The Revolt of the Eaglets (28 page)

‘But he is so delighted at the prospect of having a son,’ she answered.

‘He is indeed. But I do very much fear that the conflict between him and his father will grow, and I would give a great deal to prevent that.’

‘The King is determined to prevent Henry from having any power, and that maddens Henry.’

‘In time the King might change his mind.’

‘Henry thinks he never will. He gets so angry that the King should treat him like a child.’

‘Will you try to placate him? I think if he will but be patient a while the King may change. In any case no good can be served by whipping up his anger against his father. My lady, will you try to make him see this? You can talk to him more easily than any. We both love him dearly and his good is our great concern. I know it is useless for him to plot against his father. That is not the way to achieve what he wants.’

‘I will try to speak to him,’ said Marguerite.

So earnestly were they talking together that they did not see the approach of Henry himself.

‘How now?’ he cried. ‘What is this I see? My friends and my wife sharing secrets!’

‘I was inquiring for the Queen’s health,’ said William.

‘Which you see is good.’

Henry fell into step beside them. ‘I long for the day when my son is born,’ he said; and the sulky expression was no longer on his face.

He is indeed the handsomest of princes, thought William. I would to God he were the happiest.

But he was happy enough walking with William and his wife and talking to them of plans for the future of his unborn son.

The prospect of becoming a father had by no means turned Henry’s thoughts from rebellion. Rather had it made him more than ever determined.

Plans began to form in his mind and he was often in the company of men who were known to be hostile to his father.

William the Marshall was not the only one who was uneasy. Adam of Churchdown, a man of mature years, could also see what was happening and asked himself what he should do about it.

He owed his allegiance to young Henry’s father. Moreover, he was fully aware that any insurgents whom Henry might succeed in arousing could do little good for any length of time against the superior forces and generalship of the older Henry.

It occurred to him that if he could send a message of warning to the King in England of what was happening, he would know how to deal with it. He therefore called a messenger to him, gave him a letter and told him to make all speed to the coast and not to give up the letter into any hands but those of the King.

He had worded the letter carefully. He considered it was no treason to young Henry; it was merely to put the King on his guard and Adam knew that he would act in such a manner as to curb young Henry’s rebellious activities and thus save him from disaster.

Alas for Adam, his messenger fell into the hands of one of those knights who hated the King of England and was eager to support his son in rebellion.

The messenger and the message were brought before the young King and when Henry read what Adam had written his rage was great.

‘Bring Adam of Churchdown to me,’ he cried.

Adam, standing before him, realised what had happened. This was disaster. Under the tuition of Philip of Flanders, he knew that his master had become ruthless, and he could expect little mercy.

‘So you are a traitor,’ spat out Henry.

‘Not so, my lord. I have only your good at heart.’

It was the worst thing he could have said. How often had Henry heard the words: ‘It is for your own good.’ He was heartily sick of being treated like a child. He was a man and a king at that, he would have them know.

He thought of the knightly Walter of Les Fontaines and he cried: ‘Take this man out, divest him of his clothes and whip him through the streets. Let it be known that this is my way with traitors. Proclaim to all that he sought to spy for my father. I have trusted him in the past and I had counted him my friend but this is how I deal with traitors. And when he has been whipped through these streets take him to the Castle of Argentan and there cast him into a dungeon. But in every town through which you pass he shall be whipped in the street and proclaimed as a traitor to King Henry of England, Duke of Normandy and Count of Anjou.’

When Adam had been taken away William the Marshall came to the young King.

‘I beg of you to consider what you are doing.’

‘God’s eyes, William,’ retorted Henry, ‘remember to whom you speak lest the like should happen to you.’

William turned away with a shrug of his shoulders. ‘Oh, yes, I know full well,’ went on Henry, ‘that you are nobly born and the nephew of the Earl of Salisbury. I know that you will say that you have been my friend from childhood. But I will not countenance traitors. Adam is one and he shall suffer for it because he deserves it and because he shall show an example to all others.’

‘He did what he did for your good.’

‘Stop that!’ screamed the King. ‘I am not your pupil, now, William Marshall. Take care I say. Take care all traitors.’

