The Prince of Darkness

Chapter IV THE GIRL IN THE FOREST

Surrounded by serious men, somewhat overawed by the ceremonies of centuries, remembering stories he had heard of his great ancestors William the Conqueror, Henry the Lion of Justice and even the virtues of his own father Henry II, John was temporarily ready to be guided.

His first task was to receive William Marshal, to let him know of his appreciation of what he had done and to express the hope that William would serve him in the same selfless manner as he had served his brother and father.

William assured him of his loyalty and John could not help being impressed in the presence of such a man. He confirmed his title of Earl of Pembroke which had come to him through his wife and showed himself ready to listen to William’s advice.

William was pleased that England had accepted him; and that Normandy too was with him. They would regain Anjou, he promised John. When a new king came to the throne there were always those who thought they had a greater claim. The main trouble would come from the Continent, but all the kings since the Conqueror had been faced with that difficulty.

It was from the North of England, however, that the first threat came.

William, King of Scotland, known as William the Lion, had sent messages to the effect that if John wished him to maintain the loyalty he had given to Richard he, William, would need to be compensated by the return of Northumberland and Cumberland to the Scottish Crown. Faced with the antagonism of Philip and armies under Constance and Arthur, John had replied placatingly to William, saying that if he would wait until he returned to England he would be happy to settle all his claims.

Now that he was back William wanted the territories he had claimed and sent another messenger to say that if they were not given up immediately he would perforce be obliged to take them.

William Marshal was inclined to think that the King of Scotland was bluffing and had no intention of engaging in a major war, but it was important that this did not take place, for clearly John’s first task was to win back Anjou and the property which Philip had taken from him.

‘Offer to negotiate with him,’ advised William. ‘Send him a soft placatory note and while your army is preparing for the Continent you might meet him somewhere. The Archbishop of York would conduct him over the border and you might travel to the Midlands and see him there. You must not give way. Parley with him. Make terms. Your father was an adept at such diplomacy.’

John was irritated by the Marshal’s frequent references to his father, but he had to accept them none the less. He mustn’t forget that William had been instrumental in getting him the crown and there had been opposition to it. He dare not offend William Marshal … not until he was more secure, of course.

John wrote to the King of Scotland as William Marshal dictated and a meeting was arranged at Northampton. When he reached that town there was no sign of William but a peremptory demand awaited him to the effect that if the territories were not restored immediately the large army which was on the Scottish borders would invade England.

John was in a quandary. How could he take on a war in the North when he had so much to regain on the Continent? This was not what he had thought of as kingship. Wars … wars … continual wars. What fun was there in that? He had always thought his father liked wars – though, when he came to think of it, Henry II was more of a diplomatist than a soldier. He had once said that he won more honours by negotiating and getting the better of his enemy at a conference than he ever had through fighting.

That was how John wanted it to be.

He had a stroke of real luck which was so unusual that it might be suspected of being contrived.

William of Scotland, ready to invade England, had visited one of the shrines of a Scottish saint; and while he knelt there, a voice was heard warning him against invading England which would bring sorrow and disaster to Scotland.

This had the desired effect. He disbanded his army and decided to shelve the matter of the Northern Provinces. It couldn’t have been more opportune from John’s point of view, and he was able to forget trouble on the northern border and sail for the Continent.

Joanna, with Berengaria, had reached Rouen where they planned to stay for a while as Joanna’s pregnancy was nearing its end. Those were sad days. Both queens were overcome by grief at Richard’s death and they would sit together talking of his virtues. Berengaria would forget the long years of neglect and remember only that brief period after his repentance when they had been together. Joanna liked to talk of the days when he had taken her across Aquitaine on her way to Sicily. She recalled clearly how the sun had glinted on his armour and how nobly he had sat on his horse.

‘It seemed inevitable that he should die young,’ said Joanna. ‘One could not imagine Richard’s ever growing old.’

Berengaria said: ‘Perhaps in time I should have had a child. I envy you, Joanna, in your happy state.’

‘To love is not always a happy state,’ Joanna comforted her. ‘There are continuous anxieties. In Toulouse we have a beautiful estate, fertile lands, faithful servants and good friends. But there are those who persecute us because we do not think as they do, and because we fear that Rome is at the heart of these persecutions we are afraid. It is for that reason I am here.’

