Devil's Brood

CHAPTER NINE

July 1173

Rouen, Normandy

Letter from Rotrou, Archbishop of Rouen, to Eleanor, Queen of England:

Greetings in the search for peace.

Marriage is a firm and indissoluble union… Truly, whoever separates a married couple becomes a transgressor of the divine commandment. So the woman is at fault who leaves her husband and fails to keep the trust of this social bond… A woman who is not under the headship of the husband violates the condition of nature, the mandate of the Apostle, and the law of Scripture: “The head of the woman is the man.” She is created from him, and she is subject to his power.

We deplore publicly and regretfully that, while you are a most prudent woman, you have left your husband… You have opened the way for the lordking’s, and your own, children to rise up against the father.

We know that unless you return to your husband, you will be the cause of widespread disaster. While you alone are now the delinquent one, your actions will result in ruin for everyone in the kingdom. Therefore, illustrious queen, return to your husband and our king. In your reconciliation, peace will be restored from distress, and in your return, joy may return to all. If our pleadings do not move you to this, at least let the affliction of the people, the imminent pressure of the church and the desolation of the kingdom stir you. For either truth deceives, or “every kingdom divided against itself will be destroyed.”…

And so, before this matter reaches a bad end, you should return with your sons to your husband, whom you have promised to obey and live with. Turn back so that neither you nor your sons become suspect. We are certain that he will show you every possible kindness and the surest guarantee of safety…

Truly, you are our parishioner as much as your husband. We cannot fall short in justice: Either you will return to your husband or we must call upon canon law and use ecclesiastic censures against you. We say this reluctantly, but unless you come back to your senses, with sorrow and tears, we will do so.

Eleanor did not reply.

The Bishop of Worcester’s ship approached the Norman coast at dusk and anchored in the Seine estuary. Two days later, Roger disembarked at the Rouen docks, and he was admitted to the king’s riverside castle as the noonday sun reached its zenith. As usual, he traveled with only a small retinue, and they were quickly settled in. Roger then went in search of his cousin the king.

He soon learned that Henry was absent, off hunting in the Roumare Forest. The great hall was empty, the inner bailey all but deserted. He assumed that the barons with Henry were part of the hunting party, and Archbishop Rotrou would be found in his own palace close by the great cathedral. But there was something eerie about the silence, the lack of the customary hustle and bustle and organized disorder that heralded the king’s presence. Not wanting to go back to his cramped, stifling chamber, he found himself wandering aimlessly about the castle grounds, as if movement could keep his troubled thoughts at bay.

Had Fortune’s Wheel ever spun so wildly? His cousin had begun the year as the most powerful king in all of Christendom, only to be struck down by one calamity after another. The betrayal by his queen and sons had opened the floodgates, inundating him in wave after wave of defections and desertions. Anjou and Maine were, for the most part, loyal, but Brittany, England, and Normandy were in peril, and Roger could not help wondering if Henry was being punished for the death of the Church’s newest saint, Thomas of Blessed Memory.

Roger’s own nephew, the Earl of Chester, had joined the Breton rebels. The Earl of Leicester, son of Henry’s former justiciar, was with Hal, as was his cousin, the Count of Meulan. The Chamberlain of Normandy had treacherously gone over to the enemy, bringing with him more than one hundred armed knights. The Earls of Derby and Norfolk had thrown in their lot with the rebels, and other English lords were under suspicion, including Roger’s elder brother William, Earl of Gloucester. For the most sinister aspect of rebellion was that the king’s vassals need not openly declare for Hal to do Henry harm; they need only do nothing. And that was what many of them were choosing to do, waiting to see who was likely to prevail, father or son.

England was rife with rumors and speculation, fed by the news coming out of Normandy. In June a two-pronged assault had begun upon the eastern border. Philip d’Alsace, the Count of Flanders, and his brother Matthew, the Count of Boulogne, were laying siege to Driencourt while Louis led a French army against Verneuil. Should these two fortresses fall, the road to Rouen would be open to them. As alarming as that was, Henry’s English supporters were alarmed, too, by his apparent inactivity. He’d been at Rouen for more than three months, the longest he’d ever been in one place during his entire reign, and by all accounts, he’d been passing most of his days hunting deer, not rebels.

Concern for Henry’s mental state had been one of the reasons for Roger’s trip to Rouen; the other was the cloud of suspicion hanging over his older brother. He did not want William to be tarred with Hugh’s brush, nor did he want his sister, Maud, to be banished from royal favor. It was not her fault that her son had turned to treason, and he hoped to make Henry understand that.

