Jean Plaidy: The Prince of Darkness

How he had rejoiced when his brother had gone off to the Holy Land. He didn’t often resort to prayer but he had then – urging God to send a poisoned arrow through his brother’s heart. It did not seem an unreasonable request since Richard was constantly in the midst of fierce and bloodthirsty Saracens. How like Richard to escape.

John congratulated himself that he had come very near to taking the kingdom. That would have served Richard right. If a man was a king he should be in his kingdom not gallivanting over the world trying to win glory by conquering Jerusalem. Which, John thought with great satisfaction, he had failed to do; and moreover, found himself the prisoner of his enemies. A curse on those who rescued him and particularly on young Blondel who had gone out singing all over Europe until he found him and making such a pretty story of it that the people regarded their errant king as a hero of romance.

Well, that was in the past and there was the future to think of.

Richard, curse him, was back; strong and healthy and only just turned forty – ten years older than John, but what was ten years? They all said he looked like a god and that he was invincible. The King of France, who had, while Richard was in the hands of his enemies, been prepared to work against him to such an extent that he would have put John on the throne, as soon as Richard returned had cried off. It seemed that everyone was afraid of Richard. He was said to have some mystical quality. He was the great hero – Cœur de Lion . Yet he had no heir and was chary of getting one.

John laughed aloud at the thought. There had been their father lusting after every woman he saw and being a king not inclined to deny himself the pleasure of their company which in the circumstances they would find very difficult to refuse; and he, John, was of a similar nature. His father had a romantic streak; he liked to get a woman to his bed with fair words and promises and he was said to have an unrivalled gift for this; with John it was different. He dispensed with such preliminaries. He liked a woman to show fear; it made the experience so much more exciting for him. Well, there they were, his father and himself – and he had no reason to believe that his brothers, since dead, were any different and he was sure they had enjoyed this pastime as well as that of hunting the deer or the boar. But Richard was different – Richard the strong man, the Lion Heart – he had no fancy for women but chose his beloved friends from his own sex.

John could never think of that without giving away to gusty laughter. It was his weakness – just as the tertian fever was; and it seemed comic to John because both weaknesses were so alien to the image which Richard had always presented to the world.

It was a most convenient state of affairs, for Richard, being what he was, seemed unlikely to get himself an heir and while Richard was disinclined to do this and Berengaria remained unfruitful, the crown of England was well within John’s grasp.

That was what he wanted. He longed to possess it. He could work himself into a violent passion just thinking of it. His father had promised it to him – that was when he was fighting against Richard. Yes, Henry II had actually named him as his heir. But Richard was there to claim the throne and their mother was behind him. Richard had always been the favourite with her; yet she had been a good mother to him so he couldn’t complain too much – not that he would dare. He had always been afraid of her and it wouldn’t have been so easy to deceive her as it had been his father. People had their peculiar ways. Take his mother for instance – a strong woman, a realist if ever there was one and a born ruler even though she was a woman; yet she had a weakness which was her love for her children. She knew that he, John, had worked against Richard, had done everything in his power to snatch the crown while Richard was away – and she was determined to hold that crown for Richard and had shown her intentions clearly – yet when Richard had come home and might have been expected to kill John, or at least shut him away in a prison – which, from their point of view, they should have known would have been a wise thing to do – they had pardoned him. He suspected that his mother had pleaded for him with Richard, and the result – forgiveness and brotherly affection at least outwardly between them.

Richard had been slighting, of course, saying that John had been led astray and making it clear that he did not fear him because he didn’t believe him capable of conquest. Insulting – but it served John’s purpose at the time.

What he hoped for now was for Richard to die before having planted the fateful seed in Berengaria. A good strong attack of that fever – and there would be Richard, heirless, departed for ever; and all John would have to do was stretch out his hands and take the crown. But there was one other consideration and it was for this reason that John had come to Brittany.

Arthur! How he hated that boy. What airs the young fellow gave himself. He was haughty in the extreme and Frenchified too for the boy had spent a good many years at the court of France.

It was very unfortunate that Arthur’s father Geoffrey had been the elder brother. If only their births had been reversed – and he was Arthur’s father! John smiled wryly, lustfully contemplating Arthur’s mother, Constance. No longer young – she was mounting up to forty – she was still a comely woman who had had her adventures. Geoffrey had married her to get control of her estates of Brittany, and they already had a daughter, Eleanor, when he died from injuries received in a tournament, to which sport he was much addicted. He had left Constance with child which, alas, was born male and healthy and provided the reason for John’s uneasiness.

Arthur! The very name irritated him. His grandfather Henry had wished the boy to be named after him, but Constance, backed by the Bretons, was obstinate and they had chosen Arthur because of the associations of that name. He had pretensions to the throne of England, therefore let him be named after the legendary British king.

John disliked the boy’s name as much as he did everything about Arthur.

The arrogant little devil, he thought. He should be taught a lesson. He would like to put his hands round that boyish throat and strangle the life out of the creature. Nothing would give him more exquisite pleasure; as it was he had to play the avuncular role, listening to the boy’s bright conversation and exchanging smiles with his doting mother. It amused him in a way to play this game. Deceit always stimulated him; he had a natural gift for it. So he was enjoying his stay at this court and this pleasure was increased because he knew he was regarded with suspicion and that many people would be relieved when he had gone.

He had no intention of going yet. There was too much fun to be had here. He had brought with him a few of his friends who were daring enough to join in his adventures. When they went out riding he would contrive with them to help him elude the party and ride on with Arthur. When he had the boy to himself he would dally in the woods and he always enjoyed returning late to the castle and watching the relief on Constance’s face when she beheld her son, because he knew what agonies of fear she had undergone when she thought he was alone in the woods with his wicked uncle.

What should he do to amuse himself on this sunny April day? He might call his friends together and they could ride out into the woods – force their way into some cottages and look for girls, and on finding them drag them shrieking into the woods. A fine game, but one they had played so often that it could pall; moreover, they had to remember that they were in Brittany and the arrogant Constance and her friends would not hesitate to complain to the King of France or perhaps Richard, and at this time John had to play a subdued role, for Richard had not so long ago forgiven him for his rebellion on condition that he mended his ways.