A King's Ransom (93 page)

“That is nonsense. Richard could not possibly have gotten to Issoudun so quickly; my spies say he is two hundred miles away in Normandy. Nor would he have forced his way into the castle. Even Richard would not be that mad. Go find out if the fire still burns and do not bring me back ridiculous rumors like this, Ivo.”

To Philippe’s surprise, Ivo held his ground. “My liege, I have seen the English king often enough to know him on sight. I tell you I saw him in the town, astride that dun stallion of his, and he is now in the castle.”

Philippe still did not believe him, but the knight had served him loyally in the past, and so he summoned up enough patience to say, “I do not doubt that you think you saw him, Ivo. But it was dark, and I am sure there was great confusion—”

“Sire!” This shout came from outside the tent. Putting aside the rest of his breakfast, Philippe buckled his scabbard and ducked under the tent flap. A crowd had gathered outside, and as soon as he emerged, they began to point toward the town. Philippe was relieved not to see flames shooting up into the sky. But then he saw what they were trying to call to his attention—the banner flying above the castle keep: three gold lions on a field of scarlet.

Philippe rarely cursed; the most he allowed himself was an occasional “By St James’s lance!” Now, though, he blurted out a shocked “Jesus wept!” Staring up at that familiar banner in disbelief, he said, “You were right, Ivo. That lunatic has trapped himself!”

His men were laughing and slapping one another on the back, unable to credit their good luck, for they felt sure their king would reward them handsomely for the capture of his greatest enemy. Philippe had yet to take his eyes from the castle. He’d celebrated his thirtieth birthday that August, but most people felt he looked older than his years, for his somber demeanor aged him, as did his premature baldness. Now, though, he was smiling, a smile so triumphant that he briefly seemed like the carefree youth he’d never been.

“I always knew Richard’s arrogance would be his undoing,” he told his soldiers. “God is indeed good, for He has delivered the English king into my hands.”

R
ICHARD PASSED THE NEXT FEW DAYS
inspecting the castle defenses. He showed the Préaux brothers that by shortening the sling of their trebuchet, they’d increase the trajectory of the stone’s flight, allowing it to cover more distance and do more damage. He prowled around the storerooms, making sure they still had plentiful rations even though he did not expect to need them. He visited the wounded soldiers, joked with the men on guard duty, joined his knights in taunting the French, and took his turn shooting his crossbow from the castle walls; many of high birth scorned crossbows as weapons fit only for routiers, but Richard was hands-on in all that he did and he was almost as lethal with a crossbow as he was with a sword.

He was up on the battlements on the first Sunday of Advent, amusing himself by exchanging insults with some of the French knights below, wanting to know why the French king had not yet come calling. They responded with a bombardment of stones that rained down into the bailey but did little damage. When the besieged men mocked their aim, one of Philippe’s routiers sent a crossbow bolt streaking through the air toward the English king. It missed Richard by half a foot and he jeered, asking if that had been fired by a blind man, but his knights thought it had come too close for comfort and Morgan and Guillain lured him off the wall by saying André needed to talk to him.

Richard reluctantly left the battlements for the less interesting environs of the great hall. André was sharpening his sword on a whetstone, looking up in surprise as Richard joined him in the window-seat. “Help yourself,” he said, gesturing toward a bowl of roasted chestnuts. “When do you think the French will realize that you seem in suspiciously high spirits for a doomed man?”

“When it is too late.” Richard reached for a chestnut, peeled back the skin, and popped it into his mouth. “I’m going to hold my Christmas Court at Poitiers. You and Denise will be there, of course?”

“Denise will make me come,” André said, with a mock sigh. “We’ll bring my eldest lad. He’s five now, old enough to—”

He stopped abruptly. Richard’s head came up, too, for he’d also heard the shouting. A moment later, Morgan appeared and hurried across the hall toward them, saying that the French camp looked like a beehive that had been knocked over, with soldiers swarming in all directions.

“I daresay they’ve just found out that Mercadier is about to pay them a visit.” Richard leaned back in the window-seat and began to laugh. “Poor Philippe . . . so sure he was the cat and now it turns out that he was the mouse all along.”

T
HE
F
RENCH FOUND THEMSELVES
trapped between Richard and Mercadier, outnumbered and outwitted. This time there would be no hasty retreat, for there was nowhere to run. They were faced with only two choices, both of them equally toxic to the French king—fight a battle they were sure to lose or ask for terms. Philippe had always been a realist and he was not about to sacrifice his life to save his pride. He asked for terms.

