“How very comforting,” his brother said with a sneer. “We can all grieve together for the loss of Toulouse. But mark my words well, Louis, for who’s to say what that Angevin whoreson and his slut will set their eyes upon next? You let him gobble up Toulouse and you could end up fending him off at the very gates of Paris!”
As usual, Robert had vastly overstated his case, but there was still enough truth in his complaint to cause the other men to nod and mutter amongst themselves. Literal, as always, Louis patiently explained that Henry Fitz Empress had no claim to the French throne, thus making any assault upon Paris unlikely in the extreme. This was not an argument to win any favor with his barons, still less with his brothers. Nor did he help matters any by adding honestly, “Alas, I cannot say as much for Toulouse. How can I dismiss his claim out of hand when it was one I once made myself?”
“And what of your nephews’ claims?” Philippe demanded. “What of Constance’s sons? Are you truly going to stand aside whilst they lose their patrimony, Louis?”
Simon de Montfort thought there was a more compelling argument to be made than that. Raymond de St Gilles, Count of Toulouse, was a vassal of the French Crown. Louis had a legal responsibility to come to his aid; their society was predicated upon the mutual obligations of vassal and liege lord. But Louis seemed more distressed by his nephews’ plight. When he turned from the window, his misery was laid bare for all to see.
“I do not want to jeopardize my alliance with England,” he said plaintively, and Simon de Montfort rolled his eyes, thinking sourly that what Louis did not want to jeopardize was the chance to see his daughter as Queen of England one day.
“Is that what you told the Angevin?” Robert shook his head in disgust. “Little wonder he is now halfway to Toulouse!”
“I told him that I could not countenance the disinheriting of my sister’s sons.” Even Louis’s forbearance was not inexhaustible, and the look he now gave his brother was a mixture of wounded dignity and weary exasperation. “I fear that he did not believe me, though.”
“I’d say that was a safe wager.” This acerbic observation came from Theobald, Count of Blois, Louis’s future son-in-law, plight-trothed to Louis and Eleanor’s nine-year-old daughter, Alix. His elder brother, Henry, Count of Champagne, was plight-trothed to Alix’s older sister, fourteen-year-old Marie, and both young men were amongst the English king’s most implacable foes, for King Stephen was their uncle.
Louis’s mouth tightened. “I have no intention of abandoning my sister and her children.”
As sincere as that declaration sounded, his audience took little comfort from it, for the French king was the least warlike of monarchs; his attempt to punish Henry and Eleanor for their marriage had been a fiasco, with Henry needing just six weeks to send the French army reeling back across the border.
“So what mean you to do?” Robert scoffed. “Pray for their deliverance?”
“Yes, I shall pray. But I shall do more than that,” Louis said, so stoutly that he raised both eyebrows and hopes.
“You have a plan in mind?” Robert sounded skeptical. “Well, tell us!”
Louis did.
The response was not what he’d expected. Instead of congratulations and approval, he gained only blank looks. “Is that it?” Philippe asked at last. “That is your grand plan to thwart the Angevin?”
When Louis nodded, Robert spoke for them all. “God save Toulouse.”
“He will,” Louis said. “He will.”
The day was sweltering and the dust clouds churned up by the English army were visible for miles. Chestnut trees drooped in the heat, as did the men. They were more than twelve hundred feet above sea level, riding across windswept plateaus brown with bracken and wilted high grass. At dusk, they mounted the crest of a hill and had their first glimpse of Cahors, ensconced in a loop of the River Lot far below them.
Drawing rein, they gazed down upon the city. “Shrewsbury,” Hywel said softly, and Ranulf nodded somberly, for like that Marcher town, Cahors lay within a horseshoe curve of wide, swift-flowing water. Surrounded on three sides by a natural moat, the city’s only land approach was from the north, and it was well fortified by stone ramparts. Until now, they had advanced almost without challenge, castles and towns yielding to their superior show of force. But Cahors was no ripe pear for the picking. For this prize, there would be a price demanded, one paid in blood.
“Well?” Henry asked, and his herald slowly shook his head.
