by Hilary Green
‘It is in the nature of such men,’ she said. ‘They serve only for pay and if they do not see any chance of victory they will not fight. If you are ever to be successful in battle you must gather to yourself men who fight from loyalty and conviction, men who will lay down their lives in a cause they believe is just. It takes time to build that kind of trust. It cannot be bought.’
He looked up at her, his face haggard and his eyes red. ‘I cannot even buy them. I have no money to pay them. They came with me on the promise of reward and now I have nothing to give them.’
She shook her head in despair. ‘You foolish child! What do you expect to happen now? These are dangerous men and you will have to pay them off somehow.’
‘Then you must give me the money,’ he said.
‘I do not have the money to waste on your rash enterprises. Do you not realize how much my revenues have been diminished over the last years? I could not pay your men, even if I wanted to. You have put your head into this trap. Now you must find your own way out of it.’
‘Then I shall ask Uncle Robert.’
‘You can ask. I doubt if you will get the reply you hope for.’
He rode off to Bristol the next day, while his mercenaries, those that remained, caroused at her expense and picked fights with her own knights. Then Robert arrived, grim-faced.
‘What has happened? You have not agreed to pay his men?’
‘I have not. I need all my money to pay my own men, and he needs to learn that he cannot expect either of us to rescue him from his own foolhardiness.’
‘So where is he now?’
He gave a mirthless laugh. ‘He has gone to appeal to his cousin Stephen for succour!’
‘To Stephen? Is he mad?’
‘Perhaps not. Whatever Stephen’s faults, he has a reputation for generosity towards those who appeal to him. And it would be worth his while to pay off Henry’s debts, just to get him out of the country.’
He was right. Henry returned triumphant. ‘Cousin Stephen received me warmly and entertained me most nobly. He is a man of great generosity. He has given me enough money to pay my men and to spare.’
‘Does that mean you accept his right to the throne and will not fight for your inheritance?’
‘Oh no.’ He looked as if the answer was obvious. ‘He understands that I still maintain my rights and shall strive to establish them. It is an agreement between gallant adversaries, in the spirit of knighthood.’
Her anger evaporated in an upsurge of tender pride. She reached for his hand. ‘So, now you can pay your men and send them packing and we can sit down together and attend to the business of the realm – such as it is at present.’
He stayed with her for a month, but Geoffrey sent messages demanding his return and he left in the middle of May. Later he wrote to say that on Ascension Day he visited the convent of Bec-Hellouin and was received with great ceremony and acclamation.
There was less fighting that summer. Many of the nobles had heeded the call to join the crusade and others had simply tired of the struggle and were licking their wounds in their own castles. She heard that Stephen was pressing the Pope to allow Eustace to be crowned in his own lifetime. It was a custom often adopted in France but it had never been done in England and Eugenius refused. It was a small victory.
Geoffrey wrote from Rouen.
My dear wife,
You will know by now that I am firmly established both as Duke of Normandy and Count of Anjou. It is a great victory, but the control and administration of such a large domain requires me to spend a great deal of time travelling around from one castle to another. I remember well the great help you were to me in the early days of our marriage, with your unrivalled knowledge and experience in these matters. I need someone to act in my stead while I am away and there is no one so suited to the role as you are.
I would also remind you that you have three sons, two of whom have not seen their mother for ten years. You have a duty as a mother, as well as a wife; both of which you have failed to fulfil.
It seems to me that your struggle to establish yourself as Queen of England has come to nothing and that matters are no nearer to being resolved than they were when you left Normandy. Would it not be better, for you as well as for your children, to return here and take up your rightful position at my side, as Duchess of Normandy?
