Henry of the High Rock

by Juliet Dymoke

  He rode into Caen to find it teeming with nobles and knights, prelates and abbots and humble folk all come to do the last honours to their sovereign, many with shame at their previous panic. The dead King’s brother was there, Henry’s uncle Robert of Mortain, with his son William, a sulky lad in his early teens who glared at Henry without bothering to hide his jealousy of the deference paid to the Prince – they had grown up together and the dislike was mutual. He saw William of Breteuil across the square, swarthy face expressionless – his father, William FitzOsbern, had been the King’s cousin and close friend; and among the great barons were Hugh of Grandmesnil, the de Toenis, Robert de Beaumont and Robert of Bellême, and with them a very tall dark man who disengaged himself from among them and came at once to Henry. He was handsome and slender, his hair neatly cut, his face smoothly shaved, and his grey eyes fearless and direct. He was Helias de Beaugencie, lord of La Flèche, and a grandson on his mother’s side of Herbert Wakedog, Count of Maine. Herbert’s daughter had been betrothed to Robert Curthose but had died before the marriage could take place. Through her King William had claimed Maine for his son but Helias, Henry thought, had as good a claim. At the moment, however, Maine was Normandy’s and here was Helias coming to him with both hands held out; they had hunted often together and of all this great gathering Helias was perhaps the man he most liked and trusted.

  ‘My lord Henry! I am glad to see you though it is upon so sad an occasion. Are your brothers not come?’

  ‘Rufus has gone to England,’ Henry said briefly, ‘as for Robert, I think he must be on his way to Rouen but I have not heard.’

  ‘Then you must lead us.’ Helias glanced round at the gathering, representatives from every great house there in the square, awaiting the funeral Mass. ‘One wonders how many mourn.’ His glance fell on one particular face. ‘Did you hear that the lord of Bellême was on his way to St. Gervais when he heard of your father’s death and at once turned round and expelled all the ducal garrisons from his castles before he came here?’

  Henry’s face darkened. ‘There will always be trouble from that devil. I doubt Robert will be able to hold him in check.’

  ‘He is no Christian,’ Helias said and for him that was the worst that could be said of a man. ‘Your uncle Odo came yesterday from his prison and is gone with the Bishops of Lisieux and Evreux to attend the procession here for the Mass.’

  In all his life afterwards Henry never forgot that burial. The sight of his father lying still on the bier, that strong face at peace at last beneath its golden coronet, the square hands clasped on the swordhilt, the rich purple pall, all were engraved on his mind. He was hardly conscious of the men about him, hardly heard the expressions of grief, but walked silently behind the bier, aware of death as he had not been at the height of the fighting at Mantes. He saw his uncle Odo, dressed in the richest of vestments, his black eyes alert, his keen glance missing nothing, the soldierly Bishop Geoffrey of Coutances, Abbot Gontard who had attended his father, and Abbot Anselm who still looked very sick, and leading them all the Archbishop of Rouen, the procession stretching out all the way from the river, the poorest folk bringing up the rear.

  And suddenly there was a cry of ‘Fire! Fire! ’ and a house seemed to burst into flames right in their path. Within a few minutes the wooden dwellings on either side of the narrow street had caught and the flames began to spread rapidly. The procession disintegrated in disorder, the citizens fled to protect their own property and every man who could lent a hand to fight the fire.

  Henry told the monks in charge of the bier to hurry on to the Abbey church which was outside the walls and he with Helias of La Flèche and a number of others formed a long line, passing buckets of water to stop the fire spreading. Hot and grimy he took a leather bucket from Grandmesnil and said, ‘That house won’t catch now. We’d better soak the next to be on the safe side.’

  Grandmesnil, his lined faced streaked with sweat, brushed a hand across his forehead and stood still, staring at the smoking ruin in front of them. ‘It is an omen. God and His saints have mercy! ’

  Henry paused, the bucket in his hand. ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘I remember, years ago, at his coronation some houses caught fire and there was a panic among the English so that we ran from the church to see what had happened. He was crowned King with hardly any of us there to see it. And now – it is the same at his burial.’

  ‘No,’ Henry said sharply. ‘God’s death, Grandmesnil, are you so infected by the English that you read omens into everything as they do? The men here can deal with the last of the fire. Come,’ he called out to those around him, ‘Come to the Abbey, my lords. My father will not be laid to rest without his liegemen around him.’

  He led them out of the smoking streets, over the fallen rubble beyond the walls to the great church of St. Stephen that his father had built as a marriage offering. Outwardly calm, Grandmesnil’s words stayed in his head as he visualised his father’s crowning – fire then, fire at Mantes and fire now. What did it signify? Surely not God’s anger, for his father had loved the Church, had given her great gifts, yet a dread lingered and not even the monk’s singing, the Mass, the candles, could drive it away.

  At last the bier was brought forward and laid by the coffin near the opening in the floor where the King was to be laid and the Bishop of Evreux mounted the pulpit to deliver the funeral oration. He spoke of William’s achievements, of his victories, of his harsh but just rule until Henry, for once usurping the role of Rufus, felt that it was no mean thing to be the son of such a man.

