Henry said that he would have begged the King of France to prolong his stay, there was so much he wished to show him in England, but he knew full well how eager he would be to get back to his son. His great anxiety during the visit was that Louis might ask to see Alice or Eleanor. Either could have proved fatal. Alice would have done her best to keep their secret, but would she have been able to? And the fact that Eleanor knew of it often set him sweating with fear. He wondered why she had not made it known. He could only believe that she thought she could plague him more by keeping him guessing.
With skill he avoided either issue and it was with great pleasure that he accompanied the King of France to Dover. Louis embarked on the waiting vessel and sailed back to France.
There, joyous news awaited him. Philip was recovering his health. The doctors swore that it must have been precisely at the time when Louis lay prostrate before the tomb of the martyr that Philip began to revive.
Louis went at once to see his son and the change in him was remarkable. It could only be a miracle, declared the King; and how gratified he was that he had defied his ministers and put his trust in the martyr and Henry of England. He felt it augured well for the future and their new friendship which was to take them together to the Holy Land.
‘Your coronation will not be long delayed,’ he told Philip. ‘We will make preparations without delay.’
He was delighted when his son-in-law, the younger Henry, arrived at the French Court with his wife Marguerite.
Louis embraced them both warmly. Henry looked well and very handsome though Marguerite was a little wan after her ordeal.
‘How glad I am to see you, my son and daughter,’ he said, and he added to Henry: ‘I want you and my Philip to be friends always. Your father and I have taken an oath of friendship and one day you two will stand in the same position as we hold today – Kings of France and England. I want there to be amity between you. Remember that, Henry, for there is nothing but misery in war. I would to God I had never taken part in it. I would be a happier man today if I had not.’
Wars were a necessary part of a king’s life, Henry supposed, but he did not bother to contradict Louis. The poor old fellow was looking older than ever and his skin had taken on an unhealthy tinge.
Henry was glad to renew his friendship with Philip of Flanders but he was less influenced by him than before, for he was more experienced of the world than he had been and although he remembered how generous the Count had been when he was initiating him into the joys of the tournament, he no longer seemed quite the glamorous person he had once appeared to be.
Nor did Henry greatly care for the young Prince of France. No one did; he was not a very attractive character. It was only his father who doted on him, and of course the ministers of France realised his importance, for he was the heir and if he had died after that mishap in the forest there would doubtless have been so many claimants to the throne that there would have been inevitable civil war.
Louis decided that there should be a thanksgiving service at St Denis to commemorate the miraculous recovery of Philip; and this should take place as soon as possible.
He did not wish Thomas à Becket to think he was ungrateful for his intercession.
The date was fixed. Young Henry would ride side by side with Philip to show everyone that the friendship between France and England was firm.
When his attendants helped Louis on to his horse they were struck by his pallor and one of them asked the King if he was feeling unwell.
‘A little weary,’ replied Louis.
‘My lord, should you not perhaps rest?’
‘Nay,’ replied the King. ‘I would not miss this ceremony for anything.’
But he did miss it, for as the procession made its way to the Abbey the King startled everyone by falling forward. He would have slipped to the ground had not one of the knights, who had been inwardly noting his pallor, hurried to save him.
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.