The Revolt of the Eaglets Read online

  Young Henry knew that he was more handsome than his father. They told him he resembled his paternal grandfather, the Count of Anjou, who had been known as Geoffrey the Fair. Looks were important, although his father would never accept that. Young Henry would never get his hands chapped and rough because he refused to wear gloves. He liked to see them adorned with rings. He was not like his father at all; he tried to charm people, something the older Henry never bothered with. But it was important, reasoned Henry the younger; it made people like one, it bound them to one; they were likely to be loyal if they had an affection for a ruler. No one had a great affection for his father. They might respect him as a great ruler and fear him, but love him? Never!

  He knew how people were with him. They flattered him because he flattered them; there had been many a hint that those about him would be happy enough when there was only one king to rule England.

  Not that he had been allowed to do much ruling yet. He had quickly realised that his father had had no intention of giving him power, only a crown. He was in fact becoming more and more disgruntled every day.

  He wished he could see his mother, but of course she had always been more fond of Richard than she was of him; as for his father, it sometimes seemed as though he wanted his affection. Let him do something to get it then. Let him give the son he had made King some land to rule over; let him be King in fact as well as in name. As if the old man would give up anything he once laid his hands on!

  ‘Your father is the most acquisitive man on earth,’ his mother had said to him. ‘He’ll never take his hands from anything once they have held it.’

  What hatred there had been between those two! He and his brothers had sensed it; in secret they had ranged themselves on their mother’s side against him. She had loved them and although Richard was her favourite she had shown that she cared passionately about them all. It seemed that the more she hated their father, the more she loved them.

  The King had treated her badly. He had had no right to bring his bastard Geoffrey into the nursery! The son of a common whore who had followed the camp and borne the King a son – and that son was brought up in their mother’s nursery! It was too much for any proud woman to endure and when that woman was Eleanor of Aquitaine, naturally there would be trouble.

  She had said to him: ‘Henry my son, your father has made a king of you. He did it only to spite Thomas Becket, I’m sure. He knows that old fellow will be beside himself with rage because he was not here to crown you. He’ll regret it, but his regrets will be your blessing. As he has made you a king, he must not be surprised if you act like one.’ And she had laughed loudly at the thought; and ever since he had resented his father’s parsimony; because of his mother’s words he had come to dislike his father even more than he had at first. His mother had always pointed out to them all their father’s shortcomings; and the only one who didn’t listen to her was Bastard Geoffrey. He worshipped the King; and when their father came to the nursery he would try to get his attention, which he invariably did, for the King always listened to what Geoffrey the Bastard had learned and nodded his approval.

  Now young Henry believed he had done it to annoy their mother. There was so much one understood as one grew older.

  ‘Your father will use you all like pawns in a game of chess,’ said their mother. ‘Look how he has married you without your leave!’

  It was true. Young Henry had a wife, Marguerite, the daughter of the King of France. At this time she was in Aquitaine with his mother, being brought up by her until the time when she should come to him and share his bed, roof and crown. She herself had not yet been crowned and the King of France was very angry about that, but his father had promised that she should be, and when she was, he supposed their married life would begin.

  He had so few opportunities for displaying his kingship that when he did get one he was determined to use it. He had done so quite recently when Thomas à Becket had come to see him.

  He had refused to see the old man. He had felt a little uneasy about that but he had persuaded himself that he could do nothing else. Roger, Archbishop of York, had arrived to see him and to tell him that the Archbishop of Canterbury was on his way.

  Young Henry had been pleased to hear this for he had had a great affection for his old teacher. He and young Marguerite had been put in his care many years ago before Thomas’s exile. He had been stern and they had had to spend long sessions on their knees. Marguerite used to say her knees were sore with praying, but they had loved him in spite of his strictness and the stern talks he used to give them, for there was a merry side to his nature and suddenly it would burst forth and they would all be very gay together.

  He remembered that day when they were told that Thomas à Becket would no longer instruct them because he had quarrelled with the King and as a consequence he had fled to France.

  That was long ago. Marguerite had broken down and wept; and Henry had almost done the same. And no other teacher had been quite the same.

  But Roger of York had scorned Thomas à Becket.

  ‘My lord King,’ he had said, ‘you cannot receive that man. Had he had his way you would never have been crowned.’

  ‘And why not?’ he had demanded in his new arrogance.

  ‘Because the Archbishop of Canterbury did not believe you should be crowned. He is a man who thinks he knows best on every matter.’

  ‘It is because he did not perform the ceremony.’

  ‘Mayhap that had something to do with it, but he has declared his disapproval and is threatening to excommunicate all those who took part in it.’

  ‘That’s insolence,’ Henry had cried, for he was very sensitive about anything that touched his pride in his new office.

  ‘He’s an insolent fellow. If you receive him he will preach to you. He will tell you to give up your crown.’

  ‘I will tell him to be gone.’

  ‘Better to tell him not to come. My lord King, if you will allow me to express an opinion, for the sake of the dignity of your crown you cannot receive a man whose aim is to snatch it from you.’

  ‘Indeed I cannot.’

