Coming down they told what they had seen and within a few minutes the church bells were ringing out a warning. This was the sound for alarm. The knights at their tournament heard it; they hurried into the city; the gates were closed; boiling pitch was prepared and carried to the battlements. Everyone was ready for action and determined to hold Rouen with an even greater determination because of the perfidy of the French in violating a truce which they had proclaimed.

Thus when Philip of Flanders and young Henry led the attack they were repulsed. The surprise was lacking; the citizens were ready for them and their little strategy might never have been.

All through the night the battle raged and the next day the watchers from the city’s walls gave a great shout of joy for the King of England’s army was seen approaching. The siege would soon be over.

In a short time the English were within sight of the French and the battle was about to begin. Louis, who was not averse to besieging a town, disliked the thought of hand-to-hand battle. He had never lost his revulsion to bloodshed and he now heartily wished that he had never embarked on the campaign to take Rouen. When he heard that the English had already attacked his rear-guard and inflicted severe casualties, he was so sure he could not win in a hand-to-hand fight that he sent messengers to Henry to ask for a truce and request that he might retire with his troops some miles from the town where he and the King could parley.

Not realising at this stage that the French had perfidiously broken the truce they had made with the citizens of Rouen and secretly not wishing to do battle with an army in which his son was fighting against him, Henry agreed to allow the French to withdraw.

He was not surprised nor was he displeased when news was brought to him that during the night they had fled and had not stopped riding until they crossed the borders of France.

Henry laughed aloud. It was always good to force a retreat without the loss of blood. That was an easy victory. He only had to appear, to strike terror into his opponents. This would teach young Henry a lesson. He would see that it was not easy to oppose his father.

What rejoicing there was when he entered his city of Rouen! He praised those valiant men and women who had withstood the siege. He sent for the young men who had climbed the tower and when he heard their story he embraced them.

‘You did well,’ he said. ‘It shall not be forgotten.’

Whether it would or not remained to be seen, for Henry was one who often forgot his promises; but he could always make people happy because they had won his approval to such an extent that he made the promise.

He went into the church and gave thanks to God and St Thomas à Becket, for he was certain that it was the Archbishop who had sent those men up to the tower and had saved his city of Rouen.


* * *

Richard, the King’s second son, was not yet eighteen. More warlike than his brothers, he exulted in the necessity to take up arms. He was determined to excel on the battlefield and to hold Aquitaine against his father. He hated his father. It was true that his brothers were impatient with the old King, that they believed, he had cheated them of their inheritance, that they had taken up arms against him, but none of them hated him as Richard did.

All his life he had seen his father as the devil – the evil genius of their life. His mother had believed this and she was wise and clever and he loved her even as he hated his father.

He longed to be with her, but she was her husband’s captive. When Richard thought of that he was so filled with fury that he longed to kill his father. And he would, he promised himself. How gleefully he would cut off his head and send it to his mother. She would appreciate that. Together they would make a ballad of it; they would sing it in harmony.

He had a double mission now – it was not only to defeat his father and become true ruler of Aquitaine but to set his mother free. He wished that he were older. He was a born fighter but no one took so young a man seriously, and his father had created an aura about himself; he was becoming known as the invincible lion. Yet he was ageing, and it would not always be so. The King of France was against him; so were his other sons, Henry and Geoffrey. Surely he could not stand out for ever against such opposition? And when the Archbishop had been murdered it seemed as though the whole world was against him. Could people have admired him for performing that humiliating penance? Richard could not believe this could be so. Surely he had demeaned himself, and yet since he had done it, he had had great success in England. Attempts to take it from him had failed. But it would be different in Normandy and Aquitaine. He was not going to win there.

He exulted to think of the armies of the King of France and men such as Philip of Flanders. Henry would soon be in command of his kingdom. So must Richard be in command of his.

How he enjoyed riding at the head of troops, his pennants flying.

‘My best loved son,’ his mother had said, ‘you were born to lead men. I thank God that you are the one to inherit Aquitaine. Indeed I would never have allowed my native land to go to anyone else.’

They were supposed to rule it jointly, he and his mother, but since she had been her husband’s prisoner she could not be said to have a say in the governing of the land. The people of Aquitaine loved her but they did not take all that kindly to her son. With his fair hair and bright blue eyes he did not appear to belong to the south. There was something alien about him and they sensed this. They only accepted him because he was his mother’s son but they were always aware that in him there was a strong strain of his Norman ancestry. He was a poet; he loved music. In that, he was his mother’s son. But they could not forget that his father was Henry Plantagenet whose mother had been the granddaughter of the Norman Conqueror.

So, when he rode through Aquitaine trying to rouse men to his banner in order to preserve his inheritance from his avaricious father, the knights of Aquitaine were not eager to join him.

