by Jean Plaidy
“Besides,” she added with the lovely smile I remembered so well, “it means that we can be together.”
There was so much to talk about during those days.
She told me of her life in Saxony, of how she had at first been impressed by her husband’s power. She described the ducal palace in front of which rose the column of Lwenstein at whose top was a great lion made of brass. It had been put there because her husband was known as Henry the Lion. He had received the title, a story ran, because when he was in the Holy Land he had watched a fight between a lion and a serpent; the lion was getting the worst of the combat, so Henry destroyed the serpent and the lion was grateful to him and became his companion, always at his side.
“Was it true?” I asked.
She shrugged her shoulders.
“Did you not discover from your husband?”
“He liked us all to believe it was true, but I could never say for sure.”
“Men like to preserve legends about themselves,” I commented.
“Henry wanted to make Brunswick the most beautiful city in the Empire,” she told me. “He built a magnificent church. I helped him in this. We planned to be buried there side by side. Who knows now?”
“Burials are a dismal subject,” I said, “and now we are together after all these years let us not be dismal.”
I learned a great deal about her life: the joy she had in her children and how she missed little Lothair, who had had to stay behind in Brunswick; she looked forward to the birth of another little one.
The quarrel with the Emperor Frederick had been their undoing. He wanted all the governors of the Saxon towns to accept him as their overlord. She had discovered his intentions while Henry was on a pilgrimage to the Holy Land, and she had sent a messenger to him to tell him of her fears. They were anxious days until Henry returned. Before he had left he had built Der Hagen, a hunting park, for her.
“I always remembered Woodstock,” she said. “I wanted to make a Woodstock there. Der Hagen was not quite the same, but I used to go to the hunting lodge there and think of England while I was waiting for Henry to come back. I thought a great deal of England, and it seemed a kind of haven to me then. But you know of our trouble and our exile.”
“I am glad of one thing,” I said. “It brought you here. Do not speak of it though. It makes you sad. Here you are and we are together. Let us be happy for a while.”
“And all this time, dear Mother, you have been a prisoner, my father your jailer.”
I laughed. “Don’t pity me, dearest child, for I do not pity myself—though sometimes the cold stones of Salisbury seem to seep into my bones. But I kept myself warm and I had good friends about me. My dear Amaria has been a great comfort over the years; little Bellebelle amuses me, and there are the other women too. They bring me news. I have enjoyed piecing it all together. It has been like a great picture puzzle to me, and I think that being apart from events I have perhaps been able to see them more clearly. I know so well all the actors in the drama, it is as though I sit before a stage watching their performances.”
“And now Henry is dead.”
I nodded. “Poor Henry. He always strove for the unattainable. Your father made the biggest mistake of his life when he crowned him.”
“He knows it, but it does not ease his pain. He thinks a great deal about Henry . . . and Richard and Geoffrey and John . . . all the boys. He knows Richard hates him, yet I think he admires him in a way.”
“No one could help admiring Richard.”
“Yet it seems it is John he loves now. He talks constantly of John.”
“He must be about seventeen now.”
“He is ambitious, Mother. He wants to be King.”
I laughed. “The crown is for Richard. Richard will be King of England.”
“But what of Aquitaine?”
“Richard will be the King of England and Duke of Aquitaine.”
“I think my father wants Aquitaine for John. I even think he wants the crown of England for him, too.”
“That will never be.”
“If my father decided . . . who could stop him?”
“Richard would. And he will never give up Aquitaine.”
She nodded. “Yes, Richard is a great warrior.”
“Have you seen John?”
“Yes.”
“Tell me, what sort of a man is he? I saw little of him in his childhood, you know. He was at Fontevrault and then under the care of Ranulf de Glanville.”
“I do not like Ranulf de Glanville, Mother.”
“No?”
“I think he has allowed John to go his own way. He . . .”
“Tell me.”
“He is dissolute. There are always women and . . . he is rather cruel. I think he finds pleasure in hurting people. He is like our father in one way. He falls into rages. He lies on the floor and kicks and gnaws the rushes.”
“That is certainly like his father,” I said.
“But our father is never unjust in rages. When they are over, he does not look around to vent his spite on anyone who happens to be nearby.”
“No, he did not do that. And John does?”
She nodded. “I know it may seem strange but I am sorry for my father now that he is turning to John. I think he is going to be very disappointed.”
“He was always a fool where his family was concerned. He could never see those who would be loyal to him. So now John is taking the place of Henry?”
“It would seem so.”
“From what you tell me, I would say ‘God help him’ then. And Geoffrey? You say little of Geoffrey.”
“He would be rather like John . . . but kinder. I think he is happy with Constance, and they have their little Eleanor. If John had someone like that . . . a wife to steady him . . .”
“Then we have to be grateful to Constance.”
“Geoffrey seems to be safe in Brittany. They accept him. I suppose because Constance is there. She is the heiress, in fact, and he is her husband, and as they seem happy together that pleases the people.”
