The Revolt of the Eaglets

Chapter XIII BERENGARIA

Side by side with his good friend Sancho, Prince of Navarre, rode Richard, Duke of Aquitaine. It was rarely that he took time off from the continual battle to hold the Dukedom, but he considered this a political mission for he had a favour to ask of the King of Navarre.

Sancho, that Prince known as the Strong, had invited him to a tournament which was being held in Pampeluna and Richard was noted for his skill in the joust; moreover, he and Prince Sancho had a good deal in common, for besides being brave warriors they were also poets.

In the court of Sancho the Wise – father of Sancho the Strong – the troubadours flourished as they did in Aquitaine. So as the two young men rode south they had much to talk of.

Richard made a fine figure on his horse, being so tall and with those blond good looks which were rare in this part of the country. Although he suffered periodically from a distressing disease known as the quartan ague he was otherwise very strong and healthy. He had picked up this ague when he was in his early teens and it was no doubt due to sleeping so often on the damp ground when in camp. His limbs would tremble and the effect was extraordinary for the fierceness of his cold blue eyes belied this trembling. It was said among his soldiers that when the ague was on him he was at his most fierce, and those who did not know him well, thinking it might be the outward sign of some inner weakness, soon learned to the contrary. There seemed to be a compulsion within him to belie the trembling. His ruthlessness increased, and he became noted for his cruelty. If a prisoner was brought before him and showed signs of believing he might take advantage of him because he was seen to tremble, that man would be condemned to have his eyes put out that he might never more look on Richard’s trembling. The people of Aquitaine were beginning to fear him, and he had not yet understood that, although they were not by nature warlike and their love of soft living and poetry and song was their main characteristic, they were not of a nature to accept tyranny; and resentment, fanned by the verses of their poets, was smouldering and ready to burst into flame. There was trouble brewing in Aquitaine. The people did not want this Norseman to rule them – for although his mother might be their own Eleanor and his father the son of Geoffrey of Anjou on his mother’s side he was descended from the Conqueror and those barbarians who had sailed from the Northern lands to pillage and conquer.

Richard himself knew that the only way to establish peace in Aquitaine was to bring back his mother. She was their Duchess. In their eyes her marriage to Henry Plantagenet had been a disaster. She had made him their Duke, a fact which they had never accepted; and borne sons – such as Richard – who brought to Aquitaine a way of life which was unacceptable.

There would be no end to conflict; and because he realised this, he had decided to accept this invitation to Pampeluna, that he might get away to think more clearly of the situation which faced him.

As they rode side by side, their followers behind them, they sang, often songs of their own composition. Sancho’s songs glowed with the warmth of the South; but those who listened detected as others had before them, a hint of the North in Richard’s songs. Those of the South were languorous, those of the North filled with vigour.

Even those closest to Richard thought: He is not one of us.

When they came into Pampeluna travellers were already arriving for the tournament which was to take place in a large meadow outside the castle walls. The inns were overflowing; beggars stood by the wayside, pathetic and cunning; thieves and vagabonds mingled with the respectable citizens, all looking for a picking. Stalls had been set up on which were all kinds of wares: girdles and buckles, purses, laces, brooches, razors, dice, rasps for scratching itchy skin, otter skins for making pelisses, and furs made into garments, pestles, wine, wool, barley – in fact goods of all kinds were laid out for show.

People stood in awe as the cavalcade passed. They gazed at their handsome Prince Sancho and they felt a little apprehensive at the sight of Richard of Aquitaine. There was something repelling about him, while yet fascinating. He was so tall; they rarely saw such a tall man in these parts and he sat his horse as though he and the animal were one – some strange being from Heaven or hell. His reputation had travelled ahead of him. Richard, son of Henry Plantagenet and Eleanor of Aquitaine, a man who had set the whole of his Duchy up in arms, a man who sought to subdue them by terror.

There had been many rumours. He was as great a fighter as his father and his father was a great-grandson of the mighty Conqueror whose name continued to reverberate through the land even though it was years since he had died. It was said of Henry Plantagenet that he had many sons. There were four born of Eleanor and many more he had got of other women. Rumour had it that they were not indeed sons of the Plantagenet but of the Devil. To see this tall man with the hair which was not exactly red nor yellow but somewhere in between and the eyes that were blue and cold as ice was to believe there could be some truth in the story.

It was said that when he sacked a town he took the women and indulged in debauchery and when he had had enough of them he turned them over to his men. It was hard to believe this of the cold-looking man and it was well known that a man’s enemies would tell any tale to discredit him. That he was cruel they could well believe.

The women smiled at Sancho warmly. How different was their handsome young Prince! It was true he seemed insignificant beside the other, but they loved him all the more for that. He was Sancho the Strong, who had excelled in battle and gave them such pleasure in the joust.

‘Long live Sancho the Strong,’ they cried.

The King of Navarre greeted Richard warmly. It delighted him, he said, to have the son of King Henry and Queen Eleanor at his Court. His son Sancho had told him often of Richard’s talents and he had wanted to meet him.

