Eleanor of Aquitaine: The Mother Queen (23 page)

By 1199, despite Philip II’s undoubted ability, the Capetian monarchy’s hopes of expansion were beginning to appear very bleak. England and the Angevin empire were under the iron grip of Richard, who was a far abler soldier than his father had ever been; Château-Gaillard was as much a symbol of aggression as of defence. Although the English king’s vassals were as turbulent and rebellious as always, they had an increasing respect for his military talent, and the great feudatories of France were becoming more ready to join the Plantagenet against a liege lord who had been outlawed by the Church. Although Richard was in his forty-second year (advanced middle age for a mediaeval man), he was none the less plainly in the best of health, having thrown off all those ailments that had afflicted him at the beginning of his reign and during the crusade. It must have seemed that at any moment he would inflict some disastrous reverse on the French king.

Early in 1199 a Limousin peasant ploughing his field at Châlus, not far from Limoges, turned up a rich Gallo-Roman treasure horde. It included a marvellous gold model of a king or emperor seated at a table with his family. The peasant took it to his lord, Achard of Châlus, from whom it was claimed by his overlord, the viscount of Limoges. Rumours about so fabulous a treasure soon spread all over France. Aymar of Limoges was Richard’s vassal, and the king, as was his right in feudal law, duly demanded that it be handed over to him at once. The viscount offered to surrender half of it, but no more. Meanwhile the wonderful treasure stayed at Châlus.

Richard needed money desperately. His mercenaries were mutinous from lack of pay, and in consequence were as much a scourge of the Angevin lands as of those of king Philip. Normandy, once so loyal, had been driven to the brink of rebellion by excessive taxation. Indeed at about this time the king wrote a frivolous song, addressed to the dauphin of Auvergne, about his penury:

Savies qu’a Chinon non a argent ni denier

(There’s neither silver nor one penny at Chinon)

Understandably Richard was determined to obtain such a valuable treasure as that found at Châlus, and the viscount’s proposed compromise infuriated him, hardening his resolve. He marched on Châlus, regardless of the fact that it was Lent — traditionally a season of peace — and laid siege to the castle.

Châlus was garrisoned by only fifty men, mainly peasants led by a handful of knights. Foolishly they decided to resist the king, sending word to the viscount of Limoges to come and relieve them. Richard anticipated scant difficulty in reducing this rustic stronghold and his skilled engineers began to undermine its walls, with considerable effect. During the late evening of 25 March, after they had had supper, the king and Mercadier went on horseback to see how the work was progressing. Archers shot at them from the ramparts, but Richard relied on his shield to protect him. Suddenly a bolt from a crossbow hit him in the shoulder, just below the neck. He rode calmly back to his lodgings, for he was no stranger to wounds. When the surgeons pulled the bolt out, however, the shaft broke; the head seems to have become hooked onto the king’s spine. Eventually, after an agonizing operation, they succeeded in digging it out, but a piece of iron remained. Gangrene set in. Richard realized that he was going to die and sent for his mother.

Eleanor, who had been keeping Lent at Fontevrault, came at once, accompanied by the abbot of Turpenay. She also sent abbess Matilda of Fontevrault to fetch count John and to inform queen Berengaria. The king prepared for death in an edifying manner, making a public confession in which he repented of betraying his father, of making war in Lent and of refusing to take communion because of his hatred for Philip II. He also announced that he was prepared to wait in purgatory until the Last Judgment to atone for his sins. He then received holy communion, which he had not done since he was on crusade. When the castle fell, the young crossbowman who had shot the fatal bolt was brought before him. ‘You killed my father and my brother’, said the boy defiantly, ‘and you can do what you want to me. I am not sorry.’ But Richard pardoned him, saying, ‘Leave in peace. I forgive you for my death and will take no revenge. Enjoy the daylight, as my gift.’ The queen mother arrived ‘as though borne by the wind’, and Richard died in her arms on the evening of 6 April 1199 — ‘as the day ended, so ended his life’. The king had asked for his heart to be interred at his ‘faithful city’ of Rouen, near his brother Henry; his body itself was buried at Fontevrault at the foot of his father, as a sign of repentance for having rebelled against him.

Richard I was the magnificent one of Eleanor’s offspring. She had called him ‘the great one’ without exaggeration. Troubadours and chroniclers paid him many tributes. Gaucelm Faidit, one of the king’s protégés, laments in a
planh
that ‘never again will there be a man so generous, so courtly, so hardy, so bountiful’ as
Richartz, reys dels Engles,
and compares him to Arthur and Charlemagne and even to Alexander the Great. Although Richard had been cruel, perverse and extravagant, he had also been a mighty warrior and a figure of genuine splendour. He has had much criticism from modern English historians from Stubbs onwards, because they were offended by his lack of interest in England and the English, whom he regarded as little more than a source of money and troops. All the same, contemporary Englishmen were devoted to him, and when he was actually in their country his government was firm and efficient. In Palestine and France he was indisputably a success as a soldier and as a statesman.

