Devil's Brood

CHAPTER TWELVE

October 1173

St Edmundsbury, England

Upon learning that the Earl of Leicester had sailed from Wissant on September 29 with a large contingent of Flemish mercenaries, the Earl of Arundel set out in pursuit, landing at Walton on the coast of Suffolk. There he learned that Leicester had joined forces with the Earl of Norfolk at Framlingham, and that the king’s justiciar and constable, Richard de Lucy and Humphrey de Bohun, had hastily signed a truce with the Scots king so they could return to deal with this new threat.

The Abbey of St Edmund’s was a celebrated pilgrim shrine, for it held the holy bones of the martyred Saxon king Edmund. Geoff hoped that he’d have time to do honor to the saint, but for now he could think only of the coming bloodshed. He had persuaded Henry to allow him to accompany the Earl of Arundel, but he was uncomfortably aware of his lack of military experience and was desperately determined that he not blunder and bring shame upon his father.

They were greeted cordially by Abbot Hugh, who promised that his guest-master would somehow find lodgings for their men, no mean feat under the circumstances; the justiciar and constable had gotten support from Henry’s cousin, the Earl of Gloucester, and his uncles, Rainald and Ranulf, so the abbey and town were already overflowing with knights and foot soldiers. The earl soon excused himself, candidly admitting that his “old bones” were in need of a rest; having reached his biblical three score years and ten, he no longer felt the need for bravado. Left to his own devices, Geoff gladly accepted the offer of a young novice monk to show him around.

His guide introduced himself as Jocelin of Brakelond and took Geoff into the nave of the church to see the saint’s shrine located behind the High Altar. Pilgrims came from all over England, Brother Jocelin said proudly, although honesty compelled him to admit that the crowds had fallen off in the past two years as more and more people chose to make pilgrimages to St Thomas at Canterbury. In recent weeks, most of the visitors had been local townspeople, he confided, praying that their saint would save them from the Earl of Leicester’s Flemings and praying, too, that the warfare would not keep them from holding their great fair in November. Geoff bit his tongue to keep himself from reminding the young monk that there was more at stake than lost fair revenues. If they did not succeed in quelling Leicester’s rebellion, England itself could be lost to the rebels.

After leaving the church, Jocelin escorted Geoff through the cellarer’s gate into the great courtyard and then to the abbot’s hall rather than the guest hall, for he knew that his abbot was a shrewd politician as well as a churchman and he’d want to be sure that the king’s son was treated as a privileged guest. Geoff hesitated in the doorway, for he was shy with strangers. To his relief, he soon spotted two familiar faces: his father’s uncles, Rainald of Cornwall and Lord Ranulf of Wales. He did not know either man very well, but they shared a common bond-illegitimacy-and he headed in their direction.

To his delight, they welcomed him with genuine enthusiasm, squeezing over to make room for him at their table. They had spent the past three months fighting beside the justiciar, Richard de Lucy, first laying siege to the town and castle of Leicester and then pursuing the Scots king back across the border, and Geoff felt a surge of gratitude that these two men, so loyal to their sister the Empress Maude, were proving to be no less loyal to her son.

Rainald would happily have entertained Geoff for hours with stories of their Scots campaign, but Ranulf deftly steered the conversation toward more urgent matters-the threat posed by the Earl of Leicester and his ally, Hugh Bigod, the Earl of Norfolk. Geoff was familiar with Bigod’s history, for he was notorious for his double-dealing. He’d begun his career by committing perjury on Stephen’s behalf, falsely swearing that Maude’s father had repudiated her upon his deathbed; Stephen had rewarded him with the earldom of Norfolk. But he’d soon proved that Stephen could trust him no more than Maude could, and his unbridled ambition had even led him to join the infamous Geoffrey de Mandeville. De Mandeville had paid for his treachery with death, dishonor, and eternal damnation. But Bigod had somehow escaped retribution, and seemed as indifferent to the passage of time as he was to the voice of conscience. He’d rebelled against Stephen, Maude, and then Henry, had been excommunicated by Thomas Becket for usurping the lands of a Norfolk monastery, and now, at the vast age of eighty, he was still actively engaging in his favorite pursuits-insurrection, perfidy, and marauding. Geoff thought that an alliance between Bigod and the Earl of Leicester was inevitable, the damned seeking out the damned.

“After he landed at Walton, that snake Leicester slithered off to join Bigod in his burrow at Framlingham,” Rainald reported, grimacing as if he’d tasted something foul. “But he soon wore out his welcome. His Flemings thought they could take anything that caught their eye-food, livestock, women. And his countess had her nose so far up in the air that she’d have drowned if it began to rain. Bigod’s wife decided she’d rather entertain starving wolves as guests, and there was so much tension that Leicester and his wife-who fancies herself his chief military advisor-decided that they’d march west to Leicester Castle.”

“We have to stop them!” Geoff exclaimed, with such intensity that the older men smiled and Rainald could not resist teasing him a bit.

“Are you planning to ride with us, lad? I thought Harry meant to make you a prince of the Church. As a priest, your choice of weapons is somewhat limited. I guess you could always put the curse of God upon Leicester. He deserves it if any man does!”

