by Jean Plaidy
‘Alice,’ he said, ‘if I loved you, do you think you could love me?’
‘I must,’ she said, ‘because you are Richard’s father and will be mine.’
‘Nay I meant not as a father.’
‘How so, my lord?’
Was that a little coquetry he saw in her eyes? If it were so, if this innocence was a little feigned his resolutions would crumble; he would act first and think after. Louis would much rather his daughter were Queen of England than Duchess of Aquitaine which was all she would be if she were married to Richard.
He put his face against hers and his hand was on her budding breast. ‘Does it please you to be so fondled?’
‘Why yes, my lord.’
‘And that I should be the fondler?’
‘Yes, my lord.’
‘I, rather than any other?’
She nodded.
‘Why so?’
‘Because you are the King and our lord and master.’
‘A right goodly answer,’ he said with a laugh. ‘And would you be ready to obey me in all things?’
‘Yes, my lord.’
‘And do all that I ask of you?’
‘But yes.’
‘Alice,’ he whispered, ‘methinks you are a wise little girl. You know something of the ways of the world, do you?’
‘A little, my lord.’
‘And would know more I warrant. Alice, I am going to be your tutor.’
When he had seduced her in a gentle and expert manner his conscience worried him a little. But he soon stilled it by reminding himself that he would look after the child. He would definitely see if he could divorce Eleanor and if he could he would make Alice his wife. Her innocence was delightful; it was not going to be difficult to make her adore him. He would teach her as he had taught Rosamund and if he married her – which he might well do – she need have no qualms about her sins. And if he did not, well then in due course she would go to Richard.
But he did not want to think of her belonging to anyone but himself.
He loved his little trusting Alice. She was just what he needed at this time; he could forget the ordeal which was awaiting him. He could forget frustrations, irritations and the anxiety which was beginning to grow within him about his sons.
‘My darling Alice,’ he whispered to her on parting, ‘this is our secret. Tell no one what has taken place between us. I trust you. And one day soon you shall be my Queen and I will put a crown on your head and we shall go everywhere together.’
She was ecstatic with wonder. He was so powerful, so clever. She had not liked what she had seen of Richard very much. But the King would save her from that marriage. Of course he would. He was going to marry her himself.
Chapter III
THE KING AND QUEEN
The King set out for Normandy accompanied by his son who made little effort to disguise his displeasure. The boy was distinctly sullen, but his father’s thoughts were occupied with too many other matters to concern himself greatly with young Henry.
He could not stop thinking of the adorable Alice and what a pleasure it would be to get back to her. He would take her from the nursery and install her in the palace. There would have to be some secrecy of course. He had to think of Rosamund to whom he was still devoted; but Rosamund must know that he could not have married her even if he divorced Eleanor, although he had once contemplated this and mentioned it to her. Perhaps he had been wrong in that and it was due to this that she had become obsessed by the idea that she was living in sin. He remembered tenderly so many aspects of their relationship. He still needed Rosamund but he wanted Alice with an intense desire which could not be held in check. Alice, daughter of old Louis, King of France! That old monk! It amused him really. Alice – conceived not in passion but because of the duty to France to get a child. And this perfect creature had been produced for his pleasure. If I made her Queen of England Louis would not object. Only Eleanor stood in his way. It might well be that Eleanor would like to marry again. She had always been a very energetic woman. What was she doing in Aquitaine surrounded by her troubadours? How many of them did she take to her bed? Women like Eleanor were never too old.
There were other less pleasant matters to take his mind off a future shared with an eager-to-please Alice minus sour Eleanor and a docile understanding Rosamund in the background of his life.
No sooner had he landed in Normandy than messages arrived from those Cardinals Theodwine and Albert to the effect that they were waiting for him at the Monastery of Savigny.
In ill humour so that all men feared to approach him lest he fly into a temper over the slightest fault, the King rode to the monastery. That he, the King of England, should be so summoned was inconceivable. And yet not so. He had to face the fact that the Pope was more powerful in Christendom than the King of England. Was that not what the quarrel between himself and Thomas à Becket had been about?
Inwardly he cursed the Pope, as coldly he greeted the Cardinals. He had come far, he told them irritably, and at great inconvenience, to see them. He had been engaged on an important campaign in Ireland. Out of respect for and honour to His Holiness he had come, but he would like them to state what it was the Pope wished of him without delay for matters of importance demanded his attention.
‘This,’ Cardinal Theodwine told him, ‘is of the utmost importance, my lord King. It concerns not your temporal power but the very existence of your soul.’
Henry was a little shaken. He never doubted for a moment that he could outride any earthly storm, but the thought of the unknown could rouse fear in most men; and living the life he did how could he be sure that he might not any day come face to face with death? It was never far from the battlefield and a King might become a victim of the assassin’s lance or arrow at a moment’s notice. Every night retiring to his bed, he would be justified in fearing that he might never see the light of day.
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 Bec
ket, 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, na
tural 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.’
