by Jean Plaidy
Henry left for Normandy in March. I now had to face the fact that several months of discomfort lay ahead of me. I was certainly not a stranger to childbearing, but I was getting rather old for it.
In the meantime I devoted myself to my children. Young Henry was getting a little proud of himself. He and Marguerite had their own establishment now, and he was convinced he was going to be King of France. Too much adulation came his way, and the King was now openly talking of having him crowned. That would be difficult, because the Kings of England were supposed to be crowned by the Archbishop of Canterbury. And where was the Archbishop of Canterbury? Everything seemed to come back to Becket.
For two months I enjoyed the domestic life with my children. My favorite would always be Richard. He was so tall, so fair and golden, quite the most handsome of them all in my eyes, though some would say that Henry was more so. Poor little Geoffrey had missed those good looks and lacked the height of the other two. One should not allow looks to influence one, but how could one help it? Moreover, Richard was so like me in character. He loved poetry and had a beautiful singing voice. I felt he would have been at home in my grandfather’s Courts of Love.
I heard from the King. There was a great deal of trouble everywhere. He believed Becket was stirring it up. Not that he did anything very much. He was just there, playing the martyr and making Henry the tyrant. Of course, he was getting help from Louis. A plague on the man!
Henry wanted me. He needed me in Anjou and Maine. I must leave at once. Leicester and de Luci could take care of England, as they had so well in the past.
So in May I left England with Richard and Matilda. We stayed briefly in Normandy, paying a visit to the Empress Matilda in her palace near Notre Dame des Prs. She was delighted to see the children and me but I was saddened to see that her health was deteriorating. She had changed a great deal since her fiery youth and was giving herself over to good works. But she cared deeply for her family and was distressed by Henry’s quarrel with Becket.
“It should never have happened,” she said. “He should never have given him Canterbury.”
How right she was! On the other hand, she was delighted by her namesake’s coming marriage. She said she had never really felt well since her illness five years before. But she did not altogether regret it, for being less active gave one time for reflection.
When we left her, we made our way to Angers, where I was to stay and act as Regent.
I was quite happy to be in Angers. It recalled the days when I was the Queen of Love, and poets and musicians sang their songs to me.
I reviewed my life. I had had two husbands, and neither of them had given me the satisfaction I needed. Louis was incapable of it but he was a good and gentle man. I had hoped for much from Henry but he had failed me and the disappointment was bitter. Chiefly I resented his infidelity; his driving ambition I could understand; the childish rages could be excused; but his attitude to women, his picking them up and casting them aside, his ability to take equal satisfaction from a night with a prostitute and a wife who loved him . . . that was something I could not tolerate.
No, he had killed my love for him.
I had loved my uncle Raymond in Antioch. Looking back, it seemed that that was the most satisfactory love affair of my life. And I was old now and could no longer expect the raptures of youth.
Henry was back in England now, in conflict with the Welsh. He had failed there once, and failure rankled with Henry.
Meanwhile here was I in Angers, not greatly caring that we were separated. I knew I could rule my own people better than he could because I understood them. I had my little daughter Matilda to prepare for her wedding; and there was my beloved Richard, always a joy to be with. And in addition I was growing unwieldy.
August had come. In two months my child would be born. This was a wearisome time, when I was feeling exhausted by the least exertion. This was different from my first pregnancies, when I had eagerly looked forward to the birth. I had already proved my fruitfulness to the world and had enough sons to govern our empire and two daughters to make alliances beneficial to us. I had done my duty and had had enough.
I shall never forget that day. A messenger came to the castle, and as soon as I saw him I knew he had important news.
“A son!” he panted. “A son for the King of France. The Queen has given birth to a son. There is rejoicing through France.”
I could not believe it. Louis the father of a son! After all these years of endeavor! It was not true.
“I do not believe it!” I cried.
“It is true, my lady. They are singing in the streets of Paris. They are calling the child ‘the God-Given.’ They say he is going to save France . . . from the English.”
I felt dismayed and at the same time a kind of mischievous amusement. I was imagining the news reaching England. How would Henry take it? Would he lie on the floor and gnaw the rushes? It was almost certain that he would. And he would have good reason for anger on this occasion. His most glorious plans quietly dispersed by the birth of one small boy to the King and Queen of France! Our Henry could not be King because this little boy would wear the crown. Equally he would imagine Louis’s joy, the hours of kneeling in thanksgiving. In the churches there would be paeans of praise to God who had granted this longed-for wish.
I was soon hearing accounts of that rejoicing. There was talk of nothing but the heir to the throne of France. Paris went wild with delight. Bells rang through the nights; the people danced in the towns, and bonfires were lighted at every street corner.
France at last had an heir. He was called Philip Augustus. He was the hope of France. Merely by being born he had scored the greatest possible victory over the English.
And Henry—in Woodstock, of course, where he seemed to spend a great deal of time nowadays—would be gnashing his teeth in rage.
It was a sobering thought that all his devious plans could be destroyed by one stroke.
