He visualised the freedom he would have when he was King and his father vanquished. He promised himself that life would be one round of tournaments and triumphant rides. He was more than ever determined to have what was, his friends assured him, his right.
It was a great blow that he and his friends had not succeeded in winning England. They must shelve that project for a while but that should not prevent their attempting to take Normandy, and the best time to start was while his father was settling matters in England.
Philip of Flanders agreed with him. Philip was ambitious, and young Henry had promised him estates in England when the plan to subdue the father and place the son firmly on the throne succeeded.
It was great good fortune that they should have the backing of the King of France. Louis had changed since the days when he had been Eleanor’s young husband deploring the fact that his lot had been a crown instead of the priestly robes. He had a son – young Philip – who was now some nine years of age and the birth of his son had made a great difference to his life. From his previous wives – and he had married three times – he had had only daughters and when on that joyous August day in the year 1165 his wife Adela had given birth to a boy, so great had been his exultation that he had the news proclaimed in the streets of Paris and bells rung throughout his dominion. He had a son and heir to his dominions. It was God’s blessing on a man who had always tried to do his duty in that way of life to which he had been sent against his will.
Adela had been fertile, giving him two more children – young Alice and Agnes, both girls. He would have rejoiced in another son, for Philip was a delicate boy. But he must be thankful. He had his son. Alice was in England now, the betrothed of Richard of Aquitaine, and soon he must insist that that marriage took place. What was Henry’s motive in seeking to delay it, for it did seem that he ignored any suggestion that the two should be brought together? Perhaps he wished to bargain a little over Alice. Louis would not suffer that. The young people had been betrothed.
In the meantime, Louis realised that Henry’s position was not a happy one and with the King of England’s sons ready to go to battle against him, this seemed the time for France to exploit her advantages.
Young Henry was at his Court and with him was Philip of Flanders. A clever young man, this Count – energetic and eager to vanquish old Henry. And he was right when he said that the objective should be Normandy.
‘There should be no delay,’ said Flanders to Louis. ‘For depend upon it if we are to strike we must do so quickly. When the old warrior has settled his English affairs he will cross on the first favourable wind.’
Louis agreed that the objective should be Rouen, the first city of Normandy, for if Rouen fell it would have such an effect on the rest of Normandy that conquest would be made easy.
They would surprise the city and lay siege to it. This they did with great effect and the people of Rouen waited in their town for the coming of Henry, who, they were sure, could not delay long when he knew what was happening to their city.
Throughout his life Louis had been plagued by his religious training which had more than once intruded on his military designs. The siege was progressing favourably but it seemed likely that the coming of Henry to the rescue would not be long delayed. Louis then remembered that the Feast of St Lawrence was at hand and he did not see how he could do battle on such a day, so he declared a truce. There should be no fighting for a whole day and night. Rouen might consider itself released from siege for a day.
When this news reached the city the people went wild with excitement. It was an example, they said, of Louis’s ineffectual generalship. The King of England must be on his way to save them and every hour was important to them. The folly of the King of France must surely have saved them.
So delighted were they that there was singing and dancing in the streets. They believed that the siege of Rouen was all but over. They threw open the gates of the city and some of the knights staged a tournament in the fields outside the city walls.
The French soldiers watched the proceedings with dismay, but none was more put out than Philip of Flanders.
So incensed was he that he forgot his reverence for the crown of France and stormed into the King’s tent. Louis looked pained, but he was well known for his mildness and he bade the Count of Flanders have his say.
‘My lord King,’ cried Philip, ‘the King of England is on his way. He cannot be long delayed. You may depend upon it news has reached him of the state of siege which exists in Rouen. In permitting this truce you give him an opportunity to come in time to save the city.’
‘If he comes we will face him.’
‘We shall lose Rouen.’
‘St Lawrence in whose honour we have called this truce will aid us.’
‘And what of St Thomas à Becket whom he will summon to his aid?’
‘St Thomas would never aid him.’
‘But he has done penance at his shrine. He has allowed himself to be whipped.’
‘He is his murderer.’
‘It was not his hand that struck the blow and see what success he has had in England since his penance.’
Louis was a little shaken. He had great faith in St Thomas à Becket. But it was he, Louis, who had given the Archbishop sanctuary in France and it had never been necessary for him to do penance at his shrine.
‘My lord King,’ implored Philip of Flanders, ‘if this truce goes on through the day and night we shall lose Rouen.’
‘I have given my word and said my prayers to St Lawrence.’
‘St Lawrence can do nothing against the King of England,’ said Philip almost impatiently, and he added: ‘My lord, might it not be that this opportunity comes through St Lawrence? The city gates are wide open; the knights are sporting in their tournament. Could this not be the time to go into the attack?’
Louis was horrified. ‘I have given my word.’
Philip of Flanders tried to hide his scorn. All his life the King of France had lost opportunities on the battlefield. Was he now doing the same?
