The Revolt of the Eaglets

by Jean Plaidy

  ‘What now?’ said Geoffrey.

  ‘We have the people with us. We shall win. My father will see that he can do nothing here. He will have to take Richard back with him. Once they called our brother John Lackland. Perhaps they will now say the same of Richard, once Duke of Aquitaine. We will now set about fortifying this town. The King will then understand that it is not his for the taking.’

  The King was the first to see that he had once more allowed himself to be deluded by his son. What had been Henry’s motive in coming to make his peace? To gain time perhaps for the fortification of Limoges?

  ‘I have bred a nest of vipers,’ said the King. ‘But at least I am their father.’

  He had decided what he would do: he would ride boldly into Limoges and demand to speak to his sons.

  He came this time with an even smaller company; there was merely his standard-bearer and two other knights.

  As he approached close to the city walls a shout went up and he saw his sons Henry and Geoffrey watching from the battlements.

  Then as before came the shower of arrows; this time his horse fell to the ground taking him with it.

  So now they have done it! thought Henry.

  He was surprised to find that although his horse had been killed, he himself was unhurt. The knights had leaped from their horses.

  ‘I am unhurt,’ he said. And he thought: And never so bitterly wounded. They are bent on my death. God help me and God help them.

  Someone was riding up to him. It was his son Henry.

  He laughed bitterly. ‘What?’ he said to him. ‘Failed again?’

  ‘What mean you, Father?’

  ‘You have killed my horse. Had he not reared at precisely the moment he did, the arrow would have gone where it was intended to go, through my chest.’

  ‘Oh, my father!’ Tears once more in the beautiful eyes! Oddly enough the King was touched by them. He did not believe in them but still he was glad to see them there.

  This was an enemy, this son. Where his children were concerned he might be a sentimental old man, but he was not so foolish as to refuse to admit the truth when it had stared him in the face for so long.

  This son of his whom he had loved – more than any of the others – was a traitor to him. He wanted him dead. On two occasions in the space of a few days he had been nearby when an attempt had been made on his life.

  No more sentimental father! he warned himself. No more forcing yourself to believe what you want. No more turning from the truth because it is ugly.

  You have four sons born in wedlock. Two of them work against you; they are your enemies; they have looked on while their men attempt to murder you. The other, Richard, you cannot like. He is too cold, aloof, he has been brought up to hate you and will never do anything else; you can never be fond of him; he is his mother’s son, he hates you for imprisoning her and you hate him because he has never cared for you and – since we are facing the truth – because you have wronged him by seducing his betrothed and stopping his marriage. That leaves John.

  My son John, my beloved son John. All my hopes are in you. You were never in that nursery made sour by a mother’s hatred for the father of her children. You I have loved; I have changed you from John Lackland to John of many possessions. You will love me. I must turn to you to give me all that I have missed in the others.

  In the meantime he must make peace in Aquitaine and when his son Henry came to him with tears in his eyes, he would not be deluded a second time. He would play Henry’s game; he would pretend to be reconciled, while all the time he knew that Henry and Geoffrey were his enemies.

  He allowed himself to be helped on to the horse which was provided for him; he rode with his son into Limoges and there he sat with him and listened to his plans for bringing about peace in the country.

  He was not surprised at what followed.

  Geoffrey had left his brother and father in Limoges while he went out to rally more forces to his brother’s banner. After a few days the King rejoined Richard to discover that young Henry and Geoffrey had raised forces throughout Aquitaine and Philip of France was sending help to them.

  ‘The ingratitude!’ cried the King. ‘How long ago was it when I saved his crown for him?’

  Not only that, there were murmurs that the time had come to attack Normandy.

  The King was incensed. He would lay siege to Limoges and when he took that town he would show no mercy to any, be they his own sons.

  Young Henry, however, had taken the opportunity of slipping out of the town before his father realised his intentions and while the King was besieging Limoges he was ranging far and wide causing havoc in Richard’s domain.

  Young Henry was no great soldier. He had no real love of battle. He longed for the round of tournaments to which he had become addicted. It was so much more enjoyable to indulge in mock battles, to succeed in the lists, to be led triumphant into the hall by beautiful women, to sit with them and listen to the songs about love and bravery. Real fighting was quite different. It was not so much the risk of death; that was an excitement to him; it was the discomforts that accompanied actual warfare which did not please him.

  Still he was determined to get what he wanted. It was humiliating in the extreme that he, a man of twenty-eight, and crowned King of England, should be kept short of money and be absolutely powerless, always held in check by a dominating father.

  His quarrel was not really against Richard; it was against his father. It was not that he particularly wanted Aquitaine; he wanted power and if his father saw that he could take Aquitaine, might he not be prepared to give him Normandy or England? The old man wanted to have complete power, which was ridiculous. Couldn’t he see that it was impossible for him to hold sway over Normandy, Anjou and England all at the same time?

  Why did he not delegate some of the rule to his sons? That was what the battle was all about.

  Henry was too fond of luxury; he was over-generous; he had always greatly enjoyed handing out gifts to those who pleased him. To him that seemed a confirmation of his power. It was kingly to act so and since all knew he was a king without power he had to be constantly reminding people that he was at least a king.

