Devil's Brood (70 page)

He was not alone; his men were dragging a prisoner into the hall, a glum-looking man of middle years who was shoved forward to kneel at Richard’s feet. “We saw him galloping along the Limoges road,” the young knight explained breathlessly, “and I was curious why he was in such a tearing hurry. Most men who race the wind are either outlaws on the run or they’re bearing urgent messages. So we stopped him, searched him, and discovered the reason for his haste. He is a courier for the French king, carrying a letter for your brother, the young king.”

He beamed at Richard, his face aglow with triumph and pride, for all knew their duke put a high value upon men who were resourceful and quick-witted. Nor was he disappointed, for Richard responded with heartfelt praise. Delighted that he’d earned his lord’s favor, he produced the royal letter with a flourish. “I did not think it was my place to read it. But I recognized the seal as King Philippe’s, and after a little persuasion, our friend here admitted he was delivering it to your brother.”

“Well done, Ancel.” Richard quickly broke the seal and held the letter under a smoking rush-light. When he glanced up, his face was utterly without expression, as blank as a sepulcher’s graven image, and André felt a frisson of disquiet shoot up his spine. “Summon my seneschal and the other members of my council,” he instructed André in a voice that was toneless, so dispassionate that the other man’s unease flamed into outright alarm.

R
ICHARD HAD NEVER SPENT
much time at Aixe, a castle he’d taken from Viscount Aimar several years ago, and he’d expended little money on its upkeep. Lacking a solar, they had to gather in his bedchamber. Richard stood by the hearth, his eyes moving from face to face as if taking inventory of the men he trusted.

Robert de Montmirail was his new Seneschal of Poitou. Eleanor’s uncles were not present, for Hugh had died seven years ago and Raoul de Faye was in ailing health. But Raoul’s eldest son and namesake was there, as was Ourse de Freteval, his son-in-law. The Chauvignys were represented by André and his cousin Nicholas, who’d served Eleanor with such loyalty; as soon as he’d been released from his imprisonment at Loches, Nicholas had transferred his allegiance to Richard. Guillaume de Forz was, like André, a friend since boyhood, and Richard’s cousin Rico had recently earned the accolade of knighthood.

After briefly telling them how he’d come into possession of the French king’s letter, Richard wasted no time in breaking the bad news. “Philippe writes that he regrets he cannot come to fight alongside Hal in person. But he has sent a large band of Brabançon routiers to Limoges. Moreover, he assures Hal that his cousin Hugh, the Duke of Burgundy, is showing considerable interest in joining their alliance. And he claims that the Count of Toulouse is another one who is likely to throw in his lot with them, unable to resist this opportunity to bring me down.”

There was a prolonged silence when he was done. As the men looked around at one another, it was obvious that they were sharing the same thoughts. Richard was already facing a formidable coalition: his brother the young king, his other brother the Duke of Brittany, Viscount Aimar, the Taillefer brothers of Angoulême, several de Lusignans, Elias, the Count of Périgord, the viscounts of Ventadour, Comborn, Turenne, and Castillon, the latter’s brother Oliver, the castellan of Chalus, and Fulcand, Lord of Archiae, as well as several lesser lords who could, nevertheless, contribute men and money. Even with the Archangel Michael himself fighting on Richard’s side, he could not hope to defeat so many rebel lords if they were backed by the French king, the Duke of Burgundy, and the Count of Toulouse. All of Richard’s battlefield brilliance would avail him little against an army of that size.

But if they were in agreement as to what must be done, none of them were eager to try to convince Richard. The burden should have fallen upon his seneschal, but Robert de Montmirail had only recently been appointed to his post, and he prudently held his tongue. Neither Richard’s friends nor his kinsmen wanted to risk their rapport with their young duke. It was finally Nicholas de Chauvigny who spoke up, as forthrightly as he’d done on the day he’d defied Porteclie de Mauzé for Eleanor’s sake.

“My lord, you must seek the aid of your lord father, the king.”

Richard’s failure to flare up at the mere suggestion showed them that he’d already had the same thought, and his common sense was warring with his pride. They waited uneasily for his response, for with Richard, they could never be sure which one would prevail. “I do not see how I can do that,” he admitted after a long silence. “My father and I are hardly on good terms these days. I left his court without his consent, and have ignored all the messages he’s sent since then. And I would rather go down honorably in defeat than grovel and plead for his help.”

