He looked about him, at the gutted buildings, the burning church, the trampled bodies. And then he looked at Conan.
A cold, slow emotion seized him. ‘Bring him,’ he said between closed teeth and strode through the castle gates and up to the top of the tower. There he took the wretched man by the scruff of the neck and forced him to look out.
‘Look,’ he said in a voice taut with gathering rage. ‘Look on your city. This you would have seized from the Princes of Normandy and made your own. Look beyond, look at that fine park the forest where your dukes have hunted. Look at the river, rich in trade. Look, by God! Was this yours to take?’
He forced up Conan’s shaking head, holding him by the hair. ‘Look your fill. See the fire, the dead, the women lying in their blood, the children spitted. All this is your doing. You’d best prepare for hell for God will punish you for your presumption.’
Conan was trembling with terror, all the resistance gone from him. ‘Have mercy, lord Count. Have mercy.’
‘Mercy! What mercy have you earned?’
Conan groaned and wept. ‘None, lord, none. But take all my wealth, all my treasure, everything I have as a ransom for my life.’
Henry’s fingers tightened about the rebel’s throat. ‘There can be no ransom for an arch traitor – only the death you have earned.’
Conan looked once more across the burning city, the pall of smoke lying heavily over the wreckage of once pleasant houses, cries and yells still rending the air. He fell at the Prince’s feet. ‘I own it – I own my guilt. I deserve to die, only permit me a confessor first. Let me confess my sins before I face my Judge.’
‘Do you think we’ve time to accommodate a lousy rebel?’ Henry flung the words at him. ‘Hell is waiting for you, damned traitor that you are.’ The rage had him now so that he was aware of nothing but its thick suffocating alien tide. He was shaking with it, suffused with it, his face flaming, his stomach a hard pit, iron strength in his hands.
He did not even hear Herluin’s request to be allowed to fetch a priest. He seized Conan, the author of the day’s black doings, and thrust him backwards over the stone ledge. Conan’s arms clawed wildly, his legs kicked, but to no avail. He fell with one wild shriek, his body twisting and turning as it spiralled down to fall with a horrifying crash on to the stones below.
There was a stunned silence on the tower, but several soldiers ran to look over the parapet.
Henry leaned against the wall, his breath coming in great gasps.
Herluin, white-faced, crossed himself. ‘Holy God,’ he said and stared at his lord.
Raoul the Deer was also staring in some astonishment, but Gulfer and the men-at-arms looked grimly satisfied.
Slowly – very slowly – Henry felt the red tide recede, the fog leave his brain. He saw the staring faces, Herluin’s constricted grief and knew it was not for the dead traitor.
‘Well?’ he said sharply, ‘well? I am as I am, Herluin of La Barre, and if you do not like it, you are at liberty to leave me.’ He pushed through them all and away down the narrow stair.
A few hours later the Duke rode triumphantly back into his capital, cheered by his men as if he had acted the part of their leader instead of that of an undisciplined boy whose folly might have threatened the outcome. His barons gathered about him as he greeted them all and embraced his brother Henry whom he congratulated on the speedy end he had meted out to the rebel leader. Conan’s body had been tied to the tail of a cart and dragged through the streets, and Robert thought it well calculated to strike terror into any man who still thought of raising his sword against his betters.
Henry listened to the talk with little to say and when night came and he went to the tower room that had always been his, he slammed the door in the surprised faces of Herluin and Fulcher, shooting the heavy bolt into place.
There he paced, his mind torn by the knowledge of the thing he had done. He was furious with himself, for his judgement had been swept away and rage, a rage he did not know he could produce, had betrayed him into a wild act of revenge, of cruelty such as he would condemn in others. Was he to be as the Devil of Bellême, or William of Breteuil? God forbid.
He found he was trembling. Yet the truth was that he had sent Conan plummeting to hell without the chance to be shriven. He could as always find reasons for the things he did, and for Conan’s death he felt no guilt for the man had to die, but Lanfranc had taught him to fear hell and the pains of hell, and for the injustice of sending Conan to that death unshriven there was no mitigation.
He was aghast to find that he could be seized and possessed by one of those fits of rage, rare but terrifying, that had been a part of his father’s nature. What had happened to his reason, his common sense? They had been swept away by a physical tide of fury such as he had never known before and it tormented him that he, who wanted to be known as Henry the Just, had so far lost control of himself. It was as if he had looked into the depths of his own nature and seen a horrifying stranger sharing his mind and body.
During the next few days he went about the business of assisting Robert to restore order, though he could not persuade him to command Bellême and Breteuil to release their captives. On the third morning after the fight a man rode in with a grim tale of the lord of Bellême’s doings, how he had driven his prisoners to his nearest stronghold and there was occupying himself with torturing for his pleasure those who could not ransom themselves. The man said he had heard the screams of the victims, and it was even rumoured that Robert the devil had impaled not only men but women too, leaving them to writhe in agony until they died.
‘Blood of Christ,’ Henry swore. ‘You must stop him, Robert. These are bloody pagan ways, Moorish practices that have no place in a Christian country.’
