‘The ingratitude!’ cried the King. ‘How long ago was it when I saved his crown for him?’

Not only that, there were murmurs that the time had come to attack Normandy.

The King was incensed. He would lay siege to Limoges and when he took that town he would show no mercy to any, be they his own sons.

Young Henry, however, had taken the opportunity of slipping out of the town before his father realised his intentions and while the King was besieging Limoges he was ranging far and wide causing havoc in Richard’s domain.

Young Henry was no great soldier. He had no real love of battle. He longed for the round of tournaments to which he had become addicted. It was so much more enjoyable to indulge in mock battles, to succeed in the lists, to be led triumphant into the hall by beautiful women, to sit with them and listen to the songs about love and bravery. Real fighting was quite different. It was not so much the risk of death; that was an excitement to him; it was the discomforts that accompanied actual warfare which did not please him.

Still he was determined to get what he wanted. It was humiliating in the extreme that he, a man of twenty-eight, and crowned King of England, should be kept short of money and be absolutely powerless, always held in check by a dominating father.

His quarrel was not really against Richard; it was against his father. It was not that he particularly wanted Aquitaine; he wanted power and if his father saw that he could take Aquitaine, might he not be prepared to give him Normandy or England? The old man wanted to have complete power, which was ridiculous. Couldn’t he see that it was impossible for him to hold sway over Normandy, Anjou and England all at the same time?

Why did he not delegate some of the rule to his sons? That was what the battle was all about.

Henry was too fond of luxury; he was over-generous; he had always greatly enjoyed handing out gifts to those who pleased him. To him that seemed a confirmation of his power. It was kingly to act so and since all knew he was a king without power he had to be constantly reminding people that he was at least a king.

What could he do for money?

One of his captains had come to him telling him that the soldiers were demanding their pay.

‘They must wait,’ he had cried.

‘My lord,’ was the answer, ‘they will not wait. If they are not paid they will desert.’

‘Traitors,’ cried the King.

But what was the use. He had to have money.

Money. It haunted his dreams. He had to find it somewhere. He was beginning to wish he had not started this war. This was not the way to do it.

He began to have uneasy dreams. He remembered how his father had come into the nursery – a powerful figure who liked to play with the children. He could get very angry though, and when he was angry all the attendants crept away to be far out of reach of the storm. They were all afraid of him. He knew how to inspire fear if not love. They had never loved him, any of them, except perhaps Bastard Geoffrey who had been introduced into the nursery much to his mother’s disgust. Bastard Geoffrey had thought their father wonderful; he had done everything he could to please him. He tried to shine at lessons, horse-riding, chivalry, archery, everything that would please the King.

Richard hadn’t cared about pleasing their father. He had been coolly aloof. But he had loved their mother dearly. There would be warmth in the cold eyes when they rested on her. But Henry had loved neither of them. He had wanted most of all to be King and when he was crowned he had been so pleased with life until he realised that it did not mean power after all. It was only a symbol. It meant nothing. The crown was a hollow bauble while his father lived.

But money? Where was he to get money?

They had halted at an abbey and there they paused to rest. The monks welcomed them and invited them to the refectory.

Henry and his captains sat down with the monks; they partook of the simple food which had been prepared; and when they had eaten their fill they admired the rich ornaments of gold and silver which decorated the Abbey, and the wonderful gem-studded gifts to the Madonna.

Henry studied these ornaments through narrowed eyes. So much that was beautiful was worth a great deal and all hidden here in the Abbey.

‘By God’s eyes,’ he declared to his captains, ‘we could feed an army on a few of those silver chalices.’

The captains avoided his eyes but he insisted on pressing his point. Of what use were these ornaments hidden away in an abbey? How much more useful they would be to supply him with the money he so desperately needed.

As the beautiful objects were taken from the shrines of saints, the monks protested. Young Henry however waved aside their protests.

His soldiers were hungry, they wanted their pay. He was determined to feed his army and go on with the war.

He laughed at the squeamish attitude of some of his men.

They feared reprisals from the saints.

‘Nay,’ cried Henry, ‘this is a just cause.’ Providence appeared to be proving this was so, for news had come that several important knights and their accompanying men were ready to join him in marching against Richard.

Henry was delighted. Nothing was going to deter him now. He knew how to come by the money he needed. There were so many rich abbeys in the neighbourhood. Why should they not provide the means of feeding and equipping his army?

A feverish excitement possessed him. His sleep was haunted by strange dreams. Often he tossed on his pallet and his father dominated those dreams.

Now when his armies came into sight the monks tried to close their doors against him. He would not have this. Sometimes it was necessary to batter them down.

He was rich now. Robbing the shrines was a seemingly never ending source of providing for his needs.

Terror spread through the land. There were fearful stories of drunken soldiery storming the abbeys. The monks kept a lookout for the approaching armies and sought to defend themselves, but they were helpless against Henry’s men.

He was like a man possessed by devils. He would call out in his sleep that his witch ancestress was after him. His attendants thought he was ill, but in the morning he would be up and ready to march on.

His cheeks were flushed and it seemed that he had a fever. He was advised to rest awhile but he would not hear of it.

‘What! When we are winning? Give my father and Richard a chance to outwit me? Nay! I am going on to conquer Aquitaine and one day the monks will rejoice for the part they have played in my victory.’

On they marched. Close by was the most famous church in France, well known for the shrine of Roc Amadour. The treasures in this shrine were worth a fortune. Pilgrims came to it from all over the country. It was said that miracles had been performed there and that the Virgin herself was often present.

Henry noticed that his attendants were afraid. He felt the fever burning through his body and a recklessness seized him.

‘Why think you we have come to Roc Amadour if not to help ourselves to the treasures of the shrine?’ he demanded.

Perhaps no one believed he would commit this deed of sacrilege. Perhaps he did not believe it himself. He saw the looks on the faces of the men – frightened faces – and he laughed aloud. Something was urging him on. He did not know what. He was going to prove to them all that he feared nothing … neither his father nor God. Then they would see that he was worthy to be a king. Then they would understand why he was so angry to be deprived of the power that was his by right.

‘To the shrine,’ he cried.

He looked at them witheringly. ‘Let those who are afraid, go back to their firesides. They are not worthy to come with me to Aquitaine. I would not have them at my board for I like not cowards.’