Henry of the High Rock

by Juliet Dymoke

  CHAPTER 4

  Bishop Odo hated indignity as he hated little else and to be made to sit thus on his own travelling chest on the shingle at Dover was to him the culmination of a week of shame and insults. From the moment when he and Mortain had surrendered at Pevensey and his nephew Rufus had refused to accord him the honours of war so that he might emerge with banners flying and trumpets sounding, he had lived every moment in shame and fury. They had been forced to leave Pevensey without trumpets, with their standards lowered and gonfanons pointing to the ground and the common English soldiers, whom he loathed, shouting and jeering at him.

  ‘Bring halters,’ they had cried, ‘hang the traitor Bishop!’ so that he had thought to die.

  And there was his nephew Rufus, a great grin on his red face, enjoying every moment of his uncle’s discomfiture. Now he was deprived of his earldom once again and banished from England, though Mortain and the rest were busy making their peace with the King. They had even taken away his renowned mace, ‘the skull-smasher’, which he had always carried into battle because no priest might shed blood.

  He sat, deep in his rage, humiliated beyond bearing, staring at the ship drawing ever nearer, a ship from Normandy that was to bear him back to his native land, and as the tide brought it in, the shingle drawing noisily under the hull, he was glad he would soon be away from these mocking guards, to shake the dust of England from his feet.

  But the fates that make sport of men had not done with him yet, for after the sailors had made the ship fast, the first man ashore and walking up the little wooden wharf was his nephew Henry, followed by some half dozen attendants.

  The Prince stopped dead in his tracks when he saw his uncle, His eyes swept over the disconsolate Bishop sitting with his robes drawn about his knees, the piled up baggage, the lack of retinue.

  ‘What is this? My uncle, you look like a poor pedlar waiting to take his wares outremer.’

  The knight in charge of the guard, one Roger de Marmion, said stiffly, ‘His grace of Bayeux is banished the country, my lord Henry. He is to leave aboard the ship that brought you here.

  ’

  And suddenly the sight of Odo, the proud and haughty uncle brought so low as to be sitting on a travelling chest on the beach, waiting to be shipped off like useless baggage, was too much for Henry. He began to laugh, hands on hips, and he laughed until the tears came.

  Odo’s face went a dusky red and his mouth trembled with fury so that he could scarcely speak. ‘By the living God, nephew, such behaviour becomes you ill. Be silent, I command you.’

  ‘You can command nothing here, it seems,’ Henry was endeavouring to control his mirth, ‘certainly not me. If you could but see yourself . . .’

  All the men about him were smiling now', and to Odo that laughter was the last and final straw. He shook with rage, hands clenched, and swore to be avenged, his thin body wracked with the intensity of his emotion.

  De Marmion said stiffly, ‘My lord, I beg you – I must take the Bishop aboard.’

  Henry wiped his sleeve across his eyes and nodded to the knight. ‘You are going aboard now? The wind is southwesterly.’

  ‘I know, lord, but I have orders that his grace is to be conveyed to the ship at once and to be kept there until the wind changes.’

  ‘So my brother wants you off English soil with all haste,’ Henry turned to glance again at his uncle. ‘You have used him ill, my lord.’ He looked up at the clear, warm June sky. ‘I fear you may have many uncomfortable days before the wind changes. The weather is set fair, I think.’

  Odo rose with all the dignity he could muster. ‘I can well do without your comments, nephew.’ He turned his back on the Prince and stalked away along the wharf followed by his guards.

  ‘I have little liking for this task,’ de Marmion said in a low voice. ‘I pray the wind will soon change and he will be gone.’ He was a tall young man, son of Robert de Marmion who had been one of the Conqueror’s companions at the time of Senlac. He held the honour of Scrivelsby in the county of Lincolnshire and his son was already high in Rufus’ favour.

  ‘God speed you in your task,’ Henry said amusedly, and as the young man walked away after his prisoner, Herluin watched him go through narrowed eyes.

  Then he said, ‘My lord, I fear you have offended your uncle deeply. He will not forget.’

  ‘I care not. He will not raise his head again.’

  ‘Not here perhaps, but in Normandy he is still Bishop of Bayeux, and deep in the Duke’s confidence. You are Count of the Cotentin and must be much in Normandy, therefore it seems to me you have made not one enemy but two.’

  ‘Maybe,’ Henry said non-committally, ‘but . . .’ he turned to look at the blue sparkling sea, the brilliant sunshine on the water, the sailors busy on the ship, ‘I doubt my uncle can turn Robert against me.’ He laughed and set his hand on Herluin’s shoulder. ‘And I am too much my father’s cub to care for any man’s spite. Come, let us go and see what kind of a King Rufus is making of himself.’

  He recounted the scene on the beach three days later at Winchester where the court was in residence.

  The King sat in his chair listening a sardonic gleam of humour on his ruddy face. ‘He will not set foot in England again. By the Mass, was there ever a worse traitor? As for his brother bishop, William of Durham, I will bring him to trial for his treachery.’

  ‘What of the rest?’ Henry glanced round the crowded hall. ‘I see Montgomery and the Count of Bellême, and our uncle of Mortain.’

