The Courts of Love: The Story of Eleanor of Aquitaine (39 page)

I could sense the mood of the people. After all, they were my own people. When I rode out, they would cheer me. They let me know that they wanted me to stay here, to be their sole ruler. It was heartening.

Musicians and poets began to fill the Court. I restored castles to those from whom Henry had taken them when suppressing the rebellion. I wanted them to know that in my opinion they had rebelled against Henry         .         .         .         not against me.

I was in my own country. I was Duchess of Aquitaine, a title which pleased me more than that of Queen of England.

Bernard de Ventadour was one who returned. It was a great joy to bring back those evenings of music. They still wrote songs proclaiming my beauty—pleasant to hear but hard to believe, though of course I took great pains to preserve my looks, and although I was getting old, marching up high in the forties, for my age I was still a handsome woman.

I had my children with me. Richard was my constant companion. We rode together, talked together, and he loved those evenings when the musicians entertained us for he could perform with considerable skill himself. Young Henry was with us now and then. He loved to be with me and was resentful when he had to join his father. This made me gleeful. Eleanor and Joanna had never seen a great deal of their father; they were entirely mine. Little Constance of Brittany was with us, for she had to be brought up with her future husband’s family in accordance with custom. So I was happy. I was in charge of my own domain and I had my family with me.

John was a problem. I often look back on those days and feel a twinge of conscience about John. Perhaps he turned out as he did because of his childhood. He was after all my child. But I could not like him. All the time he reminded me of Henry’s deceit and that when he was being conceived Henry had been thinking of Rosamund Clifford; and I despised myself for having remained with him so long. John should never have been born; he was conceived in deceit and reminded me too much of what I wished to forget.

During that Christmas when I had made my intentions clear to Henry, after we had recovered a little from our initial bitterness, and he had realized that I was determined to break up the marriage, we had discussed one or two things calmly         .         .         .         for instance, my return to Aquitaine and how I should be conducted there, and we also talked of John.

I said: “There ought to be one member of the family who should go into the Church. You have distributed your dominions among your sons, but what of John? What is there for him?”

“Poor John. He will be ‘John Lackland,’ I fear.”

“That is why he should be the one to go into the Church.”

“Archbishop of Canterbury         .         .         .         or perhaps a cardinal. Head of the Church in this country         .         .         .         or maybe Pope. Either would be useful to the crown.”

I could not help laughing. He turned everything to the advantage of the crown. However, he agreed that it was to be John for the Church.

So I suggested that he go into Fontevrault, the abbey which had been founded by Robert d’Arbrissel and supported by my grandmother, one in which I had taken great interest. There John could be brought up. It seemed an ideal solution.

Peace settled on Aquitaine. I was there to stay, they believed. It was a return to the old days. We had pageants and ceremonies such as the people loved; we paraded in our splendid robes. I never lost an opportunity of staging these pageants. I did them well, as my forebears had. Aquitaine was content with the new rule, which was, after all, a return to the old.

I was content in my little world, but that did not mean I was not concerned with what was happening outside it. I followed Henry’s actions with the utmost interest, rejoicing in his difficulties, though I must admit to feeling often an admiration—rather grudging—for his adept way of extricating himself from trouble and generally managing to get the better of his opponent.

He was in constant conflict with Louis. My first husband appeared to have changed since the birth of his son. The event had given him new vigor. He was more aggressive. Perhaps he was looking ahead to the days when the God-Given would take the reins. I was sure Louis would want to hand them over as soon as he could. Perhaps he would retire to a monastery then and relish a longed-for dream. However, I think Henry found it more difficult to hoodwink him than in the past.

There was a great deal of conflict between them over the Vexin. Their affairs moved to a stage when they were both seeking peace, and a conference was arranged to take place between them.

