by Ann Turner
‘I have no option, so I must agree to your terms,’ he said, slowly. ‘You have humbled me and abased me to this sorry state.’
Philip smiled, grimly. ‘Then we are all friends. Now, give Richard, your loving son, the kiss of peace.’
Briefly, the old anger flared in Henry’s eyes. It was intolerable to admit to these conditions, but to kiss his son in false affection was more than he could endure. The pup mocked him. Richard was now walking forward, tall, handsome and beautiful.
Henry straightened up and took his son in his arms. He had to reach up and Richard bent down. Carefully, Henry put his cheek to Richard’s cheek. To all looking on, it appeared the old king was doing as demanded and kissing his son. This was not so.
‘I pray to God that he allows me life long enough to piss on you and Philip, and take my revenge on you both,’ he hissed venomously into his son’s ear.
Richard pulled his head back, his cold eyes looking into the dull old eyes of his father, and remained silent. He would not tell the old man that he would never marry Princess Alice, let Henry assume this. They separated. Richard then returned to Philip and, swinging into their saddles, they rode away, leaving the king standing alone. He looked to William Marshal, who saw tears in the old king’s eyes.
‘Sire, you cannot return to this castle. We shall ride to Chinon as it is not far and your bastard son Geoffrey is there. I shall have word sent to your other son, Simon, to join us,’ suggested Marshal. It was painful for him to see this man, once so vital, energetic and alive, reduced to a debilitated old man.
With Marshal’s assistance, Henry painfully mounted his horse. ‘Send word to John that we are heading for Chinon. Then, you must tell me the instant my son arrives. I shall take great joy in having my three faithful and loving sons with me,’ Henry said, slowly. ‘I shall name John as my heir – a curse on Richard and Philip. John will follow me to the crown of England; he is a good son and a good man.’
All through the slow ride to Chinon, Henry extolled the virtue of his youngest son. William Marshal remained silent. He would let the old man believe how honourable John was – it was this, and this only, that was keeping him alive.
By the time the small party reached Chinon, Henry had become very frail. He had to be helped from his horse and be carried to a bed, where he lay drifting in and out of consciousness. Occasionally he would ask where John was and whether he had yet reached Chinon? He received no reply. Simon had arrived, given leave from Richard’s camp to visit their father, on the proviso he would return with information on how the old king fared and report back on his failing condition. Along with Geoffrey, they kept vigil by their father’s bedside.
Henry asked to be brought the list of the knights and barons who had deserted him to go to Richard and Philip, so that he would know their names and curse them on his deathbed. Marshal was reluctant to produce the list, but the king insisted as he wanted to know who still stood for him. Eventually, he dispatched a messenger to ride to the enemy camp.
The messenger returned and spoke with William Marshal. When he first read the list, Marshal felt the tears blur his vision. He did not want his king to see it; this would surely finish the old man off. However, the desire to know the names seemed to be keeping the king alive and, eventually, he relented and handed the list to Simon to read the names out loud. His eyes went no further than the first name. He and Geoffrey exchanged a wretched look, before King Henry broke the silence.
‘Well, my son, who are the curs who abandon their king?’
‘Sire, father, are you sure you want to know?’ asked Simon.
Geoffrey looked at his father. ‘You should not be worrying about such matters, Father. Simon will tell you when you are well,’ he suggested.
Henry waved his hand towards him. He wanted to know and he wanted to know now. ‘Tell me, Simon. Tell me their names.’
Simon gathered his strength, swallowed hard and took a deep breath. ‘The first name is your son, Prince John,’ he said, gently.
The silence was dreadful. Geoffrey, Simon and William Marshall watched as the king’s face grew white. It was as if the life was draining from him.
‘John?’ he said in no more than a faint whisper. ‘My John?’ There were tears in his eyes, which soon slipped down his cheeks. ‘I have lost everything. I have nothing; it is all gone now.’
