by Jean Plaidy
“Made up to what, may I ask?”
“You may indeed. Made up my mind that I have finished with you.”
He threw back his head and laughed. He came to me and took me by the shoulders. He was ready, I knew, for a little love play. He was going to placate me, tell me that no other woman—not even Rosamund—was of importance to him. I was the Queen, was I not?
I threw him off.
“You could not tear yourself away from her. All those months at Woodstock . . . and all that was happening to the dominions overseas . . . it mattered not. You could not leave your mistress. Very well, you are free now to set her up in the palace, to live openly with her, for I shall not be there. Never . . . never . . . Our marriage is over.”
“I did not think you would be so jealous.”
“Jealous? I? Do you think I envy your whores? No, I pity them. That poor creature at Woodstock . . . awaiting your summons . . . You want to own the world . . . but most of all, womankind, I do believe.”
“It is a dazzling prospect.”
“Laugh if you will. My mind is made up. I am not sure about divorce. I don’t think it is necessary. There are children enough. I shall go back to my home. I shall go to Poitou. And I hope I never have to see your face again.”
“Are you not being a little rash . . . just because you have discovered I have had a beautiful mistress? What are you envious of . . . her beauty? Her youth? You are eleven years older than I, you know.”
“Eleven years older in wisdom, I hope. But I have been foolish. I should have done this before. I have no need of you, Henry. I can go home to my own estates.”
“You will forget all this . . .”
“I have been thinking of it for over a year and I have made my plans.”
“What a fuss to make!”
“I have had enough. As soon as I saw your mistress and knew that you had set her up in the palace while I was absent, I knew that that was the end. Oh, she is pretty enough and the boys are fine ones. What a man you are for getting sons on harlots. We have your bastard Geoffrey in the nursery as proof of that.”
“A very pleasant boy he is.”
“He has been brought up in my nurseries, that is why.”
“You accepted him.”
“It was different. His mother was a camp-follower. I wonder you did not set her up as a queen. Your conduct is a constant scandal.”
“And your past is not free from it. You should not be surprised. Were you not brought up in a Court where it was the order of the day? I am tired of this nonsense. I will not be called to book for my misdeeds. I will do as I will.”
“With your low-born loose-living women, perhaps, but not with the Duchess of Aquitaine and Queen of England.”
“Even those two august ladies shall not dictate to me.”
“Nor shall any dictate to them. You speak of having your will. But at least you tried to hide your mistress from me in her cozy little place beyond the maze.”
“I thought to spare your feelings. Do you blame me for that?”
“I want no such kindness from you. Do you think I care how many mistresses you have? I know they are legion. It would be a superhuman task to try to count them.”
“You may be right.”
“And this one was different, was she not? You had a special fondness for her.”
He smiled reminiscently. “I have,” he said.
“She has been as a wife to you and no doubt you wish she were.”
He looked at me, his hatred matching mine. “I do,” he said.
“Very well then. Go to her. Go.”
“Don’t be a fool.”
“It is you who are a fool . . . over this woman.”
“You are not planning to harm her . . . If aught happened to her through you I would kill you.”
“Oh, you feel as strongly as that, do you? And what do you think would happen to you if you harmed me? The people of Aquitaine hate you as it is. They would rise against you. In addition to all your troubles, you would have war with Aquitaine . . . and this time they would defeat you.”
“I would soon subdue them. Stop this folly. You are the Queen, no matter what other women there may be.”
“I will not have it. I shall never share your bed again.”
“So be it,” he said. “You are past childbearing now . . . or soon must be. I am surprised you went on so long. You are no longer a young woman.”
“So you have already pointed out. And there are others who please you more.”
“I won’t deny it.”
“I hate you,” I said. He smiled at me cheerfully.
“I shall go to Aquitaine,” I went on.
“It is not a bad idea. Perhaps you will be able to bring a little sense to the natives.”
“They are my people,” I said. “I am going to rule them, and when I do, you will see there is no more trouble in Aquitaine.”
He was looking at me shrewdly. I knew that he was thinking that that could be true and that it would be an excellent idea for me to go back to Aquitaine and remain there for a while.
I hated him. He was not thinking of me but of his dominions. Then I felt exultant. Aquitaine was one he was not going to keep.
That was a strange Christmas. Neither Henry nor I wanted to publicize our differences. When he had seen that I was adamant and determined to leave him and settle in Aquitaine, he suggested that when the festivities were over he and his army escort me there. That would give the impression that, as there was a state of unrest in the country, I was going to stay there for a while and see if I could bring about a more peaceful atmosphere.
I could see that this was a concession I must make, for if it were generally known that there was a permanent rift between us, it could throw our affairs into confusion. So we left together as though we were on good terms.
As we came near to Aquitaine a shock awaited us. The country was in revolt under the leadership of the Count of Angoulme.
This was one of those occasions when Henry’s genius for governing came into play. In a short time he had repressed the revolt, punished the offenders and restored peace—although an uneasy one—to Aquitaine. I had to be grateful that he had returned with me.
