Having paid God His due, a thought came to him and when they left the church he sent Hamo to bid the priest speak with him.
Raoul the Deer said, ‘Master priest was as swift with his words as I am with my feet. That was the shortest Mass I ever heard.’
Henry laughed. ‘So I thought. It would horrify our good Anselm, but this fellow is a soldier’s priest, eh?’
‘I do not like to hear the Mass gabbled,’ Herluin said gravely, ‘but for all his speed I think he truly served God.’
The priest came, hastily smoothing his black gown. ‘My lord, your man has told me who you are. How may I serve you?’ Henry was silent, studying him. He saw a young man of about twenty-six or seven, with a thin intelligent face and lively brown eyes; he saw that he was well washed and shaved and that his hands were clean.
‘Are you lettered?’ he asked abruptly. ‘Could you deal with a household’s business, with deeds and accounts, as well as the things of the chapel?’
The priest’s eyelids flickered but he merely answered that he could.
Henry glanced round the poor village, the tiny chapel, the priest’s house which was no more than a hut. ‘Would you leave this for a castle, or is it to your taste to minister to the poor?’ There was no hesitation in the smooth answer, yet the man’s tone was sincere enough. ‘I, like most men, my lord, would better myself. If I might serve a great lord I would be well content, for surely the poor are as easily to be found at the rich man’s gate.’
‘And you would not wish to suffer Dives’ fate?’
‘Not I, my lord,’ he smiled faintly, ‘but neither would I wish to sit as Lazarus sat if I might be within the palace in comfort.’
Henry burst out laughing. ‘That’s honest! And you can say a speedy Mass for the soldier, and act the clerk. Well, will you be my clerk, my chaplain, for I’ve none to attend me and must set up my household afresh.’
They looked directly at each other. Then the priest’s mouth curved into a smile. ‘Aye, my lord Henry, I will.’
‘Your name?’
‘Roger, my lord.’
‘Then, Roger, arrange your business and join me at my castle at Avranches as soon as possible.’
And it was typical of him, Henry discovered, that he was in Avranches no more than three days after his new lord. It was the beginning of a friendship that was to last a lifetime.
CHAPTER 6
Some weeks later towards the end of May an old man lay dying. He was Archbishop, Primate of all England, but for all that he lay at the end as one should who was first and foremost a monk and a priest, in a simple cell surrounded by his brethren. He was eighty-three years old and having been long at the heart of ' affairs in England he was much troubled.
His monks, clustered about his bed, saw his anxiety and begged him to rest, to put the business of the world from his mind.
‘I would that I could,’ he answered them wearily, ‘but I see signs of evil to come. I have dreamed strange dreams and I fear that you, my children, may have much suffering before you.’
They knelt about his bed, assuring him that they would bear any trial God might send.
Lanfranc sighed. ‘I have lived so long and seen so much. In the days of my old master, we had order and authority – you must urge King William to be as his father was, but I fear – I fear for you all.’
‘The King will surely remember your words to him,’ the Prior said tentatively, ‘and does he not honour his father’s memory?’
‘Aye – but it is not enough.’ Lanfranc bent his tired gaze on the angular face of the Prior. ‘And who shall succeed me? It is a great office and the burdens of it are enough to break a man, but they must be borne and borne with courage – Maurice of London, perhaps might be the man, or the Abbot Baldwin of St. Edmunds at Bury. There is Gundulf of Rochester, or Bishop Walkelin, or my successor at Bec – Anselm is a good man but I doubt he’d wish for my shoes.
Beseech God, my children, that the King will choose wisely.’
They answered him that they would and watched the old man as he sank into a doze from which he stirred only to talk of days long past when he had been Abbot of Bec and both adviser and friend to Duke William the Bastard, long before the latter had become both Conqueror and King. They annointed him and gave him Viaticum, but still he lingered, old and emaciated, the skin drawn taut across his fine-boned features, until at last on the morning of the twenty-fourth of May his eyes opened for the last time. He raised a hand to bless them, and so faint was his breathing that they barely noticed its ceasing.
He was laid to rest in his own church at Canterbury and the funeral procession wound through the streets seemingly unending, a great concourse of people both rich and poor following the coffin, for he was the most respected man in the kingdom and even those who had suffered from his stern adherence to law, came to honour him at the end. The poor who had received his bounty wept for his passing.
The Prior awaited a summons from the King to discuss the succession, for the Archbishop must also be Abbot of the monks at Canterbury, but no summons came. It seemed that the King was in no hurry to choose at all.
Eventually the Prior journeyed to London where the King was for the Whitsun feast and spoke to him in the hall of the palace of Westminster. It was crowded with men all eager to present their requests to William and he was plainly impatient to be done with business that he might ride out to hunt.
The Prior found himself jostled to and fro in a most undignified manner and when at last he reached the King’s chair he felt hot and ruffled and Rufus’ ‘Well, master Prior, what is it? Make haste about your business,’ was hardly conducive to quiet discussion.
