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By Root 1644 0

pronounced: the legs were a little more bowed; he leaned on a stick. I learned later that he had had a fall from a horse. Was it when Henry’s men had killed the horse under him? He had ingrowing toenails which caused him some pain. Poor old man! Was this the greatest soldier in Europe? He was still, I supposed. Age could not alter that completely. His hair was gray and there was much less of it than I remembered. He was still careless over his clothes; still the same short cape, the hands that were more reddened than ever.

Yet for all this, one only had to look at him to know he was a king.

I felt a sudden emotion. It was certainly not love. I would never forgive him for what he had done to me. Hatred? Yes, in a measure, but not entirely. A little pity because he was no longer active and must have hated leaning on a stick—and pity too, for the unrequited love he had given to his sons.

Then I thought with a glow of pleasure: You are an old man, Henry Plantagenet. You are older than I am in truth, although you are eleven years younger.

“You are beautiful still,” he said.

I bowed my head. I gave him one of those looks which implied that I could not return the compliment on his looks. He understood. We still knew each other very well, and even after all these years we could read each other’s thoughts.

“It is long since we met,” he went on.

“It was your pleasure,” I reminded him.

“It is now my wish that there should be no rancor between us while we are here.”

“Then the King’s wishes must be obeyed.”

His lips twitched; he was admiring me, I knew; and I felt my spirits rise. I knew that there would soon be conflict between us and I welcomed it.

I thanked him for the clothes and the saddle he had sent.

He smiled faintly. “I dareswear you needed them.”

“I did. I understand it is because Henry asked it that you freed me from my prison.”

“For this visit,” he reminded me.

“Then I must be grateful to him,” I said. He was moved at the mention of our dead son.

I said: “He was my son too. I knew the end was near. I saw him in a dream.”

He was too emotional to speak for a moment.

“He was a handsome boy,” I said.

“There was never one as handsome as he was.”

“The end was sad. All that conflict. I know you loved him dearly . . . more dearly than any of the others.”

“He turned against me. He was led astray.”

I wanted to say to him: No, it was not as simple as that. When you crowned him, you created a rival. You were to blame. He had no love for you . . . yet on his deathbed he remembered me. You made me a prisoner but you cannot take that away from me. In the love of our children I have something for which you would give a great deal.

But I said none of these things. I was sorry for him.

“We both loved him,” I said. “He was our son. We must pray for him.”

“Together,” he said. “None understands my grief.”

“I understand it,” I said. I looked at him and saw the pain in his eyes. “Because,” I added, “I share it.”

He took my hand and pressed it; then he lifted it to his lips.

For a moment our shared grief had taken us right back to the days when we had meant a great deal to each other.

Then the greatest joy I had known for years came to me. Richard arrived at Westminster.

I stood staring at him. He had changed. He was so tall. I had forgotten how handsome he was; it was those blond looks inherited from his Viking ancestors, those bluest of blue eyes which could look like ice and which glowed like flames at the sight of me.

“My mother!” he cried and I was in his arms. I could not help it but the tears were in my eyes.

“This is wonderful . . . wonderful,” I cried.

“At last,” he answered. “I have dreamed of this moment.”

“I have gleaned every bit of information I could about you. I have followed all you have done as far as I could. I have chafed with impatience because I could not know more. And now you are here. Richard, my dearest son.”

He looked at me, smiling. “There is no one like you,” he said. “You look wonderful. At first I thought it could not be. You are so . . . young.”

“I have kept myself young and I