André cleared his throat. “My lord, send me to the king,” he said, utterly earnest for once. “I will not grovel on your behalf. You have my sworn word upon that. I will simply relate the facts, let the king make up his own mind. There is no dishonor in that.”

Richard looked intently into his face, and then away. “Go, then,” he said in a low voice. “Be sure you take a strong escort, though, for the roads to Angers are swarming with bandits, rebels, routiers, and masterless men seeking to take advantage of the unrest.” His mouth twisted down. “Such is the evil that my brothers have let loose upon my duchy.”

T
HE ENGLISH KING’S
newest bedmate had raised some eyebrows, for she had a curly mane of flame-red hair, which had been thought unlucky since the time of Judas, and a crop of unfashionable freckles. But she also had an earthy sensuality, a merry laugh, and a good-natured tranquility that Henry found soothing. There was so little serenity in his life these days that he sought it out wherever he could find it.

She’d fallen asleep while waiting for him, awakening only when she’d reached out drowsily for his warmth and found his side of the bed cold and empty. Pulling the bed hangings aside, she sighed when she saw him seated by the hearth, still fully dressed, his sleepy squires struggling to stay awake should he have need of them. “My lord, are you never coming to bed?”

Henry glanced up at the sound of her voice. “Soon, Belle. Go back to sleep,” he said, knowing that, bless her, she would. She was easily contented, utterly lacking in undercurrents, and he found that a strong part of her appeal. Rubbing his eyes, he looked down blearily at the pile of petitions in his lap. He was bone-tired, but he knew he’d not be able to sleep. His nights were always the same now. He’d lie awake for hours, unable to silence his inner voices, unsettled thoughts ricocheting around his brain until it was almost dawn, until his body’s exhaustion would finally triumph over his mind’s disquiet.

Rifling through the petitions randomly, he tried to focus upon the multitude of requests. The castellan at Loches had written to tell him of storm damage. His lazar house at Caen was also seeking aid. He’d always had a deep, visceral sympathy for lepers, had founded hospitals at Caen, Rouen, Le Mans, and now Angers, and it seemed that they all had unexpected expenses he must bear—roofs to be repaired, cisterns to be dug, fences to be mended. Even one of his proudest accomplishments—the great levee he’d built along a thirty-mile stretch in the Loire Valley to prevent seasonal flooding—was showing its age, in need of shoring up at Bourgueil. It was almost as if all of his life’s work was crumbling at the same time.

Jesu! That last thought had him shaking his head in disgust. It was bad enough that he was wallowing in self-pity like this; must he be maudlin, too? Thrusting the petitions aside, he found himself staring into the dying fire. Why had he not heard from Hal by now? An eerie silence seemed to have settled over the Limousin; his scouts had little to report. When he got to his feet, his squires stirred, looking hopeful that he might be ready for bed. But he’d heard what they had not—a soft knock at the door.

It was his chamberlain, explaining apologetically that a courier had arrived with an urgent message from his son, and he’d reluctantly agreed to see if the king was still awake, warning the man that if not, he’d have to wait till morning.

Henry felt a vast, weary surge of relief. But his hopes were soon dashed, for the man being ushered in was one of Richard’s household knights, not one of Hal’s. Brushing his disappointment aside, he took solace that at least he was hearing from one of his recalcitrant sons. “André de Chauvigny, is it not?” he asked, in an impressive display of the memory that had always served him so well. “Are you kin to the Nicholas de Chauvigny who was one of my queen’s men?”

“Indeed, sire. We are cousins.” André came forward and sank to his knees in the floor rushes, as much to ease his aching body as to show proper reverence to the king, for he’d spared neither himself nor his horse in his haste to reach Angers. “My liege, there are matters that you need to know about.” As concisely as possible, for he knew Henry had no more patience than his duke, he related what they’d learned from the French king’s letter, revealed the magnitude of the conspiracy confronting Richard.

Henry listened without interrupting, and when he was done, said only: “Are you so sure, then, that the young king is allied with the rebels?”

André paused, recognizing a pitfall when he saw one. “We have no reason to think otherwise, sire,” he said cautiously.

