Текст книги "The Revolt of the Eaglets"
Автор книги: Jean Plaidy
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Текущая страница: 7 (всего у книги 24 страниц)
Now he would be invincible for since he had made his peace with Heaven, there was a feeling of confidence throughout his army. God was no longer against him. He, the greatest and most powerful of kings, had humbled himself at the shrine of St Thomas à Becket and had actually ordered his priests to chastise him.
What greater penitence could he have shown than that, what greater love for Thomas?
‘Thomas, guard my realm while I go forth to battle for my sons.’
Chapter VI 
THE REBELLIOUS CUBS
Young Henry laughed aloud when he heard of his father’s penance at the shrine of Canterbury.
‘How could he so humiliate himself?’ he cried. His good friend, William the Marshall, pointed out that he thought it was a clever move on the King’s part. It might well be that he was truly penitent in which case his conscience would be clear. On the other hand if it were a gesture it was a clever one for now it would seem that the King had escaped from the shadow of guilt which must hang over him until he confessed his part in the murder.
‘I believe,’ said Henry suspiciously, ‘that you have a fondness for my father.’
‘Who can help but admire him?’
‘Those who are his friends cannot be mine,’ said Henry meaningfully.
William the Marshall was sad. For so long they had been close companions, but since his coronation an arrogance had settled on the young King; he seemed to believe that the act of crowning gave him strength which he had not possessed before. The more experienced and logical William was fully aware that his father had given young Henry a title only and he believed he would be wise to accept this fact.
But Henry, being young and unsure of himself, turned rather to those who would flatter him than to those who would tell him the truth. Thus as the bonds of friendship between himself and William slackened he became more and more bound to that flamboyant knight, Philip of Flanders.
Philip it was who had sent his Flemings to England in the hope of wresting the country from the elder Henry. That was a forlorn hope as had been proved and the old King’s superior generalship had soon routed the foreigners and put an end to their hopes of an easy capture of England.
Now Philip was young Henry’s constant companion. He assured him that he was ill-treated by his father. He pointed out that he, a king, lived in a much poorer state than the sons of mere knights. Philip was flamboyant, gay, one of the best knights in France, noted for his chivalry and skill in jousting. Henry had had little experience of this sport which was becoming more and more popular and under Philip’s influence became very enthusiastic about it.
He visualised the freedom he would have when he was King and his father vanquished. He promised himself that life would be one round of tournaments and triumphant rides. He was more than ever determined to have what was, his friends assured him, his right.
It was a great blow that he and his friends had not succeeded in winning England. They must shelve that project for a while but that should not prevent their attempting to take Normandy, and the best time to start was while his father was settling matters in England.
Philip of Flanders agreed with him. Philip was ambitious, and young Henry had promised him estates in England when the plan to subdue the father and place the son firmly on the throne succeeded.
It was great good fortune that they should have the backing of the King of France. Louis had changed since the days when he had been Eleanor’s young husband deploring the fact that his lot had been a crown instead of the priestly robes. He had a son – young Philip – who was now some nine years of age and the birth of his son had made a great difference to his life. From his previous wives – and he had married three times – he had had only daughters and when on that joyous August day in the year 1165 his wife Adela had given birth to a boy, so great had been his exultation that he had the news proclaimed in the streets of Paris and bells rung throughout his dominion. He had a son and heir to his dominions. It was God’s blessing on a man who had always tried to do his duty in that way of life to which he had been sent against his will.
Adela had been fertile, giving him two more children – young Alice and Agnes, both girls. He would have rejoiced in another son, for Philip was a delicate boy. But he must be thankful. He had his son. Alice was in England now, the betrothed of Richard of Aquitaine, and soon he must insist that that marriage took place. What was Henry’s motive in seeking to delay it, for it did seem that he ignored any suggestion that the two should be brought together? Perhaps he wished to bargain a little over Alice. Louis would not suffer that. The young people had been betrothed.
In the meantime, Louis realised that Henry’s position was not a happy one and with the King of England’s sons ready to go to battle against him, this seemed the time for France to exploit her advantages.
