by Jean Plaidy
‘The alternative would be Roger of York would it not?’
‘Roger of York crowned my son.’
‘He was a traitor to the Archbishop of Canterbury,’ said Louis firmly. ‘I would not wish my daughter to be crowned by one who had played false such a great good man.’
Henry was silent; his fingers had begun to twitch. So this one-time monk, this husband of Eleanor at whom she had jeered in the first days of her marriage to Henry, this rival king would tell him how to run his kingdom! By God’s eyes … he thought and then: But he is the father of my little Alice. I must go carefully. When I divorce Eleanor and openly take Alice to my bed I shall need the support of her father.
‘I would not wish Roger of York even to attend the ceremony,’ went on Louis. ‘Nor the Bishops of London and Salisbury. They were all enemies of the saintly Archbishop and did much to bring about his sorrowful end. In my eyes they would contaminate any ceremony they attended.’
Thinking of little Alice Henry said: ‘It shall be as you wish. The young people shall be crowned and the ceremony performed by Archbishop Rotrou.’
Louis was a little taken aback. He had expected protests. There was a subtle change in Henry. It is because of the death of the martyr, thought Louis. He is truly penitent.
Henry went on to Normandy and the young couple sailed for England for their crowning.
Henry had decided that he would spend the coming Christmas in Chinon in Anjou for he was making a complete tour of his dominions to assure himself that his fortresses were at full strength. He sent a message to Eleanor asking her to join him for Christmas at Chinon. He thought he might sound her as to the possibility of a divorce.
She expressed willingness and he decided that this should be a family gathering. He wanted to give the impression that he had done what he could to keep his family together.
Henry and Marguerite should join them too. A message was accordingly sent to them commanding them to make their preparations to leave at once.
The young King was angry. He liked being in England where he was the King, and where life was particularly enjoyable when his father was not present. It seemed an admirable arrangement for his father to stay in Normandy while he governed England. He was surrounded by sycophants who assured him that England could not have a better King and he believed them. He was fond of Marguerite; she was a pleasant little Queen and he liked to ride out with her beside him and listen to the acclaim of the people. Young monarchs were always so appealing.
But to go to Chinon and be under the shadow of his father was the last thing he wanted.
‘I shall not go,’ he told Marguerite, but of course he had to change his mind. His friends told him how unwise it would be to disobey his father.
‘I’m not a king,’ he complained to Marguerite. ‘I just have a crown, that’s all. Can you imagine my father’s giving away any little power? But he won’t always be here. He’ll go off one day with all his sins on him when he’s in one of those tempers of his. Men have fallen down dead when they are in such a state as he gets into. I don’t think it will be long now, Marguerite.’
Marguerite was sure it wouldn’t.
There came another message from the King. His good friend the King of France, he wrote, had expressed a desire to see his daughter, so the young couple must leave without delay and before they came to Chinon they must stay a while at the Court of France.
‘I should like to see my father,’ said Marguerite.
Young Henry was secretly pleased. He could pretend he was not really obeying his father in leaving at once but gratifying his wife’s whim to see her father.
And so they left England as soon as the winds were fair enough and most joyfully did Louis receive them at his court which at that time he was holding at Chartres.
Louis loved his children dearly. He asked news of little Alice.
‘Poor child,’ he said, ‘she is young to be brought up in a strange land.’
‘We all suffer it, my lord,’ answered Marguerite, for indeed she herself had been brought up in the same foreign court, although much of her time had been spent in Aquitaine with Queen Eleanor.
Louis nodded. ‘’Tis the lot of royal princes and princesses. Tell me did you see the child before you left?’
‘I did see her, Father. She seemed happy enough.’
‘Thank God. Soon she will have her wedding day. She is almost ready.’
‘Yes, and Richard is very handsome, I believe. Not so much so as Henry, but he is very good looking.’
‘And you are happy with your young Henry, my child?’
‘Yes, Father.’
‘And when Alice is Duchess of Aquitaine she will not seem so far from me. Your husband seems not very pleased with his lot, Marguerite.’
‘His father angers him gravely. He treats him as a boy.’
‘Is that so?’ Louis smiled faintly. He could not help liking to hear criticism of Henry Plantagenet. Deep down in his heart he had always borne a grudge against him for taking Eleanor. Life had been more peaceful without her, but he often thought of the first time he had seen her. What a beautiful young woman she had been! And what vivacity she had had! She had been so clever. Half the Court had been in love with her. He sighed. He should have known he would never keep her. She had not been faithful to him. How long before she had deceived him? Was her uncle the first on that never to be forgotten journey to the Holy Land? And the Saracen? Had she really contemplated marrying him? He would never forget the shock she had given him when she had demanded a divorce. The Pope had persuaded her against it then but when she saw Henry Plantagenet she had fallen so deeply in love with him that she had determined to marry him.
