Текст книги "The Revolt of the Eaglets"
Автор книги: Jean Plaidy
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Текущая страница: 21 (всего у книги 24 страниц)
Chapter XVII 
THE FATAL JOUST
Henry’s plan had succeeded. Richard, who had refused to hand over Aquitaine to his brother, at once agreed to give it to his mother. This was done.
When Eleanor was making her preparations to depart for Aquitaine she received a shock.
Henry came to her. ‘I see that you are ready to leave,’ he said. ‘That is good for I wish there to be no delay.’
‘In a few days I shall set out. Soon I shall be in Poitiers.’
The King raised his eyebrows. ‘Nay,’ he said, ‘that is not what I intend.’
She stared at him unbelievingly.
He said: ‘You have forgotten one thing. You are my captive. How could I trust you in Aquitaine? What would be the first thing you would do? Plot against me. Do you take me for a fool? You are going back to England. At your castle they will be waiting to receive you.’
‘No!’ she cried.
‘But yes. I am glad you will soon be ready to leave.’
‘You have given me back Aquitaine.’
‘In name only. That will keep the peace.’
‘You … cheat!’
‘Call me rather the guardian of my dominions.’
‘I should have known you never kept a promise.’
‘Well, you had many years to make my acquaintance, so could be expected to know me well.’
‘It is small wonder that your sons all hate you.’
‘You brought them up to that. A bad task well done. Do you think I shall ever forget or forgive you for it? If you think that, you do not know Henry Plantagenet. Moreover, how could I ever sleep easy if I thought of you in Aquitaine plotting against me, stirring my sons to rebellion?’
‘I … hate you,’ she said quietly.
He shrugged his shoulders. ‘You have done that for years but I have managed to survive.’
‘What a liar, what a cheat, a lecher, a breaker of promises; it is small wonder as Heraclius says that God has abandoned you.’
He was suddenly afraid of her. With her loosened hair and her eyes blazing she looked like a witch prophetess.
He turned and left her.
John proudly stepped ashore on Irish soil. His land! Lord of Ireland! King of Ireland! The titles rang in his ears and the feeling of power it brought with it was as intoxicating as any wine.
What did a king do in his own land? He made sure that everyone was aware that they were his subjects. What he wanted of them they must give. A wonderful situation. Lands, women, everything he wanted was his. He kept reminding himself of that. He had chosen his special friends to accompany him, young men who were very like himself. They strutted, they drank too much, they boasted of their conquests of women and they never forgot to give their Prince what he constantly demanded: flattery.
The dress of the Irish amused them and, when dignitaries came to receive him, John roared with laughter at their costumes and his followers immediately joined in his mirth. The Irish were bearded. It was one of their customs. This seemed comical to John and he and his friends tweaked the beards of those who came to greet them in a most insolent manner.
Naturally enough the chieftains were insulted and were not going to endure this.
Hugh de Lacy tried to restrain the irresponsible young men, pointing out to John that the Irish were quarrelsome and warlike people and would not endure such treatment.
‘They will endure whatever treatment I care to impose on them,’ retorted John.
Hugh de Lacy groaned. Why had the King, usually so shrewd, risked the loss of Ireland by sending this stupid arrogant youth?
Worse was to come. John and his band marched through Ireland. Whenever they fancied anything, they took it. They plundered the towns, they coerced the women and if these were unwilling they were raped.
It was hardly likely that the Irish would quietly allow such desecration of their land. As John proceeded through the country he was met by armies, and as he was more proficient in plundering defenceless towns than in fighting, he was very soon in desperate straits.
After five months he was so impoverished and his forces so depleted that he had no alternative but to return to England.
He came to his father who received him with affection and great consternation when he heard how badly everything had gone in Ireland.
‘How could such disaster have befallen you?’ he wanted to know.
‘The answer, Father,’ replied John, ‘is the traitor Hugh de Lacy. He has stirred up resentment against us all over Ireland. You know he plans to be Lord of Ireland. He wants to be the King.’
Henry studied his son closely. There were signs of dissipation on his face, young as he was. He had heard stories of the women he had seduced. A young man, it was true, must follow his natural instincts, and Henry was the last who could blame anyone for being fond of women. He himself had fathered two illegitimate children before he was eighteen.