Young Henry was at his Court and with him was Philip of Flanders. A clever young man, this Count – energetic and eager to vanquish old Henry. And he was right when he said that the objective should be Normandy.
‘There should be no delay,’ said Flanders to Louis. ‘For depend upon it if we are to strike we must do so quickly. When the old warrior has settled his English affairs he will cross on the first favourable wind.’
Louis agreed that the objective should be Rouen, the first city of Normandy, for if Rouen fell it would have such an effect on the rest of Normandy that conquest would be made easy.
They would surprise the city and lay siege to it. This they did with great effect and the people of Rouen waited in their town for the coming of Henry, who, they were sure, could not delay long when he knew what was happening to their city.
Throughout his life Louis had been plagued by his religious training which had more than once intruded on his military designs. The siege was progressing favourably but it seemed likely that the coming of Henry to the rescue would not be long delayed. Louis then remembered that the Feast of St Lawrence was at hand and he did not see how he could do battle on such a day, so he declared a truce. There should be no fighting for a whole day and night. Rouen might consider itself released from siege for a day.
When this news reached the city the people went wild with excitement. It was an example, they said, of Louis’s ineffectual generalship. The King of England must be on his way to save them and every hour was important to them. The folly of the King of France must surely have saved them.
So delighted were they that there was singing and dancing in the streets. They believed that the siege of Rouen was all but over. They threw open the gates of the city and some of the knights staged a tournament in the fields outside the city walls.
The French soldiers watched the proceedings with dismay, but none was more put out than Philip of Flanders.
So incensed was he that he forgot his reverence for the crown of France and stormed into the King’s tent. Louis looked pained, but he was well known for his mildness and he bade the Count of Flanders have his say.
‘My lord King,’ cried Philip, ‘the King of England is on his way. He cannot be long delayed. You may depend upon it news has reached him of the state of siege which exists in Rouen. In permitting this truce you give him an opportunity to come in time to save the city.’
‘If he comes we will face him.’
‘We shall lose Rouen.’
‘St Lawrence in whose honour we have called this truce will aid us.’
‘And what of St Thomas à Becket whom he will summon to his aid?’
‘St Thomas would never aid him.’
‘But he has done penance at his shrine. He has allowed himself to be whipped.’
‘He is his murderer.’
‘It was not his hand that struck the blow and see what success he has had in England since his penance.’
Louis was a little shaken. He had great faith in St Thomas à Becket. But it was he, Louis, who had given the Archbishop sanctuary in France and it had never been necessary for him to do penance at his shrine.
‘My lord King,’ implored Philip of Flanders, ‘if this truce goes on through the day and night we shall lose Rouen.’
‘I have given my word and said my prayers to St Lawrence.’
‘St Lawrence can do nothing against the King of England,’ said Philip almost impatiently, and he added: ‘My lord, might it not be that this opportunity comes through St Lawrence? The city gates are wide open; the knights are sporting in their tournament. Could this not be the time to go into the attack?’
Louis was horrified. ‘I have given my word.’
Philip of Flanders tried to hide his scorn. All his life the King of France had lost opportunities on the battlefield. Was he now doing the same?
Philip wrung his hands. He went away and left the King of France saying his prayers to St Lawrence. Shortly after, Philip returned to the King’s camp and with him came young Henry. The young King threw himself on his knees before the King of France.
‘My lord, hear me,’ he cried. ‘My kingdom is at stake. We can take Rouen now if we surprise the city. Soon my father will be here with his troops. We must take the city before he comes.’
‘I have declared a truce,’ persisted Louis.
The two young men joined in their entreaties. They pointed out to him what victory would mean. Was he going to throw it away because of a promise? It might be that if he did not give way many French soldiers would lose their lives.
‘Then,’ he said, ‘let us exploit the situation. Let us make ready to take the city while the gates are open to us.’
Before he could change his mind Philip and Henry hurried away to give orders that immediate preparations should be made for capturing the city.
Rouen might have been taken with the utmost ease but for the fact that a group of young men had dared two of their number to climb the church tower. This they did and as they were poised there, they could see beyond the city to those fields where the French army was encamped and it was obvious to them that preparations were in progress for an immediate attack.
