Текст книги "The Revolt of the Eaglets"
Автор книги: Jean Plaidy
сообщить о нарушении
Текущая страница: 1 (всего у книги 24 страниц)
About the Book
News of Thomas à Becket’s martyrdom has spread throughout Christendom and the blame is laid at the feet of Henry Plantagenet, King of England. Two years later, with Becket canonised, Henry’s position is precarious: punished at the Pope’s insistence for his part in Becket’s death, he now also has an enemy in his Queen, Eleanor of Aquitaine, after her discovery of his longstanding infidelity with Rosamund Clifford. Eleanor is determined to seek vengeance, so, with King Philip of France, she encourages her sons to conspire, both against their father and each other.
Much embattled, the old eagle Henry struggles to fend off both rebellion and the plots of his aggressively circling offspring …
‘Miss Plaidy does full justice to the trials of Henry II’s last years. The demands of the vast Angevin Empire provide strong dramatic material which she handles with her usual skill.’ Sunday Times
‘It is hard to better Jean Plaidy when she is in form … both elegant and exciting as she steers a stylish path through the feuding Plantagenets.’ Daily Mirror
This eBook is copyright material and must not be copied, reproduced, transferred, distributed, leased, licensed or publicly performed or used in any way except as specifically permitted in writing by the publishers, as allowed under the terms and conditions under which it was purchased or as strictly permitted by applicable copyright law. Any unauthorised distribution or use of this text may be a direct infringement of the author’s and publisher’s rights and those responsible may be liable in law accordingly.
Version 1.0
Epub ISBN 9781407011059
www.randomhouse.co.uk
Published by Arrow Books in 2007
1 3 5 7 9 10 8 6 4 2
Copyright © Jean Plaidy, 1977
Initial lettering copyright © Stephen Raw, 2006
The Estate of Eleanor Hibbert has asserted its right to have Jean Plaidy identified as the author of this work.
This book is sold subject to the condition that it shall not, by way of trade or otherwise, be lent, resold, hired out, or otherwise circulated without the publisher’s prior consent in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition including this condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.
Arrow Books
The Random House Group Limited
20 Vauxhall Bridge Road, London SW1V 2SA
Random House Australia (Pty) Limited
20 Alfred Street, Milsons Point, Sydney
New South Wales 2061, Australia
Random House New Zealand Limited
18 Poland Road, Glenfield,
Auckland 10, New Zealand
Random House (Pty) Limited
Isle of Houghton, Corner of Boundary Road & Carse O’Gowrie,
Houghton 2198, South Africa
Random House Publishers India Private Limited
301 World Trade Tower, Hotel Intercontinental Grand Complex
Barakhamba Lane, New Delhi 110 001, India
Random House Group Limited Reg. No. 954009
www.randomhouse.co.uk
A CIP catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library
ISBN 9780099493273
Contents 
Cover
About the Book
Title
Copyright
About the Author
Praise for Jean Plaidy
Available in Arrow Books by Jean Plaidy
I News of Murder
II Princess Alice
III The King and Queen
IV Castles for John
V The King’s Penance
VI The Rebellious Cubs
VII The King’s Choice
VIII The Queen comes to Court
IX The Young King
X The King’s Strategy
XI The Lady of Godstow
XII The Court of France
XIII Berengaria
XIV The Devil’s Strain
XV The Painting on the Wall
XVI The Curse of Heraclius
XVII The Fatal Joust
XVIII Philip and Richard
XIX The Death of the Eagle
Bibliography
Jean Plaidy, one of the pre-eminent authors of historical fiction for most of the twentieth century, is the pen name of the prolific English author Eleanor Hibbert, also known as Victoria Holt. Jean Plaidy’s novels had sold more than 14 million copies worldwide by the time of her death in 1993.