  ‘They have made their peace with me.’ Rufus gave a quick harsh laugh. ‘They have learned, little brother, that I’ve enough of our father in me to be a match for all of them together.’

  Henry was silent for a moment, recalling his own words to Herluin, using almost the same phrase. Had they all too much of their father’s blood for there to be peace between them?

  ‘My subjects are of a mind with me,’ Rufus was continuing, ‘and that took the wind out of Odo’s sails.’

  ‘So I heard. Well, Ralph will be glad his father is not in one of your donjons.’

  ‘The rebels have paid for their freedom.’ Ranulf Flambard spoke from his place by the King’s chair. He was even more lavishly dressed, his manner more arrogant, and as usual his mother was seated not far from him. She was small and bent and had lost one eye, so that men said she was on nodding terms with the devil. Henry thought she was evil and was surprised at Rufus tolerating her at his table, but Rufus it seemed was well-served by his chaplain, who was pointing out that his master gained more from the rebels’ money than he would by their absence.

  Walter Tirel, lord of Poix, and a close companion of the King, nodded, ‘My good lord will have no more trouble in that direction. What is the news from Normandy, Count Henry?’

  He told them of Robert’s extravagance, of the squabbling of the barons, the feuds and sieges that disturbed the country, and while he spoke, the King’s frown grew. But at the end of the tale he merely compressed his lips tightly and spoke of something else.

  Their cousin Judith’s daughter, Maud, was to be married to Simon of Senlis in two days’ time and though Bishop Walkelin of Winchester was to perform the ceremony the Archbishop of Canterbury would preach the nuptial sermon. He was expected to arrive on the morrow, and if there was one man in England Henry wanted to see it was Lanfranc.

  In the meantime he relaxed, enjoying Rufus’ table; the food was richer than in his father’s time and he ate well of the different sorts of meats, finishing the meal with a pasty of spices and honey and almonds and some sweetmeats of marchpane that were always to his taste – but like his father he drank sparingly, despising drunkenness and considering wine something to be savoured in small quantities. He sat beside the chancellor, Robert Bloet, whom he had not seen since the latter left the old King’s sickbed with Rufus and he told him of the strange burial that had followed, and the fire and the man Ascelin, and he saw that Bloet was troubled.

  But on his other side sat hi
s old companion Eudo Dapifer who kept him entertained with stories of the court and it was from Eudo that he began to form a picture of his brother as a King.

  Presently he went to greet his cousin Judith, daughter of the old King’s sister and half-sister to Stephen of Aumale. She was a dark slender woman, still with that beauty which had long ago turned the English Earl Waltheof’s head, but her expression was melancholy, her conversation inclined to be bitter, and Henry had heard that her remorse after her husband’s death had been so great that she had built and endowed a convent for nuns at Elstow near Bedford, spending much of her time there in acts of penance. The Conqueror had wanted her to marry Simon herself but she had disdainfully refused him and in annoyance William had given Waltheof’s earldom of Northampton to Simon and Maud for his bride into the bargain.

  Henry wondered how Judith felt about this. ‘I am glad to be here for Maud’s nuptials,’ he began. ‘Does the match please you?’ But if he had expected to get any sort of illuminating answer from Judith he was mistaken.

  ‘It was your father’s command,’ she said coolly.

  ‘And Maud? Is she content with her bridegroom?’

  Judith shrugged. ‘She has not complained, and seeing Simon has her inheritance already, that is just as well.’

  Henry sat looking at his cousin. Dinner was over, few people were left in the hall now, and none to overhear. ‘You wed for love, I believe. Is that so bad a thing?’

  Her dark eyes flashed suddenly, as if he had trodden on dangerous ground, but were almost immediately veiled and he thought she was not going to answer. However after a moment she turned to look at him.

  ‘You must know what happened or you would not have asked such a question – and knowing, you should not have asked it.’

  ‘I beg your pardon, cousin,’ he said awkwardly. She made him feel a beardless boy. ‘But I hope Maud will find joy in her marriage bed.’

  Judith inclined her head and stared down at her hands folded in her lap. ‘That I had once.’ She seemed to be speaking to herself, and not knowing what to say he asked if he might greet his cousin Maud.

  He found her walking with her young sister Alice and two of Judith’s ladies on the grass below the great hall of the castle, and at once she ran to him, her hands held out, despite the admonition of one of the women.

  ‘Cousin Henry! Oh, I am so glad to see you and so glad you have come for my bridal.’

  She had laughing blue eyes, pale blonde hair and a bloom of health in her cheeks. He kissed her soundly on the mouth and then stood for a moment, holding her at arms’ length.

  ‘You grow more lovely every time I see you – and Alice too. You will soon be a woman, little cousin.’

  Alice was slighter and darker than her sister, favouring their mother’s looks, and she bobbed a curtsey to the Prince. ‘I am betrothed too,’ she told him proudly. ‘Did you not know?’

  ‘No,’ he said in surprise. ‘Who is to be your bridegroom?’

  ‘Your friend, Ralph de Toeni,’ Maud put in. ‘It was arranged between the King and the lord of Conches this week.’

