A Proud Taste for Scarlet and Miniver (12 page)

Queen Eleanor did with those histories as she did with everything—she transformed them. She found them interesting, but plain. She thought that they could be improved. Especially the history of King Arthur. She called for her poets and her troubadours; she asked each of them to read the stories and to rewrite them. She asked her writers to dress them up. She suggested that King Arthur’s knights be more noble, that the ladies of the court be more fair, that the manners of the whole court be more courtly, like Poitiers. The work of her poets became popular; people from France to Constantinople began to read and to write of Merlin and of the knights of Arthur’s court. Galahad, Lancelot, and the traitorous Mordred were lifted from the plain pages of a history book and wrapped around with magic and adventure and romance. And that is how people read of them today. All elegantly clothed in honor and seated at a Round Table in Camelot.

Had I not brought Queen Eleanor that book, King Arthur would have stayed dust bound between Geoffrey of Monmouth’s pages, and the people of England would never have had the proud sense of history they have today.

MEANWHILE KING HENRY
made peace with his sons, giving them little more than they had before except promises; he gave them promises in ever greater numbers. The king continued to be busy with the government of England. He asked Young Henry to join him, and Young Henry did for a while. But I saw the son grow first restless and then bored. The second rebellion began to simmer from the leftover heat of the first.

“I am tired, Father, of being your errand boy. I want something besides titles. I want a court of my own. I have a wife, a queen, and a crown that says that I am King of England, and still I must ask you for spending money. I can do nothing without your knowing. You hold me now, not with puppet strings, but with purse strings. Geoffrey rules Brittany with Constance at his side. Richard rules the Aquitaine like an ill wind, and I haven’t even a castle in which I can hold court with men who answer to me instead of to you.”

“Being a king is a business,” King Henry replied. “It is a lot of privilege, but you pay heavily for that privilege. A king is not a free man.”

“I know, sir. You have told me that often. But must I remind you that any king is more free than a queen, a certain queen, at least.”

The king was anxious to change that subject. He unrolled a map. “Pick a castle,” he said. “You shall have any castle you want, plus a staff, plus a generous allowance for you and Marguerite.”

Young Henry chose a castle in Anjou, but after the excitement of setting up was finished, he once again found himself with little to do. All of his friends from his days in Poitiers made their way to his court. They began to call him “Lord of Little Land.” Young Henry’s best defense was to make people love him. If he could not have their respect, he could have their love. So the tournaments began again. With increased splendor and with increased expense. Young Henry was the leader of the pack.

While Richard was putting down rebellions in the Aquitaine and Geoffrey kept a businesslike kind of order in Brittany, Young Henry was concerned with bargaining of a different kind.

“Would you consider letting me have the return of my horse in exchange for some dust from Merlin’s beard?” Young Henry asked the knight who had just dismounted him at tournament.

“No,” the victor replied.

“Ah,” Young Henry said, “I see that you care nothing for dust. And yet, sir, you know it is that to which we shall all return.”

“That may be, my prince, but as winner of this tournament, I would like something that I can hold in my hands.”

“Oh,” Young Henry said, “I am relieved to know that, for I was about to offer you the island of England for the return of my horse, but you cannot hold England.”

The victorious knight replied, “And neither can the son of King Henry.”

The audience gasped. Young Henry frowned, but only for a moment. “Of course, the son of King Henry cannot hold England, for he is as yet unborn. I am the crowned King of England, and I have no son,” Young Henry said, “none that my fair wife Marguerite will allow me to admit to.”

Everyone laughed, but only two people knew the pain that lay behind that laughter. And only the two of us knew the whole awful truth that was behind the title, “Lord of Little Land.”

The jealousy between Richard and Young Henry reached a climax when the brothers met at the Christmas court in the year 1183. Young Henry came, and so did Richard. Geoffrey came, too, and John. John was now seventeen. Richard called John “The Pustule.”

Queen Eleanor was not there; it was now the eleventh Christmas since that meeting that resulted in the first rebellion.

When dinner was finished, the family assembled to discuss the business of the realm.

King Henry began. “I am doing great things,” he said.

“How modest of you, Father,” Richard said.

“Modesty only becomes those who have something to be modest about,” the king continued.

“Yes,” Richard said, “Father needs only to look around this room to grow immodest. What other king in Europe can brag of having sired three princes and one pustule?”

John stood up and lunged at Richard’s throat. Richard quickly grabbed his arms and pinned them behind his back. “Sit,” he commanded.

John sat.

The king waited until things were quiet in that part of the room and then he continued. “I
am
doing great things. I am establishing a system of justice throughout England and a system of tax collection that is a model of efficiency. I have gathered together men from all over England, men who speak the Saxon tongue and who help me govern. Instead of paying them in land, I pay them in coin.”

“The English are shopkeepers and gardeners at heart,” Richard said. “It is not much of a challenge to govern them. You are welcome to them and to the Normans. I like the men of the Aquitaine; they give me some fight.”

Henry replied, “You don’t govern, Richard. You thrash about too much to call it that. A man who governs uses his head more than he uses his fist.”

“Good for you,” King Henry said. “Government is a wonderful occupation, my boys. If ever I climb into Heaven, it will be for what I am doing now.” He looked at his oldest son and said, “Henry, why don’t you travel to the Aquitaine and help Richard? With your soul and his strength, we Plantagenets can rule an empire greater than Rome.”

“I am afraid, sire, that helping Richard will try my soul more than it will save it. Your son Richard is a savage. His genius lies in the number of ways he punishes rebel barons. He not only uproots their orchards, he also sows their fields with salt. But that, too, is not enough; he cuts off the hands and gouges out the eyes of the men he takes captive. His mind is as heavy as his hand; I find that he does nothing new—he only does more.”

