The Revolt of the Eaglets (45 page)

The two brothers surveyed each other with suspicion. John felt a pang of envy, for the blond giant had an air of kingliness which he knew would never be his. He had always disliked Richard, though not as much as he had Henry, for Henry had been even more handsome, as tall, and had a charm which delighted almost everyone.

Well, he was dead now and Richard was heir to the throne and large dominions overseas, and it was better to be King of England than Duke of Aquitaine.

‘My sons,’ said the King, taking them to his private chamber where they could be alone to talk. ‘We meet at a time of great bereavement.’

‘Henry was a fool,’ said Richard in his usual blunt way. ‘He knew he had a fever and he refused to care for himself. He brought on his death.’

The King bowed his head and John said: ‘Hush, Richard. Do you not see our father’s grief?’

Richard said: ‘Since they were at war together and Henry was behaving with the utmost folly I doubt not our father remembers that.’

The King was thinking: Richard is right. I mourn my son but I cannot forget that he was my enemy. He would have seen me dead and not lamented. Yet I loved him and always hoped he would change towards me. But John is affectionate. Richard is a brilliant soldier, but John is kindly. He will be a good son to me. And that is what I need to comfort me.

‘Let us not brood on the past,’ said Henry. ‘We are met together for a purpose. Your brother is dead and that has changed so much. I have brought you here, Richard, that you may retire from Aquitaine. Your brother John will be the Duke and you will now surrender the Duchy to him.’

Richard’s eyes were as cold as ice; the ague showed in his hands.

‘Aquitaine is subdued now,’ he said. ‘Ever since my mother had me crowned its Duke I have fought for my place with my sword. I have won it. You would not ask me to give it up now.’

‘I am not asking,’ replied the King. ‘I am commanding.’

Richard did not speak. His brother Henry had been crowned King of England and had never had any power at all. He was Duke of Normandy, Count of Anjou – and much good that had done him.

Young Geoffrey Count of Brittany ruled that land. He as Duke of Aquitaine would rule his territory. He would rather be a ruler in fact than have the promise of high-sounding titles which could be nothing until his father’s death. Not that the King had talked about making him heir of his dominions. It was presumed he must be because he was the eldest living son, but his father had not said so. And by the way in which he was beginning to dote on John, who knew what was going on in his mind?

Richard did not trust his father, particularly now that he had sent for John.

He did not therefore, as he might have done previously, give his definite refusal to hand over the land for which he had fought. He said that the proposal was such a surprise to him that he needed time to brood on it.

The King was agreeable to this but he added that he would need a reply – and the reply must be agreement … within the next week.

Richard rode back to Aquitaine. From there he sent his answer to his father.

As long as he lived he would rule Aquitaine and no one else should.

The King lingered in Normandy. He kept John with him and his youngest son played the part he had intended to. He listened gravely to his father’s advice; he feigned wonder at his wisdom; and he was determined that he was going to remain the favourite son.

Henry was no fool. He often wondered about John, but he was so anxious to be loved that he continued to deceive himself – half of himself warning him to look out for treachery while the other half assured him that at least he had one son who cared for him.

There was much to keep him abroad although he longed to return to England.

There was a meeting with Philip when they wrangled over the return of Marguerite’s dowry. They settled this by arranging that Henry should pay her an income of over two thousand Angevin pounds. Henry was never reluctant to enter into such agreements for he promised himself that if payment became difficult he would simply let it slide.

It was inevitable that Alice should be mentioned.

‘Her marriage with Richard is long overdue,’ said Philip.

‘There has been so much to occupy me and Richard,’ replied the King.

‘And now you are having trouble with him, I believe.’

‘He is a disobedient son.’

‘You have been disappointed in your sons, brother.’

‘They have caused me trouble. It will be different with my youngest. John will be a good son.’

Philip paused ironically as though he were listening. What for? wondered Henry. The ironical laughter of the gods?

They agreed on Alice’s dowry.

‘You might decide that if she is not for Richard she could be for John,’ said Philip. ‘Geoffrey is settled in Brittany.’

‘John is betrothed to the Earl of Gloucester’s daughter.’

‘Such betrothals are often forgotten. Do not forget, brother, that Alice is a Princess of France.’

‘I shall do my utmost to see that she is well cared for,’ said Henry.

Philip did not press the point. Sometimes Henry wondered how much was known about him and Alice.

Henry planned to leave Normandy in the early summer and to take with him the Duke and Duchess of Saxony. His daughter Matilda was pregnant and he thought it would be a good idea for the child to be born in England. He had been thinking a great deal about Sancho of Navarre whose advice had been that he should show a little leniency towards Eleanor.

