filthy, lice-ridden braies next to his private parts. After that I did not doubt his sincerity, however misguided it was.”
Gilbert nodded his agreement. “And then there are the miracles. They began almost as soon as he drew his last breath. The wife of a Sussex knight was cured of her blindness after praying to Thomas. Eight days after the martyrdom, Father William de Capella, a London priest who’d been stricken with palsy was cured after drinking water mixed with the saint’s holy blood. I spoke with Father William myself, could find no other explanation for the recovery of his speech. A local woman’s palsy was healed after her husband applied rags dipped in the martyr’s blood to her afflicted legs. People are said to have been cured of lameness, deafness, withered limbs, and deadly fevers.”
Gilbert leaned forward, so caught up in the intensity of his recital that he did not notice as wine splashed from his cup. “Even the brother of one of the men implicated in the murder was cured after drinking the ‘waters of St Thomas’!”
“Water mixed with his blood? Remarkable that he bled enough to keep filling those little tin phials that the monks pass out to those who make offerings,” Henry said dryly. “That is almost a miracle in itself.”
“Surely you do not doubt the existence of miracles, my lord king?”
“Of course not. But it cheapens them to be accepted too readily. Is it true that Thomas punishes those who fail to keep promises they make to him?” And when Gilbert confirmed it, Henry said with a crooked smile, “Now that sounds more like the Becket I remember.”
Gilbert was not deceived by the flippancy; it was obvious that Henry had been paying closer attention to the martyr’s miracles than he was willing to admit. Before he could respond, though, there was a stir at the other end of the hall. Henry’s steward was pushing his way toward the dais. “My liege, a messenger has just arrived from Brittany.”
“Have him come forward,” Henry commanded, and a disheveled youth, muddied and bedraggled, soon approached the dais. Kneeling, he looked up at Henry with a gleeful grin that conveyed his message better than any words could have done. “I bring you glad tidings, Your Grace. My lord, William du Hommet, bade me ride to Rouen as if my horse’s tail were on fire, and by God, I did. We engaged the Breton rebels yesterday morn in open country near the town and castle of Dol, which they’d taken by bribery. It was a total triumph, my lord. We captured seventeen of their knights and killed most of their men-at-arms. Some got away, but Lord Raoul de Fougeres and the Earl of Chester and sixty or so knights retreated back into Dol Castle. Lord du Hommet said to tell you that they are penned up like lambs for the slaughter, but he lacks the siege engines to take the castle and urges you to come straightaway.”
By now the man was surrounded by Henry’s lords and knights, and as soon as he was done speaking, he was barraged with congratulations and praise for his amazingly swift ride. Even allowing for Henry’s posting of fresh horses at his castles and abbeys for the use of royal couriers, his was a remarkable achievement; Dol was more than one hundred fifty miles from Rouen.
Henry was delighted. Ordering wine for the messenger and promising a generous reward, he broke the seal on William du Hommet’s letter and began to read rapidly. Geoff had entered the hall after the courier’s arrival and he was shoving his way through the crowd, eager to learn what had happened. Catching sight of the Earl of Essex and the elderly Earl of Arundel, he veered in their direction, and when they told him that the Earl of Chester and the Breton rebels were trapped in Dol, he gave a jubilant shout that was more often heard on the hunting field.
“This accursed rebellion is in its death throes,” he predicted joyfully. “First the Count of Boulogne is struck down, then the French flee from Verneuil like thieves in the night, and now Hugh of Chester is caught in a snare of his own making!”
The men smiled at the enthusiasm of youth. “Well, not yet,” Willem said. “But I’d wager he’ll be shut up in a royal castle by week’s end.”
“You mean by next week, do you not? We will not even reach Dol till then, and if the siege lasts-” Geoff paused in surprise, for the two men were laughing at him.
“Clearly you have never ridden with your lord father when he is in a hurry to get somewhere,” Willem said with a grin, and when Geoff conceded he had not, they laughed again.
