The Devil is Loose Read online

  The Devil is Loose

  Table of Contents

  Cover

  Title Page

  Disclaimer

  Dedication

  Principal Characters

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  About the Author

  Read More

  Copyright

  The Devil is Loose

  Graham Shelby

  This book contains views and language on nationality, sexual politics, ethnicity, and society which are a product of the time in which the book is set. The publishers do not endorse or support these views. They have been retained in order to preserve the integrity of the text.

  For Sallie, of course and for N.J.B. I.R.H. A.C.W.

  Principal Characters

  HENRY II King of England

  ELEANOR OF AQUITAINE Wife of Henry II

  RICHARD LIONHEART Son of Henry II and Eleanor; later King of England

  JOHN Brother of Richard

  GEOFFREY FITZROY Bastard son of Henry

  BERENGARIA Princess of Navarre

  HADWISA OF GLOUCESTER Wife of John

  PHILIP AUGUSTUS King of France

  WILLIAM MARSHAL later Earl of Pembroke

  ISABEL DE CLARE Wife of William Marshal

  WILLIAM LONGCHAMP Chancellor of England

  RICHARD FITZ RENIER Sheriff of London

  ROGER MALCHAT Steward of the Kingdom

  RANULF GLANVILLE Justiciar of England

  WILLIAM DES ROCHES Knight Commander

  HENRY Emperor of Germany

  LEOPOLD Duke of Austria

  Chapter One

  Run to Earth

  June, July 1189

  At midday men were sent out with flaming torches to fire the suburbs. They were accompanied by archers who touched pitch-tipped arrows to the fire-brands, then loosed the shafts at the outlying buildings. Before long the houses to the south were burning briskly, and the smoke had drawn a curtain between father and son.

  Inside the walled city of Le Mans, King Henry II of England prepared to make his stand. This was merely a figure of speech, for he could neither stand nor sit in comfort. He suffered from an anal ulcer, and the poison in his blood had all but robbed him of the use of his legs.

  A mile to the south, beyond the billowing curtain, stood Henry’s son and enemy, Richard Plantagenet, Duke of Aquitaine. He was an impatient man, but he knew that by their very nature fires burned down. He would not have long to wait.

  The adversaries held their positions for two hours, and then the erratic wind shifted and the flames wafted back against the city and drenched it with sparks. Thatched roofs caught alight and collapsed, bringing down the supporting beams. Walls fell inward, or subsided into the streets. Trapped animals bellowed, and the city gates sagged on their hinges. The king’s supporters read the signs and lifted him gently on to his horse and escorted him northward, out of the city.

  Henry’s father had been buried in Le Mans, and he himself had been born there, so he had a special affection for it. Now, however, as the flames spread, forcing him out, he found the strength to jab a gloved finger at the sky and croak an old man’s curse.

  ‘God… You listen to me… You choose to drive me from the city I love most on this earth … The city where I was born and raised… Where my father is buried… You do it to increase my shame and for no other reason… So I shall pay You back, coin for coin… Mark my words… You turn away from me in my distress… Very well… Then I shall take from You that which You love most in men… I deny You my soul… Do what You will, for

  ‘You have already lost me.’

  And so he went on, until fatigue overcame him and his escort edged closer, to hold him in the saddle.

  An hour later, when the south gate of the city had become so much charred wood, Richard Plantagenet mounted his horse and led a group of riders through the blackened archway. He was so eager to continue the pursuit that he went in without sword or shield. Such an omission by the man who would one day be known as the Lionheart, the Champion of Chivalry and the greatest warrior in the West, was proof enough of his feelings for King Henry. If he could not kill him with a sword, he would batter him down with a mailed fist, then trample him beneath the hooves of his destrier. No more than his father deserved…

  There were those on both sides who acknowledged that it should never have come to this. The race to tragedy might have been halted, though the path had been laid twenty years before.

