The Courts of Love: The Story of Eleanor of Aquitaine (42 page)

I laughed. The arrogance of the man had to be admired. He really believed he only had to promise me a return of his affection—at least, I supposed that was what he was hinting at—and I would come running to him. I suppose he would have dismissed poor Rosamund Clifford, with whom he had been living more or less openly when he was in England.

I ignored him but Henry was not the man to relinquish his desires lightly. He must have been growing really anxious, for the Archbishop came to me and said it was my bounden duty to return to my husband with my family. He had promised me his love. There was a threat in this. If I did not return I should be open to censure from the Church. This moved me not at all. I was exultant. I was enjoying my revenge.

Now the rising against Henry was in full swing, and at the heart of it were his own sons. Louis was helping, but he was an unreliable ally. He still had no stomach for war, and although he entered into it, it was possible that he might not stay the course. Alas, my son Henry was far from wise. He made rash promises to any who would support him in his efforts to take the crown from his father. I wished I could advise him, but Henry was not the sort to take advice. He thought he was so wise—as only the ignorant do—and is there anything more calculated to bring failure?

He promised the county of Kent to the Count of Flanders for his services, and to the Count of Boulogne he offered the county of Mortain and more land besides; to Thibault of Blois, Amboise and rents from Anjou; and he even offered King William of Scotland Westmorland and Carlisle if he would attack Henry on the Border. I could have wept for his ignorance and folly.

Although taxation had aroused certain resentment in England, the powerful lords had long realized Henry’s great gifts and the benefits which had come to England through his reign. The Earls of Surrey, Arundel, Essex, Salisbury and Cornwall were behind him; the barons were with him; so was the ruler of Wales. Richard de Luci could always be relied on and when he realized how far the revolt had gone, with his usual energy Henry engaged mercenaries to augment his army. Then he went into action.

William of Scotland attempted an invasion, but Henry’s illegitimate son Geoffrey, the one whom he had brought into my nurseries and who idolized him, quickly crushed that.

How foolish they had been to underrate Henry. Whatever else he was, he was the great leader, the great soldier. Louis, deciding that he had had enough, withdrew; and one by one the territories taken by rebels were won back.

Henry was in charge once more, indomitable.

But he had no wish to make war on his sons. He called a meeting with Louis. Henry was lenient. He did not want to be hard on his own flesh and blood. He loved his sons—at least he loved Henry. He had always been proud of him.

Perhaps at this time he could see his faults very clearly, and if so they must have made him anxious, but he was not one to despair. He still thought he could make a king of Henry. He understood his ambition. He offered him castles and lands.

But my sons did not see themselves as conquered. They haughtily refused them and the meeting broke up. The fighting was at an end for the time being but the boys did not go to their father; they rode back to Paris in the company of Louis.

I was well aware that Henry’s wrath would be turned against me. England was safe, and now he was left to deal with his Continental possessions. My sons were under the protection of Louis. He could not touch them. But I was not. Those about me warned me that I was in acute danger.

He was coming closer; he was passing through France, seizing the castles of those who had worked against him; and now all his immense energy was concentrated on the defeat of his enemies. He would be merciless to them, particularly as his sons were involved. That would have enraged him and I must not forget that he blamed me.

He was coming nearer and nearer to Poitiers. And why was he heading in this direction? Because he wanted to find me. He had designated me the leader of the revolt against him. I must not be here when he came, as he assuredly would.

I knew my advisers were right but I could not bring myself to go. This was my home. This was where I had my Court and my friends. I did not want to leave it.

How foolish I was! Each night I would go to bed wondering what the next day would bring forth; each morning I would say to myself: Should I go today? And I would still be in my castle when night fell.

It could not go on. There came a day when he was not many miles from the castle. His advance had been spectacular. Who would have thought he could have come so soon?

“His men will be everywhere,” I was told. “You would be recognized at once.”

They were right. I should have left long ago and I must delay no longer. I dressed myself as a man         .         .         .         a knight. I piled my hair on top of my head and put on a hat which covered it. A few of my faithful friends came with me and we set off. I rose astride and tried to assume the manners of a man. I think I succeeded rather well. My little band was becoming quite merry. I vas still young enough to enjoy adventure.

We realized how wise we were to have left. Henry’s army was very close to the city. We should have to go very carefully—perhaps travel by night and rest by day.

We had not gone very far when we ran into a party of riders. I was not disturbed because they were my own people. They stopped and talked with us for a while and told us that Henry’s forces were but a few miles away.

While we were talking, some strands of hair escaped from my hat, and in my attempt to push them out of sight my hat fell off and my hair was tumbling about my shoulders. The men stared at me. I saw the calculating look in their eyes. One of them said: “It is the Duchess.” Their attitude changed. I saw the stupidity in their faces but it was hard to believe that I could be betrayed by my own people.

