The Heart of the Lion

Chapter I A KING IS CROWNED

The Queen, having dismissed all her attendants, sat alone in the King’s chamber at Winchester Palace. The King was dead and with his death had come release from the captivity in which he had held her for so many years. She was sixty-seven – an age when most people would have been content to retire from life, perhaps enter a nunnery where, if they had lived such a life as she had, they might think it expedient to spend their remaining years in penitence. Not so Eleanor of Aquitaine, widow of the recently dead Henry Plantagenet.

She studied the murals on the walls. It had been a fancy of the late King to have the walls of his palaces painted with allegories representing his life, and this was the room of the eaglets. She remembered an occasion when he and she had stood in this room together. It must have been during one of the periods when there had been a lessening of their antagonism towards each other, for there had been such occasions. One had been at the time of their eldest son’s death when sorrow had brought them together – but briefly. She could never forgive Henry for his infidelities; he could never forgive her for turning their sons against him. And there were those sons represented as eaglets waiting to peck their father to death. How bitter he had been when he had pointed them out to her.

‘Your just deserts, Henry,’ she said aloud. ‘You old lecher. Do you expect me to be afraid of you now you are dead? For that matter, when was I ever afraid of you ... or anyone?’

It was morbid of her to come to this room, to think of him even; yet how could she help it? He had been the most significant man in her life – and there had been many. He had been a great king, she granted him that. If he had been able to curb his lechery, if he had understood how to treat his sons, perhaps he would have kept the devotion of his family.

But he was dead and she must forget him. She had never been one to look back, and there was work to be done. She had been fond of all her children but Richard had always been her favourite. There was a bond between them such as she could feel for none of the others – not even young Joanna, her youngest daughter. And Richard was now the King of England, although his father had done all he could to prevent his inheriting the crown. He had wanted to give it to John. Had he realised in his last hours how foolish he had been to dote on John? How stupid could shrewd men sometimes be when befuddled by their emotions! In his heart he must have known that John was a traitor to him and yet he had stubbornly refused to accept the fact. John had betrayed him as Richard had never done, for at least Richard had been open in his condemnation of his father, whereas John had fawned on him, flattering him while all the time he had been plotting against him.

Henry knew of course even as he deceived himself. What had he said to her when they had stood in this room?

‘The four eaglets are my sons who will persecute me until I die. The youngest of them, my favourite, will hurt me most. He is waiting for the moment when he will peck out my eyes.’

‘Oh, Henry,’ she said softly, ‘what sort of a fool were you?’

She chided herself for the softness of her feelings. He had been her enemy. It was weakness to feel gentle towards him just because he was dead and could harm her no more. She had to stop thinking of him; she must shut out of her mind memories of their youth when although she had been nearly twelve years older than he was, and married at that time to the King of France, passion had flared up between them. Then no other would do for her and she had loved him single-mindedly until he brought his bastard into her nursery and she discovered that he had been unfaithful to her in the first year of their marriage. Then had begun the violent quarrels, the recriminations. She smiled faintly seeing him pulling the cloth of his jacket apart in his rage, lying on the floor and gnawing the filthy rushes, throwing some article of furniture across the room ...

‘You had your weaknesses, my husband,’ she murmured. ‘But you had your greatness too.’

There had been a time when he was regarded as the invincible warrior throughout England and the Continent of Europe, when men trembled at his name. He had been a brilliant strategist and had made England prosperous after the reign of weak Stephen. Yet how low he had fallen at the end! The account of his death moved her in spite of herself. He had turned his face to the wall and said, ‘I care no more for myself or for the world’ and in his delirium, ‘Shame, shame on a conquered King.’

‘Poor Henry,’ she murmured. ‘And am I as foolish, as sentimental? What am I doing in his chamber? Why am I thinking of the past? My enemy is dead and his dying is my freedom. I shall brood no longer. There is work to be done.’

Resolutely she rose; she did not glance back at the picture of the eagle with his eaglets.

Firmly she shut the door.

When Richard arrived everything must be in readiness for him.

A new dignity had fallen upon her. Her son’s first act had been to release her from her prison. She had not been disappointed in him.

And her great aim would be to hold his kingdom for him. It should not be difficult. The English had a sense of fair play and Richard was the late King’s eldest living son. That Henry had favoured John carried little weight with them. In fact, John had not made himself very popular with the people, but the main point in Richard’s favour was that he was the true heir to the throne.

There was a regality about her – she had been born with it. People recognised it immediately and were ready to pay homage to her, and she could make sure that Richard should find his subjects waiting to welcome him when he returned from Normandy, which must be soon. That was important. His English subjects must not be allowed to think that he cared for other possessions more than he did for England.

There was one whom she had for many years longed to confront – the girl Henry had seduced when she was a child, and who had continued to be his mistress to the end: the Princess Alice. What was Alice thinking now that she had lost her powerful protector? The desire to discover was irresistible. Eleanor would send an order to the Palace of Westminster where Princess Alice had her apartments. How amusing to be able to send for the girl and to know that she dared not refuse to come.

Alice stood before her.

She was comely enough though not outstandingly beautiful as Eleanor herself had been. There was something meek about Alice, and now of course she was afraid because she did not know what was in store for her and she would doubtless have heard rumours concerning the vindictive nature of the Queen.

Alice, betrothed to Richard, mistress of the King his father, must now face her lover’s wife!

‘I have sent for you that I may question you with regard to your future,’ said Eleanor.

She stressed the word ‘sent’. She, who had been a prisoner, was now the one whose word was law. There had been a time when little Alice only had to express a wish and her infatuated elderly lover would be eager to grant it. Now he was gone and Alice must stand alone to face the fury of the woman he had wronged. Wronged! Eleanor wanted to burst out laughing at the thought of this meek girl setting herself against a great queen. But she had had a great king behind her then. Alas for you, you little fool, she thought; you have lost him now.

‘You do not hope of course that there can be any betrothal between you and King Richard now,’ said Eleanor.

‘I ... I did not think so,’ said Alice. She was fair and fragile. Eleanor could understand how she had appealed to him. She would have been clinging and admiring, adoring him, giving him that which he sought in all women. His Rosamund Clifford – that other great love of his – had been the same. They had some inherent femininity which for all her voluptuous beauty Eleanor had never possessed.

‘Nay and you do right, having been debauched by the father you could hardly expect the son to take you to his bed.’

