Текст книги "The Revolt of the Eaglets"
Автор книги: Jean Plaidy
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Текущая страница: 3 (всего у книги 24 страниц)
‘So it is, my son. I have found you a bride who will bring much good to you and us, and her father and I have agreed that when you are old enough you shall be married. Her name is … why, she has the prettiest name in the world. What do you think it is? Alice! The same as my dear daughter here. Alice, I have already grown to love that name.’
She smiled delightedly. A little dimple appeared in her cheek when she did so.
‘You are a dear child,’ he said, ‘and I love you.’ He held her tightly against him and kissed her warmly on the cheek.
John was asking impatient questions. How big was his bride? Could she play games? Was she pretty? Was she good at her lessons?
‘She is all these things,’ said the King, ‘and she is very happy to be my daughter and your wife.’
John laughed delightedly. He was a charming little fellow, his youngest son. The others had always resented him in some way. That was their mother’s influence, he was sure. It was very different in the nursery now. He must visit it more often.
Of course his illegitimate son Geoffrey was no longer there. He was being tutored in knighthood. A fine boy, Geoffrey. He had always preferred him to Eleanor’s brood. But his son Henry was so handsome that he would have liked there to be a closer bond between them. As for Richard he was so much his mother’s boy that it seemed they could never feel anything but enmity for each other.
John was different – the youngest child whose love for his father had never been tainted by his mother’s venom.
From now on John would be a favourite of his. He would visit the nursery frequently, and it would not be a duty but a real pleasure. The main reason was that enchanting little creature Alice. A little beauty in the making if he knew anything and from the experience he had had he should know a good deal.
Dear sweet creature, what good she had done him. She had stopped him thinking of the changed attitude of Rosamund and chief of all the murder of Thomas à Becket.
He would be ready to sail for Ireland in August. So far he had kept the papal legates at bay. They would not let the matter rest there, he knew. What would they want of him? Some sort of penance he supposed and if he refused to make it – excommunication. It was not good for a King to suffer that. His subjects were superstitious and if they feared that the hand of God was against him they would turn from him and even those who remained loyal would lose heart. He believed that when men went into battle they must be well equipped for the fight, not only materially but spiritually. They must believe in victory if they were to achieve it. This had been one of the firm beliefs of his great-grandfather, William the Conqueror, who insisted on seeing good in omens when other men feared they might be evil. I only believe in omens when they are good ones, his grandfather, Henry I, had said; and he had proved himself to be one of the most astute rulers ever known.
Therefore he wanted no excommunication. But time was a good ally. The longer the delay between the murder and the bringing home of the guilt the better. Passions cooled and as long as there were not too many miracles at the shrine of Canterbury, he could weather this storm as he had so many others.
Ireland now faced him.
He was on his way to Portsmouth when news came to him that the old Bishop of Winchester was sick and thought to be dying, and was asking to see the King.
There was nothing Henry could do but visit the old man; one did not refuse a dying request.
Poor old man! He was indeed in his last extremities. No doubt he was ready to go, for he had been blind for a long time.
He was the brother of Stephen who had usurped the throne which should by rights have belonged to Henry’s mother, Matilda; and the Bishop of Winchester had been one of his – brother’s main props, although there had been a time when he had been so exasperated by Stephen’s folly that he had been almost ready to turn to Matilda. That was long ago and wrong had been righted for he, Henry Plantagenet, grandson of King Henry I, was King of England.
He found the Bishop very close to death but he seemed to revive a little when he realised the King had come.
‘My lord King is good to answer my last request.’
‘My dear Bishop, much as I dislike requests from my clergy, I hope it will not be the last from you.’
‘Ah, you see me, my lord, both frail and full of years, and you can have no doubt – as I have none – that my time is come.’
‘May God bless your soul, Bishop.’
‘And yours, my lord. You will know why I wished to see you, why I wished to speak with you before I left this earth for ever. I fear for you, my lord.’
‘Be of good cheer. I have taken care of myself and my kingdom for many years. Fear not, I shall go on doing so whatever befalls.’
‘It is what may befall, my lord, which makes me fearful.’
‘Have you brought me here to utter gloomy prophecies, Bishop?’
‘My lord, you know I refer to the murder.’
‘Few refer to anything else now. I am a little weary of the subject.’
‘You must be very sick at heart, my lord.’
