“My father ...” began young Henry.
But even the King understood now. He leaped onto the horse which his standard-bearer had brought to him and turned his back on his son.
How bitter his thoughts must have been as he rode back. His sons were against him. They had defied him; one had tried to kill him. He would not be duped any longer.
He thought then, I believe, of Geoffrey, the son of a prostitute; he had never had anything but devotion from that one. How ironic that his legitimate sons should have turned against him, and he had only loyalty from his bastard!
There was one who had not stood against him. He was too young to do so. That was John.
Henry would always care for his illegitimate son Geoffrey and keep him near him; but alas, when all was said and done, he was a bastard. It was a legitimate son he needed to stand beside him and give him that affection for which he craved.
And there was John.
From that time he transferred his affections from his eldest to his youngest son. John became the center of his ambitions.
I was very involved with my children even though I did not see them, and young Henry was constantly in my thoughts. I had known of his weakness long before it had been revealed to his father. I had eagerly gleaned everything I could hear of him, and in spite of our separation I knew him well.
I fervently hoped his folly would not destroy him.
One night I had a strange dream. I thought I was in a crypt. The coldness seeped into my bones; there was a faint light which seemed to beckon to me, and I followed it. When it stopped, I was looking at a man who was lying on the stones of the crypt, and that man was my son Henry. Looking closely I saw that it was not in fact my son but an effigy as one sees on a tomb; there were two crowns above his head—one the crown of England, the other in the form of a halo, and there was a look of infinite peace on the carved face.
When I awoke, I said to myself: My son Henry is dead.
It was some weeks later before I heard what had happened.
There was only one course open to the King. He was at war with his sons, and he was going to lay siege to Limoges. He was now ranged on Richard’s side.
Young Henry must have been really frightened. Twice he had tried to kill his father and failed. It was no use weeping and expecting forgiveness now: he had obviously betrayed himself; the only surprise was that the King had taken so long to realize his son’s true nature.
Young Henry did not want war; he only wanted the spoils of war. He soon discovered that real war was very different from the mock variety he enjoyed at jousts. War was hardship, exhaustion and possibly death.
Geoffrey escaped from Limoges on a pretext of raising men and money. Henry realized that his father’s tactics would very soon end in victory. He could not endure the thought of being his father’s captive and one night crept out of town and joined some supporters who had raised an army in a nearby town. He was immediately told that money was needed if they were to continue with the campaign. Soldiers had to be paid. Henry did not understand these matters. He was the King—if in name only—and men must do their duty without pay; but his captains informed him that they would desert if not paid. Many of them were mercenaries. The money had to be found.
“The men must wait ... wait,” he cried petulantly.
They came to an abbey where the monks received them as they wished to visit the shrines, and according to custom they were given food.
After the meal, when they visited the shrines, Henry was struck by the beauty of the monastery’s treasures. An idea occurred to him. The sale of some of the chalices alone would feed an army for a month. What use were they in an abbey when he was so desperate? I wonder how long it took him to persuade himself. I am sure his captains attempted to warn him of his folly.
But Henry was reckless; he had betrayed himself to his father, and he guessed the old man could live another ten years with the knowledge that his son had made two attempts on his life. He had crowned him; he was King; nothing could alter that; but his father was a sly man; he might even attempt to do to his son what that son had tried to do to the father. He made up his mind. His need was great. They were going to rob the shrines of their valuable ornaments, sell them and with the money raise an army to take Aquitaine.
The monks were shocked beyond belief. They could not understand how any professed Christian could desecrate the shrines. But Henry did, and with his army rode on.
Robbing monasteries and abbeys was easy. There was no—or little—resistance. This was the way.
The countryside was in terror at the approach of Henry’s army. Everywhere monks locked their doors against them. This proved useless. What were gates against an army? They battered their way in.
I wished I could have talked to my son. He was like a man possessed. He had offended against all the laws of God and man; he had attempted to murder his father, and now he was robbing holy shrines. He was frantic, running on blindly ... shutting his mind to all thought of the consequences of his actions because he dared not face them.
He came at length to the monastery of Grandmont, which contained the shrine of Rocamadour.
He was wealthy now. He could raise a bigger and better army, but the lust for plunder stayed with him. He knew that he was damned but instead of repenting his sins he wanted to add to them. He wanted to defy God as he had defied his father.
Those about him would have held back; they wanted to finish with this way of life; they wanted to return to their homes and forget the conquest of Aquitaine and the crown of England.
Perhaps he kept up a spirit of bravado. I think that would be typical of him. And when his men showed a reluctance to enter the monastery he would have called them cowards.
They broke in; he took the treasures from the shrines of Rocamadour.
That night Henry was in the grip of a fever. Those about him believed that God had judged him and condemned him. Perhaps they were right. As he was so ill, they look him into the house of a smith called Stephen so that he could receive some comfort.
His bravado vanished; his fear of what was in store for him was uppermost. He was sure he was going to die and that this was God’s just punishment. He was guilty of attempting to kill his father and desecrating holy shrines. He feared the future and wanted to right as many wrongs as he could in the time left to him.
There was one man whom he had wronged and whom the King valued. He desperately wanted to see that man.
William Marshal was in Aquitaine and could come to him quickly. After he had sent for him, Henry dispatched a messenger to his father begging him to come to him.
After two attempts on his life, the King was wary. His attitude had changed. He was no longer deluding himself about his eldest son. Henry had exposed himself too obviously for further deceit to succeed. This time the King listened to his advisers, who were sure that this was another attempt to do that in which he had twice failed.
William Marshal did go to Henry’s bedside, but by his time the fever had taken a firmer hold on him.
I did hear later what he said to William. William had been a friend of his childhood; they had been close until the Count of Flanders had sown suspicion in Henry’s mind about Marshal and Marguerite. He told William that he knew his end was near. He had been possessed by devils and feared eternal damnation. He blamed his ancestress, the witch. “We Plantagenets are the Devil’s spawn,” he said. “We came from the Devil and we shall go back to the Devil.” William begged him to repent of his sins.
He was happier when a messenger came back with a ring from his father. The King did not trust him sufficiently to come himself but he was still his father and he did want his son to know that in spite of everything he still cared for him. They told me how Henry’s ring had comforted him.