The scriptorium was empty save for one monk carefully copying a manuscript laid out before him on a sloping desk and the Abbot showed his guest their most precious books – a copy of the sermons of St. Gregory, Boethius, Bede’s history, the history the monk William had written for Earl Robert, the lives of the Martyrs with illustrations in gory detail of their sufferings. He talked pleasantly, found his guest’s intelligence exceptional and it was with regret that he heard the bell ring for None. He had the feeling that their conversation had been of more benefit to the guest than a forced confidence would have been.
‘I must go,’ he said, ‘but pray stay here if you wish. There are many other manuscripts for you to see.’
He left Brien there and the monk laid down his brush and followed his Abbot so that Brien was alone. He wandered about the room, opening an occasional book, but now that the Abbot was gone he could not concentrate on them. His unruly thoughts went back again and again to the last morning, nearly a week ago now, when at Wareham he had watched the Lady of England board a ship bound for Normandy. He had knelt, as he had envisaged, one among all the rest, to kiss her hand. It was cold and lifeless and he could hardly bring himself to look into her face. The strong cold wind that was to bear her from him struck at them, whipping at their mantles, flinging his hair about his face, sending her veil spiralling upwards. A miserable farewell, made worse by the company of so many others, by Reginald and Baldwin talking of normal things, of their plans and hopes, of the time when young Henry Plantaganet would come.
Afterwards he had left at once, saying he must return to Wallingford. They were his friends but just then he could bear no company and was thankful as he took to the road that Thurstin knew when to keep silent. It was odd, he thought, that the lad, now twenty years old, should want nothing more than to be his body-servant, should have developed a sixth sense as far as his needs were concerned, and at this moment he was intensely thankful for it.
Once away from Wareham, he had slowed his frantic pace. The recollection of Wallingford and Mata and his duties became suddenly intolerable. Like a stag injured in the chase he must seek some place to hide his wound until at least the surface was healed, and he had ridden for Malmesbury, knowing the Abbot would welcome him.
And here he was, standing in the empty scriptorium, not knowing what to do, restless, bereaved, without the things he had thrown away for love, and now shorn of the love for which he had sacrificed them. Looking out of the window he saw the long line of monks pass by on their way to sing their office, black hoods about their faces, hands clasped, heads bent, and presently from the church he caught the sound of their chanting. He leaned his head against the embrasure of the window, listening. There was so much peace in this place and none of it was for him.
Presently the singing ceased and he turned from the window. As he crossed the room to the door he passed the stand where the monk had been copying and stopped to look. He saw he had been using a brush to illumine a letter, a capital ‘L’, and had set a strange animal, or perhaps it was a peacock, in the angle of it, the tail curved in a great sweep of feathers below the line, green and blue and red, all delicately edged with gold. The fellow was a craftsman, Brien thought, for the work was exquisite and he looked more closely at each detail. And only then did he read the script, see that the copyist was at work on the Confessions of St Augustine, that book he had so assiduously avoided on his sick-bed.
The words leapt up at him: ‘Late have I loved Thee, O Beauty most ancient and most new, late have I loved Thee…’ And each one struck at him, like the point of an arrow finding its mark.
He stood with his hands on the desk, staring at the page, the silence of the room louder than any noise. There – there was the chord that Maud had struck, that Waltheof’s words had evoked, that had so eluded him. ‘Late have I loved Thee – ’ The singing phrase burned into his mind, reached down to unconceived depths, but with a clean fire. ‘Behold Thou were within and I was without, Thou didst touch me and I was inflamed for Thy peace.’ And the mercy he had refused to test now itself repudiated that refusal and lay all about him; the pardon he had not dared to seek now sought him and the way opened up before him, clearly and effortlessly, without fear of sacrifice or pain of parting.
Mata saw her lord returning from a narrow window on the stair as she came down to the hall for dinner. The news of Earl Robert’s death and the Empress’s departure had preceded him and she slowed her steps, suddenly fearful of what she would find; his moods could be unpredictable, finding release in sarcastic words that in the past had hurt her more than blows would have done.
He was already in the hall when she entered it, talking with Ingelric, but he broke off at once to greet her. His voice was gentle, his eyes kind once more but shadowed and she did not understand. Throughout the meal, as he talked to them all, telling them of Robert’s end, of the Lady’s decision and her reasons for it, Mata watched him in bewilderment. He ate little and drank only half a cup of wine, but he seemed well – only quite unlike what she would have expected under the circumstances.
When dinner was over he went up to the great chamber with his cousin Amauri and remained closeted there with him the whole afternoon. Only when darkness had fallen did the steward emerge, his face expressionless, and bid the lady Mata attend her lord. She found him alone, the table before him spread with documents, his seal and the red wax indicating their importance.
He rose at once and took her hand, leading her to a chair. ‘Sit down, Mata, I want to talk to you.’
