February–April 1191
They thought the winter would never end. Regardless of Marquis Conrad’s forged letter – in which he had claimed that Philip Augustus would be in Palestine by Christmas – the Kings of France and England had stayed on at Messina. They disinterred old squabbles, notably the one that concerned Philip’s sister, Alais, and Berengaria, Princess of Navarre.
More than fifteen years earlier a marriage had been arranged between Alais and Richard, then heir to Aquitaine and Poitou. In the expectation of an early ceremony, Alais had been sent to England, and placed in the wardship of Richard’s father, King Henry II. But before long it was rumoured that Henry intended to keep the girl for himself. Her father, King Louis VII, and her brother Philip roared with indignation and insisted that Henry marry her forthwith – to Richard. But it was not done.
Now Henry was dead, and Richard was king, and the hapless Alais was still unwed.
Throughout the winter at Messina, Philip harped on his sister’s plight. Eventually, in February, Richard said, ‘You may as well stop complaining. I will not carry the blame for my father’s actions. He has had his way with her—’
‘God, I am sick of that story. You English tell it with something akin to pride.’
‘Not so. But I never chose your sister in the first place. How old was I when she arrived in England? Seventeen, eighteen? I was not ready for marriage—’
‘You never have been. You never will.’
‘There I might surprise you,’ Richard said, without enthusiasm. ‘It’s why I asked you to visit me today. I’ve heard from my mother. She is coming out here. She thinks it’s time I was wed.’
Philip frowned. ‘You mean – She is bringing Alais with her? Why haven’t I heard?’
‘Because it’s not Alais. It’s a girl I saw in Spain once. At Pamplona. In truth, I can’t remember what she looks like, but I must have warmed to her.’ He laughed uneasily, more at himself than with pleasure. ‘My mother tells me I wrote poetry to her, to this girl.’
‘What’s her name?’
‘Berengaria. She’s the Princess of Navarre.’
After a moment Philip said, ‘I see. So I can stop hoping that you will do the just thing by Alais.’
Richard shrugged. ‘My mother—’
‘Yes, yes, I know about your mother. Remember, she was once married to my father.’
Richard laughed again, a noisier, frame-shaking laugh. ‘And to mine.’
They were speaking of Eleanor of Aquitaine, the woman who had been married to King Louis VII of France, divorced, then re-married to King Henry II of England. She was sixty-nine now, yet happy to make the arduous journey from England to Sicily. She had long despaired of finding Richard a bride; well, they were easy enough to find, for he was the most eligible man of the time, but she had come to accept that her son was simply not interested in women, be they peasants or princesses. So she had been amazed and delighted by his romantic overtures towards Berengaria. Personally, Eleanor thought the girl too passive for Richard’s tastes, but she was in no position to be critical. It was sufficient that he had spoken well of her and dedicated his poetry to her. He had never behaved with such gallantry towards any other young woman, and this alone made Berengaria unique.
Fortunately, the Princess of Navarre seemed to be completely infatuated with Richard Cœur-de-Lion. Perhaps, then, with such open encouragement, he would make a tolerable husband, and, more important, father some sons. It was with this in mind that Eleanor had written to him, advising him that she and Berengaria were on their way.
The news drove the wedge more firmly between Richard and Philip. As the French king saw it, Alais had been seduced by one English monarch, and cast aside by another. It was an insult to all France, an insult redoubled.
‘I don’t share your sense of bellowing good humour,’ he snapped, ‘nor your obvious admiration for Queen Eleanor.’
‘She is a rare woman, my mother.’
‘Evidently. But I don’t collect rarities.’
* * *
After that, the morning became like any other. Richard breakfasted with his leaders, among them his companion Robert of Breteuil. They ate barley mash with nutmeg, beef and watermelon, and drank cinnamon-flavoured wine. Then they rode through Messina in search of amusement.
It was common practice, almost habit by now, for the senior English Crusaders to spend the mornings with a group of French nobles and to engage them in political discourse, challenge or be challenged to a horse race, out-wager them at dice, or plan the imminent recapture of the Holy Land. The French, Richard decided, knew more about politics, but less about military strategy.
