The Revolt of the Eaglets

Chapter XVI THE CURSE OF HERACLIUS

News reached the King at Winchester that Heraclius, the Patriarch of Jerusalem, had arrived at Canterbury and that he had made the journey to England to impart news to him which he was sure would urge Henry to action.

Fearing what the visit meant, Henry could make no excuse to avoid seeing the Patriarch for his subjects must never doubt that he was a deeply religious man. He remembered with misgivings that at the time of the murder of Thomas à Becket he had taken an oath to go to Jerusalem on a crusade. He had vaguely thought he might go when his kingdom was in a fit state to be left, knowing deep in his heart that it never would be.

Now here was the Patriarch and there could be but one reason for his coming. He would be wanting to raise men or money for the preservation of the Holy City. Eager to hear what news he had brought Henry immediately granted an interview to Heraclius and Roger du Moulin, the Grand Master of the Hospitallers, who had accompanied him. The Patriarch’s first action was to offer the King the keys of Jerusalem and the Holy Sepulchre.

‘I bring ill news,’ cried Heraclius. ‘Queen Sybil of Jerusalem craves your help. Her son who is but a child is the heir to the crown and her brother Baldwin is close to death. He is sick of leprosy and his flesh is shrivelling from his bones fast. He cannot live long and the Saracens are ready to take the Holy City. It must be saved and Queen Sybil implores you to come to her aid.’

‘We shall certainly give her aid,’ said the King. ‘I will levy a tax without delay for this is a very worthy purpose.’

‘It is not money that is needed. It is a prince to lead an army against the Saracens. You are the man, oh, King, for at the time of the death of Thomas à Becket you swore that you would go to the Holy City.’

Oh, Thomas, thought Henry, shall I never escape from you? I did my penance. Was that not enough?

It was true that he had taken such an oath, but he had meant of course when the time was ripe and he had always known that the time would never be ripe. How could he, a king with far-flung dominions, ever leave them to go to the Holy Land?

‘You are the most powerful of kings,’ went on Heraclius. ‘God will bless you if you do this. If not …’

The King said quickly: ‘To leave my dominions would be a matter not so much for me to decide but for my ministers. I should first be obliged to ask their opinion. If they considered that I should go, then go I should. But it may be that they would be against it and I must needs bide by their decision.’

‘Why so, my lord? You are a king who makes his own decisions. The whole world knows it. None would dare go against your will.’

‘Nay, a king governs through the grace of his people. Rest assured I shall do all in my power to meet your wishes. The Holy Land must not be allowed to fall to the Infidel. Allow me to put this matter to my ministers and I will give you their answer.’

‘My lord, you should not let your response depend upon them. You should remember the oath you took. You should remember your duty to God. You are no longer a young man. You may be closer than you think to the throne of judgement.’

What an uncomfortable man this Heraclius was! Henry disliked him. As if he had not enough with which to concern himself without bringing this up to plague him. He was not going to Jerusalem. How could he? He could imagine the chaos which would ensue if he did. His sons at each other’s throats and at his. Eleanor who must be watched! Certainly he could not leave.

He insisted that he would put the matter to a council which he would call at once.

This he did, letting them know first that they would be brought together to discuss whether or not he was to raise an army to go and fight a crusade for the Holy City; and he made it clear that if any of them should vote for his departure they would forfeit his favour. They had to decide that on no condition could he leave his dominions and that to do so now would be to act against the wishes of God.

Eleanor was amused when she heard. She understood him so well. Go to Jerusalem! Leave Alice! Endeavour to wash away his sins! Nay, she thought, they are too numerous for that. He would need twenty such missions.

Would he go? Of course he would not. Odd as it was, although he had spent most of his life near battlefields, he was not enamoured of the fight. He had ever held that battles were wasteful and rarely brought the victor what he had been fighting for. It was so much better to discuss and manoeuvre one’s enemy into a bargain. He was adept at making bargains which proved to be advantageous to himself.

And what of her? What were his plans? She did not know. But still she remained at Court. She was not allowed much freedom. If she rode out she was always well accompanied by attendants of his choosing. Did he think she would make for the coast and take ship to France?

She had often thought of it, it was true. If she could reach Richard, together they would hold Aquitaine against all and if Henry were indeed planning to give it to John, then by God, she would do her utmost to reach him.

She thought of how excited she and Louis had been when they set out on their crusade. There was something about such a mission which fired the blood. One imagined oneself riding to glory carrying the cross. Of course it was very different on the battlefield. Death was death – not glorious, but bloody and horrible. And men were men whether they were Christian or Saracen, as she had discovered.

