To Defy a King (43 page)

Hugh's wound was proving slow to heal and he had a low fever that made him tired and grumpy, but did not prevent him from fulfilling his duties.

While in Angers he had the horses checked over and reshod. He replaced two jaded sumpters with new beasts and refurbished his hauberk, mending broken links and rolling the mail shirt in a barrel of sand and vinegar to remove the rust. With Mahelt's strictures in mind, he also found time to take a bath, delouse himself and have a barber crop his hair.

On the third day, John's army rode out of Angers at dawn and headed south-east towards the recently built fortress at La Roche-aux-Moines. Their arrival before the walls was greeted with sangfroid by the defenders, who responded with showers of slingshot and a token flicker of arrows to show defiance without profligate waste of ammunition. John pitched camp, ordered the siege machines to be brought up and set about assaulting the castle.

A fortnight later, Hugh stood beside one of the trebuchet teams as they prepared to launch another stone at the keep walls. Blotting his brow on his sleeve, he thought of Mahelt. He suspected she would be capable of scoring a direct strike. For a moment he could almost see her standing at his side, clad in a hauberk, a sword girded at her hip. Sweat stung his eyes and he blinked hard, nearly losing his balance.

'Careful, my lord,' said the captain of the trebuchet crew.

Hugh knew they were wondering if he'd imbibed too freely the previous night. He certainly felt as if he had, but the malaise was caused by tiredness and the wound in his hand, which continued to fester and was slowly getting worse. 'How soon do you think?' he asked.

'Me and the lads are taking bets on later today or early tomorrow,' the man said. 'That section of wall yonder won't take much more to breach it.'

'That's what I thought.' What he hoped too. And then to have cool respite and a decent bed.

One of John's squires ran up to him. 'Sire, you are summoned to the King's tent!'

'Now?' Hugh rubbed his forehead.

'Yes, sire.' The youth licked dry lips. 'Prince Louis's army has been sighted by the foragers. He's coming to relieve the castle, and he's issued a challenge to meet us in battle!'

Hugh exchanged glances with the trebuchet team. 'Best make haste,' he told them. The squire ran off to summon other men from their billets and duties and Hugh set off for the royal pavilion. On his way, he noticed a French herald being escorted out of the siege camp under a banner of truce.

By the time everyone was assembled, more foragers had returned with confirmation that French forces were approaching from the direction of Chinon and that if John chose to accept the challenge to battle, he would have one on his hands by the morrow dawn.

'We have twice their numbers,' John told the gathered barons fiercely. 'We can shake them like a rat shakes a dog and put an end to them here and now.'

Murmurs of agreement rose from his mercenary captains and household knights. The English barons were stoical. The Poitevins shuffled uneasily and exchanged glances. Once more Aimery of Thouars stepped forward as their spokesman, his head raised in defiance. 'I am not prepared to face the French in open battle,' he said forcefully. 'Such a thing is madness. You would kill us all.'

John stared at the Count of Thouars with rage and disbelief. 'You traitor!' he snarled. 'You spineless cur! You will not do this to me!'

De Thouars turned scarlet but held his ground. 'I am no coward, but I will not risk all on a single fight. It is not my battle. I am telling you this to your face because I am an honourable man. If the French army is so close, I must go and defend my own lands because the French will ravage them!'

'Hah!' John scoffed. 'You have as much honour as a whore's bawd!'

'Then I am in good company - sire.' De Thouars bowed and marched from the tent, followed by his captains. John's jaw worked and the veins in his neck bulged as if they would burst through his skin.

'Shall I go after him, sire?' asked Gerard D'Athee.

John took a deep breath that shook his frame. 'No, it will further split the troops and the coward isn't worth chasing. I'll deal with him later.' His eyes narrowed. 'I will not forget this betrayal. May he not have a sound night's sleep from this day forth.'

Knowing John, most men did not doubt that de Thouars would suffer from insomnia for a long time to come and be forever looking over his shoulder and fearing to eat any meal without the services of a taster.

Abruptly John rose from his chair and retired behind the awning into the back of the tent. Moments later he sent an aide out to announce that they were pulling back to La Rochelle.

