The Revolt of the Eaglets Page 6

  Thomas had been cut down in the full flush of spiritual glory. A curse on Thomas! There was no escape from him.

  ‘What will be required of me?’ he growled.

  ‘It would be necessary to perform some penance.’

  ‘Penance! I! For what reason? Do you hold me guilty of this murder?’

  ‘Those who did the deed were your men. They acted on your orders.’

  ‘I gave no such orders, nor shall I permit it to be said that I did.’

  ‘My lord, it will be necessary for you to swear to that.’

  ‘Necessary! Who makes such rules? You forget, sir, that you speak to the King of England.’

  ‘We act on the instructions of His Holiness the Pope.’

  ‘I tell you I am master here.’

  ‘We come from the spiritual master of us all,’ answered the Cardinals.

  ‘I would remind you that these are my lands and you would be well advised to remember it.’

  He was fighting to control his temper. He could feel the blood rushing to his head.

  Cardinal Albert said: ‘We will leave you, my lord, to consider what must be done. We will confer again tomorrow.’

  In the chamber they had set aside for him he clenched his fists and bit them until they were red and blue with his teeth marks.

  ‘By God’s arms, eyes and teeth!’ he cried. ‘Thomas, you will not let me rest. I would to God I had never seen you. Why could you not have died in your bed?’

  He was too wise and shrewd to believe he could defy the Pope. If he did, as soon as he left Normandy the rebellions would start. He would have to stay here to hold them in check. And what would be happening in England while he did that? He had his enemies there. Excommunication, a loss of his lands. No, he must be wise. There was nothing for it. He must give way.

  It was in a chastened mood that he met the Cardinals on the next day.

  ‘Well,’ he cried, ‘what is it you desire of me?’

  ‘We desire this, my lord. You must hold the Holy Gospels in your hand while you swear that you did not order nor wish the death of Thomas à Becket, Archbishop of Canterbury.’

  Henry was thoughtful. Of course he had wished it. Who would not have wished the death of a man who caused so much trouble? He had demanded of his knights why they did not rid him of the tiresome cleric. But, he assured himself, I did not wish the murder of Thomas. He was my dear friend, and I would to God he had not been so brutally killed in the Cathedral.

  He took the gospels in his hands. It’s true, Thomas, he thought. I would we were together again as we used to be when we roamed the countryside together. I always wanted that. It was only when you became my Archbishop that there was this trouble between us.

  They were demanding of him some sort of penance. Why, if he had had no part in the murder? It was easier to grant what they asked than to swear on the holy book.

  ‘My lord, the Pope asks that you support two hundred knights for the defence of Jerusalem for a year.’

  ‘I will do this,’ said Henry. It was always simple to promise money for there were invariably so many reasons why such promises could not be kept.

  ‘You will allow appeals to be made freely to the Pope.’

  Now they were tampering with the Constitutions of Clarendon over which he and Thomas had quarrelled. Well, if it must be, it must. He would have to extricate himself from this unpleasant affair as quickly as possible and get on with the important business of safeguarding his realm.

  ‘You must restore the possessions of the See of Canterbury so that they are as they were before the Archbishop left England.’

  ‘Yes,’ he agreed.

  Finally, English Bishops must not be asked to take the Oath he had demanded of them at Clarendon; and those who had taken it must be freed from any obligation to keep it.

  He must put an end to this humiliating situation. He must make his peace with the Pope.

  He could have murdered those Cardinals. He could have gone into battle against the Pope. But he was not called the most shrewd king in Europe for nothing. He knew when concessions had to be made and this was one of those occasions.

  He had settled the matter, he believed, once and for all.

  And Thomas, my beloved friend and hated enemy, you in your shrine at Canterbury have defeated the King of England on his throne. The battle is over, Thomas, and I can say with truth that I wish with all my heart that it had never been necessary to indulge in it.

  He left Savigny with rising spirits. He was free of Thomas.

