“I suppose they should have something.”
“Geoffrey has shown that he cannot even hold his own castles. You must come back to Normandy with me. Eleanor can look after matters here. She has good men around her, has she not?”
“She has. There is Becket, my Chancellor, in whom I have great trust, and there are Robert of Leicester and Richard of Luci. Yes, that is what we must do. I will come back with you and settle this brother of mine once and for all. And Eleanor will make sure that all is well here. My two generals . . . I am lucky to have you both.”
“You can put your trust in us—can he not?” said Matilda to me.
I agreed that he could.
I was sad that he was going away so soon, but I was reconciled that this would be our way of life. And at least he did me the honor of respecting me to such an extent that he could leave me in charge.
He and Matilda departed. The matter was urgent and once he had decided on a course of action, Henry could never delay.
I was very busy. I had conferences with the Earl of Leicester and Richard of Luci. I liked them both and we understood each other well.
Then one night the nurses came to me in great distress. Little William was fighting hard for his breath, and they feared that he was very ill indeed.
We had had many alarms with William and I was constantly anxious about him. I called in the doctors but, alas, there was nothing they could do. My little William, the boy of whom I had been so proud, passed away while Henry was in Anjou fighting his brother.
I was very sad. I had loved the girls I had had from Louis, but Henry’s boys were especially dear to me.
It was while I was mourning for William that I found I was once more pregnant.
Henry returned from Anjou. He was triumphant. Naturally Geoffrey’s pathetic little revolt had been put down. He did have a certain conscience though, for it was true that his father had said that, when Henry came to the throne of England, Anjou should go to Geoffrey.
Henry explained it to me. “To give it to him would be to throw it away. If my father had really known what he was like, he would never have agreed to that.”
“But he had done so.”
Henry went on: “I have told him he cannot have Anjou . . . or Normandy. I must make sure that they are safe. I have compromised with him and I think he is satisfied. An income for life . . . a handsome income . . . on condition he leaves Anjou to me.”
“That should suffice,” I said.
“My mother will look after Normandy, and if there is any trouble and I have to leave England, you will look after this country for me.”
“We are a close triumvirate,” I replied.
“That is so, my love. You and my mother are my two most trusted generals, as I have told you.”
He was delighted that I was once more with child.
His friendship with Thomas Becket was growing in a manner which surprised not only me. The two were becoming inseparable. They hunted together, hawked together, rode, walked and talked. Like others I could not understand this attraction. They were so unlike each other. Becket was meticulous in his dress; he always wore the finest clothes. He had a love of luxurious living which ill accorded with his calling but which I have often found a characteristic of those who come to gracious living rather than were born to it. True, at Pevensey Castle, where he had spent many years with Sir Richer de l’Aigle, he had developed a fondness for easy living which stayed with him. There was a natural elegance about him; I could understand Henry’s regard for him; but this intense friendship was strange indeed.
Becket was a man of the world, churchman though he might be. That he was unusually clever, I had no doubt. He gave the impression of one who had no regard for ambition. He made no concessions to royalty whatsoever; he treated the King as his equal and had no hesitation in disagreeing with him if he thought fit. It might have been that which Henry found so refreshing. There was no doubt that the man had an unusual charisma.
Henry set him to organize the refurbishment of the palace in the Tower of London, a task which Becket performed with great competence—and extravagance.
Henry was amused and chided Becket about the cost, asking him how he, as a churchman, could spend so much on luxuries for the King when the money might have been spent in helping the poor.
“And what do you think his answer was?” said Henry to me. “‘Better to have a well-housed King than leave him so uncomfortable that his temper frays from time to time.’”
Henry slapped his thigh, indicating how the remark had amused him. Becket was, of course, referring to the King’s rages.
“I pointed out to him that my temper frayed no matter where I was housed, and when I was provoked my rages overcame me.
“‘You admit to weakness,’ he said. ‘That is one step along on the road on which God will guide you.’ What do you think of that?”
“That this man takes great liberties with the King.”
“He cares not for kingship. I am a man. He is a man. That is how he sees it. Becket says what is in his mind. That is why conversation with him is so interesting. He is such an amusing fellow in a quiet and witty way.”
“He should take care that you do not fly into one of your rages with him.”
“With Becket? Never!” He laughed. “Though it would be amusing to see his reaction. I know what he would do. He would stand looking on in silence, watching, and then ask God to forgive me my waywardness.”
“And you would merely say, ‘Thank you, my good and faithful servant, for interceding with your good friend the Almighty on behalf of your humble sovereign.’”
He laughed aloud.
“You must admit he is a great man.”
He went on smiling, evidently thinking of some aspect of their conversation which amused him.
It certainly was a most incongruous friendship, and there was hardly a day when they were not together.
