by Jean Plaidy
Before she had met him she had believed a husband would be found for her and she would be married and bring up her children as her parents had theirs. How different it was to be the mistress of a king.
And of course the time must come when she would be discarded. She had always feared that, although Henry had sworn eternal fidelity. It had come now. She had understood by the manner in which he had spoken of Alice and of his great concern for the Princess, that she had been displaced.
It was a fearful situation. Alice was so young and already with child by him, and she, the daughter of the King of France and betrothed to the King’s son Richard! What would happen if this secret were discovered?
She knew that she must do everything in her power to prevent that. She must suppress her jealousy; she must look after the child, who was innocent enough. Did she not know how easy it was to succumb to the wiles of Henry?
And here she was, no longer young, the woman who had sinned and had not even the love of her partner in sin to sustain her.
He cared for her still, in a way, but that would only be as long as she served him well, she knew. Once he had loved the Queen and now he hated her.
She must repent of her sins and the only way she could do this was to go into a nunnery. She had been thinking of this for some time. Her children were growing up. They were no longer of an age to need her. The King would do well by them for he was fond of his children, and more so of those born out of wedlock for they had been more faithful to him than his legitimate sons. She would care for the Princess Alice, bring her safely through her pregnancy and when the child was born and the Princess able to return to Westminster, Winchester or wherever she could appear with grace, Rosamund would tell the King of her decision to retire from the world.
He could not deny her this when she had done so much for him. Nor, she was sure, would he wish to. Sadly she acknowledged the fact that he would doubtless be glad to see this neat end to their romance.
The King received Cardinal Huguzon with many honours. He was determined to show him that he had the utmost respect for him and his master.
How good it was, he said, of the Pope and the Cardinal to accede to his request to have this troublesome matter settled. As the Cardinal knew there had been conflict between Canterbury and York since the sainted Archbishop Thomas à Becket had gone into exile. The King believed that it was time the matter was settled.
The Cardinal was gratified to find the King so agreeable. It was pleasant to be so luxuriously housed and to be given costly presents.
It was clear to him that Henry was very eager to placate Rome and that was always comforting, for a man of such power could cause a great deal of trouble to the Papacy if he had a mind to.
That he should be so concerned over the supremacy claims of York and Canterbury was unexpected. His great concern had always been to curtail the power of either and make them subservient to the crown. So the Cardinal, while he discussed this matter, was asking himself what other problem was disturbing the King. That it was one for which he needed the Pope’s help was obvious.
‘Canterbury has long held the primacy in England,’ the King was saying. ‘During the absence of Thomas à Becket the Archbishop of York performed duties which would have fallen to the lot of Canterbury. You see the dilemma in which we stand. York does not now wish to give place to Canterbury.’
The Cardinal expressed his understanding, but it seemed to him that if Rome decreed that the Archbishop of Canterbury should be the Primate, then so it should be. He would take the King’s problem to the Pope and there should be a formal pronouncement. It was clearly the King’s wish that full honour should be returned to Canterbury.
The King nodded. ‘There is one other matter … since you are here, my lord Cardinal.’
Ah, thought the Cardinal, we are coming to it now.
‘As you know,’ went on the King, ‘I have been severely plagued by my wife, the Queen.’
‘She is now your prisoner, I know.’
The King lifted his hands in a hopeless gesture. ‘What can a King do when his wife turns his own sons against him and incites them to rebellion?’
The Cardinal nodded gravely.
‘As you know, my lord Cardinal, I have recently been engaged in fighting a war in which my sons were on the opposing side. Their mother brought them up to hate me. She was caught – in the guise of a man – making her way to join them and in person make war on me. Have I not been over-lenient in merely holding her in one of my castles, where, though she is a prisoner, she is treated as a queen?’
‘You have, my lord.’
‘Many a king would have put her to death.’
The Cardinal coughed slightly. ‘I am sure, my lord, you would never be guilty of such folly. The Queen is the Duchess of Aquitaine. I believe the people of that land would have risen in revolt if she had been harmed in any way.’
‘I keep her under restraint,’ said the King, ‘but she lives like a queen. She suffers no hardship except that she may not travel abroad, and when she leaves the castle she is with an armed escort. In view of what she has done and tried to do, I must keep her under restraint. It is tragic, my lord Cardinal, when a man is deprived of his natural rights.’
‘’Tis so, my lord.’
‘I have long thought that I would put the Queen from me.’
‘You mean divorce the Queen? That would not be possible.’
‘The Queen and I are closely related. We could be divorced on grounds of consanguinity.’
The Cardinal sighed. The perpetual request. Grounds of consanguinity! It was possible if one searched long enough to find some blood connection between the nobility of England and all Europe. The trouble was that in granting the request of one side one offended the other.
The Cardinal then swore that he would carry the King’s request back to the Pope and the King could assure himself that the Cardinal would do all in his power to make the Holy Father aware of the difficulties of the King of England.
