When Willem rose, Geoff had no choice but to rise, too. Wishing he had the power to see into his brother’s brain, he regarded Hal with poorly concealed antagonism. He was willing to admit that Hal’s performance had been convincing, but that was the trouble; he suspected it was a performance. Henry gave no indication of wanting him to stay, and so he followed the others to the door. But then he looked back, and what he saw caused him to catch his breath as if he’d taken a blow, for, thinking himself alone, Henry had leaned forward and buried his face in his hands.
B
Y THE TIME HE FOUND WILLEM,
Geoff was seething, so flushed and distraught that he looked as if he were at risk for an apoplectic fit. “Have you heard?” he demanded. “Hal has offered to go to Limoges to coax Geoffrey into abandoning the rebels, and my father has agreed to let him!”
“I know,” Willem said morosely, “but for God’s sake, lower your voice, Geoff, or they’ll be able to hear you in Saumur.”
“I think my father has lost his mind,” Geoff said, but in more circumspect tones. “How can he trust Hal on such a mission? Let’s assume he is not already in this plot up to his neck, though that takes more faith than I have. How is he supposed to bring Geoffrey back to the fold? He has as much backbone as a hemp rope, and like as not, Geoffrey will talk him into joining the rebellion!”
“You do not have to convince me, Geoff. I agree with you.”
“Then you must go to my father, make him see that this is a great mistake. I tried, but he’d not hear me. Mayhap if you voiced your concerns, too—”
“I already have, to no avail. He would not heed me either.”
Geoff’s breath hissed through his teeth, and his chest heaved as he sought to get his temper under control. “Why?” he asked simply, and Willem had no answer for him.
“I do not know,” he confessed. “I remember the way Harry was ere he did penance at Canterbury. You were not with us, then, Geoff, but he sailed in a gale that the Devil himself would have shunned. It was almost as if he were leaving his fate up to the Almighty, leaving it to God to choose whether he prevailed or not. It may be that he is doing that again.” Willem shook his head and repeated, “I just do not know.”
None of that made any sense to Geoff. “What can we do?”
Willem’s shoulders slumped. “We can pray that his trust in Hal is justified.”
H
AL CROSSED THE CHAMBER
and embraced his father, which he’d not done in years. “You will not be sorry, Papa. I’ll not let you down,” he promised. “When all this is done, you’ll have no reasons for regrets.”
“Go with God, Hal,” Henry said softly, not moving until the young king had departed the chamber. He went, then, to the window, flung the shutters open and, heedless of the cold, gazed down into the castle bailey. Hal soon emerged and started toward his men, who were already mounted. Catching sight of Willem and Geoff, he veered in their direction. Henry could not hear what was being said; he assumed Hal was bidding them farewell. Willem, ever the courtier, was responding courteously, but Geoff was glowering, looking rather like Richard in one of his rages. Henry knew they were distraught over his decision to let Hal go after Geoffrey. It was not something he could explain, though, for it was neither logical nor wise in light of Hal’s past history. It was not the king who was setting Hal loose; it was the father. His head and heart were at war, and he could no longer endure the uncertainty. He had to know if his eldest son could be trusted, and this was the only way to find out. If Hal let him down, it could not be more painful than Geoffrey’s betrayal, for he’d never seen that coming. At least there’d be no surprise if Hal confirmed his fears and betrayed him, too. Better he knew the worst, for then he could deal with it.
Hal was mounted now on a prancing grey stallion. Glancing up, he saw Henry and waved jauntily before riding out. Henry stayed at the window, not moving until long after Hal was no longer in sight.
F
OR MONTHS, HAL’S EMOTIONS
had been swinging back and forth like a pendulum in a high wind. Never had he felt so conflicted, so confused. Whenever Richard had the upper hand, he’d burned to bring his brother down, furious and frustrated that his chance for rebellion was slipping away. But whenever Richard had taken a misstep and fallen from their father’s favor, he’d been beset by doubts, feeling as if he was being pressured into making a decision ere he was ready. He’d departed Angers in high spirits, confident and eager for what lay ahead. The trip had been long enough, though, for misgivings to creep back in, and as he approached Limoges, he felt more like a hostage to fortune than the commander of his own fate.
Limoges was actually two cities, the ville, which held the great abbey of St Martial and the viscount’s castle, and the cité, site of the bishop’s palace and cathedral. Each was enclosed within its own ramparts, and, as was so often the case, the rivalry between the ville and the cité was not good-natured. As they were coming from the north, Hal reached the ville first, and he drew rein once they neared the Montmeiller gate, saying a silent prayer that he’d made the right decision and asking the Almighty to send another sign that it was so.
