Текст книги "The Revolt of the Eaglets"
Автор книги: Jean Plaidy
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Текущая страница: 18 (всего у книги 24 страниц)
Chapter XV 
THE PAINTING ON THE WALL
When the King heard that his eldest son was dead, for a few days he felt nothing but grief; but he could not for long give way to his sorrow. Henry’s death raised many problems. Most important, it meant that there must be a new heir to his dominions.
Richard!
The King’s expression hardened. If there is aught I can do to prevent that, prevent it I will, he told himself.
And yet it was dangerous to depose the rightful heir and set up another in his place. Richard had never cared much for England. Aquitaine had been his passion. That might be because it was his mother’s and he was close to her. In spite of his Norseman’s looks he loved the southern land.
My sons! thought the King. What affection have they ever given me? Henry! Richard! Geoffrey! – my enemies all of them.
There was one who had so far been his obedient son – John.
Why should he not make his heir the son who had been loyal to him? He would show traitors, be they his own sons, that he did not forget injuries.
Richard? He must confess that Richard had never been anything but straightforward. If Richard was planning to act in a certain way he did not feign otherwise. He was not like Henry had been or Geoffrey was. Those two he had never been able to trust. But he could not like Richard.
How ironical was life – and particularly a king’s life! He craved for sons and when they came they made his life a burden.
Henry had lied to him and stood by when one of his men had shot arrows at him. What had been his son’s true feeling when the arrow had merely pierced his cloak, and his horse, not himself, had been shot down?
He was a shrewd man in all but his family affections. He should have known long ago that his sons had no love for him, only for his crown.
He wished that he could love Richard. Richard was perhaps the one in whom he should have put his trust. But he was uncomfortable to be in his presence; he always feared that a subject would be referred to which would make him very uneasy, even might make him betray something which must never be told.
‘Oh Alice, my sweetheart,’ he murmured, ‘you have much to answer for.’
He longed for home … and Alice. He thought of her in Westminster or Winchester or Woodstock. Dear, beloved Alice, who never complained that he could not marry her; who was content to remain in comparative seclusion; who was content merely that he love her and keep her from Richard.
He had Alice, but he desperately wanted his sons’ affection too. He had visualised when they were in the nursery how they would grow up and work together and how happy they would be to do his bidding. He had seen them as a formidable family of strong men with himself at the head. None would have dared come against them. Four sons who would marry into Europe and bring more and more rich lands under the Plantagenet crown. How sad, how disillusioning, with his sons warring against each other and against him and making allies of the King of France!
And now Henry dead – and most ignobly had he sacked sacred shrines before dying and something must be done about that or there would be no good fortune for the family. The saints must be placated.
Henry, the most beautiful Prince in Christendom, with his charm of manner which drew men to him – dead. What a waste of a life!
My son, whom I wanted so much to love and who wanted nothing from me but my crown!
And Richard? No, not Richard! He could not have him beside him, the future King of England. How could he? And what of his marriage? It would be expected now.
I will send for John, thought the King.
John came riding in from the hunt when the news was brought to him that his father wished to join him.
John was now seventeen years old; very conscious of being the youngest son, he had been determined to exert himself. His brother Henry had been tall and handsome, so was Richard. John however took after his brother Geoffrey. They were both of small stature though their limbs were well formed. Their father, who was of little over medium height, seemed to tower above them both. Geoffrey and John were very much alike in features and also in character. Both of them could acquire knowledge without much difficulty and were more interested in book learning than either young Henry had been or Richard was. Geoffrey had always been able to express himself with lucidity and to put forward a good case when this seemed a difficult thing to do. John was like Geoffrey in this. He was bland and full of soft words when he wanted something. He was deceitful and seemed to take a delight in deceit. For the sheer joy of getting the better of someone he would go to great lengths and perhaps achieve nothing in the end but the pleasure of deceiving someone.
Gerald of Wales, the priest who had been sent to John to help further his education, realised that it was no use attempting to go against his nature. John had long been dissolute. He had been seducing women from a very early age and often rode out into the country with a band of lusty followers indulging in seduction or rape, whichever came to hand.
