A Sister's Crusade

by Ann Turner

  Mercadier audibly groaned with relief. Simon extended shaking hands towards the captain, to steady him as his legs gave way. His heart was racing as he realised the king was still alive. Richard turned to his captain and half-brother, amused at their reaction.

  ‘You see, Mercadier, no need to…’ The words never finished passing through his lips as an arrow buried itself into Richard’s shoulder, close to his neck. He wheeled round with the force of the arrow, grunting, and stumbled. He was caught by Simon, who preventing him from falling. ‘Damn fly.’ Richard muttered, crossly.

  ‘The king is hit! Help us! Kill him! Kill him!’ Mercadier barked instructions furiously, assisting Simon as he buckled under the king’s weight.

  A cloud of arrows flew to the battlements, but the boy had already vanished, having finally completed his task. Willing hands carried Richard back to his tent and he collapsed onto his bed, perspiring and cursing as he attempted to pull the arrow from his shoulder. He only succeeded in breaking the shaft, leaving the barb still buried in him. The royal physicians fussed around, forcing him to drink vile tasting liquid to dull the pain and rubbing creams onto the wound to make the skin relax. Only then would they be able to remove the arrowhead with the least amount of discomfort. The king had never been a good patient and he spat out the liquid, cursing and hitting out at all close by. Queen Eleanor, who was visiting her son on his siege, was informed of the incident and hurried to his tent to see him. After she had berated him on his stupidity, Richard conceded and allowed the physicians to assist him.

  Both Mercadier and Simon remained by the king’s side, watching and waiting. He had always recovered from the recurring bouts of tertian fever that had plagued him throughout his adult life. He was a strong man and a soldier, who knew the risks taken in the name of warfare. He had been injured before, never seriously enough to debilitate him: this would be once of those occasions. The king would recover – he must recover, because what would happen if he died? Richard had wanted his nephew, Arthur of Brittany, to follow him. However, his brother John fiercely coveted the English crown as his right, so Richard had promised the throne to him.

  Mercadier ran a hand over his tired face and muttered a prayer for the deliverance of the king from this disaster. Simon did the same, reciting his own prayers for his stricken royal brother. They talked about what would happen if Arthur or John ascend the English throne, as Arthur was too young and, having never set foot in England, was more Breton than English. John had the advantage of having been born in England, so would be the one that the barons would reluctantly accept. Neither would be acceptable to rule over the vast empire built by Henry II. Arthur, by all accounts was a precocious boy, adored and doted on by his mother, who was unable to say no to her spoilt son. As for John, he was ill equipped mentally or physically to reign as a successful king. He was bitter and revengeful, a weak man. England and the lands in France would suffer if either came to the throne.

  As the days passed, it became obvious that the king was not going to recover from the wound in his shoulder. This futile siege at Chalus was to be the end for the Lionheart. Not a glorious death on the battlefield, slain by a worthy opponent, but an ignominiously pathetic death, killed by a boy with a saucepan. Richard called the captain to his side. He was weakening now and would not live for much longer. Simon lifted the king up and Mercadier put his ear close to Richard’s mouth, as his voice was so faint now.

  ‘Find and bring me the boy who has done this,’ Richard muttered. ‘I would desire to see the face of he who has killed me.’

  Simon lowered him back against the pillow, exhausted. Mercadier bowed and carried out the king’s wishes himself, wanting to get his own hands on the assassin.

  After a few days, Mercadier and the lad entered the tent. Simon was standing guard, with Richard, who had been propped up with pillows. His face was grey and unshaven, his eyes were dull and his hair was lank. He looked at the boy. How old could he have been? Surely, he had seen no more than sixteen summers. He was a child, not a man at all – not even old enough to shave, as there was a fluff of adolescence hair on his upper lip.

  A pretty boy; a boy who should have been my son, Richard thought to himself. Berengaria, why could you not have conceived on one of those few nights we spent together

  His eyes scanned the lean, gangly, coltish body, and he summoned all his strength. He had refused poppy juice, which would have dulled the pain and his senses, as he wanted his head clear when he spoke to his assassin.

