BALDWIN WAS SEATED IN the king’s command tent, listening with keen interest to Richard’s account of the stronghold’s fall, for the hero of the hour was his old friend Will Marshal.
“When we put up the ladders, so many knights started to climb up one of them that it became overloaded and some of the rungs broke, sending men plummeting down into the ditch below.” Richard paused until Baldwin had been served wine before continuing. “One of the Flemish knights, Sir Guy de la Bruyère, was trapped on the top of it, unable to go up or down. He would not have been long for this world if Will had not rushed to his rescue.”
“I did no more than any man would have done,” Will protested, with appealing if unconvincing modesty, for all knew he took great pride in his battlefield prowess.
Richard ignored the interruption. “Will jumped into the ditch and clambered up the other side, then scrambled onto the ladder using the unbroken rungs, sword in hand. Truly a sight to behold,” he said, grinning over at the Marshal. “After freeing Sir Guy, he made a one-man stand atop the battlements, defending himself so fiercely that his foes were soon in retreat. It was then that the castellan, Sir William de Monceaux, reached the ramparts. When he charged forward, Will struck him so powerful a blow that his sword cut right through his helmet, separating his coif from the hauberk and piercing his head. Not surprisingly, none were eager to take Will on after that.”
“Well done, Will!” Baldwin said, also grinning at the Marshal.
“The story is not over yet, Baldwin. Since Will is not—how should I put it—in the first flush of youth, he was understandably weary after all this activity. The castellan had fallen at his feet, unconscious, but showed signs of stirring. So to make sure he stayed put, Will sat on him as he awaited the rest of our men. He made himself so comfortable that I am surprised he did not take a quick nap.”
Richard raised his wine cup in a playful salute and the tent resounded to enthusiastic cries of “To the Marshal!” Glancing fondly at the other man, he said, shaking his head in mock dismay, “But it is not right for a man of such eminence and proven valor to have to exert himself like this. You ought to leave that to the young knights who still have to win their reputations, Will, for your own fame is already secure.”
Will did not mind the teasing, for how many men of fifty would have been able to equal the feats he’d performed that day? “Well, sire, the same could be said of you, for I heard that your knights had to keep you from being the first one into the breach.”
Richard laughed, conceding the Marshal the honors in that exchange, and when Will then offered him the castellan, who would bring a large ransom, he shook his head. “No, you well deserve this right. I appoint you his lord and warder.”
Will smiled in return, savoring his triumph all the more because he knew there would not be that many more of them; age always won out in the end. “We took many prisoners,” he told Baldwin, “so there will be enough ransoms for all of us.”
Will paused then, for a sudden uproar had broken out in the camp. The men were instantly on alert, but relaxed when they heard the sound of raucous cheering. “Mercadier must be back,” Richard said, telling Baldwin that he’d been out on a raiding expedition. They’d begun to discuss the ransoms when the entry flap was pulled aside and John plunged into the tent.
All formality forgotten, John shoved his way toward his brother, his face flushed with excitement, eyes as green as any cat’s. “Richard, you’re about to get an early birthday present, mayhap your best one ever! I wish I could claim the credit, but it was Mercadier’s doing. At least I got to witness it.”
By now the tent was abuzz with curiosity and speculation. Before John could make his dramatic revelation, though, Mercadier was there. It was not always easy to tell when he was smiling, for the corner of his mouth was contorted by that disfiguring scar. But there was no mistaking his mood now. His usual demeanor—cynical, wary, faintly mocking—was utterly gone; he looked fiercely triumphant. He was followed by several of his routiers, who shoved a prisoner into the tent, forcing him to his knees.
Even before the man raised his head, Richard knew his identity, for there could be no other explanation for John and Mercadier’s unholy glee. The Bishop of Beauvais was chalk white, with a darkening bruise on his forehead, sweat beading his temples, dirt streaking his face, and flecks of dried blood in his beard. He made an attempt at bravado, though, saying defiantly, “Need I remind you that I am a prince of the Church?”
He got no further, for Richard had begun to laugh. “Is this what priests are wearing now to say Mass?” he jeered, gesturing toward the bishop’s mail hauberk and empty scabbard.