Devil's Brood

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

May 1174

Poitiers, Poitou

Wars were not usually fought during the winter months, but on January 1, Hal and the Counts of Blois, Perche, and Alencon struck deep into Normandy, launching a surprise assault upon the town of Sees. If Sees had been captured, Falaise would have been at risk and Henry’s road south into Anjou would have been blocked. But the citizens of Sees fought back fiercely and repulsed the attack. Louis then negotiated a truce with Henry to last until the end of March and a similar truce was struck in England with the Scots king. Both sides set about preparing for the resumption of hostilities in the spring.

After Easter the Scots King crossed the border and laid waste to Northumberland. The Pope sent two legates to Paris, hoping that they could persuade the French king to reconcile Henry and his sons, but they had no luck. The Count of Flanders showed interest in rejoining the rebel alliance. And on April 30, Henry left Normandy for the city of his birth, Le Mans. From there he headed into Anjou and then into the lands of his captive queen. He met little opposition and on Whitsunday Eve, he was admitted without resistance into Eleanor’s capital city of Poitiers.

Torches flared in the night, casting wavering shadows as the English king and his men dismounted in the bailey. Eleanor’s steward hastened down the steps of the great hall to bid them welcome. “Sir Herve,” Henry said brusquely, cutting off the man’s obsequious greeting. The steward had been secretly in his pay since the previous summer, one of several Poitevin lords who’d put self-interest before fidelity to their duchess, and while he made use of them all, Henry had no respect for a man whose loyalty was for sale to the highest bidder.

Not taking the hint, the steward continued to fawn and flatter, so unctuously that Henry was hard put to maintain even a semblance of civility. Seeing the royal temper beginning to kindle, the Earl of Essex intervened, declaring that the king was eager to see his daughter, and when Sir Herve assured them that Joanna was waiting within the great hall, Henry pushed past the man and took the steps two at a time. The steward hurried after him, saying something about “a surprise guest,” but Henry was no longer listening. His half sister Emma was standing in the doorway, with a smile so like his eldest son’s that he felt a pang. And then he came to a startled halt, gazing over Emma’s shoulder into the hall.

“Marguerite?” As he strode forward, the girl hastily made a deep, submissive curtsy, but he quickly raised her up. “What are you doing here, lass?”

“I…I came to take my sister and Constance back with me to Paris,” she said, almost inaudibly.

Noting her pallor and the tears brimming behind her lashes, he smiled quizzically. “You do know that I am not going to cast you into a dungeon?”

“Yes,” she whispered, “I know. But I also know that you will not let me go.”

“No,” he admitted, “I cannot do that-not until Hal and I have made our peace.” She asked when that would be, but since he had no answer for her, he preferred to pretend he hadn’t heard the question. His younger sons’ future wives were standing nearby and he moved to greet them. Neither Alys nor Constance shared Marguerite’s misery. The former knew that she had nothing to fear from him and the latter was indifferent to this sudden change in her circumstances, for she considered herself to be a hostage whether she dwelled in Eleanor’s duchy or Henry’s domains.

John’s plight-trothed, little Alice of Maurienne, was sitting on the steps of the dais, clutching her favorite felt puppet. As she yawned, blinking sleepily up at him, Henry instructed her nurse to put her to bed, and then glanced around the hall. “Where is Joanna?”

Emma had followed him inside. “Over there,” she said, “in the window-seat.”

The hall was so deep in shadows that Henry had not noticed his daughter. Smiling, he started toward her, holding out his arms. But he stopped abruptly when Joanna drew back at his approach, staring at her in disbelief. “Surely you are not afraid of me, child?”

That stung her pride. “Afraid? No! But I am not happy with you, Papa.”

Henry could only marvel at the damage wrought by the snake in his Eden. “What in God’s Name did your mother tell you?”

“That you are angry with her, but it has naught to do with me. That you love me as she does. That I do not have to choose between you.”

