The Prince of Darkness

Chapter II JOHN AND ARTHUR

An uneasy atmosphere had prevailed in the Court of Brittany since the arrival of that unexpected visitor, Prince John, Count of Mortain, brother of Richard I of England – a man whose reputation was such as to lead the people to believe the legend that the Devil’s blood had at one time infected the House of Anjou and that the Prince of Darkness had come to Earth again in the person of Prince John.

John had been guilty of almost every known sin during the thirty-two years he had lived to plague those around him, so it would seem that he had plenty of time left to him to commit more; and he showed every intention of living up to those expectations.

He was under medium height – a small man in a family of tall brothers. Richard was a giant in comparison and John had always been very much aware of the advantage that gave him. Lest any should be under the impression that a lack of inches implied weakness he was determined that all about him should be aware of his importance, so he surrounded himself with companions who applauded all his actions, knowing that if they did not they would be out of favour which could result in disastrous consquences for them; he dressed in a flamboyant manner – his clothes must be of the most costly material and he liked to adorn himself with fine jewels; he strutted through the castles he visited as though he owned them and was the overlord of all; he was greedy and extravagant, his temper was as violent as that of his father had been, yet Henry II had always endeavoured to be just, even when his rage was in possession of him; John had no concern with justice. The only thing that mattered to him was his own pleasure; and one of his greatest delights was to see people cringe before him while he taunted them with the power he held over them. Because he was aware that his brother Richard had power over him, he was determined to remind everyone else he had power over them.

He hated Richard because he was jealous of him and bitterly he coveted what was his. Richard was known as the Lion Heart and secretly John knew that he himself was John the Coward. Richard was the greatest of his age; John was not interested in war except when it was victorious. Then he would enjoy pillaging the towns, setting fire to the buildings and raping the women. But it did not always turn out like that; and as one of his greatest pleasures was to sport with women he reckoned he could do that without having to face the preliminaries of war which might not always bring the results he sought.

He was comparatively pleased with his lot. He was the youngest son of a great king; and he often laughed to think how he had deluded his father. Almost to the end Henry had believed that his beloved youngest was the only one who loved him. Loved him! As if John ever loved anyone but John. He believed it was folly to do so. How could one get what one wanted if one was ever swayed by emotions towards others which could be self-detrimental? It had given him a great deal of pleasure to realise how he had pulled the wool over his father’s eyes. Henry Plantagenet was supposed to be a wise king, and yet his youngest son had deceived him completely, and while Henry was talking of leaving his kingdom to the only son who loved him, John was making preparations to desert him and join Richard, which at that time was the profitable thing to do.

But his father had discovered just before his death what a perfidious son he had. Some said it hastened his death. So much the better, thought John. He was finished, that old man. But there had remained Richard.

How he had rejoiced when his brother had gone off to the Holy Land. He didn’t often resort to prayer but he had then – urging God to send a poisoned arrow through his brother’s heart. It did not seem an unreasonable request since Richard was constantly in the midst of fierce and bloodthirsty Saracens. How like Richard to escape.

John congratulated himself that he had come very near to taking the kingdom. That would have served Richard right. If a man was a king he should be in his kingdom not gallivanting over the world trying to win glory by conquering Jerusalem. Which, John thought with great satisfaction, he had failed to do; and moreover, found himself the prisoner of his enemies. A curse on those who rescued him and particularly on young Blondel who had gone out singing all over Europe until he found him and making such a pretty story of it that the people regarded their errant king as a hero of romance.

Well, that was in the past and there was the future to think of.

Richard, curse him, was back; strong and healthy and only just turned forty – ten years older than John, but what was ten years? They all said he looked like a god and that he was invincible. The King of France, who had, while Richard was in the hands of his enemies, been prepared to work against him to such an extent that he would have put John on the throne, as soon as Richard returned had cried off. It seemed that everyone was afraid of Richard. He was said to have some mystical quality. He was the great hero – Cœur de Lion. Yet he had no heir and was chary of getting one.

