The Revolt of the Eaglets (4 page)

‘My lord,’ said one of his knights, ‘there is a messenger from Canterbury.’

‘From Canterbury, but my father is across the sea.’

‘He comes not from your father, my lord.’

‘From Canterbury! From the Archbishop! But I will not see the Archbishop. I have said I will not receive those who do not please me.’

‘My lord, he has doleful tidings.’

‘Then bring him to me.’

The messenger came. He bowed low. ‘My lord, this day I bring you sad tidings. The Archbishop of Canterbury has been murdered in his Cathedral.’

‘Murdered!’ cried Henry. ‘How so?’

‘Four of your father’s knights have killed him.’

‘Killed him … in the Cathedral!’ The boy’s eyes were misty. It could not be so. And yet he might have guessed it. Thomas had quarrelled with his father and the King allowed none to do that with impunity.

‘Tell me in detail,’ he commanded; and the story was told.

Henry went to his bedchamber. He could not shut out the terrible sight those men had conjured up. Thomas à Becket lying on the stones of the Cathedral in a pool of blood.

‘I refused to see him,’ he said to himself, ‘but I did not wish this to happen. Oh, God, how thankful I am that I had no part in it.’

Then he thought of the old days when Thomas had taken him into his household and given special attention to the son of the King. The Archbishop had told him stories of his father, how they had been great friends and roamed the countryside together before he had become Archbishop and was merely the King’s Chancellor. Pleasant merry stories, showing the King in a different guise. It was clear from the manner in which Thomas had talked of Henry that he had loved him. He had been as much aware of Thomas’s love as he had of his mother’s hatred. And yet his father had murdered Thomas.

Oh yes he had. Young Henry knew that everyone was thinking it even if they dared not say it. Four knights had struck the blows but the whole world would know on whose instructions.

‘It will be remembered against him,’ he mused. ‘The people will turn from him because of it. And to whom will they turn? Surely to the one whom he himself had crowned their King.’

Eleanor Queen of England was content to be in her beloved city of Poitiers. This was the land she loved; the land of mild breezes, warm sun and song. It was here that the Courts of Love belonged; it had been impossible to transplant them in the colder climate of England with a people who had little patience with the laws of chivalry and dreams of ideal love. The king of that country was typical of the people he ruled, thought Eleanor scornfully – lusty, unimaginative, seeing something decadent in lying in the sun and making beautiful verses in honour of lovers.

This was where she belonged and she never wanted to see England again. She might tell herself that she never wanted to see Henry also, but that was not true. He stimulated her as no one else could; he probed her emotions to their depth; she could never be truthfully aloof from him. Once she had loved him fiercely and now as fiercely she hated him.

Often in her gardens she would be thinking of Henry when handsome troubadours strummed on their lutes and gazed at her with love and longing which must be feigned, for she was nearly fifty years of age and although she had been an exceptionally beautiful woman and still was, she had lived her life adventurously and time had left its mark on her. She remembered those early days when they had loved passionately and she had divorced Louis King of France in order to marry him. He had been as eager for the match as she was, but that may have been because she could bring him Aquitaine and he was a glutton for land. Sometimes she thought that he dreamed of conquering the whole world. Still if Aquitaine had been the main attraction he had hidden the fact and those early years of their marriage must have brought some of the satisfaction to him that they had brought to her. The strong physical attraction had been there – there was no doubt of it; but he, the lusty King, who all his life had taken what he wanted when he wanted it, had soon been unfaithful. She could laugh now at her fury when she had discovered it through the little Bastard Geoffrey he had brought into her nurseries.

What a glorious battle there had been then and how she had enjoyed it; it had pleased her to see the rage which possessed him because in some way it weakened him. When his temper was out of control and he kicked inanimate objects, when he lay on the floor and rolled about in an agony of rage and tore the dirty rushes with his teeth, he betrayed himself. That magnificent power and strength which were normally his were lost somehow in the man who might control armies but was not in command of his own nature.

She could not stop thinking of him and oddly enough her hatred of him absorbed her as once her love of him had done. Once she would have done everything in her power to advance him; now she would employ the same energy to destroying him.

How she loved this city. Her city! And he, Henry, was Duke of Aquitaine, but he should not remain so. That title was for her beloved son Richard; and when Richard became Duke of Aquitaine he should be so in truth. Henry was quite content to bestow titles on his sons as long as it was understood that no power went with them. His was to be the governing hand, as young Henry – proud to be called a king – was realising.

But it would not always be so. Already the people of Aquitaine were getting an inkling of the relationship between the King and the Queen; and there was no doubt where their loyalty lay. They demonstrated whenever she rode out that they regarded her as their Duchess and they would never submit to the fiery arrogant Angevin who regarded himself as the conqueror of Europe. No, they loved their Duchess Eleanor, the lady of song and learning, the adventurous Queen whose conduct had often scandalised the world, but even these scandals had only endeared her to her own people of the South.

Often she went up to the ramparts of the castle and surveyed with pride and emotion the city below her. She would gaze at the beautiful Notre Dame la Grande, and the baptistery of Saint Jean and feel young again. She remembered too when the magnificent Cathedral of Saint Pierre had been built. There were so many memories here of other days; and looking back did she regret the passing of her youth?

