The Courts of Love: The Story of Eleanor of Aquitaine

by Jean Plaidy

  Henry raged to William Marshal and Geoffrey the Bastard at the insolence of the King of France. They must have been very unhappy—those men who really cared for him.

  Henry said he would not agree to the terms, and Alais was to marry John.

  Once more the conference ended in failure.

  John joined him. Henry was at Le Mans, one of his favorite cities because it contained the tomb of his father, and he had often rested there to visit it.

  It was while he was at Le Mans that he heard that Philip Augustus was on his way to attack him. He had given him many chances and still he refused to see reason; so now the French were on the march and with them Henry’s own son, Richard.

  “What have I done,” demanded Henry of William Marshal, “that my own son should march against me?”

  William Marshal was one of those honest men who could not lie even if it meant saving their lives. “You have tried to rob him of his inheritance,” he said.

  Henry must have smiled wryly. One could trust William Marshal to put a finger on the truth. He had tried to rob Richard of his rights because he wanted John, whom he believed to be his only faithful son, to have everything.

  How tired he would have felt, how despondent. I never knew why, hating Henry as I did, I could feel sorry for him. The great raging lion, the invincible warrior. How did it feel to be brought to the stage when one’s aging body did not match one’s valiant spirit?

  From a high point he would see the French camp and know that his son Richard was there with his enemy.

  There was a high wind blowing straight into the French encampment. He had an idea. Fearing he might not be a match for the French and his son Richard, he would attempt other methods to win the battle. If he had fires lighted, the wind would blow them straight at the French camp and might destroy it completely. At worst it would do much harm and impede their advance. All means are fair in war.

  He gave the order and the fires were lighted.

  It was like a miracle. It was as though God was working on the side of the French against him. For no sooner were the fires lighted than the wind changed, and instead of blowing them into the French camp, they blew back to the town of Le Mans.

  He could not believe it. The flames were enveloping the city. He cried out in anguish; then his rage overtook him. He shook his fist at the heavens. Such a disaster could only come from one place. God was against him. God had determined to destroy him.

  William Marshal said it was an unusual change in the wind. Such things happened.

  “It was deliberate,” shouted Henry. “It was done to plague me. It shows God is not on my side. I have prayed to Him . . . worked for Him, and He has deserted me in my hour of need. By His eyes, I will pray no more. I will curse Him who curses me.”

  His son Geoffrey was in fear of what would happen next. He implored his father not to blaspheme. They needed God’s help as never before.

  “He has deserted me. I will plead with Him no more,” shouted Henry.

  Geoffrey was greatly distressed. I think that must have comforted him a little. He had been good to Geoffrey, and Geoffrey had always adored him and had had that attitude toward him for which he had looked in vain from his legitimate sons.

  Then came news that the French were preparing to advance. William Marshal urged him to mount his horse for they must retreat at once.

  Henry, the great warrior in retreat! The humiliation must have been intolerable to him. Old, tired, sick, the only son left to him, John, about whom he must know he was deluding himself; and thebastard Geoffrey, of course, was the only one on whom he could rely.

  Richard told me about an incident which occurred at that time.

  Intending to parley with his father, Richard set out with a few men. Unarmed for combat and isolated from his party, suddenly he was halted by a man on a horse who had a lance which he pointed at Richard’s throat.

  “It was too late for me to do anything,” said Richard. “He could have killed me. I knew the man. It was William Marshal. I said, ‘You are going to kill me, William Marshal. But see, I am unarmed.’ He paused for a moment, then he said: ‘No, I will not kill you. I will notbe the one to send you to the Devil.’ And with that he slew my horse from under me and rode off. I could only find my men and lead them back to the French camp, thus allowing my father to escape.”

  I should always be grateful to William Marshal. I knew he was a good man. He might have considered it his duty to kill the King’s enemy, and Richard at that time was one.

  Henry must have known that he was no match for the French. Le Mans was a burned-out town, burned out by his act which made it all the harder to bear. William Marshal and Geoffrey and the others discussed what they should do next. Marshal thought they should make for Normandy, where they would find men to rally to their banner. The King was too tired to make plans. He wanted to know where his son John was; he wanted to discuss with him what was the best thing for them to do.

  John could not be found.

  “He has gone off to find men to come to our aid,” said Henry. “Soon he will be with us. And then we shall be ready for the enemy when they come.”

  There were messengers from the King of France. He wished to parley with Henry once more.

  As usual Henry prevaricated. He felt ill and he looked it. I guessed he was too proud to be seen in such a state. No doubt he thought a few days’ rest would be beneficial.

  He tried to delay, but Philip Augustus made it clear he would wait no longer. If Henry did not agree to a conference, it would be a matter of all-out war.

  So he rode to the meeting. Richard told me about it afterward.

  “The King could scarcely sit his horse. William Marshal and Geoffrey rode close to him one on either side. I think it was because they feared he would fall from his horse.”

