Marguerite turned away, a glaze of tears in her eyes. She would not stay and hear them talk as though her father were already dead. She saw William Marshall in the garden and went and joined him. The Count watched her. He believed she was telling William why she was upset.

The Count did not greatly care for the influence William Marshall had over Henry and Marguerite. He had been the knight-at-arms in the nursery when they were children and being such an old friend was too important to them. They both admired him far too much. William Marshall was one of those honourable men whose actions were predictable. He did not seek honours for himself; he was the sort of knight whose value Henry Plantagenet was aware of and the kind he liked to see beside his son. William Marshall and Count Philip of Flanders were as different as two men could be.

He turned his attention to the two young men and drew Henry out to talk of the wrongs he had suffered at the hands of his father.

‘You are in a different position, Philip,’ said the wily Count. ‘Poor Henry here is the son of a forceful man who will never give way. You are the son of a dying one.’

‘There is a great difference,’ Henry agreed. He was watching Marguerite and William the Marshall. The Marshall was obviously soothing her. He, Henry, should be doing that. He, too, hated to hear them talk as though Louis was dead. He had always said Louis had been a father to him. But at the same time he had been in leading strings and he did understand Philip’s resentment.

‘A great difference,’ went on the Count. ‘There is little Henry can do at this stage. His father is too strong for him. It will not always be so. Then we shall pledge ourselves to help him, shall we not, Philip?’

Philip agreed earnestly that they would.

‘But right at the start, we must not allow Philip to be put into leading strings from which we shall find it difficult to extricate him.’

‘I’ll not allow it,’ cried Philip shrilly. Then his face clouded. ‘She is right though. He has the crown still and the seal of office.’

‘You have been crowned, remember,’ said the Count. ‘And where is the seal of office?’

‘He keeps it in his bedroom, under his pillow.’

The Count smiled. ‘If we could lay our hands on the seal …’

‘What mean you?’ said Philip.

The Count looked from the young King of France to Henry. Henry however was watching his wife and William the Marshall who were walking together towards the courtyard.

‘If you had the seal, if it could appear that he had given it to you …’

‘He will not give it to me. Should I ask for it?’

‘No. The Queen will have told him that he must not give it to you. If you slipped your hand under his pillow. If you took it …’

‘I could!’ cried Philip. ‘But he would say that he did not give it to me.’

‘His word against yours! He is a sick man. He is often delirious. If you held the seal in your hands it would be yours.’

‘I will do it,’ breathed Philip. ‘It will be easy and when I have it I shall forbid my uncles to come to Court.’


* * *

The Count of Flanders walked in the gardens alone with Henry. He liked to walk there not because he admired the flowers – he scarcely noticed them – but because out of doors it was possible to talk without being overheard.

He was succeeding well; a born intriguer he was in his element. Life must for him be a continual adventure. He had returned from the Holy Land where he had lived excitingly and nothing would please him better than to rule France through its weak young King.

He had once thought he could hold a high office in England if he could have established young Henry there, but he was not so stupid as to think he was a match for Henry Plantagenet and he knew that the old lion was going to cling to power as long as there was breath in his body. His roar grew none the less menacing nor his claws less to be feared as he grew older. Philip, with a dying father, was a much better proposition.

He still must not lose sight of the old lion across the water. The vulture had to make sure he was not cheated of his prey. Young Henry was easy to handle. He was so resentful towards his father that he would always be ready to go into action against him if ever the opportunity offered. It was hardly likely that there would be much hope of success in that direction. But if old Henry died and young Henry was King, he would then be a subject worthy of the Count’s attention.

In the meantime, he must make sure of his position in France, while keeping an eye on Henry. He had been watching William the Marshall and he believed that he was making an attempt to influence Henry against him, the Count. This could not be permitted. He would feel very much happier if William the Marshall were somewhere else than in the service of young Henry.

Watching him with Marguerite recently an idea had occurred to him and he thought it a good one.

Marguerite was a beautiful and attractive girl and there was no doubt that Henry was very pleased with his wife. He was not given to the pursuit of women to such an extent as so many young men were, and he was a faithful husband.

The Count said: The Marshall is a handsome fellow.’

Henry agreed. ‘And what a knight! No one can succeed in tournament as well as he can except you, cousin.’

‘An attractive fellow,’ said the Count. ‘The ladies think so too, I believe.’

‘I daresay. But he has never been one much interested in women. It is all part of his knightly qualities to respect them. He’s the kind of knight they sing about in Aquitaine … the troubadours you know.’

‘I do know. They fall in love and adore their lady. They are chivalrous and would die for her. It seems an odd way to profess one’s devotion by offering to die. Marguerite’s half-sisters, I believe, are poets and songsters.’

‘It’s natural,’ said Henry. ‘They are my half-sisters too, you know. We share the same mother.’

‘And our William the Marshall is such a knight. It is clear that Marguerite shares her half-sisters’ admiration for these notions.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘She and the Marshall are … good friends, are they not?’

Henry flushed. ‘Why …’ he stammered, ‘we … have known William since our childhood. He … he was appointed our knight-at-arms.’

