Dust signaled the approach of riders from the south and he watched until André and a handful of his knights came into view. Detouring from the road, they headed in his direction. After dismounting, they tended to their own exhausted horses, some of them kneeling by the stream to wash away grime and blood. André sank down next to Richard with a groan. “I am getting old,” he complained, “for every bone in my body aches.” Glancing at the younger man’s unhappy face, he said sympathetically, “I’d gladly offer Roland, but he is even more knackered than your Fauvel.”
“I know,” Richard said morosely, for he’d already assessed the sorry shape of his friends’ horses. Reaching up to accept a wineskin from Morgan, he leaned back against the tree. Soon afterward, one of the knights called out and they saw other riders, moving fast. Richard scrambled to his feet, thinking that one of them might have a horse capable of continuing the chase.
Reining in, Mercadier removed his helmet. “You’re a hard man to catch, my lord,” he said. “I thought we were going to have to ride halfway to Paris ere we could overtake you.”
Richard was instantly on the alert. “What is wrong?”
“Nothing that I know of. But I figured you’d be needing a fresh mount along about now.” Mercadier gave one of his rare smiles then, which most men found even more chilling than his scowls. He gestured and one of his routiers came forward, leading a jet-black horse. Richard gave a whoop of delight, for Mercadier had brought him Scirocco, one of the two Arab stallions that al-Malik al-Adil had given him after he’d won his improbable victory at Jaffa. They’d accompanied Fauvel on the same horse transport and Richard thanked God and Mercadier now in equal measure for Scirocco’s appearance when he was most needed.
“How did you find me?” he asked, checking the stallion’s cinch and stirrups.
“I followed the trail of bodies,” the routier said laconically, earning himself an amused look from his king. “A local farmer told us about a cross-country path that allowed us to save time and miles, so the Arab ought to be ready to run.”
Richard’s knights had gathered around and André said they’d follow once their horses had rested. Richard was already in the saddle. “Look after Fauvel,” he said and then urged the Arab on. As the black stallion streaked toward the road, Mercadier and his routiers rode after him. André and the other men watched until they were out of sight, which did not take long.
IT WAS DUSK BY THE TIME Richard returned to his camp at Vend?me. He’d finally abandoned his pursuit as the day’s light began to fade, forced to admit that Philippe had managed to elude him and was probably sheltered in Chateaudun Castle by now. He rode into a scene of exuberant celebration and it was only as he listened to Will Marshal that he realized the full extent of his victory. The seizure of his baggage carts would be a devastating blow to the French king; not only had he lost weapons, siege engines, tents, his own chapel accoutrements, jewels, and a vast amount of money, he’d also lost the royal archives, chest after chest filled with charters that would have to be painstakingly re-created—if possible. They’d also taken large numbers of prisoners, as well as capturing some fine horses and provisions that could now be used for Richard’s own army.
But to Richard, the long-term significance lay in the capture of the French archives, for Philippe’s government would be crippled by such a loss, in disarray for months to come. He laughed, thinking of the dismay of Philippe’s counselors and chancery officials, thinking of Philippe’s horror when he learned that all his state secrets were now in the hands of the English king. Much to Richard’s satisfaction, these included a list of the Norman and Poitevin lords who’d disavowed allegiance to him and done homage to Philippe.
He was going over these charters in his tent when André joined him, bearing news that he expected to ignite his cousin’s temper. One of their prisoners had information about the French king, he said, and a frightened youth was soon ushered before Richard. Shoved to his knees, he stared up mutely at the English king until André said impatiently, “Go on, tell the king what you told us.”
It took a while to get the story out of him. Philippe had turned aside when he’d reached that crossroad, declaring he wanted to offer prayers in a nearby parish church. And whilst he hid in the church, his enemies had galloped heedlessly past, never suspecting that he was so close at hand.