For further information about our Jean Plaidy reissues and mailing list, please visit
www.randomhouse.co.uk/minisites/jeanplaidy
Praise for Jean Plaidy
‘A vivd impression of life at the Tudor Court’
Daily Telegraph
‘One of the country’s most widely read novelists’
Sunday Times
‘Outstanding’ Vanity Fair
‘Full-blooded, dramatic, exciting’
Observer
‘Jean Plaidy conveys the texture of various patches of the past with such rich complexity’ Guardian
‘Plaidy has brought the past to life’ Times Literary Supplement
‘One of our best historical novelists’ News Chronicle
‘An excellent story’ Irish Press
‘Spirited … Plaidy paints the truth as she sees it’
Birmingham Post
‘Sketched vividly and sympathetically … rewarding’
Scotsman
‘Among the foremost of current historical novelists’
Birmingham Mail
‘An accomplished novelist’ Glasgow Evening News
‘There can be no doubt of the author’s gift for storytelling’
Illustrated London News
‘Jean Plaidy has once again brought characters and background vividly to life’ Everywoman
‘Well up to standard … fascinating’
Manchester Evening News
‘Exciting and intelligent’ Truth Magazine
‘No frills and plenty of excitement’ Yorkshire Post
‘Meticulous attention to historical detail’ South Wales Argus
‘Colourful … imaginative and exciting’
Northern Daily Telegraph
‘Effective and readable’ Sphere
‘A vivid picture of the crude and vigorous London of those days’ Laurence Meynell
Available in Arrow Books by Jean Plaidy
The Tudors
Uneasy Lies the Head
Katharine, the Virgin
Widow
The Shadow of the
Pomegranate
The King’s Secret Matter
Murder Most Royal
St Thomas’s Eve
The Sixth Wife
The Thistle and the Rose
Mary Queen of France
Lord Robert
Royal Road to Fotheringay
The Captive Queen of Scots
The Medici Trilogy
Madame Serpent
The Italian Woman
Queen Jezebel
The Plantagenets
The Plantagenet Prelude
The Revolt of the Eaglets
The Heart of the Lion
The Prince of Darkness
The French Revolution
Louis the Well-Beloved
The Road to Compiègne
Flaunting, Extravagant
Queen
Chapter I
NEWS OF MURDER
It was the first day of the year 1171 and in the Castle at Argentan they had been celebrating the passing of the old year and welcoming in the new. The King was in a good mood anticipating with pleasure his return to England and reunion with his mistress Rosamund Clifford. Since his wife, Queen Eleanor, had become aware of her existence, there was no longer the need to keep the liaison secret. Not that he, King of England, Duke of Normandy and the rest, was afraid of his wife, although she could be formidable. His anxiety had been that she might take some revenge on Rosamund before he could prevent her doing so. Eleanor must learn that he was master, but it was a conclusion which she had evaded for the nineteen years of their marriage.
Yet he supposed theirs had not been an entirely unsatisfactory union. She had provided him with four sons and two daughters – a good tally – and not only that: her rich lands of Aquitaine, which she had brought to the marriage, had extended his possessions and made the King of England the most powerful man in Europe.
He had much on which to congratulate himself. He had brought that justice back to England which under the reign of weak Stephen the country had lost; he had managed to cling to his possessions overseas; he had skilfully arranged the marriages of his children – all but six-year-old Joanna and five-year-old John – to bring him the utmost advantage, and he was in fact feared and respected throughout his kingdom – and others.
Although on this New Year’s Day he was in a benevolent mood, all men knew that his notorious temper could be aroused at any moment. Then his pinkish skin would become dull red and his eyes would grow fierce, his nostrils flare until he would resemble the lion to which he was so often compared. He had never been able to control those tempers, nor did he see any reason why he should. When he was angry he wanted men to know it. His rages were terrible. During them he lost all control of his actions and would vent his fury on any inanimate objects which happened to be at hand, often causing damage to himself. He had been known to roll on the floor and gnaw the rushes at such times.
Eleanor had said: ‘One day when you are in one of your rages you will do yourself a mischief.’
He remembered the glint in her eyes, and he had cried: ‘You would not be displeased if I did, my lady, I fancy.’
She had not denied it. She had always been defiant, never showing fear of him, constantly reminding him that though he might be King of England, she was the Duchess of Aquitaine.
He doubted she would care if he were dead. In fact the event might please her. There was their son to follow him to the throne. Young Henry, already crowned King, handsome, with all the charm imaginable, already binding men to him by the sheer attractiveness of his personality. It was unwise to crown a son King while his father still lived. Becket had been against it.
‘Ah, my Lord Archbishop,’ muttered Henry, ‘was that perhaps because you were not the one to perform the ceremony?’
