by Anita Mills
“If we are attacked, we divide, making them do the same, that we are not surrounded. You ride for Caen and I for Varaville.”
It had been discussed and decided before—Robert had support at Caen, the town of his birth, and could be expected to raise troops there if the need arose. Varaville, on the other hand, could be counted on to support Guy of Rivaux and therefore his son also. Gloucester nodded and clicked his reins, once again moving the column forward.
William of Brevise rode up, impatient at the pace, and growled, “God’s bones, but I’d sleep in a bed this night, my lords.” Then, looking down to where the road narrowed, he feigned concern. “I mislike that— I’d not go through there in a column—nay, but we could be picked apart and routed.” Turning in his saddle, he waved his men forward. “We’ll take the outside for your greater protection, my lord,” he addressed Gloucester.
It was what Richard had been waiting for. He fell back a few paces, leaving Brevise with the earl, and found Walter of Thibeaux. Raising his hand to his helm as though to feel the heat, he gave the signal. Walter nodded and dropped back in the column as though to seek water from the packs, ready to ride for Guy of Rivaux. And as the last of the column dropped below the crest and out of sight, he whirled his mount and rode, spurring furiously.
His palms sweating beneath his heavy gloves, Simon of Woodstock came up closer to Richard. “Is aught amiss, my lord?” he asked.
“Nay.”
They moved slowly, deliberately down the hill, four abreast now on the narrow road, with Brevise’s men crowding Gloucester’s, and Simon of Woodstock beside Rivaux, taking care to keep his lord between him and Everard of Meulan. Meulan exchanged a warning glance with Richard and his hand crept closer to the mace he carried across his saddle. Talebot, who ostensibly served Richard, rode forward to speak to Brevise, and both men dropped back to wait for Rivaux.
Richard caught the glint of metal from within the trees ahead and the hairs on his neck prickled as every fiber of his body was now alert to the danger. The wait was nearly over, and the tension he felt was unbearable. And yet he had to ride as though he were unaware they planned his death.
“Jesu, but ’tis hot,” Brevise complained loudly. “I’d stop soon for a drink ere I stew in mine own sweat.”
“Nay, we ride through this ere we stop,” Gloucester muttered, feeling the strain build.
“I thought you misliked the place,” Richard reminded Brevise grimly.
Behind him, Simon grasped the hilt of his sword, ready to strike.
The road darkened abruptly, the tall trees casting deep, straight shadows, and the cool smell of musty earth and leaves closed in about them, shutting out the bright summer heat. And then the road came to life under a hail of arrows that stampeded the animals amid the shouts of attackers. Richard drew Hellbringer as his own horse reared.
“For Rivaux! For Rivaux! For Saint Agnes and Rivaux!”
Within the narrow confines of the road, they appeared surrounded as men shouted and horses neighed frantically. Richard kicked viciously at a horse that came too close, and turned in his saddle to ward off a blow. Simon raised his arm to strike, then hesitated, knowing full well that Gilliane de Lacey would hate him forever for it.
“Fool!” Brevise shouted at him furiously, waving his battleax.
“Watch out!” Richard shouted in warning.
But he was too late—Brevise’s ax caught Simon’s shoulder with full force, nearly severing his arm. Blood spurted from an artery as Simon slumped forward, the surprise of death in his glazing eyes.
Already Gloucester had managed to outdistance his attackers, drawing off a full half of them. Richard turned back to face Brevise, muttering a prayer that Hellbringer would bring him down. New shouts of “For Rivaux! For Rivaux!” brought up the rear, panicking those behind William of Brevise.
“Holy Jesu! Nay, we are attacked! ’Tis Rivaux also!” Those who could not escape easily began throwing their weapons down in surrender, choosing to save their lives.
“Whore’s whelp!” Brevise spat at Richard, cutting through the air with his bloodstained ax. Richard leaned away, but the ax crunched through the muscle, bone, and gristle of his horse’s neck, sending it to its knees. Falling free of his stirrups, Richard came up to crouch, his sword still in his hand, behind the dying animal, and waited for Brevise to swing again.
