His command tent was crowded, even though it was large enough to hold more than a hundred men. Trestle tables had been set up for a midday meal, draped with white linen and set with silver flagons and wine cups, and the dishes served were hot, savory, and worthy of a king. The wine in particular was of high quality, for Philippe enjoyed wine and hoped the time would come when he could lay claim to the famed vineyards of Aquitaine. Raising his cup, he said loudly, “Let us drink to Rouen’s fall!”
The toast was enthusiastically echoed by the others in the tent, most of them of high birth, men eager for the booty such a campaign promised. Baldwin, the Count of Flanders and father of the French king’s deceased queen, who’d died tragically in childbirth, was seated in the place of honor on Philippe’s right, and the king’s cousin, the Bishop of Beauvais, was sitting on his left. After the first course had been served, the bishop entertained his fellow diners by describing the sorry state of the English king, claiming Richard had begged him to intercede with the Holy Roman Emperor. Those who knew the Lionheart personally thought that rather unlikely, but Beauvais’s account found favor with most of them, and there was much laughter when the bishop related the shameful circumstances of the English king’s capture, saying he’d been found in a wretched inn little better than a bawdy house, where he’d sought to evade detection by pretending to be a kitchen scullion.
Not everyone found the bishop’s stories amusing. Jaufre, the Count of Perche, never looked up from his plate, trying to ignore the curious stares cast his way, for all knew that he was wed to the English king’s niece and his loyalties were therefore suspect. Staring down at the mutton stew, he found himself remembering his wife’s tearful farewell. He’d done his best to make Richenza understand that he had no choice, that he had to obey Philippe’s summons, reminding her that Philippe was his cousin and his king, reminding her, too, that he’d come back from the Holy Land deeply in debt and the Count of Mortain had promised to grant him Moulins and Bonsmoulins once he gained the English crown. Richenza had not been convinced, but Jaufre understood that women were emotional creatures and he knew she loved her uncle, having grown to womanhood at the English court. So he’d sought to be patient with her foolishness, especially now that she thought she might be breeding again; she’d already given him a son, born during his time in the Holy Land. He truly believed that he’d made the only decision he could. So why did it feel so wrong here in the French king’s command tent?
Jaufre was not the only one to be discomfited by the Bishop of Beauvais’s malice. Mathieu, the Seigneur of Montmorency, was hard put to hide his disgust. He hated Beauvais, unable to forgive him for forbidding the French from going to the aid of Jaffa. He never doubted that Beauvais and the Duke of Burgundy had cared more about denying the English king victory than defeating the infidels. And he’d reluctantly come to believe that was true for Philippe, too.
Mathieu had been just sixteen when he’d departed with his king for Outremer. He’d taken the cross with a youthful mixture of enthusiasm and piety and had been stunned when Philippe abandoned their holy war to return to France. Mathieu had not gone back with him, choosing to remain and honor his vow. In the Holy Land, he’d developed a deep admiration for the English king, the man who’d stayed whilst Philippe had fled. He had answered the French king’s summons because Philippe was his liege lord, but he knew what they were doing was wrong and he feared that God would not forgive them for making war upon a crusader-king. As he glanced around the tent now, he felt alienated and alone, fettered by honor to obey a man he no longer respected.
“Do you think the town will surrender?”
Mathieu turned toward his seatmate, fourteen-year-old Guillaume, Count of Ponthieu. The boy had accompanied his uncle Hughes, the Count of St Pol, and he was so excited to be at a siege that he put Mathieu in mind of a kettle on the boil. Guillaume’s father had died at Acre, and when Guillaume found out that Mathieu had been at Acre, too, the youngster was never willingly far from Mathieu’s side. His uncle Hughes did not say much about his time in the Holy Land, he’d complained, and he was delighted that Mathieu was more forthcoming.