The Devil is Loose Read online

  He faced front again and watched the enemy gallop into view. There were forty or so in the group, spreading out as they neared the bridgehead. Had they swept forward en masse, Marshal and des Roches would have been quickly overwhelmed. But they were blinded by the dust, and were still fifty yards away when someone roared at them to move aside. They did so, allowing two of their number to ride onward, out of the cloud.

  Richard of Aquitaine, and someone with a feather in his helmet.

  King Henry’s eldest son was a gigantic, broad-shouldered man, a full head above average height. At thirty-one, he was not yet at his prime, though at any gathering he was the focus of attention. His hair was a mixture of ginger and cinnamon, capped today by a plain, pot-shaped casque. His face, like theirs, was speckled with soot, but he had made no attempt to wipe away the flecks. As he emerged from the group, his wide-stretched grin faltered and shrank, and he dragged desperately at the reins.

  No explanation was conclusive, but it seemed that Richard had thought the bridge deserted, and had decided to charge across it, ignoring the fact that he would crack his knees on the narrow walls. It was a display of bravado he would remember and regret.

  Marshal measured the distance, then dug in with his singlepoint spurs. As his horse plunged forward he shouted at des Roches, ‘Take the feather!’ He heard an answering growl and saw the bulky knight couch his lance and ride at Richard’s companion. Weight and accuracy were with des Roches, and he caught the rider full in the chest. His lance splintered along the shaft, and the Frenchman – if he was a Frenchman – was lifted from the saddle. Marshal saw the start of his fall, but after that he was too busy to watch.

  Richard had continued forward, unable to slow his destrier. He saw his adversary’s lean, Arabic face, saw light glint on the lance-tip and on the metal that edged his shield, and he realized that the charge could not be halted.

  It was over quickly, but it was an incident that scratched a mark in history. There were few occasions in Duke Richard’s life when he had shown fear, or chosen precaution. But this was one of them.

  Still fighting to control the destrier, he used his favourite oath and yelled, ‘God’s legs! Don’t kill me! I’m unarmed, can’t you -I’m unarmed!’

  Marshal had little time to react. Collision was inevitable, as it should have been, for no one knew this type of work better than the champion of Europe’s tournaments. But there was time enough to open his fingers, relax his hold on the lance and see the point dip from the chest of the man to the chest of the mount. Then the lance struck and was wrenched from Marshal’s grasp. He felt his body buckle with the impact and used his left hand to drag his destrier to the side. As he did so he saw Richard’s horse stumble, throwing its rider. Dust rose from the hooves of Marshal’s mount, and from Richard’s stricken destrier, and from the sprawling body of the Duke of Aquitaine.

  The victor reined in, less than twenty feet from the enemy knights. But he had nothing to fear, for they were glued to their saddles, their mouths hired out as fly-traps. Not for several moments more would they accept what they had seen.

  Walking his horse in a circle, he glared down at his fallen adversary. He could not remember when last he had felt so angry. To be challenged by none other than Richard of Aquitaine, second only to Philip Augustus as a sworn enemy… Then to be told by Richard that he had forgotten to bring his weapons… To hear him shout pax…

  Christ in heaven, did he think this was a game!

  His face fattened with anger, Marshal snarled, ‘Don’t fret, sire. I shall not kill you. That’s the devil’s work, and it can be safely left to him.’ His horse was still pawing the ground, and the dust hid Richard’s expression. It doesn’t matter, Marshal thought, I don’t need to see him. He knows he’s had a fall.

  With a final glance at the enemy knights, he rode back to the bridge to rejoin des Roches. As after any such skirmish, they were wide-eyed and trembling. A man does not risk a lance in the throat and come away whistling a tune. Indeed, it was no hardship for des Roches to stay silent and allow his friend time to cool. He knew how close Marshal had come to slaying Duke Richard, and he sensed what it had cost him not to do so. Had he been less honourable… Had his reflexes been less quick… Had his mind been fuddled by drink, or poisoned by revenge… Had he sought to win King Henry’s praise… Christ and His angels, but wasn’t Richard the lucky one?

