Henry of the High Rock

by Juliet Dymoke

  At last Anselm came, attended by his companions, the monks Baldwin and Eadmer. The room was cleared. Abbot and King remained alone for half an hour. Then Anselm summoned the barons and elegy back to the King’s bedside. Rufus lay calm and quiet, his hands folded, an expression on his face that no man had ever seen there before.

  ‘Our lord has made his peace with God,’ Anselm said, ‘he sorrows for all his sins and will make amends.’ He turned back to the bed and smiled encouragingly at the sick man.

  Rufus opened his eyes and looked round the room, crowded now with his great men. ‘It is true,’ he said and saw the curiosity, the surprise on their faces. ‘It seems I must soon go to God and should therefore right any wrong I have done. I will have a proclamation drawn up – all the old laws will be kept, all the vacant sees and abbacies shall be filled and you, my friend,’ he glanced across at Robert Bloet, ‘you shall be Bishop of Lincoln from this day. I will make gifts to all the abbeys my father endowed, all prisoners are to be freed and debts to me forgotten.’ This speech tired him. His voice trailed off and he closed his eyes again, the general burst of approval, the words of thanks from Bloet, seeming to flow over him unheeded.

  Earl Hugh, taking advantage of the moment, said, ‘My lord King, there is one whom you have forgotten in your generosity – your brother Henry. He finds exile bitter.’

  The King stirred uncomfortably, twisting his solid body under the covers. ‘Beauclerc – I wish him no harm.’

  ‘Then call him back, sire,’ Anselm added his plea to that of his friend. ‘Grant him some part of your lands again.’

  ‘It is not his day – not yet.’ He was lost in a muddle of thoughts, remembering his father’s deathbed and the three of them, waiting for the crumbs to fall. Even though Robert had not been there in body he had been as present as if he had stood by the Conqueror’s bed. Remembering the grim inevitability of those days, Rufus felt a wave of fear break over him. Sweet Jesu, the awful inevitability of dying!

  Wulfstan’s voice, close to him, said, ‘My lord, there is another, greater, matter. I beg you to tell us your choice for the archbishopric. Your Church must have a shepherd.’

  He roused himself. He must make one more effort, crush down his will, give up what had been his for so long. Gasping for breath, feeling the heat of fever in his face, he heaved himself up a little in bed, supported by the strong arms of Abbot Serlo, and he pointed to the Abbot of Bec. ‘Then I name this holy man, Anselm,’ he said and fell back on the pillow.

  There was an immediate outcry, all the barons voicing their joy at this choice, Wulfstan’s bloodshot old eyes filled with tears of satisfaction; the Bishops unanimously nodded in approval and Bloet held out both hands, smiling, to Anselm.

  But the Abbot shrank back. Thinking to refuse this demand, he shook his head and said half humorously, ‘Would you yoke an old sheep to an un-tamed bull, my lord King? What good could come of that but the poor sheep would be torn apart?’ Rufus hardly seemed to hear this. He repeated in a stronger voice, ‘I choose Anselm for my Archbishop.’

  And at that Anselm saw that he could not turn this aside with a light refusal, that his wishes were not going to count at all. The reality of it, starkly before him, turned him pale and he began to tremble. ‘No,’ he said, ‘no, I beg you, my lord . . .’

  ‘The King has chosen,’ Bloet said, ‘you must accept, Anselm, my friend. It is his will and ours too.’

  Anselm looked piteously from one to the other. ‘No,’ he repeated, ‘no, I cannot. It is too great a burden. Lord,’ he turned to the bed and fell on his knees, ‘I beseech you, let me go back to Bec. The affairs of the world are not for me. I desire only the peace of my abbey, time to pray, to give spiritual advice to those in need. That is my only function.’

  Rufus was tired. ‘I have chosen,’ he said.

  ‘You must accept.’ Geoffrey of Coutances came forward, leaning on his staff, his face pallid for he had pains in his stomach and could take no food these days but milk. ‘It is clearly God’s will.’