The sun was high overhead, radiating heat rarely felt in England, and Roger was heading back to the great hall when a shout echoed from the battlements: riders coming in. He halted, hoping it might be Henry returning from the hunt. It wasn’t, but the new arrival was a welcome one: William de Mandeville, the Earl of Essex.

Once they’d exchanged greetings, Willem turned his horse’s reins over to his squire, smiling when Roger asked why he’d not gone hunting with the king. He’d been meeting with some of the routiers, he explained, as a new contingent had just arrived from Brabant.

Roger was not surprised to hear that, for he knew such mercenaries were the backbone of his cousin’s army. Rather than relying upon the grudging military service given by his vassals, Henry preferred to hire professional soldiers, and such men were always easy to find. Despite the disapproval of the Church, routiers from Brabant and Flanders and even Wales were available for those lords with enough money to engage them. Debating that point with Roger, Henry had insisted that routiers made superior fighters because they could be mobilized at once, they would serve as long as they were paid, their desire for plunder gave them enthusiasm for their work, and their fearsome reputation often weakened enemy morale. Roger had not been convinced by his cousin’s arguments, for he still thought it immoral for a man to earn his living by killing fellow Christians. But now he felt a flicker of relief, so worried was he about Henry’s plight. At least he’d have routiers on hand for the defense of Rouen should it come to that.

“I hope you are bringing good news about the siege of Leicester,” Willem said, and Roger was pleased to reply in the affirmative. Henry’s justiciar, Richard de Lucy, and his uncles, Rainald and Ranulf, had been besieging the city and castle of the rebel Earl of Leicester since early July, and Roger was now able to tell Willem that the townspeople had surrendered. The castle still held out and a truce had been struck till Michaelmas. Roger’s other news was not as encouraging, though. De Lucy had ended the siege of Leicester Castle in order to hurry north, where the Scots king had been staging bloody border raids.

“Now it is your turn, Willem. The last we heard in England, the sieges of Driencourt and Verneuil were still continuing. Tell me they have not fallen.”

“I would that I could. Driencourt fell to the Counts of Flanders and Boulogne last week, and they moved on to Arques. The siege of Verneuil still goes on. The town is composed of three wards, called burghs, each with its own walls and ditch. The French have taken the first two, but the third and the castle still hold out.”

Roger stared at the other man. “Jesu, how can you sound so calm? Arques is less than twenty miles from Rouen!”

“First of all, Rouen is well defended, no easy prize for the taking. Secondly, the Flemings suffered a great reversal at Arques. The Count of Boulogne took an arrow in the knee, and the wound has festered. His brother was so distraught that he halted their advance whilst Matthew’s injury is treated.”

Roger did not see that as such a “great reversal.” He’d met the Count of Flanders, and he thought Philip was the most formidable foe that Henry was facing, far more ruthless than Louis. How long would his brotherly concern last?

“I do not understand why Harry has taken no action! Why does he linger here at Rouen, doing nothing? Why did he not try to relieve the sieges of Verneuil or Driencourt?”

Willem’s smile was one of patronizing patience; he was wryly amused that people were always so quick to make uninformed judgments about military matters. As clever as Roger was, had he ever led an army, planned a campaign? “The king was wise enough to see that he had to wait for his foes to move first. Beset on so many sides, he has to fight a defensive war, and he understood from the first that Normandy must be protected at whatever cost. If he were to lose Normandy, many of his English barons with lands on this side of the Channel would join the rebellion to save those estates. Moreover, he’d be forced to choose between England and Anjou if Normandy was taken.

“Trust me, Roger, it has not been easy for him to wait like this. He is a man accustomed to seizing the initiative. Trust me, too, that he has not been ‘doing nothing.’ He fortified all his border castles, often using his hunting as a means of sending confidential messages or holding clandestine meetings. He has more than five thousand Brabancon routiers at his command, and he made a swift, secret trip to England this spring to bring back money from the royal treasuries at Winchester and Northampton, so he can hire more if need be. When the time is right, he’ll strike back, and when he does, I have no doubt that he will prevail.”

“From your lips to God’s Ears,” Roger said lightly, but he was greatly reassured by Willem’s cool certainty, for he respected the earl’s grasp of strategy and battle lore. “Tell me, Willem. How is Harry coping…truly?”

Willem shrugged. “It is hard to say. He has never been one for confiding, has he? I am guessing that he draws strength from his anger, at least during the daylight hours. How he fares alone at night is between him and the Almighty.” The sun was hot upon his face and he touched Roger’s arm, saying, “Let’s find some shade in the gardens, and you can tell me about the new Archbishop of Canterbury’s thwarted consecration.”

