He awoke the next morning feeling feverish, queasy, and utterly out of sorts. As he stirred and groaned, the bedcovers beside him rippled and a girl’s head popped out. Hugh looked at her blankly, having no idea who she was. He swallowed with a grimace, becoming aware that his mouth tasted like vinegar. The girl was gazing at him curiously. “Do you want me to answer that, my lord?” she asked, and only then did he realize that the thudding noise in his head was actually a pounding on the door. When he nodded, she slid from the bed, hastily pulling a chemise over her head. He recognized her now as one of the castle kitchen maids, although he did not remember her name. Concluding that he was still half drunk, he lay back against the pillow.
“Hugh, wake up!”
Grudgingly opening his eyes to slits, he saw Raoul de Fougeres’s son Juhel standing by the bed. “Go away,” he mumbled, and felt a dulled throb of indignation when Juhel would not. “Damn you to hell, leave me be…” And then he gasped and shot bolt upright in bed, for Juhel had poured a basin of washing water over his head. Sputtering and cursing, he lurched from the bed, seeking to bury his fist in Juhel’s belly. He never even came close; the other man sidestepped easily.
“Stop it, you fool! Are you going to face Judgment Day as a drunken sot?”
“What are you babbling about?”
“I am trying to tell you that the English king is in the city, making ready to assault the castle!”
Hugh decided that Juhel must be mad. “I think you’re the one who’s drunk. We fought on Monday and this is only Thursday. There is no way in the world that he could get here that fast.”
“No? Suppose you tell him that.” Juhel grabbed Hugh’s arm and, before he could protest, propelled him across the chamber toward the window. Fumbling with the shutters, he flung them open and pointed. “See for yourself!”
Hugh squinted against the sudden blaze of painful light, his eyes focusing blearily upon the banner flying from the enemy encampment, a gold lion emblazoned across a background of crimson. “Holy Mother of God!”
Raoul de Fougeres awaited Hugh in the great hall. Taking in the younger man’s pallor, he said coldly, “I hope you can sober up by noon. You’ll make a better impression if your eyes are not so bloodshot and your hands are not shaking as if you have the ague.”
Hugh was secretly intimidated by the Breton lord, who’d never shown him the deference he was accustomed to receive from his English vassals. Making an attempt at dignity, he said, “I assure you, my lord, that I am quite sober. What happens at noon?”
“We are surrendering the castle to your cousin, the king.”
Hugh’s mouth dropped open. “We cannot do that! If I fall into his hands, I am doomed, for he’ll never forgive me!”
Oliver de Roche, Raoul’s seneschal, gave a harsh laugh, and raised his cup in a mock salute; clearly Hugh was not the only one who’d been sampling the wine kegs. “If he puts rebels to death, there’d not be a lord alive in all of Brittany,” he said in a slurred voice. “For us, rebellion is a sport. What man in this hall has not risen up against the English king more than once?”
Hugh glared at de Roche, who was not as formidable a figure as Lord Raoul. “It is different for me,” he snapped. “He forgives vassals because he thinks it is wise to do so, keeping men from fearing they have nothing to lose and fighting to the death. But I am his cousin, his blood-kin. He’ll not forgive me. ”
“He will forgive you,” Raoul asserted, “as long as we surrender. But if he takes the castle by force, he can do with us as he pleases. King Stephen once hanged the entire garrison of Shrewsbury Castle.”
“Harry has never done anything like that!”
“Has he ever faced a rebellion by his own sons? How do you know what he’ll do if we give him the excuse to seek vengeance? You do not know, my lord earl, and that is my point. It is not a risk we are willing to take.”
Hugh shook his head stubbornly, for at that moment, he feared nothing so much as the thought of facing his cousin at noon. “You talk as if the castle’s fall is inevitable. I say we hold out, that we fight instead of shamefully surrendering!”
There was a low, angry murmuring, and as he looked around, Hugh saw that the others agreed with Raoul; even his own knights seemed ready to surrender. Raoul was regarding him with unfriendly eyes, and suddenly Hugh was acutely aware of the great gap between them. The Bretons were like the Welsh; they did not truly trust those not of their own blood.
