The Heart of the Lion Read online

  They had been happy days when they had been together, the more exciting perhaps because each had known they could not go on and were a little uncertain how deep their feelings for each other went.

  Philip must ask himself: How much of this friendship is love for me, how much hatred of his father? How much the desire for my company, how much the knowledge that I more than anyone can help him make a stand against his father?

  And Richard: This love for me, how much friendship is there in it, how much the need to flout my father, to mock him by keeping his son at his court?

  How eager was the King of France to outwit the King of England? How could they be sure of each other? Yet it was there, the love which had flared up between them.

  As King of England Richard could now meet Philip as an equal on one ground, but he still owed him allegiance as the Duke of Normandy.

  Philip embraced Richard. ‘Welcome, my brother. It does my heart good to see you.’

  Richard was less fulsome but the coldness had left his eyes and they glowed with an unusual warmth.

  ‘So you are now King of England. Our fears were groundless.’

  All noted how the King of France would have no ceremony with the King of England. He slipped his arm through his and they walked together. It was said: They will live in amity as they did before. This augurs well for the crusade.

  Philip took Richard into his camp that they might talk intimately together. Philip had aged a little. He was ten years younger than Richard but often appeared to be the more mature. He was more of a realist, completely lacking Richard’s idealism.

  How like the old days it was! Philip lying back on his bunk, his head supported on his folded arms and Richard seated before him.

  ‘You are as handsome as you ever were,’ said Philip. ‘Though a little drawn. Are you in good health, my friend?’

  ‘I have had attacks of the quartan fever.’

  ‘So you still suffer from that malady? How do you think you will fare in the hot climate?’

  ‘That I shall discover.’

  ‘Richard, do you think your health will permit you to go?’

  Richard laughed aloud. ‘Nothing will prevent me.’

  ‘Ah indeed, it seems strange to talk of weakness to you. You were ever the one who rode the fastest, played the most skilful game. You should have taken greater care of your health, for it is sheer carelessness which has made you a victim of this fever.’

  ‘A soldier cannot always sleep in a warm dry bed, brother.’

  ‘Nay, alas. Ah, but you are as strong as ever, I doubt not. You will overcome this fever ... Do you realise that a dream of our youth is about to come true? Remember, Richard, how we would lie in my bed and plan our journey to the Holy Land ... together. It had to be together. Otherwise it would have lost its pleasure for us both.’

  ‘I remember it well. I was always determined that it should come about.’

  ‘And now you have a kingdom to govern!’

  ‘You also.’

  ‘Two Kings who will leave their kingdoms for a dream! Together we must go, for if we did not ...’ Philip laughed slyly ... ‘How could the King of England go if the King of France did not go also?’

  ‘Indeed! How could the King of France leave his kingdom if the King of England did not also leave his?’

  ‘’Tis a fact, Richard, that these two so fear the other that they could not know what one would be about during the other’s absence. What a chance for the warlike fellow to take certain French castles he covets.’

  ‘And it has always been a whim of the kings of France to take Normandy from the Normans.’

  ‘Some of my ancestors believe it should never have been given to your ancestor Old Rollo. What a marauding pirate he was! He was not content with his lands of the North, he had to take a part of France as well. And you, my friend, are descended from those pirates. What of that?’

  ‘I am proud to remember it.’

  ‘As proud as I am doubtless of Charlemagne. I’ll tell you this, Richard, that one day when I sat gnawing a little green twig one of my barons told another that he would give him his best horse if he could know what the King was thinking. One over bold asked me and I answered him “I am thinking of whether God will grant unto me or one of my heirs grace to exalt France to the height which she was in the time of Charlemagne.”’

  ‘It is not possible,’ said Richard.

  ‘If I were to admit that I would be sounding the death knell to my hopes. Nothing was ever achieved by deciding it cannot be done.’

  ‘So you will begin by snatching the Holy City from Saladin.’

  ‘’Twill be a beginning.’

  ‘I long to be there,’ said Richard. ‘It is inconceivable that the Holy Land can remain in the hands of the Infidel.’

  ‘You long for military glory,’ said Philip. ‘You want your name to resound throughout the world. The greatest of our warriors! It is for this reason you go to the Holy Land?’

  Philip had often been an uncomfortable companion. They were too intimate for hypocrisy. Richard’s was the simpler mind; he was direct, he saw good and bad distinctly. Philip was analytical, intellectual, subtle, seeing many aspects of one question. Their characters were opposing and yet they were a complement to each other.

  Talking to Philip Richard realised that he did indeed seek military glory. He wanted to recover the Holy Land for Christianity but he yearned most to go into battle and win great honours there.

  Philip watched him slyly. There were plans to be made; they had a great deal to talk of.

  They rode out together; they hunted as they had done when Richard was at Philip’s court, a beloved hostage.

  They swore friendship. They would defend each other’s realms and share any gains that came their way during their crusade. They would be as brothers.

  ‘This pleases me,’ said Philip. ‘How I have missed you!’

