by Tracey Warr
‘He’s going to be my father-in-law!’ Sybil whispered to Benedicta. ‘Something of a grouch, don’t you think? Let’s hope his son is more pleasant; not that it matters really.’
Benedicta looked at her bewildered. ‘Your father-in-law? You are marrying?’
‘Yes, that grumpy man,’ she gestured at the door, ‘is Herbert, the King’s chamberlain. I am to marry his son.’ She smoothed her hand over her protruding stomach. ‘It won’t make any difference to my relationship with the King,’ she asserted.
Benedicta was not sure how to respond to Sybil’s confidences, and was relieved when the girl found herself a becoming gown and jewels and left the room. She did not return, and Benedicta, alone in the broad bed, was able to get an excellent night’s sleep.
Her anxiety returned, however, the following morning when the court assembled, and she wondered what role the King might be expecting her to play here. Countess Adela and her sons, Thibaut and Etienne, were present, and the Countess gave Benedicta a warm smile when she noticed her in the crowd. Adela was still acknowledged as co-ruler with her son, Thibaut, and the relationship between them appeared to be comfortable, one of mutual respect. Etienne, on the other hand, could not entirely conceal his resentment at the power his mother wielded and his sense that this belittled him. Bishop John of Lisieux, the King’s main deputy in Normandy, presided over the proceedings, with the King looking on. The Bishop announced that Robert de Bellême should stand to face charges.
‘What! What is this? You think to insult me a second time!’ de Bellême exclaimed. He ignored the Bishop and addressed the King directly who did not reply. ‘This court has no right to charge me with anything. I am here as an envoy from France, protected by my status as ambassador.’
Now King Henry spoke – or thundered rather – and Benedicta flinched at his voice, resounding in the hushed hall. ‘We do not recognise that as your status here, de Bellême. Here, you are my sworn vassal and you are forsworn. You are my vicomte for Argentan, Exmes, Falaise and you are in default.’
De Bellême opened his mouth in astonishment but found no words.
The Bishop took up the attack. ‘You have rendered no royal revenues, no accounts. You have ignored three summons to the King’s court to answer to this. You have acted against the interest of your lord over and over again.’
‘The accounts can be rendered. This can be rectified. I refute your other charges and will not answer to such unfounded nonsense,’ de Bellême said.
‘We have copies of your treasonous correspondences,’ the Bishop told him, splaying a sheaf of parchments on the table before him. With a sinking heart, Benedicta recognised one of the parchments as the letter she had stolen from Amaury. Benedicta had sent the letter to Countess Adela some time ago and it seemed the King had been able to garner other evidence against de Bellême from other spies.
‘What is this?’ de Bellême exclaimed, his voice laced with sceptism, as he approached the table for a closer look. Benedicta watched the colour drain from his face as he realised what he was looking at. He was condemned many times over in those letters.
‘Benedicta,’ Haith spoke close to her ear, ‘isn’t that your hand?’ He was pointing at the parchment she had wrapped the stolen letter in, addressed to the Countess. It was amongst the pages on the table.
Of course Haith would recognise her handwriting. She had been writing to him all her life, since she was six years old. She desperately wanted to deny it but she knew that such a lie would only lead her further into a morass. ‘Yes,’ she admitted. ‘I will explain later, when we are in private.’ She did not dare to look at Haith’s face, did not dare to see the loathing for her that must be etched there.
‘Yet again, de Bellême,’ the King said, ‘despite my many forbearances towards you, you are a traitor to me. You were a traitor to me in England and you have continued a traitor to me here, in Normandy. John, Bishop of Lisieux, will take charge of the estates of Argentan, Exmes and Falaise on my behalf. You will be incarcerated at Cherbourg, to await my further disposition.’
De Bellême was swiftly surrounded by armed guards and seeing there was no use in resistance, he drew himself up with dignity. ‘The King is a man of the greatest animosity and inscrutability of mind,’ he declared. ‘He only praises those whom he has decided to destroy utterly.’ Benedicta turned her shoulder and avoided his eyes as he was escorted from the room, but she knew that he had turned his stare in her direction as he passed.