Richard de Luci, the King’s Chief Justiciar, had always been a man whom the King could trust. Ever since Henry had taken the crown Richard de Luci had held a high position and never once had he failed to serve the King. There had been moments when he had angered the King, but Henry was wise enough to know that Richard de Luci clung to his opinions solely because he believed them to be for the good of England and the King. A shrewd ruler did not think the worse of a servant who opposed him for his own good.
Richard de Luci was the King’s man, and because he now came to Henry in consternation, Henry was ready to listen to him.
Richard after his manner came straight to the point.
‘The visit of the Cardinal Huguzon has not been brought about simply to solve the controversy between Canterbury and York, I know. My lord, you are contemplating divorcing the Queen.’
‘It is irksome to be bound to one who has shown herself an enemy.’
Richard agreed that this was so.
‘My lord, what would happen to the Queen if you were to divorce her and re-marry?’
‘She would remain my prisoner. By God’s eyes, Richard, do you think I would allow that woman her freedom that she might go back to Aquitaine and plot against me?’
‘Nay, I do not think you would, my lord. But I beg you consider this matter with great care.’
The King looked exasperated but Richard had more than once ignored the rising signs of temper.
‘Do you imagine I have not considered this matter with the utmost care!’ cried the King.
‘I know it has been your great concern for some time. But I beg of you, my lord, to consider afresh what this divorce would mean.’
‘It would rid me of a she-wolf who has plagued me and turned my sons against me.’
‘And more than that, my lord. It would rid you of Aquitaine.’
‘I should hold it.’
Richard shook his head. ‘She is the Duchess and your son Richard has been proclaimed Duke.’
‘It is a vain title. Aquitaine is mine.’
‘You received the title when you married the Duchess but the people would never accept you. They have ever been loyal to the Queen and regard her as their true ruler. If you rid yourself of the Queen you will rid yourself of Aquitaine.’
‘By God’s eyes, Richard, you would keep me tied to a woman I hate.’
‘I could do nothing, my lord, if you wished it otherwise. My duty is to remind you of what this divorce would mean. She is a great heiress. Aquitaine would rise against you. What of Normandy?’
‘My sons have sworn not to take arms against me.’
‘My lord, we know what these oaths mean in cases of emergency.’
‘A curse on you, Richard. You disquiet me. I had made up my mind. But, my good friend, I know you say what you say out of love and loyalty to me.’
‘Then I have achieved my purpose.’
‘So you believe that there is no way of getting a divorce without strife that could well continue for the rest of my life?’
‘I do believe that, my lord.’
‘But I want to marry again.’
‘My lord, could you not content yourself with a mistress? You have long made this compromise.’
‘It is not so easy now. Tell me truthfully, Richard, have you heard rumours?’
‘I have, my lord.’
‘Then it has been spoken of.’
‘With discretion and only in certain quarters. We must see that it is not generally known.’
‘But what can I do, Richard?’
‘The lady has been removed from Court. She has been travelling to the North for her education. When she returns it would be well if you did not see her again.’
‘That is impossible.’
‘She should be married without delay.’
The King hit his left hand with his right clenched fist. ‘No,’ he said. ‘I will never agree to it.’
‘If she were not the daughter of the King of France …’
‘It is because she is, that I could marry her.’
‘The affianced bride of your son!’
‘Such betrothals often come to naught.’
‘’Tis so. It is the matter of the divorce that must give us cause for thought. My lord, you must consider whether you will have marriage and the loss of your dominions, or keep your hold on them and remain married to the Queen.’
‘The Cardinal hints that a divorce would be possible.’
‘Indeed so, my lord. Would not his master like to see your power curtailed?’
‘You are determined to frustrate me.’
‘I am determined to serve you with my whole heart and strength and if I offend you in doing that, so be it.’
The King slipped his arm through that of Richard de Luci.
‘My good friend,’ he said, ‘I see that I must go away and brood on this matter.’
He could not sleep; he rode through the forest, he returned his sweating horse to his grooms; he lay on his bed and stared into the future.
He pondered; he made up his mind and changed it.
And all the time one thought kept hammering in his brain: Alice the one he loved and the loss of Aquitaine. Alice and conflict. And to keep Eleanor, the Queen he hated, or to lose his grip on his empire.
He thought often of his great-grandfather the Conqueror and it seemed to him that the man visited him in his dreams. He saw the scorn and contempt on that stern face. For William the Conqueror there would have been no problem. He would never have been able to contemplate a woman’s being more important than power. In the same dreams he saw his grandfather Henry I. There was a man whose needs of women had been as great – if not greater – than those of his grandson. He too gravely shook his head. It was unthinkable that their descendant should contemplate possible disaster to the empire they had left him for the sake of ridding himself of one woman and taking another as his wife.
It was a conflict between love and power. And Henry Plantagenet was a king and descended from William the Conqueror. There was really no need to consider the matter. He knew what he would have to do.
