The Lion of Justice

by Jean Plaidy

  She had considered Alan of Bretagne. A middle-aged widower, a man not without power and clearly a friend of Robert of Normandy and Rufus King of England, since the former had sent him to England on some mission and the latter had given him permission to come and visit the Atheling girls at her Abbey.

  Of course he was looking for a bride, although he was a little old for that, but if he were hoping for heirs he would select a young girl. Constance, his dead wife and daughter of the Conqueror, had been childless during their six years marriage. And his union with the royal family had perhaps given him a taste for Princesses.

  Christina did not like it. Nevertheless, she could not disobey the orders of Rufus. She shuddered to think of the man. He was crude and vicious. She was well aware of his perverted sexual tastes. She thought a good deal about such sinful practices, conjuring up pictures of the crude red-faced King and his favourites, the better, she promised herself, to implore the saints to put a stop to such evil.

  She noticed with satisfaction that Edith was looking a little fearful.

  She kept them standing in suitable humility.

  ‘We have a visitor who has asked to see you. As you know, it is against the rules of the Abbey for our young novices to receive visitors. But this is an old nobleman who is visiting England on some mission from the Duke of Normandy and the King has asked if you would graciously receive him. I shall of course be present. Now, we will go.’

  Alan of Bretagne bowed low and said what a pleasure it was to meet the Princesses.

  It was long since Edith had seen such a man. He was old, it was true, but he was a warrior and he brought a new and alien atmosphere into the Abbey.

  ‘I have recently come from Normandy on a mission from my Duke to the King. The King will I doubt not wish to have news of you.’ He had a commanding air, this man. He turned to the Abbess. ‘I would like a word in private with the Princess Edith.’

  The Abbess bristled. Her strength was as great as his and she was on her own ground.

  ‘My lord Duke, I could not so far forget my duty.’

  ‘Then,’ said the Duke, ‘we will sit together in yon window seat while you remain here with us.’

  The Abbess looked thunderous but the Duke had bowed to Edith and she, without looking at her aunt, walked to the window seat with the Duke in her wake. Christina, reminding herself that he came with the blessing of the King, and being astute enough to ask herself what report he would take back, had no alternative but to sign to Mary that she be seated on the far side of the chamber with her while the visitor and Edith conversed – in sight of her alert eyes, yet out of earshot.

  The Duke bent towards Edith; she noticed his big hands, his weather-beaten skin, his rather rough method of speech. He lacked the grace of her uncle Edgar. He repelled her slightly. Ever since that day when her aunt Christina had made her put on the nun’s habit and her father had expressed his annoyance and said: ‘She is to be a wife and mother,’ she had dreamed of the man she would marry. Naturally he was young, handsome, courteous, learned, noble; this rough Norman soldier appeared to have few of these virtues.

  He said, ‘I’ll be blunt. I’ve the King’s permission to woo you. I need a wife. I need heirs.’ His eyes swept over her body carefully concealed in the black robes. ‘My wife Constance was barren. It was a source of great concern to me. She died, and now I look for another wife.’

  Was this courtship? It was not how she had imagined it would be. This man leaned heavily towards her. ‘You’re young. You should bear me sons. I have large estates in Normandy. The Duke is a friend of mine and holds me in favour. I am, as you must know, his brother-in-law. You are a Princess but a dowerless one. Your father’s kingdom has been snatched from him. I doubt not your brother would be pleased to give you to me.’

  Edith said hastily, ‘I am not sure, my lord, that I would make you a suitable wife.’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘I know little of the demands of married life.’

  He laughed and from across the chamber the Abbess watched uneasily.

  He laid a hot and heavy hand on her thigh. ‘That is something I can teach you. I would not wish you practised in such matters. The King would give his consent, I know.’

  ‘There is my uncle to be consulted.’

  ‘Have no fear. If the King consents so will he.’

  ‘I should need time to consider.’