John laughed aloud at the thought. There had been their father lusting after every woman he saw and being a king not inclined to deny himself the pleasure of their company which in the circumstances they would find very difficult to refuse; and he, John, was of a similar nature. His father had a romantic streak; he liked to get a woman to his bed with fair words and promises and he was said to have an unrivalled gift for this; with John it was different. He dispensed with such preliminaries. He liked a woman to show fear; it made the experience so much more exciting for him. Well, there they were, his father and himself – and he had no reason to believe that his brothers, since dead, were any different and he was sure they had enjoyed this pastime as well as that of hunting the deer or the boar. But Richard was different – Richard the strong man, the Lion Heart – he had no fancy for women but chose his beloved friends from his own sex.

John could never think of that without giving away to gusty laughter. It was his weakness – just as the tertian fever was; and it seemed comic to John because both weaknesses were so alien to the image which Richard had always presented to the world.

It was a most convenient state of affairs, for Richard, being what he was, seemed unlikely to get himself an heir and while Richard was disinclined to do this and Berengaria remained unfruitful, the crown of England was well within John’s grasp.

That was what he wanted. He longed to possess it. He could work himself into a violent passion just thinking of it. His father had promised it to him – that was when he was fighting against Richard. Yes, Henry II had actually named him as his heir. But Richard was there to claim the throne and their mother was behind him. Richard had always been the favourite with her; yet she had been a good mother to him so he couldn’t complain too much – not that he would dare. He had always been afraid of her and it wouldn’t have been so easy to deceive her as it had been his father. People had their peculiar ways. Take his mother for instance – a strong woman, a realist if ever there was one and a born ruler even though she was a woman; yet she had a weakness which was her love for her children. She knew that he, John, had worked against Richard, had done everything in his power to snatch the crown while Richard was away – and she was determined to hold that crown for Richard and had shown her intentions clearly – yet when Richard had come home and might have been expected to kill John, or at least shut him away in a prison – which, from their point of view, they should have known would have been a wise thing to do – they had pardoned him. He suspected that his mother had pleaded for him with Richard, and the result – forgiveness and brotherly affection at least outwardly between them.

Richard had been slighting, of course, saying that John had been led astray and making it clear that he did not fear him because he didn’t believe him capable of conquest. Insulting – but it served John’s purpose at the time.

What he hoped for now was for Richard to die before having planted the fateful seed in Berengaria. A good strong attack of that fever – and there would be Richard, heirless, departed for ever; and all John would have to do was stretch out his hands and take the crown. But there was one other consideration and it was for this reason that John had come to Brittany.

Arthur! How he hated that boy. What airs the young fellow gave himself. He was haughty in the extreme and Frenchified too for the boy had spent a good many years at the court of France.

It was very unfortunate that Arthur’s father Geoffrey had been the elder brother. If only their births had been reversed – and he was Arthur’s father! John smiled wryly, lustfully contemplating Arthur’s mother, Constance. No longer young – she was mounting up to forty – she was still a comely woman who had had her adventures. Geoffrey had married her to get control of her estates of Brittany, and they already had a daughter, Eleanor, when he died from injuries received in a tournament, to which sport he was much addicted. He had left Constance with child which, alas, was born male and healthy and provided the reason for John’s uneasiness.

Arthur! The very name irritated him. His grandfather Henry had wished the boy to be named after him, but Constance, backed by the Bretons, was obstinate and they had chosen Arthur because of the associations of that name. He had pretensions to the throne of England, therefore let him be named after the legendary British king.

John disliked the boy’s name as much as he did everything about Arthur.

The arrogant little devil, he thought. He should be taught a lesson. He would like to put his hands round that boyish throat and strangle the life out of the creature. Nothing would give him more exquisite pleasure; as it was he had to play the avuncular role, listening to the boy’s bright conversation and exchanging smiles with his doting mother. It amused him in a way to play this game. Deceit always stimulated him; he had a natural gift for it. So he was enjoying his stay at this court and this pleasure was increased because he knew he was regarded with suspicion and that many people would be relieved when he had gone.

