The Revolt of the Eaglets

Chapter XIV THE DEVIL’S STRAIN

Henry could not help congratulating himself. Louis was dead, and therefore the controversy over Alice’s marriage must necessarily be put aside. He knew of course that it would only be a temporary respite, and that young Philip would probably very soon be wanting to know what was happening to his sister.

But Philip was only a boy, and Henry had already implied that he wished him to look upon him as a father. That he was a headstrong boy was clear, but Henry had an uneasy feeling that when he had a little experience he would not be as weak as his father had been. Henry would have to keep a sharp eye on what was happening in France.

There was news from Aquitaine that there was revolt everywhere. The people wanted Eleanor freed, and sent back there. That should never be.

Sancho of Navarre had sent him a message telling him that he was disturbed by events in Aquitaine and how it was his belief that there would never be peace until Eleanor returned.

He had thanked Sancho for his advice and had told him that although he could not free Eleanor at this time, for Sancho must understand how dangerous to him that would be, he would allow her a little more freedom. For instance if visitors came to England she could come to Court to see them, or they might visit her. But to have her roaming the world free to harm him, was something to which he could not agree.

While he was pondering these matters, a message arrived from the young King of France to tell him that Philip of Flanders had turned traitor and had made a pact with the King’s uncles who were now threatening to march against him and take the throne from him. As Henry had assured him that he might regard him as his father, that was what he was doing now. He begged a father’s help.

Henry smiled. Of course he would help young Philip. The Count of Flanders had too big an idea of himself. There was a man who must be watched.

Henry would send his sons to the aid of the King of France. Young Henry should go with Geoffrey and because military skill would be needed he would send Richard too. Young Philip must be shown that he could trust Henry Plantagenet and then perhaps he would not make demands for the marriage of his sister.

Young Henry arrived in Paris followed shortly by his brothers Richard and Geoffrey.

With Richard came a troubadour warrior, Bertrand de Born. He was the castellan of Hautefort and a man whose reputation as a poet was beginning to equal that of Bernard de Ventadour.

His songs, it was said, were an inspiration to any who were about to go into battle and were considered to be an important part of any campaign.

Young Philip welcomed them warmly and there was a feast in the great hall followed by songs of love and war. Philip had changed already from the petulant boy he had been at the time preceding his father’s death. It was as though a sudden realisation had come to him of the hazards of his position, and he seemed to have grown wise in a few months. He listened intently to Richard’s advice for he realised quickly that Richard was the one who knew how to succeed in battle. None could deny the social graces of the young Henry and Geoffrey too, who was a shadow of his elder brother, but it was Richard whom he needed now.

What a man Richard was with those cold blue eyes and that wonderful light-coloured hair! Most of all he was to be admired for his great stature, and the fact that he was sometimes in the grip of that strange ague rather added to his essential virility.

Philip was attracted by Richard.

While Philip was admiring Richard, Bertrand de Born was watching Henry. Bertrand thought he had never seen such a magnificent specimen of manhood as the young King of England.

Henry was known as the handsomest Prince in Christendom and rightly so. His countenance was as fair as any woman’s; his manners were graceful and charming. He was not a fighter as his brother Richard was. He was a man to win through his charm rather than his sword.

How much better for Aquitaine, thought the troubadour, if Henry had become its Duke instead of Richard.

Richard was animated, talking of the campaign they would wage against Philip of Flanders and the house of Blois.

Philip listened gravely.

‘I give you command,’ he said, ‘for I have complete trust in you.’

He was right to be trustful. They went into action riding side by side and it was as Philip had known it would be. Philip of Flanders, driven to his castle, remained there besieged until he was forced to beg for mercy.

The revolt was put down.

There was no doubt whose military genius was behind this.

Bertrand de Born found an opportunity of talking with Henry.

‘I have written verses to you, my lord. May I have your permission to sing them to you?’

Henry, who could accept any amount of flattery without suspecting an ulterior motive, was ready enough to listen.

He knew he was handsome, but it was pleasant to see himself through the eyes of the poet. The poet was in love with him. That was amusing, but Henry had never been interested in passionate attachments with members of his own sex. He liked women.

Then Bertrand made a remark which immediately caught his attention.

‘How different you are from your brother Richard. The people of Aquitaine will never accept Richard, but they would accept you.’

‘How so?’ asked Henry.

‘If you were their Duke …’

‘I am the Duke of Normandy, Count of Anjou and King of England. Richard was given Aquitaine.’

‘The people of Aquitaine prefer to bestow themselves.’

‘Do you mean they would bestow themselves on me?’

‘If you came to take Aquitaine they would give it to you.’

‘How could I take what is my brother’s?’

‘How can Aquitaine be your brother’s, if the people reject him?’

‘It is my father they reject … and his sons with him.’

‘They do not reject your mother.’

‘Richard is her son. She chose him for this inheritance.’

‘And where is she now? A prisoner! The people would accept you if they were led to it.’

‘Who would lead them?’

‘There is something more powerful than the sword. You may not believe me. But I know that my people are swayed more by poetry than by battle cries.’

‘It could be so.’

‘It shall be so, my lord, if it is your wish.’

Henry was excited. He wanted the thrill of adventure without the discomfort. It would delight him if the people of Aquitaine begged him to come to be their Duke. He would say, ‘What can I do? We must have peace in Aquitaine. The people want me. They are demanding me. They will not have Richard.’ How amusing! Richard who was the great fighter! Richard, who could not keep Aquitaine in order!