‘I know, Joanna. But you have your husband who loves you, dear little Raymond and the new child who will soon be with us.’

‘And Richard is dead. My beloved brother … I never believed that he would not come back when so many thought he was dead. What a day of rejoicing it was when Blondel returned to tell us that he had found him! Ever since he took me to Sicily I had told myself Richard is here. Richard will protect me. You see he came to Sicily and I knew that as soon as he arrived I should cease to be Tancred’s prisoner and it came to pass. My beloved brother and champion! He would have saved us from those who now persecute us … and he is gone, so what will become of us?’

‘You have your husband. He will protect you.’

‘He is but the Count of Toulouse. Richard was ruler of England and his dominions here. Sometimes the weight of this tragedy descends on me and I feel life is more than I can bear.’

‘That is no way for a mother to talk,’ said Berengaria in mild reproof.

‘You are right, my dear friend and sister. What should I do without you?’

‘We shall always be together. I will stay with you, Joanna, as long as you want me.’

‘You know I should always want you but it may be that a husband will be found for you.’

Berengaria shook her head. ‘I have done with marriage,’ she said.

Joanna was on the point of saying that because one marriage had been a failure it did not mean that a second would be, but that seemed to cast censure on Richard, so she was silent. He had scarcely been as good a husband to Berengaria as he had been a good brother to her.

That night Joanna’s pains started. They went on all through the next day when it became clear that all was not going well.

The doctors were grave when Berengaria questioned them anxiously. Queen Joanna had suffered a great shock on the death of her brother and this had had an adverse effect on her health. She should have rested in Toulouse instead of travelling to Chaluz to see Richard.

The next morning the child was born, a poor sickly infant who was clearly not destined to live more than a few days. He was hastily baptised before he died.

Joanna lingered for a while but it was soon apparent that it could not be for long.

Berengaria was with her during the day and night, for Joanna found great comfort from her presence.

She said: ‘I am dying, Berengaria. Nay, do not deny it. I know it well. I can see the angel of death beckoning to me. There might be a few days left to me, but no more. I must repent of my sins and prepare myself to make my peace with heaven.’

‘You have led a good life,’ comforted Berengaria. ‘You need have no fears.’

But Joanna talked of her mother in the peace of Fontevraud and said it was her wish that before she died she should be veiled as a nun of Fontevraud.

She had one more request. She wanted to be buried in the Abbey of Fontevraud beside her beloved brother Richard whom she had survived such a short while. They would lie together, she said, at the feet of her father.

So she received the veil the day before she died and then her body was taken to Fontevraud where Queen Eleanor received it and carried out her daughter’s wish.

Berengaria, who went to the funeral, was stricken with grief. The companion of so many years, when they were in the Holy Land together and she gradually understood the nature of the man she had married, was gone for ever. The future looked bleak before her. She could go to her brother’s court or that of her sister. Neither promised her any great joy.

As for Eleanor, she was stricken and for the first time looked her great age.

She was not bitter as Berengaria expected she might be; she was merely resigned. ‘I have lost the two I loved best,’ she said, ‘and that in the space of a few months. My life is over. What is there left for me now but to wait for death?’

She would go into complete seclusion. She would remain at Fontevraud with the remains of her husband, and her beloved son and daughter.

‘My work is done,’ she said, ‘and there is nothing for me now but to wait for death.’

John, meanwhile, had arrived in Normandy at the head of a formidable army, and in one or two skirmishes with the French army was victorious, which led to a meeting being arranged between himself and Philip. The French King wanted the Vexin for himself and Anjou, Maine, Poitou and Touraine for Arthur, but with an army behind him John was in a position to snap his fingers at such demands; the result was war. John’s good fortune was that William des Roches, who was leading the Breton army for Constance, Arthur and Guy Thouars, could not agree with Philip and there was dissension between them. So greatly did they fear the King of France and his intentions towards Arthur that in a moment of panic they decided to place him temporarily under the protection of John.

John was delighted. He was in Le Mans at the time and he welcomed William des Roches with open arms.

‘Ah, my good lord,’ he said, ‘it pleases me that there are some wise men in the world. This conflict with my own nephew breaks my heart. I have never ill-wished the boy. I would his mother could be made to understand this.’

