Philippe glanced from one to the other. “You are saying you surrender, then?”
“No, my lord king. I am saying that you are welcome to enter Rouen at any time you choose.” Leicester flashed again the smile that Philippe was finding more and more irritating by the moment. “Look for yourself. The gates are open, are they not?”
Philippe scowled, angry but suddenly uncertain, too. “What sort of game is this, Leicester?”
“No game, my lord. I am inviting you into the city. I can safely say that it would please King Richard greatly to know that you were in Rouen.”
Philippe could hear murmurings behind him as word spread among his men. His gaze shifted from the earl to those city gates, open and enticing in the bright April sunlight. Leicester was regarding him quizzically. Seeing that the French king was not going to respond, he made a gracious gesture of obeisance and then turned his stallion, calling back over his shoulder, “We’ll be awaiting you, my liege!”
The seneschal spurred his horse to catch up with the earl, not drawing an easy breath until they had galloped through the gates. When he would have signaled for them to be shut, Leicester quickly countermanded him. “No, leave them open!”
William Fitz Ralph looked searchingly at the younger man. He’d thought the earl’s plan was mad, but he’d been swayed by Leicester’s rank and by the fact that he was one of the genuine heroes of the crusade. “Are you sure this will succeed, my lord?”
Leicester glanced back at the French army camp, which seemed to be in some disarray now, raised voices floating to them on the afternoon air. “I know Philippe Capet,” he said. “I know how his mind works. He sees shadows at midnight and inhales suspicions the way the rest of us breathe in air. Nor is he one to lead the charge. Can you imagine our king or his lord father ever relying upon bodyguards? Philippe goes nowhere without them. Moreover, Queen Eleanor’s spy sent her word that Philippe actually swallowed the rubbish Beauvais fed him, believing that our king hired Saracen Assassins to seek him out in Paris and murder him. Does this sound like a man who’d dare to venture into Rouen after I’d made him think he would be riding into a trap?”
“No, it does not,” the seneschal admitted. “But even if he does not dare to accept your invitation, what is to keep him from sending his troops through those gates?”
“Pride. The fact that I called him out in front of his entire army. If he does not accept my dare, he loses face, and no commander can afford that. He does not have enough soldiers to surround the city, was relying upon threats to frighten the citizens into surrendering. Once he has had a chance to think it over, he will lead his men in search of easier quarry than Rouen.”
The seneschal looked at the French army, all too visible through the open gates. Praying that the earl’s bluff would work, he said, “I hope you are right, my lord.”
He was not close enough to hear Leicester say, very softly, “I hope I am, too.”
WATCHING FROM THE TOWN walls, they could sometimes hear angry shouting wafting from the French king’s command tent. Clearly there was dissension in the ranks, and the citizens of Rouen took heart from that. Leicester had gone to have a quick supper at a nearby cook-shop when he was hurriedly summoned by the seneschal. His heart pounding and his pulse racing, he took the steps up to the ramparts two at a time.
“Look!” William Fitz Ralph was grinning widely. “They are breaking camp, moving out! You did it, my lord earl!”
Leicester found himself mobbed by jubilant men and extricated himself with some difficulty before he could join Fitz Ralph at the wall. The seneschal was staring toward the west, shading his eyes against the glare of the dying sun. “What are those fires, though? What are they burning?”
When they realized what was happening—that the French king was burning his own siege engines—the men burst into amazed, raucous laughter as Leicester explained that Philippe had been guilty of such impulsive, angry acts before. For many years, the English and French kings had met to discuss their differences at an ancient tree known as the “peace elm.” But after one frustrating session with King Henry, Philippe had instructed his men to chop the elm down. Hanging over the walls, the city’s defenders hooted and yelled at the retreating French, but cried out in real outrage when they saw that their enemies were rolling kegs of wine toward the Seine and pouring it into the river rather than leave it for them.
The hero of the hour exchanged triumphant smiles with the seneschal. “Now,” he said, “now we close the gates!”