He staggered to his feet. There was no doubt that the horse had disappeared.

It could not be far off. He called it by name. There was no answering whinny, and suddenly the realisation came to him that he was lost in the forest.

He looked up at the sky. There was a touch of evening in the air. He must have dozed longer than he thought. Night would soon be on him.

The thought frightened him. It was alarming to be lost by day, but by night it was terrifying.

The trees took on odd shapes. They seemed to come alive and their branches swayed towards him like avenging arms. He stood up and tottered uncertainly forward. Bracken caught at his garments as though it were trying to hold him back. The light was quickly fading. The breeze had now dropped and there was an unearthly stillness about him.

Night was almost upon him.

The members of his party would be anxious because he was lost. They would tell his father and the poor old man would be frantic. Search parties would be sent out to comb the forest … every part would be searched. They must soon find him. His father would be angry with his guards. Serve them right! But they would say that he had been left unattended at his own command and his father, always lenient, always wanting to be just, would believe them.

‘Come and find me,’ he called out.

There was no answer, only a flurry in the branches as some startled creature, alarmed by the noise, made off.

He was frightened, for it was now dark. Would they never find him? His body was burning; the fever was on him. He knew it well for it was an old enemy. With it came delirium.

He thought he had died and had gone to hell. This was hell. There were devils all about him and they were trying to catch him and carry him off to eternal damnation.

‘Let me alone!’ he cried. ‘I am the King of France. My coronation is to be soon and then you will see.’

It was as though he heard mocking laughter which implied: Where you are there is no difference between a king and the humblest serf.

It could not be so. Kings endowed abbeys; they went on pilgrimages; they fought crusades. Humble serfs could not do that. That must bring the rich and noble some merit.

But he had never done these things. And here he was lost in the forest with death beckoning him. Where was his father? Where were his guards? Where even was his horse, for he would have given him some comfort?

He tripped and fell; the grass seemed damp as he lay for a while. It seeped through his clothes and he started to shiver.

‘Mother of Mary, help me,’ he prayed.

He felt the tears on his cheeks. He was not the future King of France now; he was merely a very frightened boy.

He rose again unsteadily and stumbled forward. Was he dreaming or were the trees less thick? He was not sure but the thought comforted him. He wanted to get out of the forest, for the forest was evil.

His clothes were wet, or was that the sweat now the fever had passed a little? He was cold now, shivering, with cold as well as fear.

He would die if they did not find him. When he was ill the King his father would send for the best physicians in the country to attend to him; prayers would be said throughout the country. But now he was alone and none knew of his dire need.

‘Only God can help me now,’ he muttered. ‘Oh, God, forgive me my sins. Give me a chance to redeem my soul.’

This was one of the rare occasions when he experienced humility.

As though in answer to his prayer he saw through the trees a small clearing in the forest and a dim light. His heart leaped in joy. ‘Thank you, God,’ he whispered. ‘You have heard my prayer.’

He stumbled towards the light. It came from a cottage which was little more than a hut. He managed to reach the door and beat on it with his fist and as it opened he fell at the feet of an old man.

‘Help …’ murmured Philip.

The old man knelt down and looked at him. Then he dragged him into the cottage.

Philip lay on the floor and the old man put warm soup to his lips. He could see by the manner in which he was dressed that he was a nobleman.

‘My lord, you are ill. Your clothes are damp. You should rest in my humble cottage until you are well.’

Philip allowed his cloak to be taken from him. He felt better, partly because of the soup but mainly because of the human company.

‘Tell … the King,’ he stammered.

‘My lord.’

‘I am the King’s son,’ he said.

‘My lord. Is it so then?’

The old man knelt.

It was the old story in which he had wanted to play a part but how different this was from what he had imagined.

‘I was lost and I am ill. Pray send to the King without delay.’

‘My son shall go at once, my lord,’ said the old man. ‘You should stay here and warm yourself. I can only give you old garments which it would not be becoming for you to wear, you may think.’

