by Jean Plaidy
‘Which is the very reason why you can dispense with this man.’
‘Dispense with him! You mean send him away, or would you like me to rob him of his estates? To send him to the Tower perhaps? To punish him in some way – to put out his eyes … to cut off a limb or two.’ Henry was looking straight at de Breauté. ‘I believe that you, Falkes de Breauté, oft times employ such methods. I will tell you this, my lords, you may go from here. I like not your words. I like not your manners and I like not you.’
They were taken aback. They had come expecting to face a boy of fourteen and they had found a king, moreover one who was loyal to his friends and would have none of their treachery.
The reaction of the King forced the conspirators to abandon hope of a quick victory. Peter des Roches was beginning to feel that it was time they shelved their plans for a while, but he had reckoned without Falkes de Breauté who had already summoned the malcontents to Northampton, with plans for marching on London.
Henry had quickly summoned Hubert who laid the matter before Stephen Langton and as a result the Archbishops and Bishops – with the exception of Peter des Roches – stood firmly with the King, and threatened excommunication for the rebels.
Even Falkes had to see that his small troop of malcontents would have no chance against the King’s army and if those who rebelled were excommunicated they could never gather together the necessary men to work with them.
It was defeat. Nor were they to be let off lightly. The leaders were summoned to Westminster where the Archbishops and Bishops invited them to lay their grievances before the King.
They met in the great hall of the Palace, the King since his encounter with the three rebels grown considerably in dignity. Hubert had told him that he had conducted himself like a king, and he would have said the same even if he had not been so completely loyal to himself.
Henry was seated on the chair of state, Hubert was on his right hand; and Stephen Langton, on the other side of the King, invited the Bishop of Winchester to state his grievance.
Peter des Roches, addressing the assembly, declared that he was no traitor and nor were those who stood with him. They had deplored the rising of the citizens of London who had been ready to invite the French into the land. One of their members, Falkes de Breauté had actually carried out the hanging of Constantine FitzAthulf. Their grievance was this: the King was never allowed to act unless one man was always at his elbow. It was not Henry III who reigned, it was Hubert de Burgh. All he and his followers wanted was to see that man removed, and the King to engage a new minister in the place of de Burgh.
Henry said: ‘I have spoken to you on this matter before, Bishop. I like not your tone. I am at this time very well served and have been so since I took the crown.’
‘My lord King, Hubert de Burgh has enriched himself. His policy is to pour gold into his own coffers and if by so doing the crown should suffer he cares not.’
Hubert rose and asked the King’s permission to speak.
‘Pray do,’ said Henry. ‘Add your voice to mine and we will let these traitors know that we are of like mind.’
‘I thank you, my lord,’ said Hubert. ‘You, Bishop, are at the root of this trouble. It is you who have incited these men. You want my position for yourself. I understand that well, but our king is no puppet to be jerked this way and that. He will choose his ministers where he likes – and I doubt very much that if I were removed from his services – which God forbid – that you would be chosen to take my place.’
Peter des Roches was white with rage. He shouted: ‘I tell you this, Hubert de Burgh, I will spend every penny I possess to prove that you are unworthy of office and to get you turned out.’
Then he turned and stormed out of the hall.
There was silence. Then Henry said: ‘We see what a malicious man we have in the Bishop of Winchester. I would have you know that I will no longer tolerate these rebellious subjects.’
Hubert said: ‘My lord, if you give me your wishes with regard to them I will act upon them.’
‘That I shall quickly decide,’ said the King.
‘In the meantime, my lord, we shall see that they do not have the opportunity of escape,’ said Hubert.
Stephen Langton said that such dissensions were bad for the country and he believed that troublemakers should be put where they could make no more trouble.
The assembly seemed to be in agreement and all except the rebels were delighted with the King’s show of strength.
The result was that shortly afterwards an assize was held at Dunstable and the castles of the men accused of treason were confiscated. De Breauté would not give in easily and he fortified himself at Bedford Castle and when the justices were on their way to deal with him they learned that he was waiting for them with men to capture them, and remembering his reputation for torturing his victims they decided to escape. There was one who did not succeed in this, Henry de Brayboc who was undersheriff of Rutlandshire, Buckinghamshire and Northamptonshire, and had at first supported John against the Barons but later had seen the Barons’ point of view and had changed sides. When Louis was defeated he had professed loyalty to Henry – as so many had – and consequently his lands were restored.
Brayboc was seized by de Breauté’s men and dragged into the castle where he was roughly treated. He was terrified, knowing the reputation of de Breauté, but fortunately for him one of his servants was able to carry the news of his capture to his wife and she lost no time in sending a message to the King, who was then with the parliament in Northampton. She pointed out that her husband, in his role of justice, had been arrested by a rebel when he was on the King’s business.
Henry was now realising that he must take a strong hand and how wise it was to let none say that he was afraid of his subjects.
He suggested that he would march to Bedford and there himself take de Breauté.
