The Revolt of the Eaglets

by Jean Plaidy

  January passed and February had come, but the weather continued to be against them and there was nothing he could do but wait.

  All through March he waited and just as he was preparing to finish Roderick’s resistance for ever, ships arrived from England.

  They had disturbing news.

  On the anniversary of Thomas’s death, the pilgrims had streamed into Canterbury. Many of them declared that they were cured of their infirmities at the shrine of the martyr. Everyone was saying that Thomas was a saint.

  Worse still the Pope had sent Cardinals Theodwine and Albert to Normandy to find the King.

  ‘Why do they wait in Normandy?’ demanded Henry. ‘Why do they not come to England?’

  There was a simple answer to that. They did not come to England because they knew that they would be arrested as a danger to the peace if they set foot there.

  Instead they waited for him in Normandy.

  ‘Then they must needs wait,’ was his answer to that.

  ‘They are saying, my lord, that if you do not go to Normandy with all speed they have the Pope’s authority to lay all your lands under edict.’

  ‘By God’s eyes,’ muttered the King.

  He knew of course that he had to go. If he did not he could lose Normandy.

  Thomas was continuing to plague him in death as much as he had done in life – and that was saying a good deal.

  He shut himself into his apartments. What must he do? It was more than a year since Thomas’s death and the martyrdom was as fresh as ever. Moreover, there were all those miracles at the shrine and he had too many enemies.

  He dare not delay. There were too many waiting to snatch his lands from him. He could not conquer the whole of Ireland as he had planned. Roderick of Connaught would have to wait.

  Leaving Hugh de Lacy behind with a garrison to hold what he had gained he sent messengers to the Cardinals telling them that he was sailing at once for England and would in due course arrive in Normandy.

  That Christmas the young King Henry decided to remind everyone at his Court that he was indeed their King. His father had sent him to Normandy when he went to Ireland, where he was to act as a kind of regent. ‘A regent,’ stormed Henry to William the Marshall, ‘why should I be a regent? I am a king in my own right.’

  William the Marshall, the Earl of Salisbury’s nephew, who had held a post of knight-at-arms to young Henry for some years, was his closest friend and companion. ‘In due course you will be so in every way,’ he reminded him.

  ‘Not while my father lives, William.’

  ‘My lord,’ answered William, ‘it is unwise to mention the King’s death.’

  ‘How can I help mentioning it? It can only be when it happens that I shall be free.’

  William the Marshall looked over his shoulder fearfully but Henry burst into laughter.

  ‘Have no fear. The people here are my friends.’

  ‘A king never knows who are his friends.’

  ‘I know that there is not a king in Christendom who has more enemies than my father. His nature is such to arouse enmity.’

  ‘I would venture to contradict you, my lord.’

  ‘Have a care, William. Remember I am your King.’

  ‘And you are my friend also. If I must flatter you as so many do I should cease to be that. What do you wish, my lord, my flattery or my friendship?’

  ‘You know, William.’

  ‘I think I do, so I will risk saying that if all men do not love your father there are few who do not respect and fear him; and sometimes it is better to be respected and feared than loved.’

  ‘The old man has bemused you with his rages.’

  ‘I beg of you, do not speak of him thus. He is your father and our King.’

  ‘I am not likely to forget that. But know this, William, he shall not keep me in this state for ever.’

  ‘My lord, you are young yet. You have won men’s hearts by your nature but you could not afford to stand out against your father.’

  ‘I did not say I would do that, William. I merely say that I want to be a king in more than name.’

  ‘But there is already a King of England.’

  Henry sighed. ‘Come, let us think of other things. This is my first Christmas as King and I intend to celebrate it as such. This Court shall have no doubt about my rank.’

  ‘This Court, my lord, knows exactly your rank. You are its King, and it is the first time in England’s history that she has had two Kings.’

  ‘It was my father’s wish that it should be so, and he can have no one to blame but himself for it. Come, I am determined that my first Christmas as King shall be remembered for ever, so that people will know how merry life will be when there is only one king in England. And I will tell you something, my friend, when I am King and have a son, a crown shall not be put on his head until I am dead.’

  William the Marshall was silent, but he wondered, as many had begun to, how Henry II could have made such a major blunder as to have his son crowned King while he still lived.

  ‘I have it,’ cried young Henry. ‘I shall invite all the knights, counts and nobles together with men of the church to my banquet. They shall have gifts which will prove to them that I shall be a generous king. My father is the most parsimonious man alive. He hates giving anything away. He will never relinquish his hold on one castle while he lives. I will show my subjects here how different I shall be. I want to be as different from my father as I can possibly be. I regret that I share his name.’

  ‘Would you rather have been a William?’

  ‘That was my eldest brother. There are more Williams in England and Normandy than any other name, I’ll swear. They are all named after my great-great-grandfather, William the Conqueror. You are one of them, my friend.’

  ‘I’d say there are as many Henrys.’

  ‘Nay, William, I’d wager it. I have an idea. At my banquet I shall reparate all the Williams and they shall dine with me in one room. No one who is not a William shall sit down with me. Then you and I will count them and see how many Williams are there. I’ll wager there will be more than a hundred.’

