The Courts of Love: The Story of Eleanor of Aquitaine (30 page)

While he was away my child was born. I had three sons now—Henry, Richard and this new one, Geoffrey.

I recovered quickly but I had made up my mind that I was going to have a respite from childbearing. I was tired of all those weary months, and then, when the child was born, almost immediately I was expecting another.

Here I was confined to my apartments while exciting events were taking place in the world. Then I hated to be in one place for long. I started to pine for Aquitaine and knew that it was not good for me to be absent for so long.
I
was the ruler of Aquitaine; they would not accept Henry. They were even more suspicious of him than they had been of Louis. At least Louis had been ineffectual. None could say that of Henry.

I had made my son Richard heir of Aquitaine. The eldest, Henry, would, of course, have England; the new Geoffrey I supposed Anjou. There was territory enough for them. And if everything went as Henry planned, young Henry would have France as well.

I knew how Henry’s mind worked. He would wring the utmost advantage from this match. He had talked to me often of the Vexin, that buffer state between Normandy and Louis’s kingdom; and I had seen the acquisitive gleam in his eyes. If he could get control of the Vexin he could feel that Normandy was considerably safer than it was at this time. He longed for the Vexin and I knew he was going to ask for it as Marguerite’s dowry.

I imagined Henry’s meeting with Louis. Louis must have schooled himself. I wondered whether the thought of Henry and me together came into his head. The puritanical often suffer from acute imagination in these matters, I believe. He would be most uncomfortable and obsessed by his visions. Poor Louis. Did he in his heart feel reproachful toward God for not making better arrangements for the procreation of the human race?

Henry would go to Paris in a manner entirely different from that employed by his Chancellor. I pictured him in his short cape and simple jacket—no concessions from Henry—riding his horse magnificently—he and his horse always looked as though they were one—his gloveless, chapped hands unashamedly exposed. “Is this the King?” the people would ask. “How different he is from his Chancellor.” But there would be no mistaking the regality. Henry could not hide that if he tried. I imagined that proud head, leonine and tawny—a King to respect and fear.

Louis and his Constance received him graciously. Henry of course could put himself out to be charming when there was much to be gained. He would show his erudition; his conversation would be witty and very much to the point. Perhaps I should not have been surprised that, between them, he and Becket should manage to get what they wanted from Louis.

On the marriage of Marguerite and Henry, the Vexin should form part of her dowry. The poor child was only a year old, so Louis had a long time before he need relinquish his hold on that important territory.

Henry remained in France. He would not leave it until he was sure it was safe to do so. Meanwhile he was stabilizing his friendship with Louis.

He sent messages to me. I was to join him in Cherbourg with the children.

England was peaceful, and Robert of Leicester and Richard de Luci were capable of firm governing. So I went.

Henry was delighted with the new baby.

“There is nothing like a bevy of sons to strengthen the throne,” he said.

“Perhaps too many could make trouble,” I reminded him. “Think of your brothers.”

“There you have a point,” agreed Henry. “But my sons will be different. I shall bring them up the way I wish them to go.”

I looked at him steadily and said: “They are my sons also. I shall have a hand in their upbringing.”

He laughed. “Our interests must be as one,” he said. “I would not care to have you as my enemy.”

“Nor I you, my lord.”

Then he kissed me and I was rather afraid that this might lead to the usual encounter, but I eluded him, saying that I had much to which I must attend.

I was all eagerness to hear about his meeting with Louis, and he was only too pleased to tell me.

“Louis does not appear to have changed much since he was your devoted husband. Constance         .         .         .         well, she is meek and mild. As different from you, my dear, as one woman could be from another. I’ll swear she does not plague him as you used to.”

There was grudging admiration in his voice and I did not resent his words.

“Did he mention me?” I asked.

“By no means. He skirted over the subject. I saw his eyes on me and I guessed he was thinking ‘What can that fastidious lady see in this coarse creature?’ He seemed to have forgotten that she has a coarse side to her nature. Think of all those adventures in the Holy Land.”

