Raoul de Fougeres awaited Hugh in the great hall. Taking in the younger man’s pallor, he said coldly, “I hope you can sober up by noon. You’ll make a better impression if your eyes are not so bloodshot and your hands are not shaking as if you have the ague.”
Hugh was secretly intimidated by the Breton lord, who’d never shown him the deference he was accustomed to receive from his English vassals. Making an attempt at dignity, he said, “I assure you, my lord, that I am quite sober. What happens at noon?”
“We are surrendering the castle to your cousin, the king.”
Hugh’s mouth dropped open. “We cannot do that! If I fall into his hands, I am doomed, for he’ll never forgive me!”
Oliver de Roche, Raoul’s seneschal, gave a harsh laugh, and raised his cup in a mock salute; clearly Hugh was not the only one who’d been sampling the wine kegs. “If he puts rebels to death, there’d not be a lord alive in all of Brittany,” he said in a slurred voice. “For us, rebellion is a sport. What man in this hall has not risen up against the English king more than once?”
Hugh glared at de Roche, who was not as formidable a figure as Lord Raoul. “It is different for me,” he snapped. “He forgives vassals because he thinks it is wise to do so, keeping men from fearing they have nothing to lose and fighting to the death. But I am his cousin, his blood-kin. He’ll not forgive me. ”
“He will forgive you,” Raoul asserted, “as long as we surrender. But if he takes the castle by force, he can do with us as he pleases. King Stephen once hanged the entire garrison of Shrewsbury Castle.”
“Harry has never done anything like that!”
“Has he ever faced a rebellion by his own sons? How do you know what he’ll do if we give him the excuse to seek vengeance? You do not know, my lord earl, and that is my point. It is not a risk we are willing to take.”
Hugh shook his head stubbornly, for at that moment, he feared nothing so much as the thought of facing his cousin at noon. “You talk as if the castle’s fall is inevitable. I say we hold out, that we fight instead of shamefully surrendering!”
There was a low, angry murmuring, and as he looked around, Hugh saw that the others agreed with Raoul; even his own knights seemed ready to surrender. Raoul was regarding him with unfriendly eyes, and suddenly Hugh was acutely aware of the great gap between them. The Bretons were like the Welsh; they did not truly trust those not of their own blood.
Raoul was not known for his patience, but he tried now to remind himself that this English earl’s rank deserved respect, even if the man did not. God save him from these callow youths who knew as much about war as a nun did about whoring. “As Oliver said, we Bretons are well seasoned in rebellion. We know when to fight and we know when to cut our losses, which is why we have survived so long. Henry Fitz Empress is the most dangerous foe I’ve ever faced. He never adheres to the conventions of warfare. Instead of laying waste to his enemies’ lands, he strikes fast and hard at their castles.
“Need I remind you of the strongholds he’s taken over the years? Chinon from his rebel brother, Chaumont- sur-Epte from the French king, and Chaumont-sur-Loire from the Count of Blois. Thourars was said to be impregnable; he took it in three days. Castillon-sur-Agen fell in less than a week. The tally is even more impressive here in Brittany. He razed my great castle at Fougeres to the ground, captured Josselin and Auray from Eudo de Porhoet, seized Becherel Castle from Roland de Dinan, and just two years ago, he descended upon the Viscount of Leon like a thunderbolt, reduced all of his castles to rubble… all of them. So when you tell me we ought to hold out at Dol, I do not find that a convincing argument.”
Hugh was suddenly overcome with fatigue; feeling as if his legs would no longer support him, he sank down onto the closest bench. “There has to be another way beside surrender.”
Raoul de Fougeres regarded him unblinkingly. “You have until noon to think of one.”
The townspeople had gathered to watch the surrender and there was almost a festive atmosphere, for they were thankful they’d been spared the horrors of a siege, thankful the war was over for Brittany. Most of them cared little for who ruled over them as long as they were left to live in peace, and they were milling about in front of the castle, laughing and gossiping, buying fruit-filled wafers from street vendors, ducking into nearby taverns to quench their thirst, and staring with unabashed curiosity at the English king and his lords.
