by Jean Plaidy
As she lay with her child in her arms her women marvelled at the manner in which childbirth had softened her. They had not seen her with her daughters. Now and then she thought of them - little Marie and Alix - and wondered whether they ever missed their mother. She had loved them dearly for a while after their birth. There had been occasions when she would have liked to devote herself to them. She thought of the infants in her arms, tightly bound in their swaddling clothes that their limbs might grow straight. The poor little things had offended her fastidiousness. Bound thus how could it be otherwise for they were not allowed to emerge from their cocoons for days on end, disregarding the fact that the poor little things must perform their natural functions.
It should be different with her son. She would watch over him, assure herself that his limbs would grow straight without the swaddling clothes.
She loved him dearly - a living reminder of her passion for Henry - and she knew that the best news she could send him was the birth of a boy. Perhaps she should have called him Henry. Nay, she was implying that she had brought him Aquitaine and until he could offer her the crown of England she was bringing more to the marriage than he was. It was well to remind him that they stood equal.
‘The next son must be Henry,’ she wrote to him. ‘But our firstborn is named after my father and grandfather and the most illustrious member of your family, your great-grandfather whom it is said few men rivalled in his day or ever will after.’
While she was lying-in the most amazing news was brought to her. She wished to rise from her bed and make a great feast not only of roast meats but of song and story to celebrate the event, for nothing could have more clearly showed that God was on the side of the Duke of Normandy.
Stephen and Henry had faced each other at Wallingford and were about to do battle when Stephen decided that instead of fighting he would like to talk to Henry. It had been difficult to persuade Henry to do this for he was certain of victory and believed that the battle might well decide the issue. However, he finally agreed and as the result of their meeting, to the astonishment of all, the battle did not take place.
Eustace, who was burning with the desire to cut off the head of the man he called the upstart Henry and send it to his wife, was so angry at what he thought was the cowardice of his father that he gave way to violent rage. He had never been very stable but even his most intimate followers had never seen his control desert him to such an extent.
He would raise money, he declared, and he would fight the battles which his father was afraid to face. Did Stephen not understand that it was his heritage which Henry was trying to take from him? He, Eustace, was the heir to the throne of England and he was not going to allow his father’s weakness to bestow it on Henry.
In vain did his friends try to restrain him; he reminded them that he was the commander of his armies and marched to Bury St Edmunds, where he rested at the Abbey, and when he had refreshed himself he demanded that the Abbot supply him with money that he might go into battle without his father’s help against Henry of Normandy. The Abbot declared that he had nothing to give him whereupon Eustace demanded to know why the treasures of the Abbey should not be sold to provide him with what he needed.
The Abbot took the opportunity, while he pretended to consider, of locking away the treasure. Then he refused.
Calling curses on the Abbot and his Abbey, Eustace rode away, but not far. He ordered his men to take what they wanted from the countryside and every granary was plundered, every dwelling robbed, but the main object of his pillage was to be the Abbey. His soldiers returned to it and forced the monks to tell them where the treasure was hidden. When they had plundered the place, Eustace led them back to the nearest castle to make merry.
He sat at table to eat of the roasting meats which his servants had prepared, his anger still within him. He was going to make war on Henry of Normandy, he declared; he was going to drive him from the shores of England and very soon they would see him, Eustace; crowned king.
As he stood up to drink to that day, he fell to the floor in agony. He writhed for a moment and then was still, and when they bent over him they saw that he was dead.
This was the news that was brought to Eleonore while she lay awaiting the return of her strength.
She wanted to shout in triumph: This is a glorious day. Eustace is dead. How can Stephen make his son William his heir? William has already declared he has no talent for ruling and no wish to either.
It must be Henry now. God, by striking down Eustace, has shown England who is worthy to be her king.
Henry was sure of his destiny. The news that Eleonore had borne him a son following so soon on that of Eustace’s death seemed to be an omen. He was of a nature to regard anything that was to his benefit as an omen while he disregarded any sign that could be to his detriment. In this he resembled his great-grandfather William the Conqueror. In his heart he knew it was one of the qualities needed to succeed.
But the death of Eustace did seem like an act of God. The people of Suffolk who had suffered from his ill-temper declared that God had struck him down in anger and if they had had any doubts before that Henry Plantagenet should be the next king they no longer had.
Victory was in sight.
He was longing for the day when he could return to Eleonore. He missed her. No other woman would do for him, he had discovered. Not that he had been faithful to her. That was too much to expect. He was too lusty a man for that. Eleonore would understand. While he was with her he would be faithful; but during long campaigns away from her she must allow him a little licence. He fell to musing about women. The best since he had arrived in England had been a woman of some experience, since making love was her living. Her name he believed was Hikenai. She was amusing; there was very little she had not experienced. He laughed to recall her. She had followed the camp and had made herself exclusively his for that time. Strangely enough he had been contented with her as she had been with him. He was a man who needed women, but if he had a good one he did not wish to be promiscuous. One satisfied him providing she was always there when he needed her.