Louis, of course, did not like to see so much of France under Henry’s domination and might have thought it would be better to proclaim Henry’s sons rulers of the various provinces. I wondered afterward if Louis had an inkling of the feelings of Henry’s children toward their father. Henry was a strong man but he was not one to inspire affection in the young. It must have been apparent that our children turned to me rather than to him; and Louis, who did know a little of me, might have guessed at the state of affairs between Henry and me. One could not give Louis credit for shrewd planning; however, this scheme of his was, looking back, not without a certain wisdom. At the conference he suggested that the various Princes be given their lands and swear allegiance to their suzerain; and Henry, looking ahead to the future and always having in mind the possibility of his own demise, thought it advisable to have his sons accepted by Louis as official rulers of the provinces.

It had always been known that Aquitaine was for Richard; young Henry was to have Anjou and Maine, and Geoffrey Brittany. Henry, who had long been playing with the idea of getting young Henry crowned King, agreed with this, and at the beginning of the year 1169 the ceremony was to take place.

My sons left Aquitaine to join their father at Montmirail. I wished I could have seen the ceremony. It must have been most impressive—particularly my three sons. Henry and Richard were exceptionally handsome—both tall and dazzingly fair with blue eyes and a nobility of countenance; Geoffrey lacked their handsome looks but was not an ill-looking boy by any means.

Louis would surely be thinking of his one and only
Dieu-Donn
and all the efforts he had made to get him.

Alas, I was not present, so it was left to my imagination. I could picture Henry’s joy in his sons—particularly young Henry, who had always been his favorite, because I knew Richard’s adherence to me irritated him a little, and Geoffrey lacked the charm of his brothers. But three such sons must make Henry very proud. So young Henry did homage to Louis for Anjou and Maine, Richard for Aquitaine, and Geoffrey for Brittany.

To stress his new friendship for Henry, Louis offered the hand of his daughter Alais for Richard. We did not know it then but this was to prove a matter of some consequence to Henry. There was an understanding between Louis and Henry that Louis did not wish to have his daughter put into my care, as he had shown when Marguerite was betrothed to Henry. But now, of course, Henry and I were living apart, so Alais was to go to the English Court to be brought up in the English manner, so that by the time Richard married her she would be a suitable bride for him. She was nine years old at the time, an exceptionally pretty girl, I believed; in fact, her beauty was the reason why she was to fall into such a scandalous situation.

There was one very important incident which occurred at Montmirail. Among the company was Thomas Becket.

Thomas had been making a great nuisance of himself ever since his departure from England. He had gone to live in the Cistercian Abbey of Pontigny and was continually thundering forth threats of what would happen to Henry. At first Pope Alexander had been wary of giving him leave to denounce Henry too strongly, for his own position continued precarious, but later, when it improved, he allowed Becket more freedom to say and do what he liked against his old enemy. Henry threatened to expel all Cistercians from England if they continued to shelter Becket. Becket retorted by threatening Henry with excommunication.

It was a very unsatisfactory quarrel. I think, in their hearts, they most wanted to be together again. For one thing, Henry wanted young Henry crowned, and only the Archbishop of Canterbury should do that.

Just before the ceremony at Montmirail Becket had written to Henry asking that he be reinstated and that he and his followers might have back their rights and property. Henry said he would be prepared to accept Becket back, but the Pope insisted on a public agreement. It was for this reason that Becket had come to Montmirail.

There they met in a field. I wondered what Henry’s emotions were when he beheld his greatest friend and worst enemy. Of one thing I could be certain: it must have been an emotional meeting. Thomas, I heard, fell on his knees before the King, weeping affectively. Henry took his hand and begged him rise.

Becket began well by asking Henry’s forgiveness for himself and the Church. That Henry, of course, was very ready to grant. Becket then declared that, regarding their disagreements, he threw himself on the King’s mercy and pleasure. That was enough. But being Becket he could not leave it at that. He was ready to obey the King in all things, he said, saving the honor of God.

