Текст книги "The Plantagenet Prelude "
Автор книги: Jean Plaidy
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Contents
COVER
COPYRIGHT
GENEALOGY OF WILLIAM THE CONQUEROR
PART I: ELEANOR AND HENRY
Chapter I
Chapter II
Chapter III
Chapter IV
Chapter V
PART II: HENRY AND THOMAS
Chapter VI
Chapter VII
Chapter VIII
Chapter IX
Chapter X
Chapter XI
Chapter XII
Chapter XIII
Chapter XIV
Chapter XV
Chapter XVI
Chapter XVII
BIBLIOGRAPHY
COPYRIGHT
Copyright © Jean Plaidy, 1976
Initial lettering copyright © Stephen Raw, 2006
All rights reserved.
The Estate of Eleanor Hibbert has asserted its right to have Jean Plaidy identified as the author of this work.
Published by Arrow Books in 2007
First published in the United Kingdom in 1976 by Robert Hale Ltd Published in paperback in 1978 by Pan Books Ltd
Arrow Books
The Random House Group Limited
www.randomhouse.co.uk
Random House Group Limited Reg. No. 954009
www.randomhouse.co.uk
A CIP catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library
1 3 5 7 9 10 8 6 4 2
ISBN: 978-0099493266
Epub ISBN: 978-1446411711
Version 1.0
GENEALOGY OF
WILLIAM THE CONQUEROR
PART ONE: ELEONORE AND HENRY
Chapter I
DUCHESS AND QUEEN
From a window of the Château de l’Ombrière the Duke of Aquitaine looked down on the scene in the shaded rose garden. It was one to enchant him. His two daughters – charming creatures both of them though the elder of the two, Eleonore, surpassed in beauty her sister Petronelle – were surrounded by members of the court, young men and women, decorative and elegant, listening now to the minstrel who was singing his song of love.
The Duke’s eyes rested on Eleonore, for she was at the centre of the group. Some quality in her set her apart from the rest of the company. It was not only her beauty nor was it her rank. She was after all the heiress of Aquitaine until its Duke begot a son and, widowed as he was, he must bestir himself if he were to do so, for although he was but thirty-eight years of age, he had lost two wives and the only outcome of those marriages was his two girls Eleonore and Petronelle. Eleonore was tall and she was handsome; there was something commanding about her; she had the air of one born to rule. There was also a sensuality. He sighed, thinking of his father whose life had been dominated by his devotion to the opposite sex and wondering whether his attractive daughter would follow her grandfather in that respect.
She was fourteen years of age, Petronelle three years younger. Yet there was a ripeness about them both, even little Petronelle. As for Eleonore, she was ready for marriage. And if anything should happen to him before this event took place, who would protect her? He imagined her in her rose garden surrounded by her minstrels and the ladies of her court; and some suitor riding into the castle.
There would not only be Eleonore’s vast lands and fortune to attract him but the fascinating Eleonore herself. And if she refused to marry? He knew the manners of the day. The lovely maiden would be abducted, held prisoner, deflowered if she would not yield willingly and placed in such a position that her family would be eager to marry her to her ravisher.
It was hard to imagine such a fate for Eleonore. Yet even she would be forced to submit.
He thanked God that it had not come to that. Here he was a man of thirty-eight with two attractive daughters. He must marry and beget a son. Yet what if he were to marry and there was no son? It was a logical assumption as so far there had been only daughters. How often were royal male heirs elusive. Why should he have been given only daughters? As was customary with men of his times he asked himself whether God was punishing him for his sins or perhaps the sins of his forbears.
His father had been one of the most renowned sinners of his age. Women had been his downfall. He had left his wife and set up his mistress in great state, even having an image of her engraved on his shield. William the ninth Duke of Aquitaine had cared nothing for convention, and although the greatest motive in his life had been the pursuit of women, this was a common enough quality – or failing depending on the way one looked upon it – and he was renowned rather for his love of poetry and song. This Duke’s ideal state had been to lie with his mistress of the moment and listen to the strumming of the harp, and the songs, which were often of his own composing, sung by his minstrels. He was called the Father of the Troubadours and Eleonore had inherited his talent in this; she could compose a poem, set it to music, play it, sing it and attracted to her the finest songsters in the Duchy. What else had she inherited from her grandfather? Having noted the expression in those big languorous eyes as they rested on various comely gentlemen, the Duke wondered.
