He knew that his two sons – Simon the younger and Guy – were now in Italy. They were exiled from England but Guy had married the only child of Count Aldobrandino Rosso dell’ Anguillara and had been made governor of Tuscany by Charles of Anjou. His brother Simon had joined him in Italy, so they could not now be far away.
He wondered whether he could see them, in which case he might bring about some reconciliation between them and the King and Edward.
He was sure that Edward would be ready to forget the trouble between them. After all they were his cousins. The King and Queen, whatever their faults, were not vindictive. King Henry was a man who liked to live in peace.
The thought excited Henry. As the party came into the town of Viterbo he decided that he would do all he could to find his cousins and, when he had, he would try to persuade them that they must bear no more resentment for the brutal murder of their father.
All enmity must be forgotten.
He was sure that the King and his son Edward would be prepared to let bygones be bygones.
It was Lent. The time for repentance and forgiveness.
Tomorrow he would go to church and pray for success.
As the party rode into the town of Viterbo two men were watching from a window of an alehouse.
They had come to this place in disguise for they wished to discover whether a certain man – whom they had reason to believe was a member of that party – was in fact of it.
They talked in low tones.
‘He is bound to be there. I know he left Edward and he would naturally return through Italy with the King’s party. The time is at hand, brother.’
Guy de Montfort nodded. ‘Never fear, Simon, his time is at hand.’
Simon de Montfort said: ‘I can see it still… that ribald crowd. And aloft they held his head. They jeered … they shouted obscenities … and when I think of him … that great man …’
Guy said: ‘Rest assured he shall not escape.’ His eyes glinted with an almost demoniac light. He had always been more bloodthirsty than his brother. He was thinking of those days in the royal courtyards when Henry of Cornwall had, with Edward, been a leader of them all. He had had a great influence on Edward and among all the boys was his greatest friend.
‘He was so virtuous,’ said Guy. ‘He was always right. Noble Henry! Ere long it will be a different story.’
‘I have heard that our father was murdered after Henry of Cornwall and his father were taken prisoner.’
‘It matters not. It was his men who did this foul deed and he must answer for it. Look. Who is that coming into the street?’
‘By God. Truth, it is he.’
Guy caught his brother’s arm. ‘So he is here then. Now all we have to do is wait for our moment.’
There was so much Henry wished to ask of God. His father’s health was uppermost; the success of Edward in the Holy Land; the continued peace at home; his future happiness with his beautiful bride.
In the early morning of that Friday which was to be fatal for him, Henry made his way to the church of San Silvestro. He had dismissed his attendants for he wished to be completely alone. He was in a strange mood that morning.
He knelt at the high altar. There was a deep silence about him and he felt suddenly at peace.
And as he knelt there the church door was thrown open. He did not turn even when the clatter of boots on the flagged floor broke the silence.
Suddenly he heard his name and turning he saw Guy de Montfort with his brother Simon at the head of a group of armed men.
‘This is the end for you!’ shouted Guy. ‘You shall not escape now.’
Henry saw murder in his cousin’s eyes. He began: ‘Guy …’
Guy de Montfort laughed harshly. ‘This is for what was done to my father.’
He lifted his sword. Henry clung to the altar and the sword all but cut off his fingers. Henry staggered to his feet.
‘Cousin …’ he cried. ‘Cousins … Have mercy … I did not harm your father …’
‘Nay. Nay,’ cried Guy, his eyes alight with demoniac glee. ‘He died did he not? Come. What are we waiting for?’
He lifted his sword. Simon was beside him. Henry fell fainting to the floor, his blood spattering the altar.
The de Montfort brothers looked at the dying man.
‘We have avenged our father,’ said Guy.
‘Nay, sir,’ spoke up one of his band. ‘Your father was not so respectfully dispatched.’
‘You speak the truth,’ cried Guy. ‘Come, what was done to my great father shall be done to this man.’
It was the signal. They dragged him from the church; they stripped him of his clothes. Then the gruesome work of mutilation was begun.
Richard of Cornwall, King of the Romans, was sick and weary. The lethargy which had dogged him all his life had increased. Looking back over his life he could not feel very pleased with it. He had rarely succeeded in what he undertook. The task of ruling the Roman Empire had proved beyond his strength and ability. He was married now to a beautiful woman but somehow she only served to call attention to the fact that he had grown old and feeble.
His brother Henry had been more fortunate. Henry could face disaster, pass through it, and behave as though it had never happened. He had always known this trait in his brother and despised it. Now he began to think that it was a virtue. He himself had had three wives. Isabella, Sanchia and Beatrice … all exceptionally beautiful women, yet none of them had really satisfied him.
The great achievement of his life had been the begetting of his sons. Henry and Edmund. He lived for them; and the one closest to him was Henry. Often he had marvelled that with his many imperfections he could have sired a son like Henry. Of course Henry had inherited his mother’s good qualities and Isabella had been a good woman. He often remembered now that he was ailing how badly he had treated her, and he regretted it.
Henry was coming home. He was glad of that. He had not liked the idea of his going to the Holy Land and had been haunted by the fear of his falling into the hands of the Saracens or dying of some fearful disease as so many of them did. It had been a relief to know he was on the way home.
Soon he would be in England. God speed the day.
There were arrivals at the castle. Letters perhaps from Henry and Edmund who was also on the Continent. He lived for news of his sons.
‘My lord, there is a man who would speak with you.’
‘Who is it?’
‘He comes from Italy.’
‘He will be from my son. Bring him in without delay.’
The man entered. He did not speak but stood before Richard as though seeking words.
‘You have brought me letters?’
‘Nay, my lord.’
‘Come you from my son?’
The man did not answer.
‘What ails you?’ cried Richard. ‘What has happened? Something is wrong.’
He had risen and as he did so he felt a sharp pain in his side. ‘Well, well, well?’ he shouted.
‘There has been a disaster, my lord.’
‘My son …’
The man nodded.
‘My son … Henry. He … he lives?’
The man shook his head.
‘Oh my God. Not Henry. What … How …’
‘My lord it was in a church at Viterbo. He was slain by cruel murderers.’
‘Henry! Slain! What harm has Henry ever done?’
‘His cousins, my lord, Simon and Guy de Montfort, have murdered him. They were heard to say that they did it to avenge their father.’
Richard tottered and the man dashed to him to prevent his falling.
‘My son,’ he whispered. ‘My beloved son.’