“And now Henry is dead.”

I nodded. “Poor Henry. He always strove for the unattainable. Your father made the biggest mistake of his life when he crowned him.”

“He knows it, but it does not ease his pain. He thinks a great deal about Henry ... and Richard and Geoffrey and John ... all the boys. He knows Richard hates him, yet I think he admires him in a way.”

“No one could help admiring Richard.”

“Yet it seems it is John he loves now. He talks constantly of John.”

“He must be about seventeen now.”

“He is ambitious, Mother. He wants to be King.”

I laughed. “The crown is for Richard. Richard will be King of England.”

“But what of Aquitaine?”

“Richard will be the King of England and Duke of Aquitaine.”

“I think my father wants Aquitaine for John. I even think he wants the crown of England for him, too.”

“That will never be.”

“If my father decided ... who could stop him?”

“Richard would. And he will never give up Aquitaine.”

She nodded. “Yes, Richard is a great warrior.”

“Have you seen John?”

“Yes.”

“Tell me, what sort of a man is he? I saw little of him in his childhood, you know. He was at Fontevrault and then under the care of Ranulf de Glanville.”

“I do not like Ranulf de Glanville, Mother.”

“No?”

“I think he has allowed John to go his own way. He ...”

“Tell me.”

“He is dissolute. There are always women and ... he is rather cruel. I think he finds pleasure in hurting people. He is like our father in one way. He falls into rages. He lies on the floor and kicks and gnaws the rushes.”

“That is certainly like his father,” I said.

“But our father is never unjust in rages. When they are over, he does not look around to vent his spite on anyone who happens to be nearby.”

“No, he did not do that. And John does?”

She nodded. “I know it may seem strange but I am sorry for my father now that he is turning to John. I think he is going to be very disappointed.”

“He was always a fool where his family was concerned. He could never see those who would be loyal to him. So now John is taking the place of Henry?”

“It would seem so.”

“From what you tell me, I would say ‘God help him’ then. And Geoffrey? You say little of Geoffrey.”

“He would be rather like John ... but kinder. I think he is happy with Constance, and they have their little Eleanor. If John had someone like that ... a wife to steady him ...”

“Then we have to be grateful to Constance.”

“Geoffrey seems to be safe in Brittany. They accept him. I suppose because Constance is there. She is the heiress, in fact, and he is her husband, and as they seem happy together that pleases the people.”

“Let us at least be glad of that.”

There was much to be glad about during those days. Matilda would sit embroidering little garments for the child, and I would sing to her, read and play the lute. I sang some of the ballads I used to hear in my grandfather’s Court. How it brought it all back ... those stories of gallantry, chivalry, of ladies rescued from tyrants, of unrequited love.

There were Matilda’s children to amuse us. They talked of their grandfather with affection. At least he had managed to win their hearts. They loved me, too. Sometimes I thought it a pity we did not forget ambition and become a happy family.

We talked of songs, and Matilda told me how, when Bernard de Borne was at Court, he used to write them in praise of her beauty.

“In truth they were for my brother Henry,” she said. “De Borne was in love with him. It was those verses of his which led to Henry’s death in a way. He flattered him and wrote of him as though he were a mighty warrior ... invincible ... and that was how Henry began to see himself. It was the reason why he thought he could get the better of our father.”

“Poor Henry,” I said. “He died penitent.”

“I pray his sins will be forgiven.”

“He did not repent,” I said, “until he saw that the game was lost. I suppose it is at such time that we all repent our sins.”

“I heard about the bed of ashes and the stone pillow.”

“Yes. A humble recompense. Let us hope God forgave him as his father did.”

So the days passed, and to be free and with my daughter was wonderful to me. I felt like a young woman—alive, vital, deeply interested in all that was going on around me.

It was a happy day when Matilda came safely through her confinement. She had given birth to a healthy boy and we called him William after his great ancestor the Conqueror.

