‘Come, Messire,’ she said in her resonant voice, ‘you may wish to serve me but that is no way to offer your sword. It were better employed thus on the enemy. Get up, get up, you are ridiculous.’
A ripple of amusement went round the hall as the luckless man got to his feet and Brien was shaken with silent laughter. She was the same – regal, martial, impatient, quick-tongued and totally different from any other woman.
He crossed the hall swiftly, a long blue mantle over his mail tunic falling from his shoulders to his ankles, his sword that had been a gift from King Henry hanging at his side, behind him Roger bearing his helm and shield. Before she was aware of his presence he had knelt before her. ‘I do not need to take my sword from its scabbard to offer it,’ he said and could not keep the smile from his face. ‘You know you have it, Domina Anglorum. ’
She swung round and seeing him the frown disappeared, the brown eyes lost their severity, the arrogant look faded.
‘I have waited for you, Brien FitzCount,’ she said and held out not one hand for him to kiss but both to take his.
He grasped them and raised first one and then the other to his lips. Then he lifted his own, palms together for her to set hers about them. ‘I am your man,’ he said, ‘as you have always known.’
‘As I have always known,’ she repeated and covered his hands with her own.
BOOK II
LADY OF THE ENGLISH
I love to my undoing,
The flame I tend is hidden,
And dangerous to my wooing,
Desire of the forbidden.
Ms of Benedictbeuern
CHAPTER 1
The Christmas Mass was ending, the choristers singing the final praises of Him who had been born to be their star of hope. The church was full of incense, blue smoke rising into the arched roof and hanging like a balm over the kneeling men and women, the candlelight bright on the rich vestments of the celebrant, the Bishop of Bath, and his assistants, the Abbot of Gloucester and the Prior of Kirkham. As the Bishop turned for the final blessing Brien, kneeling behind the Empress, thought that she was only ever still at Mass. She was always active, always moving, always about some business, never at peace. A dutiful daughter of Holy Church, she did not spare even churchmen the rough edge of her tongue if they displeased her and he reflected amusedly that she might well take Almighty God to task if she thought He was not dealing fairly with her. He had watched her, studied her during these last weeks but though he was seldom from her side he had as yet had no chance of entirely private talk with her. He sensed that his first impression that she had not changed had been wrong, for there was that in her manner which betrayed an increased arrogance from the years of pampering in Germany, a defensive dignity born of the later miserable marriage to Geoffrey.
He wanted to talk to her, to tell her she needed none of these things, that her personality alone was enough to bind men to her, but the time seemed always to be occupied. With Robert and Miles, back from a triumphant attack on Worcester, he was busy all day on plans, assembling men, ordering equipment, visiting all the outlying districts to proclaim the Empress, leading sorties against the King’s men and manors that resisted them, seizing supplies, burning the King’s property. He rode to his own lands at Abergavenny and brought back a considerable force, and when Miles returned from Worcester, gave him those lands to hold for three knights’ fees in gratitude to the Sheriff for his relieving of Wallingford. Few of the great lords had as yet, however, declared for the Empress. Most of the support so far was coming from men who had been disinherited and wanted to regain their lands – no great asset for, dispossessed, they had little but their own swords to offer. The Earl of Chester, who might be expected to support his father-in-law, Earl Robert, was sitting on the fence waiting to see who was most likely to restore Carlisle to him. King David of Scotland, however, had indicated his support for his niece, the Empress, and help might be expected from him before too long.
‘If Ranulf believes King David will pledge friendship by returning Carlisle he may well come over to us,’ Baldwin of Redvers said optimistically, to which Brien answered cryptically that David for all his affable exterior was as likely to do that as a cuckoo was to sing in the autumn. Well, when David came they would see, but it was a hopeful sign that Ranulf’s lady, Sibyl, was spending Christmas with her father.
The Bishop and his clergy were leaving the church now, the Earl’s youngest son, Roger, destined for priesthood, carrying the processional cross, the choristers chanting, ‘Rejoice greatly, O daughter of Sion, shout for joy, O daughters of Jerusalem’, and the words seemed appropriate to Brien, his eyes and thoughts always on the Empress.
Earl Robert led out a hunting party before dinner and she rode with them, sitting her horse magnificently, galloping between the trees of the forest, her mantle blown behind her, cheeks whipped to a bright colour, her eyes sparkling. It was a mild day for December – no white Christmas this year – the sun shining out of a cloudless sky, the air full of the scent of clean earth and dry leaves and the familiar forest smells, but few of the men cared for the beauty about them, absorbed wholly in the hunt. Robert FitzHubert brought his usual ferocity to the chase and vied with Geoffrey Talbot, but Baldwin and Humphrey de Bohun were more light hearted on this Christmas Day and raced their horses on an open patch of ground while others laid wagers on the outcome. The forest rang with the sounds of men and horses and they brought down a hart and two boars. Brien, pursuing a fine stag, found Maud beside him as they plunged down a sloping glade. The Lady was laughing, delighting in the freedom the hunt brought her, the chance to display her horsemanship, and even the loss of their quarry in a maze of scrub did not detract from her pleasure.
