Devil's brood eoa-3

by Sharon Kay Penman

  Lifting a smoldering oil lamp, Henry leaned over to illuminate a parchment map. “Take a look at this,” he directed, and Rhys ap Gruffydd’s son Hywel crossed the tent to study the map. Rhys had dispatched Hywel as a gesture of solidarity at the start of the rebellion, and since Henry now had one thousand of Rhys’s Welshmen at his disposal, it made sense to put them under Hywel’s command.

  “This is Rouen, here. It is not an easy city to besiege, protected by the River Seine on one side and by hills on the other. I’ve been told that the French did not have enough men to surround the city, and they have concentrated upon the east. They are employing their soldiers in eight-hour shifts, so that they can continue bombarding Rouen day and night with their siege engines and crossbowmen. But because the townsmen still control the bridge to the west, they have continued to bring in supplies and need not fear being starved into submission.”

  “So we can march right into the town through the west gate,” Hywel said, marveling at the ineptitude of the French commanders. “It sounds like a waste of time, effort, money, and men. What is the point of laying siege to a city unless they are cut off from reinforcements?”

  “You’d have to take that up with Louis Capet,” Henry said cheerfully. “As for me, I am just thankful that my foes are conducting this campaign with the military skills of a mother abbess. Look over here, Hywel. This area east of Rouen is heavily wooded. I well remember the havoc you Welsh wreaked upon my men on my last incursion into Wales. It was like fighting phantoms, forest demons who’d strike without warning, then fade back into the shadows ere we could retaliate. What I propose is turning your men loose upon our French friends. Can you circle around behind their lines and cut off their supply wagons?”

  Hywel grinned. “I thought you were going to offer us a challenge. That will be too easy!”

  Henry grinned, too. “I promise to find you something more perilous next time,” he said, and then turned as one of his men ducked under the tent flap.

  “My liege, a man has just ridden into camp, bold as you please, and asked to see you. He said to tell you-this is going to sound daft, but he said ‘planta genesta.’ ”

  He sounded so puzzled that Henry burst out laughing. “I will see him straightaway,” he said, and dismissed the other men in his tent, allowing only Willem to remain as they awaited the mysterious stranger.

  “I am not going to ask,” Willem said at last, and Henry took pity on him, saying with a smile, “ Planta genesta is the Latin name for the broom plant. My father liked to wear a sprig on his cap, and when I was thinking of a code word, that just came to mind.”

  “I take it I am about to meet one of your spies?”

  “One of the best, Willem, one of the very best,” Henry said, as a young man was ushered into the tent. He was as dark as a Saracen, with unfashionably long hair and slanted black eyes that laughed up at Henry as he knelt before the king. “Willem,” Henry said, “meet…well, you may call him Luc.” Gesturing for his visitor to rise, he pointed toward the table. “There is a flagon of wine; help yourself. Why are you not at the siege with Louis?”

  Luc rose as lithely as a cat, and then strode over to pour himself some wine. “The French king heard an alarming rumor that you’d sailed for Normandy. I kindly volunteered to ride to Barfleur and keep vigil, for it occurred to me that would be an easy way to pass on my report once you arrived. It was a surprise, and a pleasant one, to find you almost within hailing distance of the city walls. Your eerie ability to appear in a puff of smoke has saved me a two-day ride!”

  “Glad to oblige,” Henry said. “So Louis does not know for certes that I left England? The way his agents serve him, it is a wonder he even knows about the sinking of the White Ship.”

  Luc grinned. “He is already out of sorts, sure that St Laurence is sorely offended with him. Wait till the morrow when he finds you in the city. He’ll think he’s died and gone to Hell!”

  “We can only hope.” Henry had been in the saddle since dawn and his injured leg was throbbing. Sitting on his bed, he swung the leg up and propped a pillow under it. “Why does Louis think he’s affronted a saint? What did he do…hear Mass only twice in one day instead of his customary three times?”