  They pressed about him, raising him to his feet, not only the clergy but the great lords, all eager, thrusting their approval on him, bearing him away on their desire until he felt himself to be suffocating, oppressed by the weight of wills against his own.

  He thought of the great house of Bec in its peaceful valley, the gentle woods about it, the stream that watered the place. He saw the cloisters where he walked, the high stone church with its beautiful rounded arches and columns where he worshipped God, he saw his own cell where there was silence and peace and simplicity and he remembered his qualms when he had left it.

  Had he known, when he landed in England, that it would come to this? Had he known but thrust the dread beneath active consciousness, hoping that if he did it would no longer be there? He looked at the faces about him and saw no man who understood his fear.

  ‘My lord,’ Abbot Serlo said and there was a new deference in his voice, ‘it was God’s providence that you should be here and at this time. What could be more fitting?’

  Anselm was weeping now, unable to restrain the tears of despair. ‘Jesu, have pity, it is too much. I cannot . . .’

  ‘You can,’ they all said. ‘You are our new Archbishop.’

  But he still had strength enough to resist. ‘I am not willing. You cannot elect a man who is so unwilling. It cannot be right. I am old, unused to worldly affairs . . .’

  ‘That is no argument.’ Wulfstan laid his hoary hands on Anselm’s shoulders. ‘Dear friend, if all good men who shrink from the world’s burdens, who wish to serve God in the quiet of a holy house, were to have their way what would the poor world do? Would God have us hide away and let his people starve for guidance? No, my friend, hard though it is, that is not the way. Once long ago I begged not to be appointed Bishop, but God ordained that I should be – and you can find peace in the midst of business if you do His will.’

  Anselm, speechless, shook his head, burying his face in his hands. Then suddenly he lifted his head to look directly at the King.

  ‘I am the subject of another realm,’ he said through his tears and clutched at this straw. ‘I am Duke Robert’s servant. I cannot accept without his agreement, nor without the approval of my own monks at Bec.’

  But this argument availed him nothing for the Bishops assured him that there was not a man at Bec who would disagree and as for the Duke, despite the fact that he and the King were hardly on good terms, his approval could easily be gained.

  ‘Is there no way for me to persuade you to leave me in peace?’ Anselm whispered. ‘Ah, my lords, if you but knew to what you condemn me.’

  Rufus stirred, a heavy frown on his sweating forehead, ‘Anselm,’ his voice was hoarse, ‘Anselm, would you send me to hell? I beseech you, by the love you had for my father and my mother, do not torment me so. If I die with the archbishopric still in my unholy hands, I shall be damned – I know it.’

  Wulfstan said, ‘My lord Abbot, you cannot refuse. You will kill the King by your obstinacy.’

  Even Baldwin, Anselm’s own monk, added his plea. ‘Dear father in God, it is His will. Do you not see?’

  There was a brief silence in the stuffy crowded room. The King lay still, pulling at the covers with restless fingers. The barons moved uneasily, glancing at one another, and Bishop Geoffrey whispered something to Gundulf of Rochester who slipped out of the room.

  Anselm looked from one to the other, as if he read his doom in their faces. His legs were threatening to give way and he clutched at the bed post. ‘I am not fit for such a place.’ Slowly he sank to his knees. ‘I kneel before you, your servant. Once more I beg you…’ and yet he knew it was useless.

  They raised him and pulled him to the bed. Gundulf returned bringing a pastoral staff with him and thrust it into the King’s hands. Rufus held it out unsteadily and pressed it into Anselm’s unwilling grasp.

  They all knelt to him, asking his blessing, and there by the King’s bed, they sang a Te Deum. But even as th
ey sang their joy, the new Archbishop-elect could feel none – only that his peace was shattered, and from his wretchedness there arose no Te Deum but a Miserere.

  From the time of his repentance the King began to recover. The fever subsided, the pain in his chest eased and he breathed more easily. As the season of Lent drew to a close he was able to leave his bed and by Easter he was on his feet again.

