Devil's Brood

C HAPTER F IFTY-THREE

June 1189

La Ferte-Bernard, Maine

In the months since Richard’s dramatic public repudiation at Bonsmoulins, Henry tried in vain to reestablish communications between them, entreating his son to return to the English court. But even when he dispatched the Archbishop of Canterbury as his messenger, Richard refused to meet with the prelate. The truce between the English and French kings had expired when Henry was too ill to attend the conference, and that spring Philippe and Richard began to stage raids into Henry’s domains, much to the dismay of those who’d taken the cross and were eager to depart for the Holy Land. The arrival of a papal legate, the Cardinal John of Anagni, rekindled hope, though, for the Church was determined to make peace between the warring crusader-kings. The cardinal succeeded in gaining their agreement to arbitration, and a meeting was set up at Whitsuntide at which time their grievances would be submitted to the cardinal himself and the Archbishops of Rheims, Bourges, Rouen, and Canterbury.

The Cardinal was a tall, elegant figure in a silk cappa magna and linen miter banded in gold, his impressive bearing enhanced by his regal aplomb. This was obviously not a man to be intimidated by those who wielded secular power and many of the witnesses took heart, daring to hope that the Peace of God would prevail.

It was soon evident, though, that neither Philippe nor Richard was in a conciliatory frame of mind. Philippe wasted no time in articulating their position, that war was inevitable unless Henry acceded to their demands. They reiterated the conditions they’d set forth at Bonsmoulins, that Alys be wed at once to Richard and that Richard be formally recognized as the rightful heir to the English crown. And they added a new proviso, insisting that John take the cross and accompany them to Outremer.

John looked startled to find himself suddenly the center of attention. Henry ignored Philippe, although he had been the speaker, and looked coolly at his elder son. “Are you saying that the success of our holy war depends upon the presence of the Count of Mortain? That is indeed a great compliment, one I am sure he appreciates. But I do not believe that the Blessed Mother Church approves of compelling a man to take the cross.”

Richard was quick to take up the challenge. “I’ll let you worry about the state of his soul. But his body will be in the Holy Land with me. I will not even consider departing myself unless he goes, too, for reasons I am sure you well know, my lord king.”

John flushed, the cardinal frowned, and Henry gave Richard a look that was far from fatherly. Before he could respond, though, Philippe stepped in, not wanting Richard to openly accuse Henry of seeking to disinherit him. That was at the heart of Richard’s quarrel, of course, but Philippe thought that it was important to couch their complaints in more elevated terms. He’d taken the cardinal’s measure and did not think the prideful papal legate would want to be dragged into a family squabble. It must seem that greater issues were at stake, just as he and Richard must seem reasonable and sincere.

Thinking that there were definite drawbacks to having an ally as impetuous as Richard, Philippe said quickly, “My lord cardinal, I would hope that we’ll not be distracted from the true purpose of this meeting. I do indeed support the Duke of Aquitaine’s insistence that his brother accompany us to the Holy Land. And justice demands that the duke be acknowledged as the English king’s heir. The law of primogeniture very clearly states that an inheritance is passed on to the eldest son, and since the death of the young king, that son is Duke Richard. But our greatest grievance lies in the shameful treatment of my sister, the Lady Alys.”

He paused deliberately to give Henry a look that was both indignant and sorrowful before turning back to the papal legate and the bishops. “My sister was betrothed to the English king’s son in God’s Year 1169…nigh on twenty years ago, Your Grace. She is now twenty-eight years old, well past the accepted age for matrimony. My lord father of blessed memory was greatly troubled by the English king’s refusal to honor the plight-troth and tried repeatedly to remedy her predicament, and I in my turn have done what I could for my unfortunate sister. Again and again I have implored the English king either to marry her to the duke as he promised or return her and her dowry to France.”

Philippe shook his head sadly. “In truth, my lords, I do not know why the English king continues to be so arbitrary and unfair. Those are questions best addressed to him. I can say only that I will no longer abide her continuing exile. She deserves better than this, and as her closest male kin, it is my duty to act on her behalf. She must marry the English king’s son, or she must come home and Gisors and the Vexin must be returned to the French Crown.”

As he glanced around at their intently listening audience, Philippe was gratified by what he saw: heads nodding in agreement and challenging looks being directed in Henry’s direction by members of the cardinal’s retinue. Let the old fox talk his way out of this snare!