“Come take me, William!” he challenged. “Face me! Art not so brave when you do not face a defenseless girl! Come on—I have but my sword!”
In another, William, would have taken it for foolhardiness, but ’twas Guy of Rivaux’s son he faced, and even on the ground that made a difference. As he looked into the fierce, glittering eyes that taunted him, Brevise was afraid. Flinging the ax away, he turned to flee.
“Nay, I think not!” Everard blocked the road with his horse and raised his mace. Bringing it down heavily, he knocked Brevise from the saddle by the force of the blow glancing off his shield.
“And now you are even!” he shouted down at him.
“Nay—I am unarmed! Take me for ransom, I pray you!”
“Not this time.” Richard rose, holding his shield before him and carrying Hellbringer. “Arm him, Everard.”
But one of Brevise’s own men kicked the sword he’d surrendered to his overlord. “Aye, lead us, my lord!” he taunted bitterly. “Show us how you will make us rich!”
Richard poked Brevise with the tip of Hellbringer, prodding him. “Pick it up.”
“Nay! I’d not die, my lord.” He licked his dry lips and backed away from the sword as though it were an adder. “ ’Tis my right to be ransomed!”
“Pick it up.”
“Nay! ’Twas I who saved you from Woodstock’s blow!”
“ ’Twas you who killed my horse. Nay, but the choice is yours, William: you can fight me for your life, or you can hang from one of these trees.” Richard circled him, Hellbringer in front of him. “I give you a better chance than you gave Geoffrey de Lacey, William.”
“ ’Tis no chance at all!”
“Fight for how you would die then.”
Richard’s voice was deceptively soft, coaxing almost, and it sent a shiver up the other man’s spine. “He was naught to you, my lord,” Brevise croaked. “Jesu, your mercy, I beg you.”
“I have no mercy for a coward who strikes from behind, William. I’d give you the same mercy you give others—is that what you would have of me?”
Brevise cast about him wildly for the means to escape, and read the contempt on his own men’s faces. Then he glanced from the sword that lay in the dirt road to Richard of Rivaux’s impassive face. “Jesu, but what manner of man are you?” he asked desperately. “Ransom me.”
“Nay.” Richard stepped back and waited, but Brevise made no move to take the sword. Finally Richard turned his back and nodded to Everard. “Hang him slowly.”
Desperate, Brevise lunged for the sword and raised it to Richard’s back, but he was not quick enough. Richard spun around, a grim smile on his face, and caught Brevise’s blow with the side of his own blade, deflecting it with such force that the older man reeled.
“I am not that great a fool, William.”
He fought a mortal man, Brevise told himself in desperation—both Guy of Rivaux and his son tied their chausses like any other men. He dropped to a half-crouch and waited warily for Richard to move.
“Nay, I can wait also.”
Jeering broke out around them, until Brevise snapped, “I’d see any of you fight him!” Goaded into action by their derision, he finally brought up the sword and swung it, glancing a blow off Richard’s shield. And the battle was joined between them.
With each thrust, Richard’s anger grew. The man before him had burned and killed for a piece of ground that was nearly worthless, and he’d murdered Simon of Woodstock also, striking one who did his bidding. Richard let Brevise land blows, catching them with his shield, tiring him, and all the while he taunt
ed him by dropping his guard and letting him think he could deliver that final thrust. But each time, his reckless courage proved but cunning, thwarting the older man.
The tension around them grew as victors and prisoners alike watched in complete silence, a silence broken only by the sounds of steel against steel and steel against sheathed wood. Both men sweated heavily from the heat, and William of Brevise felt his strength ebbing with each blow he gave. Finally he swung wide, trying to come up beneath Richard’s arm, beneath the heavy shield, and Richard saw his opening. His own blade flashed in the sun before it found his target, and then there was only the sickening sound of ripping mail and Brevise’s sudden scream as Hellbringer took him home.
Brevise collapsed in the dirt, dropping first to his knees and then falling to lie in the blood that flowed freely from the wound in his chest. Richard wiped his blade with grass and then turned William of Brevise over with the toe of his boot.
“Wh-why?” The man formed the words slowly as his life’s blood ebbed.
