They were approaching the town. He rode at the head of the company. Above his head fluttered his pennant proclaiming him as the King of England, sovereign of them all.

Suddenly a stream of arrows shot up in the air. One of his men shouted: ‘The King comes.’

There was another flurry of arrows. One pierced the King’s cloak.

‘My lord,’ said his standard bearer, ‘they know who you are and they are trying to kill you. We are not fitted to meet their attack.’

‘You are right,’ said the King. ‘We will turn back.’

He withdrew the arrow from his cloak.

He looked at it. It could so easily have pierced his heart. And Henry’s men had sent it.

Back in his camp he told Richard what had happened.

Richard’s cold face expressed no fear for what might have happened; there was only scorn for his father’s folly. Had he not warned him? Why did he go on trusting his eldest son when time after time he had been proved to be of a light nature capable of playing the traitor to his father and brother?

Henry sat ruminating, the arrow before him.

My son wishes me dead. So does he long for my crown that he would hasten my end to attain it. There was a sadness in his heart, and more than ever he yearned for the affection of his family.

As he sat brooding a messenger came in to tell him that his son Henry was without and begging to be seen.

‘Send him to me,’ he said.

Henry came in; he took off his helmet and his beautiful fair hair fell about his face; he knelt before his father.

‘Well, my son,’ said the King.

‘Oh, Father, when I saw what had happened …’

‘You saw the arrow, did you? You saw it pierce my cloak?’

‘I rejoice that it was nothing but your cloak.’

‘St Thomas was watching over us … you and me. He saved me from death and you from becoming your father’s murderer.’

‘Oh, God help me,’ murmured Henry.

He lifted his face to his father’s and there were tears in his eyes. The King stood up and drew his son to his feet. He embraced him.

‘My son, my son,’ he said, ‘let us put an end to this strife.’

‘Oh, Father, you forgive me then?’

‘I know it was not you who shot the arrow.’

‘Nay, but it was those who thought to serve me.’

‘We must put an end to this strife, Henry. It will destroy us all.’

‘I know it, Father. And this day … when I thought you could have died …’

‘We will forget it. You are my son and I must love you. You know full well how I have always deplored this rift between us.’

‘If you would but give me some authority …’

‘I shall … in time. I grow old and because I have lived many years I can control my territories. There is so much to learn and when you have learned, all that is mine will pass to you.’

‘Oh, Father, give me your blessing.’

He knelt and the King laid his hands on his head.

Afterwards they talked awhile. ‘It would seem,’ said young Henry, ‘that you have sided with Richard against me and Geoffrey.’

‘It is you and Geoffrey who have made this unfortunate affair. Richard is Duke of Aquitaine by his mother’s wish.’

‘But you commanded him to swear fealty to me.’

‘I want no war between you. I want you to stand together. It is imperative that you do.’

‘Father, I have influence in Aquitaine. The people want me as their Duke – not Richard. You know how harsh he is. He calls it justice. He has inflicted terrible punishments on those who had worked against him whom he calls traitors. They will not accept Richard. But I could persuade them to accept you.’

‘Would you do this?’

‘I would, Father, for I now see that it is the best course. Richard they will not have. But if you offered to mediate with them and let them decide whom they would accept as their Duke there could be peace. Let me return to them as your emissary.’

‘Go then,’ said the King.

Young Henry went and the King continued to regard with the utmost sadness the arrow which had pierced his cloak.


* * *

Geoffrey was waiting for his brother in the town of Limoges.

‘I talked to the old man,’ said Henry. ‘He forgave me. There were tears in his eyes. How is it possible that a great king can be such an old fool?’

‘What now?’ said Geoffrey.

‘We have the people with us. We shall win. My father will see that he can do nothing here. He will have to take Richard back with him. Once they called our brother John Lackland. Perhaps they will now say the same of Richard, once Duke of Aquitaine. We will now set about fortifying this town. The King will then understand that it is not his for the taking.’

The King was the first to see that he had once more allowed himself to be deluded by his son. What had been Henry’s motive in coming to make his peace? To gain time perhaps for the fortification of Limoges?

‘I have bred a nest of vipers,’ said the King. ‘But at least I am their father.’

He had decided what he would do: he would ride boldly into Limoges and demand to speak to his sons.

He came this time with an even smaller company; there was merely his standard-bearer and two other knights.

As he approached close to the city walls a shout went up and he saw his sons Henry and Geoffrey watching from the battlements.

Then as before came the shower of arrows; this time his horse fell to the ground taking him with it.

So now they have done it! thought Henry.

He was surprised to find that although his horse had been killed, he himself was unhurt. The knights had leaped from their horses.

‘I am unhurt,’ he said. And he thought: And never so bitterly wounded. They are bent on my death. God help me and God help them.

Someone was riding up to him. It was his son Henry.

He laughed bitterly. ‘What?’ he said to him. ‘Failed again?’

‘What mean you, Father?’

‘You have killed my horse. Had he not reared at precisely the moment he did, the arrow would have gone where it was intended to go, through my chest.’

‘Oh, my father!’ Tears once more in the beautiful eyes! Oddly enough the King was touched by them. He did not believe in them but still he was glad to see them there.