“Ah, you are in for a treat.” Arundel was grinning, too. “Fortunately for these old bones, I’ll be left behind, for the king knows that I could never keep up with him. As you’ll soon see, lad, it is the closest that men can get to flying. I remember when-” He broke off then, for Henry was shouting for silence.
“Why are we wasting time?” he demanded, and Willem jabbed Geoff playfully in the ribs before asking innocently when the king wanted to depart. Henry looked at him as if he’d lost his wits. “When do you think, man? Now!”
The young Earl of Chester was baffled and heart-sore that his luck could have soured so fast. At first all had gone according to plan. Joining Raoul de Fougeres, they’d launched a highly successful chevauchee, burning and pillaging the lands of those Bretons who’d remained loyal to Henry. Hugh had enjoyed himself enormously, finding that his first taste of war was even more fun than a tournament. But it had not lasted. Warned that the king’s routiers were on the prowl, they’d decided upon a direct challenge, and both sides met on the battlefield on August 20. The experience taught Hugh why prudent commanders avoided pitched battles when at all possible, for it turned into a debacle. Their lines broke, and because men were never so vulnerable as when in flight, the slaughter that followed was terrible. Retreating in confusion, Hugh and the Breton lords found their only escape route blocked by the routiers and they had no choice but to withdraw back into Dol.
The three days that followed were utterly wretched. They’d watched helplessly from the battlements as the townsmen surrendered their city to Henry’s commander, Lord du Hommet, and to add insult to injury, they then had to watch as other Bretons joined in the siege, for they’d alienated much of the countryside with their raiding and plundering. Hugh became so disheartened that Raoul de Fougeres had turned upon him in anger, berating him for his lack of fortitude. The siege would soon be lifted, he’d insisted. Those lowborn routiers were little better than bandits. They knew nothing of true warfare, lacked even the most rudimentary siege engines. It would not be long until they’d lose interest and move on, seeking easier prey. Hugh very much wanted to believe him, but he was not encouraged when Raoul then put the knights and garrison on half-rations. If the siege was not going to drag on, why did they need to worry about running out of supplies? Wishing that Hal were there to bolster his sagging spirits, Hugh tried to ignore his growing chorus of regrets by getting thoroughly drunk.
He awoke the next morning feeling feverish, queasy, and utterly out of sorts. As he stirred and groaned, the bedcovers beside him rippled and a girl’s head popped out. Hugh looked at her blankly, having no idea who she was. He swallowed with a grimace, becoming aware that his mouth tasted like vinegar. The girl was gazing at him curiously. “Do you want me to answer that, my lord?” she asked, and only then did he realize that the thudding noise in his head was actually a pounding on the door. When he nodded, she slid from the bed, hastily pulling a chemise over her head. He recognized her now as one of the castle kitchen maids, although he did not remember her name. Concluding that he was still half drunk, he lay back against the pillow.
“Hugh, wake up!”
Grudgingly opening his eyes to slits, he saw Raoul de Fougeres’s son Juhel standing by the bed. “Go away,” he mumbled, and felt a dulled throb of indignation when Juhel would not. “Damn you to hell, leave me be…” And then he gasped and shot bolt upright in bed, for Juhel had poured a basin of washing water over his head. Sputtering and cursing, he lurched from the bed, seeking to bury his fist in Juhel’s belly. He never even came close; the other man sidestepped easily.
“Stop it, you fool! Are you going to face Judgment Day as a drunken sot?”
“What are you babbling about?”
“I am trying to tell you that the English king is in the city, making ready to assault the castle!”
Hugh decided that Juhel must be mad. “I think you’re the one who’s drunk. We fought on Monday and this is only Thursday. There is no way in the world that he could get here that fast.”
“No? Suppose you tell him that.” Juhel grabbed Hugh’s arm and, before he could protest, propelled him across the chamber toward the window. Fumbling with the shutters, he flung them open and pointed. “See for yourself!”
Hugh squinted against the sudden blaze of painful light, his eyes focusing blearily upon the banner flying from the enemy encampment, a gold lion emblazoned across a background of crimson. “Holy Mother of God!”
