‘My aid? If I can give it I will, but I cannot promise that King William will heed me – he seldom does so.’
‘I am sorry,’ Henry said frankly. ‘I had hoped – but on this matter you may be able to speak for me.’ The Archbishop listened in silence, his hands folded in his sleeves, his pale face grave, and Henry thought how his old friend had aged since that day when he had gone so precipitously to Bec after Conan’s death.
For a little while Anselm did not speak. He stared out of the window at the leafless trees in the orchard beyond the abbey’s kitchen buildings. There was a pale sunshine this morning and it was mild for November but his bones ached here by the banks of the Thames, the dampness entering into them so that he felt chilled most of the time.
At last he said, ‘I think you have chosen a hard road for yourself and the lady Eadgyth. It would of course be an excellent match for you and for her, but . . .’
‘But what, father? I beg you to speak plainly. I must know how I stand.’
‘How can I tell? But I have doubts – I’m afraid your brother will not take this well. He does not take well any incursion into his domination of all men. If you are to be on good terms with him you will have to take a bride of his choosing.’
‘Might he not think the lady Eadgyth a good choice?’
‘Perhaps – but it is you who have chosen. You will have to approach the matter with care, my son.’
‘I know,’ Henry said drily, ‘but I am determined, my lord, and so is she. She says she will have no other husband.’
Anselm sighed. ‘We all at one time or another say we will or will not do a thing, but circumstances force us to yield, to act as we would prefer not to act.’
‘I trust her,’ Henry said, ‘as I trust myself.’
‘Your confidence is praiseworthy. I will pray that you may not be moved since I believe such a match might well be for your good.’
‘I want her.’ He looked straightly at the old man. ‘Any other consideration is secondary.’
Anselm looked back at him with equal honesty. ‘My son, I think you have wanted many women. Sometimes it is necessary for the soul’s good to do without one’s desire.’
Henry shifted restlessly. The austerity of this little room seemed over-confining. ‘Father, there are some men for whom sanctity is the absorbing purpose of their lives; there are others who are lechers, who use women as one might use a sword or a bow, but for myself I cannot see, since God made us men what we are, why we cannot love Him and women as well.’
Anselm looked back at him with equal honesty. ‘My son, you give more than lip service to the Church, I know that – your devotion is sincere. As for the other side of the coin, well, I would see you live more chaste. Perhaps this love of yours for the Scottish maid has been sent to prove you, to find out if you can be steadfast.’
Henry paused before him. ‘As far as she is concerned I will not change my mind. If I am allowed to wed her . . .’ he hesitated, looking beyond the Archbishop to the leafless trees, the pale blue sky, ‘then would I endeavour to cleave to her. I am prepared to wait as long as it may be necessary. Can I count on your help?’
‘For what it is worth,’ Anselm conceded sadly. ‘You know I would do all I could for you, but I fear my influence is limited.’
‘It is less so than you think.’ Henry rose and took up his gloves and mantle. ‘Well my brother will be back in London soon so we shall not have to wait long to find out what he thinks. After all I am not the landless boy I was when I last asked.’
‘Nor is he the man he was before he fell sick,’ Anselm pointed out. A sudden unexpected spark of anger lit his calm eyes. ‘Before – I had hopes of him, but it seems now as if he delights to flout God in every way he can. Instead of gratitude for his recovery, he sets out to defy the Church and all of us who serve her. I fear for his immortal soul.’
Henry was silent. He was not particularly worried about Rufus’ immortal soul, but he was concerned with his brother’s present state of mind, and if he was indeed changed there might be less hope than before. On the other hand, if Rufus chose he could always do the unexpected.
When he came, two days before Christmas, his attitude was one neither Henry nor Anselm had envisaged. He rode into the palace of Westminster attended by a large number of knights and strode into the great hall in his usual vigorous manner. He greeted Henry cheerfully, embracing him and calling him a brother after his own heart. He did not seem in the least put out that Henry should have come here to London instead of as he had suggested to Eu. On a tide of self-assurance he swept his brother down the hall, commending his strong action at Domfront and prophesying that together they would prove unassailable.
‘God defend us from fools and weaklings,’ he added. ‘Now we must put an end to Robert’s folly in Normandy.’
They kept the Christmas feast with great jollity, but Henry could scarcely fail to notice, if he had not already known of it, the tension between the King and his Archbishop. Rufus seemed to enjoy provoking the saintly Anselm, perhaps to try to prove him less saintly. He told a series of bawdy jokes and a few blasphemous ones that set the hall rocking with laughter; he told them deliberately and with calculated rudeness, trying to make the old man lose his temper. To Rufus it was merely sport, but to Anselm it was clearly anything but a laughing matter. The affair of his pallium still rankled between them and neither would give way an inch. Henry felt sorry for the Archbishop, but it did seem to him that, holy as he was, Anselm was being needlessly obstinate.
