The Heart of the Lion

by Виктория Холт

  One of his servants came into the room.

  ‘My lord, there is one without ...’

  Before Richard could answer a man had come into the room. He stood over the bed, the servant cowering in the background. Richard saw him through a haze of fever.

  ‘Who are you,’ he asked, ‘the angel of death?’

  ‘Nay, Sire,’ was the answer, ‘he has not come for you yet. It is Hugh, your Bishop of Lincoln.’

  Richard closed his eyes. That old man whom many thought a saint; one of those churchmen who was not averse to acting against his own interest in what he believed to be right. Uncomfortable people! His father had found the leader of them all in Thomas à Becket.

  Recently he had quarrelled with this man over a priest whom Richard wished to install in Hugh’s See and Hugh had objected to the King’s choice. Richard had told the Bishop that as he did not want this priest, he, Richard, would be prepared to allow things to remain as they were if the See would make him a present of a fur mantle at a cost of a thousand marks. Hugh had replied that he had no knowledge of furs and could not therefore bargain for a mantle but if the King wished to divert the funds of the See to his own use and there was no other way of settling the matter, Hugh had no alternative but to send him one thousand marks.

  This incident had created a coolness between them and the King reasoned that Hugh had come to crave his pardon.

  ‘Why do you come?’ asked Richard.

  ‘I come to ask that there be peace between us, my son,’ answered Hugh.

  ‘You do not deserve my goodwill,’ muttered Richard. ‘You have stood against me.’

  ‘I deserve your friendship,’ answered Hugh. ‘For hearing of your sickness I have travelled far. In what state is your conscience?’

  ‘Ha, you have decided to kill me off. I tell you this, prelate: my conscience is very easy.’

  ‘I cannot understand that,’ was the disconcerting answer. ‘You do not live with your Queen whom the whole world knows to be a lady of virtue. You pursue a life which cannot give pleasure to your people. It is becoming notorious throughout the country. You have no heir and you know full well that were you to die there would be conflict in this realm.’

  ‘I have named Prince Arthur as my heir.’

  ‘A boy who has never seen this country! Do you think the people will accept him? What of Prince John? Were you to die tonight, my lord King, you would be loaded with sin. The friends you choose, the life in which you indulge, these will never bring you an heir. You have taken money from the poor to buy vanities for yourself; you have taxed your people ...’

  ‘That I may fight a holy war and set my kingdom in order,’ Richard defended himself.

  ‘Think on these things, my lord. Life is short and Death is never far away. If you were taken tonight would you care to go before your Maker weighed down with sin as you are?’

  The old man had gone as suddenly as he came.

  Richard lay staring after him. He thought: It is true. He is a brave man. I could cut out his tongue for what he has said to me this night, but I would not add that sin to all the others. I must rise from this bed. I must mend my ways. I must subdue my inclinations ... Oh God in Heaven give me another chance.

  Within a few days the King’s health had so much improved that he was able to rise from his bed.

  * * *

  He rode to the castle of Poitou.

  Berengaria, sitting at her embroidery, her only consolation now that Joanna and the little Cypriot had gone, was wondering whether this was how she would spend the rest of her life. Few came to the castle; the days followed each other one so like the others that she lost count of time. The excitement of Joanna’s romance was over; there was no longer the little Princess to talk to. Sometimes she wondered whether she could ask to go back to her brother’s court. Her father had died some time before and Sancho would welcome her, but that would be to let the whole world know that Richard had deserted her.

  And then there came visitors.

  She went down to the courtyard to meet them and at the head of them looking as noble as he had that day at the tournament in Pampeluna was Richard himself.

  He leaped from his horse and as she would have knelt he lifted her and embraced her.

  ‘Come into the castle,’ he said. ‘I have much to say to you.’

  Bewildered, her heart beating with a wild emotion she was led into her chamber and there he took her hands and said simply: ‘Berengaria, we have been apart too long. It must be so no more.’

  She did not understand why he should so suddenly have changed towards her, but what did it matter? He was here and in the future they were to be together. He had said it.

  Chapter XXI

  THE SAUCY CASTLE

  So they were together at last and now it was only war which separated them. Richard was constantly engaged in it, for Philip had made the most of his absence and his alliance with John to take possession of much of Normandy. Richard was going to bring it back to the Dukedom.

  He was not sorry – war was his life; and the conflict with Philip gave him a satisfaction which Berengaria never could, not even the talents of his beloved Blondel. Philip was the one who dominated his thoughts; and he knew that Philip felt the same about him. Philip might marry and beget children – he was more successful in this field than Richard could be – and yet it was hatred of Richard, his determination to beat him in conflict that was the major force of his life.

