The Revolt of the Eaglets

Chapter XV THE PAINTING ON THE WALL

When the King heard that his eldest son was dead, for a few days he felt nothing but grief; but he could not for long give way to his sorrow. Henry’s death raised many problems. Most important, it meant that there must be a new heir to his dominions.

Richard!

The King’s expression hardened. If there is aught I can do to prevent that, prevent it I will, he told himself.

And yet it was dangerous to depose the rightful heir and set up another in his place. Richard had never cared much for England. Aquitaine had been his passion. That might be because it was his mother’s and he was close to her. In spite of his Norseman’s looks he loved the southern land.

My sons! thought the King. What affection have they ever given me? Henry! Richard! Geoffrey! – my enemies all of them.

There was one who had so far been his obedient son – John.

Why should he not make his heir the son who had been loyal to him? He would show traitors, be they his own sons, that he did not forget injuries.

Richard? He must confess that Richard had never been anything but straightforward. If Richard was planning to act in a certain way he did not feign otherwise. He was not like Henry had been or Geoffrey was. Those two he had never been able to trust. But he could not like Richard.

How ironical was life – and particularly a king’s life! He craved for sons and when they came they made his life a burden.

Henry had lied to him and stood by when one of his men had shot arrows at him. What had been his son’s true feeling when the arrow had merely pierced his cloak, and his horse, not himself, had been shot down?

He was a shrewd man in all but his family affections. He should have known long ago that his sons had no love for him, only for his crown.

He wished that he could love Richard. Richard was perhaps the one in whom he should have put his trust. But he was uncomfortable to be in his presence; he always feared that a subject would be referred to which would make him very uneasy, even might make him betray something which must never be told.

‘Oh Alice, my sweetheart,’ he murmured, ‘you have much to answer for.’

He longed for home … and Alice. He thought of her in Westminster or Winchester or Woodstock. Dear, beloved Alice, who never complained that he could not marry her; who was content to remain in comparative seclusion; who was content merely that he love her and keep her from Richard.

He had Alice, but he desperately wanted his sons’ affection too. He had visualised when they were in the nursery how they would grow up and work together and how happy they would be to do his bidding. He had seen them as a formidable family of strong men with himself at the head. None would have dared come against them. Four sons who would marry into Europe and bring more and more rich lands under the Plantagenet crown. How sad, how disillusioning, with his sons warring against each other and against him and making allies of the King of France!

And now Henry dead – and most ignobly had he sacked sacred shrines before dying and something must be done about that or there would be no good fortune for the family. The saints must be placated.

Henry, the most beautiful Prince in Christendom, with his charm of manner which drew men to him – dead. What a waste of a life!

My son, whom I wanted so much to love and who wanted nothing from me but my crown!

And Richard? No, not Richard! He could not have him beside him, the future King of England. How could he? And what of his marriage? It would be expected now.

I will send for John, thought the King.

John came riding in from the hunt when the news was brought to him that his father wished to join him.

John was now seventeen years old; very conscious of being the youngest son, he had been determined to exert himself. His brother Henry had been tall and handsome, so was Richard. John however took after his brother Geoffrey. They were both of small stature though their limbs were well formed. Their father, who was of little over medium height, seemed to tower above them both. Geoffrey and John were very much alike in features and also in character. Both of them could acquire knowledge without much difficulty and were more interested in book learning than either young Henry had been or Richard was. Geoffrey had always been able to express himself with lucidity and to put forward a good case when this seemed a difficult thing to do. John was like Geoffrey in this. He was bland and full of soft words when he wanted something. He was deceitful and seemed to take a delight in deceit. For the sheer joy of getting the better of someone he would go to great lengths and perhaps achieve nothing in the end but the pleasure of deceiving someone.

Gerald of Wales, the priest who had been sent to John to help further his education, realised that it was no use attempting to go against his nature. John had long been dissolute. He had been seducing women from a very early age and often rode out into the country with a band of lusty followers indulging in seduction or rape, whichever came to hand.

He was in the charge of the justiciar Ranulf Glanville, a very able man who had distinguished himself on the battlefield and won the King’s favour to such an extent that he was content to overlook his peculations which were numerous, even when they were proved against him.

That his son John should have been put in the charge of such a man was strange even though he was a justiciar of England and one of the most important men in the country.

John admired him and saw nothing wrong in his shady dealings.

At seventeen he was very much aware of being the youngest son and he never forgot the fact that when he had been born his father had called him John Lackland.

Now his brother Henry was dead and Richard was the heir with Geoffrey next and then himself. It seemed there was no hope for him with two strong brothers to stand between him and the crown; but there was this in his favour: his father was fond of him.

John was amused. Henry had perhaps been the favourite because Henry was tall and beautiful and knew how to charm people, even his father. It seemed he could shoot an arrow at him which could have killed him if it had not pierced his cloak instead and still he could talk himself out of such a situation.

John admired that in his brother, but Henry was a fool of course. He had died of a fever, and that was the end of him. Richard was always going to war so he would doubtless meet a violent end one day.

That left Geoffrey. John had a great deal in common with Geoffrey – they looked alike; their characters were similar. John was the more dissolute. He had surrounded himself with companions of similar tastes. Geoffrey was a sedate married man in comparison; he had a wife, Constance of Brittany, and a daughter Eleanor named after their mother. John, too, had inherited the Angevin temper. He was as ready to flare up as his father was and then his rage could be terrible. He was naturally not so feared as his father, but his attendants always kept well out of the way when John’s temper was about to rise. There was a sadistic streak in him, too, which Geoffrey lacked. And, although on the surface he appeared to be a pleasant young man with a charming manner, beneath that facade there were traits of character as yet unsuspected even by those who were close to him.

When he received the news that his father wished him to join him in Normandy he sent for Ranulf de Glanville to tell him the news.

‘You see what is happening, Ranulf, I am to be my father’s favourite now.’