O
N
D
ECEMBER 5,
the English and French kings met alone near the bank of the River Theols, within view of the two armies. It was the first time they’d seen each other since Philippe had abandoned the crusade four years ago, and Richard felt anger stirring as he looked upon the younger man, thinking of all Philippe had done to keep him from regaining his freedom. He curbed his temper, though, for this was neither the time nor the place to indulge it.

“As I see it,” he said coolly, “there are two roads we can take. This skirmishing can continue and I can keep on inflicting humiliating defeats on you. But as much as I enjoy doing it, I think we’d both be better served by making peace.”

Philippe’s mouth twisted. “Peace on your terms!”

“Yes. The victor gets to dictate terms to the loser.”

The taste in Philippe’s mouth was as bitter as bile. “What are the terms?” They were as onerous as he’d expected, reflecting the military reality of their respective positions, and far more favorable to Richard than the treaty they’d signed that past year. Richard would regain all he’d lost in Normandy except the Norman Vexin, which he would agree to cede to Philippe. He demanded that Philippe cede the rights to six strategic castles in Berry, including Issoudun, and formally recognize that the counts of Angoulême and Perigueux and the Viscount of Brosse owed homage to him as Duke of Aquitaine. Philippe was to renounce any claims to the counties of Eu and Aumale, Évreux, the castles of Arques and Driencourt, and all of the other conquests he’d made northeast of the River Seine. Richard in turn would quitclaim to Philippe six important border castles, and he would agree to quitclaim Auvergne to the French king.

Despite some concessions on Richard’s part, there was little in this proposed treaty that Philippe found easy to swallow, for he’d be losing much that he’d gained during Richard’s captivity in Germany and be totally shut out of Berry. He continued to listen in a stony silence as Richard said he’d accept the switch in loyalties of one of his vassals, Hugh de Gornai, but that if Philippe’s ally, the Count of Toulouse, did not want to be included in the peace, the French king could not offer him any aid in a war with England. When Richard demanded, though, that the Earl of Leicester be freed, that was too much for Philippe’s self-control, and he said sharply, “I will not agree to that!”

“You have no choice,” Richard said, just as sharply, “for that is not open to negotiation.” He maneuvered his stallion alongside Philippe’s bay mount, a more docile animal than the fiery Fauvel. The bay shifted nervously when Fauvel pinned his ears back and Philippe glared at Richard, thinking the English king was trying to show up his poor horsemanship before their watching men. But Richard had no thoughts to spare for a skittish horse. “You’ve been punishing Leicester because he made a fool out of you at Rouen, but it ends now. Your grievance is with me, and if you find these terms unpalatable, we can settle our differences here and now, on the battlefield, and let God decide who is in the right.”

Their armies were not close enough to hear what was being said and could only wait tensely to see if they would fight that day or not. Even the most bloodthirsty of soldiers shrank from a pitched battle, which was so rare that most had never taken part in one. So when the two kings eventually dismounted and gave each other the formal kiss of peace that signified an agreement had been reached, both sides erupted in cheering, grateful that none would die this day, less than three weeks until the Nativity of the Holy Saviour.

E
LEANOR WAS DELIGHTED
that Richard had chosen her favorite city for his Christmas Court. She’d missed so many family Christmases during her years of confinement that she would never take one for granted again. She’d been given an enthusiastic welcome into the city, for she’d always been popular with the townspeople, who were proud that she had worn the crowns of two realms. In the splendid great hall of the royal palace, she eclipsed her daughter-in-law without even trying, and some of the women guests pitied Berengaria, knowing that she would not be England’s queen as long as Eleanor lived.

After a meal as bountiful as the Advent diet would allow, Eleanor joined Richard on the dais and, as music and spirits soared, he shared with her news both personal and political, telling her his chancellor had brought back word from Germany that her grandson Henrik and his bride were the proud parents of a healthy son. “You are now a great-grandmother twice over,” he teased, and smiled when she pointed out that he was now a great-uncle. “I had not considered that,” he admitted. “I doubt that we’ll ever meet Henrik’s little lad, but Richenza and Jaufre will be bringing their son to the Christmas Court.”

“Jaufre is coming?” Eleanor asked in surprise, and he explained that Jaufre felt it could be risked since a truce now existed between England and France, with the final treaty to be signed in January. “I was not thinking of him fearing Philippe’s wrath, but yours,” she responded, and was surprised again when he said that he’d forgiven Jaufre for his defection to the French king.