The Revolt of the Eaglets

‘He is very upset over the death of Henry.’

‘Has it changed him?’

‘The loss of a son would not change him very much. Only the loss of his crown would do that.’

‘So he shows the years?’

‘You know that he was never one to care for his appearance. I am sure he is often mistaken for the humblest of his servants for it is only on rare occasions that he pays heed to his dress.’

‘He was always so,’ said Eleanor. ‘I used to tell him that he looked like a serf.’

She wanted to hear so much of him but she had to curb her curiosity. She did not wish even Matilda to know how much she thought of him.

They sat together, Matilda embroidering a garment for her baby and Eleanor singing or playing the lute.

‘When I was in Salisbury new songs were brought to me,’ she said. ‘So much of the news came to me through them. Minstrels would sing to me of what was happening to your father and your brothers.’

Eleanor loved the children – Henry, Otto and little Matilda. She watched Matilda’s health with maternal care and herself made many of the preparations for her confinement.

What was going to happen in Saxony? she asked Matilda, but Matilda could not say. Her husband, known as Henry the Lion, had not wished to make war on Italy as the Emperor Barbarossa wanted him to and for this reason the Emperor had turned against him. The result – exile. ‘How thankful I am that we could turn to my father,’ said Matilda.

Her husband was so many years older than herself, Eleanor pointed out. Was she happy with him?

Matilda was as happy as royal princesses could expect to be, she answered.

‘Perhaps I expected too much,’ commented Eleanor. ‘I married your father for love, you know.’

‘And look where it ended,’ pointed out Matilda. ‘You were soon hating each other and all these years he has kept you a prisoner.’

‘At least it was love at the start. And although I never loved Louis, he loved me, I believe, until the day he died.’

‘But you are different from the rest of us, Mother. You guide your own fate. Ours overtakes us.’

‘And as you say I was overtaken by imprisonment in the end. Perhaps it is better to have our marriages made for us and be good docile wives. Is your Henry a good husband?’

‘He is jealous.’

‘It is often so with older men. With older women too. I was twelve years older than your father and I think that was one of the reasons which began the discord between us. He was unfaithful and I could not endure it.’

‘Yet you were unfaithful in your first marriage.’

‘That was Louis. It was different. Louis could have been unfaithful to me and I would not have cared. But perhaps I lie. I can say that, because he never would have been. No, I do not think I would have tolerated infidelity in either of my husbands, and when I discovered it in Henry that was the start of the trouble between us.’

‘My Henry was angry over Bertrand de Born,’ said Matilda. ‘He wrote love poems to me. Henry discovered and banished him from the Court.’

‘He is a great poet,’ said Eleanor. ‘He is compared with Bernard de Ventadour. I would not have his verses sung in Salisbury though, because he did much to harm your brother Richard.’

‘You know why. He fell in love with my brother Henry.’

‘I thought he was in love with you?’

‘He made verses to me but it was Henry whom he loved. If you had seen the verses he wrote to Henry you would have realised how much he loved him. He thought my brother the most beautiful creature he had ever seen and you know how these poets worship beauty. When my father had taken his castle and he stood before him, his prisoner, my father goaded him with this much flaunted cleverness and asked him what had happened to his wit now. Do you know what he replied. “The day your valiant son died I lost consciousness, wits and direction.”’

‘At which your father laughed him to scorn I doubt not.’

‘Nay, Mother, so deeply moved was he, that he restored his castle to him.’

‘He can be sentimental still about his sons,’ mused Eleanor.

‘He loved Henry dearly. Henry was always his favourite. Again and again Henry played him false and every time he forgave him and wanted to start again. He wanted Henry to love him. His death was a great blow to him.’

Eleanor played the lute and Matilda sang some of the songs which had come to Normandy from the Court of France and Aquitaine. They told of the conflict between the King’s sons and the love of knights for their ladies.

In due course Matilda’s child was born. The confinement was easy and the little boy was called William.

Eleanor, who loved little babies, delighted in caring for him.

Christmas was approaching.

To Eleanor’s amazement and secret delight, a message from the King arrived. He was summoning his sons to Westminster and he invited his wife to join them there. Matilda with her husband and children would accompany the Queen and it should be a family reunion.

The grey mists hung over Westminster on that November day, and in the palace there was an air of expectancy. This was an occasion which would be remembered by all concerned for as long as they lived. The King, the Queen and their sons would be together there.

When Eleanor came riding into the capital the people watched her in silence. This Queen had been a captive for ten years. She amazed them as she had in the days of her youth. There was something about her which could attract all eyes even now. She was an old woman but she was a beautiful one still; and the years had not robbed her of her voluptuous charm. In her gown of scarlet lined with miniver, adjusted to her special taste and with that unique talent which had stylised all her clothes, she looked magnificent.

The watchers were overawed.

Then came the King – so different from his Queen, yet, though he lacked her elegance there was about him a dignity which must impress all who beheld him. His cloak might be short and worn askew, his hair was greying and combed to hide the baldness, although by his garments he might be mistaken for a man of little significance, his bearing and demeanour proclaimed him the King.

She was waiting for him and they studied each other for some moments in silence.

By God’s eyes, he thought, she is a beautiful woman still. How well she hides her age!

The years have buffeted him, she thought gleefully. Why, Henry, you are an old man now. Where is the golden youth who took my fancy? How grey your hair is and no amount of dressing it can hide the fact that it is thi

He bowed to her and she inclined her head.

‘Welcome to Westminster,’ he said.

‘I thank you for your welcome and for the gifts you sent to me.’

‘It is long since we have met,’ he said. ‘Now let it be in amity.’

‘As you wish. You, my lord, now decide in what mood we meet.’

‘There must be a show of friendship between us,’ said the King. He turned away. ‘Grief has brought us together.’

They stood looking at each other and then the memory of Henry, their dead son, seemed too much for either of them to bear.

The King lowered his eyes and she saw the sadness of his face. He said: ‘Eleanor, our son …’

‘He is dead,’ she said. ‘My beautiful son is dead.’

‘My son too, Eleanor. Our son.’

She held out her hand and he took it and suddenly it was as though the years were swept away and they were lovers again as they had been at the time of Henry’s birth.

‘He was such a lovely boy,’ she said.

‘I never saw one more handsome.’

‘I ca