by Jean Plaidy
‘I will make ready,’ said Joan stonily.
The Queen’s face softened as she laid her hands on her daughter’s shoulders.
‘Don’t be afraid. Make the best of your life. Be clever and you should get something of what you want. I hear that Alexander of Scotland is a fine handsome young man.’
She kissed her daughter swiftly.
‘You should rest,’ she said, ‘and be ready to set out at dawn.’
And the next day the Princess Joan set out for England.
The young King Henry was beginning to enjoy his position. The apprehension which had first been with him when he had heard of his father’s death and realised what, as his eldest son, this would mean to him, had disappeared and the situation was proving to be far more gratifying than he would have believed possible. He could not help but feel some elation at the respect which was shown him by people like the Archbishop of Canterbury and Hubert de Burgh. It was true that they expected him to do what they wanted, but being wise beyond his years he was prepared to follow them until that time when he was able to act with confidence without them. He had immediately realised that what he must do was learn quickly, for the sooner he was competent to make his own decisions, the sooner he would escape from the yoke. For the time being he would remain docile, listen avidly and agree to their advice.
The days were full of interest. When he was alive William Marshal had insisted that the young King attend meetings of his ministers. ‘You may not understand their discourse,’ he had said, ‘but take in what you can, and in time you will learn how these matters should be conducted.’
Now William Marshal was dead and his chief adviser was Hubert de Burgh. He liked Hubert. He was not so serious as the Marshal had been. He was warm-hearted, more emotional, far less stern than William Marshal, who had given the impression that he was a man of such honour that all the little peccadilloes of normal people seemed like mortal sin to him.
Henry was far more in awe of Stephen Langton, the Archbishop of Canterbury – a man whose spiritual qualities set him apart from other men. He was intellectual, a man with a stern sense of duty which had brought him into conflict with both King John and Rome. As he had been suspended from office he had spent much time in writing – sermons, and commentaries on the Bible; he had many detractors, naturally, but Hubert had told Henry that he was a strong man and it was good to have such a man at the head of the Church in England.
A good man, no doubt, thought Henry, but an uncomfortable one.
He had recently come back to England to take up his office at Canterbury and Hubert had explained to him that this had brought at least one boon to England, for Stephen had asked the Pope that the Legate Pandulf be dismissed and that during his lifetime no Legate should take up residence in England.
Much to Hubert’s surprise Pope Honorius had granted this request. ‘Which means, my lord,’ explained Hubert, ‘that while Stephen Langton lives and reigns as Archbishop of Canterbury England is free of any Roman overlord the Pope may think fit to send.’
Now there would follow a coronation.
Hubert had explained the reason for this, ‘True,’ he said, ‘you were crowned soon after your father’s death. That was necessary. But you will remember that it was a hurried ceremony and was not performed by the Archbishop of Canterbury. Moreover your crown was your mother’s throat-collar. Now we propose that you be crowned in a fitting manner. A king’s coronation is important. It is only when the people have seen him anointed and the crown placed on his head and the barons and prelates have sworn allegiance to him that he is, in truth, regarded as their sovereign. You are now of a more mature age.’ Hubert grimaced. Fourteen was scarcely that, but of course an advance on ten. ‘And, I may add, wise for your years. So there will be another coronation and this time it will take place when the land is free of foreign invaders.’
So on a May day in the previous year of 1220 he had been solemnly crowned at Westminster by Stephen Langton. It had been on Whitsunday – an impressive ceremony when all the leading barons of the land and all the dignified churchmen had kissed his hand and taken the coronation oath.
He had enjoyed the day and when at last he lay in bed, physically weary but mentally exalted, he had eagerly looked forward to the future; and from that day he had begun to feel that he was in truth a king.
It seemed that those about him believed that the coronation had brought about some magic change and the young boy who had arisen from his bed on the morning of that Whitsunday had undergone a great spiritual and mental metamorphosis during the day. They talked to him more seriously than they had before. Apart from his lessons, which had never given him much difficulty, he had to learn of what was happening in the world.
There was one bogy which continually arose in the conversations with Hubert, the Archbishop and other ministers: the French.
‘Let us not imagine,’ Hubert had said, ‘that because Louis realised that he could not keep a hold on this country once your father was dead and you proclaimed King that this means his ambitions regarding it have in any way diminished. We must be watchful of Louis and in particular his wily father. No country ever suffered more from its king than England did with John. You will have to face the truth, my lord, for your task is too important for it to be obscured by sentiments. John was your father and I praise God nightly that in you I see no sign of his nature. You are going to take after your grandfather – King Henry II, one of the greatest kings this country has ever known. England needs such a ruler – now as never before.’
So Henry learned of his grandfather and his grandmother Eleanor of Aquitaine. ‘One does not often see their like,’ said Hubert.
‘My grandfather spent the greater part of his life at war,’ said Henry. ‘Was that wise?’
