was, but Eleanor’s wounds were beyond her power to heal. “What are the king and Lord Richard doing to defeat the rebels, my lady?”
“Harry set up his camp at the cite and is besieging the ville, that part of Limoges controlled by the rebels. But Richard says it is not going well, that the weather has been wretched and they’ve been unable to seal off the ville completely. So Richard has gone south in pursuit of the routier bands, and he says they have been unwilling to face him on the field, have been fleeing instead of giving battle.”
Amaria seized upon this last statement, so eager was she to offer Eleanor some slivers of hope. “Surely it is a promising sign, Madame, that the routiers are afraid to fight the duke. The king and Lord Richard are such brilliant battle commanders that they will soon have the rebels on the run, will crush them like King David smote the Philistines.”
Eleanor understood that Amaria was only trying to comfort her and so she did not point out that two of her sons would be leading those “crushed rebels.” Nor did she comment upon the eerie aptness of Amaria’s choice of biblical verse, for King David had been betrayed by his best-loved son, the beautiful, beguiling Absalom, who’d stolen the hearts of the men of Israel.
“I want to go to the chapel,” she said, and Amaria hurried to find her mantle. An icy sleet was falling for it had been a cold, wet spring, and as she crossed the bailey, Eleanor no longer fought back her tears, let them mingle with the raindrops upon her skin. What could she ask the Almighty? No matter who won this accursed war, she and Harry would lose.
CHAPTER FORTY
April 1183
Limoges, Limousin
Known to be a stalwart supporter of the Duke of Aquitaine, the abbot of St Martial’s had prudently taken refuge in a nearby town when Viscount Aimar rebelled again, leaving the abbey in the charge of his prior. That individual lacked the moral fortitude to deal with the latest crisis, and he’d gone in despair to one of their guests, Geoffroi de Breuil, for he was the prior of the abbey of Vigeois to the south of the city, had once been a monk himself at St Martial’s, and had the necessary steel in his spine to stand up to the scandalous demands of the young English king.
Upon hearing the alarming news that Hal’s soldiers had entered the abbey grounds and were making off with the silver plate, chalices, and jeweled reliquaries of St Martial’s, Prior Geoffroi hastened to find the king, finally tracking Hal down in the cloisters. The scene that met his eyes was a dismal one: men joking and squabbling with one another, their arms full of booty, trailed by unhappy monks. Outraged by this violation of God’s House, Prior Geoffroi cried out to Hal and was taken aback by the warmth of the younger man’s welcome.
“Ah, it is Prior…Geoffroi, is it not? I met you at the viscount’s castle last summer as I recall.” Hal smiled benevolently at the prior, pleased that he’d been able to remember the man’s name, and Prior Geoffroi gaped at him in amazement, unable to treat this banditry as a social occasion.
“My lord king, may I speak with you in private? It is urgent, I assure you.”
Hal’s smile faded. But he thought a refusal would be rude and reluctantly followed the prior toward the Chapter House, hoping this was not going to be a lecture. It was not as if Prior Geoffroi’s own abbey was being affected, after all.
Prior Geoffroi’s trip to Limoges had been an impulsive one, motivated both by his fondness for his former abbey and his awareness that the prior would not be up to the challenge of keeping St Martial’s safe in the abbot’s absence. Now he realized why he was here; the Almighty had chosen him to stop this sacrilege.
“My lord, you cannot do this. No matter how much you need money, there is no justification for stealing from God.”
Hal had not expected such a direct assault, not after the prior’s timid, wavering protest. “I am not stealing from God!” he said indignantly. “Did Prior Gautier not tell you that I have promised to repay every last sou? This is a loan, no more than that, like the loan made to me by the good citizens of the ville.”
Prior Geoffroi had heard about that “loan.” Hal had extorted twenty thousand sous from the burghers of Limoges, who were intimidated by the continuing presence in the ville of so many swaggering, brawling routiers. “That matter is between you and the townsmen, my lord. What you do here today is between you and the Almighty, and I urge you to reconsider. There is still time to remedy this sin.”
“It is hardly a sin,” Hal said curtly, regretting the good manners that had gotten him into such an awkward predicament. “As I said, I have every intention of repaying the loan.”
“It is not a ‘loan’ if it is not voluntary, my lord king. Moreover, your men are taking more than money. They are carrying off valuable chalices and reliquaries that cannot be replaced.”
Hal yearned to escape back into the cloisters. But Prior Geoffroi had positioned himself before the door, and Hal was loath to shove the prior out of the way; he was an elderly man and frail for all his bold talk. “Look…Prior Geoffroi, it is like this,” he said, lowering his voice to increase the intimacy of his confession. “I do not want to do this, but I have no choice. Viscount Aimar and I agreed to hire all the routiers who sought us out, wanting to deny their services to my father and brother. But the cost has been higher than we expected. What can you do with a pack of hungry wolves except feed them?”
The prior was unmoved by his plight. “Why cannot Viscount Aimar pay your routiers? Or the Viscount of Turenne or Joffroi de Lusignan?”
“Because they do not have the money, either.” Hal heard the impatient note creeping into his voice and drew a deep breath. “If my brother the Duke of Brittany were still at Limoges, I could have turned to him for aid. But he has gone north to protect the Breton borders. So you see, Prior Geoffroi, I must borrow from the abbey. I took measures to make sure that none of the monks or abbey guests would be molested, and I even ordered men to protect your library, for I know that St Martial’s has a fine collection of books. And as I already said, I have sworn to repay the loan.”
Hal could see no sign of softening in the chiseled granite of the older man’s face, but he’d exhausted the last of his patience. “I had a chirograph drawn up, setting forth my promise to repay the abbey, as proof of my good faith.” When Prior Geoffroi did not reach out for it, Hal thrust it into the prior’s hands, saying brusquely, “Here is the abbey’s half. Now I have no more time to spare for you, my lord prior. If you’ll step aside…”
Prior Geoffroi hesitated, but then realized the foolishness of resistance, for Hal was half a foot taller and almost forty years younger. Grudgingly, he gave way, his fist tightening around the chirograph, for he knew its true worth. He could not help giving one final warning, though, as Hal brushed past him.
“Look to your soul, king of the English, for you’ve just put it in grave peril!” But Hal did not bother to reply, and once he was alone, the aged prior sank down upon the closest bench, his eyes stinging with angry tears.
Hal and Aimar’s Taillefer half brothers had captured Angouleme with surprising ease. Leaving them to hold the castle and town, Hal decided to return to Limoges, to share his triumph with Aimar and the other rebel barons. His success was proof that the Almighty understood why he’d had to take the silver plate and treasures of St Martial’s, and when his money started to run low, he made another forced “loan,” this one from the monks at La Couronne just west of Angouleme, securing enough funds to hire Sancho of Savannac and his equally notorious partner Couraban. They’d left the Viscount of Turenne’s service when he’d been unable to keep paying them, and Hal was looking forward to bedeviling Viscount Raymond-good-naturedly, of course-about it.
They reached Limoges in late afternoon. The gates were closed, and they could see men standing guard on the walls. One of Hal’s knights rode up to demand entry in the name of the young king. To their surprise, the gates remained shut. When another shout for admittance brought no results, Hal spurred his stallion forward impatiently, identified himself to the sentries, and waited expectantly.
The gates did not open, though. Instead a shower of rocks rained down upon them from the walls. Several men and horses were struck and Hal’s stallion reared up in fright and then bucked wildly; had he been a less skilled rider, he’d have gone sailing over its head. The hailstorm of stones continued, forcing them to retreat. And now Hal could hear the taunts and curses, the angry shouts of “We will not have this man to rule over us!”
