dukedom of Normandy there had seemed less hope of bringing the latter back to France.
Philip, the realist, was well aware that whatever his personal feelings for Richard he must always work against him. When Henry Plantagenet was alive he had had to reconcile himself to the knowledge that there would never be a conquest of Normandy. It was different now that Richard was king.
Richard – beloved friend – would be no match for him. He knew it well. Richard should never have agreed to go off and leave his kingdom so soon after acquiring it. Did he not see mean little John straining to get at it? Richard might be the greatest warrior of his age, but what sort of statesman was he? True he would leave his mother to govern for him and she was still a force to be reckoned with.
How different we are, thought Philip. There he is, my friend and enemy Richard, the strong, the brave and the foolish. He longs to be known as the greatest soldier in Christendom; he may well be that. But a king must be more than a great soldier. He is too simple-hearted, too direct. Oh, Richard Oui et Non, rulers have to prevaricate, to dissemble. It is necessary in this life, my dear friend.
He himself was subtle and ambitious . . . oh very ambitious. They had not understood him when he was a boy. They had thought him weak and peevish. Perhaps he had been before there had come to him that revelation of what it meant to be a ruler and a ruler of France. From then on he had developed a calm, a subtlety; he refrained from giving voice to his thoughts. He was discreet and sedate. Richard had often been impatient with him, little understanding that when he appeared to be indifferent his mind was working fast and he was seeing into the future perhaps years ahead.
As they played chess together, Philip deliberately brought up the subject of Alice.
‘I doubt not your marriage to my sister will take place ere long.’
‘There is much to be done before I can think of marriage,’ replied Richard.
‘You are no longer a young man.’
‘I am young enough.’
‘My sister is not young either.’
‘Your sister is no longer a virgin.’
‘Thanks to your father.’
Richard was relieved. He hated subterfuge. He believed that now Philip knew the position he would understand why there could not be a marriage.
‘Two are involved in such games,’ he said.
‘Children are sometimes lured into them and can scarcely be blamed.’
‘The fact remains that she is no longer fit to be my bride.’
‘The sister of the King of France not fit for the King of England!’
‘Not when she has been whoring with his father.’
‘You talk like a peasant, Richard. This is a matter of royal birth not of morals.’
‘With me it is a moral issue.’
‘Oh, come, have you always led so blameless a life? We will forget Alice’s indiscretions and those of your father. The marriage will take place before we set out.’
Richard had grown pale. ‘I cannot marry Alice.’
‘Oh, you will honour your bonds,’ said Philip. ‘Forget not that you are betrothed.’
‘You will release me from the betrothal. I know you will.’
‘Do you know me, Richard? How well do you know me? Everyone is not so straightforward as you. Let us shelve this unfortunate matter of your marriage. See, I have put you in check.’
And so they talked together, often fiercely, often banteringly; and to both of them the coming crusade was enticing and exciting because the other would share it.
They parted, Richard to make his journey through Normandy, Philip to make further preparation for departure. They would meet at Messina and from there begin together their journey to the Holy Land.
Eleanor felt young again since she had stepped into freedom. All those years a prisoner! How dared Henry treat her so! But she could laugh at him now, and hers was the last laugh. He was dead, mouldering in his tomb – a king who had once made men tremble – now nothing but dust and ashes while she, nearly
Philip, the realist, was well aware that whatever his personal feelings for Richard he must always work against him. When Henry Plantagenet was alive he had had to reconcile himself to the knowledge that there would never be a conquest of Normandy. It was different now that Richard was king.
Richard – beloved friend – would be no match for him. He knew it well. Richard should never have agreed to go off and leave his kingdom so soon after acquiring it. Did he not see mean little John straining to get at it? Richard might be the greatest warrior of his age, but what sort of statesman was he? True he would leave his mother to govern for him and she was still a force to be reckoned with.
How different we are, thought Philip. There he is, my friend and enemy Richard, the strong, the brave and the foolish. He longs to be known as the greatest soldier in Christendom; he may well be that. But a king must be more than a great soldier. He is too simple-hearted, too direct. Oh, Richard Oui et Non, rulers have to prevaricate, to dissemble. It is necessary in this life, my dear friend.
He himself was subtle and ambitious . . . oh very ambitious. They had not understood him when he was a boy. They had thought him weak and peevish. Perhaps he had been before there had come to him that revelation of what it meant to be a ruler and a ruler of France. From then on he had developed a calm, a subtlety; he refrained from giving voice to his thoughts. He was discreet and sedate. Richard had often been impatient with him, little understanding that when he appeared to be indifferent his mind was working fast and he was seeing into the future perhaps years ahead.
As they played chess together, Philip deliberately brought up the subject of Alice.
‘I doubt not your marriage to my sister will take place ere long.’
‘There is much to be done before I can think of marriage,’ replied Richard.
‘You are no longer a young man.’
‘I am young enough.’
‘My sister is not young either.’
‘Your sister is no longer a virgin.’
‘Thanks to your father.’
Richard was relieved. He hated subterfuge. He believed that now Philip knew the position he would understand why there could not be a marriage.
‘Two are involved in such games,’ he said.
‘Children are sometimes lured into them and can scarcely be blamed.’
‘The fact remains that she is no longer fit to be my bride.’
‘The sister of the King of France not fit for the King of England!’
‘Not when she has been whoring with his father.’
‘You talk like a peasant, Richard. This is a matter of royal birth not of morals.’
‘With me it is a moral issue.’
‘Oh, come, have you always led so blameless a life? We will forget Alice’s indiscretions and those of your father. The marriage will take place before we set out.’
Richard had grown pale. ‘I cannot marry Alice.’
‘Oh, you will honour your bonds,’ said Philip. ‘Forget not that you are betrothed.’
‘You will release me from the betrothal. I know you will.’
‘Do you know me, Richard? How well do you know me? Everyone is not so straightforward as you. Let us shelve this unfortunate matter of your marriage. See, I have put you in check.’
And so they talked together, often fiercely, often banteringly; and to both of them the coming crusade was enticing and exciting because the other would share it.
They parted, Richard to make his journey through Normandy, Philip to make further preparation for departure. They would meet at Messina and from there begin together their journey to the Holy Land.
Eleanor felt young again since she had stepped into freedom. All those years a prisoner! How dared Henry treat her so! But she could laugh at him now, and hers was the last laugh. He was dead, mouldering in his tomb – a king who had once made men tremble – now nothing but dust and ashes while she, nearly
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