  ‘Then you should have him warned that you will not receive him.’

  ‘I will,’ declared Henry, and had done so, but almost immediately he regretted it. It seemed so churlish to turn his old teacher away.

  But Roger of York was right. Now that he was King he could suffer no indignity.

  He let his mind dwell on the glory of the coronation when the crown had been placed on his head in the solemn ceremony and later at the banquet his father the King had served him.

  Men looked on amazed at such a sight. The idea of a king – and such a king – bowing to his own young son was incongruous.

  One of them had said to him afterwards: ‘What a sight it was. The King himself to kneel to you!’

  ‘Why should not the son of a count kneel to the son of a king,’ retorted Henry; and the remark was repeated for it was indeed true that young Henry was the son of the King of England and the King of England was only the son of the Count of Anjou.

  Ever since, he had been deeply aware of his title, and with each day his resentment grew.

  Six months a king and still treated like a child! It would not do. He would speak to his father. So he said now. It would be a different matter when he stood before him. Then he would be afraid as all men were, be they prince or serf, that the dangerous colour would flame into the face and the whites of the eyes redden and the terrible temper rise up like a roaring lion ready to destroy all those who crossed him.

  ‘One of these days when your father is in one of his rages it will be the end of him.’ That was his mother’s voice, quiet, mocking, putting thoughts into his head which would not otherwise have been there.

  Messengers at the castle. They always excited him. What news were they bringing? A message from his father? Was he to join him in Normandy or wherever he was? Was he to place himself at the head of a troop of soldiers? Was he going to be
given land and castles of his own at last?

  ‘My lord,’ said one of his knights, ‘there is a messenger from Canterbury.’

  ‘From Canterbury, but my father is across the sea.’

  ‘He comes not from your father, my lord.’

  ‘From Canterbury! From the Archbishop! But I will not see the Archbishop. I have said I will not receive those who do not please me.’

  ‘My lord, he has doleful tidings.’

  ‘Then bring him to me.’

  The messenger came. He bowed low. ‘My lord, this day I bring you sad tidings. The Archbishop of Canterbury has been murdered in his Cathedral.’

  ‘Murdered!’ cried Henry. ‘How so?’

  ‘Four of your father’s knights have killed him.’

  ‘Killed him … in the Cathedral!’ The boy’s eyes were misty. It could not be so. And yet he might have guessed it. Thomas had quarrelled with his father and the King allowed none to do that with impunity.

  ‘Tell me in detail,’ he commanded; and the story was told.

  Henry went to his bedchamber. He could not shut out the terrible sight those men had conjured up. Thomas à Becket lying on the stones of the Cathedral in a pool of blood.

  ‘I refused to see him,’ he said to himself, ‘but I did not wish this to happen. Oh, God, how thankful I am that I had no part in it.’

  Then he thought of the old days when Thomas had taken him into his household and given special attention to the son of the King. The Archbishop had told him stories of his father, how they had been great friends and roamed the countryside together before he had become Archbishop and was merely the King’s Chancellor. Pleasant merry stories, showing the King in a different guise. It was clear from the manner in which Thomas had talked of Henry that he had loved him. He had been as much aware of Thomas’s love as he had of his mother’s hatred. And yet his father had murdered Thomas.

  Oh yes he had. Young Henry knew that everyone was thinking it even if they dared not say it. Four knights had struck the blows but the whole world would know on whose instructions.

  ‘It will be remembered against him,’ he mused. ‘The people will turn from him because of it. And to whom will they turn? Surely to the one whom he himself had crowned their King.’

  * * *

  Eleanor Queen of England was content to be in her beloved city of Poitiers. This was the land she loved; the land of mild breezes, warm sun and song. It was here that the Courts of Love belonged; it had been impossible to transplant them in the colder climate of England with a people who had little patience with the laws of chivalry and dreams of ideal love. The king of that country was typical of the people he ruled, thought Eleanor scornfully – lusty, unimaginative, seeing something decadent in lying in the sun and making beautiful verses in honour of lovers.

  This was where she belonged and she never wanted to see England again. She might tell herself that she never wanted to see Henry also, but that was not true. He stimulated her as no one else could; he probed her emotions to their depth; she could never be truthfully aloof from him. Once she had loved him fiercely and now as fiercely she hated him.

  Often in her gardens she would be thinking of Henry when handsome troubadours strummed on their lutes and gazed at her with love and longing which must be feigned, for she was nearly fifty years of age and although she had been an exceptionally beautiful woman and still was, she had lived her life adventurously and time had left its mark on her. She remembered those early days when they had loved passionately and she had divorced Louis King of France in order to marry him. He had been as eager for the match as she was, but that may have been because she could bring him Aquitaine and he was a glutton for land. Sometimes she thought that he dreamed of conquering the whole world. Still if Aquitaine had been the main attraction he had hidden the fact and those early years of their marriage must have brought some of the satisfaction to him that they had brought to her. The strong physical attraction had been there – there was no doubt of it; but he, the lusty King, who all his life had taken what he wanted when he wanted it, had soon been unfaithful. She could laugh now at her fury when she had discovered it through the little Bastard Geoffrey he had brought into her nurseries.