He had no intention of going yet. There was too much fun to be had here. He had brought with him a few of his friends who were daring enough to join in his adventures. When they went out riding he would contrive with them to help him elude the party and ride on with Arthur. When he had the boy to himself he would dally in the woods and he always enjoyed returning late to the castle and watching the relief on Constance’s face when she beheld her son, because he knew what agonies of fear she had undergone when she thought he was alone in the woods with his wicked uncle.

What should he do to amuse himself on this sunny April day? He might call his friends together and they could ride out into the woods – force their way into some cottages and look for girls, and on finding them drag them shrieking into the woods. A fine game, but one they had played so often that it could pall; moreover, they had to remember that they were in Brittany and the arrogant Constance and her friends would not hesitate to complain to the King of France or perhaps Richard, and at this time John had to play a subdued role, for Richard had not so long ago forgiven him for his rebellion on condition that he mended his ways.

Besides, his thoughts were too serious to be diverted by such commonplace pleasures as the rape of village girls. From a window he saw Constance going into the gardens and she was alone. He hurried down to her.

He watched her for a few seconds before she was aware of him – in his mind stripping her of her garments and assessing her possibilities as a bedfellow. She would not be a mild woman – not like his poor Hadwisa. He was heartily sick of that one and he was going to get rid of her. He had determined on that. Why not? Her lands were safe in his keeping and he had made no secret of the fact that that was all his marriage was about. She had no children – he had decided that he would avoid that complication so that when the moment came to cast her off there would be no question of the issue of the so-called marriage. He laughed to consider how the Church had been against it and how with Richard’s connivance he had flouted the Church. The Gloucester inheritance had been worth a certain inconvenience for the addition of that to his possessions had made him one of the richest men in England. But there was a blood-bond between them. They were related through his great-grandfather Henry I who was Hadwisa’s great-grandfather too – in her case her royal blood came down through the bar sinister, but blood was blood all the same and that old fool the Archbishop of Canterbury had ranted about consanguinity. He had not cared; being rather glad, for he saw from the first that Hadwisa would not interest him except through her possessions.

So he had no need to worry about Hadwisa. When the moment arrived she would be discarded like some old garment one gave to a servant when one had no further use for it.

An idea had been forming in his mind for some time. What if he married Constance? Then if Arthur were his stepson as well as his nephew the boy would be completely in his power. Of one thing he was certain, if the opportunity should arise and Richard die without heirs he was not going to be cheated by Arthur.

Constance turned, startled when he came up behind her – rather silently for the pleasure of seeing her momentarily off her guard. She was indeed a good-looking woman and being rather tall she gave the impression of looking down on him. He would soon stop her giving that impression if he married her.

‘How beautiful you are, Constance,’ he said. ‘I always said my brother Geoffrey was the most fortunate of us all in his marriage.’

‘You are very kind,’ she said coolly. Her eyes were wary; she was like a tigress who suspects some attack on her cubs. Not without reason too.

‘Ah,’ he went on, ‘it is good for families to be together. Not always possible with those of our rank, but rest assured, Constance, that I intend to seek every opportunity of being with my delightful sister-in-law. It does me good to see my niece and my nephew. I say, what a charmer Eleanor is becoming. And Arthur! How proud you must be of the boy.’

‘I am well content with my children,’ she answered.

‘And may I say what good work you have done with Arthur.’

‘You may indeed say it, but whether I can claim the credit is another matter. You know he has spent much time at the Court of the King of France.’

‘And a thorough little Frenchman that old scoundrel has tried to make of him.’

‘I have reason to be grateful to the King of France,’ she answered shortly. ‘I can’t agree that he is old or a scoundrel.’

