The Lion's Legacy (Conqueror Trilogy Book 3)

by Juliet Dymoke

  ‘Father,’ Brother Thomas spoke tentatively, not liking to disturb the Prior at his devotions but devoured by curiosity, ‘where do we lie tonight?’

  Waltheof turned his head. Brother Thomas was a fresh-faced youth, with no learning and no capacity for it, but with a gentle uncomplicated nature and a desire to serve God by caring for the smaller of his creatures, the ducks and geese and hens on the monastery farms. Waltheof had seen him weep more than once over a favourite that was destined for the cooking pot. ‘Wallingford,’ he said. ‘We have another ten miles to go.’

  Brother Thomas looked pleasantly surprised. ‘I have heard of the lord Brien. They say he is a learned man, that he studies the Fathers of the Church and can dispute on such matters.’

  ‘For once “they” speak correctly,’ the Prior agreed, but he wondered also what ‘they’ said of Brien now.

  Thomas rode in silence for a while. He sat a mule who swished her tail at the flies and occasionally twitched her long ears in a manner that delighted him. Presently he asked, ‘What is Rievaulx like, Father Prior?’

  ‘I have not yet finished reading the office, my son.’

  ‘I am sorry, Father,’ Thomas said penitently.

  Waltheof read to the bottom of the page and then closed the book. ‘I fear your curiosity verges upon a fault, Brother,’ and then, seeing his companion’s downcast face, he continued, ‘Rievaulx, since it seems you must see it in your head before we get there, is set in a green valley beneath a high hill – a desolate place but sheltered. There is a small river called the Rye and fresh springs on the hillside, and it is far from the noisy disturbance of men.’

  The warmth of the July day, the soft sound of bees in the honeysuckle, the bird song, all contrived to induce in the Prior one of his rare moments of relaxation and he continued unexpectedly to talk. ‘My friend Aelred loved the abbey so much that when he was returning to Scotland, to King David’s court where he was much favoured, he paused for a last look down the hill, and then turning his horse returned to Rievaulx, swearing never to leave it. Nor will he. Nor will I, if it pleases Almighty God.’

  Greatly daring, Brother Thomas asked, ‘What if King David should require you to go to Scotland?’

  Waltheof frowned, the halcyon moment gone. ‘I cannot conceive why he should.’

  ‘But – I heard,’ Thomas fumbled for words, ‘they told me he is your stepfather, that your mother is Queen, the prince your step-brother.’ He added, ‘I know Earl Simon is your true brother.’

  Waltheof bent a penetrating gaze on him. ‘When I entered the religious life, my abbot became my father, the monks my brothers. I have no other.’

  Abashed, Thomas fell silent. He had wanted to hear of the Scottish court, of the lady who was the Prior’s mother and Queen of Scotland and whose beauty had been famed, but it seemed his question was not going to be answered. He fell silent and watched the larks above him in the deep blue of the summer sky.

  By dusk they had reached Wallingford Priory and leaving Thomas there to his obvious disappointment, Waltheof made his way to the castle. He was admitted at once and greeted in the bailey by Amauri de Beauprez who walked with him to the hall.

  Waltheof said, ‘It is five years since I was here. The war has changed a great deal.’

  The steward sighed. ‘Once I used to ride out every week to visit our manors, to collect tithes, keep tallies for my lord – now I scarcely leave the castle. It is the fighting men who collect our food – from the neighbours who have become our enemies.’

  ‘It is a brutal world,’ Waltheof agreed. ‘Abbot Bernard of Clairvaux says it is a pain to be born, a misery to live and a trouble to die.’

  Amauri smiled slightly. ‘I think I would not go so far as to say that. We have our better days. Do you remember Ingelric of Huntercombe?’

  ‘Aye, a great tall fellow. His father has a manor not far from here.’

  ‘Had,’ Amauri corrected. ‘It was burned and the old man and his wife in it eighteen months ago – but yesterday Ingelric’s wife gave him a third son, so there is rejoicing again. He is as proud as a fighting cock.’

  Waltheof inclined his head. ‘All such joy is transient, my friend. There is only one lasting hope.’

  ‘Of course – but we who live in the world have our pleasures to combat our sorrows.’

  The Prior gave him a sharp look. ‘And how does Brien fare in this war that tears at England? I cannot think he likes it.’

  ‘You will find him changed,’ de Beauprez said in a tone that revealed nothing. ‘He is well enough.’

  ‘We are all changed,’ Waltheof agreed soberly. He was about to ask a further question but closed his mouth abruptly, deeming it one he should ask Brien himself. He smoothed the habit of undyed wool that had earned for the Cistercians the name of ‘white monks’ and setting the hood about his face followed the steward up the steps.

  Amauri ushered him into the hall without further words. He found the Prior a difficult man and was glad that Brien and Mata were there awaiting supper so that he might hand over the guest. The Prior ate little and the talk centred mostly on the state of the country. ‘Is it true,’ he asked, ‘that Earl Ranulf has left your cause? I heard it, but it hardly seemed possible.’

  Brien gave a short laugh. ‘It is true enough, but how far he was ever one with us, God knows.’