‘I am doing my best to make her do so. The King of France is quite perfidious. I never trusted him.’

‘Nor I,’ said John. ‘Where is Arthur?’

‘Not far from here. I will bring him to you, my lord, if you will promise to guard him until such time as he is safe from the King of France.’

‘Bring him to me with all speed. I will guard him with my life.’

John was inwardly exulting. The folly of others was always exciting. They were actually going to put Arthur under his protection! And Constance would be with him. That was highly amusing. He had to be grateful to William des Roches for quarrelling so fiercely with the King of France that he saw Philip was the very essence of villainy beside whom his other enemies seemed like saints.

From the castle tower John saw the party riding towards the castle – young Arthur between his mother and Guy de Thouars. He was Constance’s paramour, of course. That was obvious. John’s eyes narrowed as he thought of the sport he could have with those two if the opportunity arose, but his main concern must be with Arthur, of course, because Arthur was the great threat to his security and he was the very heart of conflict between them.

Rubbing his hands he went to greet them.

‘My dear, dear Constance,’ he cried. ‘It does me good to behold you. And Arthur! How you have grown, nephew! You are indeed a man. And here is the Viscount de Thouars, your very good friend. I thank you, my lord, for taking such good care of my sister-in-law and my beloved nephew.’

She was wary, that woman. It had been against her judgement that they were here, he was sure. She would never trust him. But how frightened she must be of the King of France to have allowed Arthur to be brought to him!

Arthur was too young to hide his resentment. He knew John had been crowned King of England and the arrogant young creature thought that honour should have been his. It was maddening to think that quite a number of people agreed with him. A dangerous boy, this one.

That was why he was going to be very welcoming to him.

Constance said: ‘We wish to shelter here for a short time. Our stay will not be long but if you would give us hospitality for a while we shall be grateful.’

‘I want no gratitude for that which can only give me great pleasure. Come into the castle. A feast is being prepared. I want you to know how happy I am to see you. I have always deplored that there should be conflict between us. Now we can talk as friends of any differences which may have arisen between us.’

Constance exchanged glances with Guy. Any differences! Only the usurpation of a throne! How could she have allowed William des Roches to persuade her to bring Arthur here? She only had to be in John’s company for a few moments for all her suspicions to be aroused. Surely Philip of France would have been the better choice even though there was disagreement between him and William des Roches. She had greatly feared that Philip would imprison Arthur. But what if John did the same? She knew then that she feared the King of England more than she did the King of France.

She was given a magnificent bedchamber and Arthur had the adjoining one. When they were alone together Arthur said: ‘My uncle seems very kind.’

She smiled wryly. ‘It is when he is most kind that I trust him least.’

There was a scratching at the door. Constance went to it and opened it cautiously. She fell back with relief. ‘Guy!’

Guy lifted his finger to his lips. ‘Depend upon it,’ he whispered, ‘there will be those to watch us. I like this not. We should never have allowed William des Roches to bring us here.’

‘But we are here now,’ said Constance, ‘and must needs make the best of it.’

Guy shook his head. ‘I have heard whispers,’ he said. ‘John will never let Arthur leave here. At first he will soothe us with soft words but his intention is to make Arthur his prisoner.’

‘That must never be,’ cried Constance.

‘So think I. God knows what would happen to Arthur if he fell into that monster’s hands.’

Constance clung to his arm.

‘Oh, Guy, what shall we do?’

‘We are not spending a night in this castle. I have given orders to men I can trust. Tonight when the castle is quiet we shall steal out to the stables and horses will be ready. We shall not stop riding until dawn.’

She leaned against him, her eyes half closed. ‘Oh, Guy, how thankful I am that you are with us.’

All through the night they rode towards Brittany where they could feel safe for a while. With dawn they came to rest at the residence of a knight whom they could trust.

Before they continued their journey Constance talked seriously to Guy about the dangerous position which Arthur was in. ‘It is strange,’ she said, ‘that as soon as I see John I sense that which is evil in him, although when I am not with him I can be led to believe that he is not as bad as I really know him to be.’

‘Never forget,’ said Guy, ‘that he fears Arthur will take what he wants, and which many believe by right is Arthur’s. Arthur will never be safe while John lives.’

