The Loves of the Lionheart Read online

  “I was not frightened, Sire, only concerned for your health.”

  “Still, it was good of you.”

  Once more he pulled her into his arms and kissed her. She pushed him away.

  “Sire, please. This is wrong. I belong to your son.”

  “Is he hurrying to complete the match? Where is he? He has not returned to England with me; is he eager to make you his wife?”

  Her eyes filled with tears as the realisation of what he was trying to tell her penetrated her muddled thoughts. He felt her pain, but it was as well. Now she would be in need of his comfort and he would not let her down.

  She bit her lips to keep them from creasing up and heard again what Richard had told her before he went away.

  “He does not want me, does he?” She asked.

  “He is a fool,” answered the King.

  He kissed her again and this time, she kissed him back.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  A Promise to a Friend

  RICHARD WAS STILL IN Aquitaine when he received a request from his close friend, Philip of France. Philip asked if he could visit him there. Richard was delighted. He was closer to Philip than he had ever been to a man before, or a woman either for that matter. They had so many things in common, so many mutual interests and wishes, it was impossible not to want to spend time with him.

  He greeted him with open hand, ready to clasp his, but Philip took a step closer and held him in his arms.

  “I am so glad to see you, my friend,” Richard said. “You will stay a few days?”

  “I will. I would like to spend time with you before you return to England.”

  Richard frowned.

  “I am not planning a return to England just yet,” he replied. “Come, have some wine. Or mead. I have a wonderful honey mead delivered to me only this morning from the monks at St Antony’s.”

  Philip followed him to the table where he poured two small silver goblets of the thick nectar-like drink and handed one to him.

  “Please, sit,” Richard said.

  He did so, but looked concerned. It was obvious he had something on his mind.

  “You have rested from your battle with your father,” Philip said hesitantly. “Your brother has been languishing at the French court, practicing his jousting and getting his wife with child.”

  Richard smiled.

  “Yes, I heard that. A son for Henry will put me even farther away from the throne.”

  “Do you want it?”

  “The throne? I’ve not really thought about it. Whilst Henry lives there is little point and I would not wish my brother dead for the sake of it. I have other lands. My mother will leave me the duchy; Aquitaine is her special love and it is mine too. Geoffrey will have Brittany and Henry will have England.”

  “And Normandy?”

  “That will go with England, I should think. Anyway, my plan is to gather enough funds to mount a crusade to the Holy Land. I would like you to join me, Philip. We could achieve great things together; we could conquer the infidel and win Jerusalem.” He paused and looked thoughtfully at his friend, hoping for some sign of acquiescence. “What do you think?”

  “That sounds good, my friend,” said Philip. “I remember that your mother accompanied my father on crusade, when she was married to him. Perhaps you will also take your wife on crusade with you.”

  Richard began to feel uneasy with the direction this conversation was taking. It had been a long time since he saw Alys, a long time since he thought about Alys if truth be told. He should have sent for her, had her here with him in Aquitaine, married her here, but he was enjoying the life of a wealthy duke and he had many invitations from beautiful women. He did not really want to be encumbered with a wife, but that was not his choice and never would be.

  “So,” he said at last, “this visit is not out of friendship for me, then.”

  “Of course it is, Richard. What else?”

  Richard lifted his eyebrows and gave his friend a cynical smile.

  “When you take the earliest opportunity to mention your sister, I have to suppose she was your only motive for this visit.”

  Philip sighed and put down his goblet.

  “Very well,” he said. “Let us be honest. It is long past time for you to make her your wife. She has been waiting for you since before the quarrel with your father; she has been languishing in Winchester and now your sister is leaving to marry the King of Sicily, she has no company to speak of.”

  “So I am to wed her out of sympathy? Because she has no one else?”

  “You are to wed her because it is your duty. A woman left alone and bored is likely to find mischief for herself.”

  Richard laughed.

  “What are you suggesting, Philip?” He said. “Your sweet little sister would never dream of doing anything immoral.”

  “How would you know what she is likely to do, Richard? You have seen nothing of her for, what, four years? She is a woman, a woman in need of a man.”

  “Alys will always be faithful; it is in her nature.”

  “You cannot expect her to wait patiently while you play with every comely female you find. She has needs too, you know. If you do not want her, tell my father so. At least then he will be free to find her another husband. Although that may be difficult. Who will want a princess who has been rejected by another man?”

  An image of Alys crept into Richard’s mind. He clearly saw her beautiful dark auburn hair, her figure not yet come to bloom when last he saw her. And when was that? Before he left to fight his brother’s battle with his father, when she had crept into his bedchamber in the dead of night and nearly got herself killed for her trouble.

  She was a child, a little girl then, but he heard what her brother was saying. She was a little girl no longer; she was a woman in need of a man and it was up to him to claim her. He knew that, had known it all along, and he could delay no longer.

  Yet whenever he thought of Alys, her image was pushed aside in his mind by that Navarrese Princess who had smiled so enchantingly. He released a heavy sigh.

  “There is something else,” Philip said.

  “Which is?”

