by Jude Chapman
Richard left the Touraine. For six days, a snaking ribbon of humanity wound itself along the hills, meadows, woodlands, and river valleys. The army was some five-thousand strong. But the ancillary forces of mule tenders, carters, squires, and mercenaries; cooks, laundresses, fishermen, saddlers, wheelwrights, armorers, and blacksmiths; chapmans, whores, moneychangers, costardmongers, and woolmongers; along with wives, mothers, mistresses, and children who were going only so far, doubled the number.
Gathering along the byways, the young and old, fair and ugly, and portly and withered came out to speed the pilgrims on their way. Knights, archers, and foot soldiers—their gala shirts of mail shining in the blazing sun, weapons honed sharp at their sides, and shields and lances at the ready—marched in splendid array, and were delivered like a refulgent feast upon a frond to Vézelay.
Vézelay, the sleepy hill town built beneath the lofty Cluniac monastery where, in the year 1050, the Pope confirmed that the abbey church held the sacred remains of Mary Magdalen.
Vézelay, where thousands upon thousands of faithful Christians made the steep climb up twin dusty roads to the towering basilica, there to gaze upon the relics of the blessed saint.
Vézelay, the starting point for those lucky few who continued their pilgrim’s path to the shrine of Santiago Matamoros de Compostela.
Vézelay, where in 1146, Bernard of Clairvaux read the papal bull and preached the sermon that launched the Second Crusade.
Vézelay, where many years ago, a young Queen Eleanor knelt with her then-husband King Louis of France before the selfsame abbot who had often castigated the queen for her flamboyant ways, and dedicated herself to the cause.
Vézelay, where now, more than forty years later, Queen Eleanor knelt at the same altar, this time offering her best beloved son to the Third Crusade.
Inside the basilica, beneath the Romanesque vault, the striped stone, and the angel-winged capitals, Richard and Philippe met on common ground, attended by the principals of their mutual entourages.
Richard had with him his mother the dowager queen and his betrothed Alais; his loyal knights André de Chauvigny, Baldwin de Béthune, Guillaume de Fors, and Drake and Stephen fitzAlan; his brothers John and Geoffrey; the archbishop of Canterbury; and his marshal and recently knighted Sieur Randall of Clarendon.
Philippe came with his mother Adèle of Blois and Champagne; his uncle Thibaud of Blois; his nephew Louis of Blois, freshly arrived from his brief service with Richard; his other nephew Henry, the young comte of Champagne; his sisters Alys and Marie, the respective mothers of the king’s nephews; the king’s chaplain Andreas Capellanus of Champagne; and king’s knight Guillaume des Barres.
Reunions among mothers and daughters, brothers and sisters, uncles, cousins, and nephews, old enemies and new comrades had been accomplished the night before, accompanied by much tears and laughter, drink and food, song and conversation, and to a lesser extent, prayers for a successful sojourn and historic campaign. Comtesse Alys de Blois was more than pleased to make the acquaintance of her besieged cousin, Stephen fitzAlan, who kissed her on both cheeks and expressed his undying gratitude.
Presently, before the altar of Ste Marie-Madeleine, the monarchs received blessings for a successful crusade and agreed in rosy tones to forget their enmity and take up swords against a common enemy, the Saracen infidels who had defiled the Holy Land with their bloody scimitars. The agreement was forged of practicality, for even while seeking glory in the name of the Christian God, they were also going to war to regain lost lands and plunder riches. Gold, it was said, drenched Arabia like a flooded river. The decision was weighty but the formula for sharing the spoils of a religious war was straightforward: everything was to be divided equally.
On the fourth day of July, which so happened to be the third anniversary of the battle of Hattin—when the Christian west lost Jerusalem to the Muslim east—the armies of two kings moved south.
When Richard appeared, the cheering crowd was graced with the presence of a glorious god whose mantle was befittingly spangled with silver crescents, whose cap was fashioned of scarlet and gold, whose Spanish stallion was equipped with a silver-inlaid saddle, whose bridle set with sparkling gems, and whose sword was none other than the Excalibur of lore, or so it was proclaimed.
