He and Rainald both laughed, and after a moment, Ranulf joined in, not because he agreed with them, but because moments of mirth were never to be squandered, not on the eve of battle.
Swirling embers lit the night sky and fires still burned in the city’s northern quarter. But the worst was over. The battle had been fierce, but far more brief than either side had anticipated. Pounded mercilessly by the English king’s powerful mangonels and trebuchets, the defenders were unable to foil his iron-bound battering rams, which were swung back and forth on rope pulleys until they’d gained enough momentum to smash into the city’s gates. After they’d made that first fateful breach, Becket’s men charged into the gap, while others flung scaling ladders over the walls and began to scramble up. Once the fighting reached the streets, Cahors was doomed, for its river defenses now made flight impossible. By dusk, Henry’s banner was flying over the city and the dying was done, wine now flowing instead of blood.
Ranulf had been in captured towns before. The sights were all too familiar: plundered shops, jubilant soldiers, fearful citizens desperate to placate their conquerors, smoldering ruins that had once been homes or churches, bodies stacked like kindling for swift burial. The streets were crowded with men, many laden with loot, for that was looked upon as a soldier’s right. Ranulf had injured his leg in the assault and he was limping, as much from exhaustion as pain. Jostled on all sides, he’d begun to feel as if he were swimming against the tide, but he finally reached the marketplace, where he sank down, winded, upon a mounting block. Somewhere a woman screamed; closer at hand, a dog was whimpering, unseen in the darkness. Ahead Ranulf could distinguish the blurred outlines of the great cathedral of St Etienne, where he hoped to find Henry. But for the moment, he was content to sit and catch his breath.
Men on horses were forcing their way up the narrow, clogged street, shouting vainly for the celebrating soldiers to clear a path for them. As they drew closer, Ranulf recognized Patrick d’Evereaux, the Earl of Salisbury, among them. They were not friends, but they’d been allies, fighting together to gain the English crown for the Empress Maude. Salisbury reined in at the sight of Ranulf. “What an easy victory,” he chortled. “We had to work a lot harder at this in the old days, remember?”
“Yes,” Ranulf said, “I remember.”
“We are seeking the king. The Bishop of Cahors is in a tearing rage, for some of our men sacked his palace,” Salisbury said, with a conspicuous lack of regret. “We had to promise we’d take his protests to the king, if only to shut him up. Have you seen him? Or Becket?”
“I heard they were at the cathedral.” Declining Salisbury’s invitation to accompany them, Ranulf watched as they rode on. Light suddenly spilled into the street as a door opened across the square, raucous laughter resounding on the cooling night air. Ranulf debated going over to the tavern and getting himself a drink, but it was easier just to stay where he was.
“Ranulf?” Hywel was weaving through the crowd, one arm around a remarkably pretty young woman, the other cradled in a jaunty red sling. “Have a drink,” he offered, proffering a wine flask that turned out to be empty.
Switching to French, he said, “This is Emma,” introducing the girl with a gallant flourish that made her giggle. “A few of our men were pressing their unwanted attentions upon her, but I was able to persuade them to be on their way, and this dear lass then insisted upon giving me her own chemise to bind up my wound.”
“He fought for me,” Emma said proudly, “against the other English. For me, he did that!”
“I never thought to hear myself called ‘English,’ ” Hywel said with a grimace. “But how can I take offense when it comes from such a honey-sweet mouth?”
Emma giggled again and tilted her face up so he could taste some of that sweetness. Once he’d taken his fill, he scowled at Ranulf with mock indignation. “So why are you sitting out here alone in the dark? Why are you not in one of the taverns, celebrating?”
“Celebrating what? This great victory?”
“No, you fool, that you survived the assault!”
When Ranulf shrugged, Hywel gave him a closer inspection. “What ails you? I see no blood, so why so glum? You’re no battle virgin. You spent nigh on twenty years fighting for your sister, and from what I’ve heard, that war was as savage as any ever fought on English soil. So surely nothing you’ve seen this day is like to unman you?”
“You’re right,” Ranulf admitted. “This was child’s play compared to the bloody Battle of Lincoln or the Siege of Winchester.”
“But?” Hywel prompted, and Ranulf shrugged again.
“That was different, Hywel. We were fighting to recover my sister’s stolen crown. Whilst I always regretted the suffering and the deaths, I never doubted the justice of our cause. I truly believed we were in the right and that Maude would rule England better than Stephen. I was willing to die to make her Queen of England. But I see no reason that men should die to see Eleanor as Countess of Toulouse. Christ Jesus, she and Harry already hold England, Normandy, Aquitaine, Anjou, Touraine, and Maine!”
“If you start demanding rational reasons for your wars, Ranulf, you’ll never get to fight another one!” The moonlight was bright enough to reveal Hywel’s smile. “Have you truly lived through forty winters without learning that just wars are as rare as mermaids and unicorns? One man’s just war is another man’s unholy slaughter. English, French, Scots, Welsh, even Saracen infidels-we’re all convinced we have God on our side.”
“What are you saying, that God does not care who wins our wars?”
“Well, I’d not go that far. I surely hope He cares whether I succeed my lord father as King of Gwynedd.” With another moonlit gleam, Hywel reached down and hauled Ranulf to his feet. “If we are going to wax philosophical, I demand that we do it over a flagon. Emma claims that Cahors has the best red wine in all of Quercy. I say we put her boast to the test.”
Ranulf hesitated, glancing up at the towering silhouette of the cathedral, where his nephew was occupied with the myriad burdens of conquest. “You’re right,” he said. “Let’s find a tavern to liberate.” And he followed Hywel and Emma toward the torchlit haven beckoning across the street.
The land south of Cahors was desolate, dry and sun-seared and barren of life, for the inhabitants of these high plateaus and deep, narrow valleys had fled before the approach of the English army. The town of Montauban offered no resistance, and the road to Toulouse lay open before them.
Toulouse was nestled in a wide curve of the River Garonne, a city of dusky-rose brick under a sky so blue it looked unreal. It seemed deceptively peaceful, and far in the distance was the cloud-crowned splendor of the most magnificent mountains Hywel had ever seen, the soaring peaks of the Pyrenees. They so dwarfed the heights of the Welsh Eryri that he felt a stab of envy; if only God had blessed Wales with such formidable boundaries, they could have kept the English out with ease.
He spotted Ranulf with the English king, and urged his stallion forward to join them. They were all looking intently at the city’s high red walls, well manned and fortified, for here Count Raymond would make his stand. The siege of Toulouse would be a long and bloody one.
Hywel reined in at Ranulf’s side, and they listened without comment as Henry’s lords offered suggestions about how best to begin. Thomas Becket was arguing that they ought to start building belfry towers straightaway when Henry’s sharp eyes caught a glimpse of the blue and gold banner flying from the Castle Narbonais. Drawing an audible breath, he stared at the flag in dismayed disbelief, reluctant to admit what he was seeing. Alerted by his silence, the more discerning of the men were turning questioningly in his direction.
“Look,” he said, his voice flat and harsh, and they followed his gesture, recognizing with gasps and curses the fleur de lys of the French Crown.