Henry’s expression was not easily read. Beckoning to the chamberlain, he said, “See that Sir André gets a bed for the night and whatever else he needs.”

Realizing he’d just been dismissed, André got reluctantly to his feet. It took all of his self-control to do as he was bade, not to argue further on Richard’s behalf. His discipline took him as far as the door, and there he could not help blurting out in despair, “My lord king…what will you do?”

“What do you think?” Henry said brusquely. “I am going to put out this fire ere it engulfs us all.”

S
OME OF THE PREROGATIVES
of queenship had been restored to Eleanor in recent years, and she now had her own household, her own servants. When her chamberlain informed her that Lord Ranulf Fitz Roy and his son were asking if she’d see them, her brows arched in surprise. Was Ranulf finally thawing? But when he was ushered into her chamber, he greeted her with such brittle courtesy that she knew this wasn’t the case. So what had brought him here?

“This is my eldest son, Bleddyn,” Ranulf said, and Bleddyn bent over Eleanor’s hand as if he were a polished courtier, welcoming the chance to study this controversial queen at such close range. Ranulf did not waste time in social pleasantries, at once revealed the reason for their unexpected presence at Winchester.

“My son and I are taking ship at Southampton, and as we approached Winchester, it occurred to me, Madame, that you might have the latest news from Aquitaine. It has been almost a fortnight since we got word of the rebellion, and much could have happened since—”

“Rebellion? What are you talking about, Ranulf?”

“You do not know?” he asked incredulously. This was a complication that he’d not foreseen. “The Lady Emma heard that war had broken out in the Limousin, and she was kind enough to pass word along to me, knowing that my son Morgan is serving as your son’s squire.”

Eleanor had rarely been so bewildered. What did Geoffrey have to do with the Limousin? Unless he’d come to Richard’s aid? But that did not make sense, either, for why would that have sent Ranulf racing from Wales in such haste? “Did Viscount Aimar rebel again?” This was Harry’s fault, damn him. Aimar had been a faithful vassal until he’d been denied Rainald’s earldom.

“It is far worse than that, Madame. Your sons are at war with one another. Hal and Geoffrey have joined forces with the rebel barons against Richard. They aim for nothing less than to make Hal the Duke of Aquitaine, and my son is caught up in the midst of this madness!”

Eleanor stared at him blankly, as if she’d not been able to process what he’d just told her. It was the first time that Ranulf had ever seen her utterly at a loss. She swallowed with an effort, and her voice did not sound like Eleanor’s at all, barely audible, with a noticeable quaver. “What…what of Harry? What is he doing about this?”

Ranulf shook his head. “I do not know. Emma’s message made no mention of him.”

She turned away, blindly, and he instinctively put out a hand in case she needed his support. Amaria had also hastened to her side, her eyes wide with horror. But then Eleanor said, “Get my mantle,” in a very different tone, biting the command off so sharply that Amaria flinched away from the words as if they were weapons. Eleanor did not notice. She seemed to have forgotten Ranulf, too. Wrapping herself in her mantle, she moved swiftly toward the door, jerked it open, and plunged into the stairwell. Ranulf and his son exchanged glances, and then hurried after her.

R
ALPH FITZ STEPHEN LOOKED
utterly miserable. “My lady, it was not my doing. I would never have kept this from you if I’d not been ordered to do so by the king.”

The pupils of Eleanor’s eyes had contracted to slits. “Did he, indeed?” she said softly. But the reckoning with Harry could wait. “Tell me what you know of this war between my sons.”

He did, but he did not have much more information than Ranulf. The last he’d heard, Geoffrey had joined the rebels at Limoges, Hal had gone after him, and bloody fighting had broken out all across the duchy. He’d heard that the king was on his way, too, to Limoges, and there were rumors that the French king was coming to Hal’s support. He was confident, though, that the king would quell the rebellion and reconcile her sons.

Eleanor dismissed his reassurances with an impatient shake of her head, and the rest of his words trickled away into the silence enveloping the hall. No one else ventured to speak, all eyes riveted upon the queen. “From now on,” she said, “you will let me know as soon as you hear anything from Aquitaine, Sir Ralph—anything at all. Is that understood?”