The letter evoked a turmoil of emotions. Her first reaction was anger. She was tempted to write back pointing out that the failure of her hopes in England was in large part due to his lack of support. But Geoffrey’s accusation that she had failed in her duty as a mother hit home. She had given a great deal of her attention to Henry, but over recent years she had thought less and less about her other sons. It was a failing – perhaps a sin – and it should be remedied. Then, there was the prospect of life as Duchess of Normandy to consider. To go back would mean an end to her hopes, but it would mean the end of warfare; and an end to the burden of guilt she carried for the suffering of the common people. She had no doubt that there was useful work she could do in helping to settle the duchy peacefully after years of upheaval. She could bring justice and good governance to the whole of Normandy and Anjou, rather than the small part of England that was all she currently controlled. There was one consideration, however, that outweighed the rest. If she left, it would be an end to the hopes of the men who had supported her and who had become her friends. Most importantly, it would mean abandoning her brothers, and she did not like to imagine what Robert would say. And, most crucial of all, it would mean abandoning Henry’s prospect of one day inheriting the throne.
As the months passed, with no change in the balance of power, she found her thoughts returning to the prospect of a retreat to Normandy more and more frequently. Then came a message that seemed to her a direct indication of the will of God. Jocelyn of Salisbury wrote to her. The Pope supported his claim to Devizes Castle and she was threatened with excommunication if she refused.
It was a dank, grey day in November when Roger of Gloucester rode into her castle. She was sitting in her private chamber reading and as soon as he was announced she knew what he had come to say. He made the conventional obeisance and murmured, ‘Heavy news, my lady.’
‘Your father?’
He swallowed and cleared his throat, as if to speak the word was a struggle. ‘Dead, madam.’
She clasped a hand to her own throat, but whether it was to stifle a sob or because she suddenly found it hard to draw breath she could not tell. ‘How?’
‘It was quick. He did not suffer long. We had been sitting at dinner. He was laughing at the antics of a juggler. Then he got up and seemed to shudder, clutched at his chest and fell to the ground. When I reached him he was insensible. We carried him to his bed and called the physician, but he said there was nothing to be done.’
‘Tell me,’ she leant towards him. ‘Was he in a state of grace?’
‘He was, madam. We sent for the chaplain and he conducted the last rites and just at that moment my father seemed to rouse. He opened his eyes and whispered the words of confession, and then he fell back, and his soul fled to Him who made it.’
Tears were on her cheeks but they were tears of relief. ‘Where he will be received and set among the warriors of God.’
‘I pray so, my lady.’
She was silent for a moment. Then she rose to her feet. ‘I should like to go to the chapel and pray for him. Will you come with me?’
‘Most willingly.’
She sent for her own chaplain and together they repeated the prayers for the soul of the departed. She did not weep. As with the death of her first husband, the emperor, and the death of her father, this was a grief beyond the comfort of tears.
Next day she rode with Roger to Bristol for Robert’s funeral. All his family were gathered there. Mabel, the old antagonism between them long forgotten, was stoic and dignified. Robert’s sons were all there, except of course for Philip. His daughters had journeyed from distant parts of the kingd
om. Matilda, her namesake, the wife of Ranulph of Chester, arrived with her husband and children; and Mabel, whom she remembered as a shy girl, was now the wife of Aubrey de Vere. Reginald was present, of course, and to her great comfort, Brian fitz Count had left Wallingford to join the mourners.
Robert’s eldest son, Walter, would inherit the earldom, but Matilda knew already that he was not a warrior like his father. In fact, he had the reputation of preferring the bedchamber to the battlefield and she had her own private thoughts about the kind of company he kept there. Roger had his career to make in the Church and the rest were still boys. None of them had shown any sign of their father’s drive and ambition. They would have no interest in fighting for her cause.
In procession they followed the coffin, draped in a white pall, to the Priory of St James, while the priests chanted the miserere and de profundis. The funeral mass was celebrated and at the end Robert’s destrier, fully caparisoned, was led up to the altar by one of his squires and offered to the officiating priest. It would be redeemed later by Walter for a cash donation. Finally Robert’s body was lowered into the tomb prepared for it. Then they returned to the castle for the funerary feast.
When the meal was over she rose and the chatter in the hall died down.
