by Jean Plaidy
He knew that his two sons – Simon the younger and Guy – were now in Italy. They were exiled from England but Guy had married the only child of Count Aldobrandino Rosso dell’ Anguillara and had been made governor of Tuscany by Charles of Anjou. His brother Simon had joined him in Italy, so they could not now be far away.
He wondered whether he could see them, in which case he might bring about some reconciliation between them and the King and Edward.
He was sure that Edward would be ready to forget the trouble between them. After all they were his cousins. The King and Queen, whatever their faults, were not vindictive. King Henry was a man who liked to live in peace.
The thought excited Henry. As the party came into the town of Viterbo he decided that he would do all he could to find his cousins and, when he had, he would try to persuade them that they must bear no more resentment for the brutal murder of their father.
All enmity must be forgotten.
He was sure that the King and his son Edward would be prepared to let bygones be bygones.
It was Lent. The time for repentance and forgiveness.
Tomorrow he would go to church and pray for success.
As the party rode into the town of Viterbo two men were watching from a window of an alehouse.
They had come to this place in disguise for they wished to discover whether a certain man – whom they had reason to believe was a member of that party – was in fact of it.
They talked in low tones.
‘He is bound to be there. I know he left Edward and he would naturally return through Italy with the King’s party. The time is at hand, brother.’
Guy de Montfort nodded. ‘Never fear, Simon, his time is at hand.’
Simon de Montfort said: ‘I can see it still… that ribald crowd. And aloft they held his head. They jeered … they shouted obscenities … and when I think of him … that great man …’
Guy said: ‘Rest assured he shall not escape.’ His eyes glinted with an almost demoniac light. He had always been more bloodthirsty than his brother. He was thinking of those days in the royal courtyards when Henry of Cornwall had, with Edward, been a leader of them all. He had had a great influence on Edward and among all the boys was his greatest friend.
‘He was so virtuous,’ said Guy. ‘He was always right. Noble Henry! Ere long it will be a different story.’
‘I have heard that our father was murdered after Henry of Cornwall and his father were taken prisoner.’
‘It matters not. It was his men who did this foul deed and he must answer for it. Look. Who is that coming into the street?’
‘By God. Truth, it is he.’
Guy caught his brother’s arm. ‘So he is here then. Now all we have to do is wait for our moment.’
There was so much Henry wished to ask of God. His father’s health was uppermost; the success of Edward in the Holy Land; the continued peace at home; his future happiness with his beautiful bride.
In the early morning of that Friday which was to be fatal for him, Henry made his way to the church of San Silvestro. He had dismissed his attendants for he wished to be completely alone. He was in a strange mood that morning.
He knelt at the high altar. There was a deep silence about him and he felt suddenly at peace.
And as he knelt there the church door was thrown open. He did not turn even when the clatter of boots on the flagged floor broke the silence.
Suddenly he heard his name and turning he saw Guy de Montfort with his brother Simon at the head of a group of armed men.
‘This is the end for you!’ shouted Guy. ‘You shall not escape now.’
Henry saw murder in his cousin’s eyes. He began: ‘Guy …’
Guy de Montfort laughed harshly. ‘This is for what was done to my father.’
He lifted his sword. Henry clung to the altar and the sword all but cut off his fingers. Henry staggered to his feet.
‘Cousin …’ he cried. ‘Cousins … Have mercy … I did not harm your father …’
‘Nay. Nay,’ cried Guy, his eyes alight with demoniac glee. ‘He died did he not? Come. What are we waiting for?’
He lifted his sword. Simon was beside him. Henry fell fainting to the floor, his blood spattering the altar.
The de Montfort brothers looked at the dying man.
‘We have avenged our father,’ said Guy.
‘Nay, sir,’ spoke up one of his band. ‘Your father was not so respectfully dispatched.’
‘You speak the truth,’ cried Guy. ‘Come, what was done to my great father shall be done to this man.’
It was the signal. They dragged him from the church; they stripped him of his clothes. Then the gruesome work of mutilation was begun.
Richard of Cornwall, King of the Romans, was sick and weary. The lethargy which had dogged him all his life had increased. Looking back over his life he could not feel very pleased with it. He had rarely succeeded in what he undertook. The task of ruling the Roman Empire had proved beyond his strength and ability. He was married now to a beautiful woman but somehow she only served to call attention to the fact that he had grown old and feeble.
His brother Henry had been more fortunate. Henry could face disaster, pass through it, and behave as though it had never happened. He had always known this trait in his brother and despised it. Now he began to think that it was a virtue. He himself had had three wives. Isabella, Sanchia and Beatrice … all exceptionally beautiful women, yet none of them had really satisfied him.
The great achievement of his life had been the begetting of his sons. Henry and Edmund. He lived for them; and the one closest to him was Henry. Often he had marvelled that with his many imperfections he could have sired a son like Henry. Of course Henry had inherited his mother’s good qualities and Isabella had been a good woman. He often remembered now that he was ailing how badly he had treated her, and he regretted it.
