The Courts of Love: The Story of Eleanor of Aquitaine (47 page)

Matilda was in deep trouble and was leaving Saxony for the protection of her father. Her marriage to Henry the Lion had been a happy one domestically but there was always trouble in the German states.

Henry the Lion had been quarreling for some time with his first cousin, the powerful German Emperor Frederick, and a year or so before, after a great deal of conflict between them, Duke Henry had been condemned by diet at Wrzburg to forfeit all his lands. Naturally he refused. Hence the Emperor laid siege to Brunswick, where Henry and Matilda were living.

Matilda already had three children: Richenza and two boys, Henry and Otto, and she was pregnant at the time of the siege. The Emperor, in a chivalrous gesture when he heard of her plight, sent her a tun of wine and raised the siege. Whether he did this for altruistic reasons or whether it was because Matilda was the daughter of the most formidable soldier in Europe, I am not sure. It might have been a little of each.

In due course Matilda gave birth to Lothair.

But this time Henry the Lion realized the hopelessness of his position. Fearing the power of the Emperor, his followers deserted him and he was left with no alternative but to accept the Emperor’s terms. These were harsh. He was to be banished from Germany for seven years, and during that time he must have the Emperor’s permission if he wished to visit his country; only a few possessions were left to him—Brunswick, Luneburg, Hanover, Zell and Wolfenbttel which, though considerable, were a small part of what he had previously owned.

King Henry had been watching affairs in Germany closely and he came to the assistance of his son-in-law. The Emperor had no wish to quarrel with one as powerful as the King of England, and he agreed that the period be reduced to four years and that the King’s daughter, Matilda, should be allowed to remain in Brunswick with her children. The choice was hers. She might live in freedom on the estates left to her family, or if she wished to go with her husband, stewards would be appointed to look after her property. Matilda chose to follow her husband.

Thus it was that at this time, when my son Henry was in a precarious position, wondering whether his father would discover his perfidy toward his brother, this diversion arose to turn the King’s thoughts from Aquitaine.

Little Lothair was too young to undertake the journey, and he must be left for a while, but Henry the Lion, with Matilda and the three children, Richenza, Henry and Otto, set out for Normandy.

The King met them there. He was deeply touched to be reunited with his daughter. He had such plans for his sons but I think it was his daughters who brought him the most joy.

Almost as soon as they arrived, Matilda’s husband, overcome with humiliation because of what had happened to him, decided he must go on a pilgrimage to St. James of Compostela, who was at this time the most popular of all the saints; pilgrims from all over Europe were going to visit his shrine. There were springing up inns all along the road to Compostela, and whether or not the saint answered the prayers of those who prayed at his shrine, he certainly provided prosperity for the innkeepers.

There were great preparations for his departure, and before he left Matilda was pregnant again.

I do believe that for a short time at Argentan the King forgot his troubles and gave himself up to his grandchildren, in whom he found great pleasure. Matilda told me about it afterward. She herself was surprised. The grandchildren adored him. It was amazing, said Matilda, to see Richenza climbing all over him, and the boys shouting with glee as he played war games with them. When he told them about the battles in which he had fought, they listened in silent awe; he wanted to spend as much time with them as he possibly could, and for once he forgot his dominions.

I could never feel indifferent about Henry. I could hate him fiercely. Who would not hate a husband who had kept her incarcerated for years? But I understood him. He had to keep me incarcerated, for how did he know what I would do if I were free? I was sorry for him in a way as I was not for myself. My captivity had given me time for reflection. My mind had always been too active for it to become sluggish. Here I was removed from events, looking in from the outside and finding it all fascinating. I was not one to sit down and weep for my misfortunes. I could see many sides to every question and, because I was so interested in people, I could understand their motives and realize that from their point of view they were in the right.

