Henry of the High Rock
Page 22
A richer colour tinged her cheeks. How could she still be thinking of him after so long? Two years since she had seen him, two years since he had pulled her from the broken litter and tumbled cushions, two years since he had said ‘wait and things may be different for us.’ Well, she had waited and nothing was different. She rose in the morning and prayed and ate and sewed and listened to her aunt lecturing her and went to bed at night and it was all dreary and everlastingly the same. So he had been wrong and had probably no more than a vague memory of her now.
Forgetting to sing she looked downwards at her own figure, breasts small still but rounded, waist narrow, hips wide and a good shape for child bearing, but all too concealed by these shapeless black garments. She longed to wear new dresses – perhaps a blue gown edged with silver embroidery, and a jewelled belt that would fall to her feet; shoes of red leather and a red fillet in her hair. Would he like that?
She felt the colour burn her face. Why could she not stop thinking of him? How could she ever hope to see him again? One day her father would come back, would take her home to Scotland, give her in marriage to some rough border lord and that would be the end of her dreams.
Sometimes at night, lying wakeful in her narrow pallet bed and listening to Sister Gudrun snoring – Sister Gundrun always snored – she imagined him riding up to the Abbey gates. She could see him so clearly, in the red mantle and tunic he had worn the day he and the Duke brought her here, his dark head bare, the familiar lock of hair over his forehead, his brown eyes smiling at her, his mouth wide – a mouth for kissing, she thought, and felt herself blush even deeper. He had kissed her once, in formal farewell, but there had been more warmth in it than convention demanded. His lips had been set apart on hers, holding hers for a moment that sent shivers of bliss running through her. How could she forget that or cease to hope that he would come back?
Little news reached her of his doings, but she did hear that he was now in Flanders, now in France, sometimes in Brittany. One visitor told the nuns who served in the guest house that Prince Henry was wandering about with only a knight and a priest and three men-at-arms to attend him, and the sisters regaled their companions with this titbit of news at recreation time.
Eadgyth tried to imagine him thus but she could not. She had seen him wealthy and confident, the brother of a King, and she could not bear to think of him as an exile, with nothing but his title to show that he was a Prince of Normandy and England. Surely she thought, now that the King was well again and Anselm of Bec was become Archbishop he would soon be recalled? Anselm was his friend and must surely plead for him. Then he would come back, stronger and more handsome than ever and he would not, could not have forgotten her.
But the gates never opened to him and she had not seen him riding in astride that reddish horse he favoured above all others. It all remained a dream. Yet it had seemed so right. Her uncle Edgar, whom she adored, was an Atheling, and to have wed another Atheling, the first of the new reigning house, would have been good, surely not only for herself but for Scotland and for England too? The tears spilled over her cheeks and she rubbed them away hastily. She felt utterly alone and longed for the comfort of her mother’s arms.
Vespers ended and the nuns filed out of the church into the cloister. There the sun slanted across the stones, the heat seeming to rise and smite the moving figures after the chill within.
Eadgyth, thinking she would go to the herb garden where Sister Gudrun kept the bees, tried to loosen the fastenings of her habit about the neck and then, seeing the Prioress watching her, dropped her hands.
‘You were not singing,’ Christina said.
Eadgyth did not meet the stern gaze, nor did she answer.
‘Well,’ said the Prioress, ‘see that you sing properly at Compline and do not let your thoughts wander. Now take your sister and go to the guest house. The Countess Matilda of Northampton wishes to see you.’
Eadgyth looked up, startled. ‘The Countess of Northampton? But I do not know her.’
‘Nevertheless she has asked to speak with you and I have given permission. Her father had cousins in Scotland, perhaps she feels a friendship for our family on that account. Go, child.’
Eadgyth went, seizing Mary by the hand and controlling a desire to run for that would have brought down a further reproof on her head. She remembered now – Henry had spoken of his cousin Maud, almost as if she might be an ally to them, and she could not help wondering, as she hurried her sister along, if he had asked the Countess to come.
The lady Maud was in one of the guest chambers with her husband and a little boy of about four who was climbing about his father’s knees. She had a child, a plump little girl, sitting solidly on her lap and there was a certain roundness to her figure which told Eadgyth that she was expecting another baby. Eadgyth curtseyed to Earl Simon who greeted her kindly, and then she turned to the Countess and thought her beautiful.
Maud reached out her free hand. ‘Come and sit by me. You are Eadgyth?’ For a moment she looked the girl up and down in surprise. ‘You wear the robes of a novice, yet I did not hear you wished to take the vows.’
‘I do not,’ Eadgyth said honestly, “but our aunt, the Prioress, makes us. She says it is to protect us from marauding Normans,’ and then, recollecting that Earl Simon was a Norman, she hung her head in confusion.
Maud laughed. ‘Not all Normans are to be so feared, I assure you.’ She turned to the younger sister. ‘And you must be Mary. Would you like to hold this babe of mine? She is heavy, so take care.’
Mary, laughing delightedly, took the little girl in her arms and cradled her, sitting beside the Earl on the stone embrasure of the window. She was soon talking animatedly to him and Maud gave her attention to Eadgyth.