He was in the charge of the justiciar Ranulf Glanville, a very able man who had distinguished himself on the battlefield and won the King’s favour to such an extent that he was content to overlook his peculations which were numerous, even when they were proved against him.
That his son John should have been put in the charge of such a man was strange even though he was a justiciar of England and one of the most important men in the country.
John admired him and saw nothing wrong in his shady dealings.
At seventeen he was very much aware of being the youngest son and he never forgot the fact that when he had been born his father had called him John Lackland.
Now his brother Henry was dead and Richard was the heir with Geoffrey next and then himself. It seemed there was no hope for him with two strong brothers to stand between him and the crown; but there was this in his favour: his father was fond of him.
John was amused. Henry had perhaps been the favourite because Henry was tall and beautiful and knew how to charm people, even his father. It seemed he could shoot an arrow at him which could have killed him if it had not pierced his cloak instead and still he could talk himself out of such a situation.
John admired that in his brother, but Henry was a fool of course. He had died of a fever, and that was the end of him. Richard was always going to war so he would doubtless meet a violent end one day.
That left Geoffrey. John had a great deal in common with Geoffrey – they looked alike; their characters were similar. John was the more dissolute. He had surrounded himself with companions of similar tastes. Geoffrey was a sedate married man in comparison; he had a wife, Constance of Brittany, and a daughter Eleanor named after their mother. John, too, had inherited the Angevin temper. He was as ready to flare up as his father was and then his rage could be terrible. He was naturally not so feared as his father, but his attendants always kept well out of the way when John’s temper was about to rise. There was a sadistic streak in him, too, which Geoffrey lacked. And, although on the surface he appeared to be a pleasant young man with a charming manner, beneath that facade there were traits of character as yet unsuspected even by those who were close to him.
When he received the news that his father wished him to join him in Normandy he sent for Ranulf de Glanville to tell him the news.
‘You see what is happening, Ranulf, I am to be my father’s favourite now.’
‘Good news, my lord. Good news.’
‘The poor old man must have one son on whom to dote.’
‘And fortunate, my lord, that Richard and Geoffrey have displeased him so much that you are to be the chosen one.’
‘The chosen one! What do you think it means?’
‘It means that it depends on you, my lord.’
‘What do you mean, “depends on me”?’
‘How you play your part. You could have England.’
‘I … King of England, with two brothers to come before me!’
‘Richard loves not England. He is for Aquitaine. Geoffrey is out of favour. He stood by while someone shot the King’s horse from under him and made no move. Think you the King will forget that?’
‘King of England, Ranulf. I like that. I like it mightily. Think what sport we would have … you and I … and others … roaming the country … received everywhere with acclaim. Riding into the towns, picking the most likely women … and all coming running when I beckoned.’
‘There might be some who repulsed you.’
‘So much the better. A little resistance is amusing. One does not seek submission all the time. If that were so what would become of the delicate art of rape?’
‘My lord, you must curb your language when you are in the presence of the King.’
‘A rare one to talk! What about him? In the days of his youth no woman was safe from him and it seems he can even now give a good account of himself.’
‘Alice contents him when he is in England.’
‘That makes me laugh, Ranulf. Richard’s betrothed is my father’s mistress! I have heard that she bears him children. Is it so, think you?’
‘We should not believe all we hear, but if Alice is fruitful it is no more than must be expected.’
‘Methinks he loves not Richard.’
‘And Geoffrey has displeased him.’
‘And so,’ said John, ‘that leaves his youngest son – his good and dutiful John who will love him and obey him and prove to him that he will be his very good son. Do you think I can play that part, Ranulf?’
‘My dear lord, I think you can play any part you have a mind to.’
‘I have a mind to this one. He must make me his heir, Ranulf, before he dies; and once he has done that I shall be very ready to take a tender farewell of the old man.’ John began to laugh.
‘My lord is amused.’
‘I think of my father. Great Henry Plantagenet before whom men tremble. His sons have been a disappointment to him … all but John. He does not know that John is the most wicked of them all. ‘Tis true is it not, Ranulf?’
