Plantagenet 1 - The Plantagenet Prelude

by Jean Plaidy

  ‘You are not going to die, Father. I’ll prophesy that, and why should you not believe your son instead of that old ghoul Bernard?’

  Geoffrey smiled and taking the sprig from his son replaced it in his hat.

  ‘All the same, Henry, I wish us to go to Paris, and we shall make preparations to depart without delay.’

  ‘Nothing would please me more although I have just left the French court. Now listen to my news which will make you smile. The French King and Queen are not on good terms.’

  ‘I know it well. The whole world knows it.’ Geoffrey smiled, remembering passionate moments with Eleonore.

  ‘There is talk of a divorce.’

  ‘Suger will never allow it. It would mean the loss of Aquitaine to the French Crown.’

  ‘The Queen is a very forceful woman.’

  ‘I know it well!’

  ‘And she has set her heart on divorce. In fact she has decided to marry again and has chosen her husband.’

  ‘She should get her divorce first before she goes as far as that.’

  ‘I have no doubt that she will succeed. Whom do you think she has chosen for her bridegroom?’

  Henry was smiling so complacently that his father looked at him with astonishment.

  ‘Yes, Father. She has chosen me.’

  ‘You!’ spluttered Geoffrey. ‘That is quite out of the question.’

  ‘I thought you would be delighted.’

  ‘Never!’ cried Geoffrey vehemently.

  ‘Have you forgotten that she would bring us Aquitaine?’

  ‘You cannot marry that woman.’

  ‘And why indeed not?’

  ‘She … she is married to the King.’

  ‘But Father, there is to be a divorce.’

  ‘There never will be.’

  ‘There will be. And if there is and she is free, you and my mother will rejoice. You must. Think of Aquitaine.’

  ‘You cannot marry Eleonore,’ cried Geoffrey.

  ‘I can when she is free.’

  Geoffrey was silent for a few moments. ‘Nay,’ he said. ‘You could not … not if she were free and even though she brought you Aquitaine. I would never give my consent.’

  Henry’s temper, which could be terrible, was beginning to rise.

  ‘Should I need your consent?’

  ‘You would need it if you would be my heir.’ Geoffrey looked steadily at his son. ‘In view of what happened between myself and the Queen of France I would never consent to the marriage.’

  ‘What mean you by that?’

  ‘I have known her well … intimately. You understand?’

  Henry stared at his father.

  Geoffrey had risen to his feet. He strode to the door.

  He looked back at his son. ‘For that reason,’ he said, ‘I would never give my consent to the marriage, never … never …’

  They were on their way to Paris. Henry had raged and fumed. He had cursed his father, the old Abbe Suger and everyone who was putting an obstacle between him and his marriage with Eleonore.

  So she was a woman of strong passions. He had known that. So she had adventured during the crusade she had made to the Holy Land. There were rumours about her relationship with her uncle and a Saracen, and his own father had admitted to committing adultery with her. Well, she was Eleonore and unique. The fact that she had passed through these adventures made her all the more desirable to him. Drama encircled her. Many a prince had his bride found for him and he was given a simpering virgin for whom he could have little fancy. He was not like other princes. He had always known he was unique. A great future lay before him and that future was going to be shared with Eleonore. The obstacles which people were putting in his way were going to be thrust aside. He would arrange that.

  And now to Paris. He would see her there. She would watch the ceremony when he swore fealty to her erstwhile husband, and at night he would creep into her bedchamber where they would make love and plans.

  So although he had raged against his father and all those who stood in his way, he was now content. He was certain of success. In the end and when it came it would be all the more enjoyable because it had not been easy to attain.

  What a joy it was to embrace her, to indulge in that violent and compulsive love-making. There was no one like her. Eleonore was different - a tigress compared with whom all other women were tame lambs. Moreover she could bring him Aquitaine. His father was being foolish to stand out against a marriage which could bring so much to Anjou and Normandy - and in due course England, and all because Eleonore had shared his bed. Poor Eleonore! A passionate woman married to a monk. What could be expected but that she should try out men now and then? It made her all the more appreciative of him, Henry, just as his amorous adventures made him certain that there was no woman in the world to compare with her.

  She was equally delighted with him. His love-making lacked the grace of that of Raymond of Antioch, but Henry’s was as much to her taste. His youth was so appealing. She was sure that Henry was the man she wished to be her husband.

  On the day of the ceremony she sat beside Louis on the dais and with glowing eyes watched the approach of her lover.

  Henry knelt before the King of France and asked that his title of Duke of Normandy might be confirmed by him. If the King would grant his permission he would swear fealty to him and remember as long as he held that title that he was the vassal of the King of France.

  He unbuckled his sword and took off his spurs. He laid them at the feet of the King of France and in return the King took a handful of earth which had been brought to him for this purpose as a symbol that he accepted Henry Plantagenet as Duke of Normandy.

  Then there was feasting and celebration with Geoffrey seated on one side of the King and Henry on the other, and the comforting knowledge that the powerful Count of Anjou and the King of France were allies.

  The lovers found opportunities to be together. They made love and talked of the future.