Seeing that all were waiting for his response, Henry let his gaze linger upon the French king’s face, not even glancing toward Richard. “So the Lady Alys’s marriage is what matters most to you, my lord king?” When Philippe nodded gravely, Henry smiled, with such satisfaction that the French king felt a prickle of foreboding.

“I am pleased to hear that,” Henry said, “for this means we can resolve our differences here and now and turn our attention to what matters most-going to the rescue of the Holy City. You would have your sister wed, my lord king? Fine. I am quite willing to see it done and with no further delay. But let her wed the Count of Mortain.”

There was a stunned silence and then pandemonium. Richard’s shock gave way almost at once to utter outrage, and he cried out angrily that this insulting proposal justified all of his past suspicions. Philippe was no longer feigning indignation, glaring at Henry as he scornfully rejected the English king’s “games-playing.” Richard’s men and the French were voicing support for their lords, the assembled prelates were murmuring among themselves, and John was gazing at his father in disbelief. Was it too much to have expected Papa to mention this beforehand?

“I do not understand why you refuse even to consider it, my liege,” Henry said, looking at the French king with a puzzled air. “If the marriage of the Lady Alys to my son will put an end to this needless strife between us, what are your objections?”

“You’ve just proved that all my suspicions were correct,” Richard snarled. “Your intent has always been to put John in my rightful place!”

Henry gave Richard a dismissive glance, keeping his eyes on Philippe. “It is for you to answer, my liege,” he said, “not one of your vassals.”

Philippe was as angry now as Richard. “Your duplicity knows no bounds, my lord! You expect us to forget your years of bad faith and double-dealing as you play us for fools? I daresay you’ll be bargaining with the Devil on your deathbed…but not with me. I’ve had enough, will waste no more time here today.”

But as Philippe turned to stalk off, he found his way barred by the papal legate. The cardinal was also furious, but his anger was not directed at Henry. “The English king told me that you were using your sister’s marriage as a pretext, an excuse for aggression against his Norman lands. I was doubtful, but I see now that he was right. If your sole concern is your sister’s welfare, why would you refuse his offer? If you suspect that he intends to name the Count of Mortain as his successor, I would think that ought to make the marriage even more valuable in your eyes. Of course if your real interest is in continuing this war, then your refusal makes deplorable sense.”

“I am surprised, my lord cardinal, that you are so trusting, so easily swayed. You do not truly think he’ll let Alys marry John, do you? This is a bluff!”

“Prove it, then, by accepting his offer,” the cardinal challenged, and waited for a response that was not coming. “Your silence speaks for itself, my liege. Let me now speak for the Holy Church. If you persist in this war and thus doom the Holy City, I will lay your lands under Interdict until you come to your senses.”

“You dare to threaten me with an Interdict?” Philippe said incredulously. “As a good son of the Church, I will match my history against the English king’s any day of the week! But I will not allow you to meddle in this matter. I have every right to punish a rebellious vassal, and lest you forget, he is indeed my vassal.”

“You have been warned, my lord king.”

“And you have been bought, my lord cardinal. Take your threats and your saddle bags filled with English gold and go back to Rome.”

Philippe’s accusation set off another uproar, and arguments began to break out all over the field. Richard shouldered his way forward to voice his own anger with the cardinal, the exchange becoming so heated that the bishops hastened to intercede between the two men. Fuming, Richard finally allowed the Archbishop of Rouen to draw him away, but he was only half listening as the prelate assured him that the cardinal bore him no malice, that his sole concern was the coming quest to the Holy Land. His eyes searched the crowd and when he found his father, he was not surprised to see Henry standing apart, watching the commotion like a playwright observing a drama of his making. And despite his fury, Richard felt a flicker of grudging admiration.

Philippe was storming off, trailed by his lords and clerics, and the cardinal was preparing to depart, too. One of Richard’s squires had brought his stallion up and he reached for the reins, swinging easily into the saddle. Before he could signal to his men, though, he noticed his brother, standing by himself a few feet away. On impulse, he nudged his mount in John’s direction.

“To give the Devil his due,” he said, “he does know how to stir a pot.”

John shrugged and Richard leaned from the saddle so that his words reached his brother’s ears alone. “A bit of advice, Johnny. An infidel who converts at knifepoint will not be valued as much as one who converts of his own free will.”

John looked up at him, his face unreadable. “I do not know what you mean, Richard.”

