The herald had barely stumbled through the tent flap before Richard III was on his feet, eyes wild.
"Speak, damn you! Why is the Marshal not returned? Where is Gautier?!"
The herald swallowed, throat bobbing.
"My lord… Marshal Gautier… he has taken his men and sworn to Count Robert. They opened Rouen's gates to him at dusk. By now he is feasting in your brother's hall."
For a heartbeat, the tent fell silent but for the faint drip of meltwater off the canvas eaves. Then Richard let out a strangled, animal cry.
He overturned the heavy table with both hands, sending cups and crusts skidding across the rushes. A platter of salt meat cracked against the pole.
"Treachery! Treachery on every side!"
His captains flinched. A few stepped backward as Richard snatched up his sword and swung it, scattering a rack of spears.
"Dogs! All of you; would you run too? Would you crawl to my brother for scraps? By God's own blood, I will hang any man who breathes of leaving this camp!"