Young Henry was now leaving boyhood behind him. He was sixteen. Boys did grow ambitious at such an age. The King admitted to himself that he did now and then feel uneasy and had asked himself whether he had acted thoughtlessly during the preceding year when he had allowed his son to be crowned.
Well, it was done; and if he, the King, were to die within a few weeks – which was not unlikely for he was constantly leading his armies against some rebel who had thought to take advantage of his many commitments – then England would have an undisputed king who had already been crowned and bore the title.
He would not allow such thoughts to disturb him on this day. He would think of home and Rosamund and their two boys and the domestic peace he could find with no one but her. He was glad Eleanor had walked through the maze of trees that day and discovered the Bower where he had hidden Rosamund. He was tired of Eleanor. It suited him well that she should go to Aquitaine; he hoped she would stay there; he no longer desired her. She was nearly twelve years older than he was; and there was no need to get more children by her, when they already had six and in any case she was now past the age of childbearing. It was good to be rid of her spiteful tongue, for she made no effort to control it now that she had a reason in Rosamund for hating him. As if she, a woman of such worldliness, could have expected him to be faithful to her! That was not exactly the case. Like so many women of her kind she would accept the casual adventure. The fact that galled her was that he could actually love someone as he loved Rosamund, and let her continue to bear his children, that she was someone to whom he could go for peace and comfort, someone who could be to him a wife as his Queen could not be. That roused her venom and set her thinking of how she could most effectively revenge herself on him.
Let her try.
Rosamund was so different. He brooded on how he had first seen her in her father’s castle in Shropshire where he had rested on some expedition into Wales; she had been an innocent young virgin; he had desired her and there had been no one to deny him – not Sir Walter Clifford, her father, nor the fair Rosamund herself; and ever since … she had been as a wife to him. A dear docile creature, never complaining of his infidelities, never seeking prizes for herself, always there when he needed her to comfort him.
He was fortunate in Rosamund and now that Eleanor was away he could safely bring her to Court. He hoped his wife would never come back to England.
A shout from below broke into this pleasant reverie.
He called out: ‘What goes?’
One of his attendants was hurrying to him.
‘My lord, riders are coming to the castle.’
He was at the window. Riders, yes. And they came from England. Trouble! It could only mean trouble. Who had risen against him now? Well, it would hasten his return and the sooner he would be with Rosamund.
He was in the hall when they came in. They threw themselves at his feet and he cried impatiently: ‘What news? What news?’
‘The Archbishop of Canterbury is dead, my lord.’
‘Dead!’
‘Murdered, my lord, in his own Cathedral.’
‘Oh, my God, no. This cannot be true. Who has done this deed?’
‘Four of your knights, my lord. Reginald FitzUrse, William de Tracy, Hugh de Morville and Richard le Breton.’
‘My knights,’ he said.
The messengers bowed their heads.
‘Why did they do this?’ muttered the King. ‘What can have made them commit such a crime?’
The messengers remained silent. They dared not tell him that the knights had said they had done the deed at the King’s command.
‘Thomas … dead!’ went on the King talking to himself. ‘It cannot be. It must not be.’
‘My lord,’ said one of the messengers, ‘the deed was done but three days ago and we came with all speed, knowing it would be your wish to be acquainted with the fact.’
‘Go … refresh yourselves … leave me with my grief,’ said the King. He called to his servants. ‘Bring me sackcloth. I shall change my robes. This for me is a day of mourning.’
Thomas … dead! Old friend and now enemy, dead! So many memories came crowding into his mind. The jokes they had shared when Thomas had been his Chancellor and best friend. ‘Do not make me your Archbishop,’ he had said, ‘for that will be the end of our friendship.’ Was that a premonition? For how right he had been and what bitter enemies they had become. What had he said to those four knights that they should have taken their swords and stormed the Cathedral? What part had he played in this?
Solemnly he took off his royal robes and wrapped himself in a cloak of sack-cloth.
‘Leave me,’ he said. ‘Leave me to my grief.’
He went into his bedchamber and buried his head in his hands.
‘I did not want this,’ he murmured again and again.
He dropped his hands and stared before him, not seeing the tapestried walls but the past … and the future.