“A pity,” Richard said laconically, and turned his horse away. John stood motionless, watching him go.

Henry withdrew south to Le Mans after the conference fell apart, hoping that Philippe would heed the cardinal’s warning once his anger cooled. He’d gambled all upon one throw of the dice, having concluded that his only chance was to drive a wedge between Richard and Philippe. Without the French king backing him up, Richard’s threat would be blunted, and he’d either have to accept Henry’s olive branch or depart on his own for the Holy Land. But he’d underestimated the intensity of Philippe’s hostility; either that or Philippe considered Richard so useful an ally that he was willing to defy the Church in order to safeguard that alliance. At least he’d been able to win the cardinal’s support. But it would not count for much if Philippe was willing to wage war even under the threat of an Interdict. Henry found it hard to believe that the young French king would be so reckless.

He soon learned that his hopes of a peaceful settlement were no more substantial than shadows and smoke. The very next day, Philippe and Richard launched a surprise and successful assault upon his castle at La Ferte-Bernard. In quick succession, they moved on to capture the castles of Montfort, Maletable, Beaumont, and Ballon. The loss of Ballon was particularly disturbing, for it was just fifteen miles from Le Mans.

When John was admitted to his father’s chamber, he found Henry playing chess with Geoff. Henry greeted him with a smile and pushed his chair back from the table, but John was not impressed that his father would interrupt the game for him. When other men told him how lucky he was to stand so high in the king’s favor, he was hard put not to point out that a diet of promises was a thin gruel. For all his father’s fondness and fine talk, he had yet to grant the incomes of Mortain, and the Gloucester heiress seemed likely to join Alys in a chaste old age.

“I heard that some of the Breton lords have thrown their lot in with Richard and Philippe, joining them at Ballon,” he said. “Is it true?”

“Yes,” Henry admitted. “You know Raoul de Fougeres. He’s never one to miss a rebellion.”

John was not cheered by Henry’s humor, not with their scouts reporting that the French king and Richard were heading south, toward Le Mans. “I do not understand why you insist upon staying in Le Mans, Papa. Surely it would make more sense to withdraw into Normandy where your army is gathering. Here you have only your household knights and your Welsh routiers. Why put yourself needlessly at risk?”

Henry had already had this discussion with Willem and Geoff and several others, all of whom had advocated a retreat into the greater safety of Normandy. “Le Mans has always been the city closest to my heart, Johnny. I was born here and my father is buried in the cathedral. I have promised the citizens that I will not abandon them.”

His father’s logic eluded John altogether. He looked at Henry in frustration, but he had no chance to continue the argument, for it was then that Will Marshal was announced. John stepped aside so Will could confer with Henry, just in time to catch Geoff surreptitiously shifting several of the chess pieces on the board. John did not like his half brother any more than Richard did, and when he realized what Geoff was up to, he shook his head, thinking that only Geoff would cheat to lose.

Henry beckoned Will into the chamber. “Will, my scouts report that Philippe and Richard have turned in the direction of Tours. But I want to be sure it is not a trick. On the morrow, take several of our men and find out if they are indeed heading away from Le Mans.”

Will promised to leave at first light and then asked about the defensive ditches they’d dug outside the city walls. John saw that Henry was going to be occupied for some time and quietly slipped from the chamber.

There were two Royal residences in Le Mans, the ancient castle near the cathedral of St Julien and the palace in the Place St Pierre, where Henry was lodging. Willem was standing on the town walls, looking down at the sprawling suburb that had grown up around the city. Sheltered on two sides by the rivers Sarthe and Huisne, Le Mans had an ancient past and its walls dated back to the time when it had been a Roman outpost. It had long been the heart of Anjou, but Willem was scrutinizing it now with a soldier’s eye, his only concern the defenses it offered against assault. He would have been more content had the city not held such a great prize-the king himself.

It was that ephemeral hour between day and night, clouds still tinted with the red hues of sunset, the sky taking on the deepening haze of a summer twilight. Willem was too tense, too preoccupied to appreciate the quiet beauty of a country eventide, and he started visibly at the sound of his name. Turning, he saw Henry’s youngest son approaching along the battlement walkway, not a welcome sight, for he was sure John was seeking reassurance he could not in all honesty provide.