Riding beside the resplendent king of England, the duller and darker king of France was in a coarser mood than usual. Already pale of complexion when standing beside his distant cousin, he paled even further upon realizing he was not the focal point of adulation and adoration being flung in their general direction.
Folk crowded the roadside to speed the pilgrim soldiers on their journey and shower them with gifts, pennons, and huzzahs. Mothers lifted babes for knights to lay their hands upon. Wives and mothers caught last glimpses of their menfolk. And wailing broke out when those same women lost sight of husbands and sons, many of whom were destined never to return home, or if they did, would never again be the same.
At the foot of the hill, her spare figure clad in robes of royal purple and her head crowned with a plain white wimple, Eleanor saw her favored son off amidst glory and cheers. Her tears were the tears of all mothers everywhere who feared they would never again lay eyes on their beloved sons. Despite the occasion, or perhaps because of it, she stood stalwart and brave. She was going no farther than Vézelay, and escort waited to take her and her entourage back to Chinon.
John was also there, his body stiff and expression unreadable. He, too, would return to Chinon with his mother before hying himself off to Merrie England, there to act as the king’s right arm and cause mischief wherever he was able, though not without scrutiny of his mother or his mother’s wardens, who would keep the prince in check as best they could.
A steed shifting restively beneath him, the king’s brother Geoffrey was present as well, taking up his station in the background, unobtrusive and unheralded. As the bastard brother of the king, he expected no more. He also was returning to Chinon with the queen, and there he would stay, unless fate or obstinance caused him, like his brother, to make mischief elsewhere.
At Eleanor’s side, and wearing the same royal purple as her future mother, Alais Capét held her proud chin aloft while waving at both the king her promised husband and the king her brother.
* * *
A six-day march brought English, French, and Norman forces south to Lyon. Though natural enemies divided by language, borders, and customs, they were united as one in the noblest of endeavors, that of liberating the seat of Christendom from the ungodly infidel. Along the way, men as well as women sang crusader songs with gaiety and gusto, but the men alone dreamt of battles yet to be fought and fear yet to be conquered.
Riding side by side at the heads of their conjoined armies, Richard and Philippe presented the picture of amiability, even though quite the opposite was true. Since only their closest advisers knew what they had to say to one another, and they weren’t talking, God alone knew what enmity the kings harbored against each other.
Upon reaching the Rhône at sunset, the kings and their particular entourages immediately crossed and set up comfortable pavilions on high ground. The rearguard assembled on the other side, set up camp, and waited for break of the following day to join their kings.
Planning to take the overland route to Genoa, there to convey his soldiers via hired transport to the Outremer, Philippe’s army went first. Heralds led the way, three abreast, holding aloft pennons of fleur-de-lys, white on a field of blue. Chevaliers, resplendent in polished chain mail, crossed the narrow bridge one, two, or at most three across. Heavily laden carts crossed individually, wheels creaking and axles grinding. In lock-step formation, foot soldiers and archers marched in pairs. Ancillary personnel took up the rear in random disorder. The operation required patience, and except for the inevitable clap of shod hoofs and wood-soled boots, the cavalcade was curiously subdued.
The sun rising to its zenith marked a successful crossing. Among relieved chatter, the Frankish force
s proceeded down the left bank. Richard courteously saw the French king on his way, riding with him for the first few miles before heading back to oversee his own army.
At the bridgehead, rampant lions pawed in the crisp river air, red-and-gold banners snapping in breezes blowing off rippling waters. Trumpets blew. Brisk commands were relayed down the line. Soldiers mobilized under the heavy glaze of a hot midday sun. Voices jabbered aimlessly. On foot or horseback, squires ferried messages back and forth. Captains rode watch and barked sharp orders. Upon reaching the other side, man after man paraded beneath the review of their king, calling friendly greetings, saluting, bowing, and dipping banners in homage.
