“Yes, I do think Rouen will yield to the king,” Mathieu said, wishing he could take pleasure in that looming victory. At least some good might come out of this shameless assault, for Philippe’s half sister, the Lady Alys, was being held in Rouen’s great castle. Mathieu felt sorry for the French princess, a marriage pawn who’d become a prisoner. She’d been betrothed to King Richard when they both were children, but the old king had kept finding excuses to put off the wedding. Since Richard had no interest in wedding Alys, who’d initially been given a paltry marriage portion, he’d raised no objections. When he became king, he agreed to marry her upon his return from the Holy Land, but that had been a ploy to make sure Philippe honored his own crusader’s vow. He’d actually had no intention of making Alys his wife and had arranged for his mother to bring the woman he did want to wed to him in Sicily.
Mathieu still remembered the confrontation between the two kings in a chapel in Messina. He’d listened, amazed, as Philippe accused Richard of bad faith, only to have the English king come back with a devastating response. He could not marry Alys, he’d said coolly, for she was rumored to have been his father’s concubine and even to have borne him a child. When he proved that these rumors had been known at the French court, Philippe had been compelled to release him from the plight-troth, adding one more grudge to his hoard of grievances against the English king.
Mathieu did not know if the rumors were true, but it did not matter much. Whether King Henry had shamelessly seduced the girl who was his ward and his own son’s betrothed or whether she was the innocent victim of vile gossip, the result was the same. Her honor was besmirched and her value on the marriage market plummeted. At least she would regain her freedom once Rouen fell to the French army. Not that Mathieu expected a warm homecoming for her. By now he had no illusions about the man who was his liege lord, and he was sure that Philippe saw Alys not as his sister, a flesh-and-blood woman who’d been ill used, but as an embarrassment to be disposed of quietly and quickly, most likely in a convenient nunnery. He still thought it was better to be a nun, even an unwilling one, than a hostage.
“So we will not get to fight?” Guillaume sounded so disappointed that Mathieu had to smile, feeling much older and more experienced than this eager, raw stripling. He was about to assure the boy that they might get to launch an assault upon the walls when Gautier, the French king’s chamberlain, hastened into the tent. Leaning over, he whispered a few words to Philippe and the message was clearly a welcome one, for the French king actually grinned.
“Well,” he said, “it looks as if Rouen will be ours by nightfall, for they are seeking to parley.”
AS HE WATCHED THE approaching riders, Philippe was already savoring the sweet taste of triumph, for the city gates remained open, a sure sign that surrender was imminent. They were flying the white flag of truce, but a second banner caught the wind, too. He assumed it was the banner of the seneschal of Normandy, William Fitz Ralph, but then it unfurled and Philippe’s smile vanished. As others recognized the coat of arms, there were muttered exclamations and curses. Young Guillaume tugged at the arm of his new friend, asking Mathieu what was wrong. Mathieu had no chance to respond, for Philippe was already striding forward to meet the emissaries from Rouen.
He nodded in response to the seneschal’s greeting, but all of his attention was on the second rider. He was young and, even on horseback, it was obvious he was of small stature; he was also all too familiar to the French king.
“I was not aware that you were in Rouen, Leicester.”
The earl smiled. “When I heard you might be stopping by, my lord king, I made haste to get here, eager to pay my respects. When did we last meet? Ah yes . . . it was at Acre. Did you have an easy trip back to your own lands? Such a pity your health would not permit you to remain. My king did the best he could in your absence. I daresay you’ve heard of his victories at Arsuf and Jaffa and—”
“This is not a social occasion, my lord earl!” Philippe glared at the other man, but he was irked with himself, too, for taking the bait. Unfazed by the rebuke, Leicester was acknowledging the men who’d fought with him in the Holy Land, blithely calling out greetings to the Count of St Pol, the Count of Perche, and Mathieu de Montmorency, but passing over the Bishop of Beauvais and his brother, the Count of Dreux, as if they were invisible. Philippe noted with displeasure that Jaufre and Mathieu were obviously discomfited and even St Pol looked somewhat uncomfortable.
“I am sure you have heard that the Count of Mortain met with me in Paris,” Philippe said curtly, “where he did homage to me for this duchy and the other lands that are his by right as Duke of Normandy and England’s king.”
Leicester’s eyebrows shot upward in a gesture all too reminiscent to Philippe of the English king. “Just as you confused Acre with Jerusalem, my lord, you seem to have confused the Count of Mortain with England’s true king, who is currently enjoying the hospitality of your ally, the Emperor Heinrich.”
“You are not a fool, Leicester, and only a fool would believe that Richard is ever coming back. John is to be your king, whether you like it or not. And as his liege lord, I have every right to enter Rouen. If you try to keep me out, you will greatly regret it. I have twenty-four trebuchets and—”
“Sire, you have been grievously misinformed! We have no intention of denying you entry to Rouen. Do we, my lord?” Leicester turned toward the seneschal, who nodded vigorously in agreement.