‘It terrifies me. I would to God someone would kill him as they did his brother.’

‘It may happen, but until it does let us be on our guard.’

‘I know not what I would do without you, Guy.’

‘You know that you will never have to do without me, Constance. Let us marry.’

‘And the Earl of Chester?’

‘That was no marriage. You could surely get a dispensation. Marriage which was never consummated is no marriage at all.’

‘Guy, there is a priest here. He shall marry us. Then I shall know that we shall never be parted.’

‘It is what I hope for,’ he said.

And so immediately after their flight from Le Mans, Guy and Constance went through a ceremony of marriage.

When John heard that Arthur had escaped he fell into such a fury that none dared approach for the rest of the day. He threw himself on to the floor and rolled among the rushes, cramming handfuls of them into his mouth, grinding his teeth in his rage and then shouting to everyone what he would do to Arthur and his mother if ever they fell into his hands again.

Queen Eleanor was feeling her age, which was not surprising considering what it was. Few had lived as long as she had. In two years she would be eighty years old. There had been a time when she had thought she was to be immortal; but since Richard’s death she had lost that driving will and determination to live and some force had gone from her. It had surprised her that she had considered for a while settling down in Fontevraud and leading a semi-pious life of seclusion. How she would have laughed at herself a few years ago; now it seemed a quite desirable way of passing the time left to her.

But it was not to be so. Experience had made her wise and she was naturally astute. She had immediately seen what a precarious position John was in, largely due to the existence of Arthur. None could be more aware of John’s weaknesses than herself, but he was her son and in her opinion he came before her grandson. She would therefore do everything she could to maintain him on the throne.

Her duty had seemed clear to her. The peaceful life at Fontevraud must be ended and she must go to Aquitaine in order to hold it for John. If she did not, she was well aware that it would fall to Philip.

That she should ever be reluctant to go to the beloved country of her birth amazed her; it was only because the days of holding court were over and she knew she would be nostalgic for her youth – and even for the days when she had left that desirable state some way behind – and young men had composed their songs of praise to her beauty with words and music which throbbed with desire for the lady of Aquitaine. But who could honestly sing such songs to a woman close on eighty!

Some might try but she would laugh them to scorn if they did and they would soon desist.

The fact was that she must return, swear fealty to Philip as a vassal to France for Aquitaine and take up the reins once more – to hold them until such a time as they could safely be passed over to John. Then she would go back to Fontevraud to that life of quiet and seclusion which had suddenly become attractive to her.

She was often anxious wondering how John would be able to stand up to the wily, subtle King of France over whom Richard had held some spell, and wondering too how Philip felt about Richard’s death. As in every aspect of their relationship there must be contrasting emotions. While Richard lived there was no chance of Philip’s regaining those territories he so earnestly desired; but now John had stepped into Richard’s shoes? There were times when it was better not to look too far ahead, especially when it was likely that one would not be alive to see the catastrophe. But such was her nature that while she lived she would do everything to avoid it.

Messengers arrived at the castle, forerunners of a royal cavalcade at the head of which was her son John. She immediately gave orders for the preparation of a banquet, and went up to a turret to watch for the arrival. It was not long before she saw them approaching and she went down to greet them.

She embraced John warmly and together they went into the castle that she might hear what news it was that had brought him.

‘I met the King of France at Les Andelys,’ he told her, ‘and there is a truce between us. It is this that I wish to discuss with you.’

‘How did you find Philip? More amenable than usual, I’ll warrant,’ she said, a glint in her eyes and an excitement gripping her to feel herself once more at the centre of affairs. A life of seclusion for her! How would she endure it!

She was amused by Philip’s predicament. What a complex creature he was; and the fact that he was the son of her first husband had always made her interested in him. She would have enjoyed having him for a son; and she often wondered how a poor monk like Louis had managed to beget him. Philip was clever; in fact she wondered whether there was any man alive to compare with him in mental agility. He was ambitious but preferred to make his conquests through diplomacy and clever juggling than through fighting, which was the best way in the end if the desired result could be achieved. That had been her second husband’s virtue. Henry II had had a reputation as a great general and yet if he could avoid battle he did so. This she had always seen as the secret of his successes in his early days. Philip resembled him in that way. Richard – straightforward, seeing but one side to every question – had believed that war was the decisive weapon. It often was, and when conducted by the greatest soldier in the world, invariably successful, but it was the wily ones like Henry II and Philip who often achieved their ends at least cost.

