This news, which reached England in October or November, 1187, silenced for a moment the petty quarrels of the West. But it was for a moment only. At the first shock of the tidings Henry and Philip laid aside their grievances. Richard was the first to take the cross. The popes one after another in quick succession issued impassioned adjurations that peace should be made, and that one great Catholic Crusade should rescue imperilled Christendom. The Emperor himself, the lord of the Western world, the great Frederick, declared that he would go to Palestine with all the German chivalry. In England and France went out a decree that all men who had anything should pay a tenth towards the Crusade. The Saladin tithe was enacted by a great assembly of all England, at Geddington, near Northampton, and it was the first case in which Englishmen ever paid a general tax on all their goods and chattels. This was done in February, 1188. The money was hastily collected. It was yet uncertain whether the king would go himself or send Richard or John or both. But the moment of peace was over, and for Henry at least the end was coming.
Henry’s last
quarrel,
1188.
Richard
joins Phillip.
The last storm arose in the South; the quarrel between Richard and the Count of Toulouse, beginning about a little matter, drew in both Henry and Philip. Philip complained to Henry of the misrule of his son. Henry disowned the measures of Richard; and Philip invaded Berry. At first Richard acted in concert with his father, drove Philip out of Berry, and recovered the places that he had taken. Henry was in England at the time of the outbreak. He sent over first the Archbishop of Canterbury, then John, and at last, in July, 1188, left his kingdom never to return. The name of the great king was, at first, potent enough. Philip sued for peace; the Counts of Champagne insisted that there should be peace until the Crusade was over. Once and again the two kings met, and failed to come to a reconciliation. In November Richard began to waver: he did homage to Philip for all the French provinces, saving, however, his fealty to his father. A truce was made, and the Pope sent a legate to turn the truce into a peace. But when the time of truce expired Richard had gone over to Philip, and actually joined in the invasion of his father’s territories. Philip insisted that Richard should be acknowledged heir; Henry hesitated; Richard suspected that John was to supplant him: John was bribed to take part with his father’s enemies. Henry, unable to believe the monstrous conspiracy, for the first time in his life showed want of resolution; he did not draw his forces to a head, but deliberated and negotiated whilst Richard and Philip were acting. His health was failing, and his spirits had failed already.
Capture of
le Mans.
Henry’s
flight.
So the spring of 1189 went on, Henry staying mostly at Saumur, in Anjou, or at Chinon; and Philip watching for his opportunity. At length on May 28, after a conference at la Ferté Bernard, in which Henry, as it was said, bribed the papal legate to take his side, Philip finally broke into war; carried almost by surprise the chief castles of Maine, and with a good fortune which he could scarcely realize captured the city of le Mans itself, which Henry, although at the head of a stout force of knights, refused to defend. Wretchedly ill and broken in spirit, he rode for his life from le Mans, to escape from the hands of his son and of Philip. This was on June 12. Le Mans was Henry’s birth-place; there his father was buried, and he had loved the place very much; it was also a very strong place, and when it was taken he knew that sooner or later Tours must go too. But even before Tours was taken all was lost, for Henry seemed to think that he had nothing left to live or fight for. Scarcely able to sit on horseback, he rode all day from le Mans, and rested at night at la Frenaye, on the way to Normandy, where the chief part of his force and all his strength lay. Geoffrey, his natural son and chancellor, afterwards Archbishop of York, was with him, and the poor father clung to him in his despair. To him, through his friend Giraldus Cambrensis, we owe the story of these sad days.
His last
days.
Henry was worn out with illness and fatigue—he would, he said, lie down and die: at night he would not be undressed; Geoffrey threw his cloak on him and watched by his side. In the morning the king declared that he could not leave Anjou; Geoffrey was to go on to Alençon with the troops. He would return to Chinon. Geoffrey was not allowed to depart until the Steward of Normandy had sworn that, should the king die, he would surrender the castles only to John; for Henry did not yet know the treachery of his favorite child. All was done as he bade; Geoffrey secured Alençon and then returned to look for his father; he found him at a place called Savigny, and took him to Chinon, as he wished. For a fortnight Philip pursued his conquests unimpeded. Henry moved again to Saumur, and was there visited by the Counts of Champagne; but he had neither energy, nor apparently even the will, to strike a blow or to come to a decision that would ensure peace. A conference was fixed for June 30, at Azai, but when the day came Henry was too ill to attend; and Philip and Richard went off loudly exclaiming that it was a false excuse. The same day Philip came to Tours. Again the princes interfere; but Philip would not listen. On July 3, he took the city. Then Henry, dying as he was, made his last effort; he was carried from Saumur to Azai, mounted there on horseback, and met his two foes on the plain of Colombieres.
There, after two attempts to converse, broken by a terrible thunder-storm, Henry, held up on horseback by his servants, accepted Philip’s terms and submitted, surrendering all that he was asked to surrender. One thing he asked for, the list of the conspirators, to whom he was obliged to promise forgiveness. The list was given him; and with reluctance and muttered reproaches, perhaps curses also, he gave Richard the kiss of peace. He went back to Azai, still transacting some little business on the way, for the monks of Canterbury, who had quarrelled with their archbishop, forced themselves into his presence and provoked some sharp words of reproof even then. Then he opened the list of rebels, and the first name that he saw was John’s. And that broke his heart; he turned his face to the wall and said, “I have nothing left to care for; let all things go their way.”