The boys talked about it a great deal. Their attitude was changing rapidly toward their father. They had never loved him but they had been in awe of him. They had regarded him as the all-powerful monarch, and power earns respect, especially from the ambitious, and all my boys were that.

“The King of France is angry with him ... so is the Pope,” said Richard. “Will they rise against him?”

I said: “We shall have to wait and see what happens.”

“If they defeated him,” went on Richard, “I should still have Aquitaine and Geoffrey Brittany. Nobody could take Aquitaine from me.”

“Nor Brittany from me,” added Geoffrey.

“If our father were driven out of England, he might try to. I wouldn’t let him.”

“No,” I put in, “your father will not be driven out of England, and I should certainly hope you would defend your estates against all comers. You would not be worthy of them if you did not do that.”

I could see how strongly they were turning against their father, and I was not displeased.

The whole world was against him. I wondered what effect this would have on him. Would he be in despair? I did not think so. He was always at his most vigorous and inventive at times of crisis.

He ignored the threats and turned his attention to a project which had long fascinated him: the addition of Ireland to his dominions. Events were fortuitous. Just at this time Diarmait Mac Murchadha, the King of Leinster, had lost his crown, and he sent word to Henry begging him to help him regain it. If he did, he promised he would pay homage to Henry. Henry accepted the challenge. It must have kept his mind from Becket and the antagonism he had stirred up against himself. He raised an army—chiefly from the Welsh border, and sent it to Ireland, and very soon they had possession of the land from Waterford to Dublin.

Just as the papal legates were about to enter Normandy and carry out their threats, Henry decided he must go to Ireland, where his presence was needed. This he proceeded to do and by October had landed in Waterford.

He had sent strict orders to Normandy that no churchman should be allowed to enter the country during his absence; the same rule should apply to England. So no one could bring him messages from the Pope. He then gave all his thought and energy to the Irish problem and in six months he had made the people of that land realize that there was only one course open to them—submission to him. With his unbounded energy, he set about bringing trade to that country, and he succeeded in making it more prosperous than it had ever been before. The wise among the Irish welcomed this. He fortified the coastal towns and set up garrisons there. Dublin had been almost in ruins when he took it, but before the year was out it had become a trading center. He spent Christmas in Dublin.

I could not help but admire him. It was typical of him to throw himself into this mighty project at the time when the whole world was against him and he himself must be tortured by the memories of a man who had dominated his life for so long.

He would probably have stayed in Ireland but for the fact that he heard rumors of what was happening in England. Did he then begin to realize what a great mistake he had made in setting up a second King? Young Henry was restive, eager to seize the crown; he was also very immature.

The older Henry had been groomed for kingship by his indomitable mother and had been made aware of all he had to learn and had set about learning it in a dedicated fashion. How different was his son! He was the sort of young man who would surround himself with sycophants; he was vain; he believed that governing a kingdom meant being idolized by those around him, being the center of attention on every occasion. He should have remembered how his father worked, how he was constantly going into battle, how he never spared himself and suffered the hardships his soldiers did. Henry was young, of course. Yes, surely his father must now be realizing his great mistake.

So he went back to England where, I heard, he found young Henry truculent, demanding to know why he could not govern England or at least Normandy.

Henry told him not to be foolish. He had been crowned but there was only one King of England as long as he himself was alive. Young Henry would have to remember that he must obey his father—in all things.

The King’s thoughts were now busy with marriage plans for our youngest, John. John was no longer at Fontevrault. He was now five years old and had been committed to the care of Ranulf de Granville, the Chief Justiciar of England. Always watchful for advantageous marriages for his offspring, Henry had decided on a marriage for his youngest with Alice, only daughter and therefore heiress of Humbert III, the Count of Maurienne. Henry made a contract with Humbert that if he had no male heirs John should inherit all his lands. If, on the other hand, he should have a son, there would be rich compensation for John.

This would give Henry command over the western passes of the Alps. Through his children he was going to have control of the whole of Europe.

In order to placate Louis, at the end of August Marguerite had been crowned with young Henry at Winchester by the Archbishop of Rouen. This had only increased my son’s desire to rule. Resentment smoldered between father and son, and there were many who were ready to add fuel to this.

This was the state of affairs when Henry decided to spend Christmas at Chinon and summoned not only his sons Richard and Geoffrey to join him but me also.

I would have refused but my sons had to go, and I did not want them to go without me. I must admit that the prospect of seeing Henry again exhilarated me. I wanted to see how he had weathered the storm of Becket’s murder which had still not abated. He was indeed a king. When he was threatened, he snapped his fingers and replied by adding Ireland to his dominions. It was impossible not to admire him.

Henry had aged. There was white in the tawny curls. But his vitality was as great as ever. He regarded me with a certain sardonic amusement.

There was great feasting, banquets with many courses and the finest wines that could be found in France, which meant the best in the world, I believed. But Henry was not interested in food and wine. I guessed it was a big strain for him to sit still while the rest of the company gorged themselves. He drank sparingly and showed clearly that he grudged the time spent on meals.

Richard and Geoffrey were in awe of him but their dislike was growing. The trouble he had had with young Henry had brought about a new sternness toward them all and he was determined to show them who was master.

I smiled inwardly. That was not the way to deal with them. It amazed me that such a brilliant tactician, such a born ruler, should be so ignorant of human nature. To have crowned his son in his lifetime was proof of that. And now followed this treatment of Richard and Geoffrey which could only alienate them.

I had shown him clearly that he could not expect me to bow to his wishes whatever they were. The partnership which had once existed between us was over. I had my dominions and, although he might think they were his, they were not. Aquitaine would have none of him and he knew it. Perhaps that was why he left me in peace to rule.

It was inevitable that that should be a stormy Christmas.

When we were alone, his conversation was all about our son Henry and how disappointed he was in him. The boy was pleasure-loving, thinking to spend his life staging tournaments; he thought kingship a round of gaiety with himself in the center of the fun and everyone giving way to him.

“What did you think he would be like?” I demanded. “A young boy having a crown thrust on him!”

“It should have made him more serious ... more aware of his responsibilities.”

“You know nothing of people, Henry,” I told him.

“I know my own son.”

“You knew him so well that you put a crown on his head and then expected him to behave like a nobody in the nursery.” He glared at me but I laughed at him. “You are a fool, Henry,” I said, “if you think you can make a boy a king and then expect him to behave as he did before he had his crown.”

“I was always aware of what kingship meant. When I was a boy I always reminded myself that there was a kingdom waiting for me and how I should have to take care to guard it.”

“You had to win your kingdom. It is very different to have it graciously handed to you. I could have told you you were acting unwisely. You went to great pains to get that boy crowned, even alienating the Pope and not waiting for the Archbishop of Canterbury to officiate ... leaving it all to Roger of York, who is now in trouble himself over it.”

“And you would not have crowned him!”

“Most certainly I would not. But the deed is done now and you will have to see what fruit it bears.”

“What do you mean? The boy will do as I say.”

I shrugged my shoulders and turned away. He strode toward me and gripped my arm.

“You are turning Richard and Geoffrey against me,” he accused.

I wrenched myself free. “No, Henry,” I said, “you are turning them against you.”

“What do you mean?”

“Look at yourself. Are you a good family man? Your wife will have none of you. You have indulged yourself with prostitutes. Your bastards are legion. You even set your mistress up in the palace in place of your Queen. My people of Aquitaine will not have you. You can take your laws and disciplines elsewhere as far as they are concerned. And now you complain that your sons do not fall down and worship you, and young Henry, whom you have made a king, is asking for more than a golden crown. Did you think to bind your children to you with lands and castles? I say, you do not know people.”