But life did not work out like that. Instead of Saladin she had married Henry Plantagenet.
Henry meanwhile was preparing the members of his council. Considering how affairs stood in Aquitaine, Normandy and Anjou he did not feel it was the moment for him to go far away. He asked them to visualise the troubles which could arise if he were out of the way. A crusade was an expensive venture. The people would have to be taxed and how would they react to that? It was bad enough when they had to pay to keep their own country safe. He himself might win personal glory but what of his country? He had ever thought to serve his subjects and make it possible for them to live peacefully in a just community. If he were absent he did not see how he could preserve the laws of England which had been set up by his great-grandfather and strengthened by himself; and he knew that the members of his council, being wise men, would never permit him to embark on such an undertaking.
The assembly met in London; the English nobility were present with high ranking members of the Church and on a dais Henry sat side by side with his guests, Heraclius and Roger de Moulin.
The King told the assembly the reason for the mission and what great honour had been done to him. The Holy City was in peril; King Baldwin was dying of a dread disease; there was but a child to take his place; and the keys of the Holy Sepulchre had been offered to him, Henry of England. Here was an opportunity for him to win great glory to himself and wash away the sins of his lifetime. He was a king, however, who had always considered first his people. He had no will but theirs and he had summoned them thither that they might decide for him whether or not he should undertake this pilgrimage.
Heraclius rose to his feet and told the assembly that Jesus Christ and the godly throughout the world were asking the King of England to save Jerusalem. He would tell them how Saladin, the leader of the Saracens, those heathens who were the enemies of Christ, were preparing to take Jerusalem. Could true Christians stand aside and allow this to happen? Nay! For those who could do this were not true Christians.
Henry replied that he would do all in his power to save the Holy City.
He then called upon the assembly to tell him what they wished him to do.
Richard, Archbishop of Canterbury, rose to his feet. ‘My Lord King,’ he said, ‘your duty lies in your dominions.’
Heraclius turned on the Archbishop.
‘My lord Archbishop,’ he cried thunderously, ‘I call on another Archbishop, a saint, a martyr. He was done to death on the stones of his Cathedral and at that time the King swore an oath that he would go to Jerusalem.’
‘If it was in his power to do so,’ replied the Archbishop. ‘But our lord the King swore another oath at his coronation. In it he declared that he would always watch over the welfare of his subjects. That oath, my lords, being the tenure of the crown, supersedes all other oaths. A crusade to Palestine cannot be compared with the duties of a king. And for this reason my lord King, and my lord Patriarch, the King must stay in his own dominions.’
Henry nodded his head slowly.
‘I see that the members of my council speak with good sense. My heart will go to Palestine but I must perforce remain here. My duty must be done.’ Heraclius was about to burst forth in his indignation when Henry said: ‘I will give fifty thousand to the cause and if any of my subjects desire to join a crusade I shall do all in my power to help them.’
‘I have not come for money,’ cried Heraclius. He turned on Henry in his fury, for he knew full well that these men would never have dared to decide against him unless primed by the King. It was Henry’s decision and Henry’s only. ‘As for you, sir,’ he went on, ‘you have hitherto reigned with an abundance of glory, but know this: God whose cause you have abandoned is now about to abandon you. You will see what happens to you as the result of your ingratitude. You make excuses. You say you must stay and protect your subjects. You murdered the Archbishop of Canterbury and you refuse an expiation of your guilt in that crime to undertake this Holy War.’
At the mention of Thomas à Becket the colour flamed into the King’s cheeks and his eyes gleamed murderously.
‘Do not believe that I dread your fury,’ cried Heraclius. ‘Cut off my head if you will. Treat me as you treated St Thomas à Becket. I had rather die by your hand in England than by the Saracen in Syria. I esteem the Saracens more than I do you.’
Henry trembled with rage. He could never listen unmoved when Thomas was mentioned. For a few moments he was on the point of shouting to those about him to seize the Patriarch, throw him into a dungeon and there put out his eyes.
Heraclius showed no fear. He was sick at heart though. He must find a noble prince, rich and strong, who would come with him and save Jerusalem.
‘Give me one of your sons,’ he pleaded. ‘If you will not save your soul yourself, let one of them come on your behalf.’
‘I need my sons.’
‘God needs them.’
Henry thought: Richard? Geoffrey? John? No, never. He must keep them close to him. He must know what they were doing. He could not trust one of them.
‘God gave me great lands to defend,’ said the King. ‘I must needs defend them. If I left, my sons would fight among themselves. My duty lies here.’
The Patriarch knew that he was defeated.
‘You and your sons … you came from the Devil and to the Devil you will return. No good will come to you, Henry Plantagenet, for you have turned your face from God.’
Henry left the chamber. There was only one who could soothe him and make him forget the Patriarch’s dismal prophecies: Alice.
Henry was shaken. Was it true, he asked himself, that God had forsaken him?
His sons were not to be trusted – even John, his youngest, his beloved now. What was the use of pretending? Could he trust John? What sort of man was he growing up to be?
He sent for him and John came readily. The boy knew that now his brother Henry was dead he was his father’s favourite son.
John, sly, well versed in villainy, for his tutors had seen which way his inclinations lay and encouraged him, was looking for the advantage. He despised his father with the contempt of the young for the old. John believed he was on the threshold of a life of power and adventure and that his father was nearing the end of his.
In the past he had watched his father in the castle, seen his eyes linger on women, watched him fondle them and take them away to his bedchamber. It was not long before John was experimenting in this game which men said had been an obsession with his father. John understood his father’s inclinations in that direction. They were his own.
And now, who knew what was in store for him? Geoffrey had offended his father beyond forgiveness because his men had actually shot arrows at the King while he looked on. As for Richard the King had never liked him. That left John.
The old man could be quite maudlin at times.
John had heard the appeal of Heraclius and one of his cronies had told him of his mother’s adventures in the Holy Land when she had been old Louis’s wife. His mother had known how to enjoy life even as his father did! John thought he would like to go to the Holy Land. Nothing could be more amusing than to lead a riotous life on the journey and then get your penance at the shrine.
So when he presented himself to his father, he began by kneeling and telling him that he wished to go to the Holy Land.
‘Let me go, Father,’ he said. ‘There I shall gain redemption for your sins as well as my own.’