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.