  * * *

  There was news from Eleanor. Richard was now of an age to be officially declared Duke of Aquitaine, and she believed that the ceremony of establishing him as such should no longer be delayed.

  He agreed with her. Let Richard be the acknowledged Duke of Aquitaine. When he considered what he had done to Richard’s betrothed it soothed his conscience a little to agree readily to his acquisition of Aquitaine. Eleanor was for once pleased with him, and when they met at Poitiers she was quite gracious to him.

  Richard viewed him with suspicion. It was almost as though he knew how his father had betrayed him with Alice. But no, Richard had always disliked him and he had always disliked Richard. It seemed strange that a man could feel so about such a good-looking son of such promise, for Richard excelled in horsemanship, swordsmanship and chivalry far more than any of his brothers. He was a poet too, so perhaps it was because he was very much his mother’s son that his father could not like him.

  With the thought of Alice always in his mind now he liked him even less as he must one whom he had wronged so deeply, for if he were completely honest he could not rid himself of the thought that it might be necessary for Alice to be Richard’s bride after all. He would delay it as long as possible. In any case it was a matter about which he did not wish to think.

  It was a grand ceremony at Poitiers where this fifteen-year-old golden boy took the abbot’s seat in the Abbey of Saint-Hilaire where he accepted the lance and banner of the Dukes of Aquitaine, the insignia of his new office.

  How the people cheered! And Eleanor looked on, softened for once by her affection and pride in this favourite of all her sons.

  ‘The people love him,’ she told Henry exultantly; and she added slyly: ‘He is no foreigner to them. He belongs to Aquitaine.’

  Which was a reminder that they had never accepted Henry Plantagenet as their Duke but had taken him on sufferance merely because he was the husband of their Duchess.

  Never mind. Let her gloat. She would learn in time who was the master. Once he had divorced her … Was it possible? He was already framing his apologies to Rosamund. ‘I must marry Alice, Alice is royal. It is necessary politically for me to marry the daughter of the King of France.’

  But first he must rid himself of Eleanor. He wondered how she would react to the suggestion.

  In the meantime there was the occasion of Richard’s crowning as Duke. Then next a ceremony was to take place at Limoges where he would receive the ring of St Valerie, which was held sacred as it was said to have belonged to the city’s patron saint.

  There with the ring on his finger, the handsome golden-haired boy received, at the altar of the cathedral, the sword and spurs according to the ancient orders of chivalry.

  To see him standing there in his silk tunic, the golden crown on his head and the banner of Aquitaine in his hands, Eleanor was more deeply moved than she had been for many years; and she saw in this young man the highest hopes for his future and her own.

  And beside her stood her husband – coarse, ugly in comparison with his handsome son. And she revelled in the hatred she bore this man whom once she had loved and who had dared in the early years of their marriage, when she had been prepared to offer him her undivided love, to betray her with any light woman who came his way.

  My pride and your lechery have broken this marriage, she thought. They have made enemies of us and by God and his Saints, I swear, Henry Plantagenet, that I shall not rest until I
have destroyed you and set up my sons in your place.

  * * *

  After the crowning of Richard as Duke of Aquitaine Henry made his way back to Normandy and on the way called on the King of France.

  Louis was some fourteen years older than Henry and looked his age, yet a certain dignity had come with the years. He had grown accustomed to wearing the crown of France which in his youth he had accepted so reluctantly. He had fathered several children: Marie and Alix by Eleanor before the divorce which had made it possible for her to marry Henry; by his second wife Constance, Marguerite, who was married to young Henry, and another girl named Alice who had died young; by his third wife Adela he had had his only son, Philip, the delectable Alice who was now Henry’s mistress, and Agnes.

  Only one son and all those daughters, thought Henry, but daughters were good bargaining counters. Louis should be pleased, for was not his daughter Marguerite a prospective Queen of England and nothing would please the King more than if Louis’s daughter Alice were to be one, too.

  The rift between Louis and Henry, which had been widened by the quarrel with Thomas à Becket, had by Henry’s show of penitence been partially removed. Louis received the King with honours.