‘The Archbishop is dead. Nothing can bring him back. When a man has a kingdom to govern he cannot indulge in prolonged mourning because a subject is no more.’
‘Thomas was no ordinary subject.’
‘Archbishop of Canterbury no less, though for some years he preferred to forget it.’
‘You cannot deceive a dying man, my lord. You are sick at heart and fearful of consequences.’
‘Why should I be, pray?’
‘Because, my lord, you are guilty of murder and that the murder of a saint.’
‘My lord Bishop, you forget to whom you speak.’
‘I’m dying, my lord. Nothing you could do to me now could harm me. I will speak the truth in death.’
‘Is it not a cowardly thing to do – to say in death that which you feared to say in life?’
‘I would say it if I had ten years more left to me. I tremble for you, for you have murdered a saint.’
‘My lord Bishop,’ said the King affecting weariness, ‘my knights misunderstood me. I raged against the man. Who would not? He plagued me. He frustrated me at every turn. I forgave him. I allowed him to return to England after his exile and what did he do? He tried to raise the country against me.’
‘He did no such thing. That was what his enemies said against him. He was always your friend.’
The King was silent for a few moments then he burst out: ‘I had no part in his death. I did not wish him dead.’
‘My lord,’ said the Bishop lifting his hand, ‘your knights killed the Archbishop because you had led them to believe you wished it. You cannot deny that and you are responsible for his death. I fear your expiation will be terrible.’
Hot anger seized the King. He clenched his fist and wanted to crash it into those sightless eyes. But this was a dying man and a terrible fear and remorse quickly overcame his fury. He remained still with his fist raised.
‘Repent, my lord,’ murmured the Bishop. ‘Ask God’s forgiveness for this terrible deed.’
The Bishop was suddenly still. The King called out: ‘Come hither. The Bishop is dying.’
He was glad to escape from that chamber of death. He was afraid and fear made him angry.
‘Thomas,’ he muttered, ‘are you going to haunt me for ever?’
He must escape. He must shut out of his mind memories of Thomas, memories of the dying Bishop.
Normally he would go with all speed to Rosamund; now he thought the innocence of the children in the royal nursery could appease him better.
When the kings of Ireland heard that Henry Plantagenet had landed they made haste to swear fealty to him. The chiefs and kings of such places as Waterford, Cork and Limerick were all eager to avoid a war. They trembled before the might of the King of England. They were Celts, tall and elegant men and their complexions were ruddy. Their tunics were of roughly spun wool and their weapons of war were very primitive for they had nothing but swords, short lances and hatchets. Although they were quarrelsome they often appeared to have little heart for a fight; they were passionately fond of music and many of them played the harp. Their houses were of wood and wattle; their country was green and fertile, the climate warm and damp. Henry liked what he saw of it and recalled to his followers that both his grandfather and great-grandfather had planned to conquer the place, but their commitments in England and Normandy had made it impossible for them to do so. Now he, who had ever wider territories to control, was on the point of doing so.
At Waterford he received the homage of the petty princes and arranged that they should pay him a small annual tribute as a token that they accepted him as their suzerain.
It was November by the time he came to Dublin. He took up his headquarters in the wooden palace there; and he sent his two commissioners, Roger de Lacy and William Fitzalden, to parley with Roderick, the King of Connaught, who was the chief of all the petty princes. They met on the banks of the Shannon where Roderick made it very clear that as he considered himself the true ruler of Ireland he had no intention of abdicating in favour of Henry of England.
When Henry received the message he was furious. Everything had gone so smoothly until this time. He would have liked to go into battle immediately to show the little king that he was master, but his soldier’s eye saw at once that the mountains were too steep and the weather too wet to enable him to embark on a successful campaign. He cursed Roderick – the only one who had stood out against him – and swore that as soon as the weather changed he would be ready to make him wish he had acted differently.
Christmas came. Henry was not sorry that he must celebrate the festival in Dublin. Time was getting very near to the anniversary of Thomas’s death and he knew that in England and France people would remember. It was as well therefore to be far away at such a time.
Those of the Irish who had decided to accept him as their ruler paid great honour to him. They even built him a palace outside the walls of the city. It was constructed in a very short time and was made of wattle. Henry was very proud of it. There should be a great celebration on Christmas Day, he said, and he would invite all his new and loyal subjects to join him at his table.
