The Revolt of the Eaglets (58 page)

It was difficult to remain on his horse. William the Marshall was on one side of him, Geoffrey on the other. They were ready to catch him if he should fall.

Oh, God, that I should come to this, he thought. Once proud Henry Plantagenet now a conquered King with a pain-racked body, deserted by my own son. Oh John, my beloved youngest, where are you now?

Philip’s terms were read to him.

He must accept the counsels of the King of France and do homage for all his territory on the Continent. When Richard returned from Jerusalem he must be given the Princess Alice as his bride and be proclaimed heir to all his father’s territories. Henry must pay Philip the cost of the war. If he did not agree to keep to the terms of his treaty his knights and barons were to swear that they would desert him and join Richard.

Henry bowed his head. The humiliation was more than he could endure. They were killing him.

Yet he must concede, for what was the alternative? They would make him their prisoner. He, proud Henry, prisoner of the young King of France and his own son!

It was unendurable.

He must accept. Then when his health returned he would find some means of evading those terms. How many times had he wriggled out of his contracts. It had been part of his policy. To this he owed his success.

He accepted. His humiliation was complete. But not quite.

Now that he had accepted the peace terms one more thing was required of him. He had behaved unfairly to his son; he had tried to rob him of his inheritance. There must be no recriminations. He would now give Richard the kiss of peace before all those assembled.

Richard rode to him – young, straight, beautiful with the sun on his fair hair, godlike. The King of France watched with love and pride.

Henry’s bloodshot eyes fiercely hating looked into the steely blue ones of his son. They embraced.

Henry could not control his anger. ‘I pray God,’ he said, ‘that I may live long enough to take a fitting revenge on you.’

Richard smiled coldly. The hatred between them was great.

They would take him to the castle of Chinon because it was near and he was in no fit state to endure a long journey.

Geoffrey ordered that a litter be brought and, protesting, but only a little, he allowed himself to be placed in it.

‘My son John will soon be with me,’ he said. ‘Then I can begin planning my revenge. Richard shall never have the crown.’

When he reached the castle he felt better. He would live to fight again. When he had been forced to give Richard the kiss of peace his anger had been so great that it had ignited the old spirit.

‘I will have my revenge,’ he said. ‘I must.’

He lay on the bed covered by Geoffrey’s cloak, for he was too tired to take off his clothes.

‘Geoffrey,’ he said, ‘there were many knights on the side of Philip and Richard who should have been on mine. They deserted. They left me for the enemy.’

‘’Twas so, my lord. And many more have gone.’

‘I would know who they are.’

Geoffrey nodded. ‘It is well to know traitors.’

‘Send a man to the King of France. Ask this favour of him. I would have a list of all those knights who left me. He cannot deny me that.’

‘It shall be done, my lord.’

The King nodded and closed his eyes.

‘Stay beside me, Geoffrey,’ he said. ‘You comfort me. It is good to know that I have faithful friends. I do not despair though it has never been so dark as this. I have faced some desperate situations but never one like this. But I shall emerge. Doubt it not, Geoffrey. My son John will be here very soon, and he and I, with you, Geoffrey, and William the Marshall and those whom I would trust with my life … we shall plan together. I want my son Richard brought to me, a miserable captive. He shall join his mother in prison. Think of it, Geoffrey. A wife and sons who turned against me!’

‘Try to rest, my lord. You need to sleep.’

‘I’ll try, Geoffrey. Wake me the moment John arrives.’

‘I will, my lord,’ answered Geoffrey.

The King started from his sleep.

‘Is that John?’ he asked.

‘No, my lord. It is the list sent by the King of France,’ answered Geoffrey. ‘The list of knights who deserted your ranks and joined those of Philip and Richard.’

‘Ah. Now I shall know the traitors. Let the list be read to me.’

There was a brief silence.

The King said: ‘I am ready.’

Still there was no answer.

‘What ails you?’ cried the King. ‘Why do you not give me the names of these traitors?’

‘The first on the list is …’

‘What ails you, man? Who is the first on the list?’

‘It is Prince John, my lord.’

He lay sick and silent.

He could not believe it. He must see for himself. There it was plain to read. Prince John at the head of the list. So this was why he had waited in vain.

Why, John, why?

