She dismissed her fears and gave herself up to the pleasure of seeing homage done to him as he entered the castle. How nobly he accepted it! She noticed how people looked at him.
There never could have been a man who looked so much a king.
To be alone with him, to talk to him of secret matters, to share his confidences, that was a great joy to her.
‘Your coronation must take place immediately,’ she advised. ‘Once a king is crowned he is in truth a king; before that . . .’ She lifted her shoulders.
‘I have decided it shall be on the third day of September.’
‘Isn’t that an unlucky day?’
He laughed aloud. ‘Mother, I take no heed of these superstitions.’
‘Others may.’
‘Then let them. I shall pass into London on the first day of the month, and there I shall be crowned King.’
‘So be it,’ she said. ‘The important point is that the ceremony takes place without delay. Richard, I must speak to you of Alice. She is here.’
‘In this castle?’
‘Under restraint. I thought that as I had suffered it so long it would do her no harm to have a little taste of it.’
He nodded but he was frowning. ‘What must be done with her? I’ll not have her.’
‘We must not forget that her brother is the King of France.’
A shadow passed across his face. How did he feel about Philip now? There was no doubt that they had once been very close friends. Was that due to love or expediency on Richard’s part? He had once needed the friendship of the King of France when his own father was his enemy. Now that he was King of England – and all Kings of England must be wary of Kings of France – had his feelings changed? The one time friend . . . lover . . . was he now a deadly rival?
‘I care not who her brother is,’ said Richard, ‘I’ll have none of my father’s cast-offs.’
‘Your father never cast her off. He was faithful to the end they say . . . faithful in his way that was. No doubt he sported merrily when she was far away but, as with Rosamund Clifford, he visited her in great amity over many years.’
‘My father is dead now, Mother; let us forget his habits. The fact remains that I’ll have none of Alice.’
‘She will have to go back to France. She will not like it. She has been in England for twenty-two years.’
‘Nevertheless she must go.’
‘Yet you will marry. It will be expected of you.’
‘I have a bride in mind. Berengaria, daughter of the King of Navarre, he whom they call Sancho the Wise. We know each other, for I met her when I was taken to her father’s court by her brother who is known as Sancho the Strong to distinguish him from his father. We have even talked of marriage but Alice of course stood in my way.’
‘That girl and your father have a lot to answer for. Though I doubt we should blame Alice; she is a feather in the wind blown this way and that.’
‘Then, by God’s mercy, let us blow her back to France.’
‘What will Philip say when he finds his sister sent back to him?’
‘What can he say of a sister who lived with the man who was to be her father-in-law and bore him a child?’ Richard clenched his fists and cried: ‘My God, when I think of his taking her from me, using her as he did and all the time deceiving me . . .’
‘It is done with. As you remind me, he is dead. He can do you no more harm. You are the King now, Richard. You can go with a good conscience to Berengaria.’
‘If there is to be a marriage this is the one I want. I feel firm friendship with Sancho. Remember it was he who pleaded with my father concerning you when I requested him to. It was due to him that your imprisonment was less rigorous than it might have been.’
‘Yes, I remember well the good he did me.’
‘For this reason and because I could trust no other with such a task I want you to go to the Court of Navarre and to bring Berengaria – not to me . . . for I cannot ask for her hand until I am seen to be free from Alice. But I wish her to be taken where she can wait until I am free.’
‘It shall be so,’ said Eleanor. ‘But first there must be your coronation. What of your brother John?’
‘I left him in Normandy. He was to sail from Barfleur. He hoped to land at Dover.’
Eleanor nodded. ‘It will be well for him to be here.’ She looked steadily at Richard. ‘It is unfortunate that your father should have made so much of him. I could never understand why he did that.’
‘It was to spite me,’ retorted Richard vehemently. ‘You know how he hated me.’
‘I could never understand that in him either. You . . . all that a king should be, surely a son of whom any father should be proud . . .’ She laughed. ‘You always took my side against him, Richard. Even in those early nursery days. Perhaps you forfeited his goodwill in so doing.’
‘It seems so, but I have no qualms about John. He knows I have first claim to the crown. I shall give him honours, treat him with dignity and respect. He must understand that he can never be King except in the event of my failing to get an heir.’
‘Yes, we must make him realise that. It would seem to me that he finds greater interest in his dissolute companions than he would in governing a kingdom.’
‘’Tis better to keep him so. What of Ranulph de Glanville?’
‘I doubt not that he will serve you as he served your father.’
‘I like not one who was your jailer.’
‘A task which was forced on him. He could not disobey your father, you know.’
‘Yet a man who has humiliated you, my mother !’
She smiled at him tenderly.
‘We must not allow such matters to cloud our judgements, my son. He has been in charge of the treasure vaults at Winchester. It would not be well that he should withhold any secrets of those vaults from you.’
Richard narrowed his eyes. ‘I shall find it difficult to give my friendship to a man who acted so to you.’
‘I can forgive him. I shall not think of any past wrongs I have suffered, but only what good may come to you. You must take him into your service. You need good servants.’
‘More than most,’ he admitted, ‘for I shall need to leave the country in good hands. I have pledged myself to take part in the Holy War as you know . . .’
‘But now that you are King will that be possible?’
‘I could never come to terms with my conscience if I broke my vow.’
‘You have a kingdom to rule now, Richard. Does not your duty lie with that?’
‘Philip and I must go to the Holy Land together.’
‘So . . . that friendship still stands.’
‘We shall see,’ said Richard. ‘In all events I intend to honour my obligations to my father’s son Geoffrey.’
‘The bastard!’ cried Eleanor.
‘He was with my father at the end.’
‘For what he could get.’
‘Nay, Mother, I think not. Geoffrey served him well and was with him when all others had deserted him. John had left him. They say that broke his heart and that when he heard that John’s name was at the head of the list of those lords who had turned against him he had no will to live. It was his last wish that Geoffrey should not suffer for his fidelity. Nor shall he.’
‘Nay, Richard, he would take your throne from you if he had a chance.’
‘You do not know him, Mother. You hated him because he was living evidence of my father’s infidelity to you, but that is no fault of Geoffrey’s. He was loyal to my father to the end when there was nothing to gain and everything to lose from it. As was William the Marshal. I shall always honour such men.’
‘But Richard, this whore’s son . . .’
‘Is my half-brother. I beg you, put him from your mind, for mine is made up concerning him. My father wished him to have the Archbishopric of York and that I shall bestow on him.’