  In those days, the kingdom of France had been ruled by the ingenuous Louis VII. In an attempt to end the historic enmity between France and England, Louis had encouraged the betrothal of his daughter Alais to Henry’s twelve-year-old son, Richard Plantagenet. The betrothal guaranteed English dominion of the Vexin, a vast tract of land on the north-east border of Normandy, together with the extensive fief and fortress of Gisors. Alais was sent to England and placed in the care of King Henry, on the understanding that she would marry Richard on his fourteenth birthday.

  Ten years later she was still waiting, and there was a widespread rumour that Henry had taken a fancy to the girl and had seduced her.

  True or false, the news enraged the French nation and reawakened traditional animosities. If it was true, it made a monster of the English king, for what manner of man would swear to safeguard his son’s bride-to-be, and then keep her for himself? And if it was not true, why had there been no marriage?

  Alais had been twelve years in the English court when King Louis died, and the crown passed to his son, the chilly and far-sighted Philip Augustus. As Alais’s brother, Philip had every reason to avenge the hapless girl. As King of France, he was equally determined to drive the English monarch and seducer back across the Channel. Throughout the next nine years he had schemed and plotted, devoting himself to the eventual downfall of the Angevin empire. During that time he had discovered that his most powerful allies were Henry’s own sweet sons.

  In short, Philip had managed to convince Richard Plantagenet that his father intended to disinherit him in favour of Richard’s younger brother, John. It was hard work, for Richard was no fool. But neither was he a politician, and, seven months ago, in the village of Bonmoulins near Mortain, Philip had brought father and son face to face, and he had fed Richard his lines.

  Would Henry arrange an immediate marriage between Richard and Alais, and make over to Richard the Vexin and Gisors?

  No, he would not. In time, certainly, but not yet.

  Would Henry instruct his barons to swear fealty to Richard as heir to the throne of England, and so ensure John’s exclusion?

  No, not until Richard curbed his warlike ways, and showed himself fit to govern.

  Would Henry at least allow his eldest son to take control of Maine, Touraine and Anjou, three of the most important English possessions abroad?

  Again, no.

  Concealing his satisfaction, Philip extended his hands, palm uppermost, and Richard knelt before him and laid his own hands palm downward, so that the two men touched in the gesture of homage. Then, in his deep, raucous voice, raised for his father’s benefit, Richard swore to defend Philip in the English dominions of Normandy, Anjou, Poitou, Touraine, Maine and Berry, and all the fiefs on that side of the Channel. For his part, Philip gave his new-found vassal a variety of castles, and then the two men rode away, leaving Henry to his own devices.

  Since then there had been open war. It had gone badly for Henry, but never so badly as now, driven out of his birthplace by Go
d and wind and fire, hunted by the implacable Frenchman and his own son. The King of England was fifty-six years of age, and his bleeding ulcer made him wince with each lift of the saddle.

  The hurried retreat from Le Mans was directed by Henry’s favourite knight, William Marshal, and by one of Marshal’s closest companions, William des Roches. The former knight was remarkable for many things, not least that he resembled an Arab. He had brown hair, brown eyes, a thin cut-butter nose and skin that had been scarred and darkened by a lifetime in the open air. He was forty-three years old, and looked it, as any man will look his age if his life is given over to tournaments and warfare and hard riding. His name presaged his title, though he did not yet know that. It was enough for his vanity that the world addressed him as Marshal, and that he was King Henry’s right arm and, in these sad days, his legs.

  Marshal’s companion was rather more substantial, at least around the belly. But a heavily-built knight owes nothing to a thin one; there are simply more links in his hauberk.

  Now, with their cloaks and faces speckled with soot, Marshal and des Roches guided the ailing king along the east bank of the River Sarthe. Henry moaned on, blaming God for his situation, but his protectors paid no heed to his mouthing. Each kept a hand on his shoulder, holding him in the saddle.

  Behind them came the seven hundred knights who comprised the remnants of Henry’s force. There were no foot soldiers, for they had been unable to keep pace with the fleeing horsemen. But no matter, the infantry were expendable. The important thing was to save the palfreys and destriers as vehicles for the knights.