In October our daughter was born. She was called Joanna.
I had expected Henry to come to Angers. Christmas was approaching, and it was a custom to spend it together with the family. I wondered what was keeping him in England. I had heard of no reason, and he was usually so restless. It was rare for him to spend so much time in one place. He was at Oxford or Woodstock most of the time.
Of course, he must have been deeply shocked by the birth of Louis’s son, but I should have thought that event would hardly produce listlessness, rather would it have goaded him into action. I began to wonder whether he was ill. He must have fallen into violent rages when he heard the news from France. It had often occurred to me that he might do himself an injury when he was in such a state.
Christmas came. It was pleasant to have the children around me, and the new baby brought joy to me. There was unrest in the provinces over which I had jurisdiction and, of course, the fact of Philip Augustus’s arrival had weaned Henry of a certain power, and those who had hesitated to rise against him before might be bolder now. On the other hand the people had a certain affection for me, and I felt I could keep the revolt simmering without its actually boiling over. With his sweeping reforms, his disciplines and his uncouth appearance and manners, Henry had alienated my people.
We heard he was coming over in early March, but that was canceled and he remained a week longer in Woodstock. It was not until April that he arrived in Maine, and then he traveled through Alenon and Roche-Mabille to Angers.
He was delighted with the new baby. Matilda was indifferent to his presence. She was getting apprehensive about her marriage, poor child. As for Richard, there was a suppressed hostility in his relationship with his father; for some reason they did not like each other very much. I wondered why: Richard was by far the most outstanding of our sons. I thought he was more handsome even than young Henry; he was more cultured, more balanced, less vain; moreover, he shared my love of music and poetry. Perhaps it was that which Henry did not care for. But Richard excelled in all manly sports in fac
t, more so than any of the others. Perhaps he objected to Richard’s affection for me, for the boy showed it in every look and gesture.
However, our meeting passed amicably.
Henry expressed his fury over the arrival of Philip Augustus. I saw the red in his eyes and the purple in his face when he referred to the matter and he could easily have indulged in one of his rages on the spot. He said it was a disaster. We might have found another bride for young Henry if we could have seen into the future.
“Who would have believed that Louis would be able to do it?” he cried.
I said: “It’s no use harking back. We have to go on from here. Louis has his son. He’ll probably have another now. The French throne will never come your way, Henry.”
“By God’s eyes, who would have thought I could be cheated so?”
“Louis would not call it cheating. He will think it is God’s reward for all the praying he has done.”
“It’s true. We have to look elsewhere. There is this marriage of Matilda’s. That will be a good thing. And I want Brittany for Geoffrey. Then there is a match for Eleanor and the new child.”
“Pray let us get her out of her cradle first.”
“Becket’s causing trouble, of course.”
“Simply by doing nothing.”
“Posing as the passive martyr. Alexander has received him. Louis has arranged that. This alliance with Henry the Lion has come at a good moment. Alexander will be worried . . . and rightly so. My friendship with Saxony could mean I’m wavering toward Paschal. I could withdraw the obedience of all my Angevin dominions from Alexander. Oh yes, he’ll have some anxious moments about this alliance, and that is good.
“But there is much to be done. I want this matter of Brittany settled with the union of our Geoffrey and the heiress, Constance; and Henry must be recognized as the heir of Normandy and Anjou; and Richard as the heir of Aquitaine. I am thinking of the King of Castile for Eleanor, and Sicily for Joanna. Unfortunately we should have to get Louis’s approval.”
“You have been busy making plans. Is that what you were doing at Woodstock?”
“That and other matters,” he said.
He was showing his age. In fact, in spite of those eleven years between us, he looked older than I. I understood what a terrible blow the birth of Louis’s son must have been to him. I still had a twinge of affection for him and found him physically attractive—in a minor way, it was true, but it did surprise me that it still existed.
I comforted him in the usual way.
He did not stay long with us. He was deeply disturbed by the rumblings of rebellion in all the provinces, and to my intense dismay, soon after he had left, I was once more pregnant.
I could not believe it. It was too much to be borne. I did not want another child. I had just emerged from the tiresome pregnancy with Joanna—and now it was going to start all over again.
I returned to England in the autumn.
Henry had said that he wanted young Henry to accompany him on a trip through the Angevin provinces as they must become accustomed to their future ruler. I felt that if there was going to be trouble, particularly in Aquitaine, it was better for me to accompany them. The people would be more likely to think kindly of me. But he was anxious for Henry to go, and now that I was going to have another child I did not want to do a lot of traveling.
It was October when I came back to England. I was at this time seven months pregnant, and although it seemed to be more or less a habitual state with me I felt tired and realized I was right to stay where I was and await the birth of my child in comparative peace.
Young Henry had changed. Perhaps this was since he had had his own apartments and was aware that he was soon to be crowned King. He was already giving himself the airs of a king, and Marguerite behaved as though she were Queen. I did not think this a very satisfactory state of affairs, and I was amazed that the elder Henry could not have seen how unwise it was to endow the boy with such ideas of his own importance. He was too young; moreover, he was surrounded by people ready to do him great honor at every turn, thinking no doubt of the power which would one day be his.
