by Jean Plaidy
Soon after she had so graphically described Henry’s penance, she came in with the news that the Scottish King, who had been making trouble, had been captured and made a prisoner at Alnwick. It had happened while Henry was doing his penance.
After his ordeal he had retired to bed. He spent a day there. He must have been feeling very weak to do that. I expected the monks had laid on rather hard with their whips. It must have been an opportunity too good to be missed. I wished I had been one of them. I would have given him a few sharp strokes.
The news of the Scottish King’s capture was brought to him while he was in bed.
“They say, my lady, that he leaped out of bed,” was Amaria’s version. “He said it was a sign from Heaven . . . from Thomas Becket up there. ‘We are friends once more,’ cried the King. ‘Now you will work for me. I shall go from victory to victory. We shall be friends as we were in the beginning.’”
I laughed. Amaria amused me. But I think it must have happened something like that. Henry used everything to advantage. Did he really believe that the capture of the King of Scotland was due to Becket’s help? One thing he would know was that the people would think so; and that would be important to Henry. What a combination—Thomas in Heaven, Henry on Earth. They would be invincible.
I knew he would be smiling to himself. The humiliation of walking barefoot, the sore back, the humble confession of guilt . . . it was all worthwhile. Now the people would believe that Henry was at peace with Heaven, and Thomas was on his side. Let his enemies beware.
I was moved from Salisbury to Winchester, where life was a little easier. I lived in comparative comfort. Of course I missed the fine clothes which I had always had in abundance; I missed my musicians and my Court of Poitiers.
My jailer for a while was Ranulf de Glanville, which showed how important I was to the King, for he was one of his most trusted subjects. He was the Chief Justiciar of England and a man of many gifts. He was Sheriff of Lancashire and during the recent Scottish invasion had led the men of Lancashire into the attack which had resulted in the capture of the King of Scotland. It was Ranulf who had taken the news to the King. He had Henry’s complete trust. I did not believe I would get any concessions from him.
Another of my jailers was William FitzStephen, who was to write a biography of Becket, with whom he had been in close contact for ten years. During the time of his intimacy with Becket, Henry must have come to know FitzStephen very well. He had been a subdeacon in Becket’s chapel and entrusted with special duties.
I viewed Henry’s choice of jailers with mixed feelings. In the first place, I felt it a mark of respect for me that he would not give the post to any but those he trusted absolutely; but secondly it meant that my chances of escape were slight—or, more accurately, nonexistent.
I had been in England over a year when I had a visitor, a Cardinal who had come to England and found himself drawn into a matter which Henry was considering.
He was very suave, friendly and compassionate.
“My lady,” he said, “how different this life must be from that to which you have been accustomed in the past.” I could agree with him on that. “I know you have always been interested in the Abbey of Fontevrault.”
“Yes,” I said, now very alert.
“How would you feel about going there and living a life of peace?”
“I have never thought I was suited to the cloistered existence. It is not in my nature to be.”
“But here you are . . . cloistered. You are a prisoner. There you would be free.”
“Has the King sent you here?”
He lowered his eyes. “The King has suggested that I visit you.”
“With a purpose in mind, I see. To get rid of me by sending me to Fontevrault. I retire . . . and my retirement means that a divorce can be arranged for the King. Is that it? There is no need to mince words with me, Cardinal.”
“My lady, the King thinks of your welfare.”
“Not forgetting his own.”
“It seems this would be beneficial to you both. You are . . .” He hesitated. “ . . . my lady, you are no longer young.”
“I am fifty-three years of age. Time, you suggest, for me to retire from the world?”
“You would find a life of meditation and prayer most satisfactory.”
“And if I took to it, so would Henry. A divorce would be easy, would it not? A wife who has retired from the world is as good as dead. And a divorce? Does he plan to marry again? Whom would he marry? His mistress, Rosamund Clifford? He lives with her openly now, does he not? Does he plan to have sons by her and replace my sons? I would never agree to that.”
“All the King wishes is to give you a life of peace where you can meditate on the past and earn remission of your sins.”
“He would do well to behave in like manner.”
“None of us is without sin, my lady.”
“And some are more overburdened by it than others. Let us be plain about this. I will not go to Fontevrault Abbey.”
“You would be Abbess of course . . . mistress of your world . . . the ruler of the abbey as you have been of the duchy.”
I laughed. “You are trying to tempt me, Cardinal. The King has sent you and paid you well for it, I doubt not. You have come here to get my consent to go into a nunnery, giving him reasons for divorce, so making him free to take a new wife and get more sons . . . those whom he would mold to his way of thinking, unlike those who love their mother well and hate their father. Does he really think to marry Rosamund Clifford? It is impossible! But then he is a man who refuses to see anything as impossible. You will have to go back to the King and tell him no, no, no. I will not be forced into a convent . . . even Fontevrault. I will stay here, his prisoner, to plague him, a barrier between him and his fair Rosamund. Go back to him and tell him that he will have to think of another way of ridding himself of me.”
