God and My Right

by Alfred Duggan

  At Carlisle he found the motley army of the King of Scots: mailed Norman knights, English spearmen from Lothian, Viking mercenaries from the Isles and the naked targeteers of Galloway. The chief part of the host were light skirmishing foot, who could never dispute the field with the knight-service of England; they would be useless for war against Count Stephen. But if the Count of Chester and the Marchers of Wales rallied to the projected invasion the Scots army would be a useful reinforcement.

  King David, his great-uncle, was a queer ancient figure, long past active campaigning; he spoke bad French with his mother’s English accent, and introduced odd Celtic terms in discussing war and politics. Sixty years ago the Celtic court of Scotland had set itself to learn English manners from the holy English Queen; now the courtiers were trying to be as Norman as possible, and the effort was visible in a disturbing uncertainty of etiquette. These were not seemly allies for a prince of Anjou.

  But King David was a crowned King, for all that his realm was so barbarous. There was disagreement among learned clerks about the nature of the grace conferred by coronation, but whatever it was Uncle David possessed it. With a genuine King as an ally Henry felt himself nearer the throne which was his birthright.

  On the 22nd of May 1149 the Mass of Pentecost was celebrated with fitting splendour in Carlisle cathedral, in the presence of the Bishop, a crowned King, and the magnates of Scotland and Northumbria. After Mass, still fasting, all walked in procession to the great hall of the castle, and there Henry Count of Anjou knelt before King David. The old King spoke briefly of the duties of knighthood: a true knight must defend the defenceless, widows and orphans, strangers, and the clerks of God‘s Church who might not bear arms; a knight was one with the brotherhood of the Maccabees and Charlemagne, of King Arthur and St. George. Then he gave Henry the last blow he might accept without instant retaliation, whatever the odds. Sir Henry fitzEmpress, Count of Anjou, was led to the place of honour at the board, where at last he might break the fast of his night-long vigil.

  As he sat in his place, while hairy Island chieftains and red-cheeked Lowland ladies drank his health and wished him luck, Henry felt within himself a glow of kindliness and courtesy. As a knight he had no superior anywhere in the world, but in compensation he must be gentle with equals and inferiors. For him in particular, that meant that he must control his devilish temper.

  Presently, to change the subject from the analysis of his own virtues which seemed to dominate the table (for these Scots were determined to be as courteous as any Provençal) he inquired for news of the Count of Chester.

  ‘Too much business spoils a feast,’ answered the King. ‘I have news of Count Ranulf, but we shall discuss it apart in the solar.’

  Henry knew at once that it could not be good news; good news would have been proclaimed aloud, to encourage the feasters. But he was now a knight, worthy to lead his mother’s armies; he must bear bad news with calm. Until the end of the meal he talked light-heartedly with his neighbours, amusing the table by trying out the few English phrases he had learned by rote (in a ridiculous south-country pronunciation) on a merry young lady from Haddington who was so old-fashioned as to speak no other language. It seemed that he had been misled as to the meaning of some of these phrases, but making a lady blush was one of the amusements proper to a feast.

  At last the dinner ended, and the two leaders could withdraw to talk privately. Both were sober, King David because at his age he must be careful with the wine-jug, Henry because he had talked too much to have time for drinking; he was flushed and excited, but by knighthood, not by wine.

  As soon as they reached the little solar King David groaned, and spoke in a ponderous fatherly tone. ‘My dear nephew, you must prepare for a disappointment. Count Ranulf writes that the men of Chester will not join with a Scottish army. He reminds me that in England the Scots are hated, since we treated them so roughly in that unfortunate invasion which ended at Northallerton. If that was the truth there would still be hope. The men of Chester are as fond of plunder as other men, and they might join us if we offered them the plundering of York. But I have agents in Ranulf’s council, and they have told me why he wrote. He has changed sides again. I know he’s a Blundeville, but he must have grown the same tail as the volatile native English. All Englishmen change sides for a trifle. What he did in fact was to write to King Stephen, saying that he had a chance to link up with a Scottish army for the ravaging of Northumbria. King Stephen understood. He offered Ranulf more, in money and land, than he could win from the most successful season of raiding. There it is, Ranulf has been bought, and we can’t buy him back again. My poor realm cannot bid against the Treasury at Winchester.’