  ‘You know little of the ways of love, you tell me, maiden. You know little of the ways of state. The King has decided that I shall have you if I like what I see. And I like it well enough.’ Leaning towards her suddenly he pushed back the coif which concealed her hair. The two thick fair braids were revealed.

  ‘Why, yes,’ he said. ‘I like it well.’

  The Abbess, her face pink with mortification, had come towards them.

  ‘I gave you no permission, sir, to undress my charges.’

  ‘Why, Abbess, you put ideas into my head. You could not call removing the head-dress undressing.’

  ‘The interview must be at an end,’ she said.

  ‘So be it. I have seen enough,’ replied the Duke.

  He stood up; he bowed. Christina said to the girls, ‘Wait here.’ And she herself conducted Alan of Bretagne from the chamber.

  Edith’s face was scarlet; she was trembling. She could not forget the gleam in his eyes.

  Mary was excited. ‘Edith, does it mean that you are going to be married?’

  ‘He said he had come to look at me and I was well enough.’

  ‘Did you like him?’

  ‘I hated him. I hated the way he looked at me. As though I were a horse. His hands were hot and strong. Oh, Mary, he frightened me.’

  ‘But he would be a husband. Oh, Edith, if you marry I shall be here alone.’

  ‘They will find a husband for you doubtless.’

  ‘I hope he will not be as old as yours.’

  ‘I am going to my cell.’

  ‘The Abbess said we were to wait.’

  ‘I cannot, Mary. I want to get away from this room . . . I can see him too clearly here. I can smell him, I can’t get away from him here.’

  ‘She will be angry.’

  ‘I don’t care, Mary. I must go.’

  She lay on her straw. Anything, she thought, was better than submitting to what he was going to teach her. He was not the lover whom she had imagined. He wanted to breed sons and he was going to enjoy the breeding, in a manner which she did not think would be very enjoyable to her. In truth he repelled her so strongly that what she wanted more than anything was never to see him again. Anything . . . simply anything was better than marriage with him.

  But the King had given his consent. She knew well enough that Princesses had no say in whom they should or should not marry. She remembered the story of her mother’s being washed up at Queen’s Ferry and being given the hospitality of the King of Scotland; and the King of Scotland had been handsome and young, a veritable fairy prince. He had said, ‘This Princess is without dowry. She has no great position, but I love her and she loves me.’ And so they were married. Her mother’s attendants had often told the story. How beautiful she was and how the King had taken one look at her and had declared his intention of marrying her. That was love; that was romance; and if, as Aunt Christina had said, she had been guilty of dreams, they had certainly not been lascivious: they had concerned an idyllic romance such as that of her parents.

  The door of her cell was opened; the Abbess came and sat down looking at her.

  ‘What did he say to you?’

  ‘He spoke of marriage.’

  ‘And you were all a-tremble to go to him! I could see you could scarcely wait. You should thank me for taking such good care of you. He would have had you with child by now had I left you together.’

  Edith rose from her straw. ‘It is not true. I hated him. He is coarse . . . and I would rather do anything than marry him.’

  The Abbess was silent for a few moments; her expression softened.
Here was triumph.

  Then her lips hardened. ‘You’re lying. I have seen the wanton in you.’

  ‘Nay, ’tis not so.’

  ‘There was pleasure on your face when he removed your coif.’

  ‘I hated his hands on me.’

  ‘You hated that? Then what of the marriage bed? That will be more to your taste doubtless. Such a man would debase you. Your body would belong to him. You know little of such men. You know nothing of what marriage means. It is my duty to make that plain to you. You cannot fall into his probing lascivious hands without knowing what is in store for you.’

  ‘Pray do not tell me. I cannot bear to hear.’

  ‘But you shall hear.’ The Abbess bent over her. She forced her to turn so that she lay on her back and the Abbess stared down at her.

  Edith wanted to stop up her ears. She could not bear to listen to what her aunt was saying. She could not believe it. Her saintly mother could never have done such things.

  The Abbess was smiling to herself; she seemed to be looking into far-off pictures which she was conjuring up from her imagination.