‘Good news, my lord. Good news.’

‘The poor old man must have one son on whom to dote.’

‘And fortunate, my lord, that Richard and Geoffrey have displeased him so much that you are to be the chosen one.’

‘The chosen one! What do you think it means?’

‘It means that it depends on you, my lord.’

‘What do you mean, “depends on me”?’

‘How you play your part. You could have England.’

‘I … King of England, with two brothers to come before me!’

‘Richard loves not England. He is for Aquitaine. Geoffrey is out of favour. He stood by while someone shot the King’s horse from under him and made no move. Think you the King will forget that?’

‘King of England, Ranulf. I like that. I like it mightily. Think what sport we would have … you and I … and others … roaming the country … received everywhere with acclaim. Riding into the towns, picking the most likely women … and all coming running when I beckoned.’

‘There might be some who repulsed you.’

‘So much the better. A little resistance is amusing. One does not seek submission all the time. If that were so what would become of the delicate art of rape?’

‘My lord, you must curb your language when you are in the presence of the King.’

‘A rare one to talk! What about him? In the days of his youth no woman was safe from him and it seems he can even now give a good account of himself.’

‘Alice contents him when he is in England.’

‘That makes me laugh, Ranulf. Richard’s betrothed is my father’s mistress! I have heard that she bears him children. Is it so, think you?’

‘We should not believe all we hear, but if Alice is fruitful it is no more than must be expected.’

‘Methinks he loves not Richard.’

‘And Geoffrey has displeased him.’

‘And so,’ said John, ‘that leaves his youngest son – his good and dutiful John who will love him and obey him and prove to him that he will be his very good son. Do you think I can play that part, Ranulf?’

‘My dear lord, I think you can play any part you have a mind to.’

‘I have a mind to this one. He must make me his heir, Ranulf, before he dies; and once he has done that I shall be very ready to take a tender farewell of the old man.’ John began to laugh.

‘My lord is amused.’

‘I think of my father. Great Henry Plantagenet before whom men tremble. His sons have been a disappointment to him … all but John. He does not know that John is the most wicked of them all. ‘Tis true is it not, Ranulf?’

‘It may well be. But let us please keep that interesting fact from your father.’

‘You may trust me, Ranulf.’ He fell on his knees and raised eyes moist with emotion to Ranulf’s face. ‘ “Father, I am your youngest son. I would I were your eldest. But young as I am there is time for me to show you that I will bring to you that which my brothers failed to. Your sons have disappointed you … all but John. It is my mission to prove to you that there was one in the nest whose coming shall repay you for all the ingratitude of the rest.” How’s that, Ranulf?’

‘It could be improved,’ said Ranulf.

‘It shall be, my friend. It shall be.’

Henry received his son with open arms.

‘My son John! It does me good to see you.’

He looked into the young face and John raised eyes as full of emotion as they had been when he acted before Ranulf.

‘Father, you have suffered much,’ said John. ‘I rejoiced to receive your summons. I wanted to come to bring some small comfort to you.’

‘My blessings on you. I need comfort. Your brother, John, my handsome son Henry, to die as he did! He was so young.’

‘He was twenty-eight, Father, and was it true that he had desecrated shrines before he died?’

‘We must pray for his soul, John. He repented at the end. William the Marshall has given me an account of his last hours. When he died he was lying on a bed of ashes in a hair shirt.’

‘I thank God,’ said John.

‘You know, my son, that I am sore pressed. Your brothers are warring against each other one moment, against me the next. Henry was engaged in war against me when he died. That grieves me sorely. But he sent a message to me and I forgave him. We were friends then. Would to God we had never been anything else. These battles in the family, John, they are no good to any of us.’

‘No, Father.’

‘You are now of an age to be taken into my confidence.’

‘I rejoice in that. I want to be beside you. I want to help you. I must learn quickly.’

Henry’s eyes were emotional suddenly. Could it really be that in this son he was going to find the one who would make up for the disappointments the others had brought him?

‘Your brother’s death has made great changes,’ went on Henry. ‘The King of France will now be demanding Marguerite’s dowry back. I cannot give up the Vexin, it is so important to the defence of Normandy.’

‘My brother Richard is now the heir to England, Normandy, Anjou …’ began John.

The King was silent.

‘He will have to marry the Princess Alice now,’ said John slyly.

‘We shall see,’ said the King.

‘People are saying that there is something strange about the Princess. So long she has been betrothed and still there is no marriage.’

‘People will always make mysteries where there are none,’ said the King.

‘Mysteries, yes. There are no real mysteries because someone always knows the answer to them.’

‘I have sent for your brother Richard,’ he said. ‘He is unacceptable to the people of Aquitaine and I am going to make him give up the Duchy.’

‘Who will take it then?’ asked John.

‘You, my son.’

John nodded. The idea pleased him. He was going to be King of Ireland; he had several estates in England; and now Duke of Aquitaine.

He could see that his brother’s death had benefited him greatly. He must keep his father’s good will and much more that was good would flow his way.

Richard wondered what his father could wish to say to him. The trouble in Aquitaine had been settled favourably with the King’s help, and he could now say that he had established his position there.

That there must be change, he knew. The heir to the throne was dead and he was the next. He believed that his father had many years left to him and one thing was certain: no one would be allowed to take the crown of England or have the slightest sway in Normandy and Anjou while he lived. Aquitaine was different. That had been passed to him by his mother and he could be said to have won it over the last years by the right of his own sword.

If he became the heir to the throne of England and his father’s dominions of Normandy and Anjou, what of Aquitaine?

The King received Richard with accustomed restraint and wished that it had not been necessary for them to meet.

The two brothers surveyed each other with suspicion. John felt a pang of envy, for the blond giant had an air of kingliness which he knew would never be his. He had always disliked Richard, though not as much as he had Henry, for Henry had been even more handsome, as tall, and had a charm which delighted almost everyone.