  Henry received the news with complete calm. As casually as if discussing the weather he answered: ‘Then what will you do, uncle? Your men are gathered, and some lords of the March will join my banner, even if Chester hangs back. At least we can draw Count Stephen northward, by ravaging Lancashire. That will give relief to Brian fitzCount and his gallant garrison in Wallingford.’

  ‘No, I shall go back to Dunfermline. My light spearmen cannot face mailed horse, and I dare not provoke King Stephen to lead the knight-service of England against me. I have given you knighthood; more I cannot offer.’

  Henry had been struggling to preserve his calm. He must not disgrace his new knighthood by a display of Angevin rage, and when he learned that Count Ranulf had been bought contempt for such a recreant preserved him from any stronger emotion. But King David’s second speech was more than he could bear. His policy was based on two firm beliefs, that the King of Scots was a powerful ally, and that Stephen, Count of Blois could never call out the knight-service of England. Now he heard his uncle proclaim, as a matter of fact universally admitted, that the Scots dared not meet England in the field; at the same time he gave Stephen the kingly title, and assumed that all England would follow his banner. Were all Kings faithless, even his uncle? Must he ride tamely back to Bristol without drawing his knightly sword? Was there nothing he could do to win the throne that was his by right? Even more important, was there nothing he could do to save himself from looking ridiculous?

  That question brought its own answer, the familiar answer which had solaced his unhappy childhood. The bubble of rage swelled in his breast until he was barely able to restrain it. If he yielded to it he would find comfort in the warm flood. Perhaps this was shameful for a knight, but he must lose his temper or burst.

  King David was amazed. This stony-faced lad had heard the bad news with stoic calm until the end. Now he had fallen off his stool to claw the rushes on the floor while he screamed imprecations on the house of Blundeville, the house of Blois, and even his kin the royal house of Scotland. He kicked off his shoes, and shrieked through purple cheeks. The knights of the bodyguard crowded into the solar, sword in hand.

  While dignified Celtic chieftains hurried their King from the presence of this unseemly maniac the knights of the Angevin escort knelt in ecstasy beside their young lord. ‘Hear how he shouts, the offspring of Melusine daughter of Satan! Listen to those curses! No one in Carlisle can curse so strongly, not even the Bishop! Ah, there’s a true son of Black Fulke. No matter if his mother is still wed to the Emperor, there’s the lord who will lead his knights to rich plunder! Did you ever hear such roaring? The very sound gives me fresh courage!’

  So they babbled to one another. Henry, as he calmed, began to understand their words. His outburst had relieved him, and already he could consider the changed situation. Rage would not keep Count Ranulf faithful to his sworn engagement, or lend courage to the cautious King of Scots. But rage was an inspiration to his followers, expected from a leader of the devil-breed of Anjou, the characteristic of his race. Henceforth, when he found himself in a tight place, he would allow his rage to master him; and be all the better served for it.

  In May 1152 the nineteen-year-old Count of Anjou and Duke of Normandy paced the flat roof of the keep of Rouen castle, where he could be alone wit
h his thoughts. He was dressed, as usual, in dingy hodden-grey tunic and chausses, but now a baldric embroidered with gold thread crossed his right shoulder. The ducal sword of Normandy was a heavy ceremonial object, which he wore only for occasions of state; but the baldric demonstrated his right to wear it, the right that had come to him six months ago on the death of his father.

  It was characteristic that the young Duke sought counsel only of his own thoughts. Already his vassals knew him as a man of sudden, unforeseen decision, who seldom discussed his plans beforehand. Since he had been old enough to sit with dignity in council his father had associated him in the rule of the Duchy; for Count Geoffrey, the neighbour from hated Anjou, had himself no right in Normandy. There young Henry had reigned from the age of two, in right of his mother; and in theory his father had been no more than his guardian and regent.

