The Revolt of the Eaglets - Plaidy Jean (бесплатные полные книги TXT) 📗

It was worse than Henry had feared.

There was news too from Tusculum.

The Pope had shut himself away as soon as he had received the news of the murder. For eight days he had remained in seclusion that, as he said, he might mourn his beloved son. When he emerged he gave orders that no Englishman should be admitted to his presence.

Meanwhile the Archbishop of Sens had denounced Henry King of England as the murderer and the King of France joined the Archbishop in his accusations.

Henry knew that it was only a matter of time before he would be excommunicated.

This was disaster. But he was not a man to give way in adversity. In fact it was at such times that he showed his greatest skills. He had done what he could. He had written to the Pope honestly stating what had happened. He could only plead his sorrow and show that he mourned the death as sincerely as did everyone else.

There was nothing more he could do to convince the world of his innocence; and if they refused to believe him then he must make them aware of his might.

He had ever sought to add to his dominions and for long had had his eyes on Ireland.

This seemed an appropriate time to show the world that it would be unwise for any to underestimate him. His knights had murdered Thomas a Becket and he might be thought responsible, but let none of them forget that he was the great grandson of the Conqueror.

He decided to spend his days in planning an invasion of Ireland.

The young King Henry received the news in the old Saxon Palace of Winchester.

He was feeling somewhat displeased with his lot. It had been a great experience to be crowned King of England and he would never forget that ceremony which had taken place last June, some six months before. How wonderful it was to be a king! Those about him feared to offend him; they remembered that his father could not live for ever and that one day there would only be one king of England. He was very surprised that his father had allowed him to be crowned and had made a king of him when it was quite clear that so many people liked the son better than the father.

Young Henry knew that he was more handsome than his father. They told him he resembled his paternal grandfather, the Count of Anjou, who had been known as Geoffrey the Fair. Looks were important, although his father would never accept that. Young Henry would never get his hands chapped and rough because he refused to wear gloves. He liked to see them adorned with rings. He was not like his father at all; he tried to charm people, something the older Henry never bothered with. But it was important, reasoned Henry the younger; it made people like one, it bound them to one; they were likely to be loyal if they had an affection for a ruler. No one had a great affection for his father. They might respect him as a great ruler and fear him, but love him? Never!

He knew how people were with him. They flattered him because he flattered them; there had been many a hint that those about him would be happy enough when there was only one king to rule England.

Not that he had been allowed to do much ruling yet. He had quickly realised that his father had had no intention of giving him power, only a crown. He was in fact becoming more and more disgruntled every day.

He wished he could see his mother, but of course she had always been more fond of Richard than she was of him; as for his father, it sometimes seemed as though he wanted his affection. Let him do something to get it then. Let him give the son he had made King some land to rule over; let him be King in fact as well as in name. As if the old man would give up anything he once laid his hands on!

‘Your father is the most acquisitive man on earth,’ his mother had said to him. ‘He’ll never take his hands from anything once they have held it.’

What hatred there had been between those two! He and his brothers had sensed it; in secret they had ranged themselves on their mother’s side against him. She had loved them and although Richard was her favourite she had shown that she cared passionately about them all. It seemed that the more she hated their father, the more she loved them.

The King had treated her badly. He had had no right to bring his bastard Geoffrey into the nursery! The son of a common whore who had followed the camp and borne the King a son – and that son was brought up in their mother’s nursery! It was too much for any proud woman to endure and when that woman was Eleanor of Aquitaine, naturally there would be trouble.

She had said to him: ‘Henry my son, your father has made a king of you. He did it only to spite Thomas Becket, I’m sure. He knows that old fellow will be beside himself with rage because he was not here to crown you. He’ll regret it, but his regrets will be your blessing. As he has made you a king, he must not be surprised if you act like one.’ And she had laughed loudly at the thought; and ever since he had resented his father’s parsimony; because of his mother’s words he had come to dislike his father even more than he had at first. His mother had always pointed out to them all their father’s shortcomings; and the only one who didn’t listen to her was Bastard Geoffrey. He worshipped the King; and when their father came to the nursery he would try to get his attention, which he invariably did, for the King always listened to what Geoffrey the Bastard had learned and nodded his approval.

Now young Henry believed he had done it to annoy their mother. There was so much one understood as one grew older.

‘Your father will use you all like pawns in a game of chess,’ said their mother. ‘Look how he has married you without your leave!’

It was true. Young Henry had a wife, Marguerite, the daughter of the King of France. At this time she was in Aquitaine with his mother, being brought up by her until the time when she should come to him and share his bed, roof and crown. She herself had not yet been crowned and the King of France was very angry about that, but his father had promised that she should be, and when she was, he supposed their married life would begin.

He had so few opportunities for displaying his kingship that when he did get one he was determined to use it. He had done so quite recently when Thomas a Becket had come to see him.

He had refused to see the old man. He had felt a little uneasy about that but he had persuaded himself that he could do nothing else. Roger, Archbishop of York, had arrived to see him and to tell him that the Archbishop of Canterbury was on his way.

Young Henry had been pleased to hear this for he had had a great affection for his old teacher. He and young Marguerite had been put in his care many years ago before Thomas’s exile. He had been stern and they had had to spend long sessions on their knees. Marguerite used to say her knees were sore with praying, but they had loved him in spite of his strictness and the stern talks he used to give them, for there was a merry side to his nature and suddenly it would burst forth and they would all be very gay together.

He remembered that day when they were told that Thomas a Becket would no longer instruct them because he had quarrelled with the King and as a consequence he had fled to France.

That was long ago. Marguerite had broken down and wept; and Henry had almost done the same. And no other teacher had been quite the same.

But Roger of York had scorned Thomas a Becket.

‘My lord King,’ he had said, ‘you cannot receive that man. Had he had his way you would never have been crowned.’

‘And why not?’ he had demanded in his new arrogance.

‘Because the Archbishop of Canterbury did not believe you should be crowned. He is a man who thinks he knows best on every matter.’

‘It is because he did not perform the ceremony.’