Sweyn and I took to her readily; she was very easy on the eye, made excellent conversation, had a sharp mind, ready humour and knew how to charm men. She also won over Adela, whose limp was becoming more and more noticeable as her injuries made her increasingly frail. Sybilla brought her a treat of some sort every day and helped her to walk in the hills around Conversano, to try to keep her mobile.
If the new fashion of Courtly Love was what I assumed it to be, then Robert became the embodiment of it. He was like a new man and confessed that, in the bedchamber, Sybilla was all that one would hope for in a delectable young woman: initial innocence, but with a growing appetite to learn. He often joked that his only complaint was ever increasing exhaustion, but of the most delightful kind.
In a grand ceremony, Robert and Sybilla were married in February 1100 by Eustachio, Bishop of Brindisi. While Robert enjoyed his honeymoon with his bride in her father’s seaside fortress at Monopoli, Hugh Percy and I led our contingents back to Normandy.
Our progress was remarkable. We were fêted everywhere, our path was strewn with garlands and gifts, Masses were said in our honour, and bishops anointed us. The welcome in Rouen was even more remarkable. The Crusaders had brought great honour to Normandy and the news that Duke Robert would be returning with a new bride, who would produce not only an heir but also swell the ducal coffers, only added to the excitement.
Thousands lined the narrow streets approaching the great cathedral, the massive bronze bells of which rang and rang in a never-ending chime of rejoicing. People cheered and rushed forward to bury their faces in our crimson and white capes; some even kissed our feet. Our weapons gleamed, our clothes were freshly washed, and we had trimmed our hair and beards. Pennons and gonfalons fluttered in the breeze as our crimson and white banners flew proudly above our heads.
Some of the more excitable and, indeed, naive assumed that, as we had been to the Holy Land, we must have met Christ himself, and therefore were insistent that we bless them! We were the all-conquering soldiers of Christ and thoroughly enjoyed the adulation.
The crowds knew nothing of the horrors that had been committed in the name of Christendom. In the eyes of the good people of Rouen, the day was one of celebration, where they could salute those who had helped a Christian God return to the Holy City where he belonged. Little did they know that, in truth, he had never left it – and in the light of what had been done there, he had probably now disowned it.
Awaiting us on the steps of the cathedral was the formidable William Bonne-me, the Archbishop of Rouen and Normandy, flanked by the entire senior ecclesiastical hierarchy of Normandy. An open-air Mass was held – which went on far too long, leading some of the men to suggest that the two-hour service was a greater trial than all the privations they had suffered in Palestine.
Rufus had ruled Normandy in Robert’s absence, in accordance with their agreement. He was in England when we arrived, but it was reported to us that he was none too pleased at the news of our ecstatic welcome by the citizens of Rouen, having been certain that Robert, like so many other Crusaders, would never return.
Sweyn, Adela and I agreed that we should move on to England as soon as possible, not only to get our brave contingent back home, but also to see if we could gain an audience with King Rufus to report on Robert’s achievements in Palestine before anybody else could pour poison into his ear.
The day before we were due to leave, Sweyn summoned me to Adela’s chamber.
She had been a source of growing concern to us on the journey back from the Holy Land. Her discomfort seemed to be increasing by the day, not just from her shattered shoulder and damaged backside, but throughout her body. She was losing weight and looking drained and aged. She was prostrate when I arrived, and was clearly in great pain.
‘Edgar, I am done for.’
‘I have seen you in pain before; it will pass, like before.’
‘Not this time.’
‘We’ll call for Robert’s physicians; they looked after us well in the Holy Land.’
‘They’re butchers and idiots! But regardless of that, what ails me is deep inside; it’s in my bones, I can feel it.’
Sweyn leant down, pulled Adela to him and hugged her.
She started to cry. ‘I’m scared. I’ve only been really frightened once before, and you know when that was. I made a promise afterwards that I would never let myself be frightened again, but I am now.’