Alice blushed. A King’s mistress and managing to look so coy! What a deceitful creature she was. The odd quirk was that she was Louis’ daughter. Louis to whom Eleanor herself – when she had been his Queen – had borne two children, her daughters Alix and Marie.

Eleanor could see her father in her – she would be good if she could, for she wanted to be, but fate had been too much for her in the form of her lecherous prospective father-in-law who had come into the schoolroom where she was being brought up with his children since she was to marry one of them, and when she could have been no more than twelve years old had made her his mistress. She would have been shy, reluctant and malleable – everything that was needed to stimulate his jaded senses. She could well imagine how it had started and angry jealousy swept over her. He had wanted to marry Alice and divorce Eleanor to do so. It was not so easy though to divorce the heiress of Aquitaine even if it was for the daughter of the King of France.

And now he was dead and Alice was past her first youth; she had already borne him a child it was rumoured. The child had died though, which was one complication removed.

Sly silly girl – so meek, apeing the virgin, when all the time she had indulged with him, and the Queen knew from experience what such occasions would be like.

‘So here you are,’ said Eleanor, ‘a whore no less, though a King’s whore. It ill becomes the sister of the King of France.’

‘We ... we ...’

‘I know. I know. You loved, and he would have made you his Queen. That was if he could have rid himself of his existing Queen. You know who stood in your way, my little Princess. How you must have hated me!’

‘Oh, no ...’

‘Oh, yes! I’ll swear he talked of me. What did he tell you of me, eh?’

‘He rarely spoke of you.’

‘You are afraid to say. You are a frightened little thing, Alice. You are afraid of me and you’ll be afraid to face your brother when he sends for you. What will you say to the King of France when you are taken back to him, when he hears of the games you played in the bed of the old King of England?’

‘I must ask you for what is due to his memory ...’

‘You silly girl, do you think I am afraid his ghost will haunt me? Let it! How I should enjoy to tell it what I thought of the fleshly Henry. I never feared him in life where I doubt not he was more powerful than he could be in death. Nay, he was a lecher. A woman had but to take his fancy lightly and he would have her in his bed – as he did you. Think not that he held you in any special regard.’

‘Oh, but he did. He always came straight to me when he was in England ...’

‘Straight from the rest and swore he would marry you I doubt not, and laughed at you and the son he was deceiving.’

‘It is untrue. His conscience smote him. He often talked of Richard.’

‘How noble of him! So you talked of Richard and how you were deceiving him and you think that exonerates you from your just rewards for what you have done?’

‘Richard didn’t really want to marry me.’

‘His father prevented his doing so.’

‘There are stories of Richard.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘Of the life he leads.’

‘With women?’ cried Eleanor. ‘Who should blame him, deprived of his bride as he has been? He is no boy. He is more than thirty years of age.’

‘And with my brother,’ said Alice boldly. ‘It has been said that he shared his bed when he was at Philip’s court.’

‘A custom when one monarch wishes to honour another.’

‘It is said that there is great love between them.’

‘It is said! Who has said this? Are you, the royal slut of a lecherous king, in a position to judge the conduct of others? Have a care, my little whore, or you could find yourself under restraint.’

‘My brother will not allow that.’

‘You are not in your brother’s court yet. You are in that of King Richard and until he comes to claim his kingdom, I am holding it for him.’

‘What do you intend to do with me?’

‘Keep you here for a while.’ Eleanor came near to Alice and gripped her by the arm. ‘While you were sporting with your lover, I, his true wife, was a prisoner here in this castle. There were guards outside my door. When I walked out they accompanied me.’

‘You took up arms against the King. You led his sons to revolt against him. It was just punishment.’

‘Just to imprison a wife! Think you so? All he suffered he deserved.’

‘And you too,’ said Alice boldly.

‘Have a care. You are in my power now, you know.’

‘Richard will treat me well.’

‘So you think he will have you now? You are mistaken, Alice. You will be sent back to your brother I doubt not. But no man will want you now.’

‘It is not true.’

‘Certainly not the King of England who can take his pick from the world. So a life of boredom awaits you, at the best. You will sit over your needlework in one of your brother’s castles and brood on the past and remember how Henry sported with you and that such adventures are behind you for ever more. In the meantime you will stay here. You will learn what it was like for me to live here as a prisoner. The same apartment which was allotted to me shall be allotted to you. The same guards shall be at your door. Yes, you shall learn what it was like to be a prisoner. The only difference will be that you will be my prisoner and I was that of your lover. Now come, my Princess. You have had enough easy living. You have sinned and must repent. You will have time to do so in your prison.’

The Queen summoned the guards whom she had had waiting.

‘Take the Princess Alice to her new apartments,’ she said.

She was wise enough to know that she could not linger in the castle merely to gloat over Alice’s fate. She knew too that it could not be of long duration. Philip would never allow it and it was not a matter of which she would wish to make a political issue. Still, she could not resist giving the girl a taste of the humiliation she had suffered.

She must prepare the country for Richard’s arrival and make the people ready to receive their new King, so she announced that she was going on a short tour of the country and she set out from Winchester having given orders that if any news of the King’s imminent arrival in England was received it must be brought to her without delay.

As she rode along she contemplated the fact that there was always danger when a king died. It could never be certain how the people would feel towards his successor. To the Conqueror’s descendants England had been an uneasy inheritance largely because the possession of lands overseas had demanded their presence abroad. The English naturally did not like to be neglected. Henry’s life had been spent between England and France and because his possessions in France had been so much more difficult to hold owing to the presence of the Franks on his very borders, he had been more often there than in England.

The people must accept Richard. She had few qualms that they would. If ever man had the appearance of a king that man was Richard. How different he was from his slovenly father who had thrown on his clothes in a disorderly way and looked like a peasant, who never wore riding gloves and because he was out in all weathers had skin like leather. Yet he had won the respect of his people. But how much more readily would they follow a man who looked like a king.

Riding into the cities she sent for the leading citizens. She knew that the greatest resentment which was held against the late King and his predecessors was due to the infliction of the old forest laws. The Norman kings had been fanatical about their hunting grounds. Henry Plantagenet had been equally fierce. So great was their passion for hunting that they had spared nothing nor anyone in the pursuit of it. On the whole Henry had been a popular king but in the forest areas he had been hated. He had set up officers in forest regions to act as custodians and no one living near was allowed to cut down trees or to keep dogs or bows and arrows. Anyone discovered disobeying these laws was punished in such a dreadful manner that death would have been preferable. Hands, feet, tongues, noses and ears were cut off and eyes put out. The punishment for performing any act which might detract in the smallest way from the King’s hunting pleasures was mutilation.

