Текст книги "The Revolt of the Eaglets"
Автор книги: Jean Plaidy
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Текущая страница: 14 (всего у книги 24 страниц)
With skill he avoided either issue and it was with great pleasure that he accompanied the King of France to Dover. Louis embarked on the waiting vessel and sailed back to France.
There, joyous news awaited him. Philip was recovering his health. The doctors swore that it must have been precisely at the time when Louis lay prostrate before the tomb of the martyr that Philip began to revive.
Louis went at once to see his son and the change in him was remarkable. It could only be a miracle, declared the King; and how gratified he was that he had defied his ministers and put his trust in the martyr and Henry of England. He felt it augured well for the future and their new friendship which was to take them together to the Holy Land.
‘Your coronation will not be long delayed,’ he told Philip. ‘We will make preparations without delay.’
He was delighted when his son-in-law, the younger Henry, arrived at the French Court with his wife Marguerite.
Louis embraced them both warmly. Henry looked well and very handsome though Marguerite was a little wan after her ordeal.
‘How glad I am to see you, my son and daughter,’ he said, and he added to Henry: ‘I want you and my Philip to be friends always. Your father and I have taken an oath of friendship and one day you two will stand in the same position as we hold today – Kings of France and England. I want there to be amity between you. Remember that, Henry, for there is nothing but misery in war. I would to God I had never taken part in it. I would be a happier man today if I had not.’
Wars were a necessary part of a king’s life, Henry supposed, but he did not bother to contradict Louis. The poor old fellow was looking older than ever and his skin had taken on an unhealthy tinge.
Henry was glad to renew his friendship with Philip of Flanders but he was less influenced by him than before, for he was more experienced of the world than he had been and although he remembered how generous the Count had been when he was initiating him into the joys of the tournament, he no longer seemed quite the glamorous person he had once appeared to be.
Nor did Henry greatly care for the young Prince of France. No one did; he was not a very attractive character. It was only his father who doted on him, and of course the ministers of France realised his importance, for he was the heir and if he had died after that mishap in the forest there would doubtless have been so many claimants to the throne that there would have been inevitable civil war.
Louis decided that there should be a thanksgiving service at St Denis to commemorate the miraculous recovery of Philip; and this should take place as soon as possible.
He did not wish Thomas à Becket to think he was ungrateful for his intercession.
The date was fixed. Young Henry would ride side by side with Philip to show everyone that the friendship between France and England was firm.
When his attendants helped Louis on to his horse they were struck by his pallor and one of them asked the King if he was feeling unwell.
‘A little weary,’ replied Louis.
‘My lord, should you not perhaps rest?’
‘Nay,’ replied the King. ‘I would not miss this ceremony for anything.’
But he did miss it, for as the procession made its way to the Abbey the King startled everyone by falling forward. He would have slipped to the ground had not one of the knights, who had been inwardly noting his pallor, hurried to save him.
The King was taken back to the castle, and soon his doctors were at his bedside.
He had suffered a seizure and could neither speak nor move.
In a few days he was slightly better. His speech returned but one arm and leg were paralysed.
There was one thing Louis was determined on. The coronation must not be postponed again. Now more than before it was necessary for Philip to be crowned King of France.
He sent for Philip of Flanders and begged him to watch over young Philip. The Count was one of Philip’s god-parents, he reminded him, and it was his duty. ‘My son is clever but so young,’ said the King. ‘He has much to learn but is shrewd enough to learn it. I trust that those who wish me well will be good friends of his.’
Philip of Flanders swore that he would serve Philip with all his strength.
So he would, he promised himself, if the boy would be influenced by him. The Count pictured himself growing more and more powerful as his influence grew. It was clear that Louis had not long to live; the new King would be very young, and if he would accept his godfather’s guidance, Philip of Flanders would be very content. It should be as Louis wished, only young Philip should serve the Count of Flanders instead of the other way round. When that happened there would be amity between them and they would work together for the good of France and the Count.
Louis’s wife Adela came to his bedside and he talked to her of his anxieties.
‘I would our son were a little older,’ he said.
‘He will soon grow older,’ she soothed him.
‘Not in time.’
There is going to be time,’ she told him. Her eyes were sorrowful. He had been a kind and gentle husband. She had been afraid when she came to Paris to marry him and be Queen of France. Her family had been naturally delighted with the match and she was thinking of her brothers now, for if Louis died she would need their help. Philip was too young to rule and could well become influenced by those who were no good to him.
‘Adela, my dear,’ said Louis, ‘you have been a good wife to me and I can never thank you enough for giving me my son.’
She knelt down by his bed and kissed his hand.
He muttered an endearment.
‘You must get well,’ she told him.
He nodded his head to comfort her, but he did not believe he would ever leave his bed.
On the day of the coronation he lay there still and longed to be at Rheims. There the crown would be placed on Philip’s head by his uncle – Adela’s brother – who was Archbishop of Rheims. He was a good man and a strong one. Her brothers would stand beside Adela and soon the boy, whom everyone must admit was clever, would be of an age to stand on his own.
If only Philip were a little older he could die in peace. Not that he was any use now except as a symbol; he was, though, still the King of France and men respected him as such, but this day there would be another king, a young boy who, he prayed fervently, would grow up to be a great king.
