Time and Chance

CHAPTER SEVEN

April 1159

Trefriw, North Wales

In just two days, the churches of Gwynedd would be pealing out the advent of Palm Sunday, but winter still held fast in the high mountain passes and heavily wooded hillsides. Patches of snow glistened above the timberline of Moel Siabod and a raw, wet wind was making life miserable for men and animals alike. It would not normally be a day for visiting and so the dusk appearance of a lone rider caused a stir. A groom was soon hastening into the hall, blurting out that Lord Owain’s son was dismounting in the bailey.

Rhodri and Enid made much of their unexpected royal guest, ushering Hywel toward the hearth, taking his muddied mantle, calling for mead and cushions. Rhiannon’s greeting was equally warm, for Hywel was now firmly lodged in her good graces. All of them wanted to know what he was doing out in such wretched weather, expressing astonishment that he did not have an escort and reminding him that it was both dangerous and unseemly for a king’s son to venture about on his own.

Ranulf thought he had the answer to that particular puzzle. If Hywel was alone, it meant he’d been paying a discreet, clandestine visit to yet another light o’ love, one with either a protective father or a jealous husband. As their eyes met, he had confirmation of his suspicions in Hywel’s sudden grin. He wondered idly who this latest conquest was; women came and went with such frequency in Hywel’s life that it was hard to keep track of them, even for Hywel.

Hywel’s secret liaison had obviously gone well, for he was in high spirits, flirting with Enid and Rhiannon, joking with Rhodri, eating heartily of their plain Lenten fare. Over a dinner of salted herring, onion soup, and dried figs, he regaled them with tales of the recent English expedition into South Wales against the rebellious King of Deheubarth, Rhys ap Gruffydd. Henry had dispatched the Earls of Cornwall, Gloucester, and Salisbury to lift Rhys’s siege of Carmarthen Castle. Although Rhys was his sister’s son, Owain Gwynedd had been compelled by the English king to contribute a contingent to the royal force, too, led by his brother Cadwaladr and his sons, Hywel and Cynan. Yet this formidable English-Welsh alliance had failed to bring Rhys to heel and they’d had to settle for another truce, a rather inglorious end to such a redoubtable campaign.

Ranulf couldn’t resist pointing this out to Hywel, but the Welsh prince took the raillery in good humor. “You do not truly expect me to lose any sleep over the English king’s feuding with Rhys? Life is too fleeting to waste time fretting about other men’s troubles.”

They laughed and urged him to tell them more about the campaign. He did, relating several comical stories that ridiculed both the heroics of war and his English allies, garnering more laughter for his efforts. But Hywel had a poet’s keen eye and he was not deceived by the apparent harmony in Ranulf’s household. During the course of the dinner, he’d taken note of Rhiannon’s reddened, swollen eyes, and he’d noticed the sidelong, surreptitious glances Rhodri cast in his nephew’s direction from time to time. Even the complacent Enid was showing signs of distraction, for she had neglected to apologize profusely and needlessly to Hywel for the quality of their meal, as she’d unfailingly done in the past. As for Ranulf, his laugh was too hearty and his humor hollow, at least to one who knew him as well as Hywel.

Putting aside the last of his dried figs, Hywel complimented Enid extravagantly upon the dinner and then insisted that Ranulf accompany him out to the stables to see his new stallion. Ignoring Ranulf’s halfhearted protests, he collected their mantles and a lantern, then headed for the door, giving Ranulf no choice but to follow. The rainstorm heralded by the day’s damp wind had finally arrived, and they hastened across the bailey, pulling up their hoods.

The horses had been fed and bedded down for the night, their groom over in the hall having his own dinner. Raising the lantern, Ranulf started toward one of the stalls, saying, “Come on, show me this wonder horse so we can get back inside where it is warm.” When the flickering light revealed a dappled grey muzzle, he turned to stare at Hywel in surprise. “Either this new stallion of yours is a twin to your Smoke or you had far too much mead tonight. Which is it?”

“You’re right, that is Smoke. I needed an excuse to talk to you alone.”

Ranulf frowned. “Why? What is wrong?”

“You tell me.” Hywel moved closer so that they were both standing within the small pool of light spilling from the lantern. “What has your wife and uncle so distraught? And why do I suspect the King of England’s name will soon be creeping into our conversation?”

