Hebraic Literature 26

Hebraic Literature 26

CHAPTER XI

 

 

THE DEATH OF HENRY

 

In the last nine years of Henry's reign his work lay elsewhere than in

his English kingdom. They were years spent in a passionate effort to

hold together the unwieldy empire he had so laboriously built up. On the

death of Louis in 1180 the peaceful and timid traditions of his reign

were cast aside by the warlike Philip, who had from childhood cherished

a violent hatred against Henry, and who was bent on the destruction of

rival powers, and the triumph of the monarchy in France. Henry's

absorbing care, on the other hand, was to prevent war; and during the

next four years he constantly forced reconciliation on the warring

princes of France. "All who loved peace rejoiced at his coming," the

chroniclers constantly repeat. "He had faith in the Lord, that if he

crossed over he could make peace." "As though always at his coming peace

should certainly be made."

 

But in Britanny and in Aquitaine there was no peace. The sons whom he

had set over his provinces had already revolted in 1173. In 1177 fresh

troubles broke out, and from that time their history was one of unbroken

revolt against their father and strife amongst themselves. "Dost thou

not know," Geoffrey once answered a messenger of his father's, sent to

urge him to peace, "that it is our proper nature, planted in us by

inheritance from our ancestors, that none of us should love the other,

but that ever brother should strive against brother, and son against

father. I would not that thou shouldst deprive us of our hereditary

right, nor vainly seek to rob us of our nature!" In 1182 Henry sought

once more to define the authority of his sons, and to assert the unity

of the Empire under his own supremacy by ordering Richard and Geoffrey

to do homage to their brother for Aquitaine and Britanny. Richard's

passionate refusal struck the first open blow at his father's imperial

schemes, and war at once broke out. The nobles of Aquitaine, weary of

the severe rule of Richard, had long plotted to set in his place his

gentler brother Henry, and the young king, along with Geoffrey, lent

himself openly to the conspiracy. In 1183 they called for help from

Flanders, France, and Normandy, and a general revolt seemed on the point

of breaking out, like that of ten years before. Henry II. was forced to

march himself into Aquitaine. But in a war with his sons he was no

longer the same man as when he fought with French king or rebel barons.

His political sagacity and his passionate love of his children fought an

unequal battle. Duped by every show of affection, he was at their mercy

in intrigue. Twice peaceful embassies, which he sent to Henry and

Geoffrey, were slain before their eyes without protest. As he himself

talked with them they coolly saw one of their archers shoot at him and

wound his horse. The younger Henry pretended to make peace with his

father, sitting at meat with him, and eating out of the same dish, that

Geoffrey might have time to ravage the land unhindered. Geoffrey

successfully adopted the same device in order to plunder the churches of

Limoges. The wretched strife was only closed at last by the death of the

younger Henry in 1183.

 

His death, however, only opened new anxieties. Richard now claimed to

take his brother's place as heir to the imperial dignity, while at the

same time he exercised undivided lordship over an important state a

position which the king had again and again refused to Henry. Geoffrey,

whose over-lord the young king had been, sought to rule Britanny as a

dependent of Philip, and his plots in Paris with the French king were

only ended by his death in 1185. Philip, on his part, demanded, at the

death of the young king, the restoration of Margaret's dowry, the Vexin

and Gisors; when Geoffrey died he claimed to be formally recognized as

suzerain of Britanny, and guardian of his infant; he demanded that

Richard should do homage directly to him as sovereign lord of Aquitaine,

and determined to assert his rights over the lands so long debated of

Berri and Auvergne. For the last years of Henry's reign disputes raged

round these points, and more than once war was only averted by the

excitement which swept over Europe at the disastrous news from the Holy

Land.

 

After the death of the young king a precarious peace was established in

Aquitaine, and Henry returned to England. In March 1185 he received at

Reading the patriarch of Jerusalem and the master of the Hospital,

bearing the standard of the kings of the Holy Land, with the keys of the

Holy Sepulchre, of the tower of David, and of the city of Jerusalem.

"Behold the keys of the kingdom," said the patriarch Heracles with a

burst of tears, "which the king and princes of the land have ordered me

to give to thee, because it is in thee alone, after God, that they have

hope and confidence of salvation." The king reverently received them

before the weeping assembly, but handed them back to the safekeeping of

the patriarch till he could consult with his barons. He had long been

pledged to join the holy war; he had renewed his vow in 1177 and 1181.

