"Keep your eyes also upon our flanks," Hereford said to Gloucester’s men more quietly and collectedly, since they were less likely to be involved in heavy fighting. "If a force should seek to fall upon us from either side, stop them, or give us warning. I do not wish to sup of the same soup that we fed de Tracy."
Hereford was anxious not to lose Devizes, but he was less emotionally involved than Henry; he was also anxious not to blunder any further, and less set on complete destruction of the opposing force.
Understanding being readily established, the men settled their gear firmly and rode forward, ready massed for attack but as quietly as possible. The closer they could come to the keep before the attackers noticed them, the more surely the pincers would close and the fewer would escape their swords. If no great force was hidden by the bulk of Devizes their situation was good, except for the fact that they were already battle-weary, strained, and tired from their merrymaking and their long ride.
In the quiet period that followed as they rode slowly closer, free of the tension and anxiety of their hurried travel, Hereford suddenly realized that he felt none of the satisfaction he should for arriving in time, none of the joy of battle that should be rising in him at this moment. He shifted his shield nervously to a more secure position and winced slightly because his left shoulder and arm still bothered him. He was not specially thinking about himself, but subconsciously he knew that his whole body was sore and that he would not be quick as usual.
Suddenly Hereford’s mouth went dry and his breath became uneven as he looked around the smoke-filled, burnt-out landscape. Why, he thought, this is the place of my dream. I did not recognize it because I have never seen Devizes under attack. He began to shake with the terrible desire to set spurs to his horse and charge. A terrible feeling of waste, of having delayed too long in seizing life, possessed him. Henry raised a hand, and the arbalists moved forward, the pikemen and other soldiers with them to make a wall of protection with their shields for the bowmen.
In the eons that intervened between the moment of the first flight of arrows which fell on the unsuspecting backs of Eustace's men and the one in which Henry cried the charge, Hereford at last looked straight into the eyes of his specter. This was the battle, there would be no more waiting. If the dream were true, he would die. Hereford drew a deep, shaking breath. Whatever else happened, now he would know the best or the worst. Now, too, it seemed that nothing would ever equal the torment of restraint he endured waiting for Henry's order to charge to release him for that revelation.
Relief came at last in the cry that ordered the attack. Eustace's men had seen them and turned at bay, but clearly above their shouts and curses came the cries of welcome and relief from the exhausted defenders within the walls. Hereford was unconscious of both. Forewarned that he had come face to face with his destiny, he was conscious only of the greatest feeling of freedom he had ever known. It did not matter, he realized, what he did now, for his end and the end of this battle and of all things was foreordained. Until he clapped spurs to his horse in the charge, his free will might have altered matters. He might still have turned tail and chosen life and shame; now he had made his choice.
Armed by the knowledge that all things were in the hands of God, Hereford fought like a wild thing that had abandoned hope. In a very short time the breach was closed, not with stone but with the corpses of Eustace's dead men piled one upon the other—a grim joke—and Hereford set out to find Eustace himself. In this he was unsuccessful, but he left a swath of dead and dying in the ranks of his enemies wherever he sought and passed such that the sight of his banner alone was sufficient to turn a retreat into a rout.
Henry had even greater success. He split his forces so that he could attack the men attempting to roll the
beffrois
into position, but so well had the archers done their work that he found almost no resistance. It was then only a labor of minutes to seize several kegs prepared for making Greek fire, coat the timbers of the
beffrois
with this mixture, and set it ablaze. Henry had a moment's regret for the destruction of siege engines so useful and difficult to construct, but he had not the men to leave to guard them and could not chance their falling into enemy hands again if the battle should turn against them.
His next objective, the troop assailing the gates, gave somewhat more satisfaction to his enraged spirit, for they fought valiantly and stubbornly. Their case was hopeless, however; Henry's forces outnumbered them, and the defenders of Devizes now readily opened the gates, which previously they had fought desperately to keep closed, to pour out and aid their rescuers. To them Henry left the destruction of the shattered remnants of Eustace's troop and, calling his own men, set off to find the prince.
