by Jean Plaidy
Philip was furious. ‘How dare you come here,’ he cried, ‘stinking of the King’s gold. Dost think I do not smell it? Nay, I will not accept the King of England’s terms. It is he who, in honour, should accept mine. And I tell you this: if he will not agree to the marriage of my sister and Prince Richard and will not command his knights and men of the Church to swear fealty to Richard then there can be no peace between us.’ He turned to Henry. ‘Will you swear?’
The red blood showed in Henry’s eyes. He thrust one clenched fist into the palm of his other hand.
‘No,’ he cried. ‘Never. Never.’
The conference was over and once more it had ended in deadlock.
Henry had always loved the city of Le Mans. Perhaps it meant more to him than any of his continental possessions. His father was buried there and as soon as he came back he went to his tomb to pray.
How old and tired he felt, how sick and weary of the battle. He thought of his father who had been so gay and handsome and who had quarrelled so violently with his mother. He remembered those quarrels, the contempt his mother had had for his father and his dislike of her. Of course she had been an overbearing woman and his father had been feckless and pleasure-loving; his own sons Henry and Geoffrey had taken after their grandfather.
Geoffrey the Fair they had called the man who now lay in this tomb. He was descended from the wild Counts of Anjou, those who were said to have come from the Devil. If the story about his ancestress who had turned into her true shape in church when faced with the Mass was true then they were descended from a witch and there could well be a devil in them all. Had he not seduced his son’s betrothed when she was but a child? When his temper was at its height what deeds had he not done? How many men had he murdered? Yes, the Devil was in him; but with his satanic descent on one side and his forceful mother, a granddaughter of the Conqueror on the other, what could he expect?
His mother had worked for his success. She had loved him in her hectoring way. So had his father differently, more tenderly. Geoffrey the Fair, lover of many women! It was said that Eleanor had briefly shared his bed. Henry smiled wryly. Anything could be expected of Eleanor. That was why all these years he had kept her a prisoner.
He shrugged his shoulders. She deserved her fate. He would waste no pity on her.
He had come to this town to be quiet, to think of his father and to tell himself that all rulers were beset by anxieties. There was no peace in a crown. Why then did men seek it with such passion that they were ready to barter their lives – and those of others – for it? They did it for glory. And what did they come to in the end? The tomb.
He rose from his knees and as he made his way to his chamber a messenger arrived to tell him that Philip was on the march. Richard was with him and they were only a few miles from Le Mans.
From the top of the battlements he could see the armies encamped there. Philip and Richard were together in the same tent.
‘What have I done,’ he asked himself, ‘that my sons should take up arms against me?’
I have one good son – Geoffrey – base-born Geoffrey whom I would trust with my life.
But there was John whom he must love best of all because he was his legitimate son. My youngest and my best, he assured himself.
By God’s eyes, John should be his heir. If he defeated Philip, if he brought him to terms he would strip Richard of everything – even Aquitaine.
Some of his old ardour returned. He felt better. If only there could have been a conference. In the old days he had excelled at conferences. He could always get the better of his opponents by his agile brain and of course the old trick of agreeing to do that which he had no intention of performing. But people became wary. One cannot keep playing the old tricks.
‘They shall not take Le Mans,’ he declared. ‘Not the city I love best, not that which holds the tomb of my father.’
He hated the thought of a head-on battle. He had always avoided that. So much depended on luck and numbers and it always seemed to him senseless destruction. He who had always relied on strategy relied on that now.
He would start a fire and as the wind was in the right direction the flames would be carried into the French camp. At best it could destroy so much that it would disable them and prevent their fighting, at least it would cause confusion. He gave the order.
As he stood at the turret watching the blaze, he laughed to himself. Strategy was always better than hand to hand combat.
His glee changed suddenly to consternation. God was indeed against him for the wind had suddenly changed. It was like a direct order from Heaven. Instead of enveloping the French camp it was blowing back in the direction of the city.
Henry left the turret. His knights, seeing what was happening, were waiting for orders.
‘The city will be destroyed,’ cried Henry. ‘The hand of God is against us. There is nothing for us to do but get away while we can.’
He and his men left the city which was now beginning to blaze into a mighty conflagration as the flames driven by the high wind encompassed it.
Henry was sick at heart. This was the final disaster. Something told him that he could not survive it. The new vigour which had come to him had evaporated.
He rode to the top of a hillock and looked back at the blazing city.
His son Geoffrey was beside him and he said to him, ‘God has taken from me the city I loved most.’
Geoffrey said: ‘It was a freak of the weather. Who could have guessed the wind would change so suddenly?’
‘It is God’s sign that he has deserted me. Geoffrey, my son, in my youth I spent many years in that city. My father’s tomb is there. And He is reducing it all to ashes.’ In a sudden access of rage Henry shook his fist at the sky.
Geoffrey was afraid for his father and sought to pacify him. ‘I beg of you, my lord,’ he said, ‘consider. You need God’s help as never before. You blaspheme. Should you not humbly pray to Him?’
Henry laughed aloud and his eyes flashed with the old fury while the blood hammered in his temples.