  They sat quiet again, waiting for the enemy to charge, or the arrows to fly. They were both exhausted, but des Roches made an effort and gestured to his rearguard to furnish them with lances. The rider on the bridge brought them across, and volunteered his admiration. Then he saw Marshal’s expression and hurriedly retired.

  A few moments later another dust-cloud followed Philip Augustus from Le Mans. The thin-faced king halted and stood up in his stirrups, then asked what had happened. By now the fly-trap knights had found their tongues, and Richard could be seen waving his bruised arms and making threatening gestures, as though he wished to go through it all over again. Eventually, Philip managed to calm him, and the enemy stood off at a distance. Well now, Marshal wondered, has French practicality prevailed, or English commonsense?

  King and army and workforce and rearguard were reunited at Fresnay. Marshal and des Roches and their twelve knights had remained at the bridge until sunset, but the enemy had not attempted to force a crossing. When last seen, in the fading light, they were still on the east bank, half a mile from the bridge.

  At Fresnay, the king had sunk into an exhausted sleep and had been carried into the small castle and laid on a couch in the ground-floor chamber. The castle could only accommodate a handful of visitors, so the seven hundred knights had billeted themselves in the surrounding villages. The tents and pavilions had been abandoned at Le Mans, along with the foot soldiers and most of the personal baggage. Henry’s supporters were now not only tired and hungry and in retreat, but reduced to the clothes they wore and whatever money they had on them.

  Sensing the futility of their position, a number of them rode out under cover of dark, some returning to their own lands, others to Le Mans to offer their services to the enemy. Philip Augustus stayed awake all night to welcome the deserters, while, for his own information, Richard recorded their names on a sheet of parchment.

  Next morning, the middle day of June, King Henry awoke within his senses and summoned his senior barons. When they heard what he had to say, they wished he had slept on.

  Rejecting their arguments out of hand, the pain-racked king insisted on going south, into his long-held county of Anjou. Marshal and the others reminded him that his strength lay to the north, in Normandy, where there were fortresses to shelter him and fresh troops to be recruited.

  ‘King, we have more men at Alengon than we have here. If we send for them, and for the others around, we can drive the enemy clear back to Touraine. We have an extensive armoury at Alençon. There are even siege machines in store; mangonels and trebuchets, towers and mining equipment, everything we need.’

  But Henry would not be swayed. Stubborn and irrational, he told two of the senior knights to lead his army-in-retreat to Alençon, leaving him an escort of seventy men. These would see him safe to Anjou. With long pauses between his words, he whispered, ‘The smaller the royal party, the less chance of discovery… Marshal, you stay with me… And you, des Roches… There are not so many I can trust, these days…

  He may have been thinking of the barons who had deserted during the night. Or of his son and enemy, Richard Plantagenet. Or of his favourite, the vanished John. Whoever it was – and Henry had the world from which to choose – Marshal exchanged a glance with des Roches and said, ‘You know we are with you, lord king.’

  Henry blinked acknowledgement and croaked, ‘Get started, messires… Normandy is my last sure possession, this side of the water… I could not bear it if it was lost…’ As the warlords filed from the chamber, he crooked a finger at Marshal and murmured, ‘Do something for me… Fetch my physicians… I’m ble
eding again…

  From then on they were fugitives in their own lands. With the bulk of the army restrained at Alençon, the royal party dared not travel by the known routes, or in the open, or in clear weather. Instead they zig-zagged southward, at night and along forest tracks, covering two hundred miles in a week. They were not intercepted, but Henry’s condition continued to deteriorate.

  They reached the rock-girt castle of Chinon, on the north bank of the Vienne, and Marshal immediately conferred with des Roches and Roger Malchat. The tough bald-headed steward assumed responsibility for the food and fuel, while des Roches set about restocking the armoury with arrows, crossbow bolts, jars of vinegar, barrels of pitch and river sand. When needed, the pitch would be warmed in a cauldron, poured into leather sacks, and a length of pitch-soaked tow inserted in the neck. The tow could then be set alight, and the sack hurled down from the ramparts. More times than not, it would split on impact and the blazing mass would stick to whatever it touched. The vinegar and sand would be used to extinguish enemy fire bombs.