‘It may well be. But let us please keep that interesting fact from your father.’
‘You may trust me, Ranulf.’ He fell on his knees and raised eyes moist with emotion to Ranulf’s face. ‘ “Father, I am your youngest son. I would I were your eldest. But young as I am there is time for me to show you that I will bring to you that which my brothers failed to. Your sons have disappointed you … all but John. It is my mission to prove to you that there was one in the nest whose coming shall repay you for all the ingratitude of the rest.” How’s that, Ranulf?’
‘It could be improved,’ said Ranulf.
‘It shall be, my friend. It shall be.’
Henry received his son with open arms.
‘My son John! It does me good to see you.’
He looked into the young face and John raised eyes as full of emotion as they had been when he acted before Ranulf.
‘Father, you have suffered much,’ said John. ‘I rejoiced to receive your summons. I wanted to come to bring some small comfort to you.’
‘My blessings on you. I need comfort. Your brother, John, my handsome son Henry, to die as he did! He was so young.’
‘He was twenty-eight, Father, and was it true that he had desecrated shrines before he died?’
‘We must pray for his soul, John. He repented at the end. William the Marshall has given me an account of his last hours. When he died he was lying on a bed of ashes in a hair shirt.’
‘I thank God,’ said John.
‘You know, my son, that I am sore pressed. Your brothers are warring against each other one moment, against me the next. Henry was engaged in war against me when he died. That grieves me sorely. But he sent a message to me and I forgave him. We were friends then. Would to God we had never been anything else. These battles in the family, John, they are no good to any of us.’
‘No, Father.’
‘You are now of an age to be taken into my confidence.’
‘I rejoice in that. I want to be beside you. I want to help you. I must learn quickly.’
Henry’s eyes were emotional suddenly. Could it really be that in this son he was going to find the one who would make up for the disappointments the others had brought him?
‘Your brother’s death has made great changes,’ went on Henry. ‘The King of France will now be demanding Marguerite’s dowry back. I cannot give up the Vexin, it is so important to the defence of Normandy.’
‘My brother Richard is now the heir to England, Normandy, Anjou …’ began John.
The King was silent.
‘He will have to marry the Princess Alice now,’ said John slyly.
‘We shall see,’ said the King.
‘People are saying that there is something strange about the Princess. So long she has been betrothed and still there is no marriage.’
‘People will always make mysteries where there are none,’ said the King.
‘Mysteries, yes. There are no real mysteries because someone always knows the answer to them.’
‘I have sent for your brother Richard,’ he said. ‘He is unacceptable to the people of Aquitaine and I am going to make him give up the Duchy.’
‘Who will take it then?’ asked John.
‘You, my son.’
John nodded. The idea pleased him. He was going to be King of Ireland; he had several estates in England; and now Duke of Aquitaine.
He could see that his brother’s death had benefited him
greatly. He must keep his father’s good will and much more that was good would flow his way.
Richard wondered what his father could wish to say to him. The trouble in Aquitaine had been settled favourably with the King’s help, and he could now say that he had established his position there.
That there must be change, he knew. The heir to the throne was dead and he was the next. He believed that his father had many years left to him and one thing was certain: no one would be allowed to take the crown of England or have the slightest sway in Normandy and Anjou while he lived. Aquitaine was different. That had been passed to him by his mother and he could be said to have won it over the last years by the right of his own sword.
If he became the heir to the throne of England and his father’s dominions of Normandy and Anjou, what of Aquitaine?
The King received Richard with accustomed restraint and wished that it had not been necessary for them to meet.
The two brothers surveyed each other with suspicion. John felt a pang of envy, for the blond giant had an air of kingliness which he knew would never be his. He had always disliked Richard, though not as much as he had Henry, for Henry had been even more handsome, as tall, and had a charm which delighted almost everyone.
Well, he was dead now and Richard was heir to the throne and large dominions overseas, and it was better to be King of England than Duke of Aquitaine.
‘My sons,’ said the King, taking them to his private chamber where they could be alone to talk. ‘We meet at a time of great bereavement.’
