Angevin Dynasties of Europe 900-1500

by Jeffrey Anderson

  Why Geoffrey should have chosen to incite one of his brothers against another is unknown, but contemporary chroniclers – whether based on information lost to us, or simply inventing a reason – had no doubts: it was because Geoffrey was a devious, evil character. Roger of Howden called him, ‘Geoffrey, that son of perdition…that son of iniquity’ and Gerald of Wales described him as ‘overflowing with words, smooth as oil, possessed, by his syrupy and persuasive eloquence, of the power of dissolving the apparently indissoluble, able to corrupt two kingdoms with his tongue, of tireless endeavour and a hypocrite in everything.’59

  More significantly, Richard fortified the castle of Clairvaux, which was technically in Anjou, and thus infringed on his brother’s rights. The troublemaking troubadour Bertran de Born wrote a song to provoke the Young King:

  Between Poitiers and l’Ile Bouchard and Mirebeau and Loudun and Chinon someone has dared to build a fair castle at Clairvaux, in the midst of the plain. I should not wish the Young King to know about it or see, for he would not find it to his liking; but I fear, so white is the stone, that he cannot fail to see it …60

  Probably because he knew matters were so fraught between his sons, Henry II decided to hold a Christmas court at Caen to celebrate the unity of his family. This was the greatest court ever held in Normandy, and in addition to his sons Henry was joined by his daughter Matilda and her husband, Henry the Lion, Duke of Saxony and Bavaria, and all the barons of Normandy, who were forbidden to hold their own courts. Henry attempted to defuse the tension between the brothers by having Richard turn the castle of Clairvaux over to Young Henry, and Geoffrey and Richard do homage to Young Henry to reinforce his seniority and perhaps satisfy his longing for greater power. Although Geoffrey willingly performed homage, the plan backfired spectacularly when Richard first refused, then agreed but only on the condition that Aquitaine would belong to him and his heirs forever, which condition Young Henry rejected because he had already undertaken to support the Aquitainian barons against Richard.61 Henry attempted to reconcile his sons and wanted them to swear to a peace treaty, but such a peace had to include the barons of Aquitaine, and Geoffrey was sent to arrange this. He at once stirred up further trouble and Young Henry, on the pretence of going to smooth things over, joined the rebels. Richard had now had enough and also went to Poitou to prepare for war.

  As was always the case with Angevin difficulties, their enemies were quick to exploit them. Raymond Count of Toulouse and Hugh Duke of Burgundy joined the Young King, Philip Augustus sent a party of mercenaries to join them, and the Lusignans and other barons also revolted. Things began to look as bleak for Henry II as they had in 1173–74 (though this time at least Richard was on his side), when Young Henry caught a fever and died on 11 June 1183. Though the rebellion had drawn on longstanding political issues, the proximate cause of this particular struggle was Young Henry, and with his death the rebel coalition disintegrated and the revolt was over.62

  With Young Henry dead and Richard and Geoffrey established in their own lands, Henry attempted to solve the problem of John in the only way that might have succeeded, by making him lord of Ireland. Because Ireland had entered the Angevin Empire after Henry apportioned his lands to his elder sons (it had been overrun by the Norman lords of south Wales, led by Richard de Clare, known as ‘Strongbow’), the others had no objection to John being given the lordship. In the aftermath of Young King Henry’s death in 1183, a new division might quite easily have been reached. Richard still ruled Aquitaine directly and became heir to everything else, Geoffrey could be content with Brittany and John could be given a land that had no connection to his brothers.