  Two bridges spanned the river north of Le Mans. The first was a trestle structure, built to take sturdy, ox-drawn wagons. The other, a few hundred yards upstream, was a stone, humpbacked affair, its walls so close set that riders could only cross in single file. Marshal peered at it for a moment, then led the king across the wooden bridge and on to the west bank. The knights followed, four and five abreast.

  When the last of the English riders were across, Marshal and des Roches gave Henry into the care of his steward and factotum, the reliable Roger Malchat, and told him to conduct the king to Fresnay-sur-Sarthe.

  ‘Follow the river road,’ Marshal said. ‘Fresnay is twenty miles to the north. We’ll catch up with you.’ Then he clapped Roches on the arm and the two men rode back on to the still trembling bridge. Each knew what the other was thinking and as yet there was no need for discussion.

  Below them, the Sarthe was running low, the result of a week’s dry weather. Nevertheless, the banks were steep, and the only ford was several miles south of Le Mans. If the wooden bridge could be destroyed, and the stone one defended–

  Marshal turned in the saddle, raised a hand above his head to identify himself and roared, ‘My lord John! To me, if you will!’ He waited for the king’s youngest son to emerge from the mass of knights. When John did not appear, he asked des Roches, ‘Did you see him go across?’

  ‘No, nor since early this morning,’ des Roches growled. ‘And small loss in my opinion.’ Then, warned by Marshal’s scowl, he added, ‘He’s probably mixed in with his friends. Give a shout for Belcourt, or Peter Canton. They never leave his side.’

  Marshal did so, though without results. Cursing under his breath, he glanced southward for signs of pursuit. The curtain of smoke obscured the city, though there was no doubt that Richard and his men were back there somewhere. And Philip Augustus and his men. And those barons and knights who had reason to hate King Henry. And mercenaries, in it for the money. And the usual rabble of camp-followers, prostitutes, looters and turncoats who swelled the ranks of any army.

  But where was John?

  Marshal shouted again, this time for the twenty nearest knights. They clattered on to the bridge, then shook their heads in answer to his question. Like des Roches, some of them said they had seen John in the city, yes, with Belcourt and Canton, but that had been shortly after dawn. Had not the prince ridden on to Fresnay, perhaps, with his father?

  ‘It’s possible,’ Marshal admitted, ‘but why did no one see him go by?’ He shrugged irritably, then pointed at the bridge. ‘Time’s against us; we can’t wait. I want this brought down. Chop it, or fire it. Both, if you can, I’m not choosy. So long as it’s made impassable.’

  Des Roches leaned over one of the side rails. Using his big belly to push himself upright, he said, ‘There’s a mass of rushes on this side. Use them to kindle the wood.’ He signalled to the knights to start work, then strode over to Marshal. ‘We should not let the king get too far ahead,’ he murmured, ‘not without a proper escort. For all we know, the French may already have taken Fresnay.’

  Marshal grunted agreement. ‘Send the army on then. But hold back a few of them. There’s still the other bridge to care for.’

  They regained the west bank and dispatched all but a dozen of the riders. The twenty-strong workforce were busy below the ox bridge, piling bundles of reeds against the trestles, or hacking at the upright posts with swords and axes. Marshal dismounted and slithered down to where one of the knights was blowing sparks into flame. When you’ve finished here,’ he said, ‘go on to Fresnay, and find the king. If he has recovered his senses, tell him I’ll be with him by nightfall. And tell Roger Malchat.’

  The knight waited until the flames had taken hold, then asked, ‘How severe is his illness, Marshal? Every day we hear he’s dead, or recovered. No one seems to know.’

  ‘Make no mistake,’ Marshal told him, ‘he’ll outlive the lot of us.’ Then he turned away, in case the doubt showed in his face.

  With care and the right medicines, there was no reason why Henry of England should not recover. His ulcer was deep and malignant, but by no means incurable. The physicians of the West had learned much from their eastern counterparts, particularly in the treatment of sores and abscesses, to which the Crusaders were most vulnerable. But no physician, whether Christian or Moslem, could cure a man on the run. Above all else, Henry needed rest, and time out of the saddle. Until then, the fistula would continue to poison his system as surely as if he had been stabbed with a rusty blade.

