The Revolt of the Eaglets - Plaidy Jean - Страница 67

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‘Oh, my God,’ she had cried, ‘what did that mean?’

Then had come the news of his death and her dream came vividly back to her.

Henry was dead – that bright and beautiful boy was no more. That was what her dream had told her. He had died in conflict with his father. It was a terrible story of hatred, betrayal and disloyalty. She heard how he had sacked sacred shrines; how he had plundered villages and how people had fled before him and his soldiers. And the end … the terrible end … when fever had taken hold of him and death had come. He had repented. So many repented on their death beds, and his was a bed of ashes, his pillow a stone.

My son, she thought. Oh, my God, where did we go wrong?

Why did she ask? She knew. These sons of theirs were bred in hatred, against the violent emotion of a lecherous father and a vindictive mother.

We considered our own emotions, she reproached herself. We did not restrain ourselves. We were obsessed by ourselves and did not pause to think what we were doing to our children.

We are the ones who should make our beds of ashes. Ours was the sin.

She thought of her son Henry who had been their eldest since the death of little William. Henry, the most handsome of a handsome bunch. She remembered how excited they had been at his birth and how delighted to have another boy because at that time little William’s health was failing. Such a bright boy! How proud his father had been of him. He had always been Henry’s favourite as Richard had been hers. Richard had noticed his father’s preference and been sullen and resentful because of it. And she had made up to Richard for his father’s neglect of him and between her and Richard there had grown a passionate attachment which she believed was stronger than any emotion either of them felt for any other person.

It was in the nursery that the rot had begun. The children were reared to hate their father and she had done this.

Then Henry Plantagenet had made the mistake of crowning his son Henry King of England. He had made few mistakes in his government of his dominions, although his family life had been one long misjudgement; but nothing could have worked more to his undoing than the coronation of young Henry – to make an ambitious man a king in name and then deny him the power to be one. Oh, Henry, Henry, wise Henry Plantagenet, what a fool you are!

She wept, for although Richard was her favourite she loved all her children. Their progress had always been of the utmost interest to her. She loved the two daughters she had by Louis. And when she thought of the last months of Henry’s life she trembled for him. She herself had sinned, Heaven knew, and so had Henry Plantagenet, but they had not been cut off in their prime with all their sins upon them.

He had repented at the end. He had given William the Marshall the cross to take to Jerusalem; but that very cross he had taken from a shrine. And he had asked his father’s forgiveness and Henry – she granted him that – had readily given it. He had not been with his son at the end although he could have been. His knights advised him against going for fear of treachery. Treachery between father and son!

Oh, what a lot we have to answer for!

She prayed for forgiveness, that the sins of her sons might be averted from them to her.

Ours was the fault, oh, God, she prayed. Blame not our children.

She spent several days in fasting and praying for Henry’s soul.

But she was a born intriguante and the thought which must keep recurring to her was: Now Richard is the heir to the throne and the next king will not be Henry the Third but Richard the First.

The Archdeacon of Wells came to see her on behalf of her husband. He told her that the King wished her to prepare to leave for Winchester and her future would depend on how she behaved when she was there. The King himself was in Normandy but he hoped soon to be in England.

‘Did he say he wished to see me?’ she asked.

‘He did not, my lady,’ was the answer.

She was amused and intrigued. This was release … temporarily, the King stressed. She was to be free because her daughter was coming to England. Was that the real reason? Henry was sly. Why should he feel it so important to make an impression on the Duke and Duchess of Saxony who were merely exiles? There was another reason. Aquitaine. Her people hated him because he kept their Duchess prisoner. She knew him well. His motives were always suspect.

What excitement there was at the castle when gifts from the King arrived for her. What had happened that he should send gifts? How long was it since she had received anything from him?

Her women crowded round her. They believed the King was going to take her back. Rosamund had been dead for some time and Rosamund had been one of the main causes of their discord. Now the Queen would be the Queen in truth. They would all leave Salisbury and go to Winchester or Westminster wherever the Court was. The sequestered life was over.

A beautiful dress of scarlet was revealed as it was taken from its wrappings.

Belle, the youngest and prettiest of the attendants, exclaimed with pleasure.

‘Look, my lady. It is lined with miniver.’

The Queen took up the dress and held it against her.

‘It is long since I have worn a dress so fine,’ she said. She would have it altered a little to suit her individual taste and it would be perfect. The fur was of the highest quality and the red cloth most excellent.

The following day another gift arrived from the King. It was a saddle ornamented with gold. Her women danced round her with glee. Eleanor watched them thoughtfully.

The King was staying longer in Normandy than he had intended. There was so much for him to settle. Eleanor heard that he was meddling in the affairs of France. He was afraid of Philip; and no wonder, when he had treated Philip’s sister as he had.

What was happening about Alice? There she was, still kept at Westminster and Richard continued to be denied his bride.

Eleanor smiled grimly wondering what would have happened if news of what had actually taken place between Henry and Alice had been brought into the open. So many times she had wanted to divulge the secret. What trouble it would have made – but only temporarily! Henry could be trusted to find a way out. No, she had had more sport keeping him on tenterhooks. He would have extricated himself from that embarrassment as deftly as he had from the murder of Thomas a Becket. She was sure that the best way to harass him was to keep silent, and every now and then give him a little fright that the affair might be exposed.

Richard would not take Alice now, but she had advised him not to let his father know that. Let Henry go on worrying as he had for years. How devious was Henry Plantagenet! It relieved her conscience to revile him in her mind. If she was in some measure to blame for the conflict among their sons, he was even more responsible.

She longed to see him and when she heard that he was considering his return to England her spirits rose. He was on his way and with him came their now heavily pregnant daughter Matilda and her husband. It was time for Eleanor to leave Salisbury.

With what joy she greeted her daughter!

Matilda was twenty-eight years old, her husband, the Duke, many years older; and now Matilda was pregnant and she told Eleanor how comforted she was to see her.

They spent much of their days together and Matilda often marvelled at the youthful looks of her mother.

‘I have spent so many years in confinement that I have been able to preserve myself,’ laughed the Queen.

‘You will see changes in the King when you see him,’ Matilda warned her.

‘Shall I see him, I wonder? He has said nothing about our meeting.’

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