It was Richard’s fortune and misfortune to be Eleanor’s son. Although not so intelligent as his mother, in more than a few ways he was a male Eleanor. Both were true Latins, people of the south, who had nothing in common with the northern French (in these days Poitevins were hardly thought of as northerners), let alone the English. Both were realists and both were masterful, greedy for power, ruthless yet subtle politicians and diplomatists, although, to a certain extent, Richard lacked his mother’s self-control and delicate touch. He also was a patron of troubadours and a troubadour himself, which must have delighted Eleanor’s heart. He was like her too in showing both magnanimity and harshness in personal relationships, and in being frivolous and ironical, with a cynical, sarcastic streak, but at the same time a devout Christian. Above all, although there is of course no proper evidence, one must suspect that Richard’s feelings for his mother were excessive, and that he had to pay for them. His respect and admiration for her precluded interest in any other women. This is surely in part at least the explanation for his homosexuality and for his exaggerated and peculiarly personal cult of chivalry.

For Eleanor the shock of Richard’s death must have been the most terrible event in her life, the loss of ‘the staff of my age, the light of my eyes’. It has been pointed out that whereas in documents referring to John she uses the normal
dilectus
(beloved), in those that refer to Richard she employs the word
carissimus
(most dear), and this was obviously not by accident. She personally superintended his interment at Fontevrault, with St Hugh of Lincoln to sing the requiem. To ensure the nuns’ prayers she gave a magnificent bequest that provided an annual sum to pay for every nun’s habit. In addition she made a multitude of donations to other abbeys to pray for his soul, and gave many rich gifts to members of his household; several years later she is found giving a present to a certain Roger who had been one of the king’s cooks. Even so, despite her bereavement, the queen mother was not a woman to waste time mourning. Her need to rule was nearly as great as her love for her favourite son.

17 King John

‘Your strong possession, much more than your right;
Or else it must go wrong with you, and me:
So much my conscience whispers in your ear;
Which none but heaven, and you, and I, shall hear.’

Shakespeare,
King John

‘Et ne connais-tu pas l’implacable Agrippine?’

Racine,
Britannicus

The new king of England and lord of all the Angevin empire was to be count John. There was of course a rival claimant, twelve-year-old Arthur, duke of Brittany, who had in some ways a better claim in feudal law. He was the son of the third of Henry II’s sons who had lived to manhood, whereas John was only the fourth son, and at one time Richard had treated duke Arthur as his heir. On his deathbed, however, Richard apparently designated John as his heir — at least, according to John’s close friend and supporter, William of Braose (who was present), and to Eleanor.

Although there is no proof, one may guess that Eleanor was largely responsible for the alteration in the succession. It is even possible that she connived at misrepresenting Richard’s last words. Admittedly there were many arguments against Arthur. His mother Constance, the heiress of the previous Breton dynasty, was no lover of Plantagents even if she was the mother of one; she had intrigued with Philip of France against Richard, and in 1196 her troops had fought against the English king. Naturally all this might change if Arthur succeeded his uncle. On the other hand John, supported by his mother, would have the best chance of keeping the Angevin empire intact. Constance was little known outside Brittany and Maine, and only Eleanor could hold Poitou and Aquitaine. Furthermore, the feudal law of inheritance varied in the different Angevin territories: in some areas John had a better legal claim as the late king’s younger brother.

The near-contemporary biographer of William Marshal recounts a revealing conversation between his hero and the archbishop of Canterbury and justiciar, Hubert Walter, about the succession. The archbishop was at first for Arthur, but William argued that the young duke ‘has bad advisers and is arrogant and violent. If we have him for our master we shall be sorry, as he dislikes the English.’ The great soldier persuaded the archbishop that the only possible choice was John. Nonetheless Hubert told William, ‘You will regret this more than any decision of your entire life’. Arthur was only a boy, and it looks as though William Marshal distrusted not Arthur but Constance. It may also be relevant that William had been close to the queen mother ever since she had been his patron when he was a young man.

Eleanor’s preference of John to Arthur must surely reflect her enduring need for power. Probably she had little affection for John, let alone confidence in his abilities. But had Arthur succeeded she would almost certainly have been displaced by Constance and have lost every vestige of influence; worse, she might have been deprived of both Poitou and Aquitaine, which she had recovered with so much difficulty. And Eleanor was not the sort of woman to live peaceably with a daughter-in-law, other than some faceless nonentity such as poor Berengaria.

John was now thirty-one years old. Unlike his golden brother, he was an ugly little man, only 5 feet 5 inches tall, who with age grew fat and bald. Nor was he a Spartan campaigner like Richard, though devoted to hunting and hawking and constantly in the saddle; in contrast, he disliked warfare and even tournaments, and was a coward at heart. This new king loved luxury, and had the reputation of being a glutton and a drunkard, who never kept the prescribed days of fasting and abstinence. He was a lecher, known to have fathered at last seven bastards. He was much the best-read member of his family — Eleanor excepted — with a questioning interest in theology that was sharpened by his innate scepticism. Although fond of music, however, he had not inherited his dynasty’s love of poetry and troubadours, but he possessed to the full its peculiar brand of sardonic humour. The Easter that he ascended the throne, bishop Hugh of Lincoln rebuked him publicly for not receiving holy communion (something he had not done since he was a boy) and showed him a carving of the Last Judgment, pointing to a scene of damned souls being dragged down to hell by demons; John calmly pulled the saint to the other side, which represented the souls of the saved ascending to heaven, and said, ‘Let’s look at these instead — I am going to go with them’. He delighted in shocking clerics with his frivolous and often blasphemous wit. Nevertheless, he knew how to please, possessing a honeyed charm like that of his brothers, and could even inspire loyalty.