He missed Eustace by bare moments, for the young man had been trying courageously to rally his men in spite of the protests of his older and wiser vassals who recognized a major defeat when they saw it. Rannulf of
Sleaford it was who saved the prince from death or capture at the last possible moment. A deeply embittered man, whom his contemporaries said had reverence for neither king nor God, swung a mailed fist the size of a ham and with the strength of a mule's kick against Eustace's temple.
Mouthing obscenities on the nature and intelligence of the king he served and his son also, he lifted Eustace's inanimate form across his saddle bow and fled, his vassals, Eustace's, and the pitiful remnants of a once-proud army following as best as they could.
Henry saw the band of men flying across the plain, but the prince's banner was not among those displayed. He did dispatch a troop to pursue and take them if possible, or to give him news of where they went if they could not be caught. This, however, was done more in the spirit of efficiency in eliminating his enemies than in any expectation of their carrying with them a great prize. It was not until he had searched and searched round Devizes, meeting Roger engaged in the same search, and through the enemy camp, that he recognized the perfidy that had been practiced. He should have flown into another rage, but he did not. In the flush of his second major victory in arms in a week, he was merely contemptuous of a man so afraid that he would strike his colors and hide himself among his vassals.
Those men who had the strength and the desire for it, continued to pursue stragglers of Eustace's force through the afternoon and night of that bloody day. The major proportion of the army, however, staggered in through the battered but welcoming gates of Devizes and collapsed. Among these were Hereford and his overlord who, having heartily embraced and danced, caroling, around the hall, found when their breath gave out that they were fit for nothing—not even celebration.
CHAPTER 19
HEREFORD WOKE IN THE DAWN OF ANOTHER DAY WITH FIRST A FEELING
of blissful relaxation and lack of responsibility and then surprise at the fact that he was still completely clad in mail. The events of the past day, swiftly returning to memory, explained his condition, and he lay quietly smiling into the dimness of the room, realizing that someone must have carried him to bed after he dropped into the rushes of the hall. Decidedly, he thought, his sense of freedom and release welling up until he believed he would burst with joy, the dream was a false temptation, as Elizabeth had suggested, or he had overridden his fate, for his uneasiness was gone.
He remembered too
,
his smile going a little grim, that Eustace was trapped in Faringdon. The end was in sight, clearly and unmistakably now, because Faringdon was ringed about by castles, smaller it was true, but stuffed and garnished for war and filled with fresh fighting men loyal to Henry. His breathing deepened with the first sensation of truly unalloyed enthusiasm he had had since Gaunt had offered him this task. Henry, he knew, had issued orders already to the surrounding keeps to send out men to besiege Faringdon. After a day or two to rest—with no celebrating in between, Hereford thought wrylythey would go out and take Faringdon. That would be amusing, in a way, for they would assail Faringdon with many of the siege engines Eustace had brought to destroy Devizes. The fact that they would not need to spend time constructing these giving them a substantial additional advantage.
He stretched outward and then clasped his hands to flex the muscles in the back of his neck. This action brought to his attention the fact that he was stained with dried blood. With a grimace of mild distaste, Hereford bellowed for his servants to order a bath. It was cold and he would freeze, but freezing was better than remaining filthy, even though the blood was largely that of his enemies and he was honorably bespattered.
It was not so cold, after all, thought the earl, luxuriating in the hot, scented water and watching the leaping flames in the hearth. He stiffened momentarily as the door opened, for he was totally defenseless, and de Caldoet's attempt on him was still close enough in time to make him cautious. It was only Henry, however, and Hereford relaxed, stretching out a wet but welcoming hand.
"A good morning to you, my lord, a lovely, bright, blessed morning."
"Mayhap to you, but to the rest of the world it rains." The voice Henry replied in was strange and strained, but wrapped in his own peace, Hereford did not notice.
"Well then," he said, irrepressibly cheerful, "it is a good, fruitful rain that will moisten the winter planting."