‘It concerns the abbacy, the archbishopric, sire,’ he said with as much dignity as he could.
‘And what business is that of yours?’ Rufus demanded. He emphasised the last word, and looked the Prior’s plain figure up and down in a manner little short of insulting.
‘Sire, as Prior of the Abbey, surely . . .’
‘The appointment is in my hands and by Lucca’s face, it will be done in my own time.’
The Prior’s face was pale. ‘I thought, my lord, you would care to know that Archbishop Lanfranc suggested various names and . . .’
Rufus interrupted again, clearly relishing the discomfiture of the unfortunate monk, and there were smiles on the faces of the men clustered about the royal chair. ‘I honoured Lanfranc for my father’s sake, but they are both dead now, and it is I who shall say which man I will have for my archbishop though frankly I could do as well without one.’
The Prior decided tact was the only thing left to him but inadvertently said the wrong thing. ‘I will pray that God will guide you, sire, for His Church needs a man of high character to rule over it.’
‘No one rules here but myself,’ Rufus said bluntly. ‘And God has nothing to do with my choice. In fact the less He interferes with me the better. The next world may be His but this kingdom is mine.’
‘Sire!’ The Prior’s voice rose, shrill with shock, ‘That is near to blasphemy.’
Red William was slouched in his chair, one leg over the carved arm. ‘And if it is, what then? I tell you, master Prior, I’ll not be dictated to by any churchman. Go home and pray, if that is what your Abbot told you to do, but it will do you precious little good. Now a large gift to me from your treasure might! ’
He roared with laughter and his attendant knights joined in the amusement, mocking the unhappy priest.
The Prior was utterly taken aback for he had not expected this kind of treatment. He saw Ranulf Flambard, Roger de Marmion, Ivo Taillebois – men hardly known for their care of the church – regarding him with humorous contempt, but remembering his dead Abbot he summoned up his courage and spoke severely to the King. ‘My lord, it ill becomes you to mock me or Holy Church whom I represent, and I must say that the King of England should not…’
‘Be silent! ’ Rufus shouted and got to his feet. ‘Get back to your cell and leave the Kin
g of England to his own affairs.’
Ranulf Flambard, resplendent in flowing red mantle and tunic, leaned forward, whispering in his ear. Rufus laughed again, banging his fists together.
‘Ha! A rare jest. As for the archbishopric, fellow, you can wait upon my decision, but in the meantime all the revenues from Canterbury shall revert to the Crown. See how you like that, my friend.’
The Prior backed away, too frightened now even to take offence at being called ‘fellow’. ‘My lord, you cannot mean it.’
‘Can I not?’ the King queried grimly. ‘I tell you the Church shall not consider itself above me. If Bishops and Abbots grow fat on the land they own then they shall pay me gold, and send knights to my service like any other baron.’
‘And the King’s men shall collect the moneys and lodge freely as well,’ Flambard added and Rufus laughed again.
‘You shall be my Treasurer from this day, friend Ranulf, I can see that I shall grow rich with you at my elbow! ’
Flambard flushed, his head lifted and he stared arrogantly at the Prior. ‘You at least, my lord King, shall be richer than churchmen who’ve no right to be.’
‘Sire,’ the Prior began hotly, throwing caution to the wind, ‘I must protest. Messire Flambard is dabbling in matters beyond him. Holy Church cannot be robbed. Why, the Pope himself . . .’
‘Is in Rome and like to stay there and therefore no bother to me.’ Rufus gave another burst of laughter. ‘Let him have Peter and Paul for company but not the King of England. I’ve had enough of tiresome priests. Perhaps when you have to tighten your belts and live for a while as monks should, you will learn who is master here. Where are my boots?’ And when a page brought them he kicked them from the lad’s hands, shouting for his Chamberlain.
Richard de Rules came, a neat punctilious man nearing forty, lord of Deeping in Lincolnshire.
‘These boots are not fit for a K-King,’ Rufus said, stammering in his annoyance. ‘Fetch me a better pair.’
De Rules went out with the page and presently came back, the lad bearing another pair which King William set on his feet and strutting, went off to hunt followed by his barons and knights and a crowd of mercenary soldiers and younger sons who hoped to make their way in his service.
De Rules and the Prior were left facing each other in the empty hall, while serving men began to clear away the debris of the dinner.
The Prior was trembling now. ‘My lord de Rules, can he really mean it? Surely he must know that to take from Holy Church is a grave sin. His father would never . . .’
‘He is not his father,’ de Rules answered gravely. He had been in the Conqueror’s service since he had been a lad of eighteen and comparison between the two Williams was inevitable. ‘I fear we have seen the beginning of a new way of doing things, Prior. My advice to you is to go back to Canterbury and stay quiet for a while. Do not arouse his anger further by refusing him the revenues. It cannot be for long.’
‘I will do as you say.’ the Prior said humbly, ‘but God have mercy on us all if a creature like Flambard is to advise the King.’
