He was dying as he’d lived, and that made it so much harder for those who loved him. But then she remembered what she’d been told about his father’s wretched last hours. After learning that John had betrayed him, he’d turned his face to the wall and had not spoken again. Only as his fever burned higher had he cried out, “Shame upon a conquered king.” An anguished epitaph for a life that had once held such bright promise. No, better that Richard laugh at Death than die as Harry had. His body was wracked with pain, but at least he was not suffering Harry’s agony of spirit. She could not have borne that.
Richard’s breathing was so rapid that his chest was heaving. Talking was not easy, but there were things he must say. “I’ve made my will. . . . Three-quarters of my treasury to Johnny. The remainder . . . to feed the poor. . . . I want . . . want crown jewels to go to Otto. . . .”
She nodded her head, squeezing his hand to let him know she understood.
“Maman . . . I . . .” Richard made a great effort to say clearly and distinctly, “I want to be buried at Fontevrault, at my father’s feet. . . .”
“I am sure he has forgiven you, Richard.”
He did not think his father forgave as easily as that. “My Normans . . . always faithful . . . Bury my heart with them, at Rouen. . . . To the disloyal, treacherous curs of Poitou . . . I leave my entrails, all they deserve. . . .”
“It will be done, all as you wish—” Her voice broke, for there had been a change in his breathing, a gurgling sound often called the death rattle.
“Do . . . what you can for Johnny, Maman. . . .”
She nodded again. Not trusting her voice, she reached out and gently stroked his hair. The odor from his wound was sickening. She did not care. She did not think she could endure this, counting each rasping breath, listening as his heart beat more and more slowly and then stopped. But she would. She would not leave his side. She would be with him until his last moment, and then she would grieve for him until the hour of her own death. This was a wound that would never heal.
Time had no meaning any longer. She assumed hours were passing, but she refused all offers of food or drink. How long would God torment him like this? Leaning over, she kissed his forehead. “You can stop fighting now, my dearest. Your race is done.”
He’d not spoken for some time and she was not sure he could hear her, but then he said, “Did . . . I . . . win?”
“Yes, Richard, you did. You kept the faith.” She did not remember the rest of the scriptural verse. She would later wonder how she could have sounded so calm, so composed. But it was the last gift she could give him. “Go to God, my beloved son.”
After that, he was still. They could hear church bells chiming in the distance. Somewhere Vespers was being rung, people were at Mass, life was going on. André had not thought there was a need for words of farewell, not between them. But now he found himself approaching the bed, suddenly afraid that he’d waited too long. “Richard.” He held his breath then, until the other man opened his eyes. “Listen to me,” he said hoarsely. “You will not be forgotten. A hundred years from now, men will be sitting around campfires and telling the legends of the Lionheart.”
The corner of Richard’s mouth twitched. “Only . . . a hundred years?” he whispered, and André and Eleanor saw his last smile through a haze of hot tears.
RICHARD DIED AT SEVEN o’clock on Tuesday, April 6, in Holy Week, with his mother at his side. He was forty-one and had reigned less than ten years. He was buried at Fontevrault Abbey at his father’s feet, as he’d requested.
RICHARD’S PARDON of the crossbowman was not honored. Once he was dead, Mercadier ordered Peire Basile to be flayed alive.
CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX
APRIL 1199
Beaufort-en-Vallée, Anjou
Bishop Hugh of Lincoln was one of the few who’d known that Richard had been seriously wounded at the siege of Chalus, for he’d had a chance encounter with the abbess of Fontevrault Abbey, and she’d told him that the king was not expected to survive. He was at Angers when he got the grim news of Richard’s death and he set out at once for Fontevrault Abbey, where Richard was to be buried. But he took a detour off the high road to ride to the castle of Beaufort-en-Vallée, for he had not forgotten Richard’s widow.
BERENGARIA CAME HURRYING OUT into the castle bailey to greet him. “My lord bishop, what a pleasure to see you!” Her smile was radiant and he felt a pang, knowing that he was about to unleash a storm that would render her world unrecognizable. But there was no point in delaying it, and he suggested that they go to the chapel straightaway. That aroused no suspicions in Berengaria, who thought it perfectly natural that he’d give priority to prayer. He sent his clerk and servant on into the hall, and followed Richard’s queen toward the chapel, accompanied by one of her women and her chaplain, for even with a godly man like Bishop Hugh, she paid heed to propriety.
“MY LADY . . . YOU MUST be strong, for I bring you grievous news.”
She stared at him, eyes widening. “Richard . . . ?”