‘War suits me, victorious war.’
‘We were born to fight against each other . . . more’s the pity. I would rather be your friend, Richard.’
‘You have said that before.’
‘’Tis true. I remember . . .’
‘It is not good to remember. We have business to talk. You took advantage of my absence. You worked with my enemies against me. You bribed the Emperor to hold me in his fortress. This I can never forget. It has made me your enemy for life.’
‘If we could talk together . . .’
‘We are talking together.’
‘Alone . . .’
Who could trust perfidious Philip? he asked himself and he answered: ‘You could, Richard, as once you did.’
Richard hesitated just for a moment. He thought of past pleasures. Those youthful days when they had ridden together and lain in the shared bed and talked of crusades.
But Philip was King of France, the proven enemy of the King of England. They did not meet now as friends and lovers – though in their hearts they might have been so – they met as the Kings of two countries who must ever be at war with each other.
The Pope’s legate was on his way to mediate between them. Their wars were devastating the land. There must be a pause in their hostilities. There must be a treaty of peace between them.
If we were at peace, thought Philip, we could be friends. Why should we not be? But the needs of France must be his main concern. Private feelings must not come between him and that. And how beautiful was Richard, seated there in his boat, a little arrogant against the background of his Saucy Castle.
They talked of terms. A marriage between a niece of Richard’s and Philip’s son Louis. Her dowry to be Gisors, that important fortress built by William Rufus and which was always a cause of concern to the side which did not own it.
They came to an agreement. The treaty should be drawn up.
‘We shall meet again for the signing,’ said Philip.
THE CROCK OF GOLD
Richard returned to the Château Gaillard, nostalgic with memories of other days. They would sign their treaty and perhaps when they had done so they would meet in a more friendly fashion; perhaps together they could find a way to a true peace between their countries.
Into the courtyard rode a troop of his soldiers who had come to join him lest he need help against Philip. They would dine together off roast boar, said Richard, which they did.
During the feast the Captain of the guards related a rumour that he had heard. A peasant ploughing the land for his master who was Achard Lord of Chaluz had turned up a wonderful treasure. This was in the form of a great block of gold which had been cut into a group of figures representing an emperor and his family and dated back many years to when the emperor was presumably the ruler of Aquitaine.
‘A figure of gold!’ cried Richard. ‘Why it must be worth a fortune!’
‘It must indeed, Sire, and if one piece were found why should there not be many more?’
Richard was deeply impressed by the story; he asked innumerable questions and in the morning when he arose he announced his intention of going to Chaluz to see the treasure.
Such treasure was surely the property of the sovereign lord, he reasoned, in which case the treasure was his. The thought of augmenting his depleted coffers excited him so much that he had forgotten temporarily the treaty with France. There would be time to sign that later.
He sent a message to Achard to tell him that he was on his way and that he was to guard the treasure until he came to claim it, for Achard would agree that his sovereign rights proclaimed him the owner of it.
He was close to Chaluz when the messenger arrived from Achard to say that the find had been grossly exaggerated. There were no golden figures; all that had been found was a jar of gold coins. The value was not great and Adamar of Limoges, whose vassal Achard was, had already claimed the treasure and had no intention of handing it over to Richard.
Such defiance infuriated Richard. He vowed vengeance on both Achard and Adamar and advanced through Limousin laying waste to the land and pillaging the hamlets.
As he approached the castle of Chaluz, Adamar sent out a messenger to ask Richard to put the dispute before the King of France, for as Duke of Aquitaine and Normandy he was a vassal of that sovereign.
It was a suggestion to arouse Richard’s fury and he went into action against the castle, determined to bring about its destruction.
The defenders pleaded that it was the Lenten season and no time to indulge in a battle for gold.
Richard laughed aloud at that. Give him the treasure, he said, and he would abandon the fight and not before. It was a bitter battle. The castle was not well defended, but both Achard and Adamar knew that if they surrendered they would have to face Richard’s fury. They preferred to die fighting and would not give in.
There was one among them, a certain Bertrand de Gourdon whose home had been destroyed some years before by Richard during the wars in Aquitaine. He had lost his father and brothers in the battle and had hated Richard ever since.
He was ready to fight desperately against the King and had joined Achard for this purpose.
He was in the keep when he saw the King. Richard would always stand out among his men, and Bertrand watched the King take an arrow and shoot it at the keep. It lodged there in the wall close by Bertrand. The King’s arrow! Bertrand reached for it. He fitted it into his bow and let it fly towards the King. It struck Richard below his neck and penetrated under his shoulder blade.
His knights called out in dismay but he shouted that all was well.
The castle had fallen to the King’s men, but the King was in agony.
He lay on his sick bed. He had tried to pull the arrow out and in doing so had broken it. It needed an operation to remove the barb.
The days began to pass and the wound was festering. The pain was agonising. It was with horror that he realised mortification had set in.
This was the end, and he knew it.
Eleanor came to his bedside from Fontevrault, the Abbey where she had been finding a certain peace now that Richard was in command of his kingdom.
Her grief was terrible.
‘It cannot be,’ she cried. ‘Not you . . . not Richard! My beautiful son!’
‘’Tis so, Mother,’ he said. ‘This is the end for me. An arrow shot at Chaluz – and all for the sake of gold treasure which they tell me is very little. I might have died fighting for Jerusalem and they will say of me now that I died fighting for a vessel of gold coins.’
‘They will say of you that you are the bravest soldier of the Cross that ever lived,’ cried Eleanor fiercely. ‘And you are not going to die. You cannot die.’
‘I am mortal, Mother. See how weak I am.’
‘I have seen you weak before with the fever on you, but you always recovered did you not?’
He shook his head. ‘You and I should speak the truth together. We always did and we must do so now. I am dying, Mother. You know it.’
She could not speak, so choked was she with her emotion; she could not look on the beloved face for her eyes were blinded by her tears.
‘Mother,’ he said, ‘what will happen when I am dead? Arthur should have been here. The people should have known him. They would have loved him. The young are so appealing. But his mother refused to allow him to come and now there is only John.’
She could not answer him; she could only think of him in all his youthful beauty – her beloved, her Lion Heart.