Little doubts came in his mind but he refused to see them. He could not endure to have another son whom he could not trust. There must be one in the brood who would love him and serve him well.
He thought of the picture of the eaglets and the youngest of them waiting to peck out the old eagle’s eyes. Why had he caused that picture to be painted? If he believed in John why should he have said that the youngest of them was standing aside waiting to peck out his eyes?
What had really happened in Ireland? Was John power-drunk? Had he behaved in such a manner that the Irish had turned against him?
Shrewd Henry who had come so far because he had understood the ways of men, said: Discover. Ask those whom you can trust. Know this son of yours.
But he was a tired old man, longing for affection. It could not be possible that all his sons would betray him. There must be one who loved him; and who could it be but John?
There was news from Ireland.
Hugh de Lacy had been murdered.
‘A just reward,’ said John, ‘for his treachery to his king.’
Henry listened to the news. The Irish had done this. They had cut off his head. No doubt they had grown tired of his pretensions, thought Henry.
He sent for John.
‘Hugh de Lacy had many estates in Ireland. They must be seized without delay. You should prepare yourself to leave for that country.’
John was nothing loth. He looked forward to further merry sport.
Before he had time to leave, though, there was more news, this time from France.
Geoffrey had presented himself to Philip of France, ostensibly to do homage to his seneschal and Philip had welcomed him with such honours that it seemed suspicious. Philip had insisted that Geoffrey stay awhile at the Court of France, and there grew up such friendship between Philip and Geoffrey that those who wished the King of England well felt he should know of it.
Henry did wish to know of it. He did not trust Philip who was no weak vacillating Louis.
Strangely enough Philip had grown from the spoilt boy into a ruler who was not to be lightly ignored. He was becoming a very ambitious man. His dream was obviously to extend his dominions. Philip would have liked all the vassal states to be entirely his, and like Henry, he was wise enough not to want to go to war if he could acquire what he wanted through diplomacy and shrewd dealing.
Henry had for some time been aware that he must keep a watchful eye on Philip of France.
If Philip was making much of Geoffrey then he was doing it for a motive. Had he got his eyes on Brittany … or worse still, Normandy?
Henry must be very watchful of what was happening at the Court of France. He might need all the forces at his disposal, in which case it would be unwise to send his son John to Ireland. So the Irish expedition should be temporarily postponed.
How right he was. It was said that at their secret talks Geoffrey and Philip were discussing the invasion of Normandy. And what of Richard? How was he feeling? He had handed over Aquitaine to his mother only to find that she had promptly been sent back to captivity.
Oh, yes, he must be very watchful indeed. The eaglets might well be poised to fall on the old eagle.
Geoffrey was enjoying his sojourn in France and one reason for this was that he knew the effect his being there would have on his father.
Geoffrey loved mischief. It had always been so since his nursery days. If he could make trouble he was happy. He had a grudge against his father and another against his brother Richard, because he had been denied power by the one and shown to be inferior in battle by the other.
Moreover, it was pleasant to be treated with honour by the King of France. The fact that Geoffrey was clever, quickwitted and able to express his thoughts with an uncommon lucidity made him more dissatisfied with his lot. There was some greatness in him but he was marred by the flaws in his character rather than his ability. He could be persuasive and eloquent but he rarely meant what he said; people had begun to recognise him now for a hypocrite with a talent for deception. They simply did not trust him any more.
He was content with his marriage to Constance, the heiress who had brought him Brittany and so far one daughter. She was at this time pregnant and they were both hoping for a son.
Since he had been introduced to the tournament through Philip of Flanders he had become obsessed by it. What was it but a mock battle? It was certainly suited to his temperament. He loved the show and ceremony, the occasional danger, for it was dangerous and many a knight had lost his life in the jousts. Now he was known for his skill and when he rode out it was one of the highlights of the day.
The King of France, knowing his love for the sport, had arranged that there should be one tournament after another so that his guest might realise how his host wished to please him.
Invitations were sent out and those of rank such as Geoffrey gathered together their followers with the intention of staging mock battles against other men and their knights. These battles were conducted in the same manner as actual warfare and one of the favourite practices was to separate a knight from those of his party and if possible ground him and capture him. There were casualties often enough and if any knight were taken prisoner his captors would hold him to ransom. This kind of action made the battles more exciting. There was of course many an example of single combat but it was the massed battles which thrilled both spectators and participants.