‘My friends, we have lost a noble spirit, a man of courage and integrity unsurpassed by any in the land. He was to you a husband, a father, a brother, a grandfather. To me, as well as a brother, he was my dear friend and my most loyal supporter, without whom I could never have laid claim to my rightful heritage. He fought many battles on my behalf at risk of his life and laid out much in treasure and time, and my gratitude to him is boundless and without end. But he is gone, and the world for all of us is changed. The time has come for me to embrace that change. The country has been troubled with war and dissent for too long. I intend very soon to return to Normandy and pass the rest of my days, if God wills, in peace.’ A murmur of consternation ran round the hall and she had to raise her voice to speak over it. ‘Do not think, therefore, that I have relinquished my right to the crown. I intend instead to pass it to my son Henry, who is the legitimate heir. He is almost of an age to prosecute the quest on his own account and when he returns to claim his birthright I know all of you will support him. Many of you have already accepted him as your liege lord and sworn the oath of fealty. Those who have not will, I know, hasten to do so when the time is right. So now I bid you all farewell. I thank you for your unfailing support and I shall remember you all in my prayers, as I hope you will do for me.’
She sat. A few voices were raised in protest, asking her to stay, but they quickly fell silent. She sensed a relief among all those gathered. They, too, had had enough of war. Soon she left them to their wine and their memories and went up to her bedchamber.
Next morning, as she prepared to leave, Brian asked her permission to ride with her to Devizes instead of returning to Wallingford. She gave it gladly. As they rode he entertained her with stories and poems, as he did on that long ride to Rouen for her betrothal, and after dinner that night he sang for her, the song of the lovesick knight which he composed for her on that far off evening. Listening, she thought that perhaps at last the day had come for which she had longed, when they could sit together in peace and enjoy each other’s company.
Next morning he asked to speak with her alone. She dismissed her attendants with a trembling around her heart which might be either hope or fear. She offered him a seat beside her and noticed for the first time that he, too, had aged. The hair at his temples was grey and there was a stiffness in the way he moved that she did not recall seeing before.
He said, ‘You are quite determined to return to Normandy?’
‘Yes. There is no place for me here now. I must hand this castle back to the Church or risk my immortal soul. With Miles and Robert gone, I cannot go back to Bristol or Gloucester, and Oxford is lost. Where else could I go … unless—’ She made her tone deliberately light ‘—I were to come and live with you in Wallingford.’
He did not smile. ‘That would not be possible, for I shall not be there.’
‘Not there?’
‘Since you are returning to Normandy you have no further need of me to guard Wallingford for you. William Boterell is well able to keep it safe. This frees me to follow a course I have long contemplated. I intend to enter a monastery. I have already spoken with the abbot of Reading and he is happy to receive me. I need only your permission.’
‘A monastery? But your wife…?’
‘She has already entered the convent of Oakwood. You know that our marriage was never more than a match arranged by your father to give me, a landless knight, the rank and resources to sustain myself in the company of men like your brothers. It was never consummated. Hence I have no sons to inherit and when I die the honour of Wallingford will return to the crown. God willing that will mean to Henry. I should like to spend what time I have left in study and contemplation. Will you allow it?’
It was the final blow. She had to swallow hard before she could speak. ‘You know I will do anything to give you ease and pleasure. You have been to me a tower of strength and it would ill become me to prevent you from pursuing the health of your own soul.’
He bowed his head. ‘Thank you.’
She was silent for a moment, struggling to comprehend what his decision meant. ‘I suppose … I suppose, then, this is the last time we shall meet.’
‘On this side of the grave, unless God wills otherwise.’
‘I shall pray for you.’
‘And I for you, and for your son. May we both live to see him installed in his rightful place.’
‘Amen.’
He got up. ‘I bid you farewell, my lady.’
She rose too and he went down on his knees and kissed her hands for the last time. ‘God go with you, queen of my heart.’
‘And with you, my dear, my dearest friend.’
He stood, bowed and went quietly out of the room.
