He put his face close to mine. “If you should need anything . . .”
“I will remember,” I told him.
He went reluctantly and I immediately called my women to me.
I said: “I do not trust the Count. He will attempt to come to this room tonight. Four of you will sleep here—and where is my esquire?”
They brought him to me—a fresh-faced young man, earnest and eager to excel, the sort who would be immune from bribes and therefore completely trustworthy.
“I am relying on you,” I said. “You see me here, not exactly alone but with a small company compared with that which the Count could muster. I believe he wishes me ill and I would be prepared. Lie outside my door, across the threshold, all through the night. Let no one pass. If anyone should come, shout and draw your sword, threaten to slay him, no matter who he is. Tell him my orders are that you shall let no one pass. No one is to enter my room without my permission. Shout. Make a noise. Wake the whole castle.”
“I will defend you with my life, my lady.”
And I knew he would. How right I was. It must have been just after midnight when we heard the commotion outside the door.
My young esquire was declaring: “On the Queen’s orders no one passes this threshold.”
Then came the Count’s blustering voice. “You young fool, do you realize that this is my castle, my room? Everyone under this roof is either my servant or my guest.”
“My orders are, my lord, that no one passes.”
The Count must have realized that he was awakening the household. He was just sober enough to see that his best plan was to return to his own apartment. The silly young fool, if he wanted to make such plans, he should give them more consideration and above all keep a cool head. He should have studied my grandfather’s methods.
I was temporarily safe but I must not stay another night in his castle. Perhaps even during this night the Count might sober up and the first thing such a bombastic young man would want to do would be to justify himself in my eyes and his own. He had means at his disposal; here in his castle he could easily subdue my little band. I must act promptly.
As soon as he had gone, I sent the esquire down to the stables to tell them they must make preparations to leave as soon and as quietly as possible. My ladies and I would make ready and join them in half an hour. We were in acute danger.
So, during that night, quietly we left Blois.
I often wondered what young Thibault thought when he awoke to find we had gone and that all his grand schemes for capturing Aquitaine had come to nothing. It would be a lesson to him—as it was to me.
The sooner I was married to Henry, the better; only then would I be safe from ambitious men.
We made our way out of Champagne to Anjou.
Anjou must be friendly territory. I surveyed it with pleasure. Anjou, Normandy . . . they were Henry’s, and soon Aquitaine would be with them, and, in time, I was certain England. What a brilliant prospect! I was not only going to marry the man I loved but acquire great possessions as well. We were completely suited to each other in every way. What a happy conclusion this would be to all my tribulations.
We were riding along merrily when in the distance I saw a figure—a lonely one this time.
“It seems,” I said, “that we have little to fear from one rider. I wonder who it is and why he rides with such urgency. I believe he is looking for us.”
This proved to be the case. The young man pulled up his sweating horse, leaped to his feet and knelt before me.
“My lady,” he stammered, “I come to warn you. You are riding into danger.”
“From whom this time?” I asked.
“From one who calls himself my master—Geoffrey Plantagenet.”
I cried: “The brother of the Duke of Normandy!”
He nodded. “There is an ambush a mile or so from here. Because of your friendship with my true master, I was determined to warn you.”
“Who is your true master?”
“The Duke of Normandy. I served him well and would do so again. He gave me over to the service of his brother and I have never been happy since.”
“I see. So Geoffrey Plantagenet would waylay us. For what purpose?”
“He plans to marry you, my lady.”
“Indeed? They say these Plantagenets are the spawn of the Devil.” I smiled. That applied to Henry, too. So his little brother Geoffrey thought to trap me, Geoffrey the ne’er-do-well, the brother whom Henry despised.
I looked at the young man. I had learned to judge people and I trusted him. The recent experience with Thibault had sobered me considerably. There would be other upstarts who thought they could abduct me, perhaps even rape me and force me to marry them, just to give them possession of my rich duchy. It was the well-worn way in the past for gaining coveted lands. But these little men had not the gift for it.
I said: “I believe you. You will ride beside me and lead us away from the ambush.”
So he did, and it was a pleasant experience for me because not only had I foiled the ambitions of Geoffrey Plantagenet but I was able to talk of my lover to one who knew him well.
There was no doubt that he idealized Henry. I was to discover that Henry had a certain quality which bound men to him. He was a born leader and never in the years to come did I doubt that.
The young man had been heartbroken when he had been assigned to the weak brother. He did not wish to serve Geoffrey Plantagenet, who was jealous of Henry and hated him. Their father, realizing the worth of Henry and the worthlessness of Geoffrey, had left the younger son only three castles.
“His father was a wise man,” I said.
“So I think, my lady, and when I heard that there was a plot to abduct you and force you to marry Geoffrey, I knew that was not what my lord Duke of Normandy would wish.”
“How right you were! I am grateful to you. I promise you that you shall stay in my household, and I think it very likely that I shall be able to persuade the Duke to give you back your place in his.”
