Eleanor was only half listening to Briwerre. The capon was perfectly seasoned, the pastry shell moist and flaky, but she was not fully aware of what she ate. Setting her knife down, she said pensively, “Heinrich is not a man to surrender his prey so easily and Richard’s triumph does not change the fact that he remains in the emperor’s power. I do not believe Heinrich will be satisfied with military aid for his Sicily campaign, no matter what he is saying now. I think we must assume that a goodly ransom will still be demanded ere he frees my son.”
Glancing around the high table, she saw that the bishop and dean and William Briwerre were all nodding in agreement. “This means,” she said, “that we need to make a truce with John.”
William Briwerre turned so abruptly in his seat that some of his wine splattered onto the tablecloth. “But, Madame, we’re on the verge of taking Windsor!”
“We cannot continue to expend large sums on besieging Windsor and Tickhill if we need to raise money for a ransom. And if the amount demanded is so large that we must impose a tax upon the people, how can we do that if the realm is in turmoil? No funds can be collected unless the kingdom is at peace—even if it is only a temporary peace.”
Briwerre looked at her in dismay, for he was convinced that with enough time, they could capture both Windsor and Tickhill, and he wondered if a mother’s protective instincts had impaired the queen’s judgment; John was her son, too, after all. He would never dare to make such a suggestion, though, and he glanced toward the clerics, hoping that the bishop was willing to say what he could not. He was to be disappointed.
“I think you are right, Madame,” Hubert said. “We need to give priority to securing King Richard’s freedom, and if that means we must make deals we find distasteful, so be it.”
Eleanor was relieved by Hubert’s response, for she knew not all of the justiciars and council would agree with her, and it would help greatly to have the Bishop of Salisbury—soon to be the Archbishop of Canterbury—on her side. “What was Richard’s reaction when you and the abbots told him of John’s plotting with the French king?”
Hubert grinned. “He said, ‘My brother John is not the man to conquer a kingdom if there is anyone to offer the least resistance.’”
A ripple of laughter swept the high table. Eleanor’s eyes held an amused green glitter. “I think his response should be widely circulated,” she said, with a cool smile that reassured William Briwerre somewhat; he still did not agree with her, but he no longer worried that maternal sentiment might lead her astray.
After servers brought in the last course, honey-drizzled wafers and sugared comfits, Eleanor gave her guests time to enjoy them before breaking the bad news. “I wish I could tell you that the French king has been no more successful than John. Alas, I cannot. Philippe has advanced deep into Normandy, accompanied by the Count of Flanders. He has gained control of the Vexin and he now holds Gisors and Neaufles.”
Both clerics exclaimed at that, wanting to know how Philippe could have taken Gisors, one of the strongest of Richard’s Norman castles. Eleanor’s answer was a chilling one, for it raised the dangerous specter of treachery. “I am sorry to say,” she said grimly, “that the castellan of Gisors, Gilbert de Vacoeil, betrayed the trust my son had placed in him, and surrendered Gisors and Neaufles to Philippe without offering any resistance whatsoever.”
Hubert was a soldier as well as a churchman, and uttered a blistering profanity that would have done Richard proud. Unlike Richard, he at once apologized for such intemperate language. “What could be more dishonorable than abandoning his liege lord whilst knowing the king is a prisoner in Germany? There is surely a special circle of Hell reserved for such a foul self-server.”
“And the loss of Gisors has disheartened men who might otherwise have shown more backbone. Several other lords then agreed to give Philippe’s army passage across their lands, including three who fought with my son in the Holy Land.” Eleanor’s mouth set in a hard line. “And one of them was Jaufre, the Count of Perche, husband to my granddaughter Richenza.”
Hubert and William de St Mère-Eglise exchanged glances. As troubling as this news was, it was not utterly unexpected, for these lords were vassals of both the Duke of Normandy and the King of France. Forced to choose between irreconcilable loyalties, they were likely to do whatever was necessary to safeguard their ancestral estates. Their actions would not be as harshly judged as the treachery of the castellan of Gisors, who’d not been protecting his own lands when he’d yielded the castles he’d been entrusted with by his king. Still, though, these were men of influence, and their defection might well inspire others to follow their example.
“This will greatly grieve the king when he hears of it,” Hubert said somberly. “I know he thinks highly of Jaufre of Perche.”