It was strange that Philip, who had once so passionately loved Richard, should now be in love with a woman. But in love he must be to allow a relationship to affect him politically.

His first wife Isabella of Hainault had died some years before, leaving him a son, Louis. Three years after her death he had married Ingeburga, a princess of Denmark. As soon as the ceremony had taken place he took a violent dislike to her and refused to live with her. As was the custom in such cases with kings he at once trumped up a case of consanguinity which would render the marriage null and this was immediately confirmed by a French court which did not wish to displease the King.

It was not always easy, though, to rid oneself of a royal princess, for her family rallied to her and popes who were often amenable when one side was important and the other less so liked to be a little more careful when dealing with royalty on either side. Thus Pope Celestine quashed the decision of the French court and forbade Philip to marry again. Two princesses refused the honour of becoming Queen of France, fearing that they might not please Philip and their fate be like that of Ingeburga; but then he met Agnes of Meran and her beauty and grace charmed him to such an extent that he was determined, in spite of the Pope, to marry her. This he did. Celestine might have bowed to a fait accompli but his successor Innocent III was of sterner morals and, moreover, determined to exercise his power. He wrote to Philip to tell him that his conduct had brought upon him the wrath of God and the thunder of the Church and if Philip continued to live with Agnes he would impose the Interdict on him which meant that there would be no religious ceremonies and festivals in France.

Philip was furious and declared that he would do without the Pope. He had recently been fighting in the Holy Land, he said, and he noticed that the Saracens such as the great Saladin seemed to get along very well without the blessing of Rome.

This was the state of affairs at the French Court and Eleanor knew that although Philip might show bravado outwardly, he would inwardly suffer a few qualms – if not exactly on religious grounds; he would know that to go into battle without the Church on his side would have its effect on his followers.

So now Eleanor was smiling slyly, realising that Philip would be far more ready to come to a conference with John with the Interdict threatening him than he would otherwise.

‘Philip was ready to be reasonable,’ John told her.

‘I’ll warrant he was. He has his affair with the Pope to occupy him at this time.’

‘We talked,’ said John, ‘and we have come to agreement. He has accepted me as the heir of all that Richard held in France.’

‘Then we should rejoice,’ said Eleanor. ‘But doubtless you have had to make concessions.’

‘I have had to give up the Vexin.’

‘A pity, but naturally he would want something.’

‘And I have agreed to pay him twenty thousand marks.’

Eleanor grimaced, but a cunning look had come into John’s eyes. Agreeing to pay was not actually paying and he had little intention of keeping that side of the bargain. Philip might well be prepared for that, for he would have long ago summed up the man with whom he was dealing.

‘And,’ went on John, ‘here is something that will please you: my niece, your granddaughter Blanche, is to be betrothed to young Louis.’

Eleanor smiled and nodded. ‘So our little Blanche will be the future Queen of France.’

‘I knew that would please you. But the best is to come. Philip recognises that I am Arthur’s overlord.’

‘Ah,’ said the Queen. ‘Then you have indeed done well.’

‘There are some who think I have given away too much and they are nicknaming me John Softsword. By God’s teeth, if I were to catch those who mocked me in that way I’d flay them alive.’

‘Words are of no great importance, and in getting Philip to agree that Arthur must do homage to you you have done very well. Blanche should be brought from Castile before Philip has the chance to change his mind.’

‘I’ll send for her.’

‘Nay,’ said the Queen. ‘That’s not good enough. I shall go to Castile and bring her myself.’

‘You … you are capable of the journey?’

‘The day I am not capable of doing what I know must be done to hold the throne for my son, I shall be ready to be laid in my tomb. That day is not yet. I shall prepare for the journey at once.’ Her eyes shone with pleasure. ‘I shall be happy indeed to see your sister Eleanor. It is so rarely that I see my children, and then briefly.’

‘The journey will be arduous.’

‘My son, my life has been made up of arduous journeys.’

Eleanor was as good as her word. She made immediate preparations to leave for Castile and soon she was on her way.