Bertrand de Born crept a little nearer and touched Henry’s sleeve.

‘You could try it,’ said Henry.

‘I will do it,’ cried Bertrand de Born. ‘I will have all Aquitaine in arms, demanding that Henry be their Duke.’

Henry hesitated a moment.

‘Why do you do this?’ he asked.

The poet bowed his head. ‘Because I love you,’ he said.

Henry smiled – not entirely displeased.

Philip said to Richard: ‘So now will you go away?’

‘I am needed in Aquitaine.’

‘They are still in revolt against you?’

‘It is ever so. While I am there I can keep some sort of order. When I go away they become overbold.’

‘They say you are ruthless, Richard, a cruel ruler. Is that so?’

‘I am determined to keep order if that is what you mean.’

‘Ever after I shall regard you as my brother. You have saved my throne for me.’

‘I do not think you will have more trouble with your rebellious subjects.’

‘Nay. Philip of Flanders knows himself for a defeated man.’

‘Beware of him.’

‘Indeed I shall.’

Philip raised his eyes to those of Richard. How tall he was, how magnificent! he thought. He had never seen a man who gave such a feeling of power.

‘It grieves me,’ said Philip, ‘that you must go. I would have banquets, tournaments to entertain you.’

‘Alas, my lot is not for such entertainments.’

‘You must protect your Duchy. But know this, I am your friend and brother.’

‘I shall remember it.’

The King laid his hand on the Duke’s arm.

‘I shall look to see you soon,’ he said; his voice shook a little. ‘Nor shall I be content until I do.’

Their eyes met and for a few seconds they looked at each other. Then Philip took Richard’s hand and kissed it.

The King had no wish to leave England, but when had he ever been able to follow his own wishes? His presence was needed across the water and he must say farewell to Alice. How she had grown up in the last year! She was no longer a child. He had loved her fresh young innocence but in one way he was glad to see her mature; he was as enamoured of her as ever which might be a sign that he was growing old. Even the lustiest men were slowed down by the years, and fidelity to one woman was something which came with age.

His determination to keep her was as strong as ever. He told himself that he could not in honour allow a woman who had borne his child to become the wife of his son. Moreover, he could be sure that someone would have discovered the secret and be prepared to use it against him. The truth was that he wanted to keep Alice for himself. He wanted to settle down with Alice. He wanted his family around him – a loving gentle wife as Alice would be to him and his sons eager to support him in all he did. Those were the family joys which all men – be they kings or serfs – had a right to. Was he asking too much?

Always statecraft came between him and his desires. He must always ask himself what was good for England or for his dominions overseas before he considered his own personal needs. Now he wished to stay with Alice and he must cross the sea, for there was work to be done. It was imperative that he keep on good terms with her brother, the King of France, and he could best do this by bringing about some sort of treaty between young Philip and the Count of Flanders.

Flanders was in no position to dictate terms and it proved to be not difficult to get a promise from him to make good the damage he had caused.

Aquitaine was very much on the King’s mind and while he was dealing with the French agreement Geoffrey arrived from Brittany. Geoffrey was suave and noted for his gracious manners and it occurred to the King that he would be a good mediator between Richard and those knights who were making trouble in Aquitaine.

‘Go to Aquitaine, my son,’ said the King. ‘Talk to these nobles, study their grievances and try to bring about some understanding between them and your brother Richard. Point out to them that only if there is friendship between them can there be peace in Aquitaine.’

Geoffrey set off. He was a born intriguer and was constantly considering how everything could be turned to his advantage. He had heard some of Bertrand de Born’s songs and believed that the people of Aquitaine would not have Richard but would be willing to set up his brother Henry as their Duke in Richard’s place, so it seemed to Geoffrey that Henry had a good chance of triumphing over Richard and he, Geoffrey, wished to be on the winning side. So instead of following his father’s commands, he intrigued on behalf of Henry, extolling his brother’s virtues and explaining to the nobles of Aquitaine how much happier they would be under Henry than Richard.

The King, meanwhile, having completed the treaty between the King of France and the Count of Flanders turned his attention to Aquitaine. He marched into the Duchy, and called a meeting of those who were in rebellion against Richard for the purpose of coming to terms with them. Since these rebels believed that they were about to depose Richard and set up Henry in his place they refused to come to the meeting.

So it was that because of the intrigues of young Henry and Geoffrey neither side knew what the other was aiming at and there was complete confusion. In the meantime, young Henry had arrived at Limoges where he was greeted as the new Duke. He accepted the people’s homage and then marched on to join his father and Richard, who had no idea what he had done.

Face to face with his father Henry found it impossible to explain that he had been accepted as Duke and when the King told him that he had arrived in time to take part in suppressing those who were in revolt against Richard, he could not find the courage to do anything but join with them.

The people of Aquitaine were naturally bewildered. Henry, whom they had believed was to be their new Duke, was now fighting with his father and brother Richard whose object could only be to put Richard in command.

Young Henry knew it would always be thus. He could never stand up to his father and it was only when the King was far away that he believed he could. He was in a state of great anxiety fearing what would happen when his father discovered his perfidy.

It seemed like a miracle when news reached them that his sister Matilda, who was married to the Duke of Saxony, was on her way to Normandy.

She was in great distress because her husband had been involved in a dispute with the Emperor Frederick Barbarossa who had confiscated his lands and sent him into exile. She and her family had nowhere to go and she implored her father to come to her aid immediately.

The King, desperately seeking affection from the members of his family, was happy to be called on.

