by Wayne Grant
Things had been quiet in the south for most of a year while Richard and Philip went at each other in the Vexin, which left the Queen to wonder what hidden mischief the French king might be up to. So she had come north to Evreux, the great fortress city near the border between Normandy and the Ile de France. More importantly, it was nearer to Paris and Rouen and her sources of information than Fontevraud. Here she was to meet one of her most reliable informants, the French spy, Arnaud Villabeau.
Having risen a little unsteadily to her feet, the girls released their hold on Eleanor’s arms, but hovered nearby as she walked with a slow and stiff gait from her bed chamber to a small receiving room where she met guests.
Mustn’t let the old Queen fall and break a hip, she imagined the Abbess had warned them.
Her man Villabeau was waiting for her and she knew by the look on his face, the news was not good. The man’s clothes had been hastily brushed but showed mud stains from what must have been a hard ride from Paris. She nodded to him and he bowed low to her as she settled into a cushioned chair near the hearth.
“Arnaud, what news from the French court,” she said.
“Your grace, we have lost our man in Paris. He was taken two nights ago as he approached our rendezvous.”
The Queen sighed.
“I can’t say I’m surprised. You yourself said young de Sancerre lacked caution.”
“Aye, your grace, but he was very well placed at court. If you can believe it, he was sleeping with Beauvais’ mistress!”
The Queen shrugged.
“Such things never surprise me, Arnaud. I trust they will not gain much information when they question him.”
“No, your grace. He had no idea for whom I worked. He just took the silver and asked no questions. But what he revealed to me is troubling.”
“What is that, Arnaud?”
“He claimed the French have hatched a plan that will tip the balance of the war in their favour. They intend to strike somewhere near All Saints, which is but days away. He was coming to tell me where when he was taken, your grace.”
Eleanor sighed. It was always thus. Rumours and riddles jumbled up with facts—how to sort one from the other?
“Chinon, perhaps, for the treasury” she mused, “or even a bold push down the Loire valley to cut our lands in two.”
“Perhaps,” said Villabeau.
“You don’t think so?” the Queen asked.
Villabeau shook his head.
“No, your grace. It’s the Vexin Philip wants. If he can gain that, then Normandy is lost.”
“And if Normandy is lost, then everything else will follow, sooner or later,” the Queen said.
Villabeau nodded.
“Shall I return to Paris, your grace? We will need to find a replacement for Monsieur Sancerre if we are to uncover what Philip is plotting.”
Eleanor considered this for moment, then shook her head.
“No, Arnaud. I think it unlikely you can find another charming courtier and talkative mistress in time to do us any good. I want you to go to the Vexin and nose about. Richard is at Neufchatel, up toward Flanders, last I heard. So if you sniff out trouble, come to me.”
“I’ll leave at once, your grace,” he said and leapt to his feet.
But Eleanor waved a hand at him.
“You look more weary than me, Arnaud. You will spend the night in a good bed here at the Abbey. You will not depart until daylight and you will take a man with you. Is that understood?”
“Yes, your grace.”
“Good, I can’t afford to lose you.”
***
Four days after he was taken, the brutalized body of young René de Sancerre snagged in a fisherman’s net in the River Seine three miles south of Paris. When the popular courtier had turned up missing, a dutiful search had been undertaken, but no sign of the young man had been found until the fisherman dragged him up from the river bottom.
Those who delivered the corpse to the Count de Sancerre took pains to explain how it had come to be so damaged. Rocks, limbs, even carp were blamed for the many wounds on the body, but the Count knew better. He recognized the marks. One didn’t receive burns to one’s flesh while drowning in a river. But it was useless to make accusations. He knew who must be responsible for the boy’s death, but to challenge the Bishop of Beauvais would likely end with his own body being dragged up from the bottom of the Seine. So he took René home and buried him beneath the chapel of his hilltop fortress of Sancerre and said nothing.
The body of Madame de Mornay was never found.
***
Arnaud Villabeau finished his cup of wine and began edging his way through the crowd toward the door of the packed tavern. He had picked this place carefully. It was a run-down establishment that had seen better days, but its location, just inside the east gate of Gaillon, made it a likely gathering place for strangers entering the city from that direction. His choice had been borne out as men began to pour into the sad little inn at sundown. These weren’t the usual merchants or pilgrims passing through. They were fighting men and they were drunk and loud and just what Villabeau was looking for.
On Eleanor’s orders, he’d ridden north and east from Evreux, crossing over into French-held territory as he neared the Seine. Also on the Queen’s orders, he’d brought with him young André Noyer. He’d worked with Noyer before, and though hardly more than a boy, Noyer had sharp eyes, talked little and was very good with a knife, all qualities to be valued in a companion while traveling in enemy territory.
As they’d neared the valley of the Seine at midday, they’d encountered mounted patrols on the main roads and sought out small farm paths to avoid discovery. As the two spies neared the river road that ran west from Paris, they saw the long column of the French army stretching for miles back toward the east and Paris. They were marching west and by nightfall would reach the border fortress of Gaillon.