Philip said: ‘Let me shelter here and send word to my father.’

‘We are but humble charcoal-burners, my lord,’ said the man, ‘but we are good and loyal servants of the King. I will send my son without delay.’

Philip nodded and closed his eyes.


* * *

It was not until the next morning that guards from the castle arrived. Philip by that time was delirious.

The charcoal-burner was given a purse full of gold coins for his part in the adventure which made him richer than he could have been through a lifetime’s work, and Philip was taken back to the castle.

His constitution was not strong enough to endure such an ordeal and he was very ill, so ill in fact that it seemed very likely that he could not survive.

Louis was frantic. It was true that he was being punished for his sins; he needed to go on that crusade with Henry. This was his only son whom he had planned should be crowned with the pomp he considered necessary to such an occasion, and God was threatening to take him from him.

He wept; he entreated; he consulted with his kinsman, the Count of Flanders, who himself had recently returned from a crusade, after which he believed his sins had been washed away. The Count was a comparatively young man and had plenty of time to commit more and redeem the fresh lot, so he was in a particularly ebullient mood.

Louis could not sleep, so great was his anxiety. He sent for his ministers and said: ‘I am no longer young. I doubt I can get more sons and if I had one now he would be but a baby when I was called away. God is punishing me. I sense it. Why should he do this to me? Philip was never as strong as I could have wished and that something like this should befall him is what I have always feared.’

His ministers reminded him that young Philip still lived and the doctors were caring for him. There was a good chance that he would survive.

But when Louis saw the doctors they were very grave. The King’s son was in a high fever. He was delirious and kept calling out that the trees were his enemies and they were seeking to catch him and turn him into one of them.

The King’s advisers warned him that he must look to his own health. If he did not and he died while his only son was in such a condition that could be disastrous for France.

Louis deplored the fact that he had not yet gone on the crusade which he and Henry were planning, and thinking of Henry, Louis was reminded of Thomas à Becket, that great good man who had been so cruelly done to death on the stones of Canterbury Cathedral. His physicians gave him a soothing draught which they said would give him peaceful sleep and as he lay on his bed, between sleeping and waking, he had a strange experience which he believed to be a vision.

Thomas the Martyr was in the room.

‘Is it indeed you, my friend, Thomas à Becket Archbishop of Canterbury?’ asked the King.

‘It is,’ said the shadowy shape.

‘You come from Heaven where you have a place of honour?’ said the King.

‘I come to you from God,’ was the answer. ‘Go to Canterbury, humble yourself at my shrine there. Confess your sins and ask forgiveness. If I intercede for you, you will be given back your son.’

The King sat up in his bed. He was trembling. He was alone in his bedchamber.

He was convinced that St Thomas à Becket had visited him and would save the life of his son.


* * *

Go to Canterbury! His ministers were disturbed. Go into the realm of his old enemy the King of England!

‘You forget,’ said Louis, ‘that we are now friends. We have sworn an oath to this purpose and we are planning to go on a crusade together.’

‘It is unwise to put too much trust in the King of England,’ advised his ministers.

‘I trust him now,’ replied Louis. ‘Moreover St Thomas has told me to go. If I do not my son will die. Even if I suspected perfidy on the part of the King of England I would still go to save my son.’

They could see it was no use attempting to dissuade him.

Philip of Flanders was excited by the prospect. He was inclined to agree with the King’s ministers that it was not very wise for Louis to go to England but the prospect of excitement always exhilarated him. Life had been a little dull since his return from the crusade and he was now trying to ingratiate himself with young Philip for he could see that Louis was not long for this world and the journey over the sea would surely be a great trial to him.

‘My lord,’ he said, ‘I trust I may be allowed to accompany you.’

‘I would be glad of it,’ answered Louis.

His ministers remained dubious. Did he think that he could endure the crossing of the sea? He knew how unpredictable that stretch of water could be.