I joined Sweyn in holding her.
‘We’ll stay here with you until you are well.’
‘You will not! I don’t need a pair of nursemaids, and you have things to do in England.’
‘They can wait.’
‘No, you must leave, as we agreed. You will be fêted when you arrive; even Rufus will have to welcome you. To those who matter, especially the young knights, you can tell the truth about what happened in Palestine and spread the gospel of the Mos Militum. Do that for me.’
As I held her, I realized how thin she had become. A woman with a small frame in any case, she must have lost a stone or more in the last few months. I felt desperately sorry for her, and totally inadequate in being unable to help.
‘There is nothing more we can do for you here, dearest Adela. Let us take you to the nuns of Rouen so that you can get the care you need.’
After making us promise that we would not leave her side, Adela eventually agreed to make the short journey, with our help. As we got her ready, there were tears in my eyes and in Sweyn’s when we realized how much pain she was in.
On the way to the priory, every movement of the cart saw her wince, but every time we looked at her, concerned for her welfare, she forced a smile in an attempt to reassure us. On our arrival, the Mother Superior and one of the nuns showed us the way to their infirmary.
Adela seemed to have steeled herself to her fate but, as she was carried away, she made two last requests.
‘When you get to England, kiss its soil for me and make sure that you tell young Harry about me. I enjoyed looking after him; he’s a sweet little boy.’
Sweyn did not want to leave her, and it took him many minutes to say his private goodbyes to her.
As we rode away from the convent, I thought about how courageous Adela was. Her life had left her with many scars, but she had fought her injuries and her demons with great courage. Now she faced another even greater challenge, and probably one that she would not be able to overcome.
I looked at Sweyn. His eyes were squeezed shut and tears streamed down his face.
We did not speak; there was nothing to say.
PART SIX
Legacy
33. Deadly Arrow
It was good to be in England again. It was summer and England’s green meadows were a pleasant contrast to the parched earth of the Holy Land. The sun shone to greet our English contingent, proudly carrying their crimson Crusade pennons and banners. Maurice, Bishop of London, greeted us on the steps of St Paul’s at Ludgate and said Mass in the open air to welcome home England’s soldiers of Christ.
King Rufus was nowhere to be seen, not even when we arrived at Westminster. The official version, offered by William, Count of Mortain and Earl of Cornwall, who welcomed us on behalf of the King, was that he had many difficult issues to deal with in Winchester, but that he hoped we would travel there to be welcomed by him in person. The truth was not difficult to discover, as it was common knowledge at court. Rufus was hunting in the New Forest and too preoccupied indulging himself with his hunting companions to greet those who had fought so courageously in the heat and dust of Palestine for three years in England’s name.
Sweyn and I said our farewells to our brave and loyal men – who dispersed with their memories, bitter and sweet, to every corner of the land – and we prepared to rush back to Adela. We had decided that, our duty done in returning our men to their homes, Adela would forgive us for waiting a while before spreading the gospel of the Mos Militum.
The next morning, news arrived that would change the dest
inies of us all.
The first hint was a scurry of courtiers and officials suddenly making a din in the quiet of the early morning. Then we heard the fateful words shouted across the courtyard by a young knight: ‘The King is dead! The King is dead!’
I turned to Sweyn.
‘Where is Henry Beauclerc?’
He shook his head.
‘Please find out. If only Robert was in Normandy! He could be King of England within the week.’
A flurry of activity followed, as England’s Norman masters plotted and schemed about the succession. The activity was clandestine enough to begin with, but when it emerged that Rufus had been killed by a stray arrow during his hunt in the New Forest, the intrigues reached fever pitch.
Stories of a conspiracy spread like wildfire among the young knights at court. Sweyn, his ire about Norman morality reawakened with a vengeance, recounted these stories for me with relish.
‘You will find this amazing, even by the standards of intrigue of the Norman aristocracy.’