‘Father, you have Simon and I,’ insisted Geoffrey, taking his father’s hand in his.
‘I have nothing.’ Henry repeated. He raised his hands and weakly gripped the arms of his two illegitimate sons. ‘My boys, each take a ring from my treasure chest to remember me by. William?’
Marshal stepped forward. ‘Sire?’
‘William, you have served me well. Serve the new king well also.’
‘I shall, sire.’
‘And William.’
‘Sire?’
‘Go to my treasure chest, too, and pick a bauble to keep in my memory.’
‘I will, sire. Thank you.’
‘Bury me at Grandmont Abbey in Limosen,’ he said, quietly. The three men promised that his dying wish would be done. Henry withdrew his hand from Geoffrey’s light grip and turned his face to the wall. His vision was slowly fading, he could feel his heartbeat becoming irregular. ‘So, it ends like this. Shame. The shame of a fallen king,’ he whispered, inaudibly, as a heart breaking sob caught in his throat.
The three men watched over their king until he passed away. They were the only three in the whole empire, which he had built, to weep for him.
24
Simon and William Marshal stood in front of the new King of England, Duke of Normandy and Aquitaine, and the Count of Anjou. All in one man, Marshal thought, wryly. Surely he cannot keep peace in such a vast empire? He bowed low to Richard, went down onto a knee in homage to him, and presented the coronation ring. It was the only piece of jewellery that Henry had worn and he had never removed it from his finger. It was the sign that confirmed the old king was dead.
Richard took the ring from Marshal and studied it closely. It was a large ruby worth thousands of pounds and was set in an ornate setting, but the new king did not see the symbol of his new reign. Instead, he was calculating its worth to be sold to help finance the crusade he had vowed to take. For now, Richard slipped the ring on his finger. He turned to William Marshal. He was loyal and trustworthy, and Richard knew he could depend totally upon this man. Still, he could not resist a taunt.
‘Well, Marshal, you switched your allegiance quickly to me. My father is not even cold, and yet you are here, bringing me this ring.’
‘Sire, my allegiance has never changed. I still pledge my loyalty to the throne,’ Marshal replied, steadily, boldly holding his gaze.
Richard knew this to be true. ‘I need to see his body to know that he is dead. Where is he to be interred?’
‘He wished to be laid to rest at Grandmont Abbey, but in this hot weather, it is too far to carry his corpse. We shall take him to Fontevraud, as it is closer and suitable for the old king,’ Simon explained. ‘I sent word to prepare a tomb for him and masons are working on his effigy as we speak.’
Richard summoned Hugh to his side and he approached with his usual familiarity, while Simon watched him suspiciously. ‘My father has died and I am now King of England,’ he began, and Hugh made noises of sympathy and pleasure. ‘I must go and inspect his body. You and my barons are to return to Paris with Philip, I shall write to him ‘ere long. You and my men will collect your wives and make haste to London. Once my coronation has been performed, I will need you by my side, Hugh along with my most trusted men to prepare for our crusade.’ Richard held Hugh’s arms and shook him, his eyes glowing with excitement. ‘It is happening; we shall head for the Holy Land and no one can prevent me going. Jerusalem shall be mine.’
Simon returned to England with the news of Henry’s
death, and Richard’s succession. While with no ceremony, Hugh and the barons arrived in Paris with the French king. Philip was thoughtful. How could he control the Duke of Aquitaine now that he had become King of England? They were equals now, but Richard always had been more assertive and a born leader. These were interesting times that they were entering.
Aubrette was surprised to greet her husband without his duke close by. She was excited by the news that they would be returning to England and began to prepare for the journey home. Hugh informed her that they would be living at Whitehall Palace while the new king was in London, but this would not be a permanent home as the king was already preparing to amass the funds for the Holy Land. When Aubrette asked where would she live while Hugh was by his king’s side during the crusade, she was met with bewilderment. Hugh had not given his wife a thought; he did not know, but minor details like this could be resolved another day.
