The Loves of the Lionheart Read online

  Even if Richard had taken against her for some reason, decided he did not like her, even thought it would be hard to summon any desire for her, he should still honour the match. Philip could scarce believe he had taken against Alys; she was a comely maid, clean and presentable, certainly nothing to turn a man away. At least, she was the last time he saw her.

  He could not understand the delay. There had been rumours about Alys and King Henry, but Richard had since been there and had said nothing so Philip could only assume they were just that, rumours. Alys was living almost alone in the same castle as the King, unchaperoned; of course there would be talk.

  Richard could sense a battle from hundreds of miles away and was always sure to be in the thick of it, but he had to be made to spare some time to wed his betrothed.

  The birth of an illegitimate son had made the whole situation even more scandalous. Both of them were long past the age when a royal couple should marry and what does he do? Does he hurry home to England to wed Alys and take her to his bed? No, he finds himself a French whore on which to sate his lust and bear his son.

  It was an insult to his sister and Philip would ignore it no longer. The marriage had to be celebrated or there would be consequences. He had no wish to go to war with Henry and even less desire to go to war with Richard. Apart from the fact that he knew he had no hope of winning such a battle, he was Philip’s best friend. He really wanted nothing to spoil that friendship, but such was the way of the world.

  When no reply arrived to his letter, Philip was even more enraged. It would be a last resort to confront Richard with it, but it seemed that’s what was to happen. He had even written to Alys about it, but had received a few feeble lines in reply to the effect that it was the concern of King Henry and Prince Richard and that he must ask them.

  He invited Richard to the French court as his guest. Last time this topic had come to the fore, he had taken the trouble to go to him, but not this time. This time he was the King of France and Richard would pay homage to him as overlord of his lands in France. It would be unseemly for the King to go to him, but something needed to be settled, and settled soon.

  He welcomed his friend himself, came out into the courtyard of his chateaux to help him down from his horse and take him in his arms.

  “My friend,” he said. “Thank you for coming. It has been too long.”

  Yes, Richard thought; far too long since Philip had demanded he marry his sister. He had a good idea of the reason for this invitation.

  Inside, he pulled off his boots and took the wine he was poured. The journey was tiring, the weather warm and now he pulled off his leather jerkin and loosened his belt.

  He held up his goblet to his host.

  “This is welcome, Philip. Or should I say, ‘Your Majesty’?”

  “Philip will do for you, my friend.”

  “You have my condolences on the death of your father, but I am sure you will make a great king.”

  Philip’s eyes met his and he sipped his wine.

  “You have been busy yourself, I hear,” he said. “A son, no less.”

  Richard kept his eyes fixed on the red liquid which swirled about in his goblet. He was secretly thrilled to be a father; the way things had been going he didn’t think it would ever happen. His son would have all the honours he could give him, the best education, the best of everything and he would keep him by his side, make him a friend.

  He would care for the boy’s mother, too, would be certain she led a comfortable life and was not condemned for bearing a bastard child, like so many others.

  But it would not be right to be too obviously pleased about his son, not in the presence of the brother of his betrothed.

  “I named him for you, my friend,” Richard replied at last.

  “I heard and I am honoured. But what of his mother?”

  “She wishes to remain anonymous. It is best.”

  “And what of my sister?”

  The two men eyed each other warily. This moment had to come; there was no help for it. It had been coming for years and there was no escaping it.

  “Your sister is in England, with my father,” Richard replied.

  “I know where she is,” Philip replied, his voice rising. “I also know where she should be. With you. I don’t know what happened, Richard, but it seems you despise her now. Is that the case? If so, what has she done to make it so?”

  “I hoped my father might have had the decency to write to yours, but I suppose that was hoping for too much. A man who would keep his wife, the mother of his many children, locked away in damp castles, while he beds his son’s betrothed, cannot be trusted to do the honourable thing.”

  Philip gasped, stared in disbelief. His fingers went limp, spilling some of the wine from his goblet over them.

  “What did you say?” He said in a hoarse whisper.

  “I do not despise your sister, Philip,” said Richard. “But she can never be my wife. My father has known her and last I saw, she had miscarried of his child.”

  ALYS HAD EXPECTED A letter from Philip but when it finally arrived, she wished she had never read such words. It was filled with fury such as Alys had never felt before. The language he used was obscene, the names he called her such as she never thought to hear from her own brother.

  “It seems my brother thinks me a whore,” she said.

  “I, too, have word from him,” Henry answered, waving a similar parchment in his fingers. “He demands that I return you and your dowry to him immediately.”

  “And what is your answer?”

  Alys wished she could sink into the stone floor of the castle and disappear from sight for ever more. That first night, when she had bathed the King’s wounds, showed clearly in her memory and if there was one miracle she could be granted, it would be to go back to that time. If that were possible, she would slink off somewhere else to sleep and when he assured her that Richard had no use for her, she should have written and demanded to know it from him.

  But what use were regrets now? She was shamed, disgraced before the whole of Europe and could never go back and change that.

