The Courts of Love: The Story of Eleanor of Aquitaine (40 page)

Henry was spending Christmas at Bures, near Bayeux. I suppose everyone knows of that fatal Christmas and its aftermath. I was glad I was not there when this was happening. There I was, happy in my Court, with my troubadours about me, while Henry was stepping deep into a tragedy which would haunt him for the rest of his life.

Christmas at Bures. I could imagine it. Henry would be in good spirits—just for the festive season, forgetting his worries. His eyes would be roaming around the room, looking for a suitable bedfellow. There would be jollity, music, games, Christmas fun.

Thomas was back in England. I guessed that was a relief to Henry. Thomas in exile had been mettlesome; in England it would be easier to keep an eye on him. He would not have the same freedom to consort with the King’s enemies         .         .         .         with Louis and the Pope.

Yes, it should have been a good Christmas. He had achieved his longed-for wish in getting his son crowned; the others had all been acknowledged in their various domains. He must have been feeling pleased with himself.

Then there were visitors to the feast. I heard several versions of what happened and it was something like this:

Roger of York with the suspended bishops arrived. They had come to complain of Becket’s latest ultimatum and insistence that they obey the Pope. Henry’s first thoughts on seeing them would turn to Becket. He wanted to know that he had arrived in England and how he fared.

That gave Roger his chance. He replied that Becket was back and was the same as ever; he was roaming the countryside seeking to rally the King’s enemies against them. Becket was very popular; he only had to appear and the people were shouting for him. He had made an effort to see the new King, taking presents with him and of course intending to turn him against his father.

I could picture Henry’s brows drawn together and the color beginning to rise in his face. Perhaps even then he was realizing the folly of his act.

But before Thomas had reached Winchester he had been stopped and ordered by young Henry to go back to Canterbury and perform his sacred ministry. He now declared that the young King was no king, for the ceremony of crowning could be performed only by the Archbishop of Canterbury—himself. He cursed all those who had taken part in the coronation.
All.
That meant Henry himself.

The rage would have been imminent, but Henry would hold it off. He needed to know more of Thomas’s alleged perfidy.

Roger of York said: “As long as this man lives, you will have no peace in your realm, my lord.”

Henry’s rage would be getting the better of him. He shouted: “So they tell me         .         .         .         a fellow who has eaten my bread now lifts his heel against me. When he first came to my Court, it was on a lame horse and he had a cloak for a saddle. And he would rule my realm. And you         .         .         .         you look on         .         .         .         you permit this to be. Will no one rid me of this turbulent priest?”

Four of Henry’s knights listened to his words. They were Hugh de Morville, William de Tracy, Reginald Fitzurse and Richard le Breton. Their names will be long remembered.

What happened on the dismal Tuesday afternoon of December 29 of the year 1170 is known throughout the world. I often visualize the scene, constructing it from the many accounts I have heard:

Those four knights coming into Canterbury and making their way quietly and purposefully to the Archbishop “on the King’s business.”

It was about four o’clock. Thomas had already dined but the servants were at the table.

Thomas greeted the knights but they were terse in their response. Fitzurse was their spokesman. He said the King had sent them to order the Archbishop to absolve the bishops and restore those suspended from office. They accused him of attempting to deprive the young King of his crown and said he should stand judgment in Court.

Thomas’s reply was to censure the bishops and in particular the Archbishop of York. He said he had not sought to deprive the young King of his crown. He had set out to visit him and was grieved not to have been allowed to do so.

Reginald Fitzurse asked him from whom he held the archbishopric, to which Thomas replied that he held his spiritual authority from God and his temporal and material possession from the King.

“Do you not recognize that you hold everything from the King?” asked Fitzurse.

“I do not,” was the answer. “We must render unto the King the things which are the King’s and unto God the things that are God’s.”

Members of the Archbishop’s household, hearing the commotion, had come down to see what was afoot. Fitzurse commanded them, in the King’s name, to retire, but this they refused to do.

“Stop your threats and brawling,” said Thomas. “I have not come back to flee again, I wish to go into the cathedral to pray.”

He left the palace and walked to the cathedral. I could picture him clearly, calm, serene, perhaps contented, for I often thought he was seeking a martyr’s death. He entered the cathedral by the north transept and moved toward the altar as the four knights came in crying: “Where is the traitor?”