Henry had only been Duke of Normandy then and as the owner of Aquitaine she had been richer than he was. Henry was nearly twelve years her junior. Strange that she, so fastidious, taking such care with her appearance, setting the fashions, caring for her body with unguents and perfumes should have become so wildly enamoured of rather stocky Henry who wore his clothes for convenience rather than ornament and never bothered to wear gloves when he went out in the most bitter weather so that his hands were red and chapped. Of course he had a power, a strength which Louis completely lacked. He had charm too, particularly for women. He emanated strength and power. He supposed that was what they liked.
But the two kings were inherent enemies. There could scarcely be any other relationship between them. Any Duke of Normandy must almost certainly be at odds with the King of France. The Franks had never forgiven the Vikings for raiding their land and making things so unpleasant for their ancestors that to stop their sailing up the Seine to Paris they had been bought off with that northern province which was called Normandy. That went back to the days of Rollo but it rankled still. There was one thing to be grateful for; the Dukes of Normandy like the Counts of other provinces had remained vassals of the King of France.
And this descendant of the Norman Dukes – this Henry Plantagenet – had taken his wife as ruthlessly as Rollo had taken a piece of France; Louis was not a vindictive man, but he would not be displeased to see Henry brought low. Moreover he was deeply shocked by his treatment of Thomas of Canterbury.
Had such a man been my subject, thought Louis, I would have counted myself indeed fortunate.
Now he listened to the complaints of young Henry and Marguerite.
‘Your father has made you a king,’ he said. ‘Why did he do that, if he had no intention of allowing you to behave like one?’
‘I believe he did it to spite Thomas à Becket.’
‘My dear son, you should not say such a thing.’
‘But it is true, my lord. He hated Thomas. He would have done anything to discountenance him.’
Louis shook his head and crossed himself. ‘May that great saint bless us all and intercede for us with God,’ he said.
‘I loved him well,’ remarked Henry, and he was trying not to remember that he had refused to see Thomas when he had wanted to call on him
because he had acted on the advice of Roger of York.
‘All good men loved him,’ said Louis.
They were silent for a while, thinking of Thomas.
‘It is the greatest tragedy that ever befell England,’ went on Louis, ‘and no good will come of it.’
‘I thank God that I had no part in his murder,’ said Henry fervently.
‘There are others, I doubt not, who wish they might say the same. Well, my son, you have your troubles, have you not?’
‘Yes, and I fear I shall continue to. But I will not be treated as a child for ever.’
‘Nor should you be. Your father should give you complete control over England if he wishes to stay in Normandy, or over Normandy if he wishes to dwell in England.’
‘So say I, but he will not do that.’
‘And will you endure this?’
‘No,’ cried Henry firmly, ‘I will not.’ But when he thought of his father’s face, eyes narrowed, colour flaming under his skin, he knew in his heart that he was going to find it very difficult – and very likely impossible – to stand out against him.
‘You must tell him what is in your heart,’ said Louis.
‘Yes,’ answered Henry, feeling that that was more easily said than done. ‘I fear he will not listen though.’
‘He must. You are no longer a child. You are a man; you have a wife; soon you will have sons. And your father made you King.’
‘I will ask him,’ said Henry. ‘I will tell him exactly what I feel.’
‘And if he will not agree, you should not stay at his Court, for what good can you do there? If you are to be given no authority what matters it whether you are there or not?’
‘Where should I go?’
‘Where should you go but to the home of your father-in-law. If the King of England continues to treat you as a child and will not listen to your arguments, come to me here. I fancy that might put him in the mood to do something.’
Henry seized the hand of his father-in-law and kissed it fervently.
Louis was right. If his father would not respect him then revolt was the answer.
The King and Queen had arrived by their separate ways at the castle of Chinon, there to spend Christmas. With the Queen came her son Richard, the new Duke of Aquitaine, and his younger brother Geoffrey, the Duke of Brittany. Young Henry and Marguerite were on their way to join them.
Eleanor and Henry took stock of each other. She has aged, thought the King. By God’s eyes she is an old woman now. He was comparing everyone with the tender youth of Alice. But he must admit there was still some quality about Eleanor. No one was quite as elegant and regal as Eleanor and never would be. She could marry again mayhap if they were divorced. Her childbearing days were over though, so she could not bring heirs to a new husband. And Richard was now the Duke of Aquitaine.
Eleanor thought: He has grown older, toughened even more than before by events and weather. Thomas’s death shook him, for somewhere in his flinty heart there was a spark of love for that man.
Once it had been so strong that she had accused him of loving the man unnaturally. Henry had laughed at that, for if ever there was a man who wanted women that man was Henry; yet she had noticed that he was a little thoughtful. We do not all know ourselves, she thought, not even you, Henry Plantagenet, who think yourself almighty.
She had determined that the Christmas should be passed in great revelry. It was not often nowadays that the King and Queen of England were together. She had brought with her the finest of her poets and musicians and had ordered them to devise an entertainment which should surpass all others. Henry was not completely immune to the charms of literature. There had been a time when he and she had been in harmony and he had enjoyed good literature and music almost as much as she did. But when her influence had been removed he had thought less of the artistic way of life; he had become absorbed in the need to conquer and of course indulge his lechery.
