by Jean Plaidy
See to what you have come, Henry. You the proud one, arbiter of our fortunes, where are you now? We are laughing at you, Henry. You have no more power to harm us.
He was not sure where he was. It was cold suddenly. He was in Rosamund’s Bower. Beautiful Rosamund whom he had loved so dearly. She had changed into Alice. Alice, Alice, what will become of you now? You will go to Richard, be his bride. He will never forgive you for having loved me, for having borne me a child. He is harsh and cruel. I know. I have looked into his icy eyes. Alice, my darling Alice, what will become of you?
Why was it so wonderfully cool? He opened his eyes. His son Geoffrey was fanning his face.
‘Oh, Geoffrey, my good Geoffrey. Would you had been my legitimate son. What do you there?’
‘I am keeping the flies away. It has turned so hot. Is there anything I can get you, my lord?’
‘Call me not my lord. Call me Father. You have been a true son to me. Why is it that you were so good to me and the sons of my Queen deserted me? They have destroyed me, and the youngest most of all. He was here quietly waiting to pluck out my eyes. God will reward you, Geoffrey … my son.’
‘I want no rewards, Father,’ said Geoffrey. ‘If I have served you and won your love that is reward enough.’
‘There is a sapphire ring on my finger, Geoffrey. I never cared for such baubles, but I carried them for their worth. Take it. It is yours. Remember me by it, Geoffrey.’
Geoffrey took the ring and kissed his father’s hand.
‘May God bless you, you who were truly my son.’
Geoffrey sat by his bed while he grew more delirious.
‘He should have a priest,’ he said, ‘for his end is near.’
There was no priest. The priests had gone, so had most of the knights. There was nothing to be gained by staying with a dead and defeated king.
Geoffrey stayed by his side with William the Marshall, and as they watched, the King ceased to murmur and his eyes became glazed. Then he spoke. William bent near to catch his words.
‘Shame,’ muttered the King. ‘Oh, the shame of a vanquished king.’
Then they saw that he was dead.
They carried him to the Abbey of Fontevrault and laid him in the church. Only a few faithful men had remained with him. The rest had stripped him of his jewels and clothes.
Richard, the new King of England, came to look at his father’s corpse. He stared down impassively and none knew what emotions there were in his heart.
William the Marshall faced him across his father’s body and Richard’s expression did not change.
It is the end of me, thought William. He will never forgive me for what I did.
Then Richard spoke. ‘You were my enemy but a few days ago, William the Marshall. You killed my horse so that he fell under me.’
‘’Twas so, my lord King, and so would I do again in such circumstances.’
Richard nodded. ‘Now I am your King, do you seek to kill me?’
‘Nay, for you are the true King. I served the King before and that is why his enemies were mine.’
Richard said nothing but turned away and William the Marshall wondered what his fate would be. Death or the dungeons?
When Richard was leaving Fontevrault he called to William the Marshall to walk beside him.
‘Go back to England,’ he said. ‘Guard my Kingdom till I come.’
William was taken aback.
‘I … my lord?’
‘Aye, you,’ replied Richard. ‘I like men who are faithful to their kings.’
William the Marshall turned to Richard. He said: ‘The King is dead. Long live the King.’
It was enough.
The news reached England. The King is dead. There is a new King. Richard the First.
In her apartments at Westminster they told Princess Alice. She was seized with a fit of trembling and shut herself into her bedchamber.
It was impossible. He was gone. She was alone. What would become of her?
They would marry her to Richard. She could not endure it. She had heard that he was cold, that her brother Philip loved him dearly and he loved Philip.
She was too stunned to weep.
All she could do was whisper to herself: What now? What will become of me?
In Salisbury Queen Eleanor heard the news.
He was dead. That vital man whom once she had loved and later whom she had hated and reviled. She could not believe it. Henry Plantagenet dead.
She heard of his last hours. They had all turned against him. Serve him right. He had tried to disinherit Richard, her Richard, her best-loved son.
There was change in the air. Everything was going to be different now. She touched her face. She was an old woman. Sixty-seven years of age and so many of them spent in captivity. Her two husbands were dead, her lovers were dead, and she lived on.
She would have something to live for; but she always had had. She had always loved life. That was why she was young even at sixty-seven.
But it was a new life which was opening for her. Freedom! And she would be with her beloved son. She and Richard would stand together as she had always longed for them to do.
Soon she would be delivered. He had promised that it should be the first thing he would do.
All day she waited at the turret. Before sundown she saw a party of riders coming towards the castle.
She went down to meet them.
She was right. She knew that she could trust Richard.
Greetings from the King to his revered mother.
She was free.
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