Henry fidgeted about the room, picking up Roger's clothing, handling his gear and his weapons, and scuffing at the rushes on the floor. Hereford was inured to this restless behavior and paid no attention, scrubbing himself thoroughly and accepting a large, soft cloth with which to wrap and dry himself.
"Have you news from Faringdon?"
Hereford mildly hoped not because he wanted to linger in pleasant inactivity for a while. All sense of fear and urgency had left him, and he was slightly reluctant to bring his mind to bear upon another campaign. Only slightly, however, because, though he was in a mood for easy idleness, he was also buoyantly prepared to don his mail and fight with his old eager joy, his keenness no longer dulled by vague shadows. No more than why the fears had come did Hereford know why they were gone. He knew only that he had met his crisis in a few moments on the field before Devizes and passed through it.
"Faringdon? No. I have no word from there. Roger …"
That time Hereford could not miss the uneasiness in his overlord's voice. He turned quickly toward Henry with a natural concern for what he felt would be bad news, but with no foreboding of disaster.
"Well?" he was still smiling slightly. "What unforeseen event has overtaken us now? Has Eustace escaped? Is Stephen at our gates?"
"I am returning to France as soon as I can reach the shore and as soon as the winds favor my crossing."
There was a dead silence in the room, broken by the faint hissing of the flames in the hearth. The smile still lingered on Hereford's lips, but now without meaning, for the blue eyes had gone dark and empty. A sharp explosion and a shower of sparks that escaped onto the rushes caused an instinctive physical reaction in Hereford who jumped back.
"I suppose I heard you aright?" His voice was flat and careful. "Just like that—no reason. You are bored with the game we have played?"
"Roger, in the merciful name of Christ, do not torment me. You cannot think that I have desired this—not at this time when within our very grasp is—"
"Then do not go. Who is there who can make you do so? Do not go and we can forget you ever mentioned it."
The eyes, gray and blue, locked and fought, but the gray did not give way. Stubborn and decisive, Henry held on. He was sad and reluctant to do this, but his conflict had raged through the night and his decision was unshakable.
"I have had word from my father that I am to come home at once. The letter must have arrived shortly after we left for Gloucester, but there seemed no urgency in it and it was not sent on. Then the siege …"
A faint flutter of hope fought for life in Hereford. "Ay. No doubt he heard how all things seemed to conspire against our effort. That is reasonable, to recall you from a defeated cause. But now … Now everything is different. Write and tell him how we have prospered. There is no longer need for his caution."
The little hope died stillborn as Henry shook his head. "Would I have troubled you for such a matter, Roger? Nay, he wants me for a far different purpose. There is a rumor—well, it is more than that—that the Queen of France, she whose dower lands are greater than King Louis' inheritance, that the Lady Eleanor, wishes to shed her husband and take a new spouse. There has been trouble between them for years and my father has slyly watched this. On this last Crusadeit takes a sanctified fool like Louis to go on Crusade and let his kingdom fall into ruins around him—the king and queen seem to have come to a parting of the ways. Pope Eugenius pacified Louis, but Queen Eleanor seems to have remained secretly of the same mind. My father thinks she might have me, if she should find me to her taste."
Hereford stared and then shook his head. "Do you mean to tell me that Louis and Eleanor are divorced? I will not believe it. We have little news here, but something of that note would not pass us."
"Of course not. I told you Louis is reconciled with her through Eugenius' mediation, but the lady—"
"They are still married then?" Hereford interrupted.
"Yes, of—"
"Then where is your haste?” Hereford said hurriedly. “Let the lady shed him. It is indecent to hang about like a vulture waiting for the last breath to be taken. Besides, she will be more like to look with favor on the King of England than upon the heir of Geoffrey of Anjou."
Finally Henry dropped his eyes. His voice was low and sad. "Roger, this is senseless. I have spent the night going over and over this matter from every point of view. You can suggest nothing to me that I have not already brought forth and looked at. Plainly it is this. She must make her decision, and the man must be ready and waiting before she sheds Louis.”