The Prince of Darkness

Chapter I DEATH OF A KING

In a quiet room in the Château of Vaudreuil William Marshal, the most respected of all the King’s knights, sat dozing pleasantly after an excellent dinner of roast venison. Half sleeping, half waking he was considering what a happy state of affairs existed now that the King had returned from the Holy Land and was bringing law and order back to his dominions. Already England was at peace and Richard had restored much of that land which Philip Augustus, King of France – stealing an advantage because Richard was far away – had taken from him in Normandy.

William Marshal, known in the days of his youth as the finest knight of the age, renowned for his integrity and as a man who was not afraid to offend the King even though it could mean risking his life – and therefore cherished by wise kings such as Richard and his father before him – was now in his mid-fifties but still strong and with the weight of experience to lean on, appeared to have gained rather than lost from the passing of the years.

He had deplored the King’s absence from the country, for, while he accepted the fact that Richard had made a vow to bring Jerusalem back to Christendom, he had believed that a king’s first duty was to his own kingdom; he had been against the excessive taxation which had had to be imposed in order to raise money for the crusade, but he had been indefatigable in getting together the funds required for the King’s ransom when it had been discovered that Richard was in his enemy’s hands in the castle of Dürenstein.

Now, his brother John’s attempt to take the crown from him during his absence had been foiled and Richard was restored to his people. As William saw it, the prospects were fair – or as fair as they ever could be, considering the vulnerability of the dukedom of Normandy situated as it was on the very borders of French territory.

His wife Isabella came into the room and looked at him with affection. She was a good wife and he had married her when Richard had come to the throne. She had brought him not only fine sons but riches, for her father had been Richard de Clare, Earl of Pembroke and Striguel and, although the King had not yet confirmed William in the ‘full peace and name of earl’, the earldom was in his possession, and that ceremony would be performed in due course. Before his marriage he had been known as the ‘landless knight’ and had had little to recommend him but his noble birth and unrivalled skills. Henry II had recognised these and put him in charge of his eldest son Prince Henry (after he had been misguided enough to crown him so that the boy had had the title of King while his father still lived – one of the gravest mistakes that usually wise monarch had ever made, for the boy, as was to be expected, became arrogant, immediately flaunting his title and flouting his father, finally making war against him and, with his brothers, bringing him in sorrow to the grave).

Smiling at Isabella William said: ‘I was back in the past, thinking of the time when Richard came to the throne.’

She looked at him gravely. ‘You thought then, William, that your hopes of rising in the world were ended for ever.’

He nodded. ‘And that death and imprisonment would be my lot.’

He lapsed into silence, thinking of that time when Richard was his enemy because he was making war on his father Henry II, whose staunch henchman he, William, was at that time, and how he had come face to face with a defenceless Richard and could have killed him. He had had no wish to do that, but he had satisfied himself by calling him traitor and killing his horse from under him. And soon afterwards Henry had died and Richard was the King.

He mused: ‘I shall never forget it, Isabella.’

‘I know. You have told me many times how you waited for him to order you to a dungeon and how instead he told you that he could trust one who had served his father well to serve him.’

‘I was determined he should never regret that decision,’ said William.

‘Nor has he. He could never have had a more faithful knight and full well he knows it.’

‘He has been good to us, Isabella. He is generous to his friends. Open, honest, forthright … a man after my own heart. I knew he meant our family well when he commanded me to carry the gold sceptre at his coronation and my brother John the spurs, and how right I was!’

‘And he allowed us to marry.’

‘The most important benefit of all,’ he answered.

‘Well, you have served him well ever since. I wonder when we shall be hearing of the birth of an heir.’

‘He has not long returned to Berengaria. But he knows his duty and that the dissatisfaction his subjects feel will end when he gives the country an heir. He is young and vigorous still.’

‘But they have been married so long.’

‘But parted.’

‘It seems to have been a strange marriage.’

‘It was certain to be. The King loves battle better than women.’

‘It seems unnatural that a man cannot want sons.’

He smiled at her fondly. She was proud of hers. He did not want to say that Richard preferred the company of his own sex to that of women and it was only his meeting with a hermit in a forest, when he was hunting and temporarily alone, who had so harangued him about the life he led and prophesied disaster, that had made him consider reforming his ways; and when shortly afterwards he had been laid low with a fever which threatened to end his life he had decided to return to Berengaria and do his duty by his country.

It was late, thought William. But better late than never. Richard was a man of immense strength and apart from the fever which periodically attacked him he was very healthy. If he could produce a son or two and live until they had reached maturity, that would be good for England.

