PHILIPPE WAS A LIGHT sleeper and he’d been awakened by the noise even before one of his knights hastened into his command tent with word that a fire had broken out in the town. Ordering his squire to fetch his clothes, he dressed quickly, for if the fire got out of control, it could imperil his siege of the castle. When a soldier came running to tell him armed riders were in the town, he was angered that the garrison would dare a sortie like that and he vowed they’d pay a high price for their defiance. But his main concern was in putting out the fire, and he sent men-at-arms to fight the blaze, telling them to tear down adjoining houses to create a fire break. By now faint glimmers of light were visible along the horizon, and he broke his fast with wine and cheese. It was then that his day took an even more troubling turn, for several men entered the tent with an unlikely story, claiming that those armed riders had gotten in through a postern gate and fought their way into the castle.
Philippe was skeptical, not wanting to believe his sentries had been so lax. What followed was even more improbable. One of his household knights plunged into the tent, insisting that the invaders had been led by the English king.
“That is nonsense. Richard could not possibly have gotten to Issoudun so quickly; my spies say he is two hundred miles away in Normandy. Nor would he have forced his way into the castle. Even Richard would not be that mad. Go find out if the fire still burns and do not bring me back ridiculous rumors like this, Ivo.”
To Philippe’s surprise, Ivo held his ground. “My liege, I have seen the English king often enough to know him on sight. I tell you I saw him in the town, astride that dun stallion of his, and he is now in the castle.”
Philippe still did not believe him, but the knight had served him loyally in the past, and so he summoned up enough patience to say, “I do not doubt that you think you saw him, Ivo. But it was dark, and I am sure there was great confusion—”
“Sire!” This shout came from outside the tent. Putting aside the rest of his breakfast, Philippe buckled his scabbard and ducked under the tent flap. A crowd had gathered outside, and as soon as he emerged, they began to point toward the town. Philippe was relieved not to see flames shooting up into the sky. But then he saw what they were trying to call to his attention—the banner flying above the castle keep: three gold lions on a field of scarlet.
Philippe rarely cursed; the most he allowed himself was an occasional “By St James’s lance!” Now, though, he blurted out a shocked “Jesus wept!” Staring up at that familiar banner in disbelief, he said, “You were right, Ivo. That lunatic has trapped himself!”
His men were laughing and slapping one another on the back, unable to credit their good luck, for they felt sure their king would reward them handsomely for the capture of his greatest enemy. Philippe had yet to take his eyes from the castle. He’d celebrated his thirtieth birthday that August, but most people felt he looked older than his years, for his somber demeanor aged him, as did his premature baldness. Now, though, he was smiling, a smile so triumphant that he briefly seemed like the carefree youth he’d never been.
“I always knew Richard’s arrogance would be his undoing,” he told his soldiers. “God is indeed good, for He has delivered the English king into my hands.”
RICHARD PASSED THE NEXT FEW DAYS inspecting the castle defenses. He showed the Préaux brothers that by shortening the sling of their trebuchet, they’d increase the trajectory of the stone’s flight, allowing it to cover more distance and do more damage. He prowled around the storerooms, making sure they still had plentiful rations even though he did not expect to need them. He visited the wounded soldiers, joked with the men on guard duty, joined his knights in taunting the French, and took his turn shooting his crossbow from the castle walls; many of high birth scorned crossbows as weapons fit only for routiers, but Richard was hands-on in all that he did and he was almost as lethal with a crossbow as he was with a sword.
He was up on the battlements on the first Sunday of Advent, amusing himself by exchanging insults with some of the French knights below, wanting to know why the French king had not yet come calling. They responded with a bombardment of stones that rained down into the bailey but did little damage. When the besieged men mocked their aim, one of Philippe’s routiers sent a crossbow bolt streaking through the air toward the English king. It missed Richard by half a foot and he jeered, asking if that had been fired by a blind man, but his knights thought it had come too close for comfort and Morgan and Guillain lured him off the wall by saying André needed to talk to him.
Richard reluctantly left the battlements for the less interesting environs of the great hall. André was sharpening his sword on a whetstone, looking up in surprise as Richard joined him in the window-seat. “Help yourself,” he said, gesturing toward a bowl of roasted chestnuts. “When do you think the French will realize that you seem in suspiciously high spirits for a doomed man?”
“When it is too late.” Richard reached for a chestnut, peeled back the skin, and popped it into his mouth. “I’m going to hold my Christmas Court at Poitiers. You and Denise will be there, of course?”
“Denise will make me come,” André said, with a mock sigh. “We’ll bring my eldest lad. He’s five now, old enough to—”