Henry stood with the Earls of Essex and Pembroke, Richard du Hommet, the constable of Normandy, and his cousin William, the hero of Dol. They were watching with grim satisfaction as the castle drawbridge was lowered and forlorn figures trudged out, bearing a white flag of truce. The Earl of Chester was in the lead, followed by Raoul de Fougeres, his son Juhel and his brother, Guillaume. The Bretons were stoical, but Henry was gratified to see that his cousin was as white as a corpse candle.
Approaching Henry, Hugh sank to his knees in the dusty street, and the others did the same. “We surrender ourselves and the castle of Dol into your hands, my lord king,” he said hoarsely. “We know we have grievously offended you, violated our oaths of fealty and homage, and we are truly repentant and remorseful. We humbly beg your pardon and…and pray that you will show mercy even if we do not deserve it.”
Henry looked at them without speaking, and when Hugh could stand the suspense no longer, he blurted out a plaintive “Cousin” that he at once regretted, for Henry turned upon him the full force of those glittering grey eyes. “You would do better at this moment,” he said, “not to remind me of our kinship.” And when he added “Cousin,” he invested that simple word with so much raw emotion-reproach and rage-that despite the hot August sun, Hugh began to shiver.
Leaving the French King’s palace on the isle known as the Ile de la Cite, Will Marshal threaded his way through the maze of crooked streets until he reached the Grand Pont. It was the finest bridge he’d ever seen, nigh on twenty feet wide, and made of stone at a time when even London’s bridge was wooden. Booths and stalls lined both sides of the bridge, most of them occupied by moneychangers. Since Will’s pouch was already filled with deniers parisis, he shouldered his way past the foreigners and travelers crowding around the booths to change their money, and was soon sauntering along the right bank of the Seine, heading for the Greve, site of the weekly Paris market.
There he had no trouble finding what he sought: a small glass mirror with a lead backing. It was a great improvement over the more common mirrors of metal, and he was sure Barbe would be pleased with the gift. Stopping to buy a loaf of bread and a pork pie from a vendor, he ducked into the nearest tavern to eat it, washing it down with a henap of raisin wine, for he still had the robust appetite that had earned him the nickname of Scoff- food during his days as a squire. Once his hunger was satisfied, he fed the leftover bread to a skinny stray dog and started back toward the Grand Pont, good-naturedly rejecting the overtures of several street whores, attracted by his confident demeanor, his height, and the sword on his hip, a good indication that he could afford their services.
Returning to the Ile de la Cite, he did not head for the palace, instead turned onto the Rue de la Draperie, the street of the Parisian drapers. Barbe’s shop was doing brisk business, with customers admiring a new shipment of silks from Sicily, but when Will entered, she turned the trade over to her assistant, and he accompanied her above- stairs to her private chamber, where she expressed delight over her new mirror and wasted no time in showing her gratitude in bed.
Will had never been keen on relieving his male needs with whores, and knew better than to seduce virgin maidens. He preferred lusty young widows like Barbe, and because he was personable, generous, and blessed with a fine physique, he’d rarely had trouble finding worldly, accommodating bedmates. Barbe was one of the best he’d had, and he knew he’d miss her once his stay in Paris was done.
Their bedsport had left them both drenched in sweat, and she soon rose, padded barefoot to the window and opened the shutters, wrinkling her nose at the rank smell of the river. Coming back to the bed, she noticed for the first time the ripe bruise spreading across his ribs, and was at once solicitous, insisting upon rummaging around in a coffer until she found a goose-grease salve. “What did you do, dearest…get caught up in a tavern brawl?”
Will grinned, shifting so she could better apply the salve. “Worse…I agreed to some sword-play with my lord’s brother Richard. He wanted to practice parrying an enemy’s blow, but his enthusiasm left my old bones battered and bruised.”
Barbe put the salve down in the floor rushes and climbed back into bed beside him. She loved it when he talked about court life, for that was a world beyond her ken, exotic and alien. “I thought you told me that your lord’s knights did not mingle with Duke Richard’s men?”