Thomas was too well known a figure for his death to go unnoticed. Unnoticed! There was no hope of that! There would be an uproar. It would spread throughout Christendom. Thomas would be as tiresome in death as he had been in life. He would become a martyr. Henry was not afraid of any general, but he was terrified of martyrs.
What had he said to those knights? He remembered well the occasion when they had been present. He had heard that Thomas had threatened to excommunicate all those who had been concerned in young Henry’s coronation and as none had been concerned more than he himself that meant him also; and one of the bishops – it must have been Roger of York – had said that while Thomas Becket lived he would never have a peaceful kingdom. And then a sudden rage had possessed the King. He had cursed them all. He had maintained them and they were false varlets. He could hear his own voice now shouting to those cringing men, ‘You have left me long exposed to the insolence of this low-born cleric and have not attempted to relieve me of him.’
They had taken those words to heart, those four knights; they had interpreted them as a command to murder. It must be so, for they had made their way to Canterbury and there slain Thomas in his Cathedral.
‘That this should have happened!’ he cried; and he was thinking: They are going to blame me. The whole world is going to blame me. Those four knights dealt the blows but I shall be named the murderer.
What could he do? He could see the Pope and the whole world rising against him. They were going to make a martyr and a saint of Thomas and the more reverence they showered on him the stronger would be the odium poured on the one they would blame for his murder.
He needed time to think. His actions now were of the utmost importance. He had come a long way in the last twenty years, when, as son of Matilda, daughter of Henry I of England, and the Count of Anjou, he had had a not very steady grasp on the crown of the Dukes of Normandy. He had married the richest heiress in Europe and had taken the crown of England and there was not a man who could stand against him. The King of France feared him; he had defied the Pope; he had had his way and it had brought him great power.
But now he was in danger, and all through Thomas à Becket. The Church would sing the Archbishop’s praises, for Thomas had been slain in the battle between Church and State which had been raging for years and would doubtless go on. And Thomas would be a saint and a martyr.
‘You always tried to get the better of me, Thomas,’ he muttered and a grim smile appeared on his lips. ‘And I always fought you … often in jest and latterly in earnest and you have to learn that I always win.’
And now in death you play this trick on me!
A great deal depended on what he did now. First of course he must insist that the knights had misconstrued his words. He must show everyone that no one mourned the death of Thomas à Becket more deeply than the King.
He would shut himself into his chamber; he would let it be known that so stunned was he by the news that he must be alone to mourn. He would not come down to eat; he would take only what was necessary to keep him alive – he had never been a great trencherman so that was no difficulty – he would wear nothing but his robe of sack-cloth and all must understand that he wished to be left to prayer and meditation.
Fortunately the position of Pope Alexander was not very secure and the Papal Court was at Tusculum. Alexander had to be careful whom he offended and he would not wish to arouse the enmity of the King of England.
First Henry would send the messengers back to Canterbury with the news that the King’s one-time Chancellor and Archbishop of Canterbury was to be given burial worthy of his rank.
How to approach the Pope needed a great deal of consideration. It was no use pleading complete innocence. No one would accept that. That there had been friction between himself and Thomas was a well-known fact. Yet there must be no delay in writing to Alexander before others got in with their accusations.
He took up his pen and wrote:
‘To Alexander by the Grace of God Supreme Pontiff, Henry, King of the English, Duke of the Normans and Aquitainians and Count of the Angevins sends greetings and due devotion.’
There was no harm in reminding Alexander of the power he held over so many territories.
‘Out of reverence for the Roman Church and love for you … I granted peace and the full restitution of his possessions, according to your order, to Thomas, Archbishop of Canterbury, and allowed him to cross over to England with a fitting revenue.
‘He, however, brought not peace and joy but the sword, and made accusations against me and my crown. Not being able to bear such effrontery from the man, those he had excommunicated, and others, rushed in upon him and, what I cannot say without sorrow, killed him.
‘Wherefore I am gravely concerned, as God is my witness, for I fear that the anger I had formerly conceived against him may be accounted as the cause for this evil deed. And because in this deed I fear more for my reputation than my conscience, I beg Your Serenity to encourage me with your advice in this matter.’
He despatched messengers to Tusculum and waited.