25
King Richard stood in the abbey at Fontevraud, staring silently at the body of his father. The vault had been prepared. The master mason had taken the new king to his workshop to show him how the effigy of Henry progressed, and now back in the Abbey the tomb stood waiting, empty, ready to receive the late king’s remains on his command.
His emotions tore him in many directions. He still bore a hatred for the old man that festered deep in his heart, but, from one soldier to another, he held a grudging admiration for his father. He had been a man who had avoided warfare with diplomacy whenever possible, but had been a brave and fearless soldier when battle was inevitable, always leading from the front. Richard knew he lacked the old king’s diplomatic attribute, as he preferred to go charging in first, ready to quell any revolt by the sword. This was followed by cruel retribution for any that opposed him.
His eyes flickered unemotionally over the cold, dead face, and at the white linen band wrapped around the dead king’s head from the crown to under the chin. Then Richard saw something that made him gasp aloud and his face paled in fear. His sword arm began to shake and he had to steady the tremble with his other hand. A small trickle of blood seeped from the dead king’s nose. What was this? The trickle grew in its intensity and became a flood of dark, viscous fluid running down the old king’s face. The nuns of the abbey, who had remained close to the body, now cowered away and clustered together for protection. They muttered that this was a sign from God that the new king had caused the death of the old king.
‘What nonsense you speak,’ Richard snarled, furiously, hiding his own anxiety. He looked round at the white shocked faces of the frightened nuns huddling together. ‘There must be some logical reason for this.’ He turned to a small group of monks, who had recently arrived to pray alongside the nuns and were standing close by. ‘Put him in the tomb and get it sealed. Now.’
Reluctantly, the monks positioned themselves around the pallet that Henry laid upon. None wanted to be the one to put his hands on the bloodstained head to support it, but they cautiously lifted his corpse by the bands of linen, and carried it to the tomb gently, carefully lowering it in. Then, in unison, they strained to lift the lid of the tomb and struggled to position it precisely in place. It would be sealed soon after. The effigy of the king, which the masons were working non-stop to complete, would be positioned on the lid at a later date.
The monks withdrew from the tomb and stood alongside the nuns, whispering urgently to each other about what they had just witnessed. They were quickly silenced by the new king, who glared furiously at them, and they backed away.
Now, the possibility of fulfilling his promise to go on crusade to the Holy Land was attainable. Once the coronation in London was over and he was the undisputed king, the purse strings of England would be untied. He would finally be able to thrust his greedy hands in and commence the preparations.
His first command as king was to send a detachment of soldiers to Salisbury, England to release his mother from her imprisonment of sixteen years. It had been his promise to her one Christmas, when the whole family had gathered at Winchester by the king’s command, that she would be a free woman as soon as her husband was dead. He allowed himself the slightest smiles, knowing how his mother would react to the news of the death of her husband. In his mind, he visualised her standing regally in the centre of her room, receiving the captain of the guard as he dropped to his knee before her with the message from her son, the new king. She was a free woman and they would soon be reunited.
The king looked up at the cool limestone walls, with their columns and arches soaring high around him. He watched the shafts of sunlight stream in through the windows and pool onto the flagstones. The nuns and monks began to chant prayers and sing psalms for the dead king’s soul with their pure voices. Richard inhaled deeply and the heady fragrance of incense invaded his nostrils, making the hairs on the back of his neck prickle. Strangely peaceful and quiet, he thought, suddenly reflective. Should I die an old man in my bed, this is where I shall rest. At my father’s feet.
He glanced at the tomb one final time and turned on his spurred heel, walking decisively towards the great oak doors. Swinging them open, he stepped into the brilliant, strong sunshine. Shading his eyes with his hand, he looked for his companion, who was waiting in the shade under the broad canopy of an old tree.
