by Jean Plaidy
So Geoffrey Plantagenet came to the court of France.
Geoffrey was at this time in his late thirties. He was noted for his handsome looks and his habit of wearing a sprig in his hat of the planta genista which had earned for him the name of Plantagenet.
He was pleased to be invited to court. He could only believe that Louis had no heart for the fight. Geoffrey was determined to hold on to Normandy for the sake of his son Henry, who was now about seventeen.
There was one thing about which Geoffrey and his virago of a wife agreed and that was that their son Henry was not only going to keep his hold on Normandy but was going to take the crown of England on the death of Stephen.
Eustace, Stephen’s son, was not worthy of such honours - nor had he any right to them. He, Geoffrey, had no intention of going to England to settle that difference. Matilda had tried it and failed. It was not difficult to understand why. Their, son Henry would succeed he was sure when the time came. The boy must win his own spurs. And he would.
Still, if he were the heir to Normandy he would be in a better position to fight for the crown of England and it was all to the good that Louis had decided against going into battle on behalf of Stephen and his relations.
So with great confidence Geoffrey of Anjou, sporting a planta genista in his hat, came to Paris.
Eleonore watching from a window saw his arrival. A fine-looking man, she decided; it was long since she had seen one who reminded her, although faintly, of Raymond Prince of Antioch.
She would admit that he had not Raymond’s good looks, fine bearing and charm of manners. But he was not lacking in these qualities. And there was one important virtue so sadly lacking in her husband. Geoffrey Plantagenet was a man!
There was a friendly atmosphere at court. Louis, now that he had been persuaded by Suger, was delighted that there was to be no war. Theobald and his son were disappointed. He would try to make up to them in some other way.
He had explained to young Henry of Champagne that it would be wrong to indulge in a war against the Plantagenets on such an issue.
‘We must remember, my dear friend,’ said Louis, ‘that Geoffrey Plantagenet’s wife is the daughter of the late King of England, Henry I, and he was the son of William, Duke of Normandy who conquered England. Matilda has a claim to the Duchy which could never rightly be that of Eustace while Matilda has sons.’
Theobald and his son were angry. Louis was like a piece of thistledown, they said to each other, blown this way and that by the wind. They would have to try to persuade him later when the Plantagenet had left court.
But Geoffrey had no intention of leaving court just yet. He was finding it all so diverting and more than anything was he delighted by the interest of the Queen.
Eleonore had shown from the first that he interested her. She invited him to one of her musical occasions when she herself sang songs of her own composing. They were concerned with the joy of loving and being loved.
Geoffrey was not one to ignore such gentle innuendoes. Cursed with a wife for whom he had no affection or desire, for years he had been seeking consolation elsewhere.
Matilda was now an old woman of fifty. Eleonore was some twenty years younger. She seemed very young to him, and she was one of the most beautiful and attractive women he had ever seen.
That the Queen of France was light in her morals he knew full well. There had been rumours about her adventures during the crusade. Geoffrey of Anjou was not one to refuse what was offered.
Within a few weeks of his arrival at court he and Eleonore were lovers.
She liked to talk to him. He was a man of charm and easy manners. He reminded her very much of her uncle Raymond. Not that he could equal him - no one could do that, but the resemblance was there and very agreeable to her.
Not only did she enjoy their love-making but their conversation was amusing.
He told her of the wild conflicts that had ensued between himself and his wife.
‘She still calls herself the Empress because before she was married to me she was married to the Emperor of Germany.’
‘We have all heard tales of that virago,’ said Eleonore. ‘What a time you must have had with her!’
‘Think of the most difficult woman in the world and that is Matilda.’
‘And is she beautiful?’
‘She was handsome enough in her youth. But I was a boy of fifteen at the time of our marriage. She was twenty-five. She seemed an old woman to me. I never took to her. And her temper … it is beyond description.’
‘But you got three sons by her.’
‘We were at length prevailed upon to do our duty.’
‘And she loves these sons?’
‘Even Matilda is a mother. Our eldest is a fine boy. He’s going to rule England one day.’
That would be … Henry.’
‘Ah, young Henry. What a fellow!’
‘Is he as handsome as his father?’
‘He is the least handsome of my sons. Not tall, but stocky and he cares not for his looks. He refuses to wear gloves in the coldest weather and his hands are chapped and red. He despises the graces of living. He will be a man, he says. He is never still. He must be here, there and everywhere! He tires out all about him. He is a boy to be proud of.’
‘Tell me more of him. He is very young, is he not?’
‘Seventeen winters or so.’
‘And he is religious?’
‘His religion is to live every minute of his life to the full.’
‘I should like to see this son of yours,’ she said. ‘What does he feel for women?’
‘He likes them … he likes them very well.’
‘Like his father mayhap?’
‘Well, he has already sired two bastards, I hear.’
‘And he but seventeen! He is not a man to waste his time. I shall see him then?’
‘He will come to Paris to swear fealty to the King.’
‘He might have been my son-in-law. We did once think of a match between him and my daughter Marie.’
‘That was a match I greatly wished to see take place.’
