The bishop was not intimidated. “I’ll look forward to it,” he said with a sneer.
Richard’s teeth bared in what was not a smile. “Then you’re an even bigger fool than I thought,” he said, and so much hatred flashed between the two men that several of those watching made ready to intervene if need be. But Richard was willing to wait, so sure was he that a day of reckoning was coming. He was grateful to God for striking down Leopold of Austria and he hoped that Heinrich would also suffer divine retribution. He intended, though, to deal with the French king and the Bishop of Beauvais himself.
RICHARD WAS NOT LONG in learning why Philippe had subverted the peace talks. Two days later, the French king led six hundred knights in a spectacular raid upon the port of Dieppe, which Richard had recovered earlier in the summer. Philippe and his men destroyed the town and used Greek fire to set the ships in the harbor alight. Richard was besieging Arques Castle when he heard of the Dieppe attack. Leaving the siege, he set off in pursuit and caught up with the French as they passed through thick woods. He and his men bloodied Philippe’s rearguard, but once again the French king eluded him.
RICHARD DID NOT UNDERSTAND why his sleep was still so disturbed and fitful nigh on twenty months after he’d regained his freedom. He continued to be haunted by bad dreams that seemed to have their own reality, so vivid and intense were they, and he’d learned to rely upon Arne to rescue him from the horrors of his own imagination. When he was awakened now by a hand gently touching his shoulder, he jerked upright in the bed, his eyes searching Arne’s face. “What—was I having another of those accursed dreams?”
The youth quickly shook his head. “No, sire. One of the garrison of Issoudun Castle has ridden in, insisting he must see you straightaway.”
“Fetch him,” Richard directed, relieved that he’d not been revisiting Trifels Castle this night. After every nightmare, he hoped that it would be the last one, and those hopes would rise as time passed. Eventually, though, the dreams always came back.
It was late November and his bedchamber at Vaudreuil Castle was cold, the brazier of coals giving off little heat; he could see ice skimming the surface of a nearby laver of water. With a sigh, he swung his legs over the side of the bed, knowing an exigent message signaled the end of sleep. He was almost dressed by the time the man was ushered into the bedchamber. Richard had entrusted Issoudun Castle to Guilhem de Préaux and his brother Jean until he could choose a permanent castellan for the stronghold, and he recognized one of Guilhem’s knights.
“Sire, Issoudun Castle is under siege by the French king. They swooped down upon us without warning and took control of the town. The castle has not fallen, though, at least not yet. My lord Guilhem bade me tell you that they refused Philippe’s demands for surrender and will try to hold out until you can come to their aid.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
NOVEMBER 1195
Issoudun Castle
Richard’s father had been famed for the speed of his campaigns; the French king was once heard to grumble that it was almost as if Henry could fly, so swiftly did he travel the length and breadth of his far-flung empire. Henry would have been proud of Richard’s lightning dash to Issoudun, for each day he’d covered a distance that would normally have taken three days to do. He and his small band of handpicked knights arrived on an icy November night, the sky swathed in storm clouds, a gusting wind making it likely that the French sentries were more interested in sheltering from the cold than in keeping vigil. At least that was what Richard and his men hoped.