The Revolt of the Eaglets - Plaidy Jean (бесплатные полные книги TXT) 📗

From the top of the battlements he could see the armies encamped there. Philip and Richard were together in the same tent.

‘What have I done,’ he asked himself, ‘that my sons should take up arms against me?’

I have one good son – Geoffrey – base-born Geoffrey whom I would trust with my life.

But there was John whom he must love best of all because he was his legitimate son. My youngest and my best, he assured himself.

By God’s eyes, John should be his heir. If he defeated Philip, if he brought him to terms he would strip Richard of everything – even Aquitaine.

Some of his old ardour returned. He felt better. If only there could have been a conference. In the old days he had excelled at conferences. He could always get the better of his opponents by his agile brain and of course the old trick of agreeing to do that which he had no intention of performing. But people became wary. One cannot keep playing the old tricks.

‘They shall not take Le Mans,’ he declared. ‘Not the city I love best, not that which holds the tomb of my father.’

He hated the thought of a head-on battle. He had always avoided that. So much depended on luck and numbers and it always seemed to him senseless destruction. He who had always relied on strategy relied on that now.

He would start a fire and as the wind was in the right direction the flames would be carried into the French camp. At best it could destroy so much that it would disable them and prevent their fighting, at least it would cause confusion. He gave the order.

As he stood at the turret watching the blaze, he laughed to himself. Strategy was always better than hand to hand combat.

His glee changed suddenly to consternation. God was indeed against him for the wind had suddenly changed. It was like a direct order from Heaven. Instead of enveloping the French camp it was blowing back in the direction of the city.

Henry left the turret. His knights, seeing what was happening, were waiting for orders.

‘The city will be destroyed,’ cried Henry. ‘The hand of God is against us. There is nothing for us to do but get away while we can.’

He and his men left the city which was now beginning to blaze into a mighty conflagration as the flames driven by the high wind encompassed it.

Henry was sick at heart. This was the final disaster. Something told him that he could not survive it. The new vigour which had come to him had evaporated.

He rode to the top of a hillock and looked back at the blazing city.

His son Geoffrey was beside him and he said to him, ‘God has taken from me the city I loved most.’

Geoffrey said: ‘It was a freak of the weather. Who could have guessed the wind would change so suddenly?’

‘It is God’s sign that he has deserted me. Geoffrey, my son, in my youth I spent many years in that city. My father’s tomb is there. And He is reducing it all to ashes.’ In a sudden access of rage Henry shook his fist at the sky.

Geoffrey was afraid for his father and sought to pacify him. ‘I beg of you, my lord,’ he said, ‘consider. You need God’s help as never before. You blaspheme. Should you not humbly pray to Him?’

Henry laughed aloud and his eyes flashed with the old fury while the blood hammered in his temples.

‘Why should I plead with One who is determined to destroy me? Why should I honour Him? What has He done for me? He gave me sons and turned them against me. In that camp is my son Richard. What have I done, Geoffrey, to be so treated?’

‘God has given you much, my lord. He gave you a crown and the strength to hold it. Troubles have come to you perhaps to test you. They say God loves to test those whom He loves best.’

Henry turned to look at his son and grasped his arm suddenly.

‘You have been a good son to me, Geoffrey. I would you had been my legitimate son. How different that would have been. He gave me you, did He not, and He has given me my son John. My son John will be a good king for I am determined that he shall follow me. He is the only one who has shown me affection. I have my son John.’

Geoffrey looked away to the burning city and he prayed to God that He would not let the King discover the true nature of his youngest son, for Geoffrey knew the boy to be dissolute, unreliable, hypocritical and far less worthy than his brother Richard whom the King was seeking to disinherit.

‘My lord, thank God then for what He has given you and I beg of you let us ride on, for the enemy will pursue us and they must not capture you.’

Even as he spoke William the Marshall rode up to the King.

‘The French army is in pursuit,’ said William. ‘Ride on, my lord, with all speed. I and my company will hold your retreat but ride on as fast as you can.’

The King in retreat! The King being protected by a rearguard! It was breaking his heart.

William the Marshall could see that they could not hold back the French. Richard rode at their head. He wanted to be the one to capture his father. He had not stopped to don his armour even and was unarmed.

Cold fury possessed him as he told himself what he would say to the old man who had done his best to disinherit him.

The smoking city was behind them, the air filled with acrid odour. Richard could see the retreating band of men in the centre of which would be his father.

With a shout he rode forward. He was talking to the old man as he rode. ‘What sort of a father have you been to me? Did you not always hate me? Why did you hate me? Because my mother loved me. You hated her so you hated me and you tried to take from me that which is mine by right. Unnatural father! Now you will see what happens when you are my captive.’

A knight seemed to rise up in front of him. A lance was pointing at his throat.

‘Halt, Richard of Aquitaine,’ said a voice which Richard recognised.

‘It is William the Marshall,’ cried Richard. ‘Will you kill me then? That would be a dastardly thing to do. See you not that I am unarmed?’

‘I will not kill you,’ said William the Marshall. ‘I shall leave that for the Devil.’

‘William … !’

‘I have nothing to say to you,’ said William. ‘You are a traitor to your own father.’ And with those words he thrust his lance into Richard’s horse.

The horse fell dying and Richard was thrown to the ground.

William the Marshall turned and galloped away.

Richard was unharmed but since he was incapable of proceeding then he called his men to a halt. They returned disconsolately to the French camp.

The King and his band of faithful followers which included his son Geoffrey and William the Marshall came to rest at a small castle and as the King was too exhausted to go further they decided they must stop there awhile.

Geoffrey was beside the King and took off his own cloak to cover him for although it was June and warm Henry continually shivered.

While the King slept restlessly Geoffrey and William the Marshall talked with some of the King’s knights, discussing the desperate position in which they found themselves.

William said: ‘We should make for Normandy. There we could rally many a faithful knight to the King’s cause.’

‘Once there,’ agreed Geoffrey, ‘we could send to England for reinforcements.’

‘It is our only hope.’

In the morning the King seemed a little better.

He refused to go to Normandy.

‘Le Mans is destroyed,’ he said. ‘I can never forget it. I will stay in Anjou which is the land of my fathers. My son John will join me. He is a good warrior and he will put heart into our army and fear into the enemy.’

William the Marshall did not meet his eyes. If the King had been stronger he would have had something to say, but Henry needed a spar to cling to. Let him believe that John provided that.