Henry of the High Rock

by Juliet Dymoke

  Henry had a wild desire to laugh. For all the noble phrasing his father meant Rufus to have England and Lanfranc would know what to do. It was so obvious and yet he saw his father clearly in that moment as a man who had somehow kept an integrity that neither Robert nor Rufus would ever have. He felt rather than heard Rufus’ sigh of relief and the tension leaving his stocky body.

  Nobody spoke and the silence was broken only by the scratching of Robert Bloet’s quill. Presently it was done and he brought the letter to William who made his mark with a surprisingly steady hand and then sealed the red wax with the seal bearing the impress of his own seated royal figure.

  ‘Go with Bloet, my son,’ he said. ‘I know that I have little time left and you must be on your way to England when I go to my fathers.’ He held out his and Rufus knelt to kiss it. Red William was in tears now and held his father’s hand in his own, weeping unrestrainedly.

  ‘I cannot go – not while you live.’

  William raised his other hand to touch his son’s tow-coloured head briefly. He seemed deeply affected. ‘You have my blessing, but you must go. We are not burghers who can afford to indulge more tender feelings. You have a high duty, my son, and not even the love you bear me must keep you from it. Make haste, I beg you.’

  Rufus rose and wiped his face. Then he bent to kiss his father’s forehead. He could not speak and left the room without a word or a backward look, followed by the chancellor.

  The King had turned his head away and lay so still with eyes closed that for one awful moment Henry thought he was dead, gone without a word for him, but William breathed deeply and opened his eyes again.

  ‘I would confess myself. If Anselm cannot come, beg Abbot Gontard to hear me . . .’

  At that his youngest son came round the bed and knelt beside him. ‘My lord, what of me? Am I to have nothing?’

  A faint smile crossed the drawn features. ‘Well, my son, and what do you think you should have?’

  ‘What you will, my lord. I know I am the youngest but I was born the son of a King which Curthose and Rufus were not, yet they are to have everything while I . . .’

  ‘Tush!’ William broke in, ‘will the three of you fight like dogs over a bone? There is meat enough for all.’ After a pause he added, ‘write an order and I will seal it, that you are to have five thousand pounds in silver from my treasury.’

  Henry was startled. It was a great deal of money, more than he could have expected, but his instinctive reaction for once got the better of native caution. ‘My lord and father, I thank you for this generous gift, but am I to have no land? What good is money without land?’ It sounded churlish but he could not help it.

  William regarded him gravely. ‘You are right, my child. All men must hold land but I have none to give you for I cannot go back on my word to Robert. And if I send you into England, what do you think your brother William would give you? If your birth makes you an English Atheling, he still has the claim of years. Trust in God and let your elders go before you.’ Henry was silent for there was only one answer to this, but nevertheless he felt his cheeks colour with a wave of frustration. He could not meet his father’s eyes and kept his gaze on the fur at the edge of the bed, studying the ridges in the pelt, the shades of brown.

  ‘My mother’s lands . . .’ he said at last.

  The King nodded. ‘Yes, those you should have, the manors of Wessex and in the southern part of Wales, but you will have to make issue with your brother for those. I do not think he will deny you. Child, don’t fret. I see further than you think.’ For a moment the old William re-appeared, strong, dominating, reading men’s minds, winning his battles because he could out-think his enemies. ‘Take your money and guard it well for I tell you this – a time will come when Robert will have thrown his inheritance away, when William’s excesses will have made him too many enemies and then – then you will have it all. I conquered because I knew when to trust and when not to trust. Robert trusts too many and Rufus none at all. I see it clearly…’ his breath was coming in laboured gasps now, his eyes dilated, and the Bishop laid a hand on his arm.

  ‘Rest, sire, I beg you.’

  But William did not heed him, his stern gazed fixed on his son. ‘It is you, the last of my children who will hold in your hands everything that my mother dreamed I would hold before I was born.’

  Henry still knelt, folding his father’s hand in his own. ‘My lord, how can I hope for that?’

  ‘Wait. Watch and learn. Be just and use the good sense God has given you and you will find I am right. I remember when you were born your mother said . . .’ He closed his mouth hard as if the memory were too precious to reveal. ‘Thirty years we lived together and these last four without her have been the most wretched of my life.’ His fingers tightened on his son’s. ‘See that masses are said for her soul and for mine. Now write that order.’

  Henry rose. He found to his surprise that his legs were unsteady and there was a sick sensation in his stomach. This end, this parting asunder of a period of his life, of his boyhood perhaps, was more painful than he had expected, and from now on all things would be different. He wrote awkwardly and made a blot on the parchment. Then he handed it to his father for the King to make his mark. He remembered he had once said in his father’s hearing that an unlettered King was a crowned ass and how his sides had smarted for that piece of impertinence. His father had risen high above such strictures and the shame, if any, was his own.

  ‘Take it,’ William said, ‘and put your money in a safe place. Then come back to me.’ He seemed exhausted now, lying back against the cushions, but there was a faint smile on his drawn face. ‘“How are the mighty fallen in the midst of battle, and the weapons of war perished.” Well, God’s will be done.’