Coming down they told what they had seen and within a few minutes the church bells were ringing out a warning. This was the sound for alarm. The knights at their tournament heard it; they hurried into the city; the gates were closed; boiling pitch was prepared and carried to the battlements. Everyone was ready for action and determined to hold Rouen with an even greater determination because of the perfidy of the French in violating a truce which they had proclaimed.
Thus when Philip of Flanders and young Henry led the attack they were repulsed. The surprise was lacking; the citizens were ready for them and their little strategy might never have been.
All through the night the battle raged and the next day the watchers from the city’s walls gave a great shout of joy for the King of England’s army was seen approaching. The siege would soon be over.
In a short time the English were within sight of the French and the battle was about to begin. Louis, who was not averse to besieging a town, disliked the thought of hand-to-hand battle. He had never lost his revulsion to bloodshed and he now heartily wished that he had never embarked on the campaign to take Rouen. When he heard that the English had already attacked his rear-guard and inflicted severe casualties, he was so sure he could not win in a hand-to-hand fight that he sent messengers to Henry to ask for a truce and request that he might retire with his troops some miles from the town where he and the King could parley.
Not realising at this stage that the French had perfidiously broken the truce they had made with the citizens of Rouen and secretly not wishing to do battle with an army in which his son was fighting against him, Henry agreed to allow the French to withdraw.
He was not surprised nor was he displeased when news was brought to him that during the night they had fled and had not stopped riding until they crossed the borders of France.
Henry laughed aloud. It was always good to force a retreat without the loss of blood. That was an easy victory. He only had to appear, to strike terror into his opponents. This would teach young Henry a lesson. He would see that it was not easy to oppose his father.
What rejoicing there was when he entered his city of Rouen! He praised those valiant men and women who had withstood the siege. He sent for the young men who had climbed the tower and when he heard their story he embraced them.
‘You did well,’ he said. ‘It shall not be forgotten.’
Whether it would or not remained to be seen, for Henry was one who often forgot his promises; but he could always make people happy because they had won his approval to such an extent that he made the promise.
He went into the church and gave thanks to God and St Thomas à Becket, for he was certain that it was the Archbishop who had sent those men up to the tower and had saved his city of Rouen.
Richard, the King’s second son, was not yet eighteen. More warlike than his brothers, he exulted in the necessity to take up arms. He was determined to excel on the battlefield and to hold Aquitaine against his father. He hated his father. It was true that his brothers were impatient with the old King, that they believed, he had cheated them of their inheritance, that they had taken up arms against him, but none of them hated him as Richard did.
All his life he had seen his father as the devil – the evil genius of their life. His mother had believed this and she was wise and clever and he loved her even as he hated his father.
He longed to be with her, but she was her husband’s captive. When Richard thought of that he was so filled with fury that he longed to kill his father. And he would, he promised himself. How gleefully he would cut off his head and send it to his mother. She would appreciate that. Together they would make a ballad of it; they would sing it in harmony.
He had a double mission now – it was not only to defeat his father and become true ruler of Aquitaine but to set his mother free. He wished that he were older. He was a born fighter but no one took so young a man seriously, and his father had created an aura about himself; he was becoming known as the invincible lion. Yet he was ageing, and it would not always be so. The King of France was against him; so were his other sons, Henry and Geoffrey. Surely he could not stand out for ever against such opposition? And when the Archbishop had been murdered it seemed as though the whole world was against him. Could people have admired him for performing that humiliating penance? Richard could not believe this could be so. Surely he had demeaned himself, and yet since he had done it, he had had great success in England. Attempts to take it from him had failed. But it would be different in Normandy and Aquitaine. He was not going to win there.
He exulted to think of the armies of the King of France and men such as Philip of Flanders. Henry would soon be in command of his kingdom. So must Richard be in command of his.
How he enjoyed riding at the head of troops, his pennants flying.
‘My best loved son,’ his mother had said, ‘you were born to lead men. I thank God that you are the one to inherit Aquitaine. Indeed I would never have allowed my native land to go to anyone else.’