Falkes de Breauté was not the man to despair in such circumstances. In fact they appealed to him. His colleagues had dispersed and he was left to do lonely battle. All right, he declared, the castle could withstand the King’s army. If this was battle let it be; and so the siege began.
It continued all through June and July and into August. Falkes was excommunicated; and his wife declared that she had been forced into marriage with him and implored the King to give her a divorce and free her from the monster she loathed, the divorce was granted; but Falkes continued to hold out against the King’s army. Randulph de Blundervill, Earl of Chester, had begun to deplore Falkes’s methods. He was too crude; he should have known that he was beaten temporarily and withdrawn as Chester had, to fight another day. These bold defiant gestures would bring him no good and he should not have been such a fool as to imagine they would.
Chester joined the King and Falkes realised that he alone was to bear the responsibility of the rebels, for Peter des Roches had become very silent and was also content to wait for a later opportunity to oust Hubert de Burgh from his position.
The castle could not hold out indefinitely and on a hot August day Falkes was forced to surrender. Eighty of the garrison were hanged, but Falkes was held for trial.
He asked for an audience with the King which Henry granted. Then Falkes threw himself at Henry’s feet.
‘I have done wrong,’ he told him. ‘But you are a just king, my lord, and you will remember that there was a time when I fought side by side with your father. I served him well, and because you are a wise king you will remember that a man’s good deeds should be taken into consideration when he is being tried for his bad ones.’
That appealed to Henry and he sent Falkes to the Bishop of London where he was to remain until it was decided what should be done with him.
He was imprisoned for some time before it was agreed that he should be exiled. Then he was sent to France.
‘Let us hope,’ said Hubert, ‘that that is the end of this troublemaker.’
Then he told the King that he had shown himself fit to govern without a
regent; and with his permission he would send to the Pope and ask for his blessing, support and permission that the King from henceforth be the ruler of his people.
The King was savouring his triumph – for all agreed that he had shown himself to have the making of a strong ruler by the manner in which he had dealt with the rebellious Falkes de Breauté and his friends – when Hubert de Burgh came to him with news which he believed to be of the utmost importance to England and to the King.
‘Messengers have arrived from France, my lord,’ he announced. ‘The King of France is dead.’
‘So Louis is now King,’ Henry’s face hardened. He would never forget that for a short time Louis had been in England and was on the point of being proclaimed ruler of his country. If John had not died so opportunely, who could say what might have happened. Henry went on: ‘Perhaps now he will have enough to occupy him in France and will no longer look to England – for I believe that he has never failed to do that since we turned him out.’
‘There has always been conflict between France and England, my lord. It seems hardly likely that the death of Philip will change that.’
‘I am aware that my ancestors knew little peace. They had few opportunities of governing here because there was always trouble in Normandy. It almost proved the undoing of my father.’
‘Your father proved his own undoing,’ said Hubert soberly. ‘You, my lord, will I doubt not regain much that he lost, and not only your possessions overseas but the dignity of the crown through honour and justice.’
‘I pray God this may be so.’
‘That is good, my lord. Now let us look at this matter overseas and consider what it can mean to England.’
‘I can see only good in it. I do not have a great opinion of Louis.’
‘Louis is an honourable man – a good husband and father. Such men do not always make the best kings.’
‘He quickly relinquished his hold on England and went slinking back home.’
‘He knew the country was against him and he took the wise though not the bold action.’
‘Methinks, Hubert, he will want to stay within his own realms.’
Hubert was thoughtful. ‘I was not thinking so much of the King as the Queen. I believe that Blanche, now Queen of France, is the one we have to reckon with.’
‘A woman!’
‘You are too wise, my lord, not to know that they should never be lightly dismissed. There are some – and many of them, thanks be to God – who are content to administer to a husband’s needs, to work beautiful embroideries and decorate his house with their presence. But there have been some who have not been content so to remain. One of these I believe to be the Queen of France.’
‘She is a kinswoman of mine. It was because of her that Louis laid claim to the throne.’
‘She is your first cousin, being the daughter of your Aunt Eleanor who married Alphonso of Castile; her grandparents were therefore yours. It is difficult to imagine a granddaughter of Henry II and Eleanor of Aquitaine as being without spirit.’
‘So you think we must be watchful of Blanche, though she is married to a weak husband.’
‘I am sure you know, my lord, that it is a mistake to confuse a quiet demeanour with a lack of strength. Louis is not warlike. He does not wish to fight where it is not necessary and that could be called wisdom.’
Henry smiled to himself. He noticed how Hubert always prefaced his homilies nowadays with ‘I am sure you know’. Before his defence of him when he had been confronted by the rebellious barons and the Bishop of Winchester, he had delivered them in the form of lessons.
Henry said: ‘So you think we must be watchful of Blanche?’