Ranulf smiled tiredly. “You do not miss much, do you?” Turning aside, he sat down on a workbench and gestured for Hywel to join him. “My nephew is about to go to war against the Count of Toulouse and he has issued a summons to his barons, myself included, to meet at Poitiers on June twenty-fourth.”

“And your family does not want you to go.”

“They are adamantly opposed, and I cannot seem to make them understand that I have no choice. Rhiannon has turned a deaf ear to my arguments, reminding me that she did not object when I answered Harry’s summons two years ago, as if that were a debt she can now collect. I know women can be unreasonable…” And for a moment, an unbidden ghost flitted across his memory, strong-willed and stubborn. Startled, he shook his head, banishing Annora Fitz Clement back to the past where she belonged. “But I thought Rhiannon would be more sensible-”

Hywel’s laughter cut off the rest of his complaint. “Let me see if I have this right. You will be going off to foreign parts to fight in a war that has nothing whatsoever to do with Wales and you have no idea how long you’ll be gone. And you wonder that your wife is balking?”

“Rhiannon does have a legitimate grievance. I know that. But it changes nothing. This is a summons from my king, not a neighbor’s invitation to dinner! Refusal is not an option, Hywel.”

“I know,” Hywel conceded. “You think I was eager to ally myself with that milksop Gloucester? I did it because my lord father wanted it done; why else?”

“Exactly. There are things men must do. Since we are speaking so plainly, I very much doubt that Lord Owain took any pleasure in helping the King of England defeat one of his own. Rhys is a rival and often a thorn in your father’s side, but he is still Welsh, and a kinsman in the bargain. Yet your father had done homage to the English king, so he had no choice. No more than I do. I only wish there were some way I could make Rhiannon see that.”

“You will not. She will never understand. But she will accept it, because she has no choice, either.” Hywel unhooked a flagon from his belt, passed it to Ranulf. “Take a swig and then tell me where Toulouse is and why the English king is willing to fight a war over it. Which motive are we dealing with-greed or revenge?”

“Most likely lust.”

Hywel blinked. “What?”

“This war can be explained in three words: Eleanor of Aquitaine. Toulouse is a rich region to the south, with Mediterranean ports and fertile harvests. The Count of Toulouse, Raymond de St Gilles, is not only the French king’s vassal, he is also his brother-in-law, for Louis wed his sister Constance to Raymond five years ago. Poor Constance has not had much luck with husbands. Previously she’d been wed to King Stephen’s son Eustace, about whom nothing good can be said. And gossip has it that Raymond maltreats her, too, for all that she has borne him three sons in as many years.”

“I like gossip as well as the next man, but this woman’s marital woes can wait. Where does Eleanor come into this?”

“Eleanor’s grandmother Philippa was the only child of Count William of Toulouse. But upon his death, Toulouse passed to his brother, not to Philippa. Philippa was wed to the Duke of Aquitaine, and they always viewed Toulouse as rightfully theirs.”

“I see. So you think Eleanor has prodded her husband into asserting her claim to Toulouse?”

Ranulf nodded. “Whilst wed to the French king, she coaxed him into taking that same road. Nigh on twenty years ago, Louis led an armed force into Toulouse, was soundly rebuffed, and withdrew in humiliating haste. But a second husband gives her a second chance, and she’s not one to let an opportunity go by unheeded.”

“Neither is Henry,” Hywel pointed out dryly. “I doubt that he needed much persuasion. But in their eagerness to return the lost sheep to the fold, so to speak, they seem to have forgotten about the sheepdog.”

“Would you care to translate that for me?”

“What about their most unlikely alliance with the French king? Surely they do not expect Louis to sit by placidly whilst they make war upon one of his vassals, his own sister’s husband?”

“Louis is in an awkward position. How can he refute Harry’s claim to Toulouse when it is the very same claim he once made himself on Eleanor’s behalf?”

“Somehow I suspect he’ll find a way. Men can be very inventive when their own interests are threatened.” Hywel took the flagon back, drank, regarded Ranulf thoughtfully, and drank again. “This sounds to me like the wrong war in the wrong place at the wrong time, fought for all the wrong reasons. So… when do we leave?”

“You’re not serious, Hywel? Why in God’s Name would you be willing to risk your life in Toulouse?”

Hywel shrugged. “I do not have any other plans for the summer. I’ve always wanted to see foreign lands. And what man would not leap at the chance to meet Eleanor of Aquitaine?”

“I would be right glad of your company,” Ranulf acknowledged. “But I’ll not hold you to it if you change your mind once you sober up.”

