Виктория Холт - The Revolt of the Eaglets

But it would not always be so. Already the people of Aquitaine were getting an inkling of the relationship between the King and the Queen; and there was no doubt where their loyalty lay. They demonstrated whenever she rode out that they regarded her as their Duchess and they would never submit to the fiery arrogant Angevin who regarded himself as the conqueror of Europe. No, they loved their Duchess Eleanor, the lady of song and learning, the adventurous Queen whose conduct had often scandalised the world, but even these scandals had only endeared her to her own people of the South.

Often she went up to the ramparts of the castle and surveyed with pride and emotion the city below her. She would gaze at the beautiful Notre Dame la Grande, and the baptistery of Saint Jean and feel young again. She remembered too when the magnificent Cathedral of Saint Pierre had been built. There were so many memories here of other days; and looking back did she regret the passing of her youth?

How could she, when the years had brought her her beloved sons? And chief of these was Richard.

She had always loved beauty in the human form and in her eyes her son was her ideal. Some might say he lacked the regular-featured handsome good looks of his elder brother Henry, but the strength of his character showed in his face, and although Eleanor loved all her children and determined to bind them to her, Richard was the one who had the cream of her devotion.

Richard was tall, his limbs were long and he was noted for the long reach of his arms. His hair was neither red nor yellow but of a colour in between, and his eyes were blue. From an early age he had shown great daring and such a strength of purpose that once he had made up his mind to complete a task he never swerved until it was done. In horsemanship, archery and all other sports he excelled, and what so enchanted the Queen was that he was equally skilled in verse making; he could sing and play the lute with the best of her troubadours. Now that she felt this fierce hatred for her husband she concentrated her love on her children and Richard especially.

He returned her love. To her he confided his ambitions. He enjoyed hearing of her adventures in the Holy Land and she loved to tell them, dramatising them, setting them to verse and glorifying them by song. They were romanticised and made enchanting stories and she and the lovers she had taken during that wild adventure were the heroine and heroes of a story as entertaining and romantic as that of Arthur, Guinevere and Lancelot.

‘Oh what a beautiful city this is,’ she would say. ‘My city that shall be yours, Richard. This city on a hill. Did you know that Marcus Aurelius built an amphitheatre here to hold twenty-two thousand spectators? The Saracens were routed here when they swept across France. Standing here on these ramparts you can sense it all, can you not?’

And Richard would understand as once she had thought his father would have done. For in the early days of their marriage Henry had loved literature and works of the imagination. But he had coarsened; his love of power and his lechery had done that.

‘When he enters a town,’ said Eleanor to her sons, ‘he does not see the magnificent facade of a cathedral; he does not hear the melodious ring of bells. He looks over the women and decides which he shall take to his bed to make sport with, not caring whether she be willing or not.’

‘Let us hope he does not come to Poitiers,’ said Richard.

‘We will do our best to keep him away.’

‘Why, my mother, even you could not do that.’

‘Think you not? What if I were to make the people here dislike him so that they refused to have him?’

‘That would be the very greatest inducement for him to come. He would ride into the town with his knights and soldiers in such force that none would dare stand against him.’

‘You are right, my son. Even so, I do not intend that my subjects should be kept in ignorance of the kind of man he is.’

‘Let us not think of him,’ said Richard. ‘We are happy without him.’

And so they were.

‘Let us plan a masque for tomorrow,’ she said. ‘Could you write some special verses for the occasion? What think you?’

He thought it was an excellent idea and he would set about the task at once.

So life flowed on pleasantly in Poitiers. There was many a masque, many a banquet; with her were her sons Richard and Geoffrey and even the latter was something of a troubadour; there was Marguerite, daughter of Louis and wife to young Henry, who was still in her care. Richard’s betrothed Alice, another daughter of Louis but half-sister to Marguerite, for Marguerite was the daughter of Louis’s second wife and Alice of his third, was being brought up at the English Court. Since Eleanor could not be a happy wife she could at least be a contented mother. Her sons loved her and so did her daughters. Even those whom she had deserted still had an affection for her.

These were Marie and Alix, the two she had borne Louis when she was his wife. She had loved them dearly when they were babies but she had been too adventurous a woman to devote herself to children. Marie and Alix were married now – Marie to the Count of Champagne and Alix to the Count of Blois – but they had inherited her love of literature and consequently they could best satisfy this at the court of Poitiers and whenever it was possible they visited her.

What joy it was to have her attendants hurry to her to tell her that they had arrived and then to go down to the courtyard to drink the welcoming cup with them. She believed that they bore her no rancour for her desertion of them. They, like her other children, enjoyed hearing stories of her wildly adventurous life. Marie was perhaps the more attractive of the sisters. She was beautiful and had a spontaneous wit which enchanted everyone including her mother. Marie wrote exquisite poetry herself and it gave Eleanor great pleasure to see the affection between the two most loved of her children, Marie and Richard.

It was into this happy court that the messengers came from England with the news that Thomas à Becket, Archbishop of Canterbury, had been murdered in his Cathedral.

Eleanor’s eyes shone with excitement. ‘Murdered!’ she cried. ‘And by the King’s knights! We have no doubt who is the true murderer.’

Richard and Geoffrey stared at her in horror. How wise they were! she thought. Wise enough to know the importance of this news!

‘The whole of Christendom will rise in horror against the one responsible for this crime,’ prophesied Eleanor. ‘They will all cry shame on the murderer of such a man.’

She laughed aloud. She could not stop herself.

It was going to be amusing watching the effect of this deed, for she knew it would be great. It would reverberate throughout the world and could bring no good to the man she hated.

Now was the time for his enemies to rise up against him.

She looked at her sons and said slowly: ‘The time will be soon at hand when you should claim what is due to you. The time is ripe for action.’

The first shock was over. Henry emerged from his chamber of mourning and laughed at his fears. Was he not capable of holding what he had won? Was he going to be afraid of what penance the Pope might try to extract under threat of excommunication?

He was named as the murderer of Thomas à Becket and because people were becoming more and more convinced that Thomas was a saint they were regarding him in horror.

He would maintain the fact that he had never meant his knights to murder Thomas, meanwhile there was the business of being King to be attended to.

Now more than ever he needed to show the world that he was ready for any who should come against him.