They were supposed to rule it jointly, he and his mother, but since she had been her husband’s prisoner she could not be said to have a say in the governing of the land. The people of Aquitaine loved her but they did not take all that kindly to her son. With his fair hair and bright blue eyes he did not appear to belong to the south. There was something alien about him and they sensed this. They only accepted him because he was his mother’s son but they were always aware that in him there was a strong strain of his Norman ancestry. He was a poet; he loved music. In that, he was his mother’s son. But they could not forget that his father was Henry Plantagenet whose mother had been the granddaughter of the Norman Conqueror.
So, when he rode through Aquitaine trying to rouse men to his banner in order to preserve his inheritance from his avaricious father, the knights of Aquitaine were not eager to join him.
News was brought to him that his father, having assured himself that England was safe, was on his way to Aquitaine to settle matters there. Richard realised that he was very like his brothers in that while his father was at a distance he could rage against him but the thought of coming face to face with him in battle struck terror into his heart. The old King’s reputation could not be forgotten. All men were aware of it and the sturdiest quailed before it. He had that rare quality possessed by his grandfather and great-grandfather which had often resulted in their winning a battle before it had started simply by filling their enemies’ hearts with fear and the certainty that they could not win against such a man.
Richard now surveyed his company. He could see the fear in their faces. He suspected that if they knew that his father was marching on them many would in sheer terror desert.
He called a messenger to him and told him to ride with all speed to the army of the King of France which he believed was in Normandy. ‘Take these notes,’ he said, ‘and give one to each of my two brothers and one to the King of France.’
He watched the messenger ride away. He felt safe now. They would not let him be defeated. They would send help.
His father had still not come but he was approaching. Richard watched for the messenger’s return. With him must come aid. Perhaps his brothers themselves. If they had taken Rouen they would be flushed with victory and that would be the best news he could receive, for it would mean that they had defeated his father and the myth of his invincibility would have been exploded.
But no soldiers came, and the messenger returned.
‘Alas, brother,’ wrote Henry, ‘we were not successful at Rouen, but were forced to fly before our father’s troops. Now there is a truce and we wait to discuss terms with him. But one condition he has laid down is that we must send no aid to you.’
Richard clenched his fists in quiet rage. In some measure he possessed the Angevin temper but instead of being hot like his father’s it was cold. Richard would never lie on the floor and gnaw the rushes; he would never grow scarlet so that men believed he might drop to the ground in a fit. He grew pale; the blue eyes were like steel; but his anger was none the less fierce because it was cold.
He felt that anger now. For here he was a boy in age, with a small army, and he must stand alone against the greatest general of the age – his own father.
He himself might do it. His followers never would.
He knew he had no alternative but to retreat before his father. When he discussed the state of affairs with his most skilled knights they agreed with him.
‘The men would never stand and fight your father’s armies,’ they said. ‘They would tremble with fear at the prospect and desert before your father arrived.’
It was true. There was nothing to do but retreat.
What bitter humiliation! Henry marched through Aquitaine, extorting obedience from all. Richard marched south but he could not go on marching for ever. His men were deserting him. Soon there would be but a handful of them left.
At length he realised that he could retreat no more. He must face his father.
The meeting took place and when Richard looked into that strong face with its curly hair – a little greying now – clipped square on the forehead, the flaring nostrils, the leonine aspect, his emotions were mixed. The hatred was there; fear too; and he knew why men quailed before his father.
He knelt and put his face on the ground in a sudden access of wretchedness. He was beaten and he knew that he was too young as yet to stand up and face this man. He had been guilty of great folly and, although he hated his father more fiercely than he could ever hate anyone else, he must respect him.
Henry watched him in silence. My son, he thought. This handsome boy is my son Richard, the betrothed of Alice.
He felt a sudden tenderness for him – perhaps because he was his son, perhaps because he had taken his bride from him.
‘Rise, Richard,’ he said.
And when the boy stood so that they were face to face – and Richard must look down on him for he was several inches taller than his father – he put his arms about him and embraced him.