‘Well, my child, I expect you are surprised that I asked to see you.’
‘A little, my lady,’ Eadgyth said shyly, ‘but my aunt said that perhaps it was because your father had kin in my country and…
‘Yes, he had,’ Maud nodded. ‘Perhaps you know my cousin, Gospatric, whose father fought with mine and with your uncle Edgar?’
For a while they talked of people and families and the girl found herself warming to the Countess as she had done to no one since she left home.
Presently Maud said, ‘Do you hear much news of the outside world within these walls?’
‘Sometimes, when there are guests here. We heard,’ Eadgyth felt herself to be greatly daring, but went on, ‘we heard of your cousin Henry’s exile.’ She saw the Countess looking intently at her and added, ‘I met him when we rode south. The litter broke and he took me up on his horse.’
‘So I was told.’ Maud took her hand. ‘You liked him, Eadgyth?’
She found herself blushing again, the hot colour in her cheeks though she wished it elsewhere. She nodded but found no words to answer.
Maud smiled. ‘He asked me to visit you.’ And when the girl looked up, astonished, her sudden joy showing in her face, Maud began to see why Henry had found her so likeable. She said, ‘A man came to Huntingdon, a chapman with silks and sendal and fine wool, and he brought me a message from my cousin. He had seen Henry in Paris, I think.’
‘Oh?’ Eadgyth knew her disappointment must be obvious. ‘He has not come himself?’
‘Not yet, but his exile cannot last forever. He wants me to assure him that you have not taken the veil. Well, I can send him word on that score. And he wished you to know that he has not forgotten. He bids you be patient and not to yield.’
She saw the girl’s rosy colour, the gleam of understanding. ‘You know what he meant?’
‘Yes, I know. My lady…
‘What is it, child?’
Eadgyth paused, her fingers twisting together, longing to confide in this gracious woman who seemed to combine gentleness with vigour, tact with honesty and who, clearly, was in Henry’s confidence. For a moment longer she hesitated, but the need was too strong for her and she was sure she could trust Henry’s cousin even as he did.
r /> ‘My lady – oh, is it wrong of me to think of him? Is it foolish to hope?’
‘It is never foolish to hope.’ Maud glanced across to where her husband, knowing she wished to speak to the elder sister, was amusing the younger one of his own children. Young Simon was riding on his father’s cocked leg while Mary laughed and bounced the baby. ‘Only it depends on what you hope for. What do you dream of, Eadgyth?’
Her blush deepened even further. ‘I dare not say it. Yet I am sure he . . .’ she broke off, not knowing how to frame the words, for what had he said? Little enough, surely? ‘He spoke not of himself, nor of me, but of us. He told me to keep from the vows, to wait until – but I do not know what was in his thoughts.’
‘A bridal, perhaps?’ Maud suggested, smiling. ‘Did you know that when you came here nearly two years ago he asked the King for you?’
Eadgyth’s eyes flew wide in astonishment. ‘He asked for me? No, my lady, I did not know. Oh! ’ She put a hand to her mouth, her eyes dancing, and then slowly the light went from them. ‘But I see – the King must have refused.’
‘He did refuse then, but that is not to say he would not change his mind. Would your father approve such a match, I wonder? Or has he other plans for you?’
‘I do not know,’ the girl answered uneasily. She thought of her father’s unpredictability and then added, ‘If my mother thought it for my good, she would help me. But the Prince is so far away and with nothing to commend him, without land or money.’
‘Of course,’ Maud agreed, ‘it cannot be considered just now. I wanted only to find out how matters stood with you. But I know my cousin. He is . . .’ she paused, ‘he is thorough and careful in whatever he does and he knows how to wait for the right moment. When that comes you will see how things will change for him. I promise you, I look to see him back from his exile before too long.’
Her optimism conveyed itself to Eadgyth and she brightened. ‘If it were possible . . .’ She looked at the Countess, scarcely able to put such a thought into words and at that moment the great bell of the abbey began to sound, heavy resonant chimes that fell sombrely on the moment’s joy in this sunlit room. She shivered. ‘We must go back. It was kind of you to come. I can be patient now, I can wait.’
Maud bent to kiss her. ‘I am glad of it. I will get word to my cousin that he need have no anxiety concerning you. But you are a King’s daughter and he is a King’s brother. You cannot wed at will. Your father is journeying south, did you know that?’
Eadgyth clasped her hands together. ‘No, I did not but I am so glad. Perhaps he will take me from here and then . . .’
‘We shall see,’ Maud said. She touched the girl’s cheek. ‘Run along now, and do not be afraid to dream.’
She watched them go, Eadgyth bright with happiness, and turned to her husband. ‘I have given her hope again, but was I right? I am afraid Henry is further from a change in fortune than I let her think.’
The Earl set his son down and put the small girl in her cradle. Then he limped across and took his wife into his arms. ‘My love, of course you were right and anyway, it was what Henry wanted, though myself I can see no good outcome at the moment And I fear King Malcolm may well have plans for his daughter now she is of marriageable age.’