John was pleased with himself. He knew that people had compared him with his brother Richard and whispered that he lacked his skill to rule. They should see. Hadn’t he already made a treaty with the King of France? Hadn’t he got an admission from him that he was Arthur’s overlord?

Now was the time for enjoyment and what better than the chase?

He gathered together his intimate friends – young men daring like himself, who applauded everything he did and made him feel that he was indeed the King. It was good to ride out in new forests and, after Eleanor had left, he spent days in hunting on his way north to Normandy. Like his ancestors, he loved the chase and to be in at the kill and to see a panting animal at bay gave him a pleasure so intense that it could only be rivalled by seeing human beings in a similar state of terror.

He was riding ahead with a party in the forests between La Marche and the Angoumois when he countered a party coming in the opposite direction. At their head was a very young girl. She could not have been more than thirteen years old, but as he looked at her something happened to John which had never happened before. That she was the most beautiful girl he had ever seen occurred to him immediately as it must to everyone else; but she had more than beauty. She was dainty, imperious, mischievous … all in the most beguiling manner, and he had an intense desire to seize her and carry her off.

He called a halt and the riders came up to him.

‘Tell me,’ he cried, ‘where do you come from and who are you?’

The young man who was riding beside the fascinating young girl replied: ‘I am Hugh de Lusignan, son of the Count of La Marche, and I might well ask what you are doing in my father’s territory?’

‘My good fellow,’ said John, angry lights leaping into his eyes, ‘I tell you this: you may be the son of the Count of La Marche and call this land yours. I am the Duke of Aquitaine under whom you hold this land. It would be well for you to remember it.’

The young man leaped from his horse and bowed low to John, whose good temper was restored.

‘Come, come,’ he said, ‘’twas a mistake easy made. Who is this lady whom you escort?’

‘She is my betrothed, my lord. Isabella, daughter of the Count of Angoulême, who is being brought up in my brother’s household.’

‘Charming,’ said John. ‘Charming, charming. The son of the Count of La Marche, you say. Well, a merry day to you.’

With that he nodded and rode on. His friends were astonished. They had seen the familiar look in his eyes as he had surveyed the girl and had expected him to take some action. It would not have surprised them if they had beaten off her protectors and abducted her.

He was thoughtful – unusually so – and it was clear that he was thinking of the young girl.

When one of them spoke to him, he did not answer. Instead he murmured: ‘The Count of La Marche. How many years think you before that marriage takes place?’

‘The girl is very young, my lord. ’Twould have to be two years at least.’

‘If it ever does take place,’ said John with a smile.

He couldn’t get her out of his mind. He dreamed of her. It was ridiculous, for she was only a child. She had looked at him in an odd way, too. There was nothing childish about that. Perhaps she was overawed, for she would know he was not only her father’s suzerain but King of England.

Why couldn’t he stop thinking of her? He could see her face clearly – that thick curling hair about the oval contours and the expression in those wonderful eyes that was half innocence, half knowledge. What an intriguing girl.

His instinct was to carry her off and seduce her without delay. Rape if necessary. Would it have been necessary?

But the daughter of the Count of Angoulême, the betrothed of the son of the Count of La Marche, could not be treated like a peasant. The Lusignans were a powerful family. They could raise the whole of Aquitaine against him, because the people didn’t want him, and he knew it. They accepted his mother joyfully because she was one of them. Hadn’t she been brought up there as the heiress of Aquitaine? But they had hated her husband and her sons. Richard had had to fight incessantly to hold that rebellious land. Much as he deplored the fact that he had not seized the girl, John knew very well that he had been wise not to.

He kept thinking about her. No woman could satisfy him now. Always he would see the lovely haunting face of the fairylike child in the forest.

He could not forget Isabella of Angoulême and it occurred to him that if he had not already a wife he might have made a match with Isabella. There was some grounds for it. After all, the Count of Angoulême would surely be pleased to see his daughter Queen of England; and such an alliance would no doubt change the antagonism of Aquitaine towards him. Of course Isabella was already affianced to one of the Lusignans and the Lusignans were a great fighting family. They wouldn’t be pleased, but one cannot please everybody all the time.

The more he thought of Isabella the more he was determined to marry her, for he realised that he could not abduct her and carry her away and keep her with him while she pleased him as though she were a girl with no important family; and he would never really enjoy sexual encounters with other women until he had satisfied his desire for this one.