They’d found where the French army was, but where they would strike was still a mystery. Villabeau ordered Noyer to shadow the French force until the following day then ride back to Evreux to inform the Queen of their discovery. The older man then made his way into Gaillon by back roads and found this tavern. There he waited as the lowly inn filled with French soldiery. Those soldiers were soon filled with cheap wine and in less than an hour he’d heard all he needed to hear.
The information stunned him. He had never credited Philip of France with boldness, but this…this was a daring plan the French king had concocted!
Villabeau finally squeezed past a crush of men at the entrance to the tavern and reached the street. Two men stumbled drunkenly out behind him arguing loudly over the quality of the inn. Villabeau headed up the street toward the stables to fetch his horse. He could be in Les Andelys with his worrisome news in three hours. As he neared the stables he saw two men glide out of the shadows of an alleyway and into the centre of the street. Alarmed, he turned on his heels to head back the way he’d come, only to see the two drunken men waiting there, looking quite sober. He darted his eyes to the left and right. No alleys, and the storefronts were all now shuttered. He was trapped.
The four men approached slowly, ready for any sudden move the Queen’s spy might make. Villabeau sighed. This is what happened to a spy who worked in the shadows for too long. You get old. You get careless. The men in the street moved closer. Daggers and swords were drawn. Villabeau drew his own dagger.
He had no interest in spending his final hours in the hands of the Bishop of Beauvais’ interrogators. He said a quick prayer, begging God’s forgiveness for this mortal sin, and plunged the dagger into his chest. A startled cry went up from the men in the street. He saw them spring toward him, but then he was falling. He never felt the cobbles as he hit the street.
The French Attack
Jamie Finch saw the dust rising in the still autumn air before he saw the outriders. He’d been sitting on this little rise two miles north of Gaillon for three days now watching the river road. He was to be re
lieved in the morning and during his watch had seen nothing beyond a few farm wagons and a small troop of monks passing by. The sparse traffic was not altogether surprising. The road ran from the western-most stronghold of the French at Gaillon through disputed territory to the new English citadel of Château Gaillard on the opposite bank of the Seine. Only nine miles separated the border fortresses and travellers did not pass between the two lightly.
It had been a mild day with a gentle breeze coming from the south, carrying the calls of doves and the faint smell of wood smoke, but the smudge in the sky he saw over Gaillon was not smoke. In the dimming twilight, another man might have misread the signs, but Finch had sharp eyes and he’d seen this before in the Holy Land. Only one thing could raise such a low haze on the horizon—an army on the march.
He set aside the firewood he’d been gathering and saddled his horse. By the time he swung up on his quick little palfrey, a dozen mounted men had surged out of the woods on the far side of the valley heading his way. These would be scouts, ahead of whatever was kicking up the dust in the distance.
Finch turned the palfrey’s head to the north and dug his heels into the horse’s flanks. The horse leapt forward, churning up a small dust cloud of its own as it galloped down the river road. Behind him, Finch saw a thick column of heavy cavalry pour out of the woods following the scouts and riding hard. He was only a mile ahead of the lead riders and prayed his little palfrey would outrun them to the Seine. He had to get to Les Andelys and warn the Invalids.
The French were coming—and fast.
***
Finch’s mount was nearly blown when he reached the south bank of the Seine, but he did not rein in until he’d clattered over the first span of the bridge and on to the island in the middle of the river. Sir Roland Inness, commanding the first watch of the night, stepped out of the newly-built guard hut on the island and hailed his scout. Finch leapt nimbly from the lathered horse and gave his report.
“They’re coming, my lord. Lots of them.”
Roland nodded. He’d known as soon as he saw the young Londoner coming at a full gallop over the southern span of the bridge that there was trouble in his wake.
“What did you see, Jamie?”
“About a dozen scouts out front, sir. Behind them was heavy cavalry. I stopped counting at two hundred. And behind them was a dust cloud—a big one like the ones we saw in the Holy Land when armies were on the march.”
“How long?”
Finch looked back over his shoulder at the south bank of the river, shrouded now in darkness.
“I think I put some distance between me and their scouts, lord, but they’ll not be far behind. The cavalry will be slower but will surely be here in an hour. I’d bet my saddle there’ll be infantry and archers behind them. Those we’ll see before dawn.”
Roland slapped Finch on the shoulder.
“Well done, Jamie. See to your horse, then get back here. There’ll be hot work soon.”
Finch was beating the dust from his clothes as Roland spoke. He looked up and smiled.
“For certain, my lord.”
Roland turned to see Patch coming at a run alerted by the sound of galloping hooves on the bridge. Roland ran to meet him.
“The French are coming in force, Tom. Call out the men—all of them, and block the end of the bridge as best you can. If we can’t hold the bridge, we may have to burn it.”
“Aye, sir.”
“And Tom, we have to get word to the King. Find me that new lad, the Norman. He’ll know the way to Neufchatel. Let’s pray the army and the King are still there.”
“Aye, lord,” said Patch, who turned and headed for the town and the barracks.
The excitement of Finch’s arrival had roused Declan, who’d been curled up on a cot in the island guard house sleeping until time to take command of the second watch.
“I hear the French are coming,” he said, stifling a yawn.
