Henry of the High Rock

by Juliet Dymoke

  ‘What’s the matter with him?’ Herluin asked sharply ‘He’ll not make a soldier if he hesitates to kill.’

  Henry said, as if he could scarcely credit it, ‘Do you not see? Look, the fallen man has lost his helm.’

  Herluin stared and was silent. There was no mistaking that tow coloured hair nor the ruddy face beneath it.

  Neither spoke. They saw Simon lower his sword and hold out a hand to assist the King to his feet. They saw though they could not hear Rufus’ bellowing laugh, saw him slap Simon on the back. Words passed between them and then he held out his hand. Simon knelt and kissed it. They mounted and rode off together to join the rest of the royal forces who had disengaged and were hurrying towards where their King had fallen.

  Herluin stood rigid. Then a slow flush rose in his cheeks. ‘God’s cross,’ he said hoarsely. He turned to look at Henry. ‘My lord . . .’

  Henry forced a smile. His men were riding back now, outnumbered and lessened by two men and two horses and somehow the perfidy of Simon La Barre had become the final stroke to break his resistance. But he would not let Herluin see it. ‘We are not responsible for our brothers’ actions,’ he said with dry humour, ‘or I should not be here at this moment. You need not blame yourself.’

  He took Herluin’s arm and walked him back into the hall. ‘No doubt Rufus seduced him with fair words. My brother’s one virtue is that he appreciates a good fighter and will keep his word to a knight when he breaks it everywhere else. I have lost two more men, it is true, but you have lost a brother, and for that I am sorry.’ He added wrily, ‘We are not fortunate in our brothers, you and I.’

  Herluin said, ‘He has brought shame on my house,’ and shut his mouth on further speech. The fact that every man was discussing it at supper that night did not make it any easier to bear, for he felt every eye turned towards him as if Simon’s treachery had laid its taint on him too and men looked to see if he also would desert their lord. He carried himself with dignity and met curious glances with a cool hard stare.

  Henry ate without knowing or caring what he ate, and drank nothing at all. The noise and chatter in the hall, the clatter of dishes, the snapping and occasional barking of the dogs, and the sad cries of his hawks, all came and went like waves on a shore and he heard nothing of it. He was aware only of bitter resentment at the injustice of the attack on him, coupled with anxiety for his men, for Alide and the children, for himself – and a fury against his brothers who had brought him to this moment, for he had no doubt now that to hold out much longer would bring nothing but gradual diminishment, more incidents like this morning’s, the paring away of his resources. Surely they would be satisfied with all his possessions without forcing him to his knees?

  He must make terms, terms of some sort. It was worse, he thought, than the time in Bayeux tower, for here he must surrender himself of his own free will and his pride revolted at the prospect. At the same time, common sense and his care for those dependent on him ordered his decision as always.

  After the meal he called a council of war which included Herluin, Gerard, his Breton messenger, Roger the Priest and Abbot Roger of the abbey. They met in the Abbot’s lodging, more privily than in the hall full of soldiers spreading their pallets for the night, and he said in plain words that he could no longer see any point in prolonging the situation.

  ‘My brothers mean to take what I have,’ he said and kept his voice firm, ‘and they will keep us penned in here until I yield. What point in risking lives to no purpose?’

  ‘We can hold out as long as you will, my lord,’ Gerard said stoutly. He was a big fair man with immense skill in sword play and he regarded fighting as the only occupation suitable for a man who was a man. ‘We cannot be properly besieged because the sea fights for us twice a day.’

  ‘That is true,’ the Breton agreed, ‘but my lord is right. If the Duke and the King will not go away without that for which they came our food will run out before theirs.’

  ‘But Count Alain of Brittany, or the Count of Maine may come to our aid,’ Gerard was beginning when Roger interrupted.

  ‘Count Alain does not want to go to war with Normandy any more than the Count of Maine.’ He had a smooth, precise voice and always saw clearly to the heart of any problem. Despite the fact that he was the least either by birth or rank he was listened to with attention. ‘They are both friends to you, my lord Henry, but neither I think will jeopardise his land by taking sides against your brothers when they are allied together.’

  Henry leaned back in his chair. He glanced at Herluin who shook his head – after this morning’s affair he shrank from putting forward his views in council. Henry turned to Abbot Roger.

  The Abbot had his hands folded before him. He had not been here long and harboured plans for rebuilding the church and many of the conventual buildings and was not overjoyed at the prospect of falling foul of the reigning Duke for all he would have preferred Henry for his liege-lord.

  ‘I regret that I cannot see that you have any choice,’ he said at last, choosing his words with care. ‘No one grieves more than I at this sad reversal and I will beseech God to restore you to your rightful place as Count, but in the meantime . . .’

  Henry straightened. ‘In the meantime I must sue for peace and take what terms I am offered.’

  In the morning he sent Gerard to his brothers under a flag of truce, asking only that he and his garrison might march out with full honours of war, trumpets sounding and banners raised. If they refused, if he had to ride out with shame, gonfanons pointing to the ground as Odo had done at Pevensey, his uncle would laugh a second time, and if he prayed at all at this moment of desperate uncertainty it was that God would hear this one request.