  Henry was excited at the prospect and William joined in his enthusiasm, realising that in planning his Christmas celebrations Henry forgot his enmity towards his father.

  He was delighted to discover that there were one hundred and ten knights named William and many of other ranks.

  He was the only Henry among the Williams who crowded into his chamber. This was called the feast of the Williams.

  When his father heard what had happened, he was displeased by what seemed to him childish frivolity. He also heard rumours of his son’s growing dissatisfaction with his state and this was more disturbing than his irresponsibility.

  Young Henry left for England soon after Christmas. That banquet had been a great success. It was all very well for his friend William the Marshall to tell him to beware of flatterers. He was popular, good-looking, charming – all things that his father was not, and what William called flattery was in fact the truth.

  When he had been at Bures his mother’s uncle, Ralph de Faye, had come to see him bringing with him his friend, Hugh de St Maure, and they had said what accounts they would take back to his mother of his kingly ways.

  He had been enchanted by this kinsman and his friend. They had declared themselves quite shocked by the manner in which his father tried to treat him.

  ‘You might be a child of ten years old by the way the King behaves towards you,’ they said. ‘Why, you are in your seventeenth year. You are a man.’

  It was true; he was a man and treated like a boy!

  ‘You should make your dissatisfaction known,’ Ralph told him.

  He knew he should. But how? It was all very well to talk about defying his father when he was not there and quite a different matter when one was confronted by him. Young Henry remembered how the face could flush, the eyes seem to start out of their sockets and the terrible fury begin to rise. Any wise man
kept away from that.

  Still, they were right. Something should be done, but it would have to be more subtle than confrontation with his father and a demand that he be given his rights.

  In the meantime he was going to England and that was where he liked best to be because in England he was a king; and when his father was absent he could delude himself into thinking that he ruled the land.

  He was not allowed to delude himself for long. He had not been at Westminster more than a month or so when his father arrived.

  Face to face with the older Henry the younger lost his courage. It had always been so. Much as he might rage against him to his friends, his father only had to appear and he was immediately subdued.

  ‘I hear,’ said the King, ‘that you passed a merry Christmas at Bures.’

  ‘I think my … our subjects were pleased by the display I gave.’

  The elder Henry nodded slowly.

  ‘You seem to have a fondness for my Norman subjects. That is well because we are leaving shortly for Normandy.’

  ‘We …’ stammered young Henry.

  ‘I said we, by which I mean you and I.’

  ‘You will need me to stay in England while you are in Normandy.’

  ‘My justiciary Richard de Luci has my complete trust.’

  ‘Father, I would rather stay here. I have had my fill of Normandy.’

  The King raised his eyebrows and his son was alarmed to see the familiar tightening of the lips and flash of eyes which warned any who beheld it that they must be wary, for those were the danger signals.

  ‘I thought you would wish me …’ began young Henry.

  ‘I have told you what I wish. You will be ready to leave for Normandy. I desire your company there, my son.’

  ‘Yes, my lord,’ said the young King quietly.

  This was humiliating. Henry secretly raged against the Pope. He had to keep himself under control. He was in a very tricky position. That he, Henry Plantagenet, should be summoned to meet the papal legates was insulting. Yet what could he do? He must act very carefully or the whole world would be against him.

  He would have to deal very subtly with those emissaries of the Pope and he wanted to be completely free of anxieties while he did so. Ireland was safe, he believed, even though it was not yet fully conquered. He himself would be in Normandy. Eleanor was in Aquitaine; and he was certainly not going to leave young Henry in England. He would have to be watchful of that young man. He was beginning to see what a great mistake he had made in crowning him King. Why had he done it? To spite Thomas à Becket. To have the boy crowned by Roger of York. Yes, it had been done partly to humiliate Thomas à Becket. Thomas … it always came back to Thomas!

  Now he needed some comfort before he left for Normandy and he would go to Rosamund.

  He thought there seemed something lacking in her pleasure. She was as deferential as ever, as determined to please and yet there was a certain sadness about her.

  He awoke in the night and felt the weight of his trials heavy upon him. He stroked her hair and kissed her into wakefulness.

  ‘My Rosamund,’ he said, ‘I doubt I was ever in such a position as I now find myself.’

  She was wide awake at once, ready to listen, to offer comfort.

  ‘Before I gained the kingdom which was mine by right I had very little but my hopes. I was sure then of my success. Then I achieved it and my troubles began. It is the fate of kings of England ever since the Conqueror. Our lands are too far flung for us to be able to keep them in order. This I accepted. I knew that any moment I must hurry to Normandy to subdue this or that traitor, and then come back to England because I was needed here. But never was I summoned before.’

  ‘Can you not refuse to go?’

  ‘I would have the whole of Christendom rise against me. I would to God these miracles at Canterbury would stop. I do not believe in them. They are a fabrication of my enemies.’

  He was aware that Rosamund shuddered. Even she had changed since the death of Thomas à Becket.

  ‘You believe that, Rosamund?’

  She was silent.

  God’s eyes, he thought. Even she believes Thomas is a saint and I am guilty of his murder.

