acknowledgment.
Henry swung back to the French king. “Where is Richard?”
Louis smiled sympathetically, one father to another. “Alas, Richard is balking at taking part in the council. When we summoned him, he refused to come. He is young and hotheaded, as were we all at his age.” Stepping forward, he gestured expansively. “Shall you dismount so that we may talk?”
“If Richard is not here, what is there to talk about?”
Louis did his best to ignore Henry’s brusque tone. “Whilst Richard’s absence is regrettable, it need not prevent us from reaching an accommodation. Come, and we shall discuss it further.”
“I think not,” Henry said tersely, and the Count of Flanders strode over, casting Louis a glance of poorly concealed impatience.
“We are willing to agree to a truce that specifically excludes Richard. You may deal with him as you see fit; that is no concern of ours.”
“I see.” Henry looked from one to the other, then back at his sons. “I will grant you a truce of three weeks. We shall meet again at Michaelmas. I will notify you where the council is to be held.”
When they realized that he was about to depart, Louis and Philip exchanged troubled looks, and the Fleming said sharply, “Wait, my lord! We need to talk over the terms of peace.”
Henry pricked his stallion with his spurs and the animal leaped forward. As Philip jumped out of the way, he glanced over his shoulder. “You will learn my terms at Michaelmas.” His men followed, and Willem soon spurred his horse to ride at Henry’s side.
“What now?” he asked. “Do we go into Poitou to rein Richard in?”
“Yes.” Henry looked over at the other man, and then slowly shook his head. “Richard will long remember this birthday.”
“What do you mean?”
“Today,” Henry said, “Richard turned seventeen.”
Richard and his men were encamped by the River Vienne southeast of Poitiers. Morale was low, for they’d been retreating steadily from the Angevin forces under Maurice de Craon; they did not have sufficient numbers to meet Henry’s commander on the field. Dusk was beginning to darken the sky as Raoul de Faye stormed out of Richard’s tent. The head of his household knights came quickly to his side, but when Raoul angrily shook his head, the man asked no questions.
“Come and eat, my lord,” he said instead, gesturing toward an open fire, where a group of men were clustered around a large pot. Raoul shook his head again, for his latest quarrel with Richard had taken away his appetite. But the air was redolent with the enticing aroma of venison stew, and he was about to change his mind when a sudden shout heralded the arrival of riders.
To Raoul’s vast relief, the lead horseman was a familiar figure, and he hastened over to bid Saldebreuil de Sanzay welcome. Once greetings had been exchanged and Saldebreuil’s men sent off to share the supper, Raoul grasped the constable’s arm and drew him aside.
“Thank God you are here! Mayhap you can talk some sense into Richard. I’ve been unable to convince him that we must surrender. We never recovered from our losses in Saintes, and our numbers have been dwindling daily. It was bad enough when we were running from de Craon. But our scouts report that the English king has now joined the hunt, too, is encamped less than ten miles away. Richard still refuses to yield, though. That boy could teach a mule about stubbornness!”
“Take me to him,” Saldebreuil said, once Raoul had run out of breath. “I have news he needs to hear.” And he fell in step beside Raoul as the two men headed toward Richard’s tent.
Richard was alone, staring down at a crudely drawn map of Poitou as he grimly plotted out lines of retreat. He glanced up with a surprised smile that quickly faded as he studied the constable’s face. “I am not going to like what you’ve come to tell me, am I?”
“No, my lord Richard, you are not. I’d come to warn you that your lord father is on your trail. It seems you know that already. But you do not know what happened at Gisors a fortnight ago.”
“That craven council of theirs?” Richard said scornfully. “What of it?”
“Your brothers and the French king and the Count of Flanders have served you up as a scapegoat to the English king. They struck a truce with Henry that excludes you. In other words, lad, you are on your own, can expect no aid from your so-called allies.”
Richard’s intake of breath was sharp enough to be audible. Raoul indulged in a flare of temper, calling Henry various colorful names that were not flattering, calling Louis even worse. Saldebreuil waited patiently until he was done, and then limped across the tent, coming to a halt in front of Eleanor’s son.
“It is over, Richard,” he said softly. “It is time to go to your father and seek his forgiveness.”
Richard reacted as if he’d been stung, recoiling violently. “No! I will not do that. I will never abandon my mother!”
“Listen to us, Richard,” Raoul entreated. “Eleanor is my niece and I love her dearly. But there is nothing more you can do for her. The war is lost.”
“No!”
Saldebreuil reached out and caught Richard’s arm in a grip too tight to shake off. His voice, though, was kind, even gentle, as he said, “You can no longer hope to save your mother. Now you must save yourself. She would expect no less from you. Do you truly believe she’d want you to sacrifice yourself for her sake?”
Richard’s mouth contorted, and he jerked free of the older man’s hold. “Rot in Hell!” he cried. “All of you can rot in Hell!”
Raoul started after him as he plunged out of the tent, but halted when Saldebreuil said, “No, Raoul. He needs time. Let him go.”
Richard’s flight from his tent had not stopped there. So great was his need to get away that he did not even wait for his stallion to be saddled, instead took the horse of one of their scouts, leaving the man staring after him in astonishment. Once he was out of the camp, he gave the horse its head and urged it on, racing the wind and his own doubts. Common sense told him that Saldebreuil and Raoul were right, but he still saw surrender as shameful, as a betrayal of the person he loved most in the world. How could he do that to her? He knew she was relying upon him to gain her freedom. If he gave up, what hope would she have?
He diverted some of his pain into rage, dredging up memories of the worst curses he’d ever heard his father utter. The French king was a fainthearted, misbegotten weasel, not worthy to wear a crown. The Count of Flanders was a self-seeker of the worst sort, one who’d pawn his honor for the mere promise of profit. The French lords were spineless lackeys, the Flemings no better. His brothers were beneath contempt, Hal a swaggering, empty- headed puppet and Geoffrey a backstabbing sneak. He could almost believe they were foundlings, for how else explain their treachery?
And now what? He was cornered, trapped with no way out. He’d gone up against the Aquilon, the North Wind, and had been found wanting. What mercy could he expect from his father? He’d be publicly humiliated, shamed, tethered like a lady’s pet spaniel. He was a man grown, but his father would never see that. The years would go by and nothing would change. Aquitaine would not be his as long as his father drew breath. And his mother would grow old in an English prison, her exile ended only by death.
Twilight had given way to full night, but he hadn’t noticed. It was not until he saw the glow of campfires in the distance that he realized how much time had passed and how far he’d ridden. Halting his mount, he gazed down at those flickering fires in his father’s camp. During the course of this wild, wretched ride, he’d swung back and forth between anger, defiance, and despair, spitting out curses and blinking back tears that he blamed on the wind’s edge, whispering prayers only God could hear. But he understood now where the Almighty had been leading him.
For an endless time, he sat there, absently patting the neck of his lathered mount as he watched the soldiers move about below him. And then, before he could repent of it, he spurred the horse down the hill. Sentries rode out to block his advance, alarmed by the sudden appearance of this lone youth in their midst. Richard reined in his stallion before them. “I am Richard, Duke of Aquitaine and Count of Poitou,” he said in a loud, clear voice. “I am here to see my lord father, the king.”