  They made plans to meet at Messina. But there was work to be done first. Richard must travel through Normandy to inspire more men to follow him and support him with their worldly goods; but they lingered awhile, neither anxious to cut short this interlude. Richard was less sure of his feelings towards Philip than Philip was towards him. In Philip’s eyes Richard was physically perfect. He greatly admired the long Norman limbs, the grace of movement, the blonde good looks, the vitality which was not impaired even by the recurrent attacks of fever. He loved this man and yet at times he hated him. They were friends but theirs was too passionate a relationship to be peaceful. By the very nature of their positions they must be enemies. It was inconceivable that a king of England who was also a duke of Normandy could be regarded with anything but suspicion by a king of France. Normandy was a thorn in the side of all kings of France. It was the secret dream of every king who loved France to bring back Normandy to the crown. How could it be otherwise? The land had been filched from them by the pirate Norsemen and, although that had happened many years before, Normandy to the French would never be anything but theirs. And since William the Conqueror had brought the crown of England to add to the dukedom of Normandy there had seemed less hope of bringing the latter back to France.

  Philip, the realist, was well aware that whatever his personal feelings for Richard he must always work against him. When Henry Plantagenet was alive he had had to reconcile himself to the knowledge that there would never be a conquest of Normandy. It was different now that Richard was king.

  Richard – beloved friend – would be no match for him. He knew it well. Richard should never have agreed to go off and leave his kingdom so soon after acquiring it. Did he not see mean little John straining to get at it? Richard might be the greatest warrior of his age, but what sort of statesman was he? True he would leave his mother to govern for him and she was still a force to be reckoned with.

  How different we are, thought Philip. There he is, my friend and enemy Richard, the strong, the brave and the foolish. He longs to be known as the greatest soldier in Christendom; he may well
be that. But a king must be more than a great soldier. He is too simple-hearted, too direct. Oh, Richard Oui et Non, rulers have to prevaricate, to dissemble. It is necessary in this life, my dear friend.

  He himself was subtle and ambitious ... oh very ambitious. They had not understood him when he was a boy. They had thought him weak and peevish. Perhaps he had been before there had come to him that revelation of what it meant to be a ruler and a ruler of France. From then on he had developed a calm, a subtlety; he refrained from giving voice to his thoughts. He was discreet and sedate. Richard had often been impatient with him, little understanding that when he appeared to be indifferent his mind was working fast and he was seeing into the future perhaps years ahead.

  As they played chess together, Philip deliberately brought up the subject of Alice.

  ‘I doubt not your marriage to my sister will take place ere long.’

  ‘There is much to be done before I can think of marriage,’ replied Richard.

  ‘You are no longer a young man.’

  ‘I am young enough.’

  ‘My sister is not young either.’

  ‘Your sister is no longer a virgin.’

  ‘Thanks to your father.’

  Richard was relieved. He hated subterfuge. He believed that now Philip knew the position he would understand why there could not be a marriage.

  ‘Two are involved in such games,’ he said.

  ‘Children are sometimes lured into them and can scarcely be blamed.’

  ‘The fact remains that she is no longer fit to be my bride.’

  ‘The sister of the King of France not fit for the King of England!’

  ‘Not when she has been whoring with his father.’

  ‘You talk like a peasant, Richard. This is a matter of royal birth not of morals.’

  ‘With me it is a moral issue.’

  ‘Oh, come, have you always led so blameless a life? We will forget Alice’s indiscretions and those of your father. The marriage will take place before we set out.’

  Richard had grown pale. ‘I cannot marry Alice.’

  ‘Oh, you will honour your bonds,’ said Philip. ‘Forget not that you are betrothed.’

  ‘You will release me from the betrothal. I know you will.’

  ‘Do you know me, Richard? How well do you know me? Everyone is not so straightforward as you. Let us shelve this unfortunate matter of your marriage. See, I have put you in check.’

  And so they talked together, often fiercely, often banteringly; and to both of them the coming crusade was enticing and exciting because the other would share it.

  They parted, Richard to make his journey through Normandy, Philip to make further preparation for departure. They would meet at Messina and from there begin together their journey to the Holy Land.

  * * *

  Eleanor felt young again since she had stepped into freedom. All those years a prisoner! How dared Henry treat her so! But she could laugh at him now, and hers was the last laugh. He was dead, mouldering in his tomb – a king who had once made men tremble – now nothing but dust and ashes while she, nearly twelve years his senior, as he had been fond of reminding her, was preparing to embark on a journey to bring her son’s bride to him.

  She could not resist going to see Alice before she left. She was irritated to notice that meek adaptability which had made Alice such a desirable mistress in Henry’s eyes had now helped her to adjust herself to her new conditions. Surely she must rail against the fact that she, who was once the pampered darling of an indulgent lover, was now the prisoner of his wife. But no, Alice went her placid way, choosing her silken skeins and plying her needle.

  ‘How fares it?’ asked Eleanor.

  ‘I am well, my lady,’ answered Alice.

