Winterbourne (39 page)

He started to run after Amery, his face purpled with fury, but Jaufre blocked his path. He placed his hand on the king's shoulder. "Nay, my liege. Let them go. What would it avail you to have men at your side who might desert you at any moment? We will do better without them."

"Without them, we shall be overwhelmed." John's eyes darted wildly. "All my hopes. My plans! Curse all traitors to hell. Why must I forever be surrounded by such treachery?"

He looked at Jaufre's hand and struck it off as if it were an adder crawling along his skin. Before the earl could say anything more, he ran back into his tent.

Jaufre shook his head. There was no reasoning with John. In short order, the panic spread through the ranks of the entire army. The king headed a disorganized retreat back across the Loire River, fleeing as if the demons of hell pursued. Siege engines, tents, and baggage were abandoned as the army marched south.

The earl had no choice but to amass his men-at-arms and follow. And with every mile he covered, he sickened with the shame and folly of it. Never had he run from a tight before. If the king kept going, they would soon be all the way back to La Rochelle, from whence they had begun. Five months wasted! From La Rochelle it was only a step to slinking back home across the Channel.

Jaufre prodded his black stallion forward, making one last effort to reason with the king.

"If Your Majesty does not feel it prudent to confront Prince Louis, then at least let us ride to find the rest of the English army under the earl of Salisbury. He will be joining soon with Otto of Germany and the rest of your allies."

"Nay, we must to Rochelle." The king's eyes fixed upon the road ahead, a glazed look in them. "There we will be safe. We will wait, send messengers. More of my English barons must come."

"No more help is coming." Jaufre resisted the urge to grab the king's bridle and slap some sense into the man. "Your Majesty, my grandfather died, drained his life out, helping you to assemble this coalition against France. Will you now turn your back on your last chance to win what was yours?"

"Curse you to hell, de Macy. I turn my back on nothing. I say we go to La Rochelle. We wait. Any who obey not my commands are as much my enemies as the French." John spurred his tired horse into a run, his stumpy frame seeming to shrink into the saddle as he rode away.

Jaufre held back his own mount, allowing the king's men to gallop around him. So the moment had come. His temporary alliance with the king was at an end. He rode back to his followers and signaled a halt. After giving the order to his knights that they were turning around, he sought out Whitney.

The young man had refused to be carried on a litter and now sat perched, tight-lipped and precarious, on his saddle. Jaufre saw that he was going to have to impart secret instructions to one of the squires to see that the fool got safely home.

"You and your men stay with the king," he told Whitney. "I am taking a small group of my knights and riding to join up with Salisbury."

"But I thought the king's orders were that none of us were to leave him."

"I came here to accomplish one thing, and I cannot go back to England until I have or I am—" He broke off and then added, "You return to Winterbourne. Warn Tristan the king's anger may be directed against me. Tell Lyssa…"

Tell Lyssa what? All the things he had never been able to say when he held her in his arms. Did he now think he could consign such a tender message to the care of her hostile brother? On impulse, Jaufre stripped off his leather gauntlet and removed his seal ring—the same ring he had claimed from Melyssan so long ago. He could remember as if it were yesterday how it had dangled from the chain, glittering in the creamy-white hollow between her breasts.

"Give this to Lyssa," he said hoarsely, thrusting the ring at Whitney. The young man's lips parted in surprise. Jaufre could feel Whitney studying his face, although he knew not how much of his emotions were written there for all to see. "Tell her I want her to have it, keep it safe for me if—when I return."

He pushed the ring into Whitney's hand without giving him a chance to reply. As he was riding away, he heard Whitney call his name. He turned, but Whitney did not, presenting Jaufre with the rigid line of his back. The earl was about to slap down on the reins when Whitney's words came to him like an echo borne on the wind.

"Good fortune attend you, my lord, and—Godspeed."

It was near noon on July 27, 1214. The sun broiled down upon Jaufre's back, scorching through his blue tunic to the links of the chain-mail hauberk beneath. The heat penetrated the final protective layer of his thick-quilted gambeson, bathing his body in sweat. He wiped at the beads of perspiration dotting his beard, staring longingly at the sparkling blue thread that was the river Marque.