  ‘Well, it was part of the King’s peace-making, no doubt. Ralph knows naught of it yet, but,’ he glanced again at Alice, ‘he is a good fellow and I wish you joy, child. You will do well enough with him.’

  ‘I hope so,’ Alice answered gravely, ‘but of course we will not be wed until I am of marriageable age. I am but thirteen at the moment.’

  Maud and Henry laughed, and Maud added, ‘Off with you, sister. Play at ball for a while – I want to talk to our cousin.’

  Despite the reproving glances of her women, she sent them off with Alice and walked aside with Henry.

  ‘Is there something amiss?’ he asked. ‘Are you not happy in this marriage?’

  ‘Simon is a good man – a little dull, but good.’ Maud sat down upon a bench and he sat beside her. ‘He will not ill-treat me, nor is he cruel and lustful like the Lord of Bellême or Ivo of Taillebois, so I suppose I should be grateful. No, I am not unhappy, but I wanted to tell someone, and perhaps you will understand, that I am sad because my father is not here to give me in marriage. The King will do that office on Thursday, but I wish . . .’ she broke off.

  ‘I did not know you remembered your father.’ He took her hand and held it in his. She was wearing a blue gown and he thought how well it became her.

  ‘I loved him too well to forget him,’ she said sadly. ‘They tried to hide the truth from me, but for all I was not six years old I knew what had happened. Did you know that at home they call him a saint? His old friend, the Chamberlain Richard de Rules – you remember him – built a shrine for his burial place and men come from all parts to Croyland to pray at his tomb.’

  ‘So I heard,’ he nodded. He remembered too hearing that relations between Maud and her mother had never been good and it seemed to him that marriage would release her from a daily contact that was irksome. ‘You must be happy on your marriage day, your father would wish it. And,’ he began to swing her hand to and fro, ‘I swear that if we were not cousins I would ask for you myself, for, by all the saints, your beauty would turn any man’s head.’

  She laughed delightedly, her sadness banished. ‘If you were not my cousin, I would accept. But what of yourself? You must certainly marry a princess.’

  ‘I? Where can you find me one? The King of France has a daughter, but she’s a mere child and who would want Philip for a father-in-law? I’ve no fancy for a girl from the north countries, they’re barely civilised. There are the Spaniards, of course, but they say the Princess Uracca lives too close to her own brother . . .’

  Maud was pondering the matter. ‘The King of Scots has two daughters and they are Edmund Ironside’s great-grandchildren, for their mother is Edgar Atheling’s sister; either of them would be very acceptable.’

  He was still laughing. ‘I suppose so. Will you arrange it for me? Unless they are both so plain that I would not enjoy my marriage bed.’

  She shook her free hand at him. ‘Now you are teasing me. Well, we shall see.’ She leaned forward and kissed his cheek. ‘I am so glad you are here. To tell you the truth, I am a little afraid of your brother.’

  ‘Some may need to fear him,’ he said drily, ‘but not you.’ And as they began to walk back towards the castle, he added, ‘When you are bedded, you can forget all the rest of us.’

  ‘Except you. You will come and see me at Northampton, won’t you?’

  Which promise he gave and led her back to her companions.

  The next day he was by the window of a turret stair when he saw a cavalcade ride in from the east, a procession of hooded monks and men-at-arms, priests and servants, and at once he ran down to the courtyard to greet its leader.

  The Archbishop was in his eighties now, thin and wrinkled, his high domed forehead creased, his head bald, but his blue eyes, bloodshot from overwork though they were, still looked keenly down at the Prince kneeling meekly before him.

  ‘My son,’ he raised his hand in blessing. ‘This is a pleasure I had not looked for. Come and talk with me this evening.’ And when he did, in Lanfranc’s bedchamber, it seemed to Henry that he was a boy again, learning his lessons from the cleverest man in Europe. He thought of the hours they had spent together, the serious study of the early fathers, lightened by occasional readings from Nennius’ tales of King Arthur, his boyish imagination lit more by hero-worship of that chivalrous King, than by the blood-curdling stories of the early martyrs in the circus at Rome. He talked now of his own hopes, of his lands in Normandy and how he meant men to know him by his fair dealing.

  ‘And I would have lands here in England. Do you think Rufus will yield me my mother’s holdings?’

  Lanfranc considered, fingertips together in his customary manner, for he still kept the affairs of England under his watchful eye. And Henry, who in the last twenty-four hours had been surprised at the decorum of Rufus’ court, realised that it must be due to the influence of this one man.

 
‘I can see no reason why he should not,’ the Archbishop said at last. ‘But choose your moment to put your request, my son. Your brother’s temper can be uncertain and he is loth to give up anything he holds.’

  ‘I know,’ Henry answered, ‘but neither he nor Robert can think to keep for themselves all our father left behind.’

  Lanfranc pursed his lips. ‘Can they not? I fear when I am gone there will be much quarrelling among you.’

  Henry flung away to the window and looked out into the darkness ‘By the death of Our Lord, they have enough. Would either of them care to be in my shoes?’

  His old tutor looked at his back severely. ‘Child, you have no cause for bitterness. You have much silver and a third part of Normandy. Now perhaps you will have lands in England – is that not enough?’