  Henry knelt again. ‘I will not be long, sire.’

  ‘Not long may be too long,’ William said half to himself. His eyelids fell and he slept.

  ‘I will stay with him,’ the Bishop said softly and Henry, the parchment in his hand, went to the door. There he paused, looking back at the still figure in the bed. There was no man greater than his father, he thought, and for a moment felt a vicarious pride in him, a grief that he lay broken at last. But broken or not he was still to be obeyed and his son left the room. Ten minutes later he was on the road to Rouen.

  The great Abbey of Bec lay in a pleasant valley where two streams met, flanked by wooded hills. The founder, Herluin, had chosen his site well for there were fish in the clear waters, game in plenty in the woods and the land was rich for cultivation. The Abbey buildings covered a large area now for the schools had become famous and students flocked here from every part of Europe. Lanfranc had come more than sixty years ago from Italy and Anselm, the present Abbot, from Aosta, and still the cleverest young men travelled to the place where they would find the best teaching. The guest house and school were being enlarged and the sound of builders’ hammers reached the sick Abbot’s lodging, making his head ache though he voiced no complaint.

  He sat in his chair by the fire, shivering for all it was a warm day and, despite the Prior’s pleading, insisted on attending to what business was in hand. When a lay brother came in to announce a visitor he held up his hand to silence the Prior’s protest.

  ‘Bid Prince Henry come to me.’ And when the young man knelt by his chair for his blessing Anselm gave it, regarding him affectionately. It seemed to him such a little time since this young man had been a stripling boy and now he saw him developing a strength and personality, the soft almost black eyes masking a growing sense of purpose combined with a tenacity which reminded Anselm of the old King. From under the falling thatch of thick dark hair the Prince returned his look gravely and Anselm liked what he saw.

  ‘My son, how is your father? I trust you are not come with ill news?’ He indicated a chair and Henry took it to sit facing him, accepting the wine the Prior poured before excusing himself and leaving them alone.

  ‘There is no change, my lord, but he is dying. I fe
ar it cannot be long now.’

  Anselm sighed and crossed himself. ‘I prayed that I might go to him, but God did not will it for my legs would not bear me. Our country will be sadly lost without him. He has kept order for many years.’

  ‘I know.’ Henry’s gaze wandered round the familiar room. He had been here many times, had read here with the Abbot and with Lanfranc on the latter’s occasional visits to Normandy. Here he had sat once and studied St. Augustine and some words came back to him now. ‘For no sooner do we begin to live in this dying body than we begin to move towards death.’

  An involuntary shiver ran through him. His body was young and strong and he did not want to think that he too would lie one day as his father lay now, death as inevitable as the next dawn. He straightened his legs, flexed his arms, feeling their supple power – death was as remote as the mysterious lands beyond the eastern trade routes and eternal life no less nebulous. His father might be on the edge of that leap into the unknown but he did not want to contemplate it when life was only now opening up before him.

  The Abbot’s voice broke into his thoughts. ‘How may we serve you? Do you wish masses said for your father? We are already doing so.’

  Henry brought his gaze back to Anselm, noting the occasional tremor that shook the thin body, all spare flesh long since driven away by devout fasting. Anselm was near enough a saint, Henry thought, and remembering that his uncle Odo might even now be stepping into freedom wondered that the same Church could foster two such contrasting priests. ‘It is a personal matter,’ he said at last. ‘My father has given me a grant of money and I must house it somewhere. I can think of no safer place than your treasury. Will you hold it for me?’

  Anselm seemed surprised, not so much at the request but at the gift itself. ‘Your father is generous.’

  Henry kept his eyes on his feet in their brown leather shoes. ‘Robert has Normandy and Red William has already left for England with a letter, for the Archbishop, while I – I have a grant of money,’ He paused and when Anselm did not speak, he came out with what he must say. ‘What I am to do with it? Where shall I go? Does Robert want me here? Will Rufus welcome me in England? All my life my father has kept me close and now – it is as if I had been cast adrift on the sea.’

  Anselm folded his hands together, his gaze on the Prince’s face. Despite his aching head, he put his own discomfort aside to attend to the needs of a spiritual son. ‘This is hard to say, my child. I cannot advise you other than bid you keep peace with your brothers. God has a destiny for you, I am sure of that.’

  ‘My father says . . .’ he broke off and rising went to stand by the window. In the courtyard below where he had entered through the gatehouse his small retinue was waiting – Hamo leaning against the wall where he had propped his lord’s standard; Raoul the Deer using the spare moment to inspect a horse’s hoof; Gulfer standing with arms folded – he had left his birds at Rouen and when not tending them could stand as still as a hawk on the pole, his hands gnarled and hardened by constant handling; and young Fulcher whose father had once been page to the King and who conceived of no higher honour than that his family should serve the royal household. There were some twenty men-at-arms, earning their bread in the manner of soldiers, guarding the four mules who bore the chests of silver, the animals standing quietly in the sunshine, used to burdens upon their backs, shaking their heads against the flies, patient and obedient.