The gates were open and they were close enough now to see the people thronging the narrow streets, waving and cheering. Hal and his men rode into a warm welcome, found themselves acclaimed as heroes by people eager to throw off Duke Richard’s yoke. Hal was already popular in Limoges, for he’d always been generous with his spending and alms-giving, and now he was hailed as their savior, the man who would deliver them from Richard’s harsh rule.
Hal’s spirits soared and he acknowledged the acclaim with grace and a shower of coins. This was clearly a good omen, a portent of success to come, and he forgot the qualms that had been nagging at him in recent days. He hadn’t been lying when he’d assured Henry that he’d have no reason for regrets, for he honestly believed that all of their problems would be resolved if only he could gain control of Aquitaine. The duchy’s deep coffers would allow him to support his household in kingly style, no longer dependent upon Henry’s miserly pension, and that would be bound to improve their relationship, eliminating the worst bone of contention between them. Once Richard was defeated, all would be well.
Ahead lay the viscount’s castle, and he saw his brother and Aimar standing in the gateway, watching his triumphant procession. With banners streaming in the wind, escorted by the enthusiastic citizenry, Hal reined in before them, swung to the ground, and embraced Geoffrey, then Aimar.
“An imaginative touch,” Geoffrey said dryly, looking to the conspicuous white flag of truce, and Hal grinned, sure that he was where he was meant to be, doing God’s Work and soon to have the power that a king ought to wield.
February 1183
Gorre, Limousin
T
HE VILLAGE WAS A SCENE
of devastation. The houses that were not charred ruins had doors smashed in, their contents ransacked by men in search of booty. Some of the soldiers were sleeping in these cottages, finding them more comfortable than their tents, and the stench was rank, for routiers rarely bothered to dig latrines. A few bodies lay where they’d fallen, those villagers who’d not fled in time. Piles of entrails were strewn about, what was left of livestock butchered for food. The animals that were not needed by the camp cooks were dead, too, for one of the aims of a chevauchée was to wreak havoc upon an enemy’s lands. Even the cemetery had not been spared, some of the graves dug up by men hoping to find that the more prosperous burghers had been buried with rings or other valuables.
Raymond Brunnus barely noticed the destruction, for it was too familiar a sight to register with him. In the two decades since he’d left his native Gascony in search of profit and adventure, he’d sold his sword to more lords than he could remember, taking naturally to the lawless life of a mercenary. When his nephew, William Arnald, had sent him a message that there were easy pickings in the Limousin and the Viscount of Limoges and the young English king were eager to hire routiers, he’d wasted no time in leading his men north. One of his scouts had reported that the viscount and his nephew’s routiers were besieging a church in the village of Gorre, and he’d headed there instead of the viscount’s city, arriving in mid-morning under an ashen February sky that warned of a coming storm.
Welcomed boisterously by his nephew, he listened without great interest as Arnald related how some of the Duke of Aquitaine’s men had been ambushed, the survivors retreating into Gorre and taking shelter in the church. By the time they were discovered, they’d fortified the building, barricaded the windows and doors, and burned the external wooden stairway leading up into the bell tower. It was a substantial stone structure, could not be fired like the village houses, and they’d apparently gambled that the routiers would soon grow impatient and seek easier prey. That would have happened, too, Arnald admitted, had he not sent word to the viscount. Aimar had ridden the dozen miles from Limoges to see for himself, and once he learned these were Duke Richard’s knights, he’d set men to building a massive, iron-tipped battering ram.
Raymond’s interest quickened, for Viscount Aimar’s personal involvement indicated rich ransoms were in the offing. “So there is someone inside whom Duke Richard will pay dearly to save, then?”
Arnald shook his head. “There’ll be no ransoms.” Seeing his uncle’s lack of comprehension, he took it upon himself to inform the older man of recent developments in the war. “This is what happened. The Duke of Brittany sent for routiers he’d hired earlier in the year, and as they moved into Poitou, they burned and plundered on their way south. Duke Richard raced to head them off, and there have been numerous clashes. Whenever Richard caught any of his brother’s men, he beheaded them right then and there.”
While mass executions were not the norm, they were not unheard of, either, for routiers were considered expendable by both sides, even by the men who hired them, and they could be slain without fear of Church censure and with the enthusiastic support of the people they’d been victimizing. Raymond had long ago become inured to the hypocrisy of his highborn employers, seeing it as an occupational hazard. “Well, from what I’ve heard of Duke Richard, I cannot say that surprises me much.”
