The Young Lion (17 page)

‘I hate this moment,’ she said. ‘The archers sometimes shoot our own knights when they ride through the ramparts.’ She closed her eyes. ‘Let’s pray together for them.’

The bow commander said, ‘Ladies, please pray inside. We’ll start shooting soon.’ His archers had laid down small leather cushions to kneel on while beside them their fletchers flexed arrow shafts, checked with their thumbs the feathers and the iron tips, and occasionally tossed an arrow aside.

Xena took a quick last look. The terrible machine was halfway through town now but had stopped moving and lurched to one side. It looked as if it could topple over and demolish several nearby houses. A team of twenty oxen was straining to drag it upright. ‘Henry got the mercenaries to dig a trap last night,’ Isabella said. ‘He wants all the French to see their trebuchet is useless.’ She stroked Xena’s hand. ‘Our Henry spends a fortune on mercenaries.’

She wondered if she should tell the girl, in whose open features converged fear, hope, love and other emotions she couldn’t read, that only a very rich wife would be able to give Henry the war chest he needed to become King of England. She wondered, Do you love him enough to live as his concubine – until he tires of you? If he’s King he’ll make you a duchess. He’ll marry you off to some magnate with whom he’s come to an understanding … Do you want that life? You’re educated. You’re from the trading class.
You could become a business woman, and rich, and lead any life you choose.

Guillaume’s sister, Maria, was closest to Xena in age and already intensely fond of her. Together they went through the chamber and crept along behind the parapet, below which a branch of the river flowed. Riding over the hill was a large body of French cavalry. French infantry was already at the river, constructing a bridge to replace the one that had been dismantled. The commander of the archers said, ‘We wait till they’ve got it finished. Build up the fire.’ Fletchers were busy tying rags around the arrowheads which they dipped in liquid tallow melted in a cauldron. The smell of the black smoke was disgusting. Every so often a man darted a ragged arrow into the flames under a cauldron causing a burst of fire on the rag before he stamped it out. When the commander saw the women he said, ‘Hey, boys! We’ve got a couple of beautiful ladies watching us. You shoot straight and you might get a kiss.’ Looking up and seeing Xena and Maria the men laughed heartily: they had as much chance of a kiss from women such as these as they had of becoming magnates.

‘I’ll kiss the man who burns the bridge,’ Xena said.

The commander slapped his thigh. ‘There you go!’

‘And I’ll kiss the fletcher who prepares his arrow,’ Maria said.

‘That bridge is gone!’ they yelled.

It took the French two hours to build it. During this time Xena and Maria retreated from the nauseating smoke to return to the spot that overlooked the main armies. Norman archers on the ramparts and behind the parapet had stopped shooting but the women could make no sense of what was happening on the narrow battlefield below them where infantry and cavalry of both sides were now fighting hand to hand. Who was winning was impossible to say. The Norman archers lay on the ground, watching the battle as if it were a tournament. They seemed to have some agreement with
their French counterparts because they, too, sat idly, watching. The trebuchet was still stuck and the effort of freeing it seemed to have been abandoned. A young fletcher came dashing to Xena and Maria to invite them to watch the burning of the bridge.

About fifty French infantrymen walked gingerly across the new bridge. ‘They suspect we’re here, but they can’t see us,’ the arrow commander said. His archers, both hands gloved for protection, were poised. ‘Fire!’ the commander shouted. In unison each archer grabbed from his fletcher a flaming arrow and shot it at the bridge. They reloaded as soon as one flame had left their bow. And reloaded, and reloaded. Xena and Maria watched in fascination at their speed. Someone shouted, ‘It’s alight!’ ‘Shoot the horses!’ the commander yelled. The archers stood and fired at the caparisoned mounts on the opposite bank. Horses screamed and reared, several of them on fire. Xena covered her eyes. Knights scrambled to the ground and tried to drag their animals to the river to extinguish the fire, but they were mad with fear, and uncontrollable. Several went galloping away, engulfed in flames. French infantrymen floundered in the water. Some had jumped from the bridge to avoid the fire, others had fallen as it collapsed. Men on the bank tried to help ashore those they could reach, but many of them were already drowned. Only a half-dozen could swim. The cavalry whose horses were still under their command wheeled and galloped off, not towards the main army in front of the town, but back to the hill over which they had come. After a while the infantrymen stood up and trudged after them, carrying their wounded. It was only an hour past breakfast time.

The commander of the archers said bashfully, ‘Do we get a kiss?’