‘You are a stickler for accuracy, my dear sister-in-law. Philip is certainly not so aged, but wily you must admit.’

‘As becomes such a ruler,’ she answered.

‘My brother, the King of England, has reason to distrust him.’

Her lips curled. ‘One hears that there was once such a great friendship between them that men marvelled.’

John came closer to her, leering slightly. ‘Ah, that friendship. Our brother – yours in law, mine in blood – is a man of many parts.’

‘It would seem so.’

‘He has not been over-good to you, my dear Constance.’

‘One learns to be wary.’

‘You and I have a great deal in common,’ said John.

‘Is that so?’

‘Indeed yes – both having been married … after a fashion … and not married, one might say.’

She raised her eyebrows and studied him coolly.

He went on: ‘You know I went through a form of ceremony with Hadwisa of Gloucester. It was what my brother wished. He had just taken the throne and he thought her lands would be a way of providing for his young brother without making demands on his purse.’

‘Had you no wish for the match?’

‘You should see Hadwisa.’

‘I gather you are not pleased with your wife.’

‘Shall I say that she is as different from you as one woman could be from another.’

‘That would tell me little.’

‘Except that you being so attractive, she would necessarily be the opposite.’

She shrugged her shoulders impatiently.

He went on: ‘It was sad for you, dear Constance, when Geoffrey died so unexpectedly. Who would have believed it possible when he was playing in a joust?’

‘Those jousts were too realistic. They were more like actual battles than a game.’

‘’Twas so and Geoffrey loved them. And he left you with Eleanor but a baby, and Arthur on the way.’

‘My children have always been a great comfort to me.’

‘And an anxiety. Admit it.’

‘When great inheritances are entailed that is inevitable.’

‘’Tis sad for women. More so than for men. I know how you suffered through Ranulf de Blundevill.’

He saw the expression flit across her face – one of hatred and revulsion; and it titillated his senses to think of this fine woman forced to marry a man she hated. He wondered what had taken place between them and thought of himself with Hadwisa in the first days of their marriage when he had struck terror into his poor shrinking bride and had thus obtained the only pleasure he ever had from her.

How different from Hadwisa was Constance. On the death of Geoffrey she had been forced into the marriage by her father-in-law Henry, the King at that time; but she had no intention of submitting to such indignity as Ranulf would have forced on her. She had run away from him and returned to Brittany where the people rallied round her and showed their intention to protect her from a man she hated; as for the King of England, he was at that time too busily engaged elsewhere to enforce his will.

She was a strong woman, Constance. She had ruled Arthur’s duchy for four years with great strength of purpose and during that time she had endeared the Bretons to her to such an extent that they were ready to defend her and their heir from all invaders.

‘I’ve always admired you, Constance,’ said John. ‘I was so pleased when I heard you had escaped from that beast Ranulf. But you do not regard him as a husband, do you? That is how it is with me. You see we are in like case.’

‘I doubt Hadwisa ever caused you the anxiety the Earl of Chester caused me.’

‘I have the advantage of being a man, dear sister. You are a woman and women need men – good men – to look after them.’

‘Some of us are not so ill-equipped that we cannot look after ourselves.’

‘And you are one of those rare women. Ah, Constance, how I rejoice that we are good friends. Do you?’

‘In a world fraught with dangers it is always good to have friends.’

She hoped that she did not betray the fear which had come to her. What was John implying? Why had he come here? Could it really be that Richard was considering making a match between them?

Horrifying thought. This monster – for she knew he was that – wasted his time exchanging fair words with her. There was not one of her advisers who had not been on the alert from the moment he had arrived at her court. She had ordered that Arthur was to be watched and that if it were possible he was never to be left alone with his uncle. If anything happened to Arthur while John was near, John would immediately be suspected and that would not help him. But how could she be sure how foolish John would be? He was not noted for his wisdom.