“Ah, but he did not just slay Lord Geoffrey’s routiers. He killed the knights, too.”
“Whoa!” That was indeed a different kettle of fish. “The duke and viscount must have loved that.”
“They were raving and ranting like madmen,” Arnald confirmed, and as their eyes met, they shared a moment of grim humor, taking some satisfaction that for once the highborn faced the same risks as their lowborn hirelings. “So…” Arnald continued, “as soon as the viscount heard that some of Richard’s knights were trapped in the church, he saw an opportunity for vengeance, though I daresay he’d put it more elegantly—as well-deserved retribution.” Slapping his uncle fondly on the shoulder, he said, “Come on over and meet your new patron.”
Raymond did not move. “Why the viscount? I’d heard the young king was paying more.”
“Yes, he’s been putting out word that men can make their fortune in his service, but that one has not two coins of his own to rub together. You’d do better with his brother, but Duke Geoffrey is off raiding into Poitou. So between the king and the viscount, go with Lord Aimar. You’ll have a much better chance of collecting from him.”
Nonpayment was not usually a problem for routiers; their lords knew that if they were cheated of their just due, they’d turn on their masters without qualm or compunction. Raymond believed, though, in keeping things as simple as possible, and he accepted his nephew’s advice, saying, “Lead on, lad. Any chance we can fill our bellies ere the assault begins?”
Arnald cast an appraising eye toward the men working upon a huge tree trunk. “They do not have the wheels on it yet, so there ought to be time to eat. First things first, though. Let’s see how much money you can squeeze out of the viscount!”
T
HE VISCOUNT OF LIMOGES
had not always been at war with his Angevin overlords; he’d stayed neutral during the last rebellion of Henry’s sons. But that all changed when his father-in-law, the Earl of Cornwall, died and Henry cheated his wife, Sarah, of her inheritance. For that was how he saw it. Henry himself had arranged Aimar’s marriage, and that only exacerbated his grievance. As Rainald’s legitimate son was dead and Rico born out of wedlock, Aimar had expected the earldom to pass to the old earl’s daughters, with Sarah, the eldest, getting the lion’s share. When Henry chose to bestow the earldom upon his son John, he’d turned the hitherto loyal Aimar into an embittered rebel. Until now, Aimar’s animosity had been reserved for Henry and not his sons, but after Richard’s brutal execution of Geoffrey’s Breton knights, the viscount had sworn a blood-oath that this ruthless prince would never again rule over the Limousin.
Casting an eye toward the leaden skies, he hoped they’d be able to launch the final assault while there was still light. He did not doubt that the battering ram would be able to smash through the church’s thick oaken door. It was likely, though, that the men would retreat up into the bell tower once that happened, and they could be difficult to dislodge from that refuge. He did not know what provisions they’d managed to bring in with them, but they had to be running low on food, for they’d been trapped in the church for nigh on a week. Well, if it came to that, they could always be starved into submission.
He’d just accepted a wineskin from one of his squires when a sudden, urgent shout turned all heads. One of their sentries was galloping toward the camp, yelling that riders were fast approaching. Knowing this seasoned soldier would not have been alarmed unless the riders posed a threat, Aimar whirled and ran for his horse, snatching up his helmet. Jamming it down upon his head, he fumbled with the chin cord as he swung up into the saddle. All around him, men were running and shouting, scrambling for weapons and horses. Whores almost inevitably turned up at an army encampment, and some of these women were screaming shrilly even before the riders came into view—clad in chain mail, swords drawn and lances leveled, mounted on horses caked in lather and dust. One glimpse was enough to tell Aimar that they were in for a fierce fight.
One of the lead knights drew Aimar’s attention, for he was spurring ahead of his companions. Encountering a campfire, he jumped his stallion neatly over the flames instead of swerving around it, an act of horsemanship that the viscount could not help admiring, even at a moment like this. The knight had caught Arnald’s eye, too. Darting forward, quick as a snake, he grabbed for the other man’s leg. It was a daring maneuver, but if successful, was guaranteed to unhorse a man. Aimar had seen Arnald drag more than one foe from the saddle this way, for the routier was a big man, as well-muscled as a blacksmith.
What happened next stopped Aimar in his tracks. The knight under attack did not pull back as men usually did; instead he leaned in, and suddenly blood was spurting everywhere, a red haze before Aimar’s eyes. Arnald reeled backward, his face contorted as he stared in shock at the stump where his hand had been. The knight’s sword was already sweeping down again, a powerful blow that all but decapitated the routier.
