Before Plantagenet - Chapter 116
February 1103 - Anjou, France
Foulques stood silently, watching the battle with great anticipation... and a twinge of nervousness.
It had been a surprisingly close encounter in this initial showdown between the two. He had expected it to be a quick, simple affair with little question over the outcome. But this clash had now lasted for what seemed like an hour with the resolution only now starting to take shape.
And as a knight moved into position, the battle drew to a close.
“Check mate,” Foulques’ grandson said.
A smile came to the elder duke’s face. He was concerned for a bit there - given he valued the martial mind of his grandson, he expected him to fare well in chess. And he had - against other children.
But it turned out Foulques own son was a match for him.
Not Geoffrey. It was his second son and first with Haldora, also named Foulques. The boy was rarely called that though - and when he was it usually had “the fair” as an epithet, as a result of his very pale complexion. Other times though, he was simply called Foulqueson - a bit of humor played at way some other cultures, including the Northmen, always named their boys their father’s name with “son” at the end.
Foulqueson was a year younger than his nephew and the two often spent time together. Unfortunately for Foulqueson, he had three bits of misfortune. The first was that he was third in line to the duchy of Anjou. The second was that while Geoffrey and Foulques the younger would gain Anjou, Aquitaine and likely Poitou in time, Foulqueson would be limited to his father’s holdings in Anjou, at best.
And the third was simply the truth his mother Haldora was not viewed in the best of lights. While it wasn’t as if Foulques the younger’s mother, Marguerite, was viewed any better, Foulques could more easily ignore her than he could his own wife.
Despite that, Foulqueson had received the same martial education as his nephew so perhaps it shouldn’t have been the most surprising to see him display a similar acumen.
“A good show boy,” Foulques told his grandson.
The boy smiled. “Thank you grandfather.”
Foulques could see his son looked toward him, likely hoping for some compliment as well. The duke could not bring himself to praise defeat… so he said nothing.
Perhaps he should not have been surprised when Foulqueson’s eyes grew sullen.
The duke looked to the entrance to his chamber. There Herve stood. He had been there a little while, waiting for the end of this match to take the boys out for their sparring session. It was a role he had inherited with Renaud away on campaign and Herve with little else to do with the keep in seclusion.
He had reported back to Foulques the boys got along well enough, despite their situation being one to promote rivalry between the two. They weren’t chummy, but showed a mutual respect.
The boys were out of their chairs and over to Herve quickly. Foulqueson looked back to his father.
“Will you be watching us today, father?” he asked.
Foulques thought about it. He had checked in on them periodically during the seclusion in Anjou but Herve had told him that the boys’ form tended to be sloppy and overaggressive when he did. After the chess game, the odds that happened again would be high.
But he had a valid excuse this time - it was time for a meeting of his council. So he told the boys he would watch if ended early and then sent them off, disappointed. Then he walked off to the strategy hall, knowing he was already late, and was hardly surprised to see the council, along with Agnes, was already gathered around the large table in the center of the hall when he arrived.
“I was attending to a lesson with the boys,” Foulques said. “I assume we are ready to begin?”
“We are my lord,” Godfrey said.
“First business,” Foulques said. “This damn disease. Has it begun to abate?”
“In Normandy, yes,” Godfrey said. “It has been… difficult there but like a brilliant fire, it has burned brightly and has begun to die out.”
“Normandy,” Foulques said. “But what of here?”
Godfrey lowered his head. “No my lord. Here it still rages.”
Foulques sighed. Things had grown worse during the fall, with many in Anjou falling ill with smallpox. Whole villages found themselves afflicted. It caused Foulques to order the total lockdown of the keep, with no one coming in or out.
Messages were rarely sent, and most were sent through replies to messages received. Those messages were received with person delivering them telling them to a person on the other side of a gate or tunnel door.
It was frustrating to essentially cut one’s self off from the outside world. But Foulques did not wish to risk his health or those within the keep - especially his grandson. He saw the boy as the future, and would not put him in danger unnecessarily.
“Based on what has transpired in Normandy, we believe it will last about another half year,” Godfrey said. “Perhaps in the summer it will finally break.”
Leaning forward on the large table, Foulques shook his head. He could see his disappointment was shared as nearly everyone on the council looked downtrodden.
“What other news?” Foulques asked. “How is my daughter?”
“She and Prince Henri are well,” Godfrey said. “The epidemic has abated there.”
Foulques nodded. He had received word a few months back that Bella was pregnant - a surprise given she had just been wed, but the fact that she and Henri had likely conceived a child so soon was considered a good sign.
However, since the epidemic was present in Normandy, Foulques harbored some concern. That she was safe and the disease had faded was a relief.
“Did that come from Geoffrey?” Foulques asked.
“It did, my lord,” Godfrey said.
“Has he any other news for us?” Foulques wondered.
