THE NIGHT BEFORE Richard’s departure, a messenger had arrived from Philippe announcing his intention to meet him at Taormina, halfway between Catania and Messina. This came as no surprise, for Richard and Tancred did not doubt that his prolonged stay must be a source of growing unease for the French king, wondering what secrets were being revealed, what confidences exchanged. Tancred then decided to accompany Richard as far as Taormina, knowing such a gesture of royal goodwill would cause Philippe even greater disquiet. Before they rode out the next morning, though, he took Richard into his private solar, saying he had another gift for the English king.
Richard insisted that no further gifts were necessary, pointing out that nothing could be more welcome than those fifteen galleys. But Tancred merely smiled and produced a key, which he used to unlock an ivory coffer. Removing a rolled parchment, he held it out, still with that enigmatic half-smile. “You need to read this, Richard.”
Taking the letter, Richard moved into the morning light streaming through the window. He’d read only a few lines before he spun around to stare at the Sicilian king. “Jesu! Where did you get this, Tancred?”
“From the Duke of Burgundy. He brought it to me last October, just after you’d taken Messina. The seal is broken, of course, but it is written in Philippe’s own hand. Keep reading, for it soon gets very interesting indeed. Your fellow Christian king and sworn ally offers to fight with me if I decide to make war upon you.”
By the time Richard had finished reading, his hand had clenched into an involuntary fist. He eased his grip, then, not wanting to damage the parchment, for he understood what a lethal weapon he’d just been given. “I did not think that faithless weasel could surprise me, but even I did not expect a betrayal of such magnitude. If any proof was needed of his indifference to Jerusalem’s fate, here it is for all the world to see.” After rereading the letter, he glanced back at the Sicilian king, his gaze searching. “Why did you show me this, Tancred?”
“Because I do care about the fate of Jerusalem, and I thought you ought to know you’ll have more enemies than Saladin in Outremer.”
Their eyes met and held, and Richard found himself admiring the Sicilian king’s subtle vengeance. He did not doubt that Tancred was sincere in his desire to aid in the delivery of the Holy City. But Tancred was not a man to leave a debt unpaid, and with this damning letter he would be paying Philippe back in the coin of his choosing.
THE FRENCH KING returned to Messina in a cold fury, for he’d ridden all the way to Taormina only to discover that Richard had already departed via another road. Tancred was no help at all, blandly shrugging off Philippe’s questions and insisting he did not know why Richard had not waited for his arrival. Philippe usually set a moderate pace due to his dislike of horses, but spurred on by anger, he reached Messina not long after Compline had begun to ring. The next morning, he rose early and after hearing Mass, he headed out of the city for a confrontation with the English king.
RICHARD HAD CONTINUED to reside in a house on the outskirts of Messina, using Mate-Griffon only for entertaining. As Philippe dismounted in the courtyard, his eyes fell upon the Count of Flanders and his mouth thinned. Philip was his godfather and his uncle by wedlock, for he’d arranged Philippe’s marriage to his niece Isabelle. That was back in the early days of Philippe’s reign, when the Flemish count had believed the young French king was malleable, easily led. When Philip discovered the steel in the boy’s soul, their clash of wills had soon led to armed conflict. Twice the old English king had intervened on Philippe’s behalf, patching up an uneasy peace between Flanders and France, but the French king had a long memory. After exchanging acerbic greetings with Philip, he followed the Flemish count into the great hall.
There he received an equally icy welcome by Richard. When he demanded to know why Richard had not waited at Taormina, the other man stared at him for so long that he began to bristle, thinking he was not going to get an answer. But then Richard said curtly, “We need to talk about this in more private surroundings.” And without waiting for Philippe to agree, he led the way toward the family chapel that adjoined the hall. Philip of Flanders, the Archbishop of Rouen, and André de Chauvigny trailed after him without a word being said, as if they’d been expecting just such a move.
