Roger had indeed forgotten that the Count of Flanders’s marriage was childless. Passing strange, he thought, that Philip and Matthew were both wed to nieces of Eleanor, the daughters of her dead sister, Petronilla. Harry was right about the queen’s webs; they covered half of Christendom. “Philip is a two-legged viper, too,” he said acidly, “for all that he poses as a champion of chivalry and knightly honor.”
“You do not know the half of it, Roger. Louis was stricken with his usual eleventh-hour misgivings, and when he realized that war was actually at hand, he began to waver like a reed in a high wind. My agents at the French court told me that it was Philip who bolstered Louis’s quavering resolve.”
“Harry…what happens if Verneuil falls to the French? Willem seems to think that Rouen could still hold out, but I’d rather not see England’s king trapped in a town under siege.”
“Neither would I,” Henry said dryly, “but Verneuil is not going to be taken. I recalled Hugh de Lacy from Ireland and sent him to Verneuil ere the siege began. If need be, he’ll hold the castle till Hell freezes over. But it will not come to that, not with Louis in command.”
Roger sensed that Henry was talking about more than the fate of Verneuil. “You expect to win this war, then,” he said, and Henry gave a short, harsh laugh.
“Should the day ever come when I cannot outwit or outfight Louis Capet, I’ll willingly abdicate.” Henry had begun to pace, crunching the gravel underfoot, for he still wore his hunting boots. “Archbishop Rotrou said he could almost believe Louis had cast a malevolent spell upon my family. That gives Louis too much credit. If he ever took up the Black Arts, he’d bewitch himself, as likely as not. I suppose the argument might be made that my sons are feeble-minded, and that could certainly apply to Hal, but I’ve seen no evidence that Richard and Geoffrey share his absurd faith in French honor.”
Roger hesitated, but the answer Henry was groping for seemed so obvious to him that he could not hold his tongue. “If you are searching for the sinister force behind this rebellion, Harry, you need look no farther than Poitiers.”
“My beloved wife, the Circe of Aquitaine.” Henry laughed again, and to Roger, it was like the sound of shattering glass. “Instead of turning men into swine, she turns my sons into rebels. But it was so damnably easy for her, Roger. That is what I do not understand. Why were they so susceptible to her poison?”
Roger did not know, and another silence fell as he watched Henry stride back and forth on the narrow garden walkway. He was somewhat surprised that the other man was willing to discuss his family’s treachery, but he was flattered, too, that Henry had chosen him as a confidant.
“Cousin…my confessor has another explanation for my recent trials and tribulations. He thinks that God is punishing me for Thomas Becket’s death.”
Roger’s jaw dropped. Almost at once he dismissed the claim that this “explanation” had come from Henry’s confessor, sure that he’d never have dared to suggest that to the king. He’d given up hope of ever hearing these words from his cousin’s lips, but now that he had, he was quick to seize this rare, precious chance to save a soul. “That same thought has occurred to me, too, Harry.”
That was not the answer Henry wanted. “Why?” he demanded. “That would make my penance at Avranches rather pointless, would it not?”
“How honest do you want me to be, Cousin?”
Henry frowned. “I asked you,” he said at last, “because you are a man of God and because you were the only one with the courage to tell me that you blamed me for Becket’s murder, that if I were not guilty, neither was I innocent. So, yes…I want you to be honest.”
“Very well. I do not think you are truly contrite, Harry. Oh, you said all the right things to the bishops and papal legates. But your actions send another message. Look at the bishops you recently selected to fill those vacant sees. Four of the six were men either actively hostile to Thomas or kin to those who were.”
Henry’s face had hardened, but he said tersely, “Go on.”
“This rebellion you are facing…it is inexplicable in so many ways. You yourself questioned how Eleanor could so easily have subverted your lads. And then there is her involvement. I am a student of history, Harry, and there is no shortage of tales of rebellious sons. But I know of no other queen who dared to rebel against her lord husband. So I have wondered how it came to pass, and I have wondered, too, if the Almighty has looked into your heart and saw that you have not truly atoned for your part in Thomas’s death.”
