Devil's brood eoa-3

by Sharon Kay Penman

  Rico’s eyes were shining. “Indeed, my lord!” The past year had been the best one of Rico’s young life. He knew his half sisters and their husbands were embittered by the king’s refusal to let them lay claim to Rainald’s earldom, but Rico had always known it would never pass to him, the son born out of wedlock, and so he’d been indifferent to its disposition. He’d jumped at the chance to learn the arts of war from Richard, and reality had exceeded all of his expectations. He was utterly convinced that his twenty-one-year-old cousin was the most valiant man ever to draw breath and would soon bring these disloyal, contemptible rebels to heel.

  While the knights shared Rico’s appreciation of Richard’s courage, they did not have his starry-eyed faith, and could muster up no enthusiasm for an assault upon Taillebourg. They would not be getting a vote, though, and so they girded themselves for the worst as Richard turned back toward them.

  Glancing at Theodore Chabot, the captain of his routiers, Richard wasted no time declaring what he wanted done. “Send men out to forage,” he instructed Chabot. “Check every barn and chicken roost and be sure to search the woods, for that’s where the peasants will have hidden their livestock.”

  “It will be done, my lord,” Chabot said matter-of-factly; the knights thought he’d have sounded as imperturbable if Richard had ordered him to make a lone assault upon the castle walls. Guillaume de Forz and Andre de Chauvigny were young Poitevin lords who’d been with Richard since his ill-fated rebellion, and it never occurred to either of them to question his decision, for it had long been a joke between them that it would be easier to teach Richard to fly than it would to get him to back down once he’d made up his mind. They’d expected his order to forage, for armies lived off the land. It was what came next that troubled them. How could Taillebourg be taken?

  “After we gather whatever food we can find,” Andre said, with a brave attempt to sound as nonchalant as if they were discussing a day’s hawking, “what then?”

  Richard knew they were uneasy, but he did not fault them for it. Although he did not understand the fear that surged through other men’s veins, he asked only that they not give in to it, for he’d come to realize that few shared his utter contempt for danger or death. “Then,” he said, “we show them what Hell is like.”

  Chevauchee was the term used for the most common tactic of warfare-the ravaging of an enemy’s lands. But the people of Taillebourg had never seen a raid as deadly or destructive as the one launched by Richard that May. Church bells sounded the alarm as his routiers spread out across the countryside. Those who’d not already taken refuge in Taillebourg fled in panic; the slow and the old and the ill were cut down like sheaves of wheat. The sky was soon smudged with dense black clouds as villages, barns, and manors were put to the torch. Cattle were butchered for Richard’s men, and those not needed were still slaughtered to deny them to his enemies. Oxen were slain and ploughs broken. Fruit trees were uprooted and crops were burned in the field. Vineyards were trampled. Wells were salted. Horses were taken, sheep gutted, chickens either eaten or killed. The horrified townsmen and villagers watched helplessly as their world went up in flames.

  The fires were still burning when Richard brought up his siege engines and began to bombard the town. Mangonels launched heavy rocks and stones and even the carcasses of dead animals, the men working in eight-hour shifts so that the assault continued both day and night. From the castle battlements, Geoffrey de Rancon and his men seethed with rage, vowing vengeance, but panic was spreading in the town as people realized that withstanding the siege would not bring victory. When Richard gave up and retreated, nothing would be left to them but scorched fields, the bloated bodies of their slain livestock, and the fearful specter of famine.

  Richard had set up their camp so close to the town that dust from the battered walls was soon coating their tents, and when his knights grumbled that the nonstop bombardment was robbing them of sleep, he smiled grimly. “It will not be long,” he assured them, “until they take the bait.”

  On May 8, the castle garrison sallied forth in a dawn attack. Such surprise assaults were often successful, but Richard had been expecting this one, sure that de Rancon would not be able to resist their tempting proximity. The fighting that followed was brutal, with Richard in the very thick of it, and his men were so inspired and emboldened by his utter fearlessness that they soon had the garrison retreating back toward the town.

