Beloved Enemy (28 page)

“Indeed, my lord. Very long.”

“I was ready a year ago.”

“Before that, my lord.”

With a sense of satisfaction, Henry recalled what had happened after leaving York at his great-uncle of Scotland’s insistence. He had made several successful forays into the south of England, picked up a host of followers, and won much acclaim. When he returned to Normandy, he had eventually been able to persuade his parents that he was now someone to be taken seriously—someone worthy of the ducal title. All that was lacking to make the title official was for him to swear homage to his overlord, King Louis of France. But there was no immediate hurry about this.

“My father says we can travel to Paris at our leisure, but I am anxious to go as soon as may be. Think on it, Jocelin, as soon as the title is official I can make plans to conquer England.”

In late spring Henry and his father were ready to leave for Paris when, without warning, rumors reached Count Geoffrey of Anjou that the French king was mustering a large army.

“It is obvious he intends to invade Normandy,” said the count.

“But why?” Henry, alternating between rage and bewilderment, could hardly believe his ears.

Count Geoffrey shrugged. “Whether this is due to the longstanding enmity between Normandy and France which periodically erupts or because Louis needs to assert himself after his catastrophic failures in the Holy Land is anybody’s guess. Perhaps he just resents the fact that someone so young and arrogant will command the duchy. In any case we must ready our forces on the border between the Vexin and France.”

Joined by Prince Eustace of England, they heard that Louis was advancing up the Seine. Henry, spoiling for battle now, was eager to engage the French king in combat. Then, at the eleventh hour, word reached them that Louis had fallen ill. All preparation for hostilities ceased; the prince returned to England. Henry, who still felt cheated by the lack of a major battle with King Stephen, was beside himself with disappointment.

When peace terms were arranged with the help of Bernard of Clairvaux, who claimed God himself had intervened to avoid bloodshed between Normandy and France, Henry gave vent to his frustration.

“Interfering old monk, why don’t you go back to your cloister where you belong!” Henry shouted at the Cistercian abbé, who had appeared in his pavilion on the Vexin border.

“The violent rages of the Angevins are well known,” said Bernard, his composure unruffled. “It is said of your family, ‘From the devil they came, to the devil they will go.’ Take heed of your demon blood, bring it under control lest it destroy you.”

Henry turned purple at this and was forcefully hustled from the cleric’s presence by Geoffrey and his squire.

In early summer Henry returned to Rouen with his father to consider the terms of the truce: he was to give up his claim to the Vexin, that much-disputed piece of land lying between Normandy and France; in return, Louis would officially recognize Henry as duke of Normandy.

“If Louis thinks to threaten me, he can think again,” Henry said, seated with his parents in the great hall of the ducal palace in Rouen over a late supper of cold roast meats and wheaten bread. “I won’t give up the Vexin.”

Geoffrey and his mother began one of their heated arguments about which course he should take. Henry escaped as soon as he decently could, distressed, as usual, by the hate-filled atmosphere created by the count and countess of Anjou whenever they were together. He counted among his earliest memories his parents’ bitter quarrels in Angers Castle. Henry cared for and respected each parent individually; when they were together he tried to avoid them.

“I intend to marry a woman who will be subordinate to me,” he said to Jocelin. “Where the affairs of a kingdom, or matters of policy are concerned, there can only be one master. Not even the Church has the right to intervene. It is a woman’s place to yield.”

Although Henry loved his mother above anyone else in the world, nevertheless he highly disapproved of the forthright, independent, and sometimes overbearing manner with which she treated his father and other men. A wife, whether she be queen or empress in her own right, had the privilege of speaking her mind, the courtesy to be listened to, and her advice, if worthy of merit, heeded. After that she should behave with submission and respect, especially where her husband was concerned.

“Of course they should yield, my lord,” said Jocelin. “But in my experience they rarely do.”

“I will have it no other way.”

The next day a party of nobles arrived from Paris and were invited to dine at the ducal palace in Rouen. They were dressed in black and wore somber expressions.

“I see you are in mourning,” Henry said. “Has someone died?”

“The French monarchy, in a manner of speaking,” one of the guests said.

“I don’t follow.”