“They refused to surrender, my liege.”
Henry hadn’t truly expected any other answer, even though he’d offered generous terms. But he felt a sharp pang of disappointment, nonetheless. “So be it,” he said, gazing toward the city walls. “We attack at dawn.”
Thomas Becket was appraising their target, too. “I will tell the others,” he said. “I hope you will give me the honor of leading the first assault.” His face was deeply tanned, his eyes crinkling at the corners, filled with light. He was immaculately turned out, as always, wearing a finely woven slit surcoat over a chain-mail hauberk that glinted like silver in the last rays of the sun. Ranulf had never seen him as animated as on this campaign. He was showing an unexpected flair for soldiering and an equally unforeseen enthusiasm for his new duties.
Henry had been surprised, too, by his chancellor’s zeal, joking that Thomas had turned their campaign to oust Raymond de St Gilles from Toulouse into a holy quest to free Jerusalem from the infidels. But he made no jests now in response to Becket’s request. He merely nodded, then turned away from Cahors, heading back toward their encampment.
Ranulf, Hywel, and Rainald stayed where they were, sitting their horses on a rise of ground overlooking the city, which was on a war footing, gates barred, sentries patrolling the battlements. Those who’d wanted to flee were already gone; those remaining were making ready for the suffering of a long siege.
Hywel shifted in the saddle, watching as Henry’s stallion broke into a gallop. “Your nephew does not look nearly as eager to spill blood on the morrow as his chancellor.”
“Harry finds pleasure in many places, but not on the battlefield. He much prefers to get what he wants by other means, although he’ll do what he must if it comes to that. As for Thomas, he does seem keen to make a name for himself on the field; he brought fully seven hundred knights at his own expense, which has to be a staggering cost. Passing strange, for he never seemed to me to be a man ruled by his passions.”
“Your chancellor strikes me,” Hywel said, “as a man who throws himself totally into any role he undertakes. How else explain why he could have well served two such different masters as the Archbishop of Canterbury and the King of England? I understand the archbishop is a saintly soul, and not even the king’s mother would claim that could be said of him. Yet these utterly dissimilar men hold Becket in the highest esteem possible. Interesting, is it not?”
Rainald kneed his mount closer. “Are you saying Becket is a hypocrite?” he asked, and looked let down when Hywel shook his head.
“No… a chameleon.”
“What in hellfire is that?”
“A small lizard that possesses a truly remarkable talent. It can change its color to reflect its surroundings.”
Rainald considered that and then nodded emphatically. “By God, you’re right, Hywel,” he declared, mangling the Welshman’s name so atrociously that Hywel looked away to hide a smile. “Think on it, Ranulf,” he insisted, glancing toward his younger brother. “Whenever Harry wants Becket to act as the king’s envoy, he boasts a silvered tongue and a statesman’s fine manners. Then when Harry needs him to raise money, he counts every coin like an accursed moneylender. And now that he rides with the king to subdue our enemies, he fancies himself another Roland. I daresay he even sleeps with his sword!”
“I believe his weapon of choice is a mace,” Ranulf pointed out, “in deference to the Church’s stricture against ‘smiting with the sword.’ But it seems to me, Hywel, that you are indeed accusing the ma
n of hypocrisy, for are you not questioning his sincerity? Unfairly so, I believe.”
Hywel looked amused. “Your loyalty to your friends does you credit. I hope you are so quick to defend my sins, too. But for your friend the chancellor, I was not impugning his sincerity. A chameleon cannot be faulted for following his own nature, after all.”
He and Rainald both laughed, and after a moment, Ranulf joined in, not because he agreed with them, but because moments of mirth were never to be squandered, not on the eve of battle.
Swirling embers lit the night sky and fires still burned in the city’s northern quarter. But the worst was over. The battle had been fierce, but far more brief than either side had anticipated. Pounded mercilessly by the English king’s powerful mangonels and trebuchets, the defenders were unable to foil his iron-bound battering rams, which were swung back and forth on rope pulleys until they’d gained enough momentum to smash into the city’s gates. After they’d made that first fateful breach, Becket’s men charged into the gap, while others flung scaling ladders over the walls and began to scramble up. Once the fighting reached the streets, Cahors was doomed, for its river defenses now made flight impossible. By dusk, Henry’s banner was flying over the city and the dying was done, wine now flowing instead of blood.