Hywel grinned. “Some of my best decisions have been made whilst I was in my cups. Now let’s go back to the hall ere we both freeze.” And as they plunged out into the downpour, he soon had Ranulf laughing, for he’d begun to sing:

Were the lands all mine

From the Elbe to the Rhine,

I’d count them little case

If the Queen of England

Lay in my embrace.

On Tuesday, the thirtieth of June in the French town of Perigueux, the English king bestowed the honor of knighthood upon his seventeen-year-old cousin, Malcolm, King of Scotland. The ceremony was an elaborate one and Hywel ap Owain found it fascinating, for he’d never witnessed the ritual before. Malcolm had been bathed to wash away his sins, then clothed in a white tunic, which symbolized his determination to defend God’s Law. Within the great cathedral of St Front, Malcolm’s sword was blessed, and Henry then gave him his gilded spurs and bright, shining blade, instructing him that he must use his weapon to serve the Almighty and to fight for Christ’s poor. A light blow to the shoulder and it was done.

As they milled about outside in the garth after the ceremony, Ranulf told Hywel that Malcolm’s grandfather had been the one to knight the sixteen-year-old Henry Fitz Empress. “I can scarcely believe that was ten years ago,” he said, “but I suppose I’ll be saying that, too, when another ten years have raced by and it is my son whom Harry is knighting.”

Hywel was only half-listening, his mind on getting back to the Castle Bariere, where an abundance of wine and food and shade awaited them. Gazing up at the bleached-bone expanse of sky, he winced. The abbey was built upon a hill and afforded them a fine view of the cite’s brown-red roofs and the moss-green surface of the River Isle, as sluggish and slow-moving as the few townspeople out and about in the noonday sun. His temples were damp with perspiration and Hywel was suddenly very homesick, not for family or friends or even absent bedmates, but for the incessant rains, cooling winds, and early morning mists of Wales.

He glanced toward Henry, but the king was still deep in conversation with Malcolm and his newfound allies, the Count of Barcelona and the Viscount of Beziers and Carcassonne, embittered enemies of the man they would soon face at Toulouse. The turnout of highborn lords to the English king’s banners had been impressive. Virtually every baron of England, Normandy, Anjou, and Aquitaine had come in answer to his summons. Henry had allowed his English knights to pay scutage in lieu of military service, and used the money to hire soldiers, mercenaries who would fight as long as he had need of them. He had the most formidable siege engines Hywel had ever seen, trebuchets and mangonels and even Greek fire, the incendiary weapon of the crusaders. Despite the stifling summer heat, the thought of this army being turned loose upon Wales was one that Hywel found chilling.

“There is William de Tancarville,” Ranulf said suddenly, nudging Hywel with his elbow.

Hywel had met the Chamberlain of Normandy on several occasions, but he did not understand why Ranulf should be pointing him out now with such enthusiasm. “So?”

“You see de Tancarville’s squire? Not the one with freckles, the other. I heard an amazing story about that lad yesterday, told to me by William d’Aubigny, who was a witness and swears it to be gospel truth.”

Hywel’s interest was piqued. “I am listening.”

“The lad is John Marshal’s son. Are you familiar with Marshal? He was one of my sister Maude’s supporters, but he is presently out of favor with Harry, who recently deprived him of Marlborough Castle. I’ve always been convinced that Marshal’s veins flow with ice water, not blood, for he was once trapped in a burning bell tower and still balked at surrendering, an act of bravado that cost him an eye. But I’d never heard about the incident at Newbury, mayhap because I was dwelling in Wales by then.”

“What happened at Newbury?”

“Stephen was still king then, and he’d demanded that Marshal yield up his castle at Newbury. Marshal requested a truce so he could consult with my sister Maude in Normandy, and he offered his youngest son, William, as a hostage. He then took advantage of the truce to refortify Newbury. And when Stephen warned him that the boy’s life would be forfeit if he did not surrender the castle, he sent a message back that Stephen could go ahead and hang the boy, for he had the hammer and anvil to forge other and better sons.”

“Jesu! Not only does the man have ice water for blood, he has a stone where his heart ought to be. What saved the boy, then? Did Marshal relent at the last moment?”

“No. Luckily for the lad, Stephen did. They’d taken him out to be hanged. He was only about four or five and thought it was a game of some sort. But once the hangman put the noose around the boy’s neck, Stephen could not go through with it.”

