The Heart of the Lion - Plaidy Jean (читать книги бесплатно полностью без регистрации сокращений txt) 📗

A great deal had happened. Joanna had married and had given birth to a child. She was happy with her Count and Richard was glad of that. The Princess Alice, who had once been betrothed to him and had been the mistress of his father, had been returned to her brother after a treaty he and Richard had made. Poor Alice, she had not had much of a life since the death of King Henry. Perhaps there would be a change when she went to France. And so it had proved to be, for Alice, now thirty-five years of age, was married to the Count of Ponthieu who evidently believed that alliance with the royal house of France was worthwhile even if it meant taking a princess who was no longer young and about whom there had been scandal in her youth.

Richard hoped Alice would at last find peace.

His sister-in-law Constance had refused to send Arthur to him. Clearly she did not trust him. What a fool the woman was! Surely she wanted Arthur to have his rights and there was no doubt that he was the heir to the English throne. Had he lived Geoffrey would have been pleased to see his son so elevated. But an English king should know the English and the best way of doing that was to be brought up among them.

Yet Constance had sensed some intrigue. She did not trust her brothers-in-law. That she did not trust John was understandable as Arthur would displace him, but why not Richard? She had even sought the aid of Philip to help her against Richard, and he had heard that she had sent her son to the Court of France to avoid his being taken by the English.

Richard shrugged his shoulders. If that was what she wanted let her have it. It could well lose her son the throne. John was at least known to the English. Oh God in Heaven, thought Richard, what would happen to England if John were King!

His Mother would say: Get heirs of your own. All that is needed is a son of yours.

No! he cried, and tried not to think of Berengaria lonely in the castle at Poitou. Joanna had gone now and even the little Cypriot Princess had been returned to Leopold’s wife in Austria who was her kinswoman.

Leopold had died recently. He had fallen from his horse and broken his leg which mortified to such an extent that amputation was necessary. Knowing that if it were not removed it would corrupt his whole body he himself held the axe while his chamberlain struck it with a beetle. He had courage, that Duke, thought Richard; but after his leg had been cut off he died in terrible agony which many said was Heaven’s retribution for his treatment of Richard the Lion-hearted who enjoyed favour from above on account of his having brought Acre to the Christians.

One day, thought Richard, I will go back to the Holy Land.

Saladin was dead. His intimate, the Saracen Bohadin, had told how nobly he had died. He was both brave and humble and talked of the perishability of earthly possessions. He told those about him to reverence God and not to shed blood unless it was necessary for the salvation of his country and to the glory of God. ‘Do not hate anyone,’ he had said. ‘Watch how you treat men. Forgive them their sins against you and thus will you obtain forgiveness for yours.’

Oh Saladin, thought Richard, would we could have met in different circumstances! But how could it have been otherwise than it was? I a Christian, you a Saracen; yet I would have trusted you as I could few men and I knew that you felt thus towards me.

Thinking of these matters he had ridden a little ahead of the party. It was often so, for he liked now and then to be alone; and as he came to a clearing in the woods a man ran forward and stood before him.

‘Who are you, fellow?’ demanded the King.

‘None that you would know, sir. But I know who you are.’

‘Who am I?’

‘A king and a sinner.’

Richard laughed aloud.

‘And I would say you are a bold man.’

‘You too, sir, for you will have need of your courage when you are called on to face a King far greater than any on earth.’

‘Oh, you are calling me to task for my wayward life, is that it?’

‘Repent, while there is time.’

‘Am I not a good king?’

‘The life you lead is not a good one.’

‘You are insolent, fellow.’

‘If truth be insolence then I am. Remember the Cities of the Plain. God moves in a mysterious way. Repent, lord King. Turn from your evil ways. If you do not you will be destroyed. The end is near . . . nearer than you think. Repent, repent while there is still time.’

A sudden rage seized Richard. He drew his sword, but the man had disappeared among the trees.

He remained in the clearing staring ahead of him. Thus his friends found him.

‘What ails you, Sire?’ asked one of them.

‘’Tis nought. An insolent fellow . . . a woodman mayhap.’

‘Dost wish us to find him, Sire?’

Richard was silent for a few moments. Find the fellow. Cut out his tongue. Make him remember to his dying day that on which he had insulted the King.

Nay. It was the truth. He had reverted to the wildness of his youth. The manner in which he behaved was truly not becoming to a king. A man should not be smitten for speaking the truth.

‘Leave him,’ he said. ‘Doubtless he was mad.’

It was but a month or so later when he was plagued by an attack of the tertian fever. The ague possessed him more firmly than ever before. He felt sick unto death and as he lay on his bed he remembered the man of the woods.

Pictures of his past life kept flashing before his eyes: Rearing horses, showers of arrows, boiling pitch falling over castle walls, the lust of battle which had sometimes overcome his sense of justice. Now and then he had killed for the sake of killing. He thought of the Saracen defenders of Acre whom he had caused to be slaughtered in a fit of rage because Saladin had delayed keeping to the terms of their agreement. Thousands slaughtered on the whim of a king – and not only Saracens, for Saladin had naturally been obliged to retaliate and slaughter Christians. He had always wanted to be just and honourable in battle. So often he had been lenient with his enemies. Why must he forget those numerous occasions and remember the isolated few when he had lost all sense of honour in order to appease his temper? And there was one other to whom he had caused great suffering. Berengaria! He remembered her at the tournament at Pampeluna, a fresh innocent child. Her eyes had followed him with adoration and he, knowing then of his father’s relationship with his betrothed Alice and determined to have none of her, had decided that he would take Berengaria. Yet he wanted no women and none knew that better than he. He had married her though. Kings must marry whatsoever their inclinations. They must get heirs. If they did not there was trouble. John . . . Arthur . . . what of the future? If he were to die now with his sins upon him . . .

One of his servants came into the room.

‘My lord, there is one without . . .’

Before Richard could answer a man had come into the room. He stood over the bed, the servant cowering in the background. Richard saw him through a haze of fever.

‘Who are you,’ he asked, ‘the angel of death?’

‘Nay, Sire,’ was the answer, ‘he has not come for you yet. It is Hugh, your Bishop of Lincoln.’

Richard closed his eyes. That old man whom many thought a saint; one of those churchmen who was not averse to acting against his own interest in what he believed to be right. Uncomfortable people! His father had found the leader of them all in Thomas a Becket.

Recently he had quarrelled with this man over a priest whom Richard wished to install in Hugh’s See and Hugh had objected to the King’s choice. Richard had told the Bishop that as he did not want this priest, he, Richard, would be prepared to allow things to remain as they were if the See would make him a present of a fur mantle at a cost of a thousand marks. Hugh had replied that he had no knowledge of furs and could not therefore bargain for a mantle but if the King wished to divert the funds of the See to his own use and there was no other way of settling the matter, Hugh had no alternative but to send him one thousand marks.