Bile burned Hugh's throat. They couldn't fight without the Poitevins. They needed the numbers. Given the Poitevin tendency to change sides as swiftly as the weather changed in April, they might be on their way to Louis even now. It was all for nothing, unless Longespee succeeded in the north.

34

Port of La Rochelle, July 1214

Hugh sat on a jetty with his legs dangling over the water. Two fat herring, ruby-gilled and silver-scaled, gleamed at his side, purchased on impulse from one of the fishing boats mooring up and landing its catch. Below his boots, the water was a murky green as the tide washed against the harbour walls. A host of small nefs, galleys and cogs rocked at anchor and supply boats were unloading at the wharves. Galleys were being loaded with casks of wine bound for England, and a group of Templar knights waited to embark on a ship flying the cross of their order. Hugh watched all the activity with idle curiosity and listened to the wheel and scream of the gulls.

The sound had permeated his fevered sleep as he lay in his chamber overlooking the harbour, the shutters open to let the sea breeze cool his burning body.

He had been very sick during the retreat from La Roche-aux-Moines, barely able to sit a horse, but refusing a litter. Once back in the port, his worried men had brought a Spanish physician to attend him, Spaniards having a reputation for being the best doctors. Amid much muttering, the man had opened up the festering, swollen wound and, in cleaning it out with salt water, had discovered a fragment of rusting blade within the gash. He told Hugh he was lucky to have a strong constitution and even luckier to have such as himself on hand to find the splinter, otherwise the poison would have spread throughout Hugh's body and eventually killed him, no matter how strong he was. The physician's services had cost Hugh as much as a palfrey, but the wound was finally healing; his fever and debilitation were gone, and he judged it a small price to pay for his life.

John had sent to England for troops to replace the Poitevins. A desultory trickle had arrived, but not enough to engage with Louis. The second English army in Flanders, under Longespee, however, had started out for Paris and was threatening King Philip's army in the field.

Feeling the sun begin to burn the back of his neck, Hugh picked up his silver dinner, rose to his feet and turned back towards his lodging, stepping carefully on the warped boards of the jetty. As he reached the end, he saw Hamo Lenveise running towards him. 'Sire, there is news from the north.'

Lenveise halted and pressed his hand to the stitch in his side. 'There's been a battle . . . on the road to Paris at Bouvines . . . The French have carried the day!'

Hugh stared at the knight while the words made their impact. He could feel the string securing the fish he held cutting into his index and middle fingers.

'My brothers. What of my brothers?'

Lenveise shook his head. 'I do not know, sire. The messenger has gone. He said it was a disaster though. Emperor Otto has fled; there are nine thousand dead on the field.'

Hugh suddenly felt weak and sick, as if he still had the wound fever. All the money, all the striving, all the expenditure of life and limb, and for what?

Ralph might be a crow-pecked corpse on the battlefield, or just another jumble of arms and legs shovelled into a mass grave. And Longespee . . . His throat closed. He had thought not to care what happened to him, yet the notion of him no longer in the world was impossible to contemplate. When you had measured yourself against someone for so long, even in enmity, how did you cope with them no longer being there?

He walked on to the lodging and handed the herring to the silent cook. They were still stiff and fresh. Ralph and Longespee; Longespee and Ralph. He washed his hands, sluiced his face, and headed for the royal lodgings at the castle to find out what he could.

The open cart jolted over yet another rut in the road. Ralph squeezed his gummy lids together and stifled a groan. Every bone in his body ached as if someone had pulled him apart and then jumbled him back together with rough abandon. He was covered in abrasions and bruises - both from battle and from the beating he had received afterwards. He knew he might yet be killed, or die from the vicious and neglectful treatment meted to the prisoners. He couldn't recall the last time he had eaten or drunk. His sword was gone and his mail shirt. His horse and equipment. Even his cloak. All he had were the torn, stained clothes he was wearing and they were no protection from the drizzle that had been falling steadily all morning. He raised his hands to wipe his face and the iron fetters chafing his wrists clanked at their chain fastening.

