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.

Arthur had not come to England; therefore it must be John who followed him. There could be trouble but it was too late to avert it now.

Berengaria arrived. She was at his bedside. He looked at her sadly, apologetically. I knew he was wishing he had been different.

They had found the man who had shot the fatal arrow. He was young, little more than a boy. His name was Bertrand de Gurdun.

When he heard that his murderer had been arrested, Richard wanted to see him. He was amazed that one so young could have been responsible.

He said: “Why did you want to kill me, boy?”

“You killed my father and my two brothers,” was the answer. “You would have killed me ... for a pot of gold. I wished to avenge my family.”

The King nodded. “Have you any idea what terrible punishment I could order for you?”

“I care not. I have done what I set out to do. I have laid you, tyrant, on your deathbed.”

“This is a brave boy,” said Richard. “No harm shall come to him. Let him go free.”

That was typical of Richard. He understood the boy’s motives. He would have done the same himself.

From the moment I arrived, I was at his bedside. I would not leave him.

“Richard,” I said, “you must live. You cannot die like this ... in such a place ... for such a reason.”

“We die when our turn comes, dear Mother. What I regret most is leaving you. Do not weep. This is the end for me. I sought to take Jerusalem and I died fighting for a bag of coins.”

“Richard, you have been ill before. You have been plagued by the fever, but you have always recovered. You must do so now.”

“You must watch John,” he said. “It has to be John. Arthur is not in England ... and they would not have him. Pray, Mother. Pray for peace in the realm. Send for the Archbishops. They must hear me. They must understand that it has to be John.”

They came and stood by his bed. I was there with my poor Berengaria.

“Farewell, dearest Mother,” he said. “There has been much love between us two.”

And then he died and I felt that my heart was broken. I could have borne anything but this.

I had lost my son, the one in the world who had meant more to me than any other being.

I was alone, desolate, the most unhappy woman in the world.

I found some consolation in writing. I wrote: “My posterity has been snatched from me. My two sons, the young King and the Count of Brittany, sleep in the dust, and now I have lost the staff of my age, the light of my eyes; and I am forced to live on.”

With Blanca in Castile

WHAT DID I WANT to do now? Return to Fontevrault? To nurse my wretchedness? To shut out all memory of his bright presence?

On Palm Sunday Richard was buried in the church of Fontevrault. The journey from the Limousin had been a slow one and from cottages and mansions people had come out to stand in awe as the cortge passed, knowing that there lay the corpse of the man whose name was known throughout the world: the greatest of warriors, Coeur de Lion.

There was no real peace for me. I had to turn my mind from grief and think of what might happen now. Richard had said that John should be King; but it would be a matter for the barons and the justiciars to decide. It was Arthur who was, in fact, the true heir. Geoffrey, his father, had come before John. I could see that it was a weighty problem: Arthur just twelve years old. An unsuitable age! And the only alternative: John.

William Marshal would be one of those who helped to decide, and he was a wise man who would put the needs of his country before everything else. Then there was Hubert Walter, Archbishop of Canterbury. Men I could trust, both of them.

John arrived at Fontevrault. He overacted as usual. He expressed great sorrow at his brother’s death and assumed an attitude of piety.

John was acclaimed as the next King, not because of the high opinion anyone had of him but as the lesser of two evils.

As soon as he was sure of this, his attitude changed and we had a glimpse of what he would be like when he assumed power.

It was during High Mass. Bishop Hugh of Lincoln, who was officiating, could not resist the opportunity of reminding John, during his sermon, of his duty, telling him frankly what sacrifices were expected of a king. I must admit I found it all a little tedious and wished the man would stop moralizing, but I resigned myself to the fact that the sermon must soon come to an end. John was less patient. He interrupted the Bishop.

“Cut it short,” he ordered. “I have had enough.”

There was a brief silence before the Bishop went on as though there had been no interruption.

But John, proud of his newly acquired kingship, wanted to show his authority. He shouted: “I said cut it short. I want my dinner.”

Once more the Bishop ignored him. John took some gold coins from his pocket which he threw up and caught, and then he jangled them in his hands.

The Bishop stopped his sermon and asked what John was doing.

“I am looking at these gold coins,” replied John, “and thinking that a few days ago, if I had had them, I would have kept them for myself rather than give them to you.”

“Put them into the offering box,” said the Bishop, “and go to your dinner.”

If this was an example of what we were to expect from John, I wondered if the bishops were already regretting their choice.

My mind was taken from apprehensive contemplation of the future by the arrival of Joanna at Fontevrault.

My daughter was in a very sad state. She was pregnant and had been on her way to Rouen to see Richard. Her husband needed help and she had known that she would not appeal to Richard in vain. He had always been a good brother to her and she would never forget how he had come to her aid when she had been Tancred’s prisoner in Sicily.