“Aye, Dec. Jamie says it’s an entire army. They’ll be coming for the King’s new pride and joy,” he said, tilting his head up toward the castle on the cliffs above the river.
“Likely,” Declan agreed. “Have you informed Sir Robert that the French want his lodgings?”
“Heading there now.”
“Better you than me,” said Declan with another yawn as Roland turned and set off at a trot toward the town and the castle above it. Halfway across the bridge, Patch hailed him. He’d found their Norman, Bertrand Dieupart.
“Do you know the way to Neufchatel?” Roland asked the new man without preamble.
“Oui…yes, my lord.”
“Are you fit to ride forty miles at night?”
“Yes, lord,” Dieupart said, “Of course.”
“The King should be with the army somewhere around Neufchatel. Tell him King Philip has come to take Château Gaillard. Beg him to come with all haste or we will all be dead or prisoners and his castle will be in French hands.”
“Give me a good horse and I’ll be there by mid-morning, my lord.”
Roland turned to Patch.
“Have him take The Grey, Tom. He’s the best we have.”
Bertrand’s face lit up.
“He’s the best anyone has, my lord.”
“Then go!” Roland ordered, and the Norman raced for the stables.
“How long till help arrives?” Patch asked.
Roland shrugged.
“Two days for any kind of mounted relief, three for infantry I’d reckon.”
Patch frowned.
“If Finch is right about what’s heading our way, that won’t be soon enough.”
***
Sir Robert Mandeville had been asleep for an hour when his squire shook him awake. The castellan was not pleased to have his slumber interrupted.
“What in God’s name is it, Humbert?” he snapped.
“It’s Sir Roland Inness of the Invalid Company,” the boy answered meekly. “He says the French are coming, my lord.”
“The French? Why would the French be coming?” he asked, confused by sleep and the odd message.
“You’ll have to ask Sir Roland that, my lord. He’s waiting outside.”
Sir Robert cursed loudly and dragged himself out of bed. Throwing on a robe, he followed his squire to a landing outside his bedchamber where Roland Inness stood waiting.
“A French army is on the river road, Sir Robert,” he said dispensing with pleasantries. “They will be here in force in less than an hour.”
The castellan looked at him as though he were a madman.
“How dare you awaken me with another of your alarmist notions about the French, Inness!” he snapped. “I can see why Mercadier wanted to hang you. You can’t follow simple orders! When the King returns…”
“Enough!” Roland shouted, cutting off the man. “We have no time for this, my lord. A French army is marching here from Gaillon. Our scout saw them with his own eyes and he knows how to count men. I’ve ordered the Invalids to barricade the bridge on the far side and to burn it if they cannot hold it.”
Mandeville looked stunned.
“Burn the bridge?” he blurted, stepping forward until he stood toe-to-toe with Roland. “You have no authority to issue such an order, Inness. The King left me in charge here, not you! I am countermanding that order. You will not burn that bridge! Do you understand, sir?”
“I understand you completely, Mandeville, but my orders stand. I am unwilling to lose this castle and have my men slaughtered on the say-so of a fool. We are barricading the bridge now, though I doubt we can hold it. I suggest you make yourself useful and barricade your main gate. I see the doors are still not hung.”
With that, Roland turned and bounded down the steps from the landing, taking them three at a time.
“I’ll see you hang for this!” Sir Robert bellowed.
The castellan turned to his squire.
“Fetch me my boots, boy. The damned Invalids have mutinied again.”
***
Rol
and found Patch and the other company officers at the far end of the bridge. All hands were throwing up a barricade to stop whatever was coming down the river road toward them, stacking barrels, carts and heavy wooden beams in a jumble near the end of the span. Declan had been supervising the placement of crates and barrels on the barricade, but picked his way back down to the roadway when he saw Roland had returned.
“Reminds me of the barricades we built for the fight at Armagh,” he said as he hopped down from a wooden crate.
“We couldn’t hold those barricades,” Roland reminded him.
“True enough,” Declan said, “but we didn’t have a grand river flowing beneath those barricades. Nothing but good solid Irish dirt. I hear from Patch you may have us burn it. We burn this and the French will get their feet wet.”
“They’ll expect us to do that, Dec.”
Declan rubbed his chin.
“Likely, but what can they do to stop us?”
Roland looked at his friend.
“I wish I knew,” he said.
Just then Sir John Blackthorne approached hauling an old man by the arm. Declan touched Roland’s shoulder.
“I sent Sir John to fetch Master Blakemore at his quarters in the town,” he said. “Thought he might be of some use.”
Sir John released his grip on the engineer’s arm. Blakemore was still in his night shirt and looking a little dazed.
“We may need to burn the bridge,” Roland said bluntly.
“Burn my bridge?”
“Yes,” Roland said patiently, pointing to where the river road disappeared into the darkness. “Very soon an army of Frenchmen will be coming down that road. They’re coming to take your castle, sir, and they’ll need to cross the river to do it.”
Roland’s quiet explanation seemed to finally clear away any cobwebs left from the man’s slumber. His jaw now set, he pointed back to the island in the middle of the Seine.
“There’s a barrel of pitch in the storeroom there,” he said. “That should do it.”
