The Revolt of the Eaglets - Plaidy Jean - Страница 27

But no soldiers came, and the messenger returned.

‘Alas, brother,’ wrote Henry, ‘we were not successful at Rouen, but were forced to fly before our father’s troops. Now there is a truce and we wait to discuss terms with him. But one condition he has laid down is that we must send no aid to you.’

Richard clenched his fists in quiet rage. In some measure he possessed the Angevin temper but instead of being hot like his father’s it was cold. Richard would never lie on the floor and gnaw the rushes; he would never grow scarlet so that men believed he might drop to the ground in a fit. He grew pale; the blue eyes were like steel; but his anger was none the less fierce because it was cold.

He felt that anger now. For here he was a boy in age, with a small army, and he must stand alone against the greatest general of the age – his own father.

He himself might do it. His followers never would.

He knew he had no alternative but to retreat before his father. When he discussed the state of affairs with his most skilled knights they agreed with him.

‘The men would never stand and fight your father’s armies,’ they said. ‘They would tremble with fear at the prospect and desert before your father arrived.’

It was true. There was nothing to do but retreat.

What bitter humiliation! Henry marched through Aquitaine, extorting obedience from all. Richard marched south but he could not go on marching for ever. His men were deserting him. Soon there would be but a handful of them left.

At length he realised that he could retreat no more. He must face his father.

The meeting took place and when Richard looked into that strong face with its curly hair – a little greying now – clipped square on the forehead, the flaring nostrils, the leonine aspect, his emotions were mixed. The hatred was there; fear too; and he knew why men quailed before his father.

He knelt and put his face on the ground in a sudden access of wretchedness. He was beaten and he knew that he was too young as yet to stand up and face this man. He had been guilty of great folly and, although he hated his father more fiercely than he could ever hate anyone else, he must respect him.

Henry watched him in silence. My son, he thought. This handsome boy is my son Richard, the betrothed of Alice.

He felt a sudden tenderness for him – perhaps because he was his son, perhaps because he had taken his bride from him.

‘Rise, Richard,’ he said.

And when the boy stood so that they were face to face – and Richard must look down on him for he was several inches taller than his father – he put his arms about him and embraced him.

‘It is a sad thing,’ he said, ‘when a son takes up arms against his own father.’

Richard said nothing. A slightly sullen expression touched his lips.

‘Sad,’ went on the King, ‘and useless. You are a good fighter, they tell me, Richard. But there is more to battle than brandishing a lance, my boy. There’s subtlety and strategy. A good general knows when he should retreat and when he should advance. Well, let us say this: You knew when to retreat did you not, and when to show humility? Suffice it that you have been a worthy general. Now we will talk.’

He put his arm through Richard’s and they walked together.

‘I like not these quarrels,’ said the King. ‘Your brothers have come to their senses. I shall see them ere long. We are to have a meeting and it might be well if you joined us. I have much to say to you all, for I am not of a mind to endure these family quarrels.’

‘We are men,’ said Richard. ‘And men cannot be treated as boys.’

‘Both boys and men are given the treatment they warrant. Remember that and we shall understand each other. Now, my son, know this. There is now peace in Aquitaine. You are its Duke but the titles my sons hold, they hold under me. Remember that and we shall remain at peace.’

The King ordered that a banquet should be prepared and at table he kept his son beside him; and all noticed that he showed a certain fondness for him and that Richard was subdued though seeming sullen.

The next day the King sent for his son.

‘Go now and join your brothers at the Court of the King of France,’ he told him. ‘You will say that you have decided that there shall be no more strife in Aquitaine, and that you, like them, are now aware of the folly of your ways. Like them, you are at peace with your father. We shall all meet soon and then I shall tell you what my proposals are.’

Richard took his farewell of his father and rode towards the French border.

Henry was thoughtful. He could not contemplate Richard without thinking of Alice. The boy had said nothing of his bride. Did he never think of her?

Henry thought of her constantly.

In Salisbury Castle, the Queen received news of her sons. She had been more than a year in captivity and her first humiliated rage had passed. She had become accustomed to her imprisonment which was not by any means rigorous. At first she had thought that Henry would attempt to murder her. Perhaps he would. He wanted to be rid of her. Or did he? Was that just a sop to Rosamund? He could not marry Rosamund. The people would never accept it. But being Henry of course he might attempt what others would be afraid to do.

All her hopes were in her sons. If they could win their battle against their father, their first duty would be to free her. She could trust them to do that. What a great day that would be when the tables were turned, when Henry was the prisoner of his wife and sons. How she would taunt him!

But it was not yet. There was still fire in the old lion. Old lion. She had to remember that he was twelve years younger than she was!

She went to the topmost point of the keep and looked out across the moat. She was allowed the freedom of the castle but if she attempted to cross the drawbridge she would be stopped by guards. At first she had planned escape, but nothing had come of it. She was too well guarded. Bribery was useless. All her guards knew that if she were allowed to escape, Henry’s fury would be unleashed and the greatest punishment would be inflicted on them.

She had always been an intriguer and now her chief pleasure was in following her bent. How strange that she, the adventuress who had travelled to the Holy Land, who had taken her lovers, who had divorced the King of France that she might marry Henry Plantagenet, should now be a prisoner, confined to one small space, looking out day after day on the same horizons!

She would outwit him though. In time she would be the victor. This thought kept her spirits up. Every day when she awoke she thought: This could be the day. Today a messenger may come riding from my sons … from Henry or from Richard … with the good news. Perhaps they would send her his head to gloat over. No, not that. She did not want him dead. She knew that the world must be a duller place for her without him. It had always been so. Nothing had ever excited her quite so much as her tussles with him. She thought of the days of their passion. She had never really had a lover to compare with him. There was a power about him and it was this which appealed to her. She had believed in the first days of their marriage that she would love him with a deep abiding passion all her days. The passion had remained but it had become a passion of hatred.

She remembered her anger when she had first become aware of his infidelities. That was when he had introduced his bastard Geoffrey into her nurseries. The son of one of his light o’ loves to be brought up with the royal children! And that same Geoffrey was fighting with him now, ever-faithful to him, and it was said that he loved him dearly. ‘Bastards can be faithful,’ she had said. ‘They have to be grateful. They have no rights. It is different with those who have just claim to lands and titles.’