He sent for his sons. ‘The rebellion in Aquitaine is crushed,’ he said. ‘There should be little trouble now. I will leave you here and go to Normandy to see what can be done for Matilda and her family.’

Young Henry congratulated himself that he had slid out of a very awkward situation. The King had left for Normandy and young Henry was now free to indulge in secret negotiations with the knights of Aquitaine whose passions and resentments were being whipped up by the songs of Bertrand de Born.

The King was briefly happy to be reunited with his daughter. She needed him, and he longed to be needed. She and the Duke of Saxony had three children – Henry, Otto and Matilda. The King grew sentimental watching them. He played with his grandchildren, and they crawled all over him, tweaked his hair and called him Grandfather. He remembered his mother’s telling him how his grandfather King Henry I had loved him and his brothers – but particularly him; and how men trembled in his grandfather’s presence while he, the baby grandson, had pulled the great man’s nose and had no fear of him.

I would, he thought, my sons had loved me.

As he played with the children he thought of the days when his sons and daughters were in their nursery. What a beautiful child young Henry had been! And he was still very handsome. In spite of all that had happened Henry was his favourite son. How could he help but be proud of such a handsome young man? Henry could charm him when they were together to such an extent that he would forget the promptings of common sense against his better judgement and believe in his son’s affection. Geoffrey was the same in a slightly less charming way but still a boy to be proud of. Richard? Well, there had always been animosity between them, but Richard too was a son of whom any man must be proud. And there was John – no longer so young, being nearly fifteen.

He was growing sentimental with the years. He wanted to believe in them and as he had made a habit of getting what he wanted he kept this belief. But his shrewdness often got the better of his great desire for affection. Then he would ask himself which of them was going to betray him next, and whether, when John grew older, he might not be as false to his father as his brothers had been.

He needed this short respite with his grandchildren. They were too young to be aught but honest with him.

When his father had gone, young Henry’s ambitions grew.

He was no longer a boy. It was twenty-eight years since he had seen the light of day. Oh, God, he cried, shall I be treated as a child until I die?

Bertrand de Born was singing songs describing Henry’s beauty and valour. He wrote of the yoke under which the people of Aquitaine suffered. Richard the ruthless and cruel had put that there, this harsh son of a harsh father, this Viking man, with his yellow hair and steely blue eyes. Yet there was one whom the whole world loved, a beautiful gentle man, who hated wars and loved song and poetry. Richard did too, but this man would sing of love not war. Henry loved pleasure. He was generous hearted; he excelled at the tournament – Richard did too but Richard would rather indulge in actual warfare. He could see no glory in the mock battle. Henry was waiting to take Richard’s place. Let them welcome him with open arms.

Here they were waiting to receive him, thought young Henry, and his father treating him like a child!

He wondered whether news of what was happening in Aquitaine had reached his father’s ears. Of course there was a little explaining to be done about his accepting the acclaim of the people and then joining Richard and his father and acting as though he were in their camp.

Before his father could hear of his conduct he took up an offensive attitude and wrote to the King imperiously demanding to be given control of Normandy.

The King’s answer came back promptly. He was holding his dominions while there was life in him, was the answer. Suffice it that a good and obedient son should honour his father and be prepared to serve under him. Must he remind Henry that once he had taken an oath in which he had sworn to follow this course?

Young Henry stamped and swore with rage when he received his father’s reply.

‘It is no use, Henry,’ soothed Marguerite. ‘Your father will never give up anything while he lives.’

‘Then I shall perforce take it,’ cried Henry.

She smiled at him soothingly. He knew as well as she did that he could never take anything that his father did not wish him to have.

‘There is nothing for me to do but take Aquitaine,’ declared Henry. ‘If I have it and the people acclaim me my father must perforce allow me to keep it.’

Marguerite was uncertain but she knew that it was no use trying to oppose her husband.

An opportunity arose at that moment and it was brought to his notice by Bertrand de Born who had written a song which troubadours were singing all over Aquitaine.

A castle had been built near Mirabeau which was close to the frontiers of Poitiers but which was actually in Anjou. Anjou was of course that territory over which young Henry would have held sway had he been allowed to. Richard had built this castle and in doing so he had strayed beyond Aquitaine into Anjou.

Would the young King allow this insolence to go unchecked? He must be most displeased that the tyrant Richard had encroached on his land.

When young Henry heard the news and the song which was being sung in every hall where knights gathered together he was angry. He would have to do something about it or people would jeer at him. Bertrand de Born would not go on loving a man and writing enchanting verses about him if he proved himself to be too meek to stand up against his insolent brother.

He sent a message to his father demanding that Richard give him the castle since it was on his land.

When the King received the message he groaned aloud. Who would have children? He had gone wrong somewhere. No one could call him a weak man and yet he had failed with his family.

This time Richard was at fault. He should never have built a castle outside Aquitaine.

He sent a message to Richard, saying that it had come to his ears that the castle built near Mirabeau was in fact in Anjou. This had understandably offended his brother Henry and it was only right that having committed the offence he should pass the castle over to his brother.

Richard’s retort was that he would not yield the castle. It was necessary for the defence of Poitiers because the city was unprotected on its north flank.

Henry could always more easily be roused to anger through Richard. Of this son he was unsure. That he was steadier than his brother, more honest and reliable he could not fail to know. That he was a great soldier and a man dedicated to duty he knew too. But between them was an emotion so fierce that it could not be quelled and it was largely made up of hatred. Richard hated him for what he had done to his mother; and he disliked Richard who had turned away from him as a child and that dislike had turned to hatred because he had wronged him through Alice.