  Philip Augustus’s terms were that Henry must pay homage to him for his lands in France. He, Philip Augustus, and Richard were going on a crusade and as soon as they returned the marriage of Richard and Alais must take place. Richard must be proclaimed heir of all his father’s dominions, and Henry must pay for the cost of the war. If he did not adhere to these conditions, the knights and barons of England were to desert him and join Richard.

  “My father was overcome with shame, but there was no alternative. It was either submit or become the prisoner of the King of France. Can you imagine my father a prisoner! He had to accept. The King of France was insistent. He gave me the kiss of peace before all assembled there. We embraced and as his face was close to mine I saw the hatred there. You know how he could not hide his feelings. His lips were close to my ear. He said, ‘I pray God I live long enough to take my revenge on you.’ I took no notice. I thought it better not. And then he went away.”

  I heard the rest from William Marshal later.

  Henry was overcome with exhaustion, depression and the pain he was suffering. The castle of Chinon was not far away and there he could rest for a while and recuperate his strength.

  William Marshal said it was pitiful to see him attempt to mount his horse. Geoffrey, who could speak to him more frankly than the others, insisted that he be carried in a litter. The King protested. He, who had been more at ease in the saddle than on his own two feet, to be carried in a litter like a woman! But Geoffrey was firm, and it was an indication of Henry’s weakness that at length he agreed. And so, by litter, he was carried to Chinon.

  What distressed him so much was that after the incident of the fire at Le Mans several of his knights had gone over to Richard, which meant going over to the French. He could not abide traitors. He wanted to know who they were.

  He said to Marshal: “I want a list of those knights who deserted me. I am sure the King of France would not deny me this. Nay, perhaps he would take a pleasure in giving it to me.”

  Geoffrey said: “Perhaps it would be better to forget them. They are not worthy of a moment’s thought.”

  “Don’t be a fool,” retorted the King. “I must know my enemies an
d I regard these as such.”

  Geoffrey suggested that he should try to rest.

  “Send my son John to me as soon as he comes,” said the King.

  He did sleep after that. There was terrible consternation in the camp, for everyone knew how ill he was. The fact that he would not admit it could not disguise it.

  When he awoke he saw Geoffrey and William Marshal whispering together. He heard Geoffrey say: “Better not to show it to the King.”

  Henry was then fully awake, demanding to know what was not to be shown to him. They were holding something back. What was it? They tried not to tell him but he saw through their ruse and demanded to know.

  At length they admitted that it was the list which Philip Augustus had obligingly supplied.

  Why were they hiding it? They should bring it at once or feel the weight of his wrath.

  I could imagine his anguish when he saw that the name at the head of the list of those who had deserted him was that of his son John.

  He could no longer deceive himself.

  Did he think of that picture at which he had often looked so sadly? Did he see how true it was? The old eagle worn out . . . finished . . . and the young eaglets waiting to finish him off. They could not wait for him to reach his end gracefully. They were ready to snatch from him that which he had been so reluctant to give during his lifetime.

  Gone were all his illusions. He had gained much territory; he had been the most powerful man in Europe—but he had failed to win the love of his sons, and that was something he had dearly wanted.

  He did refer to the picture, they told me. He said: “You see, it was right. My youngest was waiting for the moment when it seemed that all was lost to me, that he might peck out my eyes. I no longer wish to live . . . unless it is to take revenge on them. They are her children . . . all of them. That she-wolf . . . who laughs at me. I made her my prisoner but still she laughs at me, and she defeats me through her sons . . .”

  I think he must have been delirious then. He talked about the early days of our marriage and of Rosamund and Alais . . . the three women who were most important to him among the myriads he had known.

  Geoffrey was beside him, for he was uneasy when this son was not there.

  “Would to God you had been my legitimate son,” he said to him. “Why did it have to be the bastard who was loyal to me?” He asked Geoffrey to call him “Father.” He said: “You are the best son I ever had. The sons of the Queen have been my enemies, and the son of a whore my friend.”

  Geoffrey and Marshal consulted together. They thought the end was near and they should call a priest.

  There was no priest. In fact, they were almost alone with the King. He was dying and all knew it. Most of the knights were concerned for their own safety. What would happen to them when he was dead? There was no point in remaining if the King were dying.

  I hope he did not know they were deserting him. Geoffrey and William Marshal kept that fact from him. They remained by his bedside and watched life slowly ebb away.

  Then he looked at them with anguish in his eyes. He grasped Geoffrey’s hand, and suddenly the young man felt the grip slacken.

  He bent over his father. The King murmured: “Oh, the shame that I suffer now . . . the shame of a vanquished King.”

  And those were the last words of Henry Plantagenet.

  Richard’s Marriage

  WHEN I HEARD THE news of Henry’s death I was deeply shocked. My mind was a jumble of impressions from the past. I did not know whether I was glad or sorry. The idea of a world without that maddening, devious personality, who meant no good to me, was somehow empty.

  I supposed that everyone who had lived close to him must have been deeply impressed by him. He was no ordinary man. He was unique. Whenever I had encountered him I felt a great excitement; to do battle with him had been as stimulating as making love had been.

