To this same purpose Clement had dispatched a papal legate in his name, Cardinal John of Anagni, whom he hoped would be able to persuade the kings to their sacred duty. The cardinal had sent word ahead of his arrival, offering to meet with them near Le Mans in early June.
The kings, with their assembled bishops, nobles, advisers, and courtiers came together at La Ferte-Bernard, a tiny market town on the river Huisne surrounded by vineyards. The cardinal joined them on the following day. He lectured the two kings on their responsibility as leaders of a holy cause; he spoke to them of love and brotherhood.
As he listened, Henry could feel his luck changing with each word. Suddenly he was full of confidence for the first time since Richard had defected to the French camp. A little time alone with the cardinal, that was all he needed! Philippe Capet might be a wily politician, but Henry was master of that game. He swore to win the cardinal to his side. If the public misfortune of a traitorous son did not weight the scales in Henry’s favor, then perhaps good Angevin gold would do the trick.
He would win. By God he would extricate himself from this!
And so it went. Henry had his secret little parlay with the cardinal, but the public councils with Philippe were less to his liking. The French king would not alter his terms: Richard would get the crown of England. He would get the Aquitaine. He would marry Alais. And there was even one new demand: Philippe and Henry would go on crusade, and John would accompany them. This because, as Henry’s favorite son, he was suspect.
Henry would not agree to any of it and repeated his original terms. John would get England, Normandy, and the crown. Richard would be reinstated as the Duke of Aquitaine. And Henry had a new condition too: since the advent of Richard’s treason, the King of England had decided to invalidate the long-standing betrothal between Richard and Alais. and she would be given to John instead.
Richard did not want Alais, he had never wanted her. He was not keen to marry any woman, certainly not his father’s strumpet. But he wanted his rights, and Philippe (who was anxious to secure the marriage to his own gain) had convinced him to fight for her.
Each day Philippe put his same terms to Henry.
And each day Henry refused them.
After four days of constant haggling between the kings, the cardinal stepped forth once more to have his say. It was obvious that he was mouthing Henry’s words as he blamed Philippe for the hostilities, and threatened to pronounce ex-communication upon him and lay all of his domain under an interdict if he did not accept Henry’s terms immediately.
Philippe was far too astute to be fooled by the cardinal’s brash intimidations. He spat upon the ground to show his contempt. “Liar!” he declared, “Pander!”
It was said before a hundred gaping witnesses from the two sides, including the famous chronicler from Henry’s court, Gerald of Wales, who sat upon the ground, recording all that was taking place at this assembly.
The day was over-warm for June, and bleached with sunlight. Emotions were skittish: tempers quick to kindle. There was little doubt that before the afternoon was over, the breach between the hostile participants of the conference would be even wider than it had been before.
Henry’s face turned a furious purple, but he said nothing.
The cardinal stammered, the heavy flesh around his face shivering as he spoke. “Mind your words, Capet. I am the pope’s own messenger, and God’s!”
Philippe shaded his eyes against the brilliance of the sky and shouted back, “You are no better than a whore, selling yourself for gold! The King of England may have bought your favor but he will not buy my obedience, nor will you!” He turned to Gerald and pointed vigorously at the roll of parchment in his lap. “See that you write this down, cleric: I am a king of my realm, and the leader of my bishops. We recognize no cardinals in France, and I will not allow an unclean cardinal to dictate my responsibilities. My great-grandfather defied the will of Rome when it meddled too closely in his affairs. I shall do likewise.” He jerked around to face the legate. “Pronounce as you like, good Cardinal. I will see you in hell before I give up my rights to the pope or to any other man!”
The cardinal turned away and would not answer.
Some of Henry’s men shifted on their feet, embarrassed. If the French king’s accusation was correct, if Henry had slandered his own cause with a cheap bribe, then he had ruined a chance to salvage his position by an honest appeal to Rome. The men who served him saw the sense of desperation in his actions, and they understood what it meant.
