Sharon Penman - Devil's brood

When John was admitted to his father’s chamber, he found Henry playing chess with Geoff. Henry greeted him with a smile and pushed his chair back from the table, but John was not impressed that his father would interrupt the game for him. When other men told him how lucky he was to stand so high in the king’s favor, he was hard put not to point out that a diet of promises was a thin gruel. For all his father’s fondness and fine talk, he had yet to grant the incomes of Mortain, and the Gloucester heiress seemed likely to join Alys in a chaste old age.

“I heard that some of the Breton lords have thrown their lot in with Richard and Philippe, joining them at Ballon,” he said. “Is it true?”

“Yes,” Henry admitted. “You know Raoul de Fougeres. He’s never one to miss a rebellion.”

John was not cheered by Henry’s humor, not with their scouts reporting that the French king and Richard were heading south, toward Le Mans. “I do not understand why you insist upon staying in Le Mans, Papa. Surely it would make more sense to withdraw into Normandy where your army is gathering. Here you have only your household knights and your Welsh routiers. Why put yourself needlessly at risk?”

Henry had already had this discussion with Willem and Geoff and several others, all of whom had advocated a retreat into the greater safety of Normandy. “Le Mans has always been the city closest to my heart, Johnny. I was born here and my father is buried in the cathedral. I have promised the citizens that I will not abandon them.”

His father’s logic eluded John altogether. He looked at Henry in frustration, but he had no chance to continue the argument, for it was then that Will Marshal was announced. John stepped aside so Will could confer with Henry, just in time to catch Geoff surreptitiously shifting several of the chess pieces on the board. John did not like his half brother any more than Richard did, and when he realized what Geoff was up to, he shook his head, thinking that only Geoff would cheat to lose.

Henry beckoned Will into the chamber. “Will, my scouts report that Philippe and Richard have turned in the direction of Tours. But I want to be sure it is not a trick. On the morrow, take several of our men and find out if they are indeed heading away from Le Mans.”

Will promised to leave at first light and then asked about the defensive ditches they’d dug outside the city walls. John saw that Henry was going to be occupied for some time and quietly slipped from the chamber.

There were two Royal residences in Le Mans, the ancient castle near the cathedral of St Julien and the palace in the Place St Pierre, where Henry was lodging. Willem was standing on the town walls, looking down at the sprawling suburb that had grown up around the city. Sheltered on two sides by the rivers Sarthe and Huisne, Le Mans had an ancient past and its walls dated back to the time when it had been a Roman outpost. It had long been the heart of Anjou, but Willem was scrutinizing it now with a soldier’s eye, his only concern the defenses it offered against assault. He would have been more content had the city not held such a great prize-the king himself.

It was that ephemeral hour between day and night, clouds still tinted with the red hues of sunset, the sky taking on the deepening haze of a summer twilight. Willem was too tense, too preoccupied to appreciate the quiet beauty of a country eventide, and he started visibly at the sound of his name. Turning, he saw Henry’s youngest son approaching along the battlement walkway, not a welcome sight, for he was sure John was seeking reassurance he could not in all honesty provide.

John’s greeting was perfunctory, and he wasted no time in social amenities. “I have just come from my father, and he is still balking at withdrawing into Normandy. I do not understand him at all anymore, Willem. How can he be so lethargic in the face of such danger? He has always been acclaimed for the speed of his campaigns, and yet now he does nothing!”

“What would you have him do, John? He does not want to make war upon his son.”

“The choice is no longer his,” John pointed out impatiently. “Surely he means to defend himself? He showed no such reticence during the first rebellion, nor when Hal and Geoffrey sought to overthrow Richard. I know he is older now, but even so…”

“He is fifty and six, which is hardly doddering.” Part of Willem’s annoyance was due to the fact that he and Henry were born in the same year. But he was also thoroughly disillusioned with the ingratitude of the king’s sons. After years of witnessing Henry’s strife with Hal and Geoffrey and Richard, he’d decided that a fertile queen might well pose a greater danger than a barren one. And so far he’d seen nothing in John to soften that harsh judgment, for Henry’s youngest seemed like a typical spoiled and callow young princeling to him, not likely to be the staff of his father’s old age.

“Has it never occurred to you, John, that heart-wounds can be more dangerous than those inflicted with lance or sword? Especially now…”

“What do you mean by ‘especially now’?”

Willem stared at him. How could he not know? “I am talking of your lord father’s failing health, of course.”

John frowned. “I know he is troubled by that recurring leg injury. And he suffered greatly this spring from an abscess in his groin. But as painful as they are, they are not mortal ailments. He always gets better, does he not?”

Willem’s hesitation was brief. John was not a child, after all. He was a man grown of twenty and two. It was time for him to look at the world with a man’s eyes, time to realize how greatly his father needed him. “He is loath to speak openly of his ills, but he has been troubled for months by an ulcer and he has a wound in his heel that is not healing as it ought. Constant pain saps a man’s strength, all the more so when he must endure one family crisis after another.”

John was silent for a time. “Then this is why so many of his barons are deserting him? They fear he might die?”

“They fear he cannot win this war, and for a king, death and defeat are one and the same. I do not mean to alarm you, unduly, John. But I felt you had the right to know how serious your father’s maladies are.”

“Thank you,” John said softly, “for telling me the truth.” Willem patted him on the shoulder and then moved on, heading for the ladder. John remained where he was, gazing over the walls at the deceptively tranquil scene below. Candles had begun to glow through the open windows of the houses, and bobbing beacons appeared on the streets as lanterns were struck. But these cheerful flickers of light were soon swallowed up by the encroaching dark.

During the night, thick fog drifted into the valley, and when Will and his companions set out, they could barely see more than a few yards ahead of them. They almost ran into an advance party of French scouts, but since they were not armed for combat, they let the French riders pass by in peace. Will led the way toward the River Huisne, and there he found that Henry’s caution had been well warranted. Using the fog as camouflage, the French and Poitevins had stealthily advanced as far as the river and were now encamped on the other bank, with the obvious intent of laying siege to Le Mans.

Entering the Great Hall, John made his way toward the dais, where Henry was talking quietly and intently with Will Marshal and several of his knights. “You sent for me, my lord?”

Henry nodded, said “Come with me,” and led the way behind the oaken partition that screened off one end of the hall. “The French army is gathering for an attack upon Le Mans. I have given orders to break down the Pontlieu bridge over the River Huisne, to place stakes in the places where the river can be forded, and to scatter caltrops and sharpened stones in the riverbed. We are deepening the ditches and pulling down those houses closest to the city gates.”