‘Your grandfather fought only when he could not settle his affairs with words. He was one of the greatest soldiers we have ever known. He had wide territories to protect and when all was well in England, there was trouble in Normandy. Now your possessions in France are sadly diminished. Your father lost them.’
‘We shall regain them,’ said Henry.
‘Let us hope this will come to pass.’
‘Then I shall be as my grandfather – fighting all the time.’
Hubert shook his head. ‘We will try to make peace in the land. Louis is not the man his father is and Philip … although not so far gone in years is not in good health. If Philip were to die and Louis be King then there might be a chance of regaining our lost possessions. Although the King of France has a very forceful wife, who is a descendant of the Conqueror.’
‘Yes I know. She is Blanche. It was because of her that Louis laid claim to England.’
‘’Tis true. Philip was never the same after the Pope excommunicated him. It is a strange thing, my lord, that a man of great shrewdness, as is this King of France, should, when his emotions are aroused, forget his wisdom. You have heard of course of the Albigensians, that strange sect from the town of Albi in the South of France whose doctrines conflicted with Rome and whom Rome has determined to suppress.’
Henry nodded agreement.
‘In his attitude towards them Philip Augustus has behaved with a wisdom which must be admired, applauded and emulated by every statesman. He never submitted to Rome, was never subservient, yet managed to keep on good terms with the Vatican without losing one iota of his independence. In a statesman’s eyes it was a masterly performance, but then Philip Augustus is a great ruler. That is why what happened is so astonishing. There will come a time, my lord King, when it will be necessary for you to marry. Not yet, you are over young. But when that time does come we shall have to choose your bride with the greatest care. A king must marry in a manner which best suits his country – and it does not always happen that his duty and his inclination run side by side.
‘I know this well, Hubert.’
‘Of a certainty you do. All royal princes know this. But to return to Philip Augustus. He was married to Isabella of Hain
ault who gave him his son Louis. Isabella died and after three years of widowhood Philip Augustus decided he must marry again. The Princess chosen was Ingeburga of Denmark. He did not see her until the ceremony was about to be performed but his ministers had assured him that the alliance with Denmark was necessary. The ceremony went off as such ceremonies do and the royal pair were left together in the state bed. No one knows what happened during that night or what Philip discovered about his bride, but in the morning he was white and shaken and declared that he would have no more of her, that she must be returned to Denmark, the marriage must be dissolved and he would take a new wife – and this would be one whom he knew and loved before the ceremony took place.
‘And being King he could do this?’ asked Henry.
‘No, my lord, no. In spite of his happy relationship with the Pope he could not defy the laws of the Church so blatantly. There is a lesson to be learned here. The Pope had the power to apply the sentence of the Interdict, and this is to be dreaded by all – king or commoner. If a king is excommunicated all religious ceremonies and forms of Church practice are banned. In the case of a king, he and his country are cut off from all benefits of the Church. You can imagine the people’s feelings over this.’
Henry nodded gravely. ‘And did he rid himself of her?’ he asked.
‘He brought up the time-honoured excuse: consanguinity. His blood and that of his Queen Ingeburga were too close and as it is against the laws of the Church that people with close blood ties should marry, so the marriage was null and void.’
‘And was this proved to be?’
‘Philip Augustus was a king much feared by his people. If he told the council he had called together that the marriage was null and void it would need a brave man among them to declare otherwise.’
‘So it was agreed.’
‘In France, but of course there was Rome and Ingeburga herself had appealed to the Pope. Philip tried to send her back to Denmark, but Denmark would not receive her and the poor Queen was taken from the palace crying aloud: “Oh naughty France. Naughty France. Help me, Rome, against naughty France.” Which showed, of course, that she was not going to give in easily. While the decision was being awaited she was taken from castle to castle until Philip had the idea that she might be happier in convents and to these she was sent with the hope that she might develop a taste for the life, in which case she would be ready to relinquish her rights as wife to the King of France.’
‘And did she?’
Hubert shook his head. ‘Meanwhile Pope Celestine, who reigned at this time, studied the relationship of Philip and Ingeburga, and partly because there could be said to be a closeness but more because he did not wish to antagonise the powerful King with whom Rome had been on such good terms, he decided to annul the marriage but he added the injunction that Philip must not remarry. This did not suit Philip, who immediately ignored it and looked for a bride, finally choosing Agnes of Moravia with whom he became infatuated.’
‘And the Pope said he must not marry again … yet he did!’
‘Ah, that is why I tell you this, my lord. Kings and Popes have been in conflict through the ages. It is always well to live in peace with Rome. Philip realised this but on this matter of his marriage was determined to have his way no matter at what cost.’
‘And this was unwise.’
‘No doubt Philip thought that he could placate Celestine who was eager to be on good terms with France and that he could come to some arrangement with Celestine. But this is a matter on which kings must be wary. Popes change, and what can be done with one cannot be with another. Innocent III had taken the place of Celestine, and Innocent immediately wrote to the Bishop of Paris saying that although Celestine had been unable to put a stop to the scandal, he was determined to obtain the fulfilment of God’s law.’