It was certainly not inconceivable that Richard and his advisers might have some idea of a marriage between her and John since there was a question as to who – John or Arthur – was the rightful heir to the throne. Such a marriage could mean that John might rule until Arthur was of age or on John’s becoming a kind of regent.

Never, she thought. I would not trust my son in his hands … not for a moment.

That she was married to Ranulf de Blundevill, Earl of Chester, and John to Hadwisa of Gloucester would be no impediment. Those marriages could be set aside without a great deal of trouble. Marry John! He would be a thousand times worse than Ranulf. Besides, there was Guy. Her expression softened as she thought of her lover. He might see her from one of the castle windows and if he did he would come to rescue her from her odious brother-in-law. They had talked of the Prince only last night and Guy had said he was in Brittany for no good and that they must take double care of Arthur.

She turned away from John, murmuring that she must leave him now, but when she walked towards the castle he was beside her. She went quickly to her apartments and there she asked one of her trusted women to bring Guy de Thouars to her. When he came and they were alone she embraced him.

‘Oh, Guy,’ she said, ‘I’m afraid … afraid for Arthur.’

‘Arthur is well cared for, my love, while we are here.’

‘There is something in John’s mind. I can see it. He came to me in the gardens. He has some plot brewing.’

‘We must be careful of him, and we are. We knew that from the start.’

‘I see him watching Arthur.’

‘Oh yes, he does not forget that Arthur has a greater claim to the throne of England than he has.’

‘That’s what terrifies me.’ She leaned her head against him and he rested his lips on her hair. ‘This is peace,’ she murmured. ‘Peace for just a few minutes.’

‘Nay, my love, longer than that. Arthur is well protected. His faithful squire sleeps across his door. ’Tis necessary while John is here.’

‘I wish he would go away.’

‘Then he would be somewhere else plotting against Arthur.’

‘At least he would not be so near him.’

‘Nay. ’Tis better he were where we can keep an eye on him. We will continue watchful. Never for one moment will we allow Arthur to be alone with him.’

‘Yet in the forest …’

‘He is always followed. I have seen to that. John but seeks to plague us. He would not allow harm to come to Arthur when it was known that they had been together. The people of Brittany would kill him before he had time to escape and Richard would not forgive him. He knows full well that that would be the end of his hopes.’

‘Life is so cruel,’ said Constance vehemently. She was thinking of her brief life with Geoffrey – perhaps it had not been idyllic but Geoffrey had been young and handsome and had a certain charm and it had resulted in her two children Eleanor and Arthur; it was after his death the nightmare had begun. Ranulf! She shuddered at the thought. What right had the King of England to give her to a man she loathed because it suited him to do so? That had been no marriage. She had fought desperately against its consummation and had quickly escaped from Ranulf, and the people of Brittany had rallied round her and she had had four years when she had governed the dukedom, and cared for Arthur, bringing him up in the way she wished him to go. Alas, Ranulf had after that time captured her and kept her a prisoner in his castle of St Jean Beveron but not before, with the help of good friends, she had been able to send Arthur out of harm’s way to the Court of the King of France.

It was the good people of Brittany who had helped to release her from her prison and fearing that the King of France might use Arthur to gain his own advantage, she had him brought back to her and thus they were together again; but never for a moment must Constance forget how important her son was to the affairs of Europe. There was the King of France on one hand and the King of England on the other, both seeking to use him against each other; but the real enemy was John – the uncle in whose way he could possibly stand, for in the minds of some people Arthur was a step ahead of him in the succession to the throne.

‘I almost wish Arthur were not his father’s heir,’ said Constance. ‘There are times when I wish we could go away together … you, I and my children, and forget Arthur’s inheritance.’

‘Do you really wish that, Constance?’ Guy asked wistfully.

And she could not answer truthfully because Arthur was her son and her love mingled with her ambitions for him. Arthur could be King of England and she could not forget that.