Well, he was dead now and Richard was heir to the throne and large dominions overseas, and it was better to be King of England than Duke of Aquitaine.

‘My sons,’ said the King, taking them to his private chamber where they could be alone to talk. ‘We meet at a time of great bereavement.’

‘Henry was a fool,’ said Richard in his usual blunt way. ‘He knew he had a fever and he refused to care for himself. He brought on his death.’

The King bowed his head and John said: ‘Hush, Richard. Do you not see our father’s grief?’

Richard said: ‘Since they were at war together and Henry was behaving with the utmost folly I doubt not our father remembers that.’

The King was thinking: Richard is right. I mourn my son but I cannot forget that he was my enemy. He would have seen me dead and not lamented. Yet I loved him and always hoped he would change towards me. But John is affectionate. Richard is a brilliant soldier, but John is kindly. He will be a good son to me. And that is what I need to comfort me.

‘Let us not brood on the past,’ said Henry. ‘We are met together for a purpose. Your brother is dead and that has changed so much. I have brought you here, Richard, that you may retire from Aquitaine. Your brother John will be the Duke and you will now surrender the Duchy to him.’

Richard’s eyes were as cold as ice; the ague showed in his hands.

‘Aquitaine is subdued now,’ he said. ‘Ever since my mother had me crowned its Duke I have fought for my place with my sword. I have won it. You would not ask me to give it up now.’

‘I am not asking,’ replied the King. ‘I am commanding.’

Richard did not speak. His brother Henry had been crowned King of England and had never had any power at all. He was Duke of Normandy, Count of Anjou – and much good that had done him.

Young Geoffrey Count of Brittany ruled that land. He as Duke of Aquitaine would rule his territory. He would rather be a ruler in fact than have the promise of high-sounding titles which could be nothing until his father’s death. Not that the King had talked about making him heir of his dominions. It was presumed he must be because he was the eldest living son, but his father had not said so. And by the way in which he was beginning to dote on John, who knew what was going on in his mind?

Richard did not trust his father, particularly now that he had sent for John.

He did not therefore, as he might have done previously, give his definite refusal to hand over the land for which he had fought. He said that the proposal was such a surprise to him that he needed time to brood on it.

The King was agreeable to this but he added that he would need a reply – and the reply must be agreement … within the next week.

Richard rode back to Aquitaine. From there he sent his answer to his father.

As long as he lived he would rule Aquitaine and no one else should.

The King lingered in Normandy. He kept John with him and his youngest son played the part he had intended to. He listened gravely to his father’s advice; he feigned wonder at his wisdom; and he was determined that he was going to remain the favourite son.

Henry was no fool. He often wondered about John, but he was so anxious to be loved that he continued to deceive himself – half of himself warning him to look out for treachery while the other half assured him that at least he had one son who cared for him.

There was much to keep him abroad although he longed to return to England.

There was a meeting with Philip when they wrangled over the return of Marguerite’s dowry. They settled this by arranging that Henry should pay her an income of over two thousand Angevin pounds. Henry was never reluctant to enter into such agreements for he promised himself that if payment became difficult he would simply let it slide.

It was inevitable that Alice should be mentioned.

‘Her marriage with Richard is long overdue,’ said Philip.

‘There has been so much to occupy me and Richard,’ replied the King.

‘And now you are having trouble with him, I believe.’

‘He is a disobedient son.’

‘You have been disappointed in your sons, brother.’

‘They have caused me trouble. It will be different with my youngest. John will be a good son.’

Philip paused ironically as though he were listening. What for? wondered Henry. The ironical laughter of the gods?

They agreed on Alice’s dowry.

‘You might decide that if she is not for Richard she could be for John,’ said Philip. ‘Geoffrey is settled in Brittany.’

‘John is betrothed to the Earl of Gloucester’s daughter.’

‘Such betrothals are often forgotten. Do not forget, brother, that Alice is a Princess of France.’

‘I shall do my utmost to see that she is well cared for,’ said Henry.

Philip did not press the point. Sometimes Henry wondered how much was known about him and Alice.

Henry planned to leave Normandy in the early summer and to take with him the Duke and Duchess of Saxony. His daughter Matilda was pregnant and he thought it would be a good idea for the child to be born in England. He had been thinking a great deal about Sancho of Navarre whose advice had been that he should show a little leniency towards Eleanor.

She was sixty-two years of age – hardly likely at her time of life to start rebellions. But of course she must not be judged by ordinary standards. There was nothing ordinary about Eleanor. It seemed incredible that she had been imprisoned for eleven years, but this was the case.

The last time they had met she had proved to be not in the least contrite. It was impossible to imagine her ever so. She had done her best to make trouble between him and his sons; and for so long that had been the great purpose of her life.

Yet perhaps it would be advisable to give her a little freedom – not much, but enough to show those who watched the situation between them, that he was ready to be indulgent if only she would make it possible for him to trust her. Richard was defying him in Aquitaine and there could be trouble there. The people of that province would be pleased if he showed them that his attitude was softening towards Eleanor. Their daughter Matilda would be in England and it would be a pleasant gesture to let mother and daughter meet.

He would consider granting Eleanor permission to leave Salisbury for Winchester where she might be with her daughter during the latter’s confinement.

The more he thought of the idea, the better it seemed. It could do him no harm, for he would have Eleanor closely watched, and it would show that he was ready to be tolerant if only she would meet him half-way.

Eleanor found imprisonment irksome rather than uncomfortable. To a woman of her nature it had been galling to be shut away from events, and to be unable to take part in them, but she had managed to keep herself aware of what was going on. She would not have been Eleanor if she had not managed to organise a system whereby letters could be smuggled in to her and naturally those who brought them took out letters from her.

She knew what was happening in Aquitaine and she longed to be there. She heard of her children’s adventures and was deeply gratified at their hatred of their father.