My feelings for Henry were similar to those he had had for Becket. I had loved him; I had hated him; but always he had been of vital interest to me, and I could picture his snatching that brief period at Argentan when Matilda’s children played with him, showed their pleasure in having him with them and gave him what he had missed in his own children.

Young Henry could not learn his lessons. As soon as his father was no longer there to overawe him, his ambitions began to return; and there was Bernard de Borne to feed them.

Bernard de Borne probably suggested that he had been too meek with his father. Men like the King of England understood strength and respected it.

Aquitaine was now out of the question. Richard was securely installed. The King had shown that he stood firmly behind him on that matter, and Henry must needs accept that this was so, and although the people thought Henry might bring softer rule, they had no wish to go to war.

There was Normandy, of course. Why should he not have Normandy?

With the praises of Bernard de Borne ringing in his ears, he wrote to his father demanding that he be given control of Normandy.

The reply came back. The King had no intention of relinquishing any of his possessions while he lived. He expected his sons to serve him and reminded Henry of the oath he had taken to do just that.

More frustrated than ever, raging inwardly, listening to the flattering poems of Bernard de Borne, young Henry looked around for trouble.

It came when he discovered that Richard had built a castle near the frontiers of Poitiers but which was actually in Anjou. Anjou, of course, was territory which would become Henry’s on his father’s death, and in building the castle Richard had encroached on land not his. This was the opportunity. Henry wrote to his father demanding that the castle be handed over to him.

I could imagine the King’s groans when he read of this. I wondered if he went into one of his rages. Perhaps not; there would be no point in doing so. This squabbling in the family was dangerous. Did these sons of his not see that their strength was in their union! He wrote to Richard telling him he must immediately hand over the castle to Henry as it had been built on land not his.

Richard’s reply was a blank refusal. The castle was necessary for defense.

“Hand it over or I shall come and take it,” replied the King.

Richard was first and foremost a soldier; he and the King should have been close; it was a pity they disliked each other. The King knew that Richard was a good soldier. How well they could have worked together for the aggrandizement of the Plantagenet empire! But Richard hated him because of his treatment of me; and there was another matter: Alais Capet, who had been destined for Richard and with whom the King had fallen in love. His feelings for Alais were, I believe, similar to those he had had for Rosamund Clifford. It went deeper than lust. Both women were beautiful and gentle. I had been beautiful but never gentle. They were the kind of women he needed—not to plague him but always to be there to soothe him, with no recriminations when he returned from those little respites which he allowed himself. I believed he really loved Alais. Every time the proposed marriage with Richard was brought up, he eluded it. Richard would always remind him of the wrong he had done his son; and people hate those whom they have wronged. Thus his feelings for Richard, who would have been a man after his own heart.

Richard was too wise to enter into conflict with his father. He wrote back that he would never give the castle to his brother who had been working against him with the object of taking Aquitaine. The castle was necessary to the defense of Poitiers. If the King would judge for himself the importance of the castle to Aquitaine, he would be prepared to accept his decision.

The King immediately realized that the castle was important for defense, otherwise Richard would not have built it in that particular spot, and as it was very necessary to defend Aquitaine, he was sure that Richard was right. He wrote back that he accepted Richard’s decision; he himself would decide about the castle when he saw it.

He was deeply disturbed, I was sure, about this discord in the family and he sent for Henry, Richard and Geoffrey to come to Caen, ostensibly to celebrate Christmas, but in fact he wanted a full understanding that these quarrels between them must stop: he wanted to impress on them the importance of solidarity in the family. He must have hoped that the Christmas spirit would incline his sons to reason.

I wished I had been there at that Christmas. Matilda’s presence would have helped perhaps, but young Henry, spurred on by the flattery of de Borne and the conviction that he had been cheated of his rights, was determined to make trouble.

Christmas fare had been provided in plenty: pies of all description, game, great joints of pig and lamb, and all the best wines obtainable. The King, of course, was impatient of such feasting, but it all had to be provided to give an air of Christmas festivity.