Roger grimaced. “That was a disaster. All was in readiness for the ceremony and on that very day we got a letter from Hal, claiming that the archbishop’s election was invalid because he’d not given his approval and warning us that he’d made an appeal to the Holy Father. So we still lack an archbishop until we hear from Rome, which is most unfortunate-although I’ll admit that I thought the monks had made a poor choice in Prior Richard. Oh, the man is laudably inoffensive, with the virtue of realizing his limitations, but he is hardly a worthy successor to St Thomas.”

Willem thought that Prior Richard’s appeal might have been the fact that he was so very different from the volatile, intense, martyred archbishop, but he was too tactful to say so to Roger, knowing he and Becket had been friends. Opening the gate into the gardens, he asked if there was any chance that Hal’s ploy could succeed and the Pope take his side.

Roger shook his head. “I see Louis’s fine hand in this appeal to Rome. He was outraged that Harry was able to reconcile with the Church so easily, and he’d like nothing better than to stir up more trouble between Harry and the Holy See. But the Pope thought it was in the Church’s best interests to make peace with so powerful a king and he-”

Roger stopped in mid-sentence, distracted by the sight meeting his eyes. Five boys were racing around the gardens, laughing and shrieking. The object of their amusement was a young blindfolded woman, laughing, too, as she stretched her arms out, trying to catch them as they danced around her. Both men smiled, for they’d often played Hoodman Blind themselves in their youth. Roger assumed that the children were some of the sons of the nobility being educated in the king’s household, and as he drew closer, he recognized one of them from Henry’s Christmas Court at Chinon: his uncle Ranulf’s youngest son, Morgan.

Morgan recognized him, too, and ended the game by crying out, “Cousin Roger!” As he dashed over to embrace his kinsman, the other children began to back away, seeing that the fun was over. The woman removed her blindfold, and at once dropped down in a deep curtsy. She was very pretty, with blue eyes and fair skin, too well dressed to be a nursemaid. She was obviously known to Willem, though, for he strode forward and gallantly kissed her hand, then glanced back at Roger with a glint of mischief.

“My lord bishop, may I present the Lady Rosamund Clifford? My lady, this is the king’s cousin, the Bishop of Worcester.”

Rosamund flushed as she and Roger exchanged stilted greetings, and she quickly made her excuses, her withdrawal from the gardens so hasty that it was practically an escape, the boys trailing in her wake. Roger gazed after her, taken aback. So this was the infamous Rosamund Clifford.

Reading his thoughts, Willem grinned. “She is not as you expected, is she?”

“No, she is not,” Roger conceded. “I thought she’d be more…more sultry,” he said. “Eleanor was a great beauty, after all, when she was younger. I suppose I imagined Rosamund to be cast in the same mold.”

“I know. The lass is comely enough, but she is no Cleopatra. She is soothing, though, and mayhap that has its own charm.” Willem laughed softly. “Much has been said of the queen, but I daresay none have ever called her ‘soothing,’ have they?”

“Indeed not,” Roger agreed. He’d heard that Henry was now openly living in sin with Rosamund, and while he deplored adultery, of course, he could understand why the king had taken such a defiant stance in light of the queen’s betrayal. “Well, at least there is one who is benefiting from these tragic events.”

“You mean Rosamund? I doubt it. The world is full of women eager to be the king’s concubine, but Rosamund does not seem comfortable in that role.”

“That is to her credit,” Roger said, thinking sadly that there were no winners in this wretched family war then, only losers…and with the worst still to come.

Roger went to bed early that evening, and had just fallen asleep when he was awakened with a summons from Henry, who was having a late supper with the hunting party. By the time he’d dressed and gone to the great hall, the meal was done, for Henry was never one to linger at the table. He impatiently cut short Roger’s formal greeting, saying, “Come with me, Cousin.”

Roger did, following him out into the inner bailey. The day’s heat had faded and the sky was a deep twilight turquoise, stars glimmering like scattered shards of crystal. It was a beautiful evening but Henry seemed oblivious to his surroundings. Even after they’d entered the gardens, he paid no heed to the fragrant roses, the scent of honeysuckle and thyme, or the soft bubbling of the fountain. Roger wondered if he remembered that the garden was Eleanor’s creation, hoped he did not.

“So,” Henry said, “have you brought me any good news from England? Or more bad tidings?”

The edge in his voice put Roger in mind of a finely honed sword blade, and he was grateful that he did have “good news” to offer. “I learned ere I sailed that the Scots king was retreating back across the border after failing to take Carlisle. The royal army was in close pursuit and burned Berwick in retaliation for the Scots ravages in Northumberland.”