I can imagine Henry’s wrath. They had progressed no way. This had been Becket’s cry right from the first. He would obey         .         .         .         save where his order was concerned. Now it was God.

Henry then addressed the spectators and told them that Becket had deserted the Church, creeping out in the night.
He
did not drive him away. He had always been ready to allow the Church to follow its rules, but whenever what the King desired was not what Becket did, he brought in “his order”         .         .         .         or God. If Becket would act as those before him always had—and some of them saintly men—he would be satisfied.

The people cheered. The King had capitulated. He would receive Becket, providing Becket was ready to obey him.

But Becket stood out. He was not ready to return yet.

Exasperated beyond endurance by the man, Henry decided to go ahead with the coronation of his eldest son. Why should it be necessary that he be crowned by the Archbishop of Canterbury? The Archbishop of York would do very well. Moreover, he was no friend of Becket.

Becket was still not in England, and on May 24 young Henry, who was then fifteen, was crowned King of England in Westminster Abbey. Henry, generally so careless of his appearance and impatient of ceremony, did know when it was necessary to put on an elaborate show, and he spared neither effort nor money. The crown was made by the leading goldsmith William Cade at a cost of 38.6.0.—a very large sum of money.

Henry could be capable of acts of great folly, and this coronation was one, perhaps the greatest he ever made. It was obvious to me, and surely to others, that young Henry was becoming more and more aware of his position and taking advantage of it. When the cub is made head of the pride—even though it is intended to be in name only—the chief lion should watch carefully. Young Henry had revealed his character more and more as honors were heaped on him. He had never been the meekest of boys, and if he had been, the step would have been unwise.

It amazed me that Henry, so shrewd in most things, so quickly aware of his advantage, should make this tremendous mistake. He should have known the way things would go. There was an indication of this even at the banquet which followed the crowning, when the King waited on his son at table.

The Archbishop of York remarked to young Henry that it was a most auspicious occasion when a prince was waited on by a king. Henry arrogantly replied that it was not in the least unfitting for the son of a king to be waited on by the son of a count.

I wondered if Henry had a qualm then. Surely any man must have asked himself what troubles lay ahead when a son could at such time make such a reply.

Looking back, I marvel at Henry’s blindness in this one matter. He had brought about a state in his dominions whereby all jurisdiction was subject to the direct authority of the Crown. The King was supreme. This made for great efficiency in the hands of such a man, but naturally there had been discords—and not only with the Church. I could not understand how he could have been so short-sighted as to name another king—even though it was his own son.

It was foolish in more ways than one, for he incurred the wrath of Louis by not crowning Marguerite with her husband. Louis declared his daughter had been humiliated. The Pope, with Thomas Becket, was incensed at the insult to Canterbury, for all kings should be crowned by the Archbishop.

In September that year the Pope sent letters of suspension and censure to Roger of York and all concerned in the ceremony, declaring that this was another example of the King’s defiance of the Church.

Henry, realizing that there would be trouble until Thomas returned to England, proposed that he and Thomas should make the journey together and on English soil exchange the kiss of peace.

Thomas accepted the invitation, but when the time came for their departure, Henry sent word that he could not be there; he was delayed, he said, by matters of state and suggested that Thomas leave France under the escort of John of Oxford, a notorious enemy of Becket, who had once accused him of contending for Church privileges for the sake of personal gain.

Thomas, greatly fearing treachery, delayed a little longer, and it was not until the end of November that he set sail from Wissant, arriving on December 1, at Sandwich, from where he made his way to Canterbury. The people, warned of his coming, crowded into the streets to greet him; hymns were sung; bells rang out. Canterbury wanted all to know how it rejoiced in the return of its Archbishop.

On the other hand, some of the King’s officers were waiting for him. They demanded the immediate and unconditional absolution of those who had been suspended on account of the young King’s coronation. Thomas replied that he would absolve all except the Archbishop of York, if they would swear to obey the Pope’s orders.