Hywel turned for a better look at young William Marshal, truly one of Fortune’s favorites, and then slapped away a buzzing horsefly. “If we do not get into the shade soon, I’m going to be broiled alive. When I calculated all the risks I’d be encountering on this campaign, I was most worried about French arrows or the French pox. Who knew that the French sun would be my greatest foe?”

Ranulf shook his head slowly. “For the life of me, I cannot figure out why you did come along. No more talk about being bored or wanting to see Paris. Tell me the truth, Hywel. Why are you here?”

“To keep you out of trouble, why else? I am much too fond of Rhiannon to see her a widow.”

Neither one had heard Henry’s approach and they both jumped at the sudden sound of his voice. “What are you two arguing about?” he asked, for they’d been speaking in Welsh, a language that still eluded him.

“I’ve been trying to get Hywel to reveal the real reason behind his inexplicable desire to see the Toulousin.”

“I need another reason besides my wish to serve the king?” Hywel asked, so blandly and blatantly disingenuous that Henry and Ranulf both burst out laughing.

“I think I could hazard a guess as to why Lord Hywel wanted to come,” Henry said to Ranulf. “What better way to take the measure of a man than to fight alongside him?” And although Hywel laughed, too, Ranulf saw his eyes narrow slightly, as if from the sun’s glare, and knew that his nephew had solved the mystery of the Welsh prince’s presence in the army of the English king.

Simon de Montfort, Count of Evreux, leaned against a wall, arms folded across his chest, listening impassively as the French king was berated by his brothers. Robert, Count of Dreux, and Philippe, Bishop of Beauvais, were both outraged by what they saw as Louis’s failure to stand up to the English king and they were not shy about making their feelings known.

Louis did not seem troubled by their effrontery. For a man who was God’s Anointed, he was remarkably unassuming, shrugging off familiari ties that would have enraged other kings. His chancellor, Hugh de Champfleury, looked much more offended than his royal master, gnawing at his lower lip as if to bite back his protests.

The chancellor held no high opinion of the king’s brothers. He thought Robert was a blustering bully and Philippe a fool. He did not doubt that Louis would get to Heaven long before either one of them made it through those celestial gates; Robert was especially sure to spend several centuries in Purgatory. He’d never known a better man than Louis Capet. But the qualities that made him such a good Christian did not necessarily make him a good king, and he feared Louis would fare badly in this test of wills with Henry Fitz Empress, a fear shared by every man in the abbey guest hall.

Louis had moved to a window and he stood gazing out at the sun-dappled cloisters; whenever he had a choice, he preferred the hospitality of monasteries to neighboring castles. Now, as Robert stopped fulminating, he said, “I understand your consternation, and I assure you that I share it.”

“How very comforting,” his brother said with a sneer. “We can all grieve together for the loss of Toulouse. But mark my words well, Louis, for who’s to say what that Angevin whoreson and his slut will set their eyes upon next? You let him gobble up Toulouse and you could end up fending him off at the very gates of Paris!”

As usual, Robert had vastly overstated his case, but there was still enough truth in his complaint to cause the other men to nod and mutter amongst themselves. Literal, as always, Louis patiently explained that Henry Fitz Empress had no claim to the French throne, thus making any assault upon Paris unlikely in the extreme. This was not an argument to win any favor with his barons, still less with his brothers. Nor did he help matters any by adding honestly, “Alas, I cannot say as much for Toulouse. How can I dismiss his claim out of hand when it was one I once made myself?”

“And what of your nephews’ claims?” Philippe demanded. “What of Constance’s sons? Are you truly going to stand aside whilst they lose their patrimony, Louis?”

Simon de Montfort thought there was a more compelling argument to be made than that. Raymond de St Gilles, Count of Toulouse, was a vassal of the French Crown. Louis had a legal responsibility to come to his aid; their society was predicated upon the mutual obligations of vassal and liege lord. But Louis seemed more distressed by his nephews’ plight. When he turned from the window, his misery was laid bare for all to see.

“I do not want to jeopardize my alliance with England,” he said plaintively, and Simon de Montfort rolled his eyes, thinking sourly that what Louis did not want to jeopardize was the chance to see his daughter as Queen of England one day.

“Is that what you told the Angevin?” Robert shook his head in disgust. “Little wonder he is now halfway to Toulouse!”

“I told him that I could not countenance the disinheriting of my sister’s sons.” Even Louis’s forbearance was not inexhaustible, and the look he now gave his brother was a mixture of wounded dignity and weary exasperation. “I fear that he did not believe me, though.”