He had watched Hikenai’s figure thicken and noticed the obvious signs of pregnancy. She had been pleased.
‘This one,’ she had said, ‘will be a king’s son.’
‘You go too fast,’ he told her.
‘Come, my lord Duke, you’ll be a king before this little one has known two summers.’
‘It’s a good and loyal statement,’ he told her, and expressed the hope that it would be a boy.
While he had been in England he had seen his other, two boys.
‘By God,’ he had cried, ‘I am a begetter of boys.’
He had wondered whether their mother would still appeal to him. He had been devoted to Avice some few years before when he was in England, and the two boys she had borne him were fine little fellows. He remembered her saying she would call her firstborn Geoffrey after their grandfather, and William after their illustrious ancestor, he who was known as the Conqueror. Yes, he had been deeply enamoured of Avice. How old could he have been when Geoffrey was born? He was only twenty now. Fifteen! Oh, he had been a lusty young fellow even then.
Avice was living at Stamford. It had delighted him to see the boys again. He had spent a night with Avice but the attraction was gone. After Eleonore perhaps, only such a practised harlot as Hikenai could satisfy him.
So he had taken his quick farewell of Avice and promised her that when he was king he would not forget her boys.
And now Stephen and he had called a truce. He would never understand Stephen. He liked his kinsman but Stephen was not of the stuff kings were made. There was something kind, sentimental, too emotional about him. He reminded him of Louis of France who had never been able to get out of his mind that his soldiers had pillaged a town in the church of which men, women and children had been burned to death.
Cruelty was not a kingly, quality but perforce it must be committed now and then, and when this happened it wa
s best done quickly and forgotten.
When he was King of England he would follow the lines laid down first by William the Conqueror and then by his grandfather Henry I for they were ruthless men, but never cruel for the sake of cruelty. Justice came first with them. That was the way to rule.
And now what next? What was Stephen implying?
There came a message for a meeting at Winchester. He would listen eagerly to Stephen’s proposal.
It was clear what Stephen’s intentions were. He was not so much an old man as a sick and tired one. He had lost his wife and his elder son. He was in no mood to continue the fight.
If he were allowed to rule in peace for the rest of his life he would name his successor Henry, Duke of Normandy, who unlike himself was in the direct line of succession. He was sure that the people would accept Henry. He was the son of the daughter of Henry I, himself son of the great Conqueror, whereas Stephen was the son of the Conqueror’s daughter Adela. There could be no one to raise a voice against Henry’s claim.
Henry was wise. He looked intently at Stephen. How long could he live? One year. Two years. Three at most.
Let the war be called off. He was content. He would go back to Normandy but he would first have the King’s assurance that it was his wish that he should follow him to the throne.
It should be done so that there was no doubt that it was Stephen’s wish, and the two travelled to London where a conclave of archbishops, bishops, abbots, earls, justiciars, sheriffs and barons should be called.
And to these people the declaration should be made and set out in a treaty after the signing of which, fealty should be sworn to Henry.
A triumph. He had achieved what he had come for and without much bloodshed. This was the kind of victory all wise rulers hoped for.
Before the gathering Stephen made his declaration:
‘I, the King of England, Stephen, have made Henry, Duke of Normandy, the successor to the kingdom of England after me, and my heir by hereditary right and thus I have given and confirmed to him and his heirs the kingdom of England. The Duke, because of this honour and grant and confirmation made to him by me, has done homage to me and sworn by oath that he will be faithful to me …’
Indeed he would, for he was wise enough to know that if he waited until the death of Stephen, which could not be long, all men would honour him.
This declaration was of the greatest value. How much more important it was for Stephen to have made him his heir than for him to have won the crown in battle. Now all men must accept him.
He wanted now to get back to Eleonore. He wanted to tell her in detail of his triumph.
First though he must go to Oxford to receive the homage of the men who would be his subjects.
Before he left for that town he heard that Hikenai had been brought to bed, and went to see her.
She smiled at him from her bed and held up her child.
‘Our son, my lord,’ she said.
‘Another boy! So I am father of another boy.’
‘I shall call him Geoffrey after your father,’ she told him, ‘so that you will never forget that he is a member of the family.’
‘I am going to be King of England, Hikenai,’ he said. ‘And that day soon. I swear to you that when I am I shall not forget our son Geoffrey.’
‘I’ll keep you to that promise, my lord,’ she answered.
Then he went on to Oxford to receive the homage of those who would in time be his subjects.
Now he was torn between the desire to go back to Normandy to be with Eleonore and see their baby son, and to stay in England and consolidate his position. The important men of England had sworn fealty to him, Stephen had given him his word that he should follow him to the throne, even so, a man should be close at hand to watch his interests.