He sent a message back at once. ‘Hand over the castle or I shall come and take it from you.’

The last thing Richard wanted was war against his father. He needed his help badly. He could not hold down Aquitaine and fight his father at the same time.

‘I shall not give the castle to my brother Henry,’ he wrote, ‘who is working against me here in Aquitaine. I will give the castle to you if you will judge whether it should be in my hands or not since it is necessary to the defence of Poitiers.’

When the King received this message he was very disturbed. Henry working against Richard! Oh, no, Henry could not be such a fool. He sent back a message at once to Richard. It should be as he wished. He would make the decision as to whom the castle should belong and he wished his son to come with all speed to Angers for he had something of importance to say to him.

Henry met his three sons at Angers, whither he had summoned them all.

‘I have brought you here because there is something of great moment which I must say to you. It has been brought to my notice that there is some conflict between you, and I command you to end this strife. You must understand that all your strength is in your union. We have great dominions and if we are to keep our grip on them we must stand together. When there is trouble in our midst then do our enemies rejoice. There must be no such jubilance among our enemies. In our discord is their triumph.’

Young Henry looked bland enough although he was secretly smiling. What would Richard say if he knew that Aquitaine was ready to turn him out and accept his brother Henry?

‘Once,’ went on the King, ‘you swore to serve me all my life. Sometimes I think you have forgotten that, for the way you can serve me ill is to war against each other. I am going to command you to swear fidelity towards each other now … here this moment.’

Young Henry was not deeply perturbed. His father broke his word continually and men respected him. There was no reason why he should not follow him in that.

‘Henry is my eldest son,’ went on the King, ‘and as such he will be King of England and hold rights over those lands which are mine. Richard and Geoffrey, you will hold Aquitaine and Brittany through the grace of your brother. You will therefore swear fealty to him.’

Young Henry smiled, well pleased with this arrangement. Not so Richard. His eyes were cold as steel and if his hands trembled slightly it was with the ague and as his family knew they must not misconstrue the reason for the tremble.

Unlike his brother Henry, Richard was not capable of deceit. Had he not been nicknamed ‘Richard Yea and Nay’ because he would give a clear confirmation or denial to any question and he would mean it? He was not afraid of the truth.

He said now: ‘I shall not do homage to my brother for Aquitaine. It was my mother’s wish that I should inherit her lands. I do not owe it to you, and it has nothing to do with your dominions. Henry may be your eldest son but I am your son also and the son of my mother. I will give homage to no one for Aquitaine save the King of France which custom and tradition demand.’

Curse you, Richard, thought his father yet half admiringly. You are right of course. Aquitaine is not Normandy nor Anjou. But why cannot you be an obedient son!

‘You will obey my wishes,’ he shouted.

‘I shall do no such thing.’

The King whipped up his rage but he felt no real anger, only fear of this son who was the betrothed of Alice. He could not help even at this moment wondering what he would say if he knew that she had been seduced by his father and had already borne him a child.

Richard turned away.

‘Come back,’ cried the King; but Richard took no notice.

The King stood looking at his sons Henry and Geoffrey.

‘By God’s eyes,’ cried the King, ‘I’ll not be flouted by my own sons.’

‘Richard declares he will be curbed by no one,’ said Henry.

‘You have seen him defy me,’ replied the King. ‘What will you do about that?’

‘Methinks,’ commented Henry, ‘that your son Richard should be taught a lesson.’

Then we are in complete agreement,’ said the King.

Young Henry was exultant.

Richard had played right into his hands. If he were going to teach Richard a lesson how could he do it better than by taking Aquitaine?

Richard meanwhile was riding back to his Duchy.

Young Henry, with Geoffrey beside him, exultantly rode towards Aquitaine.

‘Now,’ he said, ‘we will show our father of what stuff we are made! Richard too. They have had enough of him in Aquitaine. They like not these stern men who call themselves just. Richard with his warlike ways and the fierce punishment he metes out to offenders has lost their regard. They want to be rid of him. I know how the people of Aquitaine wish to be ruled and it fits in very well with what I want.’

He thought of himself presiding over the great tables in his castles. There would be song and laughter; he would delight his subjects with the tournaments he would devise. He saw himself riding into the arena and the ladies would smile at him from the dais. All would vie with each other for his favours. Marguerite would be proud of him. He would wear her colours.

That was the way to rule. That was the way the Provençals wanted it. Richard had no understanding of them.

What great good fortune for him that Richard was hated so much.

When he reached the borders of Aquitaine many nobles were waiting for him and with them their followers.

He would have a great army. He could not fail.

Very well, Richard, he said to himself, you would not swear fealty to me. I can do without your oath. I shall simply take what you will not give.

When the King heard what was happening in Aquitaine he was filled with anxiety.

Brothers fighting against each other! It was the way to disaster.

What kind of men have we bred between us, Eleanor and I? he asked himself. Why was it that the sons he had had by other women had been his good and loyal subjects? Was it, as Eleanor had said, because they had no rights and all their benefits came from him, whereas those who had been born in wedlock believed what was his became theirs by right. Was it because his union with Eleanor had always been doomed?

There were rumours about his ancestors. It was said that one of the Counts of Anjou when riding in the forest met a woman of such beauty that he was captivated by her and married her. Her beauty was such that all marvelled at it; however she was reluctant to enter a church and when she did always left before the consecration of the Host. This puzzled her husband and several years after their marriage one day just as she was about to leave the church he caught hold of her cloak and he would not release it.