Raoul was not known for his patience, but he tried now to remind himself that this English earl’s rank deserved respect, even if the man did not. God save him from these callow youths who knew as much about war as a nun did about whoring. “As Oliver said, we Bretons are well seasoned in rebellion. We know when to fight and we know when to cut our losses, which is why we have survived so long. Henry Fitz Empress is the most dangerous foe I’ve ever faced. He never adheres to the conventions of warfare. Instead of laying waste to his enemies’ lands, he strikes fast and hard at their castles.
“Need I remind you of the strongholds he’s taken over the years? Chinon from his rebel brother, Chaumont-sur-Epte from the French king, and Chaumont-sur-Loire from the Count of Blois. Thourars was said to be impregnable; he took it in three days. Castillon-sur-Agen fell in less than a week. The tally is even more impressive here in Brittany. He razed my great castle at Fougeres to the ground, captured Josselin and Auray from Eudo de Porhoet, seized Becherel Castle from Roland de Dinan, and just two years ago, he descended upon the Viscount of Leon like a thunderbolt, reduced all of his castles to rubble… all of them. So when you tell me we ought to hold out at Dol, I do not find that a convincing argument.”
Hugh was suddenly overcome with fatigue; feeling as if his legs would no longer support him, he sank down onto the closest bench. “There has to be another way beside surrender.”
Raoul de Fougeres regarded him unblinkingly. “You have until noon to think of one.”
The townspeople had gathered to watch the surrender and there was almost a festive atmosphere, for they were thankful they’d been spared the horrors of a siege, thankful the war was over for Brittany. Most of them cared little for who ruled over them as long as they were left to live in peace, and they were milling about in front of the castle, laughing and gossiping, buying fruit-filled wafers from street vendors, ducking into nearby taverns to quench their thirst, and staring with unabashed curiosity at the English king and his lords.
Henry stood with the Earls of Essex and Pembroke, Richard du Hommet, the constable of Normandy, and his cousin William, the hero of Dol. They were watching with grim satisfaction as the castle drawbridge was lowered and forlorn figures trudged out, bearing a white flag of truce. The Earl of Chester was in the lead, followed by Raoul de Fougeres, his son Juhel and his brother, Guillaume. The Bretons were stoical, but Henry was gratified to see that his cousin was as white as a corpse candle.
Approaching Henry, Hugh sank to his knees in the dusty street, and the others did the same. “We surrender ourselves and the castle of Dol into your hands, my lord king,” he said hoarsely. “We know we have grievously offended you, violated our oaths of fealty and homage, and we are truly repentant and remorseful. We humbly beg your pardon and…and pray that you will show mercy even if we do not deserve it.”
Henry looked at them without speaking, and when Hugh could stand the suspense no longer, he blurted out a plaintive “Cousin” that he at once regretted, for Henry turned upon him the full force of those glittering grey eyes. “You would do better at this moment,” he said, “not to remind me of our kinship.” And when he added “Cousin,” he invested that simple word with so much raw emotion-reproach and rage-that despite the hot August sun, Hugh began to shiver.
Leaving the French King’s palace on the isle known as the Ile de la Cite, Will Marshal threaded his way through the maze of crooked streets until he reached the Grand Pont. It was the finest bridge he’d ever seen, nigh on twenty feet wide, and made of stone at a time when even London
’s bridge was wooden. Booths and stalls lined both sides of the bridge, most of them occupied by moneychangers. Since Will’s pouch was already filled with deniers parisis, he shouldered his way past the foreigners and travelers crowding around the booths to change their money, and was soon sauntering along the right bank of the Seine, heading for the Greve, site of the weekly Paris market.
There he had no trouble finding what he sought: a small glass mirror with a lead backing. It was a great improvement over the more common mirrors of metal, and he was sure Barbe would be pleased with the gift. Stopping to buy a loaf of bread and a pork pie from a vendor, he ducked into the nearest tavern to eat it, washing it down with a henap of raisin wine, for he still had the robust appetite that had earned him the nickname of Scoff-food during his days as a squire. Once his hunger was satisfied, he fed the leftover bread to a skinny stray dog and started back toward the Grand Pont, good-naturedly rejecting the overtures of several street whores, attracted by his confident demeanor, his height, and the sword on his hip, a good indication that he could afford their services.