Aimar heard the command to retreat and was surprised that the order was coming from his throat, for he’d not made a conscious decision to withdraw. But by then he’d recognized the knight bloodied with Arnald’s blood, and his instincts for self-preservation had taken over. The awareness that they were facing Richard himself banished any desire for battle. He was no coward, but Richard was a lunatic. Would he be mad enough to execute a man of Aimar’s rank? The viscount found that hard to believe, but he knew that men could get drunk on bloodlust and he preferred not to put Richard’s sobriety to the test. Followed by those of his men lucky enough to have reached their horses, he spurred his mount toward the Limoges road, all of them riding as if the Devil were on their tails.
B
Y THE TIME RICHARD RODE
back into Gorre, the trapped knights had ventured out and were quenching their thirst at the village well, easing their hunger with the meal intended for their foes. Not all of Richard’s men had followed him in pursuit of Aimar, and they’d rounded up close to a hundred prisoners, the rest of the routiers having been slain or escaped. André de Chauvigny grinned at the sight of his duke; he had a wineskin in one hand and bread in the other, and he waved the loaf over his head in a jubilant, joyful salute.
“I won a right goodly sum on you, my lord,” he laughed. “I wagered two marks that you’d arrive in time.”
That was indeed a handsome sum, for knights rarely earned more than a shilling a day. “How could you lose?” Richard pointed out. “You’d either win or you’d die, and in neither case would you have to pay the wager.”
André laughed again. “Fortunately Alan is as thick as a plank, and he never worked that out.” Coming forward as Richard slid from the saddle, he hovered by the younger man’s side, overwhelmed by the intensity of his gratitude, but not knowing how to express it, for banter and mockery were the most common coins of their realm. “Your men said you’d ridden for nigh on two days and nights to reach us.” Not having the words, he playfully offered the purloined wineskin and loaf, joking that all he had was at his lord duke’s disposal.
Richard appreciated his cousin’s insouciance, for he’d not have been comfortable with earnest protestations or lavish praise, not from André. “You look like you’ve been wallowing in a pigsty after an all-night carouse,” he said, which was as near as he’d come to acknowledging the harrowing ordeal André and the others had endured—hungry, thirsty, and fearing they were doomed. “I came so close to overtaking that whoreson, André,” he burst out, “so bloody close! I would have caught him, too, if my horse was not so winded and worn down…”
Some of the other rescued men had gathered around them by now, were beginning to offer their thanks with none of André’s nonchalance, and Richard was glad to be interrupted by one of his knights. “My lord duke, what is your wish regarding the prisoners?”
Richard looked over at the routiers huddled on the ground, bound to one another by ropes, subdued and silent, all their bravado gone. He glanced around at the skeletal remains of Gorre, and his eyes took on the winter chill of the February sky. “We will take them with us to Aixe,” he said, “where other brigands will learn from their sorry fate what befalls those who ravage my lands and my people.”
U
PON REACHING HIS CASTLE
at Aixe, Richard made good on his promise to make an example of the captured routiers. Some were drowned in the River Vienne, others had their throats cut, and eighty men were blinded. Unlike his beheading of Geoffrey’s knights, this ruthless, effective means of denying the routiers’ future services to the rebel lords occasioned little comment. The prior of Vigeois Abbey even noted approvingly of the treatment meted out to these “sons of darkness.”
E
NTERING THE GREAT HALL
at Aixe, André de Chauvigny soon spotted his duke and headed in Richard’s direction. Richard was conferring quietly with one of his most trusted men, a grizzled serjeant who’d been in his service since he’d been invested with the duchy at age fourteen. He smiled as André approached, and once they were alone, he surprised his friend by confiding that he’d instructed the serjeant to escort his young son to Poitiers for safety’s sake.
André knew Richard had an illegitimate son, but he knew nothing whatsoever about the child and even less about the child’s mother; Richard was as close-mouthed as a clam about such matters. Agreeing that it was wise to bring the boy to Poitiers, he confessed then that “I do not even know the lad’s name. What was he christened?”
“Philip.” Richard hesitated and then offered up another rare nugget of private information, saying, “She wanted to name him after her father.” His shoulders twitched in a why-not shrug. “I was not about to name him after mine.”
André knew better than to pursue that further; Richard’s troubled relationship with his father was as fraught with peril for the unwary as a walk across a thinly iced lake. He asked instead if the rumors were true that the Viscount of Turenne was bringing more routiers to join Aimar and the young king at Limoges. Richard confirmed it, and they began an intense discussion of the rebellion and Hal’s prospects until they were interrupted by the arrival of one of Richard’s knights, just back from a scouting foray.