Yet Henry, shrewd as he was, eager to placate a people who must be left under a substitute ruler for long periods of time, knowing that these measures were the source of great unpopularity, would do nothing to repeal them. Hunting was one of the major passions of his life and like his forebears he intended to indulge it in ideal conditions.

Contemplating that passion now Eleanor reflected once more that although her late husband had been a man of great ability he had had many weaknesses.

‘The game laws,’ she announced, ‘are harsh and cruel. The new King will wish to change them. To begin with in his name I shall release all those who are awaiting punishment under those laws. There is one thing I ask of those who have regained their freedom and that is: Pray for his soul.’

Those who had been saved from a terrible fate, those who had been living as outlaws and could now return to their families were very ready to do as Eleanor asked.

‘It must be understood,’ she said, ‘that this clemency comes from King Richard and while he wishes those who have been condemned under unjust laws to go free, he cannot countenance the release of those who have committed crimes against other laws.’

A great cry of approval went up and Eleanor knew that the freeing of those who had offended against the game laws had been a wise move.

‘I command now,’ she said, ‘that every freeman of the kingdom swear that he will bear faith to King Richard, son of King Henry and Queen Eleanor, for the preservation of life, limbs and terrene honour, as his liege lord, against all living; and that he will be obedient to his laws and assist him in the preservation of peace and justice.’

The new King was hailed with enthusiasm.

Eleanor had done her work well; and when news was brought to her that Richard had arrived in England she hastened back to Winchester to be ready to receive him.

She had assembled all the nobility in Winchester. Perhaps the most important was Ranulph de Glanville who had been her custodian in the castle during the years of her imprisonment. She bore him no ill will; he had always treated her with due respect and the fact that he had guarded against her escape meant that he was obeying his master. As the chief Justiciar of England and a man of immense talents Eleanor believed that his support would be of help to the new King.

Each day people were thronging into Winchester as Richard’s arrival grew imminent. Eleanor was not sure whether her son John would come with his brother. They had been in Normandy together but it was possible that they might take different routes home. This proved to be the case.

What a wonderful moment it was for the Queen when she beheld her beloved son riding at the head of his entourage, a magnificent sight, enough to delight any mother’s eyes.

The meeting was an emotional one and when Richard embraced her she knew that this was one of the happiest moments of her life. She was free after more than sixteen years of captivity; her son – the best loved of her children – was King of England and his first thoughts on coming to the crown were for her. She loved dearly and was loved with equal fervour.

‘Mother!’ he cried.

‘My son, my King,’ she answered, her voice shaken with emotion.

There could be no doubt of his kingliness. He excelled in all manly pastimes. It had been so since the days of his boyhood. He was very tall, having the long arms and legs of his Norman ancestors as well as their blonde good looks; his hair was auburn, his eyes deep blue and he had more than mere good looks; his grace of carriage, his kingly air were unsurpassed, and in any company of men he would have been selected as the King.

She was weak with pride – she who was usually so strong and rarely a prey for her emotions! This was the son whom she had reared and she had recognised his superior qualities from his babyhood; they had been the allies and had stood together against his father and the bastard Geoffrey who had been brought into the royal nursery. He had been her boy from the day he was born and the bond, she fervently prayed, would be severed only by death.

‘How my heart rejoices to see you here,’ she said.

‘There was much to be done across the sea before I could come.’

‘Your subjects have been prepared to welcome you.’

‘Mother, I know you have done good work for me.’

‘I trust I shall never do aught but good work for you, my son.’

He scowled when Ranulph de Glanville approached to pay the homage, which he received coldly. Eleanor smiled realising that Richard was thinking of this man as his mother’s jailer. She must make him understand the importance of Glanville. He must not make an enemy of such a man. There would be much of which she must warn him, and she hoped he loved her enough to let her guide him.

‘Let us make our way to the castle,’ she said. ‘There shall be such feasting and revelry as is becoming to the arrival of the King.’

‘There is much we must talk of.’

‘Much indeed.’

‘How it rejoices me that you are here beside me. It will lighten my lot. You will care for matters here while I am away.’

Her happiness was tinged with apprehension. When he was away? But of course he would have to be away. His dominions were widely spread. That must be what he meant.

She dismissed her fears and gave herself up to the pleasure of seeing homage done to him as he entered the castle. How nobly he accepted it! She noticed how people looked at him.

There never could have been a man who looked so much a king.

To be alone with him, to talk to him of secret matters, to share his confidences, that was a great joy to her.

‘Your coronation must take place immediately,’ she advised. ‘Once a king is crowned he is in truth a king; before that ...’ She lifted her shoulders.

‘I have decided it shall be on the third day of September.’

‘Isn’t that an unlucky day?’

He laughed aloud. ‘Mother, I take no heed of these superstitions.’

‘Others may.’

‘Then let them. I shall pass into London on the first day of the month, and there I shall be crowned King.’

‘So be it,’ she said. ‘The important point is that the ceremony takes place without delay. Richard, I must speak to you of Alice. She is here.’

‘In this castle?’

‘Under restraint. I thought that as I had suffered it so long it would do her no harm to have a little taste of it.’

He nodded but he was frowning. ‘What must be done with her? I’ll not have her.’

‘We must not forget that her brother is the King of France.’

A shadow passed across his face. How did he feel about Philip now? There was no doubt that they had once been very close friends. Was that due to love or expediency on Richard’s part? He had once needed the friendship of the King of France when his own father was his enemy. Now that he was King of England – and all Kings of England must be wary of Kings of France – had his feelings changed? The one time friend ... lover ... was he now a deadly rival?

‘I care not who her brother is,’ said Richard, ‘I’ll have none of my father’s cast-offs.’

‘Your father never cast her off. He was faithful to the end they say ... faithful in his way that was. No doubt he sported merrily when she was far away but, as with Rosamund Clifford, he visited her in great amity over many years.’

‘My father is dead now, Mother; let us forget his habits. The fact remains that I’ll have none of Alice.’

‘She will have to go back to France. She will not like it. She has been in England for twenty-two years.’

‘Nevertheless she must go.’

‘Yet you will marry. It will be expected of you.’

