Constance, Geoffrey’s wife, was with him. She was pregnant at the time. They had one daughter only, Eleanor, named after me, and this time they were hoping for a son.
He wore her colors, I was told, as he rode confidently out.
None quite knew how it happened. Perhaps he was overconfident. Perhaps he was taken by surprise. The joust had scarcely begun when a lance struck his horse, and the creature reared and fell, throwing Geoffrey. He was called upon to yield in the name of the King of France. I could imagine his chagrin. He, Geoffrey Plantagenet, to yield to a knight of Philip Augustus! He raised himself and as he did so a rider and horseman came thundering past. The horse’s hoof caught him at the side of his head and he lost consciousness immediately.
He was taken into the castle. Constance ran to his side while Philip Augustus shouted for doctors.
But when they came it was too late. Geoffrey was dead.
We had lost another of our sons.
I was grief-stricken and knew that Henry would be, too. What was this ill fate which dogged him? Did he remember the curse of Heraclius? Did he go into that chamber and look at the eaglets? One would not now peck him to death.
Two remained—Richard and John—and he was at odds with Richard and putting his trust in John.
I imagined that he would be even more fond of John now. He would delude himself in his grief that he had one son who loved him.
I remembered so much—Geoffrey when he was a baby, sweet and dependent. That was often how I thought of them . . . before they grew up, before the faults began to show, when they were royal babies and the years before them seemed full of promise.
I was due to return home. Aquitaine was quiet now . . . at peace. It had worked out as Henry intended. The duchy was mine now, and that meant a return to the old way of life.
I said I would come back to them again. Oddly enough, much as I loved my native land, I wanted to know what was happening. I felt I had to watch over Richard’s inheritance, for I was sure the King planned to cheat him of it.
I was met at Dover. The King had given orders that I was to be taken to my old quarters in Winchester.
I could not believe this.
I was once more a prisoner.
What a fool I had been to come back when I could have continued in freedom in my beloved Aquitaine. I had trusted Henry. I should have known better. I had settled affairs in Aquitaine; the duchy was at peace; the people looked on me as their ruler. So now, for the time being, he had no further use for my services; and having done his work for him I could return to being his prisoner.
For some time I was so overcome by hatred for Henry that I was unable to think of anything else. Later my anger abated a little as I saw that it was really as well that I was back. I could keep an eye on what was happening here, and I had to be watchful of him. He was planning to disinherit Richard and make John his heir. That was something I had to prevent, and I could do that better even as a prisoner here than I could in Aquitaine.
Constance’s child had been born. I heard that Henry was delighted with a grandson and had wanted him named after himself. It amused me that the people of Brittany refused to allow this, and the boy was named Arthur after their national hero.
Being an inveterate matchmaker, Henry was immediately planning remarriage for Constance—a match which would be advantageous to him, of course.
Henry was far from well. I gleaned little bits of news about his indisposition. The ingrowing toenail was making walking painful, but of course he spent a great deal of time in the saddle. There was something else. He was suffering from a vague internal disease and could no longer ride for a whole day without becoming exhausted. He had indeed not worn as well as I had. No one would have believed I was the elder. The thought gave me considerable gratification when I remembered how he had taunted me that I was eleven years older than he.
With the coming of autumn there was disturbing news from Jerusalem. Heraclius had warned of impending disaster; now it had come. Saladin, the legendary Saracen hero, had taken Jerusalem, and the tomb of Christ was now in the hands of the Infidel.
Everyone was talking of the need to save the Holy Land for Christianity, and all over Europe people were taking the cross.
I was appalled to hear that Richard had fallen victim to the fervor. At Tours he had vowed to undertake a crusade. Henry was enraged when he heard. When he had taken the vow at the time of his penance, he had been wise enough to add “when the time is ripe.” Richard had shown no such good sense and seemed determined to honor his vow. I was disturbed, for if Richard went off on a crusade, that would leave the way clear for John. How could he have done such a thing!
Of course Richard was a fighter and to fight in a holy cause was an incentive to all Christians. There was a glimmer of hope. Crusades could not be undertaken in a matter of weeks. They needed years to prepare, and much could happen in that time. My thoughts went back to those days when Louis and I went off on our crusade. I remembered the fervor and the preparations, how I had fitted out my ladies with fine clothes and how we had looked forward to an exciting adventure. Exciting it had been but not always pleasant. There were times when I wished I were going with Richard. Then I laughed at myself. It had been considered rather absurd for a young woman to undertake such a venture. What of an old one?
There was conflict with France: Philip Augustus was demanding the marriage of Alais and Richard or the return of her dowry; he was threatening Normandy.