  ‘Fearless he was,’ the Crane was ending, ‘and brave and stark but no man can live without sin and I beseech you for the love of Christ that you will all forgive him if he ever offended you. I would ask you . . .’

  At that moment there was a stir among the lesser folk at the rear of the church and a man pushed forward, gesticulating. ‘You shall not bury him there,’ he shouted. ‘My name is Ascelin and this land is mine. He took it from my father and never paid for it. I have proof!’ And he waved a parchment.

  There was a stunned silence and then an outbreak of angry murmurings. Men-at-arms sprang forward to seize him, but he shouted his claim again so that every head was turned towards him, Odo from the altar, his face dark with anger, and the other Bishops shocked at this rude interruption, while the Crane stared over other men’s heads to see what was happening.

  ‘God’s wounds,’ Henry said under his breath and stepped from his place. In a loud voice he asked the fellow what he wanted.

  ‘The price of the land, my lord.’

  ‘This is intolerable,’ Odo called out angrily. ‘You shall be paid later if your claim is good, but step aside now and do not interrupt these holy obsequies. You defile God’s house.’

  ‘No,’ Ascelin retorted and set his legs firmly astride. ‘I’ll not go without justice.’

  There was another silence in the crowded church, incense rising, the white-robed figures still while men looked first at Henry, then at Odo or his brother Robert. Henry seized the moment for authority, some instinct barely realised suggesting that he might not have another for a long time.

  He strode down the church. ‘You shall have justice. What is the six feet of ground my father requires now worth to you? You shall have a fair settlement of the rest later.’

  Ascelin shuffled uncertainly. He had lost a little of his truculence. Then he said, ‘Five marks, my lord.’

  Henry took the purse from his belt and handed it to Robert de Beaumont who was nearest to him. ‘Pay him,’ he said briefly and went back to his place. The disturbance subsided and Odo, a look of thorough disapproval on his face, turned back to the altar. He would have preferred to see the fellow whipped from the church.

  But there was worse to come. The monks who were lifting the body of the King carefully and reverently from the bier laid it in the coffin only to find that the stone had been cut too small. In fear and rather than cause further upset by calling for a new coffi
n, which could not be found without delay, they tried to force the body into the narrow space. An indescribable sound struck the mourners as the bowels burst and a revolting stench rose, filling all the church.

  In an appalled few seconds of stillness no one moved. Then the bishops backed away and the monks stood trembling, staring down in fixed terror. One stumbled away and another dropped the tall candle he bore so that it rolled across the floor until caught by a lay brother. There was a retching sound as yet another fled out by the sacristy door. Many of the barons and their attendants retreated to the rear of the church and some even pushed open the doors and hurried out into the fresh air.

  Grandmesnil stayed where he was but his face was white. William of Breteuil stayed too, his lips pressed tightly together, but the elder Ralph de Toeni hurried away followed by old Walter Giffard; Robert of Bellême folded his arms and stared with arrogant scorn at those who could not stay and Robert de Beaumont remained staunchly in his place.

  Henry stood his ground, aware of horror and shame that the burial of his father should be so desecrated. The stench was nauseating and he felt his stomach heaving. Beside him Helias of La Flèche said, ‘Holy Jesu!’ He was pale and shaken but he did not move from his place beside the Prince. Mortain’s tears had turned to outright sobbing but he too remained, his legs refusing to bear him away.

  Henry bunched his mantle against his face and cried out to the paralysed monks, ‘For God’s sake, get on with it,’ and turned his eyes to the ground while they did the obscene things that had to be done, stuffing the body somehow into the coffin, forcing down the lid, all of them sweating and sick. Incense was piled into thurifers but it could not sweeten the air and Odo gabbled through the last of the rites as the coffin was lowered into its place. Then every man fled the building.

  Outside Henry leaned against a wall, his stomach rebelling, and how he kept himself from vomiting he never knew – only that he must not disgrace himself by being sick in front of the gathered nobility of Normandy.

  Helias held out a small horn. ‘Here, my lord, drink this.’

  He took it and drank, feeling the wine go down into his stomach and somehow quell the awful nausea. ‘The saints bless you for that, Helias.’ He drew deep shuddering breaths, filling his lungs again and again with clean air.

  ‘It is over,’ Helias said. ‘It is over, my lord.’ He took Henry by the arm and led him away.

  CHAPTER 3

  That night the Prince supped at the house of Thurstin, a wine merchant and leading burgher of Caen. He had been bidden to the Abbey guest house but the company of his uncle Odo and the grief-stricken Mortain was more than he felt he could bear and accepted instead Thurstin’s hospitality. It was a simple house consisting of one room on the ground floor, two above and two more high in the eaves, a thin house in a narrow street but with more freedom, he thought, than the spacious refectory in the Abbey.

  Helias was with him and Richard of Redvers who had arrived late for the burial and was now secretly thanking God for his lame horse. Ralph de Toeni had gone, unwillingly, with his father to attend Mortain and de Redvers said, a faint smile on his broad-featured face, ‘Poor Ralph will have to wallow in grief tonight but you, my lord, you will put it behind you – as you must.’

