Conquest II

by Tracey Warr

  Benedicta resisted the urge to let the stylus in her hand write down those names. She could not run the risk that someone would notice her sitting there in the gloom and come to look at what she was writing.

  The more powerful and secure Henry became, the more de Bellême, de Montfort and d’Anjou regarded him as a threat to their own interests, their own frontiers. Besides if they could install William Clito, Henry’s nephew, as a child duke, and later a duke who owed his rights to them, the boy would be pliable to their needs and demands. It occurred to Benedicta that these lords saw King Henry, despite his successes, as an upstart who was no better than them.

  ‘We will take our leave of you until tomorrow, Bertrade,’ Amaury said and Benedicta heard the men move towards the door. She glanced up to see de Bellême’s back disappearing towards the stairwell and Amaury de Montfort making ready to follow him. She had not meant to make eye contact with either of them but, unfortunately, Amaury noticed her. He turned his gaze in her direction and Benedicta noted the fleshy beauty of his mouth and the intelligent dark green of his eyes. The razor had passed closely over his face, leaving a surface smoother than chalk. He looked very like his angel-faced sister. He smiled at her and her returning smile was automatic, unthinking.

  Benedicta was astonished to find herself, after her thousands of days of quiet, dull repetition at Almenêches, in such a maelstrom of action. Whilst she was glad to be of assistance to the King and Countess Adela, she found herself moved by the pioneering spirit of Fontevraud and Prioress Petronilla. Benedicta had no time for those assumptions that all women are intent on tempting men into lust, which many clerics sermonised upon. Robert d’Arbrissel’s mission to women was a breath of fresh air. The women at Fontevraud spoke of themselves as Robert’s ‘wives’, his beloved ones, seeing themselves as living in spiritual marriage with him, as brother and sisters, as he helped them to reach the Kingdom of Heaven, no matter what their former lives had been, no matter what their sins.

  ‘I heard that you were in the company of Lord de Montfort today,’ Sister Genevieve whispered to her in the refectory. ‘I’ve seen him across the courtyard twice.’ Her voice was excited.

  ‘Yes,’ Benedicta said, modulating her own response to a neutrality but interested to hear what Genevieve might say.

  ‘Handsome and charming, is he not?’

  ‘As his sister, Lady Bertrade.’

  ‘Yes. The two of them could charm the birds from the trees, so everybody says.’

  ‘They look very fine,’ Benedicta said, with circumspection, raising her eyebrows and Genevieve put her hand over her mouth to cover a titter of amusement at Benedicta’s drollness.

  Benedicta sat in her cell that evening contemplating her findings and sifting what she must convey to Countess Adela. She understood very well why de Bellême was an inveterate enemy of King Henry. They had been at loggerheads for years and the English King had convicted Bellême and his two brothers of treason, taken from them the Earldom of Shrewsbury, lands all over England and Wales, the vast riches that had accrued to the Montgommery family after the conquest of England. De Bellême’s character, in any case, was well known to be cruel and belligerent. But she was perplexed at Amaury de Montfort. He had seemed urbane, intelligent, pleasant. He was, without doubt, the leader and stirrer of rebellion against Henry, but she wanted to understand why. A good spy should try to comprehend their quarry surely. She could not discuss the matter with Abbess Petronilla or Countess Bertrade, since that would raise suspicion against her. They would wonder why she was curious on this point. If she wrote to Haith or Countess Adela or put her question to Breri she would just receive their partisan view that Amaury was the King’s enemy and raised rebellion against him. But why? She needed to know.

  The following day she searched in the Fontevraud library for any documents that might throw light on her question, knowing, even as she did so, that she was hunting in the wrong place. Fontevraud was an Angevin foundation and close to the border with Aquitaine. There were charters and genealogies copied here pertaining to the noble families of those regions where Benedicta might hunt down their motivations and histories but that was no use to her. Amaury de Montfort was a Norman, or only just, since his lands were very close to the border with the French king. There was nothing in the Fontevraud library that could help her throw light on this perplexing man. She was frustrated in the matter.

