I had always loved him so entirely—from the moment he first lay in my arms, a beautiful child even on the day of his birth—that it was hard for me to see faults in him.

I did find myself constantly comparing him with Henry. I had to admit that Henry had had very special qualities. He had been bedeviled by his need for women. I had often noticed how preoccupation with sex can impair people’s careers. Not that Henry allowed it to interfere disastrously with his; but if it had been less important to him and had allowed him to remain faithful to me, our partnership could have brought us both much good, I was sure.

Henry had made those two vital mistakes in his life, of course—the bestowing of an archbishopric on Becket and a crown on his son Henry. Even so, he would never have made the mistakes Richard was making now.

I saw them clearly and I wanted to stop him; but I knew Richard’s obstinacy. He had one thought now and that was to go on a crusade. I must not try to impede him. Let him go; and when he returned he would be a good King. Meanwhile I must hold the kingdom for him.

I was very worried about John. Rumors were circulating, and I guessed John was at the source of them. It was being said that Richard wanted to be King of Jerusalem ... and in that event John would be King of England.

How I wished that Richard had never taken the cross, that he had been content to rule over his possessions at home!

He was ready to sail by spring. He left the country in the charge of Longchamp as Chancellor and Hugh Puiset, Bishop of Durham, both of whom had paid highly for their appointments. I, of course, was to be at the head of affairs.

But I did not intend to remain in England. I had been captive so long and I was finding freedom sweet. Uppermost in my mind was the need to see Richard married. I was anxious about the succession. I knew John had his greedy eyes on the crown; but there was one who came before him, and that was my grandson Arthur, Duke of Brittany, the son of Geoffrey who had been born after his death; as Geoffrey had been older than John, his son came before John.

I thought Henry’s illegitimate son Geoffrey might have had pretensions too. Henry had made so much of him and on his deathbed, when this Geoffrey was the only son who remained faithful to him, he had said something about his being his only true son.

A country without an heir is in danger. Richard was now thirty-three years old, an age when a King should be married and have produced several heirs. Of course, the circumstances of Alais’s connection with Henry had been the cause of the present position, but I believed it should be remedied without delay.

I tried to get Richard to pay some attention to this all-important matter, but it was quite difficult to draw his attention from the crusade.

“Richard,” I said firmly, “you must marry.”

He looked absent-minded. “Oh, that can wait until I return.”

“It cannot wait,” I said. “It is imperative that you produce an heir.”

He looked at me steadily for a few moments, then he said: “Dear Mother, I have no desire for marriage.”

“You ... a King ... can say that?”

“It is true.”

I had heard rumors. There was the passionate friendship with the King of France. “The King likes better to toy with his own sex than with women.” That had been said. I had refused to accept it then. He was so good-looking, so essentially masculine.

He read my thoughts. He said: “It is so. You see, women have little attraction for me.”

I said: “Your friendship with Philip Augustus ... you were lovers?”

“You could say that.”

“I see,” I said slowly. “But that does not prevent your marrying and having a child. There have been other cases ...”

“I suppose it will have to be done.”

“Of course it will have to be done. There is a crown to think of. Imagine what would happen if you did not have an heir. Think of John on the throne of England!”

“Arthur is the heir to the throne.”

“A young boy. Do you think the people will want him! He is a foreigner. You know how the English hate foreigners.”

“They could call me that.”

“No. Not with your fair looks. They say you are the perfect Englishman.”

“Who has lived so little in England.”

“You must remedy that, Richard. When this crusade is over ... Oh, I wish to God it had not been necessary to do it so soon.”

“It was when the call came.”

“But your marriage. What of this Berengaria of Navarre? You mentioned her once. I thought you had taken a fancy to her.”

“I did. I do not want marriage ... but if it were necessary ...”

“It is necessary. We must approach Sancho for Berengaria.”

“What of Alais?”

“She shall go back to France. Philip Augustus must understand that in view of what has happened you can not make her your Queen.”

“He will expect it.”

