The Way Back

Chapter Twenty-Five

They sailed near the middle of May, a hundred ships from Portsmouth to Barfleur.

A bloodless surrender at Verneuil. Then Evreux, the garrison duped and massacred by a penitent Prince John, who had already thrown himself on Richard's mercy. To the south, long marches, a series of fortresses and messy skirmishes, one after another, and Guy didn't much care where he was as long as he made it through another day. 

The irony occurred to him one day, filling water-skins at a village well. For years he'd despised Robin for abandoning Marian, smug in the certainty he would never have done such a thing. And yet, here he was; it seemed trying to do the right thing could be no more clear-cut than life as Vaisey's shadow had been. He said as much to Archer, as they rode toward the river Loire in the midst of the king's forces, trampling the turf where the column spread beyond the road.

"Regret's useless, brother," Archer replied. "We do what we have to do."

Duty, though, made beasts of men; he could understand how, in the Holy Land, it must have sickened Robin. For his part, he would hack through as much flesh as it took to come out of this alive. But he hated it, lurching from foe to foe, one mortal thrust after another....there was enough blood on his hands. He wanted to be free of it. He wanted to be home, with Meg, watching as their new life grew. Not here.

Long days in the saddle, sticky in the heat; a month of this, fighting, marching, fighting again. Always another village to scout, another fortress to take. Dense woods, loud with the clatter of les cigales, willow-draped river bends, abbeys, hills; the army pressed on through the landscape as June rolled into July. Men and mounts tired more quickly, the pace of the campaign taking its toll. The king knew it.

"Yes! By God, we'll have him," Richard shouted, when word finally came Philip's army would meet his at Vendome.

They made camp outside the town, blocking the path south. Philip, a few miles north, sent word he'd attack in the morning. But when the horns roused them it wasn't for battle; Philip had fled. The king barked orders, leaving a reserve in case of counterattack. Squires ran battle-ready chargers forward, weapons were hastily secured, and in the time it would take to scale a wall the entire force was mounted and thundering north in pursuit.

They caught and overpowered the rear-guard near Freteval. The Lionheart pressed on. They overran the baggage train, swapping tired mounts for fresh, and pursuit resumed. But Philip and his army had too great a lead; pounding along the road, Guy and Archer exchanged glances. They couldn't sustain this pace for long. Not even a king's determination could prevent a horse dropping from exhaustion.

Eventually, Richard called a halt. They turned back, and found that although Philip had escaped the baggage train yielded not only horses, war machines and treasures, but the royal archives, amongst them the names of those Angevin lords prepared to turn traitor. A triumph, of sorts; reason enough to celebrate.

That evening, wine and ale flowed freely, songs were sung, deeds praised, and Guy got steadily and deliberately drunk.

"Steady on," grunted Archer, propping Guy up when he stumbled back from relieving himself in a ditch. He gave him a long look.

"What?" Guy snapped.

Archer shrugged.

"You don't look much like you're celebrating."

"I'm not. Unless it's one that will send me home, the victory's nothing to celebrate," he said truculently.

He slumped down against the wheel of a cart, and said nothing further. After a while, Archer left in search of better company. Guy stared morosely out over the gathering, the campfire lights blurry. Men sloshed ale and shouted boasts. His thoughts were just as hazy; he hadn't indulged, not like this, for months. Not since those days, back from the Holy Land, when he'd consistently drunk himself into a stupor, when his only hope of relief had been to block out as much as he could as often as he could. This took him back, to places he didn't want to go.