by Jean Plaidy
Winchester – the palace of many memories, second only to that of Westminster. Here he had kept Rosamund for a time when he had ceased to keep their liaison secret. Here Alice had been with him. And now Eleanor came.
She was delighted with the place; she always had been. She admired the herb garden which had recently been made and picked many of its contents which she declared were the best of their kind.
She wondered how long she would be allowed her freedom. She knew in her heart it would not last. How could it? Their interests must certainly clash. Nothing could stop her intriguing with Richard against him when the time came, and he would know it. Well, she would rather go back to her prison than allow him to think that he had subdued her, or that she would cease to demand her rights for the sake of freedom.
He had had many decorations painted on the walls of this castle. He was rather fond of allegory, and they were adorned with scenes from his life. He would want future generations to know that he was the one who had restored it and made it beautiful.
One day when she walked through the castle she came to a room and went silently in. To her amazement she saw that the King was standing there.
The light from the narrow slit of a window showed his face drawn and sad. His carelessly donned clothes, his slovenly stance, the manner in which he leaned on his stick made her feel half sorry for him while at the same time she thought: It will not be long before Richard is the King of England. My beloved son you and I will be together. And yet she was conscious of a sadness. Ever since she had known Henry she had never wished to contemplate a world without him. She could never forget the first time she had seen him – the son of her lover, for she had shared his father’s bed once or twice. Geoffrey the Fair had never been the most beloved of her admirers though he was an exceptionally good-looking man and a virile one too. But when she had seen the son, she wanted no more of the father. Henry, lover, and husband for whom she had divorced the King of France, father of their troublesome brood, the lion and the cubs who from their earliest days had planned his downfall.
He was aware of her and without taking his eyes from the walls he said: ‘’Tis you then?’
‘This room has changed since I knew it long ago.’
‘I have had it newly painted.’
‘And you admire it evidently.’
‘Come and look at this picture.’
She went and stood beside him. ‘An eagle and four eaglets,’ she said.
‘Yes. Look closer. See how the young prey on the old bird. Do you see anything familiar in their faces?’
She turned to look at him and she saw the glaze of tears in his eyes.
Henry Plantagenet in tears! It was impossible.
‘I am the eagle,’ he said. ‘The four eaglets are my sons.’
‘You have caused this picture to be painted.’
He nodded. ‘I look at it often. See how they prey upon me. My three sons, Henry, Richard and Geoffrey. And see the fourth poised on my neck. That is John. I tell you this, that he, the youngest, the one I love so tenderly, is waiting for the moment when his brothers have laid me low; then he will pluck out my eyes.’
‘I am surprised that you torment yourself with such a picture.’
‘There must be somewhere where I face the truth. I feign to believe them. I am their father. I have been over-tolerant with them. I let them deceive me and I deceive myself that they must love me because they are my own sons.’
‘You should never have put a crown on Henry’s head.’
‘I know it well.’
‘You did it to spite Thomas of Canterbury. You wanted a coronation in which he should not partake.’
‘Yes. But I did it too because I feared God might take me in battle and I wanted no bloodshed. I wished it to be that when the King died, there was a new King ready waiting.’
‘It was a foolish act.’
‘Unworthy of a shrewd king,’ he agreed. ‘And here I look at this picture and face the truth.’
‘It is not too late. Trust your sons. Take Richard to your heart. He is your heir. Give him the power he needs.’
‘That he might take my crown from me?’
‘He will not take it until it is right and proper for him to do so.’
‘The eaglets are impatient,’ he said.
‘Because the eagle has kept them in the nest too long.’
‘You turned them against me,’ he accused. ‘You are the source of all my troubles.’
‘Had you been the husband I wanted, I would have loved you to the end.’
‘You wanted to rule.’
‘Aye. We both wanted it.’
‘And between us we bred the eaglets.’
He turned away at the door and looked back at her.
‘This painting will be copied and I shall have it in my chamber at Windsor. There I shall look at it often and I shall remember.’ His voice shook slightly and he said suddenly: ‘Oh, God, Eleanor, why was it not different? What would I not give just for one loving son.’
Then he was gone. She listened to the sound of his stick on the stone flags.
She laughed quietly. Poor Henry, the great king, the seducer of women, the lover whom none could resist. He had failed where she had succeeded for she had one son who loved her.
Chapter XVI
THE CURSE OF HERACLIUS
News reached the King at Winchester that Heraclius, the Patriarch of Jerusalem, had arrived at Canterbury and that he had made the journey to England to impart news to him which he was sure would urge Henry to action.
Fearing what the visit meant, Henry could make no excuse to avoid seeing the Patriarch for his subjects must never doubt that he was a deeply religious man. He remembered with misgivings that at the time of the murder of Thomas à Becket he had taken an oath to go to Jerusalem on a crusade. He had vaguely thought he might go when his kingdom was in a fit state to be left, knowing deep in his heart that it never would be.
Now here was the Patriarch and there could be but one reason for his coming. He would be wanting to raise men or money for the preservation of the Holy City. Eager to hear what news he had brought Henry immediately granted an interview to Heraclius and Roger du Moulin, the Grand Master of the Hospitallers, who had accompanied him. The Patriarch’s first action was to offer the King the keys of Jerusalem and the Holy Sepulchre.