‘I have a bride in mind. Berengaria, daughter of the King of Navarre, he whom they call Sancho the Wise. We know each other, for I met her when I was taken to her father’s court by her brother who is known as Sancho the Strong to distinguish him from his father. We have even talked of marriage but Alice of course stood in my way.’

‘That girl and your father have a lot to answer for. Though I doubt we should blame Alice; she is a feather in the wind blown this way and that.’

‘Then, by God’s mercy, let us blow her back to France.’

‘What will Philip say when he finds his sister sent back to him?’

‘What can he say of a sister who lived with the man who was to be her father-in-law and bore him a child?’ Richard clenched his fists and cried: ‘My God, when I think of his taking her from me, using her as he did and all the time deceiving me ...’

‘It is done with. As you remind me, he is dead. He can do you no more harm. You are the King now, Richard. You can go with a good conscience to Berengaria.’

‘If there is to be a marriage this is the one I want. I feel firm friendship with Sancho. Remember it was he who pleaded with my father concerning you when I requested him to. It was due to him that your imprisonment was less rigorous than it might have been.’

‘Yes, I remember well the good he did me.’

‘For this reason and because I could trust no other with such a task I want you to go to the Court of Navarre and to bring Berengaria – not to me ... for I cannot ask for her hand until I am seen to be free from Alice. But I wish her to be taken where she can wait until I am free.’

‘It shall be so,’ said Eleanor. ‘But first there must be your coronation. What of your brother John?’

‘I left him in Normandy. He was to sail from Barfleur. He hoped to land at Dover.’

Eleanor nodded. ‘It will be well for him to be here.’ She looked steadily at Richard. ‘It is unfortunate that your father should have made so much of him. I could never understand why he did that.’

‘It was to spite me,’ retorted Richard vehemently. ‘You know how he hated me.’

‘I could never understand that in him either. You ... all that a king should be, surely a son of whom any father should be proud ...’ She laughed. ‘You always took my side against him, Richard. Even in those early nursery days. Perhaps you forfeited his goodwill in so doing.’

‘It seems so, but I have no qualms about John. He knows I have first claim to the crown. I shall give him honours, treat him with dignity and respect. He must understand that he can never be King except in the event of my failing to get an heir.’

‘Yes, we must make him realise that. It would seem to me that he finds greater interest in his dissolute companions than he would in governing a kingdom.’

‘’Tis better to keep him so. What of Ranulph de Glanville?’

‘I doubt not that he will serve you as he served your father.’

‘I like not one who was your jailer.’

‘A task which was forced on him. He could not disobey your father, you know.’

‘Yet a man who has humiliated you, my mother !’

She smiled at him tenderly.

‘We must not allow such matters to cloud our judgements, my son. He has been in charge of the treasure vaults at Winchester. It would not be well that he should withhold any secrets of those vaults from you.’

Richard narrowed his eyes. ‘I shall find it difficult to give my friendship to a man who acted so to you.’

‘I can forgive him. I shall not think of any past wrongs I have suffered, but only what good may come to you. You must take him into your service. You need good servants.’

‘More than most,’ he admitted, ‘for I shall need to leave the country in good hands. I have pledged myself to take part in the Holy War as you know ...’

‘But now that you are King will that be possible?’

‘I could never come to terms with my conscience if I broke my vow.’

‘You have a kingdom to rule now, Richard. Does not your duty lie with that?’

‘Philip and I must go to the Holy Land together.’

‘So ... that friendship still stands.’

‘We shall see,’ said Richard. ‘In all events I intend to honour my obligations to my father’s son Geoffrey.’

‘The bastard!’ cried Eleanor.

‘He was with my father at the end.’

‘For what he could get.’

‘Nay, Mother, I think not. Geoffrey served him well and was with him when all others had deserted him. John had left him. They say that broke his heart and that when he heard that John’s name was at the head of the list of those lords who had turned against him he had no will to live. It was his last wish that Geoffrey should not suffer for his fidelity. Nor shall he.’

‘Nay, Richard, he would take your throne from you if he had a chance.’

‘You do not know him, Mother. You hated him because he was living evidence of my father’s infidelity to you, but that is no fault of Geoffrey’s. He was loyal to my father to the end when there was nothing to gain and everything to lose from it. As was William the Marshal. I shall always honour such men.’

‘But Richard, this whore’s son ...’

‘Is my half-brother. I beg you, put him from your mind, for mine is made up concerning him. My father wished him to have the Archbishopric of York and that I shall bestow on him.’

‘It is a mistake,’ said the Queen.

‘It is my intention,’ replied Richard; she saw the stubborn line of his lips and knew that it was no use trying to dissuade him.

Lest she should think that this was due to a softness in him he told her of his treatment of Stephen of Tours, the Seneschal of Anjou, who had been treasurer of the late King’s overseas dominions.

‘He refused to yield to me my father’s treasure so I threw him into a dungeon and loaded him with chains. Such treatment soon set him begging forgiveness and what was more important rendering unto me all my father’s possessions. Never fear, Mother, I shall be strong. No man shall delude me with his sly behaviour, but there are some men who are bright stars in any kingly crown – those who can be trusted to serve their king with honour – and if that service was given to my father because he was the King and now is offered me, I shall take it.’

He took her hand and kissed it. Although he would go his own way, he was telling her he would listen to her; but if he did not agree with her advice he would not take it.

In her heart she would not have had him otherwise.

‘We must now give our thoughts to your coronation,’ she said. ‘There must be no delay in that. John will soon be with us.’

‘He must be at my coronation. I want him to know that if he is a loyal brother to me then the future lies bright before him.’

‘He will be with us soon,’ said Eleanor. ‘I long to see my youngest son. Rest assured, dear Richard, that I will impress on him the need to serve you well.’

‘I know it,’ said Richard; and in spite of the fact that she deeply resented his showing favour to her husband’s bastard Geoffrey, there was complete accord between them.

John had watched his brother embark at Barfleur. ‘It would be well for us to travel separately,’ Richard had said.

The meaning of those words was evident. They were the two remaining sons of the dead King. If they were both to become victims of the sea – which they could well do if they travelled in the same ship – the next heir would be a boy, no more than a baby, the son of their dead brother, Geoffrey of Brittany. Little Arthur was of no age to govern.

A dark mood seized John as he watched his brother’s ship sail away. This was not what his father had intended. He, John, had been promised England. He longed to be a king ... and King of England.