She had taken care of her appearance and for her years looked remarkably young. She had determined to maintain her elegance and a great deal of time was spent on making her clothes; she herself designed them, for then she could be certain no one else should look exactly as she did.

Sometimes she recalled sadly that in the days when she was married to the King of France she had made her Court the most elegant in the world. She often sighed to remember all the men who had been in love with her. Louis had loved her to the time of their divorce; she liked to believe he had till his death. Henry was the only one who had eluded her. He could not desire her, or he would never have kept her locked away so long. It was his infidelity which had given existence to this hatred which consumed her and which had led her to turn his sons against him.

Often she thought of the death of Henry. She had had an uncanny experience before he died. She had dreamed that she found herself walking on the cold stones of what she believed to be a crypt. There had been a faint light in the place which she had followed. Suddenly it had stopped. She approached and saw that it was shining down on a man who was lying on a couch. She had caught her breath with horror, for the man was her son Henry. He lay like an effigy on a tomb and on his head were two crowns – one was the crown of England and the other a kind of halo. Henry was smiling, although his eyes were closed, and she was struck by a look of peace in his expression such as she had never seen in him before. She had awakened with a start.

‘Oh, my God,’ she had cried, ‘what did that mean?’

Then had come the news of his death and her dream came vividly back to her.

Henry was dead – that bright and beautiful boy was no more. That was what her dream had told her. He had died in conflict with his father. It was a terrible story of hatred, betrayal and disloyalty. She heard how he had sacked sacred shrines; how he had plundered villages and how people had fled before him and his soldiers. And the end … the terrible end … when fever had taken hold of him and death had come. He had repented. So many repented on their death beds, and his was a bed of ashes, his pillow a stone.

My son, she thought. Oh, my God, where did we go wrong?

Why did she ask? She knew. These sons of theirs were bred in hatred, against the violent emotion of a lecherous father and a vindictive mother.

We considered our own emotions, she reproached herself. We did not restrain ourselves. We were obsessed by ourselves and did not pause to think what we were doing to our children.

We are the ones who should make our beds of ashes. Ours was the sin.

She thought of her son Henry who had been their eldest since the death of little William. Henry, the most handsome of a handsome bunch. She remembered how excited they had been at his birth and how delighted to have another boy because at that time little William’s health was failing. Such a bright boy! How proud his father had been of him. He had always been Henry’s favourite as Richard had been hers. Richard had noticed his father’s preference and been sullen and resentful because of it. And she had made up to Richard for his father’s neglect of him and between her and Richard there had grown a passionate attachment which she believed was stronger than any emotion either of them felt for any other person.

It was in the nursery that the rot had begun. The children were reared to hate their father and she had done this.

Then Henry Plantagenet had made the mistake of crowning his son Henry King of England. He had made few mistakes in his government of his dominions, although his family life had been one long misjudgement; but nothing could have worked more to his undoing than the coronation of young Henry – to make an ambitious man a king in name and then deny him the power to be one. Oh, Henry, Henry, wise Henry Plantagenet, what a fool you are!

She wept, for although Richard was her favourite she loved all her children. Their progress had always been of the utmost interest to her. She loved the two daughters she had by Louis. And when she thought of the last months of Henry’s life she trembled for him. She herself had sinned, Heaven knew, and so had Henry Plantagenet, but they had not been cut off in their prime with all their sins upon them.

He had repented at the end. He had given William the Marshall the cross to take to Jerusalem; but that very cross he had taken from a shrine. And he had asked his father’s forgiveness and Henry – she granted him that – had readily given it. He had not been with his son at the end although he could have been. His knights advised him against going for fear of treachery. Treachery between father and son!

Oh, what a lot we have to answer for!

She prayed for forgiveness, that the sins of her sons might be averted from them to her.

Ours was the fault, oh, God, she prayed. Blame not our children.

She spent several days in fasting and praying for Henry’s soul.

But she was a born intriguante and the thought which must keep recurring to her was: Now Richard is the heir to the throne and the next king will not be Henry the Third but Richard the First.

The Archdeacon of Wells came to see her on behalf of her husband. He told her that the King wished her to prepare to leave for Winchester and her future would depend on how she behaved when she was there. The King himself was in Normandy but he hoped soon to be in England.

‘Did he say he wished to see me?’ she asked.

‘He did not, my lady,’ was the answer.

She was amused and intrigued. This was release … temporarily, the King stressed. She was to be free because her daughter was coming to England. Was that the real reason? Henry was sly. Why should he feel it so important to make an impression on the Duke and Duchess of Saxony who were merely exiles? There was another reason. Aquitaine. Her people hated him because he kept their Duchess prisoner. She knew him well. His motives were always suspect.

What excitement there was at the castle when gifts from the King arrived for her. What had happened that he should send gifts? How long was it since she had received anything from him?

Her women crowded round her. They believed the King was going to take her back. Rosamund had been dead for some time and Rosamund had been one of the main causes of their discord. Now the Queen would be the Queen in truth. They would all leave Salisbury and go to Winchester or Westminster wherever the Court was. The sequestered life was over.

A beautiful dress of scarlet was revealed as it was taken from its wrappings.

Belle, the youngest and prettiest of the attendants, exclaimed with pleasure.

‘Look, my lady. It is lined with miniver.’

The Queen took up the dress and held it against her.

‘It is long since I have worn a dress so fine,’ she said. She would have it altered a little to suit her individual taste and it would be perfect. The fur was of the highest quality and the red cloth most excellent.

The following day another gift arrived from the King. It was a saddle ornamented with gold. Her women danced round her with glee. Eleanor watched them thoughtfully.

The King was staying longer in Normandy than he had intended. There was so much for him to settle. Eleanor heard that he was meddling in the affairs of France. He was afraid of Philip; and no wonder, when he had treated Philip’s sister as he had.

What was happening about Alice? There she was, still kept at Westminster and Richard continued to be denied his bride.