‘Why should I plead with One who is determined to destroy me? Why should I honour Him? What has He done for me? He gave me sons and turned them against me. In that camp is my son Richard. What have I done, Geoffrey, to be so treated?’
‘God has given you much, my lord. He gave you a crown and the strength to hold it. Troubles have come to you perhaps to test you. They say God loves to test those whom He loves best.’
Henry turned to look at his son and grasped his arm suddenly.
‘You have been a good son to me, Geoffrey. I would you had been my legitimate son. How different that would have been. He gave me you, did He not, and He has given me my son John. My son John will be a good king for I am determined that he shall follow me. He is the only one who has shown me affection. I have my son John.’
Geoffrey looked away to the burning city and he prayed to God that He would not let the King discover the true nature of his youngest son, for Geoffrey knew the boy to be dissolute, unreliable, hypocritical and far less worthy than his brother Richard whom the King was seeking to disinherit.
‘My lord, thank God then for what He has given you and I beg of you let us ride on, for the enemy will pursue us and they must not capture you.’
Even as he spoke William the Marshall rode up to the King.
‘The French army is in pursuit,’ said William. ‘Ride on, my lord, with all speed. I and my company will hold your retreat but ride on as fast as you can.’
The King in retreat! The King being protected by a rearguard! It was breaking his heart.
William the Marshall could see that they could not hold back the French. Richard rode at their head. He wanted to be the one to capture his father. He had not stopped to don his armour even and was unarmed.
Cold fury possessed him as he told himself what he would say to the old man who had done his best to disinherit him.
The smoking city was behind them, the air filled with acrid odo
ur. Richard could see the retreating band of men in the centre of which would be his father.
With a shout he rode forward. He was talking to the old man as he rode. ‘What sort of a father have you been to me? Did you not always hate me? Why did you hate me? Because my mother loved me. You hated her so you hated me and you tried to take from me that which is mine by right. Unnatural father! Now you will see what happens when you are my captive.’
A knight seemed to rise up in front of him. A lance was pointing at his throat.
‘Halt, Richard of Aquitaine,’ said a voice which Richard recognised.
‘It is William the Marshall,’ cried Richard. ‘Will you kill me then? That would be a dastardly thing to do. See you not that I am unarmed?’
‘I will not kill you,’ said William the Marshall. ‘I shall leave that for the Devil.’
‘William … !’
‘I have nothing to say to you,’ said William. ‘You are a traitor to your own father.’ And with those words he thrust his lance into Richard’s horse.
The horse fell dying and Richard was thrown to the ground.
William the Marshall turned and galloped away.
Richard was unharmed but since he was incapable of proceeding then he called his men to a halt. They returned disconsolately to the French camp.
The King and his band of faithful followers which included his son Geoffrey and William the Marshall came to rest at a small castle and as the King was too exhausted to go further they decided they must stop there awhile.
Geoffrey was beside the King and took off his own cloak to cover him for although it was June and warm Henry continually shivered.
While the King slept restlessly Geoffrey and William the Marshall talked with some of the King’s knights, discussing the desperate position in which they found themselves.
William said: ‘We should make for Normandy. There we could rally many a faithful knight to the King’s cause.’
‘Once there,’ agreed Geoffrey, ‘we could send to England for reinforcements.’
‘It is our only hope.’
In the morning the King seemed a little better.
He refused to go to Normandy.
‘Le Mans is destroyed,’ he said. ‘I can never forget it. I will stay in Anjou which is the land of my fathers. My son John will join me. He is a good warrior and he will put heart into our army and fear into the enemy.’
William the Marshall did not meet his eyes. If the King had been stronger he would have had something to say, but Henry needed a spar to cling to. Let him believe that John provided that.
‘Where is my son John?’ he asked. ‘I am surprised that he has not yet joined me.’
‘There is no news of him yet, my lord,’ said Geoffrey.
‘He will surprise us,’ said Henry. ‘I know him. He will arrive with men for our deliverance. You will see.’
Neither Geoffrey nor William replied.
Philip’s armies were taking every castle on their route. He sent a message to Henry. He was ready to meet him again and he thought Henry might now find it expedient to consider his demands.
‘I would not wish young Philip to see me as I am now,’ said Henry. ‘In a few days I shall be better. Delay replying. Tell him I am indisposed. If only John would come. But he will soon.’
The messengers returned with Philip’s answer.
He did not believe in the King’s indisposition, Henry had made so many excuses during his lifetime, had told so many lies that no one believed him now.
Philip went on with his march and castle after castle was falling into his hands.
Again Philip suggested a conference and again Henry replied that he was too ill.
The answer came: ‘The King of France wearies of the continual excuses of the King of England. He must come to the conference or risk the result.’
So he must go. He could scarcely sit his horse.
‘If my son John were here, he would go in my place,’ he said. ‘He would reason with my enemy and my traitor son.’
It was difficult to remain on his horse. William the Marshall was on one side of him, Geoffrey on the other. They were ready to catch him if he should fall.
Oh, God, that I should come to this, he thought. Once proud Henry Plantagenet now a conquered King with a pain-racked body, deserted by my own son. Oh John, my beloved youngest, where are you now?