  ‘But he is wed to Earl Robert’s daughter, is he not? Such a family tie must surely keep him loyal?’

  Brien took the meat from a capon bone and ate it before he answered. ‘He fought for us at Lincoln because of the lady Sibyl’s urging, but in truth, Father, he cares only for his palatinate and his war with David of Scotland – as you must know.’

  The Prior wiped his fingers on his napkin. The lady Mata, he thought, kept a clean table and he had not seen such fine linen for a long time. The hall was crowded not only with Brien’s own household but with many who had found a refuge there from the ravaged shire. Servants and ushers hurried in and out with dishes, dogs scrabbled for scraps in the rushes, men called out for wine and ale and the hubbub of children’s voices mingled with the deeper tones of the men-at-arms, but the behaviour was better than Waltheof had seen in some royal courts. Whatever rumour might say, and he had heard enough to trouble him, Brien’s influence was clearly still what he had come to expect.

  ‘I pray that you will all come to terms soon.’ He pushed his platter from him, the food only half eaten. ‘Is there no hope of peace?’

  Brien shrugged, and refilled his cup. ‘There is talk of a meeting between the Lady and the King, but so far it is only talk. What terms would suit us all, God knows, for I don’t.’

  ‘Yet you must know the Empress as well as any. What terms would satisfy her?’

  ‘The Kingdom for her son. ’

  ‘Stephen may feel the same.’

  ‘Eustace is King Henry’s great-nephew, the Lady’s son is his grandson – there is a difference. The boy has gone back to Normandy to be with his father in Rouen and to learn what it means to be Duke of the Normans, but all men here who have seen him, child that he is, know that he will be a better man than Eustace. And the old King called young Henry his legacy to us all.’

  ‘King Henry is long gone, God rest his soul,’ Waltheof said. ‘I think his daughter would be well advised to return to her husband and leave Earl Robert to negotiate with King Stephen. Surely it is a matter for men.’

  ‘You do not know her.’ Brien’s tone was stiff and he was aware of his wife’s eyes fixed on him. ‘She is no ordinary woman – she has the mind of a man, or perhaps I should say of a ruler. She would be a Queen worthy of England.’

  A sudden silence fell. He was aware of Mata’s gaze, of the Prior’s faint frown. After a moment he went on more naturally, ‘I cannot tell how it will be solved but at least we are strong enough in the west to hold our own and with my castle here and Philip at Faringdon – you heard his father had built a fortress for him there on his wife’s land?’

  ‘No, I
had not.’

  Brien frowned. ‘Well, you know Philip – we all do, to our cost – he would have it and Robert yielded to him, hoping it might bring him to a more responsible frame of mind. He commands Cricklade as well.’

  ‘I rejoice that you have an ally so close, my friend.’

  ‘I have nothing to do with that young man unless I have to, nor he with me. But let that pass.’ He took up a flagon and filled Waltheof’s cup, changing the subject so firmly that it was not raised again.

  Waltheof stayed three days at Wallingford, sleeping at the Priory and attending the divine offices, but spending some of each day with Brien. On the last afternoon when driving rain had kept men within doors he sat with the castellan in the great chamber and spoke of what was on his mind. He had been studying Brien during these few days, waiting until he had reached some assessment before opening the subject that most closely concerned him. He saw, as the steward had told him, a change greater than he had anticipated, and sitting now in Brien’s chair he looked closely at the face opposite him, aware of the new lines from nose to chin, the crease between the straight reddish brows, the flecks of grey in the bronze hair. For all that reserve was part of Brien’s nature he had always, Waltheof thought, looked fearlessly at any man, spoken his mind honestly, dealt fairly. Now he sensed a withdrawal beyond mere reserve and a deep unrest that was somehow never absent. He also knew enough of men’s natures to perceive that something of unassessable significance had come to Brien.’

  At last he said, ‘How is it with you, my son?’

  Brien smiled. ‘I would have thought we had talked long enough these last three days for you to know as much of our situation as I do myself.’

  The Prior made an impatient gesture. It was not like Brien to sidestep a question that he understood perfectly well. ‘I am not speaking of the war, as you are well aware.’

  The smile left Brien’s face. ‘If there had been anything else I wished to discuss no doubt I would have done so.’

  The gentle snub left his companion unmoved. ‘We have known each other all our lives. Do you think to hide from me that all is far from well with you?’

  Brien got up, away from those penetrating eyes, and began to walk up and down the room, his long belt swinging between his knees. ‘I will not pretend that it is, but you are too sensible a man, my friend of many years, to think one can reach forty of those years without receiving some of life’s buffets.’

  ‘And I thought you man enough to take them, that you would master them and not the other way about.’

  Brien stood still and looked down at the Prior, meet’ g the cool blue eyes. ‘And what precisely do you mean by that?’

  ‘I mean, among other things, “Brien’s Close.”’

  ‘God’s Wounds, does all England know of that?’

  ‘Apparently. William Martel spread the tale as far as he could.’

  ‘I might have expected that he would. Well?’

  Waltheof met the challenge, fingertips calmly together. ‘It was not worthy of you.’

  Brien gave a mirthless laugh. ‘So Mata said. Holy Rood, do you both think me a saint?’