When he left, it was more or less calm, although there was an attempt to kidnap me when I was riding not far from Poitiers.
It was a band of rebels who had the idea of capturing me and holding me to ransom until their demands were met. I was alert for trouble and before they were able to catch me I had galloped back to safety, but the commander of the military force which had been left by Henry to guard the castle was killed in the affray. So it was clear how dangerous the situation still was.
But it was amazing how my presence there affected the people. Perhaps they guessed that all was not well between Henry and me, that I had left him and had come back . . . alone. That was what they cared about. They wanted no foreigners governing them. I was a branch of the old tree. They had resented Louis, but Henry even more so.
I could sense the mood of the people. After all, they were my own people. When I rode out, they would cheer me. They let me know that they wanted me to stay here, to be their sole ruler. It was heartening.
Musicians and poets began to fill the Court. I restored castles to those from whom Henry had taken them when suppressing the rebellion. I wanted them to know that in my opinion they had rebelled against Henry . . . not against me.
I was in my own country. I was Duchess of Aquitaine, a title which pleased me more than that of Queen of England.
Bernard de Ventadour was one who returned. It was a great joy to bring back those evenings of music. They still wrote songs proclaiming my beauty—pleasant to hear but hard to believe, though of course I took great pains to preserve my looks, and although I was getting old, marching up high in the forties, for my age I was still a handsome woman.
I had my children with me. Richard was my constant companion. We rode together, talked together, and he loved those evenings when
the musicians entertained us for he could perform with considerable skill himself. Young Henry was with us now and then. He loved to be with me and was resentful when he had to join his father. This made me gleeful. Eleanor and Joanna had never seen a great deal of their father; they were entirely mine. Little Constance of Brittany was with us, for she had to be brought up with her future husband’s family in accordance with custom. So I was happy. I was in charge of my own domain and I had my family with me.
John was a problem. I often look back on those days and feel a twinge of conscience about John. Perhaps he turned out as he did because of his childhood. He was after all my child. But I could not like him. All the time he reminded me of Henry’s deceit and that when he was being conceived Henry had been thinking of Rosamund Clifford; and I despised myself for having remained with him so long. John should never have been born; he was conceived in deceit and reminded me too much of what I wished to forget.
During that Christmas when I had made my intentions clear to Henry, after we had recovered a little from our initial bitterness, and he had realized that I was determined to break up the marriage, we had discussed one or two things calmly . . . for instance, my return to Aquitaine and how I should be conducted there, and we also talked of John.
I said: “There ought to be one member of the family who should go into the Church. You have distributed your dominions among your sons, but what of John? What is there for him?”
“Poor John. He will be ‘John Lackland,’ I fear.”
“That is why he should be the one to go into the Church.”
“Archbishop of Canterbury . . . or perhaps a cardinal. Head of the Church in this country . . . or maybe Pope. Either would be useful to the crown.”
I could not help laughing. He turned everything to the advantage of the crown. However, he agreed that it was to be John for the Church.
So I suggested that he go into Fontevrault, the abbey which had been founded by Robert d’Arbrissel and supported by my grandmother, one in which I had taken great interest. There John could be brought up. It seemed an ideal solution.
Peace settled on Aquitaine. I was there to stay, they believed. It was a return to the old days. We had pageants and ceremonies such as the people loved; we paraded in our splendid robes. I never lost an opportunity of staging these pageants. I did them well, as my forebears had. Aquitaine was content with the new rule, which was, after all, a return to the old.
I was content in my little world, but that did not mean I was not concerned with what was happening outside it. I followed Henry’s actions with the utmost interest, rejoicing in his difficulties, though I must admit to feeling often an admiration—rather grudging—for his adept way of extricating himself from trouble and generally managing to get the better of his opponent.
He was in constant conflict with Louis. My first husband appeared to have changed since the birth of his son. The event had given him new vigor. He was more aggressive. Perhaps he was looking ahead to the days when the God-Given would take the reins. I was sure Louis would want to hand them over as soon as he could. Perhaps he would retire to a monastery then and relish a longed-for dream. However, I think Henry found it more difficult to hoodwink him than in the past.
There was a great deal of conflict between them over the Vexin. Their affairs moved to a stage when they were both seeking peace, and a conference was arranged to take place between them.
Louis, of course, did not like to see so much of France under Henry’s domination and might have thought it would be better to proclaim Henry’s sons rulers of the various provinces. I wondered afterward if Louis had an inkling of the feelings of Henry’s children toward their father. Henry was a strong man but he was not one to inspire affection in the young. It must have been apparent that our children turned to me rather than to him; and Louis, who did know a little of me, might have guessed at the state of affairs between Henry and me. One could not give Louis credit for shrewd planning; however, this scheme of his was, looking back, not without a certain wisdom. At the conference he suggested that the various Princes be given their lands and swear allegiance to their suzerain; and Henry, looking ahead to the future and always having in mind the possibility of his own demise, thought it advisable to have his sons accepted by Louis as official rulers of the provinces.
