The Heart of the Lion (56 page)

He lay on his sick bed. He had tried to pull the arrow out and in doing so had broken it. It needed an operation to remove the barb.

The days began to pass and the wound was festering. The pain was agonising. It was with horror that he realised mortification had set in.

This was the end, and he knew it.

Eleanor came to his bedside from Fontevrault, the Abbey where she had been finding a certain peace now that Richard was in command of his kingdom.

Her grief was terrible.

‘It cannot be,’ she cried. ‘Not you . . . not Richard! My beautiful son!’

‘’Tis so, Mother,’ he said. ‘This is the end for me. An arrow shot at Chaluz – and all for the sake of gold treasure which they tell me is very little. I might have died fighting for Jerusalem and they will say of me now that I died fighting for a vessel of gold coins.’

‘They will say of you that you are the bravest soldier of the Cross that ever lived,’ cried Eleanor fiercely. ‘And you are not going to die.
You
cannot die.’

‘I am mortal, Mother. See how weak I am.’

‘I have seen you weak before with the fever on you, but you always recovered did you not?’

He shook his head. ‘You and I should speak the truth together. We always did and we must do so now. I am dying, Mother. You know it.’

She could not speak, so choked was she with her emotion; she could not look on the beloved face for her eyes were blinded by her tears.

‘Mother,’ he said, ‘what will happen when I am dead? Arthur should have been here. The people should have known him. They would have loved him. The young are so appealing. But his mother refused to allow him to come and now there is only John.’

She could not answer him; she could only think of him in all his youthful beauty – her beloved, her Lion Heart.

‘John is English,’ he said. ‘The English know him. They will accept him as they never would accept Arthur. It must be John, Mother. God help England.’

She clung to his hands; she kissed them.

She said: ‘You see, you
must
recover, my beloved. What will England do without you? What shall
I
do without you?’

But she knew, as he did, that there was no point in deluding themselves. The bitter tragic truth must be accepted.

‘Send for the Archbishops and the Bishops,’ said Richard. ‘My brother John must be proclaimed King on my death. It is the only way for peace in the realm.’

There should have been an heir he was thinking.

My poor Berengaria, you should have been the mother of my sons.

‘I will have them brought to you,’ said Eleanor. She rose to her feet.

‘Farewell, my mother,’ he said. ‘There has been much love between us.’

She could not answer him. She wanted to cry out in her misery. She wanted to curse God for taking from her the only one she truly loved.

Richard asked that the man who had shot the fatal arrow be brought to him.

Richard looked at Bertrand de Gourdon steadily and said: ‘What have I done to you that you should slay me?’

‘You slew my father and my two brothers. You would have killed me and all for a pot of gold. I am ready for revenge. Inflict on me what tortures you can contrive. I care not. I have had my reward. I have seen you on your deathbed.’

‘There is a brave man,’ said Richard. ‘Let him go free. I forgive him what he has done to me and I trust he will forgive me what I have done to him. Send my Queen to me.’

He must not die until she came. He wanted to ask her forgiveness. He wanted to convey to her somehow that it was not his dislike of her personally which had kept them apart.

She came – sad and pale, a tragic queen who had rarely known real happiness.

She knelt by his bed and wept.

‘It is farewell,’ he said. ‘Forgive me, Berengaria. I would I could have been a better husband.’

She shook her head and her tears fell on to his hand which she held in hers.

He looked at her sad fair face until his eyes grew glazed and he thought he was on the walls at Acre and that Saladin was beckoning to him.

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