A King's Ransom (112 page)

Morgan grinned. “Need you even ask?”

R
ICHARD WAS RIDING
his new Lombardy stallion, a silver-grey destrier called Argento who was so fiery-tempered that the other men took care to keep their distance. They’d not gone far when they spotted dust clouds on the horizon. Richard dispatched Mercadier and a local knight, Sir Henri de Corni, to investigate. They were soon back with unexpected news.

“The French king has left Mantes, sire, and is marching north with a large force. I’d say about three hundred knights, as well as men-at-arms and the local levy.”

Richard was startled, for the most logical assumption was that Philippe meant to confront his army at Dangu, but the French king avoided battles the way people shrank from lepers. “I suppose he thinks he may be able to catch us by surprise.” Telling Mercadier to return to Dangu and align their men along the bank of the River Epte, he said the rest of them would track the French force. They then faded back into the woods to wait.

It was a hot afternoon; even though October was just four days away, there was no hint of autumn in the air. The road that Philippe would be following was cracked and dry, for it had not rained in weeks, and before his army came into view, they were preceded by waves of billowing yellow dust. The French banners hung limply, for there was not a breath of wind. Philippe was mounted on a dark brown gelding known to be of docile temperament, and Richard’s men snickered at the sight, for theirs was a world in which a dislike of horses was incomprehensible to most. Their foes plodded on, uncomfortable in the heat, sweating in their armor, unaware that they were being watched.

Richard expected them to ford the Epte, for his army was on the opposite side of the river. When they kept marching north, he began to reassess his assumption. If they did not mean to confront his army at Dangu, what were they up to? He pondered it for a while and then it came to him, so suddenly that he laughed aloud.

“They are heading for Courcelles,” he told his knights. “He does not know we took it so quickly and he’s coming to relieve the siege.” That made sense to them, for the French were heading north, straight as an arrow toward Courcelles. Richard was rapidly reconsidering his options now that he realized what Philippe had in mind. “We have a God-given opportunity,” he said, “for if we attack them whilst they are marching, they are likely to panic and flee.” He added scornfully, “That is what Philippe always does.” His men were in enthusiastic agreement, and after he sent one of the knights back to Dangu with orders for Mercadier to join them, they resumed their shadowy surveillance, keeping to the woods that bordered the road.

They were in high spirits, caught up in the thrill of the hunt, for their quarry was close at hand, but utterly unsuspecting. Richard’s excitement communicated itself to his destrier and Argento fought the bit, wanting to run. “Soon, boy, soon,” Richard crooned, reaching over to stroke the horse’s neck. “There will be plenty of stallions for you to fight. And for me, a king ripe for the plucking.” He indulged himself then, imagining how Philippe’s capture would forever change their world. The French threat would be trampled into the dust like its fleur-de-lys banners, the country bled white to pay for their king’s ransom, one that would make Heinrich’s demands seem paltry and trifling. Assuming the French would want Philippe back. Why should they? He’d shamed himself by fleeing the Holy Land, shamed himself again at Fréteval and Vernon, made a fool of himself at Issoudun. God’s blood, the French might well pay to keep Philippe off the throne! Richard laughed again, and his men laughed, too, for they were never happier than when they were riding the whirlwind with him.

But as the afternoon wore on, Richard felt some of his confidence ebbing away. The French were not that far from Courcelles now. There they would learn that the castle was in his hands and realize their danger. If he hoped to catch them by surprise, it had to be soon. If he waited for his reinforcements, they were likely to slip out of the trap.

Signaling for a halt, he waited until his men had reined in within sound of his voice. “They are going to get away,” he said, “unless we act now. If we want to attack them whilst they are marching and at their most vulnerable, we cannot wait.”

He saw that they were taken aback, some of their eagerness blunted by unease, for they would be greatly outnumbered. “I think it best that we wait for Mercadier and his men,” Jean de Préaux said, for he had fought beside Richard often enough to have earned the right to speak his mind. His brother Guilhem also counseled caution, as did Morgan and several of the others.

Richard heard them all out. “Of course it would be better if we had more men,” he agreed when the last one was done speaking. “But time is not our ally. With each mile, our hopes dim. Can any of you deny that we need to stop them from reaching Courcelles?”

While none could, Richard knew their silence did not mean he’d vanquished their misgivings. “Yes, there are more of them,” he said. “But they are French.” They were amused by that, and he saw some frowns replaced by reluctant smiles. He tightened Argento’s reins when he noticed that the stallion was eyeing another destrier, and then rose in the stirrups so they could all hear him.

“Victory will be ours, I promise you. Why? Because we have the benefit of surprise. Because we are fighting Philippe Capet. And,” he added with a sudden grin, “because we have me.”

As was so often the case, his cockiness proved contagious. They were all laughing by now, and when he said that for years to come, men would be telling stories around campfires of this day, they believed him.

