‘It terrifies me. I would to God someone would kill him as they did his brother.’

‘It may happen, but until it does let us be on our guard.’

‘I know not what I would do without you, Guy.’

‘You know that you will never have to do without me, Constance. Let us marry.’

‘And the Earl of Chester?’

‘That was no marriage. You could surely get a dispensation. Marriage which was never consummated is no marriage at all.’

‘Guy, there is a priest here. He shall marry us. Then I shall know that we shall never be parted.’

‘It is what I hope for,’ he said.

And so immediately after their flight from Le Mans, Guy and Constance went through a ceremony of marriage.

When John heard that Arthur had escaped he fell into such a fury that none dared approach for the rest of the day. He threw himself on to the floor and rolled among the rushes, cramming handfuls of them into his mouth, grinding his teeth in his rage and then shouting to everyone what he would do to Arthur and his mother if ever they fell into his hands again.


Queen Eleanor was feeling her age, which was not surprising considering what it was. Few had lived as long as she had. In two years she would be eighty years old. There had been a time when she had thought she was to be immortal; but since Richard’s death she had lost that driving will and determination to live and some force had gone from her. It had surprised her that she had considered for a while settling down in Fontevraud and leading a semi-pious life of seclusion. How she would have laughed at herself a few years ago; now it seemed a quite desirable way of passing the time left to her.

But it was not to be so. Experience had made her wise and she was naturally astute. She had immediately seen what a precarious position John was in, largely due to the existence of Arthur. None could be more aware of John’s weaknesses than herself, but he was her son and in her opinion he came before her grandson. She would therefore do everything she could to maintain him on the throne.

Her duty had seemed clear to her. The peaceful life at Fontevraud must be ended and she must go to Aquitaine in order to hold it for John. If she did not, she was well aware that it would fall to Philip.

That she should ever be reluctant to go to the beloved country of her birth amazed her; it was only because the days of holding court were over and she knew she would be nostalgic for her youth – and even for the days when she had left that desirable state some way behind – and young men had composed their songs of praise to her beauty with words and music which throbbed with desire for the lady of Aquitaine. But who could honestly sing such songs to a woman close on eighty!

Some might try but she would laugh them to scorn if they did and they would soon desist.

The fact was that she must return, swear fealty to Philip as a vassal to France for Aquitaine and take up the reins once more – to hold them until such a time as they could safely be passed over to John. Then she would go back to Fontevraud to that life of quiet and seclusion which had suddenly become attractive to her.

She was often anxious wondering how John would be able to stand up to the wily, subtle King of France over whom Richard had held some spell, and wondering too how Philip felt about Richard’s death. As in every aspect of their relationship there must be contrasting emotions. While Richard lived there was no chance of Philip’s regaining those territories he so earnestly desired; but now John had stepped into Richard’s shoes? There were times when it was better not to look too far ahead, especially when it was likely that one would not be alive to see the catastrophe. But such was her nature that while she lived she would do everything to avoid it.

Messengers arrived at the castle, forerunners of a royal cavalcade at the head of which was her son John. She immediately gave orders for the preparation of a banquet, and went up to a turret to watch for the arrival. It was not long before she saw them approaching and she went down to greet them.

She embraced John warmly and together they went into the castle that she might hear what news it was that had brought him.

‘I met the King of France at Les Andelys,’ he told her, ‘and there is a truce between us. It is this that I wish to discuss with you.’

‘How did you find Philip? More amenable than usual, I’ll warrant,’ she said, a glint in her eyes and an excitement gripping her to feel herself once more at the centre of affairs. A life of seclusion for her! How would she endure it!

