cousin Rico had recently earned the accolade of knighthood.
After briefly telling them how he’d come into possession of the French king’s letter, Richard wasted no time in breaking the bad news. “Philippe writes that he regrets he cannot come to fight alongside Hal in person. But he has sent a large band of Brabancon routiers to Limoges. Moreover, he assures Hal that his cousin Hugh, the Duke of Burgundy, is showing considerable interest in joining their alliance. And he claims that the Count of Toulouse is another one who is likely to throw in his lot with them, unable to resist this opportunity to bring me down.”
There was a prolonged silence when he was done. As the men looked around at one another, it was obvious that they were sharing the same thoughts. Richard was already facing a formidable coalition: his brother the young king, his other brother the Duke of Brittany, Viscount Aimar, the Taillefer brothers of Angouleme, several de Lusignans, Elias, the Count of Perigord, the viscounts of Ventadour, Comborn, Turenne, and Castillon, the latter’s brother Oliver, the castellan of Chalus, and Fulcand, Lord of Archiae, as well as several lesser lords who could, nevertheless, contribute men and money. Even with the Archangel Michael himself fighting on Richard’s side, he could not hope to defeat so many rebel lords if they were backed by the French king, the Duke of Burgundy, and the Count of Toulouse. All of Richard’s battlefield brilliance would avail him little against an army of that size.
But if they were in agreement as to what must be done, none of them were eager to try to convince Richard. The burden should have fallen upon his seneschal, but Robert de Montmirail had only recently been appointed to his post, and he prudently held his tongue. Neither Richard’s friends nor his kinsmen wanted to risk their rapport with their young duke. It was finally Nicholas de Chauvigny who spoke up, as forthrightly as he’d done on the day he’d defied Porteclie de Mauze for Eleanor’s sake.
“My lord, you must seek the aid of your lord father, the king.”
Richard’s failure to flare up at the mere suggestion showed them that he’d already had the same thought, and his common sense was warring with his pride. They waited uneasily for his response, for with Richard, they could never be sure which one would prevail. “I do not see how I can do that,” he admitted after a long silence. “My father and I are hardly on good terms these days. I left his court without his consent, and have ignored all the messages he’s sent since then. And I would rather go down honorably in defeat than grovel and plead for his help.”
Andre cleared his throat. “My lord, send me to the king,” he said, utterly earnest for once. “I will not grovel on your behalf. You have my sworn word upon that. I will simply relate the facts, let the king make up his own mind. There is no dishonor in that.”
Richard looked intently into his face, and then away. “Go, then,” he said in a low voice. “Be sure you take a strong escort, though, for the roads to Angers are swarming with bandits, rebels, routiers, and masterless men seeking to take advantage of the unrest.” His mouth twisted down. “Such is the evil that my brothers have let loose upon my duchy.”
The English King’s newest bedmate had raised some eyebrows, for she had a curly mane of flame-red hair, which had been thought unlucky since the time of Judas, and a crop of unfashionable freckles. But she also had an earthy sensuality, a merry laugh, and a good-natured tranquility that Henry found soothing. There was so little serenity in his life these days that he sought it out wherever he could find it.
She’d fallen asleep while waiting for him, awakening only when she’d reached out drowsily for his warmth and found his side of the bed cold and empty. Pulling the bed hangings aside, she sighed when she saw him seated by the hearth, still fully dressed, his sleepy squires struggling to stay awake should he have need of them. “My lord, are you never coming to bed?”
Henry glanced up at the sound of her voice. “Soon, Belle. Go back to sleep,” he said, knowing that, bless her, she would. She was easily contented, utterly lacking in undercurrents, and he found that a strong part of her appeal. Rubbing his eyes, he looked down blearily at the pile of petitions in his lap. He was bone-tired, but he knew he’d not be able to sleep. His nights were always the same now. He’d lie awake for hours, unable to silence his inner voices, unsettled thoughts ricocheting around his brain until it was almost dawn, until his body’s exhaustion would finally triumph over his mind’s disquiet.
Rifling through the petitions randomly, he tried to focus upon the multitude of requests. The castellan at Loches had written to tell him of storm damage. His lazar house at Caen was also seeking aid. He’d always had a deep, visceral sympathy for lepers, had founded hospitals at Caen, Rouen, Le Mans, and now Angers, and it seemed that they all had unexpected expenses he must bear-roofs to be repaired, cisterns to be dug, fences to be mended. Even one of his proudest accomplishments-the great levee he’d built along a thirty-mile stretch in the Loire Valley to prevent seasonal flooding-was showing its age, in need of shoring up at Bourgueil. It was almost as if all of his life’s work was crumbling at the same time.
Jesu! That last thought had him shaking his head in disgust. It was bad enough that he was wallowing in self-pity like this; must he be maudlin, too? Thrusting the petitions aside, he found himself staring into the dying fire. Why had he not heard from Hal by now? An eerie silence seemed to have settled over the Limousin; his scouts had little to report. When he got to his feet, his squires stirred, looking hopeful that he might be ready for bed. But he’d heard what they had not-a soft knock at the door.
It was his chamberlain, explaining apologetically that a courier had arrived with an urgent message from his son, and he’d reluctantly agreed to see if the king was still awake, warning the man that if not, he’d have to wait till morning.
Henry felt a vast, weary surge of relief. But his hopes were soon dashed, for the man being ushered in was one of Richard’s household knights, not one of Hal’s. Brushing his disappointment aside, he took solace that at least he was hearing from one of his recalcitrant sons. “Andre de Chauvigny, is it not?” he asked, in an impressive display of the memory that had always served him so well. “Are you kin to the Nicholas de Chauvigny who was one of my queen’s men?”
“Indeed, sire. We are cousins.” Andre came forward and sank to his knees in the floor rushes, as much to ease his aching body as to show proper reverence to the king, for he’d spared neither himself nor his horse in his haste to reach Angers. “My liege, there are matters that you need to know about.” As concisely as possible, for he knew Henry had no more patience than his duke, he related what they’d learned from the French king’s letter, revealed the magnitude of the conspiracy confronting Richard.
Henry listened without interrupting, and when he was done, said only: “Are you so sure, then, that the young king is allied with the rebels?”
Andre paused, recognizing a pitfall when he saw one. “We have no reason to think otherwise, sire,” he said cautiously.
Henry’s expression was not easily read. Beckoning to the chamberlain, he said, “See that Sir Andre gets a bed for the night and whatever else he needs.”
Realizing he’d just been dismissed, Andre got reluctantly to his feet. It took all of his self-control to do as he was bade, not to argue further on Richard’s behalf. His discipline took him as far as the door, and there he could not help blurting out in despair, “My lord king…what will you do?”
“What do you think?” Henry said brusquely. “I am going to put out this fire ere it engulfs us all.”
CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT
February 1183
Winchester, England
Some of the prerogatives of queenship had been restored to Eleanor in recent years, and she now had her own household, her own servants. When her chamberlain informed her that Lord Ranulf Fitz Roy and his son were asking if she’d see them, her brows arched in surprise. Was Ranulf finally thawing? But when he was ushered into her chamber, he greeted her with such brittle courtesy that she knew this wasn’t the case. So what had brought him here?
“This is my eldest son, Bleddyn,” Ranulf said, and Bleddyn bent over Eleanor’s hand as if he were a polished courtier, welcoming the chance to study this controversial queen at such close range. Ranulf did not waste time in social pleasantries, at once revealed the reason for their unexpected presence at Winchester.
“My son and I are taking ship at Southampton, and as we approached Winchester, it occurred to me,