  “The Pope has sent Cardinal Peter of Saint Chrysogonus to England. He has commanded King Henry to proceed with the marriage on pain of an interdict on his continental lands.”

  Richard could only stare for a moment. This was it then; he was out of options. But hell, he hated to be coerced. He wanted to make up his own mind when to wed the French Princess, not be told by the Pope.

  “Why have they sent you?” He asked. “Why have I not heard from my father about this?”

  “He has refused,” Philip replied.

  “Refused? Refused the Pope’s command? I do not believe that. The last thing he wants is a repeat of the Becket affair. Why would he refuse?”

  Philip’s mouth twisted thoughtfully for a few moments.

  “You have heard nothing then?” He said.

  “About what?”

  “There is talk, Richard.”

  “Talk? There is always talk. Talk about what?”

  Philip drew a deep, decisive breath then drained his goblet and got to his feet.

  “I mean that you need to make haste for England and claim your bride. I can tell you no more.”

  “I hear what you are saying, Philip,” Richard said at last. “I will return to England and do my duty by your sister.”

  Philip stood and put his hands on his friend’s shoulders, pulled his forehead to touch his in a gesture of true friendship.

  “Thank you, my friend,” he said. “My father will be pleased. He was beginning to doubt you, but I told him you would never betray his daughter.”

  “No, of course not,” said Richard. “It was only that time rushed by too quickly.”

  He turned away to pour more of the delicious honey mead and as he did so, he closed his eyes and tried to recapture the image of Alys, but all he could see was the lovely visage of the Princess of Navarre.


  RICHARD HAD ALMOST forgotten how gloomy England could be. It was a rough journey; the channel was storm ridden, the ship rocked around so much he thought he would be tossed over the side.

  There was just one night to spend in an inn on the coast before he travelled on to Winchester. He wanted no fuss, so made a point of not revealing his identity to anyone there. He had a couple of men with him, no more. It would be best if no one knew he was in the country; he wanted to arrive by stealth and, if Philip was to be believed, his sister would be glad of the surprise. He was not certain his father would be just as glad, but it had to be done.

  He still could not understand why he had not had word from the King about this threat from the Pope, though. Perhaps his despatch had failed to arrive; perhaps Philip had got there first or perhaps the King had more important things to do. He must have had many tasks more urgent than his son’s future. One of those things was to make a spectacle of himself in Canterbury Cathedral.

  Richard knew why he had done it, allowed himself to be publicly flogged like some criminal. It had nothing to do with remorse or wanting to be unburdened of his sin; it was to impress his subjects who had begun to resent him after Becket’s death. It seemed to have worked as well and Richard could not help but admire the cunning behind such a scheme.

  Now he rode across the drawbridge, his men riding behind him, and made his presence known to the guards before dismounting and passing his reins over to a stable hand. He stood for a moment, staring up at the grey, wet stone of the castle and trying to summon the courage for the task ahead.

  He was a warrior, had been a warrior for as long as he could remember. He had led his own army at the age of only sixteen, in the days before he quarrelled with his father and wanted to help defend him and his lands. He had never feared a battle, no matter the odds. He had always known he would emerge the victor; he always did.

  But this task was different. He was about to go to the maid to whom he had been betrothed these eight years past and tell her they must set a date for their nuptials. The business of wedding and bedding the Princess Alys had arrived at last, the business of getting an heir to the many titles and lands over which he ruled could be delayed no longer. But he was still angry that it was the Pope who was ordering this, that the decision had been snatched away from him. Of course, it was still his father’s decision, not his, and it was only now that he stopped to ask himself why Henry had done nothing about it without the Pope’s interference.

  It was likely the rebellion he had taken part in, the rising of his brothers and his mother against the King. Resentment still lingered between the two men, ready to rise up at the slightest provocation, and time had done nothing to dispel that resentment.

  Yet Philip said there was talk. What kind of talk? Richard could not even guess, but he was about to find out.

  He began to make his way inside the castle. It was getting late, would soon be night and he wanted to be fed and settled in his chamber before darkness fell. This was not a conversation he wanted to have by candlelight.

  Entering the great hall unannounced and just as supper was starting, he stood watching for a few moments before anyone noticed him, stood watching his father enjoying a juicy leg of chicken and laughing over some remark or other he had made to his lovely companion. Richard frowned, wondering for a fleeting moment who this companion was, and the realisation jolted him.

  “Alys?” He said.

  Henry lifted his head quickly and Alys turned to look at Richard with fear in her eyes. It was definitely fear, there could be no other interpretation of it. But why should she be afraid of him? They had parted on good terms, certainly, although he had needed to be firm with her, tell her the truth of the situation then. But that was no reason for fear.

  Henry got to his feet, moved swiftly round the table and strode toward his son, his arms out in greeting.

  “Richard,” he said. “I had no idea you were coming. Why did you not send word?”

  “I thought to surprise my bride,” he answered.

  “You have certainly done that,” said Henry, then he turned to Alys. “What say you? A great surprise indeed.”