  Now on the banks of the Seine where the river winds through the valley past the towns of Les Andelys – Petit and Grand – he was building a castle and he was determined that this castle should be the finest, the most beautiful castle in France. It was to be set up in defiance of France; it was to be the defence of Normandy; it would stand there proclaiming that Richard the Lion-hearted was invincible and that Philip of France could never pass beyond that spot to take Normandy. Every moment Richard could spare he was at Les Andelys watching the building of his castle.

  Before it was completed, he had named it the Château Gaillard – the Saucy Castle – and saucy it was, perched on a hill overlooking the Seine, commanding the countryside, inviting the French armies to come and see what they would get if they attempted to invade the Normandy of Richard Coeur de Lion.

  He had gloated over his prize with its ten feet thick walls except in the keep where their thickness was twelve feet. It was said that it was built on French blood and to give this credence Richard had actually thrown French prisoners from the rock of Les Andelys on to the stones which were the foundations of the castle.

  He loved this castle. There was not another to compare with it in France. Men marvelled at it – impregnable, standing at the gates of Normandy; it was built with all the skill gleaned from experience of defensive warfare in Palestine. It was the wonder of the times.

  In France a new saying passed into the language: ‘As strong as the Saucy Castle.’

  Philip boasted: ‘One day I will take it, were it made of iron.’

  Richard responded: ‘I would hold it were it made of butter.’

  When the castle had been completed one year Richard celebrated its anniversary with a great feast to which he summoned all his knights and barons.

  ‘See how beautiful she is, my child of one year old,’ he cried.

  He delighted in the castle. He had failed to win Jerusalem but he had built Château Gaillard.

  He continued his wars with Philip and so successful was he that the time came when Philip was obliged to sue for peace.

  What peace there could be between them would be temporary and both knew it, but Philip was asking for it and Richard laughed to himself to contemplate the humiliation the French King must feel.

  ‘The King of France believes that a satisfactory peace can only be made if there is a meeting between himself and King Richard,’ was the message Philip sent to him.

  A meeting! They had not seen each other since they had parted at Acre. Richard remembered him then – a sick m
an Philip had been, for it was true that that pernicious climate had impaired his health. His thinning hair, the pallor of his face, the flaking nails ... he had not been like the arrogant Philip of their youth.

  And now ... what had the years in France done to Philip? All that time when Richard had been imprisoned Philip had been living his luxurious life in France. Nay, he had been fighting, with John as his ally and only those loyal Norman seneschals had kept Normandy for its Duke.

  To see Philip again. Yes, he wanted it. He wanted to remember long ago days when they had been young and had meant so much to each other.

  He would meet Philip. Where? He, Richard, would choose the place since it was Philip who sued for the meeting. It should be on the Seine with the Saucy Castle as the background of their meeting place. Not too near; he was never going to allow the French very near his darling. But just so that Philip could see those mighty towers and bastions and realise through them the invincible might of Richard of England.

  He would go by boat from Gaillard to the meeting place. He would not leave his boat. He would not go too near Philip. He wanted hate to be uppermost not love. Love! They were enemies. It was true, but once there had been love between them, a love which neither of them had been able to forget throughout their lives.

  * * *

  Philip was on horseback close to the banks of the Seine; Richard was seated in his boat.

  ‘It is long since we met,’ said Philip, and there was a faint tremor in his voice.

  ‘I remember it well. You were in a sorry state. You had broken your vows; you were creeping back to France.’

  ‘It was that or death,’ answered Philip.

  ‘Your vows broken.’

  ‘My health was broken.’

  ‘You have recovered now, Philip.’

  ‘And you look as healthful as ever,’ replied Philip.

  ‘War suits me, victorious war.’

  ‘We were born to fight against each other ... more’s the pity. I would rather be your friend, Richard.’

  ‘You have said that before.’

  ‘’Tis true. I remember ...’

  ‘It is not good to remember. We have business to talk. You took advantage of my absence. You worked with my enemies against me. You bribed the Emperor to hold me in his fortress. This I can never forget. It has made me your enemy for life.’

  ‘If we could talk together ...’

  ‘We are talking together.’

  ‘Alone ...’

  Who could trust perfidious Philip? he asked himself and he answered: ‘You could, Richard, as once you did.’

  Richard hesitated just for a moment. He thought of past pleasures. Those youthful days when they had ridden together and lain in the shared bed and talked of crusades.

  But Philip was King of France, the proven enemy of the King of England. They did not meet now as friends and lovers – though in their hearts they might have been so – they met as the Kings of two countries who must ever be at war with each other.

  The Pope’s legate was on his way to mediate between them. Their wars were devastating the land. There must be a pause in their hostilities. There must be a treaty of peace between them.