The tournament would begin on the following day and he trusted that Richard would add to the pleasure of the spectators by taking part in it. Richard declared his intention of doing so.

‘This night,’ said the King, ‘we shall feast in the hall and later I hope you and your attendants will enchant us with some of the melodies for which you are renowned.’

Richard replied that he was eager to hear the songs of Navarre which he was assured equalled in charm and beauty those of Aquitaine.

‘You shall be our judge,’ said Sancho. ‘My son and my two daughters shall sing for you.’

Sancho, King of Navarre, was by descent Spanish, his ancestor being the Emperor of Spain. He had married Beatrice who was the daughter of King Alphonso of Castille. He was extremely proud of his family – his beautiful wife, his son named after him who already had a reputation for valour and had earned the soubriquet of ‘The Strong’, and his two lovely daughters Berengaria and Blanche.

Richard as guest of honour sat on the King’s right hand and next to Richard sat the King’s daughter, Berengaria. She was very young, dainty and with a promise of beauty.

They feasted and drank while Richard watched the lovely young girl at his side. She was a child in truth but her intelligence astonished him and later when she sang he was enchanted by her and found it difficult to withdraw his gaze from her.

Her father, watching, was aware of this and he thought that if Richard were not betrothed to Alice of France there might have been a match between them.

Richard sang songs of love and war and somehow it seemed he sang of war more frequently than he did of love. Sancho the younger was different. This hero who had distinguished himself in battle against the warlike Moors made all aware by the trembling passion of his songs that he was also a lover.

The King remained at Richard’s side and he told him that he knew of the state of affairs in Aquitaine and was sorry for them.

‘The people want your mother back. There is no doubt of that.’

‘I know it well,’ replied Richard. ‘I would to God my father would see the reason of this.’

‘It seems so unnatural … a husband to make a prisoner of his wife.’

‘My father can be a most unnatural man.’ There was a venom in Richard’s voice which startled Sancho. It was true then, he supposed, that the sons of the King of England hated him. He looked at his own handsome Sancho and his lovely daughters and thanked God.

‘Yet if he realised that the people of Aquitaine will never settle while she remains a prisoner, it might be that he would see the wisdom of releasing her.’

‘They hate each other,’ said Richard. ‘They have for years. I was aware of it in my nursery. He brought his bastard in to be brought up with us. It was something my mother’s pride would not stomach.’

‘That is understandable.’

‘Indeed it is. When they married my mother’s position was higher than his. Then he became King of England. She would have been beside him to help him … but he spoilt that … with his lechery she used to say. I used to listen to them, taunting each other.’

‘You love your mother dearly, I believe.’

‘I would do a great deal to bring about her release. I plan to reduce my father to such a state that he will have to listen to my terms and the first of these shall be the freedom of my mother.’

Sancho nodded sympathetically but he thought: You would never bring Henry Plantagenet to his knees.

‘At this time it might be better to persuade him what her release would do for Aquitaine.’

‘I have done this. He will not listen. He sees me as my mother’s partisan and he believes that she is only capable of treachery towards him.’

‘Perhaps if another were to put the case to him.’

Richard’s heart leaped with joy. It was for this he had come to Navarre.

‘You mean … you would?’

‘I mean I could try.’

‘By God’s teeth, he would listen to you.’

‘Then let me try. I will send a message to him. I will tell him that as an outside observer I see how matters stand in Aquitaine and that the people there will never be at peace while the Duchess is a prisoner.’

‘If you could do this, you would be of great service to me and to Aquitaine.’

Sancho the Wise said: ‘Then I shall do my best.’

That night Richard exchanged tokens with young Sancho and took the oaths of chivalry with him. From this time on they would be fratres jurati, sworn brothers.

On the dais beside her father, young Berengaria sat watching the brilliant array in the meadow before her. The trumpets sounded, the gay pennants fluttered in the wind, and her heart beat fast with the excitement of watching for one particular knight. She would know him at once, even though according to practice his visor would be down. There was no one among the company so tall and straight, who sat his horse with such distinction, no one but this most perfect of all knights.

She had told Blanche that she had never seen anyone to compare with him. Blanche agreed that he was indeed a handsome knight. He was so different from all the men they had ever seen, most of whom were dark-haired, dark-skinned and of smaller stature. But Richard, Duke of Aquitaine, was of a different race it seemed.

So had the gods looked, Berengaria believed – those who had once inhabited the earth.

She glanced at her father; he was in his jewelled crown today, for it was such a great occasion. He would not ride into the lists. Her brother would do that for the honour of the crown. She hoped Sancho would not tilt against Richard for then she would be torn as to whom she must pray for, and hope to be the conqueror.

‘They will not,’ she whispered to Blanche, for she had spoken her thoughts aloud. ‘They are sworn brothers. So they would not tilt against each other on this day.’

‘’Tis not a battle,’ replied Blanche. ‘Only a tournament.’

‘Yet they will not,’ said Berengaria.

