RICHARD WAS RIDING FAUVEL, and he was well ahead of his men by the time they burst from the woods into the deserted French camp. A few fires still smoldered, not fully quenched by hastily flung buckets of water. Some tents had been left behind, sacks of flour, kegs of wine—all that could be easily replaced. Richard laughed at this proof of the urgency of the evacuation. Giving Fauvel his head, he thought that Philippe was about to get a very unpleasant surprise.
A retreating army was easy to follow and within a few miles, they could see the French rearguard and baggage carts in the distance. Richard unsheathed his sword. He did not have to prick Fauvel with his spurs; the stallion was already lengthening stride. There was considerable confusion in the French ranks as they realized they were being pursued. Drivers were whipping the cart horses mercilessly, cursing and shouting as the wagons swayed perilously from side to side. That the baggage train was so well guarded told Richard that it carried items precious to Philippe. A knight was riding toward him, sword at the ready. Richard took the strike on his shield and counterthrust. The rider reeled back in the saddle, but Richard did not wait to see if he fell, for another foe was just ahead. He swung and missed; Richard didn’t. Maddened by the scent of blood, Fauvel veered toward a man on a roan stallion, screaming defiance. His teeth raked the other destrier’s neck and as the horse stumbled, Richard decapitated his rider. All around him, his household knights were engaging the enemy, all around him was the familiar chaos of battle, and he set about punishing these French soldiers for each and every time that he’d not been able to hit back in the past year.
The baggage carts were surrounded, their drivers raising their hands in surrender. The French rearguard was scattering under the English assault. Richard spurred Fauvel on, for his quarry was not the baggage carts or these French knights. He was seeking the French king.
As an orderly retreat disintegrated into a panicked rout, the killing became easier for Richard’s men; soldiers were at their most vulnerable in flight. Richard soon outdistanced most of his army, his household knights pushing their horses to keep up with Fauvel. He had no thoughts for his own safety now, no thoughts for anything but finding Philippe. Ahead was a crossroad. An overturned cart blocked the smaller road and a soldier standing beside it hastily raised his hands at the sight of Richard’s bloodied sword and gore-splattered hauberk. He shrank back against the wagon wheel as Richard brought Fauvel to a shuddering stop and leveled his sword at the man’s chest. “The king . . . Where is he?”
“Ahead, my lord.” The man’s accent was Flemish, but his French was serviceable. “Far ahead,” he repeated hoarsely, pointing toward the dust clouds being kicked up in the distance. When Richard swung Fauvel around and set off in pursuit, the man sank to his knees, gulping air as he made a shaky sign of the cross. Other knights were galloping by and he watched in great relief as they rode past him, intent only upon staying with their king. He grabbed a wineskin from the cart and then took off at a trot for the shelter of the woods, for he knew his cart would be a magnet to men eager for plunder. He suspected he’d been threatened by the Lionheart himself. He smiled then, thinking that would make his story much more dramatic when he told it in years to come, and as he disappeared into the trees, it occurred to him that he’d done the French king a great service. A pity Philippe was not known for paying such debts of honor.
WHEN HIS STALLION FINALLY began to falter, Richard reined him in and slid from the saddle. Fauvel’s gold coat was so streaked with lather that he looked white. Richard stroked his heaving side, torn between frustration that Philippe was getting away and remorse that he’d pushed this magnificent destrier beyond his endurance. “Good boy,” he said apologetically, “you did your best.” Seeing an alder tree some yards from the road, he led Fauvel toward it, knowing that water was often to be found near alders. There was indeed a small stream, and he let the stallion drink. The sun was hot upon his face, for he was wearing only an iron cap, not a full helmet. He was armed as if he were still fighting in Outremer; he’d learned to prefer a lighter hauberk during his months in the scorching heat of the Holy Land. Staring at that beckoning road, he swore with considerable feeling. So close! He’d covered so much ground that Philippe must be just ahead, riding for his life, the gutless swine.