He stumbled towards the light. It came from a cottage which was little more than a hut. He managed to reach the door and beat on it with his fist and as it opened he fell at the feet of an old man.

‘Help …’ murmured Philip.

The old man knelt down and looked at him. Then he dragged him into the cottage.

Philip lay on the floor and the old man put warm soup to his lips. He could see by the manner in which he was dressed that he was a nobleman.

‘My lord, you are ill. Your clothes are damp. You should rest in my humble cottage until you are well.’

Philip allowed his cloak to be taken from him. He felt better, partly because of the soup but mainly because of the human company.

‘Tell … the King,’ he stammered.

‘My lord.’

‘I am the King’s son,’ he said.

‘My lord. Is it so then?’

The old man knelt.

It was the old story in which he had wanted to play a part but how different this was from what he had imagined.

‘I was lost and I am ill. Pray send to the King without delay.’

‘My son shall go at once, my lord,’ said the old man. ‘You should stay here and warm yourself. I can only give you old garments which it would not be becoming for you to wear, you may think.’

Philip said: ‘Let me shelter here and send word to my father.’

‘We are but humble charcoal-burners, my lord,’ said the man, ‘but we are good and loyal servants of the King. I will send my son without delay.’

Philip nodded and closed his eyes.

It was not until the next morning that guards from the castle arrived. Philip by that time was delirious.

The charcoal-burner was given a purse full of gold coins for his part in the adventure which made him richer than he could have been through a lifetime’s work, and Philip was taken back to the castle.

His constitution was not strong enough to endure such an ordeal and he was very ill, so ill in fact that it seemed very likely that he could not survive.

Louis was frantic. It was true that he was being punished for his sins; he needed to go on that crusade with Henry. This was his only son whom he had planned should be crowned with the pomp he considered necessary to such an occasion, and God was threatening to take him from him.

He wept; he entreated; he consulted with his kinsman, the Count of Flanders, who himself had recently returned from a crusade, after which he believed his sins had been washed away. The Count was a comparatively young man and had plenty of time to commit more and redeem the fresh lot, so he was in a particularly ebullient mood.

Louis could not sleep, so great was his anxiety. He sent for his ministers and said: ‘I am no longer young. I doubt I can get more sons and if I had one now he would be but a baby when I was called away. God is punishing me. I sense it. Why should he do this to me? Philip was never as strong as I could have wished and that something like this should befall him is what I have always feared.’

His ministers reminded him that young Philip still lived and the doctors were caring for him. There was a good chance that he would survive.

But when Louis saw the doctors they were very grave. The King’s son was in a high fever. He was delirious and kept calling out that the trees were his enemies and they were seeking to catch him and turn him into one of them.

The King’s advisers warned him that he must look to his own health. If he did not and he died while his only son was in such a condition that could be disastrous for France.

Louis deplored the fact that he had not yet gone on the crusade which he and Henry were planning, and thinking of Henry, Louis was reminded of Thomas a Becket, that great good man who had been so cruelly done to death on the stones of Canterbury Cathedral. His physicians gave him a soothing draught which they said would give him peaceful sleep and as he lay on his bed, between sleeping and waking, he had a strange experience which he believed to be a vision.

Thomas the Martyr was in the room.

‘Is it indeed you, my friend, Thomas a Becket Archbishop of Canterbury?’ asked the King.

‘It is,’ said the shadowy shape.

‘You come from Heaven where you have a place of honour?’ said the King.

‘I come to you from God,’ was the answer. ‘Go to Canterbury, humble yourself at my shrine there. Confess your sins and ask forgiveness. If I intercede for you, you will be given back your son.’

The King sat up in his bed. He was trembling. He was alone in his bedchamber.

He was convinced that St Thomas a Becket had visited him and would save the life of his son.

Go to Canterbury! His ministers were disturbed. Go into the realm of his old enemy the King of England!

‘You forget,’ said Louis, ‘that we are now friends. We have sworn an oath to this purpose and we are planning to go on a crusade together.’

‘It is unwise to put too much trust in the King of England,’ advised his ministers.

‘I trust him now,’ replied Louis. ‘Moreover St Thomas has told me to go. If I do not my son will die. Even if I suspected perfidy on the part of the King of England I would still go to save my son.’

They could see it was no use attempting to dissuade him.

Philip of Flanders was excited by the prospect. He was inclined to agree with the King’s ministers that it was not very wise for Louis to go to England but the prospect of excitement always exhilarated him. Life had been a little dull since his return from the crusade and he was now trying to ingratiate himself with young Philip for he could see that Louis was not long for this world and the journey over the sea would surely be a great trial to him.

‘My lord,’ he said, ‘I trust I may be allowed to accompany you.’

‘I would be glad of it,’ answered Louis.

His ministers remained dubious. Did he think that he could endure the crossing of the sea? He knew how unpredictable that stretch of water could be.

Louis was well aware of this but his mind was made up. All that remained to be done before he set out was to tell his good friend the King of England of his desire.

When Henry heard that Louis wished to visit the shrine at Canterbury he was uneasy for it occurred to him that while the King of France was in England he would surely wish to see his daughter. He would have to impress on Alice, if this meeting took place – though he would do his utmost to see that it did not – that she must in no way betray her feeling for him. Reference would certainly be made to Richard and if so she must feign to accept him with pleasure as her husband. She could trust Henry to see that the marriage would never take place. But time enough to prime Alice, if a meeting took place between father and daughter. Louis was at the time a very anxious man, concerned with one thing – the preservation of his son, so it might well be that he would forget the predicament of his daughter.

He sent a messenger to Louis with an effusive welcome. The King of England would be honoured to receive the King of France. He understood his great grief and his desire to intercede through St Thomas. He would add his prayers to those of Louis and Louis could be sure of a safe conduct. There was absolutely no need for those in France who wished him well to fear for his safety. The King of England would personally make himself responsible for it.

Assembling a brilliant cavalcade Henry travelled to Dover to await the arrival of the King of France. People gathered at the roadside to see him pass and there were many to witness the meeting of the two Kings.

Poor Louis, racked with anxiety for his son and the misery he had endured during the crossing, looked his age. Have I aged as much in the last few years as he has? wondered Henry. He could still spend a day in the saddle without tiring; he was as active as he ever was and men still marvelled at that tremendous energy which showed no sign of abating. He had never cared for his appearance. How Eleanor had reproached him for that, calling him a peasant in some of her rages, jeering at his chapped hands and his manner of dressing, calling him a barbarian because he said clothes were meant for use and not for ornament. Barbarian indeed! Some of them loved their finery. What about her Saracen lover for one? Why should he think of Eleanor after all this time? What did he care for her opinion? Alice loved him. Alice thought him the most wonderful being that had ever lived. That was all that mattered. His hair was getting thin and he had been proud of his tawny curling locks. They had perhaps been his greatest personal vanity. Even now he combed them carefully in an attempt to hide the baldness.