I understood their reasons. Their loyalty to me was forgotten in the contemplation of the reward they would surely receive from Henry for my capture.

Their numbers were greater than ours and they were armed. And so I was led away into captivity.

Once more I came face to face with Henry. I was his prisoner now but if he expected me to humble myself before him he was mistaken.

He regarded me sardonically.

“So,” he said, “your attempt to escape has failed.”

“Because of traitors,” I said.

“Traitors to you, friends to me. I shall reward them well for their services, particularly as they are those whom you regard as your subjects.”

“Well,” I said, “what do you propose?”

“To finish with the trouble you have been causing me ever since I set eyes on you.”

“What is it to be then?”

“You will see. I give the orders, you know.”

“When did you not? Though they have not always been obeyed.”

“Do not bandy words with me.”

“I do not give a thought to you.”

His eyes narrowed. “You she-devil,” he said. “You witch.”

“I thought you were the one who was descended from witches.”

“You would be wise not to provoke me.”

“I care not what you do to me.”

“You are a traitor. Do you know what happens to traitors?”

“You were false to me         .         .         .         always, even in the early days of our marriage. Are you still as lecherous as ever? Don’t answer. I am not in the least interested.”

“You turned our sons against me.”

“I believe I have told you before that you turned them against yourself.”

“You incited them to take up arms against me.”

“They did not need to be incited. They hate you, Henry. Why do you think they do?”

“Because their mother turned them against me.”

“You insist on that old theme. What are you going to do with me? Kill me? Would you marry Rosamund? It would be scarcely fitting.”

“Be silent,” he said. “Remember you are my prisoner.”

“I ask you, what are you going to do with me?”

“You will discover in time.”

“And now?”

I could see that he was working himself up into one of his rages. I wanted to goad him, to see him roll on the floor, biting the rushes. It would give me some comfort.

He might have sensed this, for there was no rage. He looked at me, his eyes narrowed, his lips curled: “I am going to have you taken away.”

“Where?”

“I shall decide. It will be somewhere strong. You will be well guarded.”

“So you fear me?”

“It is you who should fear me.”

His voice was cold with hatred. I remembered how he had hated Becket, and yet there had been love in that hate. Were his feelings for me like that? I wondered if he ever thought of the passion there had once been between us.

He turned abruptly away and left me.

Later that day I was taken away. They did not tell me where I was going. I did not recognize the fortress when I reached it, and nobody would answer my questions.

And there I was incarcerated—the King’s prisoner.

The Passing of Kings

I
T IS HARD TO
think now of that dreary time. I lived through it only because of Hope. I told myself it could not last. He could not keep me thus forever. At first I thought he planned to kill me, but later I guessed he did not want my death on his conscience as Becket’s was. I was not ill treated, and after the first weeks I ceased to think of assassins who would come in the night and put an end to my life; I no longer wondered if every sip of liquid, every mouthful of food, would poison me.

He did not intend me to die. I had to live, deprived of everything I enjoyed. I have no doubt that he derived some joy from that.

Winter was with us. It was cold in my fortress but I had fur rugs to keep me warm. I was given food. But everything else I was deprived of. He just wanted to keep me alive, so that I suffered in my misery.

There was no news. My guards were silent. They had been ordered to tell me nothing, and they obeyed their orders.

How long? I used to ask myself. How long shall I be incarcerated here? It could be for years. What was he doing now? He had subdued his enemies, I was sure. What of my children? Where were they? I hoped they had not been misguided enough to take up arms against him afresh. They would never defeat him. He was undefeatable.

Winter passed—the longest and most dreary winter of my life. He could not have thought of anything that would have been more unacceptable for me.

Christmas came. How different from other Christmases! Where was Richard? What was he thinking now? And Henry and Geoffrey and the girls? They would surely think of their mother at Christmastime. And he         .         .         .         my enemy         .         .         .         he would gloat the more. He would be saying: “Now she will see what happens to those who defy me.”

I hated him. I was sorry that he had not been utterly defeated and yet I was admiring him in a way because he would always win.

Spring had come. Each day was like another. I hoped for something to happen         .         .         .         anything rather than this dreary monotony. The days seemed long, and yet when I looked back I could hardly believe I had been here all that time.

Long summer days. I looked out at the green fields and felt more of a prisoner than I had during the dark days of winter. Could I have been here a year?

How long could I endure it? I should have to do something         .         .         .         find a way of escape.

It was a morning in July when I awoke to change. They were lowering the drawbridge, and there was activity everywhere. My door was opened. My sullen guards stood there. I was to prepare for a journey, they indicated.