What he should do was get a son quickly and find a husband for Eleonore. But neither of these projects could be achieved without a great deal of thought. A husband for Eleonore now when she was the heiress could easily be found but it would be remembered that she could be displaced if her father had a son. And to have a son he must first find a wife! Not that that presented any great difficulty. What he must have was a fruitful wife. And there was the gist of the matter. Who could say until a man was married whether his wife would give him a son? What if he married to find the lady barren or capable only of giving him daughters?
So this was his dilemma. Should he marry again and try for a son? Or should he accept Eleonore as the heiress of Aquitaine? What of her husband if she married? Quite clearly, if she were to remain heiress of Aquitaine there was only one husband who would be worthy of her and that was the son of the King of France. So he was torn by doubts as he looked down on the scene, in the garden.
He sent for Eleonore. Because she was clever and could read and write – a rare accomplishment – because she already seemed to regard herself as the potential ruler of Aquitaine, because her mind was agile and to be admired as much as her beauty, he had talked to her for some time as he would have talked with some of his ministers.
She came in from the warm sun into the comparative chill of the castle, wrinkling her nose a little for the smell of rushes after the rose garden was none too pleasant. She would order the serving-man to sweeten the place. It should have been done a week ago. Rushes quickly became unpleasantly odorous.
Her father would be in his apartment which was reached by a staircase at the end of the great hall. This hall itself was the main room of the castle. It stretched from one end to the other and it reached up to the rafters. The ducal apartments were small in comparison for it was in the hall with its thick stone walls and narrow slits of windows that the court spent most of its time. Here courtiers danced and played the harp and sang; here the ladies sat and embroidered as they told tales and sang their songs; and because the castle could not accommodate them all they lived in houses close by where they could be within reach of the court.
Eleonore mounted the stairs to her father’s apartment.
He stood up as she entered and, placing his hands on her shoulders, drew her to him and kissed her forehead.
‘My daughter,’ he said, ‘I would speak with you.’
‘I guessed it, Father, since you asked me to come to you.’
Some might have said commanded. Eleonore must be asked, never commanded, and graciously she granted the request.
Her father smiled at her. He would not have had her otherwise.
‘You know, Eleonore, my dear daughter, that I am deeply concerned.’
‘For what reason?’
‘I have no male heir.’
She lifted her head proudly. ‘And why should you need a male heir when you have a daughter?’
‘Aye, a fine daughter. Mistake me not. I am aware of your qualities. But men seem to follow men.’
‘They will be made to see that there are times when for their good they must follow a woman.’
He smiled at her. ‘I doubt not that you would make them understand that.’
‘Then, Father, you have no problem. Come to the gardens and you shall hear my minstrels sing my latest song.’
‘A treat I shall enjoy, my dear daughter. But it is suggested to me by my ministers that my duty lies in marriage.’
Eleonore’s eyes blazed in sudden anger. Another marriage! A half-brother to displace her! That was something she would do everything in her power to prevent.
She loved this fair land of Aquitaine. The people adored her. When she rode out they came out of their cottages to see her, to give many a heartfelt cheer. She believed that they would never feel so warmly towards any but herself.
Oh, she was a woman and it may be that her sex was against her; but her grandfather, Duke William IX, had loved women, idealised women; he had instituted the Courts of Love; he had composed poetry and songs in favour of love, and women had been the most important factor in his life.
So why should not the next ruler of Aquitaine be a duchess instead of a duke? It was what the people wanted. She herself wanted it; and Eleonore had already made up her mind that what she wanted she would have.
‘And if you married,’ she cried, ‘how could you be sure that you would get this male heir by which you set such store?’
‘I am content with my daughters.’ He quailed before her fury, which was in itself ridiculous. He, a father and a duke, to be overawed by a girl, and his daughter at that! Why should he feel this need to placate her? ‘It is my ministers …’ he began feebly.
‘Then your ministers must needs mind their own affairs.’
‘Dear daughter, this is an affair of the Duchy.’
‘Very well then, marry, and I’ll swear you will soon be making a pilgrimage to some saint’s shrine asking for a fruitful marriage.’
