Henry of the High Rock

by Juliet Dymoke

  He smiled and bending, kissed her mouth lightly. ‘Alide – I have never forgotten you nor what you were to me.’ But for him the past was only memory. She smiled gently. ‘I thought to hear that you were married by now.’ She saw the expression on his face change and added, ‘Perhaps I should not have asked.’

  He shook his head. ‘There is a girl – it is a long story, Alide. They have her shut in a nunnery for all she is no nun and I cannot get her away.’

  ‘Oh . . .’ With that one word Alide expressed all her understanding. ‘I will pray for you both to Our Lady.’ She said no more on the subject, asking him instead about England; for a while he sat talking to her, answering her questions, and presently when her husband came to join them conversed with the man and liked him.

  ‘I leave my daughter in your hands until she is of marriageable age,’ he told them, ‘then I will find her a husband of rank. Robert shall come with me in the morning. You will be proud of him, Alide.’

  He stayed the night under their roof, sending Earl Hugh with the rest of his retinue to sleep at the castle, keeping only Herluin and young Walter with him; and in the guest chamber where Alide had first come to him, listening to Herluin’s quiet breathing, he lay wakeful, thinking of the years that had gone.

  Much had happened since Duke Robert had left the duchy. Men felt the strong hand of Rufus over them and both Robert of Bellême and William of Breteuil had quickly transferred their allegiance to the new ruler so that within a short time Rufus was to be found hunting with Bellême, listening to his schemes, or hearing details of his revenues from William of Breteuil whom he had made his treasurer. Archbishop Anselm, unable to reach any sort of compromise with Red William had left England. Rufus had eventually allowed him to depart but only on condition that during his absence all the lands and revenues of Canterbury should revert to the Crown. Anselm left in tears and journeyed to Rome to lay his case before Pope Urban, while the King considered himself well rid of a man he could neither cajole nor defeat.

  But most important of all here in Normandy, the war with Helias of Maine was over and Count Helias lay in Bayeaux tower where Henry himself had once been shackled.

  William had made Bellême commander of his army and presently joined him with more troops from England, but Helias had withstood them well and it seemed at first as if he could not be conquered. But in April of this year, riding home from a successful sortie against Robert the Devil, Helias made a diversion near Dangeul with only seven men at his back and by ill luck fell into an ambush laid by no lesser person than Bellême himself. Even the Devil dared not hold so illustrious a prisoner in his donjon and he handed him over to Rufus. The King promptly shut him up at Bayeux and marched on Le Mans. The city, burned and bombarded by Bellême’s war machines, yielded and the King reached an agreement with the Count of Anjou whereby he was to have the city and county of Maine in return for which Helias and all other prisoners were to be freed.

  Henry wondered how long William intended to put off Helias’ release, but as yet Rufus had said nothing, having only lately returned to Rouen.

  News came of the victories of the crusaders in the Holy Land and more than one man brought tales of the prowess of the Duke of Normandy. Robert, it seemed, had found his true vocation. He was fighting with unsurpassed skill, no man had yet unseated him and he led many attacks in person so that the large and cosmopolitan army rang with his name.

  Rufus had roared with laughter on hearing this. ‘Now if Robert had fought like that here, I should not be sitting in his place. By Lucca’s face, I am glad he did not. Perhaps he needs God and the heat and the goats to make a soldier of him – or perhaps the Saracen women.’

  Henry saw the humorous side of the situation but nevertheless he felt a pride in his eldest brother who had at last done something worthy of the name of Normandy. Bishop Odo had never reached the shores of Palestine. He had died at Palermo, attended by his friend, the Crane, and was laid to rest in the cathedral there. Henry could not bring himself to mourn for the uncle who had shown him little but enmity.

  Meanwhile here at home, he had enough to do with his own affairs, restlessly busy in the Cotentin, or attending the King. Hopes of Eadgyth were fading. Here he was, nearly twenty-nine years of age, and still Rufus would do nothing about the proposed marriage. He had not as yet kept his promise to see the princess and kept his brother on a shoe-string, dangling his consent as a reward for service. Nor could Henry do more himself. His position was such that he must put his responsibilities before his personal wishes, and he threw himself into the needs of his county, devoting himself to the people, finding some outlet in the excitement of the hunt, in the arms of a mistress, but every now and then Maud sent him word of Eadgyth – that she was still faithful to their hope, that she had not taken the vows, and though sad and disheartened her strength of will held firm. And when such a message came, as one had reached him a week since, it threw him back to those few snatched moments he had had with his love, and lying in the darkness of Alide’s guest room he thought only of her. She must be near twenty now and what resources must she not have summoned up to resist her aunt’s pressures for so long? Would such tenacity ever be rewarded?

  About dawn he turned restlessly, flinging himself over in the bed for it had been a sultry night and though it must be cooler now outside, it was still stuffy in this small room.

  Almost at once he heard Herluin’s voice asking if he would like a drink. He threw off the bedclothes and went to the window, opening the wooden shutter. Outside the street was deserted except for one man trundling a small handcart of vegetables towards the place where later stalls would be set up. Already the first rays of the sun were in the sky.

