They’d been joined by several of his lords and he gave Mathieu de Montmorency the honor of escorting Alys and her attendants into the tent. Beauvais hung back to murmur that Ponthieu was luckier than he deserved, for Alys seemed biddable and looked years younger than thirty-five. Philippe thought she acted younger, too, and wondered if that was because she’d been living for so long like a bird in a gilded cage, of the world but not really in it.
The dinner went better than Philippe had expected, in great measure due to Mathieu de Montmorency’s gallantry, for he devoted all his attention to Alys and did not let the conversation lag. Philippe was nonetheless relieved when the meal was done, for in truth, he and Alys had very little to say to each other. He certainly had no interest in hearing her talk of the years she’d passed as a betrothed/hostage/political pawn.
Alys seemed disappointed when Philippe announced abruptly that he’d escort her to the tent that had been set up for her use, but she made no protest and he thought that Beauvais was right about her being biddable, which was in her favor. Accompanied by Beauvais, Mathieu, Druon de Mello, and several other lords, they attracted a lot of attention, for all were curious about the king’s sister, who was both unfortunate and infamous. After she expressed pleasure at the tent’s furnishings, Philippe gave her an obligatory kiss on the cheek, saying she should get a good night’s rest, for they were leaving for Mantes in the morning.
“Mantes?” Alys sounded puzzled and he realized she knew nothing of French geography. “Is that on the way to Paris, Brother? I am eager to see it again, for I confess my memories have grown dim over time.”
Best to get it over with. “Well, I am sure that your husband will be happy to take you to Paris, Sister.”
“Husband?” She looked as bewildered as a child, and he felt a dart of discomfort.
“Yes, I am delighted to tell you that I’ve made a fine match for you. At Mantes, you are to be wed to the Count of Ponthieu.”
“Who?”
“You will be very pleased with him, Alys,” Philippe assured her. “He is highborn, handsome, young . . .” That caused Beauvais to chortle, which Philippe deliberately ignored. Leaning over, he kissed Alys quickly on the cheek again. “Unfortunately, I cannot remain with you any longer. But I know you must have many questions about your husband-to-be, and our cousin will be happy to stay and answer them for you.”
Beauvais did not think that was so amusing. Before he or the stunned Alys could object, Philippe bowed over her hand and lifted the tent flap, a slight smile hovering at the corners of his mouth. Let Beauvais be the one to tell her she’d be wedding a stripling not yet seventeen.
LONGCHAMP RETURNED FROM HIS trip to the imperial court in late October. Heinrich had not been pleased by the prospect of peace, he reported, but he brought Richard further proof that, despite his reputation for tactless and arrogant behavior, he could be both diplomatic and persuasive on his king’s behalf. He’d managed to convince Heinrich that he and Richard were natural allies against the French, but only if he stopped making threats and offered instead a gesture of good faith. Much to Richard’s surprise, Longchamp had talked Heinrich into agreeing to release some of his hostages and to remit the remaining seventeen thousand marks of his ransom as recompense for what he’d lost to the French king during his captivity. With his chancellor basking in the glow of his successful mission, Richard prepared to meet Philippe to ratify a peace treaty that neither king expected to be long-lasting.
RICHARD AROSE EARLY ON the morning of November 8, as the conference was to begin at nine o’clock. Soon after they left camp, they were met by the Archbishop of Reims, the French king’s uncle, who explained that Philippe was still consulting with his council and wished to delay the meeting for a few hours. Richard returned to his camp to wait, but as the afternoon dragged on, he lost patience and ordered his men to saddle up.
The French tents were in sight when the men saw horsemen coming out to meet them. Richard’s jaw muscles tightened when he recognized the lead rider, possibly the one man he loathed more than the French king. The Bishop of Beauvais reined in his stallion, calling out abruptly, “There is no need to proceed any farther. My master the French king will not be meeting with you, for he charges you with breach of faith and perjury. You gave him your sworn word that you would be here at the third hour of the day and it is now the ninth hour.”
Richard and his men had listened, incredulous. Several started to argue, pointing out that they’d been delayed by Philippe’s own uncle, but Richard held up a hand for silence. “Tell the French king that he did not have to go to such ludicrous lengths to repudiate the peace talks. If he wants war, I am quite willing to accommodate him.”
Instead of turning around, though, he rode straight toward the bishop, whose hand dropped instinctively to the hilt of his sword. For a long moment, Richard stared at the other man. “One of these days, Beauvais, your luck is going to run out. You’re going to meet me, not in a German dungeon or at a peace conference, but on the battlefield.”