In due course I brought forth a daughter. We both wanted to call her Matilda after Henry’s mother. She was baptized in the priory of the Holy Trinity at Aldgate, which was appropriate, as the priory had been founded by Queen Matilda, the wife of Henry’s grandfather.
I still mourned William, but little Henry had consoled me, and this one was an added comfort. But soon after her birth I began to grow restless. It is probably a state in which women find themselves after childbirth. There is so much preparation before the child appears and one is carried along on a tide of serenity, but when the child is there, life for a time seems lacking in purpose and one feels the need to take some action.
I found the gray skies depressing. I saw the sun too rarely and I felt a longing for my native land.
Henry was in France at this time. There was more trouble over Anjou. I knew that Geoffrey would never be content. He was a born troublemaker.
Suddenly I decided I would consult no one. I would go and visit my own country, taking the children with me.
A great excitement possessed me. I was going home . . . perhaps only briefly, for I should never forget that I was Queen of England. I could leave the country in the good hands of Leicester, Richard de Luci—and Becket, of course. So I gave orders to make ready for the journey.
I joined Henry in Anjou. He was pleased to see me and, having settled matters there, agreed that we should take the opportunity, being on the spot, to make a progress through Aquitaine to remind the people that we were their rulers.
I was delighted at the prospect. Alas, I was less contented as the tour proceeded, for, although I was welcomed warmly by my people, it was not the case with Henry, and they did not hide the resentment they felt toward him.
Henry had declared that the government of Aquitaine was inefficient. It was not good enough, he said, to have the province defended by individual castellans who looked after their immediate surroundings. There should be a head of government, and of course that must be Henry, and deputies appointed by him to take charge in his absence according to his wishes.
I
knew them well enough to realize that they were asking themselves: Who is this upstart who has married our Duchess and now thinks he owns us? He is worse than the King of France.
It was not as it had been. Alas, life does not stand still. Change comes . . . a little here, a little there, and soon the whole picture is different.
I tried to make my Court at the Maubergeonne Tower what it had been in the past, but it was not the same. I had my troubadours, and I was delighted to see Bernard de Ventadour, who had earlier graced my Court with his verses and his rendering of them in exquisite music.
Henry had his life—his rough riding, his forays into the countryside, his journeys, his friendship with Becket. I would have mine. I did not care for the outdoor life. I longed for those days when I had my poets around me singing of romantic adventures. And I was going to have it.
I kept Bernard de Ventadour with me. He raised my flagging spirits. It was wonderful to be courted and loved through his music. I had been brought up in such an atmosphere, and it was natural that I should re-create it.
This was Aquitaine, not England.
I had a notion that Henry had something on his mind and that it concerned me. I would catch him watching me covertly, as though he were assessing me.
He came to the hall one evening when Bernard de Ventadour was lying at my feet singing one of his love songs. My ladies and the gentlemen of the Court were listening intently. The song was about the beauty of the loved one, who was too high and noble for the singer to reach.
Henry stood, legs apart, head thrust forward, glowering at Bernard, who went on singing unfalteringly and perhaps putting more expression than ever into his voice, while his warm southern eyes rested on me.
“By the eyes of God,” cried Henry, “what nonsense!”
Then he turned and strode away.
Bernard went on singing.
When he had finished there was halfhearted applause from those who did not know what action to take. I knew it was no use ignoring the incident, so I said: “The King did not like your verses, Bernard.”
“If the Queen liked them, that is all I ask.”
There was a breathless silence. I was asking myself, could Henry really have been jealous?
I was a little afraid for Bernard, knowing how violent Henry could be. Indeed, I had been astonished by his restraint. He might well have commanded Bernard to stop singing, even ordered him to leave. I did not want that to happen. I would try to placate him, and perhaps it would be better if Bernard were slightly less prominent for a while.
When I was in our apartment, Henry came in. He looked at me, his tawny eyebrows raised a little. He was not going to wait for me to comment. He was coming straight into the attack.
“That insolent fellow will have to go.”
“Are you referring to Bernard de Ventadour?”
“Bernard de Ventadour! A fine name for a serving wench’s bastard.”
“Oh, come,” I said. “We are talking about a great poet.”
“Poet!”
“Indeed yes, and recognized as such by people who know of such matters.”
“Which I don’t, eh? I have better use for my time than listening to such jibbering. Insolent dog.”
“Insolent! He has never shown me anything but the utmost respect.”
“And he has shown me something, too. He is your lover.”
“What nonsense!”
“That stuff he was singing . . .”
“You must know it was just poetic imagination.”
“Imagination! Tell him he can go back to the kitchens from which he came. They can find a place for his imagination down there among the spits and pots.”
“I thought you liked those who are intelligent.”
“I could have his tongue cut out. That would put an end to his licentious driveling.”
“Do you think my people would allow that? Already you are no favorite of theirs. This is my country, Henry. You would do well to remember that.”