  ‘So I see. I have come to say farewell to you. I am about to set out on a journey. I am bringing King Richard’s bride to him.’

  ‘How can that be?’ asked Alice mildly.

  ‘In the simplest manner. I am going to Navarre. He has long loved the elegant and beautiful Berengaria.’

  ‘He cannot marry her,’ said Alice.

  ‘So you have become our ruler to tell the King what he may or may not do?’

  ‘It is not I who tell him. It is the law. He is betrothed to me.’

  ‘And you, missing a lover, can scarcely wait to put another in his place?’

  ‘None could be in his place,’ said Alice simply.

  ‘Why not? Richard is a king also.’

  ‘It was not of his rank that I was thinking.’

  ‘Oh? Henry was incomparable was he? He was coarse and lusty, yes. Remember we shared him. So I know him as well as you do.’

  ‘Sometimes I think,’ said Alice, ‘that none knew him as I did.’

  Eleanor was impatient. She had come here to discomfit Alice, not to listen to praise of the dead.

  ‘Your position is unenviable, Alice,’ she said. ‘I think you should prepare yourself. Life will not go on as it is now. The vital question will not be whether you are to use pink or blue silk but how you will explain your conduct to your brother, and discover what will be said to the world when it is known that King Richard will have none of you and has chosen to marry elsewhere.’

  ‘That is for Richard to say. He is the one who will have to answer to my brother.’

  ‘Think you so? Well, mayhap I should leave you in your ignorance. Your conduct with my late husband will no longer be a secret. All the world will know of your games. They will laugh in secret at you, and your brother will be hard put to it to find a husband for you.’

  ‘I seek no husband,’ said Alice.

  ‘Have you then had your fill of men after knowing Henry so well?’

  ‘I know that there will never be another like him.’

  ‘Then I will leave you with your dreams of the past for those of the future must be nightmares.’

  She came away angrily. Oddly enough the triumph seemed Alice’s.

  * * *

  It was good to ride through the countryside to the sea. The crossing was smooth. A good augury. She began her progress down to Navarre. She was fêted at the castles at which she stopped as the beloved mother of the King of England who was on good terms with the King of France.

  She had forgotten how exciting it was to be setting out on an adventure, to be treated with great honour, and above all to be free.

  Oh, how dared you, Henry, she thought; and she was sorry that he was dead, for how could one be revenged on the dead? Just a little savour had gone out of her life with his passing. How often she had raged against him, made plans for his downfall. How she had exulted when she heard that his sons were marching against him. It was her hatred of Henry which had made her prison tolerable. Now he was gone. She missed him.

  At last she came to the Court of Navarre.

  The King, known as the Wise – and he certainly believed now that he had been wise in keeping his daughter Berengaria for this great marriage – received her with great honours. When Richard had first come to his court and shown a preference for Berengaria he had been but the son of a great king with an elder brother who had appeared to be strong and healthy and whom no one would have suspected would die young. Moreover Richard and his father had not been on good terms. Yet Sancho was not known as the Wise for nothing. He had resisted offers for the hand of his elder daughter and how right he had been, for at last King Richard’s mother had come to claim her. It was true the waiting had been long. Berengaria was past twenty-six and it might have been wondered whether she would ever find a husband. But now those doubts were over. Or were they? There still remained the shadowy figure of Princess Alice of France.

  Eleanor was delighted with the appearance of Berengaria. She was indeed beautiful and the manner in which she wore her clothes could only be described as elegant.

  Eleanor embraced the girl and told her that Richard was eagerly awaiting her coming. ‘He would trust no one but me to bring you to him,’ said Eleanor. ‘I know how he will rejoice
when he sees you.’

  I hope he will, thought Eleanor. It seems he has little interest in women, but surely such a pleasant bride as Berengaria will captivate him.

  There was feasting in the great hall to celebrate the arrival of the Dowager Queen of England; and she was able to delight them all with playing on the lute and her singing.

  How good it was to be among Provençals, for although Sancho was descended from the Spanish the language spoken here and the manners were of Provence. This delight in music, this enchanting custom of honouring the poets and musicians filled her with nostalgia and she longed to be in her beloved Aquitaine.

  She was delighted to meet Berengaria’s brother, known as Sancho the Strong, of whom one of the musicians had sung telling of his victory over the Moors. He had defeated the Miramolin and with his battle-axe had severed the chains which guarded the Infidel’s camp. Ever after he had been known as The Strong for it was the custom in Navarre to attach a descriptive adjective to the names of the rulers. Berengaria might well have been Berengaria the Elegant, thought Eleanor.

  She warmed to the girl. They had much in common, such as their love of fine clothes and the ability to wear them to advantage as well as a passionate interest in music and poetry. Perhaps there the similarity ended for Berengaria was by no means forceful. She would be a loving and uncomplaining wife, thought Eleanor, and doubtless she would need to be, for Richard would not be a very attentive husband.

  It was pleasant to walk in the gardens with her daughter-inlaw-to-be and to talk with her and hear how she had first seen Richard years ago.