’After that Simon seemed at peace and lay quietly, his hands folded together on the bed cover.
Henry came to stand beside Herluin. ‘I am sorry we can do no more for him,’ he said in a low voice, ‘The King shall hear of this. If he had known . . .’ He stopped for Simon was looking up at him.
‘He knew . . .’
Henry bent over him, one hand gripping his shoulder. ‘He knew? Are you sure?’
‘Aye – at least that I was imprisoned . . .’ the words came out on a sigh. ‘Count Robert told me. The King said traitors must – pay for treachery – he would not ransom me.’
The two watchers by the bed exchanged glances and Roger who was folding his stole and putting the sacred vessels away into a small chest raised his head to look intently at his penitent.
Herluin felt a bitter cold seize him, moving up from somewhere in the pit of his stomach. ‘Can it be? Could he take such a revenge?’
Simon moved his head a little on the pillow. ‘I earned his anger. But it does not matter any more.’ He smiled fleetingly at his brother and his eyes closed as he drifted into sleep
Herluin said, ‘Whatever wrong he did he has paid. Jesu, he has paid! ’ He spoke in a low bitter tone and Henry laid a hand on his arm.
‘What can I say? That Rufus should have known that Simon was there and not told us is damnable.’ The thought of Rufus’ callousness, of his meanness sickened him. ‘But he is the King and nothing can mend what has been done.’
Herluin answered, ‘It is a life wasted, thrown away for nothing.’ He twisted his fingers together, grief and pain and foreboding mingling into an anguish that separated him from all sympathy, however offered, and throughout the long afternoon he sat by his dying brother, still and silent, while beneath that immobility a searing hatred was slowly being born, a hatred that went beyond the Count of Bellême who had perpetrated this horror to the King who had by implication allowed it, who had ignored the plight of his one-time intimate. That hatred, growing with deadly tendrils, was on behalf of Henry too, and every remembered injury as well as others long forgotten rose now to add to the burning stream so that all Herluin’s grief, all his anger moulded itself slowly, like heated lava that cooling into rock is then solidified. He felt himself possessed by it, and, perhaps subconsciously recognising it for the dark shadow that it was, sat in tense and stricken immobility.
In the hall a little knot of men who had travelled with Henry gathered together to talk. Richard of Redvers was there with Gilbert of Clare, who had attended Rufus to Normandy; Eudo Dapifer on his first visit to the duchy for nearly ten years; Ralph de Toeni, and Henry himself. His mind was on that silent chamber above and he listened with only half his attention to their talk.
‘Affairs are little better in England,’ Gilbert was commenting. ‘Men say that justice sleeps and money is lord. Now that Flambard is Bishop of Durham, he wrests even more from the wretched people and lords it over us all as if he were nobly born. I tell you it is past bearing.’
‘At least you do not have Bellême in England,’ de Redvers said, ‘but here his power is so great that the King must needs use him as the Duke did.’
‘I would rather meet my enemies on the field,’ Gilbert put in, ‘but Count Robert deserves to die by any means, even the assassin’s knife, and men would say good riddance.’
‘He fears that,’ Ralph told them. ‘I hear he sleeps with guards at his door, even in his own strongholds. They say he has fearful dreams at night and cries out in his sleep – as if he expects to be murdered as his mother was.’
‘As well he might,’ Eudo agreed. He had not changed a great deal during his years at William’s English court; a little stouter, he still had all his old gaiety though for the moment it was supplanted by grave concern for the present happenings. ‘Satan must surely fetch him away one day.’
‘We in England,’ Gilbert said slowly and deliberately, ‘await the day when you, my lord, may wear the English crown.’
It was the first time it had even been said openly and it jerked Henry out of his preoccupation. ‘I? My friend, that at the moment seems to me the remotest possibility.’
Gilbert and Eudo exchanged glances. ‘Perhaps,’ Gilbert said and shut his mouth hard as Roger the Priest came across the hall. What more would have been said Henry could not guess, for Roger came to tell that Simon La Barre was dead.
On the following day his body was sewn into an oxhide and laid in a cart, and Herluin with a small escort of men rode away to La Barre that his brother might be buried with his forebears.
Henry watched him go, grieving for him, and then climbed up to stand on the tower of Domfront castle, high on the rock where he could see a vast stretch of Normandy lying below him. He was bitterly angry, his rage directed at the Devil of Bellême, but there was more contempt for Rufus and only his stubborn tenacious will told him that it was not yet time to break with the King.
Up here, with a slight breeze cooling his face, his standard flapping gently over his head and the sun lighting his fields and woods far into the distance, he found himself torn with longing, longing for the power to rule, to bring order, to put down men such as Bellême, and with sudden passion he prayed that his name might go down to his children and to their children as a man who had fought for justice. But, oh God, for the chance to do it. Here, alone on his own high rock, the one place truly his, it seemed remote, unattainable, and he leaned his hands on the edge of the parapet, gripping the stone in an intensity of impotent desire.