  She got up from the table, pulling the two halves of her voluminous cloak closer together. She came to stand before Richard, dropped a curtsey but got no closer. She made no reply.

  “Come,” said Henry. “Sit. Eat.”

  Richard removed his mantle and slid into the bench before the table, the sight and smell of the food making him realise how hungry he was. He reached for some of the chicken and tore off a chunk of the bread.

  He ate in silence for a while, until the food had gone, but felt the eyes of both his companions on him as he washed the food down with ale before he spoke.

  “I had a visit from Philip,” Richard began. “He told me of the Pope’s command.”

  “Ah.”

  “Why did you not tell me yourself?”

  “I have had no opportunity,” Henry replied quickly.

  Ignoring the servants, he poured more ale for his son, poured it himself. Richard’s eyes moved from his father to his betrothed, saw that her eyes were firmly fixed on her plate although she ate nothing. Something was not right here; he knew it, he sensed it, but he could not quite fathom what that might be.

  Was Henry embarrassed that the Pope had been forced to interfere in what should be a private matter for him and his son? It seemed unlikely and what was causing Alys to turn that charming pink colour?

  “Well, I am here now,” said Richard. He looked at Alys. “I promised your brother there would be an early date for our wedding.”

  “There is no rush,” Henry muttered.

  “No rush? The Pope threatens an interdict on all our lands abroad; do you want more trouble with the church? It is unnecessary. What say you, Alys?”

  Her eyes met his, for the briefest of moments, then she concentrated her gaze once more on her plate.

  “As you wish, Your Grace,” she said, so softly he could barely hear.

  “You do not seem very enthusiastic,” he said. “The last time we met, you were so anxious for our marriage you even crept into my bed in the dead of night.”

  Alys gasped, her eyes darted from him to Henry and back again.

  “What’s this?” The King demanded.

  “Richard is jesting, Your Majesty,” she said quickly.

  “Nothing of the sort,” Richard said. “Did I dream that I woke to find you sitting beside me, demanding to know when we would be wed? Did I dream that I nearly sank my knife into your throat?”

  “That is not fair,” Alys protested. “Your father will think there was something not right about it.”

  “There was something not right about it,” Richard argued. “But it was a long time ago and things are different now. I came back to fulfil my duty to you. We will be married at the first opportunity. It is settled. Now, I am tired and I shall retire to my bed.”

  He pushed back the bench, drained his tankard and stood up. As he made his way to the door, he turned his head and raised a playful eyebrow at Alys.

  “Try not to find your way to my bed this night,” he said with a grin.

  Then he was gone, leaving Alys to stare after him with quivering lips and tearful eyes. Henry took her hand and squeezed it.

  “Do not fret, my love,” he said.

  “Do not fret?” She repeated. “What else is there to do? Your son wants his bride. Are you going to refuse him, risk an interdict, start a quarrel with Rome?”

  “I shan’t let him have you.” His warm hand stroked her cheek, his fingers caressed that cheek and he turned her lips to meet his, kissed them gently. “I told you once that I would annul my marriage to Eleanor and make you my Queen. It is not too late.”

  “Why does he want me now?” Alys demanded, pulling her face away. She jumped to her feet and backed away from him. “You told me he did not want me. Had you not told me that, I would never have allowed it to happen.”

  His mouth turned down in
a sardonic tilt.

  “Actually, I don’t think I did,” he said. “I said he was a fool. That was all the answer I gave you when you asked.”

  She stared at him in horror, her thoughts racing as she tried to recapture the exact words he had spoken that night, but she could not. She shook off the royal hand which tried to stop her and fled to her bedchamber. She felt dirty, sullied and worthless. Had she thought for one moment that her prince would come for her one day, she would never have allowed his father to sleep beside her, to take what was his.

  Now what would become of her when Richard learned the truth? She lay on her bed and fought back the self pity which threatened to swell up and consume her. She remembered well that night, before he had left to fight a war against his own father, how she had crept into his chamber and woken him to ask about her future.

  Had he wanted her he had only to say so. Now it was too late. Now she had enjoyed his father, the King, almost every night and this was not a thing that could be kept hidden. Her one chance to love Richard had been snatched away from her. Had he returned but a few months earlier, she might have deceived him into marrying her, but not now. It was too late for that now. She had taken his father in his place and that could never be rectified.

  Terror clutched at her heart. During the past years many rumours had come to her ears about the man she should have married and she did not like what she heard. He was a cruel man, a man who massacred his enemies without mercy, guilty and innocent alike, and congratulated himself over their graves.

  Despite the King’s blustering that he would marry her, she did not really believe it. She had crept into Richard’s chamber that night to ask what her future would be. Now she knew she had no future.

  Her own sobs shut out the sound of footsteps at the threshold of her chamber, shut out the sound of the door creaking slowly open. She lay on her back, her eyes tightly closed and a kerchief pressed against them in an effort to quench the salty tears that fell and settled on the pillow beneath her ears.

  She was hot, despite the cold weather, and had pushed the bed covers down. All that covered her was a linen shift and the mound of her stomach was clear to any man with eyes to see.