“Papa, you cannot stay!”
“You must make a choice, Harry.” Willem took advantage of years of friendship to speak bluntly now, no longer as subject to sovereign, but as one battle commander to another. “We cannot hold the city, cannot fight the fire and the French, too. So you must retreat…or you must surrender to the French king and your son. And you’ve precious little time to make up your mind.”
Henry turned away. He, who had always prided himself upon his swift response to a crisis, now found himself crippled by indecision, by a paralyzing sense of unreality. How could it have come to this? How could he lose Le Mans, the city dearest to his heart?
“We will retreat,” he agreed at last, and they sprang into action, not wanting to give him a chance to reconsider.
With the French forcing their way into the city through the west gate and the body of their army just an arrow’s flight to the south, the only escape still open to Henry was through the north gate, out onto the road to Alencon. Having shed their hauberks and helmets so they could make better speed, they galloped out of the city, heading north. But Henry was already having second thoughts. How could he abandon the townsmen, always so steadfast and loyal? How could he let himself be chased away by that paltry French stripling and his wretched ingrate of a son?
To the dismay of his men, he insisted on drawing rein upon the crest of a hill, and as he looked back at the burning city, his anguish gave way to a wild, unholy rage. “O God, since You have taken away from me the city that I loved most on earth, the city where I was born and bred, the city where my father is buried, I will repay You as best I can. I will deny You what You love best in me, my soul!”
His listeners shivered in horror, hastily making the sign of the cross to distance themselves from Henry’s bitter, blasphemous rant. Geoff pleaded with him to ride on, but it was only when they saw the horsemen galloping after them that he let himself be pulled away from the sight of the smoke-shrouded city.
Richard had not taken a personal role in the assault upon Le Mans, feeling it would be unseemly to lead an attack upon his own father. He was not clad in armor, therefore, when he entered the city and learned that Henry and his knights had fled. Without stopping to think it through, Richard at once led his men in pursuit. His was an instinctive response, wanting to put an end to this once and for all, wanting the satisfaction of being the one to take his father prisoner, and perhaps sensing, too, that it would be better if he caught up with Henry rather than the men of the French king.
Not burdened with hauberk, helmet, or shield, wearing only an iron cap-a cervellier-he rapidly gained ground on them, was soon in sight of the retreating rearguard. One of Henry’s knights had once been a friend, and when he saw him jousting with a Poitevin knight, Richard could not resist jeering as he swept by. “You are foolish to waste your time with tournament tactics, des Roches, would do better to put on a bit of speed!”
At the sound of Richard’s voice, another knight turned back and charged straight at him. Richard was suddenly acutely aware of his vulnerability, for the man riding at him with lance leveled at his chest was one of the best of their age, his mentor who now seemed likely to be his nemesis. His mouth went dry, as for the first time he experienced the purely physical fear of death.
In desperation, he tried to ward off the lance with his arm, shouting out, “God’s Legs, Marshal, do not kill me! I am unarmed!” They were close enough now for him to see the grim expression on the other man’s face, to anticipate the lance driving into his chest with all the force of the Marshal’s body behind it. But at the last possible moment, Will shifted his aim and plunged the weapon into Richard’s stallion. Death was instantaneous and as the animal fell, Richard was thrown to the ground. Gasping from the impact, struggling for breath, he looked up at the knight, who’d reined in only a few feet away.
“Let the Devil be the one to kill you,” Will said, and he then spurred his horse, rode to catch up with his king.
By now several of Richard’s knights had reached him and were dismounting in haste to make sure he was unharmed. Waving their helping hands aside, Richard insisted upon struggling to his feet by himself. More shaken than he’d ever admit, he stood watching as Marshal disappeared into the distance, suddenly able to appreciate the kind of courage that was not fearless, that owed nothing to bravado or daredevil abandon, but was the pure product of the will.
“No,” he said, when they asked if they should resume the pursuit. “It is done.”
