Hywel was not as quick to comprehend, for heraldry had been slow to take root in Wales. As usual, he turned to Ranulf, his interpreter in this alien culture. “What does this mean?”
“It means,” Ranulf said, “that the King of France has taken up residence in the city. When we attack Toulouse, we will be attacking, too, the man who is Harry’s liege lord.”
CHAPTER EIGHT
July 1159
Toulouse, France
" I said no.” Henry’s voice was even, but a muscle twitched along his jawline and his fists were clenched, incontrovertible evidence that he was fast losing control of his fabled Angevin temper, evidence that his chancellor brashly ignored. Thomas Becket’s disappointment had gotten the better of his customary discretion, and he blurted out:
“How can you, of all men, be taken in by such a foolish superstition?”
“It is not superstition!” Henry’s eyes shone with a hard grey glitter. “I swore homage to the King of France for Normandy. That makes him my liege lord. I will not lay siege to Toulouse as long as he remains within the city walls.”
“But you’ve fought him in the past!”
“I was attacked first and defending myself! I had no choice then. I do now and there will be no assault upon the city. How often do I have to say it?”
Both men were flushed. Becket shook his head slowly, as if unable to believe what he was hearing. “And so what now? We’ve come all this way for nothing?”
“We will continue the war against the Count of Toulouse,” Henry said, through gritted teeth.
“Right up to the walls of Toulouse,” Becket retorted, with such lethal sarcasm that Henry slammed his fist down onto the table, causing them all to jump.
“The decision has been made. The discussion is done.” His eyes roamed the tent, challenging the other men to protest. None did, for they either shared Henry’s qualms about a vassal’s attack upon his liege lord or they were daunted by even that brief glimpse of royal rage.
The tent was lit by smoky, reeking torches that seemed to suck out the last of the air. Suddenly Henry could not abide another moment in that stifling, crowded space. Turning on his heel, he shoved his way out into the encampment.
The sun was in full retreat. The day’s oppressive heat still lingered, though; even the westerly wind felt hot upon his skin. The soldiers he passed seemed to sense his mood and backed off. Only a slat-thin stray dog dared to trail after him, hopeful for a handout. Lights had begun to flicker in the city, glimmering in the twilight like his lost hopes for victory. Picking up a stone, he squeezed it absently, keeping his gaze upon Toulouse as the sky darkened above his head.
“Harry?”
He glanced over his shoulder, then waited for Ranulf to catch up. “Once I was gone, did the rest of them start singing Thomas’s song?”
“A few may have been humming it under their breath, but the Count of Barcelona backed your decision so emphatically that he quelled dissent. The Viscount of Carcassonne shares Becket’s indignation. He would, since he is in rebellion against his own liege lord, Count Raymond. As for the others, they either agree or they understand.”
“Then why does Thomas not understand?” Henry sounded more baffled now than angry. “Why cannot he see that I have no choice? If I attack the man to whom I’ve sworn homage, how can I expect my own vassals to keep faith with me?”
Ranulf felt laughter welling up and stifled it with difficulty. He should have known that his nephew’s decision would be an utterly pragmatic one, based upon practical considerations of common sense. He was more of an idealist himself, but he could still appreciate Henry’s stripped-to-the-bone realism, for he did not think England had been well served by its last chivalrous king, the gallant, sentimental Stephen.
“Moreover,” Henry continued with an aggrieved frown, “what would I have done with Louis if we’d seized the town? Send him off to Eleanor for safekeeping? It would be damnably awkward, to say the least. Kings do not take other kings captive.”
“Especially not if they hope to marry off their children.” Ranulf’s mockery was gentle and coaxed a reluctant half-smile from Henry.
“Well, there is that, too,” he acknowledged. After a moment, he returned to his primary concern. “For the life of me, Ranulf, I cannot see why Thomas is being so troublesome about this. He is usually so clear-sighted and sensible.”
“You mean he is usually in full agreement with you,” Ranulf teased. “I’m sure he’ll come around once his anger cools down.”
“Thomas does have a temper, for certes. Most times he keeps it under tighter rein. I suppose I was so vexed with his bullheadedness because we’ve always been of the same mind.” Henry paused and then conceded with a sardonic smile, “Mine.”
When he moved to get a better look at Toulouse’s russet-red walls, Ranulf followed. They stood in silence for a time, staring at the French king’s safe haven. Opening his fist, Henry glanced down at the forgotten stone, then threw it into the shadows.
“You remember, Uncle, when the Archbishop of Canterbury urged me to invade Ireland and give it over to my brother Will?”
“I remember. I was never sure how serious you were about it, but I thought it was for the best when you abandoned the idea.”
“My mother talked me out of it. She felt that I’d be overreaching and that Will would be better off with English estates rather than a precarious hold upon a far-off, foreign isle as prone to rebellion as Ireland.”
Ranulf felt a surge of admiration for his sister’s shrewd assessment of her youngest son. For all his fine qualities, Will was never meant to carve out an empire, still less to hold on to it afterward. “I’d say Maude gave you sound advice.”
Henry nodded, and then startled Ranulf with an abrupt, mirthless laugh. “I am beginning to wish,” he said, “that she’d talked me out of this accursed venture, too.”
Henry’s attempts to lure the Count of Toulouse out to do battle were futile. He ravaged the count’s lands and soon had all of the province of Quercy under his control. But Raymond refused to stir beyond the city walls, and Louis seemed determined to stay as long as his sister had need of him. By September, Henry’s supplies were running low and his men had begun to sicken. Turning command over to Becket, he headed north to deal with the French king’s brothers, who’d taken advantage of his absence to raid into Normandy. His war with Toulouse sputtered to an inconsequential end.
“I cannot believe it!” Eleanor spun around, a letter crumpled in her hand. “Harry has withdrawn his army from Toulouse. He has ridden away, leaving Louis in possession of the city.”
Petronilla gasped. “He has given up? It is over?”
“So it would seem.” Eleanor glanced again at the letter, then flung it from her with an oath. “How could he, Petra? He knew how much this meant to me, to my family. My grandmother was cheated of her rightful inheritance. My father was born in Toulouse’s great castle, walked its streets as a child, and loved it almost as much as Poitiers. The city is mine!”
Petronilla hastened over to commiserate with her sister, but Maud, Countess of Chester, stayed where she was in the window seat. It was unshuttered and the October sun was warm upon her face. She wondered if autumn was always this mild in Poitou. If so, little wonder that Eleanor yearned for her homeland and complained of the harshness of English winters, the suffocating grey dampness of English fogs. Reaching for her cup, Maud sipped one of Aquitaine’s robust red wines and listened as Eleanor berated her husband for his failure to take Toulouse.
“When I learned that he would not lay siege to the city, I was dumbfounded. I sought to convince myself that he must have some other strategy in mind, for Harry can be quite cunning. I refused to lose faith in him, even though I did not understand. And this… this is my reward. He lets himself be outwitted by Louis, Louis of all men!”