  ‘Yes,’ Henry had said, ‘yes, by God.’

  So now he sat at Thurstin’s table and ate the spiced meat and drank the good wine the merchant offered and tried to drive from his mind the horror of that scene in the church this afternoon and from his nostrils the stench he could still smell. Only food and drink and the company of such friends as Helias and de Redvers could keep him from thinking tonight and he turned to his host to congratulate him on the excellence of the wine.

  Thurstin beamed with pleasure. ‘Ah, my lord, you have not yet tasted the latest I have brought from Sicily. See my daughter is bringing you the greeting cup.’

  Henry turned and saw a girl approaching, her long red gown trailing on the rushes, her hair almost hidden beneath her white veil, her eyes fixed on his face. She was carrying a silver cup and as she approached the table she bent the knee to him.

  ‘Pray, my lord, drink of the best wine in my father’s house.’

  She had a low and pleasant voice and now that she was close he saw that she was no young girl, but a woman of perhaps twenty-three or four. He took the cup and drank and then moved along the bench, begging her to sit beside him.

  ‘What is your name, lady?’

  ‘Alide, lord.’

  He glanced down at her hand. ‘I see that you are wed. Is your husband among our company here?’

  She shook her head. ‘He is dead. He died of the sweating sickness last summer. My mother too is dead so I have returned to my father’s house where I can be useful.’

  She had dark grey eyes, thoughtful eyes and quiet so that a man might rest in her company and her figure was soft and rounded, falling away to a small waist above more generous hips. She was beautiful, he thought, and knew then that he needed love tonight. He thought of that room above where he must sleep in an empty bed when he needed warmth and tenderness and the oblivion of loving. He looked at her again and wanted her, wanted to lay his head between those rounded breasts and hold her in his arms. Yet how could he? For all she was no virgin he did not think he could abuse his host’s hospitality to that extent for Thurstin was no peasant to be bought.

  He joined in the talk, laughing and capping Richard’s stories with witticisms, overdoing it all in an endeavour to hide the turmoil she had raised in him. He tore a capon apart with his fingers and ate, washing the meat down with the good wine and wishing he had a few more years behind him. Presently when Helias was discussing with Thurstin the wine harvest at La Flèche and de Redvers was listening to some chatter further down the table, Alide turned to their royal guest, speaking so that no one else could hear.

  ‘Lord, I grieve for what you have had to suffer today. I can see that you need to put it from your thoughts tonight.’

  He was taken aback by her perception and putting up a hand pushed the falling hair from his forehead. ‘Yes,’ he said at last. He had never liked to take too much wine, a lesson learned from his father, but tonight was a rare exception and he wondered if his voice sounded slurred. ‘I would not be alone.’

  He had not intended to say it and wished he had not used those exact words. ‘I meant…’ he began and then stopped, not knowing how to explain.

  She said nothing and he reached out impulsively and took her hand where it lay in her lap. ‘Alide,’ he said and repeated her name, ‘Alide.’ For a moment his gaze caught and held hers. Then her father spoke, bidding her send a servant for more wine and there was no chance of further speech between them. But he felt a tension, a current of feeling so that when accidentally she brushed his shoulder as he leaned forward to answer a question from Helias he knew that she was as aware of it as he.

  When the meal ended Alide made as if to rise but for one moment he detained her. ‘You are no green girl,’ he said in a low voice, ‘but I did not think you an easy woman. Forget what I said.’

  She smiled and he felt his stomach turn but in a more pleasurable manner than it had this afternoon.

  ‘I did not misunderstand you,’ she answered. ‘My husband was a clerk and taught me much of the Scriptures, and it is rightly said “how can one be warm alone?’”

  He looked silently at her, astounded that he could feel thus about a woman he had known scarce above an hour and equally astonished at her acute words. ‘I am a prince of Normandy,’ he said at last, ‘yet I would command no woman against her will. If I say to a peasant, send me your daughter tonight, he will do it because I am who I am – but still I would not press an unwilling girl, whatever her station.’

  ‘I did not think,’ she answered slowly, ‘that you would.’ She rose and her eyes were veiled as she bent the knee and bade him goodnight.

  He said, ‘I could have de Redvers with me tonight, but I will not ask him.’

  N
o one else had heard the low words, nor did she answer. She asked her father’s leave to retire and disappeared up the narrow stair.

  Serving men cleared the trestles now and laid out pallets on the floor while Henry’s host conducted him to the guest chamber, setting a rush dip in the sconce on the wall. Helias had gone to the house next door where he had been promised a bed and had made his farewells for he was to return to La Flèche early on the morrow, and it was Richard alone who lingered.

  ‘Shall I stay?’ he queried. ‘There’s space enough for two.’

  Henry sat down on the edge of the bed. His head was throbbing. ‘Not tonight.’ He glanced up at his friend. De Redvers was utterly dependable, one of the few whom he could really trust. De Redvers was a descendant of a bastard line from Duke Richard the Fearless and was thus a connection by blood as well as friendship. At twenty-four Richard was his own master but there was not an ounce of arrogance in him and he took no offence, merely helping Henry out of his clothes.