  What could he do for money?

  One of his captains had come to him telling him that the soldiers were demanding their pay.

  ‘They must wait,’ he had cried.

  ‘My lord,’ was the answer, ‘they will not wait. If they are not paid they will desert.’

  ‘Traitors,’ cried the King.

  But what was the use. He had to have money.

  Money. It haunted his dreams. He had to find it somewhere. He was beginning to wish he had not started this war. This was not the way to do it.

  He began to have uneasy dreams. He remembered how his father had come into the nursery – a powerful figure who liked to play with the children. He could get very angry though, and when he was angry all the attendants crept away to be far out of reach of the storm. They were all afraid of him. He knew how to inspire fear if not love. They had never loved him, any of them, except perhaps Bastard Geoffrey who had been introduced into the nursery much to his mother’s disgust. Bastard Geoffrey had thought their father wonderful; he had done everything he could to please him. He tried to shine at lessons, horse-riding, chivalry, archery, everything that would please the King.

  Richard hadn’t cared about pleasing their father. He had been coolly aloof. But he had loved their mother dearly. There would be warmth in the cold eyes when they rested on her. But Henry had loved neither of them. He had wanted most of all to be King and when he was crowned he had been so pleased with life until he realised that it did not mean power after all. It was only a symbol. It meant nothing. The crown was a hollow bauble while his father lived.

  But money? Where was he to get money?

  They had halted at an abbey and there they paused to rest. The monks welcomed them and invited them to the refectory.

  Henry and his captains sat down with
the monks; they partook of the simple food which had been prepared; and when they had eaten their fill they admired the rich ornaments of gold and silver which decorated the Abbey, and the wonderful gem-studded gifts to the Madonna.

  Henry studied these ornaments through narrowed eyes. So much that was beautiful was worth a great deal and all hidden here in the Abbey.

  ‘By God’s eyes,’ he declared to his captains, ‘we could feed an army on a few of those silver chalices.’

  The captains avoided his eyes but he insisted on pressing his point. Of what use were these ornaments hidden away in an abbey? How much more useful they would be to supply him with the money he so desperately needed.

  As the beautiful objects were taken from the shrines of saints, the monks protested. Young Henry however waved aside their protests.

  His soldiers were hungry, they wanted their pay. He was determined to feed his army and go on with the war.

  He laughed at the squeamish attitude of some of his men.

  They feared reprisals from the saints.

  ‘Nay,’ cried Henry, ‘this is a just cause.’ Providence appeared to be proving this was so, for news had come that several important knights and their accompanying men were ready to join him in marching against Richard.

  Henry was delighted. Nothing was going to deter him now. He knew how to come by the money he needed. There were so many rich abbeys in the neighbourhood. Why should they not provide the means of feeding and equipping his army?

  A feverish excitement possessed him. His sleep was haunted by strange dreams. Often he tossed on his pallet and his father dominated those dreams.

  Now when his armies came into sight the monks tried to close their doors against him. He would not have this. Sometimes it was necessary to batter them down.

  He was rich now. Robbing the shrines was a seemingly never ending source of providing for his needs.

  Terror spread through the land. There were fearful stories of drunken soldiery storming the abbeys. The monks kept a lookout for the approaching armies and sought to defend themselves, but they were helpless against Henry’s men.

  He was like a man possessed by devils. He would call out in his sleep that his witch ancestress was after him. His attendants thought he was ill, but in the morning he would be up and ready to march on.

  His cheeks were flushed and it seemed that he had a fever. He was advised to rest awhile but he would not hear of it.

  ‘What! When we are winning? Give my father and Richard a chance to outwit me? Nay! I am going on to conquer Aquitaine and one day the monks will rejoice for the part they have played in my victory.’

  On they marched. Close by was the most famous church in France, well known for the shrine of Roc Amadour. The treasures in this shrine were worth a fortune. Pilgrims came to it from all over the country. It was said that miracles had been performed there and that the Virgin herself was often present.

  Henry noticed that his attendants were afraid. He felt the fever burning through his body and a recklessness seized him.

  ‘Why think you we have come to Roc Amadour if not to help ourselves to the treasures of the shrine?’ he demanded.

  Perhaps no one believed he would commit this deed of sacrilege. Perhaps he did not believe it himself. He saw the looks on the faces of the men – frightened faces – and he laughed aloud. Something was urging him on. He did not know what. He was going to prove to them all that he feared nothing … neither his father nor God. Then they would see that he was worthy to be a king. Then they would understand why he was so angry to be deprived of the power that was his by right.

  ‘To the shrine,’ he cried.

  He looked at them witheringly. ‘Let those who are afraid, go back to their firesides. They are not worthy to come with me to Aquitaine. I would not have them at my board for I like not cowards.’

  Then he went forward into the church and there was scarcely a man who did not follow him.

  What riches! What treasures!

  ‘These spoils will take us through our campaign to Aquitaine,’ cried Henry.