He could not make up his mind but it was not long before it was made up for him. His enemies in Normandy were attempting to take advantage of his absence. His mother wrote to him that she thought it wise for him to return. It was April when he arrived in Normandy. What joy there was in his reunion with Eleonore. This was a little tempered by a certain anxiety which the baby was arousing. He was not as lusty as they had at first hoped he would be.
There was plenty to occupy him while Eleonore cared for the little boy and it was not long before he had settled the uprisings. He took a troop of soldiers around his entire dominions and made it clear that he expected and would have obedience.
Matilda wanted to know what had happened during the parley with Stephen, and she listened intently while he told her how friendly Stephen had been to him and so anxious for peace was he that he had been ready to pass over his son William for the sake of it.
Matilda nodded. ‘He is an old man, I believe, now.’
‘He carries himself well and has a pleasant countenance,’ answered Henry.
‘He always had,’ said Matilda. ‘He knew how to charm people. I used to mock him for it. When he was young he would go out of his way to please people who could never bring any good to him. I used to say he was practising so that it would seem natural to those who could bring him good.’
‘One could not help but like him,’ said Henry, ‘and he was very eager to be pleasant to me.’
Matilda nodded, and was quite lost in memories of the days when she and Stephen had been more than mere cousins.
They talked of the troubles in the country.
‘There is Geoffrey,’ said Matilda. ‘He will not be content.’
‘I know it, Mother.’
‘He was furious when your father left almost everything to you and nothing but three castles to him. True, your father’s wish was that when you gained England you should give Anjou and Maine to him.’
‘I doubt he would be worthy of them,’ said Henry.
Matilda laughed. ‘You like not to part with any of your possessions. You are like my father. They say my grandfather was the same. You remind me of them, Henry.’
‘There are no two rulers whom it would please me to resemble more.’
With Eleonore there had been a return to their passion. She had missed him sorely she told him. ‘I devoted myself to our child and awaited your return.’
‘I longed for you as you longed for me,’ answered Henry, and thought briefly of Avice of whom he had tired and of Hikenai who had amused him. When they went to England he would have to bring her boy to court. He wondered what Eleonore would say to that. Would she calculate the date of his birth and know that he had been unfaithful during this early stage of their marriage? Oh, but she would understand. Had she been there it would never have happened.
Eleonore was pregnant again. This delighted them both. Little William was so delicate, they both feared that they might lose him. If they could get another son - a healthy one - they could better bear losing their first-born. When Henry thought of his lusty little bastards he asked himself, as many kings had before, why it was that the illegitimate offspring were so healthy and the legitimate ones so frail.
It was fortunate that they were enjoying a period of comparative peace when the messenger arrived from England.
One of Eleonore’s women had seen the approach of a rider from a turret window and hastened to inform her mistress, who looking out saw that the man was riding fast even though his horse seemed exhausted.
‘It is important news,’ she cried. ‘Go and tell the Duke.’
She was in the courtyard when Henry joined her there and they were both waiting when the messenger rode into the courtyard.
‘I come from the Archbishop of Canterbury, my lord,’ he said. ‘He begs the Duke of Normandy ride with all speed to England. King Stephen is dead. Long live King Henry.’
It was fortunate, said Matilda, that she was in the castle.
‘My hopes have been realised,’ she said. ‘And to think it had to come about through Stephen’s death. My son, we must talk at once … the three of us. It is very important that you take the right action now.’
In the private
chamber of Henry and Eleonore they sat with the Empress. Henry listened intently to what she had to say. The fact that she had once had the crown within her grasp and lost it made Henry regard her advice with great respect. She was experienced; she knew the English; she had offended them in a manner he must never do. If she could live her life again she would not make the same mistakes. Therefore he must profit from her experience. It was wonderful to have these two people with him. Caught up as he was in the midst of family jealousies yet there were two whom he could trust absolutely … his wife and his mother.
He took their hands and kissed them fervently. He wanted them to know how much he relied on them. They both knew it and loved him the more because of it.
‘There should be no delay,’ said Eleonore. ‘Stephen is dead. There may be some who would want to set up his young son William on the throne.’
‘I thank God Leicester is my man,’ said Henry. ‘And you are right. I am determined to leave for England without delay.’
‘When you go,’ said Matilda, ‘you must take a company with you. It would be folly to go with too small a following.’
‘I have already summoned my leading nobles to assemble at Barfleur preparatory to sailing for England. They are eager to come, seeing rich lands and titles awaiting them. There must be no delay.’
‘No more than can be helped,’ said Matilda. ‘Eleonore must go with you.’
‘I intend to,’ said Eleonore.
‘And you should be crowned, the pair of you, as soon as it can be arranged. A king is not a King of England until he has been crowned. I was the Queen … the true Queen but my enemies in London drove me out. If I had been crowned first … It is all over. But remember it.’
‘I shall see that the coronation takes place immediately.’
‘And your brothers. What of Geoffrey and William? What do you think they will be at while you are in England?’
