‘A bride,’ said John. ‘What is that?’
‘He is too young to understand,’ said Alice.
‘Of course,’ said the King tenderly stroking her arm. ‘But you are not, my little one. You have been betrothed have you not … to my son Richard?’
‘Yes, my lord,’ said Alice.
‘You are too young as yet to go to him,’ went on the King and was amazed at the relief he felt. It would be unendurable to allow this beautiful child to go to some bumbling boy. Richard of course was handsome, but he was too young yet.
‘It will be soon though,’ said Alice.
‘No,’ said the King firmly. ‘There is some time yet.’
‘What about me?’ said John.
‘Listen to our young bridegroom. Joanna, Alice, my dears, listen to him!’
‘You said it was my bride, Father.’
‘So it is, my son. I have found you a bride who will bring much good to you and us, and her father and I have agreed that when you are old enough you shall be married. Her name is … why, she has the prettiest name in the world. What do you think it is? Alice! The same as my dear daughter here. Alice, I have already grown to love that name.’
She smiled delightedly. A little dimple appeared in her cheek when she did so.
‘You are a dear child,’ he said, ‘and I love you.’ He held her tightly against him and kissed her warmly on the cheek.
John was asking impatient questions. How big was his bride? Could she play games? Was she pretty? Was she good at her lessons?
‘She is all these things,’ said the King, ‘and she is very happy to be my daughter and your wife.’
John laughed delightedly. He was a charming little fellow, his youngest son. The others had always resented him in some way. That was their mother’s influence, he was sure. It was very different in the nursery now. He must visit it more often.
Of course his illegitimate son Geoffrey was no longer there. He was being tutored in knighthood. A fine boy, Geoffrey. He had always preferred him to Eleanor’s brood. But his son Henry was so handsome that he would have liked there to be a closer bond between them. As for Richard he was so much his mother’s boy that it seemed they could never feel anything but enmity for each other.
John was different – the youngest child whose love for his father had never been tainted by his mother’s venom.
From now on John would be a favourite of his. He would visit the nursery frequently, and it would not be a duty but a real pleasure. The main reason was that enchanting little creature Alice. A little beauty in the making if he knew anything and from the experience he had had he should know a good deal.
Dear sweet creature, what good she had done him. She had stopped him thinking of the changed attitude of Rosamund and chief of all the murder of Thomas à Becket.
* * *
He would be ready to sail for Ireland in August. So far he had kept the papal legates at bay. They would not let the matter rest there, he knew. What would they want of him? Some sort of penance he supposed and if he refused to make it – excommunication. It was not good for a King to suffer that. His subjects were superstitious and if they feared that the hand of God was against him they would turn from him and even those who remained loyal would lose heart. He believed that when men went into battle they must be well equipped for the fight, not only materially but spiritually. They must believe in victory if they were to achieve it. This had been one of the firm beliefs of his great-grandfather, William the Conqueror, who insisted on seeing good in omens when other men feared they might be evil. I only believe in omens when they are good ones, his grandfather, Henry I, had said; and he had proved himself to be one of the most astute rulers ever known.
Therefore he wanted no excommunication. But time was a good ally. The longer the delay between the murder and the bringing home of the guilt the better. Passions cooled and as long as there were not too many miracles at the shrine of Canterbury, he could weather this storm as he had so many others.
Ireland now faced him.
He was on his way to Portsmouth when news came to him that the old Bishop of Winchester was sick and thought to be dying, and was asking to see the King.
There was nothing Henry could do but visit the old man; one did not refuse a dying request.
Poor old man! He was indeed in his last extremities. No doubt he was ready to go, for he had been blind for a long time.
He was the brother of Stephen who had usurped the throne which should by rights have belonged to Henry’s mother, Matilda; and the Bishop of Winchester had been one of his – brother’s main props, although there had been a time when he had been so exasperated by Stephen’s folly that he had been almost ready to turn to Matilda. That was long ago and wrong had been righted for he, Henry Plantagenet, grandson of King Henry I, was King of England.
He found the Bishop very close to death but he seemed to revive a little when he realised the King had come.
‘My lord King is good to answer my last request.’
‘My dear Bishop, much as I dislike requests from my clergy, I hope it will not be the last from you.’
‘Ah, you see me, my lord, both frail and full of years, and you can have no doubt – as I have none – that my time is come.’
‘May God bless your soul, Bishop.’
‘And yours, my lord. You will know why I wished to see you, why I wished to speak with you before I left this earth for ever. I fear for you, my lord.’
‘Be of good cheer. I have taken care of myself and my kingdom for many years. Fear not, I shall go on doing so whatever befalls.’
‘It is what may befall, my lord, which makes me fearful.’
‘Have you brought me here to utter gloomy prophecies, Bishop?’
‘My lord, you know I refer to the murder.’
‘Few refer to anything else now. I am a little weary of the subject.’
‘You must be very sick at heart, my lord.’
‘The Archbishop is dead. Nothing can bring him back. When a man has a kingdom to govern he cannot indulge in prolonged mourning because a subject is no more.’