I knew now that Henry had no stomach for war. The old lion was tired, and tired men long for peace. Richard, caught up in religious fervor, although he hated his father, remembered the biblical injunction to honor his parents. John was with him, too, and that other Geoffrey the bastard, with William Marshal. With his sons and such men beside him, Henry’s spirits must have lifted a little. After all, he was at heart a fighter . . . one of the greatest of his day.
The two armies were drawn up facing each other. Richard told me about it later, so I had a clear picture of what happened. It was night in the camp when one of Richard’s men came to him and told him that a knight was asking to see him and when he was brought into Richard’s camp, he was amazed to see the Count of Flanders. He came from Philip Augustus, he said, to remind Richard that he could not fight against the King of France, his suzerain, to whom as Duke of Aquitaine he had sworn fealty. Richard replied that the King of France was at war with his father and that meant at war with him.
“It is of that matter which the King wishes to speak to you,” said the Count.
“Does the King of France want a truce?” asked Richard.
“He wants to speak with you.”
Richard was always fearless. He must have known what a risk he took. He went with the Count of Flanders through the enemy lines.
I knew of the relationship between Richard and Philip Augustus. Richard never kept anything from me. They had loved each other and there was a strong bond between them.
He said that when he arrived the King of France came out of his tent to greet him with such infinite tenderness that it was difficult to remember that they were on opposing sides; and when Richard asked what Philip Augustus wanted him for, he answered: “Friendship. Could I ever be anything but your friend?”
Richard went into the King’s tent. Philip Augustus was alone and unarmed. “Take off your armor, Richard,” he said.
Richard protested, saying that he was in the midst of his enemies.
“I would not allow any to harm you,” replied the King. “We should be together . . . not against each other.”
“Do you expect me to fight against my own father?” asked Richard.
“Has he not fought against you? He is betraying you, Richard. He has taken my sister, who was to have been your wife, and made her his mistress . . . and she a Princess of France! If she married you, you and I would be brothers. We must be friends. War destroys us both . . . and war against each other is unthinkable. The King of England is more your enemy than he is
mine. Do you know he plans to disown you and set up another in your place?”
“I do not trust him, it is true, but he cannot do that.”
“Stay here.”
“No. I must go back but I will think of what you have said.”
They talked awhile. Then Richard left. Philip Augustus said that, if any harm came to him in the French camp, those responsible would have to answer to him.
The next day, as soon as dawn broke, Richard went to his father. He was shocked to see the King look so ill. He shrugged off Richard’s inquiries about his health. “I am well enough. It is always thus first thing in the morning. I grow better as the day wears on.”
“The King of France would be ready for a truce,” Richard told him.
“He would impose humiliating terms.”
“You would have to give up the Princess Alais.”
Henry blustered. “She is to marry you when the time is ripe.”
Richard gave him a steely look. “Methinks she may be overripe. Tell me. Why are you so reluctant to relinquish her?”
“I could have talked to Louis. He was more reasonable than his son.”
“Louis was continually asking for the marriage to take place when he was alive. The ripening process has taken a very long time.”
“Some time ago I made a promise to go to the Holy Land,” said Henry. “Now the need is great. I would go on a crusade if Philip Augustus would agree to a two-year truce.”
“I have already taken the cross,” said Richard.
“I know that well. We will go together. The King of France shall be told, and if he will agree to this truce we will make our preparations.”
Richard knew, of course, that his father would never go to the Holy Land. He was too old and ill; moreover he would never leave his own dominions. What he wanted was to evade war with France, for which he had no heart.
He sent envoys to the French camp. Richard regarded him with skepticism.
“How could I go on a crusade?” demanded Henry. “How could I leave my kingdom? How could I trust the King of France?”
“You are repenting your rash suggestion already,” said Richard.
“You were once friendly with the King of France. You could perhaps arrange a truce. That is what we need. We do not want to go to war. We could come to terms and these you could arrange.”
Richard said he would go to the King of France.
Philip Augustus received him with the utmost pleasure. I pictured it all clearly. Richard standing bare-headed before him, taking his sword and handing it to him, then kneeling before him, Philip Augustus perhaps reaching out a hand to caress his beautiful red-gold curls, for the King of France made no secret of his delight in the presence of his enemy’s elder son.
“I come on behalf of my father,” Richard said. “He wants a truce.”
“That he might go on a crusade?”
“He cannot go on a crusade. He is too old and sick and would never leave his dominions.”
“If we fought now, I should certainly win,” said the King.
“My father has never been defeated in battle.”