Benedicta dreaded the ending of the King’s court session. She wished that it could go on forever with its interminable charters and announcements and calculations. To face Haith and try to explain herself would be a far greater trial.
They sat down to dine together in privacy in Haith’s small chamber. She was surprised to see that he behaved and conversed with her as normal, as if nothing had happened. ‘Henry tricked Robert de Bellême into coming to the court, with flatteries,’ Haith said. ‘That’s it for the rest of de Bellême’s life. He won’t get out of that captivity.’
‘It seems a shabby trick,’ Benedicta said.
‘Aye and one that de Bellême would have been happy to stoop to if he’d thought of it first,’ Haith said pragmatically.
Although Benedicta thoroughly hated the man, she felt ashamed. Perhaps Haith had decided to ignore the question of her handwriting on the letter. She could lie. She could say she had been asked to make a copy and did not know what it was that she wrote. But no, she could not lie to Haith’s face.
‘So, it was your hand, Benedicta? On one of those letters that convicted Bellême?’
‘Yes.’
‘I saw the Countess give it to Henry yesterday. He was very pleased about it. To have written proof of de Bellême’s treachery. But what part have you played in this?’
She looked him in the face now with an imploring expression and the words fell from her in a rush. ‘I sifted through Bertrade de Montfort’s letters at Fontevraud and told of anything of import against Henry. The Countess sent me there to do it. I feel awful about it, Haith!’
His mouth fell open in surprise. ‘You were spying for Countess Adela? For Henry?’ He was disconcerted.
‘It was an awful thing to do. I allowed my vanity, my curiosity, to lead me deeper and deeper into deceit.’
He frowned. ‘I admit, I am surprised at it. I had no idea you were about such things. And he did not speak of it to me. It has helped Henry,’ he said slowly, evidently intending to reassure her, but she heard the perplexity in his voice, saw it in the way he looked at her.
‘One letter there, I stole directly and sent it to the Countess.’ She wanted to get the lies out in the open. But she stopped. She could not tell him, or anyone, of the greater sin she had committed to get the letter.
‘Why did you do it, Benedicta?’ he asked in surprise. She hated that she could see him reappraising her.
The excuses that it was vengeance against de Bellême, or care for King Henry, or loyalty to Countess Adela, all hovered on her lips, in her mind, but she closed her mouth up and said nothing. She realised that none of these reasons explained her actions, but rather that it had been a mixture of curiosity, a lust for danger and deceit, her lust for Amaury, that had driven her decisions. She could say none of this to her brother. ‘I hardly know, Haith,’ she stammered. ‘I hardly know myself but I am trying to see, and hope that you will love me still.’
‘Always,’ he said, but his expression showed him still distracted. ‘Be careful not to lose yourself, Benedicta.’
‘Haven’t you ever done something for him you knew you should not? That you regret?’ she shouted.
Haith patted the air with his hands slowly to calm her. He frowned and looked down at his boots. ‘I have. Yes, I have,’ he said quietly.
For several days Haith and Benedicta wove around one another like wary fighters circling, getting the new measure of each other, but it was not in Haith’s disposition to hold a grudge for long or to look anywhere except
on the bright side. ‘Good news, Benedicta,’ Haith said, laying down his hat on the table, where she sat with a book. The graved laughter lines of his browned face creased to lend emphasis to his words.
‘How?’
‘The King says you are to stay with his court, with me!’
Her eyes widened. ‘But, I should go back to Almenêches surely?’
‘He has already written to the Abbess begging leave for you. Countess Adela has told him of your great learning and he wants you to educate some of the young ladies at court.’
‘He has not spoken to me of it,’ she said, feeling a confused mixture of delight to stay in Haith’s company, at the Countess’s flattery, and fear that this could only bode ill; that she would be drawn back into duplicity.
Haith looked crestfallen. ‘I thought you would be pleased to spend time with me.’
‘Oh, I am!’ Benedicta hurried to reassure him. ‘It’s just a surprise is all.’