  In fact he had exercised a good deal of power even during his father’s lifetime. He was the sort of man a Duke of Normandy ought to be. In battle he was swift and determined, sitting well in the saddle; not outstanding as a lance, but up to the average. The only fault to be found with his horsemanship was that he took too much out of his mount; but he had a full stable, and as a result he travelled at a speed scarcely to be believed. For all that he passed many hours in hunting, he was willing to work at his task of governing the Duchy; men took their disputes gladly to his judgement, for they knew they would get a final decision as soon as the case was heard. (But the most eager litigants were those with a righteous cause, for Henry had a remarkable knack of getting at the truth through a tangle of conflicting testimony.) While he galloped the muddy roads of his Duchy there was peace in the land, firmer peace than the oldest peasant could remember.

  There was war on the borders, for that was a normal condition. In that perpetual warfare the young Duke had played a worthy part. Of course there was never a hope of final victory; the best the Normans could hope for was that this time they would drive back their more powerful antagonist. Henry had led his knights gallantly against the French, even when King Louis was reinforced by Count Eustace of Blois, son of the usurper in England. By refusing to attack the person of his lord, when he surprised King Louis in the castle of Arques, he had given a much-needed example of the rights and duties of a vassal in rebellion. His cause was righteous, for he was defending the inheritance of his mother from invasion; but even a righteous cause could not excuse a direct assault on the person of his lord. The magnates of Normandy, his own vassals, would be wise to remember the lesson, for if they neglected it they might expect no mercy.

  In the end the strong hostile coalition had agreed to a truce, at the small price of the Vexin, now in French hands – until the war began again. Externally he had given Normandy peace as the reward of honourable defeat; at home his firm rule brought wealth and prosperity.

  But he was still no nearer the crown of England. Count Stephen the usurper had reigned for sixteen years, and it would seem that he must die with the crown on his brow. Religion soothed the disappointed old age of the Empress. In England there was still an Angevin party; at this moment the leopard banner fluttered from battered and defiant Wallingford, isolated in a sea of enemies. But these English knights fought rather as rebels against all authority, snatching at the cause of an exiled claimant to give brigandage the respectability of civil war, than because they hoped that one day they might overthrow the house of Blois.

  If Henry rested content with what he had he would pass his life as Duke of Normandy and Count of Anjou, one of the six lay peers of France, almost an independent prince. He was too powerful to be conquered by his suzereign, and he would transmit the Duchy undiminished to his heirs. But if he disturbed the balance of power he might unleash forces which could destroy him.

  Because he now had a chance to alter the whole political geography of Christendom he had climbed to this lofty platform to think undisturbed. Word had come to him, secretly and unofficially but from a source he could trust, that the greatest fief in France, a fief much richer even than Normandy, would be his for the asking – if he could hold it. To take this chance would mean a renewal of the war with King Louis, and the jealous hostility of his half-dozen equals; but he might win the war, he might even make Rouen the capital of a principality more important than the Kingdom of France.

  Of course the King in Paris would still be his suzereign. He had sworn homage, and that was an oath he would never break. He had the hard common sense to see for himself what Master Adelard had taught him in childhood, that the power of every great magnate in Christendom rested on the sanctity of the vassal’s oath; if he set the example of breaking it his own knights would no longer be bound to follow him.

  But if he could add to the Duchy of Normandy and the County of Anjou the Duchy of Aquitaine, he would be the strongest prince west of the Rhine; and if after this accession of power he conquered his rightful inheritance of England he would be the greatest King in the civilized world, greater even than the Emperor. The stupendous chance had come suddenly, and he must accept or refuse without hesitation, knowing that if he refused Aquitaine would be offered to a rival; and with Aquitaine he must take a wilful proud lady, who had already proved too independent for the pious King of France.

