The Heart of the Lion Read online

  ‘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.
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br />   ‘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.