He would never forget that when he had been born his father had nicknamed him John Lackland – Jean sans Terre. That was because his elder brothers had prior claims to his father’s possessions and even a great king with overseas dominions could not comfortably provide for so many sons. His brother William had died before he was born, but that had still left Henry, Richard and Geoffrey. Henry and Geoffrey were now dead. So only the two of them remained – Richard and himself.

How secretly he had exulted over the bad blood between his father and Richard! That had seemed to make the way clear for him; and his father had talked to him often of his inheritance. Now this elder powerful brother, known throughout Europe as one of the greatest fighters of his time, claimed the throne. Their mother stood for him and so did the people. What could he do to prevent Richard’s becoming King?

The maddening part about it was that Richard would now marry and if he did and there was a child that would be the end of John’s hopes.

Once he had been promised a crown as King of Ireland. How delighted he had been then, but when his father had sent him to Ireland there had been trouble. He and his young followers had ridiculed the Irish whose manners seemed so odd compared with their own; the girls were pretty though and being young and full of high spirits they had made good sport with them; but the Irish had resented the rape of their land and their women and John had been recalled. His father had been lenient with him, doting on him until the end. He had sent for a crown of peacock feathers set in gold from the Pope with his consent to make John King of Ireland. What ill fortune had been his! Trouble in Normandy (when was there not trouble in Normandy?) had intervened to prevent the ceremony and he had never received the crown.

He cursed the ill fortune which had made him a younger son, but he had had the foresight to know when to leave his father. In fact he had never cared a jot for the old man; he had deceived him all along, and he had gone over to Richard before his father died; and for this reason Richard was now accepting him as his good brother and ally.

He laughed slyly, thinking of his elder brother. Richard Yea and Nay. That was good. He was predictable. There was little guile in Richard. To Richard an enemy was an enemy, a friend a friend. Richard said No and meant No. He was frank and open. But he could be ruthless and when his anger was aroused against an enemy none could be more cruel. But he had what he called a sense of honour and this would not permit him to dissemble, which made it easy for such as John to know how to act towards him.

Now John must pay homage to the new King; he must make his brother believe that he would be loyal to him; and so must he be – until the opportunity arose to be otherwise.

He was young yet – twenty-two years of age; Richard was ten years older. There had been rumours about certain debaucheries in which Richard had indulged. Sometimes women were concerned in them; but did Richard really care for women? John was unsure. There had been rumours about Philip when Richard was in France; but then a man could spare the time from those he loved to get a child, particularly when that man was king and the child could be the next King of England. It was amusing that Richard’s betrothed was the Princess Alice who had been their father’s mistress. He could hardly marry her; and the fact that he was betrothed to her would naturally mean some delay before he could marry anyone else. Delay was to be welcomed; for who knew, in the life of such a fighter, when an arrow or some such weapon might not put a speedy end to that life.

And then the way would be open for John.

So he must return to England; he must kneel at the feet of his handsome brother; he must swear to serve him with his life while he waited patiently for his death.

He reached Dover and went straight to Winchester.

There his mother received him warmly. She was fond of him, although of course none of her children could be to her what Richard was. He was delighted when, after he had been formally received by his brother, she took them both to her private chamber and he was allowed to talk with them.

Richard said that there must be no more conflict in the family. It had been his father’s downfall and had brought no good to any of them. Let them have done with it and work together.

‘Aye, aye,’ said John fervently.

His mother eyed him with approval.

‘I know that you were once with our father against me,’ said Richard. ‘I know that he offered bribes to you ... even this kingdom. That must be forgotten.’

‘It is forgotten,’ John assured him seriously.

Richard grasped his hand and John forced tears into his eyes.

‘It is well that you understand each other,’ said their mother.

‘Our father, I know, granted you the County of Mortain, but did not live long enough to give you possession of it. That shall now be yours.’

‘You are generous to me, Richard.’

‘And intend to be more so. You have been granted certain lands in England and there is a revenue I believe of some four thousand Angevin pounds which comes from them.’

John’s eyes glistened. He would indeed be rich. If the Gloucester lands were his he believed he would be the richest man in England – next to the King.

He said: ‘There is one other matter. It concerns my marriage. I am no longer a boy. I need a wife.’ He did not add: And I need her fortune. But neither his mother nor his brother would be ignorant of the size of that.

‘Our father betrothed you to Hadwisa of Gloucester,’ said Richard; ‘I often wondered whether it was wise. There is a close relationship between our families.’

Wise! thought John. The richest heiress in the country! Of course it was wise!

‘I would marry her tomorrow ... if you gave your consent,’ said John; and he thought: Aye, and without it, for I would risk much for Hadwisa’s wealth.

Eleanor said: ‘The Gloucester lands and wealth should be brought into the family. Let John marry Hadwisa and then it will be too late for the Church to do much about it.’

Richard was thoughtful but John’s eyes were glistening with avaricious delight.

Rich lands in Normandy and wealth from England and now marriage with its rich heiress.

From a turret of Marlborough Castle Hadwisa of Gloucester watched anxiously for the cavalcade at the head of which her bridegroom would be riding.

Her father had told her that she must be prepared. There would be no delay. As soon as the party arrived the marriage must take place.

It was not a very romantic wedding, she had complained to her attendants. She wondered what John was like.

‘Suffice it,’ said her old nurse, ‘that he is a king’s son. And he is young too. It could have been that an old man was chosen for you. At least you have one who is young and by all accounts not ill-favoured.’

‘Tell me what you know of him,’ Hadwisa had begged.

Tell her what she knew? Tell of the stories of the wildness of Prince John? Better not. It might be that they had not been true ... not entirely that was. By all accounts the bridegroom was young in years and old in sin; and Hadwisa was not experienced of the world. The child would never understand. Therefore she must discover gradually and for herself.

‘It is not an easy position,’ said Hadwisa, ‘to be half royal as it were. Kings should think of that when they have sons outside their marriage.’

‘’Tis my belief it is the last thing they think of in the heat of their passion.’

‘But my grandfather was a great good man.’

‘Ah,’ said the old nurse. ‘I remember him. A fine gentleman, an honourable man. His father respected him, and his father was King Henry I.’

‘I know my grandfather Robert was one of his natural sons.’

‘And the King loved him dearly. He was the great champion of the King’s daughter Matilda in her fight against Stephen.’

