by Jean Plaidy
Alais was there. She was a beautiful girl, very gentle, a little uneasy at this time, particularly as Richard was one of the party. He treated her with a cool disdain almost as though he were unaware of her. I know of no one who could present such an icy front to the world as Richard. Geoffrey was rather amused by the situation, I believe. One had the impression that he was hoping for trouble and if he saw a chance would do his best to provoke it.
John was there. I could not like my son John. He was different from the others. Now he was placating his father at every turn, being the dutiful, affectionate son. Surely Henry was not deceived. Oddly enough he seemed to be. It was strange that he who was so shrewd on all other matters should be so blind where his sons were concerned—believing what he wanted to rather than what was blatant fact.
There were meetings. At some of them I was present.
Henry was trying to persuade Richard to give up Aquitaine, and Richard refused. Henry raged and ranted and Richard stood firm.
Henry wanted to distribute the power among his sons, and for that he had to have my agreement. That was why I was there. He did realize that I was of some significance on the Continent. I believed that a certain amount of his troubles there were due to his imprisoning me.
When he asked me to agree to the distribution of his possessions, of which John was to get the larger part, I stubbornly refused my consent.
“Why do you always go against me?” he demanded in exasperation.
“I only go against you when you act foolishly.”
“You are speaking to the King.”
“I am well aware of that for he never lets me forget it. I remember that he has been my jailer for a great many years.”
“And could be for a great many more to come.”
“If it suits his purpose, I have no doubt.”
“Why cannot you listen to reason?”
“Why do you not do the same?”
“I am the King—I make the rules.”
“As we have seen on occasions . . . disastrously. Thomas Becket, Archbishop of Canterbury. Was there ever a greater mistake? Yes, one. The crowning of your son in your lifetime. Think about that, Henry Plantagenet, and then ask yourself whether you have always listened to reason.”
“Be silent.”
I bowed my head. The shafts had gone home.
“There is going to be trouble in Aquitaine. They don’t like Richard.”
“Do you think they would like John?”
“They are stupid ridiculous people. They spend their time singing romantic songs. They think that if you were their ruler it would be paradise. Richard will not give up Aquitaine to John. Perhaps he would to you.”
I stared at him.
He did not look at me and went on: “You could spend some time there. Go among them. Let them see you . . . how well you have fared in prison. Satisfy their love of romance. I have no doubt they will make up songs about you.”
To go back to Poitiers, to be in my Court again, surrounded by musicians and poets . . . long summer evenings out of doors . . . the scent of pines and glorious flowers . . . long winter evenings around a fire . . . laughing, carefree . . . beautiful clothes to wear . . . he was opening the gates of Paradise.
“Think about it,” he said.
“Yes,” I replied. “I will go.”
And I thought: Aquitaine returned to me and held for Richard.
What could be better?
From Windsor the Court traveled to Winchester.
I had told Richard about the King’s suggestion.
“If Aquitaine is mine, it is as good as yours,” I told him. “He is suggesting that I go there to keep order.”
“Which shows how worried he is. It is quiet for a while but revolt is always there . . . ready to break out. He thinks you will have a sobering effect and this is his way of bringing it about.”
“But if it is handed back to me—and that will have to be without double-dealing . . . if it is all fair and legal . . . I shall go there. I shall be free, Richard. And I shall see that, when I am no more, Aquitaine shall be yours.”
“You are the only one I would give it to.”
“So let us think about it. Let us consider every little detail so that he has no opportunity of cheating us.”
Richard agreed that we must do that.
As for myself, I was in a state of bemused delight. I could hardly believe it was true. After years of resignation to quiet living in Salisbury or Winchester or some such place . . . I was to be free.
Henry was ready to go ahead with his suggestion. Aquitaine was to be returned to me just as I had given it to Richard. Geoffrey was to go back to his dominions, and John would go to Ireland where he was the King.
I think it was clear to Henry that I was going to insist on this before I agreed to anything. Richard was to be the next King of England. He was the eldest son now, and the people would never accept either of the others.
Richard would suit England better than he did Aquitaine; and in his heart Henry must know that. Henry loved England, although he spent so little time there, but that was only because the other dominions were where trouble was always breaking out.
While we were at Winchester we were disturbed by the visit of Heraclius, the Patriarch of Jerusalem. Henry would have wished that he was anywhere but in England, especially when he was aware of what had brought the Patriarch. Saladin was on the point of taking Jerusalem. King Baldwin was dying and Queen Sybil was pleading for help from the whole of Christendom. Her son was an infant. Prompt action must be taken.
Henry, who was always anxious to appear to his subjects as a deeply religious man, listened sympathetically and declared that he would raise money without delay.
But it was not money that Heraclius wanted. He wanted crusaders.
Henry said: Yes, he could see that, but he himself was in no position to go and fight in the Holy Land.
Heraclius was desperate and did not mince words. He reminded Henry that when he had done penance at the tomb of Thomas Becket he had promised to undertake a crusade to the Holy Land.
