Jean Plaidy - The Prince of Darkness

She smiled, looking right back to the turbulent years when she and Henry Plantagenet had been first passionate lovers and then equally passionate enemies.

Yes, Richard’s wishes should be carried out. She would serve him in death as she always had in life.

She would go back to Fontevraud and spend the rest of her life there and she would make some show of repenting for her sins, which secretly she could not regret for she knew that if by some miracle she could regain her youth and vitality she would commit them all over again and she was too much of a realist, and her mind was still too active and lively, for her to be able to deceive herself that it would have been otherwise.

Now she took stock of her daughter, who was so obviously pregnant.

‘Take care of yourself, my dear child,’ she said. ‘It is tragic that Richard cannot help Raymond. Your husband must be strong against his enemies for you will get little help from John.’ She frowned. ‘John will be the King now. It could not be my grandson. Arthur is too young. He is all Breton and the English would never accept him.’

‘Mother,’ said Joanna, ‘do you not think that there will be those who will attempt to put Arthur on the throne?’

‘There are always those who are ready to find a cause for conflict,’ she said. ‘In England though, John will be safe. It is here that he must take great care. Philip is always ready to seize a pretext for attack. It will always be so, for the kings of France are the natural enemies of the dukes of Normandy. Oh God,’ she went on, ‘I fear for John. I fear for Normandy and England … This is a tragic blow not only to us, my daughters, but for the kingdom.’

Then with characteristic energy she made plans for them. Joanna must go back to her husband without the help she had come to ask from Richard; as for Berengaria, she might stay with Joanna for a while and then perhaps join her sister until she could make plans for her future. Her brother Sancho the Strong would no doubt welcome her at his court; and although Eleanor did not say so, in her thoughts came the notion that perhaps a husband would in due course be found for Berengaria. She was still of an age to bear children. Oh yes, it might well be she would yet make a marriage that was more truly one than that with the late King of England.

But now there was nothing to do but mourn.

They took him to Fontevraud that his wishes should be carried out. His heart had been taken from his body and it was said that it astounded all who beheld it because of its size. He was indeed the Lion-Hearted. They dressed him in the robes he had worn when he had been crowned in England; and so they laid him in his tomb. The women who had loved him wept for him, and Hugh of Lincoln, with whom he had had many a difference during his lifetime and who had often reproached him for the life he led, performed the last rites of the Church over his body, and while he prayed for his soul he wept for the passing of one who for all his sins had been a great king.

An uneasy atmosphere had prevailed in the Court of Brittany since the arrival of that unexpected visitor, Prince John, Count of Mortain, brother of Richard I of England – a man whose reputation was such as to lead the people to believe the legend that the Devil’s blood had at one time infected the House of Anjou and that the Prince of Darkness had come to Earth again in the person of Prince John.

John had been guilty of almost every known sin during the thirty-two years he had lived to plague those around him, so it would seem that he had plenty of time left to him to commit more; and he showed every intention of living up to those expectations.

He was under medium height – a small man in a family of tall brothers. Richard was a giant in comparison and John had always been very much aware of the advantage that gave him. Lest any should be under the impression that a lack of inches implied weakness he was determined that all about him should be aware of his importance, so he surrounded himself with companions who applauded all his actions, knowing that if they did not they would be out of favour which could result in disastrous consquences for them; he dressed in a flamboyant manner – his clothes must be of the most costly material and he liked to adorn himself with fine jewels; he strutted through the castles he visited as though he owned them and was the overlord of all; he was greedy and extravagant, his temper was as violent as that of his father had been, yet Henry II had always endeavoured to be just, even when his rage was in possession of him; John had no concern with justice. The only thing that mattered to him was his own pleasure; and one of his greatest delights was to see people cringe before him while he taunted them with the power he held over them. Because he was aware that his brother Richard had power over him, he was determined to remind everyone else he had power over them.

He hated Richard because he was jealous of him and bitterly he coveted what was his. Richard was known as the Lion Heart and secretly John knew that he himself was John the Coward. Richard was the greatest of his age; John was not interested in war except when it was victorious. Then he would enjoy pillaging the towns, setting fire to the buildings and raping the women. But it did not always turn out like that; and as one of his greatest pleasures was to sport with women he reckoned he could do that without having to face the preliminaries of war which might not always bring the results he sought.

He was comparatively pleased with his lot. He was the youngest son of a great king; and he often laughed to think how he had deluded his father. Almost to the end Henry had believed that his beloved youngest was the only one who loved him. Loved him! As if John ever loved anyone but John. He believed it was folly to do so. How could one get what one wanted if one was ever swayed by emotions towards others which could be self-detrimental? It had given him a great deal of pleasure to realise how he had pulled the wool over his father’s eyes. Henry Plantagenet was supposed to be a wise king, and yet his youngest son had deceived him completely, and while Henry was talking of leaving his kingdom to the only son who loved him, John was making preparations to desert him and join Richard, which at that time was the profitable thing to do.