She was sixty-two years of age – hardly likely at her time of life to start rebellions. But of course she must not be judged by ordinary standards. There was nothing ordinary about Eleanor. It seemed incredible that she had been imprisoned for eleven years, but this was the case.

The last time they had met she had proved to be not in the least contrite. It was impossible to imagine her ever so. She had done her best to make trouble between him and his sons; and for so long that had been the great purpose of her life.

Yet perhaps it would be advisable to give her a little freedom – not much, but enough to show those who watched the situation between them, that he was ready to be indulgent if only she would make it possible for him to trust her. Richard was defying him in Aquitaine and there could be trouble there. The people of that province would be pleased if he showed them that his attitude was softening towards Eleanor. Their daughter Matilda would be in England and it would be a pleasant gesture to let mother and daughter meet.

He would consider granting Eleanor permission to leave Salisbury for Winchester where she might be with her daughter during the latter’s confinement.

The more he thought of the idea, the better it seemed. It could do him no harm, for he would have Eleanor closely watched, and it would show that he was ready to be tolerant if only she would meet him half-way.

Eleanor found imprisonment irksome rather than uncomfortable. To a woman of her nature it had been galling to be shut away from events, and to be unable to take part in them, but she had managed to keep herself aware of what was going on. She would not have been Eleanor if she had not managed to organise a system whereby letters could be smuggled in to her and naturally those who brought them took out letters from her.

She knew what was happening in Aquitaine and she longed to be there. She heard of her children’s adventures and was deeply gratified at their hatred of their father.

She had taken care of her appearance and for her years looked remarkably young. She had determined to maintain her elegance and a great deal of time was spent on making her clothes; she herself designed them, for then she could be certain no one else should look exactly as she did.

Sometimes she recalled sadly that in the days when she was married to the King of France she had made her Court the most elegant in the world. She often sighed to remember all the men who had been in love with her. Louis had loved her to the time of their divorce; she liked to believe he had till his death. Henry was the only one who had eluded her. He could not desire her, or he would never have kept her locked away so long. It was his infidelity which had given existence to this hatred which consumed her and which had led her to turn his sons against him.

Often she thought of the death of Henry. She had had an uncanny experience before he died. She had dreamed that she found herself walking on the cold stones of what she believed to be a crypt. There had been a faint light in the place which she had followed. Suddenly it had stopped. She approached and saw that it was shining down on a man who was lying on a couch. She had caught her breath with horror, for the man was her son Henry. He lay like an effigy on a tomb and on his head were two crowns – one was the crown of England and the other a kind of halo. Henry was smiling, although his eyes were closed, and she was struck by a look of peace in his expression such as she had never seen in him before. She had awakened with a start.

‘Oh, my God,’ she had cried, ‘what did that mean?’

Then had come the news of his death and her dream came vividly back to her.

Henry was dead – that bright and beautiful boy was no more. That was what her dream had told her. He had died in conflict with his father. It was a terrible story of hatred, betrayal and disloyalty. She heard how he had sacked sacred shrines; how he had plundered villages and how people had fled before him and his soldiers. And the end … the terrible end … when fever had taken hold of him and death had come. He had repented. So many repented on their death beds, and his was a bed of ashes, his pillow a stone.

My son, she thought. Oh, my God, where did we go wrong?

Why did she ask? She knew. These sons of theirs were bred in hatred, against the violent emotion of a lecherous father and a vindictive mother.

We considered our own emotions, she reproached herself. We did not restrain ourselves. We were obsessed by ourselves and did not pause to think what we were doing to our children.

We are the ones who should make our beds of ashes. Ours was the sin.

She thought of her son Henry who had been their eldest since the death of little William. Henry, the most handsome of a handsome bunch. She remembered how excited they had been at his birth and how delighted to have another boy because at that time little William’s health was failing. Such a bright boy! How proud his father had been of him. He had always been Henry’s favourite as Richard had been hers. Richard had noticed his father’s preference and been sullen and resentful because of it. And she had made up to Richard for his father’s neglect of him and between her and Richard there had grown a passionate attachment which she believed was stronger than any emotion either of them felt for any other person.

It was in the nursery that the rot had begun. The children were reared to hate their father and she had done this.

Then Henry Plantagenet had made the mistake of crowning his son Henry King of England. He had made few mistakes in his government of his dominions, although his family life had been one long misjudgement; but nothing could have worked more to his undoing than the coronation of young Henry – to make an ambitious man a king in name and then deny him the power to be one. Oh, Henry, Henry, wise Henry Plantagenet, what a fool you are!