‘She was a difficult woman but he believed her cause was the right one and I know that he was partly responsible for helping Henry II to the throne.’

‘You know your family history, my child. That is good. It helps you to bear your lot.’

‘Why should it, nurse?’

‘To talk to those who are long ago dead and to remember that troubles beset them makes you feel your own are not so important.’

‘You think I have troubles?’

‘You, my love! About to be married to a handsome prince!’

‘I trust he will like me.’

‘He’ll not be able to help himself,’ the nurse assured her.

If only it were true, thought Hadwisa. She knew she was not beautiful. Her sisters – all married now – had been far more attractive than she was. She was not a fool. She knew that her father was one of the richest men in the kingdom and it was for this reason that she had been affianced to the King’s brother.

Now she could see the riders in the distance. There was the royal standard and at the head of the band would be her bridegroom.

Her mother was at the door.

‘Hadwisa, are you ready? You must be at the gates to greet the Prince.’ She noticed her daughter’s anxious looks and thought: It’s a pity the poor child is so plain. Nervously Hadwisa went out to greet her bridegroom.

He was of medium height and like all the sons of Henry II and Eleanor of Aquitaine he had some claim to good looks. But although he was young yet and his character had not yet drawn lines on his face there was that about it to strike a note of warning in the heart of his bride.

Cruelty peeped out of those eyes; the mouth was hard yet weak; to some extent he disguised his true nature but it could not be altogether concealed. Lust, envy, greed – yes, every one of the notorious seven sins could be detected there.

He took her hand and kissed it. His eyes gloated but not on her. The richest lands in England! When they were his he would have possession of a goodly part of that country.

‘Come,’ he cried. ‘Let us get the marriage done with. My bride and I will need a little time together before I go to my brother’s coronation.’

‘My lord,’ said her father, ‘a banquet is prepared. We had thought tomorrow might be the best day for the marriage ceremony.’

‘Nay,’ cried John. ‘We’ll have it tonight.’ He took Hadwisa’s hand and pressed it firmly. ‘I declare that having seen my bride ... in her home ... I cannot wait.’

So they prepared her and her mother came to her and she asked that they might be alone together.

‘Come,’ said her mother, when the attendants had gone, ‘all is well. Every bride is nervous on her wedding day.’

‘This is so quick.’

‘My child you have been betrothed to the Prince for years.’

‘But I never thought ...’

‘You are of a marriageable age now and so is he.’

‘Mother, it is not meet that we should marry. We are third cousins.’

‘It is because you have royal blood in your veins that you are a worthy bride for the King’s brother.’

‘But we are third cousins.’

‘It is a slender link.’

‘King Henry I was my great-grandfather. He was also John’s.’

‘Do not fret over such things.’

‘I believe the Church might not sanction our marriage. There should be a special dispensation.’

‘My dear child, do you realise that the King has given his consent to the marriage?’

‘The King is not the Church.’

‘What would you have us do?’

‘Wait,’ cried Hadwisa. ‘Wait!’

‘Can you imagine the wrath of your bridegroom if we suggested such a thing! What do you think he would do?’

Ah, there was the crux of the matter! What would he do? Would he burn down the castle? Would he cut off her father’s head? Would he hang him on the nearest tree?

She was silent, thinking of what she had seen in her bridegroom’s eyes.

The ceremony was over; they had feasted, the minstrels had sung, and Hadwisa and her bridegroom were conducted to the bridal chamber.

She was afraid of him.

Her fear amused him. A virgin! He had had his fill of such and they were interesting only for such a short while. When he had pillaged towns with his followers they had taken the best of the women; that had been good sport. The fear of others always excited him. It soothed him in some way. It made him feel important. He had the power at that moment to rule them absolutely. It made up for the fact that he was the youngest son.

Hadwisa was afraid of him and that pleased him. Not much else about her person did. But he had to remember the riches she brought him.

The richest heiress in the kingdom! That was worth a good deal.

‘Why,’ he said, ‘you are reluctant. Do I not please you?’

‘Why, yes, my lord ... but ...’

‘But! What buts are these?’

‘There is a strong blood relationship between us ...’

‘Ah, indeed our great-grandfather scattered his seed far and wide. I’ll swear that there is many a young girl in this kingdom who could be my cousin. So it is with princes. None daresay them nay.’

‘I had thought we should have waited for a dispensation from the Church.’

‘’Tis too late ... the ceremony has taken place. I am your husband now.’

‘But I meant to wait for ...’

‘For?’ He raised his eyebrows, taunting her. ‘For what, my reluctant wife?’

‘You know to what I refer.’

He caught her by the wrist and his grip was painful.

‘You tell me,’ he said. ‘Come, let us hear it from those innocent lips.’

She lowered her eyes. ‘The consummation ...’

He laughed aloud. Then he seized her and she knew that her fear had not been groundless.

For five days he stayed at the castle. He terrified her but she knew her ordeal would not last long. He was becoming weary of it already.

‘It may well be,’ he said, ‘that I have already planted our son within you. Pray that it may be so for I know not when we may meet again. I shall go now to my brother’s coronation and there may well be much to occupy me.’

As he was about to leave the castle a messenger arrived from Baldwin, Archbishop of Canterbury. He brought with him a letter for the Earl of Gloucester. When he read it the Earl grew pale.

‘The Archbishop forbids the marriage on the grounds of consanguinity,’ he said.

John burst into loud laughter. ‘He is a little late, is he not?’

‘My lord Prince, what can we do?’

‘Burn the letter. Forget it. What’s done is done. Your daughter is my wife. Who knows she may already be carrying a boy who could be heir to the throne. I’ll not have the Church interfering in my affairs. Baldwin forbade the marriage when my father lived. My father cared nothing for Baldwin, nor should we.’

The Earl said: ‘You are right, my lord. There is nothing we can do now.’

He rode away. Hadwisa had never known relief such as she felt when she saw his party disappear into the distance.

John arrived in London to find his mother and brother installed in Westminster Palace. There was great excitement in London at the prospect of the coronation; and there seemed little doubt that the new King was popular. By abolishing many of the harsh forest laws Eleanor had paved the way for the King; and with a new reign the people were ever ready to believe that it would be better than the last. Henry II had been a man who had brought much good to the country; many had heard of the state of affairs during the reign of weak Stephen when robbers had roamed the land abducting unwary travellers, holding them to ransom, robbing them and if they had little worldly goods torturing them for sport. Henry with his stern just laws had put a stop to that. But he had retained the cruel forest laws and that was what the people remembered rather than the good he had done.