In the billowing, stinking smoke, Xena and Maria kissed more than a score of sooty faces. Each man crossed himself after his kiss. For the first time, Xena wanted to cry.

‘What grace there is in little gifts,’ Maria said.

‘They live on crumbs.’ Life’s sparrows, Xena thought.

‘The boys will remember this,’ the commander was saying. ‘But what about me?’ His men roared and clapped when the girls kissed him, simultaneously, one kiss on each sooty, weatherbeaten cheek.

As his work was over for the time being, he offered to explain what was happening in the main battle outside the town. But when they went to look over the parapet, Henry’s red and gold standard was not to be seen in the swirl of chaos below. ‘Don’t know what that means,’ he said thoughtfully.

Isabella was pacing the chamber, clasping and unclasping her hands. ‘They’ve disappeared!’ she said. ‘Geoffrey, Guillaume and Henry. Vanished!’

Xena felt nauseous from the tallow smoke. Her face was white beneath its film of soot. The white veil she had put over her hair that morning had already turned grey. The young mothers huddled together in front of the Madonna and fumbled their babies’ mouths to full breasts. The two Henrys angrily pushed the breasts away, and wailed. Little Guillaume stamped his feet, screaming.

The commander said, ‘I’ll have another look.’ Outside he conferred with the other archery captain. They walked behind the parapet together, pointing, nodding, pointing again to other parts of the field of battle. Returning to the women he said, ‘My comrade reckons something is going on, because King Louis has vanished too. Our orders were not to shoot him. Or his horse. But what happened, Louis leads their cavalry charge and immediately the Duke, the Old Duke and Lord Guillaume surround and begin harassing the King, as if to kill him. Then this other man rides up, very tall, and the Duke turns round and starts fighting him. The Old Duke and Lord Guillaume keep going at the King. But now Louis has his field marshal fighting beside him. So it’s two against two. Then the Duke is unhorsed. My comrade says it didn’t look like he was unhorsed. Looked like he’d jumped off his
horse. Anyway, the Duke’s on foot, and he’s shouting at the tall Frenchman to get off his horse. And he does. So the two of them go for each other. But the Frenchman’s a lot taller than our Duke, and my comrade reckons he had a fauchard.’

All the women except Xena clasped their hands to their mouths.

Unwillingly, the captain added, ‘One of ’em’s dead.’

There was a long silence. Isabella said, ‘I’ll ask the Madonna.’ She closed her eyes and after less than a minute opened them. ‘It’s not Henry,’ she said firmly.

‘We’re thinking the same thing, lady,’ the commander said. ‘Because they’re all still fighting down there. The French field marshal’s going like a fire, but so are our men. They must believe the Duke is still alive.’

‘So where are the Dukes, and my son? And the King?’

‘It’s a puzzle,’ the commander agreed.

At that moment Henry, Geoffrey, Guillaume and King Louis were seated inside a deserted tavern in Rouen. Louis was without a scratch but Henry was bleeding from a slash on his leg. Guillaume had a cut and bruised eye that was already half-closed and Geoffrey’s forehead was cut, his hair stiff with blood. None of them was in pain. In battle, there was never any pain. That came afterwards.

The four of them had removed their helmets and chainmail. Their swords were stacked in a corner. A group of magnates, eight from Normandy, eight from France, stood around the chamber. The King, who refused to sit on the same bench as the Anjevins, constantly wiped tears from his eyes and sighed.

Henry beckoned to one of his men. ‘Take it outside and put it in a bag,’ he said. In Catalan he said to his father and brother, ‘He’s dribbled tears over it long enough.’

The officer rammed his fingers into the thick grey hair of Baron Estienne de Selors and carried his head outdoors.

Pages brought bowls of water, one for the King, a separate one for the Anjevins. As Henry plunged his hands into the water, scarlet billowed through it.

When Louis’s hands were clean, he said a prayer.

Food arrived, but the King refused it. ‘I’ll take a cup of wine,’ he said.

Henry whispered to Geoffrey, ‘Can we eat if he won’t?’

His father said, ‘Lord King, do you permit us to break bread?’

Louis gave Henry, Guillaume and Geoffrey a glance of contemptuous loathing. ‘Do not deprive your appetites.’

Henry could feel his temper rising, but wrestled it down by staring at Louis, mentally sending an image of himself licking the Queen between her legs. He saw the King flinch, but it could have been from the wine since, with each succeeding mouthful, Louis grimaced.