“He believes the Duchess Patricia is near defeat,” Godfrey replied. “She goes to the king, looking for him to intervene, but he does not think it likely. Once that fails, she will admit she is bested.”
We will see, Foulques thought. Patricia had been routed at every turn, with the duchess herself fleeing Poitou entirely after her keep had fallen to Angevin forces and her secondary one in Saintonge surrendered to Geoffrey’s levy.
Despite that, and the fact she was outnumbered by thousands, she had yet to admit her defeat. It almost seemed as if only her capture would allow that, and Foulques knew Geoffrey could not seize from Melun.
“What of the rebels?” Foulques asked.
“They will likely need to be dealt with as well,” Marshal Nominoe replied. “But our forces also greatly outnumber theirs. And we have bested them when we have fought.”
It seems as if this war is a leisurely stroll, Foulques thought. He did so with a twinge of regret - he would have enjoyed being out there. Even if the challenge was not there, the fact he could be at the head of an army again, leading men in battle - it was something he missed.
And something a small part of him wondered if he’d ever get to do again.
“Is there anything else?” Foulques asked. When no one responded he adjourned the meeting.
But while the council members dispersed, steward Guilhem remained behind - a tell-tale sign he wished to tell Foulques something others were not supposed to hear. The duke’s stomach churned - post council meetings was something usually left to the spymaster Julien, or Agnes - if Guilhem spoke of it, the matter was likely serious.
“What is it?” Foulques asked.
“I have… bad news of our situation,” Guilhem said. “Our food stores begin to run low.”
Another clench of his stomach. “I thought we had enough to get through the summer.”
Guilhem motioned for Foulques to follow him. The duke did.
“Some of the meats were improperly prepared,” Guilhem said. “They have spoiled and would be unsafe to eat.”
Foulques cursed. The seclusion during the measles outbreak a decade ago did not have this problem.
“How much food do we have?” Foulques asked.
“I would estimate… another two months,” Guilhem said. “At the longest. A month at the shortest.”
Foulques stroked his beard as he tried to dismiss the sense of dread that threatened to overtake him. No food would mean death. But so too could opening the gates.
Perhaps, within two months it would begin to abate and they could take the chance.
But what if it didn’t?
“The food needs to last us beyond the two months,” Foulques said. “We will cut the meals in the keep down from two to one. And limit the portions with each meal.”
Guilhem nodded. “That will extend our supply for a time. We may make it to the summer months then.”
Foulques did not like the sound of “may.” Then something caught is eye… a disgusting rat. It was a fairly sizeable one too, which was probably why it felt comfortable enough to move about the keep during the day.
Then a thought came to the duke. It was something he was not proud of. But as a warrior, he knew survival was tantamount.
“The rats we kill,” Foulques began. “Prepare them as if they were meat from any other animal.”
He expected Guilhem to blanche at that or show some sign of shock. Instead all Foulques received was a solemn nod.
“I will have it done,” Guilhem said. “And I would assume we shall keep that bit quiet?”
Foulques nodded. Survival over pride in practicality - but he was prideful enough where he did not want to openly admit it. And morale in the keep was already falling - this would likely push it down further. Order might well become more difficult to maintain.
“Any other news to report?” Foulques asked.
“No, my lord,” Guilhem said.
And with that, Foulques dismissed his steward. He could not even be angry with him - Guilhem had served him too long, too honestly and too well to blame him for this.
But as Foulques wandered out toward the courtyard, his nervousness would not abate. What if their food did run out? What if they were forced to open the gates, and take their chances amidst this raging epidemic?
Uncertainty had become a more commonplace in Foulques’ life since the death of Philippe. But Foulques rarely ever felt he had lost control - he lost his seat on the council but retained influence through Geoffrey. He did not have sway with the king in person, but his levy outsized Hugues even more than it had Philippe.
But now? Now he was faced with something he could not control. They would eventually run out of food. And if the disease remained… the choices would be few.
He looked toward the boys sparring. Foulqueson caught sight of him, and sure enough, made an aggressive slash downward at Foulques the younger. It was an attack easily sidestepped by Foulques the younger, and then countered with a blow from his shield which sent Foulqueson to the ground.
Normally, Foulques would have praised his grandson for his composure. But now, he was more angry at his son.
“Poor,” Foulques told his son. “You went for a foolish attack. Had this been a real fight, you would have been dead. Or his prisoner.”
Foulqueson appeared to be shocked by his father’s response. He was rendered speechless.
“Well? What have you got to say for yourself?” Foulques demanded.
“I… I will do better next time, father,” Foulques said.
“Show me,” Foulques ordered. “Again.”
His son picked himself up and readjusted his helmet and leather armor. Then he moved at Foulques the Younger again.
He will be ready, Foulques thought as he watched his son struggle against his grandson.
He may never be needed, but he will be ready.