Philip wrung his hands. He went away and left the King of France saying his prayers to St Lawrence. Shortly after, Philip returned to the King’s camp and with him came young Henry. The young King threw himself on his knees before the King of France.
‘My lord, hear me,’ he cried. ‘My kingdom is at stake. We can take Rouen now if we surprise the city. Soon my father will be here with his troops. We must take the city before he comes.’
‘I have declared a truce,’ persisted Louis.
The two young men joined in their entreaties. They pointed out to him what victory would mean. Was he going to throw it away because of a promise? It might be that if he did not give way many French soldiers would lose their lives.
‘Then,’ he said, ‘let us exploit the situation. Let us make ready to take the city while the gates are open to us.’
Before he could change his mind Philip and Henry hurried away to give orders that immediate preparations should be made for capturing the city.
Rouen might have been taken with the utmost ease but for the fact that a group of young men had dared two of their number to climb the church tower. This they did and as they were poised there, they could see beyond the city to those fields where the French army was encamped and it was obvious to them that preparations were in progress for an immediate attack.
Coming down they told what they had seen and within a few minutes the church bells were ringing out a warning. This was the sound for alarm. The knights at their tournament heard it; they hurried into the city; the gates were closed; boiling pitch was prepared and carried to the battlements. Everyone was ready for action and determined to hold Rouen with an even greater determination because of the perfidy of the French in violating a truce which they had proclaimed.
Thus when Philip of Flanders and young Henry led the attack they were repulsed. The surprise was lacking; the citizens were ready for them and their little strategy might never have been.
All through the night the battle raged and the next day the watchers from the city’s walls gave a great shout of joy for the King of England’s army was seen approaching. The siege would soon be over.
In a short time the English were within sight of the French and the battle was about to begin. Louis, who was not averse to besieging a town, disliked the thought of hand-to-hand battle. He had never lost his revulsion to bloodshed and he now heartily wished that he had never embarked on the campaign to take Rouen. When he heard that the English had already attacked his rear-guard and inflicted severe casualties, he was so sure he could not win in a hand-to-hand fight that he sent messengers to Henry to ask for a truce and request that he might retire with his troops some miles from the town where he and the King could parley.
Not realising at this stage that the French had perfidiously broken the truce they had made with the citizens of Rouen and secretly not wishing to do battle with an army in which his son was fighting against him, Henry agreed to allow the French to withdraw.
He was not surprised nor was he displeased when news was brought to him that during the night they had fled and had not stopped riding until they crossed the borders of France.
Henry laughed aloud. It was always good to force a retreat without the loss of blood. That was an easy victory. He only had to appear, to strike terror into his opponents. This would teach young Henry a lesson. He would see that it was not easy to oppose his father.
What rejoicing there was when he entered his city of Rouen! He praised those valiant men and women who had withstood the siege. He sent for the young men who had climbed the tower and when he heard their story he embraced them.
‘You did well,’ he said. ‘It shall not be forgotten.’
Whether it would or not remained to be seen, for Henry was one who often forgot his promises; but he could always make people happy because they had won his approval to such an extent that he made the promise.
He went into the church and gave thanks to God and St Thomas à Becket, for he was certain that it was the Archbishop who had sent those men up to the tower and had saved his city of Rouen.
* * *
Richard, the King’s second son, was not yet eighteen. More warlike than his brothers, he exulted in the necessity to take up arms. He was determined to excel on the battlefield and to hold Aquitaine against his father. He hated his father. It was true that his brothers were impatient with the old King, that they believed, he had cheated them of their inheritance, that they had taken up arms against him, but none of them hated him as Richard did.
All his life he had seen his father as the devil – the evil genius of their life. His mother had believed this and she was wise and clever and he loved her even as he hated his father.
He longed to be with her, but she was her husband’s captive. When Richard thought of that he was so filled with fury that he longed to kill his father. And he would, he promised himself. How gleefully he would cut off his head and send it to his mother. She would appreciate that. Together they would make a ballad of it; they would sing it in harmony.
He had a double mission now – it was not only to defeat his father and become true ruler of Aquitaine but to set his mother free. He wished that he were older. He was a born fighter but no one took so young a man seriously, and his father had created an aura about himself; he was becoming known as the invincible lion. Yet he was ageing, and it would not always be so. The King of France was against him; so were his other sons, Henry and Geoffrey. Surely he could not stand out for ever against such opposition? And when the Archbishop had been murdered it seemed as though the whole world was against him. Could people have admired him for performing that humiliating penance? Richard could not believe this could be so. Surely he had demeaned himself, and yet since he had done it, he had had great success in England. Attempts to take it from him had failed. But it would be different in Normandy and Aquitaine. He was not going to win there.
He exulted to think of the armies of the King of France and men such as Philip of Flanders. Henry would soon be in command of his kingdom. So must Richard be in command of his.
