The Courts of Love: The Story of Eleanor of Aquitaine (49 page)

Yet for all this, one only had to look at him to know he was a king.

I felt a sudden emotion. It was certainly not love. I would never forgive him for what he had done to me. Hatred? Yes, in a measure, but not entirely. A little pity because he was no longer active and must have hated leaning on a stick—and pity too, for the unrequited love he had given to his sons.

Then I thought with a glow of pleasure: You are an old man, Henry Plantagenet. You are older than I am in truth, although you are eleven years younger.

“You are beautiful still,” he said.

I bowed my head. I gave him one of those looks which implied that I could not return the compliment on his looks. He understood. We still knew each other very well, and even after all these years we could read each other’s thoughts.

“It is long since we met,” he went on.

“It was your pleasure,” I reminded him.

“It is now my wish that there should be no rancor between us while we are here.”

“Then the King’s wishes must be obeyed.”

His lips twitched; he was admiring me, I knew; and I felt my spirits rise. I knew that there would soon be conflict between us and I welcomed it.

I thanked him for the clothes and the saddle he had sent.

He smiled faintly. “I dareswear you needed them.”

“I did. I understand it is because Henry asked it that you freed me from my prison.”

“For this visit,” he reminded me.

“Then I must be grateful to him,” I said. He was moved at the mention of our dead son.

I said: “He was my son too. I knew the end was near. I saw him in a dream.”

He was too emotional to speak for a moment.

“He was a handsome boy,” I said.

“There was never one as handsome as he was.”

“The end was sad. All that conflict. I know you loved him dearly         .         .         .         more dearly than any of the others.”

“He turned against me. He was led astray.”

I wanted to say to him: No, it was not as simple as that. When you crowned him, you created a rival. You were to blame. He had no love for you         .         .         .         yet on his deathbed he remembered me. You made me a prisoner but you cannot take that away from me. In the love of our children I have something for which you would give a great deal.

But I said none of these things. I was sorry for him.

“We both loved him,” I said. “He was our son. We must pray for him.”

“Together,” he said. “None understands my grief.”

“I understand it,” I said. I looked at him and saw the pain in his eyes. “Because,” I added, “I share it.”

He took my hand and pressed it; then he lifted it to his lips.

For a moment our shared grief had taken us right back to the days when we had meant a great deal to each other.

Then the greatest joy I had known for years came to me. Richard arrived at Westminster.

I stood staring at him. He had changed. He was so tall. I had forgotten how handsome he was; it was those blond looks inherited from his Viking ancestors, those bluest of blue eyes which could look like ice and which glowed like flames at the sight of me.

“My mother!” he cried and I was in his arms. I could not help it but the tears were in my eyes.

“This is wonderful         .         .         .         wonderful,” I cried.

“At last,” he answered. “I have dreamed of this moment.”

“I have gleaned every bit of information I could about you. I have followed all you have done as far as I could. I have chafed with impatience because I could not know more. And now you are here. Richard, my dearest son.”

He looked at me, smiling. “There is no one like you,” he said. “You look wonderful. At first I thought it could not be. You are so         .         .         .         young.”

“I have kept myself young and I take a great deal of care to do so. There is so much we must talk of.”

“In secret,” he said.

“Oh yes         .         .         .         yes         .         .         .”

“We shall find a way.”

“I intend to be at your side whenever I can be.”

“That shall be my endeavor, too. I have thought of you constantly. You have never been out of my thoughts.”

“You are to be a king now, Richard.”

“Aye,” he replied. “But he will do all he can to deprive me of my rights.”

“Hush,” I said. “We will talk of it later. We are going to prevent that, Richard. We are going to see that everything that is yours shall come to you.”

I was dazzled and bewildered. This meeting was something I had dreamed of for so long. I had never doubted that it would take place someday, but now it was here it seemed too wonderful to be true.

Later we contrived to be alone and we talked of Aquitaine.

“He can’t take it from you,” I said. “Aquitaine is not his to give or take. It is mine and I made you my heir.”

“He wants to give it to John.”

“Nonsense. I will never allow it. And you are the heir to England now.”

“He will try to deprive me of everything.”

“He will not succeed.”

“I am determined that he shall not.”

“He does not really want war between you.”

“No, he wants to get his own way without it.”

“We will defeat him. Why has he brought me here? Why has he suddenly released me?”

“Sancho of Navarre advised him to, and Henry asked it on his deathbed.”

“I know. But it would be more than that. He will have a reason which we shall discover in due course.”

“There is something else. All this time he has kept Alais here. She is my betrothed and everyone knows how it is between them.”

“She has been his mistress for years. Do you know what surprised me more than the fact that he has taken his son’s intended bride? His fidelity to her. I had never thought he could be capable of it, as he has been to her and was to Rosamund Clifford.”

“He does not always act as one expects him to. I will not take Alais now. And I shall tell him why.”

“It is amazing how he keeps up the pretense. How old is she? She must be about twenty-five by now.”

“I prefer Sancho’s daughter Berengaria.”

“And it is Berengaria you shall have. Even your father would not expect you to take Alais now. What is wrong in Aquitaine, Richard?”

“I do not understand it. I have brought law and order to the land. It is quiet now but one is never sure when disruption will break out. They did not like my father and they do not like me.”

I said: “When my grandfather ruled, Aquitaine was happy         .         .         .         well, as happy as a state will ever be. There were always dissenters         .         .         .         but never on the scale that there have been since I went away. There was music and laughter in the Courts.”

“Bernard de Borne inflamed rebellion with his poetry.”

“That was because he flattered your brother and made him believe all he told him. Sometimes poetry can inspire men and women to greatness. Why will not the people accept my son?”