The words themselves were not objectionable. They were, in fact, so fair and impartial that Henry could find no fault with them, and that vexed him all the more. Joanna had always held a special place in his heart, for he’d imagined that she was much like Eleanor had been as a child. Now, as troubled as he was by her recalcitrance, he could not help admiring her spirit. Moving forward, he sat down beside her in the window-seat.

“Why are you ‘not happy’ with me, Joanna?”

Joanna gave him the look that children bestow upon adults who are being deliberately obtuse. “You are holding Maman as a prisoner!”

“Yes, I am. But she gave me no choice, lass. She plotted with my enemies against me. You do know that?”

“Yesss,” she said, drawing the word out reluctantly. “But I heard…I was told that you are not treating her kindly.”

“Yes, I daresay you were,” he said grimly, raking the hall with accusing eyes. None of Eleanor’s retainers met that ice-grey gaze, doing their best to become invisible, or at least inconspicuous. “They were lying to you, Joanna. Your mother is being treated as a highborn hostage, not a rebel. She is being held in a comfortable bedchamber, not a dungeon. You have my sworn word on that.”

She stared down into her lap, twisting her fingers together. He saw that she’d begun biting her nails again, a habit he thought she’d outgrown. “Where is Maman?” she asked at last. This was a question being asked throughout most of Christendom, and he heard the murmur that swept the hall, knew that every ear was turned their way.

“I will tell you,” he said, “but only you.” And leaning over, he whispered in her ear.

Joanna looked intently into his face. “Maman has never liked it there,” she said, but she was honored that he should entrust her with so great a secret. “May I see her?”

Not in this lifetime or the next, Henry vowed silently. But those sea-green eyes were watching him so hopefully that he could not bring himself to hurt her with the truth. “Yes,” he said, “once the war is over,” and that seemed to satisfy her, for when he put his arm around her shoulders, she did not pull away.

“What now, Papa? Do you want me to stay here?”

“No, lass, I do not,” he said, thinking that he’d sooner see her thrust into a snake pit. “You and the other girls will be going to live in Rouen for now. I was thinking of having Johnny leave Fontevrault and join you there. Would you like that?” Sweeping up the fragments of his broken family, he thought bitterly, but Joanna looked pleased.

“I would like that very much,” she said. “I’ve missed Johnny.” She missed her other brothers, too, though she knew better than to confide that to him. She wasn’t sure if she should forgive him for imprisoning her mother, but it was comforting to have him holding her like this, comforting to remember that she was not utterly alone. “Papa…” She ducked her head, leaning into his embrace. “Papa…I do not understand why this is happening.”

Henry’s jaw muscles tightened. “Neither do I, lass,” he said softly. “Neither do I.”

Richard strode into the nave of St Pierre’s Cathedral and beckoned to Sir Martin de Jarnac, one of his household knights. Martin hurried over, rather nervously, for he knew Richard had been meeting earlier in the day with the Bishop of Saintes and the bishop was increasingly unhappy with Richard’s occupation of his city. “My lord? How did it go?”

Richard shrugged. “The bishop had more complaints than a dog has fleas. He was particularly wroth that we’ve appropriated the cathedral for our own purposes.” Their constant carping was taking some of the bloom off his pleasure in gaining control of the town.

His first command had not begun auspiciously, for La Rochelle had closed its gates at his approach, refusing to allow him entry into the town, boldly declaring that they were loyal to the old king, not the young one. Richard had been mortified, vowing that those overweening, impudent churls would pay for that and pay dearly, but he could do nothing at the time except retreat, his ears burning with the echoes of their scornful laughter. His only consolation was that his brother Hal’s assault upon Sees had failed, too.

Fortunately, a fierce rivalry existed between La Rochelle and Saintes, and if the former turned Richard away, the latter was then keen to make him welcome. But the citizens of Saintes were soon having second thoughts about their hospitality. Richard’s men had lost no time in fortifying the town, throwing up a wooden castle to guard the Roman bridge and using the cathedral for their headquarters. As troubling as these developments were, even worse was to come. Word had reached Saintes that the English king was now encamped at Poitiers, only seventy miles to the north.