But between himself and that river, along the grassy slopes of the plateau, stood the king of France himself. Philip Augustus was mounted upon a white charger amidst a sea of men, a mighty army of foot soldiers brandishing spears, tall warriors restraining their restive steeds, their bright-colored pennons hanging limp, without so much as a breath of air to unfurl them. By dusk, the river's sparkle would be dulled with the red of blood. Even now a column of black smoke stained the bright azure sky as the French burned the only bridge. Philip Augustus was taking no chances on his soldiers fleeing back to Paris. They would stand or die.

And the coalition army? Jaufre glanced around at the odd assortment of men by whose side he would fight. Germans, Flemish, and Dutch; contingents from Boulogne and Brabant; and English like himself led by the king's half-brother, William of Salisbury. A shaky network of alliances soon to face the ultimate test.

Roland pressed his horse forward until it brushed against the flanks of Jaufre's black stallion. The earl watched as his son anxiously smoothed out the two-headed swans gracing the front of his golden tunic. The boy stubbornly clung to the heraldic device of Clairemont that had been on the medallion Jaufre had confiscated from him. For the first time, the earl noticed his son's shoulders appeared to have grown broader, the arms longer, more sinewy than he recalled. Roland double-checked the belt holding his sword as if to assure himself it was still there before raising his eyes to meet his father's.

Jaufre detected no fear in his son's eyes, only a certain reluctance. "The other nobles seem not so keen for this battle, my lord. I think if the mercenary Hugh of Bove had not shamed them, we would all have fled again as John Softs—I mean, King John—did a month ago."

Jaufre hesitated a moment, then said, "I will not lie to you, boy. They have reason to be afraid. This will be different from sieging a castle. Many more will die."

Roland squinted into the sun as he studied the lines of men, most of them silent, waiting for the signal that would begin the fray. "I think I have never seen such a large host. There must be—what think you—some twenty, twenty-five thousand? And the weapons! What are those ugly things the Germans carry?"

Jaufre followed his pointing finger to the troops of stalwart men flocked in the center of the coalition line, gathered under the insignia of the dragon and eagle.

"Those are halberds fitted with hooks. The infantry use them to drag the knights from their horses."

"A most unchivalrous sort of weapon, surely."

"Forget your notions of chivalry, boy. They will not apply today. There is something savage about a melee like this. All codes of honor and courtesy get set aside in favor of survival. Nobles, even kings will be fair sport."

Roland's eyes turned anxiously toward the middle of the French line, where could be discerned the royal banner with the golden fleur-de-lis. Philip's white charger was now hemmed in by a bodyguard of French chevaliers.

"By God, at least they have a king of courage." Roland sighed, his shoulders slumping. He passed his tongue over his lips before risking a quick glance at Jaufre. "My—my lord, you have been generous to me, and though I—I never said so, I am grateful. I will serve you as best as I am able, but 'twere less than honest if I did not tell you." He looked wistfully across the field at the French army with Philip Augustus in their midst. "My heart is not in this."

Jaufre, too, stared at the French army. He thought of England, of the white towers of Winterbourne set against the backdrop of the craggy Welsh hills, of Jenny with her dusky curls, of Melyssan. His lady Melyssan, with her soft smile and gentle touch. He weighed all that against Clairemont, a pile of rocks about which he no longer gave a damn.

"Forgive me, Grandfather," he murmured. "But neither is my heart in this. Neither is mine."

At that instant a shout arose from the right flank as the French army made their move, a cavalry assault against the Flemish light horse. Jaufre's squire handed him his kettle helmet, which he donned. He then took up his heart-shaped shield. The earl's standard-bearer rode forward, shaking out the folds of Jaufre's blue banner with its gold falcon crest. Unsheathing his sword and waving it aloft, the Dark Knight plunged himself and his men into a blinding world of dust and naked steel.

As from a great distance, he heard the thunder of hooves and braced himself for the shock of the first blow struck upon his shield. Through the narrow slit of his visor, he saw a helmet pointed like the beak of a large metal bird before his sword sliced down, clubbing his adversary from his horse. After that his opponents came and went in sprays of dirt from the parched ground, one faceless mask of armor succeeding another.

