The Courts of Love: The Story of Eleanor of Aquitaine (48 page)

He saw the wisdom of this and retired.

I could imagine his feelings. Did his son want the crown so much that he was prepared to murder his father to get it? Did he really believe that? He would have grappled with himself; sentiment trying hard to get the better of reason. How strange that such a man should have such weakness. It did show that he was capable of love, for he certainly felt it toward his son.

I was glad that young Henry went to his camp. How touched the King must have been when the young man fell on his knees before him. He wept bitterly and said that when he saw the arrow pierce his father’s cloak he was overcome with sorrow. So he had seen it? Had he ordered it? The King would not allow himself to believe that. It must have been some overzealous soldier who sought to win honor.

Something of that conversation was reported to me.

“Father, when I saw that arrow touch you         .         .         .         and realized what might have happened, I was overcome with shock and grief.”

“It was shot by one of your men.”

“I will never forgive him.”

“He meant to serve you.”

“Oh, Father, forgive me.”

“It was not you who shot the arrow?”

“No. But one of my servants         .         .         .”

“There must be an end to this strife between us. Do not forget I am your father. Do not forget you are my son.” He went on to impress on young Henry how much he had to learn. He tried once more to make him understand the responsibilities of kingship.

Henry protested that his father was siding with Richard against him and Geoffrey, although Richard had stalked out at Caen and refused obedience.

“There must not be war in families,” reiterated the King. “If we do not stand together, we are doomed.”

“The people of Aquitaine do not want Richard.”

“Richard is the rightful heir.”

“Father, if you came to Aquitaine, if you asked the people which of us they wanted, they would listen to you. Will you do this?”

“I will consider,” said the King.

Young Henry went back to the town, and the King stayed in the camp outside.

I was sure he would not easily forget the arrow which had pierced his cloak. I could imagine how he spent that night. He must have been full of misgivings; surely the truth must have begun to dawn on him then. He must have seen that his son’s tears and grief had been a pretense, that he wished to gain time for the fortification of Limoges, that he was ready to go into battle against his father.

Geoffrey was with him—two traitor sons, and Richard defying him.

The next day he rode toward the town intending to speak once more with Henry. He took with him only his standard-bearer and two knights. There could be no question that he came in any attempt to take the town. Yet he was greeted by a shower of arrows, and this time one of them struck and killed his horse. The King was thrown to the ground.

His standard-bearer and the knights knelt beside him in consternation.

“I am unhurt,” he said. “It is just my poor horse who is killed.”

While the King was getting to his feet, young Henry came riding full speed toward him. He was preparing to weep, to tell his father how distraught he was.

The King said coldly: “You should train your archers better. You see, the second time they have failed.”

“My father         .         .         .” began young Henry.

But even the King understood now. He leaped onto the horse which his standard-bearer had brought to him and turned his back on his son.

How bitter his thoughts must have been as he rode back. His sons were against him. They had defied him; one had tried to kill him. He would not be duped any longer.

He thought then, I believe, of Geoffrey, the son of a prostitute; he had never had anything but devotion from that one. How ironic that his legitimate sons should have turned against him, and he had only loyalty from his bastard!

There was one who had not stood against him. He was too young to do so. That was John.

Henry would always care for his illegitimate son Geoffrey and keep him near him; but alas, when all was said and done, he was a bastard. It was a legitimate son he needed to stand beside him and give him that affection for which he craved.

And there was John.

From that time he transferred his affections from his eldest to his youngest son. John became the center of his ambitions.

I was very involved with my children even though I did not see them, and young Henry was constantly in my thoughts. I had known of his weakness long before it had been revealed to his father. I had eagerly gleaned everything I could hear of him, and in spite of our separation I knew him well.

I fervently hoped his folly would not destroy him.

One night I had a strange dream. I thought I was in a crypt. The coldness seeped into my bones; there was a faint light which seemed to beckon to me, and I followed it. When it stopped, I was looking at a man who was lying on the stones of the crypt, and that man was my son Henry. Looking closely I saw that it was not in fact my son but an effigy as one sees on a tomb; there were two crowns above his head—one the crown of England, the other in the form of a halo, and there was a look of infinite peace on the carved face.

When I awoke, I said to myself: My son Henry is dead.

It was some weeks later before I heard what had happened.

There was only one course open to the King. He was at war with his sons, and he was going to lay siege to Limoges. He was now ranged on Richard’s side.