“So you read the thoughts of others?”

“Such as Louis, yes. He would not allow me to bring Marguerite to England, and do you know why? Because he did not want his little daughter brought up in
your
Court         .         .         .         even though she is to marry your son.”

“Did he say this?”

“I told you your name was not mentioned. When I reminded him that a bride is brought up in her husband’s country, his mouth tightened and I’ll swear he was murmuring a prayer under his breath. ‘Oh God, save my innocent daughter from that wicked woman.’”

“I am sure he was doing no such thing.”

“Well, he said no most firmly. ‘No, no. My daughter stays in France.’ Now this, of course, was something which I could not allow. We might as well not have gone there         .         .         .         all that expense         .         .         .         it would be for nothing.”

“And Becket’s trip must have been a costly one.”

“What Becket did was right.”

“You mean for him to travel like a king and you as a commoner?”

“Our own styles suited us best. And what matters it, since we achieved the desired result?”

“But you say Louis will not allow Marguerite to come to England.”

“That has nothing to do with Becket’s ostentation and my humility. It was due to absent influences.”

“You mean because of me.”

“Exactly.”

“But you did not mention me.”

“Your presence was there         .         .         .         floating between us. You are not easily dismissed from people’s minds, my love.”

“So she is still with her father, and your mission is unfulfilled.”

“By the eyes of God, what do you take me for? Certainly that is not so. You know my Chief Justice, Robert of Newburg. What a righteous man! His castle is so convenient. Right on the borders of Normandy, so that he can keep an eye on what goes on on the other side. He is very pious         .         .         .         a man after Louis’s own heart. I suggested that the little girl be brought to his household. It would be safer than the perilous journey across the water. Louis had to give way. Not a breath of scandal concerning Robert of Newburg has ever passed any lips. In fact, all talk of his piety. So, that little matter was settled and the innocent child will be spared the evil influence and be brought up in a house of virtue.”

“I see,” I said. “Well, I suppose it would have been somewhat ironic for Louis’s daughter to be brought up under my care.”

“Incongruous indeed. But all is well. Louis and I have visited churches together. I have been a very virtuous man for his sake—and now we are the best of friends.”

“For how long?” I said.

“For as long as it is necessary, I hope,” he replied with a mischievous grin.

So we spent Christmas at Cherbourg, and Henry’s delight in his son pleased me; it was a happy time.

There was a new development. Henry’s troublesome brother Geoffrey died suddenly. Henry expressed no remorse for their quarrel; he was without sentiment and would have considered it hypocritical to feign grief he did not feel, which was honest, of course. It was typical of him that he immediately began to assess the advantages his brother’s death could bring to him.

For one thing, it was the end of a troublemaker. By great good fortune, two years before his death Geoffrey had been offered the county of Nantes which he had eagerly accepted. Nantes was one of the most important cities in Brittany and there had been unrest in the province for some years. It was hoped that Geoffrey would be able to prevent rebellion. Well, now he was dead and, said Henry, Nantes belonged to the family.

I was amazed by him. His resources were stretched to the limit. He was trying to rule England, Normandy, Anjou and Aquitaine. And now he was thinking of adding Brittany to his possessions. I recognized the acquisitive gleam in his eyes. Sometimes I believed it was a dream of Henry’s to conquer the whole world.

He set about stabilizing his claim to Nantes and, because of his new friendship with Louis, he asked his permission to take over the city. It did not surprise me that Louis gave in to this. There had been trouble in Brittany for some time, and Louis was always seeking peace. He recognized in Henry a strong man, and although even he must have known that Henry had his eyes not only on Nantes but on the whole of Brittany, he agreed to his taking possession of the city.

Henry did not hesitate. He went in with his armies and set up his deputies to rule.

This visit to France, this friendship with Louis, was proving very useful to him.

