The Courts of Love: The Story of Eleanor of Aquitaine (46 page)

He would have listened to what was happening at the French Court, and the thought of the Count of Flanders guiding the destiny of the King of France was something which needed his immediate attention.

With Flanders in control, Normandy would not be safe. Henry would have to leave England at once.

I did hear something of what happened at that interview, for there were people present during it and there followed the inevitable whispers.

Henry had expressed his fear for Normandy. He chided his son for sending Marshal away. A foolish act. He should be grateful to have such a man with him and not dismiss him for some frivolous reason. He would never be a great king if he could not recognize the value of men         .         .         .         those to keep with him, those to discard. It was a part of kingship to surround oneself with the faithful. The King of France was dying. His son was nothing but a boy. His Queen in despair had sent to him. Now young Henry would see the tables were turned.

“When my sons would make war on me, they went to Louis and he gave them support. Now that the Queen of France is in danger the King of England is ready to go to her aid.”

Henry said it was noble of him.

That brought a fresh homily. Kings were not noble where their countries were concerned. They served the needs of their countries. And if a country needed nobility, then would he give nobility and if a lack of nobility then would he give that?

“We have to curtail the ambitions of this Count of Flanders. We have to make Normandy safe. A king’s first consideration is his own crown. Remember it.”

When he was with his sons, Henry had a habit of making every discourse an object lesson. He would make young Henry feel insignificant, humiliated. I doubt that encounter endeared the son to his father. It was rather pathetic, for what Henry wanted more than anything was the love of this son.

Henry set out for France. I was sure that news of his coming must have struck terror into the heart of the Count of Flanders. Louis on his deathbed; the King of France, a mere boy, and Henry of England, the greatest warrior of his day, on the march.

Henry, however, had no wish to do battle. He said he would first speak with Philip Augustus and the Count, and speak to them separately. The Count would naturally have liked to refuse to leave the young King and Henry alone, but he dared not.

I could well imagine that meeting. Philip Augustus a little sullen, trying hard to imply that Henry was Duke of Normandy and his vassal and Henry stressing that he came not as Duke of Normandy but as King of England. Henry could be impressive and Philip Augustus was but a boy, and it was no use trying to play the great King when he was in the presence of one.

Henry would be gentle. He would point out the delicate position Philip Augustus was in. His father could not recover; they had to face the fact that he would soon be gone. When a king died, dangers invariably sprang up in a country and they needed dexterous handling. The situation was always tricky. The King should not be alienated from his mother and his uncles. They wished to help him. The people would not be pleased if there was friction within the royal family.

Philip Augustus would try to bluster that he was King and he must do as he wished, and Henry would point out that kings ruled by the will of the people.

Philip Augustus could not stand out against the experience and power of such a man. He began to see that Henry was right, and because he was fundamentally sensible he began to come around to Henry’s way of thinking.

Adela was delighted and grateful to Henry as gradually her son began to turn to her and away from the ambitious Count of Flanders.

Meanwhile Louis became weaker and weaker, and it was clear that the end was not far off.

Philip Augustus was overcome with grief. He was going to be a clever ruler, and a sign of that is to be able to recognize and admit one’s faults. He saw that he had been led astray by flattery and that it would be better for him to listen to the advice of people who had his good and not their own interests at heart.

On a September night Louis passed away. I was glad to hear that Philip Augustus was at his bedside to the last and Queen Adela with him. Louis deserved to go in peace. Philip Augustus kissed his hand as Louis murmured a blessing on his son and wished him a long and happy reign.

I was touched and a little sad when I heard. I had despised him at times; I had wanted to get away from him; but we had lived intimately together and I had many memories of him.

I had always thought of him as “Poor Louis.” He had tried so hard to perform the duties which had been thrust upon him. He was a good man but life had been too much for him.

Now he was gone forever. But we must go on. A new reign had begun and we had to learn what this would mean to us.

There was trouble in Aquitaine. In fact, there had been since I had been captured and imprisoned. The people wanted me as their ruler—no one else would do, not even Richard. Richard was a Plantagenet. He was a Norseman descending from William the Conqueror and bearing some resemblance to his famous ancestor. Tall, reddish-haired, a great warrior, ruthless in battle, restless, never so happy as when the sword was in his hand. He was, I was beginning to realize, not a ruler my people would have chosen. True, he had a love of music and surrounded himself with troubadours, but that cold disciplinary rule would never be accepted by my people.

It was being said that there would never be peace in Aquitaine until I returned.

I heard these reports and, although I was gratified, they worried me a great deal. For all his strength and energy—and he was becoming known as one of the greatest military leaders in Europe—Richard had one physical weakness. He had not inherited it, I was sure, but during his battles he had slept in damp and unhealthy places and it had left him with a kind of ague which made him tremble. He must have found that most distressing. Although he did not fly into the kind of rages in which his father indulged, when the trembling was on him he could become quite ruthless and find a reason for punishing with the utmost severity any who had witnessed his disability.

The people of Aquitaine were making it clear that they did not want Richard. They wanted their Duchess back.

Richard was wise enough to know this. He told me about it afterward, how he had vowed that he would force his father to release me. He was in this frame of mind when he went to Navarre as a guest of King Sancho. There he discussed the advisability of bringing me out of prison so that I could return to Aquitaine. He wanted the friendship of Sancho, for he believed he might intercede with Henry and make him understand the need for peace in Aquitaine, whose state was a cause of anxiety to its southern neighbor Navarre.

There were tournaments and jousts in honor of his visit, and in those Richard naturally shone as the outstanding hero. He enjoyed the tournaments of course, but being Richard, he would rather be involved in a real war.

Two important matters emerged from this visit. The first was that Sancho agreed to impress on Henry that in his opinion it was unwise to keep his wife captive for so long, particularly when she could be of use in bringing peace to one of the family dominions. The other was Richard’s meeting with Sancho’s daughter, Berengaria.

