England was peaceful, and Robert of Leicester and Richard de Luci were capable of firm governing. So I went.
Henry was delighted with the new baby.
“There is nothing like a bevy of sons to strengthen the throne,” he said.
“Perhaps too many could make trouble,” I reminded him. “Think of your brothers.”
“There you have a point,” agreed Henry. “But my sons will be different. I shall bring them up the way I wish them to go.”
I looked at him steadily and said: “They are my sons also. I shall have a hand in their upbringing.”
He laughed. “Our interests must be as one,” he said. “I would not care to have you as my enemy.”
“Nor I you, my lord.”
Then he kissed me and I was rather afraid that this might lead to the usual encounter, but I eluded him, saying that I had much to which I must attend.
I was all eagerness to hear about his meeting with Louis, and he was only too pleased to tell me.
“Louis does not appear to have changed much since he was your devoted husband. Constance . . . well, she is meek and mild. As different from you, my dear, as one woman could be from another. I’ll swear she does not plague him as you used to.”
There was grudging admiration in his voice and I did not resent his words.
“Did he mention me?” I asked.
“By no means. He skirted over the subject. I saw his eyes on me and I guessed he was thinking ‘What can that fastidious lady see in this coarse creature?’ He seemed to have forgotten that she has a coarse side to her nature. Think of all those adventures in the Holy Land.”
“So you read the thoughts of others?”
“Such as Louis, yes. He would not allow me to bring Marguerite to England, and do you know why? Because he did not want his little daughter brought up in your Court . . . even though she is to marry your son.”
“Did he say this?”
“I told you your name was not mentioned. When I reminded him that a bride is brought up in her husband’s country, his mouth tightened and I’ll swear he was murmuring a prayer under his breath. ‘Oh God, save my innocent daughter from that wicked woman.’”
“I am sure he was doing no such thing.”
“Well, he said no most firmly. ‘No, no. My daughter stays in France.’ Now this, of course, was something which I could not allow. We might as well not have gone there . . . all that expense . . . it would be for nothing.”
“And Becket’s trip must have been a costly one.”
“What Becket did was right.”
“You mean for him to travel like a king and you as a commoner?”
“Our own styles suited us best. And what matters it, since we achieved the desired result?”
“But you say Louis will not allow Marguerite to come to England.”
“That has nothing to do with Becket’s ostentation and my humility. It was due to absent influences.”
“You mean because of me.”
“Exactly.”
“But you did not mention me.”
“Your presence was there . . . floating between us. You are not easily dismissed from people’s minds, my love.”
“So she is still with her father, and your mission is unfulfilled.”
“By the eyes of God, what do you take me for? Certainly that is not so. You know my Chief Justice, Robert of Newburg. What a righteous man! His castle is so convenient. Right on the borders of Normandy, so that he can keep an eye on what goes on on the other side. He is very pious . . . a man after Louis’s own heart. I suggested that the little girl be brought to his household. It would be safer than the perilous journey across the water. Louis had to give way. Not a breath of scandal concerning Robert of Newburg has ever passed any lips. In fact, all talk of his piety. So, that little matter was settled and the innocent child will be spared the evil influence and be brought up in a house of virtue.”
“I see,” I said. “Well, I suppose it would have been somewhat ironic for Louis’s daughter to be brought up under my care.”
“Incongruous indeed. But all is well. Louis and I have visited churches together. I have been a very virtuous man for his sake—and now we are the best of friends.”
“For how long?” I said.
“For as long as it is necessary, I hope,” he replied with a mischievous grin.
So we spent Christmas at Cherbourg, and Henry’s delight in his son pleased me; it was a happy time.
There was a new development. Henry’s troublesome brother Geoffrey died suddenly. Henry expressed no remorse for their quarrel; he was without sentiment and would have considered it hypocritical to feign grief he did not feel, which was honest, of course. It was typical of him that he immediately began to assess the advantages his brother’s death could bring to him.
For one thing, it was the end of a troublemaker. By great good fortune, two years before his death Geoffrey had been offered the county of Nantes which he had eagerly accepted. Nantes was one of the most important cities in Brittany and there had been unrest in the province for some years. It was hoped that Geoffrey would be able to prevent rebellion. Well, now he was dead and, said Henry, Nantes belonged to the family.
I was amazed by him. His resources were stretched to the limit. He was trying to rule England, Normandy, Anjou and Aquitaine. And now he was thinking of adding Brittany to his possessions. I recognized the acquisitive gleam in his eyes. Sometimes I believed it was a dream of Henry’s to conquer the whole world.
He set about stabilizing his claim to Nantes and, because of his new friendship with Louis, he asked his permission to take over the city. It did not surprise me that Louis gave in to this. There had been trouble in Brittany for some time, and Louis was always seeking peace. He recognized in Henry a strong man, and although even he must have known that Henry had his eyes not only on Nantes but on the whole of Brittany, he agreed to his taking possession of the city.
Henry did not hesitate. He went in with his armies and set up his deputies to rule.
