He glanced toward Henry, but the king was still deep in conversation with Malcolm and his newfound allies, the Count of Barcelona and the Viscount of Beziers and Carcassonne, embittered enemies of the man they would soon face at Toulouse. The turnout of highborn lords to the English king’s banners had been impressive. Virtually every baron of England, Normandy, Anjou, and Aquitaine had come in answer to his summons. Henry had allowed his English knights to pay scutage in lieu of military service, and used the money to hire soldiers, mercenaries who would fight as long as he had need of them. He had the most formidable siege engines Hywel had ever seen, trebuchets and mangonels and even Greek fire, the incendiary weapon of the crusaders. Despite the stifling summer heat, the thought of this army being turned loose upon Wales was one that Hywel found chilling.
“There is William de Tancarville,” Ranulf said suddenly, nudging Hywel with his elbow.
Hywel had met the Chamberlain of Normandy on several occasions, but he did not understand why Ranulf should be pointing him out now with such enthusiasm. “So?”
“You see de Tancarville’s squire? Not the one with freckles, the other. I heard an amazing story about that lad yesterday, told to me by William d’Aubigny, who was a witness and swears it to be gospel truth.”
Hywel’s interest was piqued. “I am listening.”
“The lad is John Marshal’s son. Are you familiar with Marshal? He was one of my sister Maude’s supporters, but he is presently out of favor with Harry, who recently deprived him of Marlborough Castle. I’ve always been convinced that Marshal’s veins flow with ice water, not blood, for he was once trapped in a burning bell tower and still balked at surrendering, an act of bravado that cost him an eye. But I’d never heard about the incident at Newbury, mayhap because I was dwelling in Wales by then.”
“What happened at Newbury?”
“Stephen was still king then, and he’d demanded that Marshal yield up his castle at Newbury. Marshal requested a truce so he could consult with my sister Maude in Normandy, and he offered his youngest son, William, as a hostage. He then took advantage of the truce to refortify Newbury. And when Stephen warned him that the boy’s life would be forfeit if he did not surrender the castle, he sent a message back that Stephen could go ahead and hang the boy, for he had the hammer and anvil to forge other and better sons.”
“Jesú! Not only does the man have ice water for blood, he has a stone where his heart ought to be. What saved the boy, then? Did Marshal relent at the last moment?”
“No. Luckily for the lad, Stephen did. They’d taken him out to be hanged. He was only about four or five and thought it was a game of some sort. But once the hangman put the noose around the boy’s neck, Stephen could not go through with it.”
Hywel turned for a better look at young William Marshal, truly one of Fortune’s favorites, and then slapped away a buzzing horsefly. “If we do not get into the shade soon, I’m going to be broiled alive. When I calculated all the risks I’d be encountering on this campaign, I was most worried about French arrows or the French pox. Who knew that the French sun would be my greatest foe?”
Ranulf shook his head slowly. “For the life of me, I cannot figure out why you did come along. No more talk about being bored or wanting to see Paris. Tell me the truth, Hywel. Why are you here?”
“To keep you out of trouble, why else? I am much too fond of Rhiannon to see her a widow.”
Neither one had heard Henry’s approach and they both jumped at the sudden sound of his voice. “What are you two arguing about?” he asked, for they’d been speaking in Welsh, a language that still eluded him.
“I’ve been trying to get Hywel to reveal the real reason behind his inexplicable desire to see the Toulousin.”
“I need another reason besides my wish to serve the king?” Hywel asked, so blandly and blatantly disingenuous that Henry and Ranulf both burst out laughing.
“I think I could hazard a guess as to why Lord Hywel wanted to come,” Henry said to Ranulf. “What better way to take the measure of a man than to fight alongside him?” And although Hywel laughed, too, Ranulf saw his eyes narrow slightly, as if from the sun’s glare, and knew that his nephew had solved the mystery of the Welsh prince’s presence in the army of the English king.