‘A pilgrimage?’
‘’Tis the custom. But I wonder at you. You have sins to answer for, Father. You need redemption even as my grandfather did.’
‘I never lived the life he did.’
‘His sins were committed in the Courts of Love. There are others which have to be answered for. You have offended many, Father. It may be that the prayers of your enemies would be answered, prayers for retribution and not yours for forgiveness of your sins.’
‘Daughter, you turn all to your advantage.’
‘Mayhap I uphold the truth. I was ever one who liked plain speaking and always shall.’
‘So then let us have plain speaking. You are the heiress of Aquitaine and are determined to remain so.’
‘It is my wish and natural in me. A poor ruler I should be if I did not view the loss of my inheritance with abhorrence. If you marry and there is male issue I should be displaced.
The people would regret it.’
‘Nay, they would not regret my giving them a duke.’
‘First you have to get your little duke, and God has shown you in two marriages that it is daughters for you.’
‘If you believe this you will not be disturbed at the prospect of my marrying.’
‘I shall be disturbed by your disappointment, Father.’
He laughed at her. ‘My dear Eleonore, you are a diplomatist already. And you but fourteen years of age!’
‘I have made full use of my fourteen years, sir, and something tells me that God will never give you a male child.’
‘Have you become a prophet then?’
‘Nay. So many royal lords marry for sons. There was the King of England, think how he strove for a son. And what happened? His marriage was barren. There was a man who had scattered his bastards throughout the realms of England and Normandy, but he had one legitimate son who was drowned at sea and never could beget another. God denied his dearest wish, as he may well deny you yours. I believe that Henry of England regretted his second marriage. Of what good was it? It did not bring him the very thing he married for. Sons.’
‘He was a man who had led a life of great immorality.’
‘He and your father were alike in that. Perhaps he did not repent enough and so Heaven turned a deaf ear on his entreaties.’
‘I am no Henry I of England.’
‘Nay, Father, you are not. But you stood out against the Pope. It may be that he is asking Heaven not to grant your wishes for that very reason.’
The Duke was silent. He had wondered the same himself. Was Heaven against him for supporting Anacletus I against Innocent I when almost the entire world agreed that Innocent was the true Pope? He had been forced to give in in time, but it would be remembered against him.
When Henry of England had died and Stephen of Blois had proclaimed himself king, the Duke had joined forces with Geoffrey of Anjou and sought to subdue Normandy and bring that disturbed dukedom to Geoffrey, the husband of Matilda, Henry’s daughter who many said had more right to England – and Normandy – than the upstart Stephen. And what had followed? Bitter defeat!
He, like his father, had never been a man to indulge in warfare. Aquitaine had been secure for generations and its people enjoyed a peaceful life. The Duke had hated war.
He could not forget the sight of men dying around him; the heart-rending wailing of women and children driven from their homes.
Could it be that he had offended God and that until he received absolution he could not hope for a son?
He wanted to explain to this vital girl of his why he wanted a male heir. He wanted her to understand the difficulties that could befall a woman. She never would because she saw no difficulties. Yet they were there.
He wanted to see a son growing to manhood, a son who would take the reins of government in his hands before his father died. That would give continued peace to Aquitaine.
Then the idea came to him which had come to so many before him. He must placate his God and the one way to do this was to go on a pilgrimage to offer homage to the shrines of the saints. The most ardent sinners gained absolution in this way. He, the tenth Duke William of Aquitaine, would follow their example.
‘What I must do,’ he said, ‘is go on a pilgrimage. I will visit the shrine of a saint and there I shall gain forgiveness of my sins. When I have done this I shall come back and marry, and God will grant me the blessing of a son.’
Eleonore narrowed her eyes.
The pilgrimage would not be achieved in a few weeks; then there would have to be the matter of selecting a suitable bride.
It was always best to put off evil for as long as possible.
There was a good deal to be done before her father could marry and beget a son.
Something told Eleonore he never would.
There was the bustle of preparations. Having made his decision Duke William felt serene in his mind. He was to travel to the shrine of Saint James at Compostella and there he would pray for a fruitful marriage. His daughter watched his preparations with a certain cynical satisfaction as though she knew his prayers would remain unanswered.