Eleanor smiled grimly wondering what would have happened if news of what had actually taken place between Henry and Alice had been brought into the open. So many times she had wanted to divulge the secret. What trouble it would have made – but only temporarily! Henry could be trusted to find a way out. No, she had had more sport keeping him on tenterhooks. He would have extricated himself from that embarrassment as deftly as he had from the murder of Thomas à Becket. She was sure that the best way to harass him was to keep silent, and every now and then give him a little fright that the affair might be exposed.

Richard would not take Alice now, but she had advised him not to let his father know that. Let Henry go on worrying as he had for years. How devious was Henry Plantagenet! It relieved her conscience to revile him in her mind. If she was in some measure to blame for the conflict among their sons, he was even more responsible.

She longed to see him and when she heard that he was considering his return to England her spirits rose. He was on his way and with him came their now heavily pregnant daughter Matilda and her husband. It was time for Eleanor to leave Salisbury.

With what joy she greeted her daughter!

Matilda was twenty-eight years old, her husband, the Duke, many years older; and now Matilda was pregnant and she told Eleanor how comforted she was to see her.

They spent much of their days together and Matilda often marvelled at the youthful looks of her mother.

‘I have spent so many years in confinement that I have been able to preserve myself,’ laughed the Queen.

‘You will see changes in the King when you see him,’ Matilda warned her.

‘Shall I see him, I wonder? He has said nothing about our meeting.’

‘He is very upset over the death of Henry.’

‘Has it changed him?’

‘The loss of a son would not change him very much. Only the loss of his crown would do that.’

‘So he shows the years?’

‘You know that he was never one to care for his appearance. I am sure he is often mistaken for the humblest of his servants for it is only on rare occasions that he pays heed to his dress.’

‘He was always so,’ said Eleanor. ‘I used to tell him that he looked like a serf.’

She wanted to hear so much of him but she had to curb her curiosity. She did not wish even Matilda to know how much she thought of him.

They sat together, Matilda embroidering a garment for her baby and Eleanor singing or playing the lute.

‘When I was in Salisbury new songs were brought to me,’ she said. ‘So much of the news came to me through them. Minstrels would sing to me of what was happening to your father and your brothers.’

Eleanor loved the children – Henry, Otto and little Matilda. She watched Matilda’s health with maternal care and herself made many of the preparations for her confinement.

What was going to happen in Saxony? she asked Matilda, but Matilda could not say. Her husband, known as Henry the Lion, had not wished to make war on Italy as the Emperor Barbarossa wanted him to and for this reason the Emperor had turned against him. The result – exile. ‘How thankful I am that we could turn to my father,’ said Matilda.

Her husband was so many years older than herself, Eleanor pointed out. Was she happy with him?

Matilda was as happy as royal princesses could expect to be, she answered.

‘Perhaps I expected too much,’ commented Eleanor. ‘I married your father for love, you know.’

‘And look where it ended,’ pointed out Matilda. ‘You were soon hating each other and all these years he has kept you a prisoner.’

‘At least it was love at the start. And although I never loved Louis, he loved me, I believe, until the day he died.’

‘But you are different from the rest of us, Mother. You guide your own fate. Ours overtakes us.’

‘And as you say I was overtaken by imprisonment in the end. Perhaps it is better to have our marriages made for us and be good docile wives. Is your Henry a good husband?’

‘He is jealous.’

‘It is often so with older men. With older women too. I was twelve years older than your father and I think that was one of the reasons which began the discord between us. He was unfaithful and I could not endure it.’

‘Yet you were unfaithful in your first marriage.’

‘That was Louis. It was different. Louis could have been unfaithful to me and I would not have cared. But perhaps I lie. I can say that, because he never would have been. No, I do not think I would have tolerated infidelity in either of my husbands, and when I discovered it in Henry that was the start of the trouble between us.’

‘My Henry was angry over Bertrand de Born,’ said Matilda. ‘He wrote love poems to me. Henry discovered and banished him from the Court.’

‘He is a great poet,’ said Eleanor. ‘He is compared with Bernard de Ventadour. I would not have his verses sung in Salisbury though, because he did much to harm your brother Richard.’

‘You know why. He fell in love with my brother Henry.’

‘I thought he was in love with you?’

‘He made verses to me but it was Henry whom he loved. If you had seen the verses he wrote to Henry you would have realised how much he loved him. He thought my brother the most beautiful creature he had ever seen and you know how these poets worship beauty. When my father had taken his castle and he stood before him, his prisoner, my father goaded him with this much flaunted cleverness and asked him what had happened to his wit now. Do you know what he replied. “The day your valiant son died I lost consciousness, wits and direction.”’

‘At which your father laughed him to scorn I doubt not.’

‘Nay, Mother, so deeply moved was he, that he restored his castle to him.’

‘He can be sentimental still about his sons,’ mused Eleanor.

‘He loved Henry dearly. Henry was always his favourite. Again and again Henry played him false and every time he forgave him and wanted to start again. He wanted Henry to love him. His death was a great blow to him.’

Eleanor played the lute and Matilda sang some of the songs which had come to Normandy from the Court of France and Aquitaine. They told of the conflict between the King’s sons and the love of knights for their ladies.

In due course Matilda’s child was born. The confinement was easy and the little boy was called William.

Eleanor, who loved little babies, delighted in caring for him.

Christmas was approaching.

To Eleanor’s amazement and secret delight, a message from the King arrived. He was summoning his sons to Westminster and he invited his wife to join them there. Matilda with her husband and children would accompany the Queen and it should be a family reunion.

The grey mists hung over Westminster on that November day, and in the palace there was an air of expectancy. This was an occasion which would be remembered by all concerned for as long as they lived. The King, the Queen and their sons would be together there.

