Henry of the High Rock

by Juliet Dymoke

  ‘She was angry. She told the Princess she was violating holy promises now that you were a King and not a landless younger son. She reminded her that she had no marriage portion and was in no position to wed a King even had she been free – implying unworthy motives to the lady Eadgyth.’

  ‘By God, for one with a holy calling the Abbess uses base weapons. As if I should care whether Eadgyth has a portion or not. Well,’ he sat down on the table and a great Alaunt that lay by the door rose and came to sit beside him so that he fondled the rough head affectionately. ‘I shall send you back to Romsey, Richard, at once if you will, with a letter for the Princess.’

  ‘I’ll willingly endure saddle sores,’ de Redvers said, ‘if it brings you to your marriage bed.’

  ‘Anselm shall settle this matter once and for all.’

  He looked down at the dog whose large brown eyes were fixed on him. ‘Holy Cross, but mating is easier in the animal kingdom, eh my beauty?’ He glanced at Richard. ‘Don’t you see, my enemies would seize upon this to discredit me? If they could say the King had violated the person of a nun what a weapon that would be! But I’ll not give them the chance. I’ve waited so long I can wait another month or two.’

  ‘The Archbishop should be here in September.’

  Henry nodded. ‘He can convene a church court and sift the matter, then I will have her before the world and no man will dare to throw mud at us.’ He put the dog aside and taking pen and parchment began to write in large letters and Richard watched him, thinking of Henry’s remark of long ago – that an unlettered king was a crowned ass. Well, they would never be able to call him that, but he foresaw trouble ahead before Henry was undisputed lord of England. Yet the years of exile, the difficulties and privations, prison and loneliness had all been the best possible preparation for kingship, far better than an easy life in royal luxury, and Richard had no doubts now as to Henry’s ability to cope with any contingency. For himself he was content to serve; in the early years he had been attached to Henry for friendship’s sake only, but now it was also with admiration and respect.

  He rode back to Romsey and faced the Abbess Christina with a pleasure of which he felt slightly ashamed. She stood before him in her guest parlour, thin, old before she need be, her mouth drawn into a hard line. Christina was neither cruel nor vindictive by nature but she had taken the veil at the behest of her saintly mother and had to fight a passionate nature that desired other things. Repression had warped her, twisted her faith, smothered compassion with rigid discipline and now in defying Henry it was as if she was clinging to her own position instead of merely arguing over the release of one girl to the world of men.

  She greeted Richard coolly. ‘Well, Messire de Redvers, you are soon returned. I trust the King now understands the situation.’

  ‘My lady Abbess, did you really think that after all these years,’ he was conscious of repeating her own phrasing, ‘he would give up the Princess.’

  ‘I told you before, she is not free. I am afraid you have made a long and wearisome journey to no purpose.’

  ‘As to her freedom, the King is asking the Archbishop to settle the matter – he is on his way back to England at this moment.’

  Christina flinched. She had clearly not expected this. ‘Even the Archbishop cannot unsay holy vows.’

  ‘Not if they were ever said. But the King knows,’ Richard added shrewdly, ‘and I believe you do also, that they were not.’ Watching her stubborn face, he knew that he was right and went on, ‘I have a letter for the Princess. She must be told of the situation and King Henry bade me give the letter into no other hands. Frankly,’ he added plainly, ‘he did not trust you to deliver it.’

  Dusky colour filled Christina’s cheeks. Fighting a last-ditch battle she began, ‘I will not permit . . .’

  ‘And he bade me say that if you wish to remain Abbess here you had best obey him.’

  She drew in her breath sharply. ‘He would not dare molest my person.’

  Richard could not keep back a swift smile. ‘Lady, believe me, he has no desire to do that, but there are ways and means of dealing with such a situation. I need hardly remind you of the case of William of St. Calais.’

  For a moment longer she defied him, but the memory of the ignominious trial of the former Bishop of Durham was enough to induce caution. Richard pitied her. Being a man of some perception he saw her for what she was, and though she angered him with her senseless obstinacy he perceived she had made her own life a misery and must revenge herself somehow. But his pity, he thought, should be reserved for Eadgyth, for God knew what Christina had done to the girl in these last five years.

  He need not have worried. When Eadgyth came at last, she had thrown off the sad daily quiet of that waiting time and was what she should be – joyful, eager, on the verge of the fulfilment a healthy young woman desired. She was wearing a blue gown which enhanced the blue of her eyes and her face attained a simple beauty as she read her lover’s letter.

  Then looking directly at Richard she said, ‘Messire de Redvers, tell the King I will wait most happily for the Archbishop’s coming. I have no doubt at all as to what he will say.’

  ‘Nor I,’ Richard agreed smiling. This girl, with her natural dignity, her well-formed figure and graceful bearing, her gentleness combined with composure would make a Queen England could be proud of, he thought.

  She asked him questions about Henry, about the coronation and how the King had looked until suddenly she recollected herself and blushing asked his pardon for detaining him.

  He bent over her hand. ‘Lady, I ask no better way to serve my lord than to further his union with you.’

