a two-day ride!”
“Glad to oblige,” Henry said. “So Louis does not know for certes that I left England? The way his agents serve him, it is a wonder he even knows about the sinking of the White Ship.”
Luc grinned. “He is already out of sorts, sure that St Laurence is sorely offended with him. Wait till the morrow when he finds you in the city. He’ll think he’s died and gone to Hell!”
“We can only hope.” Henry had been in the saddle since dawn and his injured leg was throbbing. Sitting on his bed, he swung the leg up and propped a pillow under it. “Why does Louis think he’s affronted a saint? What did he do…hear Mass only twice in one day instead of his customary three times?”
“No, my liege. The saint has a greater grievance than that.” Luc finished his wine, went to pour more. “Louis has always revered St Laurence, and so he proposed to the citizens of Rouen that both sides observe a truce in honor of the saint’s day. They quickly agreed, and this morning they opened the gates and the townspeople began to venture forth. They were soon playing games and dancing, and some of the knights from the garrison staged a mock tourney, all within sight of the French army. Many of the younger men and women gathered by the riverbank and began to shout insults across the water. The Count of Flanders was enraged by their mockery, and he and a few other lords-the Counts of Dreux and Blois and Evreux-sought out the king and urged him to catch the townsmen off guard and launch a surprise attack.”
Henry had lain back on the bed. Sitting upright at that, he said with a tight smile, “Let me guess what happened next. Louis was horrified by the very idea of such sacrilege, refused to consider breaking the truce, and then let himself be talked into it.”
“You’d have made a fine prophet, my liege.” Luc’s smile held no more humor than Henry’s. “That is exactly what happened.”
“Obviously something went amiss, though, or Louis would not be back in camp, brooding over the wrong done St Laurence. Why did their surprise attack fail?”
“St Laurence was not pleased with their double-dealing. Two monks had gone up into the bell tower, which offered a clear view of the French camp. They saw the stealthy preparations under way, and began frantically ringing the bell. If not for their warning, Rouen might have been lost. As it was, the citizens fled back into the town, and by the time the French reached the walls with their scaling ladders, the gates were barred and men were ready for them. There was fierce hand-to-hand fighting on the walls, but the French were driven back. When Louis sent me off to watch for you, they were going at it like stags in rut, trading accusations and blame for the blunder.”
“Louis seems to go stark, raving mad in August,” Willem observed. “Last year it was Verneuil, and now this.”
Henry nodded, but he was not fully listening. He opened his mouth, stopped, and then said abruptly, “What of my son? Did he approve this attack?”
“No, my lord king. He was not happy with it, argued that it was dishonorable to violate their own truce. His knights were disapproving, too, especially Will Marshal. They truly believe in the chivalric code, may God pity their innocent young souls. But Lord Hal’s protest was brushed aside. They…they do not pay much heed to his opinions.”
Henry scowled, taking umbrage that these men should dare to disrespect his son. The irrationality of it did not escape him, but that awareness did nothing to assuage his indignation. Hal had been ill served by those he had most reason to trust-his father-in-law, the French king, his maternal uncles, and his mother, above all, his mother.
Rousing himself, he expressed his thanks to Luc, suggesting that the young spy might want to claim his reward now rather than continuing his clandestine activities. He was not surprised when Luc declined, insisting that he was not at risk, that he’d tell the French king he was captured by Henry’s men. Henry did not argue, for he’d encountered men like Luc before, men who thrived on danger, who needed it as others needed air and food. It was easier to understand the Porteclie de Mauzes, those who acted only out of self-interest. Going to a coffer, he drew out a pouch heavy with coins, and Luc smiled, tucking it safely away in his tunic before he accepted Willem’s offer to find him a meal and a bed.
Henry bade them good night, pleased with Willem’s action. The other man had learned to read his moods well, sensing that he was distracted and wanted time alone. Once they’d departed, Henry dropped to his knees, ignoring the discomfort of his painful thigh. His thoughts of Hal had sent his spirits into a downward spiral, forcing him to dwell upon memories and regrets that served for naught. Just as he’d prayed at Canterbury, “St Thomas, guard my realm,” he lowered his head now, and whispered, “St Thomas, save my son.”
The French King had suffered a restless, wakeful night, and stayed abed the next morning, exhausted and disquieted and reluctant to face the day. He’d finally fallen asleep, only to have his dream disturbed by an insistent voice crying out, “My lord king!” Opening his eyes, he saw one of his squires bending over the bed. “Forgive me, but you must wake up, my liege!”
Louis sat up with a groan, smothering a yawn. Over his squire’s shoulder, he could see other men crowding into the tent, recognized his sons-in-law, the Count of Blois and Hal, and behind them, several bishops and Flemish lords. They all looked so somber that he yearned to go back to sleep, not wanting to deal with the troubles they were about to thrust upon him. “What is it?” he asked irritably. “I was not to be disturbed. And what is that infernal noise?”
“Church bells,” the Archbishop of Sens said, sounding just as vexed as Louis. “Every church bell in Rouen is pealing, chiming to welcome the English king into the city.”
“He’s here?” Louis rarely cursed, but those closest to the bed thought they heard him mutter something that sounded very much like an obscenity. Fully awake now, the French king winced at the joyful sound of the bells, knowing it was the death knell of his hopes to capture Rouen.
The day after he rode into Rouen, Henry sent his Welsh to harass the French supply lines. They were highly successful, capturing and destroying more than forty wagons loaded with food and wine. The following day, Henry took the offensive, opening the city gates and sending out men to fill in the defensive ditch that separated the foes, making it possible for a charge by his knights. When he led his army out of the city, the French scrambled to meet them, and in the clash that followed, the French took the worst of it; some were taken prisoner and the Count of Flanders saw another of his brothers struck down; Peter, who’d renounced the bishopric of Cambrai after Matthew’s death in order to become Count of Boulogne, was seriously wounded.
That night Louis sent the Archbishop of Sens and the Count of Blois to Henry, seeking a truce so he could withdraw his army to Malaunay, promising to meet with the English on the morrow. When Henry agreed, Louis pretended to set up camp at Malaunay, but under cover of darkness, he fled for the safety of French territory. He then requested a conference at Gisors on September 8, and once more, Henry agreed.
CHAPTER NINETEEN
September 1174
Gisors, Norman Vexin
When he reached the conference elm at Gisors, Henry saw that the French were already there. Louis was flanked by his bishops and barons, while the Count of Flanders was standing apart with his own men, and Henry wondered if there were cracks showing in their alliance. What interested him the most, though, was that Hal and Geoffrey had also distanced themselves from the French king. He reined in before Louis, who waited for him to dismount, and looked perplexed when he did not.
“Welcome, my lord king,” Louis said once it was apparent that Henry was not going to speak first. “It is our hope that we may agree to a truce in order to put an end to this unfortunate war.”
Henry was staring at the sons he’d not seen in a year. Hal looked no different, cutting a handsome figure in a crimson tunic decorated with gold thread and a fur-trimmed mantle casually thrown over his shoulder. He did not meet Henry’s eyes, glancing away when he realized his father was watching him. Geoffrey had experienced an impressive growth spurt, was taller than Henry remembered, but he was still some inches shorter than Hal and Richard. He was more composed than his elder brother, returning Henry’s gaze with a respectful nod of