In the Bower at Woodstock Alice’s time grew near.
Rosamund tended her with care and grew quite fond of the girl. They were alike in a way which was perhaps the reason why they had both attracted the King.
Rosamund would sit by the Princess’s bed while she stitched at her needlework and Alice would ask her about the trials of childbirth.
They would pray for an easy labour, said Rosamund. She doubted there would be one. The girl was young and perhaps not yet ready for childbirth. Rosamund trembled, thinking of the King’s wrath if anything should go amiss with Alice.
She dedicated herself to caring for the girl. It was the last service she would perform for him. She had definitely made up her mind that as soon as Alice’s child was born and the girl was recovered she would go into her convent. She had chosen the one at Godstow and had already made gifts to it; and she knew that when the time came she would be welcomed.
In the meantime there was Alice.
The girl was beautiful and she believed the King to be all-powerful. She was innocent in a way and did not seem to guess at the King’s previous relationship with Rosamund. Perhaps that made it easier.
Alice talked of the King for even she was aware that Rosamund would know he was the father of the child.
He was a great good man, she told Rosamund, who was married to a wicked woman. The Queen was an advocate of the devil and the King was going to put her from him and marry Alice.
‘My dear,’ said Rosamund, ‘are you not betrothed to Prince Richard?’
‘I was, but it has no meaning now. The King says so and the King knows.’
So young Alice thought that she would soon be Queen of England. Once he had promised her the same. He had long hated the Queen. How often he had discussed getting rid of her! Divorce would not be difficult, he had said, for there were certain to be blood ties. He had then promised to make Rosamund his Queen.
And now it was Alice and here was Alice about to bear his child tended by her, Rosamund, the discarded mistress.
The months passed. They walked in the gardens; they talked; they stitched baby’s clothes and Rosamund brought out those which her own children had worn – half-brothers to this little one who was about to be born. Alice’s child should wear them. Why not, since there would be a strong tie between them?
‘The King is good to all his children,’ said Rosamund.
‘Is it not wicked of his sons to turn against him?’ cried Alice. ‘They have been ruined by their mother. But soon she will be put away from him. She has not long to bear the title of Queen of England.’
Rosamund was older and wiser; she had heard promises which had now been forgotten. There was no point in hinting to Alice that the King might not find it easy to gain his divorce.
In due course Alice was brought to bed and delivered of a girl-child who died a few hours after its birth.
Alice was heartbroken. When the King came to visit her he pretended to be also, but he could not help thinking to himself that perhaps it was all for the best.
‘When you are recovered, my love,’ he said, ‘you must return to the Court. And if you should appear a little wan, we will say that it was an exhausting journey to the North and the climate up there did not agree with you.’
Rosamund said quietly: ‘I have a mind to go into a convent.’
He answered: ‘I fancy it has been your wish for some time.’
‘I feel the need for solitude and meditation. I think the time has come for me to seek forgiveness of my sins.’
‘Rosamund, my rose of the world, you are a good woman. God will forgive your transgressions.’
‘All would not agree with you. I have heard that in some circles they speak of me as Rosa-immundi, the rose of unchastity.’
‘There will always be those to cast stones at others.’
‘Yet I feel my guilt heavily upon me and would spend
my last years in repentance.’
‘Where would you go?’
‘To Godstow. I have already made arrangements. They are prepared to receive me.’
‘When they do I shall bestow gifts on them. They shall not lose when they take you in.’
She said: ‘You are as ever good to me.’ But she saw the relief in his face. It was what he wanted her to do. He would make gifts to Godstow because the convent offered sanctuary to his mistress. He no longer needed her, but he had loved her enough to wish to see her settled.
So with sadness in her heart Rosamund retired to the convent and Alice returned to the palace.
The King knew that he could not hope to divorce Eleanor, but at the same time he was determined not to give up Alice.
Chapter VIII
THE QUEEN COMES TO COURT
The young King Henry was restive. It was too much to be borne. He could scarcely move without his father’s being aware of it. He was weary of being told he must do this and that and there was only one way to govern and that was the manner in which his father did.
He heard accounts of how men such as Philip of Flanders passed their time. Philip was a glorious knight, skilled in the joust and his fame was spreading throughout Europe. Soon he was to go on a pilgrimage to the Holy Land. Philip was rich, most sumptuously clad; his horses were richly caparisoned and men looked up to him.
As for Henry he had so little. The only way he could live in any comfort was to incur debts. That was not difficult to do since he was the son of the King and indeed himself a king. That was what rankled. He was a king and no king. The title was a word, nothing more.
Men feared his father so they had little respect for his son; and when he rode beside that square figure with the garments which were worn for use rather than ornament and looked at those hands often roughened by weather, he wanted to scream out his frustration.
His friend William the Marshall no longer pleased him as he once had. Oh, William was an excellent knight, a faithful friend, but he was not like Philip of Flanders. Indeed, sometimes Henry thought that William believed it was good for him to be so guided by his father.