Defiant Unto Death by David Gilman Page A

livestock. In attacking other men-at-arms or noblemen he deprived them of their own supplies, which meant that those peasants who farmed their lord’s land would suffer. Some might even starve. But they were of no consequence to him. His own people looked to him for protection and to ensure they got through the winter with enough food on their tables. That was his duty to them as much as they had theirs to him.
    Blackstone was held in esteem by those who knew his worth and feared by those who thought him a common butcher, elevated by the English royal house from the lowest ranks, renowned for their slaughter of the greatest knights in Christendom: the archers.
    In the chill barn where Guillaume cleaned his lord’s armour he glanced at Blackstone, who seemed to be concentrating too hard on sharpening his archer’s knife.
    â€˜Is Henry going to be so useless that he’ll be packed off to a monastery?’ Blackstone asked. The dumping ground for weaklings, half-witted children of the nobility or the inbred peasant.
    Guillaume knew Blackstone’s son was a worry to him. ‘My lord,’ he said, ‘he’s intelligent in his studies and well versed in other matters as befits an educated boy.’
    Blackstone had taught Henry to ride and swim, taking him out into the river’s deep pools so he could feel the cold, teaching him how to cease the shivering by concentrating his mind and ignoring his body’s suffering.
    â€˜He’s not that strong,’ Blackstone argued, wanting to hear that he was wrong and that his son had shown the squire a side to his nature that he himself had not seen.
    â€˜No,’ Guillaume answered, ‘he’s not, Sir Thomas. But he tries hard.’
    That was the truth, and he could always rely on his squire to be truthful. It was a virtue that sometimes bordered on the painful. Blackstone loved his son; cherished him as much as he adored the boy’s sister, Agnes. It was a joy kept hidden from most lest anyone think the poorer of him, though who that might have been was a question he could never answer. Still, showing too much affection to a son could be detrimental to the boy himself. He would be thought weaker than he was, derided by other children as being shielded and protected by an overprotective father. Eyebrows had been raised when he forbade the priest from whipping Henry because of his lack of progress in his Latin studies. What damned difference did it make if he could not learn the language of lawyers and monks? Unless he became one.
    â€˜I should spend more time with him. He’ll be nine this year.’
    â€˜Yes, lord. Let him feel the weight of your sword in his hand and experience what it is you feel when you grasp it.’
    Blackstone knew that the surge of power and violence that coursed through him when Wolf Sword lay in his grip and the blood knot was fastened around his wrist would never be experienced by his son. Those feelings had nothing to do with the balance or the finely honed steel of its blade.
    â€˜Aye, let him feel its weight, but find more time to spend with the training sword. He needs to feel what its edge can do to a careless boy who does not shield himself properly.’
    Guillaume began burnishing the armour again. He had no desire to contradict his sworn lord, nor did he wish him to see the doubt in his eyes. Henry lacked the grim determination that every boy needed to go through the punishment of training. ‘My Lady Christiana will notice any bruising, lord.’
    â€˜Then strike him where it will not show. He has to learn, Guillaume.’
    The squire faced his master. ‘I will lose his trust if I hurt him, Sir Thomas. He’s not—’
    â€˜Strong?’ Blackstone interrupted. ‘You think I don’t know that? I don’t care if he hates us both. If we do not teach him, then the day will soon arrive when he must go to a nobleman’s house and learn the harsh reality of