  Henry attempted to implement this plan by sending John to Ireland in 1185. John was provided with a crown of peacock feathers from the pope for his coronation, but otherwise he was left to own devices, and told, like Richard in Aquitaine, that he must take the throne for himself. Chroniclers relate that John’s expedition was a disaster, because he and his youthful companions alienated the Irish lords (by being childish enough to make fun of their beards) and were unable to win the respect of the Norman lords. Ultimately John and his party were driven out of Ireland. John’s failure in Ireland left the division of lands after Henry II’s death unresolved, and continued to stoke Richard’s fears that his father might yet try to take away some of his patrimony to leave to John.63

  Henry did exactly that, and made what he must have thought was a sensible suggestion: now that Richard was heir apparent to England, Normandy and Anjou, he told Richard to give Aquitaine to John, who would then do homage to him. Richard knew how Young Henry had been treated as heir; moreover, he had spent eleven years pacifying the duchy and felt a deep connection to it, so relinquishing it was unacceptable. Richard immediately fled to Poitou and told his father he would never give up Aquitaine.64

  In his dealings with his sons, especially Richard, Henry lacked the penetrating insight with which he outmanoeuvred his other rivals. He had failed to see that keeping Young Henry waiting for the throne with no authority when his brothers had duchies to rule would be intolerable, and he failed to see that by giving Richard complete authority in Aquitaine he would create an attachment that meant the duchy was no longer a piece of the family patrimony to be moved from one son to another. When Richard refused to give Aquitaine to John, Henry told the sixteen-year-old John to go and take it.65 Nothing demonstrates Henry’s attitude towards his empire more clearly – how could he order one of his sons to lead an invading army into part of the Angevin domains, especially when the family had just put down a rebellion and their enemies were constantly circling and looking for an opportunity to break them apart? Henry simply didn’t see this as anything other than a family difficulty and was unable to believe that the family could truly turn against each other. This despite the events of 1173–74, whose consequences were still being played out in Eleanor of Aquitaine’s captivity.

  John attempted to follow Henry’s instructions and raided Poitou, joined by the ever meddlesome Geoffrey. However, over the last decade Richard had done exactly what Henry desired of him and created a ruthless military machine and efficient administration, and the invasion made little impact. As had become the norm since the time of Henry’s struggles with Stephen, mercenaries formed the bulk of Richard’s fighting force. We now hear of Richard’s most faithful mercenary captain, Mercadier, who would be at his side until the moment of his death.66

  Now came further evidence that Henry viewed all this as a game that he could call off whenever he liked, for in 1184 he summoned his sons back to England for a Christmas court where they were joined by Eleanor. This is the moment that was chosen for the play and film A Lion in Winter, and although we unfortunately know little about what happened, it must have been a moment of incredible tension and drama. Eleanor’s presence is proof that Henry thought he should try a different approach, as he must have known that any appeal to Richard would have an infinitely greater chance of success if it came from her. Later events show that Henry persisted in his plan of reallocating the family domains between his three remaining sons, so he must somehow have tried to make this palatable to Richard, though he would fail utterly.

  Henry then attempted to change the rules again. In 1185 he summoned Richard to Normandy and ordered him – quite legitimately – to surrender Aquitaine to its rightful ruler, Eleanor. Richard complied willingly, because this showed that Henry couldn’t take Aquitaine from Richard by force, and the only way to deprive him of the duchy was to rehabilitate Eleanor. As duchess, Eleanor had complete authority to do whatever she liked, including leaving the duchy to Richard.67

  Henry’s abandonment of Aquitaine to Eleanor and Richard seemed to circumscribe Geoffrey’s opportunities to cause mischief, so he took the usual route of disaffected Angevin sons and went to Paris. He and Philip Augustus became very close, as all the chroniclers commented – something worth remembering when we discuss Richard’s relationship with Philip – and followed the fashionable pursuits
of the time, including tournaments. It is a commonplace to say that medieval tournaments were incredibly violent and dangerous, but now we come to one of the examples always cited to prove the point: in August 1186 Geoffrey was trampled to death in a tournament.68 This was a terrible shock, especially to Philip, and at Geoffrey’s funeral in Paris Philip had to be forcibly restrained from throwing himself into the grave to be with his friend. Geoffrey’s death might seem to have simplified the succession, but his wife was pregnant and subsequently gave birth to a son, Arthur (born at a high point of the Arthurian craze), who would play a significant part in the later Angevin story.

