The Revolt of the Eaglets

by Jean Plaidy

  Young Geoffrey Count of Brittany ruled that land. He as Duke of Aquitaine would rule his territory. He would rather be a ruler in fact than have the promise of high-sounding titles which could be nothing until his father’s death. Not that the King had talked about making him heir of his dominions. It was presumed he must be because he was the eldest living son, but his father had not said so. And by the way in which he was beginning to dote on John, who knew what was going on in his mind?

  Richard did not trust his father, particularly now that he had sent for John.

  He did not therefore, as he might have done previously, give his definite refusal to hand over the land for which he had fought. He said that the proposal was such a surprise to him that he needed time to brood on it.

  The King was agreeable to this but he added that he would need a reply – and the reply must be agreement … within the next week.

  Richard rode back to Aquitaine. From there he sent his answer to his father.

  As long as he lived he would rule Aquitaine and no one else should.

  The King lingered in Normandy. He kept John with him and his youngest son played the part he had intended to. He listened gravely to his father’s advice; he feigned wonder at his wisdom; and he was determined that he was going to remain the favourite son.

  Henry was no fool. He often wondered about John, but he was so anxious to be loved that he continued to deceive himself – half of himself warning him to look out for treachery while the other half assured him that at least he had one son who cared for him.

  There was much to keep him abroad although he longed to return to England.

  There was a meeting with Philip when they wrangled over the return of Marguerite’s dowry. They settled this by arranging that Henry should pay her an income of over two thousand Angevin pounds. Henry was never reluctant to enter into such agreements for he promised himself that if payment became difficult he would simply let it slide.

  It was inevitable that Alice should be mentioned.

  ‘Her marriage with Richard is long overdue,’ said Philip.

  ‘There has been so much to occupy me and Richard,’ replied the King.

  ‘And now you are having trouble with him, I believe.’

  ‘He is a disobedient son.’

  ‘You have been disappointed in your sons, brother.’

  ‘They have caused me trouble. It will be different with my youngest. John will be a good son.’

  Philip paused ironically as though he were listening. What for? wondered Henry. The ironical laughter of the gods?

  They agreed on Alice’s dowry.

  ‘You might decide that if she is not for Richard she could be for John,’ said Philip. ‘Geoffrey is settled in Brittany.’

  ‘John is betrothed to the Earl of Gloucester’s daughter.’

  ‘Such betrothals are often forgotten. Do not forget, brother, that Alice is a Princess of France.’

  ‘I shall do my utmost to see that she is well cared for,’ said Henry.

  Philip did not press the point. Sometimes Henry wondered how much was known about him and Alice.

  Henry planned to leave Normandy in the early summer and to take with him the Duke and Duchess of Saxony. His daughter Matilda was pregnant and he thought it would be a good idea for the child to be born in England. He had been thinking a great deal about Sancho of Navarre whose advice had been that he should show a little leniency towards Eleanor.

  She was sixty-two years of age – hardly likely at her time of life to start rebellions. But of course she must not be judged by ordinary standards. There was nothing ordinary about Eleanor. It seemed incredible that she had been imprisoned for eleven years, but this was the case.

  The last time they had met she had proved to be not in the least contrite. It was impossible to imagine her ever so. She had done her best to make trouble between him and his sons; and for so long that had been the great purpose of her life.

  Yet perhaps it would be advisable to give her a little freedom – not much, but enough to show those who watched the situation between them, that he was ready to be indulgent if only she would make it possible for him to trust her. Richard was defying him in Aquitaine and there could be trouble there. The people of that province would be pleased if he showed them that his attitude was softening towards Eleanor. Their daughter Matilda would be in England and it would be a pleasant gesture to let mother and daughter meet.

  He would consider granting Eleanor permission to leave Salisbury for Winchester where she might be with her daughter during the latter’s confinement.

  The more he thought of the idea, the better it seemed. It could do him no harm, for he would have Eleanor closely watched, and it would show that he was ready to be tolerant if only she would meet him half-way.

  Eleanor found imprisonment irksome rather than uncomfortable. To a woman of her nature it had been galling to be shut away from events, and to be unable to take part in them, but she had managed to keep herself aware of what was going on. She would not have been Eleanor if she had not managed to organise a system whereby letters could be smuggled in to her and naturally those who brought them took out letters from her.

  She knew what was happening in Aquitaine and she longed to be there. She heard of her children’s adventures and was deeply gratified at their hatred of their father.

  She had taken care of her appearance and for her years looked remarkably young. She had determined to maintain her elegance and a great deal of time was spent on making her clothes; she herself designed them, for then she could be certain no one else should look exactly as she did.

  Sometimes she recalled sadly that in the days when she was married to the King of France she had made her Court the most elegant in the world. She often sighed to remember all the men who had been in love with her. Louis had loved her to the time of their divorce; she liked to believe he had till his death. Henry was the only one who had eluded her. He could not desire her, or he would never have kept her locked away so long. It was his infidelity which had given existence to this hatred which consumed her and which had led her to turn his sons against him.

