Henry jerked as if struck at the mention of his eldest son and William flinched with him. He knew that, of all things, Henry dreaded being brought face to face with Richard and humiliated. What pride he had was bleeding, battered, and dying, but to have the final blows delivered by one’s own son, in malice, was not a coup de grace but ignominious murder. “Go, sire,” William said. “I will hold them off.”
Henry looked at him, nodded once, and, without speaking, spurred away. William leaped to horse, ordered his squires to ride hard with Essex’s troops, and with a handful of other knights, took up his position as the King’s rearguard.
At first their way was clogged by people fleeing the town, their possessions in sacks and hand carts, across the backs of pack ponies or piled in ox wains, women weeping, children screaming. William had curses heaped on him by wailing refugees as he pushed his way through. He ignored them. Nothing mattered but seeing Henry to safety. He saw no sign of Clara and assumed that she and her merchant had taken another road, for which he was glad. He would not have wanted to pass her.
Once clear of the suburbs and the fleeing people, they set their horses to a canter. The King clung grimly to his saddle, his face ashen-yellow, but when Baldwin of Béthune enquired if they should slow the pace, he shook his head and insisted instead that they should increase it. De Souville’s horse was lame and the knight was struggling to keep up. Turning in the saddle to look over his shoulder and check de Souville’s progress, William saw a Poitevan knight hurtling towards the fleeing party, lance couched. De Souville raised his shield and tried to rein his horse out of the way, but the knight turned with him and rammed him from the saddle. As de Souville struck the ground, more Poitevans galloped up, dust flurrying from beneath their horses’ hooves. The foremost was riding a powerful dun destrier with flaxen mane and tail. Although the rider carried no shield, William recognised Richard immediately and his blood ran cold. Levelling his lance, he pricked his stallion forward to bar the road.
Richard reined back so hard that his horse reared. “Don’t be a fool!” he roared across the ground between himself and William. “Stand aside!”
William fretted his destrier and prepared to charge. “My lord, you will turn back if you value your life!”
Richard laughed with contemptuous rage. “You would not dare,” he sneered and slapped the reins down on his stallion’s neck. Without hesitation, William spurred his mount. Richard’s eyes widened; he tried to draw aside, but William changed the angle of his lance and thrust with his full might. It was a clean blow and it killed on the instant. Abandoning his lance in situ, William snarled, “Let the devil take you, my lord,” and, wheeling about, galloped off up the road.
A shaken Richard extricated himself from the saddle of his dead horse and pulled back the knights who would have continued the chase. “No,” he said brusquely, “let them go. They’re on the run and we’ll catch them soon enough…and then we’ll have a reckoning.”
Thirty
It was quiet in the village of Coulaine outside Chinon. William squinted into the sky, seeking the skylark that was flinging its song to heaven and finally located the dark pinpoint of sound high in the blue. The throaty warble continued for a moment then ceased as the bird plummeted to earth and was lost to sight amid the grasses of the spring meadow where several mares and colts were grazing.
William had brought his troop out this way with the excuse of inspecting the stock of a local lord who bred destriers, but the truth of the matter was that he needed a respite from watching King Henry deteriorate, his pain so acute that even the strongest potions and soporifics afforded him no ease. And with his deterioration, came the failure of William’s hopes of advancement. William knew he had probably ruined his own future by killing Richard’s stallion under him, but since the alternatives had been either to kill Richard himself or court dishonour and let him past, William’s choice had been simple.
The horse-breeder reclaimed William’s attention by enquiring after the King and expressing his concern that the French would overrun Chinon. “I have spent a lifetime on these animals,” he said, gesturing to the grazing mares and foals. “I would rather die than see them thieved by Poitevan and French gutter sweepings.”
“A truce has been agreed; they will not come to Chinon,” William replied more confidently than he felt. The way that Richard had been hounding his father, he would not put anything past him. A week ago, King Henry had met with Richard and Philip outside Fresnay. Watching Henry’s distressing struggle to face his enemies with dignity, William had felt sick with pity and rage. Before the meeting, Henry had taken refuge in a Templar church and so great had been his pain that he had had to hold on to the wall to stay upright. William had sent a message to Philip and Richard that Henry was indisposed and unable to attend the counsel. Richard had refused to accept the reply and loudly proclaimed that his father was feigning illness in order to wriggle out of the talks and that if he did not come, then more fire and sword would follow. Henry had dragged himself from the church and forced himself across a horse. Teeth clenched in agony, he had ridden to the meeting place, gasping to William that if God granted him time enough, he would have Philip and Richard pay for what they were doing to him. On seeing Henry’s condition, Philip had realised how ill he truly was and had offered him a cloak to sit upon whilst negotiations were conducted, but Henry had refused, preferring to remain on his horse, which at least gave him some small touch of dignity as the humiliating terms for peace were dictated to him. Richard had shown no pity for his father, neither by look nor by gesture. William could not decide if it was a deliberate ploy by Richard to further hurt his father, a defence against being hurt himself, or just blank indifference. Whatever it was, the mask had not cracked throughout the negotiations.