Now here was a new King – a man who was by no means old and who looked like a god. His reputation as a warrior was well known; he was good to his mother who had acted as Regent until he came. He had a younger brother who was willing to serve him. It seemed to the people that everything was set fair. And now a coronation. Revelry in the streets, processions; and it was already whispered that this was going to be the finest spectacle that had ever delighted the eyes of the citizens of London. Naturally they were excited. Naturally they were all going out to cheer.

Richard greeted his brother warmly.

‘How went it?’ he asked. ‘Don’t tell me, I know. You are a husband. Baldwin is fulminating. He says it is a sin for you to live with Hadwisa of Gloucester.’

‘That adds a spice to what would otherwise be a somewhat dull matter,’ replied John.

‘Oh, ’twas so? Well, you have her lands and that is something to be pleased about. But what of Baldwin?’

‘I shall ignore him. Shall you, brother?’

‘It is not good for a king to be on ill terms with his archbishop.’

‘’Tis a by no means uncommon state of affairs. He is officiating at the coronation, I doubt not.’

‘He is,’ said Richard.

‘Will he denounce me from the altar think you?’

‘’Twould be most unseemly were he to do so at a coronation and would cost him his post.’

‘Then perchance he will leave me in peace for a while.’

‘Methinks you were pleased with your bride, John.’

‘Pleased with her lands,’ answered John.

‘Well, you will be a very rich man now.’

‘It is a comfort to contemplate how rich.’

Eleanor embraced her youngest son and asked how the wedding had pleased him.

She commiserated. ‘Alas, it is sometimes the richest heiresses who are the least desirable. It’s a rare thing to find a woman who is both.’

‘You were I believe, Mother.’

She laughed. ‘I have been loved for myself and for Aquitaine. I have never been quite sure which was the more attractive. Well now, John is safely married ...’

‘I am not so sure,’ said Richard. ‘Baldwin is raising objections.’

‘The old fool!’ retorted Eleanor. ‘In any case it’s too late. Why do you smile, John?’

‘I was thinking that the old fellow could give me a chance of not seeing my wife if I didn’t want to.’ He put his hand on his heart and raised his eyes to the ceiling. ‘Oh, I suffer sorely. My soul is in torment. I wish to be with my wife but in doing so do I sin against Heaven. She is my third cousin and that is very close. Her great-grandmother was my great-grandfather’s whore and we share his blood ... though mine is pure and hers is tainted. If’twere not for her nice fat lands I would willingly annul the marriage ...’

‘Be silent, John,’ said Eleanor sharply. She could see that Richard did not like his brother’s raillery on such a subject.

‘I am concerned,’ said Richard, ‘as to the Jews. I do not want them practising their magical arts at the coronation. That could bring disaster to us all. I shall forbid them to attend the ceremony.’

‘It would never do for them to be seen there,’ commented the Queen. ‘The people would think you are going to show leniency towards them and that would not be popular.’

‘They are too rich,’ said John. ‘That is what’s wrong with them.’

‘They are industrious and know how to prosper,’ declared the Queen. ‘Such qualities arouse envy, and being envious of their wealth those who have been less industrious or lack the money-spinning gift seek to lay faults at their door. My son, you must issue a command that there be no Jews at your coronation.’

‘It shall be done,’ said Richard.

The morning of that third day of September of the year 1189 dawned bright and sunny. Yet there were many who remembered that it was a day of ill omen. Egyptian astrologers had named it as one of the Dies Aegyptiaci with the implication that on it only the reckless would undertake any important business; and what could be more important to a king than his coronation?

Scarlet cloth had been laid from the King’s bedchamber in the palace to the altar of the abbey and crowds had gathered in the streets for the last day and night to make sure of getting a view of the spectacle.

In his bedchamber surrounded by the chief nobles of the realm, including his brother John, the King waited the coming of the Archbishops, the Bishops, the Abbots and heads of the monastic orders. They came bearing censers and vessels containing holy water led by one of their number carrying the great cross.

First in the processions from the bedchamber to the altar came the clergy, chanting as they walked, swinging incense and holding high lighted tapers; the priors and abbots followed and after them the barons. William Mareschal carried the sceptre surmounted by the golden cross and William Earl of Salisbury the golden rod.

Immediately behind them was Prince John, his eyes lowered, imagining himself not walking as he did but in the place of honour today occupied by his brother. How unfair was life, he thought, to make a man the youngest of his family! Yet in some ways fate had been kind in carrying off the others. That left Richard ten years his senior but still young. In the prime of his manhood some said. By God’s Eyes, thought John, he could live another twenty years! But if he went to the Holy Land a Saracen arrow might pierce his heart. It was the only hope.

He must be encouraged to go on his crusade. He was not fit to be King. How could a man newly come to a throne, plot how soon he could leave it? Only if he were a fool, for if that man had an ambitious brother he could soon place his kingdom in jeopardy!

To the spectators who thronged about the abbey and crowded inside, it seemed that there could never have been a more handsome sovereign than King Richard. William Mandeville, the Earl of Albemarle, walked before him carrying, on a cushion, the golden crown beautifully ornamented with glittering jewels. Then came Richard himself, tall and stately, under the royal canopy which was poised on lances and held over his head by four barons.

Into the abbey he walked, through the nave to the high altar, where Baldwin was waiting for him.

They looked into each other’s eyes – the King arrogant, reminding the Archbishop that he was the master. The Archbishop like all of his kind, as Richard thought, striving to place the Church over the State. He should remember what happened to Thomas à Becket. An uneasy thought, for his father had not come too gracefully out of that affair; but it was Becket who had lost his life, though he had become a saint in doing it. Baldwin was certainly incensed because of John’s marriage, but he would have to keep quiet about that today.

On the altar most of the abbey relics had been laid – the holy bones of saints, the phials containing what purported to be their blood; and on these Richard swore that he would honour God and the Holy Church, and that he would be just to his people and that he would abolish all evil laws.

His attendants stepped forward to strip him of all his garments except his shirt and hose. He was then anointed with the consecrated oil on his head, arms and breast while Baldwin told him of the significance of this and that the application of the oil to these parts of his body implied that he was being endowed with glory, knowledge and fortitude. His tunic and dalmatic were then put on him by the waiting barons and the sword of justice handed to him. Golden spurs were tied to his heels and the royal mantle placed about his shoulders.