He could not tell if Henry had heard that already; his expression gave away nothing. “The Scots king is a two-legged viper,” Henry said, after a long silence. “He offered to aid me in putting down the rebellion, providing at his own cost a thousand armed knights if I’d recognize his claim to Northumbria. I said no, but Hal was willing to promise that and more. From what I hear, he has been so open-handed with his new allies that if I died tomorrow and he had his victory, there’d be little left to govern.”

“All the more reason, then,” Roger said quietly, “to make sure that he does not win,” and Henry gave him a sharp, searching look.

“It gladdens me to hear you say that, Cousin. I would that all of your family shared the sentiment.”

Roger did not shrink from the challenge. “We are deeply shamed by my nephew Hugh’s treachery. But he is an aberration, Harry, a foolish youth easily seduced to folly. The rest of us remain loyal to the true king, to you.”

“I never doubted your loyalty, Roger. But what of your brother? Can you speak for him?”

“Yes, I can.” Roger moved closer so that light from the rising moon fell across Henry’s face. “My father was a great man, loyal to your mother and you until his last breath. It would not be too much to say that you might not have won your crown if not for his unwavering support.”

“I’ll grant you that,” Henry said. “But we were not speaking of my uncle Robert, may God assoil him. We were speaking of your brother William.”

“No one would call William a great man. If truth be told, I have always thought him to be a bit of a fool. But he is no traitor, Cousin. He is your liegeman and only yours. I bear a letter from him, assuring you of that.” Reaching into his tunic, Roger held a sealed parchment out and after a barely perceptible pause, Henry took it, tucking it away in his belt. “I have a message, too, from my sister. Maud would have you know that she was deeply grieved when Hugh joined the rebellion. It broke her heart.”

Henry wanted to believe Roger, for he’d always been very fond of Maud. But belief did not come easily to him these days. “I am sure you will understand if I have doubts about that, Cousin.”

“Because of the friendship between Maud and your queen? That was one more casualty of this accursed rebellion.” He decided not to push further. “Do you know where they are…your sons?”

Henry’s mouth curved down. “Hal has had a busy summer with the Counts of Flanders and Boulogne at the siege at Driencourt. The last I heard, Richard and Geoffrey were still in Paris, supposedly being looked after by Raoul de Faye-hardly the ideal choice for a guardian-so God only knows how they are abusing their newfound freedom. And my devoted queen continues to spin her webs from Poitiers.”

Roger sighed, having no words to assuage such bitterness. He chose, instead, to return to the conversation he’d had earlier that day with the Earl of Essex, for he needed to know that Henry shared Willem’s confidence. “Willem told me that the Count of Flanders has halted his march upon Rouen whilst his brother recovers from his wound. It surprised me that Philip should show such family feeling, for I always thought the man had ice water in his veins.”

“You are forgetting that Matthew is more than Philip’s brother. He is his heir, too.”

Roger had indeed forgotten that the Count of Flanders’s marriage was childless. Passing strange, he thought, that Philip and Matthew were both wed to nieces of Eleanor, the daughters of her dead sister, Petronilla. Harry was right about the queen’s webs; they covered half of Christendom. “Philip is a two-legged viper, too,” he said acidly, “for all that he poses as a champion of chivalry and knightly honor.”

“You do not know the half of it, Roger. Louis was stricken with his usual eleventh-hour misgivings, and when he realized that war was actually at hand, he began to waver like a reed in a high wind. My agents at the French court told me that it was Philip who bolstered Louis’s quavering resolve.”

“Harry…what happens if Verneuil falls to the French? Willem seems to think that Rouen could still hold out, but I’d rather not see England’s king trapped in a town under siege.”

“Neither would I,” Henry said dryly, “but Verneuil is not going to be taken. I recalled Hugh de Lacy from Ireland and sent him to Verneuil ere the siege began. If need be, he’ll hold the castle till Hell freezes over. But it will not come to that, not with Louis in command.”

Roger sensed that Henry was talking about more than the fate of Verneuil. “You expect to win this war, then,” he said, and Henry gave a short, harsh laugh.

“Should the day ever come when I cannot outwit or outfight Louis Capet, I’ll willingly abdicate.” Henry had begun to pace, crunching the gravel underfoot, for he still wore his hunting boots. “Archbishop Rotrou said he could almost believe Louis had cast a malevolent spell upon my family. That gives Louis too much credit. If he ever took up the Black Arts, he’d bewitch himself, as likely as not. I suppose the argument might be made that my sons are feeble-minded, and that could certainly apply to Hal, but I’ve seen no evidence that Richard and Geoffrey share his absurd faith in French honor.”

