* * *

John proudly stepped ashore on Irish soil. His land! Lord of Ireland! King of Ireland! The titles rang in his ears and the feeling of power it brought with it was as intoxicating as any wine.

What did a king do in his own land? He made sure that everyone was aware that they were his subjects. What he wanted of them they must give. A wonderful situation. Lands, women, everything he wanted was his. He kept reminding himself of that. He had chosen his special friends to accompany him, young men who were very like himself. They strutted, they drank too much, they boasted of their conquests of women and they never forgot to give their Prince what he constantly demanded: flattery.

The dress of the Irish amused them and, when dignitaries came to receive him, John roared with laughter at their costumes and his followers immediately joined in his mirth. The Irish were bearded. It was one of their customs. This seemed comical to John and he and his friends tweaked the beards of those who came to greet them in a most insolent manner.

Naturally enough the chieftains were insulted and were not going to endure this.

Hugh de Lacy tried to restrain the irresponsible young men, pointing out to John that the Irish were quarrelsome and warlike people and would not endure such treatment.

‘They will endure whatever treatment I care to impose on them,’ retorted John.

Hugh de Lacy groaned. Why had the King, usually so shrewd, risked the loss of Ireland by sending this stupid arrogant youth?

Worse was to come. John and his band marched through Ireland. Whenever they fancied anything, they took it. They plundered the towns, they coerced the women and if these were unwilling they were raped.

It was hardly likely that the Irish would quietly allow such desecration of their land. As John proceeded through the country he was met by armies, and as he was more proficient in plundering defenceless towns than in fighting, he was very soon in desperate straits.

After five months he was so impoverished and his forces so depleted that he had no alternative but to return to England.

He came to his father who received him with affection and great consternation when he heard how badly everything had gone in Ireland.

‘How could such disaster have befallen you?’ he wanted to know.

‘The answer, Father,’ replied John, ‘is the traitor Hugh de Lacy. He has stirred up resentment against us all over Ireland. You know he plans to be Lord of Ireland. He wants to be the King.’

Henry studied his son closely. There were signs of dissipation on his face, young as he was. He had heard stories of the women he had seduced. A young man, it was true, must follow his natural instincts, and Henry was the last who could blame anyone for being fond of women. He himself had fathered two illegitimate children before he was eighteen.

Little doubts came in his mind but he refused to see them. He could not endure to have another son whom he could not trust. There must be one in the brood who would love him and serve him well.

He thought of the picture of the eaglets and the youngest of them waiting to peck out the old eagle’s eyes. Why had he caused that picture to be painted? If he believed in John why should he have said that the youngest of them was standing aside waiting to peck out his eyes?

What had really happened in Ireland? Was John power-drunk? Had he behaved in such a manner that the Irish had turned against him?

Shrewd Henry who had come so far because he had understood the ways of men, said: Discover. Ask those whom you can trust. Know this son of yours.

But he was a tired old man, longing for affection. It could not be possible that all his sons would betray him. There must be one who loved him; and who could it be but John?


* * *

There was news from Ireland.

Hugh de Lacy had been murdered.

‘A just reward,’ said John, ‘for his treachery to his king.’

Henry listened to the news. The Irish had done this. They had cut off his head. No doubt they had grown tired of his pretensions, thought Henry.

He sent for John.

‘Hugh de Lacy had many estates in Ireland. They must be seized without delay. You should prepare yourself to leave for that country.’

John was nothing loth. He looked forward to further merry sport.

Before he had time to leave, though, there was more news, this time from France.

Geoffrey had presented himself to Philip of France, ostensibly to do homage to his seneschal and Philip had welcomed him with such honours that it seemed suspicious. Philip had insisted that Geoffrey stay awhile at the Court of France, and there grew up such friendship between Philip and Geoffrey that those who wished the King of England well felt he should know of it.

Henry did wish to know of it. He did not trust Philip who was no weak vacillating Louis.