Ah, Saladin. What a lover he had been. And now there was another Saladin. Was it his son, his grandson? And he was threatening to take Jerusalem from the Christians!

Suppose she had married Saladin as she had once thought she might, suppose through this marriage a peace had been brought about between Saracen and Christian. If Saladin had become a Christian old Heraclius would not be here now begging Henry to go to the aid of poor leprous Baldwin.

But life did not work out like that. Instead of Saladin she had married Henry Plantagenet.

Henry meanwhile was preparing the members of his council. Considering how affairs stood in Aquitaine, Normandy and Anjou he did not feel it was the moment for him to go far away. He asked them to visualise the troubles which could arise if he were out of the way. A crusade was an expensive venture. The people would have to be taxed and how would they react to that? It was bad enough when they had to pay to keep their own country safe. He himself might win personal glory but what of his country? He had ever thought to serve his subjects and make it possible for them to live peacefully in a just community. If he were absent he did not see how he could preserve the laws of England which had been set up by his great-grandfather and strengthened by himself; and he knew that the members of his council, being wise men, would never permit him to embark on such an undertaking.

The assembly met in London; the English nobility were present with high ranking members of the Church and on a dais Henry sat side by side with his guests, Heraclius and Roger de Moulin.

The King told the assembly the reason for the mission and what great honour had been done to him. The Holy City was in peril; King Baldwin was dying of a dread disease; there was but a child to take his place; and the keys of the Holy Sepulchre had been offered to him, Henry of England. Here was an opportunity for him to win great glory to himself and wash away the sins of his lifetime. He was a king, however, who had always considered first his people. He had no will but theirs and he had summoned them thither that they might decide for him whether or not he should undertake this pilgrimage.

Heraclius rose to his feet and told the assembly that Jesus Christ and the godly throughout the world were asking the King of England to save Jerusalem. He would tell them how Saladin, the leader of the Saracens, those heathens who were the enemies of Christ, were preparing to take Jerusalem. Could true Christians stand aside and allow this to happen? Nay! For those who could do this were not true Christians.

Henry replied that he would do all in his power to save the Holy City.

He then called upon the assembly to tell him what they wished him to do.

Richard, Archbishop of Canterbury, rose to his feet. ‘My Lord King,’ he said, ‘your duty lies in your dominions.’

Heraclius turned on the Archbishop.

‘My lord Archbishop,’ he cried thunderously, ‘I call on another Archbishop, a saint, a martyr. He was done to death on the stones of his Cathedral and at that time the King swore an oath that he would go to Jerusalem.’

‘If it was in his power to do so,’ replied the Archbishop. ‘But our lord the King swore another oath at his coronation. In it he declared that he would always watch over the welfare of his subjects. That oath, my lords, being the tenure of the crown, supersedes all other oaths. A crusade to Palestine cannot be compared with the duties of a king. And for this reason my lord King, and my lord Patriarch, the King must stay in his own dominions.’

Henry nodded his head slowly.

‘I see that the members of my council speak with good sense. My heart will go to Palestine but I must perforce remain here. My duty must be done.’ Heraclius was about to burst forth in his indignation when Henry said: ‘I will give fifty thousand to the cause and if any of my subjects desire to join a crusade I shall do all in my power to help them.’

‘I have not come for money,’ cried Heraclius. He turned on Henry in his fury, for he knew full well that these men would never have dared to decide against him unless primed by the King. It was Henry’s decision and Henry’s only. ‘As for you, sir,’ he went on, ‘you have hitherto reigned with an abundance of glory, but know this: God whose cause you have abandoned is now about to abandon you. You will see what happens to you as the result of your ingratitude. You make excuses. You say you must stay and protect your subjects. You murdered the Archbishop of Canterbury and you refuse an expiation of your guilt in that crime to undertake this Holy War.’

At the mention of Thomas à Becket the colour flamed into the King’s cheeks and his eyes gleamed murderously.

‘Do not believe that I dread your fury,’ cried Heraclius. ‘Cut off my head if you will. Treat me as you treated St Thomas à Becket. I had rather die by your hand in England than by the Saracen in Syria. I esteem the Saracens more than I do you.’

Henry trembled with rage. He could never listen unmoved when Thomas was mentioned. For a few moments he was on the point of shouting to those about him to seize the Patriarch, throw him into a dungeon and there put out his eyes.

