Rhuddlan (14 page)

“The scouts returned with the news that
Verneuil has asked for a truce,” Alan shouted back. “The king is
worried that the town doesn’t know his forces are so close and may
capitulate unnecessarily.”

The town of Verneuil lay precariously near to
the French border and was currently under siege by Young Henry and
the king of France as part of their scheme to take Rouen, the most
important Norman city on the Seine River some fifty miles to the
north and in whose castle King Henry was currently keeping court.
The plan called for Louis and the Young King to secure all the
Norman castles along the border below Rouen while their ally, the
count of Flanders, moved on the city from the north. To seize
Rouen, a major arsenal, would invigorate the rebels and demoralize
King Henry, and would put an effective stranglehold on the
heartland of Normandy.

Unfortunately for the rebels, the brother of
the count of Flanders had been killed by one of Henry’s snipers
and, overcome with grief, the count had retreated to his own land.
The threat to Rouen from the north was gone, if only for the
moment.

It was dire that Henry not permit Louis to
gain the slightest foothold in Normandy; the war had been declared
three months ago but there were still barons and knights whose
allegiance was so far undetermined. Henry had trampled on so many
of the traditional rights of his vassals that a significant number
needed only the slimmest excuse to desert him and take an oath to
his son, the Young King, and his allies. The empire he had
painstakingly built was in danger of crashing down about him.

Truces were customarily called when the
besieged realized their supplies wouldn’t hold out much longer and
according to the rules of warfare lasted three days. This gave the
two sides time to come to terms. It was also an indication that the
besieged had concluded no rescue was imminent and that they had
better make peace and salvage what they could. That Verneuil had
asked for a truce, then, was a bad sign; Henry could not afford to
let even this one relatively insignificant town fall to his
enemies.

When Delamere and d’Arques caught up with the
royal force, they saw Longsword with the king. Henry, mailed but
bareheaded, sat on his warhorse and berated his son for almost
being left behind. At least, that’s what Delamere supposed. As was
his habit when angry or irritated, the king was gesticulating
wildly and had grown quite red in the face. A stranger might have
found Longsword’s calm and humble expression as the tirade swept
over him curious, but Delamere knew better. He knew nothing, not
even Henry’s harsh words, could mar his friend’s perfect happiness
with the present state of political affairs in Normandy.

Although Henry had been warned repeatedly
that the Young King was disgruntled enough with his lack of power
to enter into a conspiracy with his father-in-law, he had been too
blinded by affection to seriously believe it. But in May, the Young
King and the French King, having collected allies from Normandy and
England during the past six months, had launched an attack on one
of Henry’s continental possessions and begun the war which everyone
except Henry had anticipated.

Longsword couldn’t have been happier. Always
disdainful of his half-brother’s character and envious of his
status, Longsword was certain the rebellion would serve to harden
Henry’s heart against his heir. He was maliciously looking forward
to watching the Young King’s fall from grace in the weeks
ahead.

The king’s force was soon marching in battle
order along the road to Verneuil. Longsword had been placed over a
contingent of Norman mercenaries, all mounted, which only increased
his good mood. Although taciturn by nature, when Longsword was
happy there was little chance of shutting him up. Delamere let him
chatter on about the rebels’ chances and the superb job his
mercenaries would perform at Verneuil and gave nothing more than a
grunt or two in response whenever his friend paused to draw
breath.

Soldiers on foot were capable of covering
twenty miles a day when pressed; cavalry almost twice that
distance. But Henry and his force were fewer than ten miles from
their destination and the truce still held. There was plenty of
time. The Norman force had merely to make an appearance before
darkness fell to reassure the town by its presence not to
surrender. The next move would be up to Louis. If he were foolish
enough to seek a pitched battle, it would be fought the next
morning. More likely than not, Henry’s counselors agreed, Louis
would take one look at the array of arms against him and turn and
retreat across the border. He well knew Henry was a formidable
opponent.