“I’d say that was a safe wager.” This acerbic observation came from Theobald, Count of Blois, Louis’s future son-in-law, plight-trothed to Louis and Eleanor’s nine-year-old daughter, Alix. His elder brother, Henry, Count of Champagne, was plight-trothed to Alix’s older sister, fourteen-year-old Marie, and both young men were amongst the English king’s most implacable foes, for King Stephen was their uncle.

Louis’s mouth tightened. “I have no intention of abandoning my sister and her children.”

As sincere as that declaration sounded, his audience took little comfort from it, for the French king was the least warlike of monarchs; his attempt to punish Henry and Eleanor for their marriage had been a fiasco, with Henry needing just six weeks to send the French army reeling back across the border.

“So what mean you to do?” Robert scoffed. “Pray for their deliverance?”

“Yes, I shall pray. But I shall do more than that,” Louis said, so stoutly that he raised both eyebrows and hopes.

“You have a plan in mind?” Robert sounded skeptical. “Well, tell us!”

Louis did.

The response was not what he’d expected. Instead of congratulations and approval, he gained only blank looks. “Is that it?” Philippe asked at last. “That is your grand plan to thwart the Angevin?”

When Louis nodded, Robert spoke for them all. “God save Toulouse.”

“He will,” Louis said. “He will.”

The day was sweltering and the dust clouds churned up by the English army were visible for miles. Chestnut trees drooped in the heat, as did the men. They were more than twelve hundred feet above sea level, riding across windswept plateaus brown with bracken and wilted high grass. At dusk, they mounted the crest of a hill and had their first glimpse of Cahors, ensconced in a loop of the River Lot far below them.

Drawing rein, they gazed down upon the city. “Shrewsbury,” Hywel said softly, and Ranulf nodded somberly, for like that Marcher town, Cahors lay within a horseshoe curve of wide, swift-flowing water. Surrounded on three sides by a natural moat, the city’s only land approach was from the north, and it was well fortified by stone ramparts. Until now, they had advanced almost without challenge, castles and towns yielding to their superior show of force. But Cahors was no ripe pear for the picking. For this prize, there would be a price demanded, one paid in blood.

“Well?” Henry asked, and his herald slowly shook his head.

“They refused to surrender, my liege.”

Henry hadn’t truly expected any other answer, even though he’d offered generous terms. But he felt a sharp pang of disappointment, nonetheless. “So be it,” he said, gazing toward the city walls. “We attack at dawn.”

Thomas Becket was appraising their target, too. “I will tell the others,” he said. “I hope you will give me the honor of leading the first assault.” His face was deeply tanned, his eyes crinkling at the corners, filled with light. He was immaculately turned out, as always, wearing a finely woven slit surcoat over a chain-mail hauberk that glinted like silver in the last rays of the sun. Ranulf had never seen him as animated as on this campaign. He was showing an unexpected flair for soldiering and an equally unforeseen enthusiasm for his new duties.

Henry had been surprised, too, by his chancellor’s zeal, joking that Thomas had turned their campaign to oust Raymond de St Gilles from Toulouse into a holy quest to free Jerusalem from the infidels. But he made no jests now in response to Becket’s request. He merely nodded, then turned away from Cahors, heading back toward their encampment.

Ranulf, Hywel, and Rainald stayed where they were, sitting their horses on a rise of ground overlooking the city, which was on a war footing, gates barred, sentries patrolling the battlements. Those who’d wanted to flee were already gone; those remaining were making ready for the suffering of a long siege.

Hywel shifted in the saddle, watching as Henry’s stallion broke into a gallop. “Your nephew does not look nearly as eager to spill blood on the morrow as his chancellor.”

“Harry finds pleasure in many places, but not on the battlefield. He much prefers to get what he wants by other means, although he’ll do what he must if it comes to that. As for Thomas, he does seem keen to make a name for himself on the field; he brought fully seven hundred knights at his own expense, which has to be a staggering cost. Passing strange, for he never seemed to me to be a man ruled by his passions.”

“Your chancellor strikes me,” Hywel said, “as a man who throws himself totally into any role he undertakes. How else explain why he could have well served two such different masters as the Archbishop of Canterbury and the King of England? I understand the archbishop is a saintly soul, and not even the king’s mother would claim that could be said of him. Yet these utterly dissimilar men hold Becket in the highest esteem possible. Interesting, is it not?”