‘I doubt not,’ he answered his wife, ‘that when his son is born he will be as delighted with him as any father would be … and more so, considering the importance to the realm. I trust that soon he will be sending me news that the Queen is expecting.’

‘Poor Berengaria. Hers has not been a very happy life, I fear.’

‘Such is the fate of queens, my dear.’

She sighed. ‘I dare swear one should be grateful that one was not born royal.’

It was pleasant to have her so satisfied with her lot. She never referred to the riches and title she had brought him for she considered herself the most fortunate of women and he hoped she would long continue to do so.

As they sat talking together there was a sudden clatter of horse’s hoofs in the courtyard. William stood up hastily.

‘Who can it be?’ he wondered.

Isabella was at the window.

‘It looks like a messenger.’ She turned to him, her eyes shining with excitement. ‘I wonder if it is … It seems so odd. We were but talking of it a few minutes ago.’

‘Come,’ said William, ‘we will go and see.’

They hurried down to the courtyard but one look at the face of the messenger was enough to tell William that the news he brought was not good.

He had dismounted and a groom had taken his horse. William cried: ‘What news?’

‘Ill news, my lord.’

‘Tell me. Let me know the worst.’

‘The King has been wounded … mortally, some say.’

‘It is not possible. In what action?’

‘At Chaluz against Odamar of Limoges and Achard of Chaluz.’

‘This makes no sense to me.’

‘My lord, you were unaware that treasure was found on the land of Achard of Chaluz. News reached the King that gold figures had been discovered by a ploughman and claiming that as the suzerain this belonged by right to him he went forth to demand the treasure be given up. Achard declared that what had been found was nothing but a pot of old coins but the King did not believe him and attacked the castle. During the attack an arrow went into the King’s shoulder.’

‘This is impossible,’ cried William. ‘A foolish quarrel over a pot of coins.’

‘’Tis so, my lord. The King sent for me. He is mortally ill and in great anguish. He has tried to pull the arrow from his shoulder but in doing so has broken it and it remains imbedded in his flesh and is mortifying. He has sent me to you commanding that you go at once to Chinon and there take charge of the royal treasure.’

‘He will recover,’ said William. ‘He must recover.’

The messenger shook his head. ‘I saw his face, my lord. There was death there.’

‘Come in and refresh yourself,’ said William. ‘You will be weary from your journey. I must to Chinon with all speed.’

Isabella came out and seeing her husband’s face asked what ill news he had received.

William told her. She was bewildered. ‘What will this mean?’ she asked.

‘He has faced death many times. Always he has recovered. We must hope.’

While William Marshal was preparing to leave for Chinon yet another messenger came to Vaudreuil. This one brought the news that Richard Cœur de Lion had died of the wound he had received from an arrow shot by Bertrand de Gourdon, a nobleman of Quercy who bore a grudge against him and who since had declared that he was ready to suffer the greatest torments if need be, for he would die happy having seen Richard on his death-bed.

So the King was dead. What was to follow?

Arriving at Chinon, and assuring himself that the royal treasure was well guarded, William asked Hubert Walter, the Archbishop of Canterbury, who was by good fortune in Normandy at the time, to come to him at once. Realising the gravity of the situation Hubert lost no time in complying with this request.

William embraced the Archbishop and took him to a private chamber where they could talk together without being overheard.

‘What think you of the news?’ asked William.

The Archbishop shook his head gravely.

‘It could be disastrous.’

‘Everything hangs on the next few months.’

‘If he had but lived with his wife; if he had produced sons …’

‘Any son they had had would as yet be a minor.’

‘That would not have disturbed me. He could have been tutored and there would have been a king.’

‘There is a king now,’ said William.

‘Who? John or Arthur?’

‘It must be John,’ insisted William.

‘Nay, my friend, the true heir to the throne is Prince Arthur.’

‘In the direct line of succession maybe, but I for one could never support Arthur’s claim.’

‘You mean you will give your allegiance to John!’

‘I deplore that it is necessary, but I see no other way.’

‘My good friend, Arthur is the son of Geoffrey and Geoffrey was older than John. Therefore according to the law of succession Arthur is the true heir.’

‘The selection of kings does not necessarily depend on direct succession. Suitability must be considered and Arthur is a child.’

‘But John is dissolute and unfit for the crown.’

‘The English would never accept Arthur.’

‘They would accept the fact that he is the true heir to the throne because that is what he is.’

‘Nay, Archbishop. Henry II named John as his heir – even to come before Richard.’

