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As for Henry he had so little. The only way he could live in any comfort was to incur debts. That was not difficult to do since he was the son of the King and indeed himself a king. That was what rankled. He was a king and no king. The title was a word, nothing more.
Men feared his father so they had little respect for his son; and when he rode beside that square figure with the garments which were worn for use rather than ornament and looked at those hands often roughened by weather, he wanted to scream out his frustration.
His friend William the Marshall no longer pleased him as he once had. Oh, William was an excellent knight, a faithful friend, but he was not like Philip of Flanders. Indeed, sometimes Henry thought that William believed it was good for him to be so guided by his father.
Thinking of Philip of Flanders he wondered whether he too might go on some sort of pilgrimage. Anything to escape from his father.
He remembered the stories his mother had told him of how her father, desirous of getting a male heir, had decided to take the road to Compostella and ask help at the shrine of St James. The road was rough, the conditions terrible and the Duke had fallen sick of a virulent fever. He had known his end was near but had been carried in his litter and was buried before the main altar in the Church of St James at Compostella.
What more natural than that his grandson feel the need to make a pilgrimage to the shrine of St James and the grave of his maternal grandfather?
He told his father what he wished to do.
‘Why so?’ asked the King.
‘I have committed the great sin of taking up arms against my father.’
‘Your father has forgiven you so God will.’
‘It weighs heavily on my conscience.’
‘Then,’ said the King, ‘I rejoice, for so it should and you can best expiate that sin by working hard and learning quickly all that I would teach you.’
‘I feel the need to go to Compostella.’
‘And I, my son, feel the need to keep you here, and I can assure you that my need is greater than yours.’
‘I am treated as a child,’ said Henry sullenly.
‘Behave then like a man and earn the right to be treated as such.’
‘Others make such pilgrimages.’
‘Mayhap, they do not have kingdoms which they must learn to govern.’
‘Philip of Flanders plans to go to Jerusalem.’
‘Let him. It will keep him out of mischief.’
‘He will thereby earn remission of his sins.’
‘Doubtless it is necessary, for I believe he has committed many. Now I will hear no more. You ca
‘But, Father …’
‘I have spoken,’ roared the King; and when the angry lights sprang into his eyes it was no time to continue the argument.
The King was disturbed as he always must be when he heard news of Richard.
His son was coming to England as he was alarmed by the risings in Aquitaine and he wished to consult his father.
It was almost certain that he would demand that his bride come to him and that was something the King would not allow to happen. He was frequently with Alice now and his passion for her did not abate. He loved the girl and as she grew a little older the deeper was his devotion. He was determined not to part with her, yet could he go on saying that she and Richard were too young?
If Richard came to England Alice would have to go away. He could have sent her to the Bower again, but Rosamund was not there now. He could not bring her out of Godstow to care for his mistress. Still he could send Alice to the Bower and those good attendants who had served Rosamund well and whom he, with some foresight, had kept there, could take care of Alice. Of one thing he was certain: Richard and Alice must not meet.
He would be pleased to see his son, for he had some admiration for him. The boy was proving a valiant commander, an excellent fighter and one who had genius for battle. He was different from young Henry and Geoffrey who thought only of pleasure and of getting power the easy way.
And now Richard was due to arrive in England with his brother Geoffrey and the King decided that he would show his subjects in what amity he lived with his sons. The feast of Easter was approaching, and they should spend it all together, and where better than at his castle of Winchester? However, young Henry wished that he might leave for Normandy and as the need arose for some member of the family to show himself there, the King said he might go. Young Henry was overjoyed at the prospect of escape from his father and made immediate preparations to depart.
The winds, though, were against him and as Easter was upon them the King commanded him to join the festivities at Winchester so that the original intention of all being together could be carried out.
Thus the King had his four sons with him which pleased him well. He had advice to give Richard and Geoffrey, and he looked forward to having young John with him – the only one of Eleanor’s sons in whom he could hope to breed affection. He had come to the conclusion that he must allow young Henry a certain freedom or the young man would break out and rebel. It was for this reason that he had agreed to send him to Normandy, but while he was there a stern watch should be kept on him that he did not get into any mischief.
What pleasure it would have given him to have discussed his affairs with them, with no reservations because there need be none. If they had been loyal sons that should have been the case. Now, although they feigned friendship, suspicion was there.
Richard was the most frank of them all. He said what he meant without subterfuge and what he wanted was help in Aquitaine. He was not as popular with the people as he would like to have been.
‘The fact that you and I are friends,’ he said bluntly, ‘turns them against me. They think that I am my mother’s enemy.’
‘They surely know that not to be the case.’
‘They reason that if I am your friend I ca
Henry felt a fearful apprehension. Now he was going to ask to see Alice and demand when his marriage was to take place.
But he was wrong. What Richard said was: ‘I want to see my mother.’
‘Your mother is at Salisbury Castle.’
‘We are all gathered here. She should be with us.’
‘You forget that she has been a traitor to me.’
‘Could you not say that of your sons?’
‘I could – to my misfortune.’
‘Yet you have forgiven us. Why should you not forgive her?’
‘Because she it was who turned you from me. She fed you slander against me with her mother’s milk. But for her there would not have been these troubles. I should have been a father with good and loyal sons.’
‘She did not change our natures.’
‘What mean you by that?’
‘We rose against you because you gave us titles and then refused to make them meaningful. My mother had nothing to do with that.’
‘You may go to Salisbury to see your mother but you shall not be alone with her.’
‘Nay,’ said Richard. ‘She must come here. If you invite her here and she comes, then in Aquitaine they will know that it was I who demanded to see her and that I am her friend. Only then will they receive me.’
The King was thoughtful.
‘Let my mother return to Aquitaine with me,’ went on Richard.
‘Never,’ said the King.
‘I should go back with her and my bride.’
The King’s lips tightened. He said suddenly: ‘Your mother shall come here to Winchester. She shall stay for a few days and then be returned to Salisbury. The people of Aquitaine will then see that she has been brought here because you pleaded for her. They ca
Richard bowed his head.