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.
Philip joined them.
‘What black brows!’ said the Count of Flanders lightly as he looked at Philip. ‘It would seem that there is thunder in the air.’
‘It is my mother,’ said Philip. ‘She will bring my uncles here to help me govern.’
The Count was alert. The last thing he wanted was to have those brothers at Court. The House of Blois had too high an opinion of itself. It was very closely connected with royalty for one of the Conqueror’s daughters, Adela – after whom the present Queen of France was named – had married into it. It was for this reason that Stephen her son had become King of England; and Stephen’s brother Theobald was the father of Adela Queen of France. Adela had four brothers: one the Archbishop of Rheims who had crowned young Philip; Henry, the Count of Champagne, and Theobald, Count of Blois, who had married Marie and Alix respectively – Louis’s daughters by Eleanor; and the fourth was the influential Stephen Count of Sancerre.
It was small wonder that at such a time these men should consider themselves the rightful advisers of the young King of France, and the Count of Flanders must prevent their getting influence over the young Philip.
‘You will of a surety not permit that,’ said Philip lightly.
‘I will do my best.’
‘Your best! But you only have to say you will not have them. Are you not the King?’
‘Well yes, but as my mother pointed out, the crown and the seal of office still belong to my father.’
This was true. Adela could talk to old Louis and get him to bring her brothers to Court. It had to be stopped. Philip of Flanders could see his dream of power being ruined if they came and took charge of this rather impressionable young boy.
‘We will put our heads together,’ said the Count lightly. ‘Henry will help us, will you not? He knows what it means to be frustrated.’
‘I do indeed. My father has bound me not to take action against him.’
‘And you are restive under the yoke,’ replied the Count. ‘We must see that we do not allow them to put a yoke on your fair neck, my dear Philip.’
Marguerite frowned at her half-brother. She did not like him very much. She thought it a pity that boys should be treated with such honours. She and her sisters had never been made as much of as Philip had, simply because they were girls. Moreover she loved her father dearly. Louis had always been good and gentle to his children and she was very upset that he was now lying on what everyone believed to be his death bed.
She said: ‘I do not wish to listen to such talk. My father … our father, Philip … is lying sorely afflicted. For pity’s sake let us not talk as though he were dead already.’
Henry laid a gentle hand on her arm.
‘It is not of him personally we speak, Marguerite,’ he said. ‘We love him dearly. He has been a good father to me. Kinder than my own. But Philip must make sure that he is not robbed of his rights.’
‘Philip is but a boy.’
Philip flushed and glared at her. ‘I am a man. I am capable of governing and by our lady I will govern.’
‘Spoken like a king,’ said the Count of Flanders. ‘I like to hear you speak thus. But it is action that counts. You must be ready when the day comes.’
Marguerite turned away, a glaze of tears in her eyes. She would not stay and hear them talk as though her father were already dead. She saw William Marshall in the garden and went and joined him. The Count watched her. He believed she was telling William why she was upset.
The Count did not greatly care for the influence William Marshall had over Henry and Marguerite. He had been the knight-at-arms in the nursery when they were children and being such an old friend was too important to them. They both admired him far too much. William Marshall was one of those honourable men whose actions were predictable. He did not seek honours for himself; he was the sort of knight whose value Henry Plantagenet was aware of and the kind he liked to see beside his son. William Marshall and Count Philip of Flanders were as different as two men could be.