  ‘Well, lad, how does it feel to know you have killed four men with your single arrow? The King of England, the Duke of Normandy and Aquitaine, and the County of Anjou – all me,’

  The boy bravely tilted up his chin, defiantly.

  ‘I would say it is a task well completed,’ he answered, with confidence.

  Richard had to smile at the audaciousness of the boy. He reminds me of myself when I was sixteen, he thought, reminiscing. ‘Your name, boy? So I shall know who has slain me.’

  ‘Pierre Basile.’

  ‘So, Pierre Basile, why have you been so intent on killing me?’

  ‘You killed my father and my brothers. I wanted revenge.’ The reply was direct and steady.

  Richard chuckled and the laugh turned into a hacking cough, aggravating the pain in his shoulder.

  He took a sip of wine, assisted by Simon, to moisten his mouth and lips. ‘A fair transaction, I would have done the same myself in my younger and more foolish days.’ The king turned to his captain, who had stood back in the shadows, and beckoned him forward. ‘Mercadier, give Pierre a purse of one hundred shillings, and you are to conduct him back to Chalus safely. There is no harm to be done to him.’

  ‘What!’ both Simon and Mercadier exclaimed together, stunned by the order.

  The king managed to smile, putting out a shaking hand to take hold of Pierre’s wrist. He pulled him closer, before feebly patting the boy’s shoulder.

  ‘By my command, no harm to come to him,’ he repeated. For a moment, the familiar fierce stare was focused upon his captain.

  Mercadier grudgingly crossed to a large and heavily studded chest, opened it with a key and slowly filled a leather purse with the required number of coins, making sure that there was not a shilling more. He then locked the chest and reluctantly held the purse out for Pierre, who hesitantly took it. He looked around, confused, expecting to have been put to death instantly – not sent on his way with a profit.

  Richard laid back on the pillows, exhausted again and wheezing as he struggled to breathe. Mercadier snatched Pierre’s arm, gripping it tightly, and dragged him from the tent. Instead of being led from the camp as ordered, Mercadier clawed the purse back and summoned two soldiers over.

  ’Guard him well until I have decided what to do with him,’ he said, gruffly.

  Pierre was instantly alarmed. ‘Your king said I was not to be harmed; he said I was to be returned to Chalus castle safely,’ he stammered.

  Mercadier brought his weather-beaten face close to the fresh face of Pierre. ‘When my king is dead and you are named as his murderer, justice shall be done. He shall not know what is to happen to you,’ he threatened, stabbing the young chest with a thick finger.

  Pierre began to shake with fear and any bravado left deserted him. He was at their mercy and his own life depended on the life hanging in the balance inside the tent. The lad was pushed down on the grass while the two soldiers stood either side of him, their hands on the pommels of their swords. All he could do was wait and pray that the English king would make a miraculous recovery. When he saw Queen Eleanor hurrying back to her son’s tent later, he knew he would not have to wait long to discover his fate. The look of pure hatred in her eyes when she glanced at him chilled the lad to the bone.

  Once inside, Eleanor sat at the head of Richard’s bed and cradled her favourite son in her arms. She could not
disguise the tears as she looked into his once handsome face. If any man had looked like a king, it was her Richard – he was so tall, arrogant, brave and proud. Now, to see him grey and wretched like this was enough to make her mother’s heart break. Simon moved back, allowing Richard his last moments with his heartbroken mother. ‘Mamon.’ Richard used the familiar name he had called her as a boy. ‘John shall be the next to follow me. I had wanted Geoffrey’s son as my heir, but the English would not accept a Breton boy as their king. John is an Englishman. Mamon, look after him as you looked after me. Guide him and give him the wisdom you gave me. Make him a good king for England.’ He gave a feeble smile in an attempt at wryness. ‘I have been told that there were no gold coins discovered here. It was some ancient statue of stone – worthless stone. I have gambled my life on a piece of rock and lost.’

  ‘Hush, my son, save your strength,’ Eleanor soothed, but Richard wanted to make his confessions and clear his conscious.