Geoffrey had heard that his father was deeply perturbed because of the hospitality the French King was showing him and that he was planning to come to Normandy. That was a pity. It would have been so much more satisfactory to have launched an attack on Normandy before his father had a chance to appear. Perhaps Philip was not as eager to do that as he pretended to be. Was Geoffrey himself all that eager? No, it was more amusing to attack his father by rumour than actual fact. The tournament was the thing.
He was preparing to go into action when his wife, only just sure of her pregnancy, came to put her favour in his helm.
It was a piece of bright-coloured satin cut from her dress.
‘I shall be watching,’ she said, ‘and that is all I shall know you by.’
‘When the battle is over I shall expect you to be waiting to lead me into the hall,’ he told her.
Out into the field he rode that day with no premonition of danger. Surrounded by his small company of knights he was thinking of the triumph that would be his when the fight was over. Life was full of promise. The King of France was his friend. His brother Henry was dead and only Richard stood between him and the crowns of England, Normandy and Anjou. He already had Brittany. He had a daughter and his wife was pregnant. His father’s youth was passing fast. How many years could he live? Richard belonged more to Aquitaine than he ever would to England. And the next in order was himself, Geoffrey.
Suddenly he realised that he was surrounded by attacking knights. What had happened to his allies? They had been thrust aside, and there he was facing them alone. They crowded round him.
He was about to strike when his horse suffered a blow from a lance and fell to the ground. Geoffrey went down under the horse.
‘Yield! Yield!’ was the cry.
Yield! He, the son of the King of England to yield to a French knight! It was not to be thought of.
‘Never,’ he cried and as he spoke the hoofs of one of the knights’ horses came down upon his head.
He lost consciousness and lay there.
When it was discovered that the knight who had fallen in battle was Geoffrey Count of Brittany he was carefully carried into the castle, but it was then too late.
His wife Constance came and stood by the bier. She saw that the piece of satin from her gown was still in his helm and she knelt and covered her face with her hands, for he was dead and she thought of the child she carried and wondered what would become of them.
Henry heard the news with grief.
‘We are doomed,’ he said. ‘Why has God turned his face from me? Two of my sons cut off in the prime of their youth.’ There was only John left to him now … Richard was there, of course, but Richard was his enemy.
Now he must torture himself with memories of Geoffrey as a boy. He could not say that he had been his favourite son, but nevertheless he had been his own flesh and blood. What mischief had got into them that they must always be at war? Why had they not stood together as a father and his sons should do? William first as a baby, then Henry and now Geoffrey. Three sons lost and of the others … he could put his faith only in John.
He turned to John now.
‘John, my beloved son, I have lost your brothers. You must be a comfort to me now.’
‘I will, Father,’ promised John. ‘I will serve you with my life.’
It was comforting to remind himself that he had John.
In her castle fortress Eleanor mourned her son.
Her Geoffrey, she had called him in contrast with that other of the same name whom Henry had brought into the nursery – his bastard Geoffrey.
Such a bright boy her Geoffrey had been, so beautiful, though always overshadowed by his brother Henry because Henry had been more handsome. But Geoffrey was the cleverer of those two. Geoffrey had been the schemer, the plotter, the one who charmed while he plotted to do mischief.
Neither of those sons would ever have ruled a kingdom as their father did, but she had loved them as she did all her children. If she could not be a faithful wife she could be an affectionate mother.
Now she thought of Geoffrey as he had been when she had known him. He had been a boy then and she hated Henry afresh who had kept her all these years shut away from her children.
Her beloved Richard was safer, for Geoffrey had been no friend to him. It might be that Richard’s position was more secure since the death of his brother.
So while she mourned Geoffrey she thought of Richard. He was the son on whom all her hopes were fixed. Henry knew this. Was this one of the reasons why he was doing his best – as she suspected – to displace Richard and set John up in his place?
That should never be.
Oh, God, she cried, is there no end to the strife in this family?
The King now doted more than ever on John, and John played up to the situation with all the guile of which he was capable. It amused him that he who had been born John Lackland should now be in sight of possessing great dominions. All he had to do was delude his poor old father into thinking that he was a good and obedient son; he could do that easily enough and his nature was such that he enjoyed the deception.