Their flight from Le Mans was a hellish journey for Henry and his knights. They were never out of danger, for they had to pass several of the castles that had been seized by the French. Men and horses collapsed in the scorching heat, as they dared not slacken their pace. By the time they reached Fresnay-sur-Sarthe that evening, Henry was in such pain that he could barely stay in the saddle. Geoff and Willem would have preferred to press on to Alencon, for Fresnay was a small castle, unable to accommodate hundreds of knights. But they knew Henry could go no farther.
Fresnay was one of the castles of the Viscount Beaumont; in happier days Henry had played host to the wedding of his daughter to the Scots king. He was with Henry’s army at Alencon, but his castellan did all he could to make them welcome, turning over the best bedchamber to Henry, offering to feed as many as he could, and suggesting that some of their men could lodge in the town’s three priories. Henry needed Geoff’s help to climb the stairs, for that hard ride had inflamed his old leg injury. Sinking down on the bed, he stirred only when Geoff would have departed, saying he meant to pass the night in the town, keeping vigil in case the French found them.
“No,” Henry whispered, “stay here, stay with me…” Not closing his eyes until Geoff promised he would remain.
Henry’s young squire, Hugh de Sandford, had shown the presence of mind to bring along a sumpter horse and Geoff gladly accepted a change of clothing, for he’d left everything behind in Le Mans. Henry did not have the energy to remove his dusty tunic and sweat-soaked shirt, so Geoff covered him with his own mantle, then settled down in a nearby chair to keep watch while he slept.
Awakening the next morning, Geoff was so stiff and sore that he could not move without wincing. To his relief, Henry still slept, and after instructing Hugh to let him sleep, he stumbled downstairs. The great hall had been used as a bedchamber by some of Henry’s knights. They were up by now, though, consuming bread, cheese, and wine, talking and even laughing among themselves, for their spirits had risen with the sun. Geoff shared their sense of rejuvenation, for they were less than ten miles from the Norman border and safety. He wished that he could convince his father to return to England to recover, but he knew that was a lost cause, and so contented himself that at least Henry would find security and time to convalesce in Rouen.
Morgan was also feeling much more cheerful, for he was still young enough to be restored by a good night’s sleep and a meal. He and several of his friends were prodding Will Marshal to tell them again about his clash with Richard, and Will, who had no false modesty when it came to his knightly skills, was happy to oblige. He soon had a large and enthusiastic audience, but their laughter had a nervous edge, for Richard was not known for his forgiving nature and few doubted that he would be king one day.
When Henry entered the hall, a sudden silence fell, for the past day’s ordeal was writ plainly in his face for all to see; his complexion was livid, his eyes sunken, his mouth tightly clamped. Morgan was so shocked by the king’s haggard appearance that he soon fled the hall, feeling as if he were reliving a nightmare, thrust back in time to those wretched days at Lagny, forced to stand by and watch helplessly as Geoffrey’s life ebbed away.
In his misery, he turned to the Almighty and headed for the chapel on the far side of the bailey. There he offered up a fervent prayer for his cousin the king and then lingered to talk with the chaplain. The chapel priory was a cell of the abbey of St Aubin in Angers, and the young priest was passionately loyal to the Count of Anjou; with him, as with so many Angevins, the fact that their count was also England’s king was an interesting irrelevancy. Morgan found it comforting to speak to another one of Henry’s partisans, and it was some time before he emerged from the church.
He was immediately hailed by two of his friends and fellow knights, Peter Fitz Guy and Robert de Tresgoz. “Morgan! We’ve been looking all over for you!” As soon as he joined them, they both blurted out their news at once. “You’ll not believe what happened!” Peter exclaimed while Rob declared that he feared the king’s wits had been affected. They paused for breath, and this time Rob deferred to Peter. “The king is not going on to Alencon, Morgan. He is sending his son and the Earl of Essex into Normandy with our men, but he says he is going back into Anjou!”
