemned man gave a rueful smile and nodded; then, as if eager for it to be over, he took the gold coin kept for him by the captain and handed it to the executioner, who cupped his hands like a begging bowl and dipped his head in acknowledgement. The executioner’s assistant stepped forward, but d’Aubriet made a small gesture declining his help and tucked the hair from the nape of his neck under the plain white linen cap. He turned once again to face his friends, ignoring the baying of the crowd, and held up his palms to them – man leaves this world empty-handed.
    A muffled drum roll began to silence the crowd.
    The cut-purse Raoul felt the wave of silence engulf the onlookers, their attention locked onto the scaffold and the kneeling man. The masked executioner quickly bent, took the sword from beneath its cloth covering and with practised concentration swung the blade.
    The sound of its edge biting bone was plain to hear. The crowd gasped. The dull thud of a head falling held their attention a moment longer.
    Raoul parted a purse from its owner’s belt as voices roared approval. The corpse jerked, spraying blood. No sooner had the boy cut the purse than he felt a man’s grip on his neck and looked up into the scowling face of one of the Norman lord’s men.
    Jean de Harcourt and the others had already turned their backs on the bloodied platform and saw nothing of a street urchin being apprehended.
    â€˜We must ready ourselves,’ Guy de Ruymont said.
    â€˜And Blackstone could be useful to us in these coming months,’ added the Lord de Graville. ‘Where is he?’
    They shouldered their way out of the throng, feeling the chill winter air even more. ‘I don’t know,’ Jean de Harcourt answered. ‘Raiding somewhere.’
    â€˜You don’t know? We might need him,’ said the older Norman. ‘He’s your man!’
    Sir Godfrey de Harcourt answered before his nephew. ‘He’s no one’s man; you should know that by now. Wherever he is, he’ll come home, and then we’ll approach him.’

4
    When Blackstone had recovered from his wounds, sustained those years ago at Crécy, and shown his skill with Wolf Sword, Jean de Harcourt had taken him to the arsenal at Clos des Galées, near Rouen, and paid for a suit of armour, its steel made from the best iron ore in the region, mined at Pont-Audemer. Impoverished knight that he was, the armour not only protected Blackstone but also proclaimed his status as a man with powerful friends. It was while journeying back to Castle de Harcourt on this occasion that he and Christiana discovered the place