My heart leaped with excitement. It was over then         .         .         .         this wearisome imprisonment. At last I was going to move. Where were we going? I wanted to know. They could not tell me. I should find out soon enough.

We were traveling north. Was he sending me to England? Perhaps, because he knew how much I loved my own country and he would want to take me away from it. Perhaps I should hear news of what was happening to my children. The hardest part of all was to be in ignorance of what was happening to them. I, who had been so much at the center of events, to be shut away like this, a prisoner of a vindictive husband!

How I hated him! I would kill him if I had a chance. I hoped my sons would go on fighting him, let him know what an inhuman monster he was to me.

We were traveling north. We were almost certainly going to England. Barfleur. Right on he coast. This could mean only one thing.

Forty vessels lay in the Channel. I remembered the first time I had been here         .         .         .         an eager bride with a husband who, I had thought, loved me as I loved him. But even at that time he had been unfaithful.

How rough the sea was! The wind was lashing the waves fully. No one could put to sea in such weather         .         .         .         except Henry. He did not care for the weather. He could not bear inactivity.

I heard a little now of what was going on. There was more freedom. A woman called Amaria was given to me to look after my needs and act as maid. I liked her immediately, and she was to prove a great comfort to me. She was alert-minded, a gossipy woman with a talent for remembering and recording details. She was vitally interested in everything that was going on around her, and she had a capacity for disarming those with whom she came in contact so that she was able to extract confidences. She quickly grew fond of me and, understanding my craving for news, determined to supply all she could.

We traveled down to Salisbury, one of the most strongly fortified castles in the country. Henry was taking no chances on my escaping.

I settled into my new prison. It was an improvement on the old, particularly so because I had Amaria as my maid-companion and informant.

It was from her that I learned of Henry’s penance. The whole country was talking of it, said Amaria. The King, dressed as a humble pilgrim, had walked barefoot over the cobbles, making his way to the cathedral.

“They say his feet were bleeding, my lady, and he did not complain. It was what he wanted         .         .         .         to suffer to make up for what had happened to the Archbishop. The Bishop of London was there to receive him.”

The Bishop of London! That would be Gilbert Foliot. That was interesting for Foliot had been no friend to Becket. He had always been jealous of him. I supposed he was penitent now.

“The King asked to be taken to the very place where the Archbishop had been struck down,” went on Amaria, “and when they took him there, he lay on the stones and wept bitterly         .         .         .         so that his tears could fall where Thomas Becket’s blood had fallen. Then the Bishop went into the pulpit and told everyone why the King had come. He said that King Henry was praying for the salvation of his soul. He wanted it known that he did not order the death of the martyr but feared the murderers had misunderstood some words he had imprudently uttered and for that reason he sought chastisement and would bare his back to receive the discipline of the rod. That the King should act so! Nobody could believe their eyes, but it is true, my lady.”

“I understand him well. He knew this was the only way for him to escape from the burden which the death of this man had attached to him. He was guilt-ridden         .         .         .         and impatient of it. So he took this step         .         .         .         drastic as it is and unprecedented. What king has ever humbled himself so before? But it does not surprise me. He feels that the stigma of Becket’s death is impeding his progress. Therefore he will take any step, however demeaning, to get this obstacle out of his way. And what was the King’s reply to the Bishop?”

“That what the Bishop had said was what he had commanded him to, and he hoped his humble penance would be acceptable to God and the dead Archbishop. He said he had paid for lights to be set up at the tomb of the martyr and to be kept burning there. He had ordered that a hospital be built in honor of God and the blessed martyr. The Bishop then said that he would help with the building of the hospital and grant indulgences to all those who contributed to it. He himself should be joining in the King’s penance, for he had said when the body of the martyr lay on the stones of the cathedral that it should be thrown into a dunghill or hung on a gibbet. Greatly he regretted that and repented of it.”

“The old hypocrite!” I cried. “He certainly should have bared his back to the rod. What else did you glean, Amaria?”

“That the King went into the crypt, removed his top garments and knelt by the tomb, and each of the monks in the convent took a whip and struck the King three blows saying, ‘As thy Redeemer was scourged for the sin of man, so be thou scourged for thy own sin.’ The King then prayed to Thomas Becket and went around the cathedral stopping at the shrine to say prayers and ask forgiveness for his sins. He stayed there all day and the next night.”

“He would do it thoroughly,” I said.

“The next day he heard Mass and drank holy water which contained a drop of Thomas’s blood which they had saved while he lay bleeding on the stones. Then the King left Canterbury.”