Returning to the Ile de la Cite, he did not head for the palace, instead turned onto the Rue de la Draperie, the street of the Parisian drapers. Barbe’s shop was doing brisk business, with customers admiring a new shipment of silks from Sicily, but when Will entered, she turned the trade over to her assistant, and he accompanied her above-stairs to her private chamber, where she expressed delight over her new mirror and wasted no time in showing her gratitude in bed.
Will had never been keen on relieving his male needs with whores, and knew better than to seduce virgin maidens. He preferred lusty young widows like Barbe, and because he was personable, generous, and blessed with a fine physique, he’d rarely had trouble finding worldly, accommodating bedmates. Barbe was one of the best he’d had, and he knew he’d miss her once his stay in Paris was done.
Their bedsport had left them both drenched in sweat, and she soon rose, padded barefoot to the window and opened the shutters, wrinkling her nose at the rank smell of the river. Coming back to the bed, she noticed for the first time the ripe bruise spreading across his ribs, and was at once solicitous, insisting upon rummaging around in a coffer until she found a goose-grease salve. “What did you do, dearest…get caught up in a tavern brawl?”
Will grinned, shifting so she could better apply the salve. “Worse…I agreed to some sword-play with my lord’s brother Richard. He wanted to practice parrying an enemy’s blow, but his enthusiasm left my old bones battered and bruised.”
Barbe put the salve down in the floor rushes and climbed back into bed beside him. She loved it when he talked about court life, for that was a world beyond her ken, exotic and alien. “I thought you told me that your lord’s knights did not mingle with Duke Richard’s men?”
“As a rule, they do not, sharing their lords’ rivalry. But my position is somewhat different, for I once served in the queen’s household and spent many hours teaching Richard how to wield a sword and aim a lance. We remained on friendly terms even after the old king asked me to instruct Lord Hal.”
“They are both fine-looking lads,” Barbe said, “but even I can see how unlike they are. Lord Hal always stops to wave and acknowledge the cheers when he rides through the streets, and Lord Richard does not even seem to hear them. I was talking with some of the neighborhood women last week and we agreed we’d rather have Lord Hal as a lover, for he never passes a beggar without flipping him a coin. A man so open-handed would likely keep his leman draped in silks and pearls! But which do you think would make the better king, Will?”
Will had indeed pondered that question. He loved Hal, respected Richard. A pity Hal did not have Richard’s iron will, or Richard Hal’s generosity of spirit. His stay in Paris had given him a chance to study the third brother, too, and he’d decided that Geoffrey might be the cleverest of the three. He’d always admired the old king’s ability to remain dispassionate in the face of adversity. Only with St Thomas had his sangfroid failed him, with disastrous consequences. He doubted that either Hal or Richard had inherited any of their sire’s uncanny self-possession; their emotions ran close to the surface, quick to spill over. If one of the king’s sons had his coolly calculating brain, it was likely to be Geoffrey. Of course he was just shy of fifteen, so only time would tell.
Will knew Barbe would have been fascinated by his musings about King Henry’s sons, but discretion was both a habit and a natural inclination. A man would not prosper at the royal court if he’d not learned to govern his tongue. So not even with his bedmate would he drop his guard, and he began to speak instead of a subject that he knew she’d find of interest: a recent feast given for the king by the Bishop of Paris in honor of their victory at Verneuil.
Even as he delighted Barbe by describing the rich menu and fine gowns of the French queen, Adele, and the English queen, Marguerite, Will marveled that Louis could celebrate such a shameful episode. They’d done their best to put a favorable cast upon it, bragging how they’d outwitted the English king and left Verneuil in ruins. But word had trickled out, and Will was soon hearing the rumors discussed in Paris taverns. The citizens of Paris showed a surprising sympathy for their counterparts at Verneuil, but Will realized that they were putting themselves in the places of the Norman burghers, imagining their own shops looted and their houses burned.