  A week later, Benedicta woke to a brilliant summer morning with a pale blue sky streaked with newborn clouds, long and wispy and pure white, and she woke with an inspired idea. Orderic. Of course! Why did she not think of it before. Her old friend Orderic Vitalis had many documents at his fingertips, collected from many great libraries, to fuel his history of the Normans. He had riffled through the parchment storehouses of Caen, Rouen, Le Mans, and so many more places. If anyone had an answer for her concerning Amaury de Montfort it would be Orderic.

  She needed to write to him in cipher on such a delicate matter but she could not use her Ovid cipher. That would be too shocking for her shy, mild-mannered friend. She and Abbess Emma had spent several years living alongside Orderic, hosted by the monks at Ouches, after Robert de Bellême burnt down their monastery at Almenêches. Perhaps she could use another historian for the cipher. Orderic would be sure to have all of those books in his study. She looked again at the books at Fontevraud. Which one would also be in Ouches? She alighted on Dudo of Saint Quentin’s Historia Normannorum and excited by the thrill of the chase, as any huntswoman would be, she sat down to write to Orderic.

  I am working on a matter and would share some discussion of the text of Dudo with you, she wrote. Orderic might take this literally at first, but when he received her coded text he would understand, and she hoped he would burn this first key. She sent off this herald of what she hoped would be an illuminating exchange of letters with a travelling preacher who told her he was going in the direction of Ouches and would deliver her letter to Father Orderic. Next, she set about the more difficult task of writing her question to Orderic in cipher. This second letter was sent the following week with a merchant who was staying at the Fontevraud guesthouse on his way north. Now, she must wait impatiently for a reply. It could take months for Orderic to find the time to address her query, to research his answer. Then he would have to find a reliable courier. It was best that she put it to the back of her mind and thought nothing more of Amaury de Montfort and his motivations.

  The Prioress needed to send a message to the Prior at Candes Monastery and asked Benedicta to call for Sister Genevieve.

  ‘I could take the letter for you myself, Prioress,’ Benedicta offered, thinking that she could leave a note for Breri. ‘I am in need of some exercise.’

  She concealed a brief note to ‘Hawk’, signed ‘Ladybird’, inside her red fleece vest and took the road to Candes, a busy trading centre at the confluence of the rivers Loire and Vienne. Benedicta revelled in such sights as she had been unaccustomed to during the last few months of her seclusion at Fontevraud. Boats, large and small, were moored at the wooden jetties. Men and boys unloaded sacks and barrels, while servants loaded goods onto donkeys. Fish traders called out their freshly caught wares, thumping mallets onto some still twitching fish as they did so. Reluctantly turning her gaze from the lure of the harbour, she made her way to the small monastery and delivered the Prioress’s letter. Then she sought out the Bear Inn. Seeing a pole protruding from a house with a bushel hung about it she knew she had found the right place. She entered, swiftly found the landlord, and asked him to take her note. On her walk back, she worried at how on earth Breri was going to contact her without anyone knowing, so that she could deliver her cargo of information for the Countess.

  Before sleeping, she perused her wax tablets, making sure she had all the information in mind that might be useful. Ovid’s Metamorphoses was open on the table and Benedicta traced words and lines with a finger, retranslating back from the cipher. ‘A lover stays up all night long,’ she whispered to h
erself, quoting from Ovid’s ‘Love and War’. ‘It is a lover’s clever strategy to raid a sleeping foe/and slay an unarmed host by force of arms. Now you see me forceful, in combat all night long.’ Hearing the words of the poem, Benedicta was astonished to find herself imagining Amaury’s de Montfort’s face close to her own, to imagine him raiding a sleeping foe, herself, forceful in …. She clapped a hand to her mouth and then to her eyes, not sure where best to place her defence.

  With her eyes covered, she imagined Amaury with his back turned to her in Bertrade’s rooms, his buttocks like firm, rounded hillocks. She slapped her palms down on the table to either side of Ovid’s book. Her treacherous lips mouthed more words from another poem on the page before her: ‘The girl entwined her ivory arms around my neck/and gave me greedy kisses, thrusting her fluttering tongue,/and laid her eager thigh against my thigh,/required my services/nine times in one short night.’ Benedicta clapped Metamorphoses closed. ‘Oh Lord, give me strength!’ she cried out. She had heard the Countess speaking anxiously with Etienne and Thibaut about the charisma of Amaury de Montfort, and his power to suborn those who should be loyal to the King. Benedicta had never imagined that she would even look on him, let alone feel like this about him, imagine such things. She took out her rosary and bent over it with her eyes screwed shut for hours until it dropped from her weary hand and her eyes had closed in sleep.