“Here am I,” replied Thomas. “No traitor but a priest of God. I do not fear your swords. I welcome death for the sake of our Lord and the freedom of the Church.”

“You cannot live a moment longer,” said Fitzurse.

“I submit to death,” replied Thomas, “in the name of the Lord, and I commend my soul and the cause of the Church to God, St. Mary and the patron saints of the Church. It is not my wish to fly from your swords.”

One of the men struck him between the shoulders. Another cried: “You are our prisoner. Come with us.”

“I will not go hence,” said Thomas. “Here shall you work your will and obey the orders of the one who sent you.”

De Tracy lifted his sword and hit the Archbishop on the head. As the blood streamed down his face he fell to the ground murmuring: “Into Thy hands, oh Lord, I commend my spirit.”

There was another blow.

He received four wounds, all on his head, and there he lay         .         .         .         dead         .         .         .         the Archbishop of Canterbury, Henry’s beloved and turbulent priest.

Revolt in the Family

W
HEN THE NEWS WAS
brought to me, my first reaction was: What will this mean to Henry?

He was still in my thoughts a great deal, and I still smarted with humiliation when I thought of him; in my heart I longed for the day when I should see him brought low.

I found a great joy in having my children with me. Young Henry was in England at this time, playing the King, but Richard was here with Geoffrey, and there was Marguerite, Henry’s young wife, who had been sent to me before Henry was crowned, presumably to get her out of the way. I could see no reason for Henry’s refusing her the honor of crowning. It could only anger Louis.

By this time I had come to a new serenity. I loved this land; I was where I belonged; I loved the people and the easy way of life and appreciation of fine things, the gracious style of living. There was no unrest now. The people knew, I was sure, of my estrangement from Henry, and applauded it. I was their Duchess. They wanted no other.

When the day was drawing to an end, I liked to go up to the ramparts of the castle and look down on my city, touched as it was by the golden light of the setting sun. I had seen it thus so many times, and it had lived on in my childhood memories—Poitiers,
my
city, built on the slopes of a gentle hill with the Cain and the Boivre flowing past. There was the Cathedral of St. Pierre. I remember the time it was built. How I loved it all         .         .         .         the fine buildings, the flowers, the bright skies and the people.

And         .         .         .         I was far away from Henry.

Richard and I were as close as two people could be for there was deep understanding between us. I was fond of Marguerite too, and she of me. I loved Geoffrey. I tried to bind my children to me, for I loved them dearly and, of course, I took a special delight in their love for me for I felt that, in giving it to me in such measure, they deprived Henry of it.

And into this happy and peaceful atmosphere came the news of Becket’s death. We were all stunned. Four knights had murdered him in the cathedral. The King’s knights. That was significant.

“What will it mean?” asked Richard.

“For that we must wait and see,” I answered.

“Do you think the King ordered them to kill him?”

I was silent, wondering. I knew that whatever the case Henry was going to be branded the murderer of Thomas Becket.

I could not sleep. I kept seeing Becket’s cold, ascetic face, that expression of calm righteousness, the martyr’s crown almost about his head even then. I saw Henry too, his face scarlet with rage, contorted with grief. He had loved the man. There was no doubt of that. The love had turned to hate but it was never entirely hate         .         .         .         for love was always there.

How did Henry feel now?

We soon heard. People could talk of nothing but the murder in the cathedral. How dramatic that it should have been in such a place! It would add to Thomas’s martyrdom. It would make him more holy than if he had been struck down in the street.

Henry had, of course, been stricken with horror. Thomas dead! No longer able to plague him, to arouse that hatred which was as strong as love had once been.

How had he received the news? He had taken off his royal robes and wrapped himself in sackcloth. He had wept openly and commanded to be left alone. He had returned to his chamber, and there he had stayed for three days, refusing food; nor would he see anyone. None could comfort him; there was no comfort for him. The days wore on and, although he emerged from his chamber, he would lapse into silence and then suddenly cry out: “The pity of it! What a disaster! This is a terrible thing to have happened.”

It was indeed—for Becket         .         .         .         and for him.

The whole world was against him. They said he had murdered a saint, for even those who had been against Becket in his lifetime had now elevated him to sainthood.