How fortunate I was in that loyal servant of Henry’s. When we reached Poitiers in safety, the first thing I did was to send the young man with a message to Henry to tell him that I was in my capital city, awaiting the coming of my bridegroom.
What joy to be home! I should never feel toward any other place that which I felt for my native land. The people welcomed me. They rejoiced in the divorce. They had never liked to feel they were under the yoke of France.
They shouted their greetings; they cheered me. “Now Aquitaine will be the land of song again,” they said.
It seemed the whole world knew of the divorce. That troubled me not at all, but I did realize that my marriage to Henry must take place soon, for I had an idea that Louis would do everything he could to prevent it. The last husband he would have wanted for me would have been Henry. He would think, as all his ministers would: Anjou . . . Normandy . . . Aquitaine . . . that would make Henry almost as powerful as the King of France; and if he succeeded in taking the crown of England, he would be one of the most powerful rulers in Europe.
Louis, therefore, would be urged to prevent our marriage, which he might be able to do, because until Henry was King of England he was Louis’s vassal.
I wanted no hindrances. There had been enough of those. What I wanted was the ceremony to be over quickly. I wanted to be Henry’s wife at the earliest possible moment.
How wonderful it was to be once more in the Maubergeonne Tower. Memories of my grandfather came back to me. I thought: This will be once more the Court of Love.
I was a little pensive, for somehow I could not imagine Henry sitting on a cushion singing ballads. He never sat when he could stand; he was restless, a soldier, not a poet but a man of action. He was not gallant like my grandfather who had always known how to turn the gracious phrase; after all, he had been a poet of some standing. Henry was curt almost to the point of brusqueness; he did not pay compliments; one deduced from the intensity of his love-making t
hat he found one desirable.
I would have to adjust my ideas to suit this most exciting of men, and this was what I would do. But even in the very depth of my obsession for him, I knew that I should always be myself, and that could not change for anyone . . . not even Henry.
There was a great deal to do. The French officials had left now, to the joy of the people. Aquitaine was mine to rule, and I must set about the task without delay. It was good for me to have so much to do, for the waiting was irksome. I appointed my advisers; there were many meetings with them. They must all swear fealty to me once again for I was now solely Duchess of Aquitaine in my own right and not Queen of France under the King.
I knew Henry would come as soon as he could. He would understand the need for speed. He wanted this marriage as much as I did. I would not allow myself to ask the question: Is it me he wants or Aquitaine? She was my rival, this beautiful country of mine. No one could assess me with her; but together we were the most desirable partie in Europe. I told myself I would not have had Henry indifferent to my possessions. He would have been a fool if he had been, and I was not a woman to tolerate fools.
Do not question, I admonished myself. Accept . . . and you will be the happiest woman on Earth.
At last he came. What a day that was! I saw his party in the distance, for I was ever watchful. So I was in the Courtyard to greet him. He leaped from his horse and lifted me in his arms, and I thought: This is the happiest moment of my life.
We must be alone together. We must make love. It had been so long that I had forgotten how exciting it was. He had arranged the wedding, which must take place without delay. He would not delay in any matter, I was to discover; and the wedding was no exception.
He was amused, guessing what a storm it would raise.
“At last you are free,” he said, “because of your close relationship with Louis. What of our relationship, my love?”
“I know,” I answered. “We are both descended from Robert of Normandy.”
“And not so far back! You and I are more closely related than you and Louis. There is a joke for you.”
“I know. I know.”
“And what will the King of France say when he hears you are married to me?”
“He will say . . . or his ministers will: ‘Anjou . . . Normandy . . . Aquitaine and possibly England.’”
“That is just what they will say, and they will be wrong with their ‘possibly England.’ It is going to be ‘certainly England.’”
“Of course.”
“I care not two bad pears for what Louis thinks.”
“Nor I. So why do we concern ourselves with him?”
“We shall not, though he could stop us if he tried. It’s this matter of suzerainty. So let us get the deed over with . . . quickly. That is my wish. Is it yours?”
“It is. Oh yes, it is.”
“Then so shall it be. We do not want a grand ceremony. I should not in any case. I hate prancing about in fancy costume like a play-actor. You will have to take me rough like this.”
“I’ll take you as you are,” I said.
“And you, my love, will have to be the elegant lady . . . but you are that without effort so I will accept it.”
And so we talked and planned; and on that May day of the year 1152 in my native city, without the pomp and ceremony which is usually such an important part of the proceedings when people like Henry and myself are united, we were married.
It was a wonderful day—less than two months after the divorce for which I had so craved—and I was happy.
We had a little respite before we should be caught up in what must inevitably follow. They were exciting days which passed all too quickly. I had been carried away by the magnetic and overwhelming personality of this man; I had thought of little else but him since I had first seen him. I knew he was a great man, and my instinct told me that his life would be eventful and triumphant. I had known soon after I saw him that, above all things, I wanted to spend the rest of my life with him.