Roger hesitated, but the answer Henry was groping for seemed so obvious to him that he could not hold his tongue. “If you are searching for the sinister force behind this rebellion, Harry, you need look no farther than Poitiers.”

“My beloved wife, the Circe of Aquitaine.” Henry laughed again, and to Roger, it was like the sound of shattering glass. “Instead of turning men into swine, she turns my sons into rebels. But it was so damnably easy for her, Roger. That is what I do not understand. Why were they so susceptible to her poison?”

Roger did not know, and another silence fell as he watched Henry stride back and forth on the narrow garden walkway. He was somewhat surprised that the other man was willing to discuss his family’s treachery, but he was flattered, too, that Henry had chosen him as a confidant.

“Cousin…my confessor has another explanation for my recent trials and tribulations. He thinks that God is punishing me for Thomas Becket’s death.”

Roger’s jaw dropped. Almost at once he dismissed the claim that this “explanation” had come from Henry’s confessor, sure that he’d never have dared to suggest that to the king. He’d given up hope of ever hearing these words from his cousin’s lips, but now that he had, he was quick to seize this rare, precious chance to save a soul. “That same thought has occurred to me, too, Harry.”

That was not the answer Henry wanted. “Why?” he demanded. “That would make my penance at Avranches rather pointless, would it not?”

“How honest do you want me to be, Cousin?”

Henry frowned. “I asked you,” he said at last, “because you are a man of God and because you were the only one with the courage to tell me that you blamed me for Becket’s murder, that if I were not guilty, neither was I innocent. So, yes…I want you to be honest.”

“Very well. I do not think you are truly contrite, Harry. Oh, you said all the right things to the bishops and papal legates. But your actions send another message. Look at the bishops you recently selected to fill those vacant sees. Four of the six were men either actively hostile to Thomas or kin to those who were.”

Henry’s face had hardened, but he said tersely, “Go on.”

“This rebellion you are facing…it is inexplicable in so many ways. You yourself questioned how Eleanor could so easily have subverted your lads. And then there is her involvement. I am a student of history, Harry, and there is no shortage of tales of rebellious sons. But I know of no other queen who dared to rebel against her lord husband. So I have wondered how it came to pass, and I have wondered, too, if the Almighty has looked into your heart and saw that you have not truly atoned for your part in Thomas’s death.”

“Do not be shy, Roger. Hold nothing back.”

Roger ignored the sarcasm. “You asked what I thought, Harry. You are the only one who knows if I am right. But I would urge you to search your conscience, and if you do indeed repent Thomas’s death for all the wrong reasons, you must come to terms with that.”

“Do you know what I am thinking now? That I am very glad you are not my confessor.” Henry picked a rose from a nearby bush, idly tore off the petals and dropped them onto the grass at his feet. “There is one problem with your theory of divine retribution, Roger. If I accepted it, that would cast Eleanor as the instrument of the Almighty.”

Roger smiled, not at all discouraged, for he was accustomed to his cousin’s gallows humor. He’d planted a seed, one that might, God Willing, take root, and for now, he was content with that.

Henry had halted, head cocked to the side, and then Roger heard it, too, a familiar voice calling out, “My lord king!” They were turning toward the sound as Willem hastened into the gardens. “A messenger has just ridden in,” he said breathlessly. “The Count of Boulogne is dead!”

They crowded around Henry as he read rapidly by torchlight. When he looked up, it was with a chilling smile. “Count Philip was so stricken by his brother’s death that he has ended the campaign, is leading his army back into Flanders. It seems his chaplain and other churchmen told him that this was God’s punishment for stirring sons to rebellion against their father.”

There was a stunned silence and then the great hall erupted in cheers and laughter. Taking advantage of the turmoil, Roger slipped away. The castle chapel was empty, although candles still flickered and the scent of incense hung in the air. Approaching the altar, he knelt and prayed for the kingdom and for his cousin’s troubled family.

Hal might have been forgiven for thinking that war was good sport, as his initial foray was a highly successful one. He’d captured the castle of one of his father’s vassals, Hugh de Gornai, and had taken prisoner the baron himself and eighty of his knights. This was the first time that he’d bloodied his sword and it had been an exhilarating experience. After that, he joined the army of the Counts of Flanders and Boulogne, and that, too, was exciting, for he had great respect for Count Philip, who was widely known as a preudomme, a man of prowess, the highest compliment that could be paid in their world. When Driencourt Castle surrendered after a two-week siege, it only confirmed Hal’s giddy certainty that victory would soon be within their grasp.