This visit to France, this friendship with Louis, was proving very useful to him.
It was I who first talked to him of Toulouse. It had always rankled in my mind that it had passed out of my family’s hands. It had come to us through my grandfather’s wife Philippa, and although my grandfather had sold it to raise money to go on his crusade, I had never felt that that justified our not bringing it back to where it belonged.
To add Toulouse to what he already had was a great temptation to Henry. I knew he was looking ahead a few years to when our son was King of France and almost the whole of that country was in our hands. England and France should be ruled by one king. Together they could stand against the world.
Henry believed he knew Louis. A man of peace would do anything in his power to avoid going to war. Yet even Louis must view with disquiet the prospect of Henry’s acquiring more territory in France.
Louis had added to his stature in a way. He was no longer the tool of Suger and Bernard of Clairvaux; and this had made him more his own man. They were both dead and he had escaped from their influence long enough to have developed a little character of his own.
When Henry demanded the return of Toulouse in my name, Louis must have been overcome with shock. In his simple honest way he would have believed the King of England was his friend. I wondered that he had not yet learned that there is no true friendship between kings; there is only expediency. It was unfortunate that Louis’s sister, Constance, was married to the Count of Toulouse. She was the widow of Eustace, King Stephen’s son, and Louis would naturally feel that he must look after his sister’s interests.
I felt strongly about Toulouse. I always had. I did remember Louis’s abortive attempt to take it. But Louis’s attempts would always end in failure. It would be quite different with Henry. He was enthusiastic for the campaign and set about raising an army. In due course he had with him the most influential barons of England. Becket was there, with equipment and followers mo
re splendid than any. It seemed to me that he fancied himself as a conqueror; he certainly had great energy and the will to succeed. The Scots were there, with the Welsh, and it seemed certain that Henry could not fail to take Toulouse.
Louis, however, made an unpredictable move. He took a few troops with him and went to the aid of his brother-in-law. Consequently when Henry’s army arrived to take possession of the town, Louis was inside it.
Henry was faced with a dilemma. To attack Toulouse meant attacking Louis, and Louis, while Henry was in France, was his feudal lord. I never thought that Henry would be overplagued by such scruples. It may have been that he foresaw that if he made the French King his captive he might be catapulted into a war of gigantic proportions. England was docile at the moment but if anything went wrong there he would have to return at short notice. There were men in Normandy, Anjou and Brittany who would be only too ready to turn against him if they thought they had an opportunity of succeeding. I suppose that on reflection Henry acted in his usually shrewd manner; but the disappointment was intense.
There was nothing more frustrating for an army in perfect order than to come within sight of victory and have it snatched from them because of scruples.
I was amused to hear that there was discord between Becket and the King. Thomas, that holy man, was bent on war. He wanted to cut a fine figure on the battlefield. He wanted to take his splendidly caparisoned equipage into a battle which should have been won before it started.
Becket said the King was acting foolishly.
Henry told Becket to remember to whom he spoke.
Becket, so sure of himself, continued to tell the King that he was acting in an ill-considered way.
That was not true. Henry never did that. Even his rages were calculated to terrify people and remind them of their fate if they offended him.
Henry cried out that Becket had better have a care. He would do well to remember who was the master of us all.
Becket must have been nonplussed. I was rather pleased that the arrogant man had been taken down a step or two, but he apparently realized he had gone too far and that because Henry had shown him unusual favor he must not take advantage of that. The King had helped him rise. He could as easily put him down. I could not believe for one moment that Becket would want to lose all that magnificence by which he set such store.
Henry withdrew his army but he did capture a few strongholds and peace was concluded. Alas, Toulouse remained out of our hands. It was a terrible disappointment to me. I had always had a special feeling for Toulouse and I had believed that Henry would bring it to me. In a way, Louis had scored over him. It had been a masterly stroke to go to the city when he knew an attempt would be made to take it. It showed real courage and perhaps—though unlikely—shrewd reasoning. Had Louis guessed that Henry would not attack when he was there? He was of course taking a great risk, but Louis had never been a coward. The care of his own skin had never come first with him; as long as he was sure he was in the right, he was contented.
So . . . Henry had failed.
Perhaps he was not the mighty figure I had imagined him. In fact, he was by no means the man with whom I had fallen passionately in love. Unfaithful . . . from the start of our marriage . . . slovenly, often ungracious, far from good-looking. In fact, with every year he grew less so. His skin was freckled and rough from the wind, his curly hair allowed to go its own way. He cared nothing for the gracious way of living.
Why had I married him?
Physically he was still exciting. It was, I suppose, that immense strength, that arrogance, that power. But I was beginning to think that I had been unlucky in both my husbands.
Events being as they were, he must stay on the Continent, but I must return to England. Both of us could not be away too long. I was nothing loath. I wanted no more children and I feared that if Henry and I remained together the inevitable would happen.
I enjoyed being in England with my children—particularly Richard, although I loved them all. I fancied they were all fonder of me than they were of Henry who had no idea how to behave with children. He overawed them. They were suspicious of him when he tried to be jocular with them. I was the one to whom they rushed for comfort.