How quickly life could change. He had just been congratulating himself on having control of his subjects, of having rid himself of Eleanor; he had been delightedly planning a little domestic peace with Rosamund, and Thomas à Becket must be murdered! Why could not Thomas have died of some flux, some bodily disorder? No, he could not do that, though it seemed he was ailing. He had to die in the most spectacular fashion from the sword thrusts of the King’s knights.
Trust Thomas to plague him to the end.
He thought of Eleanor who would very soon hear the news, for he was sure it would be ringing across the length and breadth of Europe. He could picture her sly smile, for she would know how discomfited he would be. In her malice she would doubtless feed the rumours with tales of his quarrels with Thomas, for at one time he had confided in her a great deal. She had never liked Thomas. In the days of the great friendship between the King and his Chancellor when Eleanor herself was still a little enamoured of her husband, she had been jealous of Thomas because she had known that the King preferred his conversation to that of anyone else.
‘A curse on the Queen,’ cried the King.
He must not give way to anger now. He needed all his wits about him. He thought of all his vassals, those who unwillingly accepted him as their suzerain. They would be ready to whisper against him, the man who must surely be cursed because he was guilty of shedding the martyr’s blood.
He stayed in his room most of those days. He was not seen at the table. His servants and knights spoke in whispers. ‘The King is deeply affected by the death of Thomas à Becket,’ they said.
When messengers arrived they were summoned immediately to his presence.
They had stories to tell of what was happening in Canterbury. On the night of the murder, it was said, there had been a violent storm. The lightning was horrifying and many were terrified of the thunder which broke right over the Cathedral. A blind woman had stooped and kissed the stones which were stained with Thomas’s blood and lo, her sight was restored.
People were flocking to Canterbury, the sick and the maimed. It was said that Christ had given Thomas the power of healing.
It was worse than Henry had feared.
There was news too from Tusculum.
The Pope had shut himself away as soon as he had received the news of the murder. For eight days he had remained in seclusion that, as he said, he might mourn his beloved son. When he emerged he gave orders that no Englishman should be admitted to his presence.
Meanwhile the Archbishop of Sens had denounced Henry King of England as the murderer and the King of France joined the Archbishop in his accusations.
Henry knew that it was only a matter of time before he would be excommunicated.
This was disaster. But he was not a man to give way in adversity. In fact it was at such times that he showed his greatest skills. He had done what he could. He had written to the Pope honestly stating what had happened. He could only plead his sorrow and show that he mourned the death as sincerely as did everyone else.
There was nothing more he could do to convince the world of his innocence; and if they refused to believe him then he must make them aware of his might.
He had ever sought to add to his dominions and for long had had his eyes on Ireland.
This seemed an appropriate time to show the world that it would be unwise for any to underestimate him. His knights had murdered Thomas à Becket and he might be thought responsible, but let none of them forget that he was the great grandson of the Conqueror.
He decided to spend his days in planning an invasion of Ireland.
The young King Henry received the news in the old Saxon Palace of Winchester.
He was feeling somewhat displeased with his lot. It had been a great experience to be crowned King of England and he would never forget that ceremony which had taken place last June, some six months before. How wonderful it was to be a king! Those about him feared to offend him; they remembered that his father could not live for ever and that one day there would only be one king of England. He was very surprised that his father had allowed him to be crowned and had made a king of him when it was quite clear that so many people liked the son better than the father.
Young Henry knew that he was more handsome than his father. They told him he resembled his paternal grandfather, the Count of Anjou, who had been known as Geoffrey the Fair. Looks were important, although his father would never accept that. Young Henry would never get his hands chapped and rough because he refused to wear gloves. He liked to see them adorned with rings. He was not like his father at all; he tried to charm people, something the older Henry never bothered with. But it was important, reasoned Henry the younger; it made people like one, it bound them to one; they were likely to be loyal if they had an affection for a ruler. No one had a great affection for his father. They might respect him as a great ruler and fear him, but love him? Never!
He knew how people were with him. They flattered him because he flattered them; there had been many a hint that those about him would be happy enough when there was only one king to rule England.
Not that he had been allowed to do much ruling yet. He had quickly realised that his father had had no intention of giving him power, only a crown. He was in fact becoming more and more disgruntled every day.
He wished he could see his mother, but of course she had always been more fond of Richard than she was of him; as for his father, it sometimes seemed as though he wanted his affection. Let him do something to get it then. Let him give the son he had made King some land to rule over; let him be King in fact as well as in name. As if the old man would give up anything he once laid his hands on!