  It was strange to remember that he had gone forever.

  But why should I mourn? I had been his prisoner for sixteen years. He had dared treat me thus. Now I was free. My beloved son Richard was King of England. Everything would be different from now on.

  Even before orders came that I was to be released, people behaved differently. There were no more guards, no more locked doors. With Richard King, his mother would be the most important woman in the land.

  William Marshal arrived at Winchester almost immediately. To my surprise he came from Richard. I could not help but be amazed after what I had heard of their encounter when Marshal had been on the point of killing him. Marshal himself told me what had happened and how it was that Richard had chosen him to be his messenger.

  After the King’s death he and Geoffrey had carried him to Fontevrault Abbey and sent word to Richard that his father was dead.

  There Henry lay, stripped of his jewels and all possessions, which those who deserted him had taken before they went. There were very few besides Marshal and Geoffrey who had remained faithful to him.

  That was perhaps one of the saddest aspects of all.

  Richard had arrived at Fontevrault and stood beside the dead King. It was typical of William Marshal that he did not attempt to make his escape, although it must have occurred to him that after what had happened he would have little mercy from the new King.

  Richard had moved away from the corpse and signed to Marshal to follow him.

  He said: “There is work for you to do, William Marshal. I cannot return to England immediately. Go to my mother and, with her, guard my kingdom until I return.”

  William was so taken aback that he stared at the King in amazement.

  Richard said: “I trust those men who are faithful to their kings, and I believe you will be so to the new one as you were to the old.”

  William took his hand and kissed it.

  “I will, my lord King,” he said.

  I was delighted. Richard was not always by nature magnanimous, but I considered this a gesture worthy of a shrewd king; William Marshal’s acceptance of him made me feel that everything I had heard of him was true.

  A king needs men such as William Marshal about him.

  Thus it was that he arrived in England and came straight to me.

  William brought letters from Richard in which he stated that I was to have full command of the kingdom until his return. My orders should be obeyed as though they came from the King himself. I was delighted and gratified by his trust. It was my duty now to prepare the people for him. I knew they would be feeling a little dubious.

  He had never shown much interest in England; he had been out of it for most of his life. I had to make them realize that he was a strong man, a worthy successor to his father.

  A further shock awaited me. Following almost immediately on the news of Henry’s death came that of Matilda. She had in fact died a few days before her father. I was glad he had been spared the grief of knowing this.

  He had skillfully negotiated with the Emperor Frederick and had made it possible for them to return to their own dominions; but I believe the strain she had suffered greatly impaired Matilda’s health. It was sad that her husband was not with her when she died. He had been with the Emperor in the Holy Land and had taken their eldest son, Henry, with him. Thus Matilda died with only Richenza, Lothair and William beside her. She was only thirty-three years old.

  The messenger who brought me this terrible news tried to comfort me by telling me that she had been buried with great pomp and ceremony in the church of St. Blasius. As if that could console me! I was grief-stricken for the loss of my daughter as I could not be for my husband.

  I went over the details of her childhood and our last meeting . . . and my sorrow was great.

  But there was no time for mourning. Richard was left to me, and my time must be dedicated to his needs.

  I could not tarry in Winchester. I must go to London as soon as possible.

  Before I left I summoned the Princess Alais to come to me. I think she was very frightened, fearing what would become of her
now that the King was dead. She stood before me trembling.

  She was a poor thing, really. She had so little spirit. That was what he had found comforting; she would always be ready to obey without question. I despised her, and I reminded myself that while I had been a prisoner she had been acting as Queen, taking my place.

  The tables were turned now.

  “Your position has changed considerably,” I said. “You must be wondering what will become of you.”

  She looked blankly at me. I could see that she had been weeping.

  “I, who was a prisoner here, am so no longer,” I went on. “The King treated me very badly, but that is over now. What are you going to do now that he is no longer here to protect you?” She looked at me piteously.

  “You can’t expect Richard to marry you.”

  “No,” she said quietly.

  “No indeed. You could not expect the King of England to marry his father’s onetime mistress. Oh Alais, who would have believed that possible—and you the half-sister to the King of France!”

  “Perhaps . . . I should go home.”

  “Do you think you would be welcome at your brother’s Court? You are no longer a marriageable princess. So many people know what you were doing with the late King. I . . . his prisoner . . . was aware of it. As you know, your lover kept me in captivity for sixteen years . . . apart from that short period when he cheated me into going to Aquitaine to put my duchy at peace.”

  “I . . . I did know.”

  “For what reason do you think?”

  “Because you plotted with his sons against him.”

  “That is what he told you, was it? His sons were against him because he tried to cheat them. He crowned Henry and then would give him nothing. They were all against him . . . and he deserved it. Now, Princess Alais, you will remain in Winchester until I decide what shall become of you. We shall have to see whether your brother wishes to have soiled goods back in his Court.”

  She shrank from me and I waved her away.

  I gave orders that she was not to be allowed to leave Winchester. Then I went to London and summoned leading representatives of the Church and the nobility in order that they might swear fealty to the new King.