She was amused by Philip’s predicament. What a complex creature he was; and the fact that he was the son of her first husband had always made her interested in him. She would have enjoyed having him for a son; and she often wondered how a poor monk like Louis had managed to beget him. Philip was clever; in fact she wondered whether there was any man alive to compare with him in mental agility. He was ambitious but preferred to make his conquests through diplomacy and clever juggling than through fighting, which was the best way in the end if the desired result could be achieved. That had been her second husband’s virtue. Henry II had had a reputation as a great general and yet if he could avoid battle he did so. This she had always seen as the secret of his successes in his early days. Philip resembled him in that way. Richard – straightforward, seeing but one side to every question – had believed that war was the decisive weapon. It often was, and when conducted by the greatest soldier in the world, invariably successful, but it was the wily ones like Henry II and Philip who often achieved their ends at least cost.

It was strange that Philip, who had once so passionately loved Richard, should now be in love with a woman. But in love he must be to allow a relationship to affect him politically.

His first wife Isabella of Hainault had died some years before, leaving him a son, Louis. Three years after her death he had married Ingeburga, a princess of Denmark. As soon as the ceremony had taken place he took a violent dislike to her and refused to live with her. As was the custom in such cases with kings he at once trumped up a case of consanguinity which would render the marriage null and this was immediately confirmed by a French court which did not wish to displease the King.

It was not always easy, though, to rid oneself of a royal princess, for her family rallied to her and popes who were often amenable when one side was important and the other less so liked to be a little more careful when dealing with royalty on either side. Thus Pope Celestine quashed the decision of the French court and forbade Philip to marry again. Two princesses refused the honour of becoming Queen of France, fearing that they might not please Philip and their fate be like that of Ingeburga; but then he met Agnes of Meran and her beauty and grace charmed him to such an extent that he was determined, in spite of the Pope, to marry her. This he did. Celestine might have bowed to a fait accompli but his successor Innocent III was of sterner morals and, moreover, determined to exercise his power. He wrote to Philip to tell him that his conduct had brought upon him the wrath of God and the thunder of the Church and if Philip continued to live with Agnes he would impose the Interdict on him which meant that there would be no religious ceremonies and festivals in France.

Philip was furious and declared that he would do without the Pope. He had recently been fighting in the Holy Land, he said, and he noticed that the Saracens such as the great Saladin seemed to get along very well without the blessing of Rome.

This was the state of affairs at the French Court and Eleanor knew that although Philip might show bravado outwardly, he would inwardly suffer a few qualms – if not exactly on religious grounds; he would know that to go into battle without the Church on his side would have its effect on his followers.

So now Eleanor was smiling slyly, realising that Philip would be far more ready to come to a conference with John with the Interdict threatening him than he would otherwise.

‘Philip was ready to be reasonable,’ John told her.

‘I’ll warrant he was. He has his affair with the Pope to occupy him at this time.’

‘We talked,’ said John, ‘and we have come to agreement. He has accepted me as the heir of all that Richard held in France.’

‘Then we should rejoice,’ said Eleanor. ‘But doubtless you have had to make concessions.’

‘I have had to give up the Vexin.’

‘A pity, but naturally he would want something.’

‘And I have agreed to pay him twenty thousand marks.’

Eleanor grimaced, but a cunning look had come into John’s eyes. Agreeing to pay was not actually paying and he had little intention of keeping that side of the bargain. Philip might well be prepared for that, for he would have long ago summed up the man with whom he was dealing.

‘And,’ went on John, ‘here is something that will please you: my niece, your granddaughter Blanche, is to be betrothed to young Louis.’

Eleanor smiled and nodded. ‘So our little Blanche will be the future Queen of France.’

‘I knew that would please you. But the best is to come. Philip recognises that I am Arthur’s overlord.’

‘Ah,’ said the Queen. ‘Then you have indeed done well.’

‘There are some who think I have given away too much and they are nicknaming me John Softsword. By God’s teeth, if I were to catch those who mocked me in that way I’d flay them alive.’

‘Words are of no great importance, and in getting Philip to agree that Arthur must do homage to you you have done very well. Blanche should be brought from Castile before Philip has the chance to change his mind.’