20
WESTMINSTER ABBEY, 19 DECEMBER 1154
The trumpets sound and the procession begins to move down the long nave from the great west door. She leans forward from her seat in the choir stalls to watch her son moving to his coronation. Henry looks magnificent. He is dressed in a crimson surcoat and his chestnut hair glows in the light of hundreds of candles. He will never have his father’s height or his father’s beauty, but his whole presence radiates energy and power. His expression is open and benign as he looks from side to side and nods in recognition of the bows and curtseys; but she knows him well enough to understand that behind that friendly gaze he is taking note of who is present and who has chosen to stay away. He is twenty-one years old but already well acquainted with the necessities of rule – thanks to her teaching. He will make a good king, she thinks. He will be able to heal the wounds of the past decade and a half of strife and bring the warring elements together.
She is less confident about the woman at his side. Eleanor of Aquitaine is undoubtedly a splendid catch, but she is eleven years older than Henry. She reminds herself ruefully that she should not consider that as a necessary impediment, since there was almost the same age difference between herself and Geoffrey; but whereas she had been a widow, Eleanor is the divorced wife of the King of France, put aside because after fifteen years of marriage she has born him only daughters. It is vital that she bears Henry sons. There must not be a repetition of the conflict caused by her own father’s death, leaving only a daughter as his heir. The marriage has scandalized Europe, coming as it did only eight weeks after Eleanor’s final parting from Louis. As soon as she was free she rode at top speed to Poitiers to join Henry and they were married within weeks. It has never been clear to her whether they had planned it together when they met in Paris the previous year, or whether it had been an impulsive decision on Eleanor’s part. Whichever it was, Henry is besotted with her. Or is he besotted with the vast tract of territory she brings under his rule? Watching them as they make their slow
way towards the high altar, she reflects on the twists of fortune that have meant that the boy who, at his birth, stood to inherit no more than the county of Anjou, now rules an empire that stretches from the borders of Scotland in the north to the Pyrenees in the south.
It has not happened quickly or easily. Henry had been forced to fight for his inheritance on both sides of the Channel. It had seemed for a few months that Normandy was secure, after King Louis accepted his homage and confirmed him as his father’s heir, but no one expected him to inherit the title so soon. Geoffrey’s death had been as sudden and as unexpected as her own father’s, and from similar causes. Meanwhile Henry had been determined to continue the fight for the English crown. His first expedition had gained him little, except his knighting at the hands of his uncle, David of Scotland, but the English lords who had supported her had continued the struggle and begged him to return. Finally, in the depths of winter in 1153 he had braved the narrow seas with a small but loyal force and had set about a campaign of harassment against Stephen’s castles. He had won new allies by offering generous rewards in terms of land and influence, and by avoiding pitched battle had made himself a thorn in Stephen’s side. It was fitting, she thinks, that the final confrontation took place outside Wallingford, which Stephen was besieging yet again. Brian was no longer there to defend it, of course. He did not live long after retiring to Reading Abbey and she suspects now that he already knew that death was approaching when he made the decision. But Wallingford was still stoutly held by William Boterell, aided by Miles’s son Roger, and Henry had marched to its relief. It was at that point that the great lords of England finally decided that they had had their fill of warfare and turned to the men of the Church to broker a peace deal. Henry and Stephen met face to face on either side of a stream and, as Henry told her later with a wry smile, complained bitterly about the disloyalty of their respective allies. In the end it was Theobald of Bec and Henry of Winchester who hammered out a deal by which Stephen agreed to disinherit his son Eustace and adopt Henry as his heir. Even then, it might not have been the end of hostilities. Eustace was understandably furious and would have continued the fight, if he had not died suddenly a few months later – a final proof, to her mind, of the legitimacy of Henry’s succession and the favour of God. It was not to be expected, however, that Henry would inherit so soon. Indeed for a desperate week or two in October of that year she had feared that all her hopes might yet come to nothing when Henry fell dangerously ill – but in the end it was Stephen who died and Henry recovered to assume the role she had always envisaged for him.