Young Henry must have been really frightened. Twice he had tried to kill his father and failed. It was no use weeping and expecting forgiveness now: he had obviously betrayed himself; the only surprise was that the King had taken so long to realize his son’s true nature.

Young Henry did not want war; he only wanted the spoils of war. He soon discovered that real war was very different from the mock variety he enjoyed at jousts. War was hardship, exhaustion and possibly death.

Geoffrey escaped from Limoges on a pretext of raising men and money. Henry realized that his father’s tactics would very soon end in victory. He could not endure the thought of being his father’s captive and one night crept out of town and joined some supporters who had raised an army in a nearby town. He was immediately told that money was needed if they were to continue with the campaign. Soldiers had to be paid. Henry did not understand these matters. He was the King—if in name only—and men must do their duty without pay; but his captains informed him that they would desert if not paid. Many of them were mercenaries. The money had to be found.

“The men must wait         .         .         .         wait,” he cried petulantly.

They came to an abbey where the monks received them as they wished to visit the shrines, and according to custom they were given food.

After the meal, when they visited the shrines, Henry was struck by the beauty of the monastery’s treasures. An idea occurred to him. The sale of some of the chalices alone would feed an army for a month. What use were they in an abbey when he was so desperate? I wonder how long it took him to persuade himself. I am sure his captains attempted to warn him of his folly.

But Henry was reckless; he had betrayed himself to his father, and he guessed the old man could live another ten years with the knowledge that his son had made two attempts on his life. He had crowned him; he was King; nothing could alter that; but his father was a sly man; he might even attempt to do to his son what that son had tried to do to the father. He made up his mind. His need was great. They were going to rob the shrines of their valuable ornaments, sell them and with the money raise an army to take Aquitaine.

The monks were shocked beyond belief. They could not understand how any professed Christian could desecrate the shrines. But Henry did, and with his army rode on.

Robbing monasteries and abbeys was easy. There was no—or little—resistance. This was the way.

The countryside was in terror at the approach of Henry’s army. Everywhere monks locked their doors against them. This proved useless. What were gates against an army? They battered their way in.

I wished I could have talked to my son. He was like a man possessed. He had offended against all the laws of God and man; he had attempted to murder his father, and now he was robbing holy shrines. He was frantic, running on blindly         .         .         .         shutting his mind to all thought of the consequences of his actions because he dared not face them.

He came at length to the monastery of Grandmont, which contained the shrine of Rocamadour.

He was wealthy now. He could raise a bigger and better army, but the lust for plunder stayed with him. He knew that he was damned but instead of repenting his sins he wanted to add to them. He wanted to defy God as he had defied his father.

Those about him would have held back; they wanted to finish with this way of life; they wanted to return to their homes and forget the conquest of Aquitaine and the crown of England.

Perhaps he kept up a spirit of bravado. I think that would be typical of him. And when his men showed a reluctance to enter the monastery he would have called them cowards.

They broke in; he took the treasures from the shrines of Rocamadour.

That night Henry was in the grip of a fever. Those about him believed that God had judged him and condemned him. Perhaps they were right. As he was so ill, they look him into the house of a smith called Stephen so that he could receive some comfort.

His bravado vanished; his fear of what was in store for him was uppermost. He was sure he was going to die and that this was God’s just punishment. He was guilty of attempting to kill his father and desecrating holy shrines. He feared the future and wanted to right as many wrongs as he could in the time left to him.

There was one man whom he had wronged and whom the King valued. He desperately wanted to see that man.

William Marshal was in Aquitaine and could come to him quickly. After he had sent for him, Henry dispatched a messenger to his father begging him to come to him.

After two attempts on his life, the King was wary. His attitude had changed. He was no longer deluding himself about his eldest son. Henry had exposed himself too obviously for further deceit to succeed. This time the King listened to his advisers, who were sure that this was another attempt to do that in which he had twice failed.

William Marshal did go to Henry’s bedside, but by his time the fever had taken a firmer hold on him.

I did hear later what he said to William. William had been a friend of his childhood; they had been close until the Count of Flanders had sown suspicion in Henry’s mind about Marshal and Marguerite. He told William that he knew his end was near. He had been possessed by devils and feared eternal damnation. He blamed his ancestress, the witch. “We Plantagenets are the Devil’s spawn,” he said. “We came from the Devil and we shall go back to the Devil.” William begged him to repent of his sins.