Richard was not as alarmed as the citizens by his father’s arrival, for he had confidence in the city walls, his new fortifications, and his own military instincts. Moreover, he meant to make good use of the time remaining to him. While Henry celebrated Whitsuntide in Poitiers, he’d dispatched riders to Geoffrey de Rancon, William de Maingot, and the Count of Angouleme, urging them to join him at Saintes without delay. They had a chance to force a decisive battle, to win a victory that would end the war and free his mother, and he meant to make the most of the opportunity.

“This morning I slipped out of the town and visited the ruins of the Roman amphitheater,” he confided to Martin. “It was an amazing sight, so much of it still intact after all that time.”

Martin was vaguely aware that Saintes had once been an important Roman town, for he’d seen the huge Arch of Germanicus at the bridge, supposedly built to honor a long-dead emperor. While he didn’t share Richard’s interest in the past, he was a firm believer in humoring the highborn, and he asked politely what this amphitheater was used for.

Richard was surprised by his ignorance. “That was where the Romans staged their games, where their gladiators fought and felons died. My lady mother would tell me the most wondrous stories about ancient Rome. When gladiators entered the arena, they faced the audience and proudly proclaimed, ‘Morituri te salutamus!’”

Martin had never learned Latin and looked so blank that Richard translated, “‘We who are about to die salute you.’ Did you not study history when you-” He got no further, having noticed the archdeacon hovering nearby, waiting for a word with him. Richard sighed, for he already knew what the cleric wanted to discuss. Saintes was on the route to the great Spanish shrine of Santiago de Compostela, and its citizens were worrying that pilgrims might stay away, fearing they’d be trapped in a siege. As much as he yearned to duck out a side door into the cloisters, Richard felt it was his duty to offer reassurances and, forcing a smile, he started toward the archdeacon just as all hell broke loose.

At least it seemed that way to Richard. Heads were turning toward the sudden clamor coming from outside the cathedral. Richard spun around and ran for the door, with his men at his heels. As he emerged into the dusk, he found a scene of utter chaos. People were running in different directions, cursing as they bumped into one another, putting him in mind of an overturned ant hill. He’d seen panic like this only once before, when a fire broke out in Rouen, and when he saw smoke billowing from the direction of the river, it confirmed his worst fears.

“Stop, you fools!” he yelled. “We need to get buckets and fight the fire!” None of the frightened citizens paid him any heed. He was shouting orders at his own men, directing them to find buckets and ropes and hooks so they could pull down endangered buildings if need be, when he heard his own name being called, rising above the din like the solitary cry of a seagull. The sight of Raoul was a welcome one, and he hastily started toward his kinsman, roughly shouldering his way through the crowds thronging the street.

“We’re under attack! We have to get out whilst we still can!”

Richard gaped at the older man. “What are you talking about? There is a fire-”

“Yes, and your father set it! He’s come calling with an army, Richard, and I do not want him to find us home!”

“That is not possible! How could he get here so fast?” No sooner were the words out of his mouth than Richard regretted them. His enemies had been asking that question of his father for as long as he could remember, and in any case, it was irrelevant. “We can keep him out,” he insisted, “hold on until we get men from Taillebourg and-”

“No,” Raoul said sharply, “we cannot. His men have already taken the castle we put up by the bridge and are breaking down the city gates even as we speak. Our only chance is to get out now-”

“No!” Richard was indignant. “I’ll not run away-never!”

“Whilst we waste time arguing, Harry’s men will be swarming into the city! The whoreson caught us by surprise, Richard, and it is too late to do anything but retreat.” When Richard continued to shake his head stubbornly, Raoul swore under his breath. “Do you miss your mother so much that you want to join her at Chinon or Falaise?”

That got through to Richard, that and the changing timbre of the shouting. It was louder now, more urgent, and closer, coming from the city gates. Shaking off his shock, he said, with a composure that Raoul applauded, “Where do we go?”