Robert said, weeping, ‘God have pity on those poor wretches, but I can do nothing. He is too powerful and I need his aid.’
‘What are the lives of a few lousy rebels?’ Odo demanded impatiently. ‘You are overnice, nephew.’
‘I’d rather be overnice,’ Henry flashed back, ‘than condone what Bellême does. But it’s all of a piece to you,’ and he stalked out of the hall.
He was sharp with his friends, ate little, and spent his time in the town doing what needed to be done.
Richard of Redvers said to Herluin, ‘What ails him? I’ve never seen him like this.’
They were in the bailey preparing to ride out to hunt with the Duke. The Prince had declined to come and had gone up to the tower to stand there as he had done several times since the fight, and Herluin glanced up at the battlements. ‘He is troubled. I think it is the business of Conan’s death.’
‘God save us,’ Richard exclaimed in surprise. ‘That traitor got no more than he deserved. It’s not like Henry to be bothered over the death of such a man. He might as easily have slain him in battle.’
‘It would have been better if he had,’ Herluin commented and said no more, but he had fairly assessed the state of his lord’s mind. Ignoring Henry’s remark to him on the tower, only once when they were briefly alone had he referred to the affair. ‘None of us can fail to see you are troubled, my lord,’ he had said carefully. ‘When we do violence to our true selves there is only one way to peace.’
A faint smile had crossed Henry’s face. ‘I’m glad you did not choose to leave me.’
‘Never,’ Herluin spoke with unaccustomed vehemence, and nothing more was said between them of the affair of Conan.
But it was not ended in Henry’s mind. The doubts remained and Herluin’s words, until he knew he must seek that very remedy which he had denied to Conan, and from the one man whose judgement he could trust. Tormented and restless, on the fourth day after the fight, about one o’clock in the morning he flung himself from his sleepless bed and rousing a drowsy groom ordered him to saddle Rougeroy. Then, with only that one attendant, he took the road to Beaumont-le-Roger and to Bec.
It was a brilliant moonlight night, the sleeping countryside bathed in white light a
gainst the dark shadows of the woods and as he rode past peasants’ huts and small villages it seemed that no one in the world was awake and that he must bear his wretchedness in an empty void. But at last he came to Bec and there the monks were awake, as he knew they would be, singing the office of Lauds. As they left the church in procession to return to their beds he stepped from the shadows and spoke to Anselm.
‘Father, confess me. I cannot sleep until you hear me.’
Anselm, good priest that he was, showed no surprise, as if it was the most normal thing in the world for a prince of the royal house to arrive at two o’clock in the morning asking to be shriven.
CHAPTER 7
The stag was startled, tilting his head to listen, scenting something in the wind, aware of the stealthy approach of hunters. For a brief moment he paused and then the great antlers lifted and he came forward across the clearing.
At the same moment the hunters moved among the trees some way off, treading carefully that their feet might break no twigs nor make any warning sound. The leader, sliding behind a great beech tree, nocked an arrow and after careful aim loosed the shaft. The arrow struck the stag in the shoulder. He seemed to pause, then lifting his head brayed loudly and crashed through the nearest clump of bushes.
‘Quick,’ Henry shouted, ‘slip the hound. We don’t want to lose him.’
The lymer did as he was bid, and the dog leapt forward, sniffing, following the scent of blood, the hunters running after. The lymehound disappeared into the thicket but within two minutes came to a halt for the stag already lay dead, the arrow sticking from its shoulder.
Gulfer called, ‘A good kill, my lord.’ He took hold of the fine antlers, ‘This is the biggest buck we’ve had yet. Shall I blow the prize?’
‘Aye,’ Henry said, wiping the sweat from his face and surveying the stag with satisfaction. He handed his bow to Herluin. ‘By Our Lady, I’ll have those antlers in my hail at Avranches.’
He waited, his favourite hound Lyfa at his feet, as the horn sounded through the forest, and presently the rest of his men came up, Raoul the Deer leading Rougeroy and his own shaggy mount. The huntsmen set about dismembering the stag, giving the neck and the offal to the scrambling hounds who were all about the fallen animal now, while the rest of the body was tied by the legs to a pole and borne by two men.
‘Well, I’m for my supper,’ the Prince said, and mounting, turned Rougeroy’s head towards the ducal hunting lodge, with Herluin beside him.
Already the bright February day was waning, the pale sun well down in the west. The air was crisp and there would be a frost tonight, he thought. Fallen twigs crackled under the horses’ hooves and there was ice on the marshy pools where the ground was treacherous. Henry guided Rougeroy carefully away from a patch of bog; there was now a rapport between them that made the big destrier sensitive to the slightest touch of his hand and he had a love for Rougeroy more intense than he had as yet experienced. He thought there was no forest in Normandy to compare with this of Valognes in the north western tip of the Cotentin, and now intended to stay a week at least hunting here. The freedom, the sheer physical joy of the chase never changed for him and his happiest moments were spent thus when he could forget the complexities of life and care for nothing but a good horse and a day in the forest. He called to Herluin, ‘Is there any sport to compare with this?’