  Her blush deepened. ‘I thank you for coming, Messire. I hope, oh I do hope the Archbishop will not be slow on his journey.’ The truth was that the years of waiting, lacking hope, had passed as most years pass – in the small round of sewing, reading, assisting the nuns in their work, singing and praying in the high bleak church that she had grown to love. She had learned in the hardest, loneliest way patience and fortitude and resignation and though her stubborn will had refused the final step that would cut the last strand of hope, nevertheless it had been so slender a thread that at times she had barely been aware of it. She had devoted herself to the poor and the sick and made herself much loved, and she too, as her royal lover, had learned in a hard school that adversity formed character more than prosperity.

  Now, with hope not only renewed but about to be rewarded she had to fight all over again for patience. The days of waiting were to be worse than the years and must pass with leaden slowness until the coming of the Archbishop. But he would set her free, she knew it, and in the end she would, as she had dreamed so often and so hopelessly, go one day with Henry to their nuptial Mass.

  When Richard de Redvers was gone, she ignored her aunt’s sharp order to return to the cloister for her reading, and wandered out into the garden. She could not contain her joy and walked among the neat beds of herbs, fennel and marjoram and thyme that Sister Gudrun grew so carefully and could use to cure the ague or a cold or griping in one’s belly, and the tears began to run down her face as she tried to thank the Blessed Virgin for this day. She clutched Henry’s letter in her hands and at length tucked it into her gown, to lie between her breasts until she could exchange it for the presence of her lover himself. A cool breeze fanned her cheeks and if she asked anything more of the Mother of God at this moment it was for a favourable wind to bring Archbishop Anselm to England.

  He came at last at the end of September. He was an old man and despite his joy at the new accession could not hurry. He had wept for Rufus and when his friends asked him how he could weep for such a man and one who had done him so much harm he had answered that he wept that the son of his old friend should die with his soul in so terrible a state of degradation. But his task as Archbishop was given back into his hands and now he went with pleasure to his work beside a man whom he loved as a son.

  They met at Canterbury whither the
King had gone to greet him and in the courtyard there, in the shade of the great church, embraced, Anselm kissing the King on both cheeks. Henry knelt for his blessing and then the Archbishop knelt in homage, after which they dined together in the parlour of the Abbot’s house.

  Anselm regarded his spiritual son with deep affection. ‘I have heard already of the good you have done, and I rejoice for it. You will make this land a better place for rich and poor alike.’

  ‘God willing,’ Henry answered soberly. ‘I have Flambard shut in the tower in London, I’ll have no more extortion such as he practised, and as for my barons, they will have to learn that the same law applies to them as to any man in my realm.’

  ‘You are thinking of the Earl of Shrewsbury?’ Anselm asked acutely.

  ‘And my cousin of Mortain. I will not rest until I have rid my kingdom of such men, but let us not talk of them today when I rejoice to see you in your place again.’ Henry glanced at the old man where he sat, his robes falling about him, in a chair by the table, ‘My dear friend, tell me you forgive me for seeking my hallowing before your return. It was your right to perform it, but I dared not wait.’

  ‘You are forgiven,’ Anselm answered and smiled at him, ‘I understood the position. You fear some opposition from your brother’s faction?’

  ‘It would have been out in the open by now had I not been crowned at once.’

  Anselm sighed. ‘Your brother lacks the firm hand that England needs, and Normandy too – I doubt his return will bring peace to our poor duchy.’

  ‘I have written to Count Helias to assure him of my friendship. He will go back to Le Mans now, and I have sent a letter to Rufus’ garrison there bidding them give their allegiance to whom they will.’

  ‘That was an ambiguous order, my son.’

  Henry smiled. ‘I’ve a shrewd idea of the position and as far as I can make out the garrison and the Count’s men are on the best of terms. Helias will rule as my friend and ally, Domfront I hold and will always hold, and my own men are still investing Avranches and Coutances and Mont St. Michel. Robert must keep the peace.’

  ‘And if he does not?’

  ‘Let me order my kingdom first, my lord,’ Henry said blandly. ‘I shall have trouble enough here until men see I am to be feared – or that I am a better King than Robert would ever be. Tell me, is he changed?’

  ‘From what I heard,’ the old man answered slowly, ‘he was a changed man in the holy places, fighting as well as any and better than most, but since he has come home again I fear that not even his wife, who is a noble lady, has been able to prevent him becoming fonder of his bed than the council chamber. And he is giving away the riches he brought home so fast that he will soon be without a tunic to his back.’

  Henry sat down astride a small stool and laughed. ‘That sounds like Robert. Even if he bestirs himself to take issue with me I think I have his measure now – I love him as a brother and despise him as an enemy, which I would prefer that he were not. But the only men who want his rule are those who would ignore it, and I have the people with me and . . .’ he paused, ‘the Church also, have I not?’

  The Archbishop inclined his head, but his expression was grave. ‘You have, my son, but I must tell you that I have come back from Rome convinced that only the Holy Father has the right to confirm Church appointments and investitures.’

  Henry stiffened. Was he going to have trouble already with this gentle, but unbelievably obstinate old man? ‘My lord, we cannot and I will not lightly set aside the ancient customs of this land nor the rights of the crown. The Kings of England have always held the right of investiture.’