  ‘I have been no husband to Berengaria. I should have given her many fine sons. Please see that she is cared for and honoured as my widow, and tell her it was not her that I found so distasteful about our marriage. There were many distractions that I am now ashamed of. I spent my nights in immoral activities, when I should have been planting sons in her womb. Ask her to forgive me and remember me in her prayers.’ He raised his hand to wave both Simon and Mercadier towards him. ‘Bury me at my father’s feet at Fontervaud.’ He paused, his breath becoming shallow and laboured, aware his body was slowing down, coming to its end. ‘We are Plantagenet’s, our family, this dynasty of Plantagenet, cursed from the day of our inception. From the devil we came, so to the devil we return.’

  Did he speak those last words aloud, or were they in his thoughts? His mind was becoming confused in this strange world between the living and the dead. Eleanor stroked her son’s forehead and agreed to carry out his final requests. Priests had now entered the tent, ready to prepare the king for his death. With the king’s cloudy eyes focused on the crucifix held above him, the Last Rites were administered. He confessed all his sins and received absolution. Now purged of sin, Richard settled down further into his mother’s lap and shut his eyes. Perhaps for the first time in his life, he was at peace with himself and the world. He listened to her crooning a gentle lullaby from his childhood, while the priests’ voices droned on monotonously as they recited prayers. The dusky, heavy, sweet smell of incense hung cloying in the still, warm air.

  Then, the king was suddenly unaware that he lay in his mother’s arms. He was restored to strength and standing in full armour, polished and gleaming as new. In his gauntleted hand he held his mighty broadsword, drawn from its scabbard, which was catching, flashing and reflecting the light. The tabard he wore was pristine white and the cross emblazoned on his chest shone like a thousand rubies. Wisps of pale spectral clouds swirled and eddied around his legs, curling, meandering, before evaporating mystically and soundlessly. Hearing a familiar whinny, he slowly looked round. His mighty horse, Great William, stood behind him, saddled and armoured in preparation for war. The horse shook his strong, powerful head, his bridle jangling and his long mane sweeping through the air. His tail swished, and he snorted, pawing the rolling clouds. The horse then stepped forward and nudged him in the back in a familiar greeting.

  Richard turned and looked at the gates of Jerusalem as they slowly swung open for him. He had to shield his eyes from their brilliant golden radiance, while in the distance, the Golden Dome of the Rock shone with an incandescent luminosity. Christians gathered at the gates were calling their blessings on him as their saviour and a host of dazzling angels filled the sky, each wearing a shimmering breastplate engraved with the cross of Saint George, joyfully sung his praises, stretched out their arms, beckoning him to join them. Richard looked up at the angels and smiled back at them as he took a step forward through the billowing clouds, and then another, knowing without a doubt that this was where he wanted to be. Slowly he approached the gates of Jerusalem, or were they now the gates of heaven shimmering with a pearly hue, he was not sure anymore, all he knew was that he wanted to pass through these gates. He took up Great Williams reins to lead him forward, and as Richard done so, he and his horse were enveloped and coalesced in a beautiful white haze as the angels gathered the mighty Lionheart into their arms, welcoming him to heaven.

  Eleanor looked into the face of her dead son and she saw he was smiling. Simon and Mercadier dropped to their knees and prayed aloud for the dead king’s soul, Simon feeling the tears stinging in his eye. His king, his brother and his friend was dead, and the pain he felt in his chest was immeasurable.

  Outside, still flanked by the two guards, Pierre’s bowed head snapped up at the sound of the bitter, anguished howling of Queen Eleanor. King Richard was dead, so his fate was sealed. Mercadier appeared from the tent. His eyes were hard and determined, and found the ashen face of the young man.

  ‘Bring the murderer of our king to me,’ he demanded.