Heraclius showed no fear. He was sick at heart though. He must find a noble prince, rich and strong, who would come with him and save Jerusalem.

‘Give me one of your sons,’ he pleaded. ‘If you will not save your soul yourself, let one of them come on your behalf.’

‘I need my sons.’

‘God needs them.’

Henry thought: Richard? Geoffrey? John? No, never. He must keep them close to him. He must know what they were doing. He could not trust one of them.

‘God gave me great lands to defend,’ said the King. ‘I must needs defend them. If I left, my sons would fight among themselves. My duty lies here.’

The Patriarch knew that he was defeated.

‘You and your sons … you came from the Devil and to the Devil you will return. No good will come to you, Henry Plantagenet, for you have turned your face from God.’

Henry left the chamber. There was only one who could soothe him and make him forget the Patriarch’s dismal prophecies: Alice.

Henry was shaken. Was it true, he asked himself, that God had forsaken him?

His sons were not to be trusted – even John, his youngest, his beloved now. What was the use of pretending? Could he trust John? What sort of man was he growing up to be?

He sent for him and John came readily. The boy knew that now his brother Henry was dead he was his father’s favourite son.

John, sly, well versed in villainy, for his tutors had seen which way his inclinations lay and encouraged him, was looking for the advantage. He despised his father with the contempt of the young for the old. John believed he was on the threshold of a life of power and adventure and that his father was nearing the end of his.

In the past he had watched his father in the castle, seen his eyes linger on women, watched him fondle them and take them away to his bedchamber. It was not long before John was experimenting in this game which men said had been an obsession with his father. John understood his father’s inclinations in that direction. They were his own.

And now, who knew what was in store for him? Geoffrey had offended his father beyond forgiveness because his men had actually shot arrows at the King while he looked on. As for Richard the King had never liked him. That left John.

The old man could be quite maudlin at times.

John had heard the appeal of Heraclius and one of his cronies had told him of his mother’s adventures in the Holy Land when she had been old Louis’s wife. His mother had known how to enjoy life even as his father did! John thought he would like to go to the Holy Land. Nothing could be more amusing than to lead a riotous life on the journey and then get your penance at the shrine.

So when he presented himself to his father, he began by kneeling and telling him that he wished to go to the Holy Land.

‘Let me go, Father,’ he said. ‘There I shall gain redemption for your sins as well as my own.’

‘Nay, my son. There is too much to be guarded here,’ replied the King. ‘I could not let you go.’

‘But, Father, Heraclius has cursed you.’

‘God will not listen to his curses.’

‘Is he not a good man – the Patriarch of Jerusalem?’

‘That is a title. He comes to me because he wishes to save his own position. He cares not what would happen here. And what do you think would happen here? And what do you think would happen if I went away?’

‘You have sons, Father.’

‘Ah, John, that should be a comfort to me, should it not? But is it, think you? Geoffrey, Richard … When have they ever been good sons to me?’

‘You have another.’

‘You, John, my youngest. All my hopes are in you now.’

‘Father, I shall do my best to show you that your trust is not misplaced.’

‘I count on you, John. You are to go to Ireland. Your dominions there need you. As you know I sent Hugh de Lacy to hold Ireland for me, but I no longer trust him. He has married the daughter of the King of Connaught. He did not ask my permission for this marriage but tells me it was contracted in the manner of the country. I recalled him but found it expedient to send him back, for there was no doubt that he had great knowledge of the country and seemed the best man – and this was helped by his marriage – to hold it for me. He is an ambitious man and I believe thinks to set himself up as King of Ireland. That, my son, is an honour which I have reserved for you.’

John considered this. Ireland seemed a good exchange for the Holy Land. Ireland would be his. He was King of Ireland. If he went to the Holy Land it would be as the King’s son; he would be at the head of troops but there would doubtless be others of higher rank. In Ireland he would be King.

‘Father,’ he said, ‘my spirit longs to go on a crusade. I am young but I have committed sins and would wish to receive forgiveness for them. I know that you have been deeply affected by the curses of Heraclius and I wished to pray for you at the Holy Shrine. But you have decreed that it is not to be this time. I will do my duty as you show it to me. I will go to Ireland and pray God that I may act in such a way as will please you and make you rejoice that you have one son who will obey you without question.’

The King embraced John.

This was indeed his beloved son.

John then set about preparing for the journey and before the month was out sailed from Milford Haven with sixty ships in which were three hundred knights and a company of archers.

Within a day they had landed at Waterford.

If only his other sons were as obedient as John!