He assured her that he understood, but over the years he’d grown protective of her, impressed by her courage. “Madame, if I may be so bold as to tell you what the lord king told me. He said that he meant to do all in his power to make peace between his sons, and that he hoped you would never need to know.”

Eleanor was not mollified, saying icily, “He did not have the right to keep this from me.” This was Eleanor at her most imperious, and none dared to argue with her. But it was, oddly enough, at this moment that Ranulf finally forgave her, for his father’s fear had sharpened his perception and he saw beyond the queen’s camouflage to the anguish underneath.

A
NDRÉ DE CHAUVIGNY HAD BEEN EDGY
and unsettled ever since they left Angers, for Henry had taken only his household knights, and André considered that an inadequate escort to ride into the lawless chaos that had descended upon Richard’s duchy. Henry had brushed aside his misgivings so curtly that he decided his king and his duke were more alike than either one wanted to admit. He was vexed, too, that so many of Henry’s men had elected not to wear their mail on the road. This was a common practice when speed was of the essence, and he was the only one clad in both hauberk and helmet.

They traveled fast, pushing their mounts and making no allowances for the winter weather, but André was accustomed to that from years of riding with Richard. Despite his qualms, they encountered no troubles on the road, and at dusk on the fourth day, they were within sight of Limoges. André was not happy about their destination, either, but he’d failed to convince Henry that it made more sense to rendezvous with Richard at Aixe before attempting to contact the young king and the rebels. He could only wonder which contributed more to the royal family’s stubbornness—their Angevin blood or their high birth.

The gates of the ville were closed tight, a sign that the city was on a war footing, and Henry was displeased to see how much progress had been made in restoring the walls torn down at Richard’s command two years ago. Aimar was becoming more than a nuisance, a burr under the saddle. His habitual rebellions were causing too much havoc in the Limousin. If there were any more intractable, troublesome vassals than Eleanor’s barons, he hoped to God he never encountered them. They made the Welsh seem downright tame and docile.

As they approached, bells began to peal loudly. When one of Henry’s men demanded entrance in the name of the king, there was no indication that he’d been heard, although they could see men’s heads bobbing up in the embrasures. The church bells were still ringing, and they could hear men shouting, dogs barking. They drew closer, but before they could shout out again for admittance, they were met with a hail of arrows.

In the confusion, two men were thrown from their horses. Henry saw one of his knights take an arrow in the shoulder, and then he was rocked back in the saddle, slamming into the cantle. He felt no pain, just the impact, but Geoff was pointing and shouting, and he glanced down, saw the arrow shaft protruding from his mantle. They were all in retreat by now, and as soon as they’d gotten out of arrow range, the men clustered around Henry, the wounded knight temporarily forgotten.

“You’ve been hit,” Geoff gasped, the soldier totally submerged for the moment in the son. Henry had already pulled his mantle back, and they all stared at the arrow caught in the metal links of his hauberk.

“I am not hurt,” Henry insisted. “The point did not penetrate the mail. I may have a bad bruise, but the royal hide is not even scratched.”

His attempt to make light of the hit did not convince the other men, for they knew that mail had no magical properties that would always deflect arrows; injuries depended upon such variables as the size of the arrowhead and the angle of the shot and simple luck. Moreover, some of them remembered that Henry had wavered about wearing a hauberk on the journey, prudence finally prevailing over comfort. Henry remembered that, too, but he took it as a sign of Divine Favor. This was not his closest call; when he’d been ambushed in the deep forests of Wales, an arrow had almost grazed his cheek. Still, though, it was a shocking assault upon the person of the king, upon God’s Anointed, assuming it had been deliberate.

When Willem and André de Chauvigny insisted they must ride for Aixe, Henry did not protest. After tending to the injured knight as best they could, they detoured widely around Limoges and headed south to ford the River Vienne. And as he rode, Henry refused to let himself dwell upon that near-miss, for then he’d have had to confront questions he was not ready to face, questions about the complicity of his sons in those arrows raining down upon his men. Had it been an accident? Or an assassination attempt?

G
EOFF HAD BEEN TAKEN ABACK
by Richard’s outraged reaction to their father’s narrow escape. He found it difficult to dismiss his suspicions, though, and later could not resist commending his brother sarcastically upon his sudden filial devotion.

