by Jean Plaidy
There were certain castles which had been passed over to John because people believed that Richard was never coming back. These had to be retrieved. Those who had rallied to John were now required to come forth and beg forgiveness of Richard. He forgave them freely. Richard had never been really vindictive; he had been away for a long time, and they had thought him dead, he reasoned—well, they had given their allegiance to his brother because of this. If they gave it back to him, they would be forgiven for having strayed. It was understandable.
Then to Nottingham to receive more penitents.
Having traveled through England, he must now visit Normandy, where there had been a great deal of unrest. John was in France, and it would be as well to see him and let him know that, now his brother was back, there must be no more dallying with treason.
I was to be with him. I wanted to see the meeting between him and John. I greatly feared strife in the family.
I traveled down to Portsmouth with him, but although it was April the weather was too rough for a ship to sail, and we had to wait nearly three weeks before setting out.
Then to Caen first, where we planned our journey.
It was amazing and gratifying to see how those who had been ready to defect to John were only too happy to come back to Richard now they saw him. It might have been that John was getting such a terrible reputation that they had all been afraid to defy him. He was already showing himself to be cruel and sadistic, and naturally if he were about to be King they did not want to upset him.
John must now know that he was beaten. He came secretly to my apartments, for he wanted to see me alone, he said.
As soon as we came face to face, he fell on his knees and buried his face in my skirts.
I said to him coolly: “You thought it wise to come to me.”
“I have been a fool, dear Mother. Please understand. I meant no ill. But the country needed a king. I have been a wicked brother to Richard. You cannot blame me more than I blame myself.”
I said: “Get up. At least you admit your fault. Your brother Richard is the noblest of men. You should be proud to be his brother.”
“I am. I am.”
“And serve him with your life.”
“I will. I will.”
I was not so foolish as to believe him. He was repentant now because he was afraid of Richard, of course; and when the next opportunity to betray his brother came, he would seize it with both hands.
“I do not know what I must do to show my repentance,” he went on. “Perhaps I should run my sword through my heart.”
I fancied he was looking covertly at me to see what effect this statement had. I was scornful but I was thinking: There must be a reconciliation . . . a public one. But we shall have to watch Master John. He is bound to be up to mischief sooner or later.
I said: “Get up off your knees and talk sense. As for taking your life, that is the coward’s way. I will not have any son of mine a coward.”
“But I have sinned. I should be punished. Richard hates me. You must hate me.”
“I think Richard does not respect you enough to hate you,” I said. “He looks upon you as his feckless young brother.”
John smirked. I think that was the impression he was trying to give.
“Mother,” he said. “Dearest Mother, please tell me what I must do.”
“Go now. I will speak to your brother. It may be that he will find it in his heart to forgive you. If he does, you will be fortunate. It would be something for you to remember if ever you felt inclined to play the traitor again.”
“I swear to God . . .”
“I should not if I were you. Those who break their vows to men are treacherous, those who break them to God much worse.”
He went away and I thought a great deal about him. I had never liked him. I remembered always that it was at the time of his birth that I discovered I no longer loved Henry, and I had resented the fact that I was pregnant with his child. Perhaps I had been at fault. I had sent him to Fontevrault. I had given all my love to the other children—particularly Richard—and there had been none to spare for John.
Now I saw him clearly—ambitious, avaricious, self-seeking, sensual as his father was; but there was something sadistic about John which had never been there in Henry. We should have to be careful of John. Naturally I did not believe in his repentance but I should have to pretend to. We had to break John’s friendship with the King of France. We could not have brother against brother.
I told Richard my feelings in the matter.
“He is coming to ask your forgiveness. You must give it to him, Richard.”
“Willingly.”
“No, not too willingly, but for the sake of expediency. Never forget that, if the opportunity arose, he would betray you. But let it be thought publicly that you are good friends.”
I was present at the reconciliation scene. John went to his brother and threw himself at his feet. He would have given quite a good performance but he was always inclined to overact.
He seized Richard’s legs and gazed up at his brother.
“I deserve to be punished,” he said. “Punish me, Richard. Devils possessed me. How could I behave so to a brother I hold in such great honor . . . as does the whole world. I am so proud of you, Richard. I would I could be more like you.”
“It was evil counselors, not devils,” said Richard. “You are young, and the young fall easily into the scheming hands of unscrupulous men. Come. Do not grovel there. Stand up.”
John did, and Richard kissed him.
There was peace between the brothers.
There was still no mention of Berengaria.
I brought up the matter again. “You are thirty-six years old, Richard. It is time you had a son.”
“I have many years left to me.”
“That is what I pray for. But you should have children by now. If you do not live with your wife how can you get legitimate sons?”
“She shall come here.”
“When?”
“When I have settled Normandy. There is much to do here, Mother.”
Later he said he thought we should send for Arthur.
“Why?” I asked.
“So that he learns to speak English and becomes accustomed to our ways.”