Henry had returned to Chinon and taken to his bed. Abhorring the stenches of the sick room, Prince John had been conspicuous by his absence; but Henry’s bastard son Geoffrey had spent much time at his father’s side, wiping his brow and comforting his rages.
“I have heard rumours that the King is sick unto death.” The trader looked intently at William. “You are close to him, so men say. Is it true?”
“It is true that he is heartsick over the behaviour of his eldest son,” William replied, skirting the issue, “and his health is not robust, but he has a will that is as strong as sword steel and it is far from broken.” His tone did not encourage more questions and he addressed himself to the purchase of a mare and foal and a promising two-year-old colt. He would not think about where he was going to settle the horses in the months to come. For now, he arranged to keep them with the breeder, saying with a wry smile that his decision to do so was a sign of his confidence that the French and Poitevans would not pillage the region. In truth, William did not know what was going to happen and was as much a straw in the wind as any member of the King’s entourage.
As he rode slowly back towards Chinon, he was joined by another company riding in that direction and headed by Roger Malacheal, keeper of the King’s seal. Malacheal was returning from Tours where he had been on business for Henry. King Philip had undertaken to give Henry the names of the men who had turned against him and Malacheal had been to collect that list. He greeted William sombrely, his expression one of utter weariness. William knew better than to enquire directly of his business, but a general question brought a shake of Malacheal’s head and a further downturn of the mouth. “Worse than you know,” was all he would say.
When they arrived in Chinon, Malacheal went directly to Henry’s chamber, and William accompanied him. The King had not risen from his bed, although he was dressed and sitting upon it, attended by physicians and clerks to whom, even in his weakened state, he had been dictating letters. His bastard son Geoffrey clung jealously to his side and watched everyone like a suspicious guard dog.
Malacheal approached the bed, bent his knee, and bowed his head. Henry gestured him to his feet and held out a quivering right hand. “You have the list of traitors?”
“Sire…” Malacheal hesitated.
“Let me see,” Henry said hoarsely.
Giving in to the inevitable, Malacheal handed over the scroll. Henry broke the seal and unrolled the parchment. His eyesight was failing and he had to hold the document at arm’s length to read it. Even then he could not see the names and returned the document to Malacheal with a frustrated shake of his head. “You read it,” he said.
Malacheal took it as if it had been painted with poison. Moistening his lips, he scanned the list. “My lord, so Jesus Christ help me, the first name on the list is that of your son, Lord John.”
Henry whispered the name. He repeated it several times, becoming louder on each occasion, and the shake of his head increased in vigour. “I will not believe this,” he rasped. “John would not do that to me. Bring him to me now.”
Men exchanged glances. “I will go and find him, sire,” William said.
He met Geoffrey’s gaze where the young man stood behind his father and saw the negation in it.
William strode from the room and through the palace to the stables where the grooms informed him that John had left that morning, soon after his own departure to visit the horse-breeder. The prince had taken his bodyguard, his servants, and two laden packhorses and as yet he had not returned. Tight-lipped, William combed the town. The brothels and drinking houses had no word of him, nor the cloth merchant, goldsmith, or the man who dealt in rare gemstones, of which John was fond, and William returned to the palace empty-handed. The King was awaiting the news like a prisoner on the morning of execution, looking for a reprieve but knowing in his heart that none would come.
William stood straight and tall to deliver the blow and no matter what he felt inside, did not let the pity show on his face. “Sire, your son left at dawn this morning. He is no longer in the city.”
Henry looked at William, then at the knights and officials surrounding his bed. His focus slipped and turned inwards as if he had closed a door on the world. “You have said enough,” he muttered. “Draw the curtains and leave me, all of you.” He gestured weakly towards the hangings surrounding his bed.
It became clear that King Henry was not going to recover from his illness. The news of John’s desertion had destroyed his will to fight death. He refused all sustenance. The low fever that had been plaguing him for several weeks worsened and soared beyond anything the physicians could do to help him. Henry lost his wits and even when his eyes were open, he did not see the people surrounding him; nor could he respond to what they said.