Ranulf had been in captured towns before. The sights were all too familiar: plundered shops, jubilant soldiers, fearful citizens desperate to placate their conquerors, smoldering ruins that had once been homes or churches, bodies stacked like kindling for swift burial. The streets were crowded with men, many laden with loot, for that was looked upon as a soldier’s right. Ranulf had injured his leg in the assault and he was limping, as much from exhaustion as pain. Jostled on all sides, he’d begun to feel as if he were swimming against the tide, but he finally reached the marketplace, where he sank down, winded, upon a mounting block. Somewhere a woman screamed; closer at hand, a dog was whimpering, unseen in the darkness. Ahead Ranulf could distinguish the blurred outlines of the great cathedral of St Etienne, where he hoped to find Henry. But for the moment, he was content to sit and catch his breath.
Men on horses were forcing their way up the narrow, clogged street, shouting vainly for the celebrating soldiers to clear a path for them. As they drew closer, Ranulf recognized Patrick d’Evereaux, the Earl of Salisbury, among them. They were not friends, but they’d been allies, fighting together to gain the English crown for the Empress Maude. Salisbury reined in at the sight of Ranulf. “What an easy victory,” he chortled. “We had to work a lot harder at this in the old days, remember?”
“Yes,” Ranulf said, “I remember.”
“We are seeking the king. The Bishop of Cahors is in a tearing rage, for some of our men sacked his palace,” Salisbury said, with a conspicuous lack of regret. “We had to promise we’d take his protests to the king, if only to shut him up. Have you seen him? Or Becket?”
“I heard they were at the cathedral.” Declining Salisbury’s invitation to accompany them, Ranulf watched as they rode on. Light suddenly spilled into the street as a door opened across the square, raucous laughter resounding on the cooling night air. Ranulf debated going over to the tavern and getting himself a drink, but it was easier just to stay where he was.
“Ranulf?” Hywel was weaving through the crowd, one arm around a remarkably pretty young woman, the other cradled in a jaunty red sling. “Have a drink,” he offered, proffering a wine flask that turned out to be empty.
Switching to French, he said, “This is Emma,” introducing the girl with a gallant flourish that made her giggle. “A few of our men were pressing their unwanted attentions upon her, but I was able to persuade them to be on their way, and this dear lass then insisted upon giving me her own chemise to bind up my wound.”
“He fought for me,” Emma said proudly, “against the other English. For me, he did that!”
“I never thought to hear myself called ‘English,’ ” Hywel said with a grimace. “But how can I take offense when it comes from such a honey-sweet mouth?”
Emma giggled again and tilted her face up so he could taste some of that sweetness. Once he’d taken his fill, he scowled at Ranulf with mock indignation. “So why are you sitting out here alone in the dark? Why are you not in one of the taverns, celebrating?”
“Celebrating what? This great victory?”
“No, you fool, that you survived the assault!”
When Ranulf shrugged, Hywel gave him a closer inspection. “What ails you? I see no blood, so why so glum? You’re no battle virgin. You spent nigh on twenty years fighting for your sister, and from what I’ve heard, that war was as savage as any ever fought on English soil. So surely nothing you’ve seen this day is like to unman you?”
“You’re right,” Ranulf admitted. “This was child’s play compared to the bloody Battle of Lincoln or the Siege of Winchester.”
“But?” Hywel prompted, and Ranulf shrugged again.
“That was different, Hywel. We were fighting to recover my sister’s stolen crown. Whilst I always regretted the suffering and the deaths, I never doubted the justice of our cause. I truly believed we were in the right and that Maude would rule England better than Stephen. I was willing to die to make her Queen of England. But I see no reason that men should die to see Eleanor as Countess of Toulouse. Christ Jesus, she and Harry already hold England, Normandy, Aquitaine, Anjou, Touraine, and Maine!”