  While Gerard was gone there was an air of tension over the whole island. In the abbey the monks prayed, as it was their business to do, and even the Abbot who was generally concerned with his plans for the builders, spent more time in church than was usual. Perhaps he had heard that the Red King had no scruples about relieving monastic houses of much of their wealth, nor in deposing Abbots and taking their revenues into his own hands.

  The men in the castle sat about waiting. It was a bright spring day, the sun having some warmth in it at last after the long winter, and Raoul led out the Prince’s horses, grooming them in the bailey while Gulfer sat crooning to his birds. Hamo lounged on an empty water cask and lifted his face to the sun, his eyes closed though he was far from sleep. Walter, good- natured and phlegmatic, had his lymehound on a leash and was fondling the great head – the only man who dared to do so without fear of losing a finger to those sharp teeth.

  Fulcher sat cross-legged on the ground beside him. ‘What do you think the King and the Duke will do?’ he asked not for the first time.

  Raoul grunted. ‘How do we know the minds of princes?’

  ‘We know the mind of ours,’ Gulfer said laconically. He smoothed the feathers of a merlin, whistling a little tune to her.

  ‘Gerard says they will banish him,’ Fulcher went on, his young face creased with anxiety. ‘And what will he do then? Where will he go?’

  ‘For God’s sake, boy,’ Hamo opened his eyes and yawned, ‘You’ve asked us that question a dozen times. How should we know – except that we’ll go with him, we four anyway, and Herluin too.’

  ‘And the priest,’ Raoul said.

  ‘Roger? He’s a sly one and too quick with his answers for me,’ Gulfer shook his head ponderously and Hamo laughed.

  ‘That’s because you are a dull-wit,’ he said cheerfully, ‘Master Roger suits our lord because he too has a brain, but whether his loyalty will stretch as far as exile, God knows – at least I suppose He does as Roger is one of his elect.’

  Raoul made a sound that might be construed as a laugh. ‘Maybe, but he’s not above amusing himself. I saw him pinch the rump of a serving wench as quick as you please in the passage last night.’

  ‘Well, I suppose most of us need our pleasurable moments – though we’ll mayb
e find ourselves short of them if we go into exile.’

  “We’ll earn our bread somehow,’ Hamo predicted with lazy confidence, 'even if we have to sell our swords to the Emperor or the Pope himself.’

  ‘God forbid,’ Gulfer said hastily. ‘Wed a year I’ve been and I don’t fancy leaving my woman in Avranches to the mercy of the Red King’s men – not but what she couldn’t give a good account of herself with a frying pan if they so much as laid a hand on her. I’ve felt it on my backside before now.’

  ‘I’d have thought you’d relish some respite then,’ Walter grinned. ‘I’ve a mind to see Paris. Do you think fat Philip would welcome us?’ He whistled between his teeth and the hound pricked his ears.

  Fulcher who had been staring from one to the other, burst out, ‘I don’t see how you can make such a joke of it when maybe even his life is threatened.’

  Hamo gave him a friendly blow on the shoulder, tumbling him backwards. ‘We joke, child, because we dare not do otherwise.’

  The others were silent and Fulcher picked himself up, dusting off his tunic. ‘I – I am afraid for him.’

  Raoul stood smoothing Rougeroy’s coat. ‘So are we all, boy.’

  In the hall Herluin sat with Roger the Priest. They talked in low voices, agreed that if banishment was to be the order Gerard brought back, then they too would go.

  ‘I am used to wandering,’ Herluin said, ‘it makes small odds to me where I am. But you . . .’

  ‘I have developed a taste for being in the centre of things,’ Roger said drily, ‘and would not return to being a country priest again. And if we are to go, you’ll need a priest to say mass for you.’

  Herluin was silent for a while, staring down at his feet, his expression more melancholy than usual.

  Roger went on in a low voice so that no one else might hear. ‘There is something further on your mind, something other than your brother’s defection? I have sensed it more than once.’ He thought at first his companion was not going to answer, but after a moment Herluin raised to him a face haunted by inner grief.

  ‘I will tell you a thing I have told no one.’ He glanced around the hall, at the men settling for the night, the dogs sleeping by the fire, the servants dowsing the lights, leaving only one or two dips burning in their sconces. One group of men-at-arms were still playing at dice, a few talking quietly together. It was familiar enough and yet tomorrow night none of them might be here. He turned back to the chaplain. Roger, he thought, might not be the best nor the most holy priest in Normandy, but he had a quick understanding which was, perhaps what he most needed at the moment.

  He said, ‘I think a curse lies on me.’ He saw Roger’s startled glance but went on, ‘When I was born one of my mother’s serving girls brought in a woman who could read the stars and all manner of portents. She could tell what omens there were and she – she foretold a shadow lying over my life. She spoke of a downfall, a desolation . . .’

  He sensed rather than saw Roger’s startled attention but kept his gaze lowered. ‘She did not say what it was to be – only some evil, some moment that would bring a black shadow over me.’

  ‘Death?’ The word lay between them like an omen itself but Herluin shook his head.

  ‘No, that is the odd thing. She prophesied not my death but an end to living. I do not know what she meant.’

