The Revolt of the Eaglets (21 page)

‘I am at his mercy now,’ grimaced young Henry.

‘But at least he cannot go against his vows so quickly.’

‘He can and will do anything he wishes. But at least I think he would wait awhile. I shall implore him to accept my homage. We shall then see what his reply is.’

When they reached Bures the King was impatiently awaiting their arrival. He embraced them warmly, asked after their health, particularly that of his daughter-in-law, for he was wondering whether she had become pregnant yet, and then told them that he was planning to sail for England immediately.

Young Henry asked if he might see him alone and permission was immediately granted.

‘My Father,’ he said, ‘I cannot believe that you love me as you do my brothers, and this makes me a most unhappy man.’

‘Why should you have such a notion? Are you not my eldest? And if you have rebelled against me so have your brothers. I have forgiven you and if you are a good son to me you can be sure of my love. How many fathers would have forgiven treachery such as you and your brothers showed towards me? And you say I do not love you!’

‘You have refused to accept my homage.’

‘Well, is that not because I have made you a king?’

‘It is but a title.’

‘Aye, but a title! There cannot be two kings in one realm. I made you a king, my son, so that when I die there will be no question as to who is my successor. You hold the title until you take the crown and that you can only do when I am not here to wear it.’

‘I am a king but in name. You are our sovereign lord. Yet you will not accept my homage. I can see no reason for this except that you do not love me.’

‘My dear son, if you wish to pay homage to me and take our oath of fealty then so shall it be.’

‘Oh, Father, then you do indeed love me.’

They embraced and the King said with emotion, ‘It pleases me to see you in this contrite mood.’

Tears of relief were on young Henry’s cheeks. If his father would accept his homage then he was safe.

‘I will arrange that this little ceremony shall take place without delay,’ said the King, ‘for I see that until it does you will think that I remain indignant towards you. You shall be treated as your brothers and then we shall be good friends. For that, my son, is to both our interests.’

Henry went to Marguerite and told her what the King had said. She was pleased.

‘But make sure he keeps his promise. You know his nature. He does not always think it necessary to keep a promise.’

This one, however, the King did keep.

The holy relics were produced and, placing his hands on these, young Henry swore his oath of allegiance to his father.

‘I will bear you faith against all men and as long as I live shall seek no harm either to my own men or to those of the King, my father, who have served in the war when we stood against each other. I will abide by your counsel in all my actions.’

The King listened, his expression softly affectionate.

When the oath was taken he embraced his son.

‘From now on you and I are the best of friends and that is good news for us and our dominions.’

Shortly afterwards they sailed for England.

The King’s first indulgence was to visit Alice. She was no longer the child she had been when she first became his mistress, for she had matured quickly. He grew more and more deeply enamoured of her because he was discovering greater depths of sensuality in her while she yet remained docile and undemanding. He had once thought Rosamund gave him all he needed but she lacked the voluptuous indulgence which was becoming more and more apparent in Alice. Alice was the perfect mistress. There was no doubt about that. He realised that during their most passionate moments Rosamund had in a manner of speaking glanced furtively over her shoulder to see whether the recording angel was in attendance. Love such as this should fill the moments; there should be no thought of the reckoning. If that came it must come later.

He wished that he could spend more time with Alice.

‘But now I am in England,’ he told her, ‘I shall see you more often. Will you always be so eager to see me?’

She assured him that she would.

He did not tell her that her betrothed Richard was asking that she go to him. He did not believe in spoiling such moments. Besides he had other matters with which to occupy him. He was particularly interested in his son Henry, whom he determined to keep beside him. This was not only because he did not trust him, he genuinely wanted to tutor him in the art of kingship. Young Henry had many good qualities. He was very good looking and quite charming. He had these assets which had never been his father’s. But he was frivolous and lacked his father’s dedication. He did not yet understand that to govern a kingdom – and particularly one which was so widespread – a ruler must never allow pleasure to stand in the way of his duty to his crown. He thought fleetingly of his Alice. Well, he compromised, hardly ever. And if the secret came out that he had taken Richard’s betrothed as his mistress, he would overcome that as he had other troubles. He would insist on a divorce. He would offer Louis marriage for his daughter … marriage to the King of England. And nothing would please him more.

Besides, when one had years of good rule behind one, one could take risks which an inexperienced man could not take.

So he would deal with this matter of his delightful Alice when the time came.

One of his first duties in England would be to visit the shrine of St Thomas, to pay homage to the saint who was now his good friend and working on his behalf in Heaven. There was now a new Archbishop, Richard, Prior of Dover, who had been unanimously elected and had held office for nearly a year. On the day he had been elected news had come from the Pope that Thomas à Becket’s name had been added to the list of saints.

Richard it seemed would not be a troublemaker, and for this the King was grateful. He could congratulate himself that everything had worked out very well.