Rainald kneed his mount closer. “Are you saying Becket is a hypocrite?” he asked, and looked let down when Hywel shook his head.

“No… a chameleon.”

“What in hellfire is that?”

“A small lizard that possesses a truly remarkable talent. It can change its color to reflect its surroundings.”

Rainald considered that and then nodded emphatically. “By God, you’re right, Hywel,” he declared, mangling the Welshman’s name so atrociously that Hywel looked away to hide a smile. “Think on it, Ranulf,” he insisted, glancing toward his younger brother. “Whenever Harry wants Becket to act as the king’s envoy, he boasts a silvered tongue and a statesman’s fine manners. Then when Harry needs him to raise money, he counts every coin like an accursed moneylender. And now that he rides with the king to subdue our enemies, he fancies himself another Roland. I daresay he even sleeps with his sword!”

“I believe his weapon of choice is a mace,” Ranulf pointed out, “in deference to the Church’s stricture against ‘smiting with the sword.’ But it seems to me, Hywel, that you are indeed accusing the man of hypocrisy, for are you not questioning his sincerity? Unfairly so, I believe.”

Hywel looked amused. “Your loyalty to your friends does you credit. I hope you are so quick to defend my sins, too. But for your friend the chancellor, I was not impugning his sincerity. A chameleon cannot be faulted for following his own nature, after all.”

He and Rainald both laughed, and after a moment, Ranulf joined in, not because he agreed with them, but because moments of mirth were never to be squandered, not on the eve of battle.

Swirling embers lit the night sky and fires still burned in the city’s northern quarter. But the worst was over. The battle had been fierce, but far more brief than either side had anticipated. Pounded mercilessly by the English king’s powerful mangonels and trebuchets, the defenders were unable to foil his iron-bound battering rams, which were swung back and forth on rope pulleys until they’d gained enough momentum to smash into the city’s gates. After they’d made that first fateful breach, Becket’s men charged into the gap, while others flung scaling ladders over the walls and began to scramble up. Once the fighting reached the streets, Cahors was doomed, for its river defenses now made flight impossible. By dusk, Henry’s banner was flying over the city and the dying was done, wine now flowing instead of blood.

Ranulf had been in captured towns before. The sights were all too familiar: plundered shops, jubilant soldiers, fearful citizens desperate to placate their conquerors, smoldering ruins that had once been homes or churches, bodies stacked like kindling for swift burial. The streets were crowded with men, many laden with loot, for that was looked upon as a soldier’s right. Ranulf had injured his leg in the assault and he was limping, as much from exhaustion as pain. Jostled on all sides, he’d begun to feel as if he were swimming against the tide, but he finally reached the marketplace, where he sank down, winded, upon a mounting block. Somewhere a woman screamed; closer at hand, a dog was whimpering, unseen in the darkness. Ahead Ranulf could distinguish the blurred outlines of the great cathedral of St Etienne, where he hoped to find Henry. But for the moment, he was content to sit and catch his breath.

Men on horses were forcing their way up the narrow, clogged street, shouting vainly for the celebrating soldiers to clear a path for them. As they drew closer, Ranulf recognized Patrick d’Evereaux, the Earl of Salisbury, among them. They were not friends, but they’d been allies, fighting together to gain the English crown for the Empress Maude. Salisbury reined in at the sight of Ranulf. “What an easy victory,” he chortled. “We had to work a lot harder at this in the old days, remember?”

“Yes,” Ranulf said, “I remember.”

“We are seeking the king. The Bishop of Cahors is in a tearing rage, for some of our men sacked his palace,” Salisbury said, with a conspicuous lack of regret. “We had to promise we’d take his protests to the king, if only to shut him up. Have you seen him? Or Becket?”

“I heard they were at the cathedral.” Declining Salisbury’s invitation to accompany them, Ranulf watched as they rode on. Light suddenly spilled into the street as a door opened across the square, raucous laughter resounding on the cooling night air. Ranulf debated going over to the tavern and getting himself a drink, but it was easier just to stay where he was.

“Ranulf?” Hywel was weaving through the crowd, one arm around a remarkably pretty young woman, the other cradled in a jaunty red sling. “Have a drink,” he offered, proffering a wine flask that turned out to be empty.

Switching to French, he said, “This is Emma,” introducing the girl with a gallant flourish that made her giggle. “A few of our men were pressing their unwanted attentions upon her, but I was able to persuade them to be on their way, and this dear lass then insisted upon giving me her own chemise to bind up my wound.”