It had always been known that Aquitaine was for Richard; young Henry was to have Anjou and Maine, and Geoffrey Brittany. Henry, who had long been playing with the idea of getting young Henry crowned King, agreed with this, and at the beginning of the year 1169 the ceremony was to take place.
My sons left Aquitaine to join their father at Montmirail. I wished I could have seen the ceremony. It must have been most impressive—particularly my three sons. Henry and Richard were exceptionally handsome—both tall and dazzingly fair with blue eyes and a nobility of countenance; Geoffrey lacked their handsome looks but was not an ill-looking boy by any means.
Louis would surely be thinking of his one and only Dieu-Donn and all the efforts he had made to get him.
Alas, I was not present, so it was left to my imagination. I could picture Henry’s joy in his sons—particularly young Henry, who had always been his favorite, because I knew Richard’s adherence to me irritated him a little, and Geoffrey lacked the charm of his brothers. But three such sons must make Henry very proud. So young Henry did homage to Louis for Anjou and Maine, Richard for Aquitaine, and Geoffrey for Brittany.
To stress his new friendship for Henry, Louis offered the hand of his daughter Alais for Richard. We did not know it then but this was to prove a matter of some consequence to Henry. There was an understanding between Louis and Henry that Louis did not wish to have his daughter put into my care, as he had shown when Marguerite was betrothed to Henry. But now, of course, Henry and I were living apart, so Alais was to go to the English Court to be brought up in the English manner, so that by the time Richard married her she would be a suitable bride for him. She was nine years old at the time, an exceptionally pretty girl, I believed; in fact, her beauty was the reason why she was to fall into such a scandalous situation.
There was one very important incident which occurred at Montmirail. Among the company was Thomas Becket.
Thomas had been making a great nuisance of himself ever since his departure from England. He had gone to live in the Cistercian Abbey of Pontigny and was continually thundering forth threats of what would happen to Henry. At first Pope Alexander had been wary of giving him leave to denounce Henry too strongly, for his own position continued precarious, but later, when it improved, he allowed Becket more freedom to say and do what he liked against his old enemy. Henry threatened to expel all Cistercians from England if they continued to shelter Becket. Becket retorted by threatening Henry with excommunication.
It was a very unsatisfactory quarrel. I think, in their hearts, they most wanted to be together again. For one thing, Henry wanted young Henry crowned, and only the Archbishop of Canterbury should do that.
Just before the ceremony at Montmirail Becket had written to Henry asking that he be reinstated and that he and his followers might have back their rights and property. Henry said he would be prepared to accept Becket back, but the Pope insisted on a public agreement. It was for this reason that Becket had come to Montmirail.
There they met in a field. I wondered what Henry’s emotions were when he beheld his greatest friend and worst enemy. Of one thing I could be certain: it must have been an emotional meeting. Thomas, I heard, fell on his knees before the King, weeping affectively. Henry took his hand and begged him rise.
Becket began well by asking Henry’s forgiveness for himself and the Church. That Henry, of course, was very ready to grant. Becket then declared that, regarding their disagreements, he threw himself on the King’s mercy and pleasure. That was enough. But being Becket he could not leave it at that. He was ready to obey the King in all things, he said, saving the honor of God.
I can imagine Henry’s wrath. They had progressed no
way. This had been Becket’s cry right from the first. He would obey . . . save where his order was concerned. Now it was God.
Henry then addressed the spectators and told them that Becket had deserted the Church, creeping out in the night. He did not drive him away. He had always been ready to allow the Church to follow its rules, but whenever what the King desired was not what Becket did, he brought in “his order” . . . or God. If Becket would act as those before him always had—and some of them saintly men—he would be satisfied.
The people cheered. The King had capitulated. He would receive Becket, providing Becket was ready to obey him.
But Becket stood out. He was not ready to return yet.
Exasperated beyond endurance by the man, Henry decided to go ahead with the coronation of his eldest son. Why should it be necessary that he be crowned by the Archbishop of Canterbury? The Archbishop of York would do very well. Moreover, he was no friend of Becket.
Becket was still not in England, and on May 24 young Henry, who was then fifteen, was crowned King of England in Westminster Abbey. Henry, generally so careless of his appearance and impatient of ceremony, did know when it was necessary to put on an elaborate show, and he spared neither effort nor money. The crown was made by the leading goldsmith William Cade at a cost of 38.6.0.—a very large sum of money.
Henry could be capable of acts of great folly, and this coronation was one, perhaps the greatest he ever made. It was obvious to me, and surely to others, that young Henry was becoming more and more aware of his position and taking advantage of it. When the cub is made head of the pride—even though it is intended to be in name only—the chief lion should watch carefully. Young Henry had revealed his character more and more as honors were heaped on him. He had never been the meekest of boys, and if he had been, the step would have been unwise.
It amazed me that Henry, so shrewd in most things, so quickly aware of his advantage, should make this tremendous mistake. He should have known the way things would go. There was an indication of this even at the banquet which followed the crowning, when the King waited on his son at table.