As he travelled to Canterbury with young Henry beside him he received sad news from Count Humbert of Maurienne. His little daughter Alice who had been betrothed to Prince John had died suddenly. The King was momentarily dismayed and then it occurred to him that with John’s better prospects he might make a more advantageous match. It so often happened that these betrothals came to nothing. Children were affianced in their cradles and so it was small wonder that events occurred while they were growing up to prevent their marriages ever taking place.

John was now a free bargaining counter and his father would be alert for a more advantageous proposition.

And now to Canterbury.

The King watched his son as they rode. Too handsome, a little petulant still. And how insistent he had been that his homage should be accepted. Why was that? Had he really learned the folly of his ways?

He was surprised to find within himself a softness for his family. He would have liked a gentle wife – Alice of course – and a brood of sons and daughters who admired and loved him and thought only to serve him. Surely that was not asking too much? It was natural that fathers and sons should work together.

Something had gone wrong in the family. He had from necessity had to absent himself for long periods at a time, and Eleanor … It all came back to Eleanor. It was a great pity that he had ever married her. But was it? What of Aquitaine? She had been the richest heiress in Europe and he had been counted lucky to get her.

If he divorced her, he would lose Aquitaine. A sobering thought.

But this was not the time to think of that matter.

They were approaching Canterbury.

‘See my son there before us, the tower and spires of the Cathedral. I can never see it without emotion.’

‘That is not to be wondered at, Father,’ replied young Henry, ‘considering what happened there.’

‘It pleases me that I have made my peace with Thomas à Becket. We are now friends as we were in the beginning of our relationship. You and I are friends too, my son. Our strength is in our unity. Always remember that. I want you to know it and all England to know it. That is why I am going to make it known that you and I have sworn the oath of allegiance to each other. Who would dare come against us when we stand together?’

‘All know that we are friends, Father.’

‘Those close to us, yes … but I want all to know, so I am going to make a public declaration, that none may be in any doubt.’

‘What do you mean by this, Father?’

‘Never fear, my son, you shall see.’

Henry did see.

The King spent some time with his new Archbishop and declared himself pleased with him.

He told the Archbishop that he wished him to summon all the bishops of Westminster and he himself should accompany them. He would command all knights and barons to be present for he had something of importance to impart to them.

‘What is this conference, Father?’ asked young Henry.

‘You will see in good time,’ he was told.

There in the hall of the palace the King and his son were seated side by side on the dais and the elder Henry addressed the company.

He had summoned them for an express purpose.

‘You see me here with my son,’ he said, ‘and that there is amity between us. You know full well that but a short time ago the situation was very different. But I have excellent news for you. My son, King Henry, came to me at Bures and with tears and much emotion he humbly begged for mercy. He asked me to forgive him for what he did to me before, during and after the war. In all humility he begged that I, his father, would accept his homage and all allegiance declaring that he could not believe I had forgiven him if I did not. I was touched by this. My pity was great for I saw how remorseful he was to so humble himself before me. I put aside my grievances against him and I allowed him to pay homage to me. On holy relics he swore that he would bear me faith against all men and abide by my counsel and that he would order his household and all his state by my advice and henceforth in all things.’

The young King felt a violent resentment rising in him. It was true that he had promised this but that his father should have arranged this public declaration was humiliating in the extreme.

He had brought him here that the leading men of the nation should know that although he bore the title of King there was only one King of England and every man among them – including his son – was his subject.

His resentment flared up. He wanted to stand up and cry out that he had begged his father to accept his homage not because he had wished to serve him, but because he feared what might happen to him if he did not make such a declaration.

He would not endure such treatment. He had sworn his oath but he would await his opportunity.

The King felt it was good to be in England. He would always be King of England before anything else and this land was more important to him than any other, born and bred in Anjou though he had been. To lose England would be the greatest disaster which could befall a descendant of the Conqueror. There would be no danger of this if it were not for the fact that he must guard his lands so far away.

He kept young Henry with him, trying to win his affection. He was sorry for the young man and, though he was suspicious of him, wanted to be a father to him. He was learning that even a king could not command affection. He had tried to explain why he had made that public declaration of Henry’s homage to him. It was not to humiliate him. It was to show the people that they had sworn to be friends.

‘Was it not enough,’ asked young Henry, ‘that I had given you my oath?’

‘It was better that all should know you had given me your oath.’

‘I felt humiliated.’

‘Never be humiliated because you do your duty to your father. Be proud that you had the courage to confess your fault and glad that your father had the magnanimity to forgive you and take you back into his heart.’

He would have his son sit beside him at table and ride beside him in battle. He would have had the young man sleep in his room if it were not for the fact that Henry was a husband and he himself often preferred another bedfellow.

Alice, dear sweet Alice! She was changing; her body filling out as she was growing out of childhood into womanhood.