T
HE
F
RENCH ARMY HAD
been on the march for hours and they were spread out by now, with many stragglers. When Richard’s knights shifted their lances from their fautrés, couched them under their right arms, and charged from the woods, the assault created pandemonium in the French ranks. Some of their knights tried to rally their men, but there was so much confusion that their commands went unheeded. The local levy was the first to break, for they lacked the experience of battle-seasoned soldiers and had never faced a cavalry charge of armed knights. Riding stirrup to stirrup, Richard’s knights swept over the road like a wave, engulfing all in their path as the march disintegrated into chaos.

Richard was shouting a new battle cry, one meant to proclaim that he owed his kingship only to God, and the cries of
“Dieu et mon droit!”
rose above the clamor, drowning out the few answering shouts of
“Montjoie Saint Denis!”
Ahead of him a knight on a chestnut destrier was trying to quell the panic, yelling, “Fall back! To me!” as he sought to gather enough men for a countercharge. Richard gave Argento his head, and the stallion’s scream was one of primal fury as he spotted the chestnut. Richard’s target swung toward the sound and couched his lance as he saw Richard bearing down upon him. But his horse sidestepped at the sight of Argento, just enough to spoil his aim. His lance struck Richard’s shield a glancing blow and then he was flung back against his saddle cantle by the force of Richard’s lance. Argento screamed again, lunging toward the other stallion, and when the chestnut reared up, his rider had no hope of retaining his seat, slamming into the ground with enough force to stun him. When he opened his eyes moments later, his horse was gone and he was staring up at the English king, who had his lance leveled at his throat.

“Do you yield?” Richard preferred an iron cap with a nasal guard that did not hinder his vision and permitted his foes to know whom they were facing. The French knight was wearing one of the new great helms that hid his identity and it was only when he wrenched it off that Richard realized he’d just unhorsed one of his crusading companions.

Mathieu de Montmorency had been only sixteen at the time of their arrival in the Holy Land, but he’d grown to manhood fighting the Saracens, and Richard had become fond of him. The eager youth he remembered was a man now of twenty-four, and no longer an ally. But he still had that jaunty spirit, for he mustered up a game smile, saying, “If I must yield, I am glad it is to you, my liege, for there is no disgrace in being unhorsed by the Lionheart.” He got to his feet rather unsteadily, for his head was still spinning, unsheathed his sword, and offered it to Richard. “Will my word be enough?”

“I would take the word of a Montmorency in a heartbeat,” Richard assured him, waving aside the offer of the sword, and they regarded each other in silence for a moment, remembering a time when Mathieu had fought for God, not the French king. Richard’s lance was still intact and he saluted the younger man with it now, knowing he could trust Mathieu to honor his parole. And then he turned back to the battle, which was already showing signs of becoming a rout.

A
NY CHANCE
the French might have had of staving off defeat ended when Philippe chose to retreat rather than rally his men. As he fled toward the closest refuge, his castle at Gisors, the best and bravest stayed behind to buy with their blood enough time for him to escape. Most of the French were fleeing after Philippe, but a number of his knights formed a rearguard to protect their king, offering up their lives and their freedom because he was their liege lord, because they knew no other way. Over a hundred of them would be taken prisoner by Richard and his men, and when Mercadier eventually arrived upon the scene, he seized another thirty knights. Men-at-arms were captured, too, and, as Richard would later report to the Bishop of Durham, two hundred warhorses as well, many of them protected by armor. Once again Richard had defied the odds and the fates and emerged triumphant. But the victory was tarnished by his failure to capture the French king.

He and his men pursued the French almost to the gates of Gisors. He had no siege engines with him, so he could not lay siege to the castle, and the fleeing French soldiers knew that they’d be safe once they reached Gisors. The loss of this great stronghold had been a bitter blow to Richard, for its castellan had treacherously turned it over to Philippe during his German captivity. For a time he’d used the man’s name as an obscenity, and even now the sight of its soaring stone battlements caught at his heart. His stallion was lathered and both he and Richard were blood-splattered, but none of it was theirs. It had been a glorious day for Richard, one in which he could do no wrong, supremely sure that he would prevail. He’d unhorsed two more knights before his lance shattered and he’d switched to his sword, cutting a path through the French king’s desperate defenders with such ferocity that many of them veered off as Argento charged toward them. But his hope of overtaking Philippe died as soon as Gisors came into view.

Richard reined in, for further pursuit was useless. Too late! Once again that paltry milksop had gotten away. He was soon joined by some of his knights and then Mercadier. They were all jubilant, their spirits soaring higher than hawks, for they’d won some rich ransoms this day; even better, they were still alive to savor their victory. Sensing Richard’s mood, they sought to cheer him with such savage mockery of the French king that some of his anger began to cool, to be replaced by a genuine sense of bafflement.