A King's Ransom (79 page)

He was riding under a flag of truce but his tone was bellicose. Reining in before Richard, he delivered his lord’s message with a bravado that would have pleased Philippe, declaring that the French king would do battle on the morrow.

Richard was not impressed. “Tell your king that if he does not appear on the morrow, I will be calling on him.” André and Will Marshal and Guillain de l’Etang had moved to Richard’s side and they all watched as the herald rode out of camp to a chorus of jeers and catcalls.

“You think he will fight on the morrow, sire?” Guillain asked, surprised by Philippe’s defiance, for pitched battles were very rare.

“We’ll see it snow in Hell ere that coward faces me on the field.” Richard beckoned to Warin Fitz Gerald. “Send scouts into the woods to keep watch on the French camp.” Turning back to the other men, he said, “I want us to be ready to march at first light. There will be a battle on the morrow, but it will be my doing, not Philippe’s.”

R
ICHARD AWOKE SEVERAL HOURS
before dawn. While he did not remember it, he knew the dream had been an unpleasant one, for he’d been having them more often since he’d learned of the Earl of Leicester’s capture. It infuriated him that he could not exercise better control over his own brain. Why must he keep dwelling upon what was done and over with? He was trying to get the Church involved on Leicester’s behalf, but so far Philippe had rebuffed all offers of ransom. Well, if the day went as he hoped, the French king would soon be a prisoner himself.

The English camp was stirring, men yawning as they broke their fast with biscuits and ale; it was a poorly kept secret that soldiers often relied upon liquid courage to ease their prebattle jitters. Most men passed their whole lives without experiencing a pitched battle, for sieges and the raiding known as
chevauchée
s were the normal means of conducting war. But Richard’s army was more battle- seasoned than most, for many of the men had fought with him in the Holy Land, and Mercadier’s routiers were natural killers; Mercadier did not recruit any other kind.

Richard had just given Will Marshal the command of the reserve. Younger knights often balked at that, fearing they’d be cheated of the glory they all sought. Will was just three years from his fifth decade and he knew an army without men held in reserve was at the mercy of fate, exposed to enemy counterattacks, so he pleased Richard by accepting the charge for the honor it was meant to be. Their battle commanders were gathering around them when shouting turned all heads toward the north. A man on a rangy bay was racing into the camp, one of the scouts Richard had sent to spy upon the French.

“They are in retreat, my lord, fleeing north!”

Richard was not going to be deprived of his prey, though. He’d anticipated just such a move by the French king, and his men were ready. When he gave the command to mount up, they ran eagerly for their horses.

R
ICHARD WAS RIDING
F
AUVEL,
and he was well ahead of his men by the time they burst from the woods into the deserted French camp. A few fires still smoldered, not fully quenched by hastily flung buckets of water. Some tents had been left behind, sacks of flour, kegs of wine—all that could be easily replaced. Richard laughed at this proof of the urgency of the evacuation. Giving Fauvel his head, he thought that Philippe was about to get a very unpleasant surprise.

A retreating army was easy to follow and within a few miles, they could see the French rearguard and baggage carts in the distance. Richard unsheathed his sword. He did not have to prick Fauvel with his spurs; the stallion was already lengthening stride. There was considerable confusion in the French ranks as they realized they were being pursued. Drivers were whipping the cart horses mercilessly, cursing and shouting as the wagons swayed perilously from side to side. That the baggage train was so well guarded told Richard that it carried items precious to Philippe. A knight was riding toward him, sword at the ready. Richard took the strike on his shield and counterthrust. The rider reeled back in the saddle, but Richard did not wait to see if he fell, for another foe was just ahead. He swung and missed; Richard didn’t. Maddened by the scent of blood, Fauvel veered toward a man on a roan stallion, screaming defiance. His teeth raked the other destrier’s neck and as the horse stumbled, Richard decapitated his rider. All around him, his household knights were engaging the enemy, all around him was the familiar chaos of battle, and he set about punishing these French soldiers for each and every time that he’d not been able to hit back in the past year.

The baggage carts were surrounded, their drivers raising their hands in surrender. The French rearguard was scattering under the English assault. Richard spurred Fauvel on, for his quarry was not the baggage carts or these French knights. He was seeking the French king.

As an orderly retreat disintegrated into a panicked rout, the killing became easier for Richard’s men; soldiers were at their most vulnerable in flight. Richard soon outdistanced most of his army, his household knights pushing their horses to keep up with Fauvel. He had no thoughts for his own safety now, no thoughts for anything but finding Philippe. Ahead was a crossroad. An overturned cart blocked the smaller road and a soldier standing beside it hastily raised his hands at the sight of Richard’s bloodied sword and gore-splattered hauberk. He shrank back against the wagon wheel as Richard brought Fauvel to a shuddering stop and leveled his sword at the man’s chest. “The king . . . Where is he?”