‘I hope you are not including Robert in that sweeping remark?’
‘Of course not. Robert is one of us now.’
‘You mean, English?’
‘Sire, you know what I mean; let me get on with the story. Henry Beauclerc is hardly ever seen with the King. Rufus surrounds himself with his bumboys, which Henry finds disgusting. Henry very definitely prefers women to men and is said to have lost count of his illegitimate children. He spends most of his time on his lands in the Cotentin in Normandy. But, it seems he appeared in England only two weeks ago, a sudden arrival that everyone here found hard to believe was the result of an unexpected rush of brotherly love.’
‘So where is Henry now?’
‘Wait, I’ll come to that. As soon as Henry heard that Robert had survived the Crusade and was on his way back from the Holy Land, he realized that his future was in jeopardy. It seems that he had an agreement with Rufus to rule Normandy as soon as it was confirmed that Robert was either dead or would not be returning from Palestine. Even if he did return, Rufus would call in his loan to Robert, who would not be able to pay. Henry would cover the debt and acquire the duchy through Robert’s default.’
‘Very cunning.’
‘That’s not the half of it. The fact that Robert had married Sybilla, complete with a dowry sufficient to buy back his inheritance, and with the likelihood that she was already carrying Robert’s heir in her belly, didn’t just threaten his future plans, it ruined them.’
‘So, he came to do a deal with Rufus, before Robert returned?’
‘That’s what everybody assumed, but Henry’s scheme is far more devilish than that.’
I began to realize the diabolical level to which Henry had sunk, even before Sweyn had finished his account.
‘Henry was there when Rufus was killed. They were in a deep part of the New Forest, where Rufus had seen a stag he wanted as a trophy. There were several others with him, including Walter Tirel of Tonbridge and Lord of Poix, whose father fought at Senlac Ridge. He is married to Adelize, the daughter of Richard Fitz Gilbert, whose dislike for Rufus is well known. It is said that Tirel shot the arrow that killed Rufus, but that it was an accident. Tirel’s arrow hit Rufus square in the chest and ruptured his heart. He died almost immediately. Realizing what he’d done, Tirel fled, apparently bound for Normandy.’
‘Could it have been an accident?’
‘It’s possible, but few believe it. Tirel is apparently one of the finest shots in England. Those who know him say that he is too good a huntsman to loose an arrow accidentally and that if he shot Rufus through the heart, he meant to do it.’
‘I suppose an accidental arrow would have found a less deliberate target than a man’s heart. When did this happen?’
‘Three days ago. Henry had Rufus buried in great haste and without ceremony in Winchester the next morning.’
‘And where is Henry now?’
‘Here, in London.’
‘Already?’
‘He didn’t even attend his brother’s interment. He left it to the monks of St Swithun’s of Winchester and hurried to the King’s treasury, where he bullied William of Breteuil into giving him possession. At first, Breteuil refused, but Henry drew his sword and threatened to cut him down. He then rode day and night to reach London, where he secured the King’s other treasury at Westminster. He’s been behind closed doors with his supporters ever since, all of whom, by another unlikely coincidence, happen to be in London.’
‘And they are?’
‘Henry and Robert of Beaumont, Walter Giffard, Robert Malet, Roger Bigot, Robert Fitz Haimo, Robert of Montfort and a couple of others whose names I can’t remember.’
‘A powerful bunch! Are there opponents?’
‘Some, but Henry’s moving too fast for them to get organized. Many would be loyal to Robert, especially after his leadership in the Holy Land, but they are scattered all over England.’
‘Yes, but Henry’s not King yet; there is the small matter of a coronation.’
‘He’s ahead of you, I’m afraid; he is to be crowned tomorrow. He brought the crown with him from Winchester.’
I had witnessed many shameful things and seen many examples of the dark side of human nature, but this was a tale of avarice that took the breath away.