Henry was always upset by references to Becket. It was astonishing how that man still haunted him. I was sure he thought of him often. There would be constant reminders . . . places they had visited together in the days when Becket was Chancellor, before his disastrous elevation to the archbishopric . . . the conversations they had had. There must have been thousands of memories.
“I said I would go when the time was ripe,” he declared. “And when the time is ripe, I will. That time is not yet.”
“This is the time,” declared Heraclius. “The heathen is at the very heart of the Holy Land.”
“I could not leave my dominions now,” said the King and added: “This is too important a decision for me to make alone. I must leave it to my ministers.”
Heraclius was shocked that he could rely on others to decide for him. Had he not taken an oath?
Henry could have retorted that the decision would not depend on them; he would follow their advice, yes, because their advice would be what he had commanded them to give him.
In spite of Heraclius’s disappointment Henry called together a council headed by the Archbishop of Canterbury, who obediently rose and announced: “My lord King, your duty lies in your own dominions.”
Heraclius could be very disturbing. Perhaps he guessed Henry’s men were merely obeying his orders. He said he would call on another Archbishop, one whose blood had stained the stone of his own cathedral. He would remember that the King had made an oath to go to Jerusalem.
“When it was in his power to do so,” the Archbishop reminded the vehement Patriarch. “The King has his duties here, and God will agree that it is his duty to remain in his own dominions.”
Henry rose and then said that he believed his council spoke good sense, and although in his heart he would be in the Holy Land, he must perforce think first of his duty. He would give money to the cause and he would help any of his subjects who wi
shed to join the Crusade.
How fiery and how venomous these good men can become when they are flouted and prevented from carrying out their good works.
“You and your family,” cried Heraclius, “came from the Devil and to the Devil you will return. No good will come to you, Henry Plantagenet. You have turned from God.”
Henry was trembling with rage.
Heraclius mocked him. “I do not fear you,” he said. “I fear only God, and He is on my side. Murder me if you will, as you murdered that saint Thomas Becket. I could esteem the infidel in his ignorance who knows not what he does . . . yes, I could esteem him more than I do you.”
Henry was very shaken. That talk of God and Becket and the Devil unnerved him now that he was getting older.
I was sorry for him.
I had a feeling that I might comfort him more than anyone else could just now. I could laugh at the fiery Patriarch who used God as his ally to get his own way.
By chance I came across him alone in one of the chambers. The door was ajar, and when I looked in he was staring pensively at the wall. I believe he often went to that chamber, and it was said that he liked to remain there alone and study the murals.
“Henry,” I said quietly.
He looked up and I could see that Heraclius and of course Becket were not far from his thoughts.
“The Patriarch is a very fierce man,” I said.
“He cursed me.”
“I dareswear he distributes his curses widely. It is a method of getting his own way. Not a bad one really. It is amazing how those so-called holy men can strike fear into the bravest.”
“I did say I would go on a crusade.”
“When the time is ripe. It has never been ripe and never will be, I fancy. You have not broken your oath. It is only when the time is ripe that you have said you will do it.”
“It is so.”
He put his hand to his head. A rare gesture with him. It suggested weariness.
He was standing before one of the paintings on the wall. I had seen some of them before. They were allegorical studies of life . . . very cleverly done. This one was new to me. It was of an eagle and four eaglets.
“This is new,” I said.
“Yes. I recently ordered it to be painted.”
“It means something.”
“Yes, I am the eagle. The four eaglets are my sons. Look. They are preying on me. There are Henry, Richard and Geoffrey.”
“And the fourth is John.”
“Yes, that is John. He is waiting until the others have all but finished me, and then he will pluck out my eyes.”
“Oh Henry,” I cried. “What a terrible picture.”
“I face the truth now and then in this room. They are my own sons. I have given them affection. I have planned for them. I wanted them all to be great men. Between them they were to own the whole of Europe . . . and there is not one of them who has given me any affection. They are all ready to wrest from me what I have been preserving for them.”
“I did not realize you knew all this.”
“You know it?”
I nodded. “You were a fool to crown that boy, Henry.”
“I see it.”
“You were told . . . yet you did it. You would listen to nobody. You did it hastily so that you could show Becket that you did not need him. You have thought too much of Becket.”
“I loved that man.”
“That was clear enough. You loved the wrong people . . . apart from Rosamund and Alais. Oh yes, I know about Alais, your son’s betrothed and your mistress. They were gentle, kind, unquestioning. They gave you comfort. You did not get that from me. But it was more exciting, was it not? You and I could have done much together, but I was no Rosamund . . . no Alais. If you had been a faithful husband we could have worked together.”
“You did not care for me.”
“I did . . . in the beginning. It was when you brought that boy Geoffrey into the nursery that it changed for me. Unfaithful immediately after our marriage! It was too much for me to endure. But it is all over. You have treated me shamefully. That was a mistake. It has hurt you more than it has hurt me. Look at me. Look at yourself. And ask who has suffered more from your ridiculous behavior . . . imprisoning your own wife, the Duchess of Aquitaine at that! Do you imagine I am the sort of woman who sits down and weeps and tears her hair at misfortune?”