  The knight scratched flints under a second pile of rushes. ‘You’ll be with him by nightfall,’ he echoed. ‘And until then?’

  ‘Up there, on the stone span. If you can get this bridge down, and we can hold the other—Well, it may be enough. We have reinforcements at Alençon, and Richard and Philip will think twice before invading Normandy.’ He watched the man use the blazing rushes to ignite other bundles, and said, ‘Give me one of those. I’ll get some more started.’ A moment later there was a shout of alarm. ‘Get back! It’s through!’ and the knights scrambled clear of the bridge. It did not come down, but sank to one side, springing the planks and splitting a number of supports. The men waited until the bridge had settled, then went back to work while the rush fires spread to the wood.

  Des Roches had elected himself watchguard, and now, standing at the top of the bank, he pointed in the direction of Le Mans. ‘Men coming out,’ he growled. ‘We’d better get upriver, Marshal, if we’re to block them.’

  At that instant another post was chopped through, and the bridge twisted, contributing to its own destruction. A side rail snapped, and another sprung plank fell into the river. A courageous horseman might still cross, but his mount would have to step with care, and be unafraid of fire.

  Marshal climbed the bank, then called down to the knight with whom he had been working. ‘We’re going on. Put one of your men up here to keep watch. They may have archers with them.’ He opened his hand in a brief farewell and hurried over to his horse. Des Roches had meanwhile assembled the twelve knights who would help them hold the narrow stone bridge. As soon as Marshal had mounted, the riders spurred northward along the river road. Ahead of them hung a dark pall of dust, marking the passage of the English army. Marshal pulled his horse to one side and looked back, first at the tower of smoke above Le Mans, then at the twisted bridge. He heard a sudden creak and splinter of wood
and saw the western end of the structure collapse into the flames. The workforce gave a ragged cheer and appeared, one by one, at the top of the bank. There was no more to be done. For several hours the Sarthe would be impassable at this point. The knights ran to their horses and followed as a third group on the road.

  As he spurred on to rejoin des Roches, Marshal allowed himself a humourless smile. The English, it seemed, were adept at burning things, whether by accident or design.

  Leaving the dozen members of the rearguard at the western end of the stone bridge, the commanders took up their positions on the eastern bank. They heard the workforce pass behind them, and then the hoofbeats died away and there was only the drone of insects and the snort of horses and the soft babble of the river.

  The two men were dressed and armed alike. Each wore a knee-length, link-mail hauberk and a simple, acorn-shaped helmet. Des Roches’ headpiece had a nasal, but Marshal had yet to find one that did not skin his bony beak. Each carried a lance and a long shield, rounded at the top and narrowing down to a point. Their cloaks were tied back over their shoulders, leaving their sword hilts exposed.

  They wore the commonplace battle-dress of the day. Not for them the new-fangled plate armour, or a spiked ball on a chain, or a double-bladed axe, inherited from the Vikings, they were content with what they had, proven armour and lethal weapons.

  They sat quiet, des Roches deep in thought, Marshal letting his gaze roam the countryside. To the north was the large dust-cloud, dispersing in the wake of King Henry and his army and the bridge wreckers. To the south were the two plumes of smoke, the larger sculpted by currents in the upper air. Marshal sighed extravagantly, as though by expelling his breath he could disperse the marks of retreat.

  The sound brought des Roches from his reverie, and he nodded in the direction of the new dust-cloud, rolling northward from the city. ‘Here they come. I’ll wager Richard is among them.’

  ‘Too safe a bet,’ Marshal dismissed. ‘I’d be wasting money.’ He muttered a short prayer, heard his companion do the same, then glanced around to see if the rearguard were in position. They were, and one of the twelve was already on the bridge, poised to come forward and replace whichever of the commanders was first to fall. It was small comfort to know there was an avenging angel at one’s back.