The road to Rouen was lined with fields yet bare from winter's retreat.
Richard rode at the head of his column. Banner of the ducal falcon unfurled in the cold wind, expecting to see the wooden towers of his father's motte and bailey thrown open in welcome.
Instead, he found them bristling with spears.
Men-at-arms crowded the ramparts, mail hauberks flashing. Along the palisade, the wolf banner of Mortain snapped alongside the old Norman cross.
Richard's jaw tightened. These were his brother's colors; Robert, Count of Mortain. His younger brother, who had once begged for a seat at Richard's hearth.
Now here he stood, holding the family seat against him.
A horn blast cut the quiet. From the watchtower above the gate, Robert appeared, helm under one arm, his dark hair tangled by the breeze.
