I wondered what young Henry must have been feeling. Could he refuse to take the oath? He would not dare. And yet could he at this very time be conspiring to take Aquitaine from Richard?
The King’s affection for his eldest son continued to amaze me. How much wiser he would have been to give it to Richard. Surely he must see by now how worthless Henry was. But always he placated him; always he hoped to reform him; always he tried to achieve the impossible.
He went on to say that Henry was the eldest. They must remember that. One day he would be King of England. He himself held the rights over all their possessions at this time, but in due course Henry, as King, would have them. Richard would remember that he held Aquitaine through the will and grace of his brother Henry, and Geoffrey so held Brittany. The King wished them all to swear fealty to the brother who would one day be King.
How different Richard was from Henry. He was completely outspoken and immediately declared that he would not swear fealty to his brother. He pointed out with vigor that he had received Aquitaine through his mother, and that I had always intended that he should rule it; it was apart from any of the King’s dominions. He had paid homage to the King of France as his vassal; that was traditional; he would swear fealty to no other.
I think the King must have been shaken. He was so used to browbeating everyone but he could not do that with Richard. He was always logical and mostly shrewd. What Richard said was true. Aquitaine was mine, not his, and I had given it to Richard.
There was a duel of words between them; the King could not give way and yet he knew that Richard was in the right. How foolish he was not to have grappled Richard to his side and let the others go. But this was one of the occasions when Henry was ruled by his affections rather than his common sense. Dearly he loved his eldest son, and nothing could alter that.
I daresay he found it easy to whip up his anger against Richard because he had wronged him so much. I wondered if it were true that Alais had borne his child. There had been rumors.
“You will obey me,” he shouted.
Richard retorted that he would do no such thing.
“Aquitaine is mine,” he cried. “Given by my mother whom you have treated so shamefully. How dare you imprison the Queen? How dare you rob her of her freedom! Because you are afraid of her? That could be the only reason. You shall not treat me as you have treated her. And I tell you this: one day I shall free her. We shall snap our fingers at you. I shall swear fealty to neither you nor to my brother.”
How thrilled I was when those words were reported to me! He meant them. He always meant what he said. He was not called “Richard Yea and Nay” for nothing. He had not forgotten me, and that love which had always been between us remained.
I could imagine Henry’s fury. I could picture him, standing there, bow legs apart, face scarlet with rage, eyes flashing. It would not be the moment for childish rage. His voice would be cold and precise when he said: “By God’s eyes, I will not be treated thus by my own son. We will teach Master Richard a lesson.”
What a Christmas that must have been at Caen. And I not there to see it!
The King must soon have realized his folly. Teach Richard a lesson! What could that mean but that young Henry had his father’s consent to take Aquitaine, but when he heard that Henry and Geoffrey were riding to Aquitaine, gathering supporters as they went, he must have been overcome with dismay.
There were times when even his doting affection had to be seen for what it was. Henry with Aquitaine! How long would he hold it? And Geoffrey, the young fool, with him! What were those boys thinking of? They had no sense. They wanted to take, all the time; they never wanted to give anything. They thought ruling was all pleasure. They had no notion of what it meant to govern wisely.
Would Richard be able to hold out against them? He was infinitely superior in the field, but in battle numbers often counted.
Young Henry was in Limoges, the town which had acclaimed him as their Duke. The King must go to Limoges with all speed.
He was soon approaching the town. There could be no doubt who he was, for his standard-bearer carried the pennon above his head, which announced to all that here was the King of England. Arrows were falling about him; one pierced his cloak. It must have been aimed directly at him. From whom could the order have come? From his son Henry? His men gathered around him and told him he must return to the camp at once. It was obvious that there was an intention to kill him.
He saw the wisdom of this and retired.
I could imagine his feelings. Did his son want the crown so much that he was prepared to murder his father to get it? Did he really believe that? He would have grappled with himself; sentiment trying hard to get the better of reason. How strange that such a man should have such weakness. It did show that he was capable of love, for he certainly felt it toward his son.
I was glad that young Henry went to his camp. How touched the King must have been when the young man fell on his knees before him. He wept bitterly and said that when he saw the arrow pierce his father’s cloak he was overcome with sorrow. So he had seen it? Had he ordered it? The King would not allow himself to believe that. It must have been some overzealous soldier who sought to win honor.
Something of that conversation was reported to me.
“Father, when I saw that arrow touch you ... and realized what might have happened, I was overcome with shock and grief.”
“It was shot by one of your men.”
“I will never forgive him.”
“He meant to serve you.”
“Oh, Father, forgive me.”
“It was not you who shot the arrow?”
“No. But one of my servants ...”
“There must be an end to this strife between us. Do not forget I am your father. Do not forget you are my son.” He went on to impress on young Henry how much he had to learn. He tried once more to make him understand the responsibilities of kingship.
Henry protested that his father was siding with Richard against him and Geoffrey, although Richard had stalked out at Caen and refused obedience.
“There must not be war in families,” reiterated the King. “If we do not stand together, we are doomed.”
“The people of Aquitaine do not want Richard.”
“Richard is the rightful heir.”
“Father, if you came to Aquitaine, if you asked the people which of us they wanted, they would listen to you. Will you do this?”
“I will consider,” said the King.
Young Henry went back to the town, and the King stayed in the camp outside.
I was sure he would not easily forget the arrow which had pierced his cloak. I could imagine how he spent that night. He must have been full of misgivings; surely the truth must have begun to dawn on him then. He must have seen that his son’s tears and grief had been a pretense, that he wished to gain time for the fortification of Limoges, that he was ready to go into battle against his father.
Geoffrey was with him—two traitor sons, and Richard defying him.
The next day he rode toward the town intending to speak once more with Henry. He took with him only his standard-bearer and two knights. There could be no question that he came in any attempt to take the town. Yet he was greeted by a shower of arrows, and this time one of them struck and killed his horse. The King was thrown to the ground.
His standard-bearer and the knights knelt beside him in consternation.
“I am unhurt,” he said. “It is just my poor horse who is killed.”
While the King was getting to his feet, young Henry came riding full speed toward him. He was preparing to weep, to tell his father how distraught he was.
The King said coldly: “You should train your archers better. You see, the second time they have failed.”