I almost wished I could have been there. I should have liked to talk to Henry. I was sure he must be thinking of what effect this was going to have on the future.

Louis held up his hands in horror. I was sure he believed that God would strike his old enemy in some terrible manner. The Pope threatened all the Angevin dominions with interdiction and to excommunicate Henry unless he did penance for the murder.

Henry seemed to accept the charge, and the four knights were not taken to task in any way for what they had done. Henry believed in justice; he had asked why no one would rid him of the turbulent priest and those men had taken that as an order to kill the Archbishop. They had thought it their duty in the service of the King. He could not blame them. He accepted what had happened as his fault. He, who had loved Thomas as he had loved no one else, was his murderer.

The boys talked about it a great deal. Their attitude was changing rapidly toward their father. They had never loved him but they had been in awe of him. They had regarded him as the all-powerful monarch, and power earns respect, especially from the ambitious, and all my boys were that.

“The King of France is angry with him         .         .         .         so is the Pope,” said Richard. “Will they rise against him?”

I said: “We shall have to wait and see what happens.”

“If they defeated him,” went on Richard, “I should still have Aquitaine and Geoffrey Brittany. Nobody could take Aquitaine from me.”

“Nor Brittany from me,” added Geoffrey.

“If our father were driven out of England, he might try to. I wouldn’t let him.”

“No,” I put in, “your father will not be driven out of England, and I should certainly hope you would defend your estates against all comers. You would not be worthy of them if you did not do that.”

I could see how strongly they were turning against their father, and I was not displeased.

The whole world was against him. I wondered what effect this would have on him. Would he be in despair? I did not think so. He was always at his most vigorous and inventive at times of crisis.

He ignored the threats and turned his attention to a project which had long fascinated him: the addition of Ireland to his dominions. Events were fortuitous. Just at this time Diarmait Mac Murchadha, the King of Leinster, had lost his crown, and he sent word to Henry begging him to help him regain it. If he did, he promised he would pay homage to Henry. Henry accepted the challenge. It must have kept his mind from Becket and the antagonism he had stirred up against himself. He raised an army—chiefly from the Welsh border, and sent it to Ireland, and very soon they had possession of the land from Waterford to Dublin.

Just as the papal legates were about to enter Normandy and carry out their threats, Henry decided he must go to Ireland, where his presence was needed. This he proceeded to do and by October had landed in Waterford.

He had sent strict orders to Normandy that no churchman should be allowed to enter the country during his absence; the same rule should apply to England. So no one could bring him messages from the Pope. He then gave all his thought and energy to the Irish problem and in six months he had made the people of that land realize that there was only one course open to them—submission to him. With his unbounded energy, he set about bringing trade to that country, and he succeeded in making it more prosperous than it had ever been before. The wise among the Irish welcomed this. He fortified the coastal towns and set up garrisons there. Dublin had been almost in ruins when he took it, but before the year was out it had become a trading center. He spent Christmas in Dublin.

I could not help but admire him. It was typical of him to throw himself into this mighty project at the time when the whole world was against him and he himself must be tortured by the memories of a man who had dominated his life for so long.

He would probably have stayed in Ireland but for the fact that he heard rumors of what was happening in England. Did he then begin to realize what a great mistake he had made in setting up a second King? Young Henry was restive, eager to seize the crown; he was also very immature.

The older Henry had been groomed for kingship by his indomitable mother and had been made aware of all he had to learn and had set about learning it in a dedicated fashion. How different was his son! He was the sort of young man who would surround himself with sycophants; he was vain; he believed that governing a kingdom meant being idolized by those around him, being the center of attention on every occasion. He should have remembered how his father worked, how he was constantly going into battle, how he never spared himself and suffered the hardships his soldiers did. Henry was young, of course. Yes, surely his father must now be realizing his great mistake.

So he went back to England where, I heard, he found young Henry truculent, demanding to know why he could not govern England or at least Normandy.

Henry told him not to be foolish. He had been crowned but there was only one King of England as long as he himself was alive. Young Henry would have to remember that he must obey his father—in all things.