“Let us at least be glad of that.”
There was much to be glad about during those days. Matilda would sit embroidering little garments for the child, and I would sing to her, read and play the lute. I sang some of the ballads I used to hear in my grandfather’s Court. How it brought it all back . . . those stories of gallantry, chivalry, of ladies rescued from tyrants, of unrequited love.
There were Matilda’s children to amuse us. They talked of their grandfather with affection. At least he had managed to win their hearts. They loved me, too. Sometimes I thought it a pity we did not forget ambition and become a happy family.
We talked of songs, and Matilda told me how, when Bernard de Borne was at Court, he used to write them in praise of her beauty.
“In truth they were for my brother Henry,” she said. “De Borne was in love with him. It was those verses of his which led to Henry’s death in a way. He flattered him and wrote of him as though he were a mighty warrior . . . invincible . . . and that was how Henry began to see himself. It was the reason why he thought he could get the better of our father.”
“Poor Henry,” I said. “He died penitent.”
“I pray his sins will be forgiven.”
“He did not repent,” I said, “until he saw that the game was lost. I suppose it is at such time that we all repent our sins.”
“I heard about the bed of ashes and the stone pillow.”
“Yes. A humble recompense. Let us hope God forgave him as his father did.”
So the days passed, and to be free and with my daughter was wonderful to me. I felt like a young woman—alive, vital, deeply interested in all that was going on around me.
It was a happy day when Matilda came safely through her confinement. She had given birth to a healthy boy and we called him William after his great ancestor the Conqueror.
We celebrated his birth with much merry-making, drinking a special spiced ale made with co
rn barley and honey, and I laughed maliciously when I saw that it cost the King 3.16.10, for I knew he would resent having to pay so much for a mere drink—which showed my attitude toward him had changed little.
Orders came for a move from Winchester to Westminster, and I was to accompany the party. So I was to be received back at Court! I had to thank my son Henry for this. His father could not refuse his dying wish.
A saddle ornamented with gold arrived for me. Clearly he did not want me to ride through the streets looking impoverished. He would not know what the people’s reaction would be, but one thing was certain: they would all be in the streets to see the Queen who for so long had been her husband’s prisoner.
I was going to enjoy this, particularly as I guessed Henry was thinking of it with some apprehension.
Clad in my red velvet gown with my fur-trimmed cloak, mounted on my horse with his gold-ornamented saddle, I rode to Westminster.
I had been right when I suspected that there would be crowds to see me. They watched in amazement. I knew I looked splendid. I had taken great care with my appearance, and I was practiced in the art of applying those aids to nature which are so effective. I had made sure that my dark hair looked almost as it had in my youth. My skin was unwrinkled; it had not been exposed to rough winds for years. They had been expecting an old woman; and in spite of my years I certainly did not look that.
At the palace I came face to face with Henry. He had aged considerably and was an old man now. All the defects he had had were more pronounced: the legs were a little more bowed; he leaned on a stick. I learned later that he had had a fall from a horse. Was it when Henry’s men had killed the horse under him? He had ingrowing toenails which caused him some pain. Poor old man! Was this the greatest soldier in Europe? He was still, I supposed. Age could not alter that completely. His hair was gray and there was much less of it than I remembered. He was still careless over his clothes; still the same short cape, the hands that were more reddened than ever.
Yet for all this, one only had to look at him to know he was a king.
I felt a sudden emotion. It was certainly not love. I would never forgive him for what he had done to me. Hatred? Yes, in a measure, but not entirely. A little pity because he was no longer active and must have hated leaning on a stick—and pity too, for the unrequited love he had given to his sons.
Then I thought with a glow of pleasure: You are an old man, Henry Plantagenet. You are older than I am in truth, although you are eleven years younger.
“You are beautiful still,” he said.
I bowed my head. I gave him one of those looks which implied that I could not return the compliment on his looks. He understood. We still knew each other very well, and even after all these years we could read each other’s thoughts.
“It is long since we met,” he went on.
“It was your pleasure,” I reminded him.
“It is now my wish that there should be no rancor between us while we are here.”
“Then the King’s wishes must be obeyed.”
His lips twitched; he was admiring me, I knew; and I felt my spirits rise. I knew that there would soon be conflict between us and I welcomed it.
I thanked him for the clothes and the saddle he had sent.
He smiled faintly. “I dareswear you needed them.”
“I did. I understand it is because Henry asked it that you freed me from my prison.”
“For this visit,” he reminded me.
“Then I must be grateful to him,” I said. He was moved at the mention of our dead son.
I said: “He was my son too. I knew the end was near. I saw him in a dream.”
He was too emotional to speak for a moment.
“He was a handsome boy,” I said.
“There was never one as handsome as he was.”
“The end was sad. All that conflict. I know you loved him dearly . . . more dearly than any of the others.”
“He turned against me. He was led astray.”