Will had not often considered the suffering of citizens in war, having been taught that civilian casualties were both unfortunate and unavoidable. That was the way wars were waged, with chevauchees that served a twofold purpose by devastating an enemy’s countryside: denying his army much-needed provisions and demonstrating to his people that he was failing a lord’s first duty, unable to protect his subjects from harm. What had appalled Will about Verneuil was the deliberate violation of Louis’s sworn oath, both to Henry and the townspeople, and his refusal to honor his own truce. Will firmly believed that the world would descend into chaos and hellish turmoil if men did not obey those laws meant to govern their behavior and tame their more shameful impulses, laws set forth by the Holy Church, by the Crown, and now by the chivalric canons. Chivalry was the foundation stone of his life, offering more than a code of conduct, offering a map which would enable men of good faith to avoid those sinful temptations that might jeopardize their chances of salvation.
Will was thankful that Hal shared this conviction, for it would have been very hard to follow a lord who did not. He just wished Hal had been strong enough to defy the French king and his evil advisors, strong enough to have prevailed. But Hal was young. He had time to develop that steel in his soul, Will assured himself. So far he had resolutely refused to listen to the seditious inner voice whispering that age was no excuse, that had King Henry been faced with a Verneuil at eighteen, he would never have allowed it to happen.
With duskfall, the day’s heat slowly began to ebb. They could hear the sounds downstairs as Barbe’s assistant ushered out the last customers and closed up the shop. The noise from the street continued to waft through the open window, though, for people would not retire to their homes until curfew rang. Will and Barbe made love again, and then she fetched some cold chicken, cheese, and fruit for a bedside supper. They were just finishing their apples when a muffled thumping sounded below.
Will cocked his head. “Is someone knocking at the door?”
Barbe paused to listen, too. “Whoever it is will go away.”
But the pounding continued. And then a voice shouted loudly, “Will Marshal! If you’re up there, come to the window!”
“Ignore him,” Barbe urged.
But Will recognized the voice. Swinging his legs over the bed, he crossed to the window and peered down into the street, where Simon de Morisco was standing, hands on hips, getting ready to shout again. At the sight of Will, he heaved a sigh of relief.
“Thank God! I was sent to find you straightaway and did not know where else to look. Hurry and dress, Will. You have been summoned back to the palace.”
&nb
sp; Entering the Palace’s Great Hall, Will was surprised to see Hal and Richard seated together, for they did not often seek out each other’s company. Clearly the news from Brittany must be grave, indeed. All Simon could tell him was that a messenger had arrived with word of a calamity, but no more than that. Hal and Richard were sitting with Raoul de Faye, Marguerite, the Count of Leicester, Robert Beaumont, and his wife, Peronelle. As Will approached, Richard and Hal slid over on the bench to make room for him beside them. He took his seat, ignoring the disgruntled looks he was getting from several of Hal’s knights; he well knew that some were jealous of his privileged status and since he could do nothing about it, he did his best not to let it bother him.
“Simon said there was a setback in Brittany?”
Hal nodded, and Richard gave a short laugh that sounded uncannily like Henry’s. “To call it a ‘setback’ is like calling the Expulsion from Eden a minor misunderstanding. It was a disaster, Will. Last Thursday Hugh and Raoul de Fougeres and all their knights surrendered Dol Castle to my father. The rebellion in Brittany is over.”
“Sweet Jesu,” Will breathed, for this was far worse than he’d expected. “I did not even know King Henry was in Brittany, thought he’d returned to Rouen after…after Verneuil.”
“He did,” Hal said glumly, “but as soon as he learned Hugh and the Bretons were trapped in Dol, he hastened west, and once he arrived on the scene, they panicked and ran up a white flag.”
“A disgrace,” the Earl of Leicester muttered, shaking his head in disgust, and Hal, Richard, and Will exchanged glances, all of them sharing the same thought: that Leicester had abandoned his castle at Breteuil and ran for his life as soon as he’d gotten word of Henry’s approach. None of them voiced that thought, though. It would never occur to Will to do so, and the brothers were learning some hard lessons in diplomacy; Leicester was a valued ally, even if they both thought he was a horse’s arse.
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