This was an enemy, this son. Where his children were concerned he might be a sentimental old man, but he was not so foolish as to refuse to admit the truth when it had stared him in the face for so long.

This son of his whom he had loved – more than any of the others – was a traitor to him. He wanted him dead. On two occasions in the space of a few days he had been nearby when an attempt had been made on his life.

No more sentimental father! he warned himself. No more forcing yourself to believe what you want. No more turning from the truth because it is ugly.

You have four sons born in wedlock. Two of them work against you; they are your enemies; they have looked on while their men attempt to murder you. The other, Richard, you cannot like. He is too cold, aloof, he has been brought up to hate you and will never do anything else; you can never be fond of him; he is his mother’s son, he hates you for imprisoning her and you hate him because he has never cared for you and – since we are facing the truth – because you have wronged him by seducing his betrothed and stopping his marriage. That leaves John.

My son John, my beloved son John. All my hopes are in you. You were never in that nursery made sour by a mother’s hatred for the father of her children. You I have loved; I have changed you from John Lackland to John of many possessions. You will love me. I must turn to you to give me all that I have missed in the others.

In the meantime he must make peace in Aquitaine and when his son Henry came to him with tears in his eyes, he would not be deluded a second time. He would play Henry’s game; he would pretend to be reconciled, while all the time he knew that Henry and Geoffrey were his enemies.

He allowed himself to be helped on to the horse which was provided for him; he rode with his son into Limoges and there he sat with him and listened to his plans for bringing about peace in the country.


* * *

He was not surprised at what followed.

Geoffrey had left his brother and father in Limoges while he went out to rally more forces to his brother’s banner. After a few days the King rejoined Richard to discover that young Henry and Geoffrey had raised forces throughout Aquitaine and Philip of France was sending help to them.

‘The ingratitude!’ cried the King. ‘How long ago was it when I saved his crown for him?’

Not only that, there were murmurs that the time had come to attack Normandy.

The King was incensed. He would lay siege to Limoges and when he took that town he would show no mercy to any, be they his own sons.

Young Henry, however, had taken the opportunity of slipping out of the town before his father realised his intentions and while the King was besieging Limoges he was ranging far and wide causing havoc in Richard’s domain.

Young Henry was no great soldier. He had no real love of battle. He longed for the round of tournaments to which he had become addicted. It was so much more enjoyable to indulge in mock battles, to succeed in the lists, to be led triumphant into the hall by beautiful women, to sit with them and listen to the songs about love and bravery. Real fighting was quite different. It was not so much the risk of death; that was an excitement to him; it was the discomforts that accompanied actual warfare which did not please him.

Still he was determined to get what he wanted. It was humiliating in the extreme that he, a man of twenty-eight, and crowned King of England, should be kept short of money and be absolutely powerless, always held in check by a dominating father.

His quarrel was not really against Richard; it was against his father. It was not that he particularly wanted Aquitaine; he wanted power and if his father saw that he could take Aquitaine, might he not be prepared to give him Normandy or England? The old man wanted to have complete power, which was ridiculous. Couldn’t he see that it was impossible for him to hold sway over Normandy, Anjou and England all at the same time?

Why did he not delegate some of the rule to his sons? That was what the battle was all about.

Henry was too fond of luxury; he was over-generous; he had always greatly enjoyed handing out gifts to those who pleased him. To him that seemed a confirmation of his power. It was kingly to act so and since all knew he was a king without power he had to be constantly reminding people that he was at least a king.

What could he do for money?

One of his captains had come to him telling him that the soldiers were demanding their pay.

‘They must wait,’ he had cried.

‘My lord,’ was the answer, ‘they will not wait. If they are not paid they will desert.’

‘Traitors,’ cried the King.

But what was the use. He had to have money.

Money. It haunted his dreams. He had to find it somewhere. He was beginning to wish he had not started this war. This was not the way to do it.

He began to have uneasy dreams. He remembered how his father had come into the nursery – a powerful figure who liked to play with the children. He could get very angry though, and when he was angry all the attendants crept away to be far out of reach of the storm. They were all afraid of him. He knew how to inspire fear if not love. They had never loved him, any of them, except perhaps Bastard Geoffrey who had been introduced into the nursery much to his mother’s disgust. Bastard Geoffrey had thought their father wonderful; he had done everything he could to please him. He tried to shine at lessons, horse-riding, chivalry, archery, everything that would please the King.

Richard hadn’t cared about pleasing their father. He had been coolly aloof. But he had loved their mother dearly. There would be warmth in the cold eyes when they rested on her. But Henry had loved neither of them. He had wanted most of all to be King and when he was crowned he had been so pleased with life until he realised that it did not mean power after all. It was only a symbol. It meant nothing. The crown was a hollow bauble while his father lived.

But money? Where was he to get money?

They had halted at an abbey and there they paused to rest. The monks welcomed them and invited them to the refectory.

Henry and his captains sat down with the monks; they partook of the simple food which had been prepared; and when they had eaten their fill they admired the rich ornaments of gold and silver which decorated the Abbey, and the wonderful gem-studded gifts to the Madonna.