  Henry moved to stand before her, to pull her into his arms, to kiss her forehead, her cheek, to hold her close.

  “He shall not have you,” he said. “If it means war, he shall not have you. I will protect you; I will keep you safe.”

  Alys rested her face against his chest and bit her lip.

  “When you talk like this, Henry, I can love you. I can be glad of what we did together, glad Richard has rejected me.”

  “But not other times?”

  “You might well love me, Henry, and I love you. But that changes nothing. I am outcast, shamed, disgraced. I can never be your wife, nor any man’s wife. Those are not things you should want for a woman you say you love.”

  He breathed deeply, held her closer.

  “Then I will arrange the annulment.”

  “You have said that so many times, I almost think you believe it.”

  “I do believe it; it can happen.”

  “Have you done anything about it?” She demanded. “In all these years, since the first time you gave me your assurance, have you once approached the Archbishop or the Pope?”

  He made no reply, only moved to kiss her. She pulled away.

  “I thought not,” she said. “You have condemned me to an impossible position, Henry. I could be content as your wife, but it will never happen and now even my own brother despises me.”

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  The Death of a King

  NOTHING WAS DONE, NOTHING changed. Eleanor still languished in her castle gaol, but Alys could summon little sympathy for her. She had always been afraid of Eleanor, but that fear did not diminish her admiration for the woman.

  Alys’ father and Eleanor’s first husband, King Louis, never shirked from telling his children what a whore his first wife was. The tales he told about her sent shivers down the spines of all the girls, including Eleanor’s own two daughters. />
  They could hardly blame him. Eleanor was unfaithful to him on many occasions, most notably during the second crusade on which she accompanied him. Rumours abounded in the Holy Land that she was bedding her own uncle, almost in the presence of her husband.

  It was all rumour, but rumour had to start somewhere, did it not? It was not rumour that she had abandoned her children to run away with Henry Plantagenet. Having lost her only child, Alys was certain that if she should ever be blessed with another, nothing would tempt her to leave that child.

  But although she felt little pity for Henry’s wife, neither did she feel herself entitled to condemn her. After all, was she any more of a whore than Alys herself? Yes, she was, she assured herself. She had given herself to only one man, not dozens, as King Louis would have everyone believe of Eleanor. And she had raised up arms against her husband and that husband was the King of England. She was imprisoned for treason; she was fortunate not to have lost her head.

  But if Henry did decide to sentence her to death, he would at least be free to marry Alys, to do the honourable thing by her.

  No more children were conceived and for that, she was thankful. She had both loved and hated this man for many years, but she had no wish to give her life for his lust.

  Now there was further unrest, further quarrels between Prince Richard and his brother, Henry. Geoffrey was married to Constance of Brittany and now had control of that province, but young Henry had joined the barons of Aquitaine against his brother.

  It seemed so far away, but the King announced his intention to go to France, to join Richard against Henry. Alys thought that the strangest thing, for him to take Richard’s part against his eldest son and heir. She had her suspicions as to his reason, but was she being vain to think it was about her?

  “Why?” She asked. “Why would you side with Richard. You dislike him. I would even go so far as to suggest that you despise him.”

  She could see months, perhaps years, of loneliness if Henry went away now and perhaps he would never return. More battles, more wars with his own children. John was the only one with whom he had no quarrel but Alys was not convinced that had anything to do with loyalty. It was more likely that John cared about no one but himself and by flattering his father, when his relationship with his brothers was so unpredictable, he was more likely to be given something. As it is, he was known as John Lackland because, of all the lands the King owned, John was the only one who had none.

  “I owe it to him,” Henry answered her.

  “You owe it to him? You give him your support as compensation for stealing his bride, is that what you are saying?”

  Henry looked somewhat sheepish and she knew she had touched on the truth of it. But it mattered not at all, not now. Perhaps the time alone here would give her some respite. Or perhaps she would return to her brother’s court. How would Henry take that?

  “Perhaps I shall visit Philip,” she said.

  “No,” he said quickly. “You will stay here.”

  “Why, Henry? What is there for me here? If I go home, Philip might well still be able to find me a suitable match. Do you not want me to be happy?”

  “You are happy,” he replied tersely.

  “I have no future here, Henry,” she said, her voice rising. “Do you not see? You could go to fight with your son and never return. Then what will become of me? Philip will find me a husband, a man who will care for me, give me children.”

  “You are barren,” he answered. “You have not conceived since that first one.”

  “And how do you know that is not your failure?”

  He glowered, his complexion darkened, his fists clenched.

  “My seed still flows,” he answered.

  Then he turned and left her, began his journey to Aquitaine. It was the following day before Alys discovered the King had left her closely guarded.

  SHE SPENT HER TIME in riding, with her guards, in sewing and making music. She even tried writing songs, as Richard had once told her he did, but she feared she had not the talent for it. The months dragged by and she heard little of what was going on in Europe; she received not a single letter from Henry, this man who pretended to love her, who made her promises he had no intention of keeping.