Suddenly she was said to have floated upwards, holding two of her children by the hand. She disappeared, leaving her bewildered husband holding her cloak. It was said that she was a witch and a servant of the devil. Although she had taken two children with her she had left two behind and one of these became the next Count of Anjou.

This legend lived on and because of it many said that there was a satanic streak in the blood of the Angevin Counts.

Was it true? wondered Henry. Had it come down through him? Was it this in him which had made him seduce his son’s betrothed? Was it this that set his sons warring against each other and their father?

Nay, he told himself, it is from their mother that they get their natures.

What was his sin in taking Alice compared with Eleanor’s incest with her uncle?

And what could be expected of the offspring of twp people such as himself and Eleanor?

But he must stop this brooding. There was work to be done. He would go with all speed to Limoges where Henry was encamped and put a stop to this attempted fratricide without delay.

On the way he met Richard who welcomed his coming.

With his father on his side against his brothers he could not fail to succeed.

‘This grieves me greatly,’ said the King. ‘Does nothing I say have any effect on you?’

‘You have always favoured Henry,’ Richard reproached him. ‘Yet he has deceived you right and left, and shown quite clearly that he is unfit to govern.’

‘He is my eldest son and you have all defied me. My sons are a bitter disappointment to me … except John.’

‘John is as yet too young to have a mind of his own,’ replied Richard.

‘I trust in his affection.’

The King decided that he would have to parley with Henry who was in Limoges.

‘I will accompany you,’ said Richard, ‘and we will take a company of troops with us.’

‘Nay,’ said the King. ‘I’d have them know I come to talk in peace. They will recognise me and no harm will come.’

‘I trust them not,’ said Richard.

‘You will remain here while I go forward to the town and I shall take with me but a small company of knights.’

‘I do not like it,’ replied Richard.

‘My son, you will have to learn that I do as I will.’

As he rode forward he was thinking: Oh, Henry, my son, why cannot you be the affectionate little boy you were in the nursery, before your mother changed you? Why did your ambitions have to rob you of your sense of honour? How can I give you what you ask? I must rule. I am experienced in the ways of rulers. You do not understand. To rule is not to enjoy a life of pleasure. What pleasure I have had has been snatched in between forays here, punitive expeditions there and all the cares that beset a king who has wide-flung dominions. If you understood you would rejoice that I am here to rule and you to learn from me so that in time you can keep your kingdom in your hands.

They were approaching the town. He rode at the head of the company. Above his head fluttered his pennant proclaiming him as the King of England, sovereign of them all.

Suddenly a stream of arrows shot up in the air. One of his men shouted: ‘The King comes.’

There was another flurry of arrows. One pierced the King’s cloak.

‘My lord,’ said his standard bearer, ‘they know who you are and they are trying to kill you. We are not fitted to meet their attack.’

‘You are right,’ said the King. ‘We will turn back.’

He withdrew the arrow from his cloak.

He looked at it. It could so easily have pierced his heart. And Henry’s men had sent it.

Back in his camp he told Richard what had happened.

Richard’s cold face expressed no fear for what might have happened; there was only scorn for his father’s folly. Had he not warned him? Why did he go on trusting his eldest son when time after time he had been proved to be of a light nature capable of playing the traitor to his father and brother?

Henry sat ruminating, the arrow before him.

My son wishes me dead. So does he long for my crown that he would hasten my end to attain it. There was a sadness in his heart, and more than ever he yearned for the affection of his family.

As he sat brooding a messenger came in to tell him that his son Henry was without and begging to be seen.

‘Send him to me,’ he said.

Henry came in; he took off his helmet and his beautiful fair hair fell about his face; he knelt before his father.

‘Well, my son,’ said the King.

‘Oh, Father, when I saw what had happened …’

‘You saw the arrow, did you? You saw it pierce my cloak?’

‘I rejoice that it was nothing but your cloak.’

‘St Thomas was watching over us … you and me. He saved me from death and you from becoming your father’s murderer.’

‘Oh, God help me,’ murmured Henry.

He lifted his face to his father’s and there were tears in his eyes. The King stood up and drew his son to his feet. He embraced him.

‘My son, my son,’ he said, ‘let us put an end to this strife.’

‘Oh, Father, you forgive me then?’

‘I know it was not you who shot the arrow.’

‘Nay, but it was those who thought to serve me.’

‘We must put an end to this strife, Henry. It will destroy us all.’

‘I know it, Father. And this day … when I thought you could have died …’

‘We will forget it. You are my son and I must love you. You know full well how I have always deplored this rift between us.’

‘If you would but give me some authority …’

‘I shall … in time. I grow old and because I have lived many years I can control my territories. There is so much to learn and when you have learned, all that is mine will pass to you.’

‘Oh, Father, give me your blessing.’

He knelt and the King laid his hands on his head.

Afterwards they talked awhile. ‘It would seem,’ said young Henry, ‘that you have sided with Richard against me and Geoffrey.’

‘It is you and Geoffrey who have made this unfortunate affair. Richard is Duke of Aquitaine by his mother’s wish.’

‘But you commanded him to swear fealty to me.’

‘I want no war between you. I want you to stand together. It is imperative that you do.’

‘Father, I have influence in Aquitaine. The people want me as their Duke – not Richard. You know how harsh he is. He calls it justice. He has inflicted terrible punishments on those who had worked against him whom he calls traitors. They will not accept Richard. But I could persuade them to accept you.’