‘Henry was a fool,’ said Richard in his usual blunt way. ‘He knew he had a fever and he refused to care for himself. He brought on his death.’
The King bowed his head and John said: ‘Hush, Richard. Do you not see our father’s grief?’
Richard said: ‘Since they were at war together and Henry was behaving with the utmost folly I doubt not our father remembers that.’
The King was thinking: Richard is right. I mourn my son but I cannot forget that he was my enemy. He would have seen me dead and not lamented. Yet I loved him and always hoped he would change towards me. But John is affectionate. Richard is a brilliant soldier, but John is kindly. He will be a good son to me. And that is what I need to comfort me.
‘Let us not brood on the past,’ said Henry. ‘We are met together for a purpose. Your brother is dead and that has changed so much. I have brought you here, Richard, that you may retire from Aquitaine. Your brother John will be the Duke and you will now surrender the Duchy to him.’
Richard’s eyes were as cold as ice; the ague showed in his hands.
‘Aquitaine is subdued now,’ he said. ‘Ever since my mother had me crowned its Duke I have fought for my place with my sword. I have won it. You would not ask me to give it up now.’
‘I am not asking,’ replied the King. ‘I am commanding.’
Richard did not speak. His brother Henry had been crowned King of England and had never had any power at all. He was Duke of Normandy, Count of Anjou – and much good that had done him.
Young Geoffrey Count of Brittany ruled that land. He as Duke of Aquitaine would rule his territory. He would rather be a ruler in fact than have the promise of high-sounding titles which could be nothing until his father’s death. Not that the King had talked about making him heir of his dominions. It was presumed he must be because he was the eldest living son, but his father had not said so. And by the way in which he was beginning to dote on John, who knew what was going on in his mind?
Richard did not trust his father, particularly now that he had sent for John.
He did not therefore, as he might have done previously, give his definite refusal to hand over the land for which he had fought. He said that the proposal was such a surprise to him that he needed time to brood on it.
The King was agreeable to this but he added that he would need a reply – and the reply must be agreement … within the next week.
Richard rode back to Aquitaine. From there he sent his answer to his father.
As long as he lived he would rule Aquitaine and no one else should.
The King lingered in Normandy. He kept John with him and his youngest son played the part he had intended to. He listened gravely to his father’s advice; he feigned wonder at his wisdom; and he was determined that he was going to remain the favourite son.
Henry was no fool. He often wondered about John, but he was so anxious to be loved that he continued to deceive himself – half of himself warning him to look out for treachery while the other half assured him that at least he had one son who cared for him.
There was much to keep him abroad although he longed to return to England.
There was a meeting with Philip when they wrangled over the return of Marguerite’s dowry. They settled this by arranging that Henry should pay her an income of over two thousand Angevin pounds. Henry was never reluctant to enter into such agreements for he promised himself that if payment became difficult he would simply let it slide.
It was inevitable that Alice should be mentioned.
‘Her marriage with Richard is long overdue,’ said Philip.
‘There has been so much to occupy me and Richard,’ replied the King.
‘And now you are having trouble with him, I believe.’
‘He is a disobedient son.’
‘You have been disappointed in your sons, brother.’
‘They have caused me trouble. It will be different with my youngest. John will be a good son.’
Philip paused ironically as though he were listening. What for? wondered Henry. The ironical laughter of the gods?
They agreed on Alice’s dowry.
‘You might decide that if she is not for Richard she could be for John,’ said Philip. ‘Geoffrey is settled in Brittany.’
‘John is betrothed to the Earl of Gloucester’s daughter.’
‘Such betrothals are often forgotten. Do not forget, brother, that Alice is a Princess of France.’
‘I shall do my utmost to see that she is well cared for,’ said Henry.
Philip did not press the point. Sometimes Henry wondered how much was known about him and Alice.
Henry planned to leave Normandy in the early summer and to take with him the Duke and Duchess of Saxony. His daughter Matilda was pregnant and he thought it would be a good idea for the child to be born in England. He had been thinking a great deal about Sancho of Navarre whose advice had been that he should show a little leniency towards Eleanor.
