by Jean Plaidy
‘Come and find me,’ he called out.
There was no answer, only a flurry in the branches as some startled creature, alarmed by the noise, made off.
He was frightened, for it was now dark. Would they never find him? His body was burning; the fever was on him. He knew it well for it was an old enemy. With it came delirium.
He thought he had died and had gone to hell. This was hell. There were devils all about him and they were trying to catch him and carry him off to eternal damnation.
‘Let me alone!’ he cried. ‘I am the King of France. My coronation is to be soon and then you will see.’
It was as though he heard mocking laughter which implied: Where you are there is no difference between a king and the humblest serf.
It could not be so. Kings endowed abbeys; they went on pilgrimages; they fought crusades. Humble serfs could not do that. That must bring the rich and noble some merit.
But he had never done these things. And here he was lost in the forest with death beckoning him. Where was his father? Where were his guards? Where even was his horse, for he would have given him some comfort?
He tripped and fell; the grass seemed damp as he lay for a while. It seeped through his clothes and he started to shiver.
‘Mother of Mary, help me,’ he prayed.
He felt the tears on his cheeks. He was not the future King of France now; he was merely a very frightened boy.
He rose again unsteadily and stumbled forward. Was he dreaming or were the trees less thick? He was not sure but the thought comforted him. He wanted to get out of the forest, for the forest was evil.
His clothes were wet, or was that the sweat now the fever had passed a little? He was cold now, shivering, with cold as well as fear.
He would die if they did not find him. When he was ill the King his father would send for the best physicians in the country to attend to him; prayers would be said throughout the country. But now he was alone and none knew of his dire need.
‘Only God can help me now,’ he muttered. ‘Oh, God, forgive me my sins. Give me a chance to redeem my soul.’
This was one of the rare occasions when he experienced humility.
As though in answer to his prayer he saw through the trees a small clearing in the forest and a dim light. His heart leaped in joy. ‘Thank you, God,’ he whispered. ‘You have heard my prayer.’
He stumbled towards the light. It came from a cottage which was little more than a hut. He managed to reach the door and beat on it with his fist and as it opened he fell at the feet of an old man.
‘Help …’ murmured Philip.
The old man knelt down and looked at him. Then he dragged him into the cottage.
Philip lay on the floor and the old man put warm soup to his lips. He could see by the manner in which he was dressed that he was a nobleman.
‘My lord, you are ill. Your clothes are damp. You should rest in my humble cottage until you are well.’
Philip allowed his cloak to be taken from him. He felt better, partly because of the soup but mainly because of the human company.
‘Tell … the King,’ he stammered.
‘My lord.’
‘I am the King’s son,’ he said.
‘My lord. Is it so then?’
The old man knelt.
It was the old story in which he had wanted to play a part but how different this was from what he had imagined.
‘I was lost and I am ill. Pray send to the King without delay.’
‘My son shall go at once, my lord,’ said the old man. ‘You should stay here and warm yourself. I can only give you old garments which it would not be becoming for you to wear, you may think.’
Philip said: ‘Let me shelter here and send word to my father.’
‘We are but humble charcoal-burners, my lord,’ said the man, ‘but we are good and loyal servants of the King. I will send my son without delay.’
Philip nodded and closed his eyes.
It was not until the next morning that guards from the castle arrived. Philip by that time was delirious.
The charcoal-burner was given a purse full of gold coins for his part in the adventure which made him richer than he could have been through a lifetime’s work, and Philip was taken back to the castle.
His constitution was not strong enough to endure such an ordeal and he was very ill, so ill in fact that it seemed very likely that he could not survive.
Louis was frantic. It was true that he was being punished for his sins; he needed to go on that crusade with Henry. This was his only son whom he had planned should be crowned with the pomp he considered necessary to such an occasion, and God was threatening to take him from him.
He wept; he entreated; he consulted with his kinsman, the Count of Flanders, who himself had recently returned from a crusade, after which he believed his sins had been washed away. The Count was a comparatively young man and had plenty of time to commit more and redeem the fresh lot, so he was in a particularly ebullient mood.
Louis could not sleep, so great was his anxiety. He sent for his ministers and said: ‘I am no longer young. I doubt I can get more sons and if I had one now he would be but a baby when I was called away. God is punishing me. I sense it. Why should he do this to me? Philip was never as strong as I could have wished and that something like this should befall him is what I have always feared.’
His ministers reminded him that young Philip still lived and the doctors were caring for him. There was a good chance that he would survive.
But when Louis saw the doctors they were very grave. The King’s son was in a high fever. He was delirious and kept calling out that the trees were his enemies and they were seeking to catch him and turn him into one of them.
The King’s advisers warned him that he must look to his own health. If he did not and he died while his only son was in such a condition that could be disastrous for France.