Philippe was followed by his own retinue—the bishops of Chartres and Langres, his cousins, the Count of Nevers and Hugh of Burgundy, Jaufre of Perche, and Druon de Mello. The chapel was a small one and the men had to jockey for space, finding it a challenge not to tread on toes or jab elbows into ribs. Breathing in the pungent scents of incense, sweat, and tallow-dipped rushlights sputtering in wall sconces, Philippe looked around in distaste. The church seemed dingy to him; the whitewashed walls were streaked with smoke, the floor rushes matted and rank, and the magnificent reliquary of rock crystal and gold on the altar seemed utterly out of place in such shabby surroundings. Moreover, this chapel had been the scene of Richard’s spectacular Christmas penance. Philippe was convinced that Richard got as drunk on fame as some men did on wine, and he saw that dramatic act of expiation as just one more example of the English king’s constant craving for attention, although he never doubted that Richard had as many sins to atone for as Judas Iscariot.
“This is ridiculous,” he said. “There are not even any prayer cushions to sit upon. You may not want us to dine with you, my lord king, but surely you can spare some wine in your solar.”
His men chuckled at that; Richard did not. “I chose to have this talk here because I would never shed blood in God’s House.”
Philippe was staring at him in shock. Before he could recover, Richard moved to the altar and picked up the parchment he’d placed next to the reliquary. “I’d planned to demand an explanation from you. But what would be the point? Your own words speak for themselves.”
Watching intently as the French king took the letter, Richard gave the younger man credit for his self-control. Not a muscle flickered and he showed no emotion even after he’d recognized what he was reading; he could not keep heat from rising in his face and throat, though, a sudden surge of color noticeable even in the subdued lighting of the chapel. Philippe’s men were watching in obvious confusion, and Richard turned toward them. “Since I doubt that your king is going to read his letter aloud, let me enlighten you. It is a message that he sent to King Tancred, offering to fight alongside him should Tancred declare war upon his English allies.”
There was a stifled sound, like a collective catch of breath. As Richard had expected, the only one who did not seem stunned was Hugh of Burgundy. Philippe’s head jerked up and he flung the letter down into the floor rushes. “This is a clumsy forgery.”
“And why would Tancred bother to forge a letter? How would he benefit from setting us at odds?”
“How would I know?” Philippe snapped. “I can only tell you that it is not mine.”
“Tancred says the letter was delivered by the Duke of Burgundy. Are you also going to disclaim any knowledge of it, Hugh?”
“Indeed I am,” the other man said coolly. “I know nothing about it.”
“Then you ought to be willing to prove it.” Before Hugh guessed what Richard had in mind, he’d snatched up the reliquary. “This contains a splinter of the True Cross. Swear upon it, Hugh, swear that your king is right and this is a damnable forgery.”
Hugh was not easily disconcerted, but Richard had managed it now. His eyes cut toward Philippe, back to the holy relic. He made no move to take it, though, and Richard’s mouth twisted into a mockery of a smile. “Well, at least you’ll not lie to God. What about you, Philippe? Dare you to swear upon the True Cross?”
Philippe ignored the challenge. “I am beginning to understand now. This is not that bastard Tancred’s doing. The two of you are in collusion. You’ve hatched this ludicrous plot to provoke a breach between us, to put me in the wrong.”
“And why would I want to do that?”
“So you’d have an excuse not to marry my sister!” Phili
ppe almost spat the words, and this time Richard’s smile was like an unsheathed dagger.
“You are half right. I have no intention of marrying your sister. But I need no excuse or pretext, for our union is prohibited by the Holy Church.”
“What are you claiming, Richard? That you’ve suddenly discovered you and Alys are related within the forbidden degree? Do you truly expect the Pope to believe such drivel? After a betrothal of more than twenty years?”
Philippe had regained his balance by now and his voice throbbed with such scornful indignation that his men found themselves nodding in agreement.