“Never that,” he said.
“Then at least you have learned something. But it is too late for your eaglets.”
“They are against me . . . all of them.”
“Richard might have worked with you.”
“He hates me more than any of them.”
“Because of what you have done to me.”
“I did nothing more than you deserved. You are the one to blame. You always were. You turned them against me.”
“I have told you before. You turned them against you.”
“Enough of this.”
“Yes. It is too uncomfortable for you.”
“I might have known that you would plague me.”
“You plague yourself. If you do not want to think of your sons, why liken them to eaglets and have an artist depict them so that they may always be before you?”
He turned away.
“You do not know,” he said, “what I would have done for just one of them to have been a good son to me. Instead of that, I have to rely on bastards. I can trust that other Geoffrey as I can trust none of yours. It is because they are yours. You turned them against me in their cradles.”
“As you like to think that, you must go on doing so.”
He looked old and tired. In spite of everything he had gained during a lifetime, in spite of his power and might, he was a sad and lonely man.
He leaned on his stick for a few moments and then turned and went away; and as I listened to the tapping of the stick, I felt pity for him and a certain sadness. I should have liked to comfort him, if that had been possible.
Freedom is one of the greatest gifts life can bestow, and like all great gifts it is only appreciated when it is lost.
To ride out again through my beloved country, to feel the sweet balmy air of the south, to see the people greeting me, calling long life to me in their warm and friendly voices—it was a pleasure to be savored and remembered.
They saw me as the deliverer. I was their true ruler. They had glorified my grandfather and my father, conveniently forgetting certain strife which had been evident during their reigns. They saw in them the great romantics. Aquitaine was never the same as when we had our own among us, they said.
And I was the direct descendant, but being a woman, I had married and brought strangers among them. Now I was back. There were rumors of what had happened to me. I had been cruelly imprisoned by my monster of a husband, but now I was free to come back among them and take my rightful place.
The troubadours came back to Court, which was filled with jongleurs seeking to return to the ways of the old days which, looking back, they were assured had been full of pleasure.
They wanted no strangers among them. They wanted to live their lives as their grandfathers had. And I . . . the true heiress . . . one of themselves, was back.
Calm settled on Aquitaine.
Henry had been right. This was what was needed.
So passed the days and life began to return to the old carefree ways. The people were happy.
A great deal was happening far away. I could not forget Henry as he had looked when he stood before that picture of the eagle and the eaglets. No wonder he turned to Alais for comfort. I think she must have cared for him, for it was not to her advantage to remain the mistress of an old man when she might have been the bride of a young one with a kingdom in view.
I wondered if Henry realized how dangerous were his eaglets. He was still deceiving himself about John. And John was the least likely to bring him happiness if all I heard of him was true.
My youngest son was wild, sadistic, profligate, a hypo
crite and a liar, according to reports. Geoffrey might be pleasure-loving, suave and self-seeking, but he was not as bad as John. Richard of course was cold and stern and in a way high-minded; he would call his rule just, but some called it cruel. But John, from what I heard, was depraved.
Henry had been foolish to send him to Ireland. He ought to have known that that would end in failure. I could imagine John, surrounded by young men imitating him to curry favor. John would not care for the good of the country, of making it a prosperous addition to his father’s Empire. All he would think of was his own pleasure.
Messengers brought news to the Court of how John had roamed the countryside looking for mischief, ridiculing the local inhabitants, because of the way they dressed and wore beards, which he was reputed to have tweaked provocatively and insultingly. The Irish would not accept that. Of course his main pursuit was women, and as he was the King he thought that all were at his command. He was immediately in conflict with Hugh de Lacy, who had been sent over earlier and was governing the country.
I remembered Hugh de Lacy. He was a very dark man, by no means handsome, with small black eyes and a flattened nose; he was short of stature and far from elegant; but he had power, I remember. I could imagine his dismay at having John giving orders above him.
After a while, having run out of money, John returned to England, where Henry apparently received him warmly, still deceiving himself that this was the one son who loved him. I could imagine John’s playing the affectionate son, laughing inwardly at the old fool, determined to get what he could out of him.
Soon after that Hugh de Lacy was murdered. He was in the process of building a castle at Durrow when a man from Teffia with an unpronounceable name—I think it was Gilla-gan-inathar O’Meyey—picked up an axe and severed his head from his body.
Henry was deeply shocked and perturbed for de Lacy had kept good order in Ireland. John’s comment was that it was the old fool’s just reward.
In the meantime Geoffrey was at the French Court. Henry was uneasy about his sons’ friendship with the French King. I wondered if Philip Augustus knew that Henry’s worst enemies were now his own sons; and of course Philip Augustus was Henry’s perennial enemy—just as his father had been. There would always be strife between the kings of France and England while England owned so much of France; constantly there would be on one side the desire to retrieve and on the other to acquire more.