He felt contrite in a way, for he loved her dearly. He admired her, as did most people who were aware of her dominant personality. If only she had been of the male sex he would have asked nothing more. He wanted her to understand that only in being female had she failed. And not for him; like his father, he had the utmost admiration for her sex, but it was others he must consider.
At the moment she was the heiress of vast possessions.
Rich Aquitaine could be hers and thereby put her in command of as much territory as that possessed by the King of France. It was true that they were the vassals of the King of France but in name only. The kings of France knew that the dukes of Aquitaine wielded as much – perhaps more – power than they did. It was a matter of form that the dukes bowed to the king.
‘It is a hazardous journey to Compostella,’ said the Duke one day to his daughter. ‘It is that which makes it certain that any who reach it, by the very arduous nature of their journey, will have their prayers answered.’
‘You are a fool to undertake such hazards.’
‘I feel it to be a duty.’
‘Duty! Bah! But make the journey if you wish it. And see what comes of it.’
‘Would to God it were not necessary, Eleonore. I think of you constantly. I find it hard to leave you.’
‘’Tis of your choosing,’ she told him coldly.
‘Not mine, but those to whom I owe a duty. I shall take few men with me.’
‘’Twould not be fitting to travel in great state on such an errand,’ she agreed.
‘And I would leave my bravest behind to protect you.’
‘I can protect myself.’
‘There is no harm in having a stalwart guard. And I shall confer with the King of France for he will be eager to come to your aid if I should ask him.’
‘You would trust him?’
‘Yes, if his son were mine also and my daughter his.’
‘You mean a marriage!’
‘Yes. A marriage between you and the son of the King of France.’
She smiled quietly. Well, it was not a bad prospect. If she were going to give up Aquitaine she would be Queen of France.
Louis VI was so large that he was known as Louis the Fat. He could not possibly live much longer. Rumours filtered into Aquitaine that he was confined to his bed and because of his immense size no one could lift him from it.
He had been over-fond of food and this was the result. His son was a boy a year or so older than Eleonore. She liked what she had heard of young Louis. He should be easily governed by a dominating wife. And she must marry soon.
Only she knew how close she had come to submitting to the ardours of some of her admirers. There were members of her sex who were women at the age of fourteen. Eleonore of Aquitaine was one of them. It was a mercy that she was ambitious and proud; this saved her from being carried away by her intense physical desires.
She, more than any, knew that for her marriage should not be long delayed.
‘When I return,’ said her father, ‘I must marry; and then there must be a double wedding. When my bride comes to Aquitaine you must go to the court of France.’
‘But would the King of France wish his son to marry me if I were not your heiress?’
‘The King of France will rejoice in an alliance with rich Aquitaine. He is astute enough to know its worth. And there are no alliances to compare with those forged by marriage bonds.’
She nodded gravely.
It was a bright prospect, but she was unsure. If she could bring Aquitaine to her husband she would be warmly welcomed. But otherwise?
It was a cold January day when the Duke set out for Compostella.
His daughters were in the courtyard wrapped in their sable-lined cloaks, to wish him Godspeed.
‘Farewell,’ said the Duke embracing first Eleonore and then Petronelle. ‘God guard you.’
‘Rather let us ask Him to guard you, Father,’ said Eleonore.
‘He will smile on my mission, rest assured of that,’ replied the Duke, ‘and when I return I shall be free of my burden of siri.’
Eleonore was silent; she had suggested he postpone his journey for it was foolish to set off in winter. She had believed that it was always good to postpone that which one hoped would never take place. But the Duke was assured of the urgency of the undertaking and would not consider delay.
‘He will suffer for his foolishness,’ Eleonore confided to Petronelle, who agreed with her sister. For Petronelle, like many others, adored her dazzling elder sister.
When the cavalcade had clattered out of the courtyard Eleonore and her sister went up to the topmost turret there to watch its progress.
One would never have guessed that it was the Duke of Aquitaine who rode at its head. He was humbly dressed as a pilgrim should be, and he had taken so few of his followers with him.
The castle was well fortified and Eleonore was its mistress. If any dared come against her there would be stalwart knights to protect her. And none would dare for was she not half promised to the son of the King of France?