‘That was wrong. Richard was the elder brother and more fitted to reign. The people would never have accepted John while Richard lived.’

‘That I agree with and Richard had no intention of standing aside for his younger brother. Henry realised this in his last moments, when John’s true nature was revealed, and would have approved of what was done. But now Richard is dead and the natural heir is John.’

‘You are wrong, Marshal. Arthur is the true heir.’

‘A boy who has never been to England, who speaks no English, brought up in foreign courts! The English will never accept him. Moreover, John would be determined to take the crown, and there would be continual strife. Many would be behind John. They are prepared for him to follow his brother. He has lived in England. He is English. They will not take a foreigner and little more than a child at that. Arthur I have heard is haughty and proud and has no love for the English. Prince John is the one who is nearest to his father and his brother Richard. John should follow him.’

‘Marshal, is this really your wish?’

‘It is, my lord, for it seems but good sense to me. A son has a closer claim to his father’s inheritance than his grandson can have. It is right that John should take the crown.’

‘There will be conflict over this. Arthur will have his supporters and John will have his.’

‘I consider it right and in the interests of the country that John should be offered the crown,’ said the Marshal stubbornly.

The Archbishop inclined his head. ‘So shall it be. But know this, Marshal, and remember what I say, for the day will come when you will question your decision. I promise you that nothing you ever did have you so much cause to repent of as you will have of this.’

‘If you are right,’ answered William judiciously, ‘and it may be that you will be proved right, still I know this should be and that I am but following the will of my masters – King Henry II and Richard the Lion-Hearted – in proclaiming Prince John King of England.’

‘So be it,’ said the Archbishop but he continued to shake his head sorrowfully.

In spite of his firm assurances that he had done the right thing, William Marshal was very uneasy; after all, if there was such sturdy disagreement between two men who wished the crown and the country the greatest good fortune – which it would assuredly need – how was it possible to expect the people to be of one mind?

Of one thing all could be certain. With two such claimants to the throne there would be trouble.

Oh, why had Richard to die at such a time – and all for a few coins in a pot!

Joanna, the King’s sister, was on her way to Normandy. She had determined to make the journey before her pregnancy prevented her. She and her husband, Raymond of Toulouse, needed help and she believed that Richard could and would come to their aid; he had been a kindly and generous brother to her, except on one occasion when he had planned to marry her to the Saracen Malek Adel in order to further his treaty with Saladin, but she had always believed that he had never been very serious about that. Indeed when she had indignantly refused he had made no effort to coerce her and the event had not interfered with the devotion between them.

Richard had been a hero to her when as a young girl she had travelled out to Sicily to be married to the king of that island and Richard had conducted her across Aquitaine. Later she had joined him in Sicily when the island had been seized by Tancred; she had become companion duenna to his wife Berengaria before her marriage to Richard and afterwards had been Berengaria’s constant companion until she herself had married Raymond of Toulouse.

She had often thought of Berengaria with pity, and wondered how she was faring. She knew a great deal about the married life of the Queen of England for she had been with her during the first years of her marriage to Richard. He had never been actively unkind to her; he had merely behaved as though she did not exist. Perhaps it would have been more comforting to have lived a stormy life with him; dislike would have been easier to bear than indifference. How embarrassing it had been – for both she and Berengaria knew that he was constantly seeking excuses to avoid her.

Joanna would have liked to explain to Berengaria: It is not you in person who does not please him. It is the fact that you are a woman. He does not like our sex. It is extraordinary that one who is so strong, so vital, with every characteristic of manliness so firm in him, should lack this one. People talked as much as they dared of his one-time passionate friendship with the King of France, of his close ties with favoured knights, of the devotion of boys such as Blondel de Nesle, the minstrel who had travelled across Europe in search of him when he was incarcerated in the fortress of Dürenstein, and had discovered his whereabouts by singing a song which they had composed together and none had sung but them. In the beginning, though, poor Berengaria had known nothing of this.

And when Joanna had married Raymond she had said farewell to her companion of several years and had gone to her new life. Raymond had not disappointed her and they had a beautiful son – Raymond like his father – now two years old, and she had found contentment in her married life. Her husband’s court was one where beauty was appreciated; he loved music; and poets and troubadours were encouraged; in the great halls of his castles songs would be composed and judged; religious views were aired and there was great freedom of thought throughout his domain. Alas, this had been noticed and reported to Rome and since it seemed to the leaders of the Catholic Church that some of the doctrines freely discussed were subversive and could harm that powerful body, it was made known to rival barons that if they attacked Raymond, Rome would be behind them.