Soon after, de Bellême was sent across the English Sea and incarcerated in Wareham Castle. In response, his son, William Talvas, joined forces with the nephews of William de Mortain (who was still in King Henry’s prison in the Tower of London, after the battle of Tinchebray which had taken place more than twelve years before). The young men rebelled against King Henry but he stifled their rebellion, besieging and taking Alençon. He gave it to Thibaut de Blois, who in his turn, gave it into the care of his brother, Etienne de Blois. The King allowed de Bellême’s son to continue as Count of Ponthieu, but his patrimony was much diminished. Reports held with certainty now that William Clito (still a mere ten years old) had fled to Flanders and to the court of the boy count, Baldwin.
17
Truce
‘Nest! Quick!’ Amelina was gripping the door jamb, her face lit with a huge smile.
I wove my sewing needle into the cloth in my lap. ‘What is it?’
‘There are visitors below. Welsh visitors!’
My thought went immediately to Owain. I glanced at a dagger in its scabbard on the chest and moved towards it. Amelina clapped her hand over mine as I reached for it. ‘No! No need for that. Friendly visitors that you will welcome. Gerald is greeting them kindly even now and waiting for you.’
I frowned at her mysteriousness and followed her down the steps. A few children and a small band of men, marked as newly arrived by the dust and saltmarks on their clothes, stood in the hall with Gerald and several soldiers from the Pembroke garrison. They turned at the sound of our footsteps and I was overjoyed to see my brother, Gruffudd, amongst them. I ran to him and he opened his arms to greet me. I held his hand, swinging it and laughing, as I turned to Gerald, who laughed in response.
‘I am glad to see you well, sister,’ Gruffudd told me, ‘and to make the acquaintance of your husband.’
‘Your brother will be staying with us for a short while,’ Gerald told me. I bit my lip. Was Gruffudd a prisoner? ‘As our honoured guest,’ Gerald added, seeing my hesitation.
‘When did you cross from Ireland?’
‘We arrived a few hours ago and came here directly.’ Where else did he have to go? By rights he was King of all Deheubarth, of all the lands that my husband and other Normans held for King Henry.
I glanced at the four, small children in my brother’s entourage. ‘Are they your children?’ I asked, surprised.
‘Yes.’ He brought them forward one at a time, presenting them to me and Gerald. ‘Anarawd.’ He smiled shyly at me. ‘Cadell. Gwladus. Nest.’ To this last, youngest daughter, Gruffudd said: ‘This is your aunt, Lady Nest.’ My namesake and I looked complicitly at one another.
‘Their mother?’ I asked.
‘She decided to stay home.’
So their mother was his Irish concubine. I doubted that it had been her decision to be left in Ireland without her children. Amelina, without needing word from me, bustled forward to take charge of them and make them welcome.
At dinner, Gruffudd talked of events in Powys, of Owain and Madog. I watched Gerald’s face darken at the mention of Owain’s name and steered the conversation elsewhere. My heart was heavy at the thought of Owain returning to Wales and being nearby.
That night, Gerald surprised me, coming to my chamber. ‘Nest,’ he said hesitantly. I had hoped that, after our conversaton in Cardigan, things might grow more intimate between us, but as soon as we had returned to Pembroke, Gerald had seemed unable again to cope with the complexities of our past. He had continued to be formal towards me. Now, I stepped quickly to the door where he hovered and took his hand, gently leading in him. ‘I am glad to see you, Gerald. Please.’ I gestured to the cushioned bench by a small table near the window where a cool breeze riffled a jug of pansies. He sat, looking awkward. I poured two beakers of wine and handed one to him. I gulped mine down fast. Now he was here, I was not going to let him go. I moved my stool close to him so that our knees were touching and I leant forward and took his hand. ‘Will you speak to me of your day?’ I asked him.
‘Can I?’ he said, the expression of his face and the tone of his voice were laced with a contradictory mix of challenge and beseeching.
He felt he could no longer trust me. Because of Gruffudd. Because of Owain. Because of me, even. ‘I hope so. I hope you will. I am your wife, your loving wife, despite everything that has happened, Gerald.’
He smiled briefly at me.