Sweat draining from their brows, Drake and Stephen bracketed Richard. Though their matched Arabians were sleek and stately, they were also skittish and all but uncontrollable. An already long day stretched interminably longer before night, rest, and a full skin of wine awaited the brothers.
The clamorous drumming of booted feet on weathered lumber droned on, rhythmic in cadence and lulling in its way. Only the occasional high-pitched voice or boisterous laugh broke the monotony.
The river coursed downstream, waves lapping in the current. Gray herons waded along the riverbank. Swans swam regally on the bobbing currents. Grebes dove underwater for fodder. Washerwomen collected laundry. And boys scurried in and out of the shore, playing a game of tag.
The disaster began imperceptibly at first. A rustling of horses, whickering in protest. A complaint, clarion yet unintelligible. A pounding of hoofs, louder than the rest. Irritated shouts and grumblings. Whirling horseflesh. Shattering footfalls.
Sifting for the source of the upheaval, Stephen stood tall in the saddle and scoured his eyes along the bridge span, thick with humanity. Nothing visible appeared amiss, yet something wasn’t quite right. On an exchange of glances, Drake confirmed Stephen’s impressions. The commotion rose and swirled, then eddied, and finally dissipated on the wind. Horses settled down. Vigilance relaxed. Peacefulness reigned.
Until again something upset the orderly flow. Men, ill-tempered and overheated, jammed the landing point. The line backed up. Shouting cleft the air.
His stallion churning and nickering beneath him, the king surveyed the vista with piercing eyes. His faced hardened with expectancy. Danger seemed to be at hand but he knew not where. His kingly visage receded while his fighter instincts broke to the surface. He drew his sword. His vigilant knights—Béthune, Chauvigny, and Fors—heeded the warning and formed a human breastwork. Mercadier signaled his mercenaries, and in a choking cloud of dust, the horsemen set up a secondary barrier. Between them, Drake and Stephen launched a two-man defensive drill, swinging their palfreys in a crisscrossing pattern.
Stephen heard the war-whoop before any of them. He flashed Drake a vehement gesture. They discarded reins, drew swords, goaded palfreys with knee and heel, and closed ranks.
Emerging out of the thicket of humanity, the chestnut steed approached at full gallop. The horseman’s sword cleft the wind. In quick succession, two of Mercadier’s men went down, engulfed in screams and gore. Mercadier himself was attacked at rear quarters but contrived to duck the blade’s descent, only to fall from his horse and plunge into the river. Béthune took a slash in the arm, screamed in agony, yet valiantly brought his horse around on the counterattack. When their compatriot fumbled the stroke, Chauvigny and Fors rushed in, one following the other. But the attacker was too agile or too determined or possessed of preternatural powers that enabled him to strike down the knights in less than the blink of a grit-filled eye.
It came down to two brothers to prevail as shields against a master swordsman who rent sky and flesh with equal fervor.
To look at the assassin was not to look at an outwardly dangerous villain. Indeed, his long yellow hair, swirling in the commotion, marked him a pretty man. But when his sight lighted on the knight who had gotten the better of him once before, the violet eyes darkened with recognition, then with loathing, and finally with fear.
In a blur of muzzle and tail, the assassin lost command of his steed. He crossed himself with a mangled arm and crippled hand. For now, Holy Mother of God, there were two of them. To invoke a second charm, he crossed himself again. As the three horsemen circled, collided, and sidestepped, the assassin’s blade struck out haphazardly. If he went for the apparition and sliced through vapor, he was done for. If he went for the other and succeeded in cutting out his black heart, the shade would come for him. Either way, he was a dead man. Either way, making a choice, any choice, promised defeat.
Drake shouted, “Your hand! Give me your hand!”
Instinctively, self-protectively, he held the gnarled arm to his breast. His eyes shifted. With a thunderous yowl, he lifted his sword arm and cut a straight path towards his target.
Calm and unruffled, the king let him advance.