“Have you not heard? Just two days ago the queen gave birth to another girl. There were no public demonstrations, no fires lit in celebration. The French king lies prostrate in the chapel.”

“Grace à Dieu,
this is ill news for France,” said Geoffrey thoughtfully.

“It is more like a death knell, my lord,” replied another guest. “For the first time in one hundred and fifty years France is without an heir.”

“This is not the propitious moment to do homage to Louis, my son,” Geoffrey said under his breath. “It would be more politic to wait.”

Henry shrugged. There was much to do in Normandy. He was no longer eager to pay homage to so hostile an overlord. Paris could wait.

Eleanor, trying to conceal her joy and relief, made a speedy recovery—indecently so, said the midwives who attended her—from the birth of her second child, whom she called Alix. Louis, reeling from the shock, had spent a solid week on his knees. The pope sent condolences, exhorting them to keep trying. But there was no question in Eleanor’s mind that with this birth all the doubts in Louis’s mind, laid to rest by the visit to Tusculum, returned with a vengeance. All she had to do was bide her time.

“Our marriage is cursed, Louis,” Eleanor said, assuming a mournful expression whenever she saw her husband. “Can you not see the hand of God in this affair?” She paused, eyeing him dispassionately. Pale, gaunt, dressed in black, he had aged ten years since the news of another daughter; she felt she had shed as many.

“I mentioned an annulment to Abbé Suger. He says France cannot lose Aquitaine. He is vehemently opposed to any dissolution of the marriage.”

“What good is my duchy to you when you have no son?”

Eleanor knew that many of Louis’s barons also urged an annulment. Petronilla told her that they feared Louis might die before he had an heir. The only solution was to annul this marriage and try again. Louis was always indecisive; now he was maddeningly so. Eleanor realized she must be patient. A false step now would be fatal to any hope of freedom.

In January of the new year 1151, Abbé Suger, now getting on in years, fell ill and died. Louis, who had rarely taken a major decision without the abbé peering over his shoulder, was inconsolable.

“Send for Abbé Bernard,” Eleanor told Louis. Instinct told her that the Cistercian monk could, unwittingly, aid her cause. He would care nothing about France’s loss of Aquitaine. The spiritual realm was all that concerned him.

Before Louis could act, Bernard of Clairvaux arrived at the Cité Palace, obviously eager to step into the breach.

“This marriage is an offense in God’s eyes,” he told both Louis and Eleanor as they sat on their thrones in the great hall. “Abbé Suger—
requiescat in pace
—would not listen to me, being more concerned with affairs of state. Neither would the pope.” He made no effort to conceal the note of triumph in his voice. “From the very beginning this marriage was cursed. I said so then; I say so now. Can you doubt this any longer?” He bent his burning gaze on Louis.

Louis turned his head to look at her. Their eyes met in a long stare. Eleanor held her breath. Holy Mother, please let him—

“No,” he said, in an anguished voice. “I doubt no longer.”

She had won. Now, nothing stood between her and complete freedom.

O
N A STIFLING DAY
in August, in the year 1151, accompanied by several grooms and two squires, Henry, Duke of Normandy, and his father, Count Geoffrey of Anjou, rode toward Paris.

“Remember, when we meet with Louis of France leave the talking to me,” Geoffrey said. “He is still smarting from his accumulated losses—the crusade, his failure to defeat us last year, the death of Abbé Suger. I’ve heard he is prickly as a porcupine.”

“Hmm.” Henry suppressed a yawn. “Everyone’s forgotten about the crusade by now. They’re more likely to remember how ill he fared in Normandy.”

The count, who had finally deemed the time was ripe for Henry to swear homage, had been giving him the benefit of his advice ever since they left Rouen, and Henry was growing impatient.

“That’s beside the point. I’m trying to teach you how to conduct yourself at the French court.”

“Which is to do and say nothing.”

“Exactly. Do not bring up the terms of the truce proposed by Louis and Bernard of Clairvaux. We must not give up the Vexin until we observe how matters lie at the French court. Be guided by me.

“I’m more interested in Paris than the court. Are the girls fair?”