Philip’s terms were read to him.
He must accept the counsels of the King of France and do homage for all his territory on the Continent. When Richard returned from Jerusalem he must be given the Princess Alice as his bride and be proclaimed heir to all his father’s territories. Henry must pay Philip the cost of the war. If he did not agree to keep to the terms of his treaty his knights and barons were to swear that they would desert him and join Richard.
Henry bowed his head. The humiliation was more than he could endure. They were killing him.
Yet he must concede, for what was the alternative? They would make him their prisoner. He, proud Henry, prisoner of the young King of France and his own son!
It was unendurable.
He must accept. Then when his health returned he would find some means of evading those terms. How many times had he wriggled out of his contracts. It had been part of his policy. To this he owed his success.
He accepted. His humiliation was complete. But not quite.
Now that he had accepted the peace terms one more thing was required of him. He had behaved unfairly to his son; he had tried to rob him of his inheritance. There must be no recriminations. He would now give Richard the kiss of peace before all those assembled.
Richard rode to him – young, straight, beautiful with the sun on his fair hair, godlike. The King of France watched with love and pride.
Henry’s bloodshot eyes fiercely hating looked into the steely blue ones of his son. They embraced.
Henry could not control his anger. ‘I pray God,’ he said, ‘that I may live long enough to take a fitting revenge on you.’
Richard smiled coldly. The hatred between them was great.
They would take him to the castle of Chinon because it was near and he was in no fit state to endure a long journey.
Geoffrey ordered that a litter be brought and, protesting, but only a little, he allowed himself to be placed in it.
‘My son John will soon be with me,’ he said. ‘Then I can begin planning my revenge. Richard shall never have the crown.’
When he reached the castle he felt better. He would live to fight again. When he had been forced to give Richard the kiss of peace his anger had been so great that it had ignited the old spirit.
‘I will have my revenge,’ he said. ‘I must.’
He lay on the bed covered by Geoffrey’s cloak, for he was too tired to take off his clothes.
‘Geoffrey,’ he said, ‘there were many knights on the side of Philip and Richard who should have been on mine. They deserted. They left me for the enemy.’
‘’Twas so, my lord. And many more have gone.’
‘I would know who they are.’
Geoffrey nodded. ‘It is well to know traitors.’
‘Send a man to the King of France. Ask this favour of him. I would have a list of all those knights who left me. He cannot deny me that.’
‘It shall be done, my lord.’
The King nodded and closed his eyes.
‘Stay beside me, Geoffrey,’ he said. ‘You comfort me. It is good to know that I have faithful friends. I do not despair though it has never been so dark as this. I have faced some desperate situations but never one like this. But I shall emerge. Doubt it not, Geoffrey. My son John will be here very soon, and he and I, with you, Geoffrey, and William the Marshall and those whom I would trust with my life … we shall plan together. I want my son Richard brought to me, a miserable captive. He shall join his mother in prison. Think of it, Geoffrey. A wife and sons who turned against me!’
‘Try to rest, my lord. You need to sleep.’
‘I’ll try, Geoffrey. Wake me the moment John arrives.’
‘I will, my lord,’ answered Geoffrey.
The King started from his sleep.
‘Is that John?’ he asked.
‘No, my lord. It is the list sent by the King of France,’ answered Geoffrey. ‘The list of knights who deserted your ranks and joined those of Philip and Richard.’
‘Ah. Now I shall know the traitors. Let the list be read to me.’
There was a brief silence.
The King said: ‘I am ready.’
Still there was no answer.
‘What ails you?’ cried the King. ‘Why do you not give me the names of these traitors?’
‘The first on the list is …’
‘What ails you, man? Who is the first on the list?’
‘It is Prince John, my lord.’
He lay sick and silent.
He could not believe it. He must see for himself. There it was plain to read. Prince John at the head of the list. So this was why he had waited in vain.
Why, John, why?
He could see the face of his son. He could picture the thoughts behind that charming countenance. Because you are finished, Father. You are vanquished. How could I be beside you when you have nothing to offer me? Richard is in the ascendancy. In a short time he will be King, I cannot afford to offend the new King of England, Father, even if the old one is you.
Alone, ill, deserted!
What do I care for now? he asked himself. Nothing. Let me die. I am a vanquished king. Oh shame, shame that this should come to Henry Plantagenet. Deserted by my best-loved son, John. Was it not for you, my son, that I brought this war upon me? Richard hated me and made no secret of it. And you … you pretended to love me and I believed you. Did I believe? Deep down in my heart, did I not know?
He thought of the painting on the wall at Winchester. The voracious eaglets plucking their father to death and the youngest waiting his moment to pluck out his eyes.
That is what you have done to me, John. You have plucked out my eyes. I no longer have any desire to live. Nothing else matters now. I have lost everything. While I believed in you there was a reason for going on. But you have lied to me, deceived me, laughed at me behind my back, doubtless. John, you are a monster. Every one of my sons was against me. There was not one who did not lift up his hand and try to stab me in the back. Every one … and now that she-wolf in her prison, their mother … is laughing at me.
