The Revolt of the Eaglets

by Виктория Холт

  He felt that although he lay in Paris and his son was in Rheims he was with him in spirit.

  He knew that Philip of Flanders would carry the golden sword and the young Henry of England would hold the crown, and the ceremony would be conducted by Philip’s uncle.

  He could hear the music. He could see it all and he prayed: ‘Holy mother, care for my son. Give him the wisdom I lacked. Make him strong to stand against his enemies and show him how to be merciful to those who wrong him. If you will do this I am ready to depart in peace.’

  And in the Cathedral of Rheims young Philip was exultant. King of France at last. Young Henry watching him wanted to say: The fact that you are crowned does not make you a king. You will have to wait until your father is dead but that will not be long doubtless.

  Heaven knows how long I must wait.

  * * *

  Everywhere the young King of France went the Count of Flanders accompanied him. The wily Count was now trying to be to Philip what he had once sought to be to Henry. The two young people were in similar circumstances; both had been crowned while their fathers still lived; both bore the title of king without the power.

  The Count marvelled at the folly both of the King of France and King of England that they could have had so little foresight as to raise their sons to this eminence while they still held the crown. It was asking for trouble. In the case of Louis, who could not live much longer, there was some reason; but that Henry Plantagenet should have been so unwise was a mystery.

  However, the Count was now far more interested in the new King of France than he was in Henry. Henry’s father had many years left to him; he was a strong man against whom few could pit their wits and fighting skill and come out victorious. It was quite different in the case of Philip.

  So he brought all his wiles to bear on the young man.

  Philip of Flanders was just the type of man it was natural for young Philip to admire. His flamboyance, his subtle flattery, his extravagance, his wealth, his generosity, all this enchanted the young King.

  Queen Adela could see the effect the Count of Flanders was having on her son and she deplored this. She tried to remonstrate with him.

  ‘Philip, your father still lives,’ she reminded him. ‘Remember he is still the King of France.’

  ‘He can do nothing. He lies in his bed and cannot move. France has to be governed.’

  ‘Your father has always said that a king needs good ministers to govern well.’

  ‘My father was always afraid to rule.’

  ‘Have a care what you say, my son. Your father is a good man and the only thing he feared was to do wrong.’

  ‘A king must be bold. A king has to make decisions whether others like them or not. He must take only that advice which seems good to him and it is he who has the final word.’

  ‘He also needs experience. I have asked your uncles to come to Court.’

  Philip flew into a rage. His uncles! Her brothers. These men of the house of Blois had too grand an opinion of themselves. The Count of Flanders said so. Since their sister had married the King of France they thought they had a right to rule.

  ‘Then,’ cried Philip, ‘you may cancel that invitation.’

  ‘I shall do no such thing,’ retorted the Queen. ‘Your father is pleased that I should do so. He understands that you will need their guidance.’

  ‘I certainly do not need them. Nor will I have them.’

  ‘Philip,’ said his mother earnestly, ‘remember this. You have been crowned King but that does not make you ruler of this country. France already has a king and while he lives the crown, and the authority which goes with it, belongs to him.’

  ‘He is dead … or almost. He cannot think; he cannot act.’

  ‘Philip, how can you talk so! He is your father and King of France. He is stricken with a terrible affliction. Are you going to bring sorrow to his last months of life?’

  ‘I am King of France,’ said Philip, ‘and everyone must know it.’

  ‘You are but a boy.’

  There was nothing that infuriated Philip more than to be reminded of his youth. He flew into a rage and cried: ‘You shall know … all shall know … what it means to cross the King of France, even though he be what you call a stripling.’

  ‘You must always curb your passions, Philip. You have been crowned as your father wished. He wants France never to be without a crowned king. That is why he commanded your coronation. Remember you owe your crown to him; you owe your life to him. No good ever came to those who did not honour their fathers. His is the crown. His is the seal of office. Loyal Frenchmen owe their duty to him and him only … as yet.’

  Philip raged out of the apartment.

  In the gardens Philip of Flanders was walking with Henry and Marguerite. There was still a friendship between Henry and the Count, who observed with some pleasure that Henry was a little jealous of the attentions he was now paying Philip.

  Philip joined them.

  ‘What black brows!’ said the Count of Flanders lightly as he looked at Philip. ‘It would seem that there is thunder in the air.’

  ‘It is my mother,’ said Philip. ‘She will bring my uncles here to help me govern.’

  The Count was alert. The last thing he wanted was to have those brothers at Court. The House of Blois had too high an opinion of itself. It was very closely connected with royalty for one of the Conqueror’s daughters, Adela – after whom the present Queen of France was named – had married into it. It was for this reason that Stephen her son had become King of England; and Stephen’s brother Theobald was the father of Adela Queen of France. Adela had four brothers: one the Archbishop of Rheims who had crowned young Philip; Henry, the Count of Champagne, and Theobald, Count of Blois, who had married Marie and Alix respectively – Louis’s daughters by Eleanor; and the fourth was the influential Stephen Count of Sancerre.

