commands to accompany the heralds to Louviers, so had to content himself
with a messenger to the trobador and a letter which announced the
extreme happiness of the great Count of Poictou. This, he knew, would
draw the poison-bag.

The Frenchmen arrived at Louviers none too soon. As well mix fire and
ice as Poictevin with Norman or Angevin with Angevin. The princes
stalked about with claws out of velvet, the nobles bickered fiercely,
and the men-at-arms did after their kind. There was open fighting.
Gaston of Béarn picked a quarrel with John Botetort, and they fought it
out with daggers in the fosse. Then Count Richard took one of his
brother's goshawks and would not give it up. Over the long body of that
bird half a score noblemen engaged with swords; the Count of Poictou
himself accounted for six, and ended by pommelling his brother into a
red jelly. There was a week or more of this, during which the old King
hunted like a madman all day and revelled in gloomy vices all night.
Richard saw little of him and little of the lady of France. She, a pale
shade, flitted dismally out when evoked by the King, dismally in again
at a nod from him. Whenever she did appear Prince John hovered about,
looking tormented; afterwards the pock-marked Cluniac might be heard
lecturing her on theology and the soul's business in passionless
monologue. It was very far from gay. As for her, Richard believed her
melancholy mad; he himself grew fretful, irritable, most quarrelsome.
Thus it was that he first plundered and then punched his brother.

After that Prince John disappeared for a little to nurse his sores, and
Richard got within fair speaking distance of Madame Alois. In fact, she
sent for him late one night when the King, as he knew, was away,
munching the ashes of charred pleasure in some stews or other. He obeyed
the summons with a half-shrug.