“Do not be shy, Roger. Hold nothing back.”
Roger ignored the sarcasm. “You asked what I thought, Harry. You are the only one who knows if I am right. But I would urge you to search your conscience, and if you do indeed repent Thomas’s death for all the wrong reasons, you must come to terms with that.”
“Do you know what I am thinking now? That I am very glad you are not my confessor.” Henry picked a rose from a nearby bush, idly tore off the petals and dropped them onto the grass at his feet. “There is one problem with your theory of divine retribution, Roger. If I accepted it, that would cast Eleanor as the instrument of the Almighty.”
Roger smiled, not at all discouraged, for he was accustomed to his cousin’s gallows humor. He’d planted a seed, one that might, God Willing, take root, and for now, he was content with that.
Henry had halted, head cocked to the side, and then Roger heard it, too, a familiar voice calling out, “My lord king!” They were turning toward the sound as Willem hastened into the gardens. “A messenger has just ridden in,” he said breathlessly. “The Count of Boulogne is dead!”
They crowded around Henry as he read rapidly by torchlight. When he looked up, it was with a chilling smile. “Count Philip was so stricken by his brother’s death that he has ended the campaign, is leading his army back into Flanders. It seems his chaplain and other churchmen told him that this was God’s punishment for stirring sons to rebellion against their father.”
There was a stunned silence and then the great hall erupted in cheers and laughter. Taking advantage of the turmoil, Roger slipped away. The castle chapel was empty, although candles still flickered and the scent of incense hung in the air. Approaching the altar, he knelt and prayed for the kingdom and for his cousin’s troubled family.
Hal might have been forgiven for thinking that war was good sport, as his initial foray was a highly successful one. He’d captured the castle of one of his father’s vassals, Hugh de Gornai, and had taken prisoner the baron himself and eighty of his knights. This was the first time that he’d bloodied his sword and it had been an exhilarating experience. After that, he joined the army of the Counts of Flanders and Boulogne, and that, too, was exciting, for he had great respect for Count Philip, who was widely known as a preudomme, a man of prowess, the highest compliment that could be paid in their world. When Driencourt Castle surrendered after a two-week siege, it only confirmed Hal’s giddy certainty that victory would soon be within their grasp.
But then Count Matthew was wounded at Arques, and within a few days, he was dead. That was a shock to Hal, for he’d genuinely liked the count, a cousin as well as an ally. Even more stunning was Count Philip’s sudden decision to end the campaign and withdraw to his own lands. Shaken and bereft, Hal had ridden south to Verneuil, in need of his father-in-law’s solace.
There he soon regained his emotional equilibrium. Louis had greeted him with flattering warmth, assured him that Count Philip would rejoin the campaign once he’d had time to grieve, and predicted that Verneuil was on the verge of collapse. Only the castle and one of the burghs held out and hunger was prowling the streets of the beleaguered town. It was just a matter of time, Louis said, until Verneuil was theirs.
That time seemed to have come on August 6, when a delegation of citizens ventured out under a flag of truce. Admitting that their people were woefully short of food, they asked Louis for a truce so that they could warn the English king that they must surrender if he could not raise the siege
. This was normal practice, and Louis was compelled by the chivalric code to grant their request. He gave them only three days, though, an unusually brief respite. On August 9, the town must yield if Henry had not come to their rescue by then, and Louis in turn promised that their surrender would be on honorable terms, with no harm to the townspeople or their chattels or the hostages they offered up as proof of good faith.
Hal’s spirits soared with yet another triumph within reach, and the next two days passed quite pleasantly, for with military operations suspended, he and his knights amused themselves with bohorts, informal tourney games. As the sky streaked with the vivid colors of sunset, Baldwin de Bethune borrowed some dice and they cleared a space so they could gamble by firelight. Hal ordered a keg of wine to be brought out, declaring that a celebration was in order, for on the morrow the town would surrender and the castle would soon be forced to seek terms, too. He did not have a chance to enjoy his impromptu festivities, though, for it was then that he was summoned to the French king’s command tent.
