He was aware that Rosamund shuddered. Even she had changed since the death of Thomas a Becket.

‘You believe that, Rosamund?’

She was silent.

God’s eyes, he thought. Even she believes Thomas is a saint and I am guilty of his murder.

He sat up and looked at her in the faint light of the crescent moon. Beautiful Rosamund whom he had loved for years, and been faithful to in his way, even she thought him guilty.

‘How could I have known that those stupid knights would take me literally?’

Still she was silent.

‘Why do you not speak, Rosamund?’ he asked.

‘What do you wish me to say, my lord?’

‘I wish you to say what is in your mind, not to utter words which I should put into your mouth.’

She raised herself and wound her arms about his neck.

‘Then I would say, my lord, that in Normandy you should admit that these men thought they were acting on your wishes.’

‘All the world knows that already.’

‘And that you would give a great deal to undo what is done and that you take responsibility for this fearful crime.’

‘I … take responsibility!’

‘If you do this, they will ask some penance. And when it is made then you will have expiated your sin in behaving as you did.’

He looked at her in dismay. She was saying what the rest of the world was saying about him. He had wanted her to cling to him and to tell him how he was maligned, that he was completely and unquestionably innocent.

He was disappointed.

She knew it.

He looked down at her and saw that there were tears on her cheeks.

‘I am afraid,’ she said.

‘Of what?’ he demanded.

‘Of sin.’

‘Sin?’ he cried. ‘What means that?’

‘You and I,’ she answered. ‘You have a Queen and I have lived with you as your wife. I have your sons who were born in sin.’

‘By God’s teeth and eyes, Rosamund, what has happened to you?’

She answered: ‘It has long been in my mind and since the murder …’

He turned away impatiently and lay staring into space.

She closed her eyes, for she felt that something had gone for ever out of their relationship.

The King rode away. His thoughts were of Rosamund, which relieved him of thinking what lay ahead in Normandy.

She had changed. Before, she had no other thought than for him. He had needed her and she was there. Now she was concerned with her soul. Something had entered her life which was more important than he was. He would not have believed that possible from his gentle devoted Rosamund.

And this had happened at the moment when he needed her most. She had failed him. Soon she would be talking of going into a convent. Women like Rosamund thought of that when they reached a certain age just as men went on crusades or pilgrimages to the Holy Land. He could never do that. He had too much to keep him where he was.

He understood Rosamund. He loved her; she had brought him great joy and comfort; but it was inevitable that in due course such a good woman would contemplate her sinful life and regret it.

He sighed. The subject was almost as depressing as what awaited him in Normandy. He would turn his thoughts to other matters. Soon he must take John from his nursery and get him betrothed, but that must wait. He would go along though and see how the children were progressing. It would be a pleasure to see young John and his sister Joanna … and of course little Alice.

He found Alice alone in the schoolroom.

‘My lord.’ She started up when she saw him and curtsied while the deep colour flooded her cheeks.

‘So you are alone?’ he said, and an excitement gripped him. She was more enchanting than he had imagined.

‘Joanna and John are riding. I stayed behind. I had a lesson to complete.’

‘And how goes this lesson?’ he asked. He picked her up in his arms and kissed her. ‘Alice, you are a witch,’ he said.

‘Oh, no, my lord.’ She looked frightened.

‘I mean that you bewitch me with your beauty.’

She looked frightened.

He walked with her to the window seat and sat down holding her on his knee.

‘How old are you, little Alice?’ he asked.

‘I shall soon have seen twelve winters, my lord.’

‘’Tis a charming age. I have seen many more winters than that.’

Twelve! he was thinking. Some girls were mature enough at twelve.

‘And you are to be my daughter. I begin to feel sorry for that.’

She still looked frightened. ‘If I have offended in some way, sir …’

‘Oh, yes,’ he said, ‘you have offended me, Alice, because since I saw you last I have thought of you constantly.’

‘If you will tell me where my fault lies …’

‘It lies in these pretty curls, this soft skin, these inviting lips which make me want to kiss them like this … Alice.’

‘Oh, my lord.’

‘Yes, and oh, my lady! Alice, I would that you were not affianced to my son. If you were not, by God’s eyes I would ask your father that you might be affianced to me.’

Her eyes opened very wide. ‘How could that be, my lord?’

‘’Tis not impossible.’

‘But …’

‘Oh, you have not yet seen twelve years out and I have seen many more. But years are of no matter. You would find me a very loving husband.’

‘But you have a Queen, my lord. Richard’s mother.’

‘Kings have been known to rid themselves of queens whom they do not love.’

‘Do you not then love the Queen?’

‘I hate the Queen, Alice. I hate her as much as I am beginning to love you.’

He watched her steadily. She was not frightened now. She was becoming excited. He tried to stem his rising desire. He could not. She was a child. She was betrothed to Richard and she was the daughter of the King of France. Even he could not sport with a king’s daughter as he would a kitchen wench. There had been girls as young as this one – though he had always had more pleasure from mature women. He did not know when he felt so delighted in anyone – not since he had first seen Rosamund. And she had not been much older than Alice. Rosamund had displeased him; she had failed him in a way that he had never expected she would.

‘Alice,’ he said, ‘if I loved you, do you think you could love me?’

‘I must,’ she said, ‘because you are Richard’s father and will be mine.’

‘Nay I meant not as a father.’

‘How so, my lord?’

Was that a little coquetry he saw in her eyes? If it were so, if this innocence was a little feigned his resolutions would crumble; he would act first and think after. Louis would much rather his daughter were Queen of England than Duchess of Aquitaine which was all she would be if she were married to Richard.

He put his face against hers and his hand was on her budding breast. ‘Does it please you to be so fondled?’

‘Why yes, my lord.’

‘And that I should be the fondler?’

‘Yes, my lord.’

‘I, rather than any other?’

She nodded.

‘Why so?’

‘Because you are the King and our lord and master.’

‘A right goodly answer,’ he said with a laugh. ‘And would you be ready to obey me in all things?’

‘Yes, my lord.’

‘And do all that I ask of you?’

‘But yes.’

‘Alice,’ he whispered, ‘methinks you are a wise little girl. You know something of the ways of the world, do you?’

‘A little, my lord.’

‘And would know more I warrant. Alice, I am going to be your tutor.’

When he had seduced her in a gentle and expert manner his conscience worried him a little. But he soon stilled it by reminding himself that he would look after the child. He would definitely see if he could divorce Eleanor and if he could he would make Alice his wife. Her innocence was delightful; it was not going to be difficult to make her adore him. He would teach her as he had taught Rosamund and if he married her – which he might well do – she need have no qualms about her sins. And if he did not, well then in due course she would go to Richard.