  Often she thought of the death of Henry. She had had an uncanny experience before he died. She had dreamed that she found herself walking on the cold stones of what she believed to be a crypt. There had been a faint light in the place which she had followed. Suddenly it had stopped. She approached and saw that it was shining down on a man who was lying on a couch. She had caught her breath with horror, for the man was her son Henry. He lay like an effigy on a tomb and on his head were two crowns – one was the crown of England and the other a kind of halo. Henry was smiling, although his eyes were closed, and she was struck by a look of peace in his expression such as she had never seen in him before. She had awakened with a start.

  ‘Oh, my God,’ she had cried, ‘what did that mean?’

  Then had come the news of his death and her dream came vividly back to her.

  Henry was dead – that bright and beautiful boy was no more. That was what her dream had told her. He had died in conflict with his father. It was a terrible story of hatred, betrayal and disloyalty. She heard how he had sacked sacred shrines; how he had plundered villages and how people had fled before him and his soldiers. And the end … the terrible end … when fever had taken hold of him and death had come. He had repented. So many repented on their death beds, and his was a bed of ashes, his pillow a stone.

  My son, she thought. Oh, my God, where did we go wrong?

  Why did she ask? She knew. These sons of theirs were bred in hatred, against the violent emotion of a lecherous father and a vindictive mother.

  We considered our own emotions, she reproached herself. We did not restrain ourselves. We were obsessed by ourselves and did not pause to think what we were doing to our children.

  We are the ones who should make our beds of ashes. Ours was the sin.

  She thought of her son Henry who had been their eldest since the death of little Willia
m. Henry, the most handsome of a handsome bunch. She remembered how excited they had been at his birth and how delighted to have another boy because at that time little William’s health was failing. Such a bright boy! How proud his father had been of him. He had always been Henry’s favourite as Richard had been hers. Richard had noticed his father’s preference and been sullen and resentful because of it. And she had made up to Richard for his father’s neglect of him and between her and Richard there had grown a passionate attachment which she believed was stronger than any emotion either of them felt for any other person.

  It was in the nursery that the rot had begun. The children were reared to hate their father and she had done this.

  Then Henry Plantagenet had made the mistake of crowning his son Henry King of England. He had made few mistakes in his government of his dominions, although his family life had been one long misjudgement; but nothing could have worked more to his undoing than the coronation of young Henry – to make an ambitious man a king in name and then deny him the power to be one. Oh, Henry, Henry, wise Henry Plantagenet, what a fool you are!

  She wept, for although Richard was her favourite she loved all her children. Their progress had always been of the utmost interest to her. She loved the two daughters she had by Louis. And when she thought of the last months of Henry’s life she trembled for him. She herself had sinned, Heaven knew, and so had Henry Plantagenet, but they had not been cut off in their prime with all their sins upon them.

  He had repented at the end. He had given William the Marshall the cross to take to Jerusalem; but that very cross he had taken from a shrine. And he had asked his father’s forgiveness and Henry – she granted him that – had readily given it. He had not been with his son at the end although he could have been. His knights advised him against going for fear of treachery. Treachery between father and son!

  Oh, what a lot we have to answer for!

  She prayed for forgiveness, that the sins of her sons might be averted from them to her.

  Ours was the fault, oh, God, she prayed. Blame not our children.

  She spent several days in fasting and praying for Henry’s soul.

  But she was a born intriguante and the thought which must keep recurring to her was: Now Richard is the heir to the throne and the next king will not be Henry the Third but Richard the First.

  The Archdeacon of Wells came to see her on behalf of her husband. He told her that the King wished her to prepare to leave for Winchester and her future would depend on how she behaved when she was there. The King himself was in Normandy but he hoped soon to be in England.

  ‘Did he say he wished to see me?’ she asked.

  ‘He did not, my lady,’ was the answer.

  She was amused and intrigued. This was release … temporarily, the King stressed. She was to be free because her daughter was coming to England. Was that the real reason? Henry was sly. Why should he feel it so important to make an impression on the Duke and Duchess of Saxony who were merely exiles? There was another reason. Aquitaine. Her people hated him because he kept their Duchess prisoner. She knew him well. His motives were always suspect.

  What excitement there was at the castle when gifts from the King arrived for her. What had happened that he should send gifts? How long was it since she had received anything from him?

  Her women crowded round her. They believed the King was going to take her back. Rosamund had been dead for some time and Rosamund had been one of the main causes of their discord. Now the Queen would be the Queen in truth. They would all leave Salisbury and go to Winchester or Westminster wherever the Court was. The sequestered life was over.

  A beautiful dress of scarlet was revealed as it was taken from its wrappings.

  Belle, the youngest and prettiest of the attendants, exclaimed with pleasure.

  ‘Look, my lady. It is lined with miniver.’

  The Queen took up the dress and held it against her.

  ‘It is long since I have worn a dress so fine,’ she said. She would have it altered a little to suit her individual taste and it would be perfect. The fur was of the highest quality and the red cloth most excellent.

  The following day another gift arrived from the King. It was a saddle ornamented with gold. Her women danced round her with glee. Eleanor watched them thoughtfully.