  She said several times, ‘This I tell you for your own good. That you may know the ways of men and what they expect from women.’

  ‘I want none of him,’ sobbed Edith.

  ‘There is only one safe place and that is in the Abbey. And here the soldiers could come at any time. Wear the robe always; hide your hair; try to look cold and unsmiling. For if the soldiers should come to this Abbey – as they have done to others – then men would seize you and do to you unlawfully what Alan of Bretagne would with the blessing of the church. There is only one way to save yourself. I offer you that. You can tell the King that you have made up your mind to become a nun. That you have already taken some of your vows.’

  ‘I have not.’

  ‘That can be remedied.’

  ‘But I will not. My father said . . .’

  ‘You want to go to this man? You long for the touch of his probing hands; your body calls out to share in his filthy practices.’

  ‘No. No.’

  ‘Listen to me. It is the custom in our royal family that a member of it shall always be an Abbess of Wilton Abbey. I am shortly to leave Rumsey for Wilton. I shall train you to take my place, for you shall be the Abbess in due time. It is your duty to our ancestors and first of all to the greatest of them, King Alfred. Would you displease him? He would haunt you if you did. Alfred, the saints and God himself have decreed that you shall follow me. You will be in command of a great Abbey; you will be following our royal tradition. I have decided that I shall train you for this.’

  ‘My father said I was not to take the veil.’

  ‘And what happened to him? He was killed by a lance that pierced his eye. His was a painful death. A just punishment, some might say.’

  ‘He was good to us.’

  ‘Your mother wished it. She was an Atheling as we are. She understood the traditions of royalty.’

  ‘Mayhap Mary could be the next Abbess.’

  ‘Mary is not my choice. You are that. You can absorb learning. You do well at your lessons. You will be educated as few women are. And this choice has to be made. The noble life of the Abbey or the foul one with that rake who could not keep his hands from you even in my presence.’

  ‘Why must there be this choice?’

  ‘Because you are an Atheling. The King may well offer you to the Duke of Bretagne. If he does, the only thing that can save you is the veil. I will leave you to think of it. Do not forget what I have told you. Imagine yourself in that man’s bed. Then think of the peaceful, dignified life you could have here.’

  ‘I have not been happy here.’

  ‘Nay, for it has been my painful duty to chastise you. If you took your vows, if you made the proper choice, you would find how kind I could be. Now I will leave you. You will have much to think of. I believe you now. You do not care for that man . . . but all men are alike. You have learned much this day. Think on it.’

  She was alone. Images would not disappear although she longed for them to do so. She could not help thinking of that man’s hands; the gleam in his eyes, the horrible words of the Abbess.

  Then she touched the rough serge of her habit. Fiercely she hated it. But not more fiercely than she hated Alan of Bretagne.

  What rejoicing filled Edith’s heart when Uncle Edgar arrived at Rumsey. He had always been the kind and gentle mentor, more easy to talk to than her own father. She was greatly relieved, for since the visit of Alan of Bretagne she had been haunted by nightmares; she had dreamed that she was poised between two fearful alternatives. She was on a path which led to beautiful pasture lands, but to reach those pastures she must pass through two gates – one guarded by a black-robed figure waiting to incarcerate her for life and the other by a beast with slavering lips who would submit her to all manner of humiliation and pain.

  She needed no soothsayer to interpret that dream.

  What will become of me? she wondered. Oh, where was her good Turgot? Where was her dear kind uncle? How often had she prayed that they would come to her, and now her prayers had been answered. Uncle Edgar had arrived at Rumsey.

  Aunt Christina was present at their first meeting so that it was impossible to throw herself into his arms and tell him how happy she was to see him.

  He had changed a little. There was something remote, almost saintly, about him.

  ‘Your uncle brings good news,’ said Aunt Christina, smiling and looking almost benevolent. She was always pleased to see members of her own family, and of course Edgar was very important because he was the true King of England.

  ‘Yes,’ answered Edgar, smiling from Edith to Mary. ‘We have had good fortune in Scotland. We have displaced the traitor Donald Bane and your brother is now King of Scotland.’

