“Repeatedly,” Henry said, then ducked, laughing, out of range when Ranulf tried to elbow him in the ribs. “You read me all too well, Uncle Ranulf. I was thinking of Devizes…and of war and why some men are so much better at it than others. What makes a good battle commander? Courage alone is not enough. Roger is so reckless that it is downright scary at times, but he does not seem to have a grasp of strategy. So what is it, then? If he’d not been born an earl’s son, Chester would likely have been hanged as a bandit, but men say he is a right able battle commander. And my uncle David is very good, indeed, at governing, but not as good at fighting. Is it not possible to be good at both?”
Ranulf nodded. “Your uncle Robert was such a man, lad. He was a brilliant battle commander, but he would also have made an excellent king.”
“But with one flaw.” Henry glanced around to make sure his cousin was not within earshot. “Will would have been his heir!”
That had never occurred to Ranulf. “God save England,” he said, with feeling, and they both laughed. But then Ranulf stiffened, moving away from the tree with a startled oath, for the sky to the north was streaking with smoke.
Dusk came early in December, and the fading light slowed them down. They forged ahead, though, sure that the smoke was coming from Devizes, and soon had confirmation of their fears. A lone rider was galloping south at a reckless speed. He shouted at sight of them, yanking his lathered stallion to a shuddering halt scant feet from Henry.
“Devizes is under attack, my lord! Eustace burned the town and then laid siege to the castle. By the time we got there, they’d breached the outer defenses and had driven the garrison into the keep. When we rode in, Sir Hugh and his men sallied forth on the attack again. I suppose they thought the whole of your army had arrived. Of course we then went to their aid, but we’re outnumbered, my lord. You must get there fast or you’ll lose the men, the town, and the castle, too!”
Riding into Devizes was like riding into Hell. Orange flames were shooting up into the darkening sky, black, suffocating smoke was everywhere, and bodies were stacked like firewood in the narrow streets. But the bloody fighting was done. Eustace and his men were in retreat, having broken off the battle once they heard the sounds of an approaching army.
Hugh de Plucknet was limping toward them. Blood was running down his leg, his face was begrimed with smoke, and one eye was squinting, half closed by a rapidly swelling bruise. But he was grinning broadly. “Your timing was well-nigh perfect, my lord,” he told Henry gleefully. “We were being hammered right bad. But they turned tail once they realized you were coming up upon them. Say what you will of Eustace, he’s got brains as well as ballocks, for he knew when he was beaten. And to give the Devil his due, he can fight with the best of them!”
Hugh sounded almost admiring. That would have perplexed Henry at one time, but he was learning that for some men, courage was the true coin of the realm, and as long as a man had it to spend, he could earn himself unlimited credit, whatever his political debts. But while Henry was coming to understand this point of view, he did not share it, and he found it hard to muster up any respect for Eustace, whose only demonstrable talent seemed to be for killing.
Roger was all for pursuing the enemy, but Ranulf and Will thought it a waste of time, and Henry agreed; the men would just scatter in the darkness. For now, it was enough that he’d driven Eustace off and saved Devizes. From all he’d heard of his rival, this would fester with Eustace like a running sore, that he’d been put to flight by the whelp, the stripling, the foe he’d so openly scorned.
Henry felt triumphant, tired, and angry by turns. Dismounting hastily, he set men to fighting the fires. People had begun to creep out of hiding, and cries and lamenting soon filled the air as the survivors discovered the bodies of loved ones. Embers lit the night like winter fireflies, and when snow began to fall, the scene took on an air of eerie unreality to Henry, a weird juxtaposition of fire and ice, heat and cold, grief and joy.
He watched as a church was given up to the flames, as slate-roofed cottages were saved and thatched ones doomed, as horses were blindfolded and led to safety from the blazing stables. All around him, men were shivering and sweating, slipping in the snow only to be singed in the smoldering ruins. People were celebrating their deliverance and mourning their dead, even as the fires continued to burn and the snow to drift down into their midst, and as he walked through the wreckage of this prosperous market town, he heard himself proclaimed as its saviour.
