‘You could never do anything but please me.’

How delightful she was! She was developing passion. There was no need to coax her to the act now.

‘You have missed me, little one?’ he wanted to know.

She assured him that she thought constantly of him and spent many hours at the turret window watching for him to come.

‘Never tell anyone of what is between us.’

She would not, she assured him.

But he wondered whether some of the household suspected. It was never easy for a king to keep the secrets of his private life.

How different she was from Rosamund! She had no sense of guilt, only a desire to please him. He was the King and therefore whatever he did must be right.

He told her that he had seen her father.

‘Did you tell him that we were going to marry?’

He stroked her arm gently. ‘Nay, little one. That I cannot do until I rid myself of the wicked Eleanor.’

‘Is she very wicked?’

‘More wicked than you can understand. She has turned my children against me and would go into battle and kill me if it were possible. Oh, do not fear, she is my prisoner now. No harm can come to me through her. I shall divorce her and then … you will see.’

‘There is talk,’ she said, ‘of you and Rosamund Clifford.’

He laughed heartily.

‘You must not be jealous, sweetheart. She was once my mistress.’

‘Am I your mistress?’

‘Nay, you are my wife-to-be.’

‘So I shall truly be the Queen.’

‘You shall be so, when I have rid myself of that old she-wolf.’

‘Did you love her once?’

‘Nay never. I loved her lands of Aquitaine.’

‘What will you love me for?’

‘For your beauty, your innocence and because you love me.’

That satisfied her. Children were easily pleased. She never doubted that he would marry her.

So would he if this were possible. Was she not the daughter of the King of France?

And he laughed exultantly, wondering what old Louis would say if he could see his daughter lying naked in his bed.

And Richard? It might well be that she would have to go to him one day. She was his betrothed, and if there was no way of ridding himself of Eleanor … Richard was growing up. Very soon now he would be demanding his bride and old Louis would be shaking his fist and asking what the King of England meant by holding his daughter in one of his castles.

He seemed to have conveyed something of his thoughts to her for she said: ‘My lord, what of Richard? Have you seen him?’

‘Nay,’ he answered. ‘He is my enemy. He fights with his brothers against me.’

‘Not against you!’

‘It is hard to believe that a son can so wrong his father.’ A sly smile played about his mouth at the irony of the situation. Richard wronged him in the battlefield and he wronged Richard in the bedchamber. Serve the young cub right. He wondered what he should say if it so happened that one day Henry would be obliged to relinquish Alice to him and he knew she had been his father’s mistress.

But he would not give her up. She was too delightful. Moreover she was the daughter of the King of France.

What an important figure in his life was that King of France. There could not be two men more unlike. Louis the monk, Henry the lecher – and both had been husbands of Eleanor.

He would come to some arrangement. Louis would surely prefer to see young Alice Queen of England rather than Duchess of Aquitaine.

‘I can never like Richard,’ she was saying, ‘because he has not been good to you.’

He covered her flower-like skin with kisses.

‘My little Alice,’ he whispered. ‘Do not think of Richard. He is not for you nor you for him. How could that be when I have decided that no one but myself shall ever use you in this way?’

He was content. The future could be good with Thomas watching over him from on high; he would rid himself of Eleanor; Rosamund could be by subtle hints jostled into a nunnery and this adorable Alice, daughter of the King of France, could be his Queen.

Confident that he had made his peace with Heaven and that St Thomas a Becket was guarding his realm for him, Henry set about safeguarding his overseas dominions. He could not really believe that his sons were fighting against him, and there came to him a great desire to be loved by them. If they had been good obedient boys what help they would have rendered him! That they should have banded together with his enemy the King of France against him was the basest ingratitude. Of course it was all due to the insinuations of their wicked mother. During their childhood she had done everything she could to turn them from him. What a viper! He gloated on the fact that she was in his power now. Never while he lived should she go free.

Was it some misplaced sense of chivalry which was forcing his sons into battle now? Had they some scheme for rescuing their mother? He wanted to meet them, to talk to them like a father, to make them understand. He loved the boys, particularly Henry. How proud he had been of his eldest son when he was growing up. That charm of manner, those good looks. He had wanted to tutor him into becoming a great king, for only a great king could hold these dominions together. Surely they knew what had happened under Stephen.

He must put an end to this conflict. He must win back his sons. He could not have them ranging themselves with his enemies. One thing he was determined on. Young John should never feel the pernicious influence of his mother.

Now he would be invincible for since he had made his peace with Heaven, there was a feeling of confidence throughout his army. God was no longer against him. He, the greatest and most powerful of kings, had humbled himself at the shrine of St Thomas a Becket and had actually ordered his priests to chastise him.

What greater penitence could he have shown than that, what greater love for Thomas?

‘Thomas, guard my realm while I go forth to battle for my sons.’

THE REBELLIOUS CUBS

Young Henry laughed aloud when he heard of his father’s penance at the shrine of Canterbury.

‘How could he so humiliate himself?’ he cried. His good friend, William the Marshall, pointed out that he thought it was a clever move on the King’s part. It might well be that he was truly penitent in which case his conscience would be clear. On the other hand if it were a gesture it was a clever one for now it would seem that the King had escaped from the shadow of guilt which must hang over him until he confessed his part in the murder.

‘I believe,’ said Henry suspiciously, ‘that you have a fondness for my father.’

‘Who can help but admire him?’

‘Those who are his friends cannot be mine,’ said Henry meaningfully.

William the Marshall was sad. For so long they had been close companions, but since his coronation an arrogance had settled on the young King; he seemed to believe that the act of crowning gave him strength which he had not possessed before. The more experienced and logical William was fully aware that his father had given young Henry a title only and he believed he would be wise to accept this fact.

But Henry, being young and unsure of himself, turned rather to those who would flatter him than to those who would tell him the truth. Thus as the bonds of friendship between himself and William slackened he became more and more bound to that flamboyant knight, Philip of Flanders.

Philip it was who had sent his Flemings to England in the hope of wresting the country from the elder Henry. That was a forlorn hope as had been proved and the old King’s superior generalship had soon routed the foreigners and put an end to their hopes of an easy capture of England.