men still awake. A dice game seemed as good a way as any to pass the hours.
The hall was crowded with knights and soldiers, sleeping on pallets and blankets, using their boots as pillows. Rush-lights still burned in wall sconces, casting a smoky pall over air already stale and sweltering because of the shuttered windows. But a handful of men were still up, shooting dice in a corner, albeit without much enthusiasm. John headed toward them, only to stop when he spotted his brother. Richard was by himself in a window-seat, softly plucking the strings of a small harp. “So you cannot sleep either,” he commented, so amiably that John found himself pausing, for most of the time his older brother treated him with offhand indifference or outright condescension.
“Why are you not abed?” he asked, for Richard had passed a very demanding day; when not up on the battlements, he was overseeing their mangonels, checking upon the wounded, handing out casual compliments to soldiers who acted-to John’s annoyance-as if his words were gold, prowling the castle like a sheepdog keeping a watchful eye out for predators, determined to keep the flock safe.
“My body’s tired enough,” Richard acknowledged, “but my brain will not slow down. I keep thinking of possible weaknesses in our defenses or wondering how long our supplies will last or worrying that some of the sentries are too sleepy to stay alert.”
“You think they might try a night assault?”
“I would in Philippe’s place. But I doubt that he has the ballocks for it.”
John sat down across from Richard in the window-seat, although he wasn’t sure why. “You think our father will get here soon?”
Richard continued to strum the harp, but he gave John a curious look. “You are joking, right?”
“No…why?”
“Because you are trapped with me, of course. Now, if it were just me, he might be sorely tempted to take his time. But for you, he’ll be killing horses in his haste to get here.”
He laughed, but John remembered that Geoffrey had occasionally told bald truths in the guise of humor and he wondered if that were true for Richard, too. He started to remind his brother that their father had often ridden to his rescue in the past, but the words that emerged from his mouth seemed to come of their own volition. “Do you hate me for that?”
Richard blinked. “For what?’
John had been as surprised as Richard by what he’d said. He was committed now, though, and had no choice but to continue. “For Papa favoring me over you.”
Richard didn’t seem to have given the matter much thought before. He was quiet for a moment, considering. “No,” he finally said. “I cannot say I was overly fond of Hal or Geoffrey, but I hold no grudge against you, lad.”
“Why not?” John demanded, feeling somehow insulted by his brother’s lack of rancor. “I did invade your duchy, after all!”
Richard was starting to look amused. “Far be it from me to deny you the credit for that bit of treachery.”
“You just assumed that it was all Geoffrey’s doing,” John said accusingly, “the way Papa did! As if I could not possibly have formed the intent upon my own, even after you mocked me like that!”
“When did I mock you?”
“That day at Le Mans. When Papa said Aquitaine was mine if I could take it, you looked me up and down and then laughed.”
“Did I? I’ll take your word for it, Johnny. If it makes you feel better, though, I never imagined Geoffrey had dragged you along at knifepoint. The reason I am willing to let bygones be bygones is because you were all of… what? Sixteen? It was only to be expected that you’d act like a damned fool. God knows, I did at sixteen.”
John did not share his amusement. “I was seventeen,” he said sullenly, in that moment realizing that he resented Richard’s indulgence more than his hostility. He also realized that he did not like to be called Johnny, not by Richard.
Richard had gone back to his song, frowning as he tried several chords. When he was finally satisfied, he glanced up, saying, “How does that sound to you?” But John was gone.
Henry proved Richard right by reaching Chateauroux in record time. Philippe raised the siege, but to the surprise of all, he did not retreat, and with two armies separated only by the waters of the River Indre, it began to look as if a battle was inevitable. This was uncommon, for battles were usually a commander’s action of last resort. Sensible men were not eager to submit themselves to the Judgment of the Almighty, and a decisive battle seemed to prove that the victor had God on his side. Most people preferred not to put the Lord’s Favor to such a stringent, conclusive test. Nor were the barons of either army keen to fight with one another, for many had kin and friends in the opposing camps. These men did their best to persuade Henry and Philippe to resolve their differences by more reasonable means.
So, too, did the numerous clerics and prelates accompanying both armies, for the Church did not want to see two such powerful Christian kings at war when the real enemy was to be found in the Holy Land. In this way, a fortnight dragged by, with highborn messengers shuttling back and forth between encampments with proposals and counterproposals. No real progress had been made, however, and the fate of many continued to depend upon the whims of two strong-willed, unpredictable kings.
Richard had just returned to his tent and his squire was helping him to remove his hauberk when he was informed that the Count of Flanders had ridden in under a flag of truce, asking to confer with him. Richard swore and then sighed, for by now he was thoroughly disgusted with the mummery masquerading as peace negotiations. He was tempted to tell Philip to go away, but he knew, of course, that he could not do that, and he directed that the count be brought to his tent.
He was somewhat surprised when Philip had his men wait outside, and as soon as they were seated, he could not resist a sardonic gibe at the Flemish ruler’s expense. “Since you want to speak in private, should I assume, Cousin, that you are thinking of switching sides? There is little love lost between you and Philippe, after all.”
Philip gave him a sharp look and then smiled, somewhat sourly. “True enough. My relationship with the French king is almost as stormy as yours with the English king.” Taking a taste of his wine, he nodded approvingly. “It would be a shame to see your Poitevin vineyards go up in flames when you can produce wines like this. Look, Richard, let’s speak plainly. Your interests are not being well served if this standoff results in a bloody battle. Despite your father’s games-playing, we both know England will eventually be yours. But so will Normandy and Anjou. Is it truly wise to make an enemy of the man who will be your liege lord?”
“What would you suggest, instead? That I betray my father to court favor with Philippe? You’re losing your touch, Cousin, if this is your idea of subtlety. Shall I also renounce my Christian faith whilst I am at it?”
Philip’s smile did not waver, even as he marveled to himself that the genial Hal and this man could have come from the same womb. “Sheathe your sarcasm, Cousin. I am asking only that you talk directly with the French king, see if you can persuade him he will gain little and risk much by taking to the battlefield. I in turn will do what I can to get your father to see reason.” Adding wryly, “And may God have mercy upon us both.”
Richard had been acquainted with Philippe Capet since the latter was four, but as he studied the French king, he realized that he did not really know the younger man. They had little in common. Philippe was stiff-necked and judgmental, disapproved of swearing, had shown little interest in those pleasures that other men enjoyed. He denounced tournaments, disapproved of gambling and minstrels and troubadours, and did not even hunt much because he disliked horses. To Richard, a superb rider and swordsman who loved music and swore like a sailor, Philippe seemed as alien as a Carthusian monk. But he knew Philip of Flanders was right; he would eventually have to deal with this man and so it made sense to find out more about him.
So far they’d been dodging and weaving, using polite language and courtesy to guard their real thoughts, and Richard was growing tired of evasions and ambiguity. As he looked into the French king’s pale blue eyes, he saw what his brother Geoffrey had also seen-a cool, calculating intelligence. Making up his mind then, he said, “Let’s talk about my real reason for being here. You and my lord father are far from fools, so I assume you will eventually agree to a truce. How much longer must we wait?”
“What makes you think I am bluffing?”
Although Philippe’s tone was composed, Richard noticed that his hands had briefly clenched upon the arms of