Strangely enough Philip had grown from the spoilt boy into a ruler who was not to be lightly ignored. He was becoming a very ambitious man. His dream was obviously to extend his dominions. Philip would have liked all the vassal states to be entirely his, and like Henry, he was wise enough not to want to go to war if he could acquire what he wanted through diplomacy and shrewd dealing.

Henry had for some time been aware that he must keep a watchful eye on Philip of France.

If Philip was making much of Geoffrey then he was doing it for a motive. Had he got his eyes on Brittany … or worse still, Normandy?

Henry must be very watchful of what was happening at the Court of France. He might need all the forces at his disposal, in which case it would be unwise to send his son John to Ireland. So the Irish expedition should be temporarily postponed.

How right he was. It was said that at their secret talks Geoffrey and Philip were discussing the invasion of Normandy. And what of Richard? How was he feeling? He had handed over Aquitaine to his mother only to find that she had promptly been sent back to captivity.

Oh, yes, he must be very watchful indeed. The eaglets might well be poised to fall on the old eagle.


* * *

Geoffrey was enjoying his sojourn in France and one reason for this was that he knew the effect his being there would have on his father.

Geoffrey loved mischief. It had always been so since his nursery days. If he could make trouble he was happy. He had a grudge against his father and another against his brother Richard, because he had been denied power by the one and shown to be inferior in battle by the other.

Moreover, it was pleasant to be treated with honour by the King of France. The fact that Geoffrey was clever, quickwitted and able to express his thoughts with an uncommon lucidity made him more dissatisfied with his lot. There was some greatness in him but he was marred by the flaws in his character rather than his ability. He could be persuasive and eloquent but he rarely meant what he said; people had begun to recognise him now for a hypocrite with a talent for deception. They simply did not trust him any more.

He was content with his marriage to Constance, the heiress who had brought him Brittany and so far one daughter. She was at this time pregnant and they were both hoping for a son.

Since he had been introduced to the tournament through Philip of Flanders he had become obsessed by it. What was it but a mock battle? It was certainly suited to his temperament. He loved the show and ceremony, the occasional danger, for it was dangerous and many a knight had lost his life in the jousts. Now he was known for his skill and when he rode out it was one of the highlights of the day.

The King of France, knowing his love for the sport, had arranged that there should be one tournament after another so that his guest might realise how his host wished to please him.

Invitations were sent out and those of rank such as Geoffrey gathered together their followers with the intention of staging mock battles against other men and their knights. These battles were conducted in the same manner as actual warfare and one of the favourite practices was to separate a knight from those of his party and if possible ground him and capture him. There were casualties often enough and if any knight were taken prisoner his captors would hold him to ransom. This kind of action made the battles more exciting. There was of course many an example of single combat but it was the massed battles which thrilled both spectators and participants.

Geoffrey had heard that his father was deeply perturbed because of the hospitality the French King was showing him and that he was planning to come to Normandy. That was a pity. It would have been so much more satisfactory to have launched an attack on Normandy before his father had a chance to appear. Perhaps Philip was not as eager to do that as he pretended to be. Was Geoffrey himself all that eager? No, it was more amusing to attack his father by rumour than actual fact. The tournament was the thing.

He was preparing to go into action when his wife, only just sure of her pregnancy, came to put her favour in his helm.

It was a piece of bright-coloured satin cut from her dress.

‘I shall be watching,’ she said, ‘and that is all I shall know you by.’

‘When the battle is over I shall expect you to be waiting to lead me into the hall,’ he told her.

Out into the field he rode that day with no premonition of danger. Surrounded by his small company of knights he was thinking of the triumph that would be his when the fight was over. Life was full of promise. The King of France was his friend. His brother Henry was dead and only Richard stood between him and the crowns of England, Normandy and Anjou. He already had Brittany. He had a daughter and his wife was pregnant. His father’s youth was passing fast. How many years could he live? Richard belonged more to Aquitaine than he ever would to England. And the next in order was himself, Geoffrey.