All the extremes of Gaul were in arms against the red old Angevin who sat at her heart, who was now still snarling in England, and sending message after secret message to his son John.

That same John, alone in Paris, headed no spears, partly because he had none of his own, partly because he dared not declare himself openly.

He had taken a side, driven by his vehement brother; for the first time in his life he had put pen to parchment.
God knew (he thought) that was committal enough.

So he stayed in Paris, shifting his body about to get comfort as the winds veered.

Nobody inquired of him, least of all his brother Richard, who, beyond requiring his signature, cared little what he did with his person.