  ‘It is no right at all. The Church must administer her own appointments.’

  The King got up from his stool. ‘I tell you, father, England is different. There is something in the nature of Englishmen that makes her the exception to most rules – as my father found out and wisely accepted. But let us agree to have a truce over this matter for the moment. I believe we can settle it without disaster to either of us.’

  Anselm folded his hands in a manner that reminded Henry of Lanfranc. ‘Very well, my son. You are a reasonable man and I believe you will be a good King if you will be guided by God and His Church.’

  Henry came to face him, arms folded, his expression grave, sure of himself, but unsure now of Anselm’s reaction. ‘That is what I desire, as I have always desired God’s blessing. I mean to have order and I will punish harshly to get it, if I must. But the Church need not fear me, which brings me to the matter uppermost in my mind. I need your help, father.’

  ‘Tell me how I may serve you.’

  He told the old man, briefly, of Richard’s visit to Romsey. ‘All that I ask of you, my lord,’ he finished, ‘is that you should hold an enquiry that the whole world may know whether or not our marriage is without hint of scandal.’

  Anselm considered this in silence for so long that Henry had to suppress the urge to repeat the question. He stood waiting, his fingers gripping his folded arms to prevent them seizing Anselm’s to force an answer from him.

  At last the Archbishop said, ‘I will do what you ask. The nuns shall be questioned and the Abbess must bring the Princess to my court so that the matter may be discerned beyond any doubt. I must confess,’ he smiled a little, ‘I expected to find you wed when I returned.’

  Henry shook his head. ‘For that I would have waited for you even had the Abbess raised no objection.’ For one moment his impatience showed itself in a spurt of irritation. ‘By God, that woman is incredible. She would do anything to keep us apart. Can jealousy turn a woman into a thing all eaten up with spite?’

  ‘Sin and the devil can twist any one of us,’ Anselm said sadly and then he added, ‘I am only surprised you have not stormed the abbey with your royal authority.’

  Henry’s mouth lifted at this gentle sally. ‘I have learned caution, my lord. I must not alienate anyone on my way to my marriage bed – certainly not the Church. You will help me?’

  ‘I will help you but,’ the old man’s voice became graver, ’before I do so there is something I would say to you, for I must speak to you not as Archbishop to my King but as a father to his spiritual son. Pray sit down and listen.’ He watched Henry as the latter seated himself again and then went on. ‘I am bound to say that from what I know of the Princess Eadgyth, she is a worthy bride for you and Queen for England. She deserves the best of husbands.’

  Startled, Henry said, ‘You cannot think I would be otherwise. All these years I have refused to think of any other bride, I have loved her since I set eyes on her.’

  ‘That may well be true, indeed, I know it is, but what of your private times, my son, what of your morals?’

  Henry was silent. He had not expected this attack from Anselm.

  ‘You cannot deny,’ the Archbishop said with all the authority of his holy calling, ‘that you have indulged your passions more than most men. You have had many mistresses, you have children. The Princess will have to accept that this has been so.’

  How could he deny it? Henry thought of Alide, of Amaldis, Nest, Ansfrida and others with a briefer span. There was young Robert living at court with him; little Matilda at Caen, Ansfrida’s son, Richard, in London; Juliana, young Henry, and bastards or not he loved them because they were his children. But he had never indulged in cheap whoring nor deserved the accusation Rufus had flung at him. Could Eadgyth accept that during the nine years he had waited for her he had lived only as man with a strong demanding body must live. He remembered those stolen minutes at Romsey – what had she said? That she was content for him to be as he was? Yet she could not know him as he really was, as he had been, and because of that – rare tears stung his eyes. He looked helplessly at the Archbishop.

  Anselm said resolutely, ‘Put the past behind you, my son. Give up your mistresses. Do you remember, long ago when you asked me to intercede for you with your brother, you told me that if you could have Eadgyth to wife you would cleave only to her? Keep th
at promise now and God will bless your union.’

  ‘I will,’ he said, ‘I will, I swear it.’

  Anselm rose and made the sign of the cross over his head. ‘Then I will do all I can to aid you. Dear son, this is a new beginning for you – a crown, a bride, a land to rule.’ He looked down with affection at this young man whom he had known for all his thirty years, whom he had watched growing into manhood, developing through so many vicissitudes into the person he was today, and with all his faults – perhaps even because of them – Anselm loved Henry as he had loved neither Robert Curthose nor William Rufus.

  But after five years of exile there was so much for the Archbishop to do that it was not until the end of October that the court of enquiry was convened at Lambeth.

  Henry had yielded to Anselm’s demand that he should not see the Princess until the matter was settled so that there could be no possible stone for his enemies to cast at him, and he sent for Maud, requesting her to attend to Eadgyth and lodge with her until the enquiry was over. But despite his avowed confidence in the outcome, he waited in his palace on the opposite side of the river in restless, agonising impatience. He paced his solar until, unable to bear the confining walls, he went out to hunt, gave up after half an hour, came back to walk with Richard beside the river bank.