“Ahead, my lord.” The man’s accent was Flemish, but his French was serviceable. “Far ahead,” he repeated hoarsely, pointing toward the dust clouds being kicked up in the distance. When Richard swung Fauvel around and set off in pursuit, the man sank to his knees, gulping air as he made a shaky sign of the cross. Other knights were galloping by and he watched in great relief as they rode past him, intent only upon staying with their king. He grabbed a wineskin from the cart and then took off at a trot for the shelter of the woods, for he knew his cart would be a magnet to men eager for plunder. He suspected he’d been threatened by the Lionheart himself. He smiled then, thinking that would make his story much more dramatic when he told it in years to come, and as he disappeared into the trees, it occurred to him that he’d done the French king a great service. A pity Philippe was not known for paying such debts of honor.

W
HEN HIS STALLION FINALLY
began to falter, Richard reined him in and slid from the saddle. Fauvel’s gold coat was so streaked with lather that he looked white. Richard stroked his heaving side, torn between frustration that Philippe was getting away and remorse that he’d pushed this magnificent destrier beyond his endurance. “Good boy,” he said apologetically, “you did your best.” Seeing an alder tree some yards from the road, he led Fauvel toward it, knowing that water was often to be found near alders. There was indeed a small stream, and he let the stallion drink. The sun was hot upon his face, for he was wearing only an iron cap, not a full helmet. He was armed as if he were still fighting in Outremer; he’d learned to prefer a lighter hauberk during his months in the scorching heat of the Holy Land. Staring at that beckoning road, he swore with considerable feeling. So close! He’d covered so much ground that Philippe must be just ahead, riding for his life, the gutless swine.

Dust signaled the approach of riders from the south and he watched until André and a handful of his knights came into view. Detouring from the road, they headed in his direction. After dismounting, they tended to their own exhausted horses, some of them kneeling by the stream to wash away grime and blood. André sank down next to Richard with a groan. “I am getting old,” he complained, “for every bone in my body aches.” Glancing at the younger man’s unhappy face, he said sympathetically, “I’d gladly offer Roland, but he is even more knackered than your Fauvel.”

“I know,” Richard said morosely, for he’d already assessed the sorry shape of his friends’ horses. Reaching up to accept a wineskin from Morgan, he leaned back against the tree. Soon afterward, one of the knights called out and they saw other riders, moving fast. Richard scrambled to his feet, thinking that one of them might have a horse capable of continuing the chase.

Reining in, Mercadier removed his helmet. “You’re a hard man to catch, my lord,” he said. “I thought we were going to have to ride halfway to Paris ere we could overtake you.”

Richard was instantly on the alert. “What is wrong?”

“Nothing that I know of. But I figured you’d be needing a fresh mount along about now.” Mercadier gave one of his rare smiles then, which most men found even more chilling than his scowls. He gestured and one of his routiers came forward, leading a jet-black horse. Richard gave a whoop of delight, for Mercadier had brought him Scirocco, one of the two Arab stallions that al-Malik al-Adil had given him after he’d won his improbable victory at Jaffa. They’d accompanied Fauvel on the same horse transport and Richard thanked God and Mercadier now in equal measure for Scirocco’s appearance when he was most needed.

“How did you find me?” he asked, checking the stallion’s cinch and stirrups.

“I followed the trail of bodies,” the routier said laconically, earning himself an amused look from his king. “A local farmer told us about a cross-country path that allowed us to save time and miles, so the Arab ought to be ready to run.”

Richard’s knights had gathered around and André said they’d follow once their horses had rested. Richard was already in the saddle. “Look after Fauvel,” he said and then urged the Arab on. As the black stallion streaked toward the road, Mercadier and his routiers rode after him. André and the other men watched until they were out of sight, which did not take long.

I
T WAS DUSK BY THE TIME
Richard returned to his camp at Vendôme. He’d finally abandoned his pursuit as the day’s light began to fade, forced to admit that Philippe had managed to elude him and was probably sheltered in Châteaudun Castle by now. He rode into a scene of exuberant celebration and it was only as he listened to Will Marshal that he realized the full extent of his victory. The seizure of his baggage carts would be a devastating blow to the French king; not only had he lost weapons, siege engines, tents, his own chapel accoutrements, jewels, and a vast amount of money, he’d also lost the royal archives, chest after chest filled with charters that would have to be painstakingly re-created—if possible. They’d also taken large numbers of prisoners, as well as capturing some fine horses and provisions that could now be used for Richard’s own army.