‘Your father is the most acquisitive man on earth,’ his mother had said to him. ‘He’ll never take his hands from anything once they have held it.’
What hatred there had been between those two! He and his brothers had sensed it; in secret they had ranged themselves on their mother’s side against him. She had loved them and although Richard was her favourite she had shown that she cared passionately about them all. It seemed that the more she hated their father, the more she loved them.
The King had treated her badly. He had had no right to bring his bastard Geoffrey into the nursery! The son of a common whore who had followed the camp and borne the King a son – and that son was brought up in their mother’s nursery! It was too much for any proud woman to endure and when that woman was Eleanor of Aquitaine, naturally there would be trouble.
She had said to him: ‘Henry my son, your father has made a king of you. He did it only to spite Thomas Becket, I’m sure. He knows that old fellow will be beside himself with rage because he was not here to crown you. He’ll regret it, but his regrets will be your blessing. As he has made you a king, he must not be surprised if you act like one.’ And she had laughed loudly at the thought; and ever since he had resented his father’s parsimony; because of his mother’s words he had come to dislike his father even more than he had at first. His mother had always pointed out to them all their father’s shortcomings; and the only one who didn’t listen to her was Bastard Geoffrey. He worshipped the King; and when their father came to the nursery he would try to get his attention, which he invariably did, for the King always listened to what Geoffrey the Bastard had learned and nodded his approval.
Now young Henry believed he had done it to annoy their mother. There was so much one understood as one grew older.
‘Your father will use you all like pawns in a game of chess,’ said their mother. ‘Look how he has married you without your leave!’
It was true. Young Henry had a wife, Marguerite, the daughter of the King of France. At this time she was in Aquitaine with his mother, being brought up by her until the time when she should come to him and share his bed, roof and crown. She herself had not yet been crowned and the King of France was very angry about that, but his father had promised that she should be, and when she was, he supposed their married life would begin.
He had so few opportunities for displaying his kingship that when he did get one he was determined to use it. He had done so quite recently when Thomas à Becket had come to see him.
He had refused to see the old man. He had felt a little uneasy about that but he had persuaded himself that he could do nothing else. Roger, Archbishop of York, had arrived to see him and to tell him that the Archbishop of Canterbury was on his way.
Young Henry had been pleased to hear this for he had had a great affection for his old teacher. He and young Marguerite had been put in his care many years ago before Thomas’s exile. He had been stern and they had had to spend long sessions on their knees. Marguerite used to say her knees were sore with praying, but they had loved him in spite of his strictness and the stern talks he used to give them, for there was a merry side to his nature and suddenly it would burst forth and they would all be very gay together.
He remembered that day when they were told that Thomas à Becket would no longer instruct them because he had quarrelled with the King and as a consequence he had fled to France.
That was long ago. Marguerite had broken down and wept; and Henry had almost done the same. And no other teacher had been quite the same.
But Roger of York had scorned Thomas à Becket.
‘My lord King,’ he had said, ‘you cannot receive that man. Had he had his way you would never have been crowned.’
‘And why not?’ he had demanded in his new arrogance.
‘Because the Archbishop of Canterbury did not believe you should be crowned. He is a man who thinks he knows best on every matter.’
‘It is because he did not perform the ceremony.’
‘Mayhap that had something to do with it, but he has declared his disapproval and is threatening to excommunicate all those who took part in it.’
‘That’s insolence,’ Henry had cried, for he was very sensitive about anything that touched his pride in his new office.
‘He’s an insolent fellow. If you receive him he will preach to you. He will tell you to give up your crown.’
‘I will tell him to be gone.’
‘Better to tell him not to come. My lord King, if you will allow me to express an opinion, for the sake of the dignity of your crown you cannot receive a man whose aim is to snatch it from you.’
‘Indeed I cannot.’
‘Then you should have him warned that you will not receive him.’
‘I will,’ declared Henry, and had done so, but almost immediately he regretted it. It seemed so churlish to turn his old teacher away.
But Roger of York was right. Now that he was King he could suffer no indignity.
He let his mind dwell on the glory of the coronation when the crown had been placed on his head in the solemn ceremony and later at the banquet his father the King had served him.