This knowledge had stunned both Raymond and Joanna; there had merely been one or two skirmishes at first but now the hostility was growing more marked and it was because of this that Joanna had decided that she would approach Richard and ask his advice for she had no doubt that he would come to their aid.

She and Raymond had decided that she was the one to put the case before him; he would listen to her; moreover, he had always been a man to respect family ties. She remembered well his indignation when he had arrived in Sicily to find her Tancred’s prisoner and it was not only the thought of her rich dowry which Tancred had confiscated which made him delay his journey to the Holy Land to right her wrongs.

As she travelled towards Normandy she was contemplating the pleasure of her reunion with Berengaria who, she had heard, was now with Richard. That was good news. Perhaps by this time Berengaria was in the same happy condition as she herself; she hoped so. How Berengaria would love a child! And Richard must realise that it was necessary to establish the succession.

Her mission was not the happiest and she was deeply concerned for Raymond, but there should be compensations at the end of her journey.

Ahead of her lay the Château Gaillard, and she was filled with pride as she contemplated it … this magnificent castle which Richard had declared should be the finest in France – and it was. The great fortress glittered in the sun as though flaunting its defiance to the King of France and any who might come against it. Its mighty rectangular bastions, its seventeen towers, its curtain walls, its casements cut in the rock, proclaimed the might of the man who would always be remembered as the Lion Heart, her brother Richard who had never failed her and she knew never would as long as he lived.

Alas, her comfort was to be shattered. Richard was not at his castle. He had left for Chaluz for he had heard rumours of great treasure which had been found there on the land of one of his vassals.

She set out for Chaluz unaware of the tragedy which awaited her there.

The battle was over. The castle of Chaluz had fallen to Richard but, though Richard had won his pot of coins, he had lost his life in doing so.

Everyone seemed stunned by the news. There had been about Richard an aura of invincibility. Often, being a victim of a virulent fever – which had pursued him all his life – he had now and then come near to death but always he had risen from his sick-bed as strong as he had been before the attack. This time, however, death had caught up with him through an arrow shot by a certain Bertrand de Gourdon.

At least she could be reunited with Berengaria. They embraced warmly and Berengaria took her to her private chamber that they might share their grief in secret.

‘He was too young to die,’ was all Joanna could say.

Berengaria wept silently. ‘Such a waste of life,’ she said. ‘Mine too, for mine is ended now.’

‘You were together at the end,’ said Joanna soothingly.

‘In a way. He never wanted to be with me. It was just that he felt he must do his duty.’

‘Berengaria, are you with child?’

She shook her head.

‘More is the pity,’ said Joanna.

They mingled their tears and found comfort in each other’s company. Each was wondering what the future could hold for her. Berengaria – a queen without a husband (in truth she often thought she had never really had one) – with no child who would give her a reason for living. It would be a return to the old pattern, existing uneasily – no doubt on the bounty of relations. Perhaps she could go to her sister Blanche who was married to the Count of Champagne. In whatever direction she looked the future was fraught with uneasiness. While Richard lived she had always hoped that life would be different, that some spark of affection might be kindled. If they could have had children – say two sons and a daughter – then he would not have felt the need to get more and there might have been a certain peace between them. It was the physical relationship which had repelled him; and because he was king and it was expected of him to provide an heir it had hung like a shadow between them – something which must be done and being distasteful to him it must be to her.

Joanna’s thoughts were sombre. She was thinking of Richard’s death caused by this trivial arrow at this unnecessary siege when he had come through a hundred battles with the fierce Saracens in the Holy War. It was an ironic twist of fate that he who was so noble and had earned the title of the Lion-Hearted, should have ended his life in such a petty cause. Moreover, now that he was dead, who would help her and Raymond against their enemies?

Berengaria in due course talked of the last days of Richard’s life, of terrible agony which beset him and how he had forgiven the man who had killed him.

‘That was noble of him,’ said Joanna. ‘And what I would expect of him. Bertrand de Gourdon will bless him to the end of his days.’

Berengaria answered: ‘His days are over. Richard forgave him but others did not. You remember Mercadier?’

‘Wasn’t he the general who led Richard’s mercenaries? Yes, I do remember that Richard thought highly of him and that they were constantly together.’

‘He was beside himself with grief and rage when Richard died. So much so that he defied the King’s orders and commanded that Gourdon be put to death in the most cruel way he could think of.’

‘But Richard had pardoned him!’

‘’Twas so and what was done will not be laid at his door. Bertrand de Gourdon’s eyes were put out before he was flayed alive.’

