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.’
He lay in his chamber for a week and would take no food. He did not sleep. He lay staring before him, murmuring Henry’s name.
At the end of the week he bestirred himself and sent for certain of his squires. They must go to France at once and bring Edmund back. Who knew the murderers might try to do the same to him. He would not rest until Edmund was with him.
In due course Edmund arrived and when he embraced his son the tears fell from his eyes but he was a little better after that. But it was noticed how enfeebled he had grown.
He rarely ventured out; he was never seen to smile again. He could be heard talking to Henry although he was alone.
Henry’s body was brought to England and buried at Hayles; and one cold December day Richard’s servants discovered that he had not risen from his bed and when they went to him they found that he was unable to move or to speak.
It was the end – although he lingered for a few months in this sad state. In April of the following year he died. It was said that he had never recovered from the death of his son.
His body was buried at Hayles, that Cistercian Abbey which he had founded and which stood near Winchcombe in Gloucestershire. He lay – beside his beloved son and his second wife Sanchia. His heart though was buried in the Franciscan church in Oxford.
THE POISONED DAGGER
After having bidden farewell to his cousin Henry, Edward with his young wife Eleanor sailed for the Holy Land as soon as the weather permitted them to. Although Eleanor had determined to accompany her husband, she was very sad at having to leave her three young children, John, Eleanor and Henry; but she realised it had to be a choice and she believed that she had made the right one.
Eleanor, though outwardly meek, was possessed of a rare strength of character of which Edward was becoming increasingly aware. He had believed when she had first begged to come with him that her presence might well be an encumbrance, instead of which it had proved to be a comfort. She could be self-effacing when the need arose and always seemed to be on the spot when he needed it. He was beginning to thank God for Eleanor.