‘I have snapped my new bow,’ Herluin said laconically.
‘You should have good English ash, there’s nothing finer.’ They had emerged into clearer land now, and entered a rough track, the horses’ breath and their own vaporising in the frosty air. ‘I would like to journey to England for a while – but I doubt it’s the time to go.’ He gave Herluin a wry smile. ‘With Robert and Rufus spending Christmas together. I think I do better to stay in my own country. God knows what they may be hatching.’ He glanced across at Herluin, but the latter remained grave.
‘I think so too, my lord. Surely you do not trust your brothers now?’
‘Trust them? No, by God, but they can fight as they will over the rest of Normandy. I’m content enough here and they’ll not encroach on my preserves.’
Herluin said no more but he was uneasy, had been since they heard that two months after the business at Rouen the King and the Duke were meeting to settle affairs in Normandy. Rufus was not likely to give up the castles he now held, and with Robert in possession of less than half his duchy it was possible that their eyes might turn west. Yet could they stoop to attack and rob a younger brother? Herluin rode silently, pondering; his own sense of what was right told him they could not but some instinct, born of a well sharpened perception, told him that they could. He cast a swift sideways glance at his lord. Henry seemed to be his normal self again, cheerful and energetic, with the affair of Conan if not forgotten, at least thrust far beneath the surface. Herluin did not know what Anselm had said to the Prince on that nocturnal visit, but the latter had returned in a very different state of mind and Herluin was profoundly thankful. He saw so much of potential good in the Prince he had chosen to serve, so much that was worth the King and the Duke put together, that he had been doubly distressed by the violent, unworthy fury that had sent Conan to his death. But because he combined sense with his principles he saw that which was best in his lord far out-weighing what the darker forces might throw up and at the thought of those forces his body grew tense, aware of how they threatened himself, in a manner he had as yet revealed to no man.
He looked at Henry seeing the thick hair falling forward as always over the broad forehead, the dark eyes alert and smiling. Please God no danger for him, not now!
The winter twilight was falling when they reached the hunting lodge and inside found the table ready, a smell of roasting meat tantalising to men with empty stomachs and in a short while they were eating hungrily of venison and partridges, hashed duck and crane dressed in a rich spicy sauce, while their dogs roamed freely waiting for scraps.
‘Enjoy this, my lord,’ Herluin said. ‘It is Lent next week.’
Henry groaned. ‘By my soul, so it is. Once a year the Church condemns us to fish and what satisfaction is that to a hungry man’s belly? I wonder if God created the fish to make us do penance?’ He grinned across at his friend. ‘But I’ve had my fill.’ Stretching and yawning, he added, ‘We’ll hunt again tomorrow and go back to Avranches for the holy season.’
In his chamber, the only other room in the lodge, it was bitterly cold despite the shutters closed to the night air and he told Fulcher to go to the kitchen hut and tell one of the serving maids to bring him some hot spiced wine.
Presently she came, a big full-breasted girl with tawny hair and laughing hazel eyes. He drank the wine as she stood there, holding her by the hand though she showed no disposition to leave, her eyes appraising his strong body.
Finding her to his liking he smacked her rounded buttocks whereat she gave a giggle, her eyes inviting him so that he chased her across the room, laughing and demanding payment from her rosy mouth, finally chasing her into his bed. There they spent a joyous tumbling night and when he woke in the morning it was with a pleasurable sense of physical well-being.
The girl was long gone about her work so he rose and went to stand by the window. It was another fine day, the sun well up for he had slept later than usual and outside his men were making preparations for the day’s hunt. In a little chapel he guessed Roger would be saying his Mass and Herluin would no doubt be there, but Raoul was below, grooming Rougeroy, brushing his fine coat and long mane; Gulfer was sitting on a log mending some torn jesses while Hamo lounged against the edge of the well, eating some bread and cheese. Goodnatured Hamo was the lazy one, Henry thought, never at work if he could take his ease.
The air was still crisp after the night frost, the sky a pale blue. It would be a good day to hunt, to ride through the forest feeling the strength of Rougeroy bearing him, the strength of his own arm using bow and spear, and the chase raising an appetite for good food. And tonight he might
send for that obliging wench again.
He flexed his arms, at one with the bright day, and rubbing his chin decided it was several days since he had been shaved. Crossing to the door he shouted to Fulcher for water and a barber.
The operation was almost finished when he heard the sound of a horse galloping fast and then drawing to a sharp halt below. He sent Fulcher to find out who had arrived so precipitously and a few minutes later the lad returned with a young man of perhaps eighteen, travel-stained and weary. He bent the knee at once.
‘My lord, I’ve ridden since yesterday . . .’
‘What is it?’ Henry pushed the barber aside, sending the fellow away, and wiping his face with a towel. That it was urgent and bad news he did not need telling, and already the pleasure of the morning was dispelled.
Henry of the High Rock Page 14