  The nation, rejoicing in the reforms begun when he lay ill, rejoiced even more at his recovery. He was to be their benefactor now, to rule wisely in a new manner.

  But their optimism was short-lived. As Rufus’ health and vigour returned he began to think of all the revenue he had lost by his generosity; abbots would grow rich on the dues he had yielded and the debts he had foregone meant a half empty treasury. With Flambard at his elbow he began to retrench, putting a stop to the reforms begun in his name. Fresh taxes were laid on the people, his rapacious barons returned to their normal occupations. Rufus continued to be lavish to his particular friends, to the knights who were closest to him, but for the rest of the country the weight of oppression returned and grew heavier.

  ‘Someone must pay for my good impulses,’ the King said wittily.

  Only as far as Anselm was concerned did he keep his word.

  Flambard said, ‘Send the holy man back to Bec, my lord. It is what he wants.’

  ‘No,’ Rufus answered obstinately. ‘I gave my word on his appointment and I’ll not break it. If I did, I’d make more enemies than even I could stomach.’

  It was true, but Rufus, to his surprise, soon found that the new Archbishop – for all he was holy and gentle and called himself an old sheep – had a streak of obstinacy as strong as his own, for Anselm immediately made certain conditions without which, he said, he would shut himself up at Canterbury and refuse to act the part of Archbishop. In astonishment Rufus heard him demand that he should return to Canterbury all the lands in its possession at the time of Lanfranc’s death, that he should cancel all leases made since, and that he should allow Anselm’s allegiance to Pope Urban to stand.

  Rufus haggled and argued, gave half promises, made jokes and blustered, but after much grumbling he yielded, mainly because he had no alternative. All he could do was to treat his new Primate to the edge of his mocking tongue in the process.

  Gilbert of Clare said cynically to Ralph de Toeni, ‘I thought the King’s change of heart would not last.’

  ‘We are back where we were,’ Ralph agreed. ‘Did you hear that when Anselm asked him to appoint abbots to the vacant positions he told the Archbishop to mind his own business?’

  Gilbert frowned. He was watching a groom inspect his horse’s hoof, while on the other side of the courtyard two huntsmen stood by the King’s courser awaiting their royal master. ‘And what did Anselm say to that?’

  ‘What you would expect – that the Church was God’s and not the King’s.’

  ‘Don’t tell me Red William agreed to that?’

  Ralph gave a dry laugh. ‘Not he. And when the Archbishop bade him remember his sickness and his sorrow for his sins, Rufus told him no man could keep all his promises and that God would never see him a good man for he had suffered too much at His hands.’

  Gilbert was shocked. He was a man of hard life, strong, vigorous, loyal to his friends, stern to his enemies; he was also devout and aware of what was due to God and His Church. ‘How can he not see he ought to be grateful that that he is well again?’

  Ralph said slowly and thoughtfully, ‘Perhaps he does and that is what he hates. You know Red William – he would owe nothing to any one and be master of all. I sometimes think he challenges God Himself.’

  Satisfied with his horse, Gilbert took the reins and mounted. ‘That is one fight he cannot win,’ he said heavily and rode out of the courtyard.

  In the hall at that moment Rufus was once more supremely confident that he could. Anselm had asked leave to go to Rome for his pallium.

  ‘No, my lord,’ Rufus said plainly. ‘You may not go. You are needed here. There is plenty for you to do.’

  ‘I am no true Archbishop until I have received my pallium,’ Anselm pointed out obstinately.

  ‘As to that, if that is how you see it, it is your misfortune. The Pope can send it, since you prize it so much.’

  Anselm stood stiffly before the King’s chair, his hands gripped on his staff. ‘I must have it from his hands.’

  ‘Then you won’t have it until I say you can go. By Lucca’s face, I never thought I was choosing so self-willed a man for Lanfranc’s place.’