I was sure the King did not intend this. He was the King and would remain so until the day he died. He merely wanted to safeguard the throne for his son so that when he himself died there would be a king waiting to mount the throne. The memory of Stephen and Matilda lingered on.
Young Henry did not see it in this way. He was already the little King.
When I told him that his father wished him to go to France, he was dismayed.
“But I do not want to go,” he said.
Certainly he did not and I could understand why. Here he was, the idol . . . almost a king . . . deferred to in every way. Why should he want to go and endure discomforts, riding out to possible war with his father whom he would have to obey?
“Why should I go?” he demanded.
“Because it is your father’s wish,” I told him.
“I do not want to go. I like it here.”
“Of course you do. Here you are treated like a king; there is entertainment in your apartments; you ride out with your subjects around you; everyone defers to you. Kingship is not like that all the time, my son. There are provinces to be kept in order. You have to learn that side of kingship as well as the pleasant side.”
“Why should I have to go now?”
“I tell you, because your father commands it.”
“But I . . .”
“You are his subject, Henry.”
“But I am going to be King.”
“Not yet. And when you are, it will be in name only. There is only one king of this realm, and that is your father. You must remember that.”
“I do not want to be with him.” He came to me and put his arms around me. “I want to stay with you.”
I confess to a thrill of pleasure which I could not help feeling when my children showed their preference for me—which they did fairly frequently. I stroked his beautiful fair hair.
“We cannot always have what we want.”
“He does.”
“He is dedicated to his country. He suffers discomfort for what he feels must be done.”
“He is dedicated to his own pleasure! All last winter he was here with that woman. He stayed at Woodstock and Oxford . . . and there she was . . . like the Queen. He does what he wants. Why shouldn’t I?”
“What woman was this?” He was silent for a while. “Tell me,” I said sternly.
He replied: “It was Rosamund . . . Rosamund Clifford.”
“And he was here . . . with her . . . through the winter?” He was silent again.
“Listen to me, Henry,” I said. “I want to know.”
“Everyone in the Court knows. She was here . . . just as though she were the Queen . . . in your place . . . Why should he do what he wants when I . . .”
I was staring over his head. So this was the reason for that period of inactivity. He was here with Rosamund Clifford. Anger swelled up within me. I had known of his infidelities. I had grown used to them, telling myself that they were of no account . . . passing fancies which never lasted more than a day or so. Women . . . just women . . . And he, the restless one, with Becket making trouble for him on the Continent, with his provinces ready to revolt, with justice to maintain in England . . . had dallied at Woodstock and Oxford to be with Rosamund Clifford! Not for just a night . . . but all those months.
This was different from anything that had ever happened before.
I was certain of one thing. I was going to discover the exact relationship between the King and Rosamund Clifford.
Nobody wanted to talk at first. But they all knew. It was a feature in cases like this that everyone knows the intimate details while the one chiefly concerned remains in ignorance.
Gradually I learned the story. The alarming part was that the liaison was a lasting one. It had been going on for quite a few years.
She was the daughter of Walter de Clifford, I disco
vered, and Henry must have met her during one of his campaigns in Wales. She was certainly not like the prostitutes and serving-girls with whom he usually contented himself. Rosamund was a lady, and of outstanding beauty, by no means the sort of woman who would indulge in a fleeting affair with anyone—not even the King.
He was actually in love with her. That was what was so galling to me. He cared about her. She was not just a woman of the moment. He had brought her to the palace of Woodstock, and while I was in France taking care of the dominions there, Rosamund was living in my apartments as Queen!
This was too much to be borne.
At this time every vestige of affection I had had for him departed. I could think only of revenge. He had insulted me. He had married me for my possessions. Apart from those I was no more to him than any woman for whom he briefly lusted. I hated him.
And when I thought that it was this woman who had kept him in Woodstock all that time when he should have been on the Continent dealing with the troubles there, I was incensed. I had never known anyone able to charm him sufficiently to take him away from his commitments before.
I had to see this woman for myself. All those about me were too terrified to tell me anything. They feared what I would do—and what the King would do when he learned that they had told.
I said to myself: I will not harm this woman, but I will see for myself what she is like.
I had always thought Woodstock one of our most charming palaces. “Woodstock” had originally been “Vudestoc” which meant “a woody place,” and the woods were indeed beautiful. Henry’s grandfather, the first Henry, had built an enclosure for wild beasts in which the lion, leopard and lynx had roamed. The first porcupine ever seen in this country had been brought there. Stephen had used the place as a garrison for his troops during his skirmishes with Matilda. Henry had always been fond of it, and so had I . . . until now.
So Rosamund had been installed here. But where was she now? She must be at Woodstock. He would keep her here so that he could summon her at any time. The only reason she was not in the palace now was because I was there. When I was absent on the Continent, he kept her there as his Queen.