It was I who first talked to him of Toulouse. It had always rankled in my mind that it had passed out of my family’s hands. It had come to us through my grandfather’s wife Philippa, and although my grandfather had sold it to raise money to go on his crusade, I had never felt that that justified our not bringing it back to where it belonged.

To add Toulouse to what he already had was a great temptation to Henry. I knew he was looking ahead a few years to when our son was King of France and almost the whole of that country was in our hands. England and France should be ruled by one king. Together they could stand against the world.

Henry believed he knew Louis. A man of peace would do anything in his power to avoid going to war. Yet even Louis must view with disquiet the prospect of Henry’s acquiring more territory in France.

Louis had added to his stature in a way. He was no longer the tool of Suger and Bernard of Clairvaux; and this had made him more his own man. They were both dead and he had escaped from their influence long enough to have developed a little character of his own.

When Henry demanded the return of Toulouse in my name, Louis must have been overcome with shock. In his simple honest way he would have believed the King of England was his friend. I wondered that he had not yet learned that there is no true friendship between kings; there is only expediency. It was unfortunate that Louis’s sister, Constance, was married to the Count of Toulouse. She was the widow of Eustace, King Stephen’s son, and Louis would naturally feel that he must look after his sister’s interests.

I felt strongly about Toulouse. I always had. I did remember Louis’s abortive attempt to take it. But Louis’s attempts would always end in failure. It would be quite different with Henry. He was enthusiastic for the campaign and set about raising an army. In due course he had with him the most influential barons of England. Becket was there, with equipment and followers more splendid than any. It seemed to me that he fancied himself as a conqueror; he certainly had great energy and the will to succeed. The Scots were there, with the Welsh, and it seemed certain that Henry could not fail to take Toulouse.

Louis, however, made an unpredictable move. He took a few troops with him and went to the aid of his brother-in-law. Consequently when Henry’s army arrived to take possession of the town, Louis was inside it.

Henry was faced with a dilemma. To attack Toulouse meant attacking Louis, and Louis, while Henry was in France, was his feudal lord. I never thought that Henry would be overplagued by such scruples. It may have been that he foresaw that if he made the French King his captive he might be catapulted into a war of gigantic proportions. England was docile at the moment but if anything went wrong there he would have to return at short notice. There were men in Normandy, Anjou and Brittany who would be only too ready to turn against him if they thought they had an opportunity of succeeding. I suppose that on reflection Henry acted in his usually shrewd manner; but the disappointment was intense.

There was nothing more frustrating for an army in perfect order than to come within sight of victory and have it snatched from them because of scruples.

I was amused to hear that there was discord between Becket and the King. Thomas, that holy man, was bent on war. He wanted to cut a fine figure on the battlefield. He wanted to take his splendidly caparisoned equipage into a battle which should have been won before it started.

Becket said the King was acting foolishly.

Henry told Becket to remember to whom he spoke.

Becket, so sure of himself, continued to tell the King that he was acting in an ill-considered way.

That was not true. Henry never did that. Even his rages were calculated to terrify people and remind them of their fate if they offended him.

Henry cried out that Becket had better have a care. He would do well to remember who was the master of us all.

Becket must have been nonplussed. I was rather pleased that the arrogant man had been taken down a step or two, but he apparently realized he had gone too far and that because Henry had shown him unusual favor he must not take advantage of that. The King had helped him rise. He could as easily put him down. I could not believe for one moment that Becket would want to lose all that magnificence by which he set such store.

Henry withdrew his army but he did capture a few strongholds and peace was concluded. Alas, Toulouse remained out of our hands. It was a terrible disappointment to me. I had always had a special feeling for Toulouse and I had believed that Henry would bring it to me. In a way, Louis had scored over him. It had been a masterly stroke to go to the city when he knew an attempt would be made to take it. It showed real courage and perhaps—though unlikely—shrewd reasoning. Had Louis guessed that Henry would not attack when he was there? He was of course taking a great risk, but Louis had never been a coward. The care of his own skin had never come first with him; as long as he was sure he was in the right, he was contented.