“Then he must needs do so. I must arrange this marriage with Berengaria.”

Richard did not answer. I guessed his thoughts were elsewhere. But I began to plan vigorously.

I was a little taken aback by what he had admitted. True, it was not exactly a surprise to me. It was something which had been in my mind for some time, and because I had not wanted to admit it, I had allowed it to remain a vague suspicion.

Men had such leanings but they did not prevent their begetting a family, which they must do if they were kings. I could see that Richard was going to be very lackadaisical about marriage, and it was my duty to see that it took place as soon as possible. I was certainly not going to wait until his return from the crusade.

There was only one course open to me. I must go to Navarre. I must bring Berengaria out with me, and we must meet up with Richard somewhere and get them married.

For a woman of my age this was an undertaking which might prove a little daunting. But I was no stranger to the hardship of crusading, and though at the time when I suffered from this I had said I never wanted to do it again, this was my duty. Richard must be married with as little delay as possible. And as Berengaria was the only marriageable woman for whom I had heard him express a liking, Berengaria it must be.

What I planned to do was to leave England in the hands of Longchamp and Hugh Puiset and go to Navarre. There was bound to be delay on the Continent. Both Philip Augustus and Richard had many preparations to make. I must catch up with them somewhere and insist on the marriage. The difficult part would be to see that it was consummated.

I must lose no time in bringing this about.

I left England, taking the Princess Alais with me. I was going to return her to France. We had no further use for her. She was very sad and, I believe, genuinely mourned Henry. He had been, I am sure, very different with her than with me. I supposed she was never provocative. It would have been, “Yes, my lord. No, my lord” all the way. I was a little sorry for her, although her meekness irritated me. Moreover I guessed there would be trouble over her, for Philip Augustus would not want her to be returned to him unmarried. He appeared to be insisting that Richard marry her. He would consider, of course, that whatever Richard’s inclinations—and his must be the same—marriage was outside that. It was the duty of a king to marry and produce children. That need not interfere with his mode of life.

I crossed the Channel in February. It was not a pleasant experience. But when was it ever? I had known it worse in the summer than it was that February. We went to Rouen, where I decided Alais should stay until we knew what to do with her. She was in the kind of captivity which I had endured for so long. I often thought: The tables are turned now, Henry. And I wondered if he could know what was happening now.

I left Rouen and made my way south to Navarre. There I was greeted warmly, for they knew the purpose of my visit, and naturally a little country like Navarre would be delighted for its daughter to marry the King of England.

Berengaria was presented to me. She was not very young. Her father had resisted offers for her hand because when Richard had visited his Court he had hinted that he might marry her, and Sancho had lived in hopes since then; now that it seemed those hopes were about to be fulfilled, he was overjoyed.

I told him that my son had begged me to come and bring Berengaria to him. This was not exactly true, but I could hardly mention his reluctance. Sancho believed me, though he must have wondered why nothing had been done about the matter before.

It was pleasant to be in Navarre. It was not so very far from Aquitaine, and Sancho’s Court was similar to those I had known in my youth. There were the troubadours and the songs that I loved so well. Berengaria played and sang. She was a pleasant creature, but her beauty was not of that wild, tempestuous kind which might have been able to divert Richard from his tendencies. She was simply a charming, fresh-faced girl, and although she was still young enough to bear children, it seemed to me imperative that she and Richard set about the task without delay.

Sancho the Wise was Berengaria’s father, and Sancho the Strong her brother. The minstrels sang of them and of the Princess who was going to marry a great King.

It was all very pleasant and very reminiscent. It was as though the years slipped away as I sat and listened.

Berengaria remembered every detail of her first meeting with Richard.

“I thought he was the most handsome man in the world,” she told me.

“I think he still is,” I replied.

She wanted to talk about him all the time. I told her of his prowess with the sword and how people were already talking of him as the great hero of battle. He was wise too. I told her the story of Benedict of York and of William Marshal who had killed his horse from under him and yet at their next meeting Richard had given him an important post in his realm.