Louis deplored the fact that he had not yet gone on the crusade which he and Henry were planning, and thinking of Henry, Louis was reminded of Thomas à Becket, that great good man who had been so cruelly done to death on the stones of Canterbury Cathedral. His physicians gave him a soothing draught which they said would give him peaceful sleep and as he lay on his bed, between sleeping and waking, he had a strange experience which he believed to be a vision.
Thomas the Martyr was in the room.
‘Is it indeed you, my friend, Thomas à Becket Archbishop of Canterbury?’ asked the King.
‘It is,’ said the shadowy shape.
‘You come from Heaven where you have a place of honour?’ said the King.
‘I come to you from God,’ was the answer. ‘Go to Canterbury, humble yourself at my shrine there. Confess your sins and ask forgiveness. If I intercede for you, you will be given back your son.’
The King sat up in his bed. He was trembling. He was alone in his bedchamber.
He was convinced that St Thomas à Becket had visited him and would save the life of his son.
Go to Canterbury! His ministers were disturbed. Go into the realm of his old enemy the King of England!
‘You forget,’ said Louis, ‘that we are now friends. We have sworn an oath to this purpose and we are planning to go on a crusade together.’
‘It is unwise to put too much trust in the King of England,’ advised his ministers.
‘I trust him now,’ replied Louis. ‘Moreover St Thomas has told me to go. If I do not my son will die. Even if I suspected perfidy on the part of the King of England I would still go to save my son.’
They could see it was no use attempting to dissuade him.
Philip of Flanders was excited by the prospect. He was inclined to agree with the King’s ministers that it was not very wise for Louis to go to England but the prospect of excitement always exhilarated him. Life had been a little dull since his return from the crusade and he was now trying to ingratiate himself with young Philip for he could see that Louis was not long for this world and the jou
rney over the sea would surely be a great trial to him.
‘My lord,’ he said, ‘I trust I may be allowed to accompany you.’
‘I would be glad of it,’ answered Louis.
His ministers remained dubious. Did he think that he could endure the crossing of the sea? He knew how unpredictable that stretch of water could be.
Louis was well aware of this but his mind was made up. All that remained to be done before he set out was to tell his good friend the King of England of his desire.
When Henry heard that Louis wished to visit the shrine at Canterbury he was uneasy for it occurred to him that while the King of France was in England he would surely wish to see his daughter. He would have to impress on Alice, if this meeting took place – though he would do his utmost to see that it did not – that she must in no way betray her feeling for him. Reference would certainly be made to Richard and if so she must feign to accept him with pleasure as her husband. She could trust Henry to see that the marriage would never take place. But time enough to prime Alice, if a meeting took place between father and daughter. Louis was at the time a very anxious man, concerned with one thing – the preservation of his son, so it might well be that he would forget the predicament of his daughter.
He sent a messenger to Louis with an effusive welcome. The King of England would be honoured to receive the King of France. He understood his great grief and his desire to intercede through St Thomas. He would add his prayers to those of Louis and Louis could be sure of a safe conduct. There was absolutely no need for those in France who wished him well to fear for his safety. The King of England would personally make himself responsible for it.
Assembling a brilliant cavalcade Henry travelled to Dover to await the arrival of the King of France. People gathered at the roadside to see him pass and there were many to witness the meeting of the two Kings.
Poor Louis, racked with anxiety for his son and the misery he had endured during the crossing, looked his age. Have I aged as much in the last few years as he has? wondered Henry. He could still spend a day in the saddle without tiring; he was as active as he ever was and men still marvelled at that tremendous energy which showed no sign of abating. He had never cared for his appearance. How Eleanor had reproached him for that, calling him a peasant in some of her rages, jeering at his chapped hands and his manner of dressing, calling him a barbarian because he said clothes were meant for use and not for ornament. Barbarian indeed! Some of them loved their finery. What about her Saracen lover for one? Why should he think of Eleanor after all this time? What did he care for her opinion? Alice loved him. Alice thought him the most wonderful being that had ever lived. That was all that mattered. His hair was getting thin and he had been proud of his tawny curling locks. They had perhaps been his greatest personal vanity. Even now he combed them carefully in an attempt to hide the baldness.
He had aged a little then, but gracefully, as was to be expected. But poor Louis was an old man. He must be nearing sixty – quite an age; and he did not look as if he would last much longer.
Henry embraced him. ‘My dear, dear friend. Welcome. It rejoices me to see you here.’
There were tears in Louis’s eyes. ‘Blessings on you, Henry. How good it is of you to make me so welcome on your shores. My heart is sick, my dear friend, sick with anxiety. My beloved son …’
‘I feel for you,’ said Henry, ‘and I have made it known that there shall be no delay. When you have rested from your voyage we will go together to the shrine at Canterbury and there mingle our tears and our prayers. I doubt not that they will be answered. Be of good cheer. St Thomas is the good friend of us both and he will intercede for you. I know it.’
Louis thanked his kind host and the next day they set out together for Canterbury.