I could imagine him. The tiresome business had had to be enacted; he had had to humble himself; but he had not really done that. He would never humble himself. Any who thought he would must be mistaken. He had had to perform this unpleasant task, so with his usual energy he had performed it         .         .         .         thoroughly and efficiently. From now on the matter of Becket’s murder was over for him.

Amaria, free to go where she liked, was often in the town; she talked to the guards; she was a mine of information. Naturally curious and interested in people, she quickly understood that one of the hardest things I had to bear was being cut off from events. I believed she had an affection for me and was eager to please me, so she made this gleaning of information her greatest task and pleasure.

Soon after she had so graphically described Henry’s penance, she came in with the news that the Scottish King, who had been making trouble, had been captured and made a prisoner at Alnwick. It had happened while Henry was doing his penance.

After his ordeal he had retired to bed. He spent a day there. He must have been feeling very weak to do that. I expected the monks had laid on rather hard with their whips. It must have been an opportunity too good to be missed. I wished I had been one of them. I would have given him a few sharp strokes.

The news of the Scottish King’s capture was brought to him while he was in bed.

“They say, my lady, that he leaped out of bed,” was Amaria’s version. “He said it was a sign from Heaven         .         .         .         from Thomas Becket up there. ‘We are friends once more,’ cried the King. ‘Now you will work for me. I shall go from victory to victory. We shall be friends as we were in the beginning.’”

I laughed. Amaria amused me. But I think it must have happened something like that. Henry used everything to advantage. Did he really believe that the capture of the King of Scotland was due to Becket’s help? One thing he would know was that the people would think so; and that would be important to Henry. What a combination—Thomas in Heaven, Henry on Earth. They would be invincible.

I knew he would be smiling to himself. The humiliation of walking barefoot, the sore back, the humble confession of guilt         .         .         .         it was all worthwhile. Now the people would believe that Henry was at peace with Heaven, and Thomas was on his side. Let his enemies beware.

I was moved from Salisbury to Winchester, where life was a little easier. I lived in comparative comfort. Of course I missed the fine clothes which I had always had in abundance; I missed my musicians and my Court of Poitiers.

My jailer for a while was Ranulf de Glanville, which showed how important I was to the King, for he was one of his most trusted subjects. He was the Chief Justiciar of England and a man of many gifts. He was Sheriff of Lancashire and during the recent Scottish invasion had led the men of Lancashire into the attack which had resulted in the capture of the King of Scotland. It was Ranulf who had taken the news to the King. He had Henry’s complete trust. I did not believe I would get any concessions from him.

Another of my jailers was William FitzStephen, who was to write a biography of Becket, with whom he had been in close contact for ten years. During the time of his intimacy with Becket, Henry must have come to know FitzStephen very well. He had been a subdeacon in Becket’s chapel and entrusted with special duties.

I viewed Henry’s choice of jailers with mixed feelings. In the first place, I felt it a mark of respect for me that he would not give the post to any but those he trusted absolutely; but secondly it meant that my chances of escape were slight—or, more accurately, nonexistent.

I had been in England over a year when I had a visitor, a Cardinal who had come to England and found himself drawn into a matter which Henry was considering.

He was very suave, friendly and compassionate.

“My lady,” he said, “how different this life must be from that to which you have been accustomed in the past.” I could agree with him on that. “I know you have always been interested in the Abbey of Fontevrault.”

“Yes,” I said, now very alert.

“How would you feel about going there and living a life of peace?”

“I have never thought I was suited to the cloistered existence. It is not in my nature to be.”

“But here you are         .         .         .         cloistered. You are a prisoner. There you would be free.”

“Has the King sent you here?”

He lowered his eyes. “The King has suggested that I visit you.”

“With a purpose in mind, I see. To get rid of me by sending me to Fontevrault. I retire         .         .         .         and my retirement means that a divorce can be arranged for the King. Is that it? There is no need to mince words with me, Cardinal.”

“My lady, the King thinks of your welfare.”

“Not forgetting his own.”

“It seems this would be beneficial to you both. You are         .         .         .” He hesitated. “         .         .         .         my lady, you are no longer young.”

“I am fifty-three years of age. Time, you suggest, for me to retire from the world?”

“You would find a life of meditation and prayer most satisfactory.”

“And if I took to it, so would Henry. A divorce would be easy, would it not? A wife who has retired from the world is as good as dead. And a divorce? Does he plan to marry again? Whom would he marry? His mistress, Rosamund Clifford? He lives with her openly now, does he not? Does he plan to have sons by her and replace my sons? I would never agree to that.”

“All the King wishes is to give you a life of peace where you can meditate on the past and earn remission of your sins.”

“He would do well to behave in like manner.”

“None of us is without sin, my lady.”