She was sixty-two years of age – hardly likely at her time of life to start rebellions. But of course she must not be judged by ordinary standards. There was nothing ordinary about Eleanor. It seemed incredible that she had been imprisoned for eleven years, but this was the case.
The last time they had met she had proved to be not in the least contrite. It was impossible to imagine her ever so. She had done her best to make trouble between him and his sons; and for so long that had been the great purpose of her life.
Yet perhaps it would be advisable to give her a little freedom – not much, but enough to show those who watched the situation between them, that he was ready to be indulgent if only she would make it possible for him to trust her. Richard was defying him in Aquitaine and there could be trouble there. The people of that province would be pleased if he showed them that his attitude was softening towards Eleanor. Their daughter Matilda would be in England and it would be a pleasant gesture to let mother and daughter meet.
He would consider granting Eleanor permission to leave Salisbury for Winchester where she might be with her daughter during the latter’s confinement.
The more he thought of the idea, the better it seemed. It could do him no harm, for he would have Eleanor closely watched, and it would show that he was ready to be tolerant if only she would meet him half-way.
Eleanor found imprisonment irksome rather than uncomfortable. To a woman of her nature it had been galling to be shut away from events, and to be unable to take part in them, but she had managed to keep herself aware of what was going on. She would not have been Eleanor if she had not managed to organise a system whereby letters could be smuggled in to her and naturally those who brought them took out letters from her.
She knew what was happening in Aquitaine and she longed to be there. She heard of her children’s adventures and was deeply gratified at their hatred of their father.
She had taken care of her appearance and for her years looked remarkably young. She had determined to maintain her elegance and a great deal of time was spent on making her clothes; she herself designed them, for then she could be certain no one else should look exactly as she did.
Sometimes she recalled sadly that in the days when she was married to the King of France she had made her Court the most elegant in the world. She often sighed to remember all the men who had been in love with her. Louis had loved her to the time of their divorce; she liked to believe he had till his death. Henry was the only one who had eluded her. He could not desire her, or he would never have kept her locked away so long. It was his infidelity which had given existence to this hatred which consumed her and which had led her to turn his sons against him.
Often she thought of the death of Henry. She had had an uncanny experience before he died. She had dreamed that she found herself walking on the cold stones of what she believed to be a crypt. There had been a faint light in the place which she had followed. Suddenly it had stopped. She approached and saw that it was shining down on a man who was lying on a couch. She had caught her breath with horror, for the man was her son Henry. He lay like an effigy on a tomb and on his head were two crowns – one was the crown of England and the other a kind of halo. Henry was smiling, although his eyes were closed, and she was struck by a look of peace in his expression such as she had never seen in him before. She had awakened with a start.
‘Oh, my God,’ she had cried, ‘what did that mean?’
Then had come the news of his death and her dream came vividly back to her.
Henry was dead – that bright and beautiful boy was no more. That was what her dream had told her. He had died in conflict with his father. It was a terrible story of hatred, betrayal and disloyalty. She heard how he had sacked sacred shrines; how he had plundered villages and how people had fled before him and his soldiers. And the end … the terrible end … when fever had taken hold of him and death had come. He had repented. So many repented on their death beds, and his was a bed of ashes, his pillow a stone.
My son, she thought. Oh, my God, where did we go wrong?
Why did she ask? She knew. These sons of theirs were bred in hatred, against the violent emotion of a lecherous father and a vindictive mother.
We considered our own emotions, she reproached herself. We did not restrain ourselves. We were obsessed by ourselves and did not pause to think what we were doing to our children.
We are the ones who should make our beds of ashes. Ours was the sin.
She thought of her son Henry who had been their eldest since the death of little William. Henry, the most handsome of a handsome bunch. She remembered how excited they had been at his birth and how delighted to have another boy because at that time little William’s health was failing. Such a bright boy! How proud his father had been of him. He had always been Henry’s favourite as Richard had been hers. Richard had noticed his father’s preference and been sullen and resentful because of it. And she had made up to Richard for his father’s neglect of him and between her and Richard there had grown a passionate attachment which she believed was stronger than any emotion either of them felt for any other person.
