The Revolt of the Eaglets (6 page)

He remembered suddenly who she was. Of course she was Alice, daughter of the King of France, and she was being brought up here because she was betrothed to his son Richard.

‘I trust you are pleased to see me,’ said the King.

John smiled; Joanna looked alarmed but Alice replied: ‘It gives us great pleasure, my lord.’

He laid his hand on her soft curling hair.

‘And do you know who I am, little one?’

‘You are the King,’ she answered.

‘Our father,’ added John.

‘You are right,’ said Henry. ‘I have come to see how you are all getting on in your nursery. Come, Joanna, it is time for you to speak.’

‘We get on well, my lord,’ murmured the little girl shyly.

He picked her up and kissed her. Children were charming. Then he picked up John and did the same. When he set him down he looked at Alice. She blushed slightly. ‘And you, my lady,’ he said, ‘I must offer you like treatment, must I not?’

He lifted her in his arms. Her face was close to his. The texture of children’s skin was so fine, so soft. Even beauties like Rosamund could not compare with them. It gave him great pleasure to hold this beautiful child in his arms. He kissed her soft cheek, but he did not put her down. He went on holding her. He looked into her eyes so beautifully set. Richard, he thought, you have a prize in this one. The idea of monk-like Louis siring such a perfect little creature amused him.

John and Joanna were looking up at him. He held Alice against him and kissed her again, this time on the mouth.

‘You kiss Alice more than you kiss us,’ said John.

Henry put the girl down. ‘Well, she is our guest so we must make sure she knows she is welcome.’

‘Is Alice our guest then?’ asked John. ‘They say she is our sister.’

‘She is to be your sister and she is our guest.’ He took one of her ringlets and curled it round his finger. ‘And I want her to know that there was never a more welcome one in my kingdom. What say you to that, little Alice?’

She said: ‘My lord is good.’

He knelt down, feigning to hear her better, but in fact to put his face closer to her own.

‘I like you well,’ he said; and he patted her face and his hands went to her shoulders and moved over her childish unformed body.

He stood up.

‘Now I will sit down and you shall tell me how you progress in your lessons.’ He looked at John whose expression had become a little woebegone.

‘Well, well, my son,’ he said, for his spirits were higher than they had been since he had heard of Becket’s death, ‘we’ll not go too far into the subject if it is not a pleasant one, for this is an occasion for rejoicing.’

He took Alice’s hand in one of his and Joanna’s in the other and led the way to the window. He seated himself there. John leaned against one knee and Joanna against the other. ‘Come, Alice, my dear child,’ he said, and drawing her between his knees held her close to him. ‘Now,’ he said, ‘we are a friendly party. John, my son, I have come to see you because I have some good news for you.’

‘For me, my lord,’ cried John starting to leap up and down.

‘You must not do that,’ said Joanna.

‘Oh, we will let him express a little joy, daughter,’ said the King, ‘for it is a most joyful matter. I have a bride for him.’

‘A bride,’ said John. ‘What is that?’

‘He is too young to understand,’ said Alice.

‘Of course,’ said the King tenderly stroking her arm. ‘But you are not, my little one. You have been betrothed have you not … to my son Richard?’

‘Yes, my lord,’ said Alice.

‘You are too young as yet to go to him,’ went on the King and was amazed at the relief he felt. It would be unendurable to allow this beautiful child to go to some bumbling boy. Richard of course was handsome, but he was too young yet.

‘It will be soon though,’ said Alice.

‘No,’ said the King firmly. ‘There is some time yet.’

‘What about me?’ said John.

‘Listen to our young bridegroom. Joanna, Alice, my dears, listen to him!’

‘You said it was
my
bride, Father.’

‘So it is, my son. I have found you a bride who will bring much good to you and us, and her father and I have agreed that when you are old enough you shall be married. Her name is … why, she has the prettiest name in the world. What do you think it is? Alice! The same as my dear daughter here. Alice, I have already grown to love that name.’

She smiled delightedly. A little dimple appeared in her cheek when she did so.

‘You are a dear child,’ he said, ‘and I love you.’ He held her tightly against him and kissed her warmly on the cheek.

John was asking impatient questions. How big was his bride? Could she play games? Was she pretty? Was she good at her lessons?

‘She is all these things,’ said the King, ‘and she is very happy to be my daughter and your wife.’

John laughed delightedly. He was a charming little fellow, his youngest son. The others had always resented him in some way. That was their mother’s influence, he was sure. It was very different in the nursery now. He must visit it more often.

Of course his illegitimate son Geoffrey was no longer there. He was being tutored in knighthood. A fine boy, Geoffrey. He had always preferred him to Eleanor’s brood. But his son Henry was so handsome that he would have liked there to be a closer bond between them. As for Richard he was so much his mother’s boy that it seemed they could never feel anything but enmity for each other.

John was different – the youngest child whose love for his father had never been tainted by his mother’s venom.

From now on John would be a favourite of his. He would visit the nursery frequently, and it would not be a duty but a real pleasure. The main reason was that enchanting little creature Alice. A little beauty in the making if he knew anything and from the experience he had had he should know a good deal.

Dear sweet creature, what good she had done him. She had stopped him thinking of the changed attitude of Rosamund and chief of all the murder of Thomas à Becket.