“For Gilliane de Lacey,” Richard answered him. “Aye, for what you have done to her.”
There was a gurgle and a half-cough as foamy blood welled from Brevise’s mouth before his head lolled and his eyes took on the vacant stare of death. Everard leaned over him to listen, passing his hand over the man’s nose, and then he straightened.
“He is dead, my lord.”
“Aye.”
Richard squinted up into the brightness above them and saw his sire herding those who’d sought to flee before him. And the black hawk spread its wings on the crimson field, flapping them from its standard. It was a welcome sight. He bent down and loosened the jeweled buckle from Brevise’s belt while he waited.
Guy swung down and embraced him, holding him close. “ ’Tis done then.”
Richard clasped his arms and nodded. “Aye. Woodstock is dead by Brevise’s hand, and Brevise is done by mine. Gilly has naught to fear again from either of them.”
“Do you go to her then?”
It was a question that had plagued Richard ever since he’d first known of Simon’s treachery. He’d dreamed the answer both ways—that he would take her again to Celesin, and that he’d let her go. But she’d paid too dearly for loving him, and he would not ask it of her again.
“Nay,” he answered finally, stepping back. “She is safe with you and Maman.”
“She loves you still.”
“I cannot give her what she deserves, Papa.” He looked back to where Simon of Woodstock fell and lay facedown in the road. “Tell her he died not by my hand.”
“Richard—”
“I’d not have her called whore again when she is not, Papa. If you will keep her at Rivaux, I will pay for her and the child.”
“Nay, she costs me naught that I cannot afford.” Guy draped an easy arm about his son’s shoulders and turned to where Everard and Gloucester counted prisoners. “I let enough get away to carry the tale to Stephen.”
“I know not what Robert will do,” Richard muttered grimly, looking around him, “but this breaks the oath between me and Stephen—I’d not serve a king who plots with mine enemies.”
“Nor would I.” Guy’s arm tightened, squeezing Richard, and then he released him. “Lincoln will be disappointed in us both, I think.”
39
Gloucester knelt in prayer at the Abbey of St. Stephen in Caen, the abbey his grandsire the Old Conqueror had built on his marriage, and considered his oath of fealty. And when he rose, he knew the time had come to send to his half-sister in Anjou. And to his uncle, King David of Scotland.
Both Richard of Rivaux and his father had already sent dispatches to the Empress, but they had not so much to lose. Robert, on the other hand, held as much land as Stephen in England. But, like Richard, Gloucester would not serve a man he could not trust.
“My lord …”
“Aye?”
“There are those come from King Stephen as would seek speech with you. Already they meet with my lords of Rivaux and Celesin.”
“Who comes?”
“The earls of Lincoln and Mowbray, my lord.”
A rare smile flitted across Robert of Gloucester’s face as he considered how Stephen must have felt to learn his plot had gone awry. And now he’d sent two of Gloucester’s friends to seek peace with him. Jesu, what could Stephen say? That he knew not of what Brevise had planned? That ’twas but chance that he stopped to pray? But he’d hear them—if for naught else but the amusement it would afford him to hear Stephen’s tale.
“Aye, 1 will see them.”
Richard looked up at the sound of bootsteps on the stone walkway, ignoring Lincoln’s attempts at conversation. Across the room, Guy sat, leaning against the wall and sipping of some sweetened wine. Neither of them had responded at all to Lincoln’s plea, but Richard was as anxious as his prospective father-in-law to hear what Gloucester meant to do.
“My lords,” Robert murmured in greeting as he entered the room.
“You are unhurt then?”
“You may tell my cousin Stephen that I suffered not so much as a single cut, Thomas.”
“He will be relieved to hear of it.”
“I am certain he will,” Robert responded dryly. “If one means to kill an enemy, ’tis best done cleanly.”
“You accuse your king? Nay, but he—”
“Let us not play chess between us, Thomas,” Gloucester told Lincoln coldly. “We have the letter that was sent Simon of Woodstock by Talebot, an agent of the king. And in it he promises to divide my lands to reward those who struck against me.”
“He professes to know none of this, Robert,” Lincoln protested.
