Виктория Холт - The Revolt of the Eaglets

‘Later when you have recovered perhaps.’

‘Later? There will be no later for me. You know it, William. Why do you pretend now? You were always such an honest man.’

‘Then if there is little time, repent, my lord King.’

‘Aye, I must repent. Bend down and see what lies on the floor, William. It is a crusader’s cross. I took it from the shrine.’

‘My lord!’

‘Nay, cease to be shocked. What I have done is done and there is no taking it back.’

‘Then repent, my lord.’

‘Send the priest to me then, William. And tell me you forgive me. It was an ill day for me when I sent you away.’

‘That is over. I am back now.’

‘William, take care of Marguerite for me. I fear she will be a widow ere long.’

William turned away. He could not bear to look at the once handsome face now pallid and flushed by turns, the beautiful eyes wild and bloodshot.

He should have stayed with him. How could he when he had been sent away? But he should have come back and not waited to be sent for. He should have warned the young King that the way he was going could only lead to disaster.

The Bishop of Cahors came and gave him absolution.

It was clear now that he could not live many more days.

He asked that William the Marshall stay with him.

‘The end is very near now,’ he said. ‘See here is the crusader’s cross. How can I expiate my sin in taking it from the shrine? If I were granted my health I would go on a crusade and take it to Jerusalem. There I would place it on the Holy Sepulchre and pray for forgiveness. Oh, God, grant me the gift of life that I may in time find forgiveness for my sins.’

William turned away. He knew that Henry would never go to Jerusalem.

‘I must see my father before I die. I have lied to him and wronged him. I must ask his forgiveness,’ he cried.

‘I will send a messenger to him without delay,’ William promised. ‘I will tell him in what state you are and beg him to come to you.’

‘Pray do that.’

He seemed to revive a little. It was as though he must see his father and ask his forgiveness before he died.

The King did not come to his son’s death bed. Henry had lied to him before; how could he be sure that he was not lying now and that he would not be walking into a trap? He sent one of his Bishops with a ring which had never before left his finger so that his son would know that the Bishop came with his blessing.

Henry held the ring in his hand and held it against his heart.

‘You will take a message to my father,’ he said. ‘I am dying and would fain have seen him and I know full well that he would have come to me.’

‘He was prepared to come,’ said the Bishop, ‘but was advised against it.’

Henry’s face twisted in painful grimace. ‘I know. I know. I had lied to him so many times. He could not trust me now. That was wise of him … but this time I happen not to be lying. Pray ask him to look after the Queen my wife. I would send a message to my mother. I think of her often and I would ask my father to be kinder to her. I have committed terrible sins. I have robbed sacred shrines. I would wish my father to repay what I have stolen as far as he is able. Ask him to forgive his erring son.’

The exertion of talking was proving too much for him but he seemed more contented now that he had sent word to his father. It was almost as though he had prepared himself for death.

He asked again for William the Marshall.

‘Take the cross,’ he said, ‘and if the opportunity arises carry it to Jerusalem in my name.’

‘If I go there I will do this,’ said William.

‘Let them make for me a bed of ashes on the floor and bring me a hair shirt. Put a stone for my pillow and one at my feet and let me die thus, that God and all his angels may know that I come in all humility. I am deeply stained with sin but most truly I repent.’

William gave orders that this should be done and then tenderly the young King was lifted from his bed and placed on the ashes.

He lay there in great bodily discomfort but he seemed to have found a spiritual peace.

A few hours later he was dead.

When the King heard that his eldest son was dead, for a few days he felt nothing but grief; but he could not for long give way to his sorrow. Henry’s death raised many problems. Most important, it meant that there must be a new heir to his dominions.

Richard!

The King’s expression hardened. If there is aught I can do to prevent that, prevent it I will, he told himself.

And yet it was dangerous to depose the rightful heir and set up another in his place. Richard had never cared much for England. Aquitaine had been his passion. That might be because it was his mother’s and he was close to her. In spite of his Norseman’s looks he loved the southern land.

My sons! thought the King. What affection have they ever given me? Henry! Richard! Geoffrey! – my enemies all of them.

There was one who had so far been his obedient son – John.

Why should he not make his heir the son who had been loyal to him? He would show traitors, be they his own sons, that he did not forget injuries.

Richard? He must confess that Richard had never been anything but straightforward. If Richard was planning to act in a certain way he did not feign otherwise. He was not like Henry had been or Geoffrey was. Those two he had never been able to trust. But he could not like Richard.

How ironical was life – and particularly a king’s life! He craved for sons and when they came they made his life a burden.

Henry had lied to him and stood by when one of his men had shot arrows at him. What had been his son’s true feeling when the arrow had merely pierced his cloak, and his horse, not himself, had been shot down?

He was a shrewd man in all but his family affections. He should have known long ago that his sons had no love for him, only for his crown.

He wished that he could love Richard. Richard was perhaps the one in whom he should have put his trust. But he was uncomfortable to be in his presence; he always feared that a subject would be referred to which would make him very uneasy, even might make him betray something which must never be told.

‘Oh Alice, my sweetheart,’ he murmured, ‘you have much to answer for.’

He longed for home … and Alice. He thought of her in Westminster or Winchester or Woodstock. Dear, beloved Alice, who never complained that he could not marry her; who was content to remain in comparative seclusion; who was content merely that he love her and keep her from Richard.

He had Alice, but he desperately wanted his sons’ affection too. He had visualised when they were in the nursery how they would grow up and work together and how happy they would be to do his bidding. He had seen them as a formidable family of strong men with himself at the head. None would have dared come against them. Four sons who would marry into Europe and bring more and more rich lands under the Plantagenet crown. How sad, how disillusioning, with his sons warring against each other and against him and making allies of the King of France!

And now Henry dead – and most ignobly had he sacked sacred shrines before dying and something must be done about that or there would be no good fortune for the family. The saints must be placated.

Henry, the most beautiful Prince in Christendom, with his charm of manner which drew men to him – dead. What a waste of a life!

My son, whom I wanted so much to love and who wanted nothing from me but my crown!

And Richard? No, not Richard! He could not have him beside him, the future King of England. How could he? And what of his marriage? It would be expected now.

I will send for John, thought the King.

* * *

John came riding in from the hunt when the news was brought to him that his father wished to join him.

John was now seventeen years old; very conscious of being the youngest son, he had been determined to exert himself. His brother Henry had been tall and handsome, so was Richard. John however took after his brother Geoffrey. They were both of small stature though their limbs were well formed. Their father, who was of little over medium height, seemed to tower above them both. Geoffrey and John were very much alike in features and also in character. Both of them could acquire knowledge without much difficulty and were more interested in book learning than either young Henry had been or Richard was. Geoffrey had always been able to express himself with lucidity and to put forward a good case when this seemed a difficult thing to do. John was like Geoffrey in this. He was bland and full of soft words when he wanted something. He was deceitful and seemed to take a delight in deceit. For the sheer joy of getting the better of someone he would go to great lengths and perhaps achieve nothing in the end but the pleasure of deceiving someone.

Gerald of Wales, the priest who had been sent to John to help further his education, realised that it was no use attempting to go against his nature. John had long been dissolute. He had been seducing women from a very early age and often rode out into the country with a band of lusty followers indulging in seduction or rape, whichever came to hand.

He was in the charge of the justiciar Ranulf Glanville, a very able man who had distinguished himself on the battlefield and won the King’s favour to such an extent that he was content to overlook his peculations which were numerous, even when they were proved against him.