However, at the moment he was more concerned with his own problems and on the evening of St. Stephen’s mass he found Rufus for once alone in his solar and seized the opportunity. As he entered the King, who was sitting looking at a pile of counters, glanced up and said: ‘I’m damned if I can understand money – only the need for it. Flambard can sit all day and juggle with these things and I go to bed richer than when I awoke, but I cannot make head nor tail of what he does.’ He swept the counters aside. ‘Well, it is near dinner time. Shall we go down?’
‘One moment,’ Henry said. ‘There is a matter on which I must speak to you,’ and when Rufus obligingly sat down again, ‘I wish to wed.’
Red William leaned back in his big carved chair and grinned, showing his strong teeth, his florid face amused. ‘Well, I hear your bed is seldom empty. You should have been a Saracen and then you might have filled your hall with a dozen wives. One will never suffice you.’
Henry took this sally with good humour, but he said, ‘I am in earnest, William.’
His bother glanced at him. ‘I see that you are, but what is the urgency? Have you deflowered some highborn wench and set her pot cooking?’
‘Is it likely? I’ve more sense than that, but neither you nor Robert seems disposed to wed and one of us must to provide an heir.’
Rufus laughed. ‘Robert’s affairs of the heart are none of my business and for myself, why, mine are none of yours. What girl have you in mind this time?’
‘The same,’ Henry said carefully, ‘the Princess Eadgyth.’
Rufus looked surprised. ‘She’s still a child.’
‘Not now.’
Rufus’ eyes narrowed. ‘And how should you know that?’
‘The years pass for her as for the rest of us.’
The King gave him an odd look, as if he suspected something, but Henry returned it blandly and Rufus got to his feet, his expression impossible to read. ‘Well, I’ve not time to discuss it now. She is young and you can wait. Anyway we’ve too much else to think about at the moment.’
He linked his arm with Henry’s and began to walk him along the gallery. ‘Now I have plans for rebuilding this hall . . .’
‘Will you listen?’ Henry asked and stood still, disengaging his arm.
‘No.’
‘Is it such a monstrous thing I ask? At least let me . . .’
‘No,’ the King repeated and taking his elbow again propelled him along beneath the stone arches.
; ‘William!’
Rufus laughed again. ‘God’s wounds, you are hot for this girl! But you’ve been hot for others and must stay your passions elsewhere.’
‘Will you never…’
‘Never is a long time.’ Still laughing, giving no hint of a reason for his attitude the King ran down the spiral stair and at dinner kept up a lively discussion about the war in Normandy and how best to bring the two Roberts to terms. He ate hungrily, talking as he ate, washing the food down with rich wine and smacking his lips noisily. ‘If you can deal with Bellême, brother, I’ll turn my attention to Curthose,’ he promised and calling for a map pushed aside the dishes and set his thick finger on the places where he wished Henry to begin operations. ‘You shall have men and money,’ he went on, ‘We will fight this together, Beauclerc.’
And for the next few weeks he busied himself with the preparations for the campaign. Two of his closest adherents, the Earl of Surrey and William of Mortain were continually with him and seemed to make a practice of keeping Henry from approaching him; they made no secret of their enmity – de Warenne nicknamed the Prince ‘Henry Hartsfoot’ because of his love for the chase, turning it into a derogatory sneer, and Mortain used his biting tongue to good effect whenever his cousin was near. Henry kept his temper but try as he would he could not see Rufus alone. If de Warenne or Mortain were absent, either Flambard was there discussing money, Earl Hugh to talk of ships for the enterprise, the Chamberlain Richard de Rules with queries concerning the royal household, or important men queuing up to offer their services. Rufus clearly had no intention of considering the marriage of his brother and turned aside every effort Henry made to re-open the subject. When Anselm began once to speak of it Rufus told him to mind his own business. He was boisterous, blasphemous, bringing the atmosphere of the camp into his court; he was affable and genuinely enjoyed having Henry at his side but talk of marriage and the lady Eadgyth he would not.
‘Why?’ Henry asked Anselm in some despair. ‘Why will he not speak of it? What must I do?’ To which the Archbishop replied that, singularly unsuccessful in his own relations with the King, he felt he would hinder rather than help the Prince’s cause. Deep in his own troubles and mourning the death of old Bishop Wulfstan, he could do no more than advise patience and caution.
‘Holy Cross! ’ Henry exploded one night when he was alone with Herluin and Richard de Redvers. ‘Have I not been patient long enough?’
‘Wait until the campaign is over, my lord,’ de Redvers suggested. ‘The King has his whole mind set on that.’
‘I should have thought he could give his mind to more than one thing at a time,’ Henry said caustically.
‘Not when it involves vast expenditure and he has Flambard always at his elbow.
Herluin said: ‘My lord, Richard is right. The outcome might influence him in your favour.’
Henry flung himself down on his bed, his hands clasped behind his head. ‘Perhaps. I suppose it is what I must do.’
A silence fell.
Richard said, ‘There are men in England, Henry, who would further your cause because they have no love for the King.’ He spoke quietly but the import of his words was not lost on his listeners.
‘If I thought . . .’ Henry began and then closed his mouth hard. He lay still, staring up at the vaulting above his head.