‘If Arthur were safe on the throne of England, in command of possessions here, if he were a few years older …’

‘While Richard lives, the boy is safe. No harm will come to him. Come, my love, forget your troubles. The boy is safe. None could be more carefully guarded.’

‘All the same,’ said Constance, ‘we will be wary of John.’

When John left Constance he went into the schoolroom where Arthur sat with his tutor. The boy’s fair head was bent over his books and John was amused to see how alert the tutor had become since his entry.

‘Ah, nephew,’ said John breezily. ‘I find you at your study. That is good. A boy can never learn too much. Is that not so, my good man?’

The tutor had risen. He bowed to John and replied that learning was an admirable asset to all.

‘Then we are in one mind.’ He nodded. ‘I wish to be alone with my nephew,’ he added.

The man had no recourse but to leave; but he would not go far, John thought with a smirk of amusement. His orders would have been: keep near and send word that Prince John is alone with the young Duke; and someone would be at hand to make sure no harm came to Arthur. He would do his best to lead them a merry dance.

‘Such a beautiful day,’ said John. ‘Not one to be poring over books.’

‘Lessons must be learned,’ said Arthur.

‘What a model pupil you are! I never was. I preferred the hunt and the good fresh air to poring over books.’

‘I can well believe that,’ replied Arthur. Insolent young dog, thought John with a sudden uprush of temper. Be careful, he advised himself. It’s necessary to play the good uncle here.

Arthur went on: ‘My mother thinks that I must spend much time in study and so did the King of France.’

‘I’ll warrant you and young Louis had good sport together.’

‘We hunted, we fenced and studied the art of chivalry …’

‘All that a prince should know, I’ll warrant – and more also. Come, we will go and ride together, eh … just the two of us.’ He said that very loudly for the sake of the listening tutor. Now there would be panic.

Like most young people Arthur loved to feel a horse beneath him; he had inherited the Plantagenet love of the chase from his father; and although he did not like his uncle – and being young and a little arrogant and well aware of his importance, he made little effort to hide the fact – he could not resist the suggestion that they should ride.

‘Come. Let us go.’

Arthur stood up. He was going to be tall and good-looking, resembling his late uncle Henry, who was the best-looking of all the sons of Henry II. His sojourn at the Court of France had had its effect on him; his manners were courtly and he wore his clothes with grace. The haughtiness was there, though; there was no doubt that Arthur was well aware of his importance.

They rode out side by side, their followers around them.

Constance, with Guy beside her, watched them from a castle window.

Guy said: ‘Don’t be afraid. There are trusted men with them.’

‘You know what he does. He contrives to get him away. Why?’

‘Because he finds great joy in torturing you.’

‘He’s a monster.’

‘I have heard that said of him.’

‘I would to God he would go away.’

‘He cannot stay here for ever. But when he goes let us not slacken our care. It may well be that Arthur is safer while he is here, for if aught happened to Arthur then he would be immediately blamed.’

‘I wish he would break his neck.’

‘I doubt you are not the only one who prays for that happy event. Nay, my love, do not fret, Arthur is with his friends and they will watch over him. This is for John a light diversion. One of his greatest delights is to frighten people and that is what he hopes to do now.’

‘A thousand curses on him.’

‘Amen,’ said Guy.

How pleasant it was in the forest. The boy’s face was alight with his love of the chase. John noted the clearness of his eyes and the freshness of his skin. He was too healthy to please his uncle.

A boy … nothing more. Twelve years old and to stand so much in his way! The people of England would never accept him, but over here they would. Normandy, Anjou … oh yes, they would be ready enough. And the King of France would doubtless like to see a minor on the throne of England and if he threw in his lot with Arthur …

When he thought of that his temper started to rise and he must keep it in check to a certain extent. Moreover, it hadn’t happened yet. Richard still lived.

They gave chase to a fine buck. Hunting was exciting; he loved the way in which the frightened animal fled; he liked the killing not to be accomplished too quickly. That took the fun out of hunting.