He felt sick at how easily he had surrendered when the moment came. He should have fought on; he had let Longespee down, but he also knew that in the thick of the fight he couldn't have done more. They had been defeated by better luck and manoeuvre. The only sensible thing to do was surrender, but it still left a bitter taste in his mouth. After the battle the men not rich enough to be worth a ransom had been killed there and then rather than being held prisoner. Ralph had been spared having his throat cut, but he still felt vulnerable. After what he'd witnessed on the battlefield and afterwards, he knew men were capable of any atrocity. The French might hang him in Paris for the entertainment and satisfaction of the citizens. Being Longespee's brother and the Earl of Norfolk's son might not be enough to save him.

Younger sons did not always merit good treatment and he knew his survival was unimportant in the schemes of kings. Whoever you were, you could still die.

He shifted, trying to make himself comfortable, but to no avail. A group of mounted soldiers trotted towards the cart from the rear of the troop, and Ralph's stomach lurched as he saw Longespee among them, riding a fine bay horse. Although Longespee had no weapons, he was still in possession of his fancy cloak with the miniver lining and he looked his usual polished self. Ralph put his head down, trying to make himself inconspicuous, feeling it should be his punishment to share a dark dungeon with the other men in the cart after his failure on the battlefield. Longespee was jesting with one of his captors, remarking that if only they would return him his longsword, he would show them a few manoeuvres. They laughed with him, and the sound rang hollowly in Ralph's ears. Longespee seemed to be taking a long time to pass. He risked glancing up and saw his half-brother peering into the cart, seeking among the prisoners and the wounded. Ralph hastily dropped his head again, but it was too late.

'That man there, that man in the torn hose is my kin and the son of the Earl of Norfolk,' Longespee suddenly cried out, the jesting note gone. 'Whoever takes him up and sees that he lives will be assured of a fine ransom.'

Ralph tried to swallow but his throat was so parched that all he could do was cough and choke. Black spots marred his vision. Distantly he heard Longespee asking someone to give him water. A hard rim was pushed against his lips and liquid sloshed into his mouth. He gulped and spluttered.

Then he was plucked from the cart and given a mount - an elderly rouncy with spavined knees and a bumping gait that jarred Ralph almost as much as the cart had done. He welcomed the pain as if it were a penance and mumbled his thanks to Longespee. 'I let you down,' he said.

The latter gave him a stern look. 'Never say that. Fate let us both down. It's a setback, that's all. The greater failure is to give up. The ransom will be paid and we'll both soon be free. Until that time, we will show our captors only our bravery and our pride.'

Ralph didn't know how much bravery and pride he had left, but if Longespee demanded it of him, he would try. He suspected that underneath the confident exterior, Longespee was uncertain of the future too. What was going to happen once the ransom was paid? Their defeat at Bouvines was a disaster for King John because it sank all hopes of him ever regaining Normandy and Anjou. All the land and money and human life - lost. The ransom was going to be paid in blood.

Mahelt was supervising the cheese-making. There had been a good surplus of milk this season and she enjoyed dairying. Her father said it was in her blood because her grandmother Sybilla had been an expert. Barons and bishops had detoured to Hamstead just to sample her famous cheeses, and Mahelt's grandsire John had always been expected to bring a wheel of mature Hamstead cheese to Westminster for his fellow barons when serving at the exchequer.

She watched the maid fleting the cream off the top of the milk and, satisfied that all was in order for the moment, emerged from the dairy to watch her eldest son being given a riding lesson by his grandsire. She smiled as she watched the Earl on his solid grey palfrey and the child on Pie. The pony had a mind of his own and was not always the easiest mount to master. The Earl was showing Roger how to squeeze with his knees and make Pie step sideways, and for once Pie was obliging. Whatever differences she had with her father-in-law, Mahelt acknowledged that he was a good and patient teacher. She turned back into the dairy to give the maid instructions, and when she looked back to the courtyard, a messenger had arrived on a sweating horse and was presenting the Earl with a parchment and speaking rapidly. Her father-in-law stiffened and the messenger shook his head in a doleful manner.

'My lady, shall I put this--'

Fear blazed through her. 'Not now,' she snapped at the maid and, removing her apron, hurried to join the men, uncaring if her presence irked her father-in-law. If there was news, she had a right to know.