The King liked to walk with him or ride with him and to initiate him, as he said, into the duties of kingship. Henry behaved as though there would be no question of his having the crown in due course. If he mentioned Richard it was to dismiss him as though he were of no importance, the younger son instead of the elder.
‘I could never really love your brother Richard,’ said Henry one day. ‘He hated me from the days of his childhood. His mother did that. I thank God, John, that you were too young to be influenced by her.’
‘I never would have been,’ replied John unctuously. ‘I should have seen the truth.’
‘Would you, my son? I sometimes think your brothers didn’t. They all gave me trouble.’
‘I never shall,’ declared John.
‘Thank God that one of my sons gives me some affection.’
‘I will make up to you, Father, for what you have suffered.’
Christmas was approaching and the King decided to spend it at Guildford castle. In the Norman fortress the King commanded that there should be revelry, for he wished all to know that his beloved son John was high in his favour. John was beside his father for the two days they spent there and it was seen that the King took great pleasure in his company. They would be seen walking round the castle wall deep in conversation, the King talking earnestly, John eagerly listening as though determined not to miss any of those words of wisdom.
John was delighted when early in the new year a bull arrived from Pope Urban in which was set out his approval of Henry’s desire to make his son John King of Ireland. The royal party travelled to Westminster to receive Cardinal Octavian who was bringing a crown of gold and peacock feathers with which the Cardinal would crown young John.
But once again John’s pretensions did not come to fruition for before the coronation could take place there was disquieting news from France. Philip was very different from Louis. He was not easily deceived. If Henry wanted to keep the peace he said the two Kings must meet for there were certain matters which Philip must discuss with Henry.
Henry knew of course that one of these must concern Alice. That he had kept her so long was something of a miracle. Who else but Henry Plantagenet could have done that?
It could not last though.
He would have to postpone John’s coronation and sail for France.
John was a little put out by the deferment. His inclination was to scream his disapproval and lie on the floor and kick everything near him. But he knew that he must show no displays of temper; and the game of deluding his father into thinking he was the good and dutiful son was so intriguing at the moment that he managed to get the better of his rage.
He told himself that if he could go on winning his father’s favour, if he could supplant Richard, if he could become King of England, he could have as many rages as he liked. In the meantime he had to remember what was at stake.
So with docility and a show of affection he set sail with his father for France.
A meeting was fixed when the differences between the two Kings would be discussed and Philip hoped settled so satisfactorily that there would be no need of a conflict between them.
Before the confrontation could take place there was news from Brittany. Constance, the wife of Geoffrey, who had been pregnant at the time of her husband’s death, had given birth to a child. This time it was a son.
Henry was delighted. A grandson! His sons – with the exception of John – had failed him and now that he was looking for family affection might it not come to him through the younger generation?
He wrote congratulations to Constance of Brittany and he was thinking: I shall have to find another husband for her ere long. As soon as she had recovered from the birth he would do so.
He would regard it, he wrote, as a compliment to himself if his grandson received the name of Henry.
Alas, it seemed that everyone was determined to flout him. Even the people of Brittany.
Constance wrote that the bells had been ringing throughout Brittany to herald the birth of a boy. The people would not hear of his being christened anything but Arthur. They wished him to be called after the great King who was the deliverer of his people.
That seemed ominous to Henry, and he was annoyed that his wishes had been disregarded. Still, it was a matter which, in view of his present precarious position, he must ignore.
So Geoffrey’s son was christened Arthur as his future subjects wished him to be.
Chapter XVIII
PHILIP AND RICHARD
Henry was feeling ill. He had an uncomfortable and humiliating internal disease. Long hours in the saddle tired him. It was irksome. Always before he had had ten times the energy of other men but he was not young any more. He was fifty-four years of age. It was true Eleanor was twelve years older, but she seemed indestructible and during the years of captivity she had led a peaceful life occupied only with keeping herself young and beautiful and dabbling in intrigue whenever it was possible. Whereas he had fought a perpetual fight to keep his dominions intact, to keep Alice with him, to keep at bay the young sly King of France. It had been so much easier when Louis had been alive. Gentle Louis had been so different from his shrewd young son. Who would have thought that the spoilt boy would have turned into a considerable ruler? And he had to face him now.