Yet there was little of the Christmas spirit that Christmas. Henry began by reminding his sons that they had taken an oath to serve him, and now they were warring together. He insisted that they swear an oath of fidelity toward each other.

I wondered what young Henry must have been feeling. Could he refuse to take the oath? He would not dare. And yet could he at this very time be conspiring to take Aquitaine from Richard?

The King’s affection for his eldest son continued to amaze me. How much wiser he would have been to give it to Richard. Surely he must see by now how worthless Henry was. But always he placated him; always he hoped to reform him; always he tried to achieve the impossible.

He went on to say that Henry was the eldest. They must remember that. One day he would be King of England. He himself held the rights over all their possessions at this time, but in due course Henry, as King, would have them. Richard would remember that he held Aquitaine through the will and grace of his brother Henry, and Geoffrey so held Brittany. The King wished them all to swear fealty to the brother who would one day be King.

How different Richard was from Henry. He was completely outspoken and immediately declared that he would not swear fealty to his brother. He pointed out with vigor that he had received Aquitaine through his mother, and that I had always intended that he should rule it; it was apart from any of the King’s dominions. He had paid homage to the King of France as his vassal; that was traditional; he would swear fealty to no other.

I think the King must have been shaken. He was so used to browbeating everyone but he could not do that with Richard. He was always logical and mostly shrewd. What Richard said was true. Aquitaine was mine, not his, and I had given it to Richard.

There was a duel of words between them; the King could not give way and yet he knew that Richard was in the right. How foolish he was not to have grappled Richard to his side and let the others go. But this was one of the occasions when Henry was ruled by his affections rather than his common sense. Dearly he loved his eldest son, and nothing could alter that.

I daresay he found it easy to whip up his anger against Richard because he had wronged him so much. I wondered if it were true that Alais had borne his child. There had been rumors.

“You will obey me,” he shouted.

Richard retorted that he would do no such thing.

“Aquitaine is mine,” he cried. “Given by my mother whom
you
have treated so shamefully. How dare you imprison the Queen? How dare you rob her of her freedom! Because you are afraid of her? That could be the only reason. You shall not treat me as you have treated her. And I tell you this: one day I shall free her. We shall snap our fingers at you. I shall swear fealty to neither you nor to my brother.”

How thrilled I was when those words were reported to me! He meant them. He always meant what he said. He was not called “Richard Yea and Nay” for nothing. He had not forgotten me, and that love which had always been between us remained.

I could imagine Henry’s fury. I could picture him, standing there, bow legs apart, face scarlet with rage, eyes flashing. It would not be the moment for childish rage. His voice would be cold and precise when he said: “By God’s eyes, I will not be treated thus by my own son. We will teach Master Richard a lesson.”

What a Christmas that must have been at Caen. And I not there to see it!

The King must soon have realized his folly. Teach Richard a lesson! What could that mean but that young Henry had his father’s consent to take Aquitaine, but when he heard that Henry and Geoffrey were riding to Aquitaine, gathering supporters as they went, he must have been overcome with dismay.

There were times when even his doting affection had to be seen for what it was. Henry with Aquitaine! How long would he hold it? And Geoffrey, the young fool, with him! What were those boys thinking of? They had no sense. They wanted to
take,
all the time; they never wanted to
give
anything. They thought ruling was all pleasure. They had no notion of what it meant to govern wisely.

Would Richard be able to hold out against them? He was infinitely superior in the field, but in battle numbers often counted.

Young Henry was in Limoges, the town which had acclaimed him as their Duke. The King must go to Limoges with all speed.

He was soon approaching the town. There could be no doubt who he was, for his standard-bearer carried the pennon above his head, which announced to all that here was the King of England. Arrows were falling about him; one pierced his cloak. It must have been aimed directly at him. From whom could the order have come? From his son Henry? His men gathered around him and told him he must return to the camp at once. It was obvious that there was an intention to kill him.