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Angers, Anjou, 1206AD
“Did you ever doubt we would be victorious?” Roland de Montbryce crowed to his scowling brother. Removing his helm, he dismounted on a deserted street of the newly recaptured town. The cobbles were stained red; at the mercy of a gritty wind, the open doors of nearby hovels swung on creaking hinges; shouts of victory mingled with screams of terror echoing from further afield. Neither Montbryce brother had any inclination to participate in the orgy of plunder, rape and murder. It wasn’t the fault of the people of Angers that King John had invaded. The tyrant and his army had been sent packing back to La Rochelle. That was sufficient reward.
“No,” Adrien replied. “I suppose I’m still not comfortable with fighting on the same side as King Philip of France. We are Normans.”
Roland shrugged, peeling off a gauntlet to rake his fingers through damp hair. “We should be used to being Frenchmen by now. It’s been nigh on two years since Philip claimed Normandie and Anjou after the fall of Château Gaillard. The French king recognized in short order we Normans are superior cavalrymen and an asset to his army.”
“I know. Don’t mistake my meaning. I prefer to be fighting against King John rather than for him.”
“The days of being John’s subjects are over and done,” Roland replied. “He is no longer our liege lord. We’ve ousted him, again. His army is in disarray, many of his soldiers killed, wounded or taken prisoner. It will be a long while, if ever, before he tries to retake Anjou or Normandie again.”
“Something bothers me still,” Adrien remarked as he too dismounted. “For generations, our family has served one duke. Since the time of the Conqueror, that duke has also been King of England.”
Roland sympathized. “It troubles me, too. We Norman Montbryces are subjects of a French king while our English cousins still languish under John’s cruel tyranny. We can no longer travel back and forth across the Narrow Sea at will. We are cut off from our kin.”
Adrien took the reins of both horses. “After this resounding defeat, I doubt John will hold on to any of the Angevin empire beyond England.”
“Not if Philip has anything to say about it.”
Roland surveyed the damaged buildings around them. He doubted the dilapidated hovels had provided adequate shelter for their inhabitants even before the battle. “We might be better off mustering our men in the fields outside the town.”
“I’ll see to it, mon capitaine,” Adrien replied with a wink and a mock salute. “And I’ll dispatch messengers to Montbryce. Our parents will be anxious to know we’ve defeated John and that we are safe.”
“As will Becket,” Roland added. “Our older brother was itching to join the fray, but I’m glad Papa dissuaded him.”
He deemed it better not to mention his reluctance to take over the mantle of heir apparent in the event of Becket’s death.
He shoved his hand into the gauntlet. Loath to wedge the helm back on his head, he tucked it under his arm and followed Adrien. Allowing the breeze to toy with his long hair cooled him off. All he needed now was a tankard or two of ale to get the taste of death out of his throat. Losing himself in the arms of a willing wench might help chase away the fear and truly convince him he’d survived the bloody horror. However, he wasn’t likely to find such a woman in the beleaguered town of Angers.
He pondered the unfortunate truth that members of the once united Montbryce clan now served different masters. He just hoped none of his English kin had fought in John’s decimated army.
* * *
Sitting in damp grass on the edge of a ditch he suspected from the stench had been dug as a latrine, hands tied behind his back with rough twine, Terric de Quincey contemplated his chances of escape. Surveying the heavily-armed French soldiers guarding him, he’d say they were non-existent. Once they came to the conclusion no one was going to pay ransom for him, he’d be a dead man, the foul ditch his final resting place.
It was ironic he’d been captured fighting for King John, the miserable tyrant who’d confiscated his home after abducting his sister. Adelina was now trapped at the English court. Ostensibly under John’s “protection”, she’d been reasonably safe since John’s queen had appointed her as a lady-in-waiting. However, Isabella of Angoulême forbade all her ladies to marry while in her service.
Conscripted into the English army, Terric had no choice but to fight for John. Every soldier, from the commanders to the lowliest infantryman, knew before they set out that the tyrant’s attempt to regain Normandie was doomed—they were outnumbered, poorly armed, and no match for the superior French forces, not to mention the Norman cavalry.
Terric gritted his teeth and swallowed the bitterness constricting his throat. He’d failed his bright, courageous sister. Now, she had no champion, no one to petition for her release from John’s wardship.
Melton Manor had been in his family’s hands since before the Montbryces had been granted possession of it by the Conqueror. His magnificent ancestral home on England’s south coast was now forfeit to the king. The de Quincey line, a branch of the powerful Montbryce clan, would die with Terric. Adelina would likely never bear children.
And here he sat, a helpless prisoner of the French and of the Normans from whom he was descended.
* * *
Roland decided to delay joining his men outside the blighted town. It was probably a waste of time, but he couldn’t rid himself of the notion English Montbryces may have died or been taken prisoner during the struggle for Angers.
They might be on different sides of the conflict, but family came first. Unity had helped the Montbryce clan weather political turmoil for generations. If he discovered one of his English cousins among the casualties, it would be incumbent upon him to get a message across the Narrow Sea.
Other than that, there was nothing more he could do for the dead, so he retrieved his horse from Adrien. “I’m going by way of the French encampment.”
“Why?”
“Just to make sure there are no cousins among the prisoners.”