  “No, my liege. The saint has a greater grievance than that.” Luc finished his wine, went to pour more. “Louis has always revered St Laurence, and so he proposed to the citizens of Rouen that both sides observe a truce in honor of the saint’s day. They quickly agreed, and this morning they opened the gates and the townspeople began to venture forth. They were soon playing games and dancing, and some of the knights from the garrison staged a mock tourney, all within sight of the French army. Many of the younger men and women gathered by the riverbank and began to shout insults across the water. The Count of Flanders was enraged by their mockery, and he and a few other lords-the Counts of Dreux and Blois and Evreux-sought out the king and urged him to catch the townsmen off guard and launch a surprise attack.”

  Henry had lain back on the bed. Sitting upright at that, he said with a tight smile, “Let me guess what happened next. Louis was horrified by the very idea of such sacrilege, refused to consider breaking the truce, and then let himself be talked into it.”

  “You’d have made a fine prophet, my liege.” Luc’s smile held no more humor than Henry’s. “That is exactly what happened.”

  “Obviously something went amiss, though, or Louis would not be back in camp, brooding over the wrong done St Laurence. Why did their surprise attack fail?”

  “St Laurence was not pleased with their double-dealing. Two monks had gone up into the bell tower, which offered a clear view of the French camp. They saw the stealthy preparations under way, and began frantically ringing the bell. If not for their warning, Rouen might have been lost. As it was, the citizens fled back into the town, and by the time the French reached the walls with their scaling ladders, the gates were barred and men were ready for them. There was fierce hand-to-hand fighting on the walls, but the French were driven back. When Louis sent me off to watch for you, they were going at it like stags in rut, trading accusations and blame for the blunder.”

  “Louis seems to go stark, raving mad in August,” Willem observed. “Last year it was Verneuil, and now this.”

  Henry nodded, but he was not fully listening. He opened his mouth, stopped, and then said abruptly, “What of my son? Did he approve this attack?”

  “No, my lord king. He was not happy with it, argued that it was dishonorable to violate their own truce. His knights were disapproving, too, especially Will Marshal. They truly believe in the chivalric code, may God pity their innocent young souls. But Lord Hal’s protest was brushed aside. They…they do not pay much heed to his opinions.”

  Henry scowled, taking umbrage that these men should dare to disrespect his son. The irrationality of it did not escape him, but that awareness did nothing to assuage his indignation. Hal had been ill served by those he had most reason to trust-his father-in-law, the French king, his maternal uncles, and his mother, above all, his mother.

  Rousing himself, he expressed his thanks to Luc, suggesting that the young spy might want to claim his reward now rather than continuing his clandestine activities. He was not surprised when Luc declined, insisting that he was not at risk, that he’d tell the French king he was captured by Henry’s men. Henry did not argue, for he’d encountered men like Luc before, men who thrived on danger, who needed it as others needed air and food. It was easier to understand the Porteclie de Mauzes, those who acted only out of self-interest. Going to a coffer, he drew out a pouch heavy with coins, and Luc smiled, tucking it safely away in his tunic before he accepted Willem’s offer to find him a meal and a bed.

  Henry bade them good night, pleased with Willem’s action. The other man had learned to read his moods well, sensing that he was distracted and wanted time alone. Once they’d departed, Henry dropped to his knees, ignoring the discomfort of his painful thigh. His thoughts of Hal had sent his spirits into a d
ownward spiral, forcing him to dwell upon memories and regrets that served for naught. Just as he’d prayed at Canterbury, “St Thomas, guard my realm,” he lowered his head now, and whispered, “St Thomas, save my son.”

  The French King had suffered a restless, wakeful night, and stayed abed the next morning, exhausted and disquieted and reluctant to face the day. He’d finally fallen asleep, only to have his dream disturbed by an insistent voice crying out, “My lord king!” Opening his eyes, he saw one of his squires bending over the bed. “Forgive me, but you must wake up, my liege!”

  Louis sat up with a groan, smothering a yawn. Over his squire’s shoulder, he could see other men crowding into the tent, recognized his sons-in-law, the Count of Blois and Hal, and behind them, several bishops and Flemish lords. They all looked so somber that he yearned to go back to sleep, not wanting to deal with the troubles they were about to thrust upon him. “What is it?” he asked irritably. “I was not to be disturbed. And what is that infernal noise?”