  The guards marched Pierre, as he uselessly pleaded for mercy, through the camp, he struggled, attempting to dig his heels into the soil to stop being dragged to his death, more soldiers joined in, shouting obscenities, kicking and spitting at him. He attempted to reason that he had been exonerated of his crime by the dying king, and they should obey their royal master’s final wish. The soldiers simply laughed his protestations off. He was guilty as sin and he had committed regicide. An eye for an eye, a tooth for a tooth – justice would be done to this snivelling sap of a boy. A rope was already looped over a thick, strong branch, with a noose dangling ominously. He tried again to struggle free to make a futile escape, but it was to no avail. He was to be hung here for the death of their king. Hands lifted the lad onto the back of the late king’s horse, Tall Henry, and he was led to the tree and brought to a halt under the rope. The noose was fitted and tightened around Pierre’s neck. The soldiers hurled abuse, throwing rocks, clods of soils and anything else they could get their hands on at the young man.

  ‘Any last words?’ Mercadier called.

  ‘King Richard said I was not to be harmed. Release me and let me return home!’ Pierre appealed.

  The sounds of mocking laughter filled his ears and more missiles were flung at him. Tall Henry’s rump was slapped by the broadside of Richard’s own sword by Simon, and the horse moved forward, startled. Pierre slid from its back and hung there, swinging from the tree. He chocked as the knot tightened around his neck, strangling the life out of him. He could hear the shouts of vituperation from the soldiers as he dangled, slowly throttling. Then, instead of being left to die alone suspended by the neck, Pierre felt himself being cut down and thrown to the ground, where dozens of booted feet kicked him and knife blades stabbed him. Still, this did not kill him. They intended to make his demise as long and as excruciating as possible.

  Mercadier shouted a command and the soldiers stood back, making way for the archers to draw their bows, ready for their own share of justice. Pierre looked through nebulous eyes at the hard faces glowering down on him. He could feel nothing but pain and now longed for death to release him. He feebly pleaded for the soldiers to finish him off, to end the pain. The archers loaded their bows and, on the command, simultaneously fired their arrows into his young body at close range.

  Pierre’s mutilated corpse was dragged by the hair through the mud, leaving a trail of blood in its wake. It was loaded into a mangonel and catapulted over the battlement of Chalus castle, so that it would land in the courtyard. This would show the inhabitants inside what had happened to the boy who had killed their king, their duke. Their Lionheart.

  Simon went back to his own tent and sat down at the table. He then wrote a letter to Aubrette, the words blotted by tears.

  My dear wife,

  It is with a heart filled with sorrow that I must inform you that my royal brother is dead by an assassin’s arrow. Dead this very day, the sixth of April i
n the year of our Lord, 1199. He who has taken our king before his time has suffered just retribution and now resides in purgatory as my king has gone to heaven. Along with Captain Mercadier and others, we shall transport the body of King Richard to the abbey at Fontevraund and lay him for eternal rest at the feet of his father, King Henry, as he had instructed us. From there, I shall return to England, to Winchester and swear allegiance to our new sovereign lord, King John.

  Once the new king is assured of my loyalty to him, I will come back toRomhill to be by your side where I now mightily desire to be, to feel your loving arms around me to comfort me at this most miserable of times.

  Your loving, and most unhappy husband,

  Simon.

  News of the king’s death spread like the plague throughout Europe, and quickly crossed the Narrow Sea to continue its devastating course to England. King Richard had become a legend, despite his deplorable disregard and absence during his ten-year reign. To his English subjects, he was the righter of wrongs and the champion of good over evil. He was their Lionheart, who had fought Saladin to save the Christian world from savagery. He had been deemed immortal. Now, his lifeless body lay in Fontevraud Abbey.

  On hearing the news, John hurried to Winchester to receive the proclamation that he was now the King of England – instead of the precocious youth, Arthur. Simon had arrived at Winchester soon after with William Marshal and others to pledge allegiance to King John. In a rare moment of brevity, John swore to be a good and wise king, and to be a father for all his subjects. He would be approachable and benign, yet strong and just. He would listen to his fellow Englishmen, and would not abandon England as Richard had. However, it wasn’t long before the old familiar John resurfaced and he began to plot a delicious revenge against all who had opposed him during his brother’s reign.