  ‘We will go to Mass in the abbey,’ he said and began to dress.

  In St. Stephen’s church he knelt near the magnificent tomb Rufus had erected over his father’s resting place, and looking at the gold and jewels encrusted there he thought of his parents and their thirty-year devotion to each other. Could he be such a husband, he wondered? And was Eadgyth at Mass also at this moment and thinking of him?

  He prayed then, devoutly, for a consummation of their desires as he had prayed so often before. Perhaps this time God would hear and answer.

  Beside him Herluin was absorbed in his own needs. Nothing had been heard of Simon since the Count of Maine had been ambushed. He had not been brought to Bayeux with Helias, nor had they had a chance to ask the latter for news of him. He must be dead, Herluin thought, and prayed now for Simon’s soul that it might soon be released from purgatory.

  After the Mass they left for Rouen, taking the boy Robert with them. He shed a few tears on parting with his mother but was soon absorbed in the ride south and in listening to this exciting man who was his father.

  Arriving in the capital, the palace seemed extraordinarily quiet and Richard de Redvers came out to say that the King had gone to Beaumont-le-Roger for the baptism of the twin sons of the Count de Meulan.

  He glanced up at young Robert. ‘By God, Henry, this cannot be other than your son?’

  Henry swung himself down and lifted the boy out of his saddle. ‘Aye, he’s my likeness, isn’t he? We must find him some young companions.’

  ‘The Duke’s bastards, Richard and William, are here in the King’s care while the Duke is away – they are practising at the butts. Can the boy join them? I’ve news to tell you.’

  Henry sent Robert off with Raoul the Deer and guessing by Richard’s tone that the matter was serious, asked no questions until they were alone in his chamber.

  ‘Well?’

  De Redvers said gravely: ‘The Count of Maine was brought here yesterday . . .’

  ‘Then he is free?’

  ‘He is free, but – I’m thankful you were not here to see how it was done, for you would have been angry and rightly so.’

  All his immediate pleasure in Helias’ release fading before a premonition, Henry said, ‘Tell me it all.’

  ‘The Count and all
other prisoners were to be freed as you know, but when Helias came . . .’ Richard broke off momentarily, ‘Holy Rood, the King has a cruel humour at times! He had not allowed Helias clean linen nor to wash or shave since the treaty was made with Anjou and the Count looked – well, you can imagine. He had to stand thus before the King and the whole court. It must have been more a hurt to him than to a rougher man, but he kept his dignity, I’ll say that for him.’

  Henry had been unbuckling his sword and now in an angry gesture threw it on to the bed. ‘William is beyond understanding.’ Yet he understood this well enough. ‘What happened then?’

  ‘It was odd, really. The Count conceded that the King had beaten him and he asked, not for the return of Maine of course, but that he might keep his title and have a place in the King’s household. He said that if he might serve Rufus he would prove his worth and perhaps in time the King would consider restoring him to his lands. It was a fair and honest offer and at first I thought the King would accept. You know anything that smacks of chivalry appeals to him.’

  ‘Oh aye,’ Henry agreed. ‘Did he not accept then?’

  ‘No. They began to work on him – Bellême and Breteuil and even de Beaumont. They said Maine had always been our enemy and no man of that place could be trusted.’

  ‘But surely even they could not doubt the word of Helias?’

  ‘No, but they made out that they could. They are jealous of him, my lord, and that’s the plain truth. They could see he might easily supplant them in the King’s favour and he is senior in rank to all of them. In the end Rufus came round to their way of thinking and told the Count to go.’

  ‘And Helias?’

  ‘He was angry, and I don’t wonder. He said that as the King had refused his offer he couldn’t be blamed if he tried from now on to win back his lands. So William told him to go and do his worst and Helias went. They gave him a damned sorry-looking beast to go on too.’

  ‘Where has he gone?’

  ‘Le Flèche. William left him that and Chateau-du-Loir and his wife’s possessions.’

  Henry got up and began his usual pacing. ‘Rufus has been a fool to reject Helias! I know the Manceaux have been our enemies but with Helias as their ruler it was the time to end the enmity. I wish I had been here.’

  ‘It was as well you were not, I think,’ Richard said shrewdly. ‘If you had seen how they brought Helias in, it might have led to . . .’ he stopped abruptly and going to a small table took up a flagon and poured wine. ‘You must be thirsty after your ride. I don’t profess to understand your brother. The hall was tight with tension after Helias had gone, for he has some friends here, but the next minute the King was telling a story of your uncle Odo and Ivo of Chartres that had the whole place rocking.’ A reluctant grin crossed his face. ‘Did you ever hear it? That Bishop Ivo came unexpectedly to Bayeux and asked for Odo. A servant caught unawares and knowing what his lord was about said hastily that he was at prayers . . .’

  ‘And Ivo walked into Odo’s chamber and found my uncle very much occupied but not with prayers. It was a girl from the buttery at that time as I recall.’

  De Redvers laughed. ‘Aye, that’s it. And Ivo – you know him – was so shocked that his wits deserted him. He said “Is this your morning offering, my lord?” and never saw the funny side of it.’