“We can get out through a postern gate, then head downriver to Taillebourg. Harry was concerned about speed, not a long siege, and did not bring mangonels with him. We ought to be safe enough with de Rancon-if we can reach him.”

This was the first time that Richard had been personally confronted with the unpleasant realities of war-that it was not all glory and blaring trumpets and swirling banners. It was not a lesson he’d ever wanted to learn. Looking around for as many of his men as he could find, he said tersely, “Let’s go.”

Richard managed to escape from Saintes as his father was sweeping into the town. The rebels retreated into the cathedral, held out for a day, and then surrendered. Henry captured more than sixty knights and over four hundred archers, plus all their supplies, weapons, and horses. The cathedral of Saintes and many of the nearby houses were badly damaged, the acrid odor of smoke lingering over the town long after the fighting was done.

Henry spent the remainder of the spring chasing rebels and fortifying his border strongholds. The news from England continued to be bad, as one after another of his castles fell to the ravaging Scots army. After taking and turning over the castle of Ancenis to Maurice de Craon, Henry summoned his lords and bishops to a great council in Normandy on the Nativity of St John the Baptist.

Henry reached Bonneville, the site of the council, on the evening of June 23. The castle was neither comfortable nor spacious, having been constructed in the eleventh century, and many of his barons had been compelled to seek lodgings in the nearby port of Toques. Henry was indifferent, as usual, to his surroundings, and was soon settled in his bedchamber. He was tired, for he’d been in the saddle since dawn, but these days his thoughts raced and ricocheted around his brain so wildly that sleep was becoming a luxury, one even a king could rarely afford.

“Stay for a while,” he said, and Willem smiled, took a seat on a nearby coffer as Henry dismissed his squires. The earl made easy conversation for a time, soon saw that Henry was not really listening, and fell silent, waiting. Henry walked back and forth, too edgy to sit still. He was already regretting asking Willem to remain, and he was about to tell the other man that he could go off to bed when one of his squires hurried back into the chamber.

“My liege, men have just ridden into the bailey, are seeking an audience with you straightaway. I told the steward that they should wait till the morrow, but when he told me who they were, I thought you’d want to see them. It is the Bishop-elect of Winchester and your uncle, the Lord Ranulf.”

Henry nodded. Richard of Ilchester was one of his most trusted officials. As Archdeacon of Poitiers, he’d supported Henry unwaveringly in the clash with Thomas Becket, even enduring excommunication at the archbishop’s hands. His reward for such loyal service was the bishopric of Winchester. And Ranulf was known to be very close to the king, bound as much by affection as by blood. Their presence here in Bonneville conveyed a message in and of itself, and it was not an encouraging one.

The two men were soon ushered into his chamber. They both looked exhausted, and as soon as greetings were exchanged, Henry told them to find seats, ordering his squire to fetch some wine. They waited until it had been served and they were alone again with Henry and Willem before revealing the urgency of their mission.

“My liege, we have been sent to entreat you to return to England as soon as possible.” The bishop sagged back in his chair, never taking his eyes from Henry’s face. “If you do not, you are in danger of losing your kingdom.”

Henry said nothing, his gaze flicking from the bishop to Ranulf, who took that as his cue to speak up. “My lord king, the bishop speaks true. We have not been able to keep the Scots from ravaging the border lands, and they’ve been raiding into England. They have taken castles at Appleby, Leddell, and Harbottle, and Robert de Vaux has been so hard pressed that he was forced to seek a truce, agreeing to surrender Carlisle if you cannot relieve him by Michaelmas. The Scots king then sacked Warkworth and slaughtered many of the townspeople.”

The bishop leaned forward, his fists clenching on his knees. “We have naught but dire news, my lord. The rebellion has flared up again in the Midlands. They attacked and burned Nottingham and the garrison at Leicester is still holding out, refusing to surrender. And bandits and masterless men are taking advantage of the unrest to commit crimes of their own. The king’s roads are no longer safe; it is as if we are back in the dreadful days when Stephen ruled. There was rioting in London, my liege-in London!”