Geoff tensed, hurt and offended. But then he caught Ranulf’s wink and relaxed, reassured that Rainald’s maladroit humor was not meant to wound. “I am not a priest yet,” he said, adding ruefully, “and in no hurry to take holy vows. My father believes that I’d make a far better cleric than I do, but he did agree to let me receive a knight’s training. I bloodied my sword when the French army fled Verneuil, so I am not such a novice as you think, Granduncle Rainald.”

“Jesu, lad, do not call me that! That makes me sound downright ancient, like a holy relic or one of those churchyard yew trees. Uncle Rainald will do just fine.”

“And we will stop them, Geoff,” Ranulf said. “You need not fret about that. Three days ago they took Haughley Castle. They ransomed the knights, but they burned the village to the ground. Haughley is just twelve miles east of St Edmundsbury. Leicester will not dare an attack upon the town, though, and he’ll try to circle around us. Once he does, we’ll strike.”

“And with God’s Blessings,” Geoff said emphatically, although his nerves throbbed with the realization that a battle could be looming within days. “I’d risk the surety of my soul to see Leicester called to account for his sins. At Gisors, he actually dared to draw his sword on my father!”

“So that really happened? We heard the story,” Ranulf said, shaking his head in bemusement, “but could scarce believe it.”

“And it is not as if Leicester has youth as an excuse,” Rainald pointed out, “not like my niece Maud’s idiot son Hugh, doing penance these days in a Falaise dungeon. Leicester was born the year after the sinking of the White Ship, which makes him more than fifty!”

“I suppose Leicester could plead madness,” Geoff commented acerbically, “for nothing less than lunacy can explain his actions. But what of his wife? If Peronelle is not welcome at Framlingham, where will she go when he heads for Leicester?”

“She’ll go with him,” Ranulf said with absolute certainty. “On the march to Framlingham, she rode at his side, wearing chain mail and bearing a lance and shield.”

Geoff was dumbstruck, but before he could respond, Rainald gave a short bark of laughter. “That must have been a sight to behold. Ranulf says there is a Greek myth about women warriors, and I suppose Peronelle thinks she is one of those…Amazons, was it, Ranulf? Not even Eleanor ever dared to arm herself as if she were a man!”

Eleanor’s name sank like a stone in the conversational waters and an awkward silence fell, for Henry’s uncles understood her conduct no more than he did. Rainald had been impressed by her beauty and her willingness to swap bawdy stories with him, and she’d won Ranulf over by befriending his wife, Rhiannon. She was now the enemy, though, for her glamour and past kindnesses counted for little against a betrayal of such magnitude. It was Ranulf who gave voice to their bitterness. “Raimon St Gilles warned Harry at Toulouse that he was ‘nurturing a viper in his nest.’ He did not believe it, of course. What man would believe that of his own wife?”

“No man would,” Rainald concurred. “Poor Harry. That Clifford chit is said to be a pretty little thing, but was there ever so costly a piece of tail? Not Harry’s fault, though. How could he have known Eleanor’s jealousy would turn her into a madwoman?”

Geoff could not defend Rosamund, for in the eyes of the Church, she was a wanton. Having met her, he did not like to hear her described so crudely, though, and since he did not feel comfortable taking Rainald to task for it, he chose to change the subject. “Is it true that the Earl of Gloucester is here with you?”

Ranulf nodded and Rainald explained cheerfully that Gloucester did not seem happy about it, but he had no choice. “He knows Harry thinks he is weak-willed, and since he is wed to Leicester’s sister, Harry would naturally wonder how susceptible he’d be to the earl’s blandishments. So he is here to prove that he is not as daft as his nephew Hugh.”

Geoff did not like the Earl of Gloucester, thought he was pompous and just as feckless as Henry suspected. But he felt an unwelcome prick of pity for the earl now; it did not seem fair that he should be tainted by his wife’s Beaumont blood. He was thinking that civil wars were the cruelest of all wars when a man stopped by their table. He was of medium height with closely clipped brown hair and beard, and looked to Geoff to be in his mid-twenties. His familiarity with Rainald and Ranulf indicated to Geoff that he was someone of substance, but he was taken aback when the introductions were made, for the newcomer bore a well-known name: Sir Roger Bigod.

“Bigod? Are you kin to the Earl of Norfolk?”

His query might have been tactless, but it was not ill-intentioned. He’d never outgrown his boyhood habit of speaking his mind. But Sir Roger bristled at the question. “The earl is my father,” he said defiantly. “What of it? Are you suggesting that we are trying to keep a foot in both camps and that is why I am supporting the king?”

Geoff blinked. “Good Lord, no! The thought never entered my head. I’d be the last man in Christendom to cast aspersions upon another man’s family loyalties. Look at mine. My half brothers could put Judas to shame, and whilst my lord father is willing to forgive them, I doubt that I ever can.”

Roger was disarmed by his candor and regarded Geoff with amused approval. “A few friends and I are going into town to get something to eat. You want to come along? Afterward we’ll show you the sights-taverns, alehouses, and mayhap a nunnery.”

