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How a Birthday Party at Chinon Kickstarted a Civil War (5 March 1173)
Today is my birthday 😁. And as birthdays go, I could have shared mine with worse people, because 5 March 1133 was also the birthday of Henry II of England, born at Le Mans, one of the most formidable rulers medieval Europe ever produced.
Henry II’s Birthday was 5th March
Soldier, lawgiver, empire-builder, father of eight legitimate children (and countless illegitimate ones), and a man whose family would become both his greatest weapon, his biggest headache, and eventually most spectacular downfall.
Which makes today a good day to talk about what happened on his fortieth birthday, in 1173. Because that evening a feast was held at Château de Chinon. The great hall would have been ablaze with candlelight and Henry, thinking he’d managed to control his spoiled, entitled (but courteous and generous) namesake son, allowed the goblets to be repeatedly refilled by his son’s own hand.
The drunkenness that followed led to everything that followed: the Great Rebellion, where Henry’s family were torn apart, and his throne would never feel secure again.
This event, and the Great Rebellion itself, runs through the heart of my novel Lady of Lincoln.
Medieval Succession: When Henry II’s Empire Imploded
When Succession first aired, audiences were transfixed by its portrait of a modern dynasty at war with itself: scheming heirs, a manipulative patriarch, and a fortune vast enough to make loyalty negotiable. But centuries before Logan Roy was terrifying his children in glass-walled boardrooms, another ruthless family feud was playing out across medieval Europe.
In 1173, the most powerful man in Christendom—King Henry II of England—faced a rebellion led not by rivals or barons, but by his own wife and sons. Chroniclers called it the Great Rebellion; historians often dub it the Revolt of the Eaglets, after the young “eagles” who turned on the parent bird.
And just like in Succession, the real question was: who inherits the empire?
Richard de Brito: The Forgotten Killer; and a very Dangerous Friend
In legend he struck the final blow; in fiction, he will cause a torrent of trouble for his friend William FitzErneis in Lady of Lincoln.
When Archbishop Thomas Becket was cut down before the altar of Canterbury Cathedral in December 1170, the man who delivered the fatal stroke was Richard de Brito—sometimes styled le Breton. His sword, witnesses said, split Becket’s skull so deeply that the blade snapped on the flagstones.
Unlike the other knights, de Brito cried out as he struck:
“Take that for the love of my lord William FitzEmpress!”
The words stunned those who heard them. He was killing the archbishop not in Henry II’s name, but in that of Henry’s brother—the late William FitzEmpress, Henry II’s brother.
Hugh de Morville: The Knight Who Would Not Repent
Lord of Westmorland and Knaresborough, de Morville escaped execution, but not history’s judgment.
When Thomas Becket fell beneath the knights’ swords on that winter night in Canterbury, Hugh de Morville was there, but whether he struck or simply stood aside remains one of history’s greyest shadows.
He was the oldest of the four and the most powerful: Lord of Westmorland and Knaresborough, baron of the north, and keeper of one of the most formidable castles in England. While Reginald FitzUrse raged, William de Tracy hesitated, and Richard de Brito delivered the fatal blow, de Morville watched . But his silence proved to be as damning as any sword.
Henry II of England – The Jailer of Queens
When Henry of Anjou (later Henry II, also known as Henry Plantagenet) married Eleanor of Aquitaine in 1152, they created a political alliance of breath taking scale. Henry was heir to the English throne; Eleanor, just divorced from King Louis VII of France, brought with her the duchy of Aquitaine, one of the wealthiest and most independent regions in Europe.
For a time, their marriage was a true partnership. Eleanor rode beside Henry on campaign, governed Aquitaine in his name, and bore him eight children. Together, they forged the Angevin Empire stretching from the Scottish borders to the Pyrenees.
But power and passion soured into mistrust. By the 1170s, the marriage had collapsed into open hostility.