“This rebellion you are facing…it is inexplicable in so many ways. You yourself questioned how Eleanor could so easily have subverted your lads. And then there is her involvement. I am a student of history, Harry, and there is no shortage of tales of rebellious sons. But I know of no other queen who dared to rebel against her lord husband. So I have wondered how it came to pass, and I have wondered, too, if the Almighty has looked into your heart and saw that you have not truly atoned for your part in Thomas’s death.”
“Do not be shy, Roger. Hold nothing back.”
Roger ignored the sarcasm. “You asked what I thought, Harry. You are the only one who knows if I am right. But I would urge you to search your conscience, and if you do indeed repent Thomas’s death for all the wrong reasons, you must come to terms with that.”
“Do you know what I am thinking now? That I am very glad you are not my confessor.” Henry picked a rose from a nearby bush, idly tore off the petals and dropped them onto the grass at his feet. “There is one problem with your theory of divine retribution, Roger. If I accepted it, that would cast Eleanor as the instrument of the Almighty.”
Roger smiled, not at all discouraged, for he was accustomed to his cousin’s gallows humor. He’d planted a seed, one that might, God Willing, take root, and for now, he was content with that.
Henry had halted, head cocked to the side, and then Roger heard it, too, a familiar voice calling out, “My lord king!” They were turning toward the sound as Willem hastened into the gardens. “A messenger has just ridden in,” he said breathlessly. “The Count of Boulogne is dead!”
They crowded around Henry as he read rapidly by torchlight. When he looked up, it was with a chilling smile. “Count Philip was so stricken by his brother’s death that he has ended the campaign, is leading his army back into Flanders. It seems his chaplain and other churchmen told him that this was God’s punishment for stirring sons to rebellion against their father.”
There was a stunned silence and then the great hall erupted in cheers and laughter. Taking advantage of the turmoil, Roger slipped away. The castle chapel was empty, although candles still flickered and the scent of incense hung in the air. Approaching the altar, he knelt and prayed for the kingdom and for his cousin’s troubled family.
Hal might have been forgiven for thinking that war was good sport, as his initial foray was a highly successful one. He’d captured the castle of one of his father’s vassals, Hugh de Gornai, and had taken prisoner the baron himself and eighty of his knights. This was the first time that he’d bloodied his sword and it had been an exhilarating experience. After that, he joined the army of the Counts of Flanders and Boulogne, and that, too, was exciting, for he had great respect for Count Philip, who was widely known as a preudomme, a man of prowess, the highest compliment that could be paid in their world. When Driencourt Castle surrendered after a two-week siege, it only confirmed Hal’s giddy certainty that victory would soon be within their grasp.
But then Count Matthew was wounded at Arques, and within a few days, he was dead. That was a shock to Hal, for he’d genuinely liked the count, a cousin as well as an ally. Even more stunning was Count Philip’s sudden decision to end the campaign and withdraw to his own lands. Shaken and bereft, Hal had ridden south to Verneuil, in need of his father-in-law’s solace.
There he soon regained his emotional equilibrium. Louis had greeted him with flattering warmth, assured him that Count Philip would rejoin the campaign once he’d had time to grieve, and predicted that Verneuil was on the verge of collapse. Only the castle and one of the burghs held out and hunger was prowling the streets of the beleaguered town. It was just a matter of time, Louis said, until Verneuil was theirs.
That time seemed to have come on August 6, when a delegation of citizens ventured out under a flag of truce. Admitting that their people were woefully short of food, they asked Louis for a truce so that they could warn the English king that they must surrender if he could not raise the siege. This was normal practice, and Louis was compelled by the chivalric code to grant their request. He gave them only three days, though, an unusually brief respite. On August 9, the town must yield if Henry had not come to their rescue by then, and Louis in turn promised that their surrender would be on honorable terms, with no harm to the townspeople or their chattels or the hostages they offered up as proof of good faith.
Hal’s spirits soared with yet another triumph within reach, and the next two days passed quite pleasantly, for with military operations suspended, he and his knights amused themselves with bohorts, informal tourney games. As the sky streaked with the vivid colors of sunset, Baldwin de Bethune borrowed some dice and they cleared a space so they could gamble by firelight. Hal ordered a keg of wine to be brought out, declaring that a celebration was in order, for on the morrow the town would surrender and the castle would soon be forced to seek terms, too. He did not have a chance to enjoy his impromptu festivities, though, for it was then that he was summoned to the French king’s command tent.
As soon as he ducked under the canvas tent flap, Hal knew that something was wrong. The men were somber, their expressions troubled, and Louis was as white as newly skimmed milk. “He is here!” he blurted out, and Hal caught his breath.
“My father? I thought he was in Rouen!”
“He was,” the king’s brother Robert said testily, “but now he is at Conches with an army and he has sent us an ultimatum-that we either end the siege and withdraw or we do battle on the morrow.”
Hal’s stomach lurched, for he did not want to face his father on the battlefield. Louis had assured him that it would never come to that. As he looked at his father-in-law, it was obvious that Louis did not want to fight his father, either. A quick glance around the tent told him that few of the men did. Hal knew pitched battles were rare, for most lords and kings preferred skirmishing and sieges to risking all on one throw of the dice. But he sensed that there was more at work here than the usual military caution. His father cast a long shadow.
Louis was standing by an oaken trestle table. Reaching for a silver cup, he drained the wine in several deep gulps; Hal was startled to see that his hand was none too steady. “How did he get here in time?” Louis asked. “Blessed Lady, I only gave them three days!”
“How does he ever do it?” Robert snapped, for he was always ready to blame Louis when their plans went awry. “For twenty years he has been doing what mortal man cannot; you ought to be used to it by now.” He could feel Verneuil slipping away even as he spoke; he doubted that his brother had the backbone for a bloody confrontation, for the war without quarter that the English king would wage on the morrow.
“Be that as it may,” the Count of Blois said coolly, having little patience for Robert’s rancid jealousy in the best of times, “we must decide now how we shall respond to his challenge. It is not as if we have many options. Either we retreat or we fight.”
“Not necessarily.” Heads turned toward the speaker as the Count of Evreux stepped from the shadows into the light of Louis’s candelabra. Hal did not know Simon de Montfort all that well. A tall, balding, saturnine figure with piercing black eyes and a tongue like a whip, he was respected for his courage, but disliked for his arrogance and his slyness. Once he was sure that he had their attention, he said, “There is a third choice. Are you interested in hearing it, my liege?”
Louis did not like the count and did not trust him, either. But after a moment, he nodded. “Tell us,” he said, and de Montfort did.
When Hal exited the tent, he was surrounded by his knights, for rumors were spreading that the English king was at Conches and a battle was looming. They began to pelt him with questions, wanting to know if it was true. Hal brushed them aside. “Where is Will Marshal? Find him for me-now!”
They were alone in Hal’s tent, for he’d barred the others from entering. “Are the rumors true, my lord? Has your father come to the defense of Verneuil?”
“Yes, he is here.”
Will thought he was braced for it, but he still flinched, for this was his greatest fear. Hal was his liege lord, but so was Henry. To fight against the king’s men was not the same as drawing his sword against the king himself, the christus domini who’d been consecrated with the sacred chrism. Scriptures spoke quite clearly on that matter. For who can stretch forth his hand against the Lord’s anointed and be guiltless? “So we fight on the morrow,” he said bleakly.
“No…there will be no battle.”
Will blinked. “We are retreating, then?”