Geoff grinned, for he knew “nunnery” was slang for a bawdy-house, and knew, too, that this was Roger’s way of apologizing for his flare of temper. “What are we waiting for?” he asked, pushing away from the table.

Roger grinned, too, but then his gaze fell upon Ranulf and Rainald. “You are also welcome to come,” he said, politely but not very enthusiastically.

Ranulf declined with a smile, and watched as Geoff and Roger headed for the door. Rainald watched, too, saying indignantly, “They think we are too old and decrepit for a night of drinking and whoring!”

“Well,” Ranulf said, “we are,” and after a moment, Rainald sighed.

“Yes, I suppose we are,” he agreed, somewhat sadly. But then he brightened. “At least we are not too old to fight!”

Ranulf thought that was debatable, for Rainald was sixty-three and he was just weeks away from his fifty-fifth birthday. He’d much rather have spent these past months back in Wales with Rhiannon, savoring their homecoming. But his nephew’s need must come first. There had been a time when he’d briefly been estranged from his eldest son, and he still remembered the pain of it. How much greater must Harry’s pain be, betrayed by his own blood, by those he had most reason to trust.

“We have a saying in Wales, ‘Dangos y cam a’i faddau yw’r dial tostaf ar elyn.’ It translates as ‘To disclose the wrong and forgive it is the severest revenge upon an enemy.’ But when it comes to those involved in this rebellion, Rainald, I find myself agreeing with Geoff, that there can be no forgiveness.”

Rainald signaled to a passing servant, snared two cups of ale, and passed one to his brother. “Let’s drink,” he said, “first to victory and then to retribution.”

They were making their way up Churchgate Street, having been warned by the Watch that curfew had rung, but in no hurry to return to the restrictive environs of the abbey. Geoff was in good spirits, for he’d enjoyed his outing with Roger Bigod and his friends. He’d had enough ale to feel mellow but not enough to suffer from it on the morrow, and he’d had a very satisfactory encounter with a young whore named Eve, was already looking forward to a return visit. When he said as much, though, Roger laughed.

“I’d not count on that, Geoff. Chances are that we’ll be leaving St Edmundsbury in the dust within a day or two at most.”

Geoff turned to look at the other man. “You think it will be as soon as that?”

“I do. Our scouts are keeping a sharp eye on Leicester. Once we know which road he means to take, we can move to intercept him and-What was that?”

Geoff had heard it, too, a muffled shout. Fulk de Barnham, one of Roger’s household knights, pointed off to his left. “It came from that alley.” Crossing the street, they peered into the alley, hands on sword hilts. Raising his lantern, Geoff saw enough to draw his weapon. He did not know the rights or wrongs of the fight, but he did not like the odds-three to one. As he moved forward, Roger and his companions followed; they might not share Geoff’s strong sense of chivalry, but they were not at all averse to ending the night with a brawl.

A young man had been backed against the wall. Bleeding and bruised, he was defending himself with a wooden stick, and getting the worst of it. But his assailants broke off the attack as soon as they realized they were no longer alone. One glance at the drawn swords and they fled toward the other end of the alley, disappearing into the night. Their victim slowly sank to his knees, gasping for breath. All Geoff could see of him was a thatch of bright hair, as yellow as primroses. “Are you hurt?” he asked, leaning over to touch the other’s shoulder. When he raised his head, Geoff saw that he was little more than a boy, fifteen, sixteen at most. His words came out in a rush, and Geoff guessed they were being thanked, but he had trouble understanding all that was being said, for he had a rudimentary grasp of English, and the boy’s East Anglican accent rendered his speech all but indecipherable.

Roger and his knights were far more fluent in English than Geoff, and they soon had the youth’s story. “He says his name is Ailwin,” Roger related, “and he was set upon by those cutthroats as he left the alehouse up the street. They saw him as easy prey, I suppose, a lad alone, fresh from the country. Look what he was using to fend them off.”

Geoff shone his lantern upon a long wooden handle with a shorter, stouter stick attached at the end by a leather thong. It seemed vaguely familiar to him, and after a moment he recognized it as a flail, a farming implement used to thresh wheat. “Why would he be wandering around St Edmundsbury with a flail? The last time I looked, there were no crops to be harvested in the center of town!”

Ailwin was struggling to get to his feet and Fulk gave him a hand, while Roger put a few more questions to him. “He says he came here to fight the Flemings. The flail was the only weapon he had.”

Geoff almost laughed at the notion of this green farm lad going off to war with a flail, but stifled it in time, not wanting to hurt the boy’s feelings. Roger was speaking again to Ailwin and when he glanced over at Geoff, his face was bleak. “Leicester’s Flemings burned his village and killed his family.”

They looked at one another and then at Ailwin. “We cannot leave him bleeding here in the alley,” Geoff said finally. “Tell him to come with us back to the abbey. At least he’ll have a bed for the night.”

“The shire is full of Ailwins,” Roger said. “Leicester has much to answer for.” He did not add the words “as does my father.” But the unspoken thought seemed to hang in the air between them, and Geoff could only hope that the day of reckoning would soon be coming-for all their sakes.

