The Loves of the Lionheart

by Margaret Brazear

  His leather jerkin was stiff with dried mud and his beard was brittle and out of control. His hair was greasy and dirt emphasised the lines in his face, beneath his eyes and around his mouth.

  She took a few steps toward him and lifted a soothing hand to his lined face. His own hand covered hers and he turned his head and kissed her palm.

  “Dear Alys,” he said. “You offer me comfort when no one else will, when everyone whose love I thought was mine has left me.”

  “The Queen?” She asked hesitantly.

  “She is the worst of them all. To take the side of my treacherous sons against her own husband.” He pulled her closer to him as he spoke, while she tried not to screw up her nose against the stench of stale sweat that wafted from him. “She loved me once, you know. She left your father, dissolved her marriage to him, to be with me. And now she would betray me.”

  Alys’ heart was racing. She was afraid to speak, afraid of saying the wrong thing. He did not seem to think there was any fault to be laid at his door, that his affair with the fair Rosamund among others had turned his Queen against him.

  “It is all right, Your Majesty,” she said softly. “Families quarrel. The Queen will forgive you.”

  “Forgive me?” He yelled, pushing her away. “It is I who should forgive her. But she is safely locked away by now and I shall never have to lay eyes on her again.”

  Alys was suddenly afraid. She moved toward him again, put her arms around his waist in an attempt to soothe his mood. If he had the witch Queen as his prisoner, what of Richard? She was afraid to ask, afraid to rouse his anger again.

  He looked sad, though. He looked defeated and in despair.

  “They prostrated themselves before me, you know,” he said. “They begged my forgiveness, even Richard, he who would do his mother’s bidding no matter what. I did not believe he meant it, but it was good to see nonetheless.”

  “Why did you not believe him?”

  “He did it only so that I would relent and free his mother. That I will never do.”

  She was silent for a little while, afraid of his mood and his tale. If he had imprisoned his Queen, if he truly would never free her, what would happen to the family? They would never be at peace while Eleanor was locked away, while she was treated like a common criminal.

  “What now, Your Majesty?” Alys asked timidly.

  She was longing to know what was happening, longing to know if Richard was coming home, if her marriage to him would take place after all.

  Looking up at the King, she saw in him her betrothed, she saw that once, long ago, Henry had been as handsome, as tall and appealing as his son.

  Then he kissed her. He bent his head and his lips met hers and she only briefly wondered why she did not shudder away from him. She wanted Richard, not him. He was an old man compared to her but he was not hideous, he was not repulsive. He still had the charm of his sons, but he should not be using it on her.

  She pulled away from him.

  “Is it vengeance you want?” She asked.

  “What? What do you mean?”

  “Your son has risen against you, and now you want revenge so you will defile his bride. Is that what this is about?”

  He hesitated before replying, just a little too long.

  “No,” he said. “I have admired you since you arrived here. As to my son, he has proven himself unworthy of you.”

  She felt his fingers beneath her cloak, felt them brushing over her breast and once more she pushed him away.

  “No,” she said. “This is not right. I will not be your mistress. I am a Princess of the blood royal; you cannot treat me this way.” She drew a deep breath, pulled the two halves of her cloak close about her. “Where is Richard?” She demanded. “When will he be home?”

  She stepped back then, hoping he would leave. Her emotions were in turmoil; she wanted to be loved as a woman, but not by him. This was not right.

  “I will annul my marriage to Eleanor and make you my Queen,” he said.

  “Why would you say that? I am here for your son; I am promised to him.”

  “I have loved you for years,” he said. “You are not for Richard. You deserve better than a traitor who would make war against his own father.”

  Alys did not want this. She had never expected this and now she was confused and worried that her life was about to change once more. If this King decided he wanted to steal her away from his son, what defence would she have? She wanted him to go, to leave her alone with her thoughts and her memories of a young prince who held out his arm for her favour.

  Her eyes filled with tears.

  “Please leave,” she said.

  He nodded, turned away and flinched in pain. He stopped, put his hand to his back and straightened, his eyes closing as he did so.

  “You are injured, Your Majesty?” Alys said hesitantly.

  She wanted to comfort him, but was afraid. He might well take such a gesture as an invitation to intimacy and that she did not want.

  “Nothing that will kill me,” he answered.

  She summoned her courage and stepped in front of him, began to unfasten the laces on his shirt. The fabric was a soft moleskin and as she slipped it away from his body, it stuck fast to the open wounds on his back.

  She wanted to see what his injury was, if it was something that needed attention. He made no objection as she gently pulled the shirt from his shoulders and allowed it to drop to the floor.

  She stepped behind him and gasped in shock. Lash marks covered his back, some open and weeping, and Alys recalled the rumour she had heard and dismissed, that the King of England had prostrated himself at the tomb of St Thomas a Becket, had done penance for his part in that saint’s death, that he had asked the monks of Canterbury to scourge him with rods to relieve him of that sin.