As soon as he ducked under the canvas tent flap, Hal knew that something was wrong. The men were somber, their expressions troubled, and Louis was as white as newly skimmed milk. “He is here!” he blurted out, and Hal caught his breath.
“My father? I thought he was in Rouen!”
“He was,” the king’s brother Robert said testily, “but now he is at Conches with an army and he has sent us an ultimatum-that we either end the siege and withdraw or we do battle on the morrow.”
Hal’s stomach lurched, for he did not want to face his father on the battlefield. Louis had assured him that it would never come to that. As he looked at his father-in-law, it was obvious that Louis did not want to fight his father, either. A quick glance around the tent told him that few of the men did. Hal knew pitched battles were rare, for most lords and kings preferred skirmishing and sieges to risking all on one throw of the dice. But he sensed that there was more at work here than the usual military caution. His father cast a long shadow.
Louis was standing by an oaken trestle table. Reaching for a silver cup, he drained the wine in several deep gulps; Hal was startled to see that his hand was none too steady. “How did he get here in time?” Louis asked. “Blessed Lady, I only gave them three days!”
“How does he ever do it?” Robert snapped, for he was always ready to blame Louis when their plans went awry. “For twenty years he has been doing what mortal man cannot; you ought to be used to it by now.” He could feel Verneuil slipping away even as he spoke; he doubted that his brother had the backbone for a bloody confrontation, for the war without quarter that the English king would wage on the morrow.
“Be that as it may,” the Count of Blois said coolly, having little patience for Robert’s rancid jealousy in the best of times, “we must decide now how we shall respond to his challenge. It is not as if we have many options. Either we retreat or we fight.”
“Not necessarily.” Heads turned toward the speaker as the Count of Evreux stepped from the shadows into the light of Louis’s candelabra. Hal did not know Simon de Montfort all that well. A tall, balding, saturnine figure with piercing black eyes and a tongue like a whip, he was respected for his courage, but disliked for his arrogance and his slyness. Once he was sure that he had their attention, he said, “There is a third choice. Are you interested in hearing it, my liege?”
Louis did not like the count and did not trust him, either. But after a moment, he nodded. “Tell us,” he said, and de Montfort did.
When Hal exited the tent, he was surrounded by his knights, for rumors were spreading that the English king was at Conches and a battle was looming. They began to pelt him with questions, wanting to know if it was true. Hal brushed them aside. “Where is Will Marshal? Find him for me-now!”
They were alone in Hal’s tent, for he’d barred the others from entering. “Are the rumors true, my lord? Has your father come to the defense of Verneuil?”
“Yes, he is here.”
Will thought he was braced for it, but he still flinched, for this was his greatest fear. Hal was his liege lord, but so was Henry. To fight against the king’s men was not the same as drawing his sword against the king himself, the christus domini who’d been consecrated with the sacred chrism. Scriptures spoke quite clearly on that matter. For who can stretch forth his hand against the Lord’s anointed and be guiltless? “So we fight on the morrow,” he said bleakly.
“No…there will be no battle.”
Will blinked. “We are retreating, then?”
“No.” Hal’s throat was tight; he swallowed with difficulty. “The Count of Evreux reminded Louis that the townspeople do not yet know of their reprieve. He said we could take advantage of their ignorance, insist that they surrender as agreed upon.”
“That makes no sense. Do they expect King Henry to watch placidly as this takes place?”
“They…” Hal swallowed again, aware of a sour taste in his mouth. “The Bishop of Sens and the Counts of Blois and Champagne are going to my father tonight, asking for a day’s truce, and promising that Louis will meet with him on the morrow to negotiate an end to the siege. They will then summon the townsmen, tell them that their time has expired and they must surrender the town or their hostages will be hanged. My father’s army is encamped at Conches, about ten miles north of here, so by the time he learns that he has been deceived, it will be too late. The town will be ours.”
Will’s was an easy face to read, and Hal’s fair skin reddened. “Do not look at me that way. This was not my doing!”
