The Revolt of the Eaglets (32 page)

THE COURT OF FRANCE

P
hilip, son of the King of France, was leading a hunting party into the forest. He was not a very happy nor a very popular boy. From an early age he had been aware of his importance as the King’s only son and there had been much fussing over his health. Now that he was fourteen years of age – soon to be fifteen – he was spoilt, peevish and arrogant. He despised his father but naturally he must accept the fact that he was the King; his mother, who attempted to restrain his selfishness, often angered him and he had more than once warned her to take care, for one day he would be the King and then she would have to obey him.

He was sickly and caught cold easily and when he was not feeling well – which was often – he would be irritable. He had few real friends and his attendants counted themselves lucky when their duties did not bring them too close to him.

At this time he was more arrogant than ever because his father had told him that he was arranging for his coronation.

‘You see, my son, I am no longer a young man,’ Louis explained. ‘I waited a long time for a son and married three wives to get you.’

‘I know this,’ said Philip impatiently. ‘All know it.’

‘It meant great rejoicing when you came. I had the bells ringing throughout France.’

Philip inclined his head. He was not averse to hearing the often repeated tale of his much heralded arrival into the world.

The thought of the coronation delighted him. Then he would be King of France beside his father; and the old man was ageing fast. It could not be long before he was sole ruler of the country.

The more he thought of this the more impatient he became; and on this day when he rode out with his band of huntsmen he was thinking of the great day ahead in the Cathedral at Rheims. He was already putting on the airs of a king, seeing himself in his coronation robes, the crown on his head. King of France, what a glorious title!

They had sighted the deer and he wished his to be the arrow that killed it. There would be feasting that night and he would be at the head of the table. There was extra deference for him now that his coronation was in sight, and he was not so much the sickly boy to be cherished, as the future monarch to be placated. He liked the change.

He spurred his horse and immediately those knights whom his father had commanded to guard him came level with him.

He gave an angry glance to right and left.

‘Keep off my tail,’ he growled, and they immediately fell back; he spurred on his horse and took great delight in leaving them behind.

On and on he galloped. He was sure the deer had gone this way. He wanted to be the one who cornered the animal. When he had killed it he would shout to the others and they would come hurrying up at his command and compliment him on the finest buck that had ever fallen to arrow. It would have to be because the King-to-be had shot it and even if it was the veriest baby of a deer they would have to see it as the finest. That was the joy of being a king. His father was a foolish old man. He talked about honesty and turning from flattery, and how a king’s best and staunchest friends were often those who criticised him. No one was going to criticise Philip II of France.

He galloped on through the forest, leaving the others far behind. This was unfamiliar country to him, but he knew the direction in which he had come. Where was the deer? He drew up and looked about him. There was no sign of it.

He shouted and listened for an answer. None came. His attendants had obeyed his order to get off his tail, and he must have left the party far behind him.

He rode on. The forest had become more dense. He pulled up and called again. There was no answer. He listened for the sound of horses’ hoofs, but there was only the faint sighing of wind in the thick August leaves and the crackle of undergrowth as some small animal scuttled along.

There was something sinister about the forest when one was alone. The tall dignified trees implied they would bow to no one and that a king was of no more importance to them than a woodcutter. Overhead through their leaves he could see the hot summer sky.

He was a little tired and thirsty. His throat craved cool soothing liquid. Perhaps there was a woodcutter’s hut nearby where he could ask refreshment. He liked the idea. Those stories – and there were many of them – in which some great personage visited a humble cottage and was given refreshment and treated as an ordinary traveller and then suddenly announced, ‘I am your King’ – or some such phrase, greatly appealed to him.

He rode on. He was getting deeper and deeper into the forest and he was not sure what direction he should take. He tried calling again but when he raised his voice it cracked and the words were a mere croak.

He began to feel a little dizzy.

As he could not sit steadily on his horse, he dismounted, loosely tied it to a tree and lay down on the grass. He felt better lying down. He must have dozed a little for he awoke suddenly and his horse was no longer there.

Could someone have stolen it? Could it have broken loose? Or was he dreaming?

He staggered to his feet. There was no doubt that the horse had disappeared.

It could not be far off. He called it by name. There was no answering whinny, and suddenly the realisation came to him that he was lost in the forest.

He looked up at the sky. There was a touch of evening in the air. He must have dozed longer than he thought. Night would soon be on him.

The thought frightened him. It was alarming to be lost by day, but by night it was terrifying.

The trees took on odd shapes. They seemed to come alive and their branches swayed towards him like avenging arms. He stood up and tottered uncertainly forward. Bracken caught at his garments as though it were trying to hold him back. The light was quickly fading. The breeze had now dropped and there was an unearthly stillness about him.

Night was almost upon him.

The members of his party would be anxious because he was lost. They would tell his father and the poor old man would be frantic. Search parties would be sent out to comb the forest … every part would be searched. They must soon find him. His father would be angry with his guards. Serve them right! But they would say that he had been left unattended at his own command and his father, always lenient, always wanting to be just, would believe them.

‘Come and find me,’ he called out.

There was no answer, only a flurry in the branches as some startled creature, alarmed by the noise, made off.

He was frightened, for it was now dark. Would they never find him? His body was burning; the fever was on him. He knew it well for it was an old enemy. With it came delirium.