‘It is a sad thing,’ he said, ‘when a son takes up arms against his own father.’
Richard said nothing. A slightly sullen expression touched his lips.
‘Sad,’ went on the King, ‘and useless. You are a good fighter, they tell me, Richard. But there is more to battle than brandishing a lance, my boy. There’s subtlety and strategy. A good general knows when he should retreat and when he should advance. Well, let us say this: You knew when to retreat did you not, and when to show humility? Suffice it that you have been a worthy general. Now we will talk.’
He put his arm through Richard’s and they walked together.
‘I like not these quarrels,’ said the King. ‘Your brothers have come to their senses. I shall see them ere long. We are to have a meeting and it might be well if you joined us. I have much to say to you all, for I am not of a mind to endure these family quarrels.’
‘We are men,’ said Richard. ‘And men cannot be treated as boys.’
‘Both boys and men are given the treatment they warrant. Remember that and we shall understand each other. Now, my son, know this. There is now peace in Aquitaine. You are its Duke but the titles my sons hold, they hold under me. Remember that and we shall remain at peace.’
The King ordered that a banquet should be prepared and at table he kept his son beside him; and all noticed that he showed a certain fondness for him and that Richard was subdued though seeming sullen.
The next day the King sent for his son.
‘Go now and join your brothers at the Court of the King of France,’ he told him. ‘You will say that you have decided that there shall be no more strife in Aquitaine, and that you, like them, are now aware of the folly of your ways. Like them, you are at peace with your father. We shall all meet soon and then I shall tell you what my proposals are.’
Richard took his farewell of his father and rode towards the French border.
Henry was thoughtful. He could not contemplate Richard without thinking of Alice. The boy had said nothing of his bride. Did he never think of her?
Henry thought of her constantly.
In Salisbury Castle, the Queen received news of her sons. She had been more than a year in captivity and her first humiliated rage had passed. She had become accustomed to her imprisonment which was not by any means rigorous. At first she had thought that Henry would attempt to murder her. Perhaps he would. He wanted to be rid of her. Or did he? Was that just a sop to Rosamund? He could not marry Rosamund. The people would never accept it. But being Henry of course he might attempt what others would be afraid to do.
All her hopes were in her sons. If they could win their battle against their father, their first duty would be to free her. She could trust them to do that. What a great day that would be when the tables were turned, when Henry was the prisoner of his wife and sons. How she would taunt him!
But it was not yet. There was still fire in the old lion. Old lion. She had to remember that he was twelve years younger than she was!
She went to the topmost point of the keep and looked out across the moat. She was allowed the freedom of the castle but if she attempted to cross the drawbridge she would be stopped by guards. At first she had planned escape, but nothing had come of it. She was too well guarded. Bribery was useless. All her guards knew that if she were allowed to escape, Henry’s fury would be unleashed and the greatest punishment would be inflicted on them.
She had always been an intriguer and now her chief pleasure was in following her bent. How strange that she, the adventuress who had travelled to the Holy Land, who had taken her lovers, who had divorced the King of France that she might marry Henry Plantagenet, should now be a prisoner, confined to one small space, looking out day after day on the same horizons!
She would outwit him though. In time she would be the victor. This thought kept her spirits up. Every day when she awoke she thought: This could be the day. Today a messenger may come riding from my sons … from Henry or from Richard … with the good news. Perhaps they would send her his head to gloat over. No, not that. She did not want him dead. She knew that the world must be a duller place for her without him. It had always been so. Nothing had ever excited her quite so much as her tussles with him. She thought of the days of their passion. She had never really had a lover to compare with him. There was a power about him and it was this which appealed to her. She had believed in the first days of their marriage that she would love him with a deep abiding passion all her days. The passion had remained but it had become a passion of hatred.
She remembered her anger when she had first become aware of his infidelities. That was when he had introduced his bastard Geoffrey into her nurseries. The son of one of his light o’ loves to be brought up with the royal children! And that same Geoffrey was fighting with him now, ever-faithful to him, and it was said that he loved him dearly. ‘Bastards can be faithful,’ she had said. ‘They have to be grateful. They have no rights. It is different with those who have just claim to lands and titles.’
