The Heart of the Lion
Page 1
At the age of thirty-two, Richard the Lionheart has finally succeeded Henry II to the English throne. And, against his father’s wishes, he intends to make Berengaria, daughter of the King of Navarre, his Queen.
But first he must fulfil his vow to his country to win back Jerusalem for the Christian world. Leaving England to begin his crusade, Richard’s kingdom is left in the hands of his brother, John, who casts covetous eyes on the crown, and his sister, Joanna, adored yet willing to defy even a king.
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The Heart of the Lion
Jean Plaidy, one of the pre-eminent authors of historical fiction for most of the twentieth century, is the pen name of the prolific English author Eleanor Hibbert, also known as Victoria Holt. Jean Plaidy’s novels had sold more than 14 million copies worldwide by the time of her death in 1993.
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The Tudors
Uneasy Lies the Head
Katharine, the Virgin
Widow
The Shadow of the
Pomegranate
The King’s Secret Matter
Murder Most Royal
St Thomas’s Eve
The Sixth Wife
The Thistle and the Rose
Mary Queen of France
Lord Robert
Royal Road to Fotheringay
The Captive Queen of Scots
The Medici Trilogy
Madame Serpent
The Italian Woman
Queen Jezebel
The Plantagenets
The Plantagenet Prelude
The Revolt of the Eaglets
The Heart of the Lion
The Prince of Darkness
The French Revolution
Louis the Well-Beloved
The Road to Compiègne
Flaunting, Extravagant
Queen
The Heart of the Lion
JEAN PLAIDY
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Copyright © Jean Plaidy, 1977
Initial lettering copyright © Stephen Raw, 2006
The Estate of Eleanor Hibbert has asserted its right to have Jean Plaidy identified as the author of this work.
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First published in the United Kingdom in 1977 by Robert Hale Ltd
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Contents
I A King is Crowned
II Alice and Berengaria
III Joanna
IV The Sicilian Adventure
V The Wedding is Postponed
VI The Fruits of Cyprus
VII The King and the Sultan
VIII On the Walls of Acre
IX Philip’s Farewell
X Joanna and Malek Adel
XI The Old Man of the Mountains
XII Farewell Jerusalem
XIII The Royal Fugitive
XIV The Jewelled Belt
XV Longchamp and Prince John
XVI The Return of Eleanor
XVII Blondel’s Song
XVIII Release
XIX The Reconciliation
XX Reunion with Berengaria
XXI The Saucy Castle
XXII The Crock of Gold
Chapter I
A KING IS CROWNED
The Queen, having dismissed all her attendants, sat alone in the King’s chamber at Winchester Palace. The King was dead and with his death had come release from the captivity in which he had held her for so many years. She was sixty-seven – an age when most people would have been content to retire from life, perhaps enter a nunnery where, if they had lived such a life as she had, they might think it expedient to spend their remaining years in penitence. Not so Eleanor of Aquitaine, widow of the recently dead Henry Plantagenet.
She studied the murals on the wa
lls. It had been a fancy of the late King to have the walls of his palaces painted with allegories representing his life, and this was the room of the eaglets. She remembered an occasion when he and she had stood in this room together. It must have been during one of the periods when there had been a lessening of their antagonism towards each other, for there had been such occasions. One had been at the time of their eldest son’s death when sorrow had brought them together – but briefly. She could never forgive Henry for his infidelities; he could never forgive her for turning their sons against him. And there were those sons represented as eaglets waiting to peck their father to death. How bitter he had been when he had pointed them out to her.
‘Your just deserts, Henry,’ she said aloud. ‘You old lecher. Do you expect me to be afraid of you now you are dead? For that matter, when was I ever afraid of you . . . or anyone?’
It was morbid of her to come to this room, to think of him even; yet how could she help it? He had been the most significant man in her life – and there had been many. He had been a great king, she granted him that. If he had been able to curb his lechery, if he had understood how to treat his sons, perhaps he would have kept the devotion of his family.
But he was dead and she must forget him. She had never been one to look back, and there was work to be done. She had been fond of all her children but Richard had always been her favourite. There was a bond between them such as she could feel for none of the others – not even young Joanna, her youngest daughter. And Richard was now the King of England, although his father had done all he could to prevent his inheriting the crown. He had wanted to give it to John. Had he realised in his last hours how foolish he had been to dote on John? How stupid could shrewd men sometimes be when befuddled by their emotions! In his heart he must have known that John was a traitor to him and yet he had stubbornly refused to accept the fact. John had betrayed him as Richard had never done, for at least Richard had been open in his condemnation of his father, whereas John had fawned on him, flattering him while all the time he had been plotting against him.
Henry knew of course even as he deceived himself. What had he said to her when they had stood in this room?
‘The four eaglets are my sons who will persecute me until I die. The youngest of them, my favourite, will hurt me most. He is waiting for the moment when he will peck out my eyes.’
‘Oh, Henry,’ she said softly, ‘what sort of a fool were you?’
She chided herself for the softness of her feelings. He had been her enemy. It was weakness to feel gentle towards him just because he was dead and could harm her no more. She had to stop thinking of him; she must shut out of her mind memories of their youth when although she had been nearly twelve years older than he was, and married at that time to the King of France, passion had flared up between them. Then no other would do for her and she had loved him single-mindedly until he brought his bastard into her nursery and she discovered that he had been unfaithful to her in the first year of their marriage. Then had begun the violent quarrels, the recriminations. She smiled faintly seeing him pulling the cloth of his jacket apart in his rage, lying on the floor and gnawing the filthy rushes, throwing some article of furniture across the room . . .
‘You had your weaknesses, my husband,’ she murmured. ‘But you had your greatness too.’