“Did you protest?”
“Yes…” Hal ducked his head in embarrassment. “They laughed at me, Will. Louis’s brother and Simon de Montfort told me that I was still learning the lessons of war, that I was not seasoned enough to understand. They pointed out that guile is always an acceptable tactic, that ambushes are not dishonorable, that if the enemy can be tricked, so much the better. They reminded me that the first tenet of warfare is to lay waste the land, to burn the crops in the fields and torch the villages, to starve the enemy into submission. They said this was merely another stratagem…”
“And did you believe them?”
“No,” Hal confessed, “I did not. What they mean to do…it is not honorable, is it, Will?”
He looked so unhappy and vulnerable at that moment that Will felt a protective pang. Hal was his king, his companion, his comrade in arms, but there were times when he seemed like a younger brother, too, one in need of guidance and counsel. The answer he gave Hal, though, was utterly uncompromising, brutally honest.
“It is more than dishonorable. It is despicable and cowardly, and the French king will carry the shame of it to his grave.”
The Earl of Leicester had a castle at Breteuil, midway between Conches and Verneuil, but he’d fled at the approach of Henry’s army and Henry ordered the castle razed to the ground. He chose Breteuil as the site for his meeting with the French king, meaning to use the smoldering rubble to convey a message in and of itself. But the morning dragged on, and Louis still had not arrived.
Henry was stalking back and forth, casting frequent glances up at the sun, almost directly overhead by now. Willem and the Earl of Pembroke had just made a wager as to how much longer Henry would be willing to wait. Sauntering over to the king, he joked, “Seems like Louis overslept. I’d be willing to fetch a mangonel from Conches if you want to give him a wakeup he’ll not soon forget.”
“Do not tempt me, Willem.” Henry waved aside a wineskin being offered by one of his squires and shaded his eyes for another look at the sun. “Louis is prone to inconvenient attacks of conscience and remorse. Mayhap he is suffering from one this morn and is ashamed to face me after-Jesus God!”
Willem spun around, his eyes following Henry’s gaze. Billowing black clouds of smoke were spiraling up into the sky, coming from the south, from Verneuil.
Geoff had never seen a sight as sorrowful as the town of Verneuil. Much of it had been destroyed in the siege, a
nd the one surviving ward was in flames. A few men were trying to drag tables and bedding to safety, and a few others had formed a bucket brigade in a futile attempt to fight the rapidly spreading fires. But most had gathered in small groups, watching in stunned silence as their homes and shops were consumed. Geoff was close enough now to see bodies lying in the street, and nearby a woman with a torn, bloodied skirt knelt in the dirt, weeping as she clung to a small, terrified child. The stench of death overhung the town, a sickening, rank smell of blood, urine, fear, and burning flesh, and Geoff would later mark this August Thursday in God’s Year 1173 as the day when he’d forever surrendered any youthful illusions about the glory and majesty of war.
The arrival of armed men in their midst panicked some of the townspeople, but others were too dazed to react, staring at Henry and his knights with hollow, empty eyes. But as the wind caught the king’s red and gold banner, one man stumbled forward to clutch at Henry’s stirrup. Gazing down into that upturned face, streaked with smoke and tears, Henry recognized him as the mercer who’d carried to Rouen the town’s plea for rescue, and he swung from the saddle.
“I tried to stop them, my liege, from opening the gates. I kept telling them that you’d sworn you were coming to our aid. But they feared for our hostages and they thought they could save themselves by surrender.” The man’s mouth had begun to tremble. “We did what the French demanded, but it availed us naught. They’d promised we’d not be harmed. Then their soldiers swarmed into the town like mad dogs, stealing whatever they could carry away. We’d not hidden our women, thinking they’d be safe. The hellspawn paid no heed to the pleading of respectable wives and mothers, dragged them from their houses into the street as if they were whores, and when their men tried to protect them, they were slain. And then they set the fires, so many that there was no hope of putting them out. Why did they do that, sire? Why did the French king not keep his word?”
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