But he was glad he had separated him from Arthur. He must come to some terms with the boy. If he could only delude him into signing some document in which he would renounce all claims to the possessions which were now in John’s hands he could with a few strokes of the pen deprive the Bretons of their reason for waging war on him.

He was tired of war. It seemed a king’s life must be spent in this futile occupation. The victory of today was the defeat of tomorrow and castles passed from hand to hand as the battle swayed.

There were more interesting ways of spending one’s time. It was aggravating to have to leave one’s bed in the early hours of the morning to be on the march, to be prepared to storm some castles, to spring to the defence of another. It wearied him. Then there was the possibility of being struck by an arrow. Three Kings of Britain had fallen in that way: Harold at Hastings, Rufus in the forest and Richard at Chaluz – and all three in less than one hundred and fifty years. Why should a man put himself into such danger when he would have a very comfortable life? As John saw it a king should travel through his possessions being respected and honoured where he went; there should be feasting, singing, dancing at the various castles which he visited; there should be women only too eager to share his pleasures. He would of course prefer to have Isabella with him, and they would lie abed until dinner time as they used to. It was not asking a great deal, only what he thought of as a kingly existence. But there were those who stood in his way of enjoying it.

Chief of these was Philip of France: he would never stop trying to make himself lord of all French territory. It was three hundred years since Rollo had taken Normandy, and yet Philip still dreamed of getting it back, and he would go on trying to do so as the French kings had for all that time. There was nothing he could do about Philip; but he could do something about his nephew and if he could prevent his continually harping on his claims, if he could render him powerless, he would have removed one cause of conflict.

He decided that now Arthur was at Rouen and Hubert de Burgh was not there to caution him and advise, he would go and see him. So John set out for Rouen.

It was the 1st April when he started the journey, travelling through the fertile lands of Normandy. He was thinking of his nephew and made up his mind that he would not leave Rouen until he had extracted from him an oath to give up his claims. He felt irritated by the need to have to come to Rouen without Isabella for he had decided on the spur of the moment not to bring her with him. He did not want anything to distract him from this matter of coming to terms with Arthur, but when he left her he always wondered what she was doing. The fact that he was never faithful to her during their partings made him wonder whether she was faithful to him, and while he shrugged aside his own adventures as natural and to be expected, the thought of hers could send him to the edge of one of his rages so that he would be inclined to let it flow over whoever came near him and offended him in the slightest way.

He needed to keep his mind clear to deal with Arthur so he did not want it to be disturbed by outside influences. Perhaps he should have brought Isabella with him. No, he could not be at all sure what was going to happen at Rouen and it was better to be alone.

He was pleased by his reception at the castle. There was a flurry of excitement at his arrival and serving men and women were scurrying in all directions. Arthur came to greet him sullenly and he spoke to him in a jocular fashion and told him that he had come to talk with him and to be his good uncle.

Arthur was subdued, and they feasted together.

Tomorrow, thought John, I will talk with Arthur.

He knew the castle well. Often he had stayed here. He remembered how he had gone with a party of men down to the stone steps where boats were moored, for the river was close by. They had rowed up that river to Les Andelys over which the Château Gaillard stood guard. He had always been thrilled by that castle and wished that he had built it instead of Richard. It was the castle to outshine all castles. He knew that Philip of France ground his teeth in envy when he saw it; it was like a sentinel standing on guard protecting Rouen, that favourite city of all the Dukes. When Arthur had signed that document in which he would admit he had no claim to John’s possessions, John would swear that on his death without heirs everything should go to Arthur. They would sail up the river to Rouen and there they would ride through the town together and all should know of the amity between them. And once he had signed that document proclaiming that Arthur should be his successor if he died without heirs, he must have children without delay.

That would be the right thing to do. The first stage of his relationship with Isabella had passed. He had adored her child’s body, but she wasn’t a child any longer and she must fulfil her duties and give him children. That would keep her out of mischief. So what he must do was get Arthur to sign and then get Isabella with child; and signing that document was the purpose of his coming to Rouen.