SIMON DE MONTFORT, Count of Evreux, leaned against a wall, arms folded across his chest, listening impassively as the French king was berated by his brothers. Robert, Count of Dreux, and Philippe, Bishop of Beauvais, were both outraged by what they saw as Louis’s failure to stand up to the English king and they were not shy about making their feelings known.
Louis did not seem troubled by their effrontery. For a man who was God’s Anointed, he was remarkably unassuming, shrugging off familiari ties that would have enraged other kings. His chancellor, Hugh de Champfleury, looked much more offended than his royal master, gnawing at his lower lip as if to bite back his protests.
The chancellor held no high opinion of the king’s brothers. He thought Robert was a blustering bully and Philippe a fool. He did not doubt that Louis would get to Heaven long before either one of them made it through those celestial gates; Robert was especially sure to spend several centuries in Purgatory. He’d never known a better man than Louis Capet. But the qualities that made him such a good Christian did not necessarily make him a good king, and he feared Louis would fare badly in this test of wills with Henry Fitz Empress, a fear shared by every man in the abbey guest hall.
Louis had moved to a window and he stood gazing out at the sun-dappled cloisters; whenever he had a choice, he preferred the hospitality of monasteries to neighboring castles. Now, as Robert stopped fulminating, he said, “I understand your consternation, and I assure you that I share it.”
“How very comforting,” his brother said with a sneer. “We can all grieve together for the loss of Toulouse. But mark my words well, Louis, for who’s to say what that Angevin whoreson and his slut will set their eyes upon next? You let him gobble up Toulouse and you could end up fending him off at the very gates of Paris!”
As usual, Robert had vastly overstated his case, but there was still enough truth in his complaint to cause the other men to nod and mutter amongst themselves. Literal, as always, Louis patiently explained that Henry Fitz Empress had no claim to the French throne, thus making any assault upon Paris unlikely in the extreme. This was not an argument to win any favor with his barons, still less with his brothers. Nor did he help matters any by adding honestly, “Alas, I cannot say as much for Toulouse. How can I dismiss his claim out of hand when it was one I once made myself ?”
“And what of your nephews’ claims?” Philippe demanded. “What of Constance’s sons? Are you truly going to stand aside whilst they lose their patrimony, Louis?”
Simon de Montfort thought there was a more compelling argument to be made than that. Raymond de St Gilles, Count of Toulouse, was a vassal of the French Crown. Louis had a legal responsibility to come to his aid; their society was predicated upon the mutual obligations of vassal and liege lord. But Louis seemed more distressed by his nephews’ plight. When he turned from the window, his misery was laid bare for all to see.
“I do not want to jeopardize my alliance with England,” he said plaintively, and Simon de Montfort rolled his eyes, thinking sourly that what Louis did not want to jeopardize was the chance to see his daughter as Queen of England one day.
“Is that what you told the Angevin?” Robert shook his head in disgust. “Little wonder he is now halfway to Toulouse!”
“I told him that I could not countenance the disinheriting of my sister’s sons.” Even Louis’s forbearance was not inexhaustible, and the look he now gave his brother was a mixture of wounded dignity and weary exasperation. “I fear that he did not believe me, though.”
“I’d say that was a safe wager.” This acerbic observation came from Theobald, Count of Blois, Louis’s future son-in-law, plight-trothed to Louis and Eleanor’s nine-year-old daughter, Alix. His elder brother, Henry, Count of
Champagne, was plight-trothed to Alix’s older sister, fourteen-year-old Marie, and both young men were amongst the English king’s most implacable foes, for King Stephen was their uncle.
Louis’s mouth tightened. “I have no intention of abandoning my sister and her children.”
As sincere as that declaration sounded, his audience took little comfort from it, for the French king was the least warlike of monarchs; his attempt to punish Henry and Eleanor for their marriage had been a fiasco, with Henry needing just six weeks to send the French army reeling back across the border.
“So what mean you to do?” Robert scoffed. “Pray for their deliverance?”
“Yes, I shall pray. But I shall do more than that,” Louis said, so stoutly that he raised both eyebrows and hopes.