“If you start demanding rational reasons for your wars, Ranulf, you’ll never get to fight another one!” The moonlight was bright enough to reveal Hywel’s smile. “Have you truly lived through forty winters without learning that just wars are as rare as mermaids and unicorns? One man’s just war is another man’s unholy slaughter. English, French, Scots, Welsh, even Saracen infidels-we’re all convinced we have God on our side.”
“What are you saying, that God does not care who wins our wars?”
“Well, I’d not go that far. I surely hope He cares whether I succeed my lord father as King of Gwynedd.” With another moonlit gleam, Hywel reached down and hauled Ranulf to his feet. “If we are going to wax philosophical, I demand that we do it over a flagon. Emma claims that Cahors has the best red wine in all of Quercy. I say we put her boast to the test.”
Ranulf hesitated, glancing up at the towering silhouette of the cathedral, where his nephew was occupied with the myriad burdens of conquest. “You’re right,” he said. “Let’s find a tavern to liberate.” And he followed Hywel and Emma toward the torchlit haven beckoning across the street.
The land south of Cahors was desolate, dry and sun-seared and barren of life, for the inhabitants of these high plateaus and deep, narrow valleys had fled before the approach of the English army. The town of Montauban offered no resistance, and the road to Toulouse lay open before them.
Toulouse was nestled in a wide curve of the River Garonne, a city of dusky-rose brick under a sky so blue it looked unreal. It seemed deceptively peaceful, and far in the distance was the cloud-crowned splendor of the most magnificent mountains Hywel had ever seen, the soaring peaks of the Pyrenees. They so dwarfed the heights of the Welsh Eryri that he felt a stab of envy; if only God had blessed Wales with such formidable boundaries, they could have kept the English out with ease.
He spotted Ranulf with the English king, and urged his stallion forward to join them. They were all looking intently at the city’s high red walls, well manned and fortified, for here Count Raymond would make his stand. The siege of Toulouse would be a long and bloody one.
Hywel reined in at Ranulf’s side, and they listened without comment as Henry’s lords offered suggestions about how best to begin. Thomas Becket was arguing that they ought to start building belfry towers straightaway when Henry’s sharp eyes caught a glimpse of the blue and gold banner flying from the Castle Narbonais. Drawing an audible breath, he stared at the flag in dismayed disbelief, reluctant to admit what he was seeing. Alerted by his silence, the more discerning of the men were turning questioningly in his direction.
“Look,” he said, his voice flat and harsh, and they followed his gesture, recognizing with gasps and curses the fleur de lys of the French Crown.
Hywel was not as quick to comprehend, for heraldry had been slow to take root in Wales. As usual, he turned to Ranulf, his interpreter in this alien culture. “What does this mean?”
“It means,” Ranulf said, “that the King of France has taken up residence in the city. When we attack Toulouse, we will be attacking, too, the man who is Harry’s liege lord.”
CHAPTER EIGHT
July 1159
Toulouse, France
" I said no.” Henry’s voice was even, but a muscle twitched along his jawline and his fists were clenched, incontrovertible evidence that he was fast losing control of his fabled Angevin temper, evidence that his chancellor brashly ignored. Thomas Becket’s disappointment had gotten the better of his customary discretion, and he blurted out:
“How can you, of all men, be taken in by such a foolish superstition?”
“It is not superstition!” Henry’s eyes shone with a hard grey glitter. “I swore homage to the King of France for Normandy. That makes him my liege lord. I will not lay siege to Toulouse as long as he remains within the city walls.”
“But you’ve fought him in the past!”
“I was attacked first and defending myself! I had no choice then. I do now and there will be no assault upon the city. How often do I have to say it?”
Both men were flushed. Becket shook his head slowly, as if unable to believe what he was hearing. “And so what now? We’ve come all this way for nothing?”
“We will continue the war against the Count of Toulouse,” Henry said, through gritted teeth.
“Right up to the walls of Toulouse,” Becket retorted, with such lethal sarcasm that Henry slammed his fist down onto the table, causing them all to jump.
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