  She had refused to believe it when the news was spread, yet everyone was talking about it. She thought the King would be much too proud to do such a thing and he had always claimed he had no part in Becket’s death, that the words he spoke were not intended as a command to assassinate the Archbishop.

  But it seemed she was wrong and Henry had done what they said he had.

  “I will fetch water and cloths,” she said and she turned to go, but he reached out and gripped her wrist.

  “Do not go,” he said.

  “Your wounds need attention, Sire,” she said. “They will become infected and poison your blood. Please, let me do this.”

  He released her and she hurried down the spiral stone stairs of the castle, hoping nobody was awake to learn that the King was alone with her in her bedchamber. She thought about the sadness in his eyes, thought of the slope of his shoulders, thought of the broad and muscular chest which showed when she removed his shirt. That little flutter was there again, that little flutter she had first felt when she thought about being married to Richard.

  She waited for the water to heat, then looked about the kitchens for the salt cellar. It was locked, just as she expected, and no sign of the key. Nevertheless, she picked up the pewter container and held it above the water, turned it upside down and shook it, hard. Only a little of the precious substance escaped, but it might be enough. At any rate, it was better than nothing.

  She could have woken the steward and told him the King needed salt for his wounds, but that would mean also telling him that she, Alys, intended to administer that comfort to the King. She could not risk that; such an admission could lead to a war.

  She found clean cloths and took them, along with the bowl of water up the spiral staircase and opened the door to her bedchamber. He was lying on her bed, face down and naked, his wounded back and buttocks on display.

  Alys caught her breath. She hoped he stayed there, on his stomach, hoped he did not turn over and lie on his back. She had never seen a man before, not like this, and she was not sure she wanted to see one now.

  She wondered why he had removed his breeches. Recalling his earlier, amorous behaviour, she was afraid he th
ought to renew those advances, but as she took a step toward the bed, she realised the lash marks extended down across his buttocks and those marks were sore and bleeding.

  He had ridden on horseback like this; no wonder the injuries were open and weeping.

  She sat on the bed beside him, dipped the cloth into the warm water and squeezed out the surplus, then began to bathe the King’s wounds. He flinched, turned his head sharply to look at her. He must have been asleep and she had startled him. A good thing he had no dagger beneath his pillow like his son on the night she had startled him.

  “It is only me, Your Majesty,” she said softly. “Alys.”

  He sighed and laid his head down on the pillow once more, his face turned away, while she continued to bathe his wounds. She had no idea if she was doing any good, but it was the best she could think to do.

  The water quickly stained red with his blood and she put the bowl on the table beside the bed, then she leaned over to see that his eyes were closed and his breathing was even and contented.

  She lay down beside him and pulled her cloak about herself to sleep the rest of the night.

  PRINCE RICHARD AND his brothers had lost the war they started with their father. Now his brother, Henry, had returned to England with his mother, which proved to be a huge mistake, perhaps the worst mistake any of them had yet made.

  It was a rash move, a stupid move. Did the Queen really believe that her husband would forgive her for siding with her sons against him? If she did, she was not the intelligent woman Richard had always taken her for. Eleanor had landed at Southampton to be met with the King’s soldiers, escorted to Winchester and there imprisoned. Richard thought it unlikely his father would ever release her, and the longer he kept her shut away, the longer the rift between him and his second son would prevail.

  When Richard thought about that vibrant and courageous woman, locked up with only embroidery for company, he could almost have killed his father himself. But nobody would have let him get away with that and he was of no use to his mother without his head, so he had thought his best option was to stay away from England until he had some plan in place which might succeed.

  His father had sent him to Aquitaine with orders to punish the barons there who had sided with Richard against him. How that was going to work out, Richard could not imagine. How was he supposed to punish men for supporting him? He had agreed only in the hope that his mother might be released, but since that was not going to happen, he would lay low for a while until things calmed down.

  His brother would likely return to France, to his wife and his father-in-law, King Louis. Thinking of that brought to mind that that same King should also be his, Richard’s father-in-law, and he knew his marriage to Princess Alys would have to take place soon. They had been betrothed for a long time and King Louis would not wait much longer.

  Richard would not go to France just yet though. He wanted to take the opportunity to forge alliances with some of the other kingdoms of Europe.

  Richard had struck up a deep friendship with the French Prince Philip; they got on well together, they fenced together, they practiced their archery together and Philip even enjoyed Richard’s own favourite pastime of writing songs.

  Those songs were written by Richard with the aid of one of his minstrels, a lute player who was devoted to him, and now his beloved mother had been taken back to England and incarcerated by his father, he dedicated some of those songs to her.

  After the battles, when all Henry’s sons had proven was that they could never defeat their father, Richard once more needed allies. He also needed sunshine and respite from the hatred and bloodshed.

  His decision to visit King Sancho of Navarre was a spur of the moment one, a decision that involved placating that King in the hope of future good relations, as his land bordered that of Aquitaine, Eleanor’s own province which Richard was to protect in her absence. He also wanted to rest and bask in that country’s sun and harmony. It was also a court of music, which Richard appreciated, but it turned out to be a fateful visit.

