The Magnificent Century (29 page)

The one sure avenue of escape from this embarrassment was to marry an heiress. That Henry did not arrange one for him is proof that there was none of sufficient wealth available in England at the moment. Simon, in a condition of mind which bordered on desperation, was on the point of wedding a middle-aged widow, Mahaut, the Countess of Boulogne, when fate in the guise of Louis of France intervened. Mahaut had broad lands and many castles and would gladly have married the handsome young nobleman, but the French peers thought it would be a mistake to hand over such large estates to a man who had entered the service of England. Mahaut was forbidden to marry him.

Simon then paid court to another widow, Joan, the Countess of Flanders. Joan was even more blessed with worldly goods than the dowager of Boulogne, having great stretches of land and royal parks stocked with deer, and doppings and nyes and springs and sieges of game birds, and here and there great castles topping Flanders’ ridges and baileys filled with blooded stock. There was a suspicion that Simon had already contracted marriage with this mature catch when the first wind of it reached the French court. Countess Joan swore that, although willing to marry Simon, she had not
done so. The prospective groom was ordered to depart forthwith.

Forced thus into the same position in which Henry had once found himself, Simon de Montfort gave up the idea of marriage for the time being. His fortunes would have to be repaired in some other way. There was relief for him, no doubt, in the decision. He was too much of a romanticist to relish marriage with a wife so much older than himself; and he had, moreover, fallen in love.

Behind Henry’s chamber at Westminster there was a small chapel where he performed his daily devotions. It was beautifully decorated, for everything about the King had now a touch of sophisticated taste. The walls had hangings of his favorite color, green, and there were many articles of great rarity in this secluded corner where the master of England swore daily homage to a greater King.

One cold winter evening, immediately after the royal family had ridden back in great discomfort from the Christmas festivities at Winchester, when noble and bishop and great lady muffled themselves to the nose in fur-trimmed cloaks and lesser men remained indoors in huddled misery over smoking fires, on the evening of January 7, 1238, to be exact, it was apparent that there was some unusual activity afoot in the King’s chapel. All the candles were lighted and a large brazier had been carried in filled with blazing charcoal to heat the tiny room, and Walter, the chaplain of St. Stephen’s, was on hand in full canonicals. An air of secrecy was being maintained. All members of the royal retinue were elsewhere, even the Queen, from whom the uxorious King did not like to be parted, and the whole train of scornfully witty uncles and cousins, and the comfortably pensioned minstrels and the fat-paunched makers of rhyme. There were servants about, in fact, to bar the way if any curious souls attempted to see what it was all about. Only three people were admitted, and one of these was King Henry himself.

He was in a state of nervous excitement, as may reasonably be deduced from the known circumstances, chattering and quipping and smiling with pleasure, as was his wont at such moments. He was carrying out a little conspiracy at the expense of his Council and all his bishops and the nobility of England, and this pleased him mightily. He was pleased even though it was clear to him that there
would be trouble about it. His realization of the certain consequences is evidenced by the fact that he had not dared take the Queen into his confidence.

The other two were Simon de Montfort and Henry’s youngest sister, Eleanor, his favorite sister, in fact. The young widow who, as it will be recalled, had been so heartbroken over the death of her first husband, William of Pembroke, that she had sworn an oath of perpetual widowhood had developed into a woman of great beauty and charm, a slender and vital young creature with dark hair and the bluest of Plantagenet eyes. She had regretted almost from the first the impulsive manifestation of her youthful grief which had bound her, in a sense at least, to the Church. Certainly she had regretted it from the moment her eyes had rested on the dark and expressive face of the tall young Norman. The mutual attraction between them had deepened rapidly into a love which would continue throughout their lives, unchanged by swift alterations of fortune, never wavering when political considerations aligned them against the royal family.