The sun climbed higher in the sky, beating down upon the top of his helm until it became an effort of will to draw breath. He pulled back from the melee to blink the grit from his eyes, trying to make some sense of the way the battle was going, but found himself being swept toward the center of the hollow. The German footmen rushed forward like a solid battering ram, smashing their way through the French infantry. For a moment the line held; then it scattered, leaving a clear path to the tall man on the white horse. The next instant one of the Germans had hooked the French monarch and dragged him out of the saddle. Even above the din of shrieking horses and shouting men, Jaufre heard the cry.

"No!"

Roland's horse plunged forward, his shield deflecting the pike before it pierced Philip's back. To his horror, Jaufre watched as the French men-at-arms closed around his son, re-forming to protect their fallen king. As Jaufre struggled toward Roland, three French chevaliers beat him back. He cried out as a sword blade skimmed the side of his calf. Hammering a blow that dented his opponent's helmet, Jaufre sent the middle knight reeling to the ground. The other two were knocked aside as a blood-smeared horse plunged against their mounts and collapsed. The animal's legs pawed the air, and the creature emitted a death cry before the long neck sank down, the head falling still. Jaufre stared down at the sapphire-studded caparison he had presented his son at Christmas. With a savage cry, he flung himself at the nearest enemy, dealing death on all sides.

The sun trailed lower across the sky, and the fighting grew fiercer still. Jaufre's black stallion jerked his head, screaming as the quarrel from a crossbow penetrated its eye. The horse reared violently, flinging Jaufre from its back before bolting into the crowd. The earl's body slammed into dry earth now slick with blood. He felt as if his lungs were crushed as the air
whooshed
out of them. His men-at-arms gathered around him, buying him time to recover and get to his feet.

The press was so great, Jaufre could scarce find room to swing his sword. Arric fought his way forward, bringing the earl a fresh horse. When remounted, he realized their ranks were thinning. The Flemish had fled early in the battle. Now his horse stumbled over remnants of the dragon and eagle standard as the Germans and men of Brabant deserted the field.

The sun was setting, and few but the English fought on. The earl of Salisbury galloped up to Jaufre, his voice cracking as he shouted, "The day is lost, de Macy. Save yourself while there is still time."

Jaufre's reply died on his lips. Salisbury fell, his head bludgeoned by a heavy club. Whirling his horse around, the Dark Knight tried to round up what remained of his men-at-arms and signal retreat. As he thundered through the hollow, his weary arm still laying about him, a bloodstained patch of gold caught his eye. A badge of two swans streaked with red writhed along the ground. Roland. His son was still alive.

Jaufre dug in his knees, preparing to lunge forward. An infantryman leapt in his path, stabbing his spear into Jaufre's sword arm. Cursing, the earl dropped his weapon, losing control of his horse. For the second time that day, he tumbled to the hard ground, his helmet flying loose from his shoulders.

Groaning, he rolled over. Arric raced to bring him another sword, but the young man was ridden down from behind. An axe sliced through the air, cleaving his skull in twain.

Jaufre averted his gaze, then began crawling toward his son. Pain-glazed eyes regarded him through the visor slits. Jaufre eased the helmet from Roland's head.

"What—what are you doing?" the boy gasped. "Could still… get away. Save yourself."

"Think you I would leave my son as carrion for these vultures? Be quiet. Save your strength." He hooked his good arm under Roland's shoulders, attempting to drag the boy to his feet. But when he raised his head, he found himself staring straight into the steel tip of a sword's blade.

Night had fallen. They were prisoners of the French.

Chapter 17

Melyssan pressed the cup of horehound and honey to her daughter's clamped lips. "Come. Jenny. Open up and take one tiny sip for Mother. 'Twill make your throat feel ever so much better."

Large brown eyes flashed in the small round face before Genevieve screamed out the one word she could pronounce to perfection. "Nay!" Her chubby hand shot out and dashed the cup from Melyssan's hand.

"Genevieve!" Melyssan took a deep breath to curtail her exasperation, then retrieved the cup from where it had rolled under the stool by the hearthside. As she refilled it, she called out to Jenny's nurse, "You shall have to hold her down again. Canice, while I force her to drink it."