  What a glorious battle there had been then and how she had enjoyed it; it had pleased her to see the rage which possessed him because in some way it weakened him. When his temper was out of control and he kicked inanimate objects, when he lay on the floor and rolled about in an agony of rage and tore the dirty rushes with his teeth, he betrayed himself. That magnificent power and strength which were normally his were lost somehow in the man who might control armies but was not in command of his own nature.

  She could not stop thinking of him and oddly enough her hatred of him absorbed her as once her love of him had done. Once she would have done everything in her power to advance him; now she would employ the same energy to destroying him.

  How she loved this city. Her city! And he, Henry, was Duke of Aquitaine, but he should not remain so. That title was for her beloved son Richard; and when Richard became Duke of Aquitaine he should be so in truth. Henry was quite content to bestow titles on his sons as long as it was understood that no power went with them. His was to be the governing hand, as young Henry – proud to be called a king – was realising.

  But it would not always be so. Already the people of Aquitaine were getting an inkling of the relationship between the King and the Queen; and there was no doubt where their loyalty lay. They demonstrated whenever she rode out that they regarded her as their Duchess and they would never submit to the fiery arrogant Angevin who regarded himself as the conqueror of Europe. No, they loved their Duchess Eleanor, the lady of song and learning, the adventurous Queen whose conduct had often scandalised the world, but even these scandals had only endeared her to her own people of the South.

  Often she went up to the ramparts of the castle and surveyed with pride and emotion the city below her. She would gaze at the beautiful Notre Dame la Grande, and the baptistery of Saint Jean and feel young again. She remembered too when the magnificent Cathedral of Saint Pierre had been built. There were so many memories here of other days; and looking back did she regret the passing of her youth?

  How could she, when the years had brought her her beloved sons? And chief of these was Richard.

  She had always loved beauty in the human form and in her eyes her son was her ideal. Some might say he lacked the regular-featured handsome good looks of his elder brother Henry, but the strength of his character showed in his face, and although Eleanor loved all her children and determined to bind them to her, Richard was the one who had the cream of her devotion.

  Richard was tall, his limbs were long and he was noted for the long reach of his arms. His hair was neither red nor yellow but of a colour in between, and his eyes were blue. From an early age he had shown great daring and such a strength of purpose that once he had made up his mind to complete a task he never swerved until it was done. In horsemanship, archery and all other sports he excelled, and what so enchanted the Queen was that he was equally skilled in verse making; he could sing and play the lute with the best of her troubadours. Now that she felt this fierce hatred for her husband she concentrated her love on her children and Richard especially.

  He returned her love. To her he confided his ambitions. He enjoyed hearing of her adventures in the Holy Land and she loved to tell them, dramatising them, setting them to verse and glorifying them by song. They were romanticised and made enchanting stories and she and the lovers she had taken during that wild adventure were the heroine and heroes of a story as entertaining and romantic as that of Arthur, Guinevere and Lancelot.

  ‘Oh what a beautiful city this is,’ she would say. ‘My city that shall be yours, Richard. This city on a hill. Did you know that Marcus Aurelius built an amphitheatre here to hold twenty-two thousand spectators? The Saracens were routed here when they swept across France. Standing here on these ramparts you can sense it all, can you not?’
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  And Richard would understand as once she had thought his father would have done. For in the early days of their marriage Henry had loved literature and works of the imagination. But he had coarsened; his love of power and his lechery had done that.

  ‘When he enters a town,’ said Eleanor to her sons, ‘he does not see the magnificent facade of a cathedral; he does not hear the melodious ring of bells. He looks over the women and decides which he shall take to his bed to make sport with, not caring whether she be willing or not.’

  ‘Let us hope he does not come to Poitiers,’ said Richard.

  ‘We will do our best to keep him away.’

  ‘Why, my mother, even you could not do that.’

  ‘Think you not? What if I were to make the people here dislike him so that they refused to have him?’

  ‘That would be the very greatest inducement for him to come. He would ride into the town with his knights and soldiers in such force that none would dare stand against him.’

  ‘You are right, my son. Even so, I do not intend that my subjects should be kept in ignorance of the kind of man he is.’

  ‘Let us not think of him,’ said Richard. ‘We are happy without him.’

  And so they were.

  ‘Let us plan a masque for tomorrow,’ she said. ‘Could you write some special verses for the occasion? What think you?’

  He thought it was an excellent idea and he would set about the task at once.

  So life flowed on pleasantly in Poitiers. There was many a masque, many a banquet; with her were her sons Richard and Geoffrey and even the latter was something of a troubadour; there was Marguerite, daughter of Louis and wife to young Henry, who was still in her care. Richard’s betrothed Alice, another daughter of Louis but half-sister to Marguerite, for Marguerite was the daughter of Louis’s second wife and Alice of his third, was being brought up at the English Court. Since Eleanor could not be a happy wife she could at least be a contented mother. Her sons loved her and so did her daughters. Even those whom she had deserted still had an affection for her.