We celebrated his birth with much merry-making, drinking a special spiced ale made with corn barley and honey, and I laughed maliciously when I saw that it cost the King 3.16.10, for I knew he would resent having to pay so much for a mere drink—which showed my attitude toward him had changed little.

Orders came for a move from Winchester to Westminster, and I was to accompany the party. So I was to be received back at Court! I had to thank my son Henry for this. His father could not refuse his dying wish.

A saddle ornamented with gold arrived for me. Clearly he did not want me to ride through the streets looking impoverished. He would not know what the people’s reaction would be, but one thing was certain: they would all be in the streets to see the Queen who for so long had been her husband’s prisoner.

I was going to enjoy this, particularly as I guessed Henry was thinking of it with some apprehension.

Clad in my red velvet gown with my fur-trimmed cloak, mounted on my horse with his gold-ornamented saddle, I rode to Westminster.

I had been right when I suspected that there would be crowds to see me. They watched in amazement. I knew I looked splendid. I had taken great care with my appearance, and I was practiced in the art of applying those aids to nature which are so effective. I had made sure that my dark hair looked almost as it had in my youth. My skin was unwrinkled; it had not been exposed to rough winds for years. They had been expecting an old woman; and in spite of my years I certainly did not look that.

At the palace I came face to face with Henry. He had aged considerably and was an old man now. All the defects he had had were more pronounced: the legs were a little more bowed; he leaned on a stick. I learned later that he had had a fall from a horse. Was it when Henry’s men had killed the horse under him? He had ingrowing toenails which caused him some pain. Poor old man! Was this the greatest soldier in Europe? He was still, I supposed. Age could not alter that completely. His hair was gray and there was much less of it than I remembered. He was still careless over his clothes; still the same short cape, the hands that were more reddened than ever.

Yet for all this, one only had to look at him to know he was a king.

I felt a sudden emotion. It was certainly not love. I would never forgive him for what he had done to me. Hatred? Yes, in a measure, but not entirely. A little pity because he was no longer active and must have hated leaning on a stick—and pity too, for the unrequited love he had given to his sons.

Then I thought with a glow of pleasure: You are an old man, Henry Plantagenet. You are older than I am in truth, although you are eleven years younger.

“You are beautiful still,” he said.

I bowed my head. I gave him one of those looks which implied that I could not return the compliment on his looks. He understood. We still knew each other very well, and even after all these years we could read each other’s thoughts.

“It is long since we met,” he went on.

“It was your pleasure,” I reminded him.

“It is now my wish that there should be no rancor between us while we are here.”

“Then the King’s wishes must be obeyed.”

His lips twitched; he was admiring me, I knew; and I felt my spirits rise. I knew that there would soon be conflict between us and I welcomed it.

I thanked him for the clothes and the saddle he had sent.

He smiled faintly. “I dareswear you needed them.”

“I did. I understand it is because Henry asked it that you freed me from my prison.”

“For this visit,” he reminded me.

“Then I must be grateful to him,” I said. He was moved at the mention of our dead son.

I said: “He was my son too. I knew the end was near. I saw him in a dream.”

He was too emotional to speak for a moment.

“He was a handsome boy,” I said.

“There was never one as handsome as he was.”

“The end was sad. All that conflict. I know you loved him dearly ... more dearly than any of the others.”

“He turned against me. He was led astray.”

I wanted to say to him: No, it was not as simple as that. When you crowned him, you created a rival. You were to blame. He had no love for you ... yet on his deathbed he remembered me. You made me a prisoner but you cannot take that away from me. In the love of our children I have something for which you would give a great deal.

But I said none of these things. I was sorry for him.

“We both loved him,” I said. “He was our son. We must pray for him.”

“Together,” he said. “None understands my grief.”

“I understand it,” I said. I looked at him and saw the pain in his eyes. “Because,” I added, “I share it.”

He took my hand and pressed it; then he lifted it to his lips.

For a moment our shared grief had taken us right back to the days when we had meant a great deal to each other.

Then the greatest joy I had known for years came to me. Richard arrived at Westminster.