They had an enjoyable afternoon. Richard’s white gyrfalcon distinguished itself by bringing down a huge crane, diving upon the larger bird like a lethal streak of lightning, and Randolph’s and André’s birds also stooped to the kill. Their handlers released the greyhounds and while the men waited for the prey to be collected and the falcons recalled, Richard and André intrigued the others by telling them how the Saracens used leather hoods as a means of controlling their hawks. Once they were returning to his castle, the Earl of Chester took the opportunity to ask Richard if it was true that he’d brought back some Saracen archers from the Holy Land. He was amazed when Richard confirmed it, for he’d been sure this was just another wild rumor started by the French. Richard laughed at his consternation, saying they were brave soldiers with a rare talent. He was explaining how Saracens could shoot arrows from horseback, a skill no Christians had been able to master, when they encountered the old man.
He appeared without warning from the woods, his long, unkempt hair and straggly beard making them think he was a hermit, one of those recluses who shunned contact with other men, living in isolation but dependent upon the charity of their neighbors, who often admired them for their piety and simple, godly way of life. But he was leaning upon a pilgrim’s staff, so he might have been on a pilgrimage to the holy shrine at Mont St Michel.
Their horses did not like this stranger’s rank smell and shied away as he hobbled forward. “Give him alms, André,” Richard directed. When his cousin raised an eyebrow, he grinned. “You know kings do not carry money.” He watched as André opened his scrip and tossed some coins at the man’s feet. “Surely I’d be more generous than that?” With an exaggerated sigh, André fished out a few more deniers. But instead of reaching for the offering, the hermit moved closer, staring up intently into their faces. His gaze moved slowly from man to man before coming to rest upon Richard.
“Heed me, O Lord!” He had a surprisingly deep and resonant voice, and in that moment he looked more like one of the prophets of the Old Testament than a ragged hermit or beggar. “Be thou mindful of the destruction of Sodom, and abstain from what is unlawful. For if thou dost not, a vengeance worthy of God shall overtake thee.”
They looked down at him in astonishment, but several of the men then surreptitiously made the sign of the cross. Richard merely laughed. Turning in the saddle, he glanced toward his brother, saying, “The hermit has to be talking to you, Johnny, since your sins are much more spectacular than mine.”
John laughed, too. “I would hope so, for I’ve always believed that anything worth doing is worth doing to excess.”
André and their household knights joined in the laughter, although the Earl of Chester; Richard’s vice-chancellor, Eustace; and a few others were still watching the hermit uneasily.
Angered by their laughter, he raised his staff, pointing it skyward as if he were calling down a celestial thunderbolt upon these unrepentant sinners. “‘Be not deceived, for God is not mocked!’”
By now Richard was losing patience. “We are not mocking God, old man. We are mocking you.” And raising his hand, he signaled for the hawking party to ride on, leaving the hermit behind in the middle of the road, shouting after them that whatsoever a man soweth, so shall he reap. By then, they were out of earshot.
ALTHOUGH JOHN WOULD NEVER have admitted it, he felt diminished in Richard’s presence, for his brother was all that he was not. But he knew that if he hoped to be restored to royal favor, it must be done one slow step at a time. And so one of those steps had led him to Richard’s Easter Court at Le Mans, where he discovered that he had more to fear from ghosts than jealousy.