William went sadly away. The situation was becoming more and more dangerous. He thought, as many had before him, that the old King had made the gravest mistake of his reign when he had had his son crowned King of England.

Was it not inevitable that there must be disastrous conflict when two kings possessed the same crown?

Chapter X

THE KING’S STRATEGY

A
lice was back in Westminster; Richard was in Aquitaine; and she trusted the King to keep her safe with him.

As for Henry he found it very pleasant to be in England. There he could visit Alice frequently and see more of his son John. The desire to be a good father, and to have the affection of his children was becoming an obsession with him. He had lost almost all hopes of the elder ones but there were however, the two younger members of his family – Joanna and John – and he was trying hard to win from them the love and regard which the others had denied him.

He could blame their mother and he did. Let her fret out her days in the prison of his choosing; she had shown that she only had to appear to make trouble. He was certain that the importuning of Louis for the marriage of Alice and Richard was Eleanor’s work. He had been shaken as he rarely had ever been when he discovered that she knew of the relationship between him and Alice. Could it be that she had told Louis the truth? No, not that. He would have been horrified. That would offend his pious soul and he would never keep quiet about it. But she had prodded him in some way, he was sure.

The matter occupied him more than any other, for he made himself believe that his sons would be faithful to their promises. Richard was doing well in Aquitaine and was certainly a great fighter. Henry was too pleasure-loving and extravagant and Geoffrey took after him: But Marguerite was pregnant and if she gave him a grandson he would be satisfied with her.

The great problem was how to keep Alice.

It was a pity that she was growing up. She was not seventeen yet but of course they would say she should be married at that age. Richard was a laggard; he had shown no great desire for marriage, thank God.

If Alice were any but Louis’s daughter … oh, but he had to admit that had given a piquancy to the affair. He liked to think he was making love to the daughter of that old monk. She would make a worthy bride for him too if ever it was possible for them to marry.

While he was brooding on this a letter arrived from the Pope. He shut himself alone in his bedchamber and with some trepidation opened it. Glancing hastily through it he saw that Alice was the subject of it and his heart sank.

The Pope wrote that his dearest son in Christ, Louis illustrious King of the French, was complaining because his daughter, who had long ago been sent to England that she might be brought up in the country of her betrothed, had neither been married nor returned to her father. The King of France was insisting that either one of these courses must be adopted.

Henry threw the letter aside and stared ahead of him.

What could he do? If it were not for Eleanor he could marry her. As it was, what was the alternative?

He stood up and clenched his fist.

‘By the eyes, teeth and mouth of God,’ he cried, ‘I’ll not give up Alice.’

He went to see his children. He had news for them both.

He sat down on the window-seat and as they leaned against him he put an arm about them both; he could not help thinking what a charming picture they must make and he was resentful against Eleanor who had deprived him of the love his older children owed him. He was not a bad father. His illegitimate children were devoted to him. It was only Eleanor’s brood who were against him. But not these younger ones. They were going to be loyal and loving. They were going to make up to him for what he had lacked with the others.

John was naturally his favourite because he was a boy. The others were going to realise how much happier they would have been if they had loved him. They were going to see what he would do for a loving son. John might not be the King of England, Duke of Normandy or Aquitaine, but he should have the richest lands his father could give him. Never again was John to be known as John Lackland.

‘Now, Joanna, my daughter, what say you to this? How would you like to be a queen?’

Eleven-year-old Joanna opened her eyes wide. ‘A queen, my lord. Not a Queen of England?’

‘Nay, my love. How could you be that? Marguerite will be the Queen. If you would be one, you must have a husband to give you your crown. That is why I have chosen a husband for you. You are to be the Queen of Sicily, for the King of that country is asking your hand in marriage.’

‘I shall have to go away,’ said Joanna.

‘Of a truth you must go to your husband’s country and there be married. You will be a grand lady and that is what I wish you to be.’

She was a little puzzled and looked at John to see what his reactions were.

‘What of me?’ he asked. He was a year younger than his sister but he knew that as a boy he was of greater importance.

‘Your time will come, my son, and before long I doubt not. But you will not leave us. Your bride will come to you for brides it is who must go to their husbands.’