he followed the Flemish count into the great hall.
There he received an equally icy welcome by Richard. When he demanded to know why Richard had not waited at Taormina, the other man stared at him for so long that he began to bristle, thinking he was not going to get an answer. But then Richard said curtly, “We need to talk about this in more private surroundings.” And without waiting for Philippe to agree, he led the way toward the family chapel that adjoined the hall. Philip of Flanders, the Archbishop of Rouen, and André de Chauvigny trailed after him without a word being said, as if they’d been expecting just such a move.
Philippe was followed by his own retinue—the bishops of Chartres and Langres, his cousins, the Count of Nevers and Hugh of Burgundy, Jaufre of Perche, and Druon de Mello. The chapel was a small one and the men had to jockey for space, finding it a challenge not to tread on toes or jab elbows into ribs. Breathing in the pungent scents of incense, sweat, and tallow-dipped rushlights sputtering in wall sconces, Philippe looked around in distaste. The church seemed dingy to him; the whitewashed walls were streaked with smoke, the floor rushes matted and rank, and the magnificent reliquary of rock crystal and gold on the altar seemed utterly out of place in such shabby surroundings. Moreover, this chapel had been the scene of Richard’s spectacular Christmas penance. Philippe was convinced that Richard got as drunk on fame as some men did on wine, and he saw that dramatic act of expiation as just one more example of the English king’s constant craving for attention, although he never doubted that Richard had as many sins to atone for as Judas Iscariot.
“This is ridiculous,” he said. “There are not even any prayer cushions to sit upon. You may not want us to dine with you, my lord king, but surely you can spare some wine in your solar.”
His men chuckled at that; Richard did not. “I chose to have this talk here because I would never shed blood in God’s House.”
Philippe was staring at him in shock. Before he could recover, Richard moved to the altar and picked up the parchment he’d placed next to the reliquary. “I’d planned to demand an explanation from you. But what would be the point? Your own words speak for themselves.”
Watching intently as the French king took the letter, Richard gave the younger man credit for his self-control. Not a muscle flickered and he showed no emotion even after he’d recognized what he was reading; he could not keep heat from rising in his face and throat, though, a sudden surge of color noticeable even in the subdued lighting of the chapel. Philippe’s men were watching in obvious confusion, and Richard turned toward them. “Since I doubt that your king is going to read his letter aloud, let me enlighten you. It is a message that he sent to King Tancred, offering to fight alongside him should Tancred declare war upon his English allies.”
There was a stifled sound, like a collective catch of breath. As Richard had expected, the only one who did not seem stunned was Hugh of Burgundy. Philippe’s head jerked up and he flung the letter down into the floor rushes. “This is a clumsy forgery.”
“And why would Tancred bother to forge a letter? How would he benefit from setting us at odds?”
“How would I know?” Philippe snapped. “I can only tell you that it is not mine.”
“Tancred says the letter was delivered by the Duke of Burgundy. Are you also going to disclaim any knowledge of it, Hugh?”
“Indeed I am,” the other man said coolly. “I know nothing about it.”
“Then you ought to be willing to prove it.” Before Hugh guessed what Richard had in mind, he’d snatched up the reliquary. “This contains a splinter of the True Cross. Swear upon it, Hugh, swear that your king is right and this is a damnable forgery.”
Hugh was not easily disconcerted, but Richard had managed it now. His eyes cut toward Philippe, back to the holy relic. He made no move to take it, though, and Richard’s mouth twisted into a mockery of a smile. “Well, at least you’ll not lie to God. What about you, Philippe? Dare you to swear upon the True Cross?”
Philippe ignored the challenge. “I am beginning to understand now. This is not that bastard Tancred’s doing. The two of you are in collusion. You’ve