Baldwin then asked him if he were indeed prepared to honour the oath he had just taken and, on Richard’s assuring him that he was, the barons took the crown from the altar and gave it to the Archbishop who placed it on Richard’s head; the sceptre was put in the King’s right hand and the rod in the left.

After High Mass the procession back to the palace began and there the King was divested of his cumbersome crown which was replaced by a lighter one and in the great hall the feasting began.

In order not to offend the citizens of Winchester the dignitaries of that town had the honour of acting as cooks, while, so that the citizens of London need not feel they had been slighted, their leading citizens were the butlers. The hall was filled with tables at the chief of which sat the King, and the guests were placed according to their rank at the top table.

It was a merry and happy occasion and then sudden tragedy changed it from a day of rejoicing to one of bitter tragedy.

Richard had forbidden any Jew to come to his coronation, not because he wished to persecute them, but because he believed that as they were not Christians their presence might not be acceptable to God. It may have been that this edict had not been sufficiently widely circulated or perhaps some, so eager to be present, decided to ignore it, but while the feast was in progress several Jews decided to call at the palace with rich gifts for the new King. No ruler could object to being given costly objects, for even if he was indifferent to them, as an expression of loyalty he must be impressed by their value.

Among the richest Jews in the country who presented themselves at the palace was a man of particularly great wealth known as Benedict of York. They were immediately identified and protests were raised.

The cry went up: ‘Jews! We’ll not have them here. The King has forbidden them. They have disobeyed his laws.’

Benedict of York, who had brought with him a very valuable gift for the King, protested.

‘All I wish,’ he cried, ‘is to let the King know of our loyalty to him. I wish to give him this golden ornament.’

It was no use.

For so long the Jews had been hated. There were many people in the throng who had lived close to them and who had seen them prosper. They were hated because they worked hard and because no matter how humbly they started they always seemed to succeed.

This was an opportunity.

‘The King has ordered that we drive them from our towns,’ went up the cry. ‘He has forbidden them to come to his coronation.’

It did not take long to arouse the mob. Throughout London the cry went up. ‘We are robbing the Jews. We are burning their houses. Their goods are to be our goods. It is the King’s coronation gift to us.’ Soon the streets were filled with shouting, screaming people. They had thought the day might bring dancing and feasting and perhaps free wine. They had not counted on anything so exciting as riots.

Outside the palace the mob set upon the Jews and the gifts they had brought were snatched from them.

Benedict of York lay on the ground convinced that his last moments had come. He saw fanatical faces peering down at him. Hands were at his throat. He cried out: ‘You are killing me.’

‘Aye, Jew. ’Tis the King’s orders to kill all Jews.’

Benedict cried desperately: ‘But I want to become a Christian. If you kill me you will have killed a Christian.’

The men who had been bending over him fell back a little. Benedict went on shouting: ‘I am a Christian. I am going to become a Christian.’

The law was fierce. What happened to men who took life? The King’s father had been determined to set down violence. Was the new King the same? Mutilation had often been the punishment for murder. Men had lost their ears, their noses, and their tongues; they had been blinded with hot irons because of it. It was necessary to be cautious and here was this man calling out that he wanted to become a Christian. What if any one of them was named as the murderer of a Christian!

‘Let him be baptised without delay,’ cried a voice. ‘Then he will truly be a Christian.’

This appealed to the mob.

They carried Benedict to the nearest church where he was immediately baptised.

Meanwhile no time had been lost in circulating the news throughout the country. In every city there were riots against the Jews. The mob was not going to lose an opportunity for violence and robbery; and because the Jews were notoriously rich they were a desirable target.

The only city which did not take part in these riots was Winchester. The people there expressed the view that they thought it was not according to Christian doctrine to attack those who lived among them simply because they did not share their beliefs.

As for Richard he was angry because a day which he had meant to be one of universal rejoicing should have turned out to be one of tragedy for so many of his subjects. Moreover it was an indication that the horrors of the reign of Stephen when men had felt themselves free to let loose their natural instincts could easily break out again. He would need stern laws to suppress these instincts and he was determined to keep order.

When he heard of what had happened to Benedict of York he sent for the man and when Benedict arrived he found Richard surrounded by his prelates. Benedict had had time to ponder on what he had done and he was ashamed that in a moment of panic when a particularly cruel death had stared him in the face, he had abjured the faith in which he had been brought up and to which he would in secret cling throughout his life.

As soon as he entered the hall his eyes went at once to the King. Richard from his chair of state commanded Benedict to come and stand before him. They took each other’s measure and there was a bond between them. Richard thought: This man denied his faith when faced with death. It was not a noble thing to do yet how can any of us judge him?

‘Benedict of York,’ he said, ‘yesterday you declared your intention of becoming a Christian.’

‘I did, my lord.’

‘That was when certain of my subjects were on the point of killing you. I gave no orders for these riots. I deplore them. Although I excluded members of your race and creed from my coronation I did not command my people to destroy you. You have been baptised. Are you a true Christian, Benedict of York, and will you continue in the faith in which you have so recently been baptised?’

The clear cool eyes of the King which proclaimed his courage to the world inspired Benedict.

He said: ‘My gracious Lord and King I cannot lie to you. Yesterday I was on the point of death and suffered ignoble fear. To save my life I protested that I wished to become a Christian and I underwent baptism. I am a Jew. I can never be a true Christian. The faith of my fathers must be mine and now that I am calm and have had time to think, I will tell you the truth even though I die for it.’

‘So you are more ready to die today than you were yesterday.’

‘I have overcome my fear, my lord.’

‘Then what happened yesterday was not in vain. I respect your honesty. Go from me now. Forget your baptism. Continue in the faith of your fathers and live in peace ... if you can.’

Benedict fell on his knees and thanked the King.

Richard sent for Ranulph de Glanville.

‘Go through the country,’ he commanded. ‘Protect the Jews. Put an end to these riots. Let it be known that these disturbances were no wish of mine.’

And Ranulph de Glanville having quelled the violence in London rode out to the provinces but it was some days before peace was brought to the country.

Richard was indignant. ‘This matter has spoilt my coronation,’ he complained. ‘A fine beginning to my reign!’

‘You have conducted yourself with dignity,’ his mother told him. ‘The people will see that they have a strong king who is determined to govern them.’

The King remained uneasy. His thoughts carried him far away from England.