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.
CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN
February 1183
Gorre, Limousin
The 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 chevauchee 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!”
The 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