When he had gone, I found myself thinking of Fontevrault.
I might be fifty-three years old but I was not yet at that stage when I wished to think of the life to come. I believed I had a few more years ahead of me, and something told me that I should not be a prisoner forever. I would not shut myself away from the world. I wanted to know what my boys were doing. Henry, too. He must think that I saw no release in sight and might as well shut myself away in Fontevrault where I should at least have the dignity of ruling my own little world. He did not realize that I should never give up and that my spirit was as indomitable as his.
Moreover, following his exploits, hating him fiercely, was a rather enjoyable occupation.
A year passed uneventfully for me. I heard that there had been a reconciliation between the King and young Henry. My son had been with the King of France; there he had raged against his father for imprisoning me and saying that he would like to do the same to him.
I was afraid that he swayed this way and that, wondering which way would be to his advantage. What he wanted more than anything, I was sure, was the crown of England; and Louis could not give him that. I often wondered how differently everything would have turned out if Henry had not made that vital mistake of crowning his son King while he lived.
Young Henry eventually decided that his father had more to offer than Louis and he went to him at Bures and fell on his knees before him—the prodigal son returned to the bosom of his family, having seen the error of his ways, and begging for forgiveness.
I was amazed at Henry’s softness where young Henry was concerned. He loved that boy dearly. He could see only good in him. He had long assured himself that all that had gone wrong between them was due to my influence; he would not have been so gentle with Richard or Geoffrey. Delighted to have him back docile, playing the obedient son for a while, Henry promised him money and let him see how overjoyed he was to be friends with him.
I could have told him that the amity between them would not last.
People smiled at the softness of the King toward his son. They ate at the same table, slept in the same
bedchamber. I guessed this was because Henry wished to keep an eye on the boy. I wondered how long it would last.
These little pieces of information came to me at intervals and I had to piece them together to get the picture, but knowing both my son and my husband so well, I was able to do this with ease.
I was amused when I heard that young Henry was planning to go on a pilgrimage during Lent of the next year to St. James of Compostela. This idea was too much for the King to accept. He said very firmly that there would be no pilgrimage. I can imagine how young Henry sulked. The happy reunion was coming to the end; the King must surely understand by now that he could never make his son into another such as himself. What was strange was that he should have been so devoted to him. I should have thought Richard would have appealed to him more.
I was proud of my favorite son. He was already showing himself to possess unusual military skill. He was not quite nineteen years old but he was proving a resourceful ruler. At this time there was a great deal of trouble in Aquitaine. The people were disgruntled because they knew I was Henry’s prisoner, and that made them very angry with him. They knew I had made Richard my heir. He was more like me than any other of my children. He loved music; he would fill his Court with troubadours. But there were always rebels to raise trouble, and Richard had not won the love which they gave to me.
Young Henry was becoming more and more dissatisfied, and finally the King gave him permission to go to Aquitaine to help Richard, who could do with some assistance.
The opportunity was apparently seized with eagerness. Anything to get away from his father’s stern rule. What use would young Henry be to Richard? I had no idea, but it did occur to me that he might dally on the way.
So young Henry set out. His father had insisted that a man in whom he had great faith—a certain Adam Churchdown—should travel with the entourage, and secretly I expect Adam had instructions to report on the young King’s conduct to his father.
I was at Winchester when, to my great delight, Amaria came to me one day to tell me that my daughter Joanna was in the castle.
I was overcome with joy. Joanna, my youngest daughter, was very dear to me, as were all my daughters. I may not have mentioned them as frequently as my sons, but that is because, as girls in this man-governed world, they were not at the center of events as my sons were.
Richard, of course, would always be first in my thoughts, and Henry and Geoffrey were a source of some anxiety, but my daughters had been docile and loving, and my joy at knowing Joanna was under the same roof was intense.
Amaria, in whom I had confided to some extent, was well aware of my feelings, and with a little conspiring had arranged that my daughter’s guardian should bring her just below my window so that I could look out and see her.
What joy it was to behold my daughter! She looked up at me, and I could sense her happiness at seeing me. Poor child, she was about to be sent away to a strange land and an unknown husband. It was the fate of princesses, but at such a time she should have had her mother with her.
Each day Joanna would be brought to that spot and we would gaze at each other. I was dreading the time when she would leave.
Then came a day which I remember now with an uplifting of my spirits. I was to be temporarily released from my prison. I was to join my daughter to help her prepare for her wedding to the King of Sicily. We should remain at Winchester and after my daughter had left the country, I should once again be confined.
I did not care. For the time being I was free and I was to be with my beloved daughter. With what joy we embraced!
“My child,” I said. “I feared you had forgotten me.”
“I never would,” she declared fervently, and I was so happy.
She was afraid, she told me; she did not know what her husband would be like; she did not know what Sicily would be like. I soothed her. All would be well, I said. She was beautiful and talented and her husband must surely love her dearly.
She said: “He has not yet decided that he will have me. He is sending his ambassadors to inspect me.”