How could she, when the years had brought her her beloved sons? And chief of these was Richard.

She had always loved beauty in the human form and in her eyes her son was her ideal. Some might say he lacked the regular-featured handsome good looks of his elder brother Henry, but the strength of his character showed in his face, and although Eleanor loved all her children and determined to bind them to her, Richard was the one who had the cream of her devotion.

Richard was tall, his limbs were long and he was noted for the long reach of his arms. His hair was neither red nor yellow but of a colour in between, and his eyes were blue. From an early age he had shown great daring and such a strength of purpose that once he had made up his mind to complete a task he never swerved until it was done. In horsemanship, archery and all other sports he excelled, and what so enchanted the Queen was that he was equally skilled in verse making; he could sing and play the lute with the best of her troubadours. Now that she felt this fierce hatred for her husband she concentrated her love on her children and Richard especially.

He returned her love. To her he confided his ambitions. He enjoyed hearing of her adventures in the Holy Land and she loved to tell them, dramatising them, setting them to verse and glorifying them by song. They were romanticised and made enchanting stories and she and the lovers she had taken during that wild adventure were the heroine and heroes of a story as entertaining and romantic as that of Arthur, Guinevere and Lancelot.

‘Oh what a beautiful city this is,’ she would say. ‘My city that shall be yours, Richard. This city on a hill. Did you know that Marcus Aurelius built an amphitheatre here to hold twenty-two thousand spectators? The Saracens were routed here when they swept across France. Standing here on these ramparts you can sense it all, can you not?’

And Richard would understand as once she had thought his father would have done. For in the early days of their marriage Henry had loved literature and works of the imagination. But he had coarsened; his love of power and his lechery had done that.

‘When he enters a town,’ said Eleanor to her sons, ‘he does not see the magnificent facade of a cathedral; he does not hear the melodious ring of bells. He looks over the women and decides which he shall take to his bed to make sport with, not caring whether she be willing or not.’

‘Let us hope he does not come to Poitiers,’ said Richard.

‘We will do our best to keep him away.’

‘Why, my mother, even you could not do that.’

‘Think you not? What if I were to make the people here dislike him so that they refused to have him?’

‘That would be the very greatest inducement for him to come. He would ride into the town with his knights and soldiers in such force that none would dare stand against him.’

‘You are right, my son. Even so, I do not intend that my subjects should be kept in ignorance of the kind of man he is.’

‘Let us not think of him,’ said Richard. ‘We are happy without him.’

And so they were.

‘Let us plan a masque for tomorrow,’ she said. ‘Could you write some special verses for the occasion? What think you?’

He thought it was an excellent idea and he would set about the task at once.

So life flowed on pleasantly in Poitiers. There was many a masque, many a banquet; with her were her sons Richard and Geoffrey and even the latter was something of a troubadour; there was Marguerite, daughter of Louis and wife to young Henry, who was still in her care. Richard’s betrothed Alice, another daughter of Louis but half-sister to Marguerite, for Marguerite was the daughter of Louis’s second wife and Alice of his third, was being brought up at the English Court. Since Eleanor could not be a happy wife she could at least be a contented mother. Her sons loved her and so did her daughters. Even those whom she had deserted still had an affection for her.

These were Marie and Alix, the two she had borne Louis when she was his wife. She had loved them dearly when they were babies but she had been too adventurous a woman to devote herself to children. Marie and Alix were married now – Marie to the Count of Champagne and Alix to the Count of Blois – but they had inherited her love of literature and consequently they could best satisfy this at the court of Poitiers and whenever it was possible they visited her.

What joy it was to have her attendants hurry to her to tell her that they had arrived and then to go down to the courtyard to drink the welcoming cup with them. She believed that they bore her no rancour for her desertion of them. They, like her other children, enjoyed hearing stories of her wildly adventurous life. Marie was perhaps the more attractive of the sisters. She was beautiful and had a spontaneous wit which enchanted everyone including her mother. Marie wrote exquisite poetry herself and it gave Eleanor great pleasure to see the affection between the two most loved of her children, Marie and Richard.

It was into this happy court that the messengers came from England with the news that Thomas à Becket, Archbishop of Canterbury, had been murdered in his Cathedral.

Eleanor’s eyes shone with excitement. ‘Murdered!’ she cried. ‘And by the King’s knights! We have no doubt who is the true murderer.’

Richard and Geoffrey stared at her in horror. How wise they were! she thought. Wise enough to know the importance of this news!

‘The whole of Christendom will rise in horror against the one responsible for this crime,’ prophesied Eleanor. ‘They will all cry shame on the murderer of such a man.’

She laughed aloud. She could not stop herself.

It was going to be amusing watching the effect of this deed, for she knew it would be great. It would reverberate throughout the world and could bring no good to the man she hated.

Now was the time for his enemies to rise up against him.

She looked at her sons and said slowly: ‘The time will be soon at hand when you should claim what is due to you. The time is ripe for action.’

Chapter II