But it was a heavy burden to be now charged with the crown of Jerusalem.

Since the days of his grandfather, Fulk of Anjou, the last strong king

of Jerusalem, there had been swift decay. Three of his successors were

minors; Antone was a leper; the fifth was repudiated by every one of his

vassals. The last forty years had been marked by continual disaster. The

armies of the Moslem were closing in fast on every side. A passion of

sympathy was everywhere roused by the sorrows of the Holy City. All

England, it was said, desired the crusade, and Henry's prudent counting

of the cost struck coldly on the excited temper of the time. Gerald of

Wales officiously took on himself, in the middle of a hunting party, to

congratulate the king on the honour done to him and his kingdom, since

the patriarch had passed by the lands of emperors and kings to seek out

the English sovereign. Talk of this kind before all the court at such a

critical moment much displeased the prudent king, and he answered in his

biting way, "If the patriarch, or any other men come to me, they seek

rather their own than my gain." The unabashed Gerald still went on,

"Thou shouldst think it thy highest gain and honour, king, that thou

alone art chosen before all the sovereigns of the earth for so great a

service to Christ." "Thus bravely," retorted Henry, "the clergy provoke

us to arms and dangers, since they themselves receive no blow in the

battle, nor bear any burden which they may avoid!"

 

Henry's council, however, held firm against the general tide of romantic

enthusiasm. In the weighty question of the eastern crown the king had

formally and openly pledged himself to act by the advice of his wise

men, as no king before him since the Conquest had ever done. An assembly

was summoned at Clerkenwell on the 18th of March. No councillors were

called from Anjou or Normandy or Aquitaine; the decision was made solely

by the advice of the prelates and barons of England. "It seemed to all,"

declared the council, "to be more fitting, and more for the safety of

his soul, that he should govern his kingdom with moderation and preserve

it from the irruptions of barbarians and from foreign nations, than that

he should in his own person provide for the safety of the eastern

nations." The verdict showed the new ideal of kingship which had grown

up during Henry's reign, and which made itself deeply felt over the

whole land when in the days of his successor the duties of righteous

government were thrown aside for the vainglories of religious chivalry.

But the patriarch heard the answer with bitter disappointment, and was

not appeased by promises of money and forces for the war. "Not thus will

you save your soul nor the heritage of Christ," he declared. "We come to

seek a king, not money; for every corner of the world sends us money,

but not one a prince." And in open court he flung his fierce prophecy at

the king, that as till now he had been greatest among the kings of the

earth, so henceforth, forsaken by God and destitute of His grace, until

his latest breath his glory should be turned into disaster and his

honour into shame. Henry, as he rode with the patriarch back to Dover,

listened with his strange habitual forbearance while Heraclius poured

forth angry reproaches for the iniquities of his whole life, and

declared at last that he had almost with his own hands slain St. Thomas.

At this the king fiercely turned, with his eyes rolling in a mad storm

of passion, and the patriarch bent his head. "Do with me," he cried,

"what you did to Thomas. I would rather have my head cut off by you in

England than by the Saracens in Palestine, for in truth you are worse

than any Saracen!" The king answered with an oath, "If all the men of my

kingdom were gathered in one body and spoke with one mouth they would

not dare to say this to me." Heraclius pointed scornfully to the train

of followers. "Do you indeed think that these men love you--these who

care only for your wealth? It is the plunder, and not the man, that this

crowd follows after!" Henry spoke of the danger from his sons if he

should quit his dominions. "No wonder," was the parting taunt of

Heraclius; "from the devil they came, and to the devil they will go."

 

But Henry was never to come back to England. One day in June a certain

Walter of the royal household was terrified by a vision of St. Thomas,

who appeared bearing a shining sword which he declared had been newly

forged to pierce through the king himself. Walter hurried to the chapel,

where Henry was at mass, to tell his tale. Three times the king bent

before the altar and signed himself devoutly as though he prayed to the

Lord, and then passed to his council chamber. The next day he called

Walter to his presence, and sadly shaking his head, spoke with deep

sighs, "Walter, Walter, I have felt how cruelly thy sword can strike,

for we have lost Châteauroux!" War had in fact broken out in Aquitaine.