How he enjoyed riding at the head of troops, his pennants flying.
‘My best loved son,’ his mother had said, ‘you were born to lead men. I thank God that you are the one to inherit Aquitaine. Indeed I would never have allowed my native land to go to anyone else.’
They were supposed to rule it jointly, he and his mother, but since she had been her husband’s prisoner she could not be said to have a say in the governing of the land. The people of Aquitaine loved her but they did not take all that kindly to her son. With his fair hair and bright blue eyes he did not appear to belong to the south. There was something alien about him and they sensed this. They only accepted him because he was his mother’s son but they were always aware that in him there was a strong strain of his Norman ancestry. He was a poet; he loved music. In that, he was his mother’s son. But they could not forget that his father was Henry Plantagenet whose mother had been the granddaughter of the Norman Conqueror.
So, when he rode through Aquitaine trying to rouse men to his banner in order to preserve his inheritance from his avaricious father, the knights of Aquitaine were not eager to join him.
News was brought to him that his father, having assured himself that England was safe, was on his way to Aquitaine to settle matters there. Richard realised that he was very like his brothers in that while his father was at a distance he could rage against him but the thought of coming face to face with him in battle struck terror into his heart. The old King’s reputation could not be forgotten. All men were aware of it and the sturdiest quailed before it. He had that rare quality possessed by his grandfather and great-grandfather which had often resulted in their winning a battle before it had started simply by filling their enemies’ hearts with fear and the certainty that they could not win against such a man.
Richard now surveyed his company. He could see the fear in their faces. He suspected that if they knew that his father was marching on them many would in sheer terror desert.
He called a messenger to him and told him to ride with all speed to the army of the King of France which he believed was in Normandy. ‘Take these notes,’ he said, ‘and give one to each of my two brothers and one to the King of France.’
He watched the messenger ride away. He felt safe now. They would not let him be defeated. They would send help.
* * *
His father had still not come but he was approaching. Richard watched for the messenger’s return. With him must come aid. Perhaps his brothers themselves. If they had taken Rouen they would be flushed with victory and that would be the best news he could receive, for it would mean that they had defeated his father and the myth of his invincibility would have been exploded.
But no soldiers came, and the messenger returned.
‘Alas, brother,’ wrote Henry, ‘we were not successful at Rouen, but were forced to fly before our father’s troops. Now there is a truce and we wait to discuss terms with him. But one condition he has laid down is that we must send no aid to you.’
Richard clenched his fists in quiet rage. In some measure he possessed the Angevin temper but instead of being hot like his father’s it was cold. Richard would never lie on the floor and gnaw the rushes; he would never grow scarlet so that men believed he might drop to the ground in a fit. He grew pale; the blue eyes were like steel; but his anger was none the less fierce because it was cold.
He felt that anger now. For here he was a boy in age, with a small army, and he must stand alone against the greatest general of the age – his own father.
He himself might do it. His followers never would.
He knew he had no alternative but to retreat before his father. When he discussed the state of affairs with his most skilled knights they agreed with him.
‘The men would never stand and fight your father’s armies,’ they said. ‘They would tremble with fear at the prospect and
desert before your father arrived.’
It was true. There was nothing to do but retreat.
What bitter humiliation! Henry marched through Aquitaine, extorting obedience from all. Richard marched south but he could not go on marching for ever. His men were deserting him. Soon there would be but a handful of them left.
At length he realised that he could retreat no more. He must face his father.
The meeting took place and when Richard looked into that strong face with its curly hair – a little greying now – clipped square on the forehead, the flaring nostrils, the leonine aspect, his emotions were mixed. The hatred was there; fear too; and he knew why men quailed before his father.
He knelt and put his face on the ground in a sudden access of wretchedness. He was beaten and he knew that he was too young as yet to stand up and face this man. He had been guilty of great folly and, although he hated his father more fiercely than he could ever hate anyone else, he must respect him.
Henry watched him in silence. My son, he thought. This handsome boy is my son Richard, the betrothed of Alice.
He felt a sudden tenderness for him – perhaps because he was his son, perhaps because he had taken his bride from him.
‘Rise, Richard,’ he said.
And when the boy stood so that they were face to face – and Richard must look down on him for he was several inches taller than his father – he put his arms about him and embraced him.
‘It is a sad thing,’ he said, ‘when a son takes up arms against his own father.’
Richard said nothing. A slightly sullen expression touched his lips.
‘Sad,’ went on the King, ‘and useless. You are a good fighter, they tell me, Richard. But there is more to battle than brandishing a lance, my boy. There’s subtlety and strategy. A good general knows when he should retreat and when he should advance. Well, let us say this: You knew when to retreat did you not, and when to show humility? Suffice it that you have been a worthy general. Now we will talk.’
The Revolt of the Eaglets Page 11