‘But tomorrow is the Sabbath, and Anselm of Canterbury is in exile in Normandy. Don’t tell me that Thomas of York is already in London and prepared to crown a king on a Sunday?’
‘No, Maurice, Bishop of London, is going to preside.’
‘Can he do that?’
‘It seems so.’
‘I feel so sad for Robert. While he’s been fighting in Palestine, his brothers have been living off the fat of the land in England and Normandy, and now Henry has killed his own brother to grab the English crown. He will surely want Normandy next.’
‘Can’t we intervene somehow?’
I felt the same as Sweyn; with Robert weeks, or even months, away from Normandy and England, there had to be something we could do to further his cause or protect his duchy. But what? After sending a messenger to Hugh Percy in Normandy, telling him to get the news of Rufus’s death to Robert with all speed, Sweyn and I opened a flask of mead and began plotting.
If we were to do anything, we had to make our move that very night.
By mid-evening, we had concocted a story that was at least as audacious as some of the battleplans we had employed in the Holy Land, and no less risky. It also meant taking a significant liberty in our friendship with Robert, but all the same, we thought the subterfuge was in a good cause – not only his, but also England’s and what the Brotherhood had fought for at Ely. Although we were only two members of our Brethren, we decided to act in its name and do as we thought they would do.
So, with not a little trepidation, we approached the Great Hall of Westminster, where we assumed Henry would be, and asked the sentries to summon their captain.
‘Captain, please tell your lord that Prince Edgar of England is here to see him.’
As he opened the great door to take in our request, we could hear the distinct sounds of feasting, with much raucous laughter, before the heavy oak planks slammed shut again, leaving us to stare at a magnificent building, on a par in scale and style with any in Europe and only recently completed by Rufus as a symbol of the power of his realm.
When the door reopened and we were invited in, the din of celebration had subsided. Henry was at the far end of the hall, a walk that seemed to take an eternity, being at least the length of a tilt field. As we approached, most of the guests scattered, including the young women recruited to bring the celebrations to an ending appropriate to a gathering of England’s most important men. Only a dozen or so men remained – the ones Sweyn had named – and all sat around Henry as if he were already King.
‘Count Henry, my Lords, please don’t let our sudden arrival drive your guests away.’
‘Prince Edgar, welcome to my court. Don’t worry ab
out my guests, I can soon call them back. What brings you to Westminster?’
‘I have returned with the English contingent from the Crusades, but Duke Robert had asked me to travel to see you at your fortress in Avranches and bring you his greetings and best wishes, and to do the same with King Rufus while I am here in London. Sadly, circumstances have now changed my itinerary. I also have some messages for you, which are private family matters. But first, my condolences on the tragic death of the King. It was a sad day for all of us.’
‘Thank you. I just hope I can carry on his good work.’
‘My Lord Count, I had no idea, you are to succeed your brother?’
‘Indeed, I am to be crowned tomorrow. I would welcome your presence.’
He seemed far more confident than I had remembered. I hoped I appeared similarly poised.
‘It will be an honour, my Lord. I think you will remember Sir Sweyn of Bourne; he distinguished himself in the Holy Land and has become very close to your brother, Duke Robert. He rode into battle at his side many times.’
Henry nodded an acknowledgement, and Sweyn returned the gesture by bowing his head and grasping the hilt of his sword.
‘I have heard glowing accounts of the bravery of all of you. You do us a great honour.’
He was already talking like a king. Although, in truth, humility had never been one of his strong points.
‘Duke Robert is with his new bride, the Duchess Sybilla, a most charming and beautiful addition to your family, if I may say so. He sends his greetings.’
Henry smiled, a thin, perfunctory smile, almost a sneer, while his henchmen stared at us with a contempt usually shown to bonded peasants. Even though I had led the Anglo-Saxon English contingent in Palestine, I had long since been denied the courtesy usually shown to a royal prince, where counts and earls and all below them would stand when I entered a room.
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