  “Church bells,” the Archbishop of Sens said, sounding just as vexed as Louis. “Every church bell in Rouen is pealing, chiming to welcome the English king into the city.”

  “He’s here?” Louis rarely cursed, but those closest to the bed thought they heard him mutter something that sounded very much like an obscenity. Fully awake now, the French king winced at the joyful sound of the bells, knowing it was the death knell of his hopes to capture Rouen.

  The day after he rode into Rouen, Henry sent his Welsh to harass the French supply lines. They were highly successful, capturing and destroying more than forty wagons loaded with food and wine. The following day, Henry took the offensive, opening the city gates and sending out men to fill in the defensive ditch that separated the foes, making it possible for a charge by his knights. When he led his army out of the city, the French scrambled to meet them, and in the clash that followed, the French took the worst of it; some were taken prisoner and the Count of Flanders saw another of his brothers struck down; Peter, who’d renounced the bishopric of Cambrai after Matthew’s death in order to become Count of Boulogne, was seriously wounded.

  That night Louis sent the Archbishop of Sens and the Count of Blois to Henry, seeking a truce so he could withdraw his army to Malaunay, promising to meet with the English on the morrow. When Henry agreed, Louis pretended to set up camp at Malaunay, but under cover of darkness, he fled for the safety of French territory. He then requested a conference at Gisors on September 8, and once more, Henry agreed.

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  September 1174

  Gisors, Norman Vexin

  When he reached the conference elm at Gisors, Henry saw that the French were already there. Louis was flanked by his bishops and barons, while the Count of Flanders was standing apart with his own men, and Henry wondered if there were cracks showing in their alliance. What interested him the most, though, was that Hal and Geoffrey had also distanced themselves from the French king. He reined in before Louis, who waited for him to dismount, and looked perplexed when he did not.

  “Welcome, my lord king,” Louis said once it was apparent that Henry was not going to speak first. “It is our hope that we may agree to a truce in order to put an end to this unfortunate war.”

  Henry was staring at the sons he’d not seen in a year. Hal looked no different, cutting a handsome figure in a crimson tunic decorated with gold thread and a fur-trimmed mantle casually thrown over his shoulder. He did not meet Henry’s eyes, glancing away when he realized his father was watching him. Geoffrey had experienced an impressive growth spurt, was taller than Henry remembered, but he was still some inches shorter than Hal and Richard. He was more composed than his elder brother, returning Henry’s gaze with a respectful nod of acknowledgment.

  Henry swung back to the French king. “Where is Richard?”

  Louis smiled sympathetically, one father to another. “Alas, Richard is balking at taking part in the council. When we summoned him, he refused to come. He is young and hotheaded, as were we all at his age.” Stepping forward, he gestured expansively. “Shall you dismount so that we may talk?”

  “If Richard is not here, what is there to talk about?”

  Louis did his best to ignore Henry’s brusque tone. “Whilst Richard’s absence is regrettable, it need not prevent us from reaching an accommodation. Come, and we shall discuss it further.”

  “I think not,” Henry said tersely, and the Count of Flanders strode over, casting Louis a glance of poorly concealed impatience.

  “We are willing to agree to a truce that specifically excludes Richard. You may deal with him as you see fit; that is no concern of ours.”

  “I see.” Henry looked from one to the other, then back at his sons. “I will grant you a truce of three weeks. We shall meet again at Michaelmas. I will notify you where the council is to be held.”

  When they realized that he was about to depart, Louis and Philip exchanged troubled looks, and the Fleming said sharply, “Wait, my lord! We need to talk over the terms of peace.”

  Henry pricked his stallion with his spurs and the animal leaped forward. As Philip jumped out of the way, he glanced over his shoulder. “You will learn my terms at Michaelmas.” His men followed, and Willem soon spurred his horse to ride at Henry’s side.

  “What now?” he asked. “Do we go into Poitou to rein Richard in?”