“They thought I was on my father’s side against you.”

“They hated my first husband, Louis, but not as much as they hated Henry.”

“They will hate anyone but you, Mother. You are the only one they will accept. I know of only one way to keep order and that is by strict application of the law. And that is what they will never wholly accept.”

“If I went back         .         .         .”

“The King is a fool to keep you a prisoner. There are too many people who love and respect you         .         .         .         and admire you, too. I tell you this: as soon as I am King of England, I shall have you beside me.”

“I am fortunate,” I said, “to be so deeply loved.”

And so we talked, but we knew that Henry would have his reasons for bringing us all together and most of all for releasing me from my prison         .         .         .         if only temporarily.

Christmas was to be spent at Windsor. Preparations were in full swing to make this a very special occasion. For the first time for years the King and Queen would spend the festival together. Special wines were sent to Windsor with food of all description. Musicians,
jongleurs,
acrobats         .         .         .         nothing was spared to make this a memorable time. I guessed it would have been so without such trifles.

Alais was there. She was a beautiful girl, very gentle, a little uneasy at this time, particularly as Richard was one of the party. He treated her with a cool disdain almost as though he were unaware of her. I know of no one who could present such an icy front to the world as Richard. Geoffrey was rather amused by the situation, I believe. One had the impression that he was hoping for trouble and if he saw a chance would do his best to provoke it.

John was there. I could not like my son John. He was different from the others. Now he was placating his father at every turn, being the dutiful, affectionate son. Surely Henry was not deceived. Oddly enough he seemed to be. It was strange that he who was so shrewd on all other matters should be so blind where his sons were concerned—believing what he wanted to rather than what was blatant fact.

There were meetings. At some of them I was present.

Henry was trying to persuade Richard to give up Aquitaine, and Richard refused. Henry raged and ranted and Richard stood firm.

Henry wanted to distribute the power among his sons, and for that he had to have my agreement. That was why I was there. He did realize that I was of some significance on the Continent. I believed that a certain amount of his troubles there were due to his imprisoning me.

When he asked me to agree to the distribution of his possessions, of which John was to get the larger part, I stubbornly refused my consent.

“Why do you always go against me?” he demanded in exasperation.

“I only go against you when you act foolishly.”

“You are speaking to the King.”

“I am well aware of that for he never lets me forget it. I remember that he has been my jailer for a great many years.”

“And could be for a great many more to come.”

“If it suits his purpose, I have no doubt.”

“Why cannot you listen to reason?”

“Why do you not do the same?”

“I am the King—I make the rules.”

“As we have seen on occasions         .         .         .         disastrously. Thomas Becket, Archbishop of Canterbury. Was there ever a greater mistake? Yes, one. The crowning of your son in your lifetime. Think about that, Henry Plantagenet, and then ask yourself whether you have always listened to reason.”

“Be silent.”

I bowed my head. The shafts had gone home.

“There is going to be trouble in Aquitaine. They don’t like Richard.”

“Do you think they would like John?”

“They are stupid ridiculous people. They spend their time singing romantic songs. They think that if you were their ruler it would be paradise. Richard will not give up Aquitaine to John. Perhaps he would to you.”

I stared at him.

He did not look at me and went on: “You could spend some time there. Go among them. Let them see you         .         .         .         how well you have fared in prison. Satisfy their love of romance. I have no doubt they will make up songs about you.”

To go back to Poitiers, to be in my Court again, surrounded by musicians and poets         .         .         .         long summer evenings out of doors         .         .         .         the scent of pines and glorious flowers         .         .         .         long winter evenings around a fire         .         .         .         laughing, carefree         .         .         .         beautiful clothes to wear         .         .         .         he was opening the gates of Paradise.

“Think about it,” he said.

“Yes,” I replied. “I will go.”

And I thought: Aquitaine returned to me and held for Richard.

What could be better?

From Windsor the Court traveled to Winchester.

I had told Richard about the King’s suggestion.

“If Aquitaine is mine, it is as good as yours,” I told him. “He is suggesting that I go there to keep order.”

“Which shows how worried he is. It is quiet for a while but revolt is always there         .         .         .         ready to break out. He thinks you will have a sobering effect and this is his way of bringing it about.”

“But if it is handed back to me—and that will have to be without double-dealing         .         .         .         if it is all fair and legal         .         .         .         I shall go there. I shall be free, Richard. And I shall see that, when I am no more, Aquitaine shall be yours.”

“You are the only one I would give it to.”

“So let us think about it. Let us consider every little detail so that he has no opportunity of cheating us.”

Richard agreed that we must do that.

As for myself, I was in a state of bemused delight. I could hardly believe it was true. After years of resignation to quiet living in Salisbury or Winchester or some such place         .         .         .         I was to be free.

Henry was ready to go ahead with his suggestion. Aquitaine was to be returned to me just as I had given it to Richard. Geoffrey was to go back to his dominions, and John would go to Ireland where he was the King.

I think it was clear to Henry that I was going to insist on this before I agreed to anything. Richard was to be the next King of England. He was the eldest son now, and the people would never accept either of the others.

Richard would suit England better than he did Aquitaine; and in his heart Henry must know that. Henry loved England, although he spent so little time there, but that was only because the other dominions were where trouble was always breaking out.

While we were at Winchester we were disturbed by the visit of Heraclius, the Patriarch of Jerusalem. Henry would have wished that he was anywhere but in England, especially when he was aware of what had brought the Patriarch. Saladin was on the point of taking Jerusalem. King Baldwin was dying and Queen Sybil was pleading for help from the whole of Christendom. Her son was an infant. Prompt action must be taken.