‘I agree with you.’ de Rules nodded. A wry smile crossed his face. ‘It may amuse you to learn that for all his pride the King does not know a good pair of boots when he sees them. I could not find any better so the second pair I brought him were of a cheaper leather! ’
Which was small comfort to the Prior as he rode back along the dusty roads to Canterbury.
As the months went by Lanfranc’s prophetic words began to come true. Changes came thick and fast. Any abbacy or bishopric that fell vacant was kept vacant, the revenues held by the Crown, unless some creature entirely the King’s could be found for the post; wild mercenaries roamed the land at will seizing what they wanted, and the King condoned their conduct.
At Flambard’s instigation he levied geld far heavier than the people had been used to bear. Any man who brought a grievance to the court had to pay heavily in money for redress, and men who had groaned under the Conqueror’s stern rule now looked back to his time with longing for at least then there had been a reasonable justice for those who kept the law.
In the summer there was a great earthquake which shook the strongest of buildings, tumbling lesser ones to the rumbling earth, and men saw it as a portent of evil. The harvest was bad and the corn not reaped until Martinmas, and fortune tellers and wise women predicted that there would be worse to come.
The King laughed and hunted and blustered his way through the day’s business; his favourites were not women but pretty youths, and churchmen began to look with horror upon the vices of the court – such vices, said those of Saxon birth, as were unknown in Saxon lands. Men began to grow their hair long, their moustaches flowing; clothes became more effeminate and the older generation sighed for Norman neatness and Norman austerity.
‘Soon we shall not be able to tell men from women,’ Gilbert of Clare said to Robert Bloet. Gilbert was the son of Richard de Bienfaite, a baron of high degree with vast holdings in Suffolk and in Kent and, being a lean, hard-living man, he looked with disgust on this new set of young hangers-on. Bloet was of the same opinion, but he felt that men of honest character must hold to their offices to preserve a leaven.
‘They will have a hard task,’ Gilbert answered pithily, ‘seeing they will be outnumbered ten to one.’
In Normandy affairs were even worse. In England William was at least King and brooked no opposition, but in the duchy the land was torn with internal strife, baron fighting baron, brigands riding loose while the indolent Duke lounged in his hall at Rouen, smiling at every man and yielding to every request. Robert de Beaumont demanded Ivry back and defied the Duke, William of Breteuil once more attacked Ralph of Conches; Robert of Bellême raided the lands of Helias of La Flèche and there was peace nowhere but in the Cotentin. Sensible men looked longingly to the west where Count Henry kept order and gave justice.
Henry let it be known that no man was too poor to seek his help and that no crime would go unpunished. He went from Avranches to Coutances, from St. Sauveur to Cherbourg and back to St. Michael-in-peril-of-the-sea, listening to grievances, curbing great lords, and encouraging simple knights in his service. He hanged a few thieves and murderers and castrated two men who were guilty of rape.
‘My father may not have hanged men,’ he said, ‘but I will; have it known that I will not tolerate disorder in my county.’ Helias de Beaugencie came to Coutances at Easter, bringing his wife, Matilda of Chateau-du-Loir; she was a graceful, quiet lady who obviously adored her husband, and they stayed several weeks at Henry’s small court, but the news that Robert of Bellême was harrying the lands around La Flèche, burning and seizing prisoners, sent her lord hurrying home.
‘Robert the devil is about his work again,’ Helias said grimly to his host. ‘With no strong hand to curb him he does what he may, but not to my people, by God.’
‘One day one of us will have to deal with Bellême,’ Henry said to Herluin, who remarked that it was unlikely to be Duke Robert. It was plain Duke Robert feared his most powerful vassal for despite Helias’s protests, he did nothing to restrain
Bellême and it was reported that none of the captives from La Flèche ever saw their homes again.
As the new year came in Rufus began to look to Normandy and saw there something approaching anarchy. At least in England he was ruler; for all he allowed his men freedom to oppress he did not allow the barons to feud against each other nor to disobey him and he set his mind to holding Normandy also under his hand. He sent messengers with smooth words and money bags of gold and won first his cousin Stephen of Aumale to his cause, then the Count of Eu, Gerard of Goumey and several other lords on the eastern limits of the duchy. With these castles invested with his garrisons he began to extend his influence without as yet setting foot on Norman soil.
Duke Robert, stirred from his sloth into sudden activity, sent urgent messages to his suzerain, King Philip of France, and Philip, fat and gluttonous, was forced to bestir himsel
f for his vassal, leaving his well-spread table to belch his way to war.
In England Rufus gave a great snort of laughter and sent a gift of money from the treasury at Winchester so large that Philip allowed himself to be bought off. Wheeling his army about he went back to Paris and rich living, leaving Duke Robert to clear up the mess in his own stable.
When Walter Tirel came to Normandy for his wedding to Adeliza, the daughter of Richard be Bienfaite, Lord of Clare, her brother Gilbert took advantage of the nuptial banquet to tell Prince Henry of affairs in England.
‘We miss the Archbishop,’ he said, ‘at least he restrained men from the worst excesses, but now it is only money that talks.’
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