  His father was against a marriage; the Abbe Suger was against it; but they would find a way.

  ‘My father must be won over,’ said Henry. ‘As for the old Abbe he can’t last for ever. He looks more feeble every day.’

  ‘It must be soon,’ said Eleonore, ‘for I have sworn to be your wife and Louis is not and never has been what I want in a husband.’

  The fact that they were so often together was noticed of course. Courtiers smiled behind their hands. ‘First she tried out the father and now the son. No one can say that our Queen wastes time.’

  Geoffrey was powerless to prevent their meetings and in due course the King’s advisers told him that the Queen and the young Duke of Normandy were causing scandal at court.

  Louis sent for Geoffrey.

  ‘I think,’ he said, ‘that it would be advisable for you and your son to leave my court.’

  Geoffrey was of the same opinion. He was angry that Eleonore and Henry should be lovers. He would have liked to resume that role with her himself. But when they met she behaved as though they had never been anything but acquaintances, and she certainly found the son preferable to his father.

  ‘They shall never marry while I live to prevent them,’ he vowed.

  It would have been pleasant riding through the countryside if he had not had to leave Eleonore behind. There were however other matters to occupy Henry’s mind.

  He was now undisputed Duke of Normandy and that was pleasant to contemplate. If only Eleonore could have forced Louis to divorce her he would be quite content … at the moment.

  Geoffrey was determined not to discuss the matter of the proposed divorce. He had said it would never be granted and that put an end to the affair. He would attempt to arrange a suitable match for his son and that should not be difficult for the Duke of Normandy and his prospects would make young Henry a very desirable parti.

  The day had grown very hot and they were travel-stained and weary. They were approaching Chateau du Loir when Geoffrey said, ‘Here is a pleasant
spot to rest awhile. Let us stay here. Look, there is the river. I should like to bathe in it. That would be most refreshing.’

  Henry was willing. They called a halt and the party settled down under the trees while Geoffrey and his son and a few of their attendants took off their clothes and went for a swim in the river.

  They shivered delightedly in the cold water which was so refreshing after the heat of the day. They were loath to come out and when they did they lay on the bank talking.

  ‘Now that you are Duke of Normandy you will be ready to claim your other inheritance,’ said Geoffrey.

  ‘You mean … England.’

  ‘I do. The people would welcome you. They rejected your mother it is true and accepted Stephen, but they only did this because she made herself objectionable to them and Stephen was there and, weak as he is, he lacked your mother’s arrogance. They will be ready for you, Henry.’

  ‘Yes, soon I must go to England.’

  ‘You must make Stephen understand that you are the heir. He will try of course to give everything to his son Eustace.’

  ‘Never fear, Father. He shall not do that.’

  ‘You understand what a campaign like this means?’

  ‘There have been other campaigns, Father. You may trust me.’

  As they talked of England and how Eustace was a weakling, heavy clouds arose and obscured the sun. Before they could dress there was a downpour. Wet through they returned to their camp.

  That night Geoffrey rambled in his sleep. He was in a high fever.

  When the news was brought to Henry he went at once to his father.

  ‘What ails you?’ he asked but Geoffrey looked at him with hopeless eyes.

  ‘It has come, Henry,’ he said. ‘As he said it would.’

  ‘You’re thinking of that man’s prophecy. He should be hanged for treason. ‘Tis nothing, Father. A chill, that’s all. You stayed overlong by the river.’

  ‘I am shivering with fever,’ said Geoffrey, ‘and more than that there is knowledge within me that this is the last time you shall see me in the flesh.’

  ‘I refuse to listen to such talk.’

  ‘Your concern does you credit, my son. If I am not to depart with my sins on me, you had better send me a priest.’

  ‘Stop talking so. Have you not had enough of priests?’

  ‘Methinks I need one to help me to heaven, son.’

  Henry sent for a priest. The certainty that he was going to die was strong with Geoffrey. He wanted to talk to his son, explain to him the pitfalls which could entrap a young man. He himself had not enjoyed a happy married life. He did not want the same thing to befall Henry.

  ‘It should be a blessing, Henry, and it is often a curse. You should marry a good docile woman, one who will bear you many sons. At least Matilda gave me three. But my life with her, Henry, has been one continual battle. There was never love between us. I was ten years her junior. Never marry a woman older than yourself. She will dominate you.’

  ‘I would never allow any woman to dominate me, Father.’

  ‘That is what you may think, but there is a danger. I hated Matilda and she despised me. I was a child. Fifteen and married to a virago of twenty-five who had already been the wife of the Emperor of Germany. Imagine it. My life … our life together was a hell.’

  ‘My mother is a very difficult woman.’

  ‘She lost England by her temper. Think of it, Henry. Had she acted differently you would not have had to fight for England. It would have been yours.’

  ‘Never fear. It shall be mine.’

  ‘I doubt it not. But your mother has led us a fine dance. Her father grew to understand her. But he was determined that you should inherit the throne. He used to call you Henry the Second of England.’

  ‘That is what I shall become.’

  ‘It must be so.’

