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literate. William would more likely than not have been
illiterate himself, as his father was, had not he and Richard taken so strong a
fancy to each other when they were boys. Yet, since Richard absolutely would not mind his book unless William, too, had to study, William was very literate. He could read and write not only French but Latin and English also.
    Thinking back, while Alys read and then reread Henry’s
letter and Raymond gazed at her, William’s lips twitched again. He and Richard
had nearly fallen out over the question of education. William had been most
unwilling to “waste his time” over so useless an accomplishment as reading and writing.
What, he had asked, were clerks for if not to read and write for their noble
protectors? He had angrily accused Richard of forcing him into spending hours
crouched over a book or painfully scribing with cramped fingers on much
scratched-over parchment just so that Richard would not be outstripped in feats
of arms. Richard had turned red as a rooster’s wattle—a thing he still did when
angered—but he had not denied the accusation. His dark eyes had burned redly
for a moment. Then the color had faded, humor sparkled in the eyes instead of
rage, and Richard had agreed that William’s accusation was true. There were
some privileges to being a king’s son, Richard had said, grinning, and not
suffering alone was one of them.
    William remembered also his father’s fear when he crossed
Richard. He had not understood it, and it had frightened him and made him
uneasy so that he was careful in the future to quarrel with Richard only in
private. Sometimes, of course, the results of a quarrel could not be concealed.
One day he and Richard had returned to the keep well bloodied and still
snarling at each other. Then his father had drawn him aside and told him never
to anger the prince.
    “He is the image of his father,” old Sir William warned,
“and John never forgot and never forgave a slight, no matter how small. Even if
it took him ten years or twenty, he would be avenged, fairly or unfairly.”
    William had looked at his father in blank amazement. He knew
Richard never held a grudge. He could be angry, he had a fierce temper. But
once the matter was settled, it was ended for good. William judged things
simply, and it was significant to him that, no matter how furious Richard was,
he fought as fairly as his opponent.
    Over the years it had been proven that William was right about
Richard of Cornwall. Men who had known the old king well finally learned that
humor rather than rapacity or spite burned in the dark eyes, otherwise so like
John’s. Richard was eager for money and ambitious, there was a lust to rule in
him, and for that money was necessary, but neither greed nor ambition
surmounted all other considerations as in the preceding generation of
Plantagenets. Richard ruled in his own lands absolutely, and ruled very well.
He took after his father also in his attention to the details of governing, in
his lack of personal extravagance, in his ability not to be blinded by class in
measuring justice.
    For ten years at least, those who wished to see a land well
governed and at peace with itself mourned inwardly that the wrong son was the
elder. No one, however, had ever dared broach the idea that Richard should take
Henry’s place. Such a man would have died on the spot with Richard’s powerful
hands locked around his throat. The widest difference between Richard and his
father was Richard’s loyalty to anyone who deserved loyalty of him. And,
whatever could be said of Henry, of his petulance, his vindictiveness, his
shifting purposes and disloyalty to others, he never wavered in his love for
his brother. No matter how furious each was with the other, neither ever
distrusted the other.
    “Papa?”
    William came back from the past with a start. Richard had
been right about the reading and writing lessons. William had acknowledged that
soon enough and learned to take so