But then Count Matthew was wounded at Arques, and within a few days, he was dead. That was a shock to Hal, for he’d genuinely liked the count, a cousin as well as an ally. Even more stunning was Count Philip’s sudden decision to end the campaign and withdraw to his own lands. Shaken and bereft, Hal had ridden south to Verneuil, in need of his father-in-law’s solace.

There he soon regained his emotional equilibrium. Louis had greeted him with flattering warmth, assured him that Count Philip would rejoin the campaign once he’d had time to grieve, and predicted that Verneuil was on the verge of collapse. Only the castle and one of the burghs held out and hunger was prowling the streets of the beleaguered town. It was just a matter of time, Louis said, until Verneuil was theirs.

That time seemed to have come on August 6, when a delegation of citizens ventured out under a flag of truce. Admitting that their people were woefully short of food, they asked Louis for a truce so that they could warn the English king that they must surrender if he could not raise the siege. This was normal practice, and Louis was compelled by the chivalric code to grant their request. He gave them only three days, though, an unusually brief respite. On August 9, the town must yield if Henry had not come to their rescue by then, and Louis in turn promised that their surrender would be on honorable terms, with no harm to the townspeople or their chattels or the hostages they offered up as proof of good faith.

Hal’s spirits soared with yet another triumph within reach, and the next two days passed quite pleasantly, for with military operations suspended, he and his knights amused themselves with bohorts, informal tourney games. As the sky streaked with the vivid colors of sunset, Baldwin de Bethune borrowed some dice and they cleared a space so they could gamble by firelight. Hal ordered a keg of wine to be brought out, declaring that a celebration was in order, for on the morrow the town would surrender and the castle would soon be forced to seek terms, too. He did not have a chance to enjoy his impromptu festivities, though, for it was then that he was summoned to the French king’s command tent.

As soon as he ducked under the canvas tent flap, Hal knew that something was wrong. The men were somber, their expressions troubled, and Louis was as white as newly skimmed milk. “He is here!” he blurted out, and Hal caught his breath.

“My father? I thought he was in Rouen!”

“He was,” the king’s brother Robert said testily, “but now he is at Conches with an army and he has sent us an ultimatum-that we either end the siege and withdraw or we do battle on the morrow.”

Hal’s stomach lurched, for he did not want to face his father on the battlefield. Louis had assured him that it would never come to that. As he looked at his father-in-law, it was obvious that Louis did not want to fight his father, either. A quick glance around the tent told him that few of the men did. Hal knew pitched battles were rare, for most lords and kings preferred skirmishing and sieges to risking all on one throw of the dice. But he sensed that there was more at work here than the usual military caution. His father cast a long shadow.

Louis was standing by an oaken trestle table. Reaching for a silver cup, he drained the wine in several deep gulps; Hal was startled to see that his hand was none too steady. “How did he get here in time?” Louis asked. “Blessed Lady, I only gave them three days!”

“How does he ever do it?” Robert snapped, for he was always ready to blame Louis when their plans went awry. “For twenty years he has been doing what mortal man cannot; you ought to be used to it by now.” He could feel Verneuil slipping away even as he spoke; he doubted that his brother had the backbone for a bloody confrontation, for the war without quarter that the English king would wage on the morrow.

“Be that as it may,” the Count of Blois said coolly, having little patience for Robert’s rancid jealousy in the best of times, “we must decide now how we shall respond to his challenge. It is not as if we have many options. Either we retreat or we fight.”

“Not necessarily.” Heads turned toward the speaker as the Count of Evreux stepped from the shadows into the light of Louis’s candelabra. Hal did not know Simon de Montfort all that well. A tall, balding, saturnine figure with piercing black eyes and a tongue like a whip, he was respected for his courage, but disliked for his arrogance and his slyness. Once he was sure that he had their attention, he said, “There is a third choice. Are you interested in hearing it, my liege?”

Louis did not like the count and did not trust him, either. But after a moment, he nodded. “Tell us,” he said, and de Montfort did.

When Hal exited the tent, he was surrounded by his knights, for rumors were spreading that the English king was at Conches and a battle was looming. They began to pelt him with questions, wanting to know if it was true. Hal brushed them aside. “Where is Will Marshal? Find him for me-now!”

They were alone in Hal’s tent, for he’d barred the others from entering. “Are the rumors true, my lord? Has your father come to the defense of Verneuil?”

“Yes, he is here.”

Will thought he was braced for it, but he still flinched, for this was his greatest fear. Hal was his liege lord, but so was Henry. To fight against the king’s men was not the same as drawing his sword against the king himself, the christus domini who’d been consecrated with the sacred chrism. Scriptures spoke quite clearly on that matter. For who can stretch forth his hand against the Lord’s anointed and be guiltless? “So we fight on the morrow,” he said bleakly.