  ‘Doubt it not. No man shall put his will in the way of mine. No one.’ And he thought: That means you, too, Father. For I shall be King of England and Eleonore shall be my Queen.

  ‘Beware of priests, Henry. They will seek to govern you. You stand for the State, and the State and Church are struggling for supremacy now as they ever did.’

  ‘I know it well and will have no masters. None,’ declared Henry.

  ‘I say goodbye now, my son. Bernard’s prophecy is coming true. A pig killed the son of the King of France and a dip in a river killed the son of Fulk of Anjou; and both prophesied by Bernard.’

  ‘Heed not such prophecies, Father. You invite death by believing them.’

  ‘Nay, my son. Death is in this room. Can you not sense his presence? Farewell. You will rule wisely. Marry well and soon, and get fine sons. A man needs sons.’

  Geoffrey Plantagenet lay still and by the morning he was dead.

  Bernard’s prophecy had come true. Riding to his mother, Henry thought of what this would mean to him. He was master of great possessions and one obstacle to his marriage had been removed by death. He was only eighteen years of age. He could be patient a little longer.

  That indomitable priest, the Abbe Suger, whom Louis the Fat had instructed to guide his son, was no longer there.

  His passing was deeply mourned by the people for all knew him to have been a good man, and he was buried with great pomp at Saint-Denis.

  After the funeral Eleonore knew that now nothing could stand in the way of her divorce. It was only a matter of getting agreement from Louis. He was weary of the argument. Perhaps he too was beginning to be reconciled to a parting. Perhaps he realised that he would be happier married to another woman, for marry he must, since he still had to get a male heir.

  Eleonore was not the woman for him. Although he might divorce her on grounds of consanguinity everyone knew that he could have done so for adultery. Her reputation was well known. There had been many to witness her light behaviour during the crusade and the names of the Plantagenets, father and son, were mentioned in connection with her.

  Eleonore cared nothing for this. She was still beautiful; nor was she old; she would have many childbearing days ahead; moreover she was the richest heiress in Europe.

  With the opposition removed by the hand of Death, Louis’s resistance did indeed crumble. It was no longer a question of whether there should be a divorce but on what grounds.

  Louis’s feelings for Eleonore were so mixed that he could not entirely understand them himself. He knew in his heart that had she been contrite, had she given him her word that she would abandon her immoral way of life, willingly he would have taken her back. She had fascinated him; she still did; he could easily have forgiven her lapses from virtue if she had become a loving wife. He did not care for women generally, only Eleonore. He had loved her for herself, and the rich lands of Aquitaine had not influenced his feelings. But he did want a quiet, peaceful life and he knew he would never have that with Eleonore. He must divorce her, but if only she had given one little sign of contrition how happy he would have been to meet her halfway!

  Again and again he would think of her with her lovers. Her own uncle! That was even more criminal than the others. Then a rare anger would arise in him. I will divorce her for adultery, he thought, and it was in such a mood that he approached his ministers.

  But he was the King of France. He should not think of revenge, or his own personal feelings. He must only think of what was best for France.

  If he divorced her for adultery he could not re-marry, for according to the laws of the Church, once married its members were always married. It was his duty as King to marry again. He had only two daughters and the Salic laws of France would prevent their inheriting the throne.

  On the other hand if the marriage was ended because of consanguinity there would be no hindrance to remarriage because, since their close blood ties prevented their marriage being legal in the first place, they had never really been married, and either was free to marry again.

  As for the little girls Marie and Alix, they could be legitimised easily enough.

&n
bsp; It was the answer. The marriage would cease to exist because of the close blood ties of Louis and Eleonore.

  It was the solution most satisfactory to all.

  Eleonore was eagerly awaiting the outcome of the meeting of the council under the direction of the Archbishop of Bordeaux. She had taken up residence in the chateau close to the church of Notre-Dame de Beaugency where the decision was being made. She sat at the window, her eyes on the road. At any moment a messenger would come riding to the chateau and then she would know whether or not she was free.

  Once she had the news she would lose no time in meeting Henry and they would be married without delay.

  She would have to say goodbye to her daughters Marie and Alix. That had been her only regret. She had surprised herself by the depth of her feelings for her children; but she knew that even they could not compensate her for the loss of Henry, and she shuddered at the thought of spending the rest of her days with Louis for the sake of girls who would in a few years’ time marry and leave her.

  No, she was too full of vigour, too sensuous, too egotistical to devote her life to others.

  Henry was the man for her. She had known it in the first few weeks of their acquaintance. Strong, egotistical himself, and a sensualist, his nature matched hers. She had known from the first that even though she had a husband and Henry was eleven years younger than she was, he was the man she would marry.

  Now, in a fever of impatience, she waited for the messengers. At last she saw them. Two bishops attended by two gentlemen were riding into the castle courtyard.

  She ran down to meet them.

  ‘My lords,’ she said, ‘your answer.’

  ‘May we enter the castle?’ asked the Bishop of Langres reprovingly.

  ‘Nay,’ she cried imperiously. ‘I will wait no longer to hear the verdict. I command you tell me instantly without delay.’

  The bishop hesitated; then he looked resigned.