Richard was not one, I was to learn later, to be drawn to women, but he did become attached to Sancho’s little daughter. She was very pretty and played the lute most excellently; she was gentle and sweet and adored the handsome warrior, hero of all the tournaments, so different from the men she saw at her father’s Court, he being so tall with dazzling blond looks and piercing blue eyes.

Richard told Sancho of his feeling for Berengaria. Sancho was pleased but pointed out that Richard was already betrothed to Princess Alais, daughter of the late King of France. Richard said that he had no intention of taking his father’s mistress. Had Sancho not heard of the scandal concerning his father and the young Princess? It seemed common knowledge.

Sancho may have kept his promise to write to Henry. If so, nothing came of it. Henry would resent interference in his affairs; he knew well enough that I might bring peace to Aquitaine, hut doubtless he thought I might stir up strife with his sons against him.

I was allowed a little more freedom, but I remained a prisoner.

The King of France was in difficulty.

With the death of his father, Philip Augustus seemed to have grown up suddenly. The petulant gullible boy was left behind and the statesman began to emerge. He had had such a clear example of the inexperience of youth which led to an acceptance of false friends, when the Count of Flanders, realizing that Philip Augustus would no longer be his tool, plotted against him.

The King of England had said in that little homily he had given him when they last met that he wished to be regarded as the young King’s father. So at this time Philip Augustus turned to Henry in his need.

Henry was not displeased. In his shrewd way he saw that the Count of Flanders could be a menace to him also and he wanted to subdue him. Ostensibly he sent his sons to aid the French but in fact their duty was to guard their father’s dominions.

Philip Augustus was delighted. He was already on good terms with young Henry; he was glad to welcome Geoffrey; but Richard was the one who delighted him. Richard had military genius, and men were beginning to fear and respect him, which was a great asset in a battle. Richard’s tenor voice was a joy to hear in song, and he played the lute like the true musician he was. Richard had begun to mean a good deal to Philip Augustus.

He wanted Richard always with him. They sat side by side at table. It was the delight of Philip Augustus to share the same plate with his friend. They laughed and joked together, and soon they were sharing the same bed.

With Richard’s troubadours had come a certain Bernard de Borne. He was a great poet and musician and compared with Bernard de Ventadour; and just as Philip Augustus had no eyes for anyone but Richard, Bernard de Borne was taken with young Henry.

The appearance of my two sons was outstanding in the extreme, and Bernard de Borne wrote verses extolling Henry’s good looks and charm and attributed to him in verse the daring exploits which I am sure Henry often imagined himself performing. He was delighted with the poet and they became great friends.

Henry was not a young man to form attachments with his own sex—unlike Richard in this respect. Henry, like his father, had a keen interest in women, but this was different. Bernard de Borne knew how to flatter, and flattery was something Henry had never been able to resist.

The poet was well aware that the people of Aquitaine did not want Richard. His military skills did not appeal to an essentially peace-loving people who wanted their comforts more than anything else. His methods would never please them, and it must have occurred to de Borne that Henry would be a more suitable ruler. As he was my son, and continually complaining that his father withheld all power from him, why should he not seize Aquitaine?

It would be a simple matter to insert that idea into Henry’s mind. My poor foolish son was constantly hoping that that glory which he was unable to win by his own efforts would fall into his hands.

If only young Henry had been content to walk in his father’s shadow and to learn from him! If only Geoffrey had not been such a troublemaker; if only Richard could have understood my people of Aquitaine; if only Henry and I could have lived in amity—between us all we could have ruled over peaceful dominions. But it seemed it was not to be so. The Angevins were a quarrelsome brood. Sometimes I thought that story of their having descended from the Devil was true.

Young Henry therefore saw himself as the ruler of Aquitaine. I was sure he thought he could show his father how the people appreciated him.

De Borne was able to do a great deal with his writing; he was also a persuasive talker. He persuaded the people of Limoges that under Henry there would be a return to the old rule; the elder brother would understand them; there would be tournaments, jousting, a return to the old way of life. As a result, when Henry rode into Limoges, the people cheered him; they acclaimed him as their new ruler.

Meanwhile the King, having sorted out his affairs with Philip Augustus, turned his attention to Aquitaine. He knew that Richard was having trouble. He sent for Geoffrey. Geoffrey was not so much a soldier as a diplomat. He had a plausible manner and a tactful way with words. He was the one to help Richard, Henry decided, and he sent him out to talk to the troublemakers and counteract Richard’s somewhat abrasive manner.

How mistaken Henry always was in his sons! He did not know Geoffrey, who loved nothing more than to stir up trouble. Arriving in Aquitaine, he was met by Henry and Bernard de Borne, who told him that the people were preparing to rise and oust Richard, taking Henry as their ruler. Geoffrey, who was as jealous of Richard’s military glory as Henry was, decided to come down on Henry’s side.

I cannot imagine what would have happened if the King had not decided to go to Aquitaine and sort things out for himself.

Face to face with his father, young Henry’s courage fled. He dared not tell him that he had been proclaimed Duke in Limoges. They marched together to Poitiers, where they were met by Richard.

What the people of Aquitaine must have thought, I cannot imagine. All I knew was that with the coming of the King order was restored. I think young Henry must have been very worried indeed for sooner or later his father must discover what he had been doing. He was so weak. Sometimes I was fearful, thinking of what would happen to England when he was its King. It would be a return to the days of Stephen, and doubtless his brothers would be plotting to take the crown from him. The King must not die         .         .         .         not yet         .         .         .         until Henry had reached a state of maturity which, in my heart, I feared he never would.

He was saved from the discovery of his foolish perfidy by my daughter Matilda.