He was happier when a messenger came back with a ring from his father. The King did not trust him sufficiently to come himself but he was still his father and he did want his son to know that in spite of everything he still cared for him. They told me how Henry’s ring had comforted him.

William Marshal had arranged for the Bishop of Cahors to come to the house where Henry was staying. He begged William to remain with him. By his bed was a crusader’s cross which he had stolen from one of the tombs. He swore that if he lived he would take the cross to Jerusalem and place it on the Holy Sepulcher. He had written to his father. He had lied to him so many times; he had cheated and betrayed him. He wanted as many wrongs put right as there possibly could be. Would the King restore what he had stolen as far as he could? Would he look after Marguerite? He sent a message to me, too. He thought of me often. He had longed to see me, and he had begged the King to be more tender toward me.

Henry implored William Marshal to take the cross and if ever he went to Jerusalem to place it on the shrine in the name of the young King Henry.

He ordered that a bed of ashes be prepared, with a stone for a pillow; he wanted to wear a hairshirt. Then he declared himself the most wicked of sinners. He lay on his bed of discomfort for several hours, and it seemed that there he found a certain peace.

His repentance was complete.

And thus he died.

I would think of him as I had seen him in my dream. My poor, foolish son. I hope he found more contentment in death than he had in life.

Last Days at Chinon

H
ENRY MOURNED DEEPLY. HE
had so loved his eldest son. I knew he would be thinking of that handsome boy; he would be remembering all the glorious plans he had made for him; all had come to nothing.

And on his deathbed, with his sins heavy upon him, he had thought of his mother.

I was sure Henry wondered why my children loved me so much more than they loved him. But he did remember young Henry’s words. Richard had reviled him for his treatment of me: Henry on his deathbed had pleaded that I be treated with more kindness. Henry could not ignore one of his son’s last requests, so I received a visit from the Archdeacon of Wells.

He respectfully told me that he had come on the King’s behalf and that I was to prepare to leave Salisbury for Winchester. This I should be happy to do, I told him. I preferred Winchester.

“The King wishes me to say that much will depend on your behavior at Winchester. The King thinks that it would be well for you to be with your daughter, the Duchess of Saxony, at the time of her confinement.”

My heart leaped with joy. To be with my dear daughter. I could hardly contain my delight. This was surely due to my son’s deathbed request.

“The King thinks you may need garments, and he is arranging for some to be sent to you.”

I was exultant. The end of my imprisonment must be in sight. Should I be invited to Court? What excitement that would be! What was Alais thinking?
I
should not mind being at a Court where my husband’s mistress was. After all, I was the Queen. I should find it very amusing. I should be plunged once more into intrigue. What a pleasure not to have to rely on hearsay.

And to be with my dearest Matilda, to watch over her while she was waiting for her child!

A hamper of clothes came. Delicious red velvet. I handled the soft materials, loving the feel of them. How I had missed my beautiful clothes over all these years!

My women crowded around me. Amaria was so delighted for me, and the prettiest of them all who waited on me, Belle, whom we called Bellebelle, danced with joy. They would all love going to Court.

We were moving too fast, I told them. I was not yet released.

I stroked the white fur which lined the cloak and thought of facing Henry. How would he look after all these years? How would I look to him? I had taken care of myself and had not allowed my imprisonment to cause me undue anxiety. I had been shut away from the world, so he thought, but I had managed to keep myself aware of what was happening. The years had been kind to me as far as my appearance was concerned.

Should I see them all again? Most of all I wanted to see Richard, I wanted to talk to him about his father’s intrigue with his intended bride. But of course Richard would not have her now. There would be no compromise with Richard. It was either Yea or Nay, and as far as Alais was concerned it was most definitely Nay. What a joy it would be to see him! A boy no longer. A great soldier. And there was something else. He was now heir to the throne of England. What did Henry think of that? How I should love to know.

Well, I should soon be seeing and hearing at first hand all those things for which for so long I had had to rely on others.

Matilda was at Winchester, eagerly awaiting my arrival. We stood for a moment looking at each other. This was my daughter who had been a child when I had last seen her, and now she was twenty-eight years old, a wife and a mother who had endured much suffering.

There was no ceremony between us. We ran together and were in each other’s arms.

“My dearest child,” I cried.

“Oh         .         .         .         my mother         .         .         .”

We held each other at arms’ length and stared eagerly.