The King’s thoughts were now busy with marriage plans for our youngest, John. John was no longer at Fontevrault. He was now five years old and had been committed to the care of Ranulf de Granville, the Chief Justiciar of England. Always watchful for advantageous marriages for his offspring, Henry had decided on a marriage for his youngest with Alice, only daughter and therefore heiress of Humbert III, the Count of Maurienne. Henry made a contract with Humbert that if he had no male heirs John should inherit all his lands. If, on the other hand, he should have a son, there would be rich compensation for John.

This would give Henry command over the western passes of the Alps. Through his children he was going to have control of the whole of Europe.

In order to placate Louis, at the end of August Marguerite had been crowned with young Henry at Winchester by the Archbishop of Rouen. This had only increased my son’s desire to rule. Resentment smoldered between father and son, and there were many who were ready to add fuel to this.

This was the state of affairs when Henry decided to spend Christmas at Chinon and summoned not only his sons Richard and Geoffrey to join him but me also.

I would have refused but my sons had to go, and I did not want them to go without me. I must admit that the prospect of seeing Henry again exhilarated me. I wanted to see how he had weathered the storm of Becket’s murder which had still not abated. He was indeed a king. When he was threatened, he snapped his fingers and replied by adding Ireland to his dominions. It was impossible not to admire him.

Henry had aged. There was white in the tawny curls. But his vitality was as great as ever. He regarded me with a certain sardonic amusement.

There was great feasting, banquets with many courses and the finest wines that could be found in France, which meant the best in the world, I believed. But Henry was not interested in food and wine. I guessed it was a big strain for him to sit still while the rest of the company gorged themselves. He drank sparingly and showed clearly that he grudged the time spent on meals.

Richard and Geoffrey were in awe of him but their dislike was growing. The trouble he had had with young Henry had brought about a new sternness toward them all and he was determined to show them who was master.

I smiled inwardly. That was not the way to deal with them. It amazed me that such a brilliant tactician, such a born ruler, should be so ignorant of human nature. To have crowned his son in his lifetime was proof of that. And now followed this treatment of Richard and Geoffrey which could only alienate them.

I had shown him clearly that he could not expect me to bow to his wishes whatever they were. The partnership which had once existed between us was over. I had my dominions and, although he might think they were his, they were not. Aquitaine would have none of him and he knew it. Perhaps that was why he left me in peace to rule.

It was inevitable that that should be a stormy Christmas.

When we were alone, his conversation was all about our son Henry and how disappointed he was in him. The boy was pleasure-loving, thinking to spend his life staging tournaments; he thought kingship a round of gaiety with himself in the center of the fun and everyone giving way to him.

“What did you think he would be like?” I demanded. “A young boy having a crown thrust on him!”

“It should have made him more serious         .         .         .         more aware of his responsibilities.”

“You know nothing of people, Henry,” I told him.

“I know my own son.”

“You knew him so well that you put a crown on his head and then expected him to behave like a nobody in the nursery.” He glared at me but I laughed at him. “You are a fool, Henry,” I said, “if you think you can make a boy a king and then expect him to behave as he did before he had his crown.”

“
I
was always aware of what kingship meant. When I was a boy I always reminded myself that there was a kingdom waiting for me and how I should have to take care to guard it.”

“You had to win your kingdom. It is very different to have it graciously handed to you. I could have told you you were acting unwisely. You went to great pains to get that boy crowned, even alienating the Pope and not waiting for the Archbishop of Canterbury to officiate         .         .         .         leaving it all to Roger of York, who is now in trouble himself over it.”

“And you would not have crowned him!”

“Most certainly I would not. But the deed is done now and you will have to see what fruit it bears.”

“What do you mean? The boy will do as I say.”

I shrugged my shoulders and turned away. He strode toward me and gripped my arm.

“You are turning Richard and Geoffrey against me,” he accused.

I wrenched myself free. “No, Henry,” I said, “you are turning them against you.”

“What do you mean?”

“Look at yourself. Are you a good family man? Your wife will have none of you. You have indulged yourself with prostitutes. Your bastards are legion. You even set your mistress up in the palace in place of your Queen. My people of Aquitaine will not have you. You can take your laws and disciplines elsewhere as far as they are concerned. And now you complain that your sons do not fall down and worship you, and young Henry, whom you have made a king, is asking for more than a golden crown. Did you think to bind your children to you with lands and castles? I say, you do not know people.”