‘Would you do this?’

‘I would, Father, for I now see that it is the best course. Richard they will not have. But if you offered to mediate with them and let them decide whom they would accept as their Duke there could be peace. Let me return to them as your emissary.’

‘Go then,’ said the King.

Young Henry went and the King continued to regard with the utmost sadness the arrow which had pierced his cloak.

Geoffrey was waiting for his brother in the town of Limoges.

‘I talked to the old man,’ said Henry. ‘He forgave me. There were tears in his eyes. How is it possible that a great king can be such an old fool?’

‘What now?’ said Geoffrey.

‘We have the people with us. We shall win. My father will see that he can do nothing here. He will have to take Richard back with him. Once they called our brother John Lackland. Perhaps they will now say the same of Richard, once Duke of Aquitaine. We will now set about fortifying this town. The King will then understand that it is not his for the taking.’

The King was the first to see that he had once more allowed himself to be deluded by his son. What had been Henry’s motive in coming to make his peace? To gain time perhaps for the fortification of Limoges?

‘I have bred a nest of vipers,’ said the King. ‘But at least I am their father.’

He had decided what he would do: he would ride boldly into Limoges and demand to speak to his sons.

He came this time with an even smaller company; there was merely his standard-bearer and two other knights.

As he approached close to the city walls a shout went up and he saw his sons Henry and Geoffrey watching from the battlements.

Then as before came the shower of arrows; this time his horse fell to the ground taking him with it.

So now they have done it! thought Henry.

He was surprised to find that although his horse had been killed, he himself was unhurt. The knights had leaped from their horses.

‘I am unhurt,’ he said. And he thought: And never so bitterly wounded. They are bent on my death. God help me and God help them.

Someone was riding up to him. It was his son Henry.

He laughed bitterly. ‘What?’ he said to him. ‘Failed again?’

‘What mean you, Father?’

‘You have killed my horse. Had he not reared at precisely the moment he did, the arrow would have gone where it was intended to go, through my chest.’

‘Oh, my father!’ Tears once more in the beautiful eyes! Oddly enough the King was touched by them. He did not believe in them but still he was glad to see them there.

This was an enemy, this son. Where his children were concerned he might be a sentimental old man, but he was not so foolish as to refuse to admit the truth when it had stared him in the face for so long.

This son of his whom he had loved – more than any of the others – was a traitor to him. He wanted him dead. On two occasions in the space of a few days he had been nearby when an attempt had been made on his life.

No more sentimental father! he warned himself. No more forcing yourself to believe what you want. No more turning from the truth because it is ugly.

You have four sons born in wedlock. Two of them work against you; they are your enemies; they have looked on while their men attempt to murder you. The other, Richard, you cannot like. He is too cold, aloof, he has been brought up to hate you and will never do anything else; you can never be fond of him; he is his mother’s son, he hates you for imprisoning her and you hate him because he has never cared for you and – since we are facing the truth – because you have wronged him by seducing his betrothed and stopping his marriage. That leaves John.

My son John, my beloved son John. All my hopes are in you. You were never in that nursery made sour by a mother’s hatred for the father of her children. You I have loved; I have changed you from John Lackland to John of many possessions. You will love me. I must turn to you to give me all that I have missed in the others.

In the meantime he must make peace in Aquitaine and when his son Henry came to him with tears in his eyes, he would not be deluded a second time. He would play Henry’s game; he would pretend to be reconciled, while all the time he knew that Henry and Geoffrey were his enemies.

He allowed himself to be helped on to the horse which was provided for him; he rode with his son into Limoges and there he sat with him and listened to his plans for bringing about peace in the country.

He was not surprised at what followed.

Geoffrey had left his brother and father in Limoges while he went out to rally more forces to his brother’s banner. After a few days the King rejoined Richard to discover that young Henry and Geoffrey had raised forces throughout Aquitaine and Philip of France was sending help to them.

‘The ingratitude!’ cried the King. ‘How long ago was it when I saved his crown for him?’

Not only that, there were murmurs that the time had come to attack Normandy.

The King was incensed. He would lay siege to Limoges and when he took that town he would show no mercy to any, be they his own sons.

Young Henry, however, had taken the opportunity of slipping out of the town before his father realised his intentions and while the King was besieging Limoges he was ranging far and wide causing havoc in Richard’s domain.

Young Henry was no great soldier. He had no real love of battle. He longed for the round of tournaments to which he had become addicted. It was so much more enjoyable to indulge in mock battles, to succeed in the lists, to be led triumphant into the hall by beautiful women, to sit with them and listen to the songs about love and bravery. Real fighting was quite different. It was not so much the risk of death; that was an excitement to him; it was the discomforts that accompanied actual warfare which did not please him.

Still he was determined to get what he wanted. It was humiliating in the extreme that he, a man of twenty-eight, and crowned King of England, should be kept short of money and be absolutely powerless, always held in check by a dominating father.

His quarrel was not really against Richard; it was against his father. It was not that he particularly wanted Aquitaine; he wanted power and if his father saw that he could take Aquitaine, might he not be prepared to give him Normandy or England? The old man wanted to have complete power, which was ridiculous. Couldn’t he see that it was impossible for him to hold sway over Normandy, Anjou and England all at the same time?

Why did he not delegate some of the rule to his sons? That was what the battle was all about.