“You are beautiful still,” she said. “I remembered always how beautiful you were. I expected to find         .         .         .”

“An old woman? I am an old woman         .         .         .         but I try to forget it. That is the best way. I will not admit that. I am not an old woman to myself, and therefore I can pass for being younger than my years.”

I looked at her anxiously. She was heavily pregnant and looked tired. She told me that the journey from Normandy had been exhausting in her condition but her father had wanted the child to be born in England.

“Besides,” she added with the lovely smile I remembered so well, “it means that we can be together.”

There was so much to talk about during those days.

She told me of her life in Saxony, of how she had at first been impressed by her husband’s power. She described the ducal palace in front of which rose the column of Lwenstein at whose top was a great lion made of brass. It had been put there because her husband was known as Henry the Lion. He had received the title, a story ran, because when he was in the Holy Land he had watched a fight between a lion and a serpent; the lion was getting the worst of the combat, so Henry destroyed the serpent and the lion was grateful to him and became his companion, always at his side.

“Was it true?” I asked.

She shrugged her shoulders.

“Did you not discover from your husband?”

“He liked us all to believe it was true, but I could never say for sure.”

“Men like to preserve legends about themselves,” I commented.

“Henry wanted to make Brunswick the most beautiful city in the Empire,” she told me. “He built a magnificent church. I helped him in this. We planned to be buried there side by side. Who knows now?”

“Burials are a dismal subject,” I said, “and now we are together after all these years let us not be dismal.”

I learned a great deal about her life: the joy she had in her children and how she missed little Lothair, who had had to stay behind in Brunswick; she looked forward to the birth of another little one.

The quarrel with the Emperor Frederick had been their undoing. He wanted all the governors of the Saxon towns to accept him as their overlord. She had discovered his intentions while Henry was on a pilgrimage to the Holy Land, and she had sent a messenger to him to tell him of her fears. They were anxious days until Henry returned. Before he had left he had built Der Hagen, a hunting park, for her.

“I always remembered Woodstock,” she said. “I wanted to make a Woodstock there. Der Hagen was not quite the same, but I used to go to the hunting lodge there and think of England while I was waiting for Henry to come back. I thought a great deal of England, and it seemed a kind of haven to me then. But you know of our trouble and our exile.”

“I am glad of one thing,” I said. “It brought you here. Do not speak of it though. It makes you sad. Here you are and we are together. Let us be happy for a while.”

“And all this time, dear Mother, you have been a prisoner, my father your jailer.”

I laughed. “Don’t pity me, dearest child, for I do not pity myself—though sometimes the cold stones of Salisbury seem to seep into my bones. But I kept myself warm and I had good friends about me. My dear Amaria has been a great comfort over the years; little Bellebelle amuses me, and there are the other women too. They bring me news. I have enjoyed piecing it all together. It has been like a great picture puzzle to me, and I think that being apart from events I have perhaps been able to see them more clearly. I know so well all the actors in the drama, it is as though I sit before a stage watching their performances.”

“And now Henry is dead.”

I nodded. “Poor Henry. He always strove for the unattainable. Your father made the biggest mistake of his life when he crowned him.”

“He knows it, but it does not ease his pain. He thinks a great deal about Henry         .         .         .         and Richard and Geoffrey and John         .         .         .         all the boys. He knows Richard hates him, yet I think he admires him in a way.”

“No one could help admiring Richard.”

“Yet it seems it is John he loves now. He talks constantly of John.”

“He must be about seventeen now.”

“He is ambitious, Mother. He wants to be King.”

I laughed. “The crown is for Richard. Richard will be King of England.”

“But what of Aquitaine?”

“Richard will be the King of England and Duke of Aquitaine.”

“I think my father wants Aquitaine for John. I even think he wants the crown of England for him, too.”

“That will never be.”

“If my father decided         .         .         .         who could stop him?”

“Richard would. And he will never give up Aquitaine.”

She nodded. “Yes, Richard is a great warrior.”

“Have you seen John?”

“Yes.”

“Tell me, what sort of a man is he? I saw little of him in his childhood, you know. He was at Fontevrault and then under the care of Ranulf de Glanville.”

“I do not like Ranulf de Glanville, Mother.”

“No?”

“I think he has allowed John to go his own way. He         .         .         .”

“Tell me.”