When Eleanor came riding into the capital the people watched her in silence. This Queen had been a captive for ten years. She amazed them as she had in the days of her youth. There was something about her which could attract all eyes even now. She was an old woman but she was a beautiful one still; and the years had not robbed her of her voluptuous charm. In her gown of scarlet lined with miniver, adjusted to her special taste and with that unique talent which had stylised all her clothes, she looked magnificent.

The watchers were overawed.

Then came the King – so different from his Queen, yet, though he lacked her elegance there was about him a dignity which must impress all who beheld him. His cloak might be short and worn askew, his hair was greying and combed to hide the baldness, although by his garments he might be mistaken for a man of little significance, his bearing and demeanour proclaimed him the King.

She was waiting for him and they studied each other for some moments in silence.

By God’s eyes, he thought, she is a beautiful woman still. How well she hides her age!

The years have buffeted him, she thought gleefully. Why, Henry, you are an old man now. Where is the golden youth who took my fancy? How grey your hair is and no amount of dressing it can hide the fact that it is thinning. Does your temper still flare up? Do you suffer the same rages? Do you lie on the floor and kick the table legs? Do you bite the rushes? But what was the point in mocking? She knew that he was still the King and that men trembled before him.

He bowed to her and she inclined her head.

‘Welcome to Westminster,’ he said.

‘I thank you for your welcome and for the gifts you sent to me.’

‘It is long since we have met,’ he said. ‘Now let it be in amity.’

‘As you wish. You, my lord, now decide in what mood we meet.’

‘There must be a show of friendship between us,’ said the King. He turned away. ‘Grief has brought us together.’

They stood looking at each other and then the memory of Henry, their dead son, seemed too much for either of them to bear.

The King lowered his eyes and she saw the sadness of his face. He said: ‘Eleanor, our son …’

‘He is dead,’ she said. ‘My beautiful son is dead.’

‘My son too, Eleanor. Our son.’

She held out her hand and he took it and suddenly it was as though the years were swept away and they were lovers again as they had been at the time of Henry’s birth.

‘He was such a lovely boy,’ she said.

‘I never saw one more handsome.’

‘I cannot believe he has gone.’

‘My son, my son,’ mourned Henry. ‘For long he fought against me, but I always loved him.’

She might have said: If you had loved him you would have given him what he most wanted. He asked for lands to govern. You could have given him Normandy … or England … whichever you preferred. But no, you must keep your hands on everything. You would give nothing away. Even as she reproached him she knew she must be fair. How right he was not to have given power to the fair feckless youth.

‘We loved him, both of us,’ she said. ‘He was our son. We must pray for him, Henry. Together we must pray for him.’

‘None understands my grief,’ he said.

‘I understand it because I share it.’

They looked at each other and he lifted her hand to his lips and kissed it.

Their grief had indeed brought them together.

But not for long. They were enemies, natural enemies. Both knew the bonds must loosen. They could not go on mourning for ever for their dead son. It was not for mourning that Henry had allowed her to come. She quickly realised that. He had not released her from her prison because he wished to show some regard for her, because he had repented his harshness towards her. No, he had his motive as Henry always would.

He had brought her here for varying reasons that did not concern her comfort or well being.

In the first place she had heard through Richard that Sancho of Navarre had requested it and he wished to be on good terms with Navarre. The main reason, though, was that Henry’s death had made the reshuffle of the royal heritage necessary and he needed her acquiescence on certain points, mainly of course the re-allocation of Aquitaine.

She was overjoyed when Richard arrived at Westminster. Her eyes glowed with pride at the sight of this tall man who had the look of a hero.

They embraced each other and Richard’s eyes glowed with a tenderness rare in him.

‘Oh, my beloved son!’ cried Eleanor. ‘How long the years have been!’

‘I have thought of you constantly,’ Richard told her, and because she knew her son so well she could believe him. Her dear bold honest Richard who did not dissemble as the rest of her family did. Richard on whom she could rely; whose love and trust in her matched hers for him.

‘We must talk alone,’ she whispered to him.

‘I will see that we do,’ he replied.

He came to her bedchamber and she felt young again as she had when he was but a child and she had loved him so dearly and beyond her other children, as she still did.

‘You know why your father has brought me here?’

He nodded. ‘He wants to take Aquitaine from me and give it to John.’

‘You are the heir to the throne of England now, Richard, England, Normandy and Anjou.’

‘He has said nothing of making me his heir.’

‘There is no need for that. You are the eldest now and the rightful heir. Even he cannot go against the law.’

‘He is capable of anything.’

‘Not of this. It would never be permitted. It would plunge the country into war.’

‘He is not averse to war.’

‘You do not know him. He has always deplored war. He hates wasting the money it demands. Have you not seen that if there is a chance to evade war he will evade it? He likes to win by deceit and cunning. He has done it again and again. That, my son, is what is known as being a great king.’

‘I would never stoop to it. I would win by the sword.’

‘You are a born fighter, Richard. A man of honesty. There could not be one more unlike your father. Perhaps that is why I love you.’

‘What think you of him? He has aged, has he not?’

‘Yes, he has aged. But I remember him as a young man … a boy almost when I married him … not twenty. He was never handsome as you and Henry and Geoffrey … and even John.’

‘We get our handsome looks from you, Mother.’

‘’Tis true. Although your grandfather of Anjou was reckoned to be one of the most handsome men of his day. Geoffrey the Fair they called him.’ She smiled reminiscently. ‘I knew him well … for a time very well. A man of great charm and good looks but no great strength. Not like his son. But what has your father become now? An old man … a stout old man. He always tended to put on weight. That was why he would take his meals standing and in such a manner as to suggest he did so out of necessity rather than pleasure. Of course that unrestrained vitality of his kept down his corpulence in his youth but it was bound to catch up with him. I notice he often uses a stick when walking now.’

‘One of his horses kicked him and he has a toe nail which has turned inwards and causes him pain now and then.’

