by Jean Plaidy
I listened; I absorbed the news, fitting it together as I heard it, like pieces in a puzzle. I had time to consider it and perhaps because of that I was able to make a clearer picture than those who were in the thick of it.
There was always going to be trouble between Henry and his sons. They all had their grievances—young Henry chief among them because he felt the golden crown on his head and could not bear to see his father in possession of it. He did little in Aquitaine except find those who had rebelled against his father. Never far from his mind was the plan to oust his father and rule himself, alone. It was an ambitious plan, the elder Henry being the man he was; but if his son could get the strong battalions on his side, who knew?
I was very shocked to hear how he had treated Adam Churchdown. The man was only doing his duty. Young Henry spent most of his time organizing tournaments—mock battles where his safety was assured and in which he was always the victor because those about him knew that was how he wanted it to be. This would not have been dangerous if the foolish young man had not gone about speaking against his father, plotting with his cronies as to how they could get an army together and take the crown from the old man and put it on the young head where it belonged.
Adam had, in duty bound, found it necessary to report to the King what was happening. Alas for Adam, his letters were intercepted and instead of going to the old King were taken to the young one.
My son should have had more respect for an honorable man. He knew that Adam was his father’s servant. What he did was cruel and foolish. He wanted Adam to be humiliated and ordered that he be stripped naked, paraded through the streets—they were in Poitiers at the time—and whipped as he went.
I was horrified. Henry must have been too. He would never have done such a thing in his wildest rages. He must have despaired and realized that he could never make the king he wanted of his son. He might have been proud of Richard, but Richard had shown little affection for him. All his three elder sons were ready to turn against him.
There was only one, as yet untried because he was so young: John.
He could not say that John had come under my influence. Here was one son whom he might mold as he wished. He sent for John.
From then on, the young boy replaced Henry in his affections. John lacked Henry’s good looks—he was smaller and darker—but he was young and therefore malleable.
The King made plans for his youngest son. The proposed marriage with Humbert’s daughter had come to nothing; but William of Gloucester, one of the richest and most powerful men in England, agreed that his daughter, Hadwisa, should marry John, who would then become heir to all his lands in the west of England and Glamorgan, a considerable inheritance.
John was then declared King of Ireland—John “Lackland” no longer.
Rumors were coming to my ears.
Amaria said: “They say the Princess Alais is very attractive.”
“Yes. I am glad,” I said. “I daresay it will not be long before she marries my son Richard. It is time he had a wife.”
“They say the King is very fond of her.”
“The King!” Something in Amaria’s expression gave me a hint of what she might have heard. “What do you know?” I asked.
She shrugged her shoulders. “They say that now the Lady Rosamund is dead . . . that the King has taken up with the Princess Alais.”
“But she is to be his daughter-in-law.”
“I only know what I hear, my lady.”
I pondered this. Alais . . . and Henry. What would Louis have to say? How far had Henry gone in this? Surely he did not think he could seduce a daughter of the King of France as he might such as Rosamund Clifford?
But Henry would never consider such things. Moreover he despised Louis. She was very young. And Richard? What of Richard?
I could see a storm blowing up here.
Each day I hoped for news. It came sparsely. I could not believe how time was passing. Often I asked myself: Was I to spend the rest of my life a prisoner?
Was Henry hoping I would die? I had refused to go to Fontevrault, which would have given him his divorce. Did he want to marry again? Who this time? Alais? How would that affect her betrothal to his son Richard? What did he want to do? Raise a family? He was rather old for that. But I had no doubt that he saw himself as immortal. He would make up his mind that he would not depart this life until he saw his successor ready to take on the burden of kingship and not fritter away all the advantages he had brought to the country.
Our destiny was closely linked with that of France because our sway extended so far over that country. Philip Augustus was growing up. He must be fourteen or fifteen years old. The years of my captivity went by so fast that I lost count of them.
Louis had changed since the birth of the God-Given. He had become more statesmanlike and, after having waited so long and tried so hard, he was especially proud to have provided the heir of the Capetian dynasty.
At this time he decided Philip Augustus should be crowned. One might have thought he would have seen what had happened in Henry’s case. Two kings in one kingdom made a dangerous situation. However, it did happen in France, and it might have been that Philip Augustus was a more docile son; in any case Louis had never valued his kingship as Henry had.
Having been so close to Louis at one time, I was always eager to hear news of him; moreover, what happened to him affected Henry closely. I heard that the coronation was going to take place at Rheims on August 5 of that year 1179.
How unpredictable life is! We make our plans and then Fate decides to change them.
Louis had commanded all the nobles of the land to make their way to the cathedral of Rheims. Philip Augustus led his own party and, as always on such occasions when there was an opportunity to hunt, it was taken with alacrity. This was what happened on the way. Philip Augustus, rather like my son Henry, must have been gratified to think he would soon be crowned King. How could they be so foolish as to put crowns on the heads of young boys and expect to withhold the power that went with them? It might be that it would work in this case, but I had heard recently that Philip Augustus was a boy with a will of his own, and if he had any talent for ruling he would wish to work differently from the way his father had.