  A head count revealed that there were less than eighty able-bodied men within the walls of Chinon, and that these included priests and clerks, gardeners and household servants. King Henry’s escort doubled the number, but even so the castle was dangerously under-manned. The watchtowers held three men in place of six, and the wall-guards were so widely spaced that they were almost patrolling the walls like common men-at-arms, while the commanders took their turn at stacking barrels and lowering foodstuffs into the storepit below the keep.

  Three days after their arrival at Chinon, they were paid a surprise visit by emissaries from Philip and Richard. King Henry was too ill to receive the messengers, so they were taken before Marshal. He was disturbed that the enemy had so quickly discovered Henry’s whereabouts, for it made further flight impossible. Philip would not have dispatched his emissaries unless he had already encircled Chinon, so the reason for their visit was clear enough. They had come for Henry’s surrender.

  Reading aloud, the senior emissary informed Marshal that King Henry of England was invited to attend a conference at Azay-le-Rideau, a few miles north-east of Chinon, on Friday, 30th June. It was hoped that a peace treaty could be signed, and the family feud forgotten. However, if Henry rejected the invitation, Philip and Richard would immediately lay siege to the citadel of Tours, capital of Touraine. The King of France and Duke of Aquitaine expected Henry of England to act with his customary wisdom, and they awaited his reply.

  The man stopped reading, and Marshal gazed quizzically at him. ‘No terms? Are we not to know what’s to be discussed?’

  ‘When King Henry attends, then he will be furnished with the terms.’

  ‘I see. In which case, when the king has finished with his other, more pressing affairs of state, you will be furnished with his reply.’ He nodded at the emissaries, the guards escorted them to their horses.

  There was, of course, no question of Henry attending the conference. The flight from Fresnay had aggravated his condition, and he was now losing more blood than his system could create. He had a high fever, and his skin had begun to purple. Marshal had concealed the truth from the emissaries, and the physicians were the last to admit it, for their reputation was at stake, but they agreed among themselves that the king was dying.

  The commanders at Chinon waited until the afternoon of the 29th, then they, too, accepted that they could no longer dissemble the king’s condition. Word was sent to Philip, asking that the conference be postponed until Henry had regained his strength.

  Philip’s reply was countersigned by Richard.

  ‘It is our understanding that Henry, by the grace of God, King of England and Duke of Normandy and Count of Anjou, seeks to decry our attempts at reconciliation, and continues to do all in his power to prolong this unhappy war. We do not accept that Henry, who, not long ago, made the arduous journey from Fresnay, is now too unwell to meet those with a claim against him. It is our belief that Henry of England has not yet lost the taste for battle. We shall therefore press forward with our attack and, under God, triumph over our enemies.’

  In a desperate effort to halt hostilities, Marshal told one of the king’s physicians to find Duke Richard and convince him of the gravity of his father’s condition. ‘I don’t care if it heartens the French, so long as Richard comes to terms with reality. Let him know the truth, that Henry is a dying man. Invite him to see for himself, if he wishes. Even if he does come, it will be a deathbed reunion.’

  The physician delivered the message, and Richard called him a trained liar and a charlatan. ‘God’s legs!’ he roared, ‘I know my father! He never yet sat when he could stand, or walked when he could run. He’s feigning, and if you cannot see that, it shows how little you know your trade. Your patient is King Henry of England, strap-bone, not a snared squirrel!’ Richard loved to shout. It put air in his chest and brought the colour to his face. ‘Listen,’ he went on, ‘if I offered him a virgin to deflower, a girl like the luckless Alais, or agreed to let my pasty-faced brother inherit the throne, Henry would come running. You go back and tell him I have such a girl. Tell him I’ll keep her warm at Azay; all he has to do is come and collect her. We’ll listen for his footfall!’

  Attendant knights howled with laughter and dredged their minds for jokes about virgins and women given as gifts. They did not yet know that, beneath the banter, Richard Lionheart was not one for the women.