There was only one way of getting Isabella and that was through marriage.

True, he had been married for the last ten years, since just before Richard’s coronation he had taken Hadwisa of Gloucester as his bride in order to possess himself of her rich lands. That he had done to his satisfaction and they had made him a wealthy man. It was long since he had seen Hadwisa; she loathed him and that had been the only attraction he had found in her, and he had had a certain amount of pleasure in inflicting his attentions on her only for that reason. Had she wanted him he would never have gone to her. But as she grew older and knew him better she steeled herself against her revulsion and that did not please him. She, however, achieved her wish, for he had rarely seen her during the last five years.

But a king must consider his successors. He did not want to be like Richard and leave no one to follow him. He wanted a son and delicious little Isabella should provide him – once he had rid himself of Hadwisa.

How? He could have her poisoned. No, better not. It would look suspicious if he married Isabella immediately afterwards and he wanted no delay in his marriage. After all he and Hadwisa were cousins and she had been very worried about the connection and tried to prevent the consummation of their marriage in the beginning.

The simplest way was a divorce. Or perhaps even that was not necessary. He would bring up the old charge of consanguinity. That should not be difficult because after all there was a strong relationship between them through Henry I who was the great-grandfather of them both – although Hadwisa came down through the illegitimate line – for his grandmother, Matilda, and Hadwisa’s grandfather, Robert of Gloucester, had been half-brother and sister. It was a strong blood tie and therefore it should be comparatively easy to dissolve the marriage.

None of his ministers would dare deny him a divorce. The Pope might be awkward, though, as he was being over the marriage of Philip of France. But if Hadwisa agreed, it should not be difficult. Then he would be free … free for Isabella …

As soon as he returned to England he rode to Marlborough Castle where Hadwisa lived.

She came down to the courtyard to greet him in the customary manner and to offer him the stirrup cup which he always made her drink first in case she had it in mind to poison him. Not that he really feared that. Hadwisa had no spirit; but one could never be sure with the quiet ones.

‘Ah, Hadwisa,’ he cried. ‘I trust I see you well.’

She drank from the cup without his pressing her to do so and handed it to him. He drank it and threw it from him. It clattered on to the cobbles as he leaped from his horse.

‘Come, Hadwisa. I have much to say to you.’

He slipped his arm through hers and was amused to feel her tremble. Did she think he had come to stay and spend the night with her? She was more repulsive than ever now that he compared her with Isabella. But he could still enjoy letting her fear what might be in store for her.

It might be amusing to torment her just once more. No, better not. What if he got her with child? He didn’t want that complication now. One of his excuses for ridding himself of her was going to be that she was barren and it was a king’s duty to get sons.

All the same he led the way to her bedchamber and waited a while for her to try to calm herself, to pretend that she was not fearful of what ordeal lay before her.

But he was too impatient for Isabella to enjoy plaguing Hadwisa. His one great desire now was to be rid of her.

He sat sprawling in a chair, his legs stretched out before him, and regarded the tips of his boots. ‘Well, Hadwisa, it was not much, was it, this marriage of ours? You know why, do you not? We should never have married in the first place. The blood tie was too strong. Our lusty great-grandfather should have remained faithful to his wife and then, my dear Hadwisa, you would never have been born.’

She bowed her head. She did not want him to see the hopeful lights which she knew must be shining from her eyes.

‘When I married you,’ he went on, ‘I was but the brother of a king. It seemed possible that Richard would have sons whom the people would say came before a younger brother. So I was allowed to marry you who, though of some royal blood, had come by it in a dubious manner.’

‘I was rich,’ she reminded him sharply.

‘There you have a point,’ he said. ‘Our great-grandfather was generous to his bastards.’

‘It may have been that, like his grandson, he found they served him well, even more loyally perhaps than his legitimate sons.’

She had some spirit after all.

‘Well,’ he said, ‘perforce they must. They would fare ill if they did not. A legitimate son has rights which a bastard would have to toady for.’

‘I cannot believe that my grandfather ever did that. By what I hear of him he was a most noble gentleman and the King was well aware of it.’

John made an impatient gesture. ‘I have not come here to talk of the merits of bastards,’ he said. ‘Hadwisa, you have come to great honour. Some might say you are a queen.’