‘Should we talk more of my time away? Would it help? I want more than anything to be fully reconciled with you.’
‘No,’ he said, swiftly, before I had even finished my sentence. ‘No, I can’t speak of it.’ He looked away from me again.
‘Very well,’ I soothed. ‘So we won’t. Tell me something else.’ Anything that would get him talking to me on a safe subject would be good.
‘I doubt your brother intends to become a quiet farmer here, do you?’ he said, going instead for the most difficult subject hanging between us.
‘I don’t know his plans.’ He nodded, looking in my eyes. ‘Perhaps Henry would be wise to offer him some lands, a Norman wife?’ I said.
‘I think you don’t know your brother, Nest.’
‘Perhaps not. Not yet. I spent only a few days with him in Ireland.’
Gerald looked away. Any mention, or approach to my time with Owain, was like a hot poker thrust at his heart. He must love me still then, but I must not rush him. He stood.
‘You won’t stay, my lord? My love,’ I kept my voice neutral, but warm. I would not beg or wheedle.
‘Not tonight.’
I reached up to his cheek and kissed him softly on the mouth. ‘Good night then.’ He hesitated, smiled, but walked from the room.
Amelina was right. He would come around in time. In the meantime, while I waited for Gerald, I spent time growing acquainted with my brother. Gruffudd did not say so directly, but he did not trust me either. He did not bring me into his confidence, but every day he spent with us I grew more and more certain that he was planning to attempt to retake his birthright. He rode out each day with the small group of Welsh and Irish men who were his entourage, assessing the lay of the land and the Norman defences at each place he visited.
‘Why are you accepting my brother here?’ I asked Gerald one night when he came to drink wine and talk with me as had now become his evening custom. He never stayed to climb into my bed, but he spoke with me, he kissed me goodnight. We were affectionate at least.
‘I can keep an eye on him here.’
I smiled. My wily husband. But I reflected that if, no when, Gruffudd decided to make his move, my husband and my brother would be in deadly contention. I counseled Gerald several times to petition the King to make Gruffudd a land grant and he assured me he had sent word suggesting this, but no offer came from the King.
‘Your brother’s following grows,’ Gerald said.
I did not like the way he eyed me for a reaction, the way his words were a mixture of statement and interrogation, so I made no reply.
‘He garners sympathy as a
forlorn, homeless prince. He is an inspiring, valiant figure. He has your beauty.’
‘He is the blood heir of an ancient race of kings.’
‘The older, well-established Welsh lords do not respond to the implication of his presence. They are well situated now, allied with Norman neighbours. They do not intend to risk that.’
They are bought off you mean, I thought, but said nothing. Bought off with scraps like dogs beneath the table.
‘Younger members of the local Welsh nobility flock to him though. Hot-blooded fools.’
I knew that Gerald was deliberately trying to provoke me into making a statement of my views – or my knowledge. I smiled at him.
‘He is beginning to be a threat that the King should know about.’
‘You will do what you must,’ I said. And so will Gruffudd ap Rhys ap Tewdwr I thought, not knowing whether to weep or triumph at that knowledge.
I walked across the courtyard towards the kitchen, intending to check with the cook if we needed more spices from the market, but I diverted from my path when I heard shrieks, giggles and bleats coming from the barn. I stood in the doorway, watching Amelina showing Angharad, and her cousins Gwladys and Nest, how to milk a goat, but the goat was not being cooperative. Streaks of milk on the floor and on their aprons, and three kicked-over buckets showed me that the milking lesson was not going well. ‘We’ll get there in the end!’ Amelina shouted to me over the goat’s back, holding fast to the horns while Angharad bent her little head, frowning at her work on the teats, and Gwladys and Nest held hands, laughing through tears as they looked towards me.
‘Are you milking or wrestling that poor beast?’ I called out.
Amelina momentarily lost concentration, the goat took advantage, struggled from their grasp, and bolted past me through the doorway. ‘Oh goat’s breath!’ exclaimed Amelina.
‘Perhaps you would do better to begin this lesson on a more pliant cow or a sheep?’ I told her. ‘Or at least, tie the goat first!’
