Henry listened to the news. The Irish had done this. They had cut off his head. No doubt they had grown tired of his pretensions, thought Henry.

He sent for John.

‘Hugh de Lacy had many estates in Ireland. They must be seized without delay. You should prepare yourself to leave for that country.’

John was nothing loth. He looked forward to further merry sport.

Before he had time to leave, though, there was more news, this time from France.

Geoffrey had presented himself to Philip of France, ostensibly to do homage to his seneschal and Philip had welcomed him with such honours that it seemed suspicious. Philip had insisted that Geoffrey stay awhile at the Court of France, and there grew up such friendship between Philip and Geoffrey that those who wished the King of England well felt he should know of it.

Henry did wish to know of it. He did not trust Philip who was no weak vacillating Louis.

Strangely enough Philip had grown from the spoilt boy into a ruler who was not to be lightly ignored. He was becoming a very ambitious man. His dream was obviously to extend his dominions. Philip would have liked all the vassal states to be entirely his, and like Henry, he was wise enough not to want to go to war if he could acquire what he wanted through diplomacy and shrewd dealing.

Henry had for some time been aware that he must keep a watchful eye on Philip of France.

If Philip was making much of Geoffrey then he was doing it for a motive. Had he got his eyes on Brittany … or worse still, Normandy?

Henry must be very watchful of what was happening at the Court of France. He might need all the forces at his disposal, in which case it would be unwise to send his son John to Ireland. So the Irish expedition should be temporarily postponed.

How right he was. It was said that at their secret talks Geoffrey and Philip were discussing the invasion of Normandy. And what of Richard? How was he feeling? He had handed over Aquitaine to his mother only to find that she had promptly been sent back to captivity.

Oh, yes, he must be very watchful indeed. The eaglets might well be poised to fall on the old eagle.

Geoffrey was enjoying his sojourn in France and one reason for this was that he knew the effect his being there would have on his father.

Geoffrey loved mischief. It had always been so since his nursery days. If he could make trouble he was happy. He had a grudge against his father and another against his brother Richard, because he had been denied power by the one and shown to be inferior in battle by the other.

Moreover, it was pleasant to be treated with honour by the King of France. The fact that Geoffrey was clever, quickwitted and able to express his thoughts with an uncommon lucidity made him more dissatisfied with his lot. There was some greatness in him but he was marred by the flaws in his character rather than his ability. He could be persuasive and eloquent but he rarely meant what he said; people had begun to recognise him now for a hypocrite with a talent for deception. They simply did not trust him any more.

He was content with his marriage to Constance, the heiress who had brought him Brittany and so far one daughter. She was at this time pregnant and they were both hoping for a son.

Since he had been introduced to the tournament through Philip of Flanders he had become obsessed by it. What was it but a mock battle? It was certainly suited to his temperament. He loved the show and ceremony, the occasional danger, for it was dangerous and many a knight had lost his life in the jousts. Now he was known for his skill and when he rode out it was one of the highlights of the day.

The King of France, knowing his love for the sport, had arranged that there should be one tournament after another so that his guest might realise how his host wished to please him.

Invitations were sent out and those of rank such as Geoffrey gathered together their followers with the intention of staging mock battles against other men and their knights. These battles were conducted in the same manner as actual warfare and one of the favourite practices was to separate a knight from those of his party and if possible ground him and capture him. There were casualties often enough and if any knight were taken prisoner his captors would hold him to ransom. This kind of action made the battles more exciting. There was of course many an example of single combat but it was the massed battles which thrilled both spectators and participants.

Geoffrey had heard that his father was deeply perturbed because of the hospitality the French King was showing him and that he was planning to come to Normandy. That was a pity. It would have been so much more satisfactory to have launched an attack on Normandy before his father had a chance to appear. Perhaps Philip was not as eager to do that as he pretended to be. Was Geoffrey himself all that eager? No, it was more amusing to attack his father by rumour than actual fact. The tournament was the thing.

He was preparing to go into action when his wife, only just sure of her pregnancy, came to put her favour in his helm.

It was a piece of bright-coloured satin cut from her dress.

‘I shall be watching,’ she said, ‘and that is all I shall know you by.’

‘When the battle is over I shall expect you to be waiting to lead me into the hall,’ he told her.

Out into the field he rode that day with no premonition of danger. Surrounded by his small company of knights he was thinking of the triumph that would be his when the fight was over. Life was full of promise. The King of France was his friend. His brother Henry was dead and only Richard stood between him and the crowns of England, Normandy and Anjou. He already had Brittany. He had a daughter and his wife was pregnant. His father’s youth was passing fast. How many years could he live? Richard belonged more to Aquitaine than he ever would to England. And the next in order was himself, Geoffrey.

Suddenly he realised that he was surrounded by attacking knights. What had happened to his allies? They had been thrust aside, and there he was facing them alone. They crowded round him.

He was about to strike when his horse suffered a blow from a lance and fell to the ground. Geoffrey went down under the horse.

‘Yield! Yield!’ was the cry.

Yield! He, the son of the King of England to yield to a French knight! It was not to be thought of.

‘Never,’ he cried and as he spoke the hoofs of one of the knights’ horses came down upon his head.

He lost consciousness and lay there.

When it was discovered that the knight who had fallen in battle was Geoffrey Count of Brittany he was carefully carried into the castle, but it was then too late.

His wife Constance came and stood by the bier. She saw that the piece of satin from her gown was still in his helm and she knelt and covered her face with her hands, for he was dead and she thought of the child she carried and wondered what would become of them.

Henry heard the news with grief.

‘We are doomed,’ he said. ‘Why has God turned his face from me? Two of my sons cut off in the prime of their youth.’ There was only John left to him now … Richard was there, of course, but Richard was his enemy.

Now he must torture himself with memories of Geoffrey as a boy. He could not say that he had been his favourite son, but nevertheless he had been his own flesh and blood. What mischief had got into them that they must always be at war? Why had they not stood together as a father and his sons should do? William first as a baby, then Henry and now Geoffrey. Three sons lost and of the others … he could put his faith only in John.