“He fought for me,” Emma said proudly, “against the other English. For me, he did that!”

“I never thought to hear myself called ‘English,’ ” Hywel said with a grimace. “But how can I take offense when it comes from such a honey-sweet mouth?”

Emma giggled again and tilted her face up so he could taste some of that sweetness. Once he’d taken his fill, he scowled at Ranulf with mock indignation. “So why are you sitting out here alone in the dark? Why are you not in one of the taverns, celebrating?”

“Celebrating what? This great victory?”

“No, you fool, that you survived the assault!”

When Ranulf shrugged, Hywel gave him a closer inspection. “What ails you? I see no blood, so why so glum? You’re no battle virgin. You spent nigh on twenty years fighting for your sister, and from what I’ve heard, that war was as savage as any ever fought on English soil. So surely nothing you’ve seen this day is like to unman you?”

“You’re right,” Ranulf admitted. “This was child’s play compared to the bloody Battle of Lincoln or the Siege of Winchester.”

“But?” Hywel prompted, and Ranulf shrugged again.

“That was different, Hywel. We were fighting to recover my sister’s stolen crown. Whilst I always regretted the suffering and the deaths, I never doubted the justice of our cause. I truly believed we were in the right and that Maude would rule England better than Stephen. I was willing to die to make her Queen of England. But I see no reason that men should die to see Eleanor as Countess of Toulouse. Christ Jesus, she and Harry already hold England, Normandy, Aquitaine, Anjou, Touraine, and Maine!”

“If you start demanding rational reasons for your wars, Ranulf, you’ll never get to fight another one!” The moonlight was bright enough to reveal Hywel’s smile. “Have you truly lived through forty winters without learning that just wars are as rare as mermaids and unicorns? One man’s just war is another man’s unholy slaughter. English, French, Scots, Welsh, even Saracen infidels-we’re all convinced we have God on our side.”

“What are you saying, that God does not care who wins our wars?”

“Well, I’d not go that far. I surely hope He cares whether I succeed my lord father as King of Gwynedd.” With another moonlit gleam, Hywel reached down and hauled Ranulf to his feet. “If we are going to wax philosophical, I demand that we do it over a flagon. Emma claims that Cahors has the best red wine in all of Quercy. I say we put her boast to the test.”

Ranulf hesitated, glancing up at the towering silhouette of the cathedral, where his nephew was occupied with the myriad burdens of conquest. “You’re right,” he said. “Let’s find a tavern to liberate.” And he followed Hywel and Emma toward the torchlit haven beckoning across the street.

The land south of Cahors was desolate, dry and sun-seared and barren of life, for the inhabitants of these high plateaus and deep, narrow valleys had fled before the approach of the English army. The town of Montauban offered no resistance, and the road to Toulouse lay open before them.

Toulouse was nestled in a wide curve of the River Garonne, a city of dusky-rose brick under a sky so blue it looked unreal. It seemed deceptively peaceful, and far in the distance was the cloud-crowned splendor of the most magnificent mountains Hywel had ever seen, the soaring peaks of the Pyrenees. They so dwarfed the heights of the Welsh Eryri that he felt a stab of envy; if only God had blessed Wales with such formidable boundaries, they could have kept the English out with ease.

He spotted Ranulf with the English king, and urged his stallion forward to join them. They were all looking intently at the city’s high red walls, well manned and fortified, for here Count Raymond would make his stand. The siege of Toulouse would be a long and bloody one.

Hywel reined in at Ranulf’s side, and they listened without comment as Henry’s lords offered suggestions about how best to begin. Thomas Becket was arguing that they ought to start building belfry towers straightaway when Henry’s sharp eyes caught a glimpse of the blue and gold banner flying from the Castle Narbonais. Drawing an audible breath, he stared at the flag in dismayed disbelief, reluctant to admit what he was seeing. Alerted by his silence, the more discerning of the men were turning questioningly in his direction.

“Look,” he said, his voice flat and harsh, and they followed his gesture, recognizing with gasps and curses the fleur de lys of the French Crown.

Hywel was not as quick to comprehend, for heraldry had been slow to take root in Wales. As usual, he turned to Ranulf, his interpreter in this alien culture. “What does this mean?”

“It means,” Ranulf said, “that the King of France has taken up residence in the city. When we attack Toulouse, we will be attacking, too, the man who is Harry’s liege lord.”