  When he took his seat beside King Sancho at the feast that evening, he sensed a female presence beside him but he took little notice. Whoever she was, she must have been someone important to be seated beside their honoured guest at the table, and he knew by her perfume that his neighbour at dinner was a female, and that was all the impression she made until the King presented her.

  Berengaria was the eldest of King Sancho’s daughters and although still very young, Richard found his heart beating a little faster when he saw her. And when she smiled, he thought his heart would stop altogether.

  Her smile enchanted him as she meekly cast down her eyes and greeted him in a soft, musical voice.

  “Your Grace,” she said. “I am honoured.”

  He took her hand and brushed his lips over it, as it seemed to be expected, but he really wanted to do more.

  She sat beside him throughout the meal, listened to his tales of the recent battles and the reasons he and his brothers had for rising up against their father, listened to him play and sing and joined in. He was almost bewitched.

  “You should make peace with your father, Your Highness,” she said softly, then quickly glanced down at her hands, her cheeks flushing. “Forgive me. It is not my place to advise a great warrior.”

  “Perhaps not, but I am still listening.”

  “Imagine how you would feel if all your children were to turn against you,” she said.

  She did not mention Queen Eleanor. Perhaps she had heard tell of Richard’s closeness to his mother and thought it best to lay no blame at her feet.

  “He brought it on himself,” Richard replied. “But we have made friends. My brothers and I begged his forgiveness and have received it. Perhaps things will be better in the future, but only if he agrees to release my mother.”

  Berengaria said no more on the subject. She did not want to say the wrong thing and alienate this handsome prince.

  The following day, in honour of Prince Richard, King Sancho organised a tournament. Richard donned his armour and his helmet and picked up his lance, lifted his visor and gazed across at the pavilion where sat all the ladies of the palace. He could not help it; he had eyes only for the princess and he rode over to her and offered his arm for her to attach her scarf, her favour.

  The smile she offered him as she leaned forward and tied her scarf around his arm made him yearn to taste those lips, but his conscience was reminding him of the day he had offered his arm to Alys, accepted her favour for the joust.

  Berengaria’s pride swelled as he rode off with her scarf tied around his arm, over his chain mail. Her heart beat faster, her stomach fluttered.

  But he could never be hers; he was not the heir to the English throne and would never be a King of anywhere. He would not be good enough for her father and he was betrothed to the Princess of France. She had no right to want him.

  She had no idea that Richard was thinking along similar lines. He was very taken with this young maid, and were he not already committed to Princess Alys, he might have petitioned King Sancho for her hand, despite her young age. But he recalled the night Alys had crept into his chamber and woken him, begged to know when they would be wed. She had sounded so desperate then, not desperate for him, he did not think that, but desperate to know where her future lay.

  He could not betray her by choosing another as his bride. That would be dishonourable and now the quarrel with his father was over, the honourable thing to do would be to return to England and marry her as she expected, as everyone expected.

  Once more his glance fell on the lovely young Princess of Navarre and he began to wish he had never come here.

  THE MORNING SUNLIGHT found Henry leaning up on one elbow and gazing down at Alys, wondering what had happened, if anything had happened. But no, he had not been intoxicated. He had been wounded and in pain and this gentle maiden had bathed his wounds and allowed him to rest beside her.

  He watched her for a long ti
me, listened to her gentle breathing and felt himself stir for her as he had not stirred since his fair Rosamund had retired to Godstow Abbey. He missed her, he missed her terribly. Rosamund had been a woman gentle and coy, as a woman should be, not brash and domineering as was his Queen.

  But what he said last night was not entirely a fantasy; the idea that he might annul his marriage to Eleanor and make this Princess of France his Queen was not so very bizarre, not when one considered that Eleanor had annulled her own marriage to the French King in order to marry him.

  But that was all in the past and now his fingers itched to rest on the soft bosom of the lovely young maid who lay beside him. The cloak she had slept in had fallen away from her body and now only a thin linen shift covered her. That word ‘maid’ was the one which stopped him. She was not only pure and untouched by man, the man who would be entitled to that precious maidenhead was his own son.

  Richard was unworthy; Henry had said so only last night and he still believed it. Alys was too good for a son who would raise up arms against his own father.

  He leaned over carefully and gently touched her lips with his own. She stirred in her sleep and reached out to hold him in her arms, then her eyes fluttered open and she gazed up at him, allowed a little smile to form on her lips, then swiftly forced it away. She sat up and grabbed her cloak to cover herself.

  “Your Majesty,” she said. “Have you recovered? How are your wounds this morning?”

  She slid across to slip out of the bed, but he caught her arm and pulled her back towards him. He took her into his arms, pulled her body closer to his own and kissed her again, but this time not so gently. It had been a long time since he had shared such a kiss with a woman and she was a woman. She was not the little girl who had come here to seal a treaty of peace between two kings, she was a real woman, ripe for love.

  “You were very kind to me last night,” he whispered. “I am sorry if I frightened you.”