Henry’s continuing silence was beginning to unnerve them, for they were accustomed to his taking command of a crisis, taking decisive action. Just when the stillness in the chamber was becoming intolerable, Henry turned and looked at the bishop as if he were seeing him for the first time. “You are half dead on your feet, Richard. Go to bed. You, too, Uncle.”

The bishop did, but Ranulf stayed, sensing that Henry’s need for comfort was greater than his own need for sleep. When he looked over at Willem, the earl raised his shoulders in a silent shrug, for he, too, was at a loss. They watched Henry in silence, neither one knowing what to say, and both started when he suddenly spoke out.

“Ranulf? Did you know that the Count of Flanders has sworn upon a fragment of the True Cross that he will invade England within a fortnight from tomorrow?”

“Yes,” Ranulf said, “I know.” He knew, too, that Count Philip had already dispatched an advance guard of three hundred knights, but he could not bring himself to say anything about it, not sure if Henry had heard, and not wanting to give him any more grief.

Henry was staring down at the ashes in the cold, empty hearth. “My French spies tell me that Louis and Philip and their lackeys hope to lure me to England so they can attack Normandy once I am gone.”

“That may well be true, Harry,” Ranulf said carefully. “But England is already in flames. Can you stand by whilst it burns?”

“I truly thought I’d won this accursed war last year with those victories at Dol and Fornham St Genevieve. But this rebellion is like a snake, shedding one skin only to grow another. Does it ever end?”

“You will prevail, Harry,” Willem declared. “I have no doubts whatsoever. I know Philip of Flanders well, and he is no match for you on the battlefield. As for that fool on the French throne, he is no more a leader than that beggar we passed on the road this noon. Men would not follow him out of a burning building. And your sons…” Here he paused, his voice trailing off, and Henry gave him a ghostly grimace of a smile.

“Ah, yes,” he said, “my sons, my loyal, loving sons.”

Ranulf sat up straight, remembering that he did have news that might give Henry comfort. “I can think of no better words to describe Geoff. Have you heard what he did, Harry? He called out the men of Lincoln as their bishop-elect and lay siege to Roger de Mowbray’s castle at Kinnardferry. He captured Roger’s son and razed the castle to the ground. He then joined forces with the Archbishop of York and took de Mowbray’s castle at Kirkby Malzeard.”

“Did he, by God?” This time Henry’s smile was more convincing. “He is a good lad, is Geoff.” He’d picked up his wine cup, but now set it down, untouched. “I thought I told you to go to bed, Uncle. You, too, Willem. I need you both alert and awake for the council on the morrow.”

Willem did as he was bid, but Ranulf still hesitated. “I am not tired,” he lied, “if you want to talk…”

“No,” Henry said, “I am going to bed myself.”

“Shall I summon your squires?”

“No…not yet. I want to be alone for a while.”

Ranulf looked searchingly into the younger man’s face. Priests often spoke of life as a “vale of tears,” warning that “all is vanity and vexation of spirit,” reminding their flocks that “man that is born of woman is of few days, and full of trouble.” Yet he doubted that most Christians, sinners though they be, ever reached that dark, desolate place where hope withered on the vine and the voice of the Almighty was silent. But he had-he’d lost the woman he’d loved, a friend closer than a brother, and all sense of purpose. Stricken by grief and guilt, he’d wandered alone in the wilderness, caring for naught until he rediscovered divine mercy and his faith in a Welsh mountain valley. He had never forgotten, though, the pain of feeling forsaken by God, pain he saw reflected now in his nephew’s eyes.

“God’s Blessings upon you,” he said, but no more than that, for he knew Harry’s anguish was beyond his power to heal. He could only pray that the Almighty and Jesus, the Only Begotten Son, would take pity upon Harry, show him the path to salvation in his time of greatest need.