  Several days and nights passed and there was no sign of Breri. Perhaps she had missed him and it would be months yet before he passed this way again. Perhaps the Countess would deem her mission a failure. She went to midnight prayers and knelt on the cold stone, her head bowed, comforted by the thought that across the whole of Christendom, across the wide world, many others elsewhere were doing the same as she. She returned to her cell with her breath fogging before her and her cold fingers curled up inside her sleeves. She was startled by a low voice from a clump of trees beside the path. ‘Ladybird!’

  Benedicta looked behind and about her in alarm but saw no other person. She could just discern the glint of Breri’s eyes in the gloom.

  ‘I will follow you to your cell, Sister,’ he whispered.

  Benedicta swallowed. Now she was entertaining a man alone in her cell? Was there no end to her iniquity? She nodded and walked on swiftly, letting Breri slip inside the door ahead of her in the gloom.

  He threw back his hood but retained his whisper. ‘Greetings, Sister.’

  ‘Greetings to you Breri. How did you get inside the compound? Are you staying in the guesthouse?’

  ‘No. It’s a large compound with a long wall.’

  Benedicta regarded his portly form sceptically. She could not imagine him scrabbling over the abbey wall. Perhaps there was a gap somewhere or a fallen tree leant against it ….

  ‘You have something to pass on to our dear friend, Sister?’

  He meant the Countess. Benedicta had debated with herself what to tell, what not to tell, but how was she to know what would do harm, what would do good. It seemed best to simply tell the straightforward truth and leave the interpreting to the Countess and King Henry, and to God.

  ‘De Bellême and de Montfort are plotting to support William Clito’s claim as Duke of Normandy against King Henry. I heard it confirmed with my own ears.’

  Breri’s eyes lit up. ‘How on earth did you manage that, Sister?’ His voice had lost its mocking edge and was tinged with a mild admiration.

  ‘I am scribe to both the Prioress and Bertrade de Montfort. I was in the room for a conversation between de Bellême, de Montfort and his sister.’

  Breri barked a laugh. ‘Stupendous, excellente,’ he said extravagantly in his Welsh lilt. ‘I had no idea you were such a superbus spy. Yes, we have always thought that they conspired together, de Bellême and de Montfort. They shit out of the same arse, those two. Begging your pardon, Sister!’

  Benedicta bit her lip and frowned at her shoes.

  ‘And?’ he prompted.

  ‘They conspire with the new Count of Anjou and with William Clito’s tutor. They think the Count of Flanders may also support them, despite his treaty with King Henry.’

  ‘You are a silver mine, Sister. Any other names mentioned?’

  ‘They claimed to have support from William Malet, William Baynard and Philip de Briouze in England.’

  ‘William Baynard,’ Breri said, his voice alert. ‘Are you sure you heard that correctly, Sister?’

  Benedicta hesitated. What if she had it wrong and condemned a man unjustly. The King would verify the information, surely?

  ‘That is the name I heard, yes.’

  ‘This is of great value to the Countess, to the King. William Baynard has command of one of the three great castles of London and he commands the host of London. Not a person who should be counted amongst those disloyal to the King, eh?’

  Benedicta made no response, her anxiety rising. She had hoped that it might be all rather something and nothing, but now it seemed of great significance.

  ‘Did you hear any specifics of their plans?’ Breri asked.

  ‘No.’

  ‘Very well then. Has that Robert d’Arbrissel gotten around to bedding with you yet, Sister?’

  Benedicta flushed and yanked open the door of her cell. ‘Please go,’ she hissed.

  ‘My apologies, Sister. I didn’t mean to upset you. It’s just the rumours.’

  ‘He’s not here at Fontevraud and there’s no truth to those rumours.’

  ‘If you say so. Nothing on the Earth moves faster than rumour, or travels less straight, eh, Sister?’