This was a waiting time, a time when the great fire in the centre of the hall sent its smoke up to the vaulted ceiling and the smell of roasting venison filled the castle. It was too cold to frolic in the beautiful gardens; they must perforce make do with the castle hall ; and there they feasted and danced; they sang their ball ads; they strummed their harps and the sweet notes of the lute were heard throughout the castle.
Over the entertainments reigned the bold and beautiful Eleonore. Many of the gal ants sighed for her favours and she often thought of granting them; but they must for the time content themselves with singing of love.
So while Duke William traversed the icy roads on his way to Compostella, Eleonore reigned supreme surrounded by her troubadours. She might be destined to become the Queen of France but she was the first Queen of the Troubadours.
Duke William quickly realised how unwise he had been to set out in the winter. The rough roads were icy; the wind biting. Valiantly the horses endeavoured to make their way but the going was slow. Yet, said the Duke to his little band of pilgrims, the very fact that we suffer these hardships means that our sins will be the more readily forgiven. What object would there be in traveling in comfort? How could we hope for our sins to be forgiven if we did not suffer for our redemption?
When darkness fell they rested wherever they found themselves. Sometimes it would be in a castle, sometimes in a peasant’s humble home.
The Duke thought much of the castle of Ombrière and pictured Eleonore in the great hall, the firelight flickering on her proud handsome face; the young men at her feet watching her with yearning in their eyes. That power in her would attract men to her until she died. It was yet another inheritance of this richly endowed young woman. She could take care of herself. That was his great comfort. Eleonore would lead others; no one would force her to do what she did not wish. He thought of her – those large eyes which could be speculative when she considered her future and soulful when she listened to the songs of her troubadours, that thick hair which fell to her waist, the oval face and the strong line of the jaw. His great comfort was: Eleonore will take care of herself no matter what happens.
When he came back with the blessing of Saint James, when he married and his son was born, Eleonore would still be a desirable parti. Would the King of France consider her worthy of his son without the rich lands of Aquitaine?
That was a matter to be thought of when the time came. First he must get his son. Nay, he thought, first he must get to Compostella.
He had coughed a great deal through the night and the icy winds had affected his limbs; they felt stiff and unwieldy. It would pass when he returned to the comfort of his home. One did not expect a pilgrimage to be a comfortable holiday. The saint would be gratified that he had endured such hardship to pay homage at his shrine. And when the weather changed and he could live comfortably again, his cough would go and the stiffness leave his limbs.
The party had crossed into Spain, but here the going was rougher than ever. The countryside was sparsely populated and because it was so difficult to get along they often found no shelter when night fell. The Duke was now so weak that his followers decided that they must at the earliest opportunity construct a litter that he might be carried.
Wishing to endure the utmost hardship, the Duke protested at first. Only if he suffered would the saint intercede with such fervour for him that his sins be forgiven and he gain his goal. But it was useless; he had become too ill to sit his horse; he must submit.
There was no comfort in being carried over those rough roads. He was soon in great pain and it suddenly occurred to him that he might never reach the shrine, that there would never be the marriage which would give him the male heir for Aquitaine.
Morosely he contemplated the future as he was jolted along.
Eleonore the richest heiress in Europe and a girl of fourteen. He should have been content with what he had been given. Not a son but a girl who was as good as any boy, a girl who failed only in her sex. And because he had not been content with what God had given him, he had ventured on this pilgrimage from which he was beginning to wonder whether he would ever emerge.
Each day his dismal thoughts went back to Ombrière. What would happen if he died? As soon as that fact became known the fortune hunters would be unleashed. A young, desirable and, above all, rich girl was unprotected, and she was ripe for marriage. Adventurers would come from all directions; he could see some bold ambitious man storming the castle, capturing proud Eleonore and forcing her to submit. Could anyone force Eleonore? Yes, if he had henchmen to help him in his evil designs. The thought maddened him.
Who was there to protect her? His brother Raymond was far away in Antioch. If only Raymond was at hand. He was something of a hero and the Duke had often thought that his father would have preferred Raymond to have inherited Aquitaine. Very tall, fastidious in his appearance, possessed of a natural elegance, Raymond of Poitiers was born to command. He had been the ideal crusader and was now Prince of Antioch, for he had married Constance, the granddaughter of the great Bohemond of the first crusade.