  That night the fever was on him. He was delirious and those about him trembled. They could not forget that he had desecrated the shrine of Roc Amadour.

  In the morning he was a little better. They would march on, he said.

  He told the Duke of Burgundy who had joined him and put several hundred men into his service: ‘Last night I thought I would die. I dreamed that Our Lady came to me and told me that my days were numbered. “Repent,” she said, “for there is but little time left to you.” I thought I was dying.’

  ‘My lord, should you not rest?’ asked the Duke.

  ‘No. I have a desire to go on. Send one of my messengers to me. There is one I wish to see and I want him brought to me without delay for it may well be that there is truly little time left to me.’

  ‘Who is this?’ asked the Duke.

  ‘It is William the Marshall. I have a fancy to see him. I wish him to come to me with all speed.’

  In the next few days young Henry had become so ill that it was impossible for him to go on. He lay in a merchant’s house for some days, talking a great deal to himself and now and then seeming to know where he was and asking if William the Marshall had come.

  At length William arrived and when he went into the bedchamber in which Henry lay, the young King gave a cry of welcome.

  ‘So you have come, my friend.’

  ‘As soon as I received your message,’ answered William.

  ‘Good William, we have always been friends, have we not?’

  ‘Aye,’ answered William.

  ‘You were with me in my childhood, so it is good that you should be with me at the end.’

  ‘The end. What mean you?’

  ‘Do you not know it then, William? I do. I am a sick and most sorry man for I shall go to my Maker with my sins on me – and what sins! You know that I have desecrated sacred places.’

  ‘Why, my lord? Why?’

  ‘It was necessary to find money for my soldiers.’

  ‘In such a way!’

  ‘Nay. It was my way. You know that I have a devil’s witch for an ancestress. It was as though she took possession of me.’

  ‘My lord, you should repent.’

  ‘I will. I wanted to see you, William.’

  ‘I knew it, my lord. And now I am here I shall not leave you again.’

  ‘You will not have to stay long.’

  ‘Nay, you will recover.’

  ‘William, I never believed that you were Marguerite’s lover.’

  ‘I know it.’

  ‘Some devil got in me. The same devil who was in me when I sacked the shrines.’

  ‘Philip of Flanders was your evil genius.’

  ‘Nay, I was my own, William. Now I am free of that evil, I see that I am indeed wicked and that I must repent.’

  ‘Shall I send for a priest?’

  ‘Later, William. As yet stay with me. I have a little while left.’

  ‘You should make your peace with God.’

  ‘I will, I will. Now you have come to me, everything seems different. I am as a child again. I admired you so much, William. You were the perfect knight. You could do everything better than any other. You were too good.’

  ‘I am a sinful man, even as you, and none could be too good. But rest now. Let me call the Bishop.’

  ‘If there were time, William, I should ask you to accompany me on a crusade.’

  ‘Later when you have recovered perhaps.’

  ‘Later? There will be no later for me. You know it, William. Why do you pretend now? You were always such an honest man.’

  ‘Then if there is little time, repent, my lord King.’

  ‘Aye, I must repent. Bend down and see what lies on the floor, William. It is a crusader’s cross. I took it from the shrine.’

  ‘My lord!’

  ‘Nay, cease to be shocked. What I have done is done and there is no taking it back.’

  ‘T
hen repent, my lord.’

  ‘Send the priest to me then, William. And tell me you forgive me. It was an ill day for me when I sent you away.’

  ‘That is over. I am back now.’

  ‘William, take care of Marguerite for me. I fear she will be a widow ere long.’

  William turned away. He could not bear to look at the once handsome face now pallid and flushed by turns, the beautiful eyes wild and bloodshot.

  He should have stayed with him. How could he when he had been sent away? But he should have come back and not waited to be sent for. He should have warned the young King that the way he was going could only lead to disaster.

  The Bishop of Cahors came and gave him absolution.

  It was clear now that he could not live many more days.

  He asked that William the Marshall stay with him.

  ‘The end is very near now,’ he said. ‘See here is the crusader’s cross. How can I expiate my sin in taking it from the shrine? If I were granted my health I would go on a crusade and take it to Jerusalem. There I would place it on the Holy Sepulchre and pray for forgiveness. Oh, God, grant me the gift of life that I may in time find forgiveness for my sins.’

  William turned away. He knew that Henry would never go to Jerusalem.

  ‘I must see my father before I die. I have lied to him and wronged him. I must ask his forgiveness,’ he cried.

  ‘I will send a messenger to him without delay,’ William promised. ‘I will tell him in what state you are and beg him to come to you.’

  ‘Pray do that.’

  He seemed to revive a little. It was as though he must see his father and ask his forgiveness before he died.

  The King did not come to his son’s death bed. Henry had lied to him before; how could he be sure that he was not lying now and that he would not be walking into a trap? He sent one of his Bishops with a ring which had never before left his finger so that his son would know that the Bishop came with his blessing.

  Henry held the ring in his hand and held it against his heart.

  ‘You will take a message to my father,’ he said. ‘I am dying and would fain have seen him and I know full well that he would have come to me.’