The Revolt of the Eaglets

by Jean Plaidy

  They had cost fifty-two pounds and were worth it. He told John this for he wanted the boy to grow up with an appreciation of money. Young Henry was extravagant in the extreme and so was Geoffrey. Richard too seemed to have little understanding of the value of money, even though he wanted it for the maintenance of his dominions, not to fritter it away as Henry and Geoffrey did.

  His time was spent between John and Alice now. He was getting older. Perhaps he was lonely even though he was always surrounded by men and women. This craving for affection persisted. He supposed it was because his wife hated him and sometimes it seemed his sons only cared for what they could get from him.

  Not so Alice. She loved him for himself. She bore no grudge because he had taken her when she was an innocent child; she never upbraided him because he had not procured the promised divorce. She always understood; she always set herself out to please and never to criticise.

  He could be sure of Alice. He hoped he could be sure of John.

  He was glad that John’s marriage to Alice of Maurienne would not take place now. He had thought that to become Marquis of Italy would have been a fine solution to his problems, for such John would have been if her dower had come to him. He had already found estates for John in England. He had given him the Earldoms of Cornwall and Nottingham and he proposed to make him King of Ireland.

  Another idea occurred to him, and he saw a possibility of John becoming the owner of very large properties in Gloucester.

  Robert Earl of Gloucester, illegitimate son of Henry I and therefore Henry’s mother’s brother, had been her chief supporter during her claim to the throne and taught Henry himself a great deal that was good for him and had helped to make him the man he was. Henry remembered well his grief when the Earl had died. How strange it was that often the sons of good and faithful men turned out to be traitors.

  Thus it was with the Earl’s son, Earl William of Gloucester.

  William, who had inherited vast estates from his father, had become involved in the rebellion against the King. When Henry considered this he became very angry indeed. How different he was from his father and considering that there was a blood tie between them the perfidy seemed more unpardonable than ever.

  William was now in his power and the King had him brought before him.

  Expecting dire punishment William came in trembling, but the King who was considering John’s future had an idea which seemed to him a good one.

  ‘William,’ he said reproachfully, ‘you have betrayed my trust in you. I wonder what your father would say if he were here and knew that you had played the traitor.’

  William was shamed at the mention of his father.

  ‘I remember him well,’ went on Henry. ‘My mother never had a more faithful friend than her bastard half-brother; and when I was young nor did I. I shall never forget the day I heard of his death. It was as though a part of my life had ceased to be, and now you, his son, stand before me as a traitor.’

  ‘My lord,’ cried William, ‘what can I do to win your forgiveness?’

  The King shook his head. ‘You have robbed me of my trust in you. ’Tis a sad thing when those of the same blood work against each other. Your grandfather was also mine. It is for that reason that I do not throw you into a dungeon. You see, I respect blood ties. Mind you, a king has his duty and he must guard his realm, no matter what conditions are demanded of him. Not only did my son conspire against me, but so did those whom I should have thought I might have trusted. There is, though, a way in which we could heal this wound. You have a young unmarried daughter and I have a son, John.’

  William was alert. Could the King really be suggesting a union between Prince John and his daughter?

  He had no sons and three daughters, two of whom were married. The youngest, Isabel, was one of John’s age. He was slightly dismayed, for he hoped to have a son and if he did how could he be denied his heritage?

  The King went on: ‘Let your daughter become betrothed to my son John and your earldom and land would fall to him through marriage with your daughter.’

  ‘My daughters who are married …’ began William.

  But the King waved his hand. ‘I have considered this. The Crown will compensate them. They shall each be paid one hundred pounds a year.’

  ‘My lord,’ began William, ‘this is a great opportunity for my daughter and I should be happy for her to grasp it with both hands but if I should have a son …’

  The King had thought of that too. He said glibly: ‘Then the lands should be divided between him on the one side and John and your daughter on the other.’

  ‘Then I am happy,’ replied William. ‘But I have one fear. The blood tie between these children is a strong one. It may be that the marriage will not be possible on grounds of consanguinity.’

  ‘I will prevail upon the Pope to grant a dispensation. I do not think he will wish to go against my wishes. Let there be a betrothal and if by some ill chance the dispensation should not be given, then I will find a rich and worthy husband for your daughter. What say you to this, William?’

  What could William say? He could, after all, be condemned as a traitor.

  The King was well pleased. John was now happily settled and provided for. Never more would he be known as John Lackland. The boy would be grateful to his father. Now all his children were settled and provided with partners – except Richard.

  It seemed that every way he turned he came back to Alice.

  Louis was determined not to allow the matter of his daughter’s marriage to be further shelved. There was some reason for it, he knew. It was a most extraordinary situation and knowing Henry he suspected some perfidy.

  The Pope had acted in a somewhat lukewarm manner and he was determined to get satisfaction.

  Alexander had no more desire to offend Louis than he had to offend Henry and he knew he must take some decisive steps in this matter. He therefore let it be known that unless the marriage of Richard and Alice took place without delay he would place an interdict on all Henry’s lands not only on the Continent of Europe but in England itself.

