Eleanor did not want to imagine what it would be like for her son, a captive in a foreign land, learning that men he’d trusted had betrayed him. “I received a distraught letter from my granddaughter,” she said quietly. “She was heartsick, but she said her husband had no choice, for Philippe is his king. Whilst there is truth in what she said, that will not make it any easier for my son to accept.”
A pall had settled over the hall, threatening to smother their celebration of the good news brought by the bishop and dean. Eleanor was not willing to surrender hope so quickly, though. “We must remember that whatever my son loses in Normandy, he will regain upon his return. And he will be proud of the loyalty displayed by his English subjects, as well as the steadfastness of his ally, the Scots king. John attempted to lure King William into a war against Richard, doubtless remembering how eagerly he’d joined in the rebellion against my late husband twenty years ago. In the past, the Scots have never failed to take advantage of English turmoil and unrest. Not this time, though. Not only did the Scots king reject John’s overtures, he sent us word that if Richard must pay a ransom to regain his freedom, the Scots will be willing to contribute to that ransom.”
Eleanor accomplished what she’d hoped to do, for the mood lightened considerably after that. As a troubadour came forward to entertain, she was assuring the bishop that she and William de St Mère-Eglise would act quickly to inform the Christchurch monks of Richard’s wishes for the archbishopric. Remembering Richard’s wry comment about his father’s command to the monks of Winchester, ordering them to hold a free election to elect only the candidate of his choice, Hubert related this story and Eleanor laughed heartily, saying she remembered that well. Hubert thought it was a sign of healing that she could find amusement and pleasure in memories of the man who’d held her prisoner for sixteen years.
It was William Briwerre who first saw the newcomer being escorted into the hall by the queen’s steward. His travel-stained clothing indicated he was a courier and the fact that he’d not bothered to clean up before seeking Eleanor was significant in itself. As he drew nearer, Briwerre recognized him as one of the queen’s men—utterly devoted to her, elusive, and at home in the shadows. “Madame,” Briwerre said, but she’d already taken notice of her agent’s approach.
“My lady,” he said, kneeling. “Forgive me for interrupting your meal, but I have news you need to hear.”
Eleanor regarded him calmly, while her hands clenched in her lap under the table. She’d dispatched him with a message for the seneschal of Normandy. But he ought not to have been back so soon. Nor did she see any sign of a letter. She hesitated, wondering if she should hear his news in private, then decided against it. Whatever was happening in Normandy, they all needed to know. Gesturing for him to rise, she said, “Tell me what you’ve learned, Justin. Did you meet with the seneschal?”
“No, Madame, I could not.” He moved closer to the dais, his eyes never leaving her face. “I was unable to enter Rouen, for it is under siege by the French king and the Count of Flanders.”
A shocked silence followed. No one spoke, for there was no need to say what was in all their minds—that if Rouen, the capital city of Normandy, fell to the French king, it could be a death blow to Richard’s control of his duchy.
THE FRENCH KING WAS in high spirits, which he evinced by smiling from time to time. Philippe Capet’s enemies claimed he had no sense of humor at all. This was not true, but it was somewhat feeble from lack of exercise. Philippe’s view of the world was a sober one, which he attributed to his early accession to the French throne, at age fifteen. It had affected his education, too, for he had never mastered Latin and felt sensitive about that lack, all the more so because his nemesis, the English king, spoke it fluently. He had no false vanity and he knew he would always be eclipsed by Richard on the battlefield. He was quite competent when it came to siege warfare, though, for it played to his strengths, requiring a strategic sense and patience. And on this mild April afternoon before the walls of Rouen, he was already anticipating victory.
So far the month had been a blessed one for the twenty-seven-year-old French monarch. He saw Gisors Castle as a golden key, one that would open all of Normandy to him. Two days ago, the Bishop of Beauvais had returned from Germany, and when Philippe heard that the English king had been cast into a Trifels dungeon, he’d seen his enemy’s suffering as divine retribution. Now, with a second chance to outbid the Lionheart’s elderly mother, he was convinced that John would soon be on the English throne. And on the day that happened, he knew the accursed Angevin empire would be doomed.