The two groups met near the north wall of the city and rode out in the direction of the coastal plain that faced the nearby island of Volcano and, farther out, the island of Stromboli.
Philip did not join his men. He loathed horses as much as he loathed the sea, and was convinced that one day a palfrey or destrier would run away with him, then throw him, cracking his skull. He was no coward, though he was cautious to the point of being mistaken for one. He also suffered from a cataract in his left eye and feared that when he broke bis skull in the fall, he would somehow lose the sight of his good eye. So he let the others ride and race, and contented himself with less foolhardy pastimes.
The nobility of France and England played chess, the French winning by five games to two. They raced each other on foot – something they would never have done outside their own circle – and a Frenchman won by thirty yards. Then they raced on horseback, with Richard emerging as the victor, largely because he elbowed aside two of his competitors. The French accused him of foul play and told him he was disqualified. His comments made freaks of them all and brought laughter from the English party.
They discussed the situation in Palestine, vis-a-vis Guy and Conrad. Tempers grew heated, and the two groups drew apart, scowling. The worldly Robert of Breteuil mollified them with wine and an obscene story, and they turned from politics to archery. They had forgotten to bring a target, so they shot at a Norman shield, its pointed base buried in the ground. The French scored twenty-nine hits out of fifty, the English thirty-four. Richard excelled, and made a show of his abilities, firing the crossbow whilst on the move, kneeling to fire it, retreating twenty yards and still striking the elm-wood shield. His party applauded wildly, while the Frenchmen ostentatiously packed their chess pieces and made conversation with their champion foot runner. A little after midday the two groups trotted back to Messina.
Then it turned sour.
As they were nearing a grassy square inside the city, Richard noticed a young peasant leading a mule laden with stripped bamboo canes. With a whoop that echoed his discovery of the falcon at Jesi, he leaned down and pulled a handful of canes from the bundle. The young Sicilian looked at him and at the crowd of mounted men and said nothing.
The king shouted at Robert of Breteuil; ‘Sicilian lances! Joust with me. There’s room.’
‘Oh, no,’ Robert declined. ‘You find someone else. I’d not care to unhorse the King of England.’
‘Some chance, but what makes you hold back, fear or respect?’
‘A little of each, plus some damn’ good sense.’
Cœur-de-Lion waved him away, then beckoned to one of Philip’s senior warriors, a tall, trowel-jawed knight named William des Barres. ‘A challenge, William. We’ll limit ourselves to the grass square. The first to be driven off is the loser. No grasping or kicking. Well?’
Thankful that Richard had not chosen them, both groups urged the Frenchman to accept and get on with it. He gazed impassively at them, then shrugged and took one of the five-foot canes. The nobles urged their horses round the square, herding the townsfolk away, then stopped when they were as evenly spaced as fence posts. Meanwhile, Richard and William had urged their palfreys up the low bank and on to the grass.
So far today Richard had gone bareheaded, but now he fastened the hood of his hauberk, reached behind his saddle to un
strap his helmet, then pulled it down over the hood. The helmet had no nasal bar, though it was moulded to cover his cheeks and chin. It had been freshly scoured with sand, and, with a Roman-style crest of clipped horsehair, dyed crimson, it was a more impressive headpiece than William’s plain, potshaped casque.
Couching his lance, the king roared sarcastically, ‘For the Heavenly island of Sicily!’ and sent his palfrey thundering across the grass.
William waited an instant, then spurred forward. The riders met on William’s side of the square and both canes bowed on impact. Richard, however, had lowered his head at the last moment, so that William’s lance caught the rim of the crested helmet and lifted it clean from his head. The blow was unintentionally precise, leaving the king unscarred, more the victim of some magician’s trick. Twisting in his saddle, he saw the Frenchman charge past, then swerve to avoid the bouncing helmet. The French nobles saluted their champion’s unerring accuracy. They gestured to each other, showing how the cane had gone in here, at this angle, and lifted the helmet thus, up and off.
Richard blinked with anger. He refused to acknowledge that the blow had been accidental. It was typical of des Barres. He shouted for his helmet, and one of the younger nobles ran on to the square, collected it and handed it up to him. He jammed it on his head, couched his lance again and charged.