Let him drool over his bastard! It was his legitimate sons to whom he would have to answer.
‘Oh, God,’ she prayed, ‘deliver him into their hands.’
She had her spies. They came to the castle on various pretexts and found the moment to speak to the Queen.
Some of her attendants had friends who gave them news. She had with her some of the women from her native Aquitaine and they spoke the Provençal language. They would sing the news to her in this language as though it were a song. Perhaps there was no need for this, but it appealed to her sense of intrigue, and enlivened the days of captivity.
How delighted she had been when she heard that Richard was holding Aquitaine and that he was rousing the knights of that fair land against his father.
Then came the news of the siege of Rouen. How like Louis! she thought.
She talked to her women of the old days when Louis had turned away from a fight because he had no stomach for it.
‘He could have faced the King of England, fought with him. But he had to run away. He was always more of a monk than a man. Though in the early days of our marriage I made almost a man of him. And my sons … Henry and Geoffrey? What of them? They should have stayed to fight. But to give in, to call a truce … and then be content to listen to his terms. And what will those terms be, I ask you? Henry Plantagenet will never take his hands from land or castle. Once his greedy claws have seized it, he will never let it go. My son Richard had more spirit than his brother. You may depend upon it, he will never give in.’
But he did give in. She pictured his cold anger when he realised that he was no match for his father. The people of Aquitaine had not trusted so young a boy and they feared the rage of Henry Plantagenet. So the war in Aquitaine had petered out even as it had outside Rouen.
‘It would seem he has but to appear and people are afraid of him. Why should they be?’ she asked, but she knew. He had a quality which she would never forget. She wished that he would come to see her in this prison in which he had placed her. How she would have enjoyed a verbal battle with him.
She railed against fate. He was too strong, he still retained the vigours of youth; and the boys were too young. In time it would not be so and as they matured so would he grow old. She must wait till the years clouded the lion’s eyes; then his cubs would savage him.
If she could but be there with them, to advise them, perhaps to cajole Louis. Could she do that now? How she longed to be free!
She was excited by an unexpected piece of news.
It was given to her in a song. A great king loved a young girl … a very young girl … who was betrothed to his son.
She listened. It could not be so.
Alice!
Why, she was but a child. But not too young to satisfy his lust.
So it had come to children! And the betrothed of his son! Richard’s bride!
What did he plan? To pass the soiled beauty over to Richard when he had finished with her?
That must not be.
Then another thought came to her. He wanted a divorce. He had suggested as much.
Oh, my God, she thought, does he want to marry Alice?
She had satisfied herself that he would not marry Rosamund. The people would not want her as their Queen and he was king enough to know that he must above all things keep the approval of his people. But Alice, the daughter of the King of France! That was another matter.
Dallying with Alice! The lecher! She could picture his face clearly; the speculation in the tawny eyes, the nostrils flaring suddenly as they did in moments of intense emotion.
How much does he want to marry Alice? she wondered. Enough to murder his wife?
How simple it would be. Who would miss her? Her children? But they were his also and he was the master. What was going on behind the lion’s mask? How safe was she?
She felt she must act quickly.
She would get a message to Richard. She had friends enough to be able to do that.
She was framing it in her mind.
‘Demand that the King sends your betrothed to you. It is time you and Alice were married. He must do this. Tell the King of France that you want your bride.’
She was alert.
She would have to take very special care now.
It was the last day of September – mild and misty – when Henry sat at the conference table facing his sons, Henry, Richard and Geoffrey.
In his heart was triumph tinged with a certain sadness. It was unseemly that a father should be called upon to make peace terms with his sons; on the other hand it was gratifying that he had brought them all to heel – every one of them – Henry, with his grandiose ideas of what belonged to him, because his father had had the magnanimity to allow him to be crowned King; Richard, cold hatred gleaming in his blue eyes, too young and inexperienced to realise how unwise he was to show it; and Geoffrey who seemed still a boy. Fine lads all of them – and all here because they had conspired against their father.