Henry was too fond of luxury; he was over-generous; he had always greatly enjoyed handing out gifts to those who pleased him. To him that seemed a confirmation of his power. It was kingly to act so and since all knew he was a king without power he had to be constantly reminding people that he was at least a king.

What could he do for money?

One of his captains had come to him telling him that the soldiers were demanding their pay.

‘They must wait,’ he had cried.

‘My lord,’ was the answer, ‘they will not wait. If they are not paid they will desert.’

‘Traitors,’ cried the King.

But what was the use. He had to have money.

Money. It haunted his dreams. He had to find it somewhere. He was beginning to wish he had not started this war. This was not the way to do it.

He began to have uneasy dreams. He remembered how his father had come into the nursery – a powerful figure who liked to play with the children. He could get very angry though, and when he was angry all the attendants crept away to be far out of reach of the storm. They were all afraid of him. He knew how to inspire fear if not love. They had never loved him, any of them, except perhaps Bastard Geoffrey who had been introduced into the nursery much to his mother’s disgust. Bastard Geoffrey had thought their father wonderful; he had done everything he could to please him. He tried to shine at lessons, horse-riding, chivalry, archery, everything that would please the King.

Richard hadn’t cared about pleasing their father. He had been coolly aloof. But he had loved their mother dearly. There would be warmth in the cold eyes when they rested on her. But Henry had loved neither of them. He had wanted most of all to be King and when he was crowned he had been so pleased with life until he realised that it did not mean power after all. It was only a symbol. It meant nothing. The crown was a hollow bauble while his father lived.

But money? Where was he to get money?

They had halted at an abbey and there they paused to rest. The monks welcomed them and invited them to the refectory.

Henry and his captains sat down with the monks; they partook of the simple food which had been prepared; and when they had eaten their fill they admired the rich ornaments of gold and silver which decorated the Abbey, and the wonderful gem-studded gifts to the Madonna.

Henry studied these ornaments through narrowed eyes. So much that was beautiful was worth a great deal and all hidden here in the Abbey.

‘By God’s eyes,’ he declared to his captains, ‘we could feed an army on a few of those silver chalices.’

The captains avoided his eyes but he insisted on pressing his point. Of what use were these ornaments hidden away in an abbey? How much more useful they would be to supply him with the money he so desperately needed.

As the beautiful objects were taken from the shrines of saints, the monks protested. Young Henry however waved aside their protests.

His soldiers were hungry, they wanted their pay. He was determined to feed his army and go on with the war.

He laughed at the squeamish attitude of some of his men.

They feared reprisals from the saints.

‘Nay,’ cried Henry, ‘this is a just cause.’ Providence appeared to be proving this was so, for news had come that several important knights and their accompanying men were ready to join him in marching against Richard.

Henry was delighted. Nothing was going to deter him now. He knew how to come by the money he needed. There were so many rich abbeys in the neighbourhood. Why should they not provide the means of feeding and equipping his army?

A feverish excitement possessed him. His sleep was haunted by strange dreams. Often he tossed on his pallet and his father dominated those dreams.

Now when his armies came into sight the monks tried to close their doors against him. He would not have this. Sometimes it was necessary to batter them down.

He was rich now. Robbing the shrines was a seemingly never ending source of providing for his needs.

Terror spread through the land. There were fearful stories of drunken soldiery storming the abbeys. The monks kept a lookout for the approaching armies and sought to defend themselves, but they were helpless against Henry’s men.

He was like a man possessed by devils. He would call out in his sleep that his witch ancestress was after him. His attendants thought he was ill, but in the morning he would be up and ready to march on.

His cheeks were flushed and it seemed that he had a fever. He was advised to rest awhile but he would not hear of it.

‘What! When we are winning? Give my father and Richard a chance to outwit me? Nay! I am going on to conquer Aquitaine and one day the monks will rejoice for the part they have played in my victory.’

On they marched. Close by was the most famous church in France, well known for the shrine of Roc Amadour. The treasures in this shrine were worth a fortune. Pilgrims came to it from all over the country. It was said that miracles had been performed there and that the Virgin herself was often present.

Henry noticed that his attendants were afraid. He felt the fever burning through his body and a recklessness seized him.

‘Why think you we have come to Roc Amadour if not to help ourselves to the treasures of the shrine?’ he demanded.

Perhaps no one believed he would commit this deed of sacrilege. Perhaps he did not believe it himself. He saw the looks on the faces of the men – frightened faces – and he laughed aloud. Something was urging him on. He did not know what. He was going to prove to them all that he feared nothing … neither his father nor God. Then they would see that he was worthy to be a king. Then they would understand why he was so angry to be deprived of the power that was his by right.

‘To the shrine,’ he cried.

He looked at them witheringly. ‘Let those who are afraid, go back to their firesides. They are not worthy to come with me to Aquitaine. I would not have them at my board for I like not cowards.’

Then he went forward into the church and there was scarcely a man who did not follow him.

What riches! What treasures!

‘These spoils will take us through our campaign to Aquitaine,’ cried Henry.

That night the fever was on him. He was delirious and those about him trembled. They could not forget that he had desecrated the shrine of Roc Amadour.

In the morning he was a little better. They would march on, he said.

He told the Duke of Burgundy who had joined him and put several hundred men into his service: ‘Last night I thought I would die. I dreamed that Our Lady came to me and told me that my days were numbered. “Repent,” she said, “for there is but little time left to you.” I thought I was dying.’

‘My lord, should you not rest?’ asked the Duke.

‘No. I have a desire to go on. Send one of my messengers to me. There is one I wish to see and I want him brought to me without delay for it may well be that there is truly little time left to me.’