But it was no use thinking of Raymond in far-off Antioch as a protector.
Could it be that he was going to die? As each day passed his conviction became stronger. He was finding it more and more difficult to breathe; there were times when he was not sure whether he was on the road to Compostella or fighting for possession of Normandy with the Duke of Anjou.
In his moments of lucidity he knew that he must abandon hope of reaching Compostella. His sins would be forgiven but he must pay for forgiveness with his life. And his affairs must be in order. He must be sure that Eleonore was protected.
There was one way to do this. He must ask for help of the most powerful man in France: its king.
He would offer his Eleonore to the King’s son. He had no qualms about the offer being joyously accepted. Louis had long coveted the rich lands of Aquitaine and this marriage would bring them to the crown of France.
He called to his litter two of the men he most trusted.
‘Make with all speed to Paris,’ he said. ‘Let it be known that you come from the Duke of Aquitaine. Then the King himself will see you. Take this letter to him. If the letter should be lost before you reach him, tell him that I wish a marriage between his son and my daughter without delay, for I fear my days are numbered and if the marriage is not arranged others may step in before him.’
Having despatched the messengers the Duke felt easier in his mind. If he were to die, Eleonore would be in good hands, her future assured.
King Louis VI of France, known as the Fat, lay on his bed breathing with difficulty. He deplored his condition and it gave him no comfort to realise that he should never have allowed himself to reach such bulk. He had enjoyed good food and had never restrained his appetite for it was an age when men were admired for their size. If one was rich one could eat to one’s fill ; it was only peasants who went hungry. It therefore behooved a king to show his subjects that he was in a position to consume as much food as his body could take. But what a toll it took of a man’s strength!
He longed for the days of his youth, when he had sat his horse effortlessly; now there was no horse strong enough to carry him.
It was too late to repine. The end was in sight in any case.
He often said to his ministers that if only he had had the knowledge in his youth and the strength in his old age he would have conquered many kingdoms and left France richer than when he had come to the throne.
But was it not a well -known maxim: If Youth but knew and Age could do.
Now he must plan for the future and he thanked God that he had a good heir to leave to his country.
God had been good to him when he had given him young Louis. He was known throughout the kingdom as Louis the Young, as he himself was known as Louis the Fat. He had not always been the Fat of course, any more than his son would always be the Young; suffice that those were the soubriquets by which they were known at this time.
Young Louis was sixteen years old – a serious boy, inclined to religion. Not a bad thing in a king, mused Louis. Young Louis had been destined for the Church and not to rule at all for he had had an elder brother. He had spent his early years at Notre-Dame and he had taken well to the life. But it was not to be. Fate had ordained otherwise.
Bernard, that rather uncomfortable Abbot of Clairvaux, who was inclined to fulminate against all those who did not fall into line with his beliefs – and none knew more than rulers how irritating such prelates could be, for had there not always been certain friction between Church and State? – had prophesied that the King’s eldest son would not take the crown but that it would fall to his brother Louis the Young.
The King had been uneasy, for Bernard had a reputation for making prophecies which came true; and sure enough this one had.
One day Philippe the heir, after hunting in the forest, came into Paris where a pig, running suddenly across the road, tripped his horse. Philippe fell and struck his head against a stone and died almost immediately.
By this time Bernard had become revered as a holy man who could see into the future, and young Louis much to his dismay was taken from Notre-Dame to study the craft of kingship.
The boy had always hankered after the religious life.
Perhaps it was not a bad thing. A certain amount of religion was good for a king provided it did not interfere with duties.
He would be called upon now and then to defend his kingdom and his father hoped that when such occasion arose he would not be squeamish about punishing those who rebelled against him. Young Louis was too gentle. Also he must get an heir. Louis had never frolicked with women.
So many young men of his age had fathered a few bastards by this time. Not Louis.
Now the King sent for his son.
He sighed a little as the boy stood before him.
‘Ah,’ he said, ‘you see me prostrate. Never indulge your appetite as I have done. It is not worth it.’
‘I see that, Sire.’
‘Be seated, my son. I have news for you.’
Louis sat down.
‘My friend and ally, the Duke of Aquitaine, is in the same sad state as that in which I find myself. It would seem neither of us is long for this world.’