After they had eaten and the King had drunk another cup of wine, negotiations began. By agreement, Henry allowed his father to speak for Normandy since, according to Louis, Henry was not yet the Duke. The King’s first demand astonished them.

‘You shall cede to France all of Normandy and the Vexin,’ he said.

Henry became so angry his father told him to go outside, where a group of French knights lounged about.

‘His Highness dislikes the wine inside. With your agreement I’ll send to the castle for something more palatable for him.’

‘You’ll have to taste the cup first,’ a Frenchman replied.

‘Of course.’ Henry beckoned the Count of Pacy and spoke to him quietly. The Count mounted and cantered off.

Henry wandered to and fro then stopped to pat Louis’s horse. ‘What’s he called?’ he asked.

‘That’s Jason, sir.’

‘Good horse, is he?’

‘King’s favourite mount. Brought him back from Outremer.’ Jason wore the gorgeous caparison of the House of Capet: gold
fleurs de lys
on a blue ground, the iron rings of his harness gilded and studded with turquoise.

‘Work of art, that saddle,’ Henry said. He walked around Jason, admiring his conformation while the stallion observed him with curious, intelligent eyes, moving first one ear, then the other, as Henry studied him. The moving ears told Henry the animal was attentive. He recalled the horse master’s instruction and imagined Louis handing him Jason’s reins. You’re my horse now, he thought, and saw himself on Jason’s back.

‘You know a horse can see in a complete circle?’ he commented to the closest French knight.

‘Didn’t know that.’

Kick him! Henry flashed to Jason. The stallion lashed out with a hind leg.

Everyone called, ‘Hey! Hey! Steady, boy.’

‘He’s thirsty. Like all of us,’ Henry said. He sat on the ground to examine his wound. ‘The Seneschal did that. Cut right through the armour on my leg.’ He spoke in the same amiable, casual tone he had adopted since he came outside, and lay on the ground on his back, his uncovered hair spread over the dirt.

The Frenchmen looked sullen. One said, ‘You didn’t have to take the Baron’s head.’

Henry regarded them through narrow eyes. ‘He had a fauchard.’

They shifted their feet uneasily. There had been talk in the camp last night that the King had permitted the Seneschal to carry a fauchard.

Henry closed his eyes and appeared to be taking a nap. After some more time had passed one of them said, ‘Sir, you’ve had a hard fight. Would you like to lie on a bench inside? A page may be able to heat water to clean your wound.’ It was almost an hour
since the Count of Pacy had left to fetch palatable wine for the King.

‘You don’t like my company,’ Henry said. ‘Alright. I’ll go back.’

Inside, his father and the King were now sitting at one table with advisors at their elbows. Geoffrey seemed worried. Louis, Henry thought, looked both regal and smug.

‘He won’t give way on the Vexin,’ Guillaume said. ‘And he’s threatening to burn Rouen.’

‘Doesn’t the fool realise we fight better than he does?’ Henry muttered. ‘When he led the cavalry, you or I could have unhorsed him a dozen times. We just tourneyed to make him feel good. We haven’t started fighting yet.’ They spoke in Catalan.

‘Henry, you were certainly fighting the Seneschal.’

‘I tricked him into dismounting! I knew he had a limp and I guessed I could unbalance him.’

Guillaume ignored the boast. ‘Louis says we’re so outnumbered it’s just a matter of time.’

‘We’ve captured their trebuchet and four of their magnates! They’ve only got two of ours. And if it comes to that, Rouen is a Norman city and Louis, right now, is in my country.’

‘You can’t do that, Henry!’ Guillaume said. ‘We agreed the tavern was neutral territory.’

‘Only inside,’ Henry said.

Geoffrey called to them, ‘If you two don’t calm down, you’ll both have to leave. This isn’t easy, Henry. You want to be recognised as Duke. He wants the Vexin.’

‘So if I’m in England, he’ll take Normandy! And Anjou next!’ Henry shouted.

Geoffrey stood. ‘Will Your Highness allow me to confer with my sons?’

Louis waved the back of his hand at him in a gesture of utter condescension.

The Anjevins walked to the other end of the tavern, out of earshot of the French, who immediately put their heads together and began talking fast. They too, it seemed, had needed a break in the negotiations. The ransoms Geoffrey was demanding for the French magnates were steep. And there was the issue of the Seneschal’s body. Henry had ordered it hidden inside the castle, and Louis desperately wanted it back. He wanted to give Estienne a full cathedral burial beside the other great seneschals of France.