“You mean . . . because he may be the future King?”
“It is a possibility.”
“Can you imagine the conflict? Do you think John would allow that to happen without a fuss?”
“John is young and headstrong.”
“All the more reason why we should be careful.”
“That is why I believe it would be a good idea to send for Arthur. People should get to know him. He is a handsome boy, I believe.”
I knew in my heart that one of my hardest tasks would be to get Berengaria and Richard together.
I was an old woman, and the agony of Richard’s captivity had taken its toll of me. Now that Richard was home and was taking over the reins of government, I needed a rest—if only a temporary one.
I had always been interested in Fontevrault. It seemed to hold the very essence of peace within its walls. I told Richard that I intended to go there and stay for a while. He thought it an excellent idea and encouraged me in this. I would be close at hand if needed.
I felt as near contentment as I could be there. Richard, my beloved son, was safe and well, and the only regret he gave me was the avoidance of his wife. I understood that the state of marriage did not appeal to him. It was difficult to understand why he—who appeared to be the very essence of manliness—should have what was almost an aversion to women . . . not as women, of course, but as a sexual attraction. No two could have been closer than he was to me. But nature is strange—and so it was. If only he had been the father of sons, so that my mind could have been at rest and I could visualize a safe Plantagenet empire, I could have been a very contented woman.
The weeks began to pass quickly. They were very peaceful, with each day very like another.
I surprised myself that I could be happy in such a life, but I supposed it was because I was so tired.
Then I was constantly receiving visitors, and Richard and others wrote to me frequently, so that I was well aware of what was happening in the world outside.
My daughter Joanna had married Raymond of Toulouse. She had met him when she was with Richard on the crusade and had fallen in love with him. That seemed incongruous in view of the conflict which had always existed between our two houses. I wondered whether he was a good choice. Joanna was headstrong and would have her own way; she was more like me than my other two daughters; and Raymond had been married three times before. I was a little concerned, for his record in marriage was not one to inspire much trust.
His first wife, Ermensinda, had died; his second, Beatrice, had been living when he was in the Holy Land. Richard had taken the daughter of the Emperor of Cyprus as a hostage and she had lived for some time with Berengaria and Joanna. Raymond had become so enamored of her that he tried to persuade Beatrice to go into a convent. She was a spirited woman, and her retort had amused me. Yes, she said, certainly she would go into a convent providing Raymond became a monk. However, he was said to have made her life so miserable that she preferred the life of the cloister, and in time gave in; so he married the Cypriot princess.
I am afraid Raymond was not meant to be a faithful husband: he soon tired of his third wife and on some pretext divorced her. That left him free for Joanna. He must have been a very fascinating man to have captivated my daughter, particularly as she would have witnessed his romance with her predecessor. The fact remained that she married him and in a short time gave birth to a son, another Raymond.
I hoped she would be happy. Perhaps, being strong-minded and forceful, she would keep the wayward Count in order.
Alais, now restored to her brother, was married to William of Ponthieu, a vassal of Philip Augustus. Not a very brilliant marriage for a Princess of France, but I supposed it was the best Alais could hope for after her shady past. I thought she might find contentment. Alais was the kind of woman who would make a man happy. She must be if she had been able to keep Henry’s devotion all those years; gentle, docile, ready to submit to her lord in all things. Well, that was what most of them wanted.
Arthur had not come to England. His mother, Constance, would not allow him to do so. She must have been afraid of treachery. I thought she was rather foolish. She was ambitious for her son, and she should understand that, if in time he was to become King of England, he must learn its ways and speak its language. But no, she was adamant.
Then a strange thing happened which brought about that which I had for so long been trying to achieve.
When Richard was hunting in Normandy and riding a little ahead of his party, he was confronted by a man who stood before him and lifted his arms above his head, causing Richard to pull up sharply.
“What are you doing here?” demanded the King.
“I would speak with you,” replied the man.
“Do you know who I am?”
“I do.”
“Who then?”
“King of England, Duke of Normandy and sinner.”
Richard was amused. “You are a bold man,” he said.
“You will need to be bolder when you face One who is greater than an earthly king.”
A religious fanatic, thought Richard. The country abounded with them.
“Repent,” said the man. “Repent while there is time.”
“You are an insolent fellow. Do you know I could have your tongue cut out?”
“Do so, sinner. And remember Sodom and Gomorrah. You will be destroyed if you do not repent . . . destroyed as were the Cities of the Plain.”
The King was angry and drew his sword, but he did not strike the man, who walked quietly away.
The rest of the party had joined him and were prepared to catch the man, but Richard shook his head.
“Leave him,” he said. “He suffers from a madness, poor fellow, which is no fault of his own.”
That was typical of Richard. It was only rarely that he wanted revenge.
Oddly enough, very soon after that encounter he had an attack of fever and was very ill indeed. In fact, his life was despaired of. He may have remembered the old man in the woods and wondered whether he was indeed a messenger from God.