“No…there will be no battle.”

Will blinked. “We are retreating, then?”

“No.” Hal’s throat was tight; he swallowed with difficulty. “The Count of Evreux reminded Louis that the townspeople do not yet know of their reprieve. He said we could take advantage of their ignorance, insist that they surrender as agreed upon.”

“That makes no sense. Do they expect King Henry to watch placidly as this takes place?”

“They…” Hal swallowed again, aware of a sour taste in his mouth. “The Bishop of Sens and the Counts of Blois and Champagne are going to my father tonight, asking for a day’s truce, and promising that Louis will meet with him on the morrow to negotiate an end to the siege. They will then summon the townsmen, tell them that their time has expired and they must surrender the town or their hostages will be hanged. My father’s army is encamped at Conches, about ten miles north of here, so by the time he learns that he has been deceived, it will be too late. The town will be ours.”

Will’s was an easy face to read, and Hal’s fair skin reddened. “Do not look at me that way. This was not my doing!”

“Did you protest?”

“Yes…” Hal ducked his head in embarrassment. “They laughed at me, Will. Louis’s brother and Simon de Montfort told me that I was still learning the lessons of war, that I was not seasoned enough to understand. They pointed out that guile is always an acceptable tactic, that ambushes are not dishonorable, that if the enemy can be tricked, so much the better. They reminded me that the first tenet of warfare is to lay waste the land, to burn the crops in the fields and torch the villages, to starve the enemy into submission. They said this was merely another stratagem…”

“And did you believe them?”

“No,” Hal confessed, “I did not. What they mean to do…it is not honorable, is it, Will?”

He looked so unhappy and vulnerable at that moment that Will felt a protective pang. Hal was his king, his companion, his comrade in arms, but there were times when he seemed like a younger brother, too, one in need of guidance and counsel. The answer he gave Hal, though, was utterly uncompromising, brutally honest.

“It is more than dishonorable. It is despicable and cowardly, and the French king will carry the shame of it to his grave.”

The Earl of Leicester had a castle at Breteuil, midway between Conches and Verneuil, but he’d fled at the approach of Henry’s army and Henry ordered the castle razed to the ground. He chose Breteuil as the site for his meeting with the French king, meaning to use the smoldering rubble to convey a message in and of itself. But the morning dragged on, and Louis still had not arrived.

Henry was stalking back and forth, casting frequent glances up at the sun, almost directly overhead by now. Willem and the Earl of Pembroke had just made a wager as to how much longer Henry would be willing to wait. Sauntering over to the king, he joked, “Seems like Louis overslept. I’d be willing to fetch a mangonel from Conches if you want to give him a wakeup he’ll not soon forget.”

“Do not tempt me, Willem.” Henry waved aside a wineskin being offered by one of his squires and shaded his eyes for another look at the sun. “Louis is prone to inconvenient attacks of conscience and remorse. Mayhap he is suffering from one this morn and is ashamed to face me after-Jesus God!”

Willem spun around, his eyes following Henry’s gaze. Billowing black clouds of smoke were spiraling up into the sky, coming from the south, from Verneuil.

Geoff had never seen a sight as sorrowful as the town of Verneuil. Much of it had been destroyed in the siege, and the one surviving ward was in flames. A few men were trying to drag tables and bedding to safety, and a few others had formed a bucket brigade in a futile attempt to fight the rapidly spreading fires. But most had gathered in small groups, watching in stunned silence as their homes and shops were consumed. Geoff was close enough now to see bodies lying in the street, and nearby a woman with a torn, bloodied skirt knelt in the dirt, weeping as she clung to a small, terrified child. The stench of death overhung the town, a sickening, rank smell of blood, urine, fear, and burning flesh, and Geoff would later mark this August Thursday in God’s Year 1173 as the day when he’d forever surrendered any youthful illusions about the glory and majesty of war.

The arrival of armed men in their midst panicked some of the townspeople, but others were too dazed to react, staring at Henry and his knights with hollow, empty eyes. But as the wind caught the king’s red and gold banner, one man stumbled forward to clutch at Henry’s stirrup. Gazing down into that upturned face, streaked with smoke and tears, Henry recognized him as the mercer who’d carried to Rouen the town’s plea for rescue, and he swung from the saddle.