‘What has happened?’ she asked in sudden fear though the expression on his face gave no cause for alarm.
He smiled. ‘A great deal. I would have thought I had talked enough at dinner to tell you that.’
She shook her head. ‘It is you who are changed.’
‘Do you read me so well?’
‘I have lived with you for twenty years,’ she said quietly, ‘and though we are not close I know a little of you now, my lord. ’
‘No, we are not close,’ he agreed. ‘We have shared the same bed and the same table for a long while but that we are not is more my fault than yours.’ He sat down at the table, his hands folded over a sealed parchment and for a while he was silent. Then he looked across to her. ‘I am going away.’
‘Away? Where, my lord?’ And she thought, he is going to the Empress.
‘I do not know – perhaps to Rome.’
In utter astonishment, she repeated, ‘To Rome? Why?’
‘I don’t think I can tell you. Let it suffice to say that I must make a pilgrimage. We have lived through terrible days, wife, there has been too much suffering and blood and death and I am as guilty as any man.’
‘No,’ she broke in, ‘no, not you – ’
‘”Brien’s Close”? Huntercombe?’ he queried. ‘And – other things. No, Mata, I cannot exempt myself. Many men have taken their swords to the Holy Land, but that is not for me. I used to think I fought better with my mind than with my right arm and that is how it must be now.’
‘You are leaving me?’
‘I must,’ he said gently. ‘When I was coming home I stopped at Malmesbury and I talked with some pilgrims there – men of all sorts bound by one purpose, to atone for the evil in the world, and I thought that it was what I must do.’
‘Oh,’ she was twisting her hands together. ‘I never thought – ’ She looked up at his face and saw that nothing she could say would change his mind. ‘What of this place? Must it not still be held for Henry FitzEmpress?’
‘Of course,’ he said at once. ‘It will be safe in Ingelric’s hands. I can entrust it to him and he will care for you as well.’
‘How will you go? Not alone – there are so many dangers.’
He smiled again. ‘Still concerned for my safety, wife? But I will go nearly alone, I need no one but Thurstin – indeed, I fear if I did not take him he would follow me, like one of my hunting dogs.’
‘He worships you,’ Mata said.
&
nbsp; Brien’s smile left his face. ‘If he does then he must learn that there are better things to worship. We will go to Cluny first, Abbot Peter will tell me of Master Abelard’s end, about which I would know more.’
Mata sat silent, pulling at her underlip. At last she said, ‘It is over, is it not?’
Startled, he asked, ‘What is?’ and wondered if she knew more than he had thought.
‘That we are husband and wife,’ she answered and he let out a deep sigh. He got up and came to her, taking her hands in his.
‘I am sorry,’ he said. ‘I have been a bitter disappointment to you. If we had had a child – ’
‘Don’t,’ she cried out. ‘I know – I know.’ And then she added more calmly, ‘You have never been other than kind. ’
‘A negative virtue,’ he said wrily, ‘and I cannot even promise I will come back.’
With sudden resolution she rose and stood facing him, her hands still in his. In her mind she saw clean grey walls and a little stream, a garden and shadowed cloisters. ‘My lord, I have never asked anything of you, but I do now. Let me go to Godstow, to the nuns there, and live the rest of my days in the holy habit.’
He was taken completely by surprise. ‘Is that what you wish? I did not know.’
She nodded. ‘I think our ways must part. You are going and I am not needed here. Ingelric and Beatrice can do all we would have done and I would find peace.’
‘I also,’ he said in a low tone. He put up a finger and smoothed the tears from her cheeks. ‘Go with my blessing. Bernice will welcome you and Reverend Mother has always had a fondness for you. You are sure?’
‘I am sure,’ she repeated. Then, hesitantly, she added, ‘My lord, the Empress – ’
‘Is gone,’ he said and she saw his face close in and knew that he would never speak of the woman who had been to him what she had never been. ‘I am sorry for her,’ she said. ‘After your pilgrimage will you go to her in Normandy?’
‘I don’t know – that is a long time ahead. I cannot think of it now.’
‘No,’ she answered. ‘We must seek our peace, you and I, must we not?’
He nodded and for the first time in years bent to kiss her lips. ‘I ask your forgiveness if I have hurt you, Mata. Pray for me.’
‘Every day,’ she said.
‘So much unhappiness,’ he added, ‘but if there is peace at the end and mercy, it is all we need.’ He released her. ‘God go with you, Mata. I did not deserve so loving a wife.’
She could not stop the tears now but they were no longer tears of misery and she smiled through them, ‘When will you go, my lord?’
‘In the morning,’ he said, and suddenly he sounded desperately weary. ‘There is nothing now to keep me here.’