‘Thomas was no ordinary subject.’
‘Archbishop of Canterbury no less, though for some years he preferred to forget it.’
‘You cannot deceive a dying man, my lord. You are sick at heart and fearful of consequences.’
‘Why should I be, pray?’
‘Because, my lord, you are guilty of murder and that the murder of a saint.’
‘My lord Bishop, you forget to whom you speak.’
‘I’m dying, my lord. Nothing you could do to me now could harm me. I will speak the truth in death.’
‘Is it not a cowardly thing to do – to say in death that which you feared to say in life?’
‘I would say it if I had ten years more left to me. I tremble for you, for you have murdered a saint.’
‘My lord Bishop,’ said the King affecting weariness, ‘my knights misunderstood me. I raged against the man. Who would not? He plagued me. He frustrated me at every turn. I forgave him. I allowed him to return to England after his exile and what did he do? He tried to raise the country against me.’
‘He did no such thing. That was what his enemies said against him. He was always your friend.’
The King was silent for a few moments then he burst out: ‘I had no part in his death. I did not wish him dead.’
‘My lord,’ said the Bishop lifting his hand, ‘your knights killed the Archbishop because you had led them to believe you wished it. You cannot deny that and you are responsible for his death. I fear your expiation will be terrible.’
Hot anger seized the King. He clenched his fist and wanted to crash it into those sightless eyes. But this was a dying man and a terrible fear and remorse quickly overcame his fury. He remained still with his fist raised.
‘Repent, my lord,’ murmured the Bishop. ‘Ask God’s forgiveness for this terrible deed.’
The Bishop was suddenly still. The King
called out: ‘Come hither. The Bishop is dying.’
He was glad to escape from that chamber of death. He was afraid and fear made him angry.
‘Thomas,’ he muttered, ‘are you going to haunt me for ever?’
He must escape. He must shut out of his mind memories of Thomas, memories of the dying Bishop.
Normally he would go with all speed to Rosamund; now he thought the innocence of the children in the royal nursery could appease him better.
* * *
When the kings of Ireland heard that Henry Plantagenet had landed they made haste to swear fealty to him. The chiefs and kings of such places as Waterford, Cork and Limerick were all eager to avoid a war. They trembled before the might of the King of England. They were Celts, tall and elegant men and their complexions were ruddy. Their tunics were of roughly spun wool and their weapons of war were very primitive for they had nothing but swords, short lances and hatchets. Although they were quarrelsome they often appeared to have little heart for a fight; they were passionately fond of music and many of them played the harp. Their houses were of wood and wattle; their country was green and fertile, the climate warm and damp. Henry liked what he saw of it and recalled to his followers that both his grandfather and great-grandfather had planned to conquer the place, but their commitments in England and Normandy had made it impossible for them to do so. Now he, who had ever wider territories to control, was on the point of doing so.
At Waterford he received the homage of the petty princes and arranged that they should pay him a small annual tribute as a token that they accepted him as their suzerain.
It was November by the time he came to Dublin. He took up his headquarters in the wooden palace there; and he sent his two commissioners, Roger de Lacy and William Fitzalden, to parley with Roderick, the King of Connaught, who was the chief of all the petty princes. They met on the banks of the Shannon where Roderick made it very clear that as he considered himself the true ruler of Ireland he had no intention of abdicating in favour of Henry of England.
When Henry received the message he was furious. Everything had gone so smoothly until this time. He would have liked to go into battle immediately to show the little king that he was master, but his soldier’s eye saw at once that the mountains were too steep and the weather too wet to enable him to embark on a successful campaign. He cursed Roderick – the only one who had stood out against him – and swore that as soon as the weather changed he would be ready to make him wish he had acted differently.
Christmas came. Henry was not sorry that he must celebrate the festival in Dublin. Time was getting very near to the anniversary of Thomas’s death and he knew that in England and France people would remember. It was as well therefore to be far away at such a time.
Those of the Irish who had decided to accept him as their ruler paid great honour to him. They even built him a palace outside the walls of the city. It was constructed in a very short time and was made of wattle. Henry was very proud of it. There should be a great celebration on Christmas Day, he said, and he would invite all his new and loyal subjects to join him at his table.
Then he set his cooks to produce a magnificent meal such as would impress these people so much that they would talk about it for years to come and Roderick of Connaught would hear of the riches of the new lord of Ireland.
There was merrymaking and much laughter and Henry listened with grave appreciation to his new subjects’ songs and performances on the harp.
Shortly after the festivities he arranged that the bishops of Ireland should swear fealty to him and when this had been done he wrote to the Pope asking Alexander to accept him and his heirs as the rulers of Ireland.
All was going well with the exception of the tiresome Roderick who was constantly affirming his determination to stand against the King. Henry planned to take by force what Roderick would not give him, but the weather was still too treacherous for him to launch a campaign. The wind howled up the river; the rain fell in torrents; it was clear to the most inexperienced soldier that no campaign could be successfully carried out in such conditions.