But if Henry had scouts to report to him the
latest movements of his enemies, so did the French king. The Norman
vanguard, as it crested a hill overlooking the walled town, was
greeted by the sight of black smoke pluming towards the sky and the
stench of burning timber. Louis had broken the truce.

The French army was nowhere to be seen. The
Norman horsemen rushed towards Verneuil at a suddenly frantic
gallop and passed through the gaping hole where the gate had been,
unmolested. The city was a frenzy of activity as its inhabitants
raced to extinguish the flames which seemed to shoot from every
house and shop. A helmetless knight on horseback, his mail and face
begrimed by flying ash, sweat and the tension of the last few days,
approached the king and bowed his head respectfully. He was the
commander of Verneuil’s royal garrison. The castle, he reported,
was still intact; its walls had not been breached by the French.
But under the peace of the truce, the town had opened its gates to
Louis and his soldiers, only to be repaid with treachery once the
French king learned that Henry was threateningly close. They had
even tried a last desperate assault on the castle, but to no avail,
and the crossbowmen on the walls had made them pay dearly for the
attempt.

Henry, his horse stepping fitfully beneath
him, unnerved by the choking smoke, listened to the account without
expression. His sober grey eyes took in the burning houses and the
fleeing people. He asked quietly if his son had been with
Louis.

“Yes, Your Grace,” the knight answered
immediately. Then, as if it struck him how bitter he’d sounded, he
added, “But you can be sure the treachery was Louis’ alone, Your
Grace. The Young King wasn’t responsible.”

Delamere, coming up with Longsword in time to
hear this last exchange, thought the man’s remark ironic
considering it was because of the Young King’s rebellion that Louis
dared to attack Verneuil at all. Longsword snorted derisively and
very loudly, whereupon his father swung around glaring and in an
angry voice ordered him to take his mercenaries and follow the road
as far as the French border to make certain there weren’t any
rebels still in Normandy.

Longsword didn’t have to be told twice.
Grinning at Delamere, he pulled his mount’s head hard to the left,
kicked its flanks and galloped out of the city. By the time
Delamere had caught up with him, he’d already drawn his sword from
his belt, swung his shield down from his shoulder and onto his
forearm and taken off at top speed in the direction of the border,
followed closely by his men. He was after blood and was prepared to
venture into France itself in order to get it.

The hills around Verneuil
seemed empty enough, Delamere thought, and quiet. The road on which
they raced was obviously well-traveled, judging from the deep ruts
carved out by cart wheels. Louis would have come—and gone—this way;
it was the easiest route to take. Delamere cast a wary eye on the
blurring countryside, but there was no forest in which the French
king might have hidden a few crossbowmen, no sudden bends in the
road where cavalry might be lying in wait for them. But something
slightly off to the right
did
catch his eye and he shouted out to Longsword.
“Will! Over there! Smoke, where there wasn’t any a moment
ago!”

Longsword hesitated only an instant, and with
a wave of his sword gestured for the column to veer off the road
and onto the field. The grass was long and the horses had to slow
their pace and shorten their strides to prevent stumbling. Now they
all saw the smoke, eerily reminiscent of the ravage they’d left
behind. Beyond a slight rise in the land was its source: a low,
timbered farmhouse. And around it, slaughtering the livestock and
ready to fire the outer buildings, was the cause: the rearguard of
the French force. Obviously they hadn’t thought to be followed,
supposing that gaining control of the burning city would keep the
Normans occupied for some time. One last act of destruction, they
figured, before they rejoined the army across the border.

Longsword raised his sword high over his head
and let out a long roar. The French looked up with evident shock
and scrambled for their horses as the two Normans and the band of
mercenaries flew across the grass and fell upon them. The sun was
waning now and the fray had an almost surreal quality to it in the
resulting twilight. The family to whom the farm belonged huddled
together near the burning building, open-mouthed. The Normans had
the advantages of surprise and of being mounted, as most of the
French were unable to hoist themselves into their saddles before
being cut down. Longsword’s voice was the most audible amid the
screams and shouts; he bellowed out a stream of colorful profanity
as he swung his heavy sword at an enemy’s neck or bore down on
another and trampled him beneath his horse’s crushing hooves.
Delamere, undemonstrative but just as capable, smashed his
metal-rimmed shield into a French face and drove the tip of his
sword, with the full force of his mount behind it, directly into
the chest of his next victim, breaking through his mail.