How the consent of the King had been obtained to their union is a matter of conjecture, of course, but the reasons for secrecy in the matter are quite plain. No member of the royal family was supposed to wed without the consent of the Council, and Henry had known only too well the storm which would have been evoked if he had told his barons he intended to give his lovely sister to a man so newly attached to his service, a commoner, moreover, who had not yet given any proof of special merit or unquestioned loyalty. There was also, of course, the matter of that vow. Henry had a well-grounded suspicion that the church leaders were going to raise a whirlwind of protest about his ears.

It was typical of the King to decide under these circumstances that the marriage of his well-loved sister and his new friend should be solemnized anyway and to hold the services privately. Let the news get out later! Trouble in the future held no terrors for Henry: it could be met when it came, and in the meantime let the vows be exchanged, then eat, drink, and be merry at the wedding supper. He entered into the proceedings with a light heart. “Himself he placed his sister’s hand in the earl’s,” and he knelt with the newly wed couple when Walter said mass over them.

The marriage of a royal princess under such romantic circumstances,
with the King himself playing the part of a stealthy cupid, could not be kept secret long, and so the storm was quick in breaking. It raged about the King, the bitterest protests coming, as had been expected, from churchmen. Eleanor had not taken the veil and since the death of her husband she had lived much at court, where she was a general favorite. The rest of the time had been spent at her own castle of Odiham, where she kept a miniature court of her own and maintained a normal and gay life. Still, she had taken the vow of chastity, and it was the opinion of all churchmen that the placing of the ring on her finger had bound her indissolubly to Christ. The archbishop declared at once that the marriage was not valid. The barons joined in, adding as it were the rumble of secular anger to the treble of priestly disapproval. The objections of the laity were on two grounds: they had not been consulted and they were against the giving of such a supreme favor to a man of foreign birth. Richard of Cornwall was bitterly incensed and acted as spokesman for the nobility. Was this the result, he demanded to know, of all his brother’s promises that he removed his own countrymen from the Council, to replace them by aliens, that he deigned not to ask the assistance of his constitutional advisers before bestowing his wards in marriage on whomsoever he would?

The news spread throughout the country, and there was an almost universal chorus of angry dissent. The barons were on the point of an armed uprising. London was filled with talk of intervention. Henry had known the wedding would stir up criticism, but he had not reckoned on anything like this. He was bewildered and frightened and at the same time angry that he had been involved—innocently, he thought—in so much trouble. In his mind already he was blaming his sister and the man of her choice. In an almost abject mood he promised to have some form of arbitration of the matter, although what results might be expected from such a course was not very clear.

The bridegroom was more realistic in the steps he took to counter the storm. He sought out Richard of Cornwall, with whom he had always been on friendly terms, and won him over by letting him see how much Eleanor’s happiness had depended on the marriage. The princess was a radiant bride and ready to fight Church and State, Westminster and London and Canterbury and the whole nation if necessary, for the content she was finding in the union. The King’s
brother withdrew his objections. Since they lacked his support, the wrath of the barons fizzled out in a flurry of words.

Simon then demonstrated his sound political sense. He collected as much gold as he could from tenants and friends and set off hurriedly for Rome to get a confirmation of the marriage from the Pope. Henry did what he could by writing to the Pontiff that his dear brother and faithful servant, Simon de Montfort, was desirous of discussing matters touching his honor. Whether it was the groom’s great gift for negotiation or the support he stirred up in the Curia by the judicious use of his gold, the result was that the Pope promised to pronounce sentence in his favor through his legate in England. The promise was carried out.

Simon de Montfort returned to England in a jubilant frame of mind over the success of his mission. He went at once to his castle of Kenilworth. In this immense stronghold, which covered eleven acres with its mighty walls, he had left his young wife. He was in time for the arrival of his first child, a son, who was given the name of Henry. The winds had veered to a favorable direction and the royal weathercock had swung with them. The King not only acquiesced in the use of his name but acted as godfather of the child.

There was not at this time a cloud as large as a man’s hand in the sky, not a sign of rift in the relationship between the happy husband and father and his indulgent brother-in-law.