William Marshal sat astride his great horse, holding the reins of Richard’s tall war horse. As the king approached, he tossed the reins at him. Richard swung into the saddle easily and sat looking back at the limestone abbey dazzling in the sunlight. He gazed at the two tall towers, their black conical spires standing as sentinels either side of the arched west doorway.
‘Your thoughts, sire?’ asked Marshal.
The king remained silent, deep in his thoughts. Eventually, he spoke. ‘It was never my desire to become king, as that was my brother Henry’s destiny,’ he said.
‘Begging your forgiveness, sire, but you are more suited to the position than your late brother,’ answered Marshal.
Richard looked at him. ‘How so?’
‘The young king was vain and easily swayed by honey words. Those who surrounded him told him what he desired to hear, not what he should hear,’ said Marshal. ‘He lacked your conviction. He thought being king was all recreation and jousts. Your father and yourself are strong leaders and the Empire needs strength.’
Richard wheeled his horse towards the gates and out onto the road, with Marshal by his side. ‘True. The barons would have ruled in his stead while he whored and drunk his life away. You always served my father well and you attempted to guide my brother. His fault was not to listen to you. I heard the rumours about you and Henry’s wife, and I knew they were false. Your honour would not permit you to follow such a course. I also know that I am able to trust you, even though we have fought on different sides. You shall serve me faithfully.’
‘My lord, I shall always serve my king to the best of my ability.’
‘I know that, Marshal, and I know your reason to oppose me was due to your undoubted loyalty to the crown. I shall have need of your loyalty.’ Richard slowed his horse down to a walk. ‘Marshal, you know of my intention to travel to the Holy Land and free Jerusalem from the Infidel.’
‘Your late father spoke often of going on crusade himself – he and King Philip, even King Louis before, planned to take the cross. However, the state of affairs here prevented it from happening.’
‘I shall not fail like him. I will go and nothing will stop me,’ Richard said, firmly.
‘May I speak freely, sire?’ Marshal asked, and Richard nodded. ‘You should remain to protect your dominions here and your kingdom of England. While you were a prince, it was permissible to go on a crusade, but not now you are king. You shall be needed here. Remember how your father spent his life in the saddle going from England to Normandy to Anjou and back again to keep the peace and subdue rebellions? It shall be the same for you.’ He paused. ‘And you are keeping
Aquitaine, which is added responsibility.’
Richard frowned. ‘I have taken the cross and shall go.’
‘Think of all you leave behind, sire, at the mercy of your enemies.’
‘I shall go,’ growled Richard. Spots of red flared on his cheeks as his anger quickly rose.
Marshal fell silent; it was a sign he had seen frequently with the late king, and Henry’s fits of temper had been legendary. For all his coldness, Richard had inherited the blazing Plantagenet temper. ‘I have no love for England or the English. It is a miserable, cold and grey island, full of dregs and harlots. You know I would sell London to the highest bidder if I were able. Taxes shall be increased and no one of high or low birth shall be exempt. The nobility shall aid the funding of my crusade. Either they accompany me with their mustered armies or they shall pay a levy for being a bunch of laundry women staying behind. It has already been decided.’
‘Who will govern England while you are gone, sire? Your brother, Prince John, will be wishing you ill so he can claim the throne, and he is not fit to rule. He listens to no one save his drunkard friends. He is too much like your brother, Henry, but with less brains,’ said Marshal, concerned at the king’s lack of conviction for his realm.
Richard smiled as he answered. ‘My mother, who else? She is accustomed to ruling; remember that she was the Duchess of Aquitaine before handing it to me. Also, Rannulf de Glanville, whose acumen is sharp.’ He tapped his head and turned in his saddle to look Marshal square in the face. ‘And you, William Marshal. Between you three, you shall care for England. I shall recruit suitable men to guard my lands in France until my crusade is done and I return.’
Marshal, not allowing the king to see his doubts, and knowing how eager Richard felt for the crusade, leant forward in his saddle and punched his heart with his fist. ‘Sire, I shall not disappoint you,’ he vowed.