John’s greeting was perfunctory, and he wasted no time in social amenities. “I have just come from my father, and he is still balking at withdrawing into Normandy. I do not understand him at all anymore, Willem. How can he be so lethargic in the face of such danger? He has always been acclaimed for the speed of his campaigns, and yet now he does nothing!”

“What would you have him do, John? He does not want to make war upon his son.”

“The choice is no longer his,” John pointed out impatiently. “Surely he means to defend himself? He showed no such reticence during the first rebellion, nor when Hal and Geoffrey sought to overthrow Richard. I know he is older now, but even so…”

“He is fifty and six, which is hardly doddering.” Part of Willem’s annoyance was due to the fact that he and Henry were born in the same year. But he was also thoroughly disillusioned with the ingratitude of the king’s sons. After years of witnessing Henry’s strife with Hal and Geoffrey and Richard, he’d decided that a fertile queen might well pose a greater danger than a barren one. And so far he’d seen nothing in John to soften that harsh judgment, for Henry’s youngest seemed like a typical spoiled and callow young princeling to him, not likely to be the staff of his father’s old age.

“Has it never occurred to you, John, that heart-wounds can be more dangerous than those inflicted with lance or sword? Especially now…”

“What do you mean by ‘especially now’?”

Willem stared at him. How could he not know? “I am talking of your lord father’s failing health, of course.”

John frowned. “I know he is troubled by that recurring leg injury. And he suffered greatly this spring from an abscess in his groin. But as painful as they are, they are not mortal ailments. He always gets better, does he not?”

Willem’s hesitation was brief. John was not a child, after all. He was a man grown of twenty and two. It was time for him to look at the world with a man’s eyes, time to realize how greatly his father needed him. “He is loath to speak openly of his ills, but he has been troubled for months by an ulcer and he has a wound in his heel that is not healing as it ought. Constant pain saps a man’s strength, all the more so when he must endure one family crisis after another.”

John was silent for a time. “Then this is why so many of his barons are deserting him? They fear he might die?”

“They fear he cannot win this war, and for a king, death and defeat are one and the same. I do not mean to alarm you, unduly, John. But I felt you had the right to know how serious your father’s maladies are.”

“Thank you,” John said softly, “for telling me the truth.” Willem patted him on the shoulder and then moved on, heading for the ladder. John remained where he was, gazing over the walls at the deceptively tranquil scene below. Candles had begun to glow through the open windows of the houses, and bobbing beacons appeared on the streets as lanterns were struck. But these cheerful flickers of light were soon swallowed up by the encroaching dark.

During the night, thick fog drifted into the valley, and when Will and his companions set out, they could barely see more than a few yards ahead of them. They almost ran into an advance party of French scouts, but since they were not armed for combat, they let the French riders pass by in peace. Will led the way toward the River Huisne, and there he found that Henry’s caution had been well warranted. Using the fog as camouflage, the French and Poitevins had stealthily advanced as far as the river and were now encamped on the other bank, with the obvious intent of laying siege to Le Mans.

Entering the Great Hall, John made his way toward the dais, where Henry was talking quietly and intently with Will Marshal and several of his knights. “You sent for me, my lord?”

Henry nodded, said “Come with me,” and led the way behind the oaken partition that screened off one end of the hall. “The French army is gathering for an attack upon Le Mans. I have given orders to break down the Pontlieu bridge over the River Huisne, to place stakes in the places where the river can be forded, and to scatter caltrops and sharpened stones in the riverbed. We are deepening the ditches and pulling down those houses closest to the city gates.”

John nodded; he’d already heard about the French army’s advance, for rumors were sweeping the city. “What do you want me to do?”

Henry hesitated, then reached out and placed his hands on his son’s shoulders. “I want you to go, Johnny. I expect to be able to withstand the siege long enough for my army to reach us. But it would be foolish for both of us to be trapped in Le Mans, so I want you safely away from here.”

John caught his breath. “Papa…are you sure?”

Henry felt a vast relief, for he’d feared that John would balk. Nothing ever came easily if one of his sons was involved. Thank God Almighty that Johnny could be reasoned with, unlike Richard. “Very sure, lad. It makes the most sense to have you in Normandy to take charge of the army and lead them back to lift the siege.”

“I’d rather not leave you,” John said slowly, “but if that is your wish, I will obey.”