  ‘Poor Ivo, he’s so full of his own sanctity. It was a pity he couldn’t give some of it to my lecherous uncle. Well, no doubt Odo’s paying for his sins now.’ Henry opened the door and calling for Walter told him to fetch fresh water.

  ‘What will you do now?’ Richard asked. ‘Join your brother at Beaumont-le-Roger?’

  ‘No. I will go to Domfront – I’d rather not exchange words with Red William at the moment and he knows where to send for me if he wants me. But I wish I had seen Helias.’

  He waited while Walter poured water and then splashed his face and hands vigorously.

  Two days later as their own city came in sight Henry’s men without exception viewed the high rock with pleasurable anticipation for it had become their particular pride and home. Gulfer had brought his wife there from Avranches and Hamo was courting a girl in the town. He said now: ‘When they see us the bells will ring and Roger will have the castle roused to welcome you, my lord.’

  They swung round the last bend in the road and there saw a man sitting on a fallen tree trunk. He seemed to be in a state of complete exhaustion for even though he heard the approaching hooves he lifted his head with difficulty. When he saw the cavalcade he set his hands on the log and tried to rise, his legs barely able to support him. Then as he focused his eyes on the gonfanon Hamo carried he took an uncertain step forward, one hand held up.

  There was a moment of recognition and then a horrified silence before Herluin cried out, ‘Simon! ’ and sprang from his horse.

  It was obvious that he was as near death as a man could be and still be on his feet. He was emaciated, the skin stretched over bone with no flesh in between, his eyes sunken and in great hollows, his clothes little more than rags.

  ‘Herluin . . .’ The name came out on a long sigh and he almost collapsed into his brother’s arms. Herluin lowered him to the ground, his back against the tree trunk and, dismounting, Henry himself brought a costrel of wine and forced some between Simon’s lips.

  ‘Holy God,’ he said softly, ‘what can have happened?’

  Herluin bent over his brother. ‘Simon – Simon, can you hear me?’ He took the wine from Henry and gave him more.

  The warmth of it seemed to restore consciousness to this wreck of what had been his handsome and elegant brother and Simon opened his eyes.

  ‘Herluin – I thought I was dreaming. I dreamed of you so often – and of La Barre – when I lay in that place.’

  ‘Where? What happened? For God’s sake, tell us.’

  ‘Do you not know?’ Simon roused himself and tried to sit up, catching at Herluin’s sleeve. On his bleeding feet there were no more than remains of what had been shoes and about his ankles were the clear marks of chains.

  Herluin looked at them and then back at his brother. ‘No,’ he said tensely, ‘I do not know. Who did this to you?’

  ‘The Count – devil that he is! ’

  There was no need of further description. ‘Where were you held?’ Henry asked urgently, for he feared Simon was nearly gone. ‘At Bellême?’

  ‘Aye – my lord. I was taken soon after the Count of Maine was – ambushed, and shut up – at Bellême with others. You do not know,’ he shuddered and closed his hand on Herluin’s arm, his fingers skeletal, ‘In his cells – below the castle – hell cannot be worse . . .’

  Herluin, nearly as pale as his brother, held him, giving him sips of wine. Raising his face, he looked at Henry. ‘That man – he is Satan, the devil in human form.’

  Henry, stiff with outrage, asked, ‘Did he release you? The King ordered it.’

  ‘Aye,’ Simon said, ‘but I had been there – since the spring, I think, and now the summer – must be nearly sped. His men opened the gates and let us go. They had taken my horse – so I walked . . .’

  ‘You walked? From Bellême?’ Henry met Herluin’s horrified gaze – the same thought in both their heads, that the Count had obeyed only the barest interpretation of the King’s command and driven his prisoners, starving and ill-clad, out from his gates to die on the road.

  Henry got up and sent one man ahead to appraise Roger of their coming and to find a physician while he set others to cutting saplings from the wood at the edge of the road to make a litter. When it was done they bore Simon to the castle and laid him in a bed. Amaldis, nursing a daughter born of her union with Henry, brought water and linen to wash and bind his feet, while Roger and a monk skilled in medicine stripped off his ragged garments. But he was too far gone for physical help. They tried to give him food, but at the last point of starvation his stomach rejected it and he vomited weakly. They could only give him sips of wine and make him as comfortable as possible.


  ‘He cannot live,’ Roger said to Herluin and the latter sat by the bed in bitter sorrow. For all the years of estrangement their quarrel had been mended and he had hoped to see Simon happier by serving such a man as Helias. Instead he had fallen into the hands of the Devil of Bellême and now lay dying of that encounter. Again Herluin felt conscious of the dark shadow over his life, the heavy weight of it, the utter loneliness. Had it lain over Simon too?

  His brother stirred and opened his eyes. When he saw Herluin he smiled faintly. Then a sudden shaft of fear crossed his face and he reached out to him. ‘Herluin – I must be shriven – find a priest, for God’s love. I was afraid – in there – I would die in my sins . . .’

  Roger spoke from the other side of the bed. ‘I am here for that purpose, my son,’ and Herluin left them alone. He came back when Roger called him and knelt while his brother was anointed with holy oils and given the Sacred Host.