I heard the rest from William Marshal later.

Henry was overcome with exhaustion, depression and the pain he was suffering. The castle of Chinon was not far away and there he could rest for a while and recuperate his strength.

William Marshal said it was pitiful to see him attempt to mount his horse. Geoffrey, who could speak to him more frankly than the others, insisted that he be carried in a litter. The King protested. He, who had been more at ease in the saddle than on his own two feet, to be carried in a litter like a woman! But Geoffrey was firm, and it was an indication of Henry’s weakness that at length he agreed. And so, by litter, he was carried to Chinon.

What distressed him so much was that after the incident of the fire at Le Mans several of his knights had gone over to Richard, which meant going over to the French. He could not abide traitors. He wanted to know who they were.

He said to Marshal: “I want a list of those knights who deserted me. I am sure the King of France would not deny me this. Nay, perhaps he would take a pleasure in giving it to me.”

Geoffrey said: “Perhaps it would be better to forget them. They are not worthy of a moment’s thought.”

“Don’t be a fool,” retorted the King. “I must know my enemies and I regard these as such.”

Geoffrey suggested that he should try to rest.

“Send my son John to me as soon as he comes,” said the King.

He did sleep after that. There was terrible consternation in the camp, for everyone knew how ill he was. The fact that he would not admit it could not disguise it.

When he awoke he saw Geoffrey and William Marshal whispering together. He heard Geoffrey say: “Better not to show it to the King.”

Henry was then fully awake, demanding to know what was not to be shown to him. They were holding something back. What was it? They tried not to tell him but he saw through their ruse and demanded to know.

At length they admitted that it was the list which Philip Augustus had obligingly supplied.

Why were they hiding it? They should bring it at once or feel the weight of his wrath.

I could imagine his anguish when he saw that the name at the head of the list of those who had deserted him was that of his son John.

He could no longer deceive himself.

Did he think of that picture at which he had often looked so sadly? Did he see how true it was? The old eagle worn out ... finished ... and the young eaglets waiting to finish him off. They could not wait for him to reach his end gracefully. They were ready to snatch from him that which he had been so reluctant to give during his lifetime.

Gone were all his illusions. He had gained much territory; he had been the most powerful man in Europe—but he had failed to win the love of his sons, and that was something he had dearly wanted.

He did refer to the picture, they told me. He said: “You see, it was right. My youngest was waiting for the moment when it seemed that all was lost to me, that he might peck out my eyes. I no longer wish to live ... unless it is to take revenge on them. They are her children ... all of them. That she-wolf ... who laughs at me. I made her my prisoner but still she laughs at me, and she defeats me through her sons ...”

I think he must have been delirious then. He talked about the early days of our marriage and of Rosamund and Alais ... the three women who were most important to him among the myriads he had known.

Geoffrey was beside him, for he was uneasy when this son was not there.

“Would to God you had been my legitimate son,” he said to him. “Why did it have to be the bastard who was loyal to me?” He asked Geoffrey to call him “Father.” He said: “You are the best son I ever had. The sons of the Queen have been my enemies, and the son of a whore my friend.”

Geoffrey and Marshal consulted together. They thought the end was near and they should call a priest.

There was no priest. In fact, they were almost alone with the King. He was dying and all knew it. Most of the knights were concerned for their own safety. What would happen to them when he was dead? There was no point in remaining if the King were dying.

I hope he did not know they were deserting him. Geoffrey and William Marshal kept that fact from him. They remained by his bedside and watched life slowly ebb away.

Then he looked at them with anguish in his eyes. He grasped Geoffrey’s hand, and suddenly the young man felt the grip slacken.

He bent over his father. The King murmured: “Oh, the shame that I suffer now ... the shame of a vanquished King.”

And those were the last words of Henry Plantagenet.

Richard’s Marriage

WHEN I HEARD THE news of Henry’s death I was deeply shocked. My mind was a jumble of impressions from the past. I did not know whether I was glad or sorry. The idea of a world without that maddening, devious personality, who meant no good to me, was somehow empty.

I supposed that everyone who had lived close to him must have been deeply impressed by him. He was no ordinary man. He was unique. Whenever I had encountered him I felt a great excitement; to do battle with him had been as stimulating as making love had been.

It was strange to remember that he had gone forever.

But why should I mourn? I had been his prisoner for sixteen years. He had dared treat me thus. Now I was free. My beloved son Richard was King of England. Everything would be different from now on.

Even before orders came that I was to be released, people behaved differently. There were no more guards, no more locked doors. With Richard King, his mother would be the most important woman in the land.

William Marshal arrived at Winchester almost immediately. To my surprise he came from Richard. I could not help but be amazed after what I had heard of their encounter when Marshal had been on the point of killing him. Marshal himself told me what had happened and how it was that Richard had chosen him to be his messenger.

After the King’s death he and Geoffrey had carried him to Fontevrault Abbey and sent word to Richard that his father was dead.

There Henry lay, stripped of his jewels and all possessions, which those who deserted him had taken before they went. There were very few besides Marshal and Geoffrey who had remained faithful to him.

That was perhaps one of the saddest aspects of all.

Richard had arrived at Fontevrault and stood beside the dead King. It was typical of William Marshal that he did not attempt to make his escape, although it must have occurred to him that after what had happened he would have little mercy from the new King.

Richard had moved away from the corpse and signed to Marshal to follow him.

He said: “There is work for you to do, William Marshal. I cannot return to England immediately. Go to my mother and, with her, guard my kingdom until I return.”

William was so taken aback that he stared at the King in amazement.

Richard said: “I trust those men who are faithful to their kings, and I believe you will be so to the new one as you were to the old.”

William took his hand and kissed it.

“I will, my lord King,” he said.

I was delighted. Richard was not always by nature magnanimous, but I considered this a gesture worthy of a shrewd king; William Marshal’s acceptance of him made me feel that everything I had heard of him was true.

A king needs men such as William Marshal about him.

Thus it was that he arrived in England and came straight to me.

William brought letters from Richard in which he stated that I was to have full command of the kingdom until his return. My orders should be obeyed as though they came from the King himself. I was delighted and gratified by his trust. It was my duty now to prepare the people for him. I knew they would be feeling a little dubious.

He had never shown much interest in England; he had been out of it for most of his life. I had to make them realize that he was a strong man, a worthy successor to his father.

A further shock awaited me. Following almost immediately on the news of Henry’s death came that of Matilda. She had in fact died a few days before her father. I was glad he had been spared the grief of knowing this.

He had skillfully negotiated with the Emperor Frederick and had made it possible for them to return to their own dominions; but I believe the strain she had suffered greatly impaired Matilda’s health. It was sad that her husband was not with her when she died. He had been with the Emperor in the Holy Land and had taken their eldest son, Henry, with him. Thus Matilda died with only Richenza, Lothair and William beside her. She was only thirty-three years old.

The messenger who brought me this terrible news tried to comfort me by telling me that she had been buried with great pomp and ceremony in the church of St. Blasius. As if that could console me! I was grief-stricken for the loss of my daughter as I could not be for my husband.

I went over the details of her childhood and our last meeting ... and my sorrow was great.

But there was no time for mourning. Richard was left to me, and my time must be dedicated to his needs.

I could not tarry in Winchester. I must go to London as soon as possible.

Before I left I summoned the Princess Alais to come to me. I think she was very frightened, fearing what would become of her now that the King was dead. She stood before me trembling.

She was a poor thing, really. She had so little spirit. That was what he had found comforting; she would always be ready to obey without question. I despised her, and I reminded myself that while I had been a prisoner she had been acting as Queen, taking my place.