The Heart of the Lion, стр. 81

This incident had created a coolness between them and the King reasoned that Hugh had come to crave his pardon.

‘Why do you come?’ asked Richard.

‘I come to ask that there be peace between us, my son,’ answered Hugh.

‘You do not deserve my goodwill,’ muttered Richard. ‘You have stood against me.’

‘I deserve your friendship,’ answered Hugh. ‘For hearing of your sickness I have travelled far. In what state is your conscience?’

‘Ha, you have decided to kill me off. I tell you this, prelate: my conscience is very easy.’

‘I cannot understand that,’ was the disconcerting answer. ‘You do not live with your Queen whom the whole world knows to be a lady of virtue. You pursue a life which cannot give pleasure to your people. It is becoming notorious throughout the country. You have no heir and you know full well that were you to die there would be conflict in this realm.’

‘I have named Prince Arthur as my heir.’

‘A boy who has never seen this country! Do you think the people will accept him? What of Prince John? Were you to die tonight, my lord King, you would be loaded with sin. The friends you choose, the life in which you indulge, these will never bring you an heir. You have taken money from the poor to buy vanities for yourself; you have taxed your people . . .’

‘That I may fight a holy war and set my kingdom in order,’ Richard defended himself.

‘Think on these things, my lord. Life is short and Death is never far away. If you were taken tonight would you care to go before your Maker weighed down with sin as you are?’

The old man had gone as suddenly as he came.

Richard lay staring after him. He thought: It is true. He is a brave man. I could cut out his tongue for what he has said to me this night, but I would not add that sin to all the others. I must rise from this bed. I must mend my ways. I must subdue my inclinations . . . Oh God in Heaven give me another chance.

Within a few days the King’s health had so much improved that he was able to rise from his bed.

He rode to the castle of Poitou.

Berengaria, sitting at her embroidery, her only consolation now that Joanna and the little Cypriot had gone, was wondering whether this was how she would spend the rest of her life. Few came to the castle; the days followed each other one so like the others that she lost count of time. The excitement of Joanna’s romance was over; there was no longer the little Princess to talk to. Sometimes she wondered whether she could ask to go back to her brother’s court. Her father had died some time before and Sancho would welcome her, but that would be to let the whole world know that Richard had deserted her.

And then there came visitors.

She went down to the courtyard to meet them and at the head of them looking as noble as he had that day at the tournament in Pampeluna was Richard himself.

He leaped from his horse and as she would have knelt he lifted her and embraced her.

‘Come into the castle,’ he said. ‘I have much to say to you.’

Bewildered, her heart beating with a wild emotion she was led into her chamber and there he took her hands and said simply: ‘Berengaria, we have been apart too long. It must be so no more.’

She did not understand why he should so suddenly have changed towards her, but what did it matter? He was here and in the future they were to be together. He had said it.

THE SAUCY CASTLE

So they were together at last and now it was only war which separated them. Richard was constantly engaged in it, for Philip had made the most of his absence and his alliance with John to take possession of much of Normandy. Richard was going to bring it back to the Dukedom.

He was not sorry – war was his life; and the conflict with Philip gave him a satisfaction which Berengaria never could, not even the talents of his beloved Blondel. Philip was the one who dominated his thoughts; and he knew that Philip felt the same about him. Philip might marry and beget children – he was more successful in this field than Richard could be – and yet it was hatred of Richard, his determination to beat him in conflict that was the major force of his life.

Now on the banks of the Seine where the river winds through the valley past the towns of Les Andelys – Petit and Grand – he was building a castle and he was determined that this castle should be the finest, the most beautiful castle in France. It was to be set up in defiance of France; it was to be the defence of Normandy; it would stand there proclaiming that Richard the Lion-hearted was invincible and that Philip of France could never pass beyond that spot to take Normandy. Every moment Richard could spare he was at Les Andelys watching the building of his castle.

Before it was completed, he had named it the Chateau Gaillard – the Saucy Castle – and saucy it was, perched on a hill overlooking the Seine, commanding the countryside, inviting the French armies to come and see what they would get if they attempted to invade the Normandy of Richard Coeur de Lion.

He had gloated over his prize with its ten feet thick walls except in the keep where their thickness was twelve feet. It was said that it was built on French blood and to give this credence Richard had actually thrown French prisoners from the rock of Les Andelys on to the stones which were the foundations of the castle.

He loved this castle. There was not another to compare with it in France. Men marvelled at it – impregnable, standing at the gates of Normandy; it was built with all the skill gleaned from experience of defensive warfare in Palestine. It was the wonder of the times.

In France a new saying passed into the language: ‘As strong as the Saucy Castle.’

Philip boasted: ‘One day I will take it, were it made of iron.’

Richard responded: ‘I would hold it were it made of butter.’

When the castle had been completed one year Richard celebrated its anniversary with a great feast to which he summoned all his knights and barons.

‘See how beautiful she is, my child of one year old,’ he cried.

He delighted in the castle. He had failed to win Jerusalem but he had built Chateau Gaillard.

He continued his wars with Philip and so successful was he that the time came when Philip was obliged to sue for peace.

What peace there could be between them would be temporary and both knew it, but Philip was asking for it and Richard laughed to himself to contemplate the humiliation the French King must feel.

‘The King of France believes that a satisfactory peace can only be made if there is a meeting between himself and King Richard,’ was the message Philip sent to him.

A meeting! They had not seen each other since they had parted at Acre. Richard remembered him then – a sick man Philip had been, for it was true that that pernicious climate had impaired his health. His thinning hair, the pallor of his face, the flaking nails . . . he had not been like the arrogant Philip of their youth.

And now . . . what had the years in France done to Philip? All that time when Richard had been imprisoned Philip had been living his luxurious life in France. Nay, he had been fighting, with John as his ally and only those loyal Norman seneschals had kept Normandy for its Duke.

To see Philip again. Yes, he wanted it. He wanted to remember long ago days when they had been young and had meant so much to each other.

He would meet Philip. Where? He, Richard, would choose the place since it was Philip who sued for the meeting. It should be on the Seine with the Saucy Castle as the background of their meeting place. Not too near; he was never going to allow the French very near his darling. But just so that Philip could see those mighty towers and bastions and realise through them the invincible might of Richard of England.