‘You will agree that the English must always be watchful of the French, and what is happening in France will always be of the utmost importance to us here. We can never forget that. So, now Philip Augustus is dead and Louis and Blanche are on the throne. Let us consider what this will mean to us.’
‘What will it mean, Hubert?’
‘We must wait and see how events develop.’
‘And in the meantime,’ added Henry, ‘remember they are enemies, for that is what they must be. Louis and Blanche … and in particular Blanche.’
FRANCE 1200–1223
Chapter V
A CHANGE OF BRIDES
It was the first year of the new century; King John had been on the throne of England a year and Philip Augustus reigned in France. The affairs of these Kings seemed of little concern to the three girls who chatted together in their father’s court of Castile where the sun shone throughout the long summer days and the greatest excitement was the arrival of a troubadour who would enchant them with new songs which in a short time they would all be singing.
Their father, King Alfonso VIII, and their mother Eleanor, daughter of Henry II of England, were a well-matched pair. They loved the sun and music, and delighted in their court which under their influence was becoming one of the most cultivated in Europe. They enjoyed the company of their daughters, Berengaria, Urraca and Blanca, and took a great interest in their education. All the girls were handsome and intelligent; they were graceful, elegant and because music was of the greatest importance at the Court of Castile they were well versed in that art.
Contrary to the custom of the times Alphonso and Eleanor spent as much time as they could with their children; and they liked to pass their days in merriment and singing, dancing and the telling of tales.
Eleanor had much to tell and she was determined that her children should not be brought up in the manner she herself had. Life in the nursery of Westminster, Winchester and Windsor had been fraught with tension and it had been no different in Normandy or Poitiers. Wherever she had been her life had been overshadowed by the conflict between her parents and she had quickly learned that this was due to her father’s infidelities and her mother’s forceful nature which would not allow her to accept these with equanimity. When her father had brought his bastard into the nursery that had really been the end of harmony between him and her mother.
Eleanor remembered their shouting at each other and the culmination of their quarrels when her mother had roused his sons against the King their father and as a result had herself been imprisoned for many years.
She was determined that her children should know a happy home and the Court of Castile should be far away – and not only in miles – from those in which she had passed her childhood.
The girls always wanted to hear stories of her childhood and she had thought it good for them to hear that they might appreciate the happiness of Castile and their kindly parents.
Alphonso was proud of them and there was little he liked better than to be in their company. His fond eyes would follow them, admiring, loving and he would smile affectionately at his wife and say God had been good to them.
It was scarcely possible that such a paradise should not have its serpent. When she was very young Blanca thought this was the Saracens, because there was a great deal of talk about them and the name was spoken with awe and fear. Her father had constantly to leave them to fight the Saracens – and alas, he was not always successful. Then there would be gloom in the palace and the sisters would talk about the wicked Saracens and wonder whether they would ever invade the palace and carry them off to be slaves.
None of this happened and when she was nine years old Blanca realised that there could be as great a threat to the peaceful days as the advent of the Saracens.
She was nine years old when, one day, as the girls were at their lessons a message came for Berengaria, the eldest, to go to their parents who had something of importance to say to her.
Urraca and Blanca were a little put out, for usually the girls shared everything. They knew that visitors had arrived at the castle and that their parents had given them a very warm welcome and Blanca immediately said that the summons for Berengaria must in some way be connected with the visitors.
What it could be, they could not imagine, but they were not left
long in doubt.
Berengaria came into the schoolroom, her face blank as though something very bewildering had happened and she could not understand what it meant.
Her sisters immediately demanded to know whom she had met and what she had seen and why it was they were not invited to the meeting.
Berengaria sat down and blurted out: ‘I have been seeing the emissaries.’
‘What emissaries?’
‘Of the King of Léon.’
‘But why do you see them and not us?’
‘Because I am the eldest.’
‘But why … why?’ demanded Blanca who, although younger than Urraca, usually took the lead.
‘A terrible thing has happened. I … I’m going to be married to Alfonso of Léon.’
‘Married!’ cried Blanca. ‘You. How can you? You’re not old enough.’
‘They think I am.’ Berengaria flung herself at her sisters, clinging to them. ‘Oh, I have to go away … right away from here. I shall never see you again.’
‘Léon is not so very far away,’ said Blanca.
‘We’ll all come to see you and you must come here to see us,’ consoled Urraca.
‘You won’t be here. It’ll happen to you. You’ll both have to marry too.’
Urraca and Blanca looked at each other in dismay. It would happen, of course. It happened to all. Their long carefree days would cease and their enchanted childhood would end.
‘At least your husband has the same name as our father,’ said Blanca soothingly, ‘so he can’t be so bad.’
‘I wonder what the names of our husbands will be,’ said Urraca.
At which Berengaria cried out: ‘You are so young … too young to understand. What do names matter? I’m going away … right away … It’s never going to be the same again.’
Nor was it, for understanding had come to them. Like Adam and Eve they had eaten of the tree of knowledge, and they were now aware that life could change.