Richard liked Geoff no more than Geoff liked him, and he gave the older man a suspicious look of his own. “What did you expect—that I’d not be angry if some damned fool nearly kills the king? If his aim had been a little better, we might have found ourselves facing calamity. The surest sign of the coming Apocalypse will be the day Hal gets to call himself a king in fact and not in name only.” Catching the vexed expression on Geoff’s face, he frowned. “What?”

“Our father was almost slain this afternoon, and you’re just thankful that Hal will not be king? I swear the lot of you make Absalom look like a dutiful, loving son!”

“Why…because I spoke the truth? Sorry to disappoint you, but I am not a good liar. I could not hope to compete with Hal in that arena.”

“I cannot argue with you there,” Geoff conceded grudgingly. “The truth is not an utterly alien tongue to you, as it is to our brothers.”

“Praise like that will turn my head, Geoff,” Richard said, very dryly. “Hal is the worst offender, though. Geoffrey can lie as easily as he breathes, but at least he does not lie to himself. Hal usually gets entangled in his own webs, and that makes him truly dangerous.”

Again, Geoff could find no fault with Richard’s assessment of their brothers. “Do you think they deliberately ordered—” he began, only to be halted in mid-sentence by the stunned look on Richard’s face. Following his gaze, Geoff turned and then he, too, gasped, for Hal had just entered the hall.

Henry had been seated on the dais, paying little heed to the men clustering around him, friends and sycophants alike trying their best to distract his thoughts from the day’s troubling events. At the sight of his son, he jumped to his feet, although he remained where he was and let Hal come to him. Richard and Geoff were already in motion, too, and all three of them converged upon the dais at the same time.

“Are you unhurt, my liege?” Hal stopped on the steps, looking up searchingly into Henry’s face. “I was horrified to hear of your mishap. It was an unfortunate misunderstanding. A fool watchman mistook your men for a raiding party from the cité and rang the alarm bell, crying out that the town was under attack. Thankfully one of my knights was on the castle walls and he recognized the royal banner. When I think what could have happened…” He grimaced, shaking his head. “You may be sure the bowman will be punished for his carelessness, and the watchman, too.”

“I can spare you the trouble,” Richard said laconically. “Send them to Aixe and we’ll punish them for you.”

Hal gave Richard a cool, dismissive glance. “How very kind of you to offer, Brother. But you’ve been known to discipline offenders with…an excess of zeal. I think it best that we deal with the culprits ourselves.”

Richard dropped all pretense of civility and said with a snarl, “If you truly do punish that bowman, it will be because his aim was off!”

Hal flushed, looking genuinely angry. “You dare to accuse me of seeking my father’s death?”

“And you dare to come here and insult us with your talk of ‘accidents’ and ‘mishaps’? It is not wise to think all men are as dull-witted and foolhardy as you,
Brother
. Now I have another question for you. How do you plan to get back to your friends in Limoges?”

The knights who’d accompanied Hal took that as the threat it was meant to be and moved closer to the young king, hands now on sword hilts. “I’d sooner trust the good faith of an infidel Turk than yours,” Hal jeered. “But I am here to speak with my lord father, and unlike you, he is a man of honor.”

Now it was Richard’s turn to sneer. “What would you know of honor? You’re a joke, the King of Cockaigne, who’s done naught but spend his sire’s money and play the fool—”

“Enough!” Henry said suddenly, up till now a stricken witness to his family’s fratricide. His eyes flicked from one to the other, and then, making up his mind, he beckoned to Hal. “I will hear what you have to say. Come with me,” he commanded, and people hastened to clear a path as he stepped from the dais and headed for the door. Hal gestured to his knights to remain in the hall and then followed after his father.

Richard and Geoff watched them go. “That gibe about the ‘King of Cockaigne’ was clever,” Geoff said at last, thinking that Hal was indeed meant to reign over that fabled land of milk and honey, never one in the real world. Richard did not reply, but as their eyes met, they silently acknowledged the start of an unlikely alliance.

T
HEY’D COME TO A HALT
out in the bailey, snow crunching under their boots, chilled by a wind that had sprung up without warning, the damp, heavy air warning of rain before dawn.