‘But if Rufus thought the alliance to his advantage?’
‘I think you are over sanguine, my heart. Much as I wish it for Henry, at the moment it would be to no one’s advantage but his own, and I see no sign of the King changing his mind about his younger brother’s state. I think he is glad to be rid of a third contestant for Normandy.’
‘Why can they not agree?’ Maud queried sadly. ‘I think Eadgyth’s happiness may well be sacrificed to their quarrels – unless King Malcolm has thought of the match himself.’
Simon frowned over her head. ‘I doubt it. He is a strange tempered man, as hot as Red William. Well, he is to visit the court, so we shall soon know how he and our King agree. As for Eadgyth, that matter may have to wait until Henry returns.’
Maud leaned against his shoulder. Simon might not be handsome, he might be slow and lame and no longer young, but she thought him the most comforting man she knew. ‘I hope he comes soon,’ she said, ‘I would see Eadgyth as happy as I am.’
Eadgyth herself returned to the confines of the nun’s enclosure hardly able to believe she was the same girl who had walked out of it only an hour ago. The knowledge that he had not forgotten, that he had sent her such a message, gave her so much joy that she scarcely knew how to contain it. Young and inexperienced as she was, she did not yet know enough to hide that joy from her aunt, and when they all filed into the church for the last office of the day, she sang with such bubbling eagerness, her eyes so bright with her secret knowledge that Christina pursed her lips and wondered what had been said in the guest parlour. She tried to find out from Mary but the child only talked of the kindness of the Earl and Countess and the charm of their children. She also asked Eadgyth herself but the girl merely smiled happily and answered, ‘Naught of any consequence, aunt,’ so that Christina was forced to suppress her curiosity.
A few weeks later a storm, in the person of King Malcolm himself, descended on the quiet of the abbey.
He had ridden to see the Red King on a matter of some disputed land, some taxes he did not think he ought to yield and a few other minor affairs over which he considered he had a grudge. Rufus, however, annoyed at his high-handed demands, merely deputed the Count de Meulan to say that he had no time to see the Scottish King and considered all matters determined between them two years ago on the borders of Scots Water.
Malcolm lost his temper, shouted abuse at the Count and demanded an apology for the affront to his royal estate. Robert de Beaumont heard him out and then said calmly that his master did not attend to his vassals when they abused him. At the word ‘vassal’ Malcolm’s face turned purple with fury. For a moment those present in the great hall at Gloucester thought that he would draw his sword on the Count and several men edged nearer. De Beaumont himself, for all his calm, was keeping a wary eye on the enraged Scot, but in the end Malcolm throttled his rage and stamped out. He was no fool and too far from home to risk a fight with only a small retinue at his back.
Consequently it was in no very pleasant mood that he arrived at Romsey, bellowing at the doorkeeper to take him to his daughters. Before the terrified nun, who was not permitted to leave her place, could summon another to conduct him more correctly to the Prioress he strode past her and into the cloisters where no man but a priest might enter. There the nuns were walking to the refectory for their dinner and in the midst of them he saw Eadgyth in habit and veil.
He seemed to explode with rage and leapt forward, pushing the startled nuns aside until he stood before his daughter.
‘Why are you wearing that hellish thing? You have not taken the vows? By God, if you have . . .’
Eadgyth, panic-stricken by this sudden appearance of her sire and in such a rage, stood speechless, staring at him in utter astonishment.
He took her by the shoulders and shook her. ‘Answer me, girl. Answer me, I say.’
‘No – no.’ She gasped, his roughness precipitating her into speech. ‘No, my lord, I have not taken the vows. I would never . . .’
At this moment the Prioress, summoned by the sudden commotion, came hurrying up and tried to step between the King and the terrified girl. ‘Brother-in-law, I beg you to remember where you – where indeed you should not be. This is holy ground on which you stand.’
He gave a caustic laugh. ‘It would be a deal holier if you did not tread it.’ He pointed to his daughter. ‘Was it your doing that she should wear these clothes? She says she has not taken the vows but if I find that you have forced her . . .’
‘She has not,’ Christina answered stiffly. She was white with a still tense anger in contrast to Malcolm’s hot-blooded fury. ‘And I made the girls dress as my nuns to protect them from the Normans who, as we all know, do not respect any woman’s vi
rginity.’
‘Oh!’ Eadgyth gasped, ‘how can you say so? Many men have come to the guest house who would never . . .’
‘Be quiet girl,’ Christina snapped. ‘Speak when you are spoken to.’ And turning to Malcolm, she added, ‘I did it for their good.’
‘You are a scheming bitch,’ Malcolm said. He heard the indrawn breath, the recoil of some of the gentler sisters at hearing their Prioress thus described, and looking them all up and down he gave a great guffaw of laughter. ‘Holy Jesu, you have these timid coneys well trained. But you’ll not number my daughters among them.’
He put up a hand and tore the veil from Eadgyth’s head so that her fair hair, released from its confines, fell about her shoulders, and calling Mary, flung hers also to the ground trampling the white clothes until they were torn and muddied by his feet.