But his father had discovered just before his death what a perfidious son he had. Some said it hastened his death. So much the better, thought John. He was finished, that old man. But there had remained Richard.

How he had rejoiced when his brother had gone off to the Holy Land. He didn’t often resort to prayer but he had then – urging God to send a poisoned arrow through his brother’s heart. It did not seem an unreasonable request since Richard was constantly in the midst of fierce and bloodthirsty Saracens. How like Richard to escape.

John congratulated himself that he had come very near to taking the kingdom. That would have served Richard right. If a man was a king he should be in his kingdom not gallivanting over the world trying to win glory by conquering Jerusalem. Which, John thought with great satisfaction, he had failed to do; and moreover, found himself the prisoner of his enemies. A curse on those who rescued him and particularly on young Blondel who had gone out singing all over Europe until he found him and making such a pretty story of it that the people regarded their errant king as a hero of romance.

Well, that was in the past and there was the future to think of.

Richard, curse him, was back; strong and healthy and only just turned forty – ten years older than John, but what was ten years? They all said he looked like a god and that he was invincible. The King of France, who had, while Richard was in the hands of his enemies, been prepared to work against him to such an extent that he would have put John on the throne, as soon as Richard returned had cried off. It seemed that everyone was afraid of Richard. He was said to have some mystical quality. He was the great hero – Cœur de Lion. Yet he had no heir and was chary of getting one.

John laughed aloud at the thought. There had been their father lusting after every woman he saw and being a king not inclined to deny himself the pleasure of their company which in the circumstances they would find very difficult to refuse; and he, John, was of a similar nature. His father had a romantic streak; he liked to get a woman to his bed with fair words and promises and he was said to have an unrivalled gift for this; with John it was different. He dispensed with such preliminaries. He liked a woman to show fear; it made the experience so much more exciting for him. Well, there they were, his father and himself – and he had no reason to believe that his brothers, since dead, were any different and he was sure they had enjoyed this pastime as well as that of hunting the deer or the boar. But Richard was different – Richard the strong man, the Lion Heart – he had no fancy for women but chose his beloved friends from his own sex.

John could never think of that without giving away to gusty laughter. It was his weakness – just as the tertian fever was; and it seemed comic to John because both weaknesses were so alien to the image which Richard had always presented to the world.

It was a most convenient state of affairs, for Richard, being what he was, seemed unlikely to get himself an heir and while Richard was disinclined to do this and Berengaria remained unfruitful, the crown of England was well within John’s grasp.

That was what he wanted. He longed to possess it. He could work himself into a violent passion just thinking of it. His father had promised it to him – that was when he was fighting against Richard. Yes, Henry II had actually named him as his heir. But Richard was there to claim the throne and their mother was behind him. Richard had always been the favourite with her; yet she had been a good mother to him so he couldn’t complain too much – not that he would dare. He had always been afraid of her and it wouldn’t have been so easy to deceive her as it had been his father. People had their peculiar ways. Take his mother for instance – a strong woman, a realist if ever there was one and a born ruler even though she was a woman; yet she had a weakness which was her love for her children. She knew that he, John, had worked against Richard, had done everything in his power to snatch the crown while Richard was away – and she was determined to hold that crown for Richard and had shown her intentions clearly – yet when Richard had come home and might have been expected to kill John, or at least shut him away in a prison – which, from their point of view, they should have known would have been a wise thing to do – they had pardoned him. He suspected that his mother had pleaded for him with Richard, and the result – forgiveness and brotherly affection at least outwardly between them.

Richard had been slighting, of course, saying that John had been led astray and making it clear that he did not fear him because he didn’t believe him capable of conquest. Insulting – but it served John’s purpose at the time.

What he hoped for now was for Richard to die before having planted the fateful seed in Berengaria. A good strong attack of that fever – and there would be Richard, heirless, departed for ever; and all John would have to do was stretch out his hands and take the crown. But there was one other consideration and it was for this reason that John had come to Brittany.

Arthur! How he hated that boy. What airs the young fellow gave himself. He was haughty in the extreme and Frenchified too for the boy had spent a good many years at the court of France.

It was very unfortunate that Arthur’s father Geoffrey had been the elder brother. If only their births had been reversed – and he was Arthur’s father! John smiled wryly, lustfully contemplating Arthur’s mother, Constance. No longer young – she was mounting up to forty – she was still a comely woman who had had her adventures. Geoffrey had married her to get control of her estates of Brittany, and they already had a daughter, Eleanor, when he died from injuries received in a tournament, to which sport he was much addicted. He had left Constance with child which, alas, was born male and healthy and provided the reason for John’s uneasiness.

Arthur! The very name irritated him. His grandfather Henry had wished the boy to be named after him, but Constance, backed by the Bretons, was obstinate and they had chosen Arthur because of the associations of that name. He had pretensions to the throne of England, therefore let him be named after the legendary British king.