Then he set his cooks to produce a magnificent meal such as would impress these people so much that they would talk about it for years to come and Roderick of Connaught would hear of the riches of the new lord of Ireland.
There was merrymaking and much laughter and Henry listened with grave appreciation to his new subjects’ songs and performances on the harp.
Shortly after the festivities he arranged that the bishops of Ireland should swear fealty to him and when this had been done he wrote to the Pope asking Alexander to accept him and his heirs as the rulers of Ireland.
All was going well with the exception of the tiresome Roderick who was constantly affirming his determination to stand against the King. Henry planned to take by force what Roderick would not give him, but the weather was still too treacherous for him to launch a campaign. The wind howled up the river; the rain fell in torrents; it was clear to the most inexperienced soldier that no campaign could be successfully carried out in such conditions.
January passed and February had come, but the weather continued to be against them and there was nothing he could do but wait.
All through March he waited and just as he was preparing to finish Roderick’s resistance for ever, ships arrived from England.
They had disturbing news.
On the anniversary of Thomas’s death, the pilgrims had streamed into Canterbury. Many of them declared that they were cured of their infirmities at the shrine of the martyr. Everyone was saying that Thomas was a saint.
Worse still the Pope had sent Cardinals Theodwine and Albert to Normandy to find the King.
‘Why do they wait in Normandy?’ demanded Henry. ‘Why do they not come to England?’
There was a simple answer to that. They did not come to England because they knew that they would be arrested as a danger to the peace if they set foot there.
Instead they waited for him in Normandy.
‘Then they must needs wait,’ was his answer to that.
‘They are saying, my lord, that if you do not go to Normandy with all speed they have the Pope’s authority to lay all your lands under edict.’
‘By God’s eyes,’ muttered the King.
He knew of course that he had to go. If he did not he could lose Normandy.
Thomas was continuing to plague him in death as much as he had done in life – and that was saying a good deal.
He shut himself into his apartments. What must he do? It was more than a year since Thomas’s death and the martyrdom was as fresh as ever. Moreover, there were all those miracles at the shrine and he had too many enemies.
He dare not delay. There were too many waiting to snatch his lands from him. He could not conquer the whole of Ireland as he had planned. Roderick of Connaught would have to wait.
Leaving Hugh de Lacy behind with a garrison to hold what he had gained he sent messengers to the Cardinals telling them that he was sailing at once for England and would in due course arrive in Normandy.
That Christmas the young King Henry decided to remind everyone at his Court that he was indeed their King. His father had sent him to Normandy when he went to Ireland, where he was to act as a kind of regent. ‘A regent,’ stormed Henry to William the Marshall, ‘why should I be a regent? I am a king in my own right.’
William the Marshall, the Earl of Salisbury’s nephew, who had held a post of knight-at-arms to young Henry for some years, was his closest friend and companion. ‘In due course you will be so in every way,’ he reminded him.
‘Not while my father lives, William.’
‘My lord,’ answered William, ‘it is unwise to mention the King’s death.’
‘How can I help mentioning it? It can only be when it happens that I shall be free.’
William the Marshall looked over his shoulder fearfully but Henry burst into laughter.
‘Have no fear. The people here are my friends.’
‘A king never knows who are his friends.’
‘I know that there is not a king in Christendom who has more enemies than my father. His nature is such to arouse enmity.’
‘I would venture to contradict you, my lord.’
‘Have a care, William. Remember I am your King.’
‘And you are my friend also. If I must flatter you as so many do I should cease to be that. What do you wish, my lord, my flattery or my friendship?’
‘You know, William.’
‘I think I do, so I will risk saying that if all men do not love your father there are few who do not respect and fear him; and sometimes it is better to be respected and feared than loved.’
‘The old man has bemused you with his rages.’
‘I beg of you, do not speak of him thus. He is your father and our King.’
‘I am not likely to forget that. But know this, William, he shall not keep me in this state for ever.’
‘My lord, you are young yet. You have won men’s hearts by your nature but you could not afford to stand out against your father.’
‘I did not say I would do that, William. I merely say that I want to be a king in more than name.’
‘But there is already a King of England.’
Henry sighed. ‘Come, let us think of other things. This is my first Christmas as King and I intend to celebrate it as such. This Court shall have no doubt about my rank.’