Henry pretended to reel back in shock. “That is a word I never thought to hear from the lips of a son of mine,” he joked. “Bless you, lad, for not arguing with me.” Keeping his arm around John’s shoulders, he steered the young man toward the door. “Take your household knights, Johnny, and go at once.”

The sooner his son was on the road to safety, the sooner he could draw an easy breath. He was not about to admit that, though, knowing that too much fatherly concern would sting John’s pride, make him more likely to insist upon staying. So he continued to banter with John, bidding him farewell as nonchalantly as if this were a routine separation, and only once did they acknowledge more was at stake. John had turned to go, then came back and gave Henry a quick hug.

Henry’s eyes misted, but he then gave his son a playful push. “Be off with you, Johnny. And try not to get lost!”

The next morning Henry decided to venture out to reconnoiter the French camp. Confident that there’d be no immediate assault since he’d had the bridge destroyed, neither he nor any of the men with him wore their hauberks. Only Will Marshal was insistent upon fully arming himself, and Henry was both amused and irked by the knight’s stubbornness. Exiting the city through a postern gate between the palace and the church of St Pierre de la Coeur, they rode through the suburb known as Bourg Dom Guy. The streets were eerily empty now as the residents had taken refuge within the city walls. Even the Maison Dieu de Coeffort, the hospital Henry had founded nine years ago, had been evacuated, a sight so mournful that he had to avert his eyes as they passed.

They had agreed that if the French did attack, the suburb would have to be set on fire, and the knowledge that these poor people might lose all they had only dragged Henry’s spirits down further. When he’d first learned that Richard and Philippe meant to attack the city of his birth, Henry had been sustained by the intensity of his rage. But it had not continued to burn at white heat, and this morning he felt numb and exhausted after another sleepless night and uncomfortably aware of his body’s aches and pains with every step his stallion took.

“My lords!” One of the scouts they’d sent ahead was racing toward them, spurring his mount without mercy. “They have found a ford, are making ready to cross!”

When Henry galloped past him, several of his companions cried out in protest. But he had to see for himself. French knights had ridden out into the River Huisne, using their lances to test its depth, and discovered a ford by the remains of Pontlieu Bridge. They were already lining up to cross, and Henry thought he caught a glimpse of Richard, mounted on a favorite roan stallion, not yet armed, but shouting commands, making order of chaos.

“Papa!” Geoff had reined in beside him, swinging his mount around as if to block Henry from view. “We have to get back into the city! None of us are armed, so we cannot engage them, and if they see you, they’ll be on us like a hawk on a thrush!”

Indeed, no sooner were the words out of his mouth than they heard shouts and men were pointing in their direction. As the first French knights splashed into the river, Henry and his men wheeled their horses about and raced for safety.

Will Marshal had been left behind to guard the postern gate, and as it opened to admit the king and his knights, Will charged toward the pursuing riders, for he knew that Taillebourg had fallen when Richard had gotten into the city with the fleeing garrison. At first he was alone, but men on the parapet began shouting, “Over here, for God and the Marshal!” and some of Will’s knights came galloping through the gate to fight at his side. Soon a number of Henry’s men, now armed, joined the fray and before long a sharp battle was taking place in the streets under the city walls.

One of Will’s knights, Hugh de Malanny, was struck with such force that his horse lost its footing and rider and animal both toppled into the marshy moat. Will promptly shattered his own lance on the French knight’s shield and the man also splashed into the moat. Casting aside his lance, Will soon spotted another worthy foe and spurred his stallion toward Andre de Chauvigny.

Will was famed in tournaments for his ability to capture knights by seizing their bridles, using his own considerable strength and his horse’s momentum to drag his helpless opponents off the field. The maneuver worked perfectly now with Richard’s knight. To his horror, Andre suddenly found himself being towed toward the gate, faced with several choices, all of them unpalatable. He could try to cut his mount’s bridle, which would give him no way to control the animal. He could fling himself from a galloping horse. Or he could become the Marshal’s prisoner.

Drawing his dagger, Andre leaned forward in an attempt to slash the reins before they reached the gate. Men up on the parapet were heaving large rocks down upon the French, and one of them hit Andre’s arm while another stone struck his mount in the head. The horse reared, screaming, and suddenly Will found himself holding the bridle, while Andre found himself clinging desperately to his saddle as his stallion bolted back toward the river. By now he was in such pain that he knew his arm was broken and he felt a surge of fear, for he’d not be able to halt the panicked animal. But hoof-beats were thudding behind him and from the corner of his eye, he saw Rico ranging up alongside.