Henry was a beaten man.
There was nothing that could save him now.
Henry sped to Le Mans in hope of sanctuary, while the French troops captured La Ferte-Bemard and its surrounding fortresses. Henry’s army had dwindled to a mere handful of loyal knights and retainers, including William Marshal and Godfrey. John, who had not attended the meetings at La Ferte-Bemard, had stayed behind at the fortress of Saumur.
Le Mans was Henry’s city. He had always loved it more than any other. Here he had been born, so too would he be buried, as his father Geoffrey of Anjou had been buried nearly forty years ago. Henry refused to believe that Philippe would attempt to take Le Mans against its sturdy city walls, or that God would allow him to take it even if he tried.
Le Mans was his. He would not abandon its people, he would not forsake the city, leaving it to fall into Capet’s greedy palm like an over-ripe fruit.
But Godfrey and Marshal doubted the good sense of such a plan. “You must escape into Normandy,” Marshal told him, “and then get word to England for reinforcements. As it now stands, Philippe and Richard will be upon us in two days, no more.”
Godfrey nodded in grave agreement.
Henry would not listen. “Here I am and here I shall stay for now,” he said. His tanned face lighted with a weary smile. “It is not such a bad place to be, aye? Don’t fear, my friends. I have an idea that will discourage the French from coming in.”
With a party of his knights Henry rode to the edge of the city where the Huisne River lay. They destroyed the single bridge which spanned it, then returned once more to Le Mans. That was scarcely enough to deter an army on the march, only slow it down a little. But it was all Henry could hope for.
That, and a miracle.
At the head of his army and with Richard at his side, Philippe marched unopposed through the woodlands of Maine on his way to Le Mans. He was hot with purpose now, his blood burning with excitement at the prospect of taking all that lay before him for his own.
On the night of June 11th, Philippe’s army camped outside the city. He lay in his tent, comfortable in Richard’s arms, awake, and dreaming of the following day. Richard snored pleasantly in sleep, but Philippe was taut and anxious. Waiting. Waiting for tomorrow.
He was out there somewhere, that Old Legend. In the citadel perhaps; somewhere safe behind the city walls, and waiting too. Across the few miles which separated them, their thoughts seemed to meet and mingle in the dark. Philippe could almost feel their souls touching.
He closed his eyes and the sensation deepened.
The sky was lighted early on the following morning, colored by shades of orange and red before the sun was up. The outskirts of Le Mans were burning furiously, and shooting tall flames into the sky.
Philippe cursed aloud when he saw what had happened. This was Henry’s doing! He’d given orders to burn the fringes of the city, hoping the fire would spread to the French camp and drive them back. The cunning old bastard was keen-witted as a fox, refusing to be drawn into the net.
Philippe cursed until he saw which way the wind was blowing. It shifted just at dawn, turning the flames around till they had gobbled a path into the midst of the city. The defenses at the gate were left unprotected, and Philippe’s army poured into the breach.
Alarmed, Henry took what he could salvage of his army (only some seven hundred knights) and fled the burning city with Marshal, de Mandeville, and Godfrey at his side. Other members of the king’s en
tourage took flight and followed at his heels: the clerks, bishops, laundresses, and the writer Gerald of Wales, all of them terrified at being caught up in the melee of flames and destruction.
The King of England was in abject retreat.
That afternoon, his eyes bleared from smoke and too little sleep, Henry paused a while on the northern slope above Le Mans to look down into the ruins of his flaming city. Ragged clouds of smoke rose high above the scorched and crumbled buildings. But at the tallest point of the citadel Henry could see a fluttering banner: Philippe’s flag set with fleur-de-lis. It was the final, mocking symbol of defeat.
It cut him to his soul to watch but Henry couldn’t turn away. His whole life was smoldering into dust and ashes down there among the ruins of his birthplace. His father’s bones lay encased by chilly marble in the cathedral crypt. Now Henry felt just as dead.