‘This Court, my lord, knows exactly your rank. You are its King, and it is the first time in England’s history that she has had two Kings.’
‘It was my father’s wish that it should be so, and he can have no one to blame but himself for it. Come, I am determined that my first Christmas as King shall be remembered for ever, so that people will know how merry life will be when there is only one king in England. And I will tell you something, my friend, when I am King and have a son, a crown shall not be put on his head until I am dead.’
William the Marshall was silent, but he wondered, as many had begun to, how Henry II could have made such a major blunder as to have his son crowned King while he still lived.
‘I have it,’ cried young Henry. ‘I shall invite all the knights, counts and nobles together with men of the church to my banquet. They shall have gifts which will prove to them that I shall be a generous king. My father is the most parsimonious man alive. He hates giving anything away. He will never relinquish his hold on one castle while he lives. I will show my subjects here how different I shall be. I want to be as different from my father as I can possibly be. I regret that I share his name.’
‘Would you rather have been a William?’
‘That was my eldest brother. There are more Williams in England and Normandy than any other name, I’ll swear. They are all named after my great-great-grandfather, William the Conqueror. You are one of them, my friend.’
‘I’d say there are as many Henrys.’
‘Nay, William, I’d wager it. I have an idea. At my banquet I shall reparate all the Williams and they shall dine with me in one room. No one who is not a William shall sit down with me. Then you and I will count them and see how many Williams are there. I’ll wager there will be more than a hundred.’
Henry was excited at the prospect and William joined in his enthusiasm, realising that in planning his Christmas celebrations Henry forgot his enmity towards his father.
He was delighted to discover that there were one hundred and ten knights named William and many of other ranks.
He was the only Henry among the Williams who crowded into his chamber. This was called the feast of the Williams.
When his father heard what had happened, he was displeased by what seemed to him childish frivolity. He also heard rumours of his son’s growing dissatisfaction with his state and this was more disturbing than his irresponsibility.
Young Henry left for England soon after Christmas. That banquet had been a great success. It was all very well for his friend William the Marshall to tell him to beware of flatterers. He was popular, good-looking, charming – all things that his father was not, and what William called flattery was in fact the truth.
When he had been at Bures his mother’s uncle, Ralph de Faye, had come to see him bringing with him his friend, Hugh de St Maure, and they had said what accounts they would take back to his mother of his kingly ways.
He had been enchanted by this kinsman and his friend. They had declared themselves quite shocked by the manner in which his father tried to treat him.
‘You might be a child of ten years old by the way the King behaves towards you,’ they said. ‘Why, you are in your seventeenth year. You are a man.’
It was true; he was a man and treated like a boy!
‘You should make your dissatisfaction known,’ Ralph told him.
He knew he should. But how? It was all very well to talk about defying his father when he was not there and quite a different matter when one was confronted by him. Young Henry remembered how the face could flush, the eyes seem to start out of their sockets and the terrible fury begin to rise. Any wise man kept away from that.
Still, they were right. Something should be done, but it would have to be more subtle than confrontation with his father and a demand that he be given his rights.
In the meantime he was going to England and that was where he liked best to be because in England he was a king; and when his father was absent he could delude himself into thinking that he ruled the land.
He was not allowed to delude himself for long. He had not been at Westminster more than a month or so when his father arrived.
Face to face with the older Henry the younger lost his courage. It had always been so. Much as he might rage against him to his friends, his father only had to appear and he was immediately subdued.
‘I hear,’ said the King, ‘that you passed a merry Christmas at Bures.’
‘I think my … our subjects were pleased by the display I gave.’
The elder Henry nodded slowly.
‘You seem to have a fondness for my Norman subjects. That is well because we are leaving shortly for Normandy.’
‘We …’ stammered young Henry.
‘I said we, by which I mean you and I.’
‘You will need me to stay in England while you are in Normandy.’
‘My justiciary Richard de Luci has my complete trust.’
‘Father, I would rather stay here. I have had my fill of Normandy.’
The King raised his eyebrows and his son was alarmed to see the familiar tightening of the lips and flash of eyes which warned any who beheld it that they must be wary, for those were the danger signals.
‘I thought you would wish me …’ began young Henry.
‘I have told you what I wish. You will be ready to leave for Normandy. I desire your company there, my son.’