Andre took no time to consider, kicked his feet free of his stirrups, and leaped. This was a maneuver he’d often practiced in the tiltyard, but he’d never tried it with an injured arm, and sprawled awkwardly across the destrier’s rump. For several terrifying seconds, he hung there, holding on for dear life until Rico, displaying fine horsemanship, managed to halt his stallion. Andre slid to the ground and sank down in the grass. He was chalk-white, in such agony that he was on the verge of blacking out. But he was alive, and so had no complaints.

At the gate, Will looked for new quarry and, in quick succession, he used his bridle trick upon two other knights, but both men preferred runaway horses to captivity and cut themselves free. Will’s third foe was not so lucky and was hauled through the city gate where he was quickly disarmed and turned over to Will’s excited squire. Will then switched horses with his prisoner, for his own stallion had been lamed after stepping on a broken lance. Returning to the combat, he led a charge that soon had the French in flight toward the river.

By now Will was drenched in sweat and finding it hard to catch his breath, for the Seneschal of Anjou had set fire to the suburbs and smoke and flames were adding to the dangers of the battlefield. “I think we’ve beaten them back for now,” Will panted, looking at his comrades with pride, for Baldwin de Bethune and Renaud de Dammartin and Morgan Fitz Ranulf and Peter Fitz Guy were men he was honored to fight with, even to die with if need be.

The French had retreated across the river, but Henry’s knights knew they’d soon be trying again, and they turned their mounts back toward the city. It was an exceedingly hot and humid day, and they were all exhausted, winded, and badly bruised from deflected blows. But they were triumphant, too, for the first onslaught had been a victory for the English. They’d almost reached the gate when Morgan gave a sudden shout of alarm.

“Jesu, look! The wind is shifting!” And as they watched, appalled, sparks and cinders and burning embers were caught by the wind, sent spiraling up into the sky. Many of them came down within the city, and screams warned the men of Le Mans’s peril even before they saw the smoke.

Not finding Henry at the palace, Will was heading for the castle when he heard a woman crying for help. One of the flying embers had set her roof afire, and she was frantically trying to drag her belongings from the house before it went up in flames. Will at once dismounted, and he and his squires came to her aid. She wept with gratitude as they were able to recover a table and bed-frame and a coffer chest of her family’s clothing. Carrying out a smoldering feather quilt, Will found himself choking on the acrid fumes coming from the bedding and after dropping it into a horse trough, he knelt, pulled off his helmet, and splashed water on his face. He could tell from the noise that the citizens were doing their best to put out the fires, but he could see smoke staining the sky in several quarters of the city and he feared that Le Mans was doomed.

Riders were coming up the street, and he recognized the Earl of Essex in the lead. When Willem reined in his horse, Will felt as if he were looking at a stranger, for the normally imperturbable earl was as alarmed as Will had ever seen him. “The French crossed the Sarthe downstream and circled around to the west. They have taken the Perrin bridge and will soon be in the city. We must get the king away whilst we still can!”

“ N O!” Henry looked defiantly from Willem to Geoff, but there was more despair in his voice than anger. “I have never run from a fight in my life, am not about to start now.”

Geoff grasped Henry’s arm, desperate enough to try to take his father from the city by force if need be. “Papa, you cannot stay!”

“You must make a choice, Harry.” Willem took advantage of years of friendship to speak bluntly now, no longer as subject to sovereign, but as one battle commander to another. “We cannot hold the city, cannot fight the fire and the French, too. So you must retreat…or you must surrender to the French king and your son. And you’ve precious little time to make up your mind.”

Henry turned away. He, who had always prided himself upon his swift response to a crisis, now found himself crippled by indecision, by a paralyzing sense of unreality. How could it have come to this? How could he lose Le Mans, the city dearest to his heart?

“We will retreat,” he agreed at last, and they sprang into action, not wanting to give him a chance to reconsider.

With the French forcing their way into the city through the west gate and the body of their army just an arrow’s flight to the south, the only escape still open to Henry was through the north gate, out onto the road to Alencon. Having shed their hauberks and helmets so they could make better speed, they galloped out of the city, heading north. But Henry was already having second thoughts. How could he abandon the townsmen, always so steadfast and loyal? How could he let himself be chased away by that paltry French stripling and his wretched ingrate of a son?