In his first appearances on the stage of English history Simon de Montfort does not show to advantage. He was ambitious and calculating. He had been prepared to marry either one of two women, both of whom were years older than himself, in order to mend his fortunes. From the very first he had been arrogant in manner and highly provocative in his opinions. This picture is more severe, however, than the facts warrant. It must be pointed out in his defense that he was in these respects a true son of his age, that he had acted in a manner common to all men of high station who faced life as penniless younger sons.

The adventurer who had raised his eyes so high and had been rewarded by the hand of a lovely princess must have displayed from the start some trace at least of the magnificent qualities which later
would dictate the part he was to play in history. He won the friendship at once of men who were recognized as possessing the finest minds in the country. The first of these was Robert Grosseteste, who was archdeacon of Leicester when the young Norman came to assume his title and lands. There seems to have been an immediate liking between them, the great churchman sensing the splendid qualities dormant in the newcomer: his passionate religious convictions, his great capacity for loyalty to a cause, his sound judgment. Grosseteste did not lose touch with Simon when he left Leicester to become the Bishop of Lincoln but continued to correspond with him. Until the end of his life the greathearted old bishop gave the Earl of Leicester his best advice and his deepest affection. It was through Grosseteste that Simon came to know Adam Marsh and Walter Cantilupe, who was later the Bishop of Worcester. Adam Marsh, a gentle Ulysses, whose letters to Simon are justly acclaimed the finest of their kind, continued to be his friend and mentor. Walter Cantilupe stood at Simon’s right hand and was his chief prop and stay at all stages of the civil war. There can be no doubt that these wise and courageous men saw great possibilities in the ambitious young Norman at the very beginning. None found any reason later to change his mind.

In the letters which passed back and forth among the members of this illustrious circle the admiration of the churchmen for the young peer is manifest. Adam Marsh wrote to Walter Cantilupe at a time when Henry and his new brother-in-law were embroiled over affairs in Gascony, “Thanks to the eternal mercy of God, a new light of heavenly justice seems to rise in the King’s mind for the affairs of the Earl of Leicester.” He wrote letters to the Archbishop of Rouen most earnestly commending Simon to him. To Simon himself he addressed many letters for the purpose of blowing the coals of the earl’s religious convictions to a still warmer blaze. “Work, I beg of you, to gain the salutary comfort of the divine words,” ran one letter. “Meditate often upon the Holy Scriptures.” That Simon was receptive to such advice is evident from another letter. “What noble rewards, illustrious earl, will you receive in the kingdom of God for the happy solicitude with which you plan to purify, enlighten and sanctify the children of God by a government which well befits it.” This extract is from one of the later letters,
¹
addressed to Simon when
the latter had achieved political stature and was pressing for improvements in the government of the kingdom. That Adam Marsh was heart and soul with the popular cause is made clear in the course of the correspondence. “I shall take no rest,” he declared once, “until I have learned of the success of your cause.” It may be assumed from this that the national needs were close to the hearts of this remarkable coterie. Grosseteste died before matters came to a head, but it is inconceivable that he would have failed to station himself in the forefront of reform.

The wisest men in the land might perceive the promise of greatness in the newcomer, but others were less observant. To the members of the nobility he was just another foreigner, elevated over their heads by the perverse preference of the King. The same view, no doubt, was held by the common people. Most women were attracted to him, partly by reason of the curiosity always felt in a royal romance. The Queen shared this predilection even though the Queen’s Men regarded him with active antagonism. To the uncles and aunts he was another head tussling successfully for a place at the trough of royal favor.

The King’s Men, when they descended on the bounty of Henry a few years later, made Simon the object of bitter opposition. Never being one to accept a slight or rebuff in silence, he made more enemies than friends during the first years of his residence in England. It is certain, however, that in the never-ending friction between the King and his subjects his sympathies were with Henry. He was, after all, a stranger, unfamiliar with the temperament of the people, unaware as yet of the deep differences in English and French conceptions of the relationship of king to subject. Henry was his benefactor, his friend, the brother of his beloved Eleanor. It would have been strange indeed if he had failed to range himself on the side of the topsy-turvy tyrant, even though in court circles he encountered black looks and undercurrents of hostility.