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Page 154
For all the burning, there had been little loss of life, so far. The people, as was their custom, had fled away to hide in the hills and forests, driving their cattle before them. The towns were another matter. At Bangor, the coast road and the inland route met and the full army reassembled. What would have happened had the town yielded was impossible to say. It seemed to Geoffrey that John was enjoying the devastation and might not be willing to accept an offer to yield. The question did not arise. The bishop of Bangor closed the gates and cursed the excommunicated king, crying anathema also on the army that was contaminated by his presence.
There was a brief council of war at which Geoffrey stood still and silent. He knew what must be done and his reason agreed heartily with the advice the king received and the orders he gave. Only his heart cried out that it was a fair town, with its river winding down to the sea. Why should it die? And when the men around the king spoke approval of the final plans, he said nothing, looking down at the hem of his surcoat which was blackened from brushing against the charred remains of the last village they had fired.
Salisbury caught up with his son before he reached his own men. "What is wrong, Geoffrey?" he asked. "Do you think we are mistaken in what we do?"
"No."
The blank monosyllable startled Salisbury into a closer examination of Geoffrey's face. "Child, what is it? Are you ill? Have you had bad news?"
Geoffrey pushed his stiff lips up into a smile. "No news at all, and I am quite well, father. I am only tired of seeing blackened earth where life once was."
"I think you could stop just after the word tired. You look tired to death! What have you been doing?"
The smile softened into greater naturalness. "Nothing of which you would disapprove. There has been no fresh womanflesh along the road, and what we carry with us is too rank for my taste. Nor have I been drunk since you saw me fuddled in the camp at Whitechurch. I have not had time."

 
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