He thought he had died and had gone to hell. This was hell. There were devils all about him and they were trying to catch him and carry him off to eternal damnation.

‘Let me alone!’ he cried. ‘I am the King of France. My coronation is to be soon and then you will see.’

It was as though he heard mocking laughter which implied: Where you are there is no difference between a king and the humblest serf.

It could not be so. Kings endowed abbeys; they went on pilgrimages; they fought crusades. Humble serfs could not do that. That must bring the rich and noble some merit.

But he had never done these things. And here he was lost in the forest with death beckoning him. Where was his father? Where were his guards? Where even was his horse, for he would have given him some comfort?

He tripped and fell; the grass seemed damp as he lay for a while. It seeped through his clothes and he started to shiver.

‘Mother of Mary, help me,’ he prayed.

He felt the tears on his cheeks. He was not the future King of France now; he was merely a very frightened boy.

He rose again unsteadily and stumbled forward. Was he dreaming or were the trees less thick? He was not sure but the thought comforted him. He wanted to get out of the forest, for the forest was evil.

His clothes were wet, or was that the sweat now the fever had passed a little? He was cold now, shivering, with cold as well as fear.

He would die if they did not find him. When he was ill the King his father would send for the best physicians in the country to attend to him; prayers would be said throughout the country. But now he was alone and none knew of his dire need.

‘Only God can help me now,’ he muttered. ‘Oh, God, forgive me my sins. Give me a chance to redeem my soul.’

This was one of the rare occasions when he experienced humility.

As though in answer to his prayer he saw through the trees a small clearing in the forest and a dim light. His heart leaped in joy. ‘Thank you, God,’ he whispered. ‘You have heard my prayer.’

He stumbled towards the light. It came from a cottage which was little more than a hut. He managed to reach the door and beat on it with his fist and as it opened he fell at the feet of an old man.

‘Help …’ murmured Philip.

The old man knelt down and looked at him. Then he dragged him into the cottage.

Philip lay on the floor and the old man put warm soup to his lips. He could see by the manner in which he was dressed that he was a nobleman.

‘My lord, you are ill. Your clothes are damp. You should rest in my humble cottage until you are well.’

Philip allowed his cloak to be taken from him. He felt better, partly because of the soup but mainly because of the human company.

‘Tell … the King,’ he stammered.

‘My lord.’

‘I am the King’s son,’ he said.

‘My lord. Is it so then?’

The old man knelt.

It was the old story in which he had wanted to play a part but how different this was from what he had imagined.

‘I was lost and I am ill. Pray send to the King without delay.’

‘My son shall go at once, my lord,’ said the old man. ‘You should stay here and warm yourself. I can only give you old garments which it would not be becoming for you to wear, you may think.’

Philip said: ‘Let me shelter here and send word to my father.’

‘We are but humble charcoal-burners, my lord,’ said the man, ‘but we are good and loyal servants of the King. I will send my son without delay.’

Philip nodded and closed his eyes.

It was not until the next morning that guards from the castle arrived. Philip by that time was delirious.

The charcoal-burner was given a purse full of gold coins for his part in the adventure which made him richer than he could have been through a lifetime’s work, and Philip was taken back to the castle.

His constitution was not strong enough to endure such an ordeal and he was very ill, so ill in fact that it seemed very likely that he could not survive.

Louis was frantic. It was true that he was being punished for his sins; he needed to go on that crusade with Henry. This was his only son whom he had planned should be crowned with the pomp he considered necessary to such an occasion, and God was threatening to take him from him.

He wept; he entreated; he consulted with his kinsman, the Count of Flanders, who himself had recently returned from a crusade, after which he believed his sins had been washed away. The Count was a comparatively young man and had plenty of time to commit more and redeem the fresh lot, so he was in a particularly ebullient mood.

Louis could not sleep, so great was his anxiety. He sent for his ministers and said: ‘I am no longer young. I doubt I can get more sons and if I had one now he would be but a baby when I was called away. God is punishing me. I sense it. Why should he do this to me? Philip was never as strong as I could have wished and that something like this should befall him is what I have always feared.’

His ministers reminded him that young Philip still lived and the doctors were caring for him. There was a good chance that he would survive.

But when Louis saw the doctors they were very grave. The King’s son was in a high fever. He was delirious and kept calling out that the trees were his enemies and they were seeking to catch him and turn him into one of them.

The King’s advisers warned him that he must look to his own health. If he did not and he died while his only son was in such a condition that could be disastrous for France.

Louis deplored the fact that he had not yet gone on the crusade which he and Henry were planning, and thinking of Henry, Louis was reminded of Thomas à Becket, that great good man who had been so cruelly done to death on the stones of Canterbury Cathedral. His physicians gave him a soothing draught which they said would give him peaceful sleep and as he lay on his bed, between sleeping and waking, he had a strange experience which he believed to be a vision.

Thomas the Martyr was in the room.

‘Is it indeed you, my friend, Thomas à Becket Archbishop of Canterbury?’ asked the King.

‘It is,’ said the shadowy shape.

‘You come from Heaven where you have a place of honour?’ said the King.

‘I come to you from God,’ was the answer. ‘Go to Canterbury, humble yourself at my shrine there. Confess your sins and ask forgiveness. If I intercede for you, you will be given back your son.’

The King sat up in his bed. He was trembling. He was alone in his bedchamber.