In the autumn the Earl of Shrewsbury, Bellême’s younger brother, died and the Count bought his earldom from Rufus for a sum large enough to delight even that grasping King. Bellême now spread his greed and cruelty and evil practices into England; the men of his new earldom groaned under his tyrannical rule and he became, next to the King, the most powerful baron on both sides of the channel, keeping a private army that no other lord could match. In England men were thrown into the dark prisons of his castle to die from torture or starvation for little or no reason and a wail of anguish went up from the widows and children whom he persecuted.
On Christmas Day there was an eclipse of the sun, darkening the land at mid-day and the people gazed fearfully at the sky, seeing it as a sign of the evil times that had befallen both England and Normandy, as if God was hiding His light and warmth from them. In the churches men prayed. It was an omen, they said; the King had persecuted and driven out the head of God’s church and all holy men suffered at his hands. Now God was displeased and they waited fearfully until the light came back, but the unrest, the doubt, the longing for better days, remained.
CHAPTER 6
‘Well, I have seen her,’ Rufus said with the unexpectedness which was characteristic of him.
Henry was so astonished that for a moment he did not speak. After all these weary months of waiting, until he had become convinced that William had no intention of keeping his promise, it could not be other than surprising that he had now done so.
‘You have seen her?’ he repeated. ‘When?’
‘At Easter,’ Rufus told him, ‘when I wore my crown at Winchester.’
‘And?’
‘And she is a nun.’
The bald statement shook Henry for all he had heard it put about often enough. ‘I do not believe it.’
‘You may do so now. I saw her in the abbey, walking in the cloister, wearing the habit.’
‘You spoke to her?’
‘It was not necessary. The Abbess, you know Christina is Abbess now? – told me she had finally taken the vows and I had the evidence of my own eyes.’
Henry let out his breath and gave a short laugh. ‘I would never trust that woman to tell the truth. I have told you, brother, what she is. She makes the princesses wear habits to protect them from us lecherous Normans! I will only believe it if I hear it from Eadgyth herself.’
Rufus frowned. ‘You will not do that. I forbid you to go to Romsey.’
‘Forbid?’
‘
Aye, forbid.’
They faced each other in sudden antagonism. It was warm here in this solar near the Thames at Westminster. Outside the leaves had that fresh green of early June; it had been a late spring but the apple trees had been thick with blossom and were now rich with the promise of a good harvest. Wild flowers bloomed in the banks of the river flowing smoothly on this still day, buttercups and cow parsley and white daisies studding the lush grass. There was nowhere like England in the early summer, Henry had thought, as he rode from Portsmouth during the last two days. The woodlands had teemed with young life, birds singing, rabbits scurrying about, squirrels running up the branches; he saw the fallow deer in the distance, beautiful timid creatures, and once a fox ran across his path and he watched with pleasure the animals he loved.
He had come on a visit at Rufus’ request, hoping once more for a change of mind, and he was too preoccupied now to notice the beauty outside. He said, ‘Why should you forbid it? Would it not be better if I were sure of the truth?’
‘I have told you the truth.’
He turned his back to the window and folded his arms, and with a rare impulsiveness reiterated, ‘The Princess herself begged me never to believe that she had taken the vows.’
The King’s eyes narrowed. ‘She told you? When?’
Too late Henry saw his mistake. ‘A long time ago.’
Rufus did not take his intent gaze from his brother’s face. ‘Ha! Do you think to deceive me? It could not have been when we came from Scotland, so it follows you must have seen her since.’
‘And if I have,’ Henry retorted, ‘what is it to you?’
Red William’s face turned an even deeper colour, the tiny veins in his cheeks crimson, his flecked eyes narrowing. ‘Am I not the King? How did you see her and when?’
‘I’ll not tell you. Only that it was too many years ago for it to concern us now.’
‘That’s a matter of opinion,’ Rufus snapped. ‘I think I detect the hand of cousin Maud in this. Well, it shall not happen again.’
Henry stared at his brother in exasperation. ‘Good God, William, is it a crime to want to wed a girl who would be suitable in every way?’
Rufus got up. ‘I wish you would let the matter be. I do not intend that you should have her. If she is not a nun, as you say then I shall give her to William of Warenne who had asked me for her some time ago. Or perhaps Alan of Richmond…’
Henry was so angry he could barely control his voice. ‘You shall not. By the death of Our Lord, Rufus, you use me ill. Neither Count Alan nor the Earl of Surrey shall have her for she has sworn herself to me, and if you give her at all the claim of your own kin should come first.’
‘Do you think to move me by appealing to family feeling?’ Rufus mocked. ‘You and I have agreed well enough over the last years, Beauclerc, but to marry the girl you need my consent and that you will never have. Anyway she is a nun.’
‘Prove it! Let me hear it from her own lips. Otherwise I will never give up and I will have her with or without your consent.’
Rufus laughed at him. ‘Are you so hot for her that you’d defy me to get her? Or murder me perhaps? There’s a name for that sin.’
‘Don’t be a fool,’ Henry retorted shortly, ‘and don’t think me one. But I don’t understand you.’