  ‘My lord,’ Anselm said desperately, ‘release me then. I never wanted the archbishopric, and if I am so ill a servant to you…’

  Rufus banged his fist on the arm of his chair. ‘We will do well enough if you will yield a little – but no, you who were as mild as milk now stand at bay as a stubborn dog who will not be turned from his quarry.’

  The Archbishop was pale and near to tears but he stood firm. ‘Sire, I hold Christ’s honour in my hands. I must do what seems to me to be right for His Holy Church. But you are King and I will serve you – after God.’

  Rufus grinned at him and there was more amusement than anger in his face now. ‘I see – you would have me fight with God over a matter of precedence. Well, we shall see. In the meantime, go to Canterbury and prepare for your enthronement with prayers and fasting and whatever you deem needful. I am going hunting.’

  And he strode away down the hall, unruffled, laughing and shouting for FitzHamon to come with him.

  Anselm stood alone by the dais. He was trembling. What had he done, to what had he condemned himself? Why had he not fled, back to Bec where peace awaited him?

  In utter misery he walked to the great new church Abbot Serlo was raising to the glory of God and there fell prostrate before the altar. But it was consistent with his character that he did not plead for release from his task. Having accepted it he prayed only for strength to do it well, to uphold that honour he treasured, to protect Christ’s servants.

  The two monks, Baldwin the Norman and Eadmer the Englishman, stood together at the back of the church, watching him.

  Baldwin said, ‘It was a sad day for him and for Bec when he left that blessed place.’

  Eadmer answered, ‘Do not be afraid, my brother. It was a good day for England.’

  CHAPTER 2

  ‘Adhaesit anima mea post te, quia caro mea igne cremata est pro te, Deus meus . . .’ sang the nuns at Vespers on the feast of St. Lawrence the martyr, their voices swallowed up in the high arches of the abbey of Romsey. The Prioress, who was leading the singing that day, had a thin tuneless voice and Eadgyth, standing among the novices with her sister Mary, felt a swift desire to kick the bench in front of her and shout her defiance at her aunt.

  She was no novice, neither was her sister, yet Christina insisted on them wearing the long black robes she hated so much. She wanted to tear them off to hurl them at the rigid figure of her aunt – how, she wondered could that aunt be so different from her gentle, loving mother? Mary was more submissive, but even she, child though she was, shared her hatred of the round of singing and prayer, of study and tedious sewing that filled their day. Sometimes she escaped to feed the ducks, or to help Sister Gudrun with the bees, and when it was time to make the bread she liked to knead the dough with Sister Aldyth in the great warm kitchen, but for the most part it was a confining tedium. She thought of appealing to the Abbess but the old woman was sick and bed-ridden and left all things in the capable hands of her Prioress.

  ‘It is all right if you have a vocation, I suppose,’ she said to Mary, ‘but I have not and neither have you.’

  ‘But what can we do?’ her sister asked.

  ‘Do?’ Eadgyth repeated, ‘Why, we can refuse to take the vows, that is what we can do. Our aunt would like nothing better than to tell our father when he comes that we have taken the veil.’

  ‘Why should she want that?’

  ‘To spite him. She does not care that we sh
ould be nuns only that she should hurt him, for she always hated him. She thought our mother should have been a nun too.’

  Mary considered this carefully. Then she said, ‘I think our mother is holy enough to be a saint, yet if she had not married our father she would not be what she is to the people at home and to us. Our aunt is jealous.’

  Mary sometimes said surprisingly penetrating things, Eadgyth thought now, as if in her quiet way her sister observed more than the average person. A wave of homesickness swept over her and she shivered for despite the fact that it was very hot outside it was cold in this high gaunt building. It was cold at home in Edinburgh often, but there was comfort there – great fires and rich hangings, spiced wine and warm beds. She felt the tears sting her eyes and looked imploringly at the little carved Virgin set at the side of the pillar and lit by the candles of pilgrims who came to this church dedicated to Her name. If only the Blessed Queen of Heaven would hear her prayers and send her home again – or send release of some sort.