‘I bring ill news,’ cried Heraclius. ‘Queen Sybil of Jerusalem craves your help. Her son who is but a child is the heir to the crown and her brother Baldwin is close to death. He is sick of leprosy and his flesh is shrivelling from his bones fast. He cannot live long and the Saracens are ready to take the Holy City. It must be saved and Queen Sybil implores you to come to her aid.’
‘We shall certainly give her aid,’ said the King. ‘I will levy a tax without delay for this is a very worthy purpose.’
‘It is not money that is needed. It is a prince to lead an army against the Saracens. You are the man, oh, King, for at the time of the death of Thomas à Becket you swore that you would go to the Holy City.’
Oh, Thomas, thought Henry, shall I never escape from you? I did my penance. Was that not enough?
It was true that he had taken such an oath, but he had meant of course when the time was ripe and he had always known that the time would never be ripe. How could he, a king with far-flung dominions, ever leave them to go to the Holy Land?
‘You are the most powerful of kings,’ went on Heraclius. ‘God will bless you if you do this. If not …’
The King said quickly: ‘To leave my dominions would be a matter not so much for me to decide but for my ministers. I should first be obliged to ask their opinion. If they considered that I should go, then go I should. But it may be that they would be against it and I must needs bide by their decision.’
‘Why so, my lord? You are a king who makes his own decisions. The whole world knows it. None would dare go against your will.’
‘Nay, a king governs through the grace of his people. Rest assu
red I shall do all in my power to meet your wishes. The Holy Land must not be allowed to fall to the Infidel. Allow me to put this matter to my ministers and I will give you their answer.’
‘My lord, you should not let your response depend upon them. You should remember the oath you took. You should remember your duty to God. You are no longer a young man. You may be closer than you think to the throne of judgement.’
What an uncomfortable man this Heraclius was! Henry disliked him. As if he had not enough with which to concern himself without bringing this up to plague him. He was not going to Jerusalem. How could he? He could imagine the chaos which would ensue if he did. His sons at each other’s throats and at his. Eleanor who must be watched! Certainly he could not leave.
He insisted that he would put the matter to a council which he would call at once.
This he did, letting them know first that they would be brought together to discuss whether or not he was to raise an army to go and fight a crusade for the Holy City; and he made it clear that if any of them should vote for his departure they would forfeit his favour. They had to decide that on no condition could he leave his dominions and that to do so now would be to act against the wishes of God.
Eleanor was amused when she heard. She understood him so well. Go to Jerusalem! Leave Alice! Endeavour to wash away his sins! Nay, she thought, they are too numerous for that. He would need twenty such missions.
Would he go? Of course he would not. Odd as it was, although he had spent most of his life near battlefields, he was not enamoured of the fight. He had ever held that battles were wasteful and rarely brought the victor what he had been fighting for. It was so much better to discuss and manoeuvre one’s enemy into a bargain. He was adept at making bargains which proved to be advantageous to himself.
And what of her? What were his plans? She did not know. But still she remained at Court. She was not allowed much freedom. If she rode out she was always well accompanied by attendants of his choosing. Did he think she would make for the coast and take ship to France?
She had often thought of it, it was true. If she could reach Richard, together they would hold Aquitaine against all and if Henry were indeed planning to give it to John, then by God, she would do her utmost to reach him.
She thought of how excited she and Louis had been when they set out on their crusade. There was something about such a mission which fired the blood. One imagined oneself riding to glory carrying the cross. Of course it was very different on the battlefield. Death was death – not glorious, but bloody and horrible. And men were men whether they were Christian or Saracen, as she had discovered.
Ah, Saladin. What a lover he had been. And now there was another Saladin. Was it his son, his grandson? And he was threatening to take Jerusalem from the Christians!
Suppose she had married Saladin as she had once thought she might, suppose through this marriage a peace had been brought about between Saracen and Christian. If Saladin had become a Christian old Heraclius would not be here now begging Henry to go to the aid of poor leprous Baldwin.
But life did not work out like that. Instead of Saladin she had married Henry Plantagenet.
Henry meanwhile was preparing the members of his council. Considering how affairs stood in Aquitaine, Normandy and Anjou he did not feel it was the moment for him to go far away. He asked them to visualise the troubles which could arise if he were out of the way. A crusade was an expensive venture. The people would have to be taxed and how would they react to that? It was bad enough when they had to pay to keep their own country safe. He himself might win personal glory but what of his country? He had ever thought to serve his subjects and make it possible for them to live peacefully in a just community. If he were absent he did not see how he could preserve the laws of England which had been set up by his great-grandfather and strengthened by himself; and he knew that the members of his council, being wise men, would never permit him to embark on such an undertaking.
The assembly met in London; the English nobility were present with high ranking members of the Church and on a dais Henry sat side by side with his guests, Heraclius and Roger de Moulin.