Herluin seemed paler than usual. ‘Not yet,’ he said, ‘Not yet.’
And Richard added, ‘When the time comes . . .’
Herluin poured the Prince’s nightly cup of wine and brought it to him. ‘I think,’ he said slowly, ‘that the King does not want to talk of the matter, not because of you, my lord, nor the lady Eadgyth, but because it involves the succession, the crown that one day he must leave in other hands. He has no child, Duke Robert has no legitimate heir – their jealousy near ruined you once and I think it might do so again.’
Henry took the wine but after a moment set it down untouched. ‘You cannot think I would give her up, for a possible facet in William’s character.’
‘No indeed, but I think you would do well to bide your time. Perhaps at the end of this campaign you might be the King’s only heir and he would no longer be able to play you off one against the other.’
He had not thought of this and he lay on one elbow, pondering. He did not wish Robert dead. Though a fool, Robert was still his eldest brother who had in the years past shown him affection and kindness, who still by an extraordinary diversity in his make-up could exhibit real fondness, even though the next moment he might try to set chains on his brother’s wrists. If Robert died, his agreement with Rufus as to the inheritance would be void and then . . .
He sat up, hugging his knees to his chest, his chin sunk in his folded arms. He was thinking of Eadgyth, of how he had sat upon a bed with her young body close to his, and wondering what it was about her that made him want her to wife as he had wanted no other woman. He thought too that the English people would love her for the stock she came from so that she might be a means of welding a torn people into one. He thought of Robert, weak, ineffectual, unwed, and of Rufus who preferred the company of pretty boys to a healthy tumble in bed with a wench.
For one moment he was agonisingly tempted. An impulsive gesture would no doubt be heroic, capture the imagination; he could throw all in hazard for one chivalrous deed, force an entry into the abbey, defy Christina and carry off his girl, daring his brother’s rage for the sake of love. It was tempting and desire flooded him, so that his longing became an overwhelming physical need for action. But his will cast in the same mould as his father’s, restrained him. To seize Eadgyth would be folly and he knew it. ‘So be it,’ he said abruptly, ‘we go back and fight William’s war for him.’
Too restless for sleep and despite the lateness of the hour he went out to seek company, finding it in the house of a woman whose name was also, by an odd coincidence, Eadgyth. She was the daughter of Wigod of Wallingford who had long ago been the first to submit to King William and she had welcomed him more than once before. Wrapping his fingers in her hair he could imagine they were his own Eadgyth’s silky braids, but in his sleep he dreamed that she lay in her habit on the floor of a church so large that he seemed to be running yet come no nearer to her. She was weeping and surrounded by shadowy black figures and he could not reach her.
He awoke, sweating, to find the dawn cold and overcast and a strong wind blowing that would carry a ship to Normandy.
CHAPTER 5
In the summer of 1095 an event occurred which set the whole of Europe ablaze with a new fervour. Pope Urban on a visit to Clermont mounted the pulpit there and before a large gathering of great men preached with fire and fervour of the holy places in Palestine.
‘It is a stain on Christendom,’ he cried, ‘that these should lie in the hands of the infidel. Where Our Blessed Lord walked and taught, the heathen now treads. How can we tolerate this? Let all Christians rise and drive the forces of Satan from that holy soil. Let men come forward and lead the army of God into Jerusalem. And for everyone who falls the trumpets will sound in heaven and angels will bear his soul straight to God. Brothers, arise! Enrol under the banner of Christ your Captain . . .’
Such was his enthusiasm that within a few weeks the call had spread from one end of Europe to the other. From every bishop, from every itinerant preacher the cry arose, ‘Free the holy places, redeem Jerusalem!’ and the excitement became like an infection passing from one man to the next. The words ‘Dieux le vot’ spread the length and breadth of Normandy. Men forgot the war, forgot whether they were for King or Duke or Count and entering their churches swore to go, to fight under the sacred emblem. Their wives cut great crosses of white cloth and sewed them to their surcoats, preparing to part joyfully with their husbands for such a worthy cause.
An obscure hermit named Peter began to preach to poorer folk so that they too rose and armed only with sticks and scythes marched under his banner, scarcely knowing where they were going, only that somewhere to the south
lay their goal, the holy sepulchre of the Lord they worshipped in their churches.
One of the first to be infected by all this religious zeal was Duke Robert himself. Weary with the incessant difficulties of governing his duchy, with the need for money, the arrogance of his barons and the ever-increasing pressure from Rufus’ garrisons on one side and Henry’s encroachments on the other, he grabbed at the chance of honourable escape. He knew himself to be unbeatable on horseback, brilliant equally with sword and spear and here was a chance to do the thing he could do and put behind him that which he could not.
Solemnly, in Rouen cathedral and in a grand gesture, he took the cross. But whatever the other motives, his devotion was genuine, he kissed the crucifix with tears rolling down his plump pink cheeks, his warm and gentle nature overflowing with love for his Lord and a burning desire to see the holy places once more in the hands of Christian men. His boon-companion, Edgar Atheling, sent word from England that he too would wear the cross and journey to meet Robert in Rome.
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