The King was taken back to the castle, and soon his doctors were at his bedside.

He had suffered a seizure and could neither speak nor move.

In a few days he was slightly better. His speech returned but one arm and leg were paralysed.

There was one thing Louis was determined on. The coronation must not be postponed again. Now more than before it was necessary for Philip to be crowned King of France.

He sent for Philip of Flanders and begged him to watch over young Philip. The Count was one of Philip’s god-parents, he reminded him, and it was his duty. ‘My son is clever but so young,’ said the King. ‘He has much to learn but is shrewd enough to learn it. I trust that those who wish me well will be good friends of his.’

Philip of Flanders swore that he would serve Philip with all his strength.

So he would, he promised himself, if the boy would be influenced by him. The Count pictured himself growing more and more powerful as his influence grew. It was clear that Louis had not long to live; the new King would be very young, and if he would accept his godfather’s guidance, Philip of Flanders would be very content. It should be as Louis wished, only young Philip should serve the Count of Flanders instead of the other way round. When that happened there would be amity between them and they would work together for the good of France and the Count.

Louis’s wife Adela came to his bedside and he talked to her of his anxieties.

‘I would our son were a little older,’ he said.

‘He will soon grow older,’ she soothed him.

‘Not in time.’

There is going to be time,’ she told him. Her eyes were sorrowful. He had been a kind and gentle husband. She had been afraid when she came to Paris to marry him and be Queen of France. Her family had been naturally delighted with the match and she was thinking of her brothers now, for if Louis died she would need their help. Philip was too young to rule and could well become influenced by those who were no good to him.

‘Adela, my dear,’ said Louis, ‘you have been a good wife to me and I can never thank you enough for giving me my son.’

She knelt down by his bed and kissed his hand.

He muttered an endearment.

‘You must get well,’ she told him.

He nodded his head to comfort her, but he did not believe he would ever leave his bed.

On the day of the coronation he lay there still and longed to be at Rheims. There the crown would be placed on Philip’s head by his uncle – Adela’s brother – who was Archbishop of Rheims. He was a good man and a strong one. Her brothers would stand beside Adela and soon the boy, whom everyone must admit was clever, would be of an age to stand on his own.

If only Philip were a little older he could die in peace. Not that he was any use now except as a symbol; he was, though, still the King of France and men respected him as such, but this day there would be another king, a young boy who, he prayed fervently, would grow up to be a great king.

He felt that although he lay in Paris and his son was in Rheims he was with him in spirit.

He knew that Philip of Flanders would carry the golden sword and the young Henry of England would hold the crown, and the ceremony would be conducted by Philip’s uncle.

He could hear the music. He could see it all and he prayed: ‘Holy mother, care for my son. Give him the wisdom I lacked. Make him strong to stand against his enemies and show him how to be merciful to those who wrong him. If you will do this I am ready to depart in peace.’

And in the Cathedral of Rheims young Philip was exultant. King of France at last. Young Henry watching him wanted to say: The fact that you are crowned does not make you a king. You will have to wait until your father is dead but that will not be long doubtless.

Heaven knows how long I must wait.

Everywhere the young King of France went the Count of Flanders accompanied him. The wily Count was now trying to be to Philip what he had once sought to be to Henry. The two young people were in similar circumstances; both had been crowned while their fathers still lived; both bore the title of king without the power.

The Count marvelled at the folly both of the King of France and King of England that they could have had so little foresight as to raise their sons to this eminence while they still held the crown. It was asking for trouble. In the case of Louis, who could not live much longer, there was some reason; but that Henry Plantagenet should have been so unwise was a mystery.

However, the Count was now far more interested in the new King of France than he was in Henry. Henry’s father had many years left to him; he was a strong man against whom few could pit their wits and fighting skill and come out victorious. It was quite different in the case of Philip.

So he brought all his wiles to bear on the young man.

Philip of Flanders was just the type of man it was natural for young Philip to admire. His flamboyance, his subtle flattery, his extravagance, his wealth, his generosity, all this enchanted the young King.

Queen Adela could see the effect the Count of Flanders was having on her son and she deplored this. She tried to remonstrate with him.

‘Philip, your father still lives,’ she reminded him. ‘Remember he is still the King of France.’

‘He can do nothing. He lies in his bed and cannot move. France has to be governed.’

‘Your father has always said that a king needs good ministers to govern well.’

‘My father was always afraid to rule.’

‘Have a care what you say, my son. Your father is a good man and the only thing he feared was to do wrong.’

‘A king must be bold. A king has to make decisions whether others like them or not. He must take only that advice which seems good to him and it is he who has the final word.’

‘He also needs experience. I have asked your uncles to come to Court.’

Philip flew into a rage. His uncles! Her brothers. These men of the house of Blois had too grand an opinion of themselves. The Count of Flanders said so. Since their sister had married the King of France they thought they had a right to rule.

‘Then,’ cried Philip, ‘you may cancel that invitation.’

‘I shall do no such thing,’ retorted the Queen. ‘Your father is pleased that I should do so. He understands that you will need their guidance.’

‘I certainly do not need them. Nor will I have them.’

‘Philip,’ said his mother earnestly, ‘remember this. You have been crowned King but that does not make you ruler of this country. France already has a king and while he lives the crown, and the authority which goes with it, belongs to him.’

‘He is dead … or almost. He cannot think; he cannot act.’

‘Philip, how can you talk so! He is your father and King of France. He is stricken with a terrible affliction. Are you going to bring sorrow to his last months of life?’

‘I am King of France,’ said Philip, ‘and everyone must know it.’

‘You are but a boy.’

There was nothing that infuriated Philip more than to be reminded of his youth. He flew into a rage and cried: ‘You shall know … all shall know … what it means to cross the King of France, even though he be what you call a stripling.’

‘You must always curb your passions, Philip. You have been crowned as your father wished. He wants France never to be without a crowned king. That is why he commanded your coronation. Remember you owe your crown to him; you owe your life to him. No good ever came to those who did not honour their fathers. His is the crown. His is the seal of office. Loyal Frenchmen owe their duty to him and him only … as yet.’

Philip raged out of the apartment.

In the gardens Philip of Flanders was walking with Henry and Marguerite. There was still a friendship between Henry and the Count, who observed with some pleasure that Henry was a little jealous of the attentions he was now paying Philip.