  Henry came back from the window. It seemed stifling to him in this little room and he swung off his woollen mantle, letting it lie on a stool. ‘A destiny, my lord Abbot?’ he repeated. ‘Where should I seek that?’

  ‘You will not need to seek it. When it is God’s will it will come to you.’ Anselm leaned forward earnestly. ‘I know a little of your father’s mind. He believed he was right in educating you above the rest of your house. One day you will be able to use that knowledge for good. In the meantime . . .’

  ‘In the meantime I cannot live on dreams of the future. I have not even a castle to call my own – every baron in Normandy has more than I have! ’

  Before Anselm could reply there was a sudden commotion in the courtyard below and a sound of hooves. Henry crossed swiftly to the window but by the time he looked out all he saw was a lathered horse. There were urgent steps on the stair and then a knocking at the door. A man almost fell in and threw himself on his knees before the Prince.

  ‘My lord, I have been to Rouen and they told me you were here.’

  ‘You have found me,’ Henry said. ‘What news, fellow?’ Yet even as he asked he knew the answer.

  ‘Your father, lord . . .’

  Somehow he had known, known he would not get back to St. Gervais in time, known it when he had left his father’s bedside. Yet there was still grief that he had not been there. ‘He is dead?’

  The messenger was struggling to get his breath back ‘Aye, my lord. Yesterday morning.’

  Anselm clasped his hands together and bowed his head, the ready tears in his eyes. ‘Requiescat in pace.’

  Henry' crossed himself. Then he looked down at the kneeling messenger. ‘Tell me . . .’

  ‘It was early and he had slept well, they said. He heard a bell ringing and asked what it was, and when they told him it was the bell of Rouen Cathedral ringing for Prime he commended his soul to God and Our Lady and died quietly and in peace – so suddenly that, one of the brethren told me of it, he said . . .’ he broke off abruptly. ‘It was a scandal, a sacrilege . . .’ He stopped again and dared not look up.

  Henry stood rigid. ‘Go on.’ And when the man seemed to have lost his tongue, added sharply, ‘God’s wounds, don’t hide the truth from me. Tell me what happened.’

  ‘It – it seemed as if with his going men lost their senses. Every lord and knight who was there fled to his own place to secure what he had. They were afraid that with the King dead no one would be safe.’

  ‘And then?’

  ‘Even the servants,’ the messenger hesitated again, hardly able to speak the words to the dead King’s own son, but encountering a look forced himself to go on. ‘They robbed the King, even in death, taking everything from the chamber – his clothes, his plate, his linen and furs. It was if no one had wits left.’

  ‘Christ’s cross!’ Henry swore. ‘I’ll have their thieving hands lopped off for this. Has nothing been done for my father? Was there no one to prepare his burial? He wished to lie in his own abbey at Caen.’

  There were tears in the messenger’s eyes now. ‘I know, my lord. Ten years I’ve served him and a good master he was to me. I did not know what to do.’

  Henry raised him to his feet. ‘You did right to come to me. I will go back to St. Gervais at once.’

  ‘There is no need now, my lord. A man came – I did not know him – a knight from some part of the Cotentin, I think. He said he had come to pray for the King and when he saw how all the high-born men had fled and none would stay to see honour done to the King’s corpse, he undertook to arrange for it to be cared for and carried down the river to Caen.’

  Henry turned away and stood by the window, staring out into the sunlit courtyard yet seeing nothing. It appalled him, outraged something deep within that his father should have been deserted in helpless death by those whom he had ruled and who owed him all they had, and it offended him that only an obscure knight should come forward to perform the last services for one who had been the greatest statesman in Europe. A wave of hot colour rose to his cheeks.

  ‘By God, that knight shall be my friend.’ He turned back to the messenger. ‘Do you know his name?’

  ‘Herluin, my lord, but I do not know his fief nor his badge. His clothes and arms were not those of a man of wealth yet he paid men to do what had to be done.’

  ‘He shall have it back and more beside.’ He turned to Anselm and knelt. ‘Give me your blessing, father, for I must go at once to Caen.’

  Anselm gave it, the tears still lying on his cheeks. ‘Go with God, my son. I will follow you to Caen i
f I can ride tomorrow. Your treasure you may safely leave with me.’

  Henry kissed his ring and then rose, and bidding the messenger to come with him went down to superintend the unloading of his silver. An hour later he and his men rode out of the gates and took the road to the north-west.

  Throughout that warm day he sat in the saddle, silent for the most part. The men behind him were his and his immediate attendants such as Hamo, Raoul and Gulfer closer than most, but they were not men of rank and he could not confide to them the grief, the doubts, the anxieties that alternately tore at his mind. He wished Ralph were here, or Eudo, or his other close friend Richard of Redvers, even his cousin Stephen. He could have talked openly to any of them but now, sitting in the saddle under the warm September sky with the sun beating down on his back, he felt alone as he had never done before. It was as if his father’s death had removed a shield and he must go on without it, out to his own future, his destiny, as Anselm had called it. Only at nineteen he was sure of nothing – nothing but an intolerable loneliness.