It was in the nursery that the rot had begun. The children were reared to hate their father and she had done this.
Then Henry Plantagenet had made the mistake of crowning his son Henry King of England. He had made few mistakes in his government of his dominions, although his family life had been one long misjudgement; but nothing could have worked more to his undoing than the coronation of young Henry – to make an ambitious man a king in name and then deny him the power to be one. Oh, Henry, Henry, wise Henry Plantagenet, what a fool you are!
She wept, for although Richard was her favourite she loved all her children. Their progress had always been of the utmost interest to her. She loved the two daughters she had by Louis. And when she thought of the last months of Henry’s life she trembled for him. She herself had sinned, Heaven knew, and so had Henry Plantagenet, but they had not been cut off in their prime with all their sins upon them.
He had repented at the end. He had given William the Marshall the cross to take to Jerusalem; but that very cross he had taken from a shrine. And he had asked his father’s forgiveness and Henry – she granted him that – had readily given it. He had not been with his son at the end although he could have been. His knights advised him against going for fear of treachery. Treachery between father and son!
Oh, what a lot we have to answer for!
She prayed for forgiveness, that the sins of her sons might be averted from them to her.
Ours was the fault, oh, God, she prayed. Blame not our children.
She spent several days in fasting and praying for Henry’s soul.
But she was a born intriguante and the thought which must keep recurring to her was: Now Richard is the heir to the throne and the next king will not be Henry the Third but Richard the First.
The Archdeacon of Wells came to see her on behalf of her husband. He told her that the King wished her to prepare to leave for Winchester and her future would depend on how she behaved when she was there. The King himself was in Normandy but he hoped soon to be in England.
‘Did he say he wished to see me?’ she asked.
‘He did not, my lady,’ was the answer.
She was amused and intrigued. This was release … temporarily, the King stressed. She was to be free because her daughter was coming to England. Was that the real reason? Henry was sly. Why should he feel it so important to make an impression on the Duke and Duchess of Saxony who were merely exiles? There was another reason. Aquitaine. Her people hated him because he kept their Duchess prisoner. She knew him well. His motives were always suspect.
What excitement there was at the castle when gifts from the King arrived for her. What had happened that he should send gifts? How long was it since she had received anything from him?
Her women crowded round her. They believed the King was going to take her back. Rosamund had been dead for some time and Rosamund had been one of the main causes of their discord. Now the Queen would be the Queen in truth. They would all leave Salisbury and go to Winchester or Westminster wherever the Court was. The sequestered life was over.
A beautiful dress of scarlet was revealed as it was taken from its wrappings.
Belle, the youngest and prettiest of the attendants, exclaimed with pleasure.
‘Look, my lady. It is lined with miniver.’
The Queen took up the dress and held it against her.
‘It is long since I have worn a dress so fine,’ she said. She would have it altered a little to suit her individual taste and it would be perfect. The fur was of the highest quality and the red cloth most excellent.
The following day another gift arrived from the King. It was a saddle ornamented with gold. Her women danced round her with glee. Eleanor watched them thoughtfully.
The King was staying longer in Normandy than he had intended. There was so much for him to settle. Eleanor heard that he was meddling in the affairs of France. He was afraid of Philip; and no wonder, when he had treated Philip’s sister as he had.
What was happening about Alice? There she was, still kept at Westminster and Richard continued to be denied his bride.
Eleanor smiled grimly wondering what would have happened if news of what had actually taken place between Henry and Alice had been brought into the open. So many times she had wanted to divulge the secret. What trouble it would have made – but only temporarily! Henry could be trusted to find a way out. No, she had had more sport keeping him on tenterhooks. He would have extricated himself from that embarrassment as deftly as he had from the murder of Thomas à Becket. She was sure that the best way to harass him was to keep silent, and every now and then give him a little fright that the affair might be exposed.
Richard would not take Alice now, but she had advised him not to let his father know that. Let Henry go on worrying as he had for years. How devious was Henry Plantagenet! It relieved her conscience to revile him in her mind. If she was in some measure to blame for the conflict among their sons, he was even more responsible.