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.’
‘You mean that you are in truth dismissing me?’
‘I do mean it. Get out before I am tempted to do you some harm.’
William the Marshall bowed with dignity and left.
Before the day was out he was on his way to England.
Marguerite was sad and angry.
‘To dismiss William,’ she cried. ‘You are mad. He is the best friend you have.’
‘You would surely think so.’
‘Of course I do. As you must if you think sensibly about the matter.’
‘I know he is very friendly with you.’
‘He is the friend of us both. I know he loves you well and always has. He has tried to bring about a better relationship between you and your father. He is a better friend to you than ever Philip of Flanders would be. That man thinks only of his own advancement.’
Henry began to feel uneasy. The Count was more or less telling young Philip what to do. And there lay Louis powerless to help. The Queen’s brothers had already been forbidden to come to Court and the Queen herself was being treated churlishly.
Feeling that he had been foolish he sought to blame Marguerite.
‘I know full well what has been going on between you and the Marshall.’
Marguerite looked puzzled.
‘He is your lover … or aspires to be.’
‘Henry! You are indeed mad.’
‘Nay. I have seen.’
‘What have you seen?’
‘You both together.’
‘When?’
‘Well … there was the other day in the garden … when you were upset about your father. He comforted you.’
‘Why should he not? I will not stand and hear the Count and my brother speak of my father as though he is dead. I thought you might have expressed some resentment. But you did not. Instead you imagine … nonsense … about me and William.’
Henry said: ‘He is gone. I will not have him here. I have no intention of playing the cuckold.’
‘Oh, Henry, how can you say such things? You know them to be false. William is your very good friend. I am your faithful wife. You are misled by wicked people.’
Henry did not like to feel that he had been so deluded so he pretended to believe that there was some truth in the rumour concerning William and his wife. He felt it would be too humiliating to ask him to return and offer him an apology. He was sulky and went on with the pretence that he was a suspicious husband, much to Marguerite’s exasperation.
He was relieved when Queen Adela asked if she could speak with him privately.
She told him she was very anxious and she believed he could help her if he would.
‘With all my heart,’ he said. He went to her private chamber and there she told him that she was a very unhappy woman.
‘My husband is dying,’ she said, ‘and my son has turned against me. My brothers are refused permission to come to Court and they – and I – are threatened with confiscation of our lands.’
‘The King will not allow that,’ replied Henry.
‘How could I go to the King in his present condition and tell him what his son is trying to do and that he is listening to evil counsel?’
Henry bit his lip in mortification. Philip was not the only one who had done that.
‘If I could do aught to help you …’ he began.
‘You can and it is for that reason that I have asked you to come.’
‘What do you wish of me?’
‘Slip away to England. Seek out your father. Tell him of the position in which I find myself. He will help me, I know.’
Henry considered. He would be pleased to leave the Court of France, for he was feeling more and more ashamed of himself.
If he went to England to see his father that would be a way of escape from a delicate and embarrassing situation.
The King was in good spirits when he went to Westminster. There was dear little Alice eagerly waiting to greet him.
‘The news is mixed, good and bad, sweetheart,’ he said. ‘For your father is grievously ill.’
Alice tried to look dismayed but it was so long since she had seen her father that she could not remember what he looked like.
‘So sick,’ went on Henry, ‘that it seems he will not last long. That is the bad news. The good is that while he is in this condition there can be no question of a marriage between you and Richard.’
‘It is as though God looks after us,’ said Alice, forgetting that while He cared for them He was being rather unfair to the pious Louis.
‘I know that St Thomas à Becket is my friend. Now, sweetheart, we can put aside our fears.’
He wished that he could put her into Rosamund’s Bower, but that was not possible, for she was a princess and recently there had been so much talk of her marriage.
He stayed with her awhile and when he left to make a tour of Oxfordshire a messenger came to tell him that his son was in the country and on his way to see him.
Father and son met at Reading and there young Henry told the King why he had come in such haste.
‘The Queen of France is asking your advice, Father. The King lies near to death and young Philip is in the hands of the Count of Flanders who seeks to rule France through him.’
‘The foolishness of youth!’ said Henry in a way which made his son redden. ‘No doubt the Count is flattering young Philip as he well knows how to.’
Remembering it was the Count who had been responsible for his dismissal of William the Marshall which he now saw was folly, he said: ‘The Count is in fact ruling France at this moment, for Philip obeys him in all things and now that Philip has filched the seal he is in command.’
‘This cannot be allowed to go on,’ said the King. ‘For all I know they may be planning an invasion of Normandy. It is just the thing which would occur to them. Philip of Flanders would doubtless like Normandy. By God’s eyes, the upstart shall never have it.’
‘The Queen of France asks for your help.’
‘She shall have it.’
‘She will be very grateful to you if you go to her aid.’
‘She should be, for Flanders will make of young Philip nothing but a puppet to serve his ends. It is a sorry thing when a son flouts the authority of his father.’ Young Henry looked uncomfortable because it was a similar state of affairs which had arisen in France to that which had existed in England when the sons of Henry Plantagenet sought to take the power which their father would not give them while he lived. So was Philip taking power while his father was still on his sick bed.