He showed his independence on this occasion. They were following the deer in the forest and Philip Augustus naturally decided that his should be the arrow which killed the hunted creature. He spurred on his horse and galloped ahead. His followers, I suppose, understood his desire and, not wanting to offend him, fell back, with the result that in due course they lost sight of him. There was consternation: the heir to the throne of France was lost in the forest.
Meanwhile Philip Augustus rode on. He realized he had lost the quarry, was himself lost and was out of earshot of the hunting party. All was silent in the forest. A mist arose; he was wet and cold. One can imagine his fear among the damp foliage and the tall trees; nature did not care whether he was a peasant or a king about to be crowned. After all the adulation he was accustomed to receive, the indifference of nature must have filled him with apprehension.
He began to feel dizzy and hot. He was not strong and they had had great trouble in raising him. When he was very young, his father had lived in terror that he would lose him.
He went deeper into the forest. He was lost and he was going to be ill. It was getting dark. It would be eerie in the forest and he had been accustomed to having people always around him. Now he was alone, alone in the forest which cared nothing for kings.
I have no doubt that he prayed. Who does not remember God when one’s need is great? I suppose he thought God had answered his prayers when he came upon the charcoal-burners’ hut. They took him into their hovel; they put him by the fire and forced some hot broth between his lips. He was fainting but he was conscious enough to tell them to go at once to the King.
Poor humble people, how bewildered they must have been! But the old man’s son set off, and so well did he carry out his mission that
by the next day men came to take Philip Augustus away.
I hope the charcoal-burners were amply rewarded. I am sure Louis would not forget to do that.
They took Philip Augustus to the nearest castle but by this time the fever had a hold on him and he was delirious. He had become very ill indeed and there was consternation throughout France. His life was despaired of, and it was feared that God was about to take back what He had given.
Louis’s distress must have been great. The story was that he was so beside himself that he could neither eat nor sleep. Fearing that he would die as well as his son, the doctors gave him something to make him rest. He must keep up his strength so that he would be able to bear the blow which it seemed must inevitably come.
He dozed and it was then that he had a vision. He thought that Thomas Becket came to him and told him that, if he repented of his sins and humbled himself at the shrine in Canterbury Cathedral, his son’s life would be saved.
The consternation must have been great when Louis announced his intention of visiting Canterbury. Go into the heart of enemy territory? It must never be! But Louis was adamant. This was a message from God, and everyone must know that he was on special terms with the Almighty. Moreover, what would happen to France if his son died? He himself was a fast-aging man.
He must go to Canterbury. God—through Thomas Becket—would not have told him to go if it had not been for his own good. He had to save his son’s life, no matter what happened to him.
They tried to put up obstacles. None of them believed in the vision. If Philip Augustus was going to die, nothing would save him. Could the King endure the hazardous journey? Everyone knew what the Channel could be like—and at his age . . . and in his health . . .
I wondered what Henry thought when he heard of Louis’s proposed visit. If rumors were true and he had indeed seduced Louis’s daughter, he must be feeling rather uneasy for Louis would surely expect to see the girl when he was in England.
I wondered how far Henry’s relationship with Alais had gone, and if she were in love with him. Was it possible? He was hardly a romantic figure, apart from his power, but power I believe is one of the most effective aphrodisiacs. I could imagine his storming into the nursery . . . shouting orders . . . laughing . . . standing there, fascinating the beautiful little girl and inspiring her with awe. Would he be able to impress on her that she must betray nothing of their relationship to her father? And Louis? Would he have heard? If he had not, it would never occur to him to suspect. I was very eager to hear the outcome of the meeting.
Henry sent a letter of warm welcome to Louis. He would be honored to receive him, and he would join his prayers to those of Louis for the recovery of Philip Augustus. He would make himself personally responsible for Louis’s comfort and safety while he was in England.
I imagined their meeting. Poor Louis, how did he look now? Particularly old and ill, I guessed, after the sea crossing. Steeped in religious fervor, frantic with anxiety, without the slightest fear of what would happen to himself. Louis had never, at least, been a coward. His hatred of war had had nothing to do with fears for his own safety.
Henry took a brilliant assembly to Dover to await Louis’s arrival. This would give him an advantage, for he would see Louis immediately he disembarked, racked with sorrow and probably ill after the crossing. Henry would be vital, glowing with health . . . a little patronizing to his rival. After all, he was opening his country to an old enemy; he was allowing him the benefit of praying at the Archbishop’s shrine. Henry was always one to seize an advantage.
I could picture it so well, remembering Henry as I had last seen him. Although he was showing signs of age, he could still ride through the day without fatigue and his immense vitality had not abated, whereas Louis would look like an old man. Henry would gloat over the contrast. Louis was considerably older than Henry in any case—as I was. A fact of which he had enjoyed reminding me. How I wished I could have seen that meeting!