  They did not mention the Archbishop but Henry knew what Louis’s feelings were on that matter. Hadn’t he given shelter to Thomas in his realm and done everything to provoke the King of England by the attention he paid to his rebel priest?

  Louis had not done this out of spite towards Henry. He merely had a natural indulgence towards anyone connected with the Church and for that reason he had supported Thomas against the King. Louis had wanted to be a monk and by God’s eyes, thought Henry, it would not have been a bad thing if he had been, except of course that if he had been he would never have sired the charming Alice. No, no, it was better that Louis should have been forced out of the pious life he craved by the death of his brother.

  How much enmity did Louis still bear towards him for having taken his wife? Doubtless, thought Henry grimly, he was glad to be rid of her. He himself would be glad to be rid of her now. But that had happened many years ago and here they were two kings, natural enemies in a way because Louis must always resent the fact that Henry was lord of a greater part of France than he was himself since his marriage, and Henry could not forget that for the lands he possessed in France he must pay homage to the king of that country.

  Normandy, Anjou, Maine, Aquitaine, Brittany, they were all vassal states of the King of France and even though he was their ruler (though his sons were nominally so) still he must swear fealty to Louis.

  They were wary with each other and talked of State affairs. But at length Louis began to complain because, although Henry’s son had been crowned King of England, Louis’s daughter Marguerite, who was the wife of young Henry, had never been accorded this honour.

  ‘What means this?’ he asked. ‘Is it that you do not regard my daughter as the young King’s wife?’

  ‘It is nothing of the sort. I have always said she shall be crowned at a convenient moment and crowned she shall be.’

  ‘Then why has this coronation not taken place?’

  ‘Because the moment has not been ripe.’

  ‘I see not why this should be.’

  Henry surveyed Louis – father of his dear little Alice. What would Louis say if he told him that he loved his young daughter, the betrothed of his son Richard, that he had already deflowered the girl and was determined to keep her as his mistress and if possible marry her?

  He laughed inwardly at the thought and at the memory of that lovely childish form.

  ‘It shall be as you wish,’ said Henry. ‘I will send the young people to England without delay. Henry shall be crowned again and this time Marguerite with him.’

  Louis nodded. The King of England was in an acquiescing mood.

  ‘I should like the Archbishop Rotrou to accompany them to England and perform the ceremony.’

  ‘My dear brother, a foreign Archbishop to perform such a ceremony? It has never been done.’

  ‘The alternative would be Roger of York would it not?’

  ‘Roger of York crowned my son.’

  ‘He was a traitor to the Archbishop of Canterbury,’ said Louis firmly. ‘I would not wish my daughter to be crowned by one who had played false such a great good man.’

  Henry was silent; his fingers had begun to twitch. So this one-time monk, this husband of Eleanor at whom she had jeered in the first days of her marriage to Henry, this rival king would tell him how to run his kingdom! By God’s eyes … he thought and then: But he is the father of my little Alice. I must go carefully. When I divorce Eleanor and openly take Alice to my bed I shall need the support of her father.

  ‘I would not wish Roger of York even to attend the ceremony,’ went on Louis. ‘Nor the Bishops of London and Salisbury. They were all enemies of the saintly Archbishop and did much to bring about his sorrowful end. In my eyes they would contaminate any ceremony they attended.’

  Thinking of little Alice Henry said: ‘It shall be as you wish. The young people shall be crowned and the ceremony performed by Archbishop Rotrou.’

  Louis was a little taken aback. He had expected protests. There was a subtle change in Henry. It is because of the death of the martyr, thought Louis. He is truly penitent.

  * * *

  Henry went on to Normandy and the young couple sailed for England for their crowning.

  Henry had decided that he would spend the coming Christmas in Chinon in Anjou for he was making a complete tour of his dominions to assure himself that his fortresses were at full strength. He sent a message to Eleanor asking her to join him for Christmas at Chinon. He thought he might sound her as to the possibility of a divorce.