  The King was staying longer in Normandy than he had intended. There was so much for him to settle. Eleanor heard that he was meddling in the affairs of France. He was afraid of Philip; and no wonder, when he had treated Philip’s sister as he had.

  What was happening about Alice? There she was, still kept at Westminster and Richard continued to be denied his bride.

  Eleanor smiled grimly wondering what would have happened if news of what had actually taken place between Henry and Alice had been brought into the open. So many times she had wanted to divulge the secret. What trouble it would have made – but only temporarily! Henry could be trusted to find a way out. No, she had had more sport keeping him on tenterhooks. He would have extricated himself from that embarrassment as deftly as he had from the murder of Thomas à Becket. She was sure that the best way to harass him was to keep silent, and every now and then give him a little fright that the affair might be exposed.

  Richard would not take Alice now, but she had advised him not to let his father know that. Let Henry go on worrying as he had for years. How devious was Henry Plantagenet! It relieved her conscience to revile him in her mind. If she was in some measure to blame for the conflict among their sons, he was even more responsible.

  She longed to see him and when she heard that he was considering his return to England her spirits rose. He was on his way and with him came their now heavily pregnant daughter Matilda and her husband. It was time for Eleanor to leave Salisbury.

  With what joy she greeted her daughter!

  Matilda was twenty-eight years old, her husband, the Duke, many years older; and now Matilda was pregnant and she told Eleanor how comforted she was to see her.

  They spent much of their days together and Matilda often marvelled at the youthful looks of her mother.

  ‘I have spent so many years in confinement that I have been able to preserve myself,’ laughed the Queen.

  ‘You will see changes in the King when you see him,’ Matilda warned her.

  ‘Shall I see him, I wonder? He has said nothing about our meeting.’

  ‘He is very upset over the death of Henry.’

  ‘Has it changed him?’

  ‘The loss of a son would not change him very much. Only the loss of his crown would do that.’

  ‘So he shows the years?’

  ‘You know that he was never one to care for his appearance. I am sure he is often mistaken for the humblest of his servants for it is only on rare occasions that he pays heed to his dress.’

  ‘He was always so,’ said Eleanor. ‘I used to tell him that he looked like a serf.’

  She wanted to hear so much of him but she had to curb her curiosity. She did not wish even Matilda to know how much she thought of him.

  They sat together, Matilda embroidering a garment for her baby and Eleanor singing or playing the lute.

  ‘When I was in Salisbury new songs were brought to me,’ she said. ‘So much of the news came to me through them. Minstrels would sing to me of what was happening to your father and your brothers.’

  Eleanor loved the children – Henry, Otto and little Matilda. She watched Matilda’s health with maternal care and herself made many of the preparations for her confinement.

  What was going to happen in Saxony? she asked Matilda, but Matilda could not say. Her husband, known as Henry the Lion, had not wished to make war on Italy as the Emperor Barbarossa wanted him to and for this reason the Emperor had turned against him. The result – exile. ‘How thankful I am that we could turn to my father,’ said Matilda.

  Her husband was so many years older than herself, Eleanor pointed out. Was she happy with him?

  Matilda was as happy as ro
yal princesses could expect to be, she answered.

  ‘Perhaps I expected too much,’ commented Eleanor. ‘I married your father for love, you know.’

  ‘And look where it ended,’ pointed out Matilda. ‘You were soon hating each other and all these years he has kept you a prisoner.’

  ‘At least it was love at the start. And although I never loved Louis, he loved me, I believe, until the day he died.’

  ‘But you are different from the rest of us, Mother. You guide your own fate. Ours overtakes us.’

  ‘And as you say I was overtaken by imprisonment in the end. Perhaps it is better to have our marriages made for us and be good docile wives. Is your Henry a good husband?’

  ‘He is jealous.’

  ‘It is often so with older men. With older women too. I was twelve years older than your father and I think that was one of the reasons which began the discord between us. He was unfaithful and I could not endure it.’

  ‘Yet you were unfaithful in your first marriage.’

  ‘That was Louis. It was different. Louis could have been unfaithful to me and I would not have cared. But perhaps I lie. I can say that, because he never would have been. No, I do not think I would have tolerated infidelity in either of my husbands, and when I discovered it in Henry that was the start of the trouble between us.’

  ‘My Henry was angry over Bertrand de Born,’ said Matilda. ‘He wrote love poems to me. Henry discovered and banished him from the Court.’

  ‘He is a great poet,’ said Eleanor. ‘He is compared with Bernard de Ventadour. I would not have his verses sung in Salisbury though, because he did much to harm your brother Richard.’

  ‘You know why. He fell in love with my brother Henry.’

  ‘I thought he was in love with you?’

  ‘He made verses to me but it was Henry whom he loved. If you had seen the verses he wrote to Henry you would have realised how much he loved him. He thought my brother the most beautiful creature he had ever seen and you know how these poets worship beauty. When my father had taken his castle and he stood before him, his prisoner, my father goaded him with this much flaunted cleverness and asked him what had happened to his wit now. Do you know what he replied. “The day your valiant son died I lost consciousness, wits and direction.”’