It was dusk of the next day when he and Arthur were alone together.

John said: ‘Pray be seated, nephew. I have something of great importance to say to you. It is this: You and I must come to terms. I want us to be good friends.’

‘Are you going to give up what you have taken from me then?’ asked Arthur.

‘I said we should come to terms.’

‘Pray tell me these terms you have in mind,’ said Arthur.

‘You are to give up all claim to my possessions. Ah, wait. Do not sulk like a foolish child. If I die without heirs you shall be my successor.’

Arthur shook his head. ‘I want what is mine now.’

‘You must not act like a spoilt child, Arthur. I have the crown of England and the lands over here are mine too. I have been accepted by the people. What do you think the people of England would say if they were asked to accept you?’

‘Doubtless they would say I was their rightful king since my father was your elder brother.’

‘You are a foreigner, Arthur. You have never been in England. You don’t know the English.’

‘I know who is their rightful king.’

‘So do they, nephew, and it is John.’

‘John usurped the crown. Richard named me as his heir. The King of France proclaims me.’

‘And I wear the crown,’ taunted John. He was wishing he had it with him so that he could wear it on this occasion. That would have been amusing. ‘You can save us and yourself a great deal of trouble if you accept what is. Now I shall have a document drawn up which you will sign and when you have signed it you and I will be good friends.’

‘That is something we shall never be.’

‘Have you made up your mind to that?’

‘Yes, I made up my mind when you sent orders to blind me and rob me of my manhood.’

‘What talk is this?’

‘’Tis a statement of facts. I know you for the wicked man you are and if you think I shall ever enter into any agreement with you, you are mistaken.’

‘I think you will, Arthur.’

‘Why should you think that?’

‘Because you are going to see what is best for you.’

‘And you think it is good for me to sign away my inheritance?’

‘There are worse things to lose than your inheritance as you came near to discovering.’

‘You are a devil.’

‘I am a man who will have his way.’

‘And I have no more to say to you.’

Arthur rose and went to the door but before he reached it John had seized him.

‘Take your hands from me – liar, coward, lecher … I hate you. I will work against you until the end of my days.’

‘So all my kindness to you is of no avail.’

‘Kindness …’ Arthur threw back his head and laughed.

A sudden blow sent him reeling. He fell against the wall and for a few moments he looked into a face which was distorted by rage. John’s temper had taken possession of him and he made no attempt to curb it.

Another blow sent Arthur staggering to the floor, blood spurting from his mouth. John picked up a stool and hit him with it again and again … on his head and on his body.

Arthur moaned in agony and then he was silent.

John kicked him, laughing demoniacally.

‘What now, my brave cockerel, what now? What say you, eh? What say you, King of England, Duke of Normandy, Count of Anjou … You should have been content with being Duke of Brittany.’

He was foaming at the mouth; his eyes were staring out of his head; his blood was pounding with excitement as he went on kicking Arthur.

And then he was aware that there was no response from Arthur. He no longer moaned; he merely lay slack and still as if oblivious to the pain which was inflicted on him.

John stopped suddenly, his rage sliding away from him.

He knelt down.

‘Arthur,’ he shouted. ‘Stop shamming. Get up, or by God’s teeth I’ll kick you to death.’

There was no response.

‘Arthur,’ cried John shrilly, but the boy lay still.

He’s dead, thought John. I have killed Arthur. What now?


He must act quickly. If Arthur were found thus there would be an outcry. They would know who had killed him and it would be used against him. He imagined such knowledge in Philip’s hands.

Curse Arthur! He had been a plague to him ever since he had been born.

His rage started to get the better of him and he kicked the boy again.

He must not. He must be calm. He must think clearly. What was he going to do? He must get rid of Arthur’s body. How? It would be obvious to any observer what had happened and it would be widely known that he was at Rouen and had been alone with the boy. This should not have happened. He should have controlled his rage. He should have had Arthur murdered in a traditional royal manner – poison for instance, or neat strangulation, but to have battered the boy to death …