The King told the assembly the reason for the mission and what great honour had been done to him. The Holy City was in peril; King Baldwin was dying of a dread disease; there was but a child to take his place; and the keys of the Holy Sepulchre had been offered to him, Henry of England. Here was an opportunity for him to win great glory to himself and wash away the sins of his lifetime. He was a king, however, who had always considered first his people. He had no will but theirs and he had summoned them thither that they might decide for him whether or not he should undertake this pilgrimage.
Heraclius rose to his feet and told the assembly that Jesus Christ and the godly throughout the world were asking the King of England to save Jerusalem. He would tell them how Saladin, the leader of the Saracens, those heathens who were the enemies of Christ, were preparing to take Jerusalem. Could true Christians stand aside and allow this to happen? Nay! For those who could do this were not true Christians.
Henry replied that he would do all in his power to save the Holy City.
He then called upon the assembly to tell him what they wished him to do.
Richard, Archbishop of Canterbury, rose to his feet. ‘My Lord King,’ he said, ‘your duty lies in your dominions.’
Heraclius turned on the Archbishop.
‘My lord Archbishop,’ he cried thunderously, ‘I call on another Archbishop, a saint, a martyr. He was done to death on the stones of his Cathedral and at that time the King swore an oath that he would go to Jerusalem.’
‘If it was in his power to do so,’ replied the Archbishop. ‘But our lord the King swore another oath at his coronation. In it he declared that he would always watch over the welfare of his subjects. That oath, my lords, being the tenure of the crown, supersedes all other oaths. A crusade to Palestine cannot be compared with the duties of a king. And for this reason my lord King, and my lord Patriarch, the King must stay in his own dominions.’
Henry nodded his head slowly.
‘I see that the members of my council speak with good sense. My heart will go to Palestine but I must perforce remain here. My duty must be done.’ Heraclius was about to burst forth in his indignation when Henry said: ‘I will give fifty thousand to the cause and if any of my subjects desire to join a crusade I shall do all in my power to help them.’
‘I have not come for money,’ cried Heraclius. He turned on Henry in his fury, for he knew full well that these men would never have dared to decide against him unless primed by the King. It was Henry’s decision and Henry’s only. ‘As for you, sir,’ he went on, ‘you have hitherto reigned with an abundance of glory, but know this: God whose cause you have abandoned is now about to abandon you. You will see what happens to you as the result of your ingratitude. You make excuses. You say you must stay and protect your subjects. You murdered the Archbishop of Canterbury and you refuse an expiation of your guilt in that crime to undertake this Holy War.’
At the mention of Thomas à Becket the colour flamed into the King’s cheeks and his eyes gleamed murderously.
‘Do not believe that I dread your fury,’ cried Heraclius. ‘Cut off my head if you will. Treat me as you treated St Thomas à Becket. I had rather die by your hand in England than by the Saracen in Syria. I esteem the Saracens more than I do you.’
Henry trembled with rage. He could never listen unmoved when Thomas was mentioned. For a few moments he was on the point of shouting to those about him to seize the Patriarch, throw him into a dungeon and there put out his eyes.
Heraclius showed no fear. He was sick at heart though. He must find a noble prince, rich and strong, who would come with him and save Jerusalem.
‘Give me one of your sons,’ he pleaded. ‘If you will not save your soul yourself, let one of them come on your behalf.’
‘I need my sons.’
‘God needs them.’
Henry t
hought: Richard? Geoffrey? John? No, never. He must keep them close to him. He must know what they were doing. He could not trust one of them.
‘God gave me great lands to defend,’ said the King. ‘I must needs defend them. If I left, my sons would fight among themselves. My duty lies here.’
The Patriarch knew that he was defeated.
‘You and your sons … you came from the Devil and to the Devil you will return. No good will come to you, Henry Plantagenet, for you have turned your face from God.’
Henry left the chamber. There was only one who could soothe him and make him forget the Patriarch’s dismal prophecies: Alice.
Henry was shaken. Was it true, he asked himself, that God had forsaken him?
His sons were not to be trusted – even John, his youngest, his beloved now. What was the use of pretending? Could he trust John? What sort of man was he growing up to be?
He sent for him and John came readily. The boy knew that now his brother Henry was dead he was his father’s favourite son.
John, sly, well versed in villainy, for his tutors had seen which way his inclinations lay and encouraged him, was looking for the advantage. He despised his father with the contempt of the young for the old. John believed he was on the threshold of a life of power and adventure and that his father was nearing the end of his.
In the past he had watched his father in the castle, seen his eyes linger on women, watched him fondle them and take them away to his bedchamber. It was not long before John was experimenting in this game which men said had been an obsession with his father. John understood his father’s inclinations in that direction. They were his own.
And now, who knew what was in store for him? Geoffrey had offended his father beyond forgiveness because his men had actually shot arrows at the King while he looked on. As for Richard the King had never liked him. That left John.
The old man could be quite maudlin at times.
John had heard the appeal of Heraclius and one of his cronies had told him of his mother’s adventures in the Holy Land when she had been old Louis’s wife. His mother had known how to enjoy life even as his father did! John thought he would like to go to the Holy Land. Nothing could be more amusing than to lead a riotous life on the journey and then get your penance at the shrine.