“I am not talking of consanguinity. That can be remedied if a dispensation is granted. This is a far more serious impediment.” Richard’s eyes swept the chapel before coming to rest upon the Archbishop of Rouen. “Is it not true, my lord archbishop, that Holy Scriptures say it is a mortal sin for a man to have carnal knowledge of his father’s wife?” Getting a solemn affirmation of that from the prelate, Richard swung around to confront Philippe. “Would it be any less of a sin for a man to bed his father’s concubine?”
All the color had drained from Philippe’s face. “Damn you, what are you saying?”
“I am saying that I was told my father took your sister as his leman, that she may have borne him a child, and their liaison was notorious enough for it to become known at the French court—”
“Enough!” Philippe took a quick step forward, his hand dropping instinctively to the hilt of his sword. “You’ll rot in Hell for this!”
“Me?” Richard feigned surprise. “Most people would say that I’m the one wronged. If my father seduced my betrothed, then surely he is the one burning in Hell. And if the story is false, if it was contrived for political advantage, then the one responsible will be judged even more harshly—by the Almighty and by all of Christendom once his perfidy is exposed.”
“My lord Richard.” The Bishop of Chartres had stepped forward, saying gravely, “Can you provide proof of this most serious accusation?”
“I can provide witnesses who heard that he’d bedded her. And I can give you the name of the man who told me—Philip d’Alsace, the lord Count of Flanders.”
All heads turned toward Philip, who seemed untroubled to find himself the center of attention. For a moment, he studied the French king, who returned his gaze with a hawk’s unblinking intensity, saying in a dangerously soft voice, “You’d best think ere you speak, my lord count, for your heedless words could have consequences you cannot even begin to imagine.”
“Surely you’re not threatening him, Philippe?” Richard jeered, earning himself a look from the French king that was truly murderous.
“Not at all.” Philip dismissed Richard’s accusation with a casual wave of his hand, as nonchalantly as if they’d been exchanging social pleasantries. “I am sure my nephew by marriage merely meant to remind me how much was at stake. You need not worry, Philippe; I understand quite well. What Richard has said . . . it is true. I did seek him out at Mantes not long after Martinmas in God’s Year 1188 and told him of the troubling gossip I’d heard about his father and the Lady Alys. Can I swear upon yonder holy relic that the rumors were true? Of course not. But I felt that he had a right to know of these rumors since he was betrothed to the lady. In his place, I would have wanted to know. Any man would,” he said, with a sudden, sardonic smile that both acknowledged his own sordid marital history and dared anyone to mention it.
With all eyes now upon him, awaiting his response, Philippe drew several bracing breaths as he sought to get his rage under control. As he looked around the chapel, he could see that even his men had been won over by Richard’s argument ; how could he be expected to wed a woman who may have been his own father’s bedmate? “I do not believe these malicious reports,” he said fiercely. “They are vile lies meant to tarnish the honor of the French Crown, and I will not permit my sister’s reputation to be besmirched like this.”
“I see no reason to do that, either,” Richard said, for he could afford to be magnanimous now that victory was within reach. “I have never blamed the lass. We know women are weak and easily led into sin, and we know, too, that kings are ones for getting their own way. Release me from my promise to wed Alys and I am content. I will gladly return her to your custody and that will end it.”
Until that moment, Philippe would not have thought it possible to loathe another man as much as he now loathed Richard. “And are you going to return Gisors Castle and the Vexin, too?” he snarled. “A fine bargain you want me to make. You get to keep her dowry and I get back a woman whose value on the marriage market is—”
“My liege, this serves for naught.” The Bishop of Chartres was regarding Philippe somberly. “We are in agreement that the plight-troth is no longer binding upon the English king. I would suggest that we select trustworthy men to conduct the necessary negotiations, but this is neither the time nor the place.”
Philippe opened his mouth, closed it again. If Bishop Renaud, who was his cousin as well as one of his prelates, saw Richard as the wronged party, then this was a war he’d already lost. “So be it,” he said through gritted teeth and turned on his heel, shoving aside anyone in his path as he stalked from the chapel.
