Jean Plaidy: The Prince of Darkness

Her grief was such that as she told her daughter Joanna – whom she loved only second to Richard – and her daughter-in-law Berengaria for whom she had always had a fondness, her only comfort was that she herself could not have long to live, for a world which did not contain her beloved son Richard had little in joy to offer her.

So the women who had loved him mourned together and found a little comfort in talking of him – of his greatness, of his valour, of his love of poetry and music, his talent for composing them.

‘There was never one such as he was,’ said Eleanor. ‘Nor will there ever be.’

She would see that his wishes were carried out. ‘He told me,’ she said, ‘that he wished his heart – that great lion heart – to be buried in his beloved and faithful city of Rouen, the home of his ancestors the dukes of Normandy for so many years. And his body is to be buried at Fontevraud at the feet of his father. He repented at the end of his life of the strife between them. God knows it was not of his making. Henry was to blame for the conflict between him and his sons. He was a man who could never let go anything once it had fallen into his hands, and he lost sight of the fact that his sons were men.’

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.