  He sat up and looked at her in the faint light of the crescent moon. Beautiful Rosamund whom he had loved for years, and been faithful to in his way, even she thought him guilty.

  ‘How could I have known that those stupid knights would take me literally?’

  Still she was silent.

  ‘Why do you not speak, Rosamund?’ he asked.

  ‘What do you wish me to say, my lord?’

  ‘I wish you to say what is in your mind, not to utter words which I should put into your mouth.’

  She raised herself and wound her arms about his neck.

  ‘Then I would say, my lord, that in Normandy you should admit that these men thought they were acting on your wishes.’

  ‘All the world knows that already.’

  ‘And that you would give a great deal to undo what is done and that you take responsibility for this fearful crime.’

  ‘I … take responsibility!’

  ‘If you do this, they will ask some penance. And when it is made then you will have expiated your sin in behaving as you did.’

  He looked at her in dismay. She was saying what the rest of the world was saying about him. He had wanted her to cling to him and to tell him how he was maligned, that he was completely and unquestionably innocent.

  He was disappointed.

  She knew it.

  He looked down at her and saw that there were tears on her cheeks.

  ‘I am afraid,’ she said.

  ‘Of what?’ he demanded.

  ‘Of sin.’

  ‘Sin?’ he cried. ‘What means that?’

  ‘You and I,’ she answered. ‘You have a Queen and I have lived with you as your wife. I have your sons who were born in sin.’

  ‘By God’s teeth and eyes, Rosamund, what has happened to you?’

  She answered: ‘It has long been in my mind and since the murder …’

  He turned away impatiently and lay staring into space.

  She closed her eyes, for she felt that something had gone for ever out of their relationship.

  The King rode away. His thoughts were of Rosamund, which relieved him of thinking what lay ahead in Normandy.

  She had changed. Before, she had no other thought than for him. He had needed her and she was there. Now she was concerned with her soul. Something had entered her life which was more important than he was. He would not have believed that possible from his gentle devoted Rosamund.

  And this had happened at the moment when he needed her most. She had failed him. Soon she would be talking of going into a convent. Women like Rosamund thought of that when they reached a certain age just as men went on crusades or pilgrimages to the Holy Land. He could never do that. He had too much to keep him where he was.

  He understood Rosamund. He loved her; she had brought him great joy and comfort; but it was inevitable that in due course such a good woman would contemplate her sinful life and regret it.

  He sighed. The subject was almost as depressing as what awaited him in Normandy. He would turn his thoughts to other matters. Soon he must take John from his nursery and get him betrothed, but that must wait. He would go along though and see how the children were progressing. It would be a pleasure to see young John and his sister Joanna … and of course little Alice.

  He found Alice alone in the schoolroom.

  ‘My lord.’ She started up when she saw him and curtsied while the deep colour flooded her cheeks.

  ‘So you are alone?’ he said, and an excitement gripped him. She was more enchanting than he had imagined.

  ‘Joanna and John are riding. I stayed behind. I had a lesson to complete.’

  ‘And how goes this lesson?’ he asked. He picked her up in his arms and kissed her. ‘Alice, you are a witch,’ he said.

  ‘Oh, no, my lord.’
She looked frightened.

  ‘I mean that you bewitch me with your beauty.’

  She looked frightened.

  He walked with her to the window seat and sat down holding her on his knee.

  ‘How old are you, little Alice?’ he asked.

  ‘I shall soon have seen twelve winters, my lord.’

  ‘’Tis a charming age. I have seen many more winters than that.’

  Twelve! he was thinking. Some girls were mature enough at twelve.

  ‘And you are to be my daughter. I begin to feel sorry for that.’

  She still looked frightened. ‘If I have offended in some way, sir …’

  ‘Oh, yes,’ he said, ‘you have offended me, Alice, because since I saw you last I have thought of you constantly.’

  ‘If you will tell me where my fault lies …’

  ‘It lies in these pretty curls, this soft skin, these inviting lips which make me want to kiss them like this … Alice.’

  ‘Oh, my lord.’

  ‘Yes, and oh, my lady! Alice, I would that you were not affianced to my son. If you were not, by God’s eyes I would ask your father that you might be affianced to me.’

  Her eyes opened very wide. ‘How could that be, my lord?’

  ‘’Tis not impossible.’

  ‘But …’

  ‘Oh, you have not yet seen twelve years out and I have seen many more. But years are of no matter. You would find me a very loving husband.’

  ‘But you have a Queen, my lord. Richard’s mother.’

  ‘Kings have been known to rid themselves of queens whom they do not love.’

  ‘Do you not then love the Queen?’

  ‘I hate the Queen, Alice. I hate her as much as I am beginning to love you.’

  He watched her steadily. She was not frightened now. She was becoming excited. He tried to stem his rising desire. He could not. She was a child. She was betrothed to Richard and she was the daughter of the King of France. Even he could not sport with a king’s daughter as he would a kitchen wench. There had been girls as young as this one – though he had always had more pleasure from mature women. He did not know when he felt so delighted in anyone – not since he had first seen Rosamund. And she had not been much older than Alice. Rosamund had displeased him; she had failed him in a way that he had never expected she would.