Geoff could not dismiss Ailwin from his mind, though, and the next morning while breaking his fast with his granduncles and the Earl of Gloucester, he told them about the boy’s rash quest. “I cannot blame him for wanting to strike back at the men who killed his family,” he concluded. “But God help him if he should actually run into some of the Flemish routiers!”

Gloucester looked at Geoff blankly, unable to understand why they were wasting time discussing the fate of a runaway peasant, but Ranulf and Rainald were intrigued by the image he’d conjured up-a country ceorl wielding his flail in the interest of justice.

“There’s no use trying to talk the lad out of it,” Rainald asserted, spearing a large piece of sausage with his knife. “Better he tags along after the army than to go roaming off on his own. There’s safety in numbers, after all.”

“Rainald is right.” Ranulf helped himself to a chunk of freshly baked bread. “If he is set upon vengeance, he’ll not be discouraged by anything you say. He has a just grievance, after all, and-”

“‘A just grievance,’” Gloucester echoed in astonishment. “You are talking about a lowborn villein, a drudge, a…” He paused, groping for words, and finally settled upon “nithing,” an English term of contempt. “He is no more capable of understanding the concept of honor or a blood-debt than my favorite lymer hound! What you should have done, Geoff, was report him to the sheriff, for if he is bound to the land, he has no right to run off like this and ought to be punished.”

Rainald and Ranulf looked at the younger man, marveling that their beloved brother Robert could have sired such a son. Geoff had neither their patience nor their long experience in dealing with Gloucester’s bad manners, and he set down his ale cup so abruptly that liquid sloshed over the rim. “That makes perfect sense,” he said, with enough sarcasm to have done his father proud. “We are facing a rebel army that is far larger than ours, an army made up of Flemish routiers eager to turn all of England into a charnel house. So of course our first priority ought to be tracking down and disciplining a lad who may or may not be a runaway villein.”

Gloucester scowled, but when Geoff showed no signs of being intimidated by his disapproval, he decided it was not worth his while to engage in a public quarrel with this insolent stripling. Getting to his feet, he made what he hoped was a dignified departure, ruing the day that a king’s sinful spawn must be treated as if he were lawfully begotten, on equal footing with those born in holy wedlock. And his contempt for Geoff was not in the least diluted by the fact that his own father had been a royal bastard, for Gloucester had never been one to let his reasoning be undermined by facts.

As he walked away, Rainald leaned over and punched Geoff playfully on the arm. “Well done, lad. Now we can enjoy our meal in peace. Our prospects are not as dire, though, as you made out. It is true Leicester has three thousand Flemings under his command, but they are more like a pack of hungry dogs than a true army.”

“But routiers are feared the length and breadth of Christendom,” Geoff protested. “Look how easily my father’s Brabancons overcame the Breton rebels.”

“Fortunately for us,” Ranulf said, “Leicester’s routiers are not as battle-seasoned as Harry’s soldiers. He hired them on the cheap, taking any men willing to sign on, and he was in such a rush that he had no time to separate the wheat from the chaff. A goodly number of his so-called routiers were weavers, bedazzled by the prospects of rich plunder in England. They’ve been stealing anything that was not nailed down on their marches, singing a cheery little ditty, ‘Hop, hop, Wilekin, England is mine and thine.’ But they’ve not yet been battle-tested, and it remains to be seen how they’ll respond when they are.”

Although he would not have admitted it, Geoff had been troubled by the disparity in size between the two armies, and he was heartened now to think Leicester’s Flemings were not as formidable as people feared. “We’ve been lucky, too,” he commented, “in the quality of the battle commanders we’ve been facing. The French king and Leicester: who’d fear either of those stout-hearts on the field?”

Ranulf and Rainald were expressing their amused agreement when there was a stir across the hall. As they turned toward the sound, they saw Roger Bigod hastening in their direction. “Our scouts have just ridden in,” he reported breathlessly. “Leicester is on the move. He is making ready to ford the River Lark north of the town!”

Roger Bigod had been given the honor of bearing the standard of St Edmund, and as they rode out of the town’s Northgate, Geoff’s eyes kept returning to that sacred banner, flaring as the wind swirled it, proclaiming to all that they were marching under the saint’s protection. The sky above them was a brilliant blue, a harvest sky, and the October sun spangled the countryside in dazzling golden light, burnishing the autumn foliage so that the trees seemed on fire, ablaze with leafy flames of yellow and scarlet. Geoff had never been so aware of the physical world around him, so grateful for the beauty that the Almighty had bestowed upon them. But if his senses had been honed as sharp as his sword, his emotions were soaring like St Edmund’s banner. He was caught up in the surging thrill of the hunt, eager to test his prowess and his courage, to make his father proud and see the rebel earl brought low. His nerves were vibrating like Welsh harp strings, but there was no fear in him, not yet. On such a day, defeat was impossible to imagine.