“Aye, I’ll warrant he does,” Richard cut in sarcastically. “It must be difficult to face those you would murder when it becomes known.”
“Nay, my lord. Stephen denies—”
“Aye, he denies! What else is he to do—say ‘your pardon, dear cousin, but I’d have you dead’?” Richard demanded. “And what can he say to me? ‘I have promised your lands to your enemies for your head’? Jesu, but what fools he must think us!”
“He’d meet with Earl Robert—he’d make amends for what has happened,” Lincoln tried desperately. “Aye, and with you also—both of you.”
“Nay.” Richard shook his head, his dark eyes chill and devoid of any gold. “I am done with Stephen.”
“You will be forsworn,” Mowbray warned him.
“He is forsworn to me!”
“Nay, but I’d speak with him—I’d reason alone.”
Lincoln appealed to Mowbray. “You’ll not say you heard him speak thus, I pray you.”
“Would you that I repeated it?” Richard asked Mowbray. “I renounce my oath to Stephen of Blois— to him who would call himself king of England. Aye, and I offer my sword this day to the rightful heiress.”
“Jesu!” Lincoln gasped. “Nay, you know not what you say. You have not heard—” Turning to Guy, he stretched out his hands. “Tell me that he dare not—”
“He is a man grown.”
Lincoln stared in disbelief. “God’s blood, but are you both mad? There is Harlowe and more to risk in this folly! Aye, and his head also!”
Guy rose then, towering above Mowbray. “Leave them then that Lincoln may speak plainly. As one with a bond to my son, he has that right at least.”
“Aye.” Mowbray sighed regretfully. “But I’d not fight either of you.”
Gloucester held the door, ready to follow them out, but Richard’s eyes met Guy’s. “Nay, Papa, I’d have you stay.”
“You have no need of me, my son.”
“I’d have you hear what I say.”
Mowbray shrugged and passed beneath Gloucester’s arm. “I care not what he says, Robert—Stephen but charges me with you.”
The door had scarce closed behind them ere Thomas of Lincoln rounded on Richard. “If you care not for yourself, my lord, you must consider those of
us allied to you by blood!” He snapped. “Would you cast suspicion on all of us?”
“My overlord plotted my death!”
“You cannot know that!” Seeing the famed Rivaux temper rising in the younger man’s face, Lincoln lowered his voice and attempted once more to conciliate. “Stephen needs you, Richard—aye, and Guy also. Full half of Normandy and England will rise in your wake if you choose to set yourself against him. Your father—”
“Leave my father’s name from this! ’Tis I and I alone who repudiate Stephen in mine own name!”
“And what is the king to think when he hears? What is he to think of me? Listen to me, Richard of Rivaux!” Lincoln pleaded. “Sweet Jesu, but I hold my lands of him!”
“Then you will face me at lance-point, my lord, for I mean to fight for Henry’s daughter!”
Lincoln whitened. “Nay, you dare not. ’Tis treason you speak, Richard. Nay, but there is a bond of blood between us. Richard, you cannot—”
Guy had risen to face the window, his back to them. “Do you know what blood you would share, Thomas?” he asked, interrupting Lincoln’s tirade. “Do you know what blood you would so eagerly give your heirs?”
“Papa!”
“Do you think we are afraid of Stephen? Do you think we fear anything you have said?” Guy continued harshly. “Nay, but we are born of the blood—”
“Nay, Papa! I’d not have you do this for me!” Richard burst out.
Thomas of Lincoln stared from one man to the other, seeing not the wealth and power of Harlowe, Rivaux, Celesin, and the other places they held, but the danger they represented to him. And for the first time, he bitterly regretted the alliance that probably would cost him all he had. He’d schemed and plotted and badgered his daughter in hopes of gaining for his heirs lands so vast that not even Gloucester could match them, and now Stephen would take it all back from him.
“Nay, I’ll not mix my blood with yours!” he spat at Richard. “Long have I thought there was a violence in you, but I was prepared to overlook it for the marriage, Rivaux of Celesin! But no longer—nay, no longer.” His voice dropped as he faced the younger man. “My daughter goes to the Church, where she was promised first.”