‘Well,’ Rufus’ voice was smooth again. ‘Perhaps I don’t wish you to. The secret of power, little brother, is never to let any man understand your mind. But I have some other news for you. Curthose is on his way back.’
This was not news to Henry. He sat down again on the stool by the window, his arm along the stone embrasure. Last year Jerusalem had fallen to the victorious crusaders and Robert had been among the first into the city, plunging in over the bodies of the slain. He had captured single-handed the silver standard of the Saracen leader, and with their cousin, Count Robert of Flanders, with Godfrey de Bouillon and Raymond of Toulouse, he had knelt weeping with joy at the tomb of Christ and the whole of Christendom rejoiced with him.
The tidings of all this had been mingled with grief for Henry, for young Fulcher had fallen beneath the city wall almost at the moment of victory. A monk of Blois, journeying home, had brought the tale to Henry and the only compensation had been the knowledge that the boy lay in holy ground. He remembered how Fulcher had shared his dreary days in Bayeux tower and paid for masses to be said for his soul.
After the victory and the crowning of Godfrey of Bouillon as King of Jerusalem, Duke Robert, with his boon-companion Edgar, had set out in a leisurely manner to return home. Now, nine months later, he was still only in Sicily. Henry thought amusedly he was probably making up for the exertions of the war by taking his ease in the exotic beauty of that island. However if he were indeed on the move again Henry was sufficiently distracted from his own problems to wonder how the King would take his return. Somehow he could not see Rufus stepping lightly aside in the Normandy he had made his own. Furthermore he knew that Red William had his eye on further conquests, for all the desultory war with King Philip had come to a stalemate. A state of stalemate also existed over Maine. Last year Helias had seized Le Mans and held it successfully for some weeks, receiving a hero’s welcome from the citizens who preferred their rightful ruler to the sway of the Red King. Rufus had been in England at the time but with typical impulsiveness he rode for the coast and jumping into the first boat he saw, a leaky old craft barely sea-worthy he had sailed for Normandy and with a large army marched on Le Mans. Helias, courageous as he was, could not hope to hold off so great a force and he retired from his capital, he and his people combining to burn and strip both town and countryside that there might be nothing left for the Norman army. He then shut himself up in La Flèche to wait for the better times, leaving the King with a hollow victory. Nevertheless William dreamed of an empire and was not going to like the return of the real ruler of Normandy.
‘You knew Robert would come back,’ Henry countered, ‘unless he fell, and neither of us wished that.’
‘No, indeed,’ Rufus agreed drily, ‘but I hardly expected him to return with a bride. That is my news.’
‘A bride! ’ Henry sat bolt upright. ‘Holy Rood, I never thought to hear that.’
‘Nor I, but it is true. I heard this morning.’
‘Robert with a bride! Who in God’s name has he married?’
‘The lady Sybil, daughter of Count Geoffrey of Conversano.’
‘Count Geoffrey? Then she must be . . .’ he paused, ‘the great-niece of Robert Guiscard and as Norman as you or I.’
‘They say she is both beautiful and intelligent – and young,’ Rufus added as an afterthought. It was not necessary to qualify the remark.
Henry was silent. This changed everything for, as Rufus had just implied, it meant that Robert might now father legitimate children, that Normandy would have an heir, that the duchy would go to the eldest son of the eldest son. Worse than that, as Rufus had no heir, if Robert had a son that child as grandson of the Conqueror would have as good a claim to England as he. He sat there, stiff with foreboding. He had dreamed of England, England that should be his for he was born the son of a King while Robert – Robert cared nothing for England. He was a Norman duke – why then should any son of his take preference over a porphyrogenic heir?
Rufus’ voice broke in on his thoughts. ‘I can read your mind, Beauclerc.’
He said, ‘William, you would not countenance it?’
‘Because you were born in the purple?’ Rufus laughed and Henry realised suddenly how sick he was of that constant mocking laughter. He lost his temper and shouted at his brother.
‘Wine of Christ, you play with me. You have played with me all these years. Can’t you for once be just? Make me your heir, give me Eadgyth and our children, of Norman and Saxon blood mingled, shall rule here afterwards, true heirs that men of both nations can acknowledge. You must see that would be better by far than any heir of Robert and Sybil of Conversano. What would she be to the English?’
Enjoy
ing a verbal match as always, and not caring in the least what the English thought, Rufus shouted back. ‘Hold your tongue, Beauclerc. I made an agreement with Robert a long time ago.’
‘And broke it when it suited you. That treaty you made at Caen was worth nothing.’
‘It can still hold – and to your cost.’
‘What, when you made war on Robert? No, brother, you cannot keep one clause and break another. And are you going to hand Normandy meekly back to him when he comes home?’ It was Henry’s turn to mock. ‘I can’t imagine that.’
‘It is none of your business.’
‘No? Holy Rood, but I rule part of Normandy and you cannot threaten me there as you once did.’
‘You rule it only as long as I will that you should.’
‘Try to take it from me then. You will find my men of Domfront very different from the little garrison on the rock of the Archangel.’
Henry of the High Rock Page 32