Hugh, Bishop of Lincoln, went to visit him. He was a man who had often been in conflict with Richard but whom Richard admired for his courage. Like the fanatic in the woods, the Bishop was not afraid of speaking his mind. He told Richard that he had an immediate need of repentance.
“Does not every man?” asked Richard.
“You, my lord, are the King. Your responsibilities are heavy. You do not live with your wife, though it is your duty to give the country an heir. Instead you pursue a way of life which is against nature. Mend your ways. Life is short. If you die now, you will have failed in your duty. Give up your way of life. Recall your wife. Admit your sins.”
“You dare to talk to me like this!” said Richard.
“My lord King, I dare,” was the answer.
“I could order that your tongue be cut out. How would you like that?”
“I should not wish to burden your soul with further sin.”
Conflict always made Richard feel better. He was amazed at the boldness of Bishop Hugh.
He said: “I respect your courage. You are right. I have sinned. There is the future to think of. Pray for me. If I have another chance, I will recall my wife. I will try to do my duty.”
Bishop Hugh fell on his knees in prayer. He stayed at the King’s bedside and when he finally arose Richard’s fever had left him.
Richard traveled to Poitou where Berengaria was living. Poor girl, she must have been very lonely now that Joanna had gone. I wondered what she thought when she sat with her embroidery, or plucked halfheartedly at her lute or rode in the forest.
What indeed were her thoughts when Richard came riding into the courtyard?
I knew that in the beginning she had idolized him, but what had the years of neglect done to her love? She must have known why he left her. She knew of the handsome men and charming boys with whom he surrounded himself.
And now he was here . . . come for her . . . implying that he intended to play the faithful husband.
I know Berengaria’s type of woman. Meek, docile, not unlike Alais. I rejoiced. All would be well now.
Such a man as Richard should have many children . . . sons to follow him . . . to save the throne from conflict with John and Arthur . . . to continue to build up that great Plantagenet Empire which bad been Henry’s dream.
Philip Augustus and Richard were now deadly enemies. That was not surprising when one considered the position of their domains. What was to be marveled at was that they had ever been friends.
Philip Augustus was no Louis. He might not have been a great general but he was an astute monarch; he was constantly seizing every advantage and now was posing a threat to Normandy since the all-important Vexin had come into his possession.
Richard built a castle where it overlooked the little towns of Andelys—Petit and Grand—right on the banks of the Seine. Set high on a hill it had commanding views of the countryside, and advancing armies could be seen from miles off from whichever direction they came. It stood there in defiance of Philip Augustus, and Richard named it Chteau Gaillard—the Saucy Castle.
When Philip Augustus heard of this, he said: “I will take it, were it made of iron.”
These words were reported to Richard. His reply was: “I will hold it, were it made of butter.”
Thus the rivalry continued and the once-dear friends were now the bitterest of enemies.
c
There was a rumor abroad.
A peasant, ploughing his master’s fields, had discovered a wonderful golden treasure, said to be figures of gold and silver, worth a fortune. The land belonged to Acard, Lord of Chlus.
Richard was intrigued. Perhaps there was
more treasure on the land—and treasure found in his dominions belonged to him. He needed money. The exchequer was always low and taxes were unpopular.
Then it was said that the value of the treasure had been exaggerated—it was nothing but a bag of golden coins; and Acard was a vassal of Adamar of Limoges, who himself claimed the treasure. This seemed like defiance to Richard, and that was something he would not tolerate. He would make immediate war on the insolent barons.
So he marched.
It was Lent—not the time to make war. These things were remembered afterward.
All Richard wanted was the treasure. Let them give it to him and the war would be immediately over.
Richard arrived before the castle of Chlus. It would be an easy matter to take it. How could they possibly defend it against the great Coeur de Lion? No doubt they wished they had handed over the treasure since it was not so very great, but it was too late.
It was so tragic—so ridiculous that so trivial an incident could bring about such a momentous event.
It was revenge, I suppose.
The castle was not a great fortress but it did stand on an elevation which gave it an advantage. Even so, it would be no great task to take it.
It was a March day—one I shall never forget. Richard was inspecting the fortifications when suddenly an arrow struck him on the shoulder. It had entered below the nape of his neck near his spine and was so deeply embedded that it could not be withdrawn. He mounted his horse and rode back to the camp. There his flesh had to be cut away to remove the arrowhead.
I think Richard must have known that death was close, for he sent to me asking me to come to him. I prepared to leave at once, first sending the Abbess Matilda to tell Berengaria and send the news to John. Then I left Fontevrault with the Abbot of Turpenay.
We did not stop all through the night.
When I reached him, I knew there was no hope. He lay there, my beautiful son, with the knowledge that he must go, his work unfinished. His great object now was to make his dominions safe. He wanted me there beside him . . . not only because the love we bore each other was greater than we had ever given to any other but also because he believed that I was the only one in whose hands he could safely leave his kingdom.