Geoffrey shrugged impatiently. “The girls in Paris are made like any other. We’re not going to France so you can sample the brothels but to do homage to King Louis for Normandy. Remember your position: you’re a duke now.” He turned his head toward Henry with a relenting sigh. “But only eighteen years of age, after all. The world is your trough; I suppose you must enjoy it while you can. But when I was only seventeen, let me tell you, I was married, burdened with responsibilities …”

Henry stopped listening. They were riding beside a lush green meadow backed by a rosy apple orchard. The sky was a deep hot blue; not a breath of wind stirred the apple-laden boughs. Duke of Normandy, he repeated to himself, still relishing his good fortune, still eternally grateful to his mother, the countess of Anjou—although she preferred to be addressed by her first husband’s title, empress—who had relinquished her claim to the duchy in his favor.

“You’re not suitably dressed, my son,” the count was saying now, glancing with disapproval at Henry’s scuffed black boots and shabby brown cloak. “And your mantle is far from fashionable, as I’ve told you. The style is for shorter mantles. You
must
get a new one made.”

Henry, who never cared what he wore, shrugged. “If Louis objects, so much the better. I’m not a mincing peacock and I would have him know it.” He bit his tongue and glanced quickly at his father, fearful he might have offended him. The count’s preoccupation with his appearance was well known.

“I wasn’t thinking of Louis but his wife. Queen Eleanor has a most aesthetic sensibility. You will regret looking so slovenly.”

Henry was about to say he did not care what the queen or anyone thought, but there was something in Geoffrey’s voice that bade him hold his tongue—and also intrigued him. How well did Geoffrey know Louis’s wife? He eyed his father curiously. Turned out in his favorite colors of blue and green, Geoffrey sat astride his dappled horse with his usual air of nonchalant elegance. Not a hair was out of place, nor, despite the heat of the day, was there a drop of perspiration on his brow. God’s eyes! Henry wiped away the sweat dripping from his forehead. How he envied his father! The count had the best seat of any horseman he knew. His horsemanship, like everything else he did, was controlled, effortless, and accomplished with panache.

Well, there was little use in wishing himself other than he was. Instead, Henry tried to recall everything he had heard about the French queen who, quite obviously, had made such a lasting impression on his father. Most important, of course, the legendary Eleanor held Aquitaine in her own right. In addition, she was reputed to be beautiful, spoiled, tempestuous—and she had announced to the world that Louis was more monk than husband. The fact that she was said to be a constant thorn in the side of Holy Church was all to her credit.

Henry also had a vague recollection of hearing about some scandal that had occurred during the crusade to the Holy Land but he couldn’t remember the details. Gossip held no interest for him, and he was apt to forget what he’d heard moments after he’d heard it.

“What possessed Louis to take his wife on crusade?” he asked his father.

“What an extraordinary question. But the answer is I don’t think he had a choice. He’s hopelessly in love with Eleanor, always has been, and can deny her very little.”

“Poor fool. It’s a fatal mistake to let the heart reign in these matters.”

Geoffrey threw him an amused look. “There speaks our champion in the lists of love, with all the wisdom of his mature years.”

“Well, I’ve heard you say that women take advantage of men foolish enough to love them.”

“Grace à Dieu,
did I say that? Then it must be true. Of course, Eleanor is not your ordinary woman.”

Henry gave his father a sharp look. Again that slight change in voice. Just ahead lay the city gates, and they joined a flock of merchants, clergymen, and knights lining up to enter Paris.

“Speaking of Eleanor, let me repeat that Louis is very upset these days so please try to behave with circumspection,” Geoffrey continued.

“So you already said. Upset about something other than the crusade and Abbé Suger and his failure to engage us in battle?”

They rode through the city gates and were assailed by an incessant din of voices, the mingled odors of hot roast chestnuts, spices, sizzling fat, and ripe cherries. They had to force their way through the leisurely promenade of the crowd of people. Henry was struck by the beat of the city, its air of throbbing excitement, so different from Rouen, which seemed a placid backwater by comparison.

The count raised his voice in order to be heard. “There are rumors, thick as flies, that there will be an annulment of his marriage on the grounds of consanguinity. Or that is the excuse being used. Everyone knows it is because the queen has provided no heir, only two daughters.”