  It was small wonder that at such a time these men should consider themselves the rightful advisers of the young King of France, and the Count of Flanders must prevent their getting influence over the young Philip.

  ‘You will of a surety not permit that,’ said Philip lightly.

  ‘I will do my best.’

  ‘Your best! But you only have to say you will not have them. Are you not the King?’

  ‘Well yes, but as my mother pointed out, the crown and the seal of office still belong to my father.’

  This was true. Adela could talk to old Louis and get him to bring her brothers to Court. It had to be stopped. Philip of Flanders could see his dream of power being ruined if they came and took charge of this rather impressionable young boy.

  ‘We will put our heads together,’ said the Count lightly. ‘Henry will help us, will you not? He knows what it means to be frustrated.’

  ‘I do indeed. My father has bound me not to take action against him.’

  ‘And you are restive under the yoke,’ replied the Count. ‘We must see that we do not allow them to put a yoke on your fair neck, my dear Philip.’

  Marguerite frowned at her half-brother. She did not like him very much. She thought it a pity that boys should be treated with such honours. She and her sisters had never been made as much of as Philip had, simply because they were girls. Moreover she loved her father dearly. Louis had always been good and gentle to his children and she was very upset that he was now lying on what everyone believed to be his death bed.

  She said: ‘I do not wish to listen to such talk. My father … our father, Philip … is lying sorely afflicted. For pity’s sake let us not talk as though he were dead already.’

  Henry laid a gentle hand on her arm.

  ‘It is not of him personally we speak, Marguerite,’ he said. ‘We love him dearly. He has been a good father to me. Kinder than my own. But Philip must make sure that he is not robbed of his rights.’

  ‘Philip is but a boy.’

  Philip flushed and glared at her. ‘I am a man. I am capable of governing and by our lady I will govern.’


  ‘Spoken like a king,’ said the Count of Flanders. ‘I like to hear you speak thus. But it is action that counts. You must be ready when the day comes.’

  Marguerite turned away, a glaze of tears in her eyes. She would not stay and hear them talk as though her father were already dead. She saw William Marshall in the garden and went and joined him. The Count watched her. He believed she was telling William why she was upset.

  The Count did not greatly care for the influence William Marshall had over Henry and Marguerite. He had been the knight-at-arms in the nursery when they were children and being such an old friend was too important to them. They both admired him far too much. William Marshall was one of those honourable men whose actions were predictable. He did not seek honours for himself; he was the sort of knight whose value Henry Plantagenet was aware of and the kind he liked to see beside his son. William Marshall and Count Philip of Flanders were as different as two men could be.

  He turned his attention to the two young men and drew Henry out to talk of the wrongs he had suffered at the hands of his father.

  ‘You are in a different position, Philip,’ said the wily Count. ‘Poor Henry here is the son of a forceful man who will never give way. You are the son of a dying one.’

  ‘There is a great difference,’ Henry agreed. He was watching Marguerite and William the Marshall. The Marshall was obviously soothing her. He, Henry, should be doing that. He, too, hated to hear them talk as though Louis was dead. He had always said Louis had been a father to him. But at the same time he had been in leading strings and he did understand Philip’s resentment.

  ‘A great difference,’ went on the Count. ‘There is little Henry can do at this stage. His father is too strong for him. It will not always be so. Then we shall pledge ourselves to help him, shall we not, Philip?’

  Philip agreed earnestly that they would.

  ‘But right at the start, we must not allow Philip to be put into leading strings from which we shall find it difficult to extricate him.’

  ‘I’ll not allow it,’ cried Philip shrilly. Then his face clouded. ‘She is right though. He has the crown still and the seal of office.’

  ‘You have been crowned, remember,’ said the Count. ‘And where is the seal of office?’

  ‘He keeps it in his bedroom, under his pillow.’

  The Count smiled. ‘If we could lay our hands on the seal …’

  ‘What mean you?’ said Philip.

  The Count looked from the young King of France to Henry. Henry however was watching his wife and William the Marshall who were walking together towards the courtyard.

  ‘If you had the seal, if it could appear that he had given it to you …’

  ‘He will not give it to me. Should I ask for it?’

  ‘No. The Queen will have told him that he must not give it to you. If you slipped your hand under his pillow. If you took it …’

  ‘I could!’ cried Philip. ‘But he would say that he did not give it to me.’

  ‘His word against yours! He is a sick man. He is often delirious. If you held the seal in your hands it would be yours.’

  ‘I will do it,’ breathed Philip. ‘It will be easy and when I have it I shall forbid my uncles to come to Court.’

  * * *

  The Count of Flanders walked in the gardens alone with Henry. He liked to walk there not because he admired the flowers – he scarcely noticed them – but because out of doors it was possible to talk without being overheard.

  He was succeeding well; a born intriguer he was in his element. Life must for him be a continual adventure. He had returned from the Holy Land where he had lived excitingly and nothing would please him better than to rule France through its weak young King.

  He had once thought he could hold a high office in England if he could have established young Henry there, but he was not so stupid as to think he was a match for Henry Plantagenet and he knew that the old lion was going to cling to power as long as there was breath in his body. His roar grew none the less menacing nor his claws less to be feared as he grew older. Philip, with a dying father, was a much better proposition.