  A few days later, the occupants of the Chinon learned that Tours had fallen to the French. This, together with Le Mans and all the English territories to the east, put Philip and Richard in an unassailable position. They again invited Henry to confer with them. If he rejected them a second time, they threatened to lay siege to Chinon itself and mount a full-scale invasion of Normandy, Anjou and Touraine. The girl is still waiting, they added, and itchy with desire.

  Marshal, des Roches and the bald-pated Malchat discussed the situation with their peers. It was eventually agreed that, for the sake of the English dominions abroad, Henry should be led or carried to the meeting-place. The decision was not arrived at easily, for the commanders knew that any further movement might kill the invalid. But, if they stayed at Chinon, and allowed the vast Angevin territories to be overrun…

  No, not even the life of a king was worth the loss of so mighty a kingdom.

  The conference had been set for 4th July, in the village of Ballan, between Azay and Tours. The weather was sullen and overcast, and thunder echoed along the river valley. Rain soon dappled the riders, and Henry was transferred from his horse to a canopied litter. He looked small and insignificant, more of a mascot than a monarch. Marshal and Malchat rode beside him, and they masked their distress as his querulous voice rose through the rain.

  ‘Oh, God, messires, this pain is intolerable… It creeps all through me… I feel it in my feet and my legs… And now it is everywhere, clawing at my heart… I tell you, I have neither body, nor mind, nor… Are we there yet…? I would like to be set down awhile… Where is he, John, have you seen him…? John… Is he with us today…? Aah, Christ, it’s strangling me… Inside…’

  Malchat told the four soldiers who bore the litter along the riverside path to slow their pace. Why hurry the king to his end? Meanwhile, Marshal leaned down to reassure him. ‘Your son John is well, sire. He has been to see you several times these past days, but he was asked not to disturb your rest. He’s behind us somewhere, but not far away.’ He caught Malchat’s sidelong glance and reined in, allowing Henry to be carried ahead.

  In answer to the steward’s unspoken question, he said, ‘Yes, it’s a lie, and I shall continue with it. What else am I to tell him, for God’s sake? That John deserted us at Le Mans and has not been seen since? Come on, Malchat! If you can find a better story—’

  ‘Calm yourself, Marshal. It’s not your doing, that’s understood. I’m as anxious to find him as you are. And when he does appear, I shall need an explanation for his absence, when his father needed him most.’ He l
ooked at the rain-soaked litter, then at Marshal again. ‘Have you any idea—?’

  ‘None. He was at Le Mans when we started the fires, and gone when we left. He may have fled eastward, or been burned alive in some whore’s bedchamber, I don’t know. But somehow I think it’s unlikely he was trapped. The others, Belcourt and Peter Canton, perhaps, but not Prince John. He’s too slippery for death to catch him, just yet. But,’ he measured, ‘so far as the king is concerned, John is here and well. It’s surely enough for a man to have one son sniffing his blood. Don’t you think so?’

  Malchat nodded quickly, reminding himself to curb his inquisitive glances.

  Nevertheless, the lie seemed to satisfy the tortured king, and the sad company continued on to Ballan, where scouts reported that Philip and Richard were already on the field, waiting near an isolated oak tree. There were four or five hundred troops at their back, while several hundred more were drawn up beneath the walls of Tours.

  Leading the English party on to the field, the bulky des Roches shook his head in disgust. What did Philip think? What did Richard imagine? Why assemble an army to face a dying king and a handful of riders? Jesu, Jesu, the ground was knee-deep in mistrust.

  Henry came briefly to his senses and insisted on being lifted on to his horse. ‘I may be ill, but I am not incapable… This is your doing, Marshal… Get me mounted, sir! You think I would stay in bed to meet them?’

  They lifted him from the litter, and he bit the wrist of his gauntlet as the movement stirred his poisoned blood. Near to fainting, he was at last settled in the cushioned saddle and led forward across the field. He wore his battle-crown – a simple, silver coronet welded to his helmet and a purple cloak edged with marten fur. His red hair, the mark of the Plantagenets, curled around the rim of his helmet. Rainwater escaped through holes in the coronet and dripped into the fur collar.