“I tried to stop them, my liege, from opening the gates. I kept telling them that you’d sworn you were coming to our aid. But they feared for our hostages and they thought they could save themselves by surrender.” The man’s mouth had begun to tremble. “We did what the French demanded, but it availed us naught. They’d promised we’d not be harmed. Then their soldiers swarmed into the town like mad dogs, stealing whatever they could carry away. We’d not hidden our women, thinking they’d be safe. The hellspawn paid no heed to the pleading of respectable wives and mothers, dragged them from their houses into the street as if they were whores, and when their men tried to protect them, they were slain. And then they set the fires, so many that there was no hope of putting them out. Why did they do that, sire? Why did the French king not keep his word?”

Henry shook his head, so angry he could not trust himself to speak.

Willem had joined them, not wanting to interrupt the mercer’s anguished account of his town’s betrayal, but now he touched Henry’s arm, gesturing toward the castle. “The drawbridge is coming down.” As they watched, the gates were swung open and men came racing out, with the castellan, Hugh de Lacy, in the lead.

“Thank God you are here, my liege!” Gasping for breath, de Lacy fell to his knees before Henry, as much an act of exhaustion as one of obeisance. “But if only you’d come a few hours sooner. We could do nothing, had to watch from the battlements as the townsmen surrendered and that treacherous French Judas turned the town over to his soldiers for their sport. But we were dumbfounded when we saw what was happening in the French camp. They were pulling out, leaving behind tents, carts, livestock, even their mangonels and other siege engines. We’d expected them to launch another attack on the castle, and instead they were retreating!”

Getting stiffly to his feet, de Lacy winced, for he’d incurred several minor wounds in the defense of the castle. “It makes sense now, though. They saw your banners, my liege, and fled like rabbits, the craven whoresons. They’ll never get over the shame of this-”

De Lacy broke off, for his king had whirled and was running for his horse. The other knights were quick to follow. Watching as they galloped away from the burning ruins of Verneuil, the castellan shouted after them, “Catch the bastards! Make them pay!”

They did not return to Verneuil until nightfall. The castle garrison came out to greet them, but asked no questions. The torch-fire playing upon the weary, grim faces told them all they needed to know. “We’ve run out of most of our provisions,” de Lacy said to Henry, “but what we have is yours, my liege. We would be honored to give you shelter tonight.”

“That is kind of you, Sir Hugh,” Willem interjected, “but we will continue on to Conches where we left our supply wagons.” He wanted to get Henry away from Verneuil, knowing the sight of the town’s charred remains would only salt his wounds, but Henry gave him a quelling look and shook his head.

“No,” he said curtly. “We stay here tonight.”

Willem knew better than to argue. Taking de Lacy aside, he told him that they’d overtaken the French army’s rearguard and killed those they’d caught. But Louis and his knights had gotten across the border to safety. “For now,” Willem added coldly, and then told the castellan of the day’s treachery. De Lacy was outraged. If the town had been taken by storm, the French would have been justified in pillaging, raping, even burning it to the ground. But once they’d made a truce, they were honor-bound to keep it. And the deceit they’d practiced upon Henry was such a flagrant violation of the conventions of war that it threatened the very foundations of their society. Sworn agreements of respite and truce were like the Peace of God, ways that the Church and kings sought to avoid guerre a outrance — war to the extreme, to the death.

When men heard of the French king’s shameless duplicity, de Lacy snarled, they would not be willing to serve such a lord. Willem hoped that was so, but he had a more jaundiced view of his fellow men and their flexible concept of honor. “This,” he said tiredly, “will be remembered as a day of infamy.” And he went in search of Henry.

He found the king walking with Geoff through the wreckage of Verneuil, and fell in step beside them. They passed the blackened shells of houses and shops, an occasional body draped in cloth and awaiting burial. The flames had been extinguished but the wind still swept embers up into the air and they glowed in the dark like scorched fireflies. The night was hot and still. Now and then there came to them muffled wailing, muted sobs, the sounds of mourning. They walked for what seemed like hours to Willem, and in that time, Henry spoke only once, saying in a flat, tight monotone that went beyond anger, “I want this town’s walls rebuilt. Find men to see to it, Willem.”

“I will, my liege,” Willem said, and they continued on in silence.

From the twelfth-century Annals of Roger de Hoveden:

The King of France neither restored to the burghers their hostages nor preserved the peace as he had promised, but entering the town, made the burghers prisoners, carried off their property, set fire to the burgh, and then, taking to flight, carried away with him the burghers before-mentioned into France. When word was brought of this to the King of England, he pursued them with the edge of the sword, slew many of them, and took considerable numbers… But in order that these events may be kept in memory, it is as well to know that this flight of the King of France took place on the fifth day before the ides of August, being the fifth day of the week, upon the vigil of Saint Lawrence, to the praise and glory of our Lord Jesus Christ, who by punishing the crime of perfidy, so speedily avenged the indignity done to his Martyr.