He could see the face of his son. He could picture the thoughts behind that charming countenance. Because you are finished, Father. You are vanquished. How could I be beside you when you have nothing to offer me? Richard is in the ascendancy. In a short time he will be King, I cannot afford to offend the new King of England, Father, even if the old one is you.

Alone, ill, deserted!

What do I care for now? he asked himself. Nothing. Let me die. I am a vanquished king. Oh shame, shame that this should come to Henry Plantagenet. Deserted by my best-loved son, John. Was it not for you, my son, that I brought this war upon me? Richard hated me and made no secret of it. And you … you pretended to love me and I believed you. Did I believe? Deep down in my heart, did I not know?

He thought of the painting on the wall at Winchester. The voracious eaglets plucking their father to death and the youngest waiting his moment to pluck out his eyes.

That is what you have done to me, John. You have plucked out my eyes. I no longer have any desire to live. Nothing else matters now. I have lost everything. While I believed in you there was a reason for going on. But you have lied to me, deceived me, laughed at me behind my back, doubtless. John, you are a monster. Every one of my sons was against me. There was not one who did not lift up his hand and try to stab me in the back. Every one … and now that she-wolf in her prison, their mother … is laughing at me.

See to what you have come, Henry. You the proud one, arbiter of our fortunes, where are you now? We are laughing at you, Henry. You have no more power to harm us.

He was not sure where he was. It was cold suddenly. He was in Rosamund’s Bower. Beautiful Rosamund whom he had loved so dearly. She had changed into Alice. Alice, Alice, what will become of you now? You will go to Richard, be his bride. He will never forgive you for having loved me, for having borne me a child. He is harsh and cruel. I know. I have looked into his icy eyes. Alice, my darling Alice, what will become of you?

Why was it so wonderfully cool? He opened his eyes. His son Geoffrey was fanning his face.

‘Oh, Geoffrey, my good Geoffrey. Would you had been my legitimate son. What do you there?’

‘I am keeping the flies away. It has turned so hot. Is there anything I can get you, my lord?’

‘Call me not my lord. Call me Father. You have been a true son to me. Why is it that you were so good to me and the sons of my Queen deserted me? They have destroyed me, and the youngest most of all. He was here quietly waiting to pluck out my eyes. God will reward you, Geoffrey … my son.’

‘I want no rewards, Father,’ said Geoffrey. ‘If I have served you and won your love that is reward enough.’

‘There is a sapphire ring on my finger, Geoffrey. I never cared for such baubles, but I carried them for their worth. Take it. It is yours. Remember me by it, Geoffrey.’

Geoffrey took the ring and kissed his father’s hand.

‘May God bless you, you who were truly my son.’

Geoffrey sat by his bed while he grew more delirious.

‘He should have a priest,’ he said, ‘for his end is near.’

There was no priest. The priests had gone, so had most of the knights. There was nothing to be gained by staying with a dead and defeated king.

Geoffrey stayed by his side with William the Marshall, and as they watched, the King ceased to murmur and his eyes became glazed. Then he spoke. William bent near to catch his words.

‘Shame,’ muttered the King. ‘Oh, the shame of a vanquished king.’

Then they saw that he was dead.

They carried him to the Abbey of Fontevrault and laid him in the church. Only a few faithful men had remained with him. The rest had stripped him of his jewels and clothes.

Richard, the new King of England, came to look at his father’s corpse. He stared down impassively and none knew what emotions there were in his heart.

William the Marshall faced him across his father’s body and Richard’s expression did not change.

It is the end of me, thought William. He will never forgive me for what I did.

Then Richard spoke. ‘You were my enemy but a few days ago, William the Marshall. You killed my horse so that he fell under me.’

‘’Twas so, my lord King, and so would I do again in such circumstances.’

Richard nodded. ‘Now I am your King, do you seek to kill me?’

‘Nay, for you are the true King. I served the King before and that is why his enemies were mine.’

Richard said nothing but turned away and William the Marshall wondered what his fate would be. Death or the dungeons?

When Richard was leaving Fontevrault he called to William the Marshall to walk beside him.

‘Go back to England,’ he said. ‘Guard my Kingdom till I come.’

William was taken aback.

‘
I
… my lord?’

‘Aye, you,’ replied Richard. ‘I like men who are faithful to their kings.’

William the Marshall turned to Richard. He said: ‘The King is dead. Long live the King.’

It was enough.