  From having too many legitimate sons Henry was now down to two. The perception that the Angevins were in turmoil tempted the young French king to intervene personally for the first time, though nearly with disastrous consequences. In June 1187, Philip Augustus led an army to besiege the Angevin border fortress of Chateauroux, but Richard and John brought up a small force and managed to delay him. In what would become a long tradition of intelligence failures, Philip was unaware that Henry was approaching with a large army and found himself cornered. Henry – who had never fought a pitched battle in his long military career – was probably equally surprised when the French stood their ground, and the two armies prepared for battle. The arrival of a papal legate who begged them to arrange a truce provided a face-saving solution, and the kings agreed a two-year truce. Philip Augustus turned what could have been a catastrophe into another Capetian opportunity, for Richard joined the French king and went to Paris.69 As the Angevins’ feudal overlord, the French king was always the first choice for disaffected sons, and although Philip Augustus had no real authority in Normandy, Anjou or Aquitaine, if Richard as Duke of Aquitaine chose to enter into closer relations with his overlord there was little Henry could do to stop him.

  Richard’s relationship with Henry had not recovered from the difficulties over the succession, and now that Philip Augustus had shown himself willing to intervene with force, Richard could see the advantages of cultivating him. Once Richard arrived in Paris, he and Philip publicly demonstrated their closeness, just as Geoffrey and Philip had the previous year, and once again the chroniclers took pains to point this out. However, the language they used has proved confusing to some modern readers and given rise to a persistent legend about Richard.

  Roger of Howden wrote of Richard’s stay in Paris:

  Philip so honoured him that every day they ate at the same table, shared the same dish and at night the bed did not separate them. Between the two of them there grew up so great an affection that King Henry was much alarmed and, afraid of what the future might hold in store, he decided to postpone his return to England until he knew what lay behind this sudden friendship.70

  The fact that Richard and Philip shared a bed immediately suggests to modern sensibilities that there was a sexual relationship, but in the medieval period most people, even royalty, shared beds at some point. In William Marshal’s biography it is reported that Henry II and William Marshal shared a bed, and no one has ever suggested they were lovers. The point that Roger of Howden was making, and it is the same point that William Marshal’s biographer intended, is that in a culture where beds were often shared, if a king shared a bed it was with someone who was particularly trusted and close to him. Chrétien de Troyes makes the same point in Erec et Enide, where Enide is so honoured by Queen Guinevere that when Erec is injured and has to sleep alone, ‘not far away, beneath a coverlet of ermine, lay Enide and the queen’.71

  Henry understood the point Richard was making, and it was that Richard as Duke of Aquitaine could have a relationship with his feudal overlord that didn’t involve his father. Henry demanded that Richard return from Paris, and Richard indeed returned but only to seize the Angevin treasury at Chinon and begin fortifying the castles of Aquitaine.

  Henry’s reign was by any measure successful, but it is overshadowed by the events of his final two years, which were influenced yet again by the Crusades. In the summer of 1187, relations between Richard and Henry were at breaking point, and Philip Augustus had almost provoked a full-scale battle at Chateauroux. Yet an event thousands of miles away was about to transform the political landscape of Europe. On 4 July 1187, on the hills of Hattin, the army of Jerusalem was destroyed by Muslim forces led by Saladin, and within months Jerusalem itself fell to the Muslims. This catastrophe horrified Europe and had profound consequences for Richard.