Marshal brought his horse close and reached over to grip the king’s shoulder in a comforting squeeze. “We must push on to the Normandy frontier, my lord Henry, where we can strengthen our numbers and make a stand against these devils.”
Tears fell from his eyes as Henry stared down into the valley. “What great wrong have I done to deserve this?” he asked, his voice cracking with despair. “Why does God punish me with infamy and disgrace?”
Marshal shook his head, muttering in a low tone, “No man can know these things Henry, for they are mysteries. Let us save what it is possible to save, and leave the rest to Him.”
“No!” Henry roared, shaking off Marshal’s hand. “I have suffered enough!” He raised a menacing fist at the sky, screaming aloft to an invisible deity. “You have taken everything from me, everything I hold dear to my heart. You have flayed my poor flesh with injuries, turned my seed to poison. Now you steal the city of my birth and give it to a vile usurper! You are a God of shit and misery, and I shall not bow beneath your hand. I curse you! I curse you!”
His words boomed like thunder above their heads.
The king’s men trembled at his blasphemy, their faces pale and stricken. Godfrey leapt from his horse and rushed to Henry’s side, but he kicked him away and refused to be silenced. “You punish me like Job,” he bellowed at the sky, “but you will not have that part of me which is most precious to you. You will not have my soul! I pledge it to the devil, that is MY revenge!”
Henry was shaking violently and he would have pitched from his horse, but Marshal caught him, set him upright in the saddle, and thrust the reins into his hands. “My lord, take care,” he cautioned.
“Oh Marshal,” the king wept, “I am finished, I am undone. …”
In the heat of middle afternoon the party rode without stop toward the border, picking their way through woodlands, hurtling over patches of dry riverbed. It was a furious flight to sanctuary and some fell along the way, perishing from exhaustion or from thirst. There was no time to stop for rest or water.
Henry rode hard, and never once looked back.
A white star rose in the evening sky and pulled the moon up with it. A wind moved off the surface of the Sarthe. A dozen miles ahead lay the invisible line separating Maine from Normandy. Tomorrow Henry’s men would cross over to the border town of Alencon.
Tonight they would sleep here at Fresnay. The fortress was very small and there was only room and food enough for Henry and a few of his close companions. The other men sought refuge in the streets and taverns.
The plump castellan ordered meat and bread hustled from the kitchen and set before his celebrated guests. They had not fed themselves since sundown on the previous day, and all were hungry. The men stuffed themselves with food and called for wine, though most of them were near to dozing by the time the meal was through. A dark-eyed girl with rounded hips moved slowly among the group, filling wooden cups with wine as the men talked.
“We must be up and out of here before the sun comes up,” de Mandeville told Henry. “I shall rise earlier and gather up our troops. Just a short ride into Normandy and we are safe.”
Godfrey belched into his fist and grumbled, “I only hope we are safe tonight.” He looked across the table at his father. “I think it might be wise to keep a watch on the edge of town, lest some of Philippe’s men have followed us this far.”
The king shook his head and mumbled a refusal. He looked ill and tired, his grey eyes bloodshot from hours of riding in the sun, unshaded. Lines of care and weariness cut deep patterns in his face, and the firelight showed up the grey in his beard.
“You must sleep. Father,” Godfrey told him.
Henry was taken to a room on the second floor. With a grunt he fell into his bed without undressing. He was asleep before Godfrey could finish pulling off his boots or drape a cloak over his body.
The girl who had served them wine appeared suddenly in the doorway, half in shadow. “I’ve come to make the king feel more comfortable,” she said.
Godfrey glanced over his shoulder, frowning. “The king is sleeping,” he snapped, “and is as comfortable as he needs be.”
