He and his men pursued the French almost to the gates of Gisors. He had no siege engines with him, so he could not lay siege to the castle, and the fleeing French soldiers knew that they’d be safe once they reached Gisors. The loss of this great stronghold had been a bitter blow to Richard, for its castellan had treacherously turned it over to Philippe during his German captivity. For a time he’d used the man’s name as an obscenity, and even now the sight of its soaring stone battlements caught at his heart. His stallion was lathered and both he and Richard were blood-splattered, but none of it was theirs. It had been a glorious day for Richard, one in which he could do no wrong, supremely sure that he would prevail. He’d unhorsed two more knights before his lance shattered and he’d switched to his sword, cutting a path through the French king’s desperate defenders with such ferocity that many of them veered off as Argento charged toward them. But his hope of overtaking Philippe died as soon as Gisors came into view.
Richard reined in, for further pursuit was useless. Too late! Once again that paltry milksop had gotten away. He was soon joined by some of his knights and then Mercadier. They were all jubilant, their spirits soaring higher than hawks, for they’d won some rich ransoms this day; even better, they were still alive to savor their victory. Sensing Richard’s mood, they sought to cheer him with such savage mockery of the French king that some of his anger began to cool, to be replaced by a genuine sense of bafflement.
“I could not imagine abandoning my army, leaving my men to fend for themselves as I sought to save my own skin. Not only does Philippe have no honor, he has no sense of shame. He must—Jesu!”
The bridge spanning the River Epte was crowded with men and horses, and as more and more of the refugees from the battle swarmed onto the wooden span, it began to creak ominously, swaying under the weight of so many soldiers. As Richard and his knights watched, openmouthed, several of the arches gave way and the bridge collapsed. There was a huge splash, and then screams. Some of the men managed to flounder to shore; others clung to the broken pilings or snatched frantically at the swimming horses. But many drowned within moments, dragged down by their armor. Richard had seen a bridge break apart like this once before, as his and Philippe’s armies were crossing the Rh?ne. He had quickly organized a rescue effort and they’d lost only two men to the river. It was obvious, though, that the French would not be so lucky on this September Sunday afternoon, drowning within sight of the castle that was to have been their salvation.
Men who’d not yet made it onto the bridge willingly surrendered to Richard’s knights, for captivity suddenly seemed the lesser evil. On the far side of the river, soaked, shivering men were being pulled to safety, some vomiting up brackish water, others breathing their last. One man clinging to a horse’s tail was dragged into the shallows, only to then lose his footing and be swept away by the current. There were no bodies visible, for the dead had been anchored by their armor. The last battle of the day was won by the river.
Richard had turned Argento away when he was called back by a shout from Mercadier. “Look, my lord!” He was pointing toward the far bank, but Richard saw only half-drowned soldiers being assisted toward the castle. He’d often joked that Mercadier’s vision could put a gyrfalcon to shame, and the routier proved it now by gesturing again. “That one surrounded by those gabbling priests—it’s the French king!”
Richard squinted, shading his eyes against the glare of sun on water. “God’s legs, Mercadier, I think you are right!”
Mercadier had no doubts. “I saw several men plunge into the river to swim to his rescue and I wondered why one drowning man would matter so much that other men would risk their lives to save him. Once they had fished him out, I recognized that bald pate of his.”
Richard was still embittered that Philippe had escaped him. But as he stared across the river at his bedraggled, waterlogged rival, a smile began to tug at the corners of his mouth. “He does not look as if he enjoyed his bath in the Epte, does he? He always acted as if he was sure he could walk on water. It must be a great disappointment to find he is a mere mortal after all.”
But his true feelings were expressed in an aside to Morgan as he signaled for his men to move out. “If there were any justice under God’s sky, the bastard would have drowned.”