To the dismay of his men, he insisted on drawing rein upon the crest of a hill, and as he looked back at the burning city, his anguish gave way to a wild, unholy rage. “O God, since You have taken away from me the city that I loved most on earth, the city where I was born and bred, the city where my father is buried, I will repay You as best I can. I will deny You what You love best in me, my soul!”

His listeners shivered in horror, hastily making the sign of the cross to distance themselves from Henry’s bitter, blasphemous rant. Geoff pleaded with him to ride on, but it was only when they saw the horsemen galloping after them that he let himself be pulled away from the sight of the smoke-shrouded city.

Richard had not taken a personal role in the assault upon Le Mans, feeling it would be unseemly to lead an attack upon his own father. He was not clad in armor, therefore, when he entered the city and learned that Henry and his knights had fled. Without stopping to think it through, Richard at once led his men in pursuit. His was an instinctive response, wanting to put an end to this once and for all, wanting the satisfaction of being the one to take his father prisoner, and perhaps sensing, too, that it would be better if he caught up with Henry rather than the men of the French king.

Not burdened with hauberk, helmet, or shield, wearing only an iron cap-a cervellier-he rapidly gained ground on them, was soon in sight of the retreating rearguard. One of Henry’s knights had once been a friend, and when he saw him jousting with a Poitevin knight, Richard could not resist jeering as he swept by. “You are foolish to waste your time with tournament tactics, des Roches, would do better to put on a bit of speed!”

At the sound of Richard’s voice, another knight turned back and charged straight at him. Richard was suddenly acutely aware of his vulnerability, for the man riding at him with lance leveled at his chest was one of the best of their age, his mentor who now seemed likely to be his nemesis. His mouth went dry, as for the first time he experienced the purely physical fear of death.

In desperation, he tried to ward off the lance with his arm, shouting out, “God’s Legs, Marshal, do not kill me! I am unarmed!” They were close enough now for him to see the grim expression on the other man’s face, to anticipate the lance driving into his chest with all the force of the Marshal’s body behind it. But at the last possible moment, Will shifted his aim and plunged the weapon into Richard’s stallion. Death was instantaneous and as the animal fell, Richard was thrown to the ground. Gasping from the impact, struggling for breath, he looked up at the knight, who’d reined in only a few feet away.

“Let the Devil be the one to kill you,” Will said, and he then spurred his horse, rode to catch up with his king.

By now several of Richard’s knights had reached him and were dismounting in haste to make sure he was unharmed. Waving their helping hands aside, Richard insisted upon struggling to his feet by himself. More shaken than he’d ever admit, he stood watching as Marshal disappeared into the distance, suddenly able to appreciate the kind of courage that was not fearless, that owed nothing to bravado or daredevil abandon, but was the pure product of the will.

“No,” he said, when they asked if they should resume the pursuit. “It is done.”

Their flight from Le Mans was a hellish journey for Henry and his knights. They were never out of danger, for they had to pass several of the castles that had been seized by the French. Men and horses collapsed in the scorching heat, as they dared not slacken their pace. By the time they reached Fresnay-sur-Sarthe that evening, Henry was in such pain that he could barely stay in the saddle. Geoff and Willem would have preferred to press on to Alencon, for Fresnay was a small castle, unable to accommodate hundreds of knights. But they knew Henry could go no farther.

Fresnay was one of the castles of the Viscount Beaumont; in happier days Henry had played host to the wedding of his daughter to the Scots king. He was with Henry’s army at Alencon, but his castellan did all he could to make them welcome, turning over the best bedchamber to Henry, offering to feed as many as he could, and suggesting that some of their men could lodge in the town’s three priories. Henry needed Geoff’s help to climb the stairs, for that hard ride had inflamed his old leg injury. Sinking down on the bed, he stirred only when Geoff would have departed, saying he meant to pass the night in the town, keeping vigil in case the French found them.

“No,” Henry whispered, “stay here, stay with me…” Not closing his eyes until Geoff promised he would remain.

Henry’s young squire, Hugh de Sandford, had shown the presence of mind to bring along a sumpter horse and Geoff gladly accepted a change of clothing, for he’d left everything behind in Le Mans. Henry did not have the energy to remove his dusty tunic and sweat-soaked shirt, so Geoff covered him with his own mantle, then settled down in a nearby chair to keep watch while he slept.