As the other men exited the church, Richard leaned over and retrieved Philippe’s letter from the floor rushes. He’d been confident he would prevail, having the bishops and Leviticus on his side. But the letter had undoubtedly made his task easier, for Philippe’s men were more receptive to his argument after seeing their king’s treachery laid bare like this. What Philippe failed to understand was that many of his vassals had been proud to take the cross and they did not think Christian kings should be fighting each other instead of the infidels. Richard rolled the parchment up, tucking it into his belt. He was free of Alys at long last and he still held Gisors and the Vexin. Not a bad day’s work.
He glanced up at the sound of footsteps. Not everyone had left, for the Count of Flanders was several feet away. Sauntering toward the altar, Philip ran his hand admiringly over the reliquary. “It was clever to confront Philippe here. Does this truly contain a sliver of the True Cross?”
“Of course it does. I borrowed it from the Archbishop of Messina.” Richard had been surprised when Philip had indicated his willingness to speak honestly about their meeting at Mantes. Now that the count had proven true to his word, he was grateful. But he was also puzzled by the other man’s motivation, for selfinterest had been the guiding force of Philip’s life, and he did not see how his cousin had benefited from his candor. To the contrary, he’d just made a mortal enemy of the French king.
“I’d be hard put to decide which one of us Philippe hates more at the moment,” he said, and Philip laughed softly.
“If it were a horse race, I’d wager that I win by a nose,” he said, “for he felt the prick of my blade at his throat. But then I unexpectedly showed mercy and he’ll never forgive me for that.”
Richard laughed, too, for he thought that was an astute assessment of the French king’s character. “By not revealing that Philippe was the one who’d told you about the seduction rumors? No, that is something Philippe would not have wanted known. I’ve often wondered about that. Think you that he invented the story out of whole cloth?”
“I’ve thought about that, too. It is true that he feared you’d reconcile again with your father, as you’d done so often in the past, and that would be far less likely if you believed your father had been swiving your betrothed. But I doubt that he was the source of the story, for Philippe is too protective of his own honor. I think he probably heard it from one of his spies, who’d picked it up from any of your father’s legion of enemies. To hear some of them tell it, Harry was like a stag in rut, always on the prowl. I remember a similar accusation made against him some years earlier, that he’d deflowered the daughter of a rebellious baron in Brittany, so it might be the Alys tale had its roots in that charge. Any truth to that Breton story, you think?”
“You
r guess is as good as mine,” Richard said with a shrug. “From what I’ve heard, he preferred knowing bedmates, not skittish virgins.” He thought that showed his father’s common sense, for he’d never understood why so many men prided themselves upon luring coy or chaste women into their beds. Why bother with smiles and songs when it was so much easier and quicker to buy a bedmate with coins?
While Richard had little interest in discussing his father’s carnal conquests, he did want to know why Philip had taken such a risk. “You’re going to pay a price for your honesty, as you well know. Not many men would have dared to defy Philippe like that, for he’s one to nurse a grudge to the end of his earthly days. Yet that does not seem to trouble you.”
“And you want to know why.” Philip leaned back against the altar and was silent for a moment. “Ah, hellfire, Cousin, I’d think the answer would be obvious. I am nigh on fifty and there are mornings when I feel every one of those fifty years, thanks to aging and the joint-evil. I can no longer ride from dawn till dusk without aching bones, find the pleasures of the flesh are losing their allure, and I’ve had to face the fact that I’ll not be siring a son to follow after me. At this point in my life, I do not much care about disappointing Philippe Capet. What matters is not disappointing the Almighty. This is the second time I’ve taken the cross. The first time I had less worthy motives, for I had it in mind to meddle in Outremer’s politics, hoping to see the Leper King’s sisters wed to men of my choosing. As you know, that did not happen. Now I’ve been given another chance, and I mean to make the most of it. Most likely I’ll die in the Holy Land, but to die fighting for Jerusalem is not such a bad fate, is it?”