What a glorious day with a cloudless blue sky and a dazzling sun shining down on the colourful scene! How the armour of those gallant knights glittered and how the eyes of every lady shone as they rested on the knight who wore her colours, proclaiming to the world that she was his lady and his valiant deeds that day were done in honour of her.

What excitement when the first of the matches was heralded and the contestants rode into the lists. They seemed to be clad in silver and how gay were the colours of the ladies’ dresses as they sat gracefully on their dais, their eyes never leaving the colourful field stretched out before them!

And there he was – outstanding as she had known he would be – different from all the others because he was so tall. She was sure his armour shone more brightly than the rest.

She felt faint with joy, for upon his helm he wore a small glove with a jewelled border. She knew that glove well for it belonged to her.

What ecstasy! This wonderful godlike creature had this day taken the field in honour of her!

Of course he was victorious. It would have been embarrassing if he were not, since he was their guest of honour. But there need have been no fear of that. He was more bold, more skilled, more daring in every way.

He rode to the dais where the King sat with his wife and two daughters. He bowed on his horse, and Berengaria took one of the roses which adorned the balcony and threw it to him. He caught it deftly, kissed it and held it against his heart.

It was a charming knightly gesture; and from that moment Berengaria of Navarre was in love with Richard of Aquitaine.

He could not tarry long in Navarre. His absence would give his enemies the opportunities they sought. Yet he was attracted by Berengaria. She was but a child but she would grow up. He had no wish for marriage yet. He could wait. She adored him and thought of him as some superior being. That was pleasant.

He talked to her as they sat side by side at table of the beauties of Aquitaine; he told her of his growing desire to go on a crusade to drive the Infidel out of the Holy Land.

She listened, hands clasped, eyes shining. He was certain that if he married her while she was so young and innocent he could make her into the wife he wanted.

He talked to her father.

‘You have two beautiful daughters,’ he said, ‘and in particular the eldest. I would I were in a position to ask you for her hand.’

‘If you were to do so I should not deny you,’ answered Sancho.

‘You know my position. For years I have been betrothed to the daughter of the King of France.’

‘I know this. But the marriage has been long delayed.’

‘My father said it was to take place. But I have heard no more since.’

‘You wish for this marriage?’

‘Not since I have seen your daughter.’

‘Since there has been this delay, your father must have some reason for it.’

‘My mother says that he has and that it plagues him when there is insistence on its taking place.’

‘Do you think it would please him to forgo an alliance with France for the sake of one with Navarre?’

‘We have alliances with France. My elder brother is married to the daughter of a King of France.’

‘You are in a very strange position, but I am honoured that you should admire my daughter.’

Sancho was thoughtful. He was not called ‘The Wise’ for nothing.

At length he said: ‘As yet let us say nothing of the attraction you feel for my daughter. The Princess Alice has been long withheld from you. Why should you not if she should be offered withhold yourself from her? Excuses have been offered to you. Why then should you not offer excuses? If you do not wish to marry the Princess Alice you can avoid it.’

‘I will do that and in time …’

‘Berengaria is young yet … too young. Perhaps in due course …’

Richard thanked Sancho fervently.

‘I will wait,’ he said. ‘And in the meantime you will speak to my father … not of a possible marriage but of my mother’s imprisonment?’

‘This I will do,’ said Sancho. ‘I give you my word on it.’

Richard strummed his lute. Berengaria sat beside him, her eyes shining.

The song was of love and although it held the northern strain it throbbed with passion.

‘I will return,’ said Richard. ‘I shall find you here … waiting.’

He laid down his lute and smiled at her.

‘You are but a child, Berengaria.’

‘I shall soon grow up.’

‘Then we shall meet again.’

‘You will not forget me?’

‘Never will I forget you. I shall return and will you be waiting?’

‘Yes,’ she answered, ‘until I die.’

‘Long before we die we shall be together.’

‘Richard, I have heard that you are betrothed to a French Princess. Is it true?’

‘I was betrothed to her in my cradle.’

‘She is very beautiful, I have heard. Do you find her so?’

‘I cannot find her beautiful for I know not what she looks like. Although we were betrothed she has been withheld from me.’

‘Does that cause you sorrow?’

‘Now it causes me nothing but joy.’

‘What if your father arranges a marriage for you?’

‘It will not be the first time he has found me a disobedient son.’

‘You will in truth refuse to marry her?’

He smiled and nodded. ‘There is only one whom I would marry.’

‘And who is she?’

‘Her name is Berengaria and she lives at her father’s court of Navarre.’

‘Can it really be so?’

He took her hand and kissed it.

‘Does my father know?’

‘We have spoken of this.’

‘And what says he?’

‘That when you are of an age and I am free of my entanglements it could come about.’

‘I am so happy,’ she said.

He pressed her hand and took up his lute again.

When he rode away she was at the turret watching him.

‘His coming has changed my life,’ she told Blanche. ‘I shall pray for the day when we can be together.’

He turned and waved a piece of silk – a scrap from one of her gowns. He knew she would be watching.

‘Soon he must come back,’ she whispered.