‘Is not the wife of the King a queen?’

‘If he decides that she is. You remember you were never at Court. You were never beside me when I travelled. You were not crowned with me at my coronation. It is the custom for a queen to be crowned with her husband. Does this give you some idea of what is in my mind?’

He could see her heart beating wildly under her bodice. With hope, he believed. Oh yes, she wanted to be rid of him. She loathed him. She might easily have tried to poison him if she had had the courage. She had hated those occasions when he had turned his attentions on her even more than he realised. He would love to torment her now but he was too impatient to be rid of her.

‘The fact is, Hadwisa,’ he said, ‘that you have not given me a child. I have been married to you for ten years and although I admit you have not had so many opportunities, there have yet been some. I am a king. I must have an heir. So since you cannot give it to me there is only one alternative left to me. I must try elsewhere.’

‘You want to declare our marriage no marriage,’ she said calmly.

‘Failing that, there could be a divorce.’

‘There would be no difficulty,’ she said eagerly. ‘The Archbishop of Canterbury was much against our marriage.’

‘Oh yes, old Baldwin. He ranted, did he not? The blood tie is there, Hadwisa.’

‘Then you should marry again and perhaps this time you will get heirs.’

She was thinking: I pity your bride. But her relief must necessarily be stronger than her pity.

‘This is what I have come to tell you. I believe there will be no difficulty in releasing me from this marriage. I have already set matters in motion. I have chosen three bishops from Normandy and three from Aquitaine. I have no doubt what their verdict will be. The Pope will not interfere unless you raise a voice against it.’

She said, almost breathlessly, ‘You may rely on me. I shall raise no voice against it. I shall be happy with the conclusion you have come to.’

‘Then all is well,’ he said.

He stood up and looked about the room. He had had a little sport here, but not much. He had quickly tired of her terror.

‘Goodbye, Hadwisa,’ he said.

‘Goodbye, John,’ she replied in a subdued voice and never had she been so happy to say goodbye to anyone before.

He rode from the castle in high good humour.

Isabella, Isabella, he was thinking. I shall soon have you.

It must not be too obvious. He must wait for the verdict of the bishops. He had enjoyed explaining to them in a sanctimonious manner. ‘I have given this matter great thought. Hadwisa of Gloucester has been a good wife to me and I hesitate to put her from me. If I did not think it was the will of God …’

They had looked at him a little suspiciously then and he knew he had gone too far, so he had continued: ‘I must confess that it is the succession which is uppermost in my mind. I need a son. The country needs an heir. I want to do my duty to my people.’

They considered a while but not for long. It was good that the King should end his unfruitful marriage. It was true that when a king had a son it was the best thing possible for that son to follow his father to the throne. If there was no direct heir there was invariably conflict. It had happened so recently with John and Arthur.

The bishops decided – all six of them – that it would be good for John’s subjects if he married a wife who could give him an heir.

John was a free man and the Pope, after all the fuss there had been when he had married Hadwisa and the fact that they had been forbidden by the Church to live together, could not but agree. The only point which could have made him hesitate was if Hadwisa herself had raised an objection.

John was content. There was no fear of that.

He now amused himself by pretending to look round for a bride. He did not want anyone to know that he had found her already. He was going to discover when the time was ripe what a good thing it would be for him to marry Isabella of Angoulême.

In the meantime he discussed the possibility of his remarriage with William Marshal.

‘Richard did well by marrying Berengaria of Navarre,’ he said. ‘Navarre has been a good friend to our house. I would wish to preserve that friendship.’

William Marshal agreed that it was wise to do so.

‘But Navarre is threatened by Castile and Aragon because they are allies of the King of France. Now I have thought what a good policy it would be to use Portugal as an ally, which could be achieved.’

‘I see,’ said William Marshal, ‘you are thinking of the Portuguese King’s daughter. She is marriageable. It is an excellent idea. We should send envoys at once to Portugal.’

‘Let it be done without delay,’ said John.

So it was; and when he was alone he laughed heartily to consider the excitement in the Portuguese Court at the prospect of alliance with the King of England who owned large dominions on the Continent.

‘No, my Princess of Portugal,’ he whispered. ‘I am not for you, and you are not for me. There is only one who will do for me. Isabella.’