“Assuredly they will tell their master that you are completely lovable.” I took her face in my hands. “That is what you want, is it not?”
“I don’t know,” she answered. “I should not want him to turn from me. On the other hand if he did, I should stay here.”
We were able to smile together.
The ambassadors arrived. She was with me before she met them. I told her she had nothing to fear.
“Just be yourself,” I said. “That is the best way to please them.”
I must have inspired her with confidence, for they thought her not only beautiful but dignified and delightful in every way.
She told me that when she had seen me at the window she remembered so much of the times we had together. She had missed me sadly and had implored the King to allow me to be with her. At first he had refused, but she had wept and told him how frightened she was, how lonely and sad, and how much she wanted to be with her mother. And at last he said yes. “He said you would after all know what I should wear.”
“Well, we are together,” I said. “And you will be happy, I promise you, for you are of a nature to be so. I have heard that your bridegroom is very handsome . . . and good, I am sure. I have seen a picture of him. He has long curling hair and a very fine complexion. He looked very impressive in his armor. It is said he is liberal to the poor, which shows a gentle and kindly nature. They are already calling him ‘William the Good.’”
They were busy and happy days for me . . . like an oasis in a dreary desert. The Bishop of Winchester was appointed to entertain the Sicilian embassy, and I gave myself up to planning Joanna’s wardrobe. Henry had arranged for his half-brother, an illegitimate son of Geoffrey le Bel, to be her principal escort. Henry always brought forward members of the family, even though they were illegitimate. Others who would join in the escort were the Archbishops of Canterbury, York, Rouen and Bordeaux.
Henry came to Winchester and I took my place in the Court celebration in honor of Joanna’s departure. I could not help feeling a thrill of excitement at seeing him again. My feelings for him could never be negative . . . and I fancy he felt the same toward me. I noticed his eyes often on me. There was a certain triumph in them. He must have been thinking that I now understood that he was the master. It was true. He had the power to make me a prisoner. But if ever I escaped it would be a different matter.
He had aged considerably, I was gratified to notice. The disaffection of his sons, wars, state matters, penance . . . all this had taken a bigger toll of him than imprisonment had of me.
I wondered if he still found the fair Rosamund so delectable. She was still with him. It must have been something more than physical attraction there . . . as I suppose it had been with me. But that had not prevented his having mistresses all over the country. He still did that, from what gossip I heard, and I had no doubt that he would go on behaving so in the years to come. When he was tired of women, he would be tired of life.
Now we kept up the faade of convention for this important occasion.
Finally, we took leave of Joanna. She clung to me and I murmured words of comfort. We should meet again. She would come to England. I would be free someday and then, if that were possible, I should come to see her.
One fair August day she embarked and with a squadron of seven ships set sail for her new home.
I went back to my prison. But I felt refreshed. My daughter had begged that I should have a brief period of freedom. One day my sons would make sure that I was released altogether.
I heard gossip concerning the King and Rosamund Clifford. Everyone knew of her existence now. In spite of the fact that she was the King’s mistress, she was meek and mild—so different from the Queen, they said, and so beautiful (they could not say that she was different from the Queen in that respect) that they accepted her. They said the Queen had been put away because she had plotted against the King, so it was natural that he shoul
d turn to Fair Rosamund for comfort. And to many others, they might have been told.
Amaria brought the news. “Rosamund is very ill. She has gone into a convent. She wants to repent of her sins before she dies.”
“So she and the King are no longer together?”
“They say she is near death, and she does not want to die with all her sins upon her. She has gone into Godstow Nunnery, and there she practices the severest penances imaginable. They say she is very sad and afraid that she has come too late to repentance.”
“She should imitate the King. He very quickly achieved his reward. A flogging and Heaven makes the King of Scotland his captive.”
I believe Amaria thought that somewhat irreverent.
Soon after that I heard that Rosamund had died at Godstow and that she had so despaired of her sin in becoming the King’s mistress that she had declared on her deathbed that only when a certain tree in the gardens turned to stone would they know that her soul had been received into Heaven.
Poor Rosamund! I had railed against her, but now I could feel sorry for her. It had not been her fault. The King had desired her and he expected his subjects to obey him. Rosamund had obeyed. I expected she had been fond of him. There was something lovable about him . . . though his children failed to see it. I had found it once, and if I were truthful I would admit that, hating him as I did, he still had some fascination for me.
However, he had lost Rosamund and she had been my greatest rival.
And still I remained his prisoner.
I often wondered how I was able to endure the restriction in which I was placed. Perhaps it was because I was getting old. I was at an age when most women would have considered their lives over; I was not like that. I was too vitally interested in what was going on. My hatred for my husband was a spur to my vitality. I wanted to live long enough to see what would happen in this battle between him and his family.
I had grown mellow with age—philosophical. That was why I was able to endure my prison and look on life with analytical cynicism. After all, I lived comfortably. I was not treated like a prisoner. Everyone about me remembered that I was Queen. Life was unpredictable. Those who were down one day could be up the next. I never let them forget for a moment who I was; nor did they.