He would be ready to sail for Ireland in August. So far he had kept the papal legates at bay. They would not let the matter rest there, he knew. What would they want of him? Some sort of penance he supposed and if he refused to make it – excommunication. It was not good for a King to suffer that. His subjects were superstitious and if they feared that the hand of God was against him they would turn from him and even those who remained loyal would lose heart. He believed that when men went into battle they must be well equipped for the fight, not only materially but spiritually. They must believe in victory if they were to achieve it. This had been one of the firm beliefs of his great-grandfather, William the Conqueror, who insisted on seeing good in omens when other men feared they might be evil. I only believe in omens when they are good ones, his grandfather, Henry I, had said; and he had proved himself to be one of the most astute rulers ever known.

Therefore he wanted no excommunication. But time was a good ally. The longer the delay between the murder and the bringing home of the guilt the better. Passions cooled and as long as there were not too many miracles at the shrine of Canterbury, he could weather this storm as he had so many others.

Ireland now faced him.

He was on his way to Portsmouth when news came to him that the old Bishop of Winchester was sick and thought to be dying, and was asking to see the King.

There was nothing Henry could do but visit the old man; one did not refuse a dying request.

Poor old man! He was indeed in his last extremities. No doubt he was ready to go, for he had been blind for a long time.

He was the brother of Stephen who had usurped the throne which should by rights have belonged to Henry’s mother, Matilda; and the Bishop of Winchester had been one of his – brother’s main props, although there had been a time when he had been so exasperated by Stephen’s folly that he had been almost ready to turn to Matilda. That was long ago and wrong had been righted for he, Henry Plantagenet, grandson of King Henry I, was King of England.

He found the Bishop very close to death but he seemed to revive a little when he realised the King had come.

‘My lord King is good to answer my last request.’

‘My dear Bishop, much as I dislike requests from my clergy, I hope it will not be the last from you.’

‘Ah, you see me, my lord, both frail and full of years, and you can have no doubt – as I have none – that my time is come.’

‘May God bless your soul, Bishop.’

‘And yours, my lord. You will know why I wished to see you, why I wished to speak with you before I left this earth for ever. I fear for you, my lord.’

‘Be of good cheer. I have taken care of myself and my kingdom for many years. Fear not, I shall go on doing so whatever befalls.’

‘It is what may befall, my lord, which makes me fearful.’

‘Have you brought me here to utter gloomy prophecies, Bishop?’

‘My lord, you know I refer to the murder.’

‘Few refer to anything else now. I am a little weary of the subject.’

‘You must be very sick at heart, my lord.’

‘The Archbishop is dead. Nothing can bring him back. When a man has a kingdom to govern he cannot indulge in prolonged mourning because a subject is no more.’

‘Thomas was no ordinary subject.’

‘Archbishop of Canterbury no less, though for some years he preferred to forget it.’

‘You cannot deceive a dying man, my lord. You are sick at heart and fearful of consequences.’

‘Why should I be, pray?’

‘Because, my lord, you are guilty of murder and that the murder of a saint.’

‘My lord Bishop, you forget to whom you speak.’

‘I’m dying, my lord. Nothing you could do to me now could harm me. I will speak the truth in death.’

‘Is it not a cowardly thing to do – to say in death that which you feared to say in life?’

‘I would say it if I had ten years more left to me. I tremble for you, for you have murdered a saint.’

‘My lord Bishop,’ said the King affecting weariness, ‘my knights misunderstood me. I raged against the man. Who would not? He plagued me. He frustrated me at every turn. I forgave him. I allowed him to return to England after his exile and what did he do? He tried to raise the country against me.’

‘He did no such thing. That was what his enemies said against him. He was always your friend.’

The King was silent for a few moments then he burst out: ‘I had no part in his death. I did not wish him dead.’

‘My lord,’ said the Bishop lifting his hand, ‘your knights killed the Archbishop because you had led them to believe you wished it. You cannot deny that and you are responsible for his death. I fear your expiation will be terrible.’

Hot anger seized the King. He clenched his fist and wanted to crash it into those sightless eyes. But this was a dying man and a terrible fear and remorse quickly overcame his fury. He remained still with his fist raised.

‘Repent, my lord,’ murmured the Bishop. ‘Ask God’s forgiveness for this terrible deed.’

The Bishop was suddenly still. The King called out: ‘Come hither. The Bishop is dying.’

He was glad to escape from that chamber of death. He was afraid and fear made him angry.

‘Thomas,’ he muttered, ‘are you going to haunt me for ever?’

He must escape. He must shut out of his mind memories of Thomas, memories of the dying Bishop.

Normally he would go with all speed to Rosamund; now he thought the innocence of the children in the royal nursery could appease him better.

When the kings of Ireland heard that Henry Plantagenet had landed they made haste to swear fealty to him. The chiefs and kings of such places as Waterford, Cork and Limerick were all eager to avoid a war. They trembled before the might of the King of England. They were Celts, tall and elegant men and their complexions were ruddy. Their tunics were of roughly spun wool and their weapons of war were very primitive for they had nothing but swords, short lances and hatchets. Although they were quarrelsome they often appeared to have little heart for a fight; they were passionately fond of music and many of them played the harp. Their houses were of wood and wattle; their country was green and fertile, the climate warm and damp. Henry liked what he saw of it and recalled to his followers that both his grandfather and great-grandfather had planned to conquer the place, but their commitments in England and Normandy had made it impossible for them to do so. Now he, who had ever wider territories to control, was on the point of doing so.