They were going into battle against each other. The conference had failed as Henry had feared it would. Philip had had no intention of doing anything but humiliate him. He had never wanted battle. He had always preferred to win through shrewd diplomacy. Louis had been of like mind; but how easy it had been to fob Louis off with promises he had no intention of keeping.
Philip, sly young Philip, how different he was!
God help me, he prayed. Forget my sins until the battle is over. Then I will go on a crusade to the Holy Land.
He smiled wryly. That was how he had wheedled his way out of difficult situations with Louis. Poor Louis, who had always been pious and could be deluded by such talk. Did he think that he could delude God as he had Louis?
Nay, he would never go on a crusade. How could he? He had lands to govern.
At least on this occasion he had his sons with him. Richard the fighter and John the beloved. That was a mercy. At least they stood together against the King of France.
Richard was uneasy. He had wondered lately what his father’s intentions were. There was so much talk about John, and John gave himself such airs of superiority even over his elder brother, that Richard wondered whether he was privy to some plan of his father’s. Always when Richard was in his father’s presence the antagonism was there. Both of them were aware of it; Richard continually wondered whether his father was deceiving him.
While Richard was brooding, one of his servants told him that a knight was without and asking to have word with him. To Richard’s surprise Philip of Flanders was brought into him. This ambitious, adventure-loving man who had at first sought to dominate the King of France and had later taken up arms against him, now served in his army, and this meant that he had risked considerable danger in coming into the enemy’s camp.
‘Hail, cousin,’ said Philip of Flanders.
‘What do you here?’ demanded Richard.
‘I came to have a word with you.’
‘You to come here!’
Philip laughed. ‘I was ever one to take a risk.’
‘What is it you wish to say to me?’
‘To warn you. You are preparing to fight against the King of France. Have you forgotten that the Duchy of Aquitaine is held under him? So … you would be fighting your suzerain.’
‘I stand with my father.’
‘With a father who is planning to disinherit you.’
‘That is not true.’
‘What of your brother on whom he dotes? I would have you take care, Richard. You are a better warrior than your brother or your father. Think. Do not be rash.’
‘What would you have me do? Turn on my father? Join the enemy?’
‘Nay, I would not ask that of you, but the King of France would see you and speak with you.’
‘Does he wish to make a truce?’
‘He wishes only to speak with you.’
‘When?’
‘Now.’
‘You have come to take me to him?’
‘Come as you are. In your armour. He does not ask you to come humbly. He would wish to receive you as a friend … a cousin.’
‘Should I tell my father?’
‘Nay, that is the last thing. He wishes you to come with me now.’
‘How do I know that I may trust him?’
‘He gives his word. As I give mine.’
Richard did not look for deceit in others. He said: ‘I will come.’
‘Then let us leave at once.’
Together on horseback they went through the lines and when they came to the French camp Philip of Flanders led Richard to the quarters of the King of France.
The King of France came out of his tent and looked up at Richard seated on his horse. Few men could sit a horse as Richard could. He looked magnificent, godlike almost in his shining armour seated on his splendidly caparisoned horse.
‘Richard,’ said the King of France. ‘Cousin, welcome.’
‘What would you have of me, Philip?’
‘Friendship,’ answered Philip.
‘Offer it to my father.’
‘I have none to offer him. Come into my tent. We will talk together.’ The King of France did him the great honour of holding his stirrup.
‘Why, Richard,’ said Philip, ‘how tall you are. You are a veritable Viking.’
‘So I have been told. It comes from my ancestor the Conqueror.’
‘And proud you must be of him.’
Together they went into the tent.
‘Take off that of your armour which encumbers you. You may trust me, Richard. See, I am unarmed.’
‘And I in the midst of the enemy’s camp.’
‘By God, Richard, I believe you would give a good account of yourself if the whole of my army came against you. But it will not. I have asked you here in good faith. I would not allow aught harmful to touch you.’
‘Smooth words,’ said Richard.
‘Spoken from the heart! Sit here where I may see you,’ said Philip.
Philip gazed at him intently.
‘Did you have some matter to discuss?’ asked Richard.
‘You and I should not be on opposite sides.’