‘Who is this?’ asked the Duke.

‘It is William the Marshall. I have a fancy to see him. I wish him to come to me with all speed.’

In the next few days young Henry had become so ill that it was impossible for him to go on. He lay in a merchant’s house for some days, talking a great deal to himself and now and then seeming to know where he was and asking if William the Marshall had come.

At length William arrived and when he went into the bedchamber in which Henry lay, the young King gave a cry of welcome.

‘So you have come, my friend.’

‘As soon as I received your message,’ answered William.

‘Good William, we have always been friends, have we not?’

‘Aye,’ answered William.

‘You were with me in my childhood, so it is good that you should be with me at the end.’

‘The end. What mean you?’

‘Do you not know it then, William? I do. I am a sick and most sorry man for I shall go to my Maker with my sins on me – and what sins! You know that I have desecrated sacred places.’

‘Why, my lord? Why?’

‘It was necessary to find money for my soldiers.’

‘In such a way!’

‘Nay. It was my way. You know that I have a devil’s witch for an ancestress. It was as though she took possession of me.’

‘My lord, you should repent.’

‘I will. I wanted to see you, William.’

‘I knew it, my lord. And now I am here I shall not leave you again.’

‘You will not have to stay long.’

‘Nay, you will recover.’

‘William, I never believed that you were Marguerite’s lover.’

‘I know it.’

‘Some devil got in me. The same devil who was in me when I sacked the shrines.’

‘Philip of Flanders was your evil genius.’

‘Nay, I was my own, William. Now I am free of that evil, I see that I am indeed wicked and that I must repent.’

‘Shall I send for a priest?’

‘Later, William. As yet stay with me. I have a little while left.’

‘You should make your peace with God.’

‘I will, I will. Now you have come to me, everything seems different. I am as a child again. I admired you so much, William. You were the perfect knight. You could do everything better than any other. You were too good.’

‘I am a sinful man, even as you, and none could be too good. But rest now. Let me call the Bishop.’

‘If there were time, William, I should ask you to accompany me on a crusade.’

‘Later when you have recovered perhaps.’

‘Later? There will be no later for me. You know it, William. Why do you pretend now? You were always such an honest man.’

‘Then if there is little time, repent, my lord King.’

‘Aye, I must repent. Bend down and see what lies on the floor, William. It is a crusader’s cross. I took it from the shrine.’

‘My lord!’

‘Nay, cease to be shocked. What I have done is done and there is no taking it back.’

‘Then repent, my lord.’

‘Send the priest to me then, William. And tell me you forgive me. It was an ill day for me when I sent you away.’

‘That is over. I am back now.’

‘William, take care of Marguerite for me. I fear she will be a widow ere long.’

William turned away. He could not bear to look at the once handsome face now pallid and flushed by turns, the beautiful eyes wild and bloodshot.

He should have stayed with him. How could he when he had been sent away? But he should have come back and not waited to be sent for. He should have warned the young King that the way he was going could only lead to disaster.

The Bishop of Cahors came and gave him absolution.

It was clear now that he could not live many more days.

He asked that William the Marshall stay with him.

‘The end is very near now,’ he said. ‘See here is the crusader’s cross. How can I expiate my sin in taking it from the shrine? If I were granted my health I would go on a crusade and take it to Jerusalem. There I would place it on the Holy Sepulchre and pray for forgiveness. Oh, God, grant me the gift of life that I may in time find forgiveness for my sins.’

William turned away. He knew that Henry would never go to Jerusalem.

‘I must see my father before I die. I have lied to him and wronged him. I must ask his forgiveness,’ he cried.

‘I will send a messenger to him without delay,’ William promised. ‘I will tell him in what state you are and beg him to come to you.’

‘Pray do that.’

He seemed to revive a little. It was as though he must see his father and ask his forgiveness before he died.

The King did not come to his son’s death bed. Henry had lied to him before; how could he be sure that he was not lying now and that he would not be walking into a trap? He sent one of his Bishops with a ring which had never before left his finger so that his son would know that the Bishop came with his blessing.

Henry held the ring in his hand and held it against his heart.

‘You will take a message to my father,’ he said. ‘I am dying and would fain have seen him and I know full well that he would have come to me.’

‘He was prepared to come,’ said the Bishop, ‘but was advised against it.’

Henry’s face twisted in painful grimace. ‘I know. I know. I had lied to him so many times. He could not trust me now. That was wise of him … but this time I happen not to be lying. Pray ask him to look after the Queen my wife. I would send a message to my mother. I think of her often and I would ask my father to be kinder to her. I have committed terrible sins. I have robbed sacred shrines. I would wish my father to repay what I have stolen as far as he is able. Ask him to forgive his erring son.’

The exertion of talking was proving too much for him but he seemed more contented now that he had sent word to his father. It was almost as though he had prepared himself for death.

He asked again for William the Marshall.

‘Take the cross,’ he said, ‘and if the opportunity arises carry it to Jerusalem in my name.’

‘If I go there I will do this,’ said William.

‘Let them make for me a bed of ashes on the floor and bring me a hair shirt. Put a stone for my pillow and one at my feet and let me die thus, that God and all his angels may know that I come in all humility. I am deeply stained with sin but most truly I repent.’

William gave orders that this should be done and then tenderly the young King was lifted from his bed and placed on the ashes.

He lay there in great bodily discomfort but he seemed to have found a spiritual peace.

A few hours later he was dead.