The Earl of Leicester had made a fateful decision to cross the River Lark at the hamlet of Fornham St Genevieve just four miles from the royal army at St Edmundsbury. Henry’s commanders could not understand why he’d chosen to take such a risk, could only be grateful for it. They’d been ready to move as soon as they received confirmation from their scouts of the earl’s whereabouts, and they raced north with the stirring words of the aged Earl of Arundel ringing in their ears, “Let us strike them for the honor of God and St Edmund!”

When they were within sight of the rebel force, not a man among them doubted that the Almighty was on their side. They’d caught Leicester in the very act of fording the river, and while his knights had already reached the west bank, his Flemish foot soldiers were still massing on the east bank, his army split in two by the rushing waters of the Lark.

The attack began as a trot, with lances held upright, trumpets blaring and pennons fluttering in the breeze, and the war cry of the English royal House erupting from countless throats, “Dex aie!” It seemed to Geoff that his heart was pounding in rhythm with his stallion’s thudding hooves. This was the way combat was meant to be, not the ugliness at Verneuil, the broken faith and slaughter of innocents. This was a fight between equals, knights trained in war, matching skills and valor. Leveling his lance, couched under his right arm so it was held steady against his chest, he urged his destrier into a gallop as the enemy knights charged to meet them.

His target was a knight on a roan stallion. As the distance narrowed between them, he braced himself for the impact, still more excited than afraid, instinctively putting into practice the lessons learned in years of tiltyard drills. His foe struck first, but his lance hit the edge of Geoff’s shield, sliding off harmlessly. Geoff’s aim was better. He was rocked back against his saddle cantle as his lance shattered upon his opponent’s shield, and then he gave a triumphant shout, for the force of his blow had unseated the other knight.

He hesitated then, not sure what to do next. It never occurred to him to kill the man sprawled in the trampled grass; it would be dishonorable to slay a defenseless knight, and foolish, too, for he’d be forfeiting a profitable ransom. But the battle still raged around him. Shouldn’t he seek out another foe? His dilemma was solved by Fulk de Barnham. As he galloped past, he yelled, “What are you waiting for? Take him prisoner or someone else will!”

The enemy knight was struggling to sit up, holding his arm at such an odd angle that Geoff guessed he’d broken a bone in his fall. Casting aside his damaged lance, Geoff unsheathed his sword. “Do you yield?”

The man’s eyes locked onto that lethal, naked blade. “I do,” he said hoarsely. “I am your prisoner, sir.”

Geoff frowned down into that pale, tense face. He’d heard it argued that it would now be his responsibility to escort his captive to a place of safety, but clearly that was impossible under the circumstances. He had no intention of leaving the battle, and he decided he had no choice but to trust to his enemy’s honor. “You have pledged yourself to Geoffrey Fitz Roy,” he declared, and spurred his stallion away without waiting for a response.

He soon found another adversary, a knight on a lathered chestnut. They exchanged inconclusive blows, but when he circled back to strike again, he was shocked to see the other man had ridden on. Glancing around, he saw that this was occurring all over the field. Men were down, riderless horses milling about in confusion. Leicester’s line was wavering, his knights, outnumbered and hard-pressed, giving ground before the onslaught. And then the line was breaking, and the survivors were in flight, seeking only to save themselves.

“Leicester is getting away!” A knight galloped by Geoff, gesturing and shouting. Catching a glimpse of a streaming checkered banner in the distance, he recognized it as the earl’s device and joined the chase, urging his stallion to greater speed.

“Treacherous swine! Swaggering, misbegotten whoreson! We’ll follow you into Hell if need be!” No one could hear him, of course, but Geoff continued to yell threats, so outraged was he that Leicester would try to save his craven skin by bolting the field, leaving his men to die.

The rebel knights were being overtaken, one by one, for they were fleeing across marshland and they were soon blundering into bogs and sloughs. A ditch loomed ahead, but Geoff’s destrier did not break stride. Gathering itself, it soared up and over, and Geoff gave a shaken laugh, for there was a second horse down in the ditch, one that had not been so lucky, floundering on three legs. He drew rein to catch his breath and heap praise upon his stallion, caught movement from the corner of his eye just in time. A man darted forward, muddied and desperate, and snatched at his reins. Geoff’s stallion was well trained in the maneuvers of the battlefield-Henry had seen to that-and it reared up, dragging the man off his feet. He’d come in from the left, so Geoff could not make use of his sword. Instead, he bashed the knight with his shield, and watched with satisfaction as his assailant reeled backward, plunging down into the ditch with a resounding splash.

A horseman was approaching, very fast, and he spurred his stallion forward. He was confident that this was not one of Leicester’s fleeing knights, for he was going in the wrong direction, and by now the rider was close enough for him to recognize the device on his shield-the insignia of the constable, Humphrey de Bohun.

The man reined in a few feet away. He was splattered with blood, whether his own or not, Geoff could not tell, and his chest was heaving, his face streaked with sweat and dirt. “Do you have a wineskin?” he wanted to know, and when Geoff unhooked it from his pommel and tossed it over, he drank in gulps, then removed his helmet and poured the remaining liquid over his head. “God Above, it is hot!”