‘Yes, my lord,’ said the young King quietly.
This was humiliating. Henry secretly raged against the Pope. He had to keep himself under control. He was in a very tricky position. That he, Henry Plantagenet, should be summoned to meet the papal legates was insulting. Yet what could he do? He must act very carefully or the whole world would be against him.
He would have to deal very subtly with those emissaries of the Pope and he wanted to be completely free of anxieties while he did so. Ireland was safe, he believed, even though it was not yet fully conquered. He himself would be in Normandy. Eleanor was in Aquitaine; and he was certainly not going to leave young Henry in England. He would have to be watchful of that young man. He was beginning to see what a great mistake he had made in crowning him King. Why had he done it? To spite Thomas à Becket. To have the boy crowned by Roger of York. Yes, it had been done partly to humiliate Thomas à Becket. Thomas … it always came back to Thomas!
Now he needed some comfort before he left for Normandy and he would go to Rosamund.
He thought there seemed something lacking in her pleasure. She was as deferential as ever, as determined to please and yet there was a certain sadness about her.
He awoke in the night and felt the weight of his trials heavy upon him. He stroked her hair and kissed her into wakefulness.
‘My Rosamund,’ he said, ‘I doubt I was ever in such a position as I now find myself.’
She was wide awake at once, ready to listen, to offer comfort.
‘Before I gained the kingdom which was mine by right I had very little but my hopes. I was sure then of my success. Then I achieved it and my troubles began. It is the fate of kings of England ever since the Conqueror. Our lands are too far flung for us to be able to keep them in order. This I accepted. I knew that any moment I must hurry to Normandy to subdue this or that traitor, and then come back to England because I was needed here. But never was I summoned before.’
‘Can you not refuse to go?’
‘I would have the whole of Christendom rise against me. I would to God these miracles at Canterbury would stop. I do not believe in them. They are a fabrication of my enemies.’
He was aware that Rosamund shuddered. Even she had changed since the death of Thomas à Becket.
‘You believe that, Rosamund?’
She was silent.
God’s eyes, he thought. Even she believes Thomas is a saint and I am guilty of his murder.
He sat up and looked at her in the faint light of the crescent moon. Beautiful Rosamund whom he had loved for years, and been faithful to in his way, even she thought him guilty.
‘How could I have known that those stupid knights would take me literally?’
Still she was silent.
‘Why do you not speak, Rosamund?’ he asked.
‘What do you wish me to say, my lord?’
‘I wish you to say what is in your mind, not to utter words which I should put into your mouth.’
She raised herself and wound her arms about his neck.
‘Then I would say, my lord, that in Normandy you should admit that these men thought they were acting on your wishes.’
‘All the world knows that already.’
‘And that you would give a great deal to undo what is done and that you take responsibility for this fearful crime.’
‘I … take responsibility!’
‘If you do this, they will ask some penance. And when it is made then you will have expiated your sin in behaving as you did.’
He looked at her in dismay. She was saying what the rest of the world was saying about him. He had wanted her to cling to him and to tell him how he was maligned, that he was completely and unquestionably innocent.
He was disappointed.
She knew it.
He looked down at her and saw that there were tears on her cheeks.
‘I am afraid,’ she said.
‘Of what?’ he demanded.
‘Of sin.’
‘Sin?’ he cried. ‘What means that?’
‘You and I,’ she answered. ‘You have a Queen and I have lived with you as your wife. I have your sons who were born in sin.’
‘By God’s teeth and eyes, Rosamund, what has happened to you?’
She answered: ‘It has long been in my mind and since the murder …’
He turned away impatiently and lay staring into space.
She closed her eyes, for she felt that something had gone for ever out of their relationship.
The King rode away. His thoughts were of Rosamund, which relieved him of thinking what lay ahead in Normandy.
She had changed. Before, she had no other thought than for him. He had needed her and she was there. Now she was concerned with her soul. Something had entered her life which was more important than he was. He would not have believed that possible from his gentle devoted Rosamund.
And this had happened at the moment when he needed her most. She had failed him. Soon she would be talking of going into a convent. Women like Rosamund thought of that when they reached a certain age just as men went on crusades or pilgrimages to the Holy Land. He could never do that. He had too much to keep him where he was.
He understood Rosamund. He loved her; she had brought him great joy and comfort; but it was inevitable that in due course such a good woman would contemplate her sinful life and regret it.