‘Some sentimental attachment,’ commented the Count of Flanders. ‘Well, it is fortunate that you are not a jealous man, Henry. How different I am! I did tell you the story, did I not? Do you remember how I had my wife’s lover beaten nigh unto death and to finish him off had him hung over a cess pool?’

‘You are not suggesting …’

‘My dear Henry, I certainly am not. But women are frail, and Walter of Les Fontaines was a knight who had won admiration wherever he appeared, for his chivalry and knightly ways. They did not prevent his getting into bed with my wife during my absence. I believe in fact that she lured him there. He would not admit it. Knightly to the end, you see! But that is what I always thought. Nay, you are not a jealous fellow, as I am. But let us talk of other matters. Did you know that Philip has his father’s seal?’

‘Nay,’ said Henry, his thoughts far from Philip’s seal. He was thinking of William and Marguerite. He didn’t believe it really. It couldn’t be true. And yet they were friendly. He remembered how when she was upset she had gone to him and talked to him.

‘Yes,’ went on Philip, ‘he visited his father and was there alone with him. When he left the sick chamber he had the seal. Now of course he has the authority. The seal is in his hands so it must be his father’s wish that he should have it. Depend upon it, those scheming uncles will never come to Court. They and the Queen will learn that Philip may be young but he has good men to advise him, and he is determined to be King of France.’


* * *

From a turret of the castle Henry watched William the Marshall ride into the courtyard. No one sat his horse quite as well as William. He was indeed a handsome knight. Henry narrowed his eyes. Of course William was seeking to become Marguerite’s lover and Marguerite was indeed taken with him.

He it was who offered her such affectionate sympathy over the rapidly deteriorating health of her father. Why should she go to William instead of to her husband? Perhaps because he was too friendly with Philip of Flanders and she had never been able to see how attractive he was. She thought he was a bad influence on Henry, no doubt told so by William the Marshall.

He shouted to one of his attendants: ‘Send William the Marshall to me.’

In a short time William appeared.

Henry narrowed his eyes and said: ‘There is something I have been going to say to you for a long time.’

William met his gaze steadily. ‘My lord?’

‘You offend me with your censorious manner,’ replied Henry.

‘I do not understand.’

‘And,’ cried Henry, ‘I find that you are too friendly with Queen Marguerite.’

‘My lord, I trust I am the good friend of you both.’

‘And particularly hers, eh?’

‘I do not understand these insinuations.’

‘Do you not? Then you are indeed a fool. I will say it plainly. It has come to my ears that you see a great deal of my wife. I will not have it. Were it not for the fact that you have been my friend for so long I would punish you as you deserve. However, I will be lenient.’

Henry quavered. It was so difficult when face to face with that steadfast gaze to believe these things. William had always been so honourable, so eager to serve him; and when in the past he had seemed to side with someone else, it had always turned out to be for his good.

‘Get out of my sight,’ he said. ‘I will not have you near me. You must leave my service. Go back to England.’

‘You mean that you are in truth dismissing me?’

‘I do mean it. Get out before I am tempted to do you some harm.’

William the Marshall bowed with dignity and left.

Before the day was out he was on his way to England.


* * *

Marguerite was sad and angry.

‘To dismiss William,’ she cried. ‘You are mad. He is the best friend you have.’

‘You would surely think so.’

‘Of course I do. As you must if you think sensibly about the matter.’

‘I know he is very friendly with you.’

‘He is the friend of us both. I know he loves you well and always has. He has tried to bring about a better relationship between you and your father. He is a better friend to you than ever Philip of Flanders would be. That man thinks only of his own advancement.’

Henry began to feel uneasy. The Count was more or less telling young Philip what to do. And there lay Louis powerless to help. The Queen’s brothers had already been forbidden to come to Court and the Queen herself was being treated churlishly.

Feeling that he had been foolish he sought to blame Marguerite.

‘I know full well what has been going on between you and the Marshall.’

Marguerite looked puzzled.

‘He is your lover … or aspires to be.’

‘Henry! You are indeed mad.’

‘Nay. I have seen.’

‘What have you seen?’

‘You both together.’

‘When?’

‘Well … there was the other day in the garden … when you were upset about your father. He comforted you.’

‘Why should he not? I will not stand and hear the Count and my brother speak of my father as though he is dead. I thought you might have expressed some resentment. But you did not. Instead you imagine … nonsense … about me and William.’

Henry said: ‘He is gone. I will not have him here. I have no intention of playing the cuckold.’

‘Oh, Henry, how can you say such things? You know them to be false. William is your very good friend. I am your faithful wife. You are misled by wicked people.’

Henry did not like to feel that he had been so deluded so he pretended to believe that there was some truth in the rumour concerning William and his wife. He felt it would be too humiliating to ask him to return and offer him an apology. He was sulky and went on with the pretence that he was a suspicious husband, much to Marguerite’s exasperation.

He was relieved when Queen Adela asked if she could speak with him privately.

She told him she was very anxious and she believed he could help her if he would.

‘With all my heart,’ he said. He went to her private chamber and there she told him that she was a very unhappy woman.