It was a cool autumn day, but Geoff agreed with him; between his mail and his exertions, he felt downright feverish. “What is happening?”

He’d assumed de Bohun’s knight was acting as a courier and the man confirmed it now with a flash of white teeth as he replaced his helmet. “We caught Leicester, and as easy as snaring a rabbit it was, too. He did not even try to fight us off, the milk-livered, mewling pisspot! My lord sent me to get word to the Earls of Cornwall and Gloucester.”

His last words floated back on the wind to Geoff, for he was already galloping off. Geoff was tempted to continue on, so greatly did he want to witness Leicester’s capture and humiliation. But common sense reasserted itself, and turning his horse around, he rode after the courier. The battle was not yet won, for there were still Leicester’s three thousand Flemish routiers to deal with.

He’d not gone far, though, before he saw several horsemen gathered beside a water-filled trench. What drew his attention was their laughter, not something he’d expect to hear upon a battlefield. They turned as he rode up; one of them was a knight in Roger Bigod’s household, and he assured the others that Geoff was on their side. It occurred to Geoff that warfare would be easier if all the combatants wore identifying colors or devices. A baron or lord’s knights would bear his insignia on their shields, but not always, and in the heat of battle, mistakes could be made, and sometimes were. That was what had most surprised Geoff about combat: the chaos and confusion.

He started to ask the knights what was going on, but by then he was close enough to see for himself. A slight figure in chain mail was struggling in the water, while on the bank one of the knights was removing his helmet and sword before sliding down into the trench. It made sense to Geoff that they’d attempt a rescue; why not get wet for the chance of a goodly ransom? He was puzzled, though, that the would-be rescuer’s companions were so amused by his efforts, and even more puzzled now when the trapped knight lurched away, refusing to take his outstretched hand.

“What…he’d prefer drowning to capture?” he asked incredulously and, oddly, that sent the other men into further paroxysms of mirth.

“Not ‘he,’” one managed to gasp. “She!”

Geoff’s jaw dropped. Once he understood what they were saying, he swung from the saddle and hastened toward the ditch, eager to see the Earl of Leicester’s notorious Amazon countess. The other knights were still laughing, cheering the Good Samaritan on with cries of “Go, Simon, go!”

So far, Simon was not having much luck. “Come on, my lady,” he said coaxingly. “You’re getting in over your head. Surely you do not want to drown in a ditch like a dog!”

“Yes,” she hissed, “I would rather drown than let you put your hands on me, you lumpish, poxy lout!”

This sent Simon’s comrades into hysterics; one almost unseated himself, he was laughing so hard. The countess had gone under, came up sputtering and coughing, and when she did, Simon lunged forward. But she was as slippery as an eel and slid out of his grasp. “This is crazy, my lady,” he insisted, edging closer to make another grab. “So you’ve lost. War is always a question of losing and winning. But if you kill yourself, you’ll burn in Hell for all eternity!”

For the first time, she seemed to be listening to him, to hear what he was saying. She looked from him to the watching men, and there was such despair on her face that their laughter momentarily stilled. When Simon stretched out his hand, she hesitated, then began to splash toward him, and he’d soon pulled her to safety. But when he was about to boost her up the bank, she suddenly began to resist again. Tugging frantically at the jeweled rings adorning her fingers, she slipped them off before he realized what she was doing and flung the rings out into the depths of the ditch.

“There!” she cried triumphantly. “I’d rather the fish get them!”

With that, Simon lost all patience. “Bitch!” he growled, shoving her up onto dry ground before plunging into the ditch again, where he dove repeatedly into the murky water, seeking in vain to recover the countess’s rings.

Geoff understood Simon’s frustration, for there’d be no ransom for the Countess of Leicester. It did not matter how much she might offer for her freedom; she would be a prisoner of the Crown, not released until and if his father willed it. Peronelle had flung back the hood of her hauberk, removing her sodden linen coif to reveal thick braids coiled neatly at the nape of her neck. She was not at all what Geoff had expected. He’d heard such stories of the influence she wielded over Leicester that he’d envisioned her as a Jezebel, thinking theirs was the classic case of an older man doting upon a young and beautiful wife. But Peronelle de Grandmesnil was not a young woman, not a new wife. Geoff guessed she might be as old as forty, which meant that she was the mother of Leicester’s four children, and indeed she did look more maternal than seductive, even allowing for her present bedraggled state.

She caught him studying her, and thrust her chin out, glaring at him with a defiance that he found both admirable and exasperating. “What are you staring at, knave?” she snapped, and Geoff felt a twinge of pity for her children; with this shrew and Leicester as their parents, they were truly doomed by their own blood.

“I was wondering,” he said coldly, “if you were curious about the fate of your lord husband. Mayhap not, since he apparently was more concerned with saving himself than seeing to your safety.”

It was hard to tell for sure, but he thought that she blanched beneath her coating of mud. “You know what befell my husband?”