William had meanwhile discovered that his own cane had split down the middle. He saw his adversary approach, raised his arms to indicate that he would not make a pass, then realized that Richard intended to come at him anyway. ‘Oh, this is enough,’ he growled. He let his horse walk forward, waited until Richard was in position, then drew his sword and calmly sliced a two-foot length from the king’s lance.
Richard could not believe it. He swept past, while the French nobles smothered their laughter.
Robert of Breteuil shook his head wearily. ‘Call a halt,’ he said. ‘Wait until fresh canes are issued.’
‘They’re not needed,’ Richard bellowed. ‘That man drew a sword!’
‘Look again, King. It’s sheathed. He tried to warn you.’
Richard wheeled his horse. ‘Very well. Then we’ll fight with nothing!’ He spurred forward as Robert shouted, ‘No grasping. Your rule.’
William snapped. ‘I’m not out here to wrestle—’ but got no further, for the furious, heavily built king collided with him and seized him round the neck.
By now the onlookers were too embarrassed to laugh. Here was Richard Cœur-de-Lion, the greatest general and strategist in the West – time would tell if he was even better than Saladin – and here was William des Barres, a paramount warrior and one of Philip’s military advisers. Here they were, these giants, reduced to grappling like peasants on a greased log. It was degrading, and it was Richard’s doing.
Had the king released William without further ado, the nobles would have put it down to his hot temper. Had he then apologized, it would have been forgotten. But Richard was Richard, and he hung on.
Forced to bear the weight of both men, William’s horse shied, dragging the king farther over in the saddle. The Frenchman snarled, ‘Let go, or take the consequences.’ Then, as Richard tightened his grip, William lashed out with his elbow. The blow brought a curse of pain, and at the same instant the cinch strap of Richard’s saddle parted. William ducked his head, and the king slid down between the palfreys, taking his saddle with him.
Robert of Breteuil rubbed a hand across his eyes. Some of the more irresponsible Frenchmen guffawed, earning savage looks from their English counterparts. Massaging his neck with one hand, and gentling his horse with the other, William des Barres rode to the far side of the square.
Richard’s horse also moved away, leaving its rider and saddle in a heap on the ground. It was a unique sight, treasured by many of the spectators. ‘There he was, I tell you, yes, Cœur-de-Lion, sprawled out on the grass like some drunken novice. Admit defeat? Hell, then you don’t know Richard.’
Robert of Breteuil watched him scramble clumsily to his feet, opened his mouth to order the English party to break away, then shut it as Richard yelled, ‘Stay where you are, all of you! It’s not finished. Breteuil, get me another horse. One without a faulty strap this time. Des Barres! You sit still, sir!’
Robert said, ‘Let’s change this in for dice. You’re always touched with good luck at dice.’
‘What are you saying?’
‘I’m saying, let’s go back and throw some—’
‘You think that’s my measure, dice? Well, be damned if you believe it. Get the horse.’
The same young noble who had retrieved the helmet saw a further chance to advance himself and led his palfrey on to the square. Without a word of thanks Richard hauled himself into the saddle and charged straight at William. Again they wrestled, and again he failed to unhorse the Frenchman. The ugly spectacle continued for some time, and several of Philip’s leaders turned away in disgust. Then, still unwilling to call a halt, Richard gave vent to his frustration with a shocking abuse of seniority. He pushed William away and shouted, ‘Ride out of here, des Barres! I now look on you as an enemy. Get off this island, and keep clear of me. Go on, you’ve heard! Leave Sicily!’
William gazed at him, his mouth curled down with disdain. Then he turned his horse and rode from the square. The remaining Frenchmen followed him, while the English drifted away in twos and threes. The young noble who had volunteered his horse sensed that he was not going to get it back and strode sulking into the city. Robert of Breteuil moved alongside his king.
‘Brilliant diplomacy,’ he snapped, ‘as ever. Now we have re-opened all the old wounds. Philip will make a banquet of this display.’
‘He should have let me bring him down.’
‘You vainglorious – why? Why? Because you are King of England?’