“You have a plan in mind?” Robert sounded skeptical. “Well, tell us!”
Louis did.
The response was not what he’d expected. Instead of congratulations and approval, he gained only blank looks. “Is that it?” Philippe asked at last. “That is your grand plan to thwart the Angevin?”
When Louis nodded, Robert spoke for them all. “God save Toulouse.”
“He will,” Louis said. “He will.”
THE DAY WAS SWELTERING and the dust clouds churned up by the English army were visible for miles. Chestnut trees drooped in the heat, as did the men. They were more than twelve hundred feet above sea level, riding across windswept plateaus brown with bracken and wilted high grass. At dusk, they mounted the crest of a hill and had their first glimpse of Cahors, ensconced in a loop of the River Lot far below them.
Drawing rein, they gazed down upon the city. “Shrewsbury,” Hywel said softly, and Ranulf nodded somberly, for like that Marcher town, Cahors lay within a horseshoe curve of wide, swift-flowing water. Surrounded on three sides by a natural moat, the city’s only land approach was from the north, and it was well fortified by stone ramparts. Until now, they had advanced almost without challenge, castles and towns yielding to their superior show of force. But Cahors was no ripe pear for the picking. For this prize, there would be a price demanded, one paid in blood.
“WELL?” HENRY ASKED, and his herald slowly shook his head.
“They refused to surrender, my liege.”
Henry hadn’t truly expected any other answer, even though he’d offered generous terms. But he felt a sharp pang of disappointment, nonetheless. “So be it,” he said, gazing toward the city walls. “We attack at dawn.”
Thomas Becket was appraising their target, too. “I will tell the others,” he said. “I hope you will give me the honor of leading the first assault.” His face was deeply tanned, his eyes crinkling at the corners, filled with light. He was immaculately turned out, as always, wearing a finely woven slit surcoat over a chain-mail hauberk that glinted like silver in the last rays of the sun. Ranulf had never seen him as animated as on this campaign. He was showing an unexpected flair for soldiering and an equally unforeseen enthusiasm for his new duties.
Henry had been surprised, too, by his chancellor’s zeal, joking that Thomas had turned their campaign to oust Raymond de St Gilles from Toulouse into a holy quest to free Jerusalem from the infidels. But he made no jests now in response to Becket’s request. He merely nodded, then turned away from Cahors, heading back toward their encampment.
Ranulf, Hywel, and Rainald stayed where they were, sitting their horses on a rise of ground overlooking the city, which was on a war footing, gates barred, sentries patrolling the battlements. Those who’d wanted to flee were already gone; those remaining were making ready for the suffering of a long siege.
Hywel shifted in the saddle, watching as Henry’s stallion broke into a gallop. “Your nephew does not look nearly as eager to spill blood on the morrow as his chancellor.”
“Harry finds pleasure in many places, but not on the battlefield. He much prefers to get what he wants by other means, although he’ll do what he must if it comes to that. As for Thomas, he does seem keen to make a name for himself on the field; he brought fully seven hundred knights at his own expense, which has to be a staggering cost. Passing strange, for he never seemed to me to be a man ruled by his passions.”
“Your chancellor strikes me,” Hywel said, “as a man who throws himself totally into any role he undertakes. How else explain why he could have well served two such different masters as the Archbishop of Canterbury and the King of England? I understand the archbishop is a saintly soul, and not even the king’s mother would claim that could be said of him. Yet these utterly dissimilar men hold Becket in the highest esteem possible. Interesting, is it not?”
Rainald kneed his mount closer. “Are you saying Becket is a hypocrite?” he asked, and looked let down when Hywel shook his head.
“No . . . a chameleon.”
“What in hellfire is that?”
“A small lizard that possesses a truly remarkable talent. It can change its color to reflect its surroundings.”