  This was the moment Richard had been waiting for. “Now!” he shouted. “After them!” And as de Rancon’s knights plunged through the town gates, Richard and his men fought their way in, too. A wild melee broke out as the garrison fled for the safety of the castle. Geoffrey de Rancon and many of his knights were able to reach it, but Richard and his men were hot on their heels, and they saw at once that they’d never be able to hold the bailey. They raced for their last refuge, the stone keep, flinging a torch onto the wooden stairs just as their pursuers got there, and tumbled, bruised and bleeding, into the hall. All of the windows were tightly shuttered, so they were half blinded as they escaped from sunlight into shadows. Blinking owlishly in the semi-gloom of the hall, they slumped against the walls, collapsed in the floor rushes, and for a time the only sound was the harsh gasping of men fighting to get enough air into their laboring lungs. Stunned by how swiftly the tide had turned against them, de Rancon buried his head in his hands and wept.

  The soldiers who had not made it into the keep were quickly struck down, and Richard dispatched men to patrol the castle ramparts and the town walls. Leaning against the inner bailey well to catch his breath, he gratefully accepted a bucket from a grinning routier, yanked off his helmet, and poured it over his head. The water quickly turned pink as it splattered onto the ground, but none of the blood was his. It was here that Theobald Chabot found him.

  “Can my lads have their sport now?” he asked, and when Richard nodded, he raised his arm high, signaling to one of his sergeants that the town was theirs for the taking. His men jubilantly claimed their reward; plunder was mother’s milk to the battle-seasoned routiers who lived and died by the sword. Smoke was soon spiraling up from the narrow, unpaved streets, and the sounds of their city’s suffering were not long in reaching the miserable men trapped within the dark, sweltering keep, reminding them what their fate would be if they tried to hold out. A town or castle taken by storm was fair game, for by their stubborn resistance, the besieged forfeited the right to be treated with leniency and could be slain without violating chivalric codes of honor.

  Squires were not supposed to take part in actual fighting, and it took Rico a while to make his way into the town. He found he had to step over bodies in the street, had to keep jumping aside to avoid being trampled by celebrating bands of routiers as they surged from looted taverns in search of more wine. Men bumped into him as they emerged from ransacked shops and houses, their arms filled with booty, while others were on the prowl for bedmates, willing or otherwise. Again and again he heard a dog’s barking become shrill yipping and then, silence. Goods were raining down from open windows, caught by laughing passersby. Whores, painted and powdered, had emerged from their bolt holes to mingle with the soldiers in the streets. Rico saw sights that shocked him to the marrow of his bones, had to watch his footing lest he step into puddles of congealing blood. But by the time he reached the castle, he was no longer flinching every time he heard a screaming woman or a wailing child.

  Richard was conferring with several of his knights as they appraised the keep defenses. Rico waited patiently till his lord had time for him, noting that his sword needed a good cleaning and so did the tunic he’d worn over his hauberk, for it was soiled and torn; even his lord’s boots had bloodstains on them. He’d have much to do.

  Noticing the boy at last, Richard beckoned him over. “You are looking a little greensick, Cousin,” he joked. “If you are going to spew, try not to aim in my direction.”

  He was surprised when Rico did not laugh or at least acknowledge the jest. Rico
had proven to be an excellent squire, in great part because he was so eager to please, but also because he was so invariably cheerful. But now Rico was looking at him very somberly, like a sinner about to confess to his priest.

  “I have never seen a captured town before,” he confided hesitantly. “I guess…guess I did not know how bloody war can be, my lord.”

  Richard considered what the boy had said, and then nodded in agreement. “Yes, war can be bloody and brutal and disquieting, Rico. But there is also a…a kind of glory in it.”

  Rico did not understand, but he nodded, too, for if Richard said it, it must be so.

  Henry had sent Willem to the Flemish court for negotiations with the Count of Flanders, and he was unable to return until June. Taking ship at Wissant, he landed at Dover, and then began the tedious task of chasing down the king. He finally found Henry at his Woodstock manor.

  As he entered the great hall, Willem saw that most of the men and some of the women were clustered at one end. He knew Hal was spending some time at his father’s court, and he assumed that the young king was the attraction. He was surprised, therefore, to notice Hal standing on the dais, his arms folded across his chest. Wondering who was stealing Hal’s thunder, Willem took a closer look and when he caught a glimpse of a reddish-gold head, he understood, both the commotion and Hal’s obvious discontent. The hero of Taillebourg was here, and Hal’s tournament victories had been put in the shade by Richard’s dramatic capture of a castle said to be impregnable.