  If we were at peace, thought Philip, we could be friends. Why should we not be? But the needs of France must be his main concern. Private feelings must not come between him and that. And how beautiful was Richard, seated there in his boat, a little arrogant against the background of his Saucy Castle.

  They talked of terms. A marriage between a niece of Richard’s and Philip’s son Louis. Her dowry to be Gisors, that important fortress built by William Rufus and which was always a cause of concern to the side which did not own it.

  They came to an agreement. The treaty should be drawn up.

  ‘We shall meet again for the signing,’ said Philip.

  Chapter XXII

  THE CROCK OF GOLD

  Richard returned to the Château Gaillard, nostalgic with memories of other days. They would sign their treaty and perhaps when they had done so they would meet in a more friendly fashion; perhaps together they could find a way to a true peace between their countries.

  Into the courtyard rode a troop of his soldiers who had come to join him lest he need help against Philip. They would dine together off roast boar, said Richard, which they did.

  During the feast the Captain of the guards related a rumour that he had heard. A peasant ploughing the land for his master who was Achard Lord of Chaluz had turned up a wonderful treasure. This was in the form of a great block of gold which had been cut into a group of figures representing an emperor and his family and dated back many years to when the emperor was presumably the ruler of Aquitaine.

  ‘A figure of gold!’ cried Richard. ‘Why it must be worth a fortune!’

  ‘It must indeed, Sire, and if one piece were found why should there not be many more?’

  Richard was deeply impressed by the story; he asked innumerable questions and in the morning when he arose he announced his intention of going to Chaluz to see the treasure.

  Such treasure was surely the property of the sovereign lord, he reasoned, in which case the treasure was his. The thought of augmenting his depleted coffers excited him so much that he had forgotten temporarily the treaty with France. There would be time to sign that later.

  He sent a message to Achard to tell him that he was on his way and that he was to guard the treasure until he came to claim it, for Achard would agree that his sovereign rights proclaimed him the owner of it.

  He was close to Chaluz when the messenger arrived from Achard to say that the find had been grossly exaggerated. There were no golden figures; all that had been found was a jar of gold coins. The value was not great and Adamar of Limoges, whose vassal Achard was, had already claimed the treasure and had no intention of handing it over to Richard.

  Such defiance infuriated Richard. He vowed vengeance on both Achard and Adamar and advanced through Limousin laying waste to the land and pillaging the hamlets.

  As he approached the castle of Chaluz, Adamar sent out a messenger to ask Richard to put the dispute before the King of France, for as Duke of Aquitaine and Normandy he was a vassal of that sovereign.

  It was a suggestion to arouse Richard’s fury and he went into action against the castle, determined to bring about its destruction.

  The defenders pleaded that it was the Lenten season and no time to indulge in a battle for gold.

  Richard laughed aloud at that. Give him the treasure, he said, and he would abandon the fight and not before. It was a bitter battle. The castle was not well defended, but both Achard and Adamar knew that if they surrendered they would have to face Richard’s fury. They preferred to die fighting and would not give in.

  There was one among them, a certain Bertrand de Gourdon whose home had been destroyed some years before by Richard during the wars in Aquitaine. He had lost his father and brothers in the battle and had hated Richard ever since.

  He was ready to fight desperately against the King and had joined Achard for this purpose.

  He was in the keep when he saw the King. Richard would always stand out among his men, and Bertrand watched the King take an arrow and shoot it at the keep. It lodged there in the wall close by Bertrand. The King’s arrow! Bertrand reached for it. He fitted it into his bow and let it fly towards the King. It struck Richard below his neck and penetrated under his shoulder blade.

  His knights called out in dismay but he shouted that all was well.

  The castle had fallen to the King’s men, but the King was in agony.

  * * *

  He lay on his sick bed. He had tried to pull the arrow out and in doing so had broken it. It needed an operation to remove the barb.

  The days began to pass and the wound was festering. The pain was agonising. It was with horror that he realised mortification had set in.

  This was the end, and he knew it.

  * * *

  Eleanor came to his bedside from Fontevrault, the Abbey
where she had been finding a certain peace now that Richard was in command of his kingdom.

  Her grief was terrible.

  ‘It cannot be,’ she cried. ‘Not you ... not Richard! My beautiful son!’

  ‘’Tis so, Mother,’ he said. ‘This is the end for me. An arrow shot at Chaluz – and all for the sake of gold treasure which they tell me is very little. I might have died fighting for Jerusalem and they will say of me now that I died fighting for a vessel of gold coins.’

  ‘They will say of you that you are the bravest soldier of the Cross that ever lived,’ cried Eleanor fiercely. ‘And you are not going to die. You cannot die.’

  ‘I am mortal, Mother. See how weak I am.’