My little Richard grew more beautiful every day. He was a true Plantagenet and did not resemble my side of the family at all. He was golden-haired and blue-eyed, with a beautifully clear skin. He was going to be taller than the others.
I heard news from France, from Henry, who wished me to pack up and join him without delay.
Louis had been married to Constance for six years and had managed to produce one daughter, Marguerite, now betrothed to our Henry. But news had seeped out that at last Constance was pregnant again. I laughed to contemplate it, imagining all the efforts Louis must have undertaken to achieve this result. I pictured those nights on his knees beside the royal bed before he took the plunge and managed after an effort to perform his duty for France.
Now his efforts were crowned with success.
Henry was far from pleased. What if the child should be a boy? Young Henry would be cheated of the crown of France. There was only one thing we could do. We could betroth our little Matilda to the boy as soon as he was born, thus making sure that, if our son could not be King of France, our daughter should be Queen.
I laughed aloud. The man’s mind was so devious. One had to admire him. He let no opportunity pass.
I prepared to travel with the children.
When I joined Henry in Rouen, he was in a mood of great excitement. The birth was imminent.
“Becket will have to persuade the King once more,” he said. “We shall have to find some way of making the project agreeable to him.”
“It will not be easy,” I told him. “Do you think he will want two of our children married to two of his?”
“He has to want it. We managed with one. We will with the other, and if it is a boy, it will be imperative.”
We were all in a state of nervous tension when Queen Constance was brought to bed. She produced another girl and, poor lady, died in the attempt.
The immediate threat was lifted. There was no boy to displace Marguerite. The throne of France was safe for Henry’s son.
Then there was more cause for alarm. Louis proposed, with indecent haste, to marry again. It was for France, of course. He had not given up hope of producing that boy. There was no difficulty in finding a bride for the King of France. Adela of Blois and Champagne was chosen.
Now Henry was in a ferment of apprehension. A new marriage! A young woman! Even Louis might succeed.
Louis’s daughter was named Alais. Henry told me that he thought as a precaution a marriage should be arranged between her and Richard; but that could hardly have been suggested at this stage.
His thoughts turned in another direction.
“Until Marguerite and young Henry are married,” he said, “our position is very uncertain. You know how often these intended marriages are brushed aside. Trouble has only to blow up between Louis and me and all our efforts will come to nothing.”
“We must hope for peace between you. Toulouse has made no difference to the proposed marriage.”
“That was settled amicably.”
“Were you thinking of that when you did not take the city?”
He lifted his shoulders. “What I plan is to get the young pair married.”
“They are little more than babies.”
“That is of no account. They can go back to their nurseries afterward. I did not intend that the marriage should be consummated in their cradles.”
“Louis will not agree.”
“Louis will not know until after the ceremony.”
“You would do that?”
He grinned at me. “Robert of Newburg has the girl. He could not withhold her from me. You know there is a little trouble in papal quarters. I don’t think anyone there would want to offend me. Any consent we needed from them would be freely given. Everything will be done as it shoul
d be, and Louis will be presented with a fait accompli.” I could not help admiring him. “And,” he went on, “I shall get my hands on the Vexin, for once the marriage is performed the dowry must be paid.”
“Do you think all this is possible?”
“It will be if I decide it shall.”
Henry had decided, as he said, so it should be. Marguerite, aged three, was married to Henry, aged six. Poor bewildered children, they did not know what was happening to them.
Henry took possession of the Vexin and the rest of the dowry and was very pleased with himself.
Louis was less pleased, but he was as bewildered as our young bride and groom. He had just married and had to face those fearful bedroom ordeals once more. His one thought must have been, Let me get a son quickly, oh Lord—and nothing else matters.
We spent Christmas at Le Mans, and during that time, to my intense irritation, I became pregnant again.
We remained in France. It seemed necessary. Henry had acquired new possessions and he was very watchful of the King of France, fearful that at any moment he would hear that Adela had given birth to a son.
During that year, while we were so involved with the birth of the child who turned out to be little Alais, the Archbishop, our good friend Theobald, had died.
This was a blow to us. Theobald could be completely trusted. He was that rare creature—a truly good man. He had been deeply religious, generous to the poor, ever ready to help those in trouble. He had been learned and liked to surround himself with men of his own caliber but that did not mean that he had not had sympathy and attention to give to those less gifted than himself. He had remained faithful to Stephen throughout that King’s troublous reign and had on Stephen’s death given that loyalty to Henry, whom he considered the rightful heir. Henry was wise enough to know a good subject when he found one and Theobald had certainly been that.
During the last year he had been very ill, and it was known that death was not far away. He had written several times to Henry, begging him to return to England that he might behold “his son, the Lord’s anointed, before he died.” Henry could not, of course, allow sentimental attachments to defer him from protecting his lands overseas, so Theobald’s request went unanswered. Theobald also asked that Thomas Becket, his archdeacon, might be spared to visit him. But Henry would not send Thomas either.
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