‘It was old Bernard of Clairvaux who opposed it … on grounds of the strong blood tie between the two.’
‘That was what he said. I’ll dare swear he thought that such an alliance would give too much to our house. He was never a friend of ours.’
‘We talk much of your son.’
‘Yes, let us now consider ourselves.’
They did, and when in due course Geoffrey’s son Henry Plantagenet arrived at court, Eleonore was completely overwhelmed by the personality of the youth. He had a vitality which she found intriguing; a virility which was undeniable.
Geoffrey was a good lover but once she saw his son, Eleonore desired no other man.
She could not understand it. This youth was by no means handsome. That he was clever there was no doubt; he had an appreciation of literature which she found exciting. But it was his overwhelming manliness which attracted her.
She thought a good deal about him. Duke of Normandy and King of England, for there was no doubt in her mind as soon as she saw him that he would succeed in his undertakings.
Stephen would die and he would claim the crown of England and get it. Ineffectual Eustace would have no chance against him.
She wanted Henry. Not as she had wanted his father and others. This was different.
Henry was going to be a King. She wanted to marry him.
Alas, he was nearly twelve years younger than she was. As if she would allow such a trifle to stand in her way. A greater obstacle was the fact that she was married. She had asked for a divorce before, and failed to get it. She would renew her endeavours. It had been different then. Before she had been eager only to escape from Louis. Now she had the added incentive. She wanted a new husband. That husband must be Henry Plantagenet. And she made a vow that nothing was going to stand in the way of her getting him.
It did not take her long to lure him to her bed. He was sens
uous in the extreme and already expert in such matters. It had been said that he took after his grandfather, that other Henry, who used to dandle him on his knee when he was a baby and had set such store by him.
That he was cuckolding the King of France meant nothing to young Henry, except that it was something of a joke; and that the beautiful elegant Queen should be so eager for him - with his careless mode of dressing and his lack of fastidiousness - amused him even more.
He was always ready to enjoy himself.
When she hinted at marriage, he was alert.
Marriage for Henry Plantagenet with the heiress of Aquitaine! Not bad! Eleonore was a rich heiress. No one could turn aside from fruitful Aquitaine without a good deal of consideration.
It was a dazzling prospect. Eleonore and Aquitaine!
‘First of course I must divorce Louis,’ said Eleonore.
Henry agreed. He could not believe that that would be allowed. In the meantime there was no reason why he should not enjoy the hospitality of the Queen.
But Eleonore continued to think of marriage. She was determined to divorce the King of France and marry this young Henry Plantagenet for she believed there was little doubt that he would become King of England. Moreover she was passionately in love with him.
Louis paced up and down the chamber. The Abbe Suger watched him sorrowfully. His father had always feared that Louis had not the strength to make a king. He had made the Abbe Suger swear that he would stand beside him and guide him. He would need guidance. And indeed he did with such a wife. If only he had married a simple docile woman how different everything would have been! Instead of that this brilliant match had been made for him, and what had it brought him? Two girls and a wanton wife, a woman who was openly unfaithful.
And now she was demanding a divorce.
There were tears in Louis’s eyes as he faced Suger.
‘What can I do?’ he pleaded. ‘What can I do?’
‘You can tell the Queen that what she is asking is impossible.’
‘She will not let it rest there.’
‘The Queen must be made to do her duty.’
‘You do not know Eleonore.’
‘Not know the Queen! I know her well. She is without decency, without care that she should do her duty.’
‘I have never been the right husband for her. I have never been able to give her what she wanted.’
‘You gave her the crown of France, Sire. Was that not enough for any woman?’
‘Not for Eleonore. She wanted a lusty man.’
‘For shame! You gave her two children. A pity it is that they were not sons. But doubtless if you go on trying …’
Louis shook his head impatiently.
‘She has asked me to talk to you. She is determined to get a divorce.’
‘On the grounds of consanguinity?’
Louis nodded. ‘It is true that we are fourth cousins.’
‘You could divorce her on the grounds of infidelity.’
‘Nay, I would not do that. Suffice it that the blood relationship is there.’
‘I was saying that you could divorce her for her criminal conduct but you would be unwise to do so. If you divorce her the lands of Aquitaine are lost to the French Crown. Sire, there must be no divorce.’
‘She wants it. She will not rest until our marriage is broken.’
‘Think, Sire. What if she married again? Her husband would rule with her and if he was the owner of vast possessions what a powerful neighbour you would have in Aquitaine. Nay, Sire, I could never agree to a divorce for if the Queen married a powerful nobleman, there would be too much strength in the neighbourhood which would be uncomfortably close to France.’
‘She will give me no peace.’
Suger shook his head.
‘I shall oppose a divorce while there is life in me,’ said Suger, Louis sighed. He knew that Suger would never allow the divorce to go through and that Eleonore would fret and fume and make life intolerable for them both.
Riding back to Normandy the young Duke Henry was thinking about Eleonore.