“He knows he will be this time. It is why he asks for a truce. For you, I will consider a truce, but only for you, because if you fight with your father you will be defeated, and I know that would humiliate you, my friend. I do it for you, but there will be terms.”
“What are these terms?”
“First, that the King of England leave his son with me while we discuss them.”
“Would you make me a hostage?”
“Nay, only an honored guest. It is because I want you near me that I will agree to this truce. If you leave me now . . . which you will not be prevented from doing, I shall go into battle and defeat the old lion this time. I will beat him so soundly that he will not be able to fight again.”
Richard knew this was possible, so he agreed to remain with the French while terms were discussed.
Philip Augustus was overjoyed to have Richard with him. There was never a question of his being treated like a hostage. He was the most honored of guests. The King would have him sit beside him at table; he insisted that they eat from the same plate. He told Richard that the greatest honor a King could bestow on a guest was to ask him to share his bed. The friendship was as it had been before—one of passionate attachment.
They talked together; they would have long discussions in bed. Richard told the King of his vow to go on a crusade.
“We will go together,” declared Philip Augustus. “I, too, will take the vow.”
They talked of preparations for this shared adventure, but Philip Augustus’s main object was to warn Richard against his father, for he was sure Henry was planning to take Richard’s inheritance from him. Richard did not see how he could do so. He was the eldest son now, the legitimate heir to the throne of England and the dukedom of Normandy.
“Perhaps one day you will discover,” said Philip Augustus.
Henry would of course hear rumors of the relationship between the two young men, and it must have given him cause for alarm.
Richard was being royally entertained by the King of France, who seemed in no hurry to proceed. He was quite content with things as they were as long as Richard stayed with him.
Henry would not have been able to understand the relationship between Philip Augustus and Richard. It was alien to anything he himself could experience. He wrote to Philip Augustus saying that he believed the main difference between them was the Princess Alais. He had decided that the princess should marry John instead of Richard, and John should have all his lands except Normandy and England.
How Philip Augustus must have laughed. Here he had actual proof of Henry’s duplicity. He promptly showed the letter to Richard. Now surely he could not doubt his father’s treachery. Give John Aquitaine—the land for which he had fought! It was his mother’s, in any case. How could he ever have been such a fool as to range himself against his dear friend, the King of France?
The confrontation of the two Kings took place at Gisors, under an elm tree. It was not the first time the Kings of France and England had met at this spot. The English, who had arrived first at the scene, took up the position in the shade, leaving the hot sun to the French.
I could imagine Henry seizing the smallest advantage gleefully.
Philip asked that the Princess Alais should be given to Richard as his wife and that fealty, throughout the English Court, should be sworn to Richard as the heir to Henry’s dominions.
Henry must have been astonished. It was as though it were Richard who was making the terms. He was in a quandary.
The King of France signed for Richard to come forward.
“Here is your son,” he said. “You will swear to these conditions before him.”
Henry hesitated and Richard went on: “Swear that I shall have my bride. Swear that I shall have the inheritance due to the eldest son.”
There was no way out for Henry. He was trapped. He glared with hatred at his son and began to shout: “No, no I will not do it.”
“So,” said Richard, “I see that what I have heard of you is true.”
He turned his back on his father and approaching the King of France, took off his sword and handed it to him.
In the presence of his father he was offering allegiance to Philip Augustus.
How joyfully the King of France accepted it. Henry could not believe it. How could his son go over so blatantly to the enemy? I could have answered that. “Because, my dear Henry, you have shown so clearly that you are his enemy.”
Philip Augustus, eyes shining with love and gratitude, said he would agree to a truce; the two Kings should meet in a month’s time. Meanwhile Henry could consider his terms.
“Come,” he said to Richard. He gave him back his sword. Richard mounted his horse, and the two of them rode off together.
So Henry had lost another son—if not to death this time, to the King of France.
He went to Saumur for Christmas. I
t must have been a gloomy one. He would hear reports of the great friendship which existed between Richard and the King of France. They were always in each other’s company and now were planning the crusade they would take together.
The two Kings met again as planned. Philip Augustus implied that he wished for peace because he wanted to give his mind to the proposed crusade. The Holy Land was in danger while they played out their petty quarrels. All he wanted was that Richard should have his bride and be proclaimed heir to his rightful inheritance. The marriage had long been arranged and Richard was Henry’s eldest living son. Philip Augustus was only asking for what was right. There was another point. It would be necessary for John to join the crusade. This was so that he could not be up to mischief while Richard was away.
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?
Jean Plaidy - [Queens of England 05] Page 45
