The roads of Normandy churned to muck beneath the press of war. Spring rains fell in cold sheets that turned cart ruts into hungry trenches, swallowing hooves and boots alike.
Along one such winding forest lane, a small company of knights rode with banners furled, their chain mail dark with water, voices low with fatigue.
They were men bound for Richard’s host outside Rouen; the young Count of Avranches among them, eager to prove himself before the Duke.
They never reached the siege lines.
In a shallow vale where alder and birch crowded close, arrows whispered from the undergrowth.
The first struck a squire through the neck, pitching him from his saddle in a splash of blood and rain. Horses reared, screaming, riders dragged helpless in stirrups.
Then Mortain men burst from the trees.
Lean skirmishers with mail shirts stripped from the dead of past fields.
They fell upon the confused column with short swords and axes, hacking at reins, dragging knights from saddles to finish them in the mud.
A few of Richard’s loyalists managed to form a shield knot, blades out, circling desperately. But the ground betrayed them.
Their footing slipped, men went down on slick leaves, and the Mortain blades found gaps in gorgets and under armpits.
In the aftermath, the skirmishers set about their true work. Stripping the bodies of coin and jewels was simple theft.
But more important still were the signet rings and wax seals taken from the dead lords’ pouches.
Under a dripping oak, the leader of the Mortain band knelt with parchment stretched over a flat board. By dim lantern light, he scrawled neat, practiced lines:
To his gracious Lord Duke Richard,
Pressing delays hold us at Mortain. The rains mire our companies, and we cannot yet break camp without jeopardy to our train. Expect us within the fortnight.
Henry, Count of Avranches.
The Mortain captain pressed the dead man’s ring into hot wax, smirking. "May your loyalty serve us better now than it did you breathing."
Another letter was forged under the Count of Beaumont’s hand, then another beneath a baron of less standing.
By dawn, fast riders were off along diverging tracks, bearing these missives toward Rouen.
The night beyond Richard’s siege lines was black and wet, pierced by only the wan glow of scattered lanterns.
Rain beat steadily against tent cloth, dripped in rivulets from helmet rims, and turned the packed earth of the command encampment into a sucking mire.
Inside the largest pavilion, Duke Richard III leaned over a broad table crowded with wax tablets, rough maps, and scrolls.
A brazier smoked at his side, failing to warm the damp air. His jaw worked with quiet frustration.
Around him stood his captains, some stripped to tunics, arms slick with sweat and rain.
It was there that the riders came.
They arrived under heavy cloaks, hoods pulled deep, water pouring from their shoulders.
The guards at the edge of camp let them through without challenge when they saw the wax seals borne on little leather wallets tied to each man’s belt.
The seal of Avranches and of Beaumont.
A steward led them into the Duke’s tent, bowing low. "My lord, couriers from the west and south. They bear letters of urgency."
Richard looked up sharply. Relief sparked behind his tired eyes. He snatched the offered letters, broke the seals with practiced fingers. The broken wax bore the unmistakable sigils of Normandy’s great houses, stamped true and sure.
He read quickly. Then again, slower, as though willing the words to change.
Beaumont delayed by flooded fords, wagons mired. Avranches held by sudden levies to guard his borders against petty Breton raids. All pleaded loyalty. All promised to march within a fortnight.
"By God..." Richard’s hand closed around the parchment until his knuckles whitened. "Always next week. Always after the feast, after the harvest, after the rains. Meanwhile, my brother’s banners still multiply behind Rouen’s walls like lice on a beggar’s scalp."
One of his captains, a grizzled knight named Raoul, cleared his throat. "My lord, the seals are true. Their hands swear it. If they delay, it may yet be from the weather. Or from prudence, waiting to see which way the wind breaks."
Richard’s eyes flashed. "Or waiting to see who stands when the field is done. Fools. If they do not come, they will find their own holdings smoldering under my banners once Robert is dealt with. They hedge their loyalty like merchants weigh coin; and it will cost them dearly."
Raoul dipped his head. "Shall I send riders to hasten them?"
"Do it," Richard snarled. Then more quietly, his shoulders sagging, he added, "Though I suspect we chase ghosts. Each day we linger here, my brother’s spies range freer across Normandy. Each day, these petty lords dream one more night of safety under their own roofs rather than under my banners."
He tossed the letters to the brazier. Flames licked up the vellum, curling the neat lines of courtly hand until only black scraps danced in the smoke.
The cloaked riders who had brought the letters stood by silently. One nodded once, a respectful dip of the hood, before retreating back into the rain.
None questioned them; the seals had spoken, and Normandy’s ancient habits of deference held firm.
Outside the tent, Richard’s war camp lay restless. Men stirred by the watch fires, sharpening blades dulled more by inaction than battle.
The rain continued its steady drum upon the taut hides of the pavilions, whispering of a realm turning slowly against itself.
And so the night stretched on. The Duke of Normandy brooded over maps slick with spilled mead and rainwater.
All the while the riders who had brought him ruin under honest wax galloped into darkness, unseen smiles hidden beneath their dripping cloaks.
Richard had no way of knowing what had transpired beyond the boundaries of his camp. Nor how his brother was making use of his hidden forces to gut his rival from behind.
Each vein tied to another lord like it would the heart. The blood that kept Richard and his forces alive cut off one valve at a time in the darkness and the countryside.
And Robert? He stayed in the safety and comfort of their families tall wooden walls. Waiting for the inevitable to occur.
Richard may be the rightful heir by law, and have the backing of the Papacy, but Robert was raised with knights and Men-at-Arms, and that was the real power behind any throne.