I saw the color coming into his face. He tore off his cloak and flung it from him. He lay on the floor and kicked at the wall. He gnashed his teeth, biting the flounces about the bed.
I watched him. I had seen these rages before, but there was something not quite the same about this one. The thought flashed into my mind: He is staging this. There is something behind it. He is performing for my benefit.
On other occasions when I had seen those senseless rages I had been alarmed . . . for his health, for his sanity. I had indeed thought he was possessed by devils and there was something in that story about his ancestry. But this was different.
He was shouting obscenities about Bernard and me.
I drew in my skirts and walked past him, out of the apartment.
Henry said no more about Bernard de Ventadour, but I advised the troubadour not to sing when he was present. I told him I feared the King was jealous and when he was enraged he could be terrible.
Bernard was no fool. He might say that he only cared for me and that the opinions of others mattered not to him, but Henry was formidable, even in Aquitaine where he was unpopular.
I was once more pregnant and was beginning to wonder whether my life was to be spent bearing children. It was true that I had wanted them and that I now had only one son, but I did feel that the pregnancies were too frequent, and a little respite in between would be desirable.
My sojourn in Aquitaine had been a disappointment. It was no longer the same, for while the people loved me and accepted me as their Duchess, they could not forget that I had a husband and that he was trying to force his rule upon them. They did not like it. He did not understand them and they did not understand him. He thought that what was successful in England could be successful here. We were a different people. We had lived too long in the sun; we did not care for discipline; we liked to go along smoothly, effortlessly. Henry was quite alien to these people. They could not understand his restlessness, his love of law and order, his immense energy.
I wanted to go back to England. I found life too depressing in the sunshine of my native land.
It was February when we arrived in England. Henry had gone to Anjou. He was still concerned about troublesome Geoffrey. Matilda was as good as a general, and Normandy was in excellent hands; he trusted those in England. But I knew he would be with me as soon as possible.
He would be missing Becket, I thought ruefully.
I was feeling well in spite of my pregnancy. I was getting used to that state now.
An uprising on the Welsh borders brought Henry back to England before Easter. This was what we had to expect from life, I supposed. As soon as one little corner was safe, there would be trouble in another.
With his unbounded energy he set about getting his army together. The Welsh campaign was not a great success. The Welsh were fierce fighters, and the victory Henry had expected had not come. Instead he was all but defeated and shrewdly he quickly made a concession to the Welsh which would confine them to their own country and make the border safe.
He came back less triumphant than usual. We had an affectionate reunion, but again I had that feeling that he had something on his mind.
We were alone in the bedchamber when he looked at me steadily and almost defiantly said: “We shall have another in the nursery.”
I naturally thought he was referring to the child I was carrying and I replied: “I wonder if this one will be a boy.”
“It is a boy,” he said. “His name is Geoffrey.”
I stared at him. I saw the defiant look in his eyes and I knew. He had been preparing me for this. His mock rage over Bernard de Ventadour was when he was wondering how to broach the subject. He had been hinting at my infidelity to excuse his own. And now he had decided to exert his rights and to let me know he was the master. Hence his arrogance.
“Geoffrey?” I said. “And who might this Geoffrey be?”
“He is my son.”
“Your . . . bastard?”
“Yes, of course. S
ince he is not yours he must be.”
“And you want to bring him into the royal nursery?”
“I am bringing him into the royal nursery.”
“Without consulting me?”
“I am telling you of my wishes now.”
“And you think I will consent to this?”
“He is coming tomorrow.”
“No!”
“But yes. It is good for him to be with his brother and sister.”
“I do not understand how you can behave like this.”
“There is much you have to learn of me then.”
“These are my children.”
“Mine too, I hope.”
“How dare you!”
“Why so outraged? Your reputation is not exactly chaste.”
“And yours, my lord?”
“Not chaste either. I have never questioned yours. Why should you mine?”
“How old is this boy?”
“A little older than Henry.”
“Then . . . so long ago . . . you were unfaithful!”
He looked puzzled. “Madam, I was far from home. Do you expect me to live like a monk? There are women, of course. They mean nothing . . .”
“And this one . . . the mother of the boy . . . she means nothing to you?”
“Nothing at all.”
“Yet her bastard . . .”
“Is mine also. I care about the boy.”
“How do you know this child is yours?”
“I know.”
“Men can be fooled, you understand.”
“I understand that in him I am not mistaken. He will arrive tomorrow. He is to be treated as the others.”
I was speechless with rage—not so much by the prospect of having the child in the nursery as that almost immediately after our marriage he had been unfaithful to me.
He went on: “He will be brought here and he will come straight to the nursery. He is a pleasant child.”
“Are we to have a succession of your bastards invading the nurseries?”
“It is only this one whom I wish to have here at the present.”
Jean Plaidy - [Queens of England 05] Page 24