During those days I began to learn something of the man beneath the faade, and gradually the true Henry began to emerge.
Henry’s Wife
THE TWO WEEKS WHICH followed my wedding were the most exciting, surprising and revealing I had ever known. I was idyllically happy. I had the man I wanted. But it became clear to me during the days after our wedding that I had a great deal to learn about my husband. When there is such an all-consuming physical passion as there was with Henry and myself, although one seems to grasp in an instant that there is complete sexual harmony, one can be quite ignorant about the person involved. Blinded by physical demands, one ignores characteristics which would be obvious in others.
When I looked at him, with his square, thick-set figure made for agility rather than grace, his bow legs, his wide, thick feet, his close-cropped sandy-colored hair, his bullet-shaped head and his rough red hands, I marveled that I, who had been brought up in the most elegant of Courts, could have this feeling for him. His eyes were gray and rather prominent but they were quite beautiful in repose; but I was to see them raging in fury, and then they had quite a different aspect.
He was different from anyone I had ever known. He conformed to no pattern. He hardly ever sat still. He would wander about a room as he talked; there was no refinement in his speech; he never couched his expression in soft words; what he meant to convey came out bluntly, right to the point. He did not care to sit and eat in a civilized manner. He seemed to think it a waste of time. Food did not greatly interest him. It was something one must take for nourishment, and that was all it meant to him. I did not then ask myself why he had captivated me; during those two weeks when we were together every minute of the night and day I was obsessed by him.
He was well educated—his parents had taken care of that—and he was fond of learning. He had read a great deal, which amazed me in one so active. But as long as he was doing something which seemed to him worthwhile he was contented; and reading must have seemed that.
He had little admiration for poets and minstrels and regarded them with a certain contempt. When I look back, it seems to me that, if I could have chosen someone as completely different from myself as possible, I might have chosen Henry.
How we talked during those blissful days. He told me a great deal about his parents. There was no doubt that he had a great affection and admiration for his mother, the forceful Empress Matilda. He was proud of her although she did fail so dismally to regain her kingdom.
“It was hers by right,” he said. “Was she not the daughter of the King? Stephen had no right to take England from her. She should have been Queen.”
“I should have thought the people would have rallied to her,” I replied. “Was it because she was a woman that they turned to Stephen?”
“No. Stephen is as weak as water . . . but he has charm. He is affable. He is approachable. He smiles on them and they like him, in spite of the fact that he is ruining their country. Matilda . . . well, she is a haughty woman. She cannot forget that she was Empress of Germany. The English do not like her manner.”
“Did she not see that she was spoiling her chances?”
“My mother is not a woman to take advice. Her life has not been easy. She was five years old when she was sent to Germany to marry the Emperor. He was thirty years older than she. There she was made much of, spoiled for discipline forevermore: She was unprepared for what was to follow; and when he died and she was brought home, she was twenty-three years old. She clung to the title of Empress—indeed, she still calls herself Empress now and insists that others do. She is a very forceful woman, my mother; and when at the age of twenty-five she was married to my father, she considered him far beneath her. She was ten years older than he, and she despised the boy of fifteen who was descended from the Counts of Anjou—who in their turn were descended from the Devil. Imagine it. Poor Mother.”
“Since she is so forceful, the daughter of a King and the widow of an Emperor, I wonder she did not re
fuse to marry him.”
“Her father was even more forceful. Matilda wanted the throne, so she was obliged to submit. For years she would have little to do with my father. She despised him and let him know it. Then after about six years she decided to do her duty and I was born. A year after me there was Geoffrey and after him William. So at length she produced the three of us.”
“You are fond of her and were fond of your father too.”
“They both did their best for me, but we boys were brought up in a Court where there was continual strife. I have never known two people to hate each other as they did.”
“Perhaps it has made you strong.”
In turn I told him of my childhood, of those first five years spent in my grandfather’s Court. I told of the jongleurs and their songs which enlivened the long evenings while the fires glowed and the light was dim. I told him of my bold grandfather and Dangerosa, and the miracle which Bernard had conjured up to show my father the error of his ways.
He told me of the beautiful woman who had wandered into his ancestor’s castle and so charmed him that he married her, and how sons were born to her, how she always made excuses why she could not go to church and one day when she was prevailed upon to do so, she was confronted by the Host and suddenly disappeared and was never seen again.
“This is the story which gives rise to the legend,” he said. “They say the woman came from Satan and that we Angevins are the spawn of the Devil.”
“Am I to believe that?”
“You will discover,” he replied.
They were wonderful days which I wanted to go on forever, but of course they could not. He was restless; he had lands to conquer. I should have to wait for these periods when we could be together. I told myself that they would be the more precious because I had to wait for them.
Henry had placed people all over France and England. He said that if one was going to take the right action one must know what the enemy planned. He must have as much information as possible. It was from one of his men that we heard about the reaction to our marriage at the French Court.
Jean Plaidy - [Queens of England 05] Page 19