‘Because – Because I’m a sight better than he is, that’s why!’
‘It looked otherwise to us.’
‘I don’t care what it – I should have used my sword. Christ, yes, that’s what I should have done.’
‘Very well,’ Robert sighed, ‘if you must hear it said. Had you used your sword you would have defeated him. But you didn’t use it, thank God. Instead, you made a martyr of a respected ally, and turned him into another victim of your self-esteem. By the way, don’t forget to return that man’s horse.’
* * *
Philip Augustus made two banquets of the display. He served the first the next day, when he arrived at Richard’s quarters accompanied by Duke Hugh of Burgundy, Count Peter of Nevers, and the Bishop of Chartres. The French troops stood silent in their camp while the king pleaded for William des Barres. Now that Richard had calmed himself, he was surprised that his fellow monarch treated the incident with such gravity. Yet he could not bring himself to revoke the sentence of banishment.
Flushed and ill-at-ease, he muttered that he was not a man to change his mind overnight.
‘I can countermand your words,’ Philip told him, ‘you know that. But it would not be the thing. William des Barres will have the full weight of my protection when he seeks it, but until then I will not insult him by playing your game. You told him to leave this island. So you tell him to return.’
Richard shook his head.
Two days later, the French champion sailed from Sicily, bound for the camp at Acre.
When he had gone, Philip made a second meal of Richard’s outburst. Still intent on shaming him, the French king ranged his army around Messina, each man’s weapon reversed as a sign of mourning. It was a theatrical gesture, matched by the fact that he then led every archbishop, bishop, duke, count, baron and titled Frenchman he could muster into Richard’s presence. He repeated his plea, enjoying Cœur-de-Lion’s acute discomfort.
Eventually, Richard snapped, ‘Very well! There’s no air to breathe in here. If it’ll get you out, I’ll allow him back.’
‘It’s graciously done,’ Philip commended, ‘though somewhat tardy, as he is now halfway to Palestine.’
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nbsp; The last day of March saw more activity in the harbour at Messina than there had been since the arrival of the Crusaders. The weather had improved, and Philip was now prepared to risk a sea voyage. He was sure that seasickness would still afflict him, but he almost welcomed it as a change from Richard’s vain trumpetings.
There was another reason why he had chosen today as the date of departure. The Dowager Queen Eleanor was due, with Richard’s future bride, Princess Berengaria, and Philip had no wish to meet them. His sister Alais should have been aboard in place of Berengaria, and if he stayed he would be tempted to remind Eleanor of the fact. Never one to fight when the cause was already lost, he turned his attention to the other cause, the Holy Cause that had brought him from France.
He led his Crusading fleet along the straits and tried to ignore his queasy stomach by concentrating on the situation in Palestine. It did not seem to favour Christendom at the moment though, with a sudden smile of pleasure, Philip acknowledged that he would be the first of the great leaders of the West to reach the beleaguered army. Well, he would, if he survived the voyage.
Later in the day, Richard and Joanna went down to the harbour to welcome Eleanor and Berengaria. The aged dowager queen had not set eyes on her daughter for fifteen years. While they embraced, Richard studied his future bride. She’s changed, he thought. This is not the woman who excited me, and kept me up late writing foolish lines. The journey must have tired her, but even so there’s nothing extraordinary about her. I’ve seen dozens better in Messina. My wife? The Queen of England?
Berengaria smiled at him. He returned the smile and mouthed an appropriate greeting. He wondered how long he could delay the marriage. The young princess had taken lessons in sharpening the memory; years later she could still remember his words of welcome on the quay at Messina. Moments after they had left his tongue, Richard had forgotten them all.
He told the women they would be quartered in a small fortress situated between the city and the English camp. ‘It is not generous with its comforts, but you will be safe there should Tancred try and retake Messina.’ He saw Berengaria’s inquisitive expression and said, ‘Ask Joanna; she’ll tell you how we dealt with the Barbary ape.’ Then, when they expected him to accompany them to the fortress, he excused himself and nodded at Robert of Breteuil. ‘The Duke of Leicester will take care of you. I’ll visit you all soon.’
The Kings of Vain Intent Page 9