The skirmish ended quickly. Of the thirty-odd
soldiers in the French rearguard, fifteen were dead or near death,
ten had managed to escape into the gathering darkness pursued by
some of the mercenaries and the remainder had surrendered. There
was no great name among the prisoners who needed to be treated with
honor because he could bring in a large ransom and Longsword
ordered them all to strip down to hose and shirts and then
permitted the mercenaries to take what plunder they desired from
among the assortment of French mail, swords, knives and horses. He
himself took nothing; the victory was enough of a prize and he had
no need to garner wealth when his father could provide him with it.
Delamere came away with several hauberks and four fine swords which
he hoped to sell.

By the time they arrived back at Verneuil,
darkness was complete. The city’s main gate, hastily fashioned and
erected to replace the one Louis had destroyed, was barred against
them, but after a few minutes of insistent pounding, it was opened
by a pair of Henry’s soldiers who’d recognized the impatient curses
of the king’s son. The king himself, Longsword was informed, was
having supper at the castle.

Most of the fires had been extinguished
although the pall of smoke still clogged the sky, obscuring the
stars on the clear summer night, and the throat-burning stench
remained heavy in the air. Longsword and Delamere walked their
horses along the road leading up to the castle as the mercenaries
followed, poking and prodding the bound prisoners to move
faster.

“Lord, but I’m starving,” Longsword
complained. “Look, Richard, we alone of the king’s men did the most
work today and I’ll wager there won’t be anything left for us to
eat. First the siege, then Louis’ army and now my father’s. We
should have had those peasants at the farm make a meal for us.
After all, we did save their lives and the damned French had
already obligingly butchered the meat.”

Delamere smiled wearily. He wasn’t quite sure
that they hadn’t had the easier job of chasing away a few rebels,
while the bulk of the army had stripped off their battle gear and
fought to bring the raging fires under control. “I think I’d rather
just fall onto a pallet somewhere,” he said.

“And with someone?” Longsword looked at him
slyly. “I hear the garrison commander has a very lovely
daughter.”

Delamere brightened, feeling more awake. “Has
he?”

“Anyway, my father ought to be well pleased
with our work,” his friend said, twisting around in his saddle to
glare at his prisoners. “Too bad my beloved brother isn’t among
them.”

“I doubt the king would be well pleased to
see his heir paraded half-naked through the streets of Verneuil,”
Delamere said drily.

“My God, Richard! You can’t possibly imagine
my father will allow Young Henry to remain as his heir! Not after
this! And conspiring with our worst enemy, too! No, once my
father’s got Young Henry back in his grasp, he’ll probably make him
earl or a duke of something or other and keep him under close
watch. But to permit him to ascend to the throne of England and to
be duke of Normandy after what he’s done—never!”

Longsword spoke passionately, but with a
confidence Delamere didn’t share. Poor Will, he thought; he’ll
never give up hope. He half-envied Longsword his fervent dreams,
his desperate ambitions. He himself had neither. He rarely thought
about his future or what he would like out of life. Instead, he
tagged along with Longsword and took each day as it came and hoped
he wouldn’t be dead at the end of it. But now he stole a glance at
his friend’s uptilted profile and the smile of satisfaction which
curved his lips and wondered what it felt like to want something so
badly—and to never once imagine not getting it.

The royal army spent only one night in
Verneuil. His soldiers had put out the fires and shored up the
damage to the city’s defenses and the king was loath to remain too
long out of Rouen. He was indeed pleased with Longsword’s
accomplishment; the prisoners were handed over to the garrison
commander to await the outcome of the war. And Delamere managed to
make a neat profit on his confiscated goods before he left the
castle.