When the routier took a miscalculated swing, Richard deflected the blow, and with the same stroke, slashed his opponent’s sword arm, drawing a spurt of blood. The assassin’s hand unlocked. The sword broke free from his fist, flipped end over end, and dropped to the ground point down. Sun glazing off its shiny surface, the sword stuck. It swayed. It wobbled. And marked his impending grave with a cross of silvery death.
The routier wasn’t dead yet.
The chestnut beneath his haunches reared on hind legs. On the rise, a sliver of steel materialized. In a burst of energy, the dagger ripped asunder the golden samite of the king’s surcote. The blade dipped again and again, and struck home as many times. The king’s stallion screamed as blood sprinkled withers and braided mane.
In a collision of bodies and horses, Drake rushed toward the routier and swung his damascened sword. The edge struck on a killing angle and cleaved the assassin nearly in two, rending surcote, hauberk, and aketon in a single stroke.
The routier’s maddened eyes opened wide at the reproach. The pain, the gushing blood, the reality of his mortal wound had not caught up with him quite yet since his mind, fixed on a single purpose, overruled his body. Not understanding how he had been reduced to two bloody parts of a whole, the mercenary threw himself at Richard … and became impaled on the king’s sword, taking the stroke full in the belly, or what was left of it.
Like bone in socket, the two men—assassin and king—became irrevocably interlocked. They crashed to the earth together, arms, legs, and torsos tumbling into a twisted knot. The chestnut palfrey bucked and galloped off. The king’s stallion gallantly held his ground, pawing one leg into the turf and flourishing a proud head. Blood covered the one man as much as the other. Their entangled limbs did not stir. The resurgence of wits, if any were left, arrived slowly.
Drake was paralyzed, as were they all. He dismounted and reached down a helping hand. “Milord!” he yelled.
Richard unsnarled himself from the carnage and stood on his own, wiping blood from his face.
Drake could hardly bring himself to speak. “Are you hurt, milord?”
“I am sound of limb, grace to you.”
“You’re bleeding.”
“Not mine.” And recovering his breath, his reason, and his bluster, Richard roared, “Three shirts of mail! Can the king to go nowhere without wearing three shirts of mail?”
Botolphe lay supine on the ground, his grotesque arm wagging like the docked tail of a hound. The fatal gash delivered of Drake’s sword had turned a living, breathing man into a slab of beef. Drake swallowed his own gore and tore the dagger from the Brabançon’s claw. The ruined arm waved accusingly. Not understanding that he was moments from death, Botolphe struggled to rise.
Drake put the point of his blood-coated sword to the assassin’s throat. “Who? Who sent you?”
The pretty man, pretty no more, growled. “She only used you!”
Arriving at Drake’s side, sword drawn, Stephen said, “As she only used you!”
Blood regurgitated from somewhere deep inside the routier. Something approaching a smile spread over his face. His eyes, wholly
black and stuck open, stared at Drake, then moved over to Stephen, and finally saw no more.
Raising his voice in a maddened bellow, Drake whipped the dragon sword above his head, swung it on a downward trajectory, and chopped off the routier’s head, clean and nearly bloodless. The yellow-threaded skull rolled like a child’s ball, eyes seeing nothing, and came to a halt face down in the mud.
Chapter 31
“MERCADIER!” DRAKE SHOUTED as he remounted his horse. “You have my trust!”
“To the death!” he said, having regained firm ground from his dunk in the river. “Now go!”
Stephen joined his brother, and the Arabians spurted off as one. Peering keenly ahead, they entered the foot of the bridge and wrestled through the approaching throng. All looked mundane. The stream of humanity stretched to the horizon. Those who had started the crossing were making their way across the span at a plodding gait, most unaware of the recent drama that had occurred at the landing. Some folk conversed, still others laughed, while the rest concentrated on the tedious task at hand, that of traversing from one side of the bridge to the other without incident. Only those who were just completing their journey, and had viewed the grisly remains of the headless corpse, learned of the calamity. Even then, only gasps and alarmed whisperings passed among them, since the event was too horrid to imagine and the details too scarce to render judgment.
When a hooded horseman cloaked in purple from head to legs entered the western span, Drake signaled his brother.