Richard smiled. He addressed Young Henry. “Tell me, brother, do you believe that there is truth in names?” Young Henry did not answer, and Richard continued, speaking to the room at large. “I, for one, believe there is. For example, someone in this room is called ‘Lord of Little Land’; I believe there is truth in that name. I, on the other hand, am called ‘Richard the Lion Heart’; I believe there is truth in that name, too.”

“Shut up!” Young Henry shouted, his back still turned toward Richard. Richard strode up to his brother, grabbed him by the shoulders and turned him around. Face to face, eye to eye, he said, “A pussy cat does not tell a lion not to roar.”

That remark finished forever the conversation between the two brothers. That remark became their declaration of war.

I HAD MANY
messages to take to Queen Eleanor during the years that the king kept her in Salisbury. Some of my messages were of new losses of old loves: Rosamond Clifford had died. King Louis had, too, and his son Philip Augustus had taken over the French throne. Some of my messages were of the new rebellion, the war between her sons, Richard and Young Henry. The king did all he could to keep his sons from tearing apart the kingdom he had pieced together. He would give aid first to one and then to the other.

Some of my messages were of death.

On Midsummer Day in the year 1183 I arrived at Salisbury. I was told that the queen had set out before sunrise to go to Stonehenge. It had become her custom during her years in prison to watch the midsummer sun rise over the heelstone of that ancient monument. It was hours past sunrise when I arrived at Stonehenge. I found the queen still there, leaning against one of the giant stones and staring at the horizon.

“Good day, my queen,” I said.

“It is a bright day, William. Rare for fog-bound England.” She paused a minute and then added, “Your coming has helped me solve a mystery, William.”

“The mystery of Stonehenge, madam?”

“No, William. A personal mystery.”

“I have some news, my lady,” I said.

The queen paid no attention. “The mystery involves a dream I had several nights ago. I dreamed of my son Henry. In my dream I saw him lying still with his hands folded over his chest. On the finger of one hand he wore a blue sapphire ring. The ring cast a pale blue light upward toward his face. But the light shed by the ring was pale compared to the light that flowed downward from his crowns. In my dream, Young Henry was wearing two crowns. One was that which he wore at his coronation, but above that crown of Earthly gold floated another, one that was made more of light than of substance. That dream has troubled me, William. Until now. Now I know the meaning of the dream.” Queen Eleanor slowly lifted her eyes and said, “My son Henry is dead, isn’t he, William?”

“Yes, my queen, he is.”

She sucked in her breath. “He is at rest. The second crown means that he is resting under a Heavenly light. He has found favor with God.”

“Yes, my lady.”

Queen Eleanor’s eyes filled, but she remained composed. “I do not yet understand the meaning of the ring.”

“The ring came from his father. It was the king’s blue sapphire.”

“How did Young Henry come to have his father’s ring?”

“A week before he died, Young Henry had come to his father’s camp. The two of them came to terms. Young Henry promised that he would meet with Richard and parley for peace. But once outside the king’s camp, he fell in once again with those crafty barons who knew how to fan into flames his jealousy of his brother. Instead of parleying for peace, Young Henry attacked the king’s men. He came at the king’s forces again and again. Waging the war seemed more important than winning it. Then suddenly, Young Henry fell ill. His brow was burning. Light hurt his eyes. The fever was sudden, much like that which men say took his grandfather, Geoffrey the Fair. When Young Henry realized that the fever would consume him, he sent me to his father. I pleaded with the king to come, but he would not. ‘My son once promised peace and did not give it. How do I know that this is not a trap?’ When I knew that I could not convince the king to come, I asked him for some token that I could take to the young prince. King Henry pulled the sapphire ring from his finger and gave it to me. When I returned to our camp, Young Henry looked more like a spirit than a son of man. He took the ring and put it on his finger. Then he spoke to those of us who were there. To one of us he gave his boots. He commanded that we take them. To another he gave his cloak; to yet another, his shirt.

“When at last he had disposed of all his worldly goods, even his linen, he smiled at us and said, ‘I want to leave this world as plain as I arrived.’ Someone said, ‘But the ring. You have not removed the ring, my prince.’ Young Henry answered, ‘I keep that not for want of splendor, but so that when I arrive at Heaven’s gate, God shall know that my father has forgiven me. Take it from my finger after my soul departs my body.’ Then he smiled and said, ‘I shall not wear it long enough for it to tarnish.’

“We tried to remove the ring, but it wouldn’t come from his finger. The king has forgiven Young Henry, and the ring shows God his father’s forgiveness.”

Queen Eleanor was silent for a long time. At last she spoke. “What will the king do now?”

“I do not know, my lady.”

She sighed, “I was not asking you, William, as much as I was asking myself. What will you do, William?”

“I shall now serve the father of my former master: your husband, the king.”

“Oh, Marshal, I would like you once to know doubt. Not suffer from it, but to know it.”

“Why, my lady?”

“Only because I think that a rosy blush adds some interest to true blue and gray chain mail.”

THE NEXT MESSAGE
I brought to Queen Eleanor was a trunk of gifts from the king. She smiled as she unpacked them: a saddle trimmed with gold, two embroidered pillows, and a gown of scarlet, lined with miniver. “Oh, I see that I am to be queen for a day.”

King Henry arrived shortly thereafter. It was the first time that they had met since the death of Young Henry. For a moment they were united in sorrow. “He cost me much,” the king said. “Would that he could cost me more.”