  Saladin and the Conquest of Jerusalem

  The Angevin descendants in Jerusalem had not prospered since the fiasco of the Second Crusade. Outremer still had to cope with the rising threat of Nur ed-Din, and added to this were political difficulties in Jerusalem. Queen Melisende was still the rightful ruler of the kingdom, but now her son Baldwin III, who had been crowned as an infant, was old enough to want more power. From 1149 the relationship between Melisende and Baldwin broke down completely, with Melisende establishing an independent household and Baldwin having control only of Acre. Yet Baldwin was able to play the factions of the court skilfully against each other, and more importantly he held a trump card: he could lead military expeditions to defend the borders of the kingdom and Melisende could not. By 1152 Baldwin had consolidated his position sufficiently to demand that he be crowned sole ruler without Melisende. Although the Patriarch of Jerusalem correctly refused to perform this coronation, which would deny Melisende her rights, Baldwin simply crowned himself. Now the kingdom was divided between the two, with Baldwin taking the north and Melisende retaining Jerusalem, but this was financially and militarily impractical. Baldwin demanded the entire kingdom, and marched against Melisende’s fortresses. Melisende held out in Jerusalem, but at the spectre of civil war her supporters finally deserted her. Baldwin assumed full control of the kingdom and Melisende was sidelined for the rest of her life.72

  This forms a fascinating parallel story to that of Matilda and Henry II. Despite her indomitable will and willingness to participate in the military struggles required to secure her kingdom, after her disastrous attempted coronation Matilda seems to have realized that she could never be accepted as queen in her own right and stood aside for Henry. However, contemporaries were clear that Matilda retained a great influence on Henry until her death, not least by giving him his name, as he was always called Henry ‘Fitz-Empress’. Walter Map also says that she gave Henry advice about how to rule.

  She told him, ‘he should spin out all the affairs of everyone, hold long in his own hand all posts that became vacant, collect the revenues of them, and keep aspirants to them hanging on in hope: and she supported this advice by an unkind parable: an unruly hawk, if meat is often offered to it and then snatched away or hid, becomes keener and more inclinably obedient and attentive’.73

  Whether or not this was truly the advice Matilda gave him, this was certainly how Henry treated his courtiers, and more importantly his sons, with the results we have seen. This advice also illuminates Matilda’s behaviour when she had captured Stephen and was preparing to take the throne. She refused to make sweeping concessions to those who switched sides – most importantly Stephen’s brother, Henry of Blois, the Bishop of Winchester – and she believed it was more important to stress her own authority and that everything proceeded from her as queen, even at the risk of alienating her own supporters. This insistence on royal rights is something we will see with Henry, but Matilda, either because she chose the wrong time to make these assertions, or because a male-dominated society simply would not accept these claims from a woman, was unsuccessful in her own right.

  Her greatness was still recognized. Matilda died on 10 September 1167, and her tomb in Bec Abbey in Normandy bore the epitaph ‘Here lies Henry’s daughter, wife and mother: great by birth, greater by marriage, but greatest by motherhood.’74 Although this definition of Matilda through the three Henrys who were her father, first husband and son does her a disservice, it does elaborate a truth, because even if she could take no credit for her father being a king or
her first husband being an Emperor, her son became a king only through her efforts to preserve her claim in the most hostile of circumstances.

  Yet Melisende, in a much stronger position as a crowned monarch in her own right, in a kingdom that officially recognized female succession, was essentially deposed by her son. The justification for this was that the marcher kingdom of Jerusalem had to have a military leader, and only a man could fulfil this role. Melisende behaved entirely appropriately by insisting on her rights yet also being willing to share power with first her husband and then her son, but Baldwin would not accept this. The injustice is apparent, and unlike Matilda, Melisende was not trying to do something unprecedented. These were the realities of 12th-century power, and even in kingdoms that officially recognized female succession, women’s right to rule was under constant threat, usually from members of their own family.

  Melisende died in September 1161, and was buried relatively obscurely at St Mary Josaphat (near the tomb of the Virgin), rather than with the other kings in the Church of the Holy Sepulchre, or at the Dome of the Rock, whose canons she had patronized. Although she may have requested this herself, Baldwin may also have been behind this in a final, mean attempt to minimize his mother’s achievements. It is unfitting that so powerful a figure didn’t take her place with the kingdom’s other rulers, but history certainly remembers her more than Baldwin, who himself died in early 1163 and was buried in the Church of the Holy Sepulchre. Baldwin III had many military and diplomatic successes to his credit, and it was said that both the Christian and non-Christian population of Jerusalem mourned as his body passed, but his treatment of Melisende was unquestionably shabby.75