He sighed. The subject was almost as depressing as what awaited him in Normandy. He would turn his thoughts to other matters. Soon he must take John from his nursery and get him betrothed, but that must wait. He would go along though and see how the children were progressing. It would be a pleasure to see young John and his sister Joanna … and of course little Alice.
He found Alice alone in the schoolroom.
‘My lord.’ She started up when she saw him and curtsied while the deep colour flooded her cheeks.
‘So you are alone?’ he said, and an excitement gripped him. She was more enchanting than he had imagined.
‘Joanna and John are riding. I stayed behind. I had a lesson to complete.’
‘And how goes this lesson?’ he asked. He picked her up in his arms and kissed her. ‘Alice, you are a witch,’ he said.
‘Oh, no, my lord.’ She looked frightened.
‘I mean that you bewitch me with your beauty.’
She looked frightened.
He walked with her to the window seat and sat down holding her on his knee.
‘How old are you, little Alice?’ he asked.
‘I shall soon have seen twelve winters, my lord.’
‘’Tis a charming age. I have seen many more winters than that.’
Twelve! he was thinking. Some girls were mature enough at twelve.
‘And you are to be my daughter. I begin to feel sorry for that.’
She still looked frightened. ‘If I have offended in some way, sir …’
‘Oh, yes,’ he said, ‘you have offended me, Alice, because since I saw you last I have thought of you constantly.’
‘If you will tell me where my fault lies …’
‘It lies in these pretty curls, this soft skin, these inviting lips which make me want to kiss them like this … Alice.’
‘Oh, my lord.’
‘Yes, and oh, my lady! Alice, I would that you were not affianced to my son. If you were not, by God’s eyes I would ask your father that you might be affianced to me.’
Her eyes opened very wide. ‘How could that be, my lord?’
‘’Tis not impossible.’
‘But …’
‘Oh, you have not yet seen twelve years out and I have seen many more. But years are of no matter. You would find me a very loving husband.’
‘But you have a Queen, my lord. Richard’s mother.’
‘Kings have been known to rid themselves of queens whom they do not love.’
‘Do you not then love the Queen?’
‘I hate the Queen, Alice. I hate her as much as I am beginning to love you.’
He watched her steadily. She was not frightened now. She was becoming excited. He tried to stem his rising desire. He could not. She was a child. She was betrothed to Richard and she was the daughter of the King of France. Even he could not sport with a king’s daughter as he would a kitchen wench. There had been girls as young as this one – though he had always had more pleasure from mature women. He did not know when he felt so delighted in anyone – not since he had first seen Rosamund. And she had not been much older than Alice. Rosamund had displeased him; she had failed him in a way that he had never expected she would.
‘Alice,’ he said, ‘if I loved you, do you think you could love me?’
‘I must,’ she said, ‘because you are Richard’s father and will be mine.’
‘Nay I meant not as a father.’
‘How so, my lord?’
Was that a little coquetry he saw in her eyes? If it were so, if this innocence was a little feigned his resolutions would crumble; he would act first and think after. Louis would much rather his daughter were Queen of England than Duchess of Aquitaine which was all she would be if she were married to Richard.
He put his face against hers and his hand was on her budding breast. ‘Does it please you to be so fondled?’
‘Why yes, my lord.’
‘And that I should be the fondler?’
‘Yes, my lord.’
‘I, rather than any other?’
She nodded.
‘Why so?’
‘Because you are the King and our lord and master.’
‘A right goodly answer,’ he said with a laugh. ‘And would you be ready to obey me in all things?’
‘Yes, my lord.’
‘And do all that I ask of you?’
‘But yes.’
‘Alice,’ he whispered, ‘methinks you are a wise little girl. You know something of the ways of the world, do you?’
‘A little, my lord.’
‘And would know more I warrant. Alice, I am going to be your tutor.’
When he had seduced her in a gentle and expert manner his conscience worried him a little. But he soon stilled it by reminding himself that he would look after the child. He would definitely see if he could divorce Eleanor and if he could he would make Alice his wife. Her innocence was delightful; it was not going to be difficult to make her adore him. He would teach her as he had taught Rosamund and if he married her – which he might well do – she need have no qualms about her sins. And if he did not, well then in due course she would go to Richard.