‘How could it be otherwise?’
‘It would be otherwise if you did not fight beside your father.’
‘I would not wish to fight against him.’
‘It would not be the first time he has fought against you. He has betrayed you, Richard, again and again. What of my sister Alice? Why is she not your wife?’
‘My father has continually postponed the marriage.’
‘Why, Richard?’ Philip laughed. ‘There have been rumours. She is my sister, a daughter of France. She is going to marry you, Richard, and then you and I will be brothers in very truth. You are the heir to England and we shall be friends, you and I. Wars between us destroy us both. Your father is my enemy, not you, Richard, and I have brought you here to tell you that if he is not your enemy he is not your friend. You are fighting beside him. For what reason? That he may disown you and set up another in your place? He deceived my father … again and again he deceived him. He won the battle against Louis VII not with sword and lance but with sly cunning; he shall not win against Philip II. I ask you to consider this. Should you and I not be on the same side?’
Richard said: ‘If that is all you wish to say to me, I shall be going.’
‘Nay, sit awhile. Have no fear. You shall be safely conducted back to your father’s camp.’
‘I have no fear.’
‘’Tis true, Richard. You are a great warrior. Never have I seen you without my spirits being lifted. This is why I want you for my friend.’
Richard had risen to his feet and Philip stood up; Richard was the taller by far.
‘Noble Richard,’ murmured Philip. ‘I know that you are to be trusted. Richard Yea and Nay. If you said I will be your friend, I would know you meant it. There are not many men on whom one can rely. I am eight years younger than you Richard – yes, I have known but twenty-two winters and you thirty – but I am wise in the ways of the world and I respect you, Richard. I want you for my friend.’
‘You honour me,’ said Richard.
‘If you gave me your friendship I should be honoured.’
‘I will go now and think of what you have said.’
Philip lifted Richard’s hand to his and kissed it. Then he helped him on with his armour.
‘Such an honour,’ said Richard, ‘the King of France, my dresser!’
‘It is I who am honoured,’ said Philip softly.
They stepped out into the night. Philip of Flanders who had been waiting stepped forward.
‘Conduct my good cousin safely to his camp,’ said the King of France.
Richard thought of the strange interview and wondered what it meant. None could have appeared more friendly than Philip. And he was warning him against his father. Could it possibly be true that his father was planning to disown him? And why was Philip so eager to help him? Was it because Philip’s sister was his betrothed?
Richard was puzzled.
As soon as dawn broke he went to his father. Henry looked haggard and ill in the harsh light of morning.
‘Well come, Richard,’ said the King.
‘You are not well, my lord.’
‘It is my complaint. Richard, I like not the position. It would seem to me that the King of France is determined on war.’
‘He was ready to consider a truce.’
‘But on what terms? He wants to humiliate me, force me to do this and that.’
‘You mean relinquish Alice.’
‘Alice,’ cried Henry. ‘The Princess Alice? But you are to marry her … when the time is ripe.’
‘The ripening has been so long delayed. Do you forget, Father, that I am thirty, and Alice is no longer young.’
‘She is of a good age for marriage and you were not ready before.’
‘Why should you be so concerned at relinquishing her?’
‘I was not thinking of Alice. How I wish Louis were alive. I could reason with him.’
‘Philip is stronger than his father.’
‘He is a headstrong young man.’
‘I think he is more subtle than his father; he will be a clever ruler.’
‘I fear so. That is not good, Richard. I want to avoid a direct conflict. I see no good in fighting a war in which much blood could be shed to no purpose.’
‘It could be that there will be no alternative.’
‘I have thought of something. I am getting old, Richard, and my sins sit heavily upon me. It has often occurred to me that I should go to the Holy Land after all. You remember Heraclius, the Patriarch, and the ill news he brought us. It has sadly disturbed me that at the time I refused him, although it was on the advice of my ministers.’
‘I know full well,’ said Richard coldly, ‘on whose commands they advised against your going.’
‘My son, I had my dominions to govern. A king cannot forget his duty to his people for the sake of his own sins.’
‘That is what you wish to do now.’
‘Nay, nay. I will go on a crusade and ask Philip to give me a truce for two years while I am away. I believe he is a cynical young man but even he would not dare attack my dominions while I was fighting a holy war.’