What a woman! He had never had a mistress such as she was before. She excited him; there was a passion about her which overwhelmed him. He was glad that she was older than he was - eleven years was it? She was so experienced. He had never denied himself his pleasures, and strangely enough, although he was far from handsome, women found him irresistible. At least many had; but they were not of the calibre of Eleonore of Aquitaine. That she - Queen of France, and a woman of great experience who had been to the Holy Land and it was said had had her adventures there - should have found her need of him so great that she had lain with him in her husband’s palace, was the most exciting thing that had ever happened to him.
She was heartily sick of her monk-like husband. ‘He is no man,’ she had complained bitterly. ‘I would be rid of him. He shall go back to his Church and I will go to the bed of a husband who will know how to treat me there.’
And that husband was to be himself - he, not yet twenty years of age, a mere Duke of Normandy, had been chosen by the Queen of France. Of course he had prospects … oh, very great prospects; and many believed that he would fulfil their prophecies. Duke of Normandy, yes, but King of England too? Why not? His mother should be the sovereign of that country now, not that upstart Stephen.
And his Queen - Eleonore! He had to admit that it was an alluring prospect. She was beautiful; she had character; she was different from any other woman he had known; she was clever; she wrote songs and sang them charmingly. He could appreciate that.
He was glad now that his uncle Robert - his mother’s half-brother who was the bastard of King Henry I - had taken charge of his education. Uncle Robert was a man who set great store by education. He had said: ‘One day you will be a king and you cannot be an ignorant king.’ He had taken him to his castle in Bristol and there, as well as teaching him horsemanship and chivalry and how to wield a sword, he had made him study - and among his study was literature - under a man known as Master Matthew.
He had taken to learning as he took to anything that interested him. Now their knowledge of literature was a further bond between him and Eleonore, and when they were satiated with love-making they could chat idly of these matters. She said she had never known a young man so learned; he had certainly never known a woman as clever as she was.
And she could bring him Aquitaine.
The only thing that stood in the way of their marriage was that she was married already - married to the King of France.
‘He shall divorce me,’ Eleonore had cried. ‘He shall. He shall!’
And in the presence of such determination he could believe that she was right.
He was sure his father would be pleased. Geoffrey was an ambitious man. He had fought hard to secure Normandy for his wife, which meant for his son, Henry himself. The thought of allying Aquitaine with Normandy, Maine and Anjou would delight him. It meant that the Duke of Normandy would be more powerful than the King of France. As for his mother she was obsessed by England and she would rejoice in any move which made the family strong enough to take it.
It was full of confidence that Henry rode into the castle of Anjou to see his father. He knew that his mother would not be there and he must pay a separate visit to her. His parents were rarely together and although in their mature years there had grown up a kind of tolerance towards each other there was no affection between them.
His father was delighted to see Henry, who thought that he looked worn and unlike his usual rather jaunty self. He was handsome as Henry would never be. Yet there was something far more striking about the younger man’s vitality and he had a certain charm which his father lacked.
Henry sought an early moment of being alone with his father, but before he could tell him his news Geoffrey talked to him very seriously of other matters.
He seated himself on a stool, his long legs stretched out before him, looking at his son. ‘Be seated, Henry,’ he said. ‘I have much to say to
you.’
‘And I to you, Father.’
Geoffrey nodded. ‘I have much on my mind,’ he said. ‘Have you heard what Bernard of Clairvaux has prophesied? Nay, you could not or you would not look so unconcerned. He has said that I shall be dead within the year.’
‘Did you offend him then?’ asked Henry cynically.
‘A difference of opinion. He wished me to release that trouble-maker, de Bellay. I refused and in doing so he tells me I have displeased God who will be avenged.’
‘Is old Bernard in God’s confidence then?’
‘He is a holy man, Henry.’
‘A plague on these holy men! They work for themselves and deceive us … or perhaps themselves into thinking that their will is God’s. You are not disturbed by this prophecy, Father?’
‘I am, Henry.’
‘Then cease to be. I tell you that you are as hearty as you ever were. You have not yet seen forty winters. There are many more left to you.’
Geoffrey took the plant from his hat and studied it - the little planta genista which had given him his soubriquet. He held it out to Henry who took it wonderingly. ‘I shall invest you with lands and possessions without delay, Henry. You are my eldest son. You have brothers. We are surrounded by ambitious men. You are young yet … oh, but a man I grant you. From your mother you will have Normandy and England - from me, Anjou and Maine. To your brother Geoffrey I shall leave three castles in Anjou, but when you have become King of England you must give him Maine and Anjou.’
‘I care not to hear you talk of death,’ said Henry.
‘Bernard prophesied the death of the heir to the King of France and you know full well that almost immediately a wild pig entangled itself with his horse’s legs and threw him, and there on the ground was a sharp flint that broke open his head and entered his brain.’
‘I would not allow a man to prophesy my death, Father. If he dared do so I should call it treason.’
‘He is not my subject, Henry.’ His face lightened. ‘It may be you are right. But at the same time I am going to make a gesture. You and I are going to Paris and there I wish you to be formally acknowledged as Duke of Normandy. You know that Stephen of England has his eyes on Normandy for his son, so I wish there to be a formal ceremony during which Louis receives you as the rightful Duke, and you swear allegiance to him as your suzerain. I fear what would happen if I were to die suddenly.’