knew better than to confide that to him. She wasn’t sure if she should forgive him for imprisoning her mother, but it was comforting to have him holding her like this, comforting to remember that she was not utterly alone. “Papa…” She ducked her head, leaning into his embrace. “Papa…I do not understand why this is happening.”
Henry’s jaw muscles tightened. “Neither do I, lass,” he said softly. “Neither do I.”
Richard strode into the nave of St Pierre’s Cathedral and beckoned to Sir Martin de Jarnac, one of his household knights. Martin hurried over, rather nervously, for he knew Richard had been meeting earlier in the day with the Bishop of Saintes and the bishop was increasingly unhappy with Richard’s occupation of his city. “My lord? How did it go?”
Richard shrugged. “The bishop had more complaints than a dog has fleas. He was particularly wroth that we’ve appropriated the cathedral for our own purposes.” Their constant carping was taking some of the bloom off his pleasure in gaining control of the town.
His first command had not begun auspiciously, for La Rochelle had closed its gates at his approach, refusing to allow him entry into the town, boldly declaring that they were loyal to the old king, not the young one. Richard had been mortified, vowing that those overweening, impudent churls would pay for that and pay dearly, but he could do nothing at the time except retreat, his ears burning with the echoes of their scornful laughter. His only consolation was that his brother Hal’s assault upon Sees had failed, too.
Fortunately, a fierce rivalry existed between La Rochelle and Saintes, and if the former turned Richard away, the latter was then keen to make him welcome. But the citizens of Saintes were soon having second thoughts about their hospitality. Richard’s men had lost no time in fortifying the town, throwing up a wooden castle to guard the Roman bridge and using the cathedral for their headquarters. As troubling as these developments were, even worse was to come. Word had reached Saintes that the English king was now encamped at Poitiers, only seventy miles to the north.
Richard was not as alarmed as the citizens by his father’s arrival, for he had confidence in the city walls, his new fortifications, and his own military instincts. Moreover, he meant to make good use of the time remaining to him. While Henry celebrated Whitsuntide in Poitiers, he’d dispatched riders to Geoffrey de Rancon, William de Maingot, and the Count of Angouleme, urging them to join him at Saintes without delay. They had a chance to force a decisive battle, to win a victory that would end the war and free his mother, and he meant to make the most of the opportunity.
“This morning I slipped out of the town and visited the ruins of the Roman amphitheater,” he confided to Martin. “It was an amazing sight, so much of it still intact after all that time.”
Martin was vaguely aware that Saintes had once been an important Roman town, for he’d seen the huge Arch of Germanicus at the bridge, supposedly built to honor a long-dead emperor. While he didn’t share Richard’s interest in the past, he was a firm believer in humoring the highborn, and he asked politely what this amphitheater was used for.
Richard was surprised by his ignorance. “That was where the Romans staged their games, where their gladiators fought and felons died. My lady mother would tell me the most wondrous stories about ancient Rome. When gladiators entered the arena, they faced the audience and proudly proclaimed, ‘Morituri te salutamus!’”
Martin had never learned Latin and looked so blank that Richard translated, “‘We who are about to die salute you.’ Did you not study history when you-” He got no further, having noticed the archdeacon hovering nearby, waiting for a word with him. Richard sighed, for he already knew what the cleric wanted to discuss. Saintes was on the route to the great Spanish shrine of Santiago de Compostela, and its citizens were worrying that pilgrims might stay away, fearing they’d be trapped in a siege. As much as he yearned to duck out a side door into the cloisters, Richard felt it was his duty to offer reassurances and, forcing a smile, he started toward the archdeacon just as all hell broke loose.
At least it seemed that way to Richard. Heads were turning toward the sudden clamor coming from outside the cathedral. Richard spun around and ran for the door, with his men at his heels. As he emerged into the dusk, he found a scene of utter chaos. People were running in different directions, cursing as they bumped into one another, putting him in mind of an overturned ant hill. He’d seen panic like this only once before, when a fire broke out in Rouen, and when he saw smoke billowing from the direction of the river, it confirmed his worst fears.
“Stop, you fools!” he yelled. “We need to get buckets and fight the fire!” None of the frightened citizens paid him any heed. He was shouting orders at his own men, directing them to find buckets and ropes and hooks so they could pull down endangered buildings if need be, when he heard his own name being called, rising above the din like the solitary cry of a seagull. The sight of Raoul was a welcome one, and he hastily started toward his kinsman, roughly shouldering his way through the crowds thronging the street.
“We’re under attack! We have to get out whilst we still can!”
Richard gaped at the older man. “What are you talking about? There is a fire-”
“Yes, and your father set it! He’s come calling with an army, Richard, and I do not want him to find us home!”
“That is not possible! How could he get here so fast?” No sooner were the words out of his mouth than Richard regretted them. His enemies had been asking that question of his father for as long as he could remember, and in any case, it was irrelevant. “We can keep him out,” he insisted, “hold on until we get men from Taillebourg and-”
“No,” Raoul said sharply, “we cannot. His men have already taken the castle we put up by the bridge and are breaking down the city gates even as we speak. Our only chance is to get out now-”
“No!” Richard was indignant. “I’ll not run away-never!”
“Whilst we waste time arguing, Harry’s men will be swarming into the city! The whoreson caught us by surprise, Richard, and it is too late to do anything but retreat.” When Richard continued to shake his head stubbornly, Raoul swore under his breath. “Do you miss your mother so much that you want to join her at Chinon or Falaise?”
That got through to Richard, that and the changing timbre of the shouting. It was louder now, more urgent, and closer, coming from the city gates. Shaking off his shock, he said, with a composure that Raoul applauded, “Where do we go?”
“We can get out through a postern gate, then head downriver to Taillebourg. Harry was concerned about speed, not a long siege, and did not bring mangonels with him. We ought to be safe enough with de Rancon-if we can reach him.”
This was the first time that Richard had been personally confronted with the unpleasant realities of war-that it was not all glory and blaring trumpets and swirling banners. It was not a lesson he’d ever wanted to learn. Looking around for as many of his men as he could find, he said tersely, “Let’s go.”
Richard managed to escape from Saintes as his father was sweeping into the town. The rebels retreated into the cathedral, held out for a day, and then surrendered. Henry captured more than sixty knights and over four hundred archers, plus all their supplies, weapons, and horses. The cathedral of Saintes and many of the nearby houses were badly damaged, the acrid odor of smoke lingering over the town long after the fighting was done.
Henry spent the remainder of the spring chasing rebels and fortifying his border strongholds. The news from England continued to be bad, as one after another of his castles fell to the ravaging Scots army. After taking and turning over the castle of Ancenis to Maurice de Craon, Henry summoned his lords and bishops to a great council in Normandy on the Nativity of St John the Baptist.
Henry reached Bonneville, the site of the council, on the evening of June 23. The castle was neither comfortable nor spacious, having been constructed in the eleventh century, and many of his barons had been compelled to seek lodgings in the nearby port of Toques. Henry was indifferent, as usual, to his surroundings, and was soon settled in his bedchamber. He was tired, for he’d been in the saddle since dawn, but these days his thoughts raced and ricocheted around his brain so wildly that sleep was becoming a luxury, one even a king could rarely afford.
“Stay for a while,” he said, and Willem smiled, took a seat on a nearby coffer as Henry dismissed his squires. The earl made easy conversation for a time, soon saw that Henry was not really listening, and fell silent, waiting. Henry walked back and forth, too edgy to sit still. He was already regretting asking Willem to remain, and he was