Awakening the next morning, Geoff was so stiff and sore that he could not move without wincing. To his relief, Henry still slept, and after instructing Hugh to let him sleep, he stumbled downstairs. The great hall had been used as a bedchamber by some of Henry’s knights. They were up by now, though, consuming bread, cheese, and wine, talking and even laughing among themselves, for their spirits had risen with the sun. Geoff shared their sense of rejuvenation, for they were less than ten miles from the Norman border and safety. He wished that he could convince his father to return to England to recover, but he knew that was a lost cause, and so contented himself that at least Henry would find security and time to convalesce in Rouen.

Morgan was also feeling much more cheerful, for he was still young enough to be restored by a good night’s sleep and a meal. He and several of his friends were prodding Will Marshal to tell them again about his clash with Richard, and Will, who had no false modesty when it came to his knightly skills, was happy to oblige. He soon had a large and enthusiastic audience, but their laughter had a nervous edge, for Richard was not known for his forgiving nature and few doubted that he would be king one day.

When Henry entered the hall, a sudden silence fell, for the past day’s ordeal was writ plainly in his face for all to see; his complexion was livid, his eyes sunken, his mouth tightly clamped. Morgan was so shocked by the king’s haggard appearance that he soon fled the hall, feeling as if he were reliving a nightmare, thrust back in time to those wretched days at Lagny, forced to stand by and watch helplessly as Geoffrey’s life ebbed away.

In his misery, he turned to the Almighty and headed for the chapel on the far side of the bailey. There he offered up a fervent prayer for his cousin the king and then lingered to talk with the chaplain. The chapel priory was a cell of the abbey of St Aubin in Angers, and the young priest was passionately loyal to the Count of Anjou; with him, as with so many Angevins, the fact that their count was also England’s king was an interesting irrelevancy. Morgan found it comforting to speak to another one of Henry’s partisans, and it was some time before he emerged from the church.

He was immediately hailed by two of his friends and fellow knights, Peter Fitz Guy and Robert de Tresgoz. “Morgan! We’ve been looking all over for you!” As soon as he joined them, they both blurted out their news at once. “You’ll not believe what happened!” Peter exclaimed while Rob declared that he feared the king’s wits had been affected. They paused for breath, and this time Rob deferred to Peter. “The king is not going on to Alencon, Morgan. He is sending his son and the Earl of Essex into Normandy with our men, but he says he is going back into Anjou!”

Morgan was staggered. “But that makes no sense!”

“We know! You should have heard the others when he told them that. I thought Geoff would go as mad as the king. They all decried it, speaking more frankly than he is accustomed to hear, first arguing and then pleading, to no avail. He told them this was not open for debate and in the end, he got his own way, as he usually does. He made the Earl of Essex promise not to turn any of his castles in Normandy over to anyone but Count John and insisted that Geoff continue on to Alencon. Geoff was so distraught, though, that the king did agree he could join him in Anjou after leading our men to Alencon.”

Morgan did not understand Henry’s rash decision any more than his friends did, and he remained silent as they told him that Will Marshal had begged to come, but the king was adamant. “You see why I wonder if he is in his right senses?” Rob said unhappily. “He escapes Le Mans by a hairbreadth and God’s Grace, and now he wants to go right back into Hell!”

Morgan didn’t reply, for he’d just spotted Geoff and Willem leaving the hall. Geoff at once swerved in their direction, with Willem following. Giving Morgan no chance to speak, Geoff reached out and grasped the younger man’s arm, hard enough to hurt. “You heard?” When Morgan nodded solemnly, Geoff’s grip tightened. “You must promise me, Cousin Morgan, promise that you’ll not leave him. He will not let me come with him, so it is up to you. To all of you,” he added, his gaze now including Peter and Rob. “You were steadfast in your loyalty to Geoffrey, and you two were just as faithful to Hal. I want you to swear to me, on the surety of your souls, that you will give the king the same devotion you gave his sons.”

Wide-eyed, they all pledged their fidelity to the king, vowed not to abandon him. Morgan then took advantage of his kinship to the chancellor and confessed, “Cousin, we do not understand. Why is the king doing this?”

Geoff looked at him mutely and then turned away, but not before they saw his despair. They watched him stride toward the chapel, and then glanced imploringly at the Earl of Essex. Willem did not reply at once. “He is going home to Anjou,” he said at last, his voice muffled, “going home to die.”