‘Poor old man!’ mocked Eleanor. ‘He should have taken better care of himself. He is never quite still. One cannot be with him long without sensing that frenzied determination to be doing something. In that he has not changed. And how untidy he is! His garments disgrace him.’

‘He never cared for them. “I am the King,” he says, “and all know it. None will fear me the more because I wear a cloak of velvet and miniver.”’

‘In the days of his love for Thomas à Becket when Thomas was his Chancellor and they went about together one would have thought Thomas the King and he the servant.’

‘Yet Thomas died and he lives on and now he proclaims that Thomas loves him even more than he did when they were young and that he keeps an eye on him in Heaven.’

‘That is like him,’ said Eleanor, not without a touch of admiration. ‘He would turn everything to his advantage. But we waste our time talking of him. We know him so well, both of us, and that is good for we are aware of the man with whom we have to deal. What of Aquitaine, Richard?’

‘I shall never give it up.’

‘You have had a troublous time there.’

‘But I have brought it to order. They think me harsh and cruel but just. I have never murdered or maimed for sport. I have meted out terrible punishments but they have always been deserved.’

She nodded. ‘In the days of my ancestors and during my own rule life was happy in Aquitaine. We were a people given to poetry and song.’

‘Poetry and song have done much to inflame the people. You know that Bertrand de Born made it possible for Henry to come against me.’

‘I know it. They loved me. They would never have harmed me. Why could they not have accepted my son, the one I chose to follow me?’

‘They never really believed that I was on your side. They hate my father and they look on me as his son, not yours. But I have won my place by my sword and I shall keep it. I would rather be Duke of Aquitaine than King of England. I shall never give up Aquitaine to John.’

‘He has made John his favourite. That is reckless of him. Do you think John will love him any more than the rest of you did?’

‘I know not. John is like him in one way. He has that violent temper.’

‘That speaks little good for him. Henry would have done well to curb his. I wonder if he has inherited his lust?’

‘I hear it is so.’

‘Let us hope that John has inherited his shrewdness too or it will go hard with him. But it is of you I wish to speak, Richard. You will be King of England when Henry dies.’

‘And Duke of Aquitaine, for I shall never give it up. And when I am King, Mother, my first concern will be for you. Before anything else, you shall be released and beside me. I swear that.’

‘God bless you, Richard. There is no need to swear. I know it will be so. There is another matter. You are no longer a boy and still unmarried. What of your bride?’

‘If you mean Alice, she is still in the King’s keeping.’

‘Still his mistress! How faithful he is to her. What has she to hold him? She’s another Rosamund, I’ll swear. You’ll not take your father’s cast-off, Richard?’

‘I will not. I am determined to tell him that he can keep his mistress and make his peace with Philip. I know not how. There could be war over this.’

‘I doubt not he would find some way out. He has the cunning of the fox and slithers out of trouble with the smoothness of a snake.’

‘Mother, I have seen a woman I would marry.’

‘And she is?’

‘The daughter of the King of Navarre. Berengaria. Her father has intimated that if I were free of Alice he would welcome the match. Berengaria is very young. She can wait a while.’

The Queen nodded. ‘Say nothing of this. We will continue to plague him over Alice. I would I knew whether he clings to her because he finds her so irresistible or whether it is because he fears what might happen if it were known he had seduced his son’s betrothed and is afraid she might betray this. Gh, Richard, this is an amusing situation. You and I stand together against his marriage with Alice. If neither of us was here he would marry her and take her dowry and the matter would be settled. I wonder if he would be faithful to her? It is possible that he might now that he is so fat and walks with a stick and has trouble with legs and feet. Morality sets in with disabilities.’

‘You hate him still, Mother.’

‘For what he has done to you and to me, yes. It could have been different, Richard. All our lives could have been different. If he had not betrayed me with other women I would have worked for him and with him. I would have made sure that my sons grew up respecting and admiring him. He has himself to blame. But perhaps that applies to us all. Oh, Richard, how good it has been to talk with each other.’

‘One day,’ said Richard, ‘we shall be together. On the very day I am King, your prison doors will be flung wide open and I shall let all men know that there is no one I hold in higher esteem than my beloved mother.’

The King announced that Christmas should be celebrated at Windsor and that the Queen should be of the party. Eleanor was delighted. It would be the first Christmas she had spent out of captivity for a good many years. She was in high spirits. It had been wonderful to see Richard again and while she mourned for Henry she must be aware of the turn in her fortunes, for Richard was to be trusted. What he promised he would do. He was Richard Yea and Nay. God bless him! He would always be his mother’s friend.

For Christmas they must forget their enmities. They must join with the revellers. There would be feasts and music and for once the King would be forced to sit down and behave as though this was a festival and that they were not on the verge of a battle.

Eleanor and he had watched each other furtively. Neither trusted the other. That was the nature of their relationship and it could not be otherwise. He was planning to rob Richard of Aquitaine and give it to John. John was going to be as well endowed as any of them. Why not? John had never taken up arms against his father as the others had. A man must have one son to love.

What an uneasy family they were. In his heart he no more believed he could trust John than he could any of the others. There they were all at the same board, and all ready to work against one another.

What strength would have been theirs if they had worked together! And there at his table was his Queen. How did she remain so young-looking and elegant? Was it through witchcraft? That would not surprise him.

How beautifully she sang – songs of her own composing. She sang of love. She should know much of that. How many lovers had she had including her uncle and a heathen Saracen? All those troubadours who had surrounded her when she kept court with him, how many had been her lovers?

And how often had he strayed from the marriage bed? So many times; there were numbers of women whose names he could not remember. Two he would cherish for ever – Rosamund and Alice.

Oh, Alice, fair Alice. A woman now. Twenty-three years of age. She had been but twelve when he had first taken her. And she had been his ever since. He had loved Rosamund and he had loved Alice – only those two had he truly loved. What it had been with Eleanor he was unsure. There had always been conflict between them. What exciting conflict though, in the beginning when no other woman had satisfied him as she had. And of course there was Aquitaine which went with her.