  10

  The Ransom

  After several hours hard riding up into the foothills, we arrived at a hunting lodge. Owain lifted me and Angharad down from the horse. Inside the lodge, there was a separate room off the small main hall with a high, wide bed, and Owain told me to settle the children there. The men set about lighting a fire in the hearth in the hall but the place was freezing. We were frigid from the ride, our hands painful, our cheeks chapped red and flaky. I piled as many furs as I could find onto the bed and the three boys climbed in together, their teeth chattering, hugging each other for warmth. ‘Henry, you are the eldest, and you will take care of your brothers now. We are on an adventure.’

  ‘Yes, Mama.’ He dropped his voice to a whisper. ‘Will Papa come to get us soon?’

  ‘Yes,’ I whispered back, nodding and looking into each of their frightened faces. ‘Very soon.’

  ‘Mama, is Lina hurt?’ asked William.

  My thoughts flashed to Amelina’s stricken face as she struggled to keep the children from the soldiers, and the horrible sight of the sword raised above her arm ready to swing down and sever it. I blinked the memory from my face, doing my best to look serene. ‘She is well, William,’ I told him, smiling into his eyes. ‘She is with your papa, and soon you will be with them again.’

  I sat on a stool, leaning my back against the side of the bed and fed Angharad, singing a soft song to calm the boys. Angharad stared into my eyes, sucking, blissfully unaware of her change of circumstance. Let Gerald be alive, I prayed silently and ardently. I laid Angharad in a makeshift cradle constructed from blankets on the floor beside the bed. By the time I laid her down, the boys were sleeping, tired out with stress. I smoothed the black curls on Henry’s forehead and stepped quietly through to the main room to confront Owain.

  He stood waiting for me, warming himself in front of the blazing fire. His men had disappeared, billeted elsewhere but no doubt within easy call. ‘You should send the children back to Pembroke straight away,’ I told him. ‘My oldest son is the son of the King who will not brook risk to him.’

  ‘You think I care about the Norman king? Don’t you know that he is far away in Normandy? Send the children back you say, Nest, but not you?’

  ‘You should send us all back, of course.’

  He looked me up and down. ‘It’s warm in here now,’ he said. ‘Wouldn’t you be more comfortable without that great cloak?’


  My face was flushed but I shook my head. ‘I’m fine. What do you mean by this affront? By coming in the middle of the night and stealing me and my children away like a thief.’

  He was amused by my defiance. The firelight suited him, burnishing his thick hair, offering glimpses of the brilliant blue of his eyes. ‘No thief, Princess Nest,’ he said softly, greeting my anger with gentleness. ‘I am a Prince of Powys. This heart pumps with royal Welsh blood, as does yours.’ He slipped his own cloak from his shoulders and threw it to a trestle that was pushed up against the limewashed wall. ‘My father’s bard would tell you my lineage and your own.’ He stepped close to me and began to circle me, as if we were dancers. ‘Owain, son of Cadwgan, King of Powys, who is son of Bleddyn, King of Powys and Gwynedd, who was grandson of Maredudd, King of Deheubarth and Gwynedd, who was grandson to Hywel Dda, and he was the grandson of Rhodri Mawr, the Great King.’ The sing-song of his Welsh was beautiful.

  ‘Do you mean to mesmerize me like a lisping snake?’ The relief of hearing and speaking my own language was enormous. For years, when I had first learnt French, I had struggled, unable to fully express my ideas.

  He stood behind me and his laughter tickled my exposed neck where the black hank of my hair was gathered to one side and hung down the front of my nightgown to my hip. ‘They told me you had a wicked sense of humour, Nest, daughter of Rhys ap Tewdwr, King of Deheubarth; granddaughter of Einon, who was grandson of Hywel Dda, who was grandson of Rhodri Mawr, the Great King.’

  ‘Consanguinous lineages no doubt.’

  He returned to stand in front of me. ‘Ah, so you’re thinking of marrying me after all, are you?’

  All my life I had longed for a royal Welsh husband to save me from a string of Norman suitors and lovers, to give me my rightful place as a Welsh queen, to restore my identity to me. This man would have been my husband if the Normans had not invaded and killed my father. ‘I am wed already.’