‘He’s gone,’ Brien said in disgust and reined in in the grassy clearing. It was then that he became aware that they had also lost the rest of the hunt and were alone save for Maud’s groom.
‘The horses are blown,’ he said. ‘Shall we rest them awhile before we go back?’ He dismounted and walking round his horse’s rump, held out his arms to her. She set her hands on his shoulders and he lifted her down. The sensation of that moment, when he held her briefly in his arms, when he felt her body beneath his hands, remained with him; it shocked his senses, producing a current of feeling that was wholly new to him. He set her on her feet and nodded to the groom to lead the horses aside where they might crop fresh grass. Then he walked her out of earshot and was glad of the moment’s silence.
The Empress shook out her mantle. ‘It is a good day for hunting. The forests are well stocked here, better than in Anjou, or maybe it is that my zealous husband has over-hunted there.’
At the mention of Geoffrey the moment’s enchantment gave way to reality. ‘Tell me, Domina, when you are Queen of all England, will Count Geoffrey join you here, or will you divide your time between England and Anjou?’
She flicked her whip at the dead fronds of last year’s bracken. ‘I think Geoffrey would have as little time for England as England for him. He is more concerned to become Duke of Normandy.’
‘Will Count Theobald fight him on that issue?’
‘I doubt it. Theobald is unlike his brother Stephen for he is neither ambitious nor warlike. He is content with Blois and his little court there. A good man, my cousin Theobald, we need not worry about him.’
They were walking slowly up and down the glade in the December sunlight, the bare branches patterned against the pale blue sky, and she laid her gloved hand lightly on Brien’s arm. ‘I will say this to you, though I would not say it to anyone else – I do not want Geoffrey here. ’
He let out a little sigh, both from relief at the content of her words and at the knowledge of her trust in him. ‘No doubt it would be wise for him to leave England to you at the moment.’
She laughed. ‘Wise? Well, perhaps he is learning a little wisdom with the years. Please God, Henry will have the best of both of us.’
‘He pleases his tutors?’
‘He is on
ly six years old,’ she said with unusual indulgence, ‘but yes, he learns fast.’ She thought of that night of Henry’s birth, the March night when a high wind had swept the tower room at Le Mans, and the hopes that lay in the boy. And now there was three-year-old Geoffrey too. Then she shot a quick sideways glance at the man beside her, taller than herself – which her husband was not – carrying himself in a manner that proclaimed self-discipline, at the long intelligent face, the straight nose, the high cheek bones and thick bronze hair. It was a pity he had no sons for such a man should project himself into the next generation, as her son should project the best in her family. ‘Henry is like my father,’ she said slowly.
‘I am glad of that – we need another Lion of Justice. And you, Domina, are you happy to be here on his soil again?’
‘Happy?’ She frowned. ‘I am not sure if I know what happiness is. Perhaps I was happy in Germany when I was very young. The Emperor loved me – so did the people – but things were different there, or I was a child. I have not known happiness since. Let us say I am content to be in England again and when I am crowned Queen and in my rightful place, perhaps then – ’
‘Ah, then!’ He paused to face her. ‘Then, my Queen, you will have again what you had in Germany.’
‘No,’ she met his gaze openly, ‘one cannot have again what one had at fifteen, but there are other compensations as one grows older.’
‘True,’ he admitted, ‘but I – all of us – want your home to be found here.’
‘You!’ She gave his arm a little tap with her whip. ‘You, Brien my friend, are in a different category from other men.’
A flush of pleasure warmed his face. ‘I ask nothing but to serve you. ’
‘I know. You have given me every man and every gold piece you have for this war and asked for nothing – although I am surrounded by men clamouring for honours and office in return for their service. But then I knew it would be so.’
‘You did not think I had changed?’
She shook her head. ‘If you are changed it is only in a maturing of all I saw in you. You did not tell me you had written a defence of my claim.’
He smiled. ‘I did not need to convince you of its justice.’
‘The Abbot gave me a copy to read last night. You are both fluent and fervent, my friend.’
‘If I can persuade some others – ’
She sighed. ‘If it were only that easy. There is one thing I have learned and that is how to read men and I know it takes more than words to win them, though,’ she added with a rare flash of self-analysis, ‘I doubt if I have my father’s flair for dealing with them.’
‘You will not fail if you remember we are vain, ambitious creatures who need to be flattered, cajoled, rewarded as a sop to our masculine pride.’
She shook her head. ‘It does not seem to be in my nature to act so. But I will show them all that I have enough of my father and grandfather in me to make me more soldier and ruler than woman.’
He stood still in the quiet clearing, took the hand that lay on his arm and lifted it to his lips. ‘Never to me.’
She too was still, standing in her usual upright manner, her head lifted in a familiar tilt. ‘I know what I am to you,’ she said.
A horn sounded through the forest, echoing between the trees and she drew a deep breath. ‘We must go back – Robert will be looking for me.’ And then as they walked back to the horses she added, ‘Stay by me, Brien FitzCount.’
He cupped his hands for her to mount, looking up at her as she settled in the saddle. He did not answer for no words were needed, nor would any be as eloquent as that moment’s exchange of glances. Then he remounted and nodding to the groom to follow them, rode with her out of the clearing.
