VEND?ME WAS A SMALL TOWN north of Tours. It had no defensive walls, and its citizens were understandably alarmed at the possibility of a great battle being fought in their vicinity. The Count of Vend?me was nowhere to be found, but the abbot of Holy Trinity bravely entered the English king’s camp to demand royal protection for his abbey and its holy relic, the Sacred Teardrop, which was said to have been shed by the Lord Christ at the tomb of Lazarus. Richard had some of his father’s anticlerical bias and he was fast losing his temper. The abbot was forgotten, though, when a herald arrived from the French king.
He was riding under a flag of truce but his tone was bellicose. Reining in before Richard, he delivered his lord’s message with a bravado that would have pleased Philippe, declaring that the French king would do battle on the morrow.
Richard was not impressed. “Tell your king that if he does not appear on the morrow, I will be calling on him.” André and Will Marshal and Guillain de l’Etang had moved to Richard’s side and they all watched as the herald rode out of camp to a chorus of jeers and catcalls.
“You think he will fight on the morrow, sire?” Guillain asked, surprised by Philippe’s defiance, for pitched battles were very rare.
“We’ll see it snow in Hell ere that coward faces me on the field.” Richard beckoned to Warin Fitz Gerald. “Send scouts into the woods to keep watch on the French camp.” Turning back to the other men, he said, “I want us to be ready to march at first light. There will be a battle on the morrow, but it will be my doing, not Philippe’s.”
RICHARD AWOKE SEVERAL HOURS before dawn. While he did not remember it, he knew the dream had been an unpleasant one, for he’d been having them more often since he’d learned of the Earl of Leicester’s capture. It infuriated him that he could not exercise better control over his own brain. Why must he keep dwelling upon what was done and over with? He was trying to get the Church involved on Leicester’s behalf, but so far Philippe had rebuffed all offers of ransom. Well, if the day went as he hoped, the French king would soon be a prisoner himself.
The English camp was stirring, men yawning as they broke their fast with biscuits and ale; it was a poorly kept secret that soldiers often relied upon liquid courage to ease their prebattle jitters. Most men passed their whole lives without experiencing a pitched battle, for sieges and the raiding known as chevauchées were the normal means of conducting war. But Richard’s army was more battle-seasoned than most, for many of the men had fought with him in the Holy Land, and Mercadier’s routiers were natural killers; Mercadier did not recruit any other kind.
Richard had just given Will Marshal the command of the reserve. Younger knights often balked at that, fearing they’d be cheated of the glory they all sought. Will was just three years from his fifth decade and he knew an army without men held in reserve was at the mercy of fate, exposed to enemy counterattacks, so he pleased Richard by accepting the charge for the honor it was meant to be. Their battle commanders were gathering around them when shouting turned all heads toward the north. A man on a rangy bay was racing into the camp, one of the scouts Richard had sent to spy upon the French.
“They are in retreat, my lord, fleeing north!”
Richard was not going to be deprived of his prey, though. He’d anticipated just such a move by the French king, and his men were ready. When he gave the command to mount up, they ran eagerly for their horses.