  Henry had squandered her youth for his own selfish desires. She was in her twenty third year and would soon be unmarriageable. Yet, officially, she was still betrothed to Richard. That betrothal had never been broken, despite everyone concerned knowing it would lead nowhere. She could marry no one else while that promise still held, but neither could he.

  She wondered why he had done nothing about dissolving the union; perhaps because he had found no one else he wished to wed. Or more likely because he needed her brother to help him mount his crusade and had no wish to quarrel with him, certainly not over Alys. She was not that important; that had been made clear to her in more ways that she could count.

  Once upon a time, Alys had told herself that Richard would love her and it would be easy now, as she daydreamed alone, to believe he stayed single because he still loved her. But common sense told her it was not true and never could be. She was the King’s whore, a position to which she had never aspired, but a position which had been thrust upon her anyway.

  The messenger arrived on a day when the sun shone hot and sticky. He rode into the courtyard and slid from his horse, called the stable hand to take the animal and see to his needs, then he told the steward he had an urgent message for the Princess Alys.

  She made her way outside, saw at once that the seal on the parchment was that of her sister, Marguerite. She took the scroll from the grimy hands of the messenger and sent him off to the kitchen for refreshments, while she began to break through the wax. But she sensed that she was being observed and she glanced up to see the steward, standing too close and watching her.

  Quickly, she clutched the scroll tightly and hurried inside to her chamber, her heart beginning to pound in her chest. Marguerite did not write often, but when she did she usually had something important to impart. King Henry was fighting Marguerite’s husband, the young King, yet Marguerite had found the time to write. That in itself was terrifying.

  Alys’ hands shook as she read the last words. Henry, the young King, was dead of dysentry at twenty years of age. He had caught the gut rotting disease while fighting his father and brother on a mud clogged field.

  Marguerite wrote that King Henry refused his son’s final request to see him and forgive him, because he feared it was a trick. She declared that she would never forgive him for that. On hearing of his son’s death, King Henry’s words were: He cost me much, but I wish he had lived to cost me more.

  Alys scoffed in contempt when she read that. Young Henry had been crowned in his father’s lifetime with the promise of power over some of the King’s territories, but King Henry could never bear to part with any authority, not even to his son.

  Marguerite went on to offer her dower lands to her sister, in return for an annual pension.

  While I am in possession of such a wealthy dower, she wrote, King Philip will force me into a marriage with someone else. I do not want another husband; I loved Henry and I always will. Please, do this for me, Alys. You will be Countess of Vexin and have all the castles and territories that go with that title. Such a dowry will help you more than me.

  Alys sent word at once, agreeing to her sister’s proposal. This was one decision which was hers to make and she wanted no interference from anyone.

  Marguerite suggested with that last line that a suitable match might still be available to Alys, if she had enough to offer. Perhaps she was right. Nothing had turned out as Alys had expected when she came here as a child, so who knew what could happen with time?

  And now Richard was the heir to the English throne, as well as all the other territories and lands of the Angevin Empire. One day, if he lived, he would be King of England and Alys should have been his Queen.

  The death of the young King spread an atmosphere of gloom
over the castle as they awaited the return of King Henry. Alys missed her lover, although he had angered her many times before he left. She missed his company, she missed his lovemaking at which he was skilled and she missed his conversation.

  When he finally arrived, it was with Richard at his side. On seeing the tall, red headed prince riding into the courtyard alongside his father, Alys wanted to run away and hide. After their last encounter, she had hoped never to see him again. But now he was here and the humiliation almost consumed her.

  Pretend, that was what she needed to do. She must pretend that she had chosen Henry over him, that she was content with the relationship, that she had no regrets. Had he been a more attentive suitor, it would never have happened. She must stop blaming herself, stop blaming the King. She must convince herself that the fault was Richard’s; only then would she be able to face him.

  “Alys!” Henry’s voice called out from the great hall.

  She was standing at the top of the iron spiral staircase, where she could see down into the hall and watch both men throw their cloaks aside, pull off their boots and pour ale. She swallowed hard to give herself courage, then she drew a deep breath and hurried down the rickety structure. On reaching the bottom, she ran forward and threw herself into the arms of the King, ignoring Richard as though he were not there.

  “I have missed you so much,” she said.

  She lifted her lips to his and he kissed her with a sort of reluctant passion. He wanted her, she could feel it, but not with his son so close.

  “What can I say, Henry?” She went on. “Marguerite wrote me. I’m so sorry. How tragic that you have lost your eldest son.”

  She turned, glanced at Richard as though she had only then noticed his presence. She moved away from Henry and dropped a quick curtsey.

  “Your Highness,” she said softly, her eyes cast down. “My condolences on the loss of your brother.”

  Richard merely nodded, his expression impassive, but it was that impassivity which sent a shiver through Alys. Henry was watching her, Richard was watching her and she felt sure she could not stay in the presence of these two together for a moment longer.