Geoff surprised himself by wishing he could tell her Leicester was dead; he hadn’t known he had such a streak of malice. “He is safe enough,” he said, adding ominously, “for now,” even though he knew-and she surely did, too-that Leicester was too highborn to pay the ultimate price for his treason. He was coming to realize that the guiltiest ones-the French king and his half brothers-were likely to escape any real punishment, leaving their supporters to suffer for their sins. There was only one of the conspirators who might eventually be held to account-his father’s queen.

Geoff found his granduncles on the bank of the River Lark. He’d not needed to worry about the Flemish routiers, they assured him. Trapped on the wrong side of the river, the Flemings had watched helplessly as Leicester’s knights were ridden down, and when the royal forces began to ford the river, they’d confirmed Rainald’s scornful belief that they were better weavers than routiers, and panicked. They had sought to save themselves by fleeing into the marshy meadowlands beyond the tiny chapel of Fornham St Genevieve, and what followed, Rainald reported gleefully, was a slaughter.

“It was over in less than an hour,” he told Geoff. “We captured virtually all of Leicester’s knights, including the lordly turd himself, and his French cousin, Hugh de Chastel. As for his greedy Flemings, they’ll get some English land out of this-enough to be buried in.”

Geoff laughed aloud, amused by his kinsman’s flair for creative cursing; from now on, he knew he’d think of Leicester as “the lordly turd.” “The Flemings did not try to surrender? They died fighting?”

“No,” Ranulf said, “they died running. And they were not offered a chance to surrender.”

Geoff knew that the chivalric code did not apply to lowborn routiers, and he could not muster up much sympathy for the slain Flemings, not when he remembered young Ailwin, trying to avenge the slaughter of his family with a farmer’s flail. “So we killed them all, then,” he said, but to his surprise, Ranulf shook his head.

“No, not us, lad. The local people did it, the peasants and ceorls. They pursued the Flemings with hayforks and clubs and flails, whatever weapons they could find, and when they caught one, they wasted no time dispatching him to Hell. Many of the routiers drowned, too, either in the river or in the ditches that cross these meadowlands. We’ll be digging grave pits for some time to come.”

Geoff whistled silently, and then, remembering that the slain routiers were still fellow Christians, he dutifully made the sign of the cross. But Roger Bigod’s words were echoing in his ears. The shire is full of Ailwins. The ways of the Almighty were indeed mysterious at times. Who’d have expected Him to make use of villeins and ceorls as the instruments of Divine Justice?

“The Earl of Norfolk will be quaking in his boots once he hears about Leicester’s defeat,” he said happily. But before he could dwell upon the earl’s discomfort, men were pushing forward, pointing and shouting. Turning, he saw the cause of their excitement. The king’s constable, Humphrey de Bohun, was returning to St Edmundsbury in triumph. But the bystanders had eyes only for his captives-Hugh de Chastel, who bore the lofty title Count of Chateauneuf-en-Thimerais, and his cousin, Robert Beaumont, Earl of Leicester. What struck Geoff first was that the linen surcoat Leicester wore over his mail was still clean, unstained by blood or dirt or mud. He wondered uncharitably if the earl had even bothered to draw his sword, thinking that his countess had put up more of a fight than her heroic husband. Leicester appeared oblivious to the jeers and catcalls of the spectators. He was livid, slumped in the saddle as if his spine no longer had the strength to hold him erect, his the stunned disbelief of a man who could not understand how his God and his luck could have so forsaken him.

Geoff suspected that the wily old Earl of Norfolk would have shown more spirit. But he suspected, too, that Norfolk would find a way to escape a reckoning, as he’d so often done in the past. “At least it is over,” he said. “Thank God Almighty for that!”

Ranulf gave him a searching look, but refrained from commenting even though he knew better. It was not over, would not be over as long as the French king and the King of the Scots and their allies were still free to continue the war. For they would, he had no doubts of that. For now, though, he let Geoff enjoy their triumph. It was worth savoring, after all, the victory they’d won this October day at Fornham St Genevieve.

An unseasonable thunderstorm had rolled through Rouen earlier in the evening, and Rosamund still heard occasional rumblings of thunder in the distance. She’d been embroidering another altar cloth for Godstow Priory while waiting for Henry to come to bed, but she was smothering yawns and finally laid the sewing aside. She was tired all the time these days, for Henry was sleeping even less than usual. She’d always been awed by his vigor, his ability to go to bed so late and rise so early and yet seem so invigorated, so energetic. Lately, though, his sleep habits had gotten much worse, and Rosamund was often kept awake herself by his restlessness. He would not admit it, but she was sure she knew the reason for his current unease. There had been no word from England, only a foreboding silence.

Rosamund was confident that Leicester’s rebellion would be quelled, for her faith in Henry was as deep as her faith in the Almighty, and if that was blasphemous, so be it. But she sensed that Henry was beset with doubts, for perhaps the first time in his life, and she did not know how to help, just as she did not know how to heal the festering wounds caused by his family’s betrayal.

She curled up in the middle of the bed and was soon joined by a kitten the color of saffron. Cats were not usually kept as pets, except occasionally by nuns, but Rosamund had a fondness for them. It was only recently that she’d confided this partiality to Henry, and much to her delight, he was willing to indulge her in it, joking that he wished he’d known earlier that she could be satisfied with stable cats rather than costly jewels. Now, when the kitten settled down on the pillow beside her, she was soon lulled to sleep by its soft, melodic purring.