Geoffrey was of little account. Geoffrey was pleasure-loving and more given to sporting at tournaments than on the battlefield. This was a pity, for Geoffrey had a ready wit and was quick to assess a situation. His marriage was successful; he had a daughter, Eleanor, and his wife would most likely bring him more children. He should hold Brittany satisfactorily.

The son who caused him most concern was of course Richard. The question of when he was going to marry was continually being brought forward. It was becoming farcical. Alice was now twenty-five. All those years she had been his mistress and still was. She seemed young to him because of the great difference in their ages and she had become a habit. If he were not so passionately desirous now as he had been, he still cherished her; and in his desire for her was a certain amount of hatred against Richard and the King of France. He had to keep Alice. If he let her go now the story of her seduction would surely be discovered. Alice was mature; she had borne him a child. She was not going to be mistaken for a virgin. Then the scandal would break. His enemies would revel in it, magnify it. He could imagine what old Heraclius would do with it.

He had survived one scandal, the murder of Thomas. How would he fare if the story of Alice’s seduction at twelve, her life with him for thirteen years when he had held her in spite of the importunings of Richard and her family, was known? What would the world say to that?

They would say he was a monster. They would recall that his ancestress was a witch; they would say that the Anjou family was born of the Devil.

He had been young when Thomas was murdered; his sheer vitality and quick mind had brought him through that. Now sometimes he felt an old and beaten man. And every time his sons rebelled against him he felt a little more vulnerable.

His presence was needed in Normandy and he left England beset by many problems. He was thinking a great deal about Richard who had defied him when he refused to give up Aquitaine. As he saw it now, Richard would be King of England. He could not have Aquitaine as well. Richard must give up Aquitaine to John.

Suddenly it occurred to him that there was one person to whom Richard would relinquish his Duchy: his mother.

He sent for Eleanor to come to Normandy, selecting a suitable escort for her.

Eleanor was excited.

What did this mean? It must be a change in her fortune. It was years since she had crossed the Channel. Henry must be realising at last that he was making too many enemies by keeping her captive.

When she arrived he received her with courtesy and she was very eager to hear what he had to say.

‘My lord, to what do I owe this honour?’ she asked as soon as he granted her a private audience.

‘I want to talk to you.’

‘I knew you would want something,’ she mocked. ‘I did not expect you would have brought me here otherwise. Why, Henry, you look perplexed. Has old Heraclius been bothering you with his curses?’

‘He bothers me not.’

‘They say he is a very holy man.’

‘He is a man who, like most, has his own interests at heart.’

‘As you say, who has not? And what are yours this moment?’

‘I would have you remember that you are here by my clemency.’

‘I am not likely to forget it. You and your servants constantly remind me.’

‘I have sent for you as I wish to discuss Aquitaine with you.’

‘Ah?’ She raised her eyebrows. ‘I am all attention.’

‘Richard refuses to give it up.’

‘Rightly so. He has fought for it.’

‘There should have been no need to fight for it.’

‘Nor would there have been, if my people had seen me treated in accordance with my rank.’

‘Your people if they have good sense will know that you played traitor to your husband and because he is a king he has a way of dealing with traitors.’

‘They like not to see me in captivity.’

‘Then mayhap they will be pleased to see the land restored to you.’

‘What mean you, Henry?’

‘That I am commanding Richard to give back Aquitaine to you.’

‘To me.’ Her eyes were alight with excitement. He watched her closely. This was the way to act.

‘Richard must by nature of his age be my heir. He will have England, Normandy, Anjou, all that Henry would have had, had he lived. We have another son, John. I would have my dominions divided equally.’

‘So you want Aquitaine for John.’

‘I want Aquitaine for you.’

‘And I shall return to my country.’ For a moment her emotions were too much for her to control. ‘Oh, my God, how I have longed to be there. How the cold of Salisbury Castle has seeped into my bones. I long for the sun.’

He was silent, watching her. If Aquitaine were hers and she was the only one to whom Richard would give it, and she was his prisoner, he it was who would have control of that land.

She was aware of his eyes upon her and she thought: Once it is mine I will bestow it on Richard again as I did before. Aquitaine is for Richard. He belongs there as he never did to England. He is my son and Aquitaine shall be for him.

‘This will be the way to restore order to Aquitaine,’ she said.

Eleanor had not felt so excited for years. At last her imprisonment was over. She was going to be free, free to hold her own Court, to gather round her the troubadours of the South, to intrigue with her beloved Richard against his father.