Toulouse had risen against Richard. Philip, in violation of his treaty,

invaded Berri and marched into Auvergne. Hastily gathering an army,

Henry crossed to France in a terrible storm. He met Philip at Gisors on

the 30th of September, but after three days' bitter strife the kings

parted. In November they met again at Bonmoulins in the presence of the

Archbishop of Reims, and a great multitude of courtiers and knights.

Richard, outraged by the rumour that Henry proposed to give Aquitaine to

John, turned suddenly to Philip, while the people crowded round wondering,

ungirt his sword, and stretched out his hands to do homage to him for all

his father's lands from the Channel to the Pyrenees. His unhappy father

started back, stunned by this new calamity, "for he had not forgotten the

evil which Henry his son had done to him with the help of King Louis, and

this Philip was yet worse than his father Louis." As father and son fell

apart the people rushed together, while at the tumult the outer ring of

soldiers laid their hands upon their swords, and thus Philip and Richard

went out together, leaving Henry alone.

 

A great solitude had indeed fallen on the old king. His wife was still

guarded as a prisoner. Two of his sons had died traitors to their

father. A third was in open rebellion. All his daughters were in far-off

lands, and one of them was soon to die. Only one son remained to him of

all his household, and to him Henry now clung with a great love--the

fierce tenacity of an affection that knew no other hope. The king

himself was only fifty-six; but he was already an old man, worn out by

the prodigious labours and anxieties of forty years. There were moments

when a passionate despair settled down on his soul. One day he called

his two friends, Baldwin and Hugh, out from the crowd of courtiers to

ride beside him, and the bitterness of his heart broke forth, "Why

should I revere Christ!" he cried, "why should I think Him worthy of

honour who takes from me all honour in my lands, and suffers me to be

thus shamefully confounded before that camp follower?" as he called the

king of France. Then, as if beside himself, he struck spurs into his

horse, and dashed back again into the throng of courtiers.

 

In the eyes of the world, however, Henry was still the most renowned

among the kings of the earth in his unassailable triumph and success.

For forty years his reign had been one long triumph. From every difficulty

conquered he had gained new strength; every rebellion had left him more

unquestioned master. He had never yet known defeat. The Church was now

earnest in his support. Papal legates won for him a truce of two months

after the conference at Bonmoulins, and when at its close Britanny broke

out in revolt, and Richard led an army against his father's lands, the

legates again procured peace till after Easter. From February to June of

1189 Henry waited at Le Mans, still confident, it would seem, of peace.

Once more legates were appointed to bring about a settlement between the

two kings at La Ferte Bernardon the 4th of June. With a fierce outburst

of anger Henry passionately refused the demands of Philip. The legate

threatened to lay France under an interdict if Philip persisted in war,

but Philip only retorted that the Roman Church had no right to interfere

between the king of France and his rebel vassals, and added with a sneer

that the cardinals already smelt English gold. Then at last Henry

abandoned the hope of peace. His treasury was empty, and his lands on both

sides of the water had been taxed to the last penny. His troops had melted

away in search of more abundant pay. He was shut in between hostile

forces--Breton rebels to westward, and the allied armies of Philip and

Richard to eastward. The danger roused his old defiant energy. Glanville

hurried to England "to compel all English knights, however exhausted and

poor, to cross to France," while the king himself, with a few faithful

barons and a small body of mercenaries, fell back on Le Mans, swearing

that he would never forsake the citizens of the town where he had

been born.

 

The French army, however, followed hard after him. On the 9th of June

Philip and Richard halted fifteen miles off Le Mans, on the 11th of June

they encamped under its walls. The next day they broke through the

handful of troops who desperately held the bridge. A wealthy suburb

which could no longer be defended was set on fire, so that it should not

give shelter to the enemy, the wind swept the flames into the city, and

Henry saw himself shut in between the burning town and the advancing

Frenchmen. Then for the first time in his life he turned his back upon

his enemies. At the head of 700 horsemen he rode out over a bridge to

the north, and fled towards Normandy. As he mounted the spur of a hill

two miles off, he turned to look at the flames that rose from the city,

and in the bitterness of his humiliation he cursed God--"The city which

I have loved best on earth, the city in which I was born and bred, where

my father lies buried, where is the body of Saint Julian--this Thou, O

God, to the heaping up of my confusion, and to the increase of my shame,

hast taken from me in this base manner! I therefore will requite as best

I can; I will assuredly rob Thee too of the thing in me which Thou lovest best!"