I wanted to say to him: No, it was not as simple as that. When you crowned him, you created a rival. You were to blame. He had no love for you . . . yet on his deathbed he remembered me. You made me a prisoner but you cannot take that away from me. In the love of our children I have something for which you would give a great deal.
But I said none of these things. I was sorry for him.
“We both loved him,” I said. “He was our son. We must pray for him.”
“Together,” he said. “None understands my grief.”
“I understand it,” I said. I looked at him and saw the pain in his eyes. “Because,” I added, “I share it.”
He took my hand and pressed it; then he lifted it to his lips.
For a moment our shared grief had taken us right back to the days when we had meant a great deal to each other.
Then the greatest joy I had known for years came to me. Richard arrived at Westminster.
I stood staring at him. He had changed. He was so tall. I had forgotten how handsome he was; it was those blond looks inherited from his Viking ancestors, those bluest of blue eyes which could look like ice and which glowed like flames at the sight of me.
“My mother!” he cried and I was in his arms. I could not help it but the tears were in my eyes.
“This is wonderful . . . wonderful,” I cried.
“At last,” he answered. “I have dreamed of this moment.”
“I have gleaned every bit of information I could about you. I have followed all you have done as far as I could. I have chafed with impatience because I could not know more. And now you are here. Richard, my dearest son.”
He looked at me, smiling. “There is no one like you,” he said. “You look wonderful. At first I thought it could not be. You are so . . . young.”
“I have kept myself young and I take a great deal of care to do so. There is so much we must talk of.”
“In secret,” he said.
“Oh yes . . . yes . . .”
“We shall find a way.”
“I intend to be at your side whenever I can be.”
“That shall be my endeavor, too. I have thought of you constantly. You have never been out of my thoughts.”
“You are to be a king now, Richard.”
“Aye,” he replied. “But he will do all he can to deprive me of my rights.”
“Hush,” I said. “We will talk of it later. We are going to prevent that, Richard. We are going to see that everything that is yours shall come to you.”
I was dazzled and bewildered. This meeting was something I had dreamed of for so long. I had never doubted that it would take place someday, but now it was here it seemed too wonderful to be true.
Later we contrived to be alone and we talked of Aquitaine.
“He can’t take it from you,” I said. “Aquitaine is not his to give or take. It is mine and I made you my heir.”
“He wants to give it to John.”
“Nonsense. I will never allow it. And you are the heir to England now.”
“He will try to deprive me of everything.”
“He will not succeed.”
“I am determined that he shall not.”
“He does not really want war between you.”
“No, he wants to get his own way without it.”
“We will defeat him. Why has he brought me here? Why has he suddenly released me?”
“Sancho of Navarre advised him to, and Henry asked it on his deathbed.”
“I know. But it would be more than that. He will have a reason which we shall discover in due course.”
“There is something else. All this time he has kept Alais here. She is my betrothed and everyone knows how it is between them.”
“She has been his mistress for years. Do you know what surprised me more than the fact that he has taken his son’s intended bride? His fidelity to her. I had never thought he could be capable of it, as he has been to her and was to Rosamund Clifford.”
“He does
not always act as one expects him to. I will not take Alais now. And I shall tell him why.”
“It is amazing how he keeps up the pretense. How old is she? She must be about twenty-five by now.”
“I prefer Sancho’s daughter Berengaria.”
“And it is Berengaria you shall have. Even your father would not expect you to take Alais now. What is wrong in Aquitaine, Richard?”
“I do not understand it. I have brought law and order to the land. It is quiet now but one is never sure when disruption will break out. They did not like my father and they do not like me.”
I said: “When my grandfather ruled, Aquitaine was happy . . . well, as happy as a state will ever be. There were always dissenters . . . but never on the scale that there have been since I went away. There was music and laughter in the Courts.”
“Bernard de Borne inflamed rebellion with his poetry.”
“That was because he flattered your brother and made him believe all he told him. Sometimes poetry can inspire men and women to greatness. Why will not the people accept my son?”
“They thought I was on my father’s side against you.”
“They hated my first husband, Louis, but not as much as they hated Henry.”
“They will hate anyone but you, Mother. You are the only one they will accept. I know of only one way to keep order and that is by strict application of the law. And that is what they will never wholly accept.”
“If I went back . . .”
“The King is a fool to keep you a prisoner. There are too many people who love and respect you . . . and admire you, too. I tell you this: as soon as I am King of England, I shall have you beside me.”
“I am fortunate,” I said, “to be so deeply loved.”
And so we talked, but we knew that Henry would have his reasons for bringing us all together and most of all for releasing me from my prison . . . if only temporarily.
Christmas was to be spent at Windsor. Preparations were in full swing to make this a very special occasion. For the first time for years the King and Queen would spend the festival together. Special wines were sent to Windsor with food of all description. Musicians, jongleurs, acrobats . . . nothing was spared to make this a memorable time. I guessed it would have been so without such trifles.