  Joining Henry upon the dais, he was warmly welcomed by the king and courteously by Hal. Henry was beaming every time he looked over at Richard, and wasted no time in bragging of his exploits, telling Willem that Geoffrey de Rancon had surrendered two days after Richard took the town. “He also yielded Pons, and ten days later, Count Vulgrin ended his rebellion and surrendered his castles at Angouleme and Montignac. A number of our highborn rebels were so shaken by Richard’s conquests that they have taken the cross, and are making plans to leave for the Holy Land as soon as they can get away.” Henry grinned. “Aquitaine has not been so peaceful in years!”

  Seeing how much pleasure Richard’s triumph was giving his father, Willem was happy to indulge his paternal pride, and began to ask questions, thus giving Henry the opportunity to discuss the fall of Taillebourg at length. He was still in mid-cry when Hal quietly withdrew, first from the dais and then from the hall, but few noticed.

  “It was an amazing feat, Willem,” Henry concluded enthusiastically. “I do not know anyone who could have done better, even me! And the lad is only twenty-one; think what a commander he’ll make once he gains more experience.” Willem agreed, finding it easy to echo Henry’s praise, for no soldier could fail to be impressed by Richard’s triumph. Henry added that Geoffrey had been successful in Brittany, too, if not quite on such a spectacular scale, forcing that habitual rebel, Guihomar de Leon, to surrender all his strongholds. But he soon returned to praising Richard, and when Willem asked how he planned to reward the young man, he laughed.

  “I am giving him Aquitaine. God knows he earned it.”

  Willem was impressed, knowing how reluctant Henry was to relinquish authority. “He must have been overwhelmed,” he said, and Henry’s pleasure lost some of its luster.

  “He was not as joyful as I would have expected,” he admitted. “When I told him that from now on, he could govern the duchy as he chose, he thanked me as calmly as if I’d just offered him a new saddle.” His eyes rested for a mystified moment upon the tall figure of his second son. “I confess, Willem,” he said quietly, “that I do not understand the lad, never have if truth be told. He keeps his own counsel, has learned to guard his thoughts. As his king, I find that commendable, for no ruler should be as easily read as…well, as Hal is. But as his father, I do wish he were more forthcoming, at least with me.”

  After a moment, though, he shook his head, and began to question Willem about his mission to the Flemish court. Willem had just begun his report when there was a sudden stir in the hall. Curious, he paused, and was taken aback to see the queen coming through the open doorway.

  Henry caught his questioning look and shrugged. “Richard wanted her here,” he said simply, and Willem thought it was encouraging that the king was learning to pick his battles with his sons. But then Henry said, “Actually, what he’d asked for was her freedom, and there is no way I could have granted that wish. So it would have been churlish to deny him her presence at revelries in his honor. I’ve tried to be a good sport about it, Willem, even bought her a gilded scarlet saddle and new robes for the occasion. I cannot say, though, that I am pleased to have her here.”

  Willem understood why. The change in Richard’s demeanor was startling. Where before he’d been detached, even aloof, he was now displaying considerable animation as he conversed and laughed with his mother. Henry made no comment, but he kept his eyes upon them even as Willem completed his account of his meeting with Count Philip. By then Richard had noticed Willem’s presence and was heading in their direction, his mother pacing serenely beside him, her hand resting lightly but possessively upon his arm.

  Once greetings had been exchanged, Willem made ready to hear Richard’s firsthand account of Taillebourg’s fall. Richard had other matters upon his mind, though. “I’ve not had a chance to talk with you since your return from the Holy Land, and I am eager to hear all about your experiences there. You were one of the victors at Ramlah, no? Is it true that your siege of Harenc was interrupted by the arrival of Saladin himself? What do you think of his military prowess? Did you get to Jerusalem-”

  Willem flung up his hand in mock surrender, and let Richard lead him away to continue his interrogation. Henry and Eleanor found themselves alone for the first time since her arrival at Woodstock. After an awkward moment, Henry took refuge in courtesy and escorted her toward their chairs upon the dais. Richard and Willem had moved to a window-seat to continue their discussion of Holy Land warfare, and they were soon surrounded by a large throng, for Richard was exercising the sort of magnetic appeal that had previously been Hal’s alone. Henry watched his son for a few moments more, wishing that Richard could be like that with him-enthused and unguarded. Glancing toward his wife, he said, “What were you saying that Richard found so amusing?”

