Glancing around, Richard saw that others were in on André and Mercadier’s secret; even his son Philip was grinning. Richard’s first thought was that the Earl of Leicester had accompanied Mercadier, but he was not likely to be lurking outside. Vexed when André refused to tell him more, he bade farewell to the women, and then hastened from the great hall to see what his cousin was up to now.
He halted so abruptly that he was jostled by the men coming through the doorway after him. He never heard their embarrassed apologies, for he had eyes only for the dun stallion being held by a beaming groom. Taking the reins from the youth, Richard ran his hand caressingly over the horse’s pale gold withers, laughing when he was nudged by a warm muzzle.
“You remember me, do you?” he said and then swung up into the saddle. André was saying something about the horse transport being forced ashore in Sicily and eventually landing at Marseille, but Richard was not listening. He could feel the Cypriot destrier’s coiled energy, his eagerness to run, calling to mind memories of racing the wind and Saracens. “You’ll be chasing the French now, Fauvel,” he told the stallion, and when he gave the signal, Fauvel exploded into action, rocketing across the courtyard as if launched from a crossbow. The men laughed and applauded and then hurried toward their own mounts, for Richard and Fauvel would soon be out of sight.
FROM LISIEUX, Richard rode to Tuboeuf, just twelve miles from the siege of Verneuil. There he met a knight from the garrison who’d managed to slip away under cover of darkness to seek aid, for the French mangonels were pounding away relentlessly at the castle’s defenses. Richard at once dispatched a force of knights, men-at-arms, and crossbowmen to reinforce the garrison, then sent others to cut off Philippe’s supply lines. He was deeply grateful to God that the French king’s day of reckoning was coming so soon, but when he arrived at Verneuil with the bulk of his army on May 30, he discovered that Philippe was gone and the siege was over. He promised to reward the garrison lavishly, although his triumph was tarnished in his eyes by his enemy’s escape.
Captured French prisoners told a disjointed, confusing tale, claiming their king had suddenly left the siege two days earlier, leaving men behind to continue the assault upon the castle. But they were demoralized by their king’s departure and fled when they heard of Richard’s approach. Richard would later discover that Philippe had ridden off in a fury after learning what had befallen évreux. Eager to demonstrate his newfound loyalty, John had returned to évreux and easily gained admittance, for it was not yet known that he’d switched sides. He had no trouble taking control of the town; he beheaded many of the garrison and cast the rest into the castle dungeons. Outraged by his former ally’s betrayal, Philippe raced to évreux, so intent upon making John pay for his treachery that he doomed his chances of taking Verneuil. He found that John had already gone, but he recaptured évreux and since John was out of reach, he took his vengeance upon the town and its people, turning his men loose to pillage and rape, not even sparing churches; he was said to have fired the abbey of St Taurin himself.
This was not the first time that Philippe’s temper had gotten the better of him; he’d had the Peace Elm chopped down after a frustrating encounter with Henry and ordered his own siege engines destroyed after being outmaneuvered by the Earl of Leicester at Rouen. But even the French chroniclers were shocked by the charred ruins of évreux, and as word spread of its fate, the people of Normandy and towns to the south felt a chill of fear. Wars were always brutal and the innocent and the defenseless were usually the ones to suffer. This war, though, promised to be bloodier than most, for the hatred that the French and English kings bore each other burned hotter than the fires that had consumed so much of évreux.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
JUNE 1194
Poitiers, Poitou