  For nearly fourteen years the Duchess Eleanor, ruler of Aquitaine in her own right, had been the quarrelsome and unmanageable Queen of King Louis VII. In all that time she had never borne him a son, and even the supposedly lucky child conceived in Rome, after the reconciliation effected by a personal intervention of the Pope, had proved to be yet another daughter. The lady Eleanor was a famous beauty, now of mature age; she was fruitful, of most noble birth, an excellent ruler of her paternal inheritance, well known for her intelligence and force of character. She was also notoriously flighty, and said to be wanton; her temper matched his own, without the excuse of diabolic ancestry. After years of bickering and the most startling mutual accusations she and King Louis had agreed to part. As with every member of the high nobility who took care to preserve full details of ancient pedigrees, it had been easy to find a common ancestor a few generations back; that brought them within the prohibited degree of consanguinity, and without a papal dispensation their marriage was invalid. Instead of the dispensation they had asked for an annulment, which had been willingly granted. Now the lady Eleanor offered her hand to the Duke of Normandy, nine years her junior and almost unknown to her.

  Of course it was not his prowess as a knight or the charm of his demeanour that had won her heart, though she was polite enough to say so in her secret message of proposal. Her Duchy needed an efficient protector, and of all the magnates of France he was the only one unmarried and about her age. She wished to marry Normandy, not Henry. Well, if he accepted it would be to marry Aquitaine, not Eleanor.

  If he refused he might live peacefully, with plenty of leisure for the hunting which was his favourite amusement, and enough of the business of governing his lands, a business he was beginning to find absorbing, to allow him to feel that he was doing something with his life. But to the end of his days he would know he had missed a great opportunity. If he married this headstrong beauty he would find himself at war with the world; he would probably die in mail; he would struggle unceasingly; but he might become the greatest potentate in the west.

  When he had posed the problem to himself in those terms he came down from the roof to dictate his letter of acceptance. He was an Angevin, a son of the Devil, descended also from Rollo the pirate; with such an ancestry he must inevitably choose power rather than ease.

  Within a fortnight he waited on the lady of his choice to deliver the formal offer of marriage which good manners demanded, even though his lawyers and hers were already negotiating the terms of her dower as Duchess of Normandy. Once or twice at formal ceremonies he had seen Eleanor, Queen of France; but he had never spoken freely to her, or even looked at her closely; he met his promised bride for the first time while the marriage contract was being drafted.

  There w
as nothing odd in that; it was the normal way in which an alliance of great magnates was arranged. If his father had lived to marry him he would have been sent off to a stranger without even the option of refusing to propose to her. What was unusual was the experience and knowledge of the world his lady possessed, her reputation as a beauty, and her age. When he was introduced into the bower where she sat with her damsels, modestly embroidering an altar-cloth, he looked at her boldly, in a way which often made young ladies blush and bridle; but it was curiosity, not loving ardour, which made him stare so earnestly.

  He saw a bold voluptuous beauty, with hot brown eyes in a white face. Her green silk gown was laced close to the figure, emphasizing her rounded haunches and swelling bosom; the fashion was for willowy slenderness, but Eleanor had the sense to see that she could not follow it; by stressing her unfashionable figure she achieved a striking singularity. Over her gown she wore a sleeveless bliaut of blue silk, powdered with golden pomegranates. Her head-dress was a white muslin wimple, within the ducal coronet of Aquitaine. Her hands were very white and slim, and she glanced first at his hairy freckled paws, scarred by the beaks of hawks and calloused by his destrier’s reins. He was conscious of his ungainliness, standing there sturdily, his square shoulders thrusting out the red cloak bearing three golden leopards which was the most splendid garment he possessed. She looked infinitely desirable, and not at all trustworthy. A splendid mistress, but not the woman a wise man would take to wife.

  ‘Welcome, my lord,’ she said in a husky, throbbing voice. ‘It is noble of you to come at the call of a lady in distress. The King has treated me shamefully. Because of his double-dealing I am neither maid, wife, nor widow, and my inheritance lies at the mercy of every ravening wolf in France. Count Theobald of Champagne and Count Geoffrey your own brother pursue me. King Louis took me, and had his pleasure of me. Now, because he is not man enough to get a son, he has cast me off. I appeal to your chivalry to guard defenceless Aquitaine.’