Ranulf eventually found Henry in a churchyard, watching somberly as a weeping man and woman crouched over the body of their four-year-old son, trampled by the horses of Eustace’s fleeing soldiers. “The fires are almost out. Come on back to the castle, Harry. You must be half frozen by now.”
Henry nodded, then flinched when the woman began a high, keening wail. “I am thankful that we got here in time,” he said. “I am beholden to God, and to Hugh de Plucknet for not giving up. I know we won a victory here this night. But I am beginning to see, Uncle, that victories in this war are not what they seem. For what have we truly won? The chance to do it all again on the morrow.”
Ranulf could not argue, for he’d come to realize that, too, a bitter lesson learned at grievous cost in the past two years. He did not know whether to be sorry or glad that his nephew was learning it so young.
The winter weather put a temporary halt to campaigning. Henry paid a prudent courtesy call upon the Bishop of Salisbury, who was still pressing the Church’s claim to Devizes. He visited John Marshal, who was just fourteen miles away, at Marlborough. And he and Ranulf passed a quiet Christmas at Devizes Castle.
January was cold and blustery, and Ranulf and Henry were surprised in midmonth by the unexpected arrival of John Marshal and the Earls of Hereford, Gloucester, and Salisbury. After a hearty meal of roast goose and pork pie, they withdrew to the solar, where the men soon revealed why they were at Devizes-to convince Henry that he ought to go back to Normandy.
Although they phrased it as tactfully as possible, the gist of their message was unmistakable: Henry had become a liability. He stiffened in shock, but did not interrupt, hearing them out in silence. Only then did he say coolly, “It sounds as if you want to get rid of me.”
Roger and Will and the Earl of Salisbury at once made vociferous denials. John Marshal sat back in his seat, arms folded across his chest, looking like a bored pirate chieftain. When Henry glanced his way, he drained his wine cup, set it down with a thud, and then said candidly, “You are right. We do want you out of England, at least for a while.”
The other men protested even more vehemently, but Henry paid them no heed. “Go on,” he told Marshal. “Explain yourself.”
“It is a matter of survival, ours and yours. You do not have enough of an army to force another Battle of Lincoln upon Stephen, not yet. But as long as you remain on English soil, you’ll be a target for Stephen and Eustace. You saw what they did to these shires last autumn. Well, it will happen all over again come spring, and it will keep on happening until you get safely beyond their reach…back to Normandy.”
“What are you saying, that I should just give up?”
The older man shook his head impatiently. “Good Christ, no! We want the crown for you almost as much as you want it yourself. But this is not the way to win your war. You’ve acquitted yourself well this past year,” he said, and Henry flushed with pleasure, for he knew Marshal was not a man to pay polite compliments. “What we need now, though, is some time to heal our wounds and plant our crops and strengthen our defenses. You can give us that time-but not if you stay in England.”
They all watched Henry intently once Marshal was done speaking. But he gave them no clue as to what he meant to do. “I shall think upon what you’ve told me,” he said, and they had to be content with that, for they’d learned that, like his mother, he’d balk if pushed.
Ranulf thought Marshal’s argument made sense. But he was not sure if Henry had been ready to hear it. It was only natural that he’d long for a decisive victory to end his first campaign. Ranulf did not want his nephew’s pride to put him at needless risk. But neither did he want the youth to return to Normandy thinking that he’d failed. An uncle-nephew talk was in order, he decided.
He was groping his way up the spiral stairwell toward Henry’s bedchamber when he collided with someone coming down. His initial contact was enough to tell him he’d bumped into a female, and his first guess was that she was a maidservant, for she was carrying a tray and wine flagon. But then he caught a whiff of jasmine perfume, too expensive for a serving-girl, and realized that this was Henry’s bedmate.
“Lora?” There was a wall sconce several feet above them, casting a feeble light upon the stairs, and before