“He is dissolute. There are always women and         .         .         .         he is rather cruel. I think he finds pleasure in hurting people. He is like our father in one way. He falls into rages. He lies on the floor and kicks and gnaws the rushes.”

“That is certainly like his father,” I said.

“But our father is never unjust in rages. When they are over, he does not look around to vent his spite on anyone who happens to be nearby.”

“No, he did not do that. And John does?”

She nodded. “I know it may seem strange but I am sorry for my father now that he is turning to John. I think he is going to be very disappointed.”

“He was always a fool where his family was concerned. He could never see those who would be loyal to him. So now John is taking the place of Henry?”

“It would seem so.”

“From what you tell me, I would say ‘God help him’ then. And Geoffrey? You say little of Geoffrey.”

“He would be rather like John         .         .         .         but kinder. I think he is happy with Constance, and they have their little Eleanor. If John had someone like that         .         .         .         a wife to steady him         .         .         .”

“Then we have to be grateful to Constance.”

“Geoffrey seems to be safe in Brittany. They accept him. I suppose because Constance is there. She is the heiress, in fact, and he is her husband, and as they seem happy together that pleases the people.”

“Let us at least be glad of that.”

There was much to be glad about during those days. Matilda would sit embroidering little garments for the child, and I would sing to her, read and play the lute. I sang some of the ballads I used to hear in my grandfather’s Court. How it brought it all back         .         .         .         those stories of gallantry, chivalry, of ladies rescued from tyrants, of unrequited love.

There were Matilda’s children to amuse us. They talked of their grandfather with affection. At least he had managed to win their hearts. They loved me, too. Sometimes I thought it a pity we did not forget ambition and become a happy family.

We talked of songs, and Matilda told me how, when Bernard de Borne was at Court, he used to write them in praise of her beauty.

“In truth they were for my brother Henry,” she said. “De Borne was in love with him. It was those verses of his which led to Henry’s death in a way. He flattered him and wrote of him as though he were a mighty warrior         .         .         .         invincible         .         .         .         and that was how Henry began to see himself. It was the reason why he thought he could get the better of our father.”

“Poor Henry,” I said. “He died penitent.”

“I pray his sins will be forgiven.”

“He did not repent,” I said, “until he saw that the game was lost. I suppose it is at such time that we all repent our sins.”

“I heard about the bed of ashes and the stone pillow.”

“Yes. A humble recompense. Let us hope God forgave him as his father did.”

So the days passed, and to be free and with my daughter was wonderful to me. I felt like a young woman—alive, vital, deeply interested in all that was going on around me.

It was a happy day when Matilda came safely through her confinement. She had given birth to a healthy boy and we called him William after his great ancestor the Conqueror.

We celebrated his birth with much merry-making, drinking a special spiced ale made with corn barley and honey, and I laughed maliciously when I saw that it cost the King 3.16.10, for I knew he would resent having to pay so much for a mere drink—which showed my attitude toward him had changed little.

Orders came for a move from Winchester to Westminster, and I was to accompany the party. So I was to be received back at Court! I had to thank my son Henry for this. His father could not refuse his dying wish.

A saddle ornamented with gold arrived for me. Clearly he did not want me to ride through the streets looking impoverished. He would not know what the people’s reaction would be, but one thing was certain: they would all be in the streets to see the Queen who for so long had been her husband’s prisoner.

I was going to enjoy this, particularly as I guessed Henry was thinking of it with some apprehension.

Clad in my red velvet gown with my fur-trimmed cloak, mounted on my horse with his gold-ornamented saddle, I rode to Westminster.

I had been right when I suspected that there would be crowds to see me. They watched in amazement. I knew I looked splendid. I had taken great care with my appearance, and I was practiced in the art of applying those aids to nature which are so effective. I had made sure that my dark hair looked almost as it had in my youth. My skin was unwrinkled; it had not been exposed to rough winds for years. They had been expecting an old woman; and in spite of my years I certainly did not look that.

At the palace I came face to face with Henry. He had aged considerably and was an old man now. All the defects he had had were more pronounced: the legs were a little more bowed; he leaned on a stick. I learned later that he had had a fall from a horse. Was it when Henry’s men had killed the horse under him? He had ingrowing toenails which caused him some pain. Poor old man! Was this the greatest soldier in Europe? He was still, I supposed. Age could not alter that completely. His hair was gray and there was much less of it than I remembered. He was still careless over his clothes; still the same short cape, the hands that were more reddened than ever.