  ‘What excellent news,’ said Aunt Christina. ‘I hope the traitor has been made to answer for his sins.’

  ‘He stares blindly at his prison walls. His eyes were put out. He will never see the crown of Scotland again.’

  Edith shuddered. They had taken the kingdom from him, she thought, but they could have left him his eyes. Better to have killed him than to have blinded him. And yet an evil man had pierced her father’s eye. It seemed a cruel world. But she must rejoice with the rest because her brother Edgar had regained the crown and they were no longer penniless fugitives living on the bounty of the King of England.

  Edith wanted to talk to Edgar alone that she might discuss the dilemma which faced her. Her spirts were high. Now that Edgar had regained his crown there would surely be a place for her in Scotland.

  She could not tell him of her anxieties with Christina looking on, but there would be an opportunity later.

  She was dismayed to hear that her uncle intended to stay but a few days, but she did manage to convey to him her great need to see him alone.

  They walked in the gardens together – he in his embroidered cloak, she in her black Benedictine robes.

  ‘Oh Uncle,’ she said, ‘please help me.’

  ‘If God wills,’ he said.

  ‘Alan of Bretagne has been to Rumsey.’

  ‘I know it well. He wishes to marry you.’

  ‘I cannot do it, Uncle.’

  ‘My dear child,’ said Edgar, ‘there comes a time in our lives when we have to do that which does not please us.’

  ‘This is no small matter. This is for the rest of my life.’

  ‘I have to tell you, Edith, that I am going away.’ A rapt expression crossed his face. ‘You have heard there is to be a Holy War. Jerusalem, the Holy City, is in the hands of the Infidel. Our pilgrims have been robbed and tortured. We have decided to take the city from the Saracens and put it where it belongs, in Christian hands. The Duke of Normandy will go into battle. He is amassing a great army. I shall go with him.’

  ‘You are going to leave us, then.’

  ‘I have in truth come to say farewell to you before I go to Normandy. I am joining the Duke’
s army and we shall ’ere long be leaving for the Holy Land.’

  ‘You must help me before you go. Uncle Edgar. What can I do? I cannot marry Alan of Bretagne.’

  ‘Why not, my child? He was good enough for the Conqueror’s daughter. He was accepted as the great King’s son through marriage. Why should you feel thus?’

  ‘Because he is old, Uncle.’

  ‘He is not too old to beget children; and he is a man of power in Normandy.’

  ‘I cannot bear him near me. Please do not let them force me into marriage with him.’

  ‘The King of England approves the match.’

  ‘But my brother is now King of Scotland. You have won back his crown for him.’

  ‘The King of Scotland is the vassal of the King of England. If Rufus promises you to Alan of Bretagne there is no gainsaying his wish. Your brother owes his crown to the King of England, for it was his forces who won it back for him.’

  ‘It was you and my brother,’ cried Edith.

  ‘We commanded the army, but the soldiers came from Rufus, and the price he asked was that Scotland should be a vassal of England.’ Edgar smiled his gentle smile but she knew his thoughts were far away in the Holy Land. ‘If Rufus gives you to Alan of Bretagne there is no help for it. You will be his wife.’

  She covered her face with her hands.

  ‘Little niece,’ said the gentle Edgar, ‘is marriage so distasteful to you?’

  She lowered her hands. ‘Nay,’ she said. ‘I know there could be great good in it. My mother was the best woman in the world –’ she said that defiantly, thinking of Aunt Christina ‘– and she bore many children. I wish to bear children. I wish to make a home. But I would rather anything than marriage with Alan of Bretagne.’

  ‘So it is his person that revolts you.’

  ‘He is old and he smells of horses and he is rough and he would not care for me, only for the sons . . . and the pleasure . . . he could derive from me. Uncle Edgar, I want marriage but not with Alan of Bretagne.’

  ‘My dear niece, Princesses cannot choose these matters.’

  ‘I know it well, but not Alan of Bretagne.’