That evening the Prior of Kirkham came to the small chamber Brien shared with Baldwin of Redvers and finding him alone entered. Prior Waltheof was a younger brother of Earl Simon of Senlis and son of Maud, who had been Countess of Northampton and was now wife to King David of Scotland, but he had eschewed his high connections and lived a life of simple austerity. He had a letter in his hand.
‘It is from the Abbot of St. Mary of the Fountains,’ he said in his dry voice without preamble. ‘He says Archbishop Thurstin is very ill, dying, and he thinks I should return at once.’
‘I am sorry,’ Brien said and pulled forward a stool. ‘The Archbishop is a good old man. I can see you are concerned both for him and for the succession too, I suspect.’
Prior Waltheof inclined his head. ‘We must have the right man in York. Sometimes I think because the King is so seldom in the north that the Archbishop there is more important than Canterbury.’
‘You may be right. Whom would you see in Thurstin’s place?’
‘Abbot Richard himself, I think,’ the Prior said slowly. ‘He has shown at Fountains what he can do.’
Brien smiled faintly and poured some wine for his visitor. ‘But that is a daughter house of Citeaux and you are at a house of Cluny – I did not think you would favour him. ’
Waltheof refused the wine politely and laid the letter on his knee. ‘A few years ago, my lord Brien, I went to Cluny and on my way home stayed a night at Clairvaux with Abbot Bernard. Ah, there is a man of God indeed, I have met no one like him. He would rid Cluny of all its pomp and wealth and have men live simpler as they do at his house, as they do now at Fountains. I told Bernard I would prefer to live at such a house.’
‘And what Bernard approves might well be done?’
Waltheof looked straightly at him. ‘His care is for souls and his work for reform, for the purging of worldliness from the Church. I pray God He may allow me to leave Kirkham. There I am a landowner, a man of affairs, dealing with tenants and markets and moneys and this is no work for a monk who would be holy.’ He spoke with humility but his eyes were alight with passionate zeal. ‘Please God we will not have a man of Cluny for Archbishop.’ Brien regarded him, a shrewd suspicion forming at the back of his mind. ‘To whom does Abbot Richard incline?’
Waltheof lowered his gaze. For a long time he did not speak but sat turning the Abbot’s letter in his hands, his thin fingers well shaped, his pale blue eyes troubled. At last he said, ‘Myself,’ and the word came out on a sigh.
‘Well, that is good news. I am sure the Empress would support you and with Abbot Bernard to uphold you at the papal court – ’
‘No, no!’ The Prior stopped him, his voice trembling. ‘Do not say it. I do not want that. I want to leave the world, not plunge deeper into it. If I had to occupy such a place I would say with Job, “I loathe my life.”’
‘My friend,’ Brien said gently, ‘if all good men ran from the world, who should guide us who must stay in it? I’ve heard that old Anselm tried to run from being Archbishop of Canterbury, but they forced him to it and he sat with sanctity in Augustine’s chair. You would do the same in York.’
The Prior shook his head. ‘I am no saint as Anselm was, Jesus rest him. I am nothing and would hide myself away in a lonely forgotten place.’
‘You cannot make yourself nothing,’ Brien said. He saw there was no false humility in Waltheof’s last words and went on, ‘You have high connections – your mother is Queen of Scotland and your appointment might bring a lasting peace on the border; as your brother is Earl of Northampton and a friend of Stephen’s so you might bring influence to bear there.’
‘Do not speak of my connections, I beg you,’ Waltheof said with a shudder. ‘I love my mother and pray for her daily but I would forget she is a Queen. To be enmeshed in the world is to court disaster. She told me once that my grandfather whose name I bear plunged dangerously into plots and when he wanted to become a monk it was too late – he lost his head and though they honour him now at Croyland, I remember him and turn my face from high office.’
‘But high office in the Church is another matter,’ Brien protested. He got up and pulled a tapestry across the narrow window for it was growing cold. He looked back at the black figure, the honest conscienc
e-ridden face. ‘We must have a pope, and bishops and abbots, so let us have the best of men to fill those places.’
‘Indeed,’ Waltheof agreed, ‘but some men can fill them without danger to their immortal souls – I do not think I could.’ He got up, the letter in his hand. ‘We have been friends for many years, Brien – I doubt if I need to tell you that among laymen one can do what another cannot. Do you not see that one lord may fight and burn and plunder and eat his dinner afterwards with a good appetite while another will dream of the flames and the bloodied swords and the screams of women?’
His words stirred a response in Brien so that he sat down on the edge of the bed, staring thoughtfully at his friend. Waltheof had pinpointed something he had already begun to guess at – that there would come a moment in the inevitable fighting when revulsion would come to him, when he would shrink where others would not. He had seen men who fought well and dealt with honour with their enemies and others in whom bestiality found an easy prey, and in front of him now and of all who lay in this castle tonight must be months, perhaps years of warfare so that it mattered in what spirit it was waged.
The Lion's Legacy (Conqueror Trilogy Book 3) Page 10