The Kings rode side by side along the road to Canterbury. They talked, Louis of his son’s misadventure in the forest and how the night in the damp and lonely place had brought on a bout of the fever which often plagued him. ‘He is my only son,’ wailed Louis. ‘You, my good friend, are more fortunate, you are the father of several.’
More than you know, thought Henry; and odd as it is I get more comfort from those who were born outside wedlock than those born within. Perhaps that has something to do with their mothers.
‘I have had my trials with my brood,’ said Henry.
‘You have never had anxieties as to their health.’
‘Nay, but they’re a fighting breed, I fancy. I trust my young John will not turn against his father as the others have done. At least, Louis, you have not suffered that kind of ingratitude.’
Henry thought: There is time yet for Philip to give you cause to suffer it, for I’d not trust him. At least my sons are handsome, boys to be proud of, although rebellious. I would hate to have a peevish weakling like your Philip.
‘We are close,’ said Louis. ‘Bound by the marriages of our children. What a bitter blow that Marguerite should have lost her child. Our grandson would have made a greater tie between us. But I am the father of your son Henry even as you are of my daughter Marguerite. And so it will be with Richard and Alice …’
‘Yes, yes, yes,’ said Henry hastily. ‘You must have heard of the numbers of miracles which have been performed at St Thomas’s shrine. The blind have been made to see, the lame to walk. I believe with all my heart that this time tomorrow when we have said our prayers, Philip will begin to get better.’
‘You comfort me, my friend. I am beginning to believe, too, that it will be so.’
The bells were ringing a welcome as they passed through the walls of the city. Louis went at once to the crypt and knelt by the tomb of St Thomas. There he prayed all through the day and night refusing food, pleading with St Thomas to intercede with God for the life of his son.
Nor was he content with prayer. He promised that the convent there should receive its wine free every year from France.
Henry expressed his thanks and insisted on taking his guest with him to Winchester that he might have a brief respite there before making the arduous journey across the sea. He was determined to show friendship for Louis. It was no use offering him a banquet. Louis was more interested in churches. Henry, however, took him to his treasure vault and there asked him to take something as a pledge of their friendship.
Henry trembled with anxiety as Louis handled some of his most precious gold, silver and jewel-studded ornaments, for he could not bear to part with any of his possessions; he need not have feared. Louis chose something of small value and again they pledged their friendship.
Henry said that he would have begged the King of France to prolong his stay, there was so much he wished to show him in England, but he knew full well how eager he would be to get back to his son. His great anxiety during the visit was that Louis might ask to see Alice or Eleanor. Either could have proved fatal. Alice would have done her best to keep their secret, but would she have been able to? And the fact that Eleanor knew of it often set him sweating with fear. He wondered why she had not made it known. He could only believe that she thought she could plague him more by keeping him guessing.
With skill he avoided either issue and it was with great pleasure that he accompanied the King of France to Dover. Louis embarked on the waiting vessel and sailed back to France.
There, joyous news awaited him. Philip was recovering his health. The doctors swore that it must have been precisely at the time when Louis lay prostrate before the tomb of the martyr that Philip began to revive.
Louis went at once to see his son and the change in him was remarkable. It could only be a miracle, declared the King; and how gratified he was that he had defied his ministers and put his trust in the martyr and Henry of England. He felt it augured well for the future and their new friendship which was to take them together to the Holy Land.
‘Your coronation will not be long delayed,’ he told Philip. ‘We will make preparations without delay.’
He was delighted when his son-in-law, the younger Henry, arrived a
t the French Court with his wife Marguerite.
Louis embraced them both warmly. Henry looked well and very handsome though Marguerite was a little wan after her ordeal.
‘How glad I am to see you, my son and daughter,’ he said, and he added to Henry: ‘I want you and my Philip to be friends always. Your father and I have taken an oath of friendship and one day you two will stand in the same position as we hold today – Kings of France and England. I want there to be amity between you. Remember that, Henry, for there is nothing but misery in war. I would to God I had never taken part in it. I would be a happier man today if I had not.’
Wars were a necessary part of a king’s life, Henry supposed, but he did not bother to contradict Louis. The poor old fellow was looking older than ever and his skin had taken on an unhealthy tinge.
Henry was glad to renew his friendship with Philip of Flanders but he was less influenced by him than before, for he was more experienced of the world than he had been and although he remembered how generous the Count had been when he was initiating him into the joys of the tournament, he no longer seemed quite the glamorous person he had once appeared to be.
Nor did Henry greatly care for the young Prince of France. No one did; he was not a very attractive character. It was only his father who doted on him, and of course the ministers of France realised his importance, for he was the heir and if he had died after that mishap in the forest there would doubtless have been so many claimants to the throne that there would have been inevitable civil war.
Louis decided that there should be a thanksgiving service at St Denis to commemorate the miraculous recovery of Philip; and this should take place as soon as possible.
He did not wish Thomas à Becket to think he was ungrateful for his intercession.
The date was fixed. Young Henry would ride side by side with Philip to show everyone that the friendship between France and England was firm.