News was brought to him that his father, having assured himself that England was safe, was on his way to Aquitaine to settle matters there. Richard realised that he was very like his brothers in that while his father was at a distance he could rage against him but the thought of coming face to face with him in battle struck terror into his heart. The old King’s reputation could not be forgotten. All men were aware of it and the sturdiest quailed before it. He had that rare quality possessed by his grandfather and great-grandfather which had often resulted in their winning a battle before it had started simply by filling their enemies’ hearts with fear and the certainty that they could not win against such a man.

Richard now surveyed his company. He could see the fear in their faces. He suspected that if they knew that his father was marching on them many would in sheer terror desert.

He called a messenger to him and told him to ride with all speed to the army of the King of France which he believed was in Normandy. ‘Take these notes,’ he said, ‘and give one to each of my two brothers and one to the King of France.’

He watched the messenger ride away. He felt safe now. They would not let him be defeated. They would send help.


* * *

His father had still not come but he was approaching. Richard watched for the messenger’s return. With him must come aid. Perhaps his brothers themselves. If they had taken Rouen they would be flushed with victory and that would be the best news he could receive, for it would mean that they had defeated his father and the myth of his invincibility would have been exploded.

But no soldiers came, and the messenger returned.

‘Alas, brother,’ wrote Henry, ‘we were not successful at Rouen, but were forced to fly before our father’s troops. Now there is a truce and we wait to discuss terms with him. But one condition he has laid down is that we must send no aid to you.’

Richard clenched his fists in quiet rage. In some measure he possessed the Angevin temper but instead of being hot like his father’s it was cold. Richard would never lie on the floor and gnaw the rushes; he would never grow scarlet so that men believed he might drop to the ground in a fit. He grew pale; the blue eyes were like steel; but his anger was none the less fierce because it was cold.

He felt that anger now. For here he was a boy in age, with a small army, and he must stand alone against the greatest general of the age – his own father.

He himself might do it. His followers never would.

He knew he had no alternative but to retreat before his father. When he discussed the state of affairs with his most skilled knights they agreed with him.

‘The men would never stand and fight your father’s armies,’ they said. ‘They would tremble with fear at the prospect and desert before your father arrived.’

It was true. There was nothing to do but retreat.

What bitter humiliation! Henry marched through Aquitaine, extorting obedience from all. Richard marched south but he could not go on marching for ever. His men were deserting him. Soon there would be but a handful of them left.

At length he realised that he could retreat no more. He must face his father.

The meeting took place and when Richard looked into that strong face with its curly hair – a little greying now – clipped square on the forehead, the flaring nostrils, the leonine aspect, his emotions were mixed. The hatred was there; fear too; and he knew why men quailed before his father.

He knelt and put his face on the ground in a sudden access of wretchedness. He was beaten and he knew that he was too young as yet to stand up and face this man. He had been guilty of great folly and, although he hated his father more fiercely than he could ever hate anyone else, he must respect him.

Henry watched him in silence. My son, he thought. This handsome boy is my son Richard, the betrothed of Alice.

He felt a sudden tenderness for him – perhaps because he was his son, perhaps because he had taken his bride from him.

‘Rise, Richard,’ he said.

And when the boy stood so that they were face to face – and Richard must look down on him for he was several inches taller than his father – he put his arms about him and embraced him.

‘It is a sad thing,’ he said, ‘when a son takes up arms against his own father.’

Richard said nothing. A slightly sullen expression touched his lips.

‘Sad,’ went on the King, ‘and useless. You are a good fighter, they tell me, Richard. But there is more to battle than brandishing a lance, my boy. There’s subtlety and strategy. A good general knows when he should retreat and when he should advance. Well, let us say this: You knew when to retreat did you not, and when to show humility? Suffice it that you have been a worthy general. Now we will talk.’

He put his arm through Richard’s and they walked together.

‘I like not these quarrels,’ said the King. ‘Your brothers have come to their senses. I shall see them ere long. We are to have a meeting and it might be well if you joined us. I have much to say to you all, for I am not of a mind to endure these family quarrels.’

‘We are men,’ said Richard. ‘And men cannot be treated as boys.’

‘Both boys and men are given the treatment they warrant. Remember that and we shall understand each other. Now, my son, know this. There is now peace in Aquitaine. You are its Duke but the titles my sons hold, they hold under me. Remember that and we shall remain at peace.’

The King ordered that a banquet should be prepared and at table he kept his son beside him; and all noticed that he showed a certain fondness for him and that Richard was subdued though seeming sullen.

The next day the King sent for his son.

‘Go now and join your brothers at the Court of the King of France,’ he told him. ‘You will say that you have decided that there shall be no more strife in Aquitaine, and that you, like them, are now aware of the folly of your ways. Like them, you are at peace with your father. We shall all meet soon and then I shall tell you what my proposals are.’

Richard took his farewell of his father and rode towards the French border.

Henry was thoughtful. He could not contemplate Richard without thinking of Alice. The boy had said nothing of his bride. Did he never think of her?