  Henry fumed but he did not on this occasion fly into one of his uncontrollable rages. There was too much at stake to fritter away his energies so fruitlessly. He had to think of a way to save Alice for himself.

  When one was in the wrong it was always a good idea to turn the tables and accuse the one who had been wronged.

  He now pleaded to the Pope that Louis had not given up the territories he had promised for Alice’s dowry, implying that it was this default on the part of the French King which was responsible for the delay. Of course, he announced, he would agree to the marriage of Alice and Richard when these matters were settled. In the meantime he proposed to visit Louis himself and perhaps they could arrive at some conclusion.

  Before sailing he went to spend a night with Alice.

  She was frightened, poor child, because rumours of the conflict between her father and lover had reached her ears. But quickly he soothed her. Did she not trust him to see that nothing came between them?

  Dear little Alice, was she not his beloved and had she not been so for a long time now? Hadn’t she learned to trust him? Didn’t she know that with him all things were possible?

  Alice did know this. She was confident that all would be well.

  So Henry would visit him. Louis was puzzled. He must be on his guard.

  He was several years older than Henry but constantly seemed to be at a disadvantage with him. He must be some fourteen years his senior and Henry was forty-four. Louis felt his years sorely. Life had been difficult for him, but it had had some wonderful moments. The early days of his marriage with Eleanor had given him most of these. That was when he had innocently believed that they were going to be happy for the rest of their lives. The birth of his son Philip was another. What a joyous day that had been when he had learned that at last he had a son.

  How different his life might have been if he could have followed a career in the church whi
ch had been what was originally intended for him; but his elder brother had been killed – a simple accident caused when a pig upset his horse by running in front of it – and overnight he became the heir to the throne. He looked back at that frightened boy with pity, but almost immediately Eleanor had been there.

  Poor Eleanor, a proud woman, now a prisoner! Had she remained true to her first husband that would never have been her fate. No matter what Eleanor had done he would never have put her into confinement as Henry had done. Henry was a hard and ruthless man; and now he was coming to see him.

  Louis loved his children. Sometimes he thought how happy he might have been if he could have been a simple nobleman with his family living around him. As it was he saw little of them. There were necessarily political marriages for all of them; and now what was all this mystery about Alice? She must be more English than French by now; he had not seen her since she was a child. And there was Marguerite who would one day be Queen of England; and with Alice her sister married to young Henry’s brother, there would be such strong ties between France and England that surely there would be peace.

  He was concerned about Marguerite now for her child was due and must be born any moment. He was pleased that she was brought to bed in Paris. He could see her and his grandchild when it arrived, and he could make sure that everything was done for her comfort.

  He was fond too of his son-in-law who was so different from his father. There had been rumours lately of young Henry’s preoccupation with those extravagant tournaments which were so fashionable, but all young men loved to amuse themselves. He believed he was a faithful husband and since Marguerite seemed happy with him, he was content.

  A messenger arrived to tell him that Marguerite’s child was born and that it was a boy.

  He was delighted. He would go to see her. News must be sent to the King of England. This was a further bond between them.

  Marguerite’s son was christened William after the most illustrious of his ancestors – the Conqueror.

  Alas, the child was puny and after living three days, in spite of every effort to save him, the little boy died.

  On arriving in Normandy Henry was met by his two sons Henry and Geoffrey.

  He embraced Henry warmly, expressed his regrets over the death of the child, and waited for the appropriate moment to warn him against devoting too much time to pleasure. He was surprised, he told him, that he had not stayed with Richard to help him in his campaign. Henry’s answer to that was that Richard did not care for aid. He liked to be the supreme commander and it was difficult for a king to take orders from a duke, and that duke his younger brother.

  ‘I trust,’ the King replied, ‘that you are not deeply in debt.’

  Henry’s mouth was sullen as he replied: ‘It is necessary for me to live in some state.’

  The King had no wish to quarrel with his sons. The desire to be on good terms with them was great, longing as he did for their love and loyalty, but he was too astute not to know that they would turn against him should the opportunity arise.

  Well, he had Alice and he was going to keep Alice. No one was going to take her from him.

  He instructed Geoffrey on what should be done in Brittany and sent him off to begin operations there, and when Geoffrey had left Richard joined them.

  There was a young man with whom he could talk sensibly on the strategy of war. Richard had done well in Aquitaine. But how different they were! Richard was a cold man. Henry had heard stories that he was not above a little debauchery now and then but he never lost sight of the objective. He was not like young Henry who might lose an advantage in battle because he wanted to make sport in a tournament.

  They talked long of the difficulties of subduing and governing Aquitaine. ‘They regard me as a stranger,’ said Richard, ‘that is the trouble. They fear me. When I arrive in a town the trouble-makers disperse, but they call me your son rather than my mother’s. I have tried to assure them that I am against her imprisonment but they do not accept that.’

  The King grunted. He was angry with Richard for raising this point but he knew it to be true.