She came toward him, ringing a coil of dark hair around her finger. “I’ve never seen a king before, though long ago my mother bedded one.” She traced the outline of Henry’s leg beneath the linen cloak. “Is this him? Is this the great Henry of England? It was he my mother laid with. She said he was a handsome man in his youth.” The girl’s voice was tremulous and filled with awe.
Godfrey knocked her hand away. “All sluts tell tales of bedding with a king,” he growled.
She gazed at Henry on the bed, and then smiled slyly up at Godfrey. “Your face is much like his.”
“He is my father.”
The girl was standing very close to him, her full breasts rising and falling with each breath she took. Godfrey recoiled from the stink of her: sweat and garlic and other smells the origins of which were best left unimagined. Yet all at once he reached out and pulled her to him, bending her arms behind her back as he kissed her.
He was not normally a man of spontaneous passion. There were several women in his keeping back in England, courtesans enjoyed discreetly, as fitted a former bishop and a man of Godfrey’s stern morality. But tonight, hard-pressed by failure and wearied by defeat, this girl seemed to him the most desirable piece of flesh in all the world.
Godfrey shoved her into a darkened comer of the room, and stripped the soiled garment from her body as she giggled softly. Her breasts leapt out as if to greet him. The nipples were hard and rouged over with vermilion.
“Such pretty teats,” he said. She writhed against him. “Are you truly the king’s son?”
“Yes,” he answered. He was beyond caring who he was.
She lay back on the floor and drew her knees up level with her shoulders as he knelt beside her. “I’ve heard great stories of the king’s son, a warrior called Richard Lionheart by all and feared by many. Are you he?”
“No,” he admitted with a laugh as he unloosed his laces and let his manhood spring free.
She reached up to fondle it and smiled. “It’s so nice and fat, like a summer sausage.” She wetted him with her mouth for a while, then guided him inside her. As he began to rock against her she asked, “What is your name if it is not Richard?”
The breath was already thick and rapid in his chest. “What is yours?”
Her fingers slid beneath their bellies, squeezing his heavy sac. “It doesn’t matter.”
“Neither does mine,” he answered, pushing harder.
… all here is doubt and confusion. Men ask questions, but there is no one fit to answer, save the king, and he is gone!
Yesterday we came forward here to Alenqon, where he was to meet with his Norman barons and secure a horde of knights, so he might rescue his French lands from the grip of Philippe-Auguste, yet suddenly King Henry had a violent change of heart.
Though all who serve him begged that he might send word to England for an army, he refused. He then ordered Godfrey, who is his chancellor and natural son, to make what army he can out of the Norman kn
ights who wish to follow (though many are reticent, fearing the great numbers of the enemy, which I have seen with my own eyes).
Saying thus King Henry took himself from the safety of this place, determined to return to his fortress of Chinon on the Vienne. We who have followed him for so long and know him well, do not understand why he has done this thing.
Though Godfrey raise a thousand knights, it would still be folly for Henry to put himself within the French king’s reach. Worse than all this he is ailing and sweats with pain and fever. I would not be surprised to hear he has died during his flight.
Gerald of Wales
Letter fragment
June 14, 1189
From boyhood he had been a hunter. Now, himself the quarry, Henry fled south toward Anjou once again. Let others say what they would, he no longer cared. An instinct deeper than reason was leading him back to the cradle of his race.
He had seen his own death the day Le Mans was burned, felt it during the mad rush north to Alengon. It would be a waste of time to spend his last days gathering an army in Normandy, or in waiting there for troops to come from England. All the possibilities of stopping Philippe’s march had been exhausted. Another war would only squander time.
Henry wanted to die at Chinon.
He wanted to end his life surrounded by a few loyal friends and the only sons who had ever loved and honored him. They would be there. Godfrey had promised to come south in a few days, and Johnny was already waiting at Saumur.
Marshal would come, and de Mandeville; perhaps a few others. They were all that Henry needed now. In the end it didn’t matter how a man numbered his friends, only how much their faithfulness and love was worth.
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