Yet at this Christmas she would try to remember the good times they had had together. In the early days of their marriage she had doted on him. She had wished to see him supreme; she had been proud to have him crowned Duke of Aquitaine. But how their marriage had soured! It had started when he brought the bastard to her nursery and she knew that in those early days of their life together he had been unfaithful to her.
Well it was all in the past and love had turned to hatred, for hate him she did. She hated him for being able to beget children which she could not conceive. Of course she had had a good start on him. Almost twelve years his senior. Well, she was not too old to hate and it amused her to see how this great man was in so many ways a fool.
His children either disliked him mildly or hated him fiercely. Richard, of course, had always had a fiery resentment against him. She had engendered that. Richard was her dearest one and he must think as she did. Geoffrey listened to his brother and was beginning to see his father as a tyrant. And now Henry the eldest was growing restive. My dear husband, she thought, what a fool you were to crown Henry! You should have known that there is room only for one king in one kingdom.
Henry and Marguerite joined them the day before Christmas and Eleanor immediately detected the smouldering resentment in her eldest son.
She took him to her chamber as soon as she could and when they were alone asked him how he had found the King of France.
‘Very well and friendly towards me,’ answered Henry. ‘And willing to be more friendly.’
‘So should he be. Are you not his son through your marriage with his daughter?’
‘I found him kind and sympathetic.’
Eleanor laughed. ‘It would seem, my son, that you are drawing comparisons. You found him more kind and sympathetic than your own father, eh?’
‘I did,’ he answered defiantly. ‘My father regards me as a child.’
‘Oh ‘tis not that. He is a man who can never take his hands from that which they have once grasped. You will never be anything but a pawn in his game, Henry, I can tell you that. That is what he would wish us all to be.’
‘I will never accept that.’
‘Nor should you. You should speak to your father.’
‘I know, but it is difficult. He is so fierce. He has such power.’
‘He wants you to fear him. He wants us all to fear him.’
‘You do not, I know.’
‘I never did. And I should like my sons to be the same.’
‘He has such power and his rages are terrible. When he is in one of them he could order anything to be done to us.’
‘It’s true. Methinks sometimes he uses his rages in an attempt to cow us all.’
‘Except you, my lady.’
‘I was Duchess of Aquitaine when he was only Duke of Normandy. Perhaps that was why he was so anxious to marry me. I know him well. He will never give you what you want, Henry.’
‘Then am I to remain as I am until he dies?’
‘Unless you take what you want.’
‘How so?’
‘Sons have done it before now!’
‘It would mean … war … war against my father! Is that what you mean?’
‘I do not mean that you should go straight from here and gather together an army. Though doubtless you could do that for he has his enemies … many of them. I mean that you should think of these things. He will not give you what is yours by right. Well then, you could think carefully – and be in no great hurry – of how you could best take it.’
‘You are right, my lady,’ cried Henry. ‘You have given me great hope. You and the King of France.’
‘The King of France would be a very powerful ally,’ said the Queen. ‘You should remember that.’
Henry and Eleanor had separate apartments at Chinon and during the sojourn there, they had had little time for private conversation but there were two matters on which the King wished to speak to her. One was straightforward; the formal betrothal of their son John to Alice, daughter of the Count of Maurienne, after which ceremony t
he little girl would be taken to England to be brought up there. The other he must approach in a subtle manner. That was the possibility of a divorce.
It was soon agreed that they should lose no time in bringing about the betrothal of John and arrangements should be put in hand so that this could take place in early February.
There remained that other matter.
The King approached it uneasily. ‘We have seen very little of each other of late, Eleanor,’ he began.
‘Do not tell me that is something you regret for I shall not believe you.’
‘I fancy that it is not a matter which has caused you great grief.’
‘I could not deny it with truth,’ she answered. ‘In fact I have considered myself well rid of you.’
‘Then I think we are of one mind. Our marriage can no longer be fruitful on account of your age.’
‘And perhaps of yours?’
‘Oh come, Eleanor, you know I am twelve years younger than you.’
‘And doubtless have sons and daughters preparing to be born all over your kingdom.’
‘There might be a few. But let us not waste time in senseless vituperation. You and I no longer have need of each other. Our marriage is at an end. We shall never again share a bed.’
‘A particular article of furniture on which you set great store.’
‘It is a necessary part of marriage. The procreation of children. What else is marriage for?’
‘And when one partner is beyond childbearing she is to be discarded. Is that what you are saying?’
‘Discarded! I used no such word. I want us to look at this sensibly.’
‘Then please say outright what you mean.’
‘It is this. There may be someone whom you would like to marry.’
‘And there is without doubt someone whom you would like to marry.’ Eleanor burst into loud laughter. ‘I know the lady well. Your fair Rosamund. That’s it, is it not? Her youth too will pass … is passing. And then you must find someone even younger, must you not? Rosamund. Foolish simpering Rosamund! She never raised her voice against you, did she? You liked that. Every woman – and man – must applaud you. Everywhere you go, you must be treated not as a king but as a god. And now you would marry Rosamund. Is that what you want? You would legitimise her bastards and mayhap try to set them up above my sons. That, my lord, is something I shall never agree to. So put marriage out of your mind. I shall never allow a divorce.’