  ‘If you can subdue them, then that is good.’

  ‘They are not like the English,’ said Richard. ‘They must be considered from a different point of view. They love pleasure; they want to sing and dance and dream in the sun.’

  ‘Then it should not be difficult to keep them in order.’

  ‘They work in subtle ways. They arouse the anger of the people through their poetry. They sing songs of their Duchess lying fretting in her cell.’

  ‘Nonsense! She has her servants and is well looked after in Salisbury. The only restriction is that she cannot leave to go about setting people against me.’

  ‘They don’t believe this. In the songs she is represented as the poor prisoner. They set her behind prison bars in those songs and you are represented as the tyrant who inflicts humiliation and torment.’

  ‘Then make songs to tell the truth.’

  ‘The prisoner is a better subject for pity than the jailer.’

  ‘A plague on their song-making. Make them aware of the sword.’

  ‘I have done so, Father, and have brought about a kind of compromise, but always there will be rebellions. Always the poets will sing of the wrongs of their beloved Duchess. Release her. Send her back to Aquitaine.’

  ‘To conspire with the King of France against me? Never!’

  Richard shrugged his shoulders. ‘There will never be peace in Aquitaine while my mother is your prisoner,’ he said.

  This was true; and with this uneasy thought Henry went on for his meeting with Louis.

  Poor Louis, thought Henry. He was showing his age. He had never been much of a man in Henry’s estimation, but now he was really feeble.

  He was clearly surprised that Henry should have come to see him and was very suspicious as to what this could mean. He believed that it had something to do with the betrothal of Richard to Alice, about which he was beginning to think there was clearly some mystery.

  Henry had sent Richard back to Aquitaine, for he did not want him to be present during the negotiations with Louis about the marriage, and Richard being such a fine figure of a man would bring home the point that there could not be any reason on his side why the marriage should not take place immediately.

  It was disconcerting to find that Louis had assembled a cardinal and some of his leading bishops. Clearly they were going to attempt to force him to agree to the celebration of the marriage without delay.

  He was in a very delicate position and he needed every bit of astuteness to avoid the issue. Of one thing he was certain: he was not going to let Alice go.

  He embraced Louis as king to king and then did homage as Duke of Normandy to his vassal lord.

  They talked sadly of their lost grandson and immediately after that the subject of Alice and Richard was raised and everyone waited to hear Henry’s objections to the match.

  Objections? The tawny eyebrows were raised, the nostrils flared. The lion was benevolent in his surprise. But of course the marriage would take place. Were not Richard and Alice betrothed?

  ‘There has been much delay,’ Louis reminded him.

  ‘My dear brother,’ answered Henry with a smile, ‘the Princess Alice is young still. As for my son he has his Dukedom of Aquitaine to protect. He has scarcely been in England for some time.’

  ‘But he is of age to be a husband and the Princess is no longer a child.’

  ‘There is truth in that and the marriage must take place,’ answered Henry.

  The company was so taken aback for they had been expecting there would be some hint of the King’s objection. Their prepared arguments had no point now as they had intended to stress the advantages of the match and to listen to the King’s objections to it.

  ‘Then it would seem,’ said Louis, ‘that we are in agreement on this matter.’

  Henry bowed his head.

  ‘The question now is when can the marriage
take place?’

  ‘That,’ Henry agreed, ‘is the only question. I will suggest that as I am to have the honour of your company for some days, we discuss together the most appropriate time.’

  The Cardinal and the Bishops retired. It seemed to them that there had been no need for them to have come. The marriage was to take place at a suitable time. The King of England had raised none of the objections they expected; and it was true that Richard was busy protecting his dukedom.

  At the very earliest moment the King would recall Richard from Aquitaine, the marriage would take place and everyone would be satisfied. It was only necessary now for the two kings to agree on a date.

  Henry was pleased with himself. He had come through the first part of the ordeal. Before the Cardinal and the Bishops he had promised that Richard and Alice should marry. But it would not be the first time he had broken a promise. All he had to do was stave off the arrangement of an actual date.

  Alone with Louis he expressed great concern for the French King’s looks.

  ‘It has been an anxious time for you, doubtless,’ he said.

  ‘A king’s lot is always an anxious one,’ replied Louis.

  ‘Ah, you speak truth, brother. And it is for each of us to remember this and do all in his power to help the other. It is a sad thing when kings war together. The crown is a sacred thing – no matter whose crown – and dishonour to one is a dishonour to all.’

  ‘I can agree with you on that.’

  ‘The health of your son gives you some concern, I believe.’

  Louis nodded sadly.

  ‘As you know full well, I have suffered great anxiety through my children,’ said Henry.

  ‘There is the conflict between you and their mother. That is at the root of it.’

  ‘She is a perfidious woman, Louis. We both have reason to remember that.’

  ‘Yet she can be faithful. She is to her sons, I believe.’

  ‘Only because in supporting them she betrays her husband. She betrayed you once, Louis. Strange that you, the King of France, and I the King of England should both have suffered at her hands.’