Henry was coming home. He was glad of that. He had not liked the idea of his going to the Holy Land and had been haunted by the fear of his falling into the hands of the Saracens or dying of some fearful disease as so many of them did. It had been a relief to know he was on the way home.
Soon he would be in England. God speed the day.
There were arrivals at the castle. Letters perhaps from Henry and Edmund who was also on the Continent. He lived for news of his sons.
‘My lord, there is a man who would speak with you.’
‘Who is it?’
‘He comes from Italy.’
‘He will be from my son. Bring him in without delay.’
The man entered. He did not speak but stood before Richard as though seeking words.
‘You have brought me letters?’
‘Nay, my lord.’
‘Come you from my son?’
The man did not answer.
‘What ails you?’ cried Richard. ‘What has happened? Something is wrong.’
He had risen and as he did so he felt a sharp pain in his side. ‘Well, well, well?’ he shouted.
‘There has been a disaster, my lord.’
‘My son …’
The man nodded.
‘My son … Henry. He … he lives?’
The man shook his head.
‘Oh my God. Not Henry. What … How …’
‘My lord it was in a church at Viterbo. He was slain by cruel murderers.’
‘Henry! Slain! What harm has Henry ever done?’
‘His cousins, my lord, Simon and Guy de Montfort, have murdered him. They were heard to say that they did it to avenge their father.’
Richard tottered and the man dashed to him to prevent his falling.
‘My son,’ he whispered. ‘My beloved son.’
He lay in his chamber for a week and would take no food. He did not sleep. He lay staring before him, murmuring Henry’s name.
At the end of the week he bestirred himself and sent for certain of his squires. They must go to France at once and bring Edmund back. Who knew the murderers might
try to do the same to him. He would not rest until Edmund was with him.
In due course Edmund arrived and when he embraced his son the tears fell from his eyes but he was a little better after that. But it was noticed how enfeebled he had grown.
He rarely ventured out; he was never seen to smile again. He could be heard talking to Henry although he was alone.
Henry’s body was brought to England and buried at Hayles; and one cold December day Richard’s servants discovered that he had not risen from his bed and when they went to him they found that he was unable to move or to speak.
It was the end – although he lingered for a few months in this sad state. In April of the following year he died. It was said that he had never recovered from the death of his son.
His body was buried at Hayles, that Cistercian Abbey which he had founded and which stood near Winchcombe in Gloucestershire. He lay – beside his beloved son and his second wife Sanchia. His heart though was buried in the Franciscan church in Oxford.
Chapter XXI
THE POISONED DAGGER
After having bidden farewell to his cousin Henry, Edward with his young wife Eleanor sailed for the Holy Land as soon as the weather permitted them to. Although Eleanor had determined to accompany her husband, she was very sad at having to leave her three young children, John, Eleanor and Henry; but she realised it had to be a choice and she believed that she had made the right one.
Eleanor, though outwardly meek, was possessed of a rare strength of character of which Edward was becoming increasingly aware. He had believed when she had first begged to come with him that her presence might well be an encumbrance, instead of which it had proved to be a comfort. She could be self-effacing when the need arose and always seemed to be on the spot when he needed it. He was beginning to thank God for Eleanor.
In due course they arrived at Acre – the great trading city which although at this time was in decline still retained marks of past greatness. It was one of the centres of Christendom in that area; many times the Saracens had attempted to take it but never succeeded; they knew that before they could effectively do so they must immobilise the outposts of eastern Christendom.
Into the bustling city came Edward and his troops to the great rejoicing of the inhabitants who were in continual need of defenders.
Through the streets they rode – those streets which were alive with traders from all parts of the world. In the market halls their merchandise was set up on stalls; men and women of all nationalities assembled there; and the bargaining went on with only now and then a furtive cocking of the ear at some sound which might herald the approach of the enemy.
The grand churches and palaces still remained, models of Latin architecture. In the narrow streets the pilgrims mingled with the rest, usually discernible by their fanatical expressions. The Knights of St John – those military religious men who had played a large role in the crusades – mixed with the people who lived in the town, enjoying the comfortable existence which could end at any moment. The alert traders watched this medley, coaxing and wheedling them to try their wares.
Edward the heir to England had come. The word spread through the town and beyond. He had an air of his great uncle, Richard Coeur de Lion, who would be remembered as long as the conflict between Christian and Saracen lasted. A new optimism sprang up. Those who had felt the restoration of the Holy Land would never be completed were filled with new hope.
Edward talked to them, inspiring their enthusiasm. They knew that it was due to him that the Barons’ War had ended with victory for the royalists. They had but to contemplate him to know he was a conqueror.
The Sultan Bibars, who had planned a conquest of Acre and had been preparing to lay siege to the town, suddenly abandoned the project as there was trouble in Cyprus, an island which was of the utmost strategic importance to their cause. He therefore was forced to turn from Acre leaving Edward to make forays into Saracen country and wreak a certain damage there.