  ‘Did your mother tell you of it?’

  ‘Aye, before she died, one night when we were alone together. She was afraid, she thought she must warn me – and I a lad of no more than seventeen. You can imagine . . .’ he broke off momentarily. ‘That was why I went away, to sell my sword where I might, so that whatever evil there was should not fall on my family. Perhaps it is superstitious nonsense – now that I am of sober years I tell myself so, yet I know the shadow is there. I know it.’ He raised his head at last and looked at the priest. ‘I have never spoken of it since my mother died, not even to my father.’

  ‘How can you be sure?’

  ‘I feel it,’ Herluin said. ‘Sometimes I forget for a while, but then I am aware of it again. One day it will come upon me, destroy me and perhaps those I love. I meant to be solitary, never to give more than my sword to any man, nor my love to a woman. And yet,’ he broke off, looking towards the door of the Prince’s chamber, ‘before I realised it I had given him my love and cannot keep from serving him. Only I fear, I fear what I may bring upon him.’

  ‘It was a strange prophecy,’ Roger said, ‘but you have lived these many years without it coming true. Perhaps the dread of it in your mind is more real than an old woman’s vision – if vision it was.’

  ‘Perhaps. I wish I could believe it. But – I am as certain of it as I am that I live. Yet how it should be an end to living though not death, I cannot see. If it must come then I pray only that God will let it fall on me and not on any other.’

  ‘My dear friend,’ Roger laid his hand momentarily on Herluin’s where it lay slack on the table, ‘if the devil is at work here, you are equipped to fight him. I know that.’

  Slowly Herluin straightened. The tension went and the dread receded – if only for the moment. ‘That is why . . .’ he said and knew he need say no more.

  ‘I know,’ the priest nodded. ‘I have seen you keep vigil, I have seen your acts of charity. I remember what you did for the old King. Now – I will watch with you.’

  ‘I don’t care for myself – only for him. Perhaps I should go away, but I cannot bring myself to leave him, and especially not now. If they want to send him back to Bayeux tower . . .’

  Roger was silent for a moment, staring at the closed door of the Prince’s chamber. ‘He’ll not let them cage him again.’

  Inside that chamber Henry paced as though he were caged already while Alide sat on a stool with the baby Matilda on her knee. Robert was walking on his solid little legs behind his father, his dark eyes fixed on that purposeful figure, trying to catch the long jewelled belt that swung out whenever he turned.

  Presently Henry halted and stood looking down at her. ‘You are so calm.’

  ‘Calm!’ she echoed. ‘When tomorrow hangs in the balance, when only God knows whether we will have a tomorrow.’

  He laughed suddenly. ‘Do you think my brothers mean to have my head? I am very sure it is not so much their ill-will that I have to fear but their over-abundance of greed. Robert may bring himself to steal my treasure, but I doubt he would take my life.’

  ‘No, I did not think that.’ She did not meet his gaze but sat with her eyes fixed on the flickering flames of the fire burning in the brazier. ‘Only that it may be . . .’ she broke off and held the babe close to her, her face troubled.

  He knelt beside her, his arm about her, his other smoothing the child’s head. Robert came and leant against him and he felt a moment’s rush of emotion, of protectiveness for these three who depended utterly upon him. To what had he brought them on this rock of the Archangel?

  In due course Gerard returned. The King and the Duke granted their brother’s request. If he would yield up all his possessions he should have life and limb for all his men and march out with full honours of war.

  ‘And for myself?’ Henry asked.

  Gerard met his straight stare. ‘A day to depart out of Normandy, my lord.’

  Henry gave a bark of laughter. ‘Wine of Christ, my brothers are generous – a whole day! ’

  With head high and a cheerful face he addressed his men, bidding them ride out with every piece of harness shining, their banners high, their swords and helms bright.

  ‘After that,’ he said, ‘I would beg your escort as far as the border with Brittany and then you must go where you will, for I can no longer give you the pay you earn so well.’

  They surged about him, begging him not to leave them, and when they found him adamant, entreated him to keep at least a small troop with him.

  Their loyalty touched him. ‘Ten only,’ he said at last. ‘My falconer, Raoul the Deer, my standard and my lymer, and six others. Draw lots
if you will, I cannot take more and those that come can expect little profit.’

  There was a flood of talk, of protest, cries of loyalty that broke over him like a tide. He shouldered his way through them, speaking to each man, thanking each for his service. There was a bond between them all now, the few who had fought together and lost the fight on this tiny island.

  ‘I will come back,’ he said over and over again. ‘I swear that I will come back.’

  He left them at last and went to his chamber for the night. The children were asleep, the baby in a wooden cradle, Robert on a pallet at the foot of his parents’ bed, his dark hair rumpled, one arm flung out in abandoned sleep. His father bent and tucked the arm beneath the bed clothes.

  Alide sat on her stool by the fire, a mantle about her shoulders, her feet bare below her white shift. He could not read the expression on her face.

  Standing opposite her he leaned against the wall, his arms folded. ‘I am tired,’ he said. It was as if, now that the decision was made, the terms agreed, he could afford to rest – he had not slept at all last night.