  “Yes.” Henry looked over at the other man, and then slowly shook his head. “Richard will long remember this birthday.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Today,” Henry said, “Richard turned seventeen.”

  Richard and his men were encamped by the River Vienne southeast of Poitiers. Morale was low, for they’d been retreating steadily from the Angevin forces under Maurice de Craon; they did not have sufficient numbers to meet Henry’s commander on the field. Dusk was beginning to darken the sky as Raoul de Faye stormed out of Richard’s tent. The head of his household knights came quickly to his side, but when Raoul angrily shook his head, the man asked no questions.

  “Come and eat, my lord,” he said instead, gesturing toward an open fire, where a group of men were clustered around a large pot. Raoul shook his head again, for his latest quarrel with Richard had taken away his appetite. But the air was redolent with the enticing aroma of venison stew, and he was about to change his mind when a sudden shout heralded the arrival of riders.

  To Raoul’s vast relief, the lead horseman was a familiar figure, and he hastened over to bid Saldebreuil de Sanzay welcome. Once greetings had been exchanged and Saldebreuil’s men sent off to share the supper, Raoul grasped the constable’s arm and drew him aside.

  “Thank God you are here! Mayhap you can talk some sense into Richard. I’ve been unable to convince him that we must surrender. We never recovered from our losses in Saintes, and our numbers have been dwindling daily. It was bad enough when we were running from de Craon. But our scouts report that the English king has now joined the hunt, too, is encamped less than ten miles away. Richard still refuses to yield, though. That boy could teach a mule about stubbornness!”

  “Take me to him,” Saldebreuil said, once Raoul had run out of breath. “I have news he needs to hear.” And he fell in step beside Raoul as the two men headed toward Richard’s tent.

  Richard was alone, staring down at a crudely drawn map of Poitou as he grimly plotted out lines of retreat. He glanced up with a surprised smile that quickly faded as he studied the constable’s face. “I am not going to like what you’ve come to tell me, am I?”

  “No, my lord Richard, you are not. I’d come to warn you that your lord father is on your trail. It seems you know that already. But you do not know what happened at Gisors a fortnight ago.”

  “That craven council of theirs?” Richard said scornfully. “What of it?”

  “Your brothers and the French king and the Count of Flanders have served you up as a scapegoat to the English king. They struck a truce with Henry that excludes you. In other words, lad, you are o
n your own, can expect no aid from your so-called allies.”

  Richard’s intake of breath was sharp enough to be audible. Raoul indulged in a flare of temper, calling Henry various colorful names that were not flattering, calling Louis even worse. Saldebreuil waited patiently until he was done, and then limped across the tent, coming to a halt in front of Eleanor’s son.

  “It is over, Richard,” he said softly. “It is time to go to your father and seek his forgiveness.”

  Richard reacted as if he’d been stung, recoiling violently. “No! I will not do that. I will never abandon my mother!”

  “Listen to us, Richard,” Raoul entreated. “Eleanor is my niece and I love her dearly. But there is nothing more you can do for her. The war is lost.”

  “No!”

  Saldebreuil reached out and caught Richard’s arm in a grip too tight to shake off. His voice, though, was kind, even gentle, as he said, “You can no longer hope to save your mother. Now you must save yourself. She would expect no less from you. Do you truly believe she’d want you to sacrifice yourself for her sake?”

  Richard’s mouth contorted, and he jerked free of the older man’s hold. “Rot in Hell!” he cried. “All of you can rot in Hell!”

  Raoul started after him as he plunged out of the tent, but halted when Saldebreuil said, “No, Raoul. He needs time. Let him go.”

  Richard’s flight from his tent had not stopped there. So great was his need to get away that he did not even wait for his stallion to be saddled, instead took the horse of one of their scouts, leaving the man staring after him in astonishment. Once he was out of the camp, he gave the horse its head and urged it on, racing the wind and his own doubts. Common sense told him that Saldebreuil and Raoul were right, but he still saw surrender as shameful, as a betrayal of the person he loved most in the world. How could he do that to her? He knew she was relying upon him to gain her freedom. If he gave up, what hope would she have?