There was no chance on this occasion to get Arthur alone; no sooner had he eluded one than another rider seemed to appear. Madame Constance had given her orders. ‘Never leave Arthur out of sight when he is with his uncle John.’

He laughed aloud. He guessed Constance was now in a fever of anxiety and so would she remain until they returned to the castle. They would dally just to keep her in suspense.

The buck was slain; the bearer would take it to the castle.

Arthur shouted: ‘We go back now. I have had enough.’

You have had enough, my little nephew? thought John. What of your uncle?

John said: ‘’Tis such a pleasant day. Who knows, there may be another buck finer than the one we have captured lurking near.’

‘Nay,’ said Arthur. ‘My mother cares not for me to be away too long.’

‘Oh, but on this occasion she knows you are in the care of good Uncle John.’

Arthur was too young to dissemble. He opened his blue eyes very wide and began: ‘Oh, but …’ He stopped.

‘Yes, nephew?’ said John coaxingly.

‘’Tis nothing,’ replied Arthur. ‘I have had enough of the chase, though. I wish to see my mother’s delight when she sees the buck.’

‘We will not go yet,’ said John. ‘Such a fine young fellow has no wish to be governed by women.’

John spurred his horse and started to ride away, certain that Arthur after such a gibe would follow. Arthur shouted after him: ‘This is not women. It is my mother,’ and galloped off in another direction.

‘Curse him,’ muttered John. ‘The young coxcomb. I’d like to whip him till the blood flowed.’

But there was nothing he could do. His own followers, knowing well from past experience that Arthur’s departure would mean that the Angevin temper was on the rise, were aware how wise it was not to be too near their master. A cut of the whip could leave a life-long scar as a reminder of an ill-chosen word or action.

John rode off, his men a little distance from him, muttering curses against Arthur, the boy, the chit, who might easily stand between him and his ambitions.

It was dusk when he returned to the castle. He was in an ill mood. The groom hurried to attend to him and as he came from the stables he saw a man standing in the shadows. He paused. The man appeared to be a beggar and one of the contradictory characteristics of the violent Plantagenet Prince was that he was noted for his goodness to beggars. He rarely passed one without giving a coin which was strange for, although he spent lavishly on himself, he was known to be parsimonious with others. But a coin or so to a beggar was little compared with the gratitude it produced and he enjoyed distributing largesse to these people and earning their thanks. It was a cheap way of winning approval and one he rarely resisted.

So even now, in his evil mood, he paused to find a coin for the beggar.

‘My lord,’ said the man, ‘I am no beggar. I come in this guise with great news for you.’

‘News!’ whispered John. ‘What news?’

‘The King of England is dead.’

‘No.’

‘’Tis so, my lord.’

John seized the man’s arm. ‘How could it be?’

‘It was at Chaluz. It was said that treasure had been found and Richard wanted it.’

‘He would,’ said John. ‘Go on, man.’

‘In the seige an arrow pierced his shoulder. It could not be withdrawn and festered. He is dead. Long live King John.’

‘You’ll be rewarded,’ said John.

‘May God preserve you, my lord. I have come in stealth that you might know what has happened. Soon the news will be abroad … here … in this castle … everywhere.’

‘And what would happen to me here?’ asked John. ‘Because if they knew at this moment they would be for putting Arthur on the throne.’

‘I thought, my lord, you would wish to leave in all haste for Chinon.’

‘For Chinon and the royal treasure,’ cried John.

In the castle Arthur was telling his mother of the fine buck they had brought in, and the smell of roasting meat was in the air. But when the company assembled in the great hall it was discovered that Prince John and his followers were not present.

‘Can they have gone at last?’ cried Constance, her voice joyful.

‘It would seem so,’ said Guy, ‘but I wonder for what reason.’

They were to discover that the next day.

Richard dead. Then Arthur must be Duke of Normandy, Count of Anjou and King of England.

But by that time John had reached Chinon and possessed himself of the royal treasure.