There had been a time when he was regarded as the invincible warrior throughout England and the Continent of Europe, when men trembled at his name. He had been a brilliant strategist and had made England prosperous after the reign of weak Stephen. Yet how low he had fallen at the end! The account of his death moved her in spite of herself. He had turned his face to the wall and said, ‘I care no more for myself or for the world’ and in his delirium, ‘Shame, shame on a conquered King.’
‘Poor Henry,’ she murmured. ‘And am I as foolish, as sentimental? What am I doing in his chamber? Why am I thinking of the past? My enemy is dead and his dying is my freedom. I shall brood no longer. There is work to be done.’
Resolutely she rose; she did not glance back at the picture of the eagle with his eaglets.
Firmly she shut the door.
When Richard arrived everything must be in readiness for him.
A new dignity had fallen upon her. Her son’s first act had been to release her from her prison. She had not been disappointed in him.
And her great aim would be to hold his kingdom for him. It should not be difficult. The English had a sense of fair play and Richard was the late King’s eldest living son. That Henry had favoured John carried little weight with them. In fact, John had not made himself very popular with the people, but the main point in Richard’s favour was that he was the true heir to the throne.
There was a regality about her – she had been born with it. People recognised it immediately and were ready to pay homage to her, and she could make sure that Richard should find his subjects waiting to welcome him when he returned from Normandy, which must be soon. That was important. His English subjects must not be allowed to think that he cared for other possessions more than he did for England.
There was one whom she had for many years longed to confront – the girl Henry had seduced when she was a child, and who had continued to be his mistress to the end: the Princess Alice. What was Alice thinking now that she had lost her powerful protector? The desire to discover was irresistible. Eleanor would send an order to the Palace of Westminster where Princess Alice had her apartments. How amusing to be able to send for the girl and to know that she dared not refuse to come.
Alice stood before her.
She was comely enough though not outstandingly beautiful as Eleanor herself had been. There was something meek about Alice, and now of course she was afraid because she did not know what was in store for her and she would doubtless have heard rumours concerning the vindictive nature of the Queen.
Alice, betrothed to Richard, mistress of the King his father, must now face her lover’s wife!
‘I have sent for you that I may question you with regard to your future,’ said Eleanor.
She stressed the word ‘sent’. She, who had been a prisoner, was now the one whose word was law. There had been a time when little Alice only had to express a wish and her infatuated elderly lover would be eager to grant it. Now he was gone and Alice must stand alone to face the fury of the woman he had wronged. Wronged! Eleanor wanted to burst out laughing at the thought of this meek girl setting herself against a great queen. But she had had a great king behind her then. Alas for you, you little fool, she thought; you have lost him now.
‘You do not hope of course that there can be any betrothal between you and King Richard now,’ said Eleanor.
‘I . . . I did not think so,’ said Alice. She was fair and fragile. Eleanor could understand how she had appealed to him. She would have been clinging and admiring, adoring him, giving him that which he sought in all women. His Rosamund Clifford – that other great love of his – had been the same. They had some inherent femininity which for all her voluptuous beauty Eleanor had never possessed.
‘Nay and you do right, having been debauched by the father you could hardly expect the son to take you to his bed.’
Alice blushed. A King’s mistress and managing to look so coy! What a deceitful creature she was. The odd quirk was that she was Louis’ daughter. Louis to whom Eleanor herself – when she had been his Queen – had borne two children, her daughters Alix and Marie.
Eleanor could see her father in her – she would be good if she could, for she wanted to be, but fate had been too much for her in the form of her lecherous prospective father-in-law who had come into the schoolroom where she was being brought up with his children since she was to marry one of them, and when she could have been no more than twelve years old had made her his mistress. She would have been shy, reluctant and malleable – everything that was needed to stimulate his jaded senses. She could well imagine how it had started and angry jealousy swept over her. He had wanted to marry Alice and divorce
Eleanor to do so. It was not so easy though to divorce the heiress of Aquitaine even if it was for the daughter of the King of France.
And now he was dead and Alice was past her first youth; she had already borne him a child it was rumoured. The child had died though, which was one complication removed.
Sly silly girl – so meek, apeing the virgin, when all the time she had indulged with him, and the Queen knew from experience what such occasions would be like.
‘So here you are,’ said Eleanor, ‘a whore no less, though a King’s whore. It ill becomes the sister of the King of France.’
‘We . . . we . . .’
‘I know. I know. You loved, and he would have made you his Queen. That was if he could have rid himself of his existing Queen. You know who stood in your way, my little Princess. How you must have hated me!’
‘Oh, no . . .’
‘Oh, yes! I’ll swear he talked of me. What did he tell you of me, eh?’
‘He rarely spoke of you.’
‘You are afraid to say. You are a frightened little thing, Alice. You are afraid of me and you’ll be afraid to face your brother when he sends for you. What will you say to the King of France when you are taken back to him, when he hears of the games you played in the bed of the old King of England?’
‘I must ask you for what is due to his memory . . .’
‘You silly girl, do you think I am afraid his ghost will haunt me? Let it! How I should enjoy to tell it what I thought of the fleshly Henry. I never feared him in life where I doubt not he was more powerful than he could be in death. Nay, he was a lecher. A woman had but to take his fancy lightly and he would have her in his bed – as he did you. Think not that he held you in any special regard.’
‘Oh, but he did. He always came straight to me when he was in England . . .’
‘Straight from the rest and swore he would marry you I doubt not, and laughed at you and the son he was deceiving.’
‘It is untrue. His conscience smote him. He often talked of Richard.’
‘How noble of him! So you talked of Richard and how you were deceiving him and you think that exonerates you from your just rewards for what you have done?’