  His brusque tone made it sound more like an accusation than an inquiry. Eleanor ignored the undercurrents and said composedly, “Ah, that. I told Richard that I was particularly gratified to see Taillebourg Castle reduced to rubble, for Louis and I spent the first night of our marriage there.”

  Henry gave her a sharp look, but decided he did not want to talk of wedding nights with Eleanor; that was too intimate for his liking. It vexed him that she insisted upon displaying a wife’s familiarity instead of a rebel’s contrition. “You like to accuse me of never learning from my mistakes,” he said. “But Louis does not even learn from other men’s mistakes. Did you hear that he is planning to have Philippe crowned in August on Ascension Day?”

  “No, I had not heard that,” Eleanor said. “I cannot say it surprises me, though. Louis always had a talent for taking a bad situation and making it worse.”

  “To be fair, he did have some misgivings about the idea after observing how well it worked with Hal. But he has decided to go ahead with it, mayhap because he has been ailing this past year. It will be interesting to see how it goes,” Henry commented, in a masterly understatement.

  Eleanor regarded him pensively. “I saw Hal out in the bailey,” she said. “He looked out of sorts and, sad to say, was making no attempt to hide his discontent. I fear that he is not handling Richard’s newfound fame very well.”

  “No, he is not,” Henry said, and sighed. “Hal and Richard show all the good will of Cain and Abel. And for that matter, Richard and Geoffrey are not much better.”

  Eleanor’s eyes narrowed; was he saying the dissention between their sons was Richard’s fault? But as he continued, she saw that was not what he was implying. “I confess to being
baffled by their constant squabbling and strife, Eleanor. It is true I never got along with my brother Geoff, but that was mainly his doing. Will and I were always very close.”

  “I know,” she said, remembering how grief-stricken he’d been by Will’s sudden death at twenty-seven. “I was only six when my brother died, so I do not have many memories of him. I probably considered him a pest, as big sisters are wont to do. But Petronilla and I were confidantes and allies-even partners in crime-as far back as I can remember. Somehow, though, our sons have managed to reach manhood without any true sense of brotherly affection or loyalty, and I do not know what to do about it.”

  “Neither do I,” Henry admitted, frowning as he saw the corners of her mouth curving upward. “What possible amusement can you find in this?”

  “Not amusement exactly. It just occurred to me that we have finally found some common ground to agree upon, Harry, and what is it? Our failings as parents!”

  Henry shared her sense of the ridiculous and when their eyes met, they were soon both laughing, laughter that stopped abruptly when they realized that this was the first time they’d laughed together in more than seven years.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

  August 1179

  Woods near Compiegne, France

  At first Philippe was angry — with his horse for bolting and with his companions for taking so long to find him. He’d been calling out until his voice was hoarse, but the only sounds he heard were the normal noises of the forest. He was getting hungry and tired and, as the afternoon wore on, increasingly uneasy. The prospect of being lost in the woods at night was a daunting one. This was the first time in Philippe’s fourteen years that he’d ever been utterly alone, and he liked it not at all.

  He was scratched from brambles and overhanging branches, bothered by swarms of gnats and other insects, as miserable as he’d ever been in his entire life. When his mount suddenly shied and he banged his elbow painfully against a gnarled oak, he lost his temper altogether. He did not enjoy riding, had always viewed horses with dislike and distrust, and this particular horse was to blame for all of his troubles today. Giving in to his rage, he jabbed it in the sides with his spurs at the same time that he brought his whip down upon its withers. The gelding snorted and reared up suddenly. Philippe dropped his spear and clung to the mane as he tried to maintain his seat. But the horse began to buck, and the boy lost his grip and his stirrups, went sailing over its head into a wild blackberry bush.