Rain fell in the night, a heavy continuous downpour breaking against the solid walls of the castle, but towards dawn it ceased and a watery sun rose to light the sodden landscape. All the farewells had been said last night and Brien rose early, crossing his hall before anyone was awake. He would always, he thought, remember the affection of his people – Ingelric and Beatrice surrounded by their growing family, Bernard gruffly noncommittal but clearly thinking his lord had taken leave of his senses, the rest of the household crowding about him, begging him to return to them as soon as he might. To Roger Foliot, half beside himself with grief that he might not accompany his lord, he said, ‘You have had your miracle – now I go to seek mine.’
It had been wearing on his nerves and he had slept badly. Despite the new hope that had come to him everything in this place cried out to him of Aaliz, his love whom he had lost, and he wanted only to go, to put as much distance as he could between himself and the place where he had known his brief ecstasy. He had told Thurstin to take the horses from the stable and await him at the gatehouse and closing the door of the hall behind him he went down the steps into the courtyard. The rain had left great still pools of water that reflected the clearing sky, and he walked through them, the splashing of his soft riding boots the only sound in the quiet of early morning. At the arch that led to the drawbridge gate he paused and looked back; the bailey was the same as always, washed by the rain, awaiting the bustle of the coming day, the life that would continue as usual except that now it would be without him. It had been his home for more than twenty years and he would not see it again. He stood still, one hand on the thick stone wall, leaned his head against it and found it cold. ‘O Beauty most ancient and most new…’ But would he find that Beauty? How far and how many weary days must he travel before he was vouchsafed a spark of that divine light that had illumined Augustine’s way, lit Abelard’s last years? For a moment he shrank from the prospect, longed to turn, to go back into the familiar warmth of the castle, find his men-at-arms, his dogs, his horses, but already he had gone beyond that, far further than a few steps across a rain-drenched courtyard. He had begun a journey and must from somewhere dredge up the courage for it.
Resolutely then he raised his head. The sun was up now, the sky a vivid gold turning to pale blue, the air crisp and fresh, the bare trees by the river starkly impressive, and there was a gentleness that was nevertheless invigorating about the new day. And suddenly he was seized with a fierce and overwhelming desire to weep, for it seemed that beauty was not only not gone from his vision but enhanced, even to an almost intolerable perfection. All the joy he had known, the suffering that had followed, had refined his perception, drawn away the dross, so that now, looking at the golden dawn reflecting itself in the silver pools, dispelling the white wreaths of mist, it attained a beauty that arrested his senses, held him in adoration of that other Beauty hidden within – ‘most ancient and most new’, always there for a man to see and take if he would but reach out his hand for it.
He went through the arch to where Thurstin waited by the horses, and saw the young man looking anxiously for him, concerned, uncertain. ‘Come,’ he said smiling and took the reins. ‘We have a long way to go and must use our wits to evade the King’s men. It would be a poor start if we finished our first day’s journey shut in one of Stephen’s castles.’
Thurstin laughed for sheer pleasure that this was more like the lord he had come to serve nearly ten years ago, not the tormented, unhappy-tempered man of late. He had thought they were embarking on a sad, quiet journey for which only he knew the cause, but here was his master smiling and making jokes again and Thurstin wanted nothing more than that. ‘Where do we go, my lord?’
‘West and then south to the coast. We shall find a ship at Wareham.’
‘I have never been on the sea,’ Thurstin said and as they rode out of the gate and through the town he had no desire to turn back.
EPILOGUE
THE LEGACY
1153
EPILOGUE
Standing on the rough shale of the river bank Stephen felt, for perhaps the first time in his life, a desire to indulge in that peculiar characteristic of the Norman Kings, a black ungovernable rage. He wanted to tear off his coronet, hurl it on the ground and stamp on it; he wanted to fling himself down, roll in the mud, stuff his mantle into his mouth, give rein to his wild fury. But though he was not the strong man each of his predecessors had been nevertheless he did not yield to the temptation. He stood his ground, his trembling hands clasped on the hilt of his drawn sword, the point pressed into the stones as he faced Henry FitzEmpress across the river. The water was low this morning and barely fifty yards separated them.
‘I would give you battle,’ he shouted angrily, ‘I would settle our quarrel once and for all but my barons will not.’
He heard Henry laugh. ‘Nor mine. It seems only you and I wish to fight. Shall we make it all hang upon single combat, cousin?’
Stephen stood in sulky silence. Henry was laughing at him, that he knew – for although no man had ever doubted his personal courage, nevertheless Henry was taunting him, comparing age to youth, a prince with all to win to a King with all to lose. He had not seen Henry since he was a babe in arms and stared at him acros
s the water. It was a brilliant summer day and Henry stood bare-headed, his russet hair bright in the sun, his large grey eyes fixed on his cousin and alight with amusement. He was not tall but he was sturdy, legs set well apart, hands on hips, head tilted at a self-confident angle that reminded Stephen of old King Henry. And men, he thought, would see hope in that figure of youth with a lifetime before him and the right blood in his veins.
The Lion's Legacy (Conqueror Trilogy Book 3) Page 33