January passed and February had come, but the weather continued to be against them and there was nothing he could do but wait.
All through March he waited and just as he was preparing to finish Roderick’s resistance for ever, ships arrived from England.
They had disturbing news.
On the anniversary of Thomas’s death, the pilgrims had streamed into Canterbury. Many of them declared that they were cured of their infirmities at the shrine of the martyr. Everyone was saying that Thomas was a saint.
Worse still the Pope had sent Cardinals Theodwine and Albert to Normandy to find the King.
‘Why do they wait in Normandy?’ demanded Henry. ‘Why do they not come to England?’
There was a simple answer to that. They did not come to England because they knew that they would be arrested as a danger to the peace if they set foot there.
Instead they waited for him in Normandy.
‘Then they must needs wait,’ was his answer to that.
‘They are saying, my lord, that if you do not go to Normandy with all speed they have the Pope’s authority to lay all your lands under edict.’
‘By God’s eyes,’ muttered the King.
He knew of course that he had to go. If he did not he could lose Normandy.
Thomas was continuing to plague him in death as much as he had done in life – and that was saying a good deal.
He shut himself into his apartments. What must he do? It was more than a year since Thomas’s death and the martyrdom was as fresh as ever. Moreover, there were all those miracles at the shrine and he had too many enemies.
He dare not delay. There were too many waiting to snatch his lands from him. He could not conquer the whole of Ireland as he had planned. Roderick of Connaught would have to wait.
Leaving Hugh de Lacy behind with a garrison to hold what he had gained he sent messengers to the Cardinals telling them that he was sailing at once for England and would in due course arrive in Normandy.
* * *
That Christmas the young King Henry decided to remind everyone at his Court that he was indeed their King. His father had sent him to Normandy when he went to Ireland, where he was to act as a kind of regent. ‘A regent,’ stormed Henry to William the Marshall, ‘why should I be a regent? I am a king in my own right.’
William the Marshall, the Earl of Salisbury’s nephew, who had held a post of knight-at-arms to young Henry for some years, was his closest friend and companion. ‘In due course you will be so in every way,’ he reminded him.
‘Not while my father lives, William.’
‘My lord,’ answered William, ‘it is unwise to mention the King’s death.’
‘How can I help mentioning it? It can only be when it happens that I shall be free.’
William the Marshall looked over his shoulder fearfully but Henry burst into laughter.
‘Have no fear. The people here are my friends.’
‘A king never knows who are his friends.’
‘I know that there is not a king in Christendom who has more enemies than my father. His nature is such to arouse enmity.’
‘I would venture to contradict you, my lord.’
‘Have a care, William. Remember I am your King.’
‘And you are my friend also. If I must flatter you as so many do I should cease to be that. What do you wish, my lord, my flattery or my friendship?’
‘You know, William.’
‘I think I do, so I will risk saying that if all men do not love your father there are few who do not respect and fear him; and sometimes it is better to be respected and feared than loved.’
‘The old man has bemused you with his rages.’
‘I beg of you, do not speak of him thus. He is your father and our King.’
‘I am not likely to forget that. But know this, William, he shall not keep me in this state for ever.’
‘My
lord, you are young yet. You have won men’s hearts by your nature but you could not afford to stand out against your father.’
‘I did not say I would do that, William. I merely say that I want to be a king in more than name.’
‘But there is already a King of England.’
Henry sighed. ‘Come, let us think of other things. This is my first Christmas as King and I intend to celebrate it as such. This Court shall have no doubt about my rank.’
‘This Court, my lord, knows exactly your rank. You are its King, and it is the first time in England’s history that she has had two Kings.’
‘It was my father’s wish that it should be so, and he can have no one to blame but himself for it. Come, I am determined that my first Christmas as King shall be remembered for ever, so that people will know how merry life will be when there is only one king in England. And I will tell you something, my friend, when I am King and have a son, a crown shall not be put on his head until I am dead.’
William the Marshall was silent, but he wondered, as many had begun to, how Henry II could have made such a major blunder as to have his son crowned King while he still lived.
‘I have it,’ cried young Henry. ‘I shall invite all the knights, counts and nobles together with men of the church to my banquet. They shall have gifts which will prove to them that I shall be a generous king. My father is the most parsimonious man alive. He hates giving anything away. He will never relinquish his hold on one castle while he lives. I will show my subjects here how different I shall be. I want to be as different from my father as I can possibly be. I regret that I share his name.’
‘Would you rather have been a William?’
‘That was my eldest brother. There are more Williams in England and Normandy than any other name, I’ll swear. They are all named after my great-great-grandfather, William the Conqueror. You are one of them, my friend.’
‘I’d say there are as many Henrys.’
‘Nay, William, I’d wager it. I have an idea. At my banquet I shall reparate all the Williams and they shall dine with me in one room. No one who is not a William shall sit down with me. Then you and I will count them and see how many Williams are there. I’ll wager there will be more than a hundred.’
The Revolt of the Eaglets Page 4