‘Oh my God,’ cried Joanna. ‘Is there no end to this violence?’ She put her hands to the protuberance of her body and felt the movement of her child there. ‘It seems an evil omen. I wonder what will become of this child and of us all.’

Berengaria hurried over to her and put her arms about her. ‘Be thankful, Joanna,’ she said, ‘that you have borne one son and carry the fruit of your husband’s continued love for you.’

Then Joanna was ashamed and reproached herself for her selfishness. Berengaria’s was the tragedy. There was no child to remind her of her husband’s love; there was indeed none of which to be reminded.

Queen Eleanor was in Chaluz; she too had come with all speed when she heard of her beloved son’s condition. His death was the greatest blow which fate could have dealt her. She was seventy-seven years of age; he was but forty-two. Ever since his birth and those days when he had been her champion in the nursery in her battles against his father, he had been at the centre of her life. She had loved him as she could love no other; valiantly she had fought to hold his kingdom together when he was absent on his crusades; and now that he was home and seemed set fair to reign for many years and she had at last retired to the seclusion of the Abbey of Fontevraud, she was called forth to be with him during his last hours on earth.

Her grief was such that as she told her daughter Joanna – whom she loved only second to Richard – and her daughter-in-law Berengaria for whom she had always had a fondness, her only comfort was that she herself could not have long to live, for a world which did not contain her beloved son Richard had little in joy to offer her.

So the women who had loved him mourned together and found a little comfort in talking of him – of his greatness, of his valour, of his love of poetry and music, his talent for composing them.

‘There was never one such as he was,’ said Eleanor. ‘Nor will there ever be.’

She would see that his wishes were carried out. ‘He told me,’ she said, ‘that he wished his heart – that great lion heart – to be buried in his beloved and faithful city of Rouen, the home of his ancestors the dukes of Normandy for so many years. And his body is to be buried at Fontevraud at the feet of his father. He repented at the end of his life of the strife between them. God knows it was not of his making. Henry was to blame for the conflict between him and his sons. He was a man who could never let go anything once it had fallen into his hands, and he lost sight of the fact that his sons were men.’

She smiled, looking right back to the turbulent years when she and Henry Plantagenet had been first passionate lovers and then equally passionate enemies.

Yes, Richard’s wishes should be carried out. She would serve him in death as she always had in life.

She would go back to Fontevraud and spend the rest of her life there and she would make some show of repenting for her sins, which secretly she could not regret for she knew that if by some miracle she could regain her youth and vitality she would commit them all over again and she was too much of a realist, and her mind was still too active and lively, for her to be able to deceive herself that it would have been otherwise.

Now she took stock of her daughter, who was so obviously pregnant.

‘Take care of yourself, my dear child,’ she said. ‘It is tragic that Richard cannot help Raymond. Your husband must be strong against his enemies for you will get little help from John.’ She frowned. ‘John will be the King now. It could not be my grandson. Arthur is too young. He is all Breton and the English would never accept him.’

‘Mother,’ said Joanna, ‘do you not think that there will be those who will attempt to put Arthur on the throne?’

‘There are always those who are ready to find a cause for conflict,’ she said. ‘In England though, John will be safe. It is here that he must take great care. Philip is always ready to seize a pretext for attack. It will always be so, for the kings of France are the natural enemies of the dukes of Normandy. Oh God,’ she went on, ‘I fear for John. I fear for Normandy and England … This is a tragic blow not only to us, my daughters, but for the kingdom.’

Then with characteristic energy she made plans for them. Joanna must go back to her husband without the help she had come to ask from Richard; as for Berengaria, she might stay with Joanna for a while and then perhaps join her sister until she could make plans for her future. Her brother Sancho the Strong would no doubt welcome her at his court; and although Eleanor did not say so, in her thoughts came the notion that perhaps a husband would in due course be found for Berengaria. She was still of an age to bear children. Oh yes, it might well be she would yet make a marriage that was more truly one than that with the late King of England.

But now there was nothing to do but mourn.

They took him to Fontevraud that his wishes should be carried out. His heart had been taken from his body and it was said that it astounded all who beheld it because of its size. He was indeed the Lion-Hearted. They dressed him in the robes he had worn when he had been crowned in England; and so they laid him in his tomb. The women who had loved him wept for him, and Hugh of Lincoln, with whom he had had many a difference during his lifetime and who had often reproached him for the life he led, performed the last rites of the Church over his body, and while he prayed for his soul he wept for the passing of one who for all his sins had been a great king.