‘And so the King had to give way.’
‘Philip Augustus was not the man to give way without a struggle. He would not wish his subjects to witness such weakness. Moreover he was becoming more and more enamoured of Agnes and declared he would rather lose half his domains than separate from her. Whereupon the Pope told him that if Philip did not give her up he would pass the dreaded sentence of the Interdict which should be pronounced throughout the kingdom of France.’
‘And then?’ cried Henry, who as one King considering another saw himself in the role of Philip Augustus, and was clearly hoping for royal victory.
‘Philip stood firm, though the Interdict was pronounced in the churches throughout France. Philip remarked that he would rather turn Musselman than agree to the Pope’s commands. He added ominously that Saladin was a happy man and had got along very well without a Pope. He then turned all the prelates out of their sees because they had agreed with the Pope and had proclaimed the Interdict.’
‘So the King won,’ cried Henry well pleased.
‘Nay, my lord. The country was plunged in gloom. When anything went wrong – as it did continuously – it was said that God had turned his face from the King of France because of his insults to the Church. For four years Philip held out and then he realised what was happening in the country and that his subjects believed he was ruining France. If he went to battle his armies were sure of defeat because they believed the hand of God was against them. Agnes, who truly loved the King, said that she would go into a convent and Ingeburga must return.’
‘So the King lost the battle.’
‘As all must against God. Your father realised that when he suffered the Interdict. So do all that is possible to remain on good terms with Rome while preserving your independence, which is what all kings must learn.’
‘Poor Agnes,’ said Henry. ‘So she truly loved the King.’
The Pope was impressed by her virtue and although she must leave the court, His Holiness declared that the two children she had borne Philip should be considered legitimate. So she went away to a convent in Poissy and in a short time she died there.’
‘And lngeburga?’
‘The King continued to hate her and banished her to Étampes. And there she stayed for eleven years. But while he would not have her at court, the Pope continued to show his displeasure and finally Philip decided that peace with Rome was more important than his prejudices, so Ingeburga was brought back to court and given all the state of a Queen.’
‘But Philip does not love her.’
‘He is older now and doubtless feels that peace with Rome is more important to him than revenge on a wife who displeases him. I tell you this, my lord, because you must know of these matters. You must watch above all things your relations with Rome. There have been constant conflicts between the Heads of States and the Head of the Church. You know the story of your grandfather and Thomas à Becket, which ended in the murder of Thomas and his becoming a martyr. You know that your grandfather did penance for that murder, although it had not been committed by his own hands but by knights who misguidedly mistook his words. Never forget. Keep peace with the Church. We are fortunate in Stephen Langton. And another reason why we have talked at length is that you must know and understand always what goes on at the Court of France, for ever since William the Conqueror came to England and took the land he brought those two communities close; and since your grandmother brought Aquitaine to the crown, France has been important to us. We shall talk often of what is happening in France.’
Henry was wishing that all lessons were as entertaining as the marriages and excommunication of the King of France had proved to be.
There had been great consternation when the news arrived of Queen Isabella’s marriage to Hugh de Lusignan. Both the Archbishop and Hubert were angry. That the marriage between Joan and Hugh had been cursorily set aside might not in the circumstances be such a bad thing because now the country was settled, she might prove a good bargaining counter and a better match be found for her than with a French count.
As for Isabella, she was of no great interest to them; and secretly they were glad to be without her. ‘A troublemaker I am s
ure,’ Hubert confided to the Archbishop. ‘And if she chooses to return to her native land the better. But the demand of her dowry was sheer insolence and something which she would quickly understand was considered so in England.’
Henry was summoned and informed of what had happened.
‘So my mother has a new husband,’ said Henry. ‘I wish her joy of him. I fear she had little with my father.’
‘It is unseemly,’ replied the Archbishop, ‘that the Queen taking her daughter to the husband chosen for her, should marry him herself.’
‘I think my mother and my father often acted in an unseemly manner,’ observed Henry gravely, ‘so we must not be surprised if she continues to do so.’
‘When her unseemly behaviour concerns this country,’ said the Archbishop, ‘we shall express not only surprise but our objections.’
Making him feel like a child was typical of the Archbishop, thought Henry. Hubert would have put it differently.
‘We shall send at once asking for the return of the Princess,’ said Stephen Langton, ‘and perhaps, Sire, you will inform your mother that she will certainly receive no dowry from you.’
Henry was sorry. He would have liked to wish his mother happiness and would willingly have sent her a dowry if he had been allowed to do so. He sighed. He was of course very young and not really a king since he always had to do what he was told. But it would be different one day.
The Archbishop explained to him that the country was settling down and thanks to the Church and the good will of Pope Honorius (another one since Celestine and Innocent who had played their part in the drama of the King of France and his marriages) the high offices in England were now being taken from those foreigners on whom John had bestowed them and were being returned to Englishmen. All the castles which had previously belonged to the King and taken from him by rebellious barons, were now being returned to the crown.