  He still must not lose sight of the old lion across the water. The vulture had to make sure he was not cheated of his prey. Young Henry was easy to handle. He was so resentful towards his father that he would always be ready to go into action against him if ever the opportunity offered. It was hardly likely that there would be much hope of success in that direction. But if old Henry died and young Henry was King, he would then be a subject worthy of the Count’s attention.

  In the meantime, he must make sure of his position in France, while keeping an eye on Henry. He had been watching William the Marshall and he believed that he was making an attempt to influence Henry against him, the Count. This could not be permitted. He would feel very much happier if William the Marshall were somewhere else than in the service of young Henry.

  Watching him with Marguerite recently an idea had occurred to him and he thought it a good one.

  Marguerite was a beautiful and attractive girl and there was no doubt that Henry was very pleased with his wife. He was not given to the pursuit of women to such an extent as so many young men were, and he was a faithful husband.

  The Count said: The Marshall is a handsome fellow.’

  Henry agreed. ‘And what a knight! No one can succeed in tournament as well as he can except you, cousin.’

  ‘An attractive fellow,’ said the Count. ‘The ladies think so too, I believe.’

  ‘I daresay. But he has never been one much interested in women. It is all part of his knightly qualities to respect them. He’s the kind of knight they sing about in Aquitaine … the troubadours you know.’

  ‘I do know. They fall in love and adore their lady. They are chivalrous and would die for her. It seems an odd way to profess one’s devotion by offering to die. Marguerite’s half-sisters, I believe, are poets and songsters.’

  ‘It’s natural,’ said Henry. ‘They are my half-sisters too, you know. We share the same mother.’

  ‘And our William the Marshall is such a knight. It is clear that Marguerite shares her half-sisters’ admiration for these notions.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘She and the Marshall are … good friends, are they not?’

  Henry flushed. ‘Why …’ he stammered, ‘we … have known William since our childhood. He … he was appointed our knight-at-arms.’

  ‘Some sentimental attachment,’ commented the Count of Flanders. ‘Well, it is fortunate that you are not a jealous man, Henry. How different I am! I did tell you the story, did I not? Do you remember how I had my wife’s lover beaten nigh unto death and to finish him off had him hung over a cess pool?’

  ‘You are not suggesting …’

  ‘My dear Henry, I certainly am not. But women are frail, and Walter of Les Fontaines was a knight who had won admiration wherever he appeared, for his chivalry and knightly ways. They did not prevent his getting into bed with my wife during my absence. I believe in fact that she lured him there. He would not admit it. Knightly to the end, you see! But that is what I always thought. Nay, you are not a jealous fellow, as I am. But let us talk of other matters. Did you know that Philip has his father’s seal?’

  ‘Nay,’ said Henry, his thoughts far from Philip’s seal. He was thinking of William and Marguerite. He didn’t believe it really. It couldn’t be true. And yet they were friendly. He remembered how when she was upset she had gone to him and talked to him.

  ‘Yes,’ went on Philip, ‘he visited his father and was there alone with him. When he left the sick chamber he had the seal. Now of course he has the authority. The seal is in his hands so it must be his father’s wish that he should have it. Depend upon it, those scheming uncles will never come to Court. They and the Queen will learn that Philip may be young but he has good men to advise him, and he is determined to be King of France.’

  * * *

  From a turret of the castle Henry watched
William the Marshall ride into the courtyard. No one sat his horse quite as well as William. He was indeed a handsome knight. Henry narrowed his eyes. Of course William was seeking to become Marguerite’s lover and Marguerite was indeed taken with him.

  He it was who offered her such affectionate sympathy over the rapidly deteriorating health of her father. Why should she go to William instead of to her husband? Perhaps because he was too friendly with Philip of Flanders and she had never been able to see how attractive he was. She thought he was a bad influence on Henry, no doubt told so by William the Marshall.

  He shouted to one of his attendants: ‘Send William the Marshall to me.’

  In a short time William appeared.

  Henry narrowed his eyes and said: ‘There is something I have been going to say to you for a long time.’

  William met his gaze steadily. ‘My lord?’

  ‘You offend me with your censorious manner,’ replied Henry.

  ‘I do not understand.’

  ‘And,’ cried Henry, ‘I find that you are too friendly with Queen Marguerite.’

  ‘My lord, I trust I am the good friend of you both.’

  ‘And particularly hers, eh?’

  ‘I do not understand these insinuations.’

  ‘Do you not? Then you are indeed a fool. I will say it plainly. It has come to my ears that you see a great deal of my wife. I will not have it. Were it not for the fact that you have been my friend for so long I would punish you as you deserve. However, I will be lenient.’

  Henry quavered. It was so difficult when face to face with that steadfast gaze to believe these things. William had always been so honourable, so eager to serve him; and when in the past he had seemed to side with someone else, it had always turned out to be for his good.

  ‘Get out of my sight,’ he said. ‘I will not have you near me. You must leave my service. Go back to England.’