  ‘Not a saint, but not a brigand nor a barbarian either.’

  Brien gave an impatient shrug to his shoulders. ‘You should look into the activities of Martel himself or the Flemish captain – or remember what Geoffrey of Mandeville and de Marmion did in East Anglia. Or take a look at young Philip of Gloucester if you would see what evil men can do.’

  There was a short silence, then Waltheof said, ‘Do you think to justify your actions because other men have done worse?’

  A slow wave of colour rose in Brien’s face. ‘I was not justifying my actions – merely suggesting you turn your recriminations elsewhere.’

  ‘I am not concerned with others, only with you.’

  ‘Martel got what he deserved.’

  ‘Are you his judge?’ The Prior’s tone was sharp. ‘Leave vengeance to God, my son.’

  ‘God is slow to take it,’ Brien retorted. ‘Did you not hear how Martel avenged himself on me?’

  The Prior nodded. ‘I heard and you are thus censured out of your own mouth, for you admit he had cause to take revenge.’

  Brien sat down again on the stool and let his hands fall wearily, clasped between his knees. ‘I cannot lie to you, Waltheof.’

  A weight seemed to lift from the Prior’s brow. ‘For a moment I was truly afraid that – but it is not, I thank God, in you to do so.’

  Brien sighed. ‘I fear you have a false estimation of me.’

  Waltheof shook his head. ‘No. It is you who are seeking to destroy what you have been all your life.’

  ‘Do you not think circumstances can change us?’

  ‘That is the ground on which we fight the devil on this earth – that is the battlefield that sends us to heaven or to hell.’

  Brien looked beyond the Prior’s earnest gaze to the window and the slit of sky. ‘I think I am lost to heaven.’

  His companion gave a start. ‘Brien! What awful strait could make you believe that?’

  ‘Nothing is as simple as you see it,’ Brien said wearily. ‘Do you think war and death and brutality and evil do nothing to the best of us?’

  ‘Perhaps not,’ Waltheof was shaken, ‘but St. Paul says that nothing, no horror, no evil whatever can separate us from the love of God.’

  In a low voice Brien said, ‘It is only we ourselves who can do that,’ and he added, barely audibly, ‘as I have done.’

  ‘Never!’ the Prior exclaimed with sudden intensity. ‘My dear friend, think! Can you not tell me what has happened to lay so heavy a burden on your soul? If you confess it God will be merciful.’

  ‘I don’t doubt His mercy.’ Brien went to the embrasure and leaned against it, breathing in the scent of the warm summer rain, his arms folded across his chest. ‘I fear His judgement.’

  ‘Fear Him who can kill both body and soul,’ Waltheof said, half to himself. ‘If it is the matter of Martel – ’

  ‘That and more.’

  ‘Tell me.’

  Brien shook his head and seeing the hurt on the Prior’s face he came back to sit once more beside him. ‘It is not that I will not, but that I cannot. The war has altered many of us. Neighbours I hunted with now burn my villages and I steal their corn to feed my soldiers. Stephen hanged two of my knights before my own gates. I have to fight with every weapon I can find.’

  Waltheof shuddered. ‘Holy Mother of God, pray for this poor land! But I thought that you who cared for the things of the spirit, who was as learned as any man I know – ’

  ‘Books are not battle weapons,’ Brien gave a short laugh, ‘and you are not the realist I believe you to be if you think that anyone as involved as I am can keep from blood.’

  ‘Does any of that excuse “Brien’s Close”? And there is more – I can see there is more. Brien,’ both friend and priest in him were tense now with the yearning to understand, to save, ‘remember how it was once, when we used to talk, to read together?’

  ‘Those days are gone,’ Brien told him abruptly, ‘and I am not as I was then. I doubt if I would go back even if I could. ’ He thought of Aaliz who had loved him in this very room and knew he would change nothing, and yet – since that night of black horror following the burning of Huntercombe he had known no moment of quiet within himself. The longing for peace of some sort washed constantly over him though he did not know where or how to find it.

  The Prior watched him, seeing the fleeting changes of expression. ‘Whatever has come to you, my son, I think you are doing some sort of violence to your very nature and that is why you are in torment.’

  ‘In torment? What makes you think – ’ And then Brien broke off and met the Prior’s gaze. ‘No, no lies between us. But I cannot tell you of it,’ he added gently, ‘can’t I persuade you that I would if I could.’

  To his surprise Waltheof’s eyes filled with sudden tears. He had never seen the man so moved. ‘Waltheof, I am n
ot worth such concern – you said so yourself.’

  The Prior tucked his hands into his sleeves, his fingers gripped together, and controlled the unaccustomed moisture. ‘That was not what I said. I called your actions unworthy of you, which is a very different thing.’ Hearing the distant bell of the Priory, he caught Brien’s hands in his, his eyes glittering with the intensity of his feeling, ‘Brien, I implore you, by all that you hold sacred I beg you to clear your conscience. It is not too late – ’

  His words stirred that familiar chord in Brien’s head that not so long ago some similar words of Maud’s had done. Yet, he thought, what was not too late for one thing was too late for another. He shook his head.