  She expressed willingness and he decided that this should be a family gathering. He wanted to give the impression that he had done what he could to keep his family together.

  Henry and Marguerite should join them too. A message was accordingly sent to them commanding them to make their preparations to leave at once.

  The young King was angry. He liked being in England where he was the King, and where life was particularly enjoyable when his father was not present. It seemed an admirable arrangement for his father to stay in Normandy while he governed England. He was surrounded by sycophants who assured him that England could not have a better King and he believed them. He was fond of Marguerite; she was a pleasant little Queen and he liked to ride out with her beside him and listen to the acclaim of the people. Young monarchs were always so appealing.

  But to go to Chinon and be under the shadow of his father was the last thing he wanted.

  ‘I shall not go,’ he told Marguerite, but of course he had to change his mind. His friends told him how unwise it would be to disobey his father.

  ‘I’m not a king,’ he complained to Marguerite. ‘I just have a crown, that’s all. Can you imagine my father’s giving away any little power? But he won’t always be here. He’ll go off one day with all his sins on him when he’s in one of those tempers of his. Men have fallen down dead when they are in such a state as he gets into. I don’t think it will be long now, Marguerite.’

  Marguerite was sure it wouldn’t.

  There came another message from the King. His good friend the King of France, he wrote, had expressed a desire to see his daughter, so the young couple must leave without delay and before they came to Chinon they must stay a while at the Court of France.

  ‘I should like to see my father,’ said Marguerite.

  Young Henry was secretly pleased. He could pretend he was not really obeying his father in leaving at once but gratifying his wife’s whim to see her father.

  And so they left England as soon as the winds were fair enough and most joyfully did Louis receive them at his court which at that time he was holding at Chartres.

  * * *

  Louis loved his children dearly. He asked news of little Alice.

  ‘Poor child,’ he said, ‘she is y
oung to be brought up in a strange land.’

  ‘We all suffer it, my lord,’ answered Marguerite, for indeed she herself had been brought up in the same foreign court, although much of her time had been spent in Aquitaine with Queen Eleanor.

  Louis nodded. ‘’Tis the lot of royal princes and princesses. Tell me did you see the child before you left?’

  ‘I did see her, Father. She seemed happy enough.’

  ‘Thank God. Soon she will have her wedding day. She is almost ready.’

  ‘Yes, and Richard is very handsome, I believe. Not so much so as Henry, but he is very good looking.’

  ‘And you are happy with your young Henry, my child?’

  ‘Yes, Father.’

  ‘And when Alice is Duchess of Aquitaine she will not seem so far from me. Your husband seems not very pleased with his lot, Marguerite.’

  ‘His father angers him gravely. He treats him as a boy.’

  ‘Is that so?’ Louis smiled faintly. He could not help liking to hear criticism of Henry Plantagenet. Deep down in his heart he had always borne a grudge against him for taking Eleanor. Life had been more peaceful without her, but he often thought of the first time he had seen her. What a beautiful young woman she had been! And what vivacity she had had! She had been so clever. Half the Court had been in love with her. He sighed. He should have known he would never keep her. She had not been faithful to him. How long before she had deceived him? Was her uncle the first on that never to be forgotten journey to the Holy Land? And the Saracen? Had she really contemplated marrying him? He would never forget the shock she had given him when she had demanded a divorce. The Pope had persuaded her against it then but when she saw Henry Plantagenet she had fallen so deeply in love with him that she had determined to marry him.

  Henry had only been Duke of Normandy then and as the owner of Aquitaine she had been richer than he was. Henry was nearly twelve years her junior. Strange that she, so fastidious, taking such care with her appearance, setting the fashions, caring for her body with unguents and perfumes should have become so wildly enamoured of rather stocky Henry who wore his clothes for convenience rather than ornament and never bothered to wear gloves when he went out in the most bitter weather so that his hands were red and chapped. Of course he had a power, a strength which Louis completely lacked. He had charm too, particularly for women. He emanated strength and power. He supposed that was what they liked.