With Alice there would be the Vexin, that land so vital to the defence of Normandy. God in Heaven, why would not Eleanor die! She was old enough to be dead. She had lived long enough. Did she want to go on in captivity? For by God’s eyes he had seen enough of her to know that after this spell of freedom she must go straight back to her prison.

He would never again trust her to roam free. It would be foolish to give her the opportunity.

The King sent for Richard. ‘Are you determined,’ he said, ‘that you will never give up Aquitaine?’

‘I am,’ answered Richard.

‘Then go back there.’

Richard was astonished. This could surely only mean that the King had decided not to interfere with his control of the Duchy.

When he said farewell to his mother she warned him to beware of his father. His promises were not to be trusted and if he agreed now to let him keep Aquitaine he might change his mind the next week.

Richard left, assuring his mother of his devotion which would never change.

Next the King sent for his son Geoffrey.

‘You will return to Normandy,’ he said, ‘and keep peace there.’ He then proceeded to give Geoffrey more power than he had ever had before.

Eleanor was watchful. What did this mean? Was he saying that if Richard was so determined to hold on to Aquitaine he could forgo the crown of England?

What a devious mind that was! And he had never liked Richard. It occurred to the Queen that if the King could take from Richard what was his by right and give it to his other sons, he was capable of doing that. What was he planning to give to John?

Finally he sent for his son John and told him to prepare to take over his dominion of Ireland. John seized the opportunity with alacrity. He would be ready to leave in the spring.

The King then set out with the Queen and his Court for Winchester.

Winchester – the palace of many memories, second only to that of Westminster. Here he had kept Rosamund for a time when he had ceased to keep their liaison secret. Here Alice had been with him. And now Eleanor came.

She was delighted with the place; she always had been. She admired the herb garden which had recently been made and picked many of its contents which she declared were the best of their kind.

She wondered how long she would be allowed her freedom. She knew in her heart it would not last. How could it? Their interests must certainly clash. Nothing could stop her intriguing with Richard against him when the time came, and he would know it. Well, she would rather go back to her prison than allow him to think that he had subdued her, or that she would cease to demand her rights for the sake of freedom.

He had had many decorations painted on the walls of this castle. He was rather fond of allegory, and they were adorned with scenes from his life. He would want future generations to know that he was the one who had restored it and made it beautiful.

One day when she walked through the castle she came to a room and went silently in. To her amazement she saw that the King was standing there.

The light from the narrow slit of a window showed his face drawn and sad. His carelessly donned clothes, his slovenly stance, the manner in which he leaned on his stick made her feel half sorry for him while at the same time she thought: It will not be long before Richard is the King of England. My beloved son you and I will be together. And yet she was conscious of a sadness. Ever since she had known Henry she had never wished to contemplate a world without him. She could never forget the first time she had seen him – the son of her lover, for she had shared his father’s bed once or twice. Geoffrey the Fair had never been the most beloved of her admirers though he was an exceptionally good-looking man and a virile one too. But when she had seen the son, she wanted no more of the father. Henry, lover, and husband for whom she had divorced the King of France, father of their troublesome brood, the lion and the cubs who from their earliest days had planned his downfall.

He was aware of her and without taking his eyes from the walls he said: ‘’Tis you then?’

‘This room has changed since I knew it long ago.’

‘I have had it newly painted.’

‘And you admire it evidently.’

‘Come and look at this picture.’

She went and stood beside him. ‘An eagle and four eaglets,’ she said.

‘Yes. Look closer. See how the young prey on the old bird. Do you see anything familiar in their faces?’

She turned to look at him and she saw the glaze of tears in his eyes.

Henry Plantagenet in tears! It was impossible.

‘I am the eagle,’ he said. ‘The four eaglets are my sons.’

‘You have caused this picture to be painted.’

He nodded. ‘I look at it often. See how they prey upon me. My three sons, Henry, Richard and Geoffrey. And see the fourth poised on my neck. That is John. I tell you this, that he, the youngest, the one I love so tenderly, is waiting for the moment when his brothers have laid me low; then he will pluck out my eyes.’

‘I am surprised that you torment yourself with such a picture.’

‘There must be somewhere where I face the truth. I feign to believe them. I am their father. I have been over-tolerant with them. I let them deceive me and I deceive myself that they must love me because they are my own sons.’

‘You should never have put a crown on Henry’s head.’

‘I know it well.’

‘You did it to spite Thomas of Canterbury. You wanted a coronation in which he should not partake.’

‘Yes. But I did it too because I feared God might take me in battle and I wanted no bloodshed. I wished it to be that when the King died, there was a new King ready waiting.’

‘It was a foolish act.’

‘Unworthy of a shrewd king,’ he agreed. ‘And here I look at this picture and face the truth.’

‘It is not too late. Trust your sons. Take Richard to your heart. He is your heir. Give him the power he needs.’

‘That he might take my crown from me?’

‘He will not take it until it is right and proper for him to do so.’

‘The eaglets are impatient,’ he said.

‘Because the eagle has kept them in the nest too long.’

‘You turned them against me,’ he accused. ‘You are the source of all my troubles.’

‘Had you been the husband I wanted, I would have loved you to the end.’

‘You wanted to rule.’

‘Aye. We both wanted it.’

‘And between us we bred the eaglets.’

He turned away at the door and looked back at her.

‘This painting will be copied and I shall have it in my chamber at Windsor. There I shall look at it often and I shall remember.’ His voice shook slightly and he said suddenly: ‘Oh, God, Eleanor, why was it not different? What would I not give just for one loving son.’

Then he was gone. She listened to the sound of his stick on the stone flags.

She laughed quietly. Poor Henry, the great king, the seducer of women, the lover whom none could resist. He had failed where she had succeeded for she had one son who loved her.