Together they went to Canterbury. Louis would be talking of his only son and envying Henry, who had several. Henry had suffered every bit as much as Louis but this was due to the perfidy of his sons. Did they talk of their children? Did Louis mention Alais? If so, I was sure Henry would skirt around the subject adroitly. He was such an adept at amorous intrigue. I would never forget how he had kept Rosamund Clifford’s existence a secret for so long.
There was a great welcome for Louis in Canterbury. Henry had ordered that the bells of the city ring out as the French King entered it. The Kings rode side by side to the cathedral amid the crowds, silent, not because they did not welcome Louis but because this was a solemn occasion and all wanted to give the impression that they were praying silently that the life of the heir to the French throne might be saved.
In the crypt Louis knelt at the tomb of Thomas Becket. He remained there all through the day and night, begging Thomas to plead with God to spare the life of his son. When he left the crypt, I heard that he looked like a corpse himself. Stricken with sorrow, fear and old age, it seemed that it was for the King of France people should be praying as well as for his son.
Henry’s mind would be working fast. If Louis died, if Philip Augustus died, young Henry, married to Marguerite, could be King of France. Once that was what he had strived for, but did he pause to think now? His son would indeed be powerful; and he had already shown his father what he could do in his present state. Henry’s mind must have been very busy with possibilities as he joined in Louis’s prayers for his son.
Louis expressed his gratitude by promising the Convent of Canterbury free French wine every year and exemption from customs for goods exported for their use.
He was then ready to return to France, but Henry would not hear of it. The journey had exhausted Louis, as had the day-and-night vigil at the tomb. Henry would take him to Winchester and there entertain him in a manner fitting his rank.
Louis saw the wisdom of this. There was nothing else he could do. He was a man of faith. He believed that his son’s life would now be spared.
In order to impress Louis with his friendship—and perhaps fearing that he might have heard rumors about Alais and himself—Henry took Louis to visit churches, where, I have no doubt, there was more praying; he also showed him the treasury vaults and begged him to take some precious object as a mark of the amity between them. How amused I should have been! If I had been Louis, I should have selected the most valuable object I could find, for I knew how Henry hated to lose anything of value. I believe he would have regretted the gesture as soon as he had made it. But there was little malice in Louis. He had never been interested in earthly possessions and took the smallest object he could find.
Louis declined further hospitality and declared he was sufficiently rested to make the journey back across the sea and return to his son for he was sure Thomas Becket would not have failed him and that God would have answered his prayers by now.
And sure enough, when he returned to France, he found that Philip Augustus had completely recovered. Everyone was sure that his return to health had begun at that moment when Louis was on his knees at the tomb of the martyr.
It was a miracle.
It was of great importance now to go ahead with the coronation. My son Henry was at the French Court with Marguerite. He would be dismayed at the recovery of Philip Augustus, which had put the French crown out of his reach. I hoped he was not foolish enough to show it.
Before anything else there had to be a thanksgiving service at St. Denis. The whole French nation must show its gratitude for the heir’s return to health.
My son was to ride beside the King of France in the procession. Louis had been delighted by the show of friendship which had been given him in England and the fact that the King had prayed with him so earnestly for the recovery of Philip Augustus when the latter’s death could have brought such power to his own son. Louis’s faith in human nature was almost equal to his faith in God. It was nave of him, but rather lovable in a way, and there wa
s so little that was lovable about Louis that I wanted to remember it.
There was an incident during the journey to the abbey.
Louis had been looking ill apparently soon after his return. His wan looks had been commented on, and as they came near the abbey, one of the knights near to him saw him sway sidewards. He was just in time to catch him before he fell. He was carried back to the castle and the doctors were sent for. They diagnosed a seizure and thought he had not long to live.
Louis was paralyzed in his arm and leg, but he did not die immediately.
Now the coronation of Philip Augustus was very necessary. Louis sent for the Count of Flanders and put the care of his son in his hands. The Count of Flanders had been one of those who had joined with young Henry against his father. I wondered what my husband thought to see him in such a position, guiding the new King of France, for with Louis incapacitated, that was what Philip Augustus would soon be. So poor sick Louis—unwise as ever—chose the Count of Flanders to guide his son through the coronation and after. My son with his wife Marguerite was present at this impressive occasion. What bitterness he must have been feeling! I knew my son well. He had come very close to winning the crown, and Thomas Becket had intervened.
The old King had undoubtedly shortened his life by crossing the seas to get assistance.
So Philip Augustus went to Rheims while his father was in bed, and the boy’s uncle, who was his mother’s brother and Archbishop of Rheims, crowned him.
Louis would be praying, of course, for his son’s welfare. In his mind he would see it all: his son-in-law Henry holding the crown which his brother-in-law would place on his son’s head, and the Count of Flanders carrying the golden sword.