She was not sure how long she’d slept, jarred back to awareness by a loud thud. At first she thought it was another clap of thunder, but then she heard Henry’s voice calling her name. A moment later he pulled the bed hangings aside and enfolded her in an exuberant embrace.

“Wake up, lass. This is no time to sleep, not when we have so much to celebrate!”

“You’ve heard from your justiciar!” she cried, and he nodded, grinning.

“The rebellion in England is over. That whoreson Leicester is now a prisoner of the Crown, his knights pleading to be ransomed, his Flemings rotting in Suffolk graves. It was a brilliant victory, love, about as good as it gets.” He hugged her again, then gave her a passionate kiss that took her breath away, in part because he was holding her so tightly.

“Beloved, that is such wonderful news!”

When Henry told her that the battle had been fought near St Edmundsbury, she resolved to make sure that its abbey benefited, too, from royal largesse. Henry was not as open-handed in his giving as she or the Church would have liked, but she knew she could coax him into showing greater generosity in the wake of such a blessed victory.

Henry was pouring them wine and she sat up in the bed to watch, unable to remember the last time she’d seen him so happy. “What of the Earl of Norfolk, Harry? Did he take the field with Leicester?”

“Of course not. That sly old fox prefers to let others do his hunting for him. But he was alarmed enough by Leicester’s defeat to agree to a truce and even to dismiss his own Flemish routiers. There will be no further outbreaks of violence in England, at least not this year.”

Taking the cup he was offering, she gave him a radiant smile. “What will you do with the Earl of Leicester? He is a wicked, loathsome man, Harry, ought to be punished severely for his treachery.”

Henry was amused and touched that the soft-hearted Rosamund was so fierce when it came to the rebel earl; she’d been utterly unforgiving from the moment she’d learned of his behavior at Gisors. “Richard de Lucy dispatched Leicester and his quarrelsome countess to Southampton, and from there they’ll be sent to keep Hugh of Chester company at Falaise.”

“When we return to England, it would be a godly act to make a pilgrimage to St Edmundsbury,” she murmured, for she’d just remembered that the Suffolk saint was known to show favor to barren wives.

“If you like,” he said absently, joining her on the bed where he set about unfastening her long blond braids. Rosamund leaned back against him with a contented sigh, thinking that this would be their first Christmas together. She’d always passed them alone, watching from afar as he celebrated his Christmas Court with his queen.

“Harry…St Edmundsbury is not the only pilgrimage we can make,” she ventured, and he paused in the act of running his fingers through her hair to say dryly that he hoped she was not going to suggest Canterbury. “I was thinking of Mont St Michel.” She looked at him hopefully, for she’d long yearned to visit the celebrated island abbey. “Now would be the perfect time for such a pilgrimage, beloved. The Breton rebels have been subdued and there’ll be no fighting elsewhere until the spring…”

She stopped in mid-sentence, feeling the sudden tension in the arm encircling her waist. When he sat up, she searched his face intently, worrying that she’d somehow offended. “Of course by next spring, I am sure peace will be restored and your sons will have come to their senses,” she said hastily. “I did not mean to imply that this wretched war will drag on into the new year.”

Henry did not seem to be listening, and when he rose and began to move restlessly around the chamber, she watched him in growing dismay. She’d always found his sudden mood swings to be disconcerting, and never more so than now, for his elation over Leicester’s defeat seemed to be vanishing before her very eyes.

“Harry…have I said something wrong?” she asked timidly. “If I did, it was not meant…”

He’d begun to stir the hearth logs with an iron poker. Straightening up, he was surprised to see tears welling in her eyes. “Ah, no, love, you did nothing wrong. But I cannot take you to Mont St Michel now. My war is not yet done for the year.”

She was reassured by his use of an endearment, proof that he was not angry with her as she’d feared. She was baffled, though, by what he’d just said. She knew little of military matters, but even she knew that fighting ordinarily ended with the first frost, not to be resumed until the return of mild weather. “You mean to continue your campaign?”

“I was waiting till I got word from England, but I am free now to move south into Anjou. The Count of Vendome has been overthrown by his own son, who then threw in his lot with Hal and the French king, doubtless hoping that they’d help him hold on to his ill-gotten gains. I mean to reinstate the count and bring his ungrateful whelp to heel.”

Rosamund could understand why he’d feel so strongly about putting down a son’s outlaw rebellion; that was so obvious that it needed no discussion. She could understand, too, his determination to restore order in Anjou, for insurrection in the land of his birth had to be particularly galling. The tone of his voice, though, alerted her that there was more at stake than the Count of Vendome’s plight, and when he glanced in her direction, she was disquieted by the expression upon his face. His eyes were the color of smoke and yet cold enough to send a chill up her spine, reminding her that ice could burn.

“And then?” She whispered, shaken, even though she knew that this smoldering, implacable anger was not meant for her.

“And then,” Henry said grimly, “I think it is time I paid a visit to my loving wife.”