Rainald considered that and then nodded emphatically. “By God, you’re right, Hywel,” he declared, mangling the Welshman’s name so atrociously that Hywel looked away to hide a smile. “Think on it, Ranulf,” he insisted, glancing toward his younger brother. “Whenever Harry wants Becket to act as the king’s envoy, he boasts a silvered tongue and a statesman’s fine manners. Then when Harry needs him to raise money, he counts every coin like an accursed moneylender. And now that he rides with the king to subdue our enemies, he fancies himself another Roland. I daresay he even sleeps with his sword!”
“I believe his weapon of choice is a mace,” Ranulf pointed out, “in deference to the Church’s stricture against ‘smiting with the sword.’ But it seems to me, Hywel, that you are indeed accusing the man of hypocrisy, for are you not questioning his sincerity? Unfairly so, I believe.”
Hywel looked amused. “Your loyalty to your friends does you credit. I hope you are so quick to defend my sins, too. But for your friend the chancellor, I was not impugning his sincerity. A chameleon cannot be faulted for following his own nature, after all.”
He and Rainald both laughed, and after a moment, Ranulf joined in, not because he agreed with them, but because moments of mirth were never to be squandered, not on the eve of battle.
SWIRLING EMBERS LIT the night sky and fires still burned in the city’s northern quarter. But the worst was over. The battle had been fierce, but far more brief than either side had anticipated. Pounded mercilessly by the English king’s powerful mangonels and trebuchets, the defenders were unable to foil his iron-bound battering rams, which were swung back and forth on rope pulleys until they’d gained enough momentum to smash into the city’s gates. After they’d made that first fateful breach, Becket’s men charged into the gap, while others flung scaling ladders over the walls and began to scramble up. Once the fighting reached the streets, Cahors was doomed, for its river defenses now made flight impossible. By dusk, Henry’s banner was flying over the city and the dying was done, wine now flowing instead of blood.
Ranulf had been in captured towns before. The sights were all too familiar: plundered shops, jubilant soldiers, fearful citizens desperate to placate their conquerors, smoldering ruins that had once been homes or churches, bodies stacked like kindling for swift burial. The streets were crowded with men, many laden with loot, for that was looked upon as a soldier’s right. Ranulf had injured his leg in the assault and he was limping, as much from exhaustion as pain. Jostled on all sides, he’d begun to feel as if he were swimming against the tide, but he finally reached the marketplace, where he sank down, winded, upon a mounting block. Somewhere a woman screamed; closer at hand, a dog was whimpering, unseen in the darkness. Ahead Ranulf could distinguish the blurred outlines of the great cathedral of St Etienne, where he hoped to find Henry. But for the moment, he was content to sit and catch his breath.
Men on horses were forcing their way up the narrow, clogged street, shouting vainly for the celebrating soldiers to clear a path for them. As they drew closer, Ranu
lf recognized Patrick d’Evereaux, the Earl of Salisbury, among them. They were not friends, but they’d been allies, fighting together to gain the English crown for the Empress Maude. Salisbury reined in at the sight of Ranulf. “What an easy victory,” he chortled. “We had to work a lot harder at this in the old days, remember?”
“Yes,” Ranulf said, “I remember.”
“We are seeking the king. The Bishop of Cahors is in a tearing rage, for some of our men sacked his palace,” Salisbury said, with a conspicuous lack of regret. “We had to promise we’d take his protests to the king, if only to shut him up. Have you seen him? Or Becket?”
“I heard they were at the cathedral.” Declining Salisbury’s invitation to accompany them, Ranulf watched as they rode on. Light suddenly spilled into the street as a door opened across the square, raucous laughter resounding on the cooling night air. Ranulf debated going over to the tavern and getting himself a drink, but it was easier just to stay where he was.
“Ranulf?” Hywel was weaving through the crowd, one arm around a remarkably pretty young woman, the other cradled in a jaunty red sling. “Have a drink,” he offered, proffering a wine flask that turned out to be empty.
Switching to French, he said, “This is Emma,” introducing the girl with a gallant flourish that made her giggle. “A few of our men were pressing their unwanted attentions upon her, but I was able to persuade them to be on their way, and this dear lass then insisted upon giving me her own chemise to bind up my wound.”