These were small successes and the heat had become intense. The English could not endure it and were attacked by dysentery and other diseases. The flies and insects pestered them and worse still, many of them were poisonous. There were quantities of grapes which men ate voraciously. Some of them died through this. Edward began to feel the frustration which had come to many a crusader before him, who had learned that the reality was different from the actuality. All those dreams of riding into victory, routing the Saracen army, bringing Jerusalem back to Christendom, were so much fancy. The fact was heat, disease, quarrels within and a ferocious enemy which was as brave and ready to fight for its beliefs as the Christians were.
During all this Eleanor sustained him.
He was anxious about her for she had become pregnant.
Messengers arrived from France. They came from Charles of Anjou who offered to bring about a truce.
‘I refuse to agree to this,’ cried Edward.
But the citizens of Acre were not with him in this. The suggested truce would be for ten years and ten years’ peaceful trading and the opportunity of going on as they were was greatly appealing. The alternative was war – their towns destroyed, the soldiers looting, raping and burning. ‘No, let it be a truce,’ said the people of Acre.
But to Edward it seemed that he might never have come, so futile had the entire operation proved to be.
The truce was signed.
Edmund, his brother, was only too glad to return to England. Edward however stayed on. Though he was anxious about Eleanor’s condition, yet he explained to her that he could not leave.
She understood perfectly. He had come here to win glory for Christianity. He could not go back now having achieved so little. She had understood this when she came, and although she found the climate trying in her state, at least she had the satisfaction of being with her husband. She reminded him that Marguerite of France had stayed with Louis in similar circumstances and had given birth to a child in the Holy Land.
This was what she had chosen and she had no regrets.
Edward shortly was to be grateful that she was with him, for if she had not been this might have been the end of him.
There was a mysterious sect in the East at the head of which was one called the Old Man of the Mountain. The legend was that likely assassins were chosen by the satellites of the Old Man and taken to a wonderful garden, the location of which was known only to the inner members of the sect. The captive was heavily drugged and when he was awoken found himself in a beautiful garden which was the embodiment of Paradise. Here everything that a man needed was provided for him. He lived in a rich palace; he was waited on by beautiful girls who were eager to grant his every whim. After he had spent some months in this idyllic setting, he was sent for by one of the agents of the Old Man of the Mountain and given a task to do. It was generally an assassination. When he had done the deed he would earn another spell in paradise until called upon for his next task. If he refused he disappeared from the world.
Thus the legendary Society of the Old Man had built up a band of assassins.
Edward was feeling ill. It was June the seventeenth, and his thirty-third birthday. The heat was intense and he wore only a light tunic, and his head was without covering.
A messenger from the Emir of Jaffa with letters for him had arrived and was asking to present them to the lord Edward, he having been warned not to put them into other hands.
Edward said the man should be brought in.
The Mohammedan entered and gave Edward a letter. He bowed low and moved his hand as though to take another letter from his belt. Instead of this he drew out a dagger and aimed at Edward’s heart.
In less than a second Edward’s suspicions had been aroused by the man’s movements and as he lifted his arm to strike, Edward thrust the dagger aside. It missed his heart so saving his life but penetrated his arm.
Edward was strong. In a moment he had taken the dagger from his would-be assailant and killed him with it.
The man sank to t
he floor as Edward’s attendants, hearing the scuffle, rushed in to find their master covered in blood and the messenger dead on the floor.
One of Edward’s attendants picked up a stool and dashed out the assassin’s brains.
‘That’s folly,’ said Edward. ‘And shame on you for striking a dead man.’
With those words he fell back fainting on his bed. It was not long before it was discovered that the dagger was poisoned and Edward’s life in danger.
He was in agony. They did not think that he would live. The flesh around the wound was mortifying.
‘If we cannot remove the poison,’ said the doctors, ‘it will spread throughout his body.’
‘He will die,’ said Eleanor.
‘I fear so, my lady.’
She cried out: ‘It shall not be. I shall not allow it to be.’
They shook their heads.
‘Perhaps if we cut the flesh …’ They conferred together.
But Eleanor said: ‘First I will try.’ She sent for a bowl and placing her lips over the wound she sucked the poison from it, spitting the noisome matter into the bowl.
The doctors looked at her, shaking their heads. Edward through mists of pain was aware of her and comforted.
She was with child, he thought. He must not leave her in this alien place.
She lifted her head and smiled at him. The wound seemed cleaner now.
The doctors conferred together. It did indeed seem that the poison was removed, but an operation would be needed to remove the mortifying flesh. It would mean inflicting excruciating agony but there was hope now that it would be successful.
Eleanor wept bitterly contemplating the pain Edward would have to suffer.
‘It is necessary,’ she was told, and better that she should weep than that all England should do so.
The operation was successful and Edward recovered. Eleanor nursed him and he declared that if she had not been at hand and risked her life by sucking the poison from his wound, he would not be alive that day.
They needed comfort – and they found it in each other – for news reached them of the death of their son John. It was a great blow to Eleanor who was torn with regrets at having left him. Yet she knew that Edward needed her and the fact that she had saved his life – as they both believed she had – pointed to the fact that choosing between her husband and her children she had chosen wisely.
