by Jean Plaidy
How they had cheered him! How they had rallied to his banner. And when Odo arrived he was set upon and taken prisoner, and it was not until Rufus had won the day that Robert, characteristically, put in an appearance. How typical of Robert! How had he ever thought he could outwit their father? That had been just another of his miscalculations, of course.
Rufus could not be hard on his captives. How could he be . . . on Normans? Moreover many of them had been friends with whom he had played in his childhood. More important was the fact that he might need their support in the future, for he knew that he would not be able to keep the promises he had made to the people; the taxation which the people called unjust, could certainly not be abolished; nor would he change the forestry laws, for nothing was going to be allowed to interfere with his pleasure in the chase.
So he and Robert made a pact. If death should overtake either of them, that one would pass over all his possessions to the other. Thus the survivor would have both England and Normandy.
It had been at this time that Henry had become so incensed against his brothers. He said they ignored his existence; they forgot that he also was their father’s son, and he demanded to know what his inheritance would be.
‘The ladies of England,’ retorted Rufus. ‘And I doubt Robert would debar you from enjoying the Norman ones when you visit his Duchy.’
‘And I’ll leave the men to you,’ answered Henry, and for a while they hurled insults at each other. But Henry was indeed resentful. He had set himself up in the fortress of Mont St-Michel, with the intention of making himself a nuisance to both his brothers.
It was not possible to enjoy a peaceful reign. There would always be conflict. It was looming now in yet another spot. The Church! The Conqueror had been a deeply religious man and he had lived in harmony with his Archbishop of Canterbury, Lanfranc. Rufus lacked his father’s devotion to the Church. Often he blasphemed against it and he did not suffer from those twinges of conscience which had beset the Conqueror when he considered his reception in heaven. Rufus had an inherent dislike of churchmen. Many of them were rapacious, a characteristic he understood perfectly, being well endowed with it himself, but whereas he admitted this they hid their avaricious natures under a guise of hypocrisy. At least Rufus was not a hypocrite. In private Rufus could laugh at himself and did. Very few people of his time could do that; many of his intimates had whispered among themselves that it was only this characteristic which made him tolerable.
He could not accuse Lanfranc of hypocrisy. There was a man of great integrity and Rufus had never had any intention of removing him from his post. Death had done that. The See of Canterbury was very rich and Rufus had made a habit of keeping the abbeys and bishoprics under his own control whenever the occasion arose. He found this highly profitable; so when Lanfranc died he added Canterbury to those over which he held sway and was in no hurry to find a successor to the Archbishop.
Since he had been ill, however, even he had experienced a few qualms. His priests had shaken their heads over him as though they feared his future in Heaven if he did not repent and, although had he been in good health he would have laughed at them, it was not so easy with Death lurking not far distant.
It so happened that Anselm, the prior of Bec in Normandy, was visiting England and because of this man’s qualities, Rufus decided that he should become Archbishop of Canterbury.
When the offer was made to Anselm, he thanked the King but shook his head. ‘My home is in Normandy,’ he told him. ‘I have lived so long at Bec that I could consider no other.’
Rufus smiled grimly. We shall soon see about that, he told himself.
Craftily he ordered that Anselm should visit his sick-room where he had ordered the leading churchmen to assemble. When the bewildered Anselm entered, a crozier was thrust into his hands and a Te Deum was sung to celebrate his election.
The sick King lay back on his bag of straw, smiling. He could never resist baiting the clergy.
Anselm looked sternly at him. ‘My lord,’ he had said, ‘you must understand that I am not one of your subjects. I am a Norman and owe obedience only to my Duke.’
Rufus laughed at him. ‘So you would lay down the crozier we have bestowed on you, would you? Do so . . . for a while. You will take it up again.’
And he did, for Robert at the time was eager to come to terms with his brother after having been so disastrously defeated in his attempt to take the English crown that it was necessary for him to comply with the request of Rufus. So the reluctant Anselm had been obliged to take the post offered him and now presided over the See of Canterbury.
These fanatical men were a menace to peace. They had to question this and that. They could never let well alone; and now master Anselm was trying to prove that the Church was more important than the State, a belief which Rufus would never accept.
He had a power, though, Rufus would admit that. These religious fanatics often had. He had preached to Rufus so eloquently of the dire punishment that befell sinners in hell that even he had become a little shaken and had released numerous prisoners, cut taxes and forgiven people their debts to the crown. But now he was well again and he had repudiated all that he had been persuaded into promising when the gates of Hell had appeared uncomfortably close and warm.
‘Death has receded,’ Anselm had told him. ‘But do not imagine it will not return.’
‘Time enough to repent when I see it in the distance,’ Rufus had commented with a laugh.
‘You are asking to be struck dead without warning.’
‘Must I give up all then for the sake of my future life?’
‘That is the Christian way.’
Rufus grimaced. ‘My good Anselm, my sins are so many that I doubt they’d all be forgiven however many good works I performed. So I will do as I wish down here to make sure that I get what I want at least in one place.’
Anselm was horrified. Let him be. Rufus was not sure that he believed all these pious men told him. He liked better the religion of his ancestors – feasting in Valhalla after death, a paradise to be reached through valour rather than pious deeds. He could have his place there with the utmost ease, for he had inherited his father’s courage and was well skilled in the arts of war.
He might bait Anselm but all the same he knew that there would be trouble in that quarter.
The immediate anxiety, though, was the presence of Edgar Atheling in the country. Many of his advisers had said that the Atheling claim to the throne must never be forgotten.
It was true, but Edgar was no fighter. He did not believe Edgar would come against him. Such a pleasant boy, though more Robert’s friend than his. He was too rough for the Atheling, but Robert with his charm and his extravagances and his love of poetry had been as a brother to Edgar.
One of his knights asked for audience and he received him in his bedroom. He must have important news to come to him in the morning when his temper might not be too good.
‘What bad news bring you?’ he growled. He liked to see the alarm in faces. Why, he could order the fellow to a dungeon and have his eyes put out if he offended him. Not that he would do this. That was a punishment he reserved for real offenders. But it gave a pleasant sense of power to set men trembling.
‘One of your knights has been slain in combat, my lord.’
‘And what concern of mine should this be that I must be awakened at an early hour of the morning to learn of it?’
The hour was not early but the fellow dared not contradict.
‘I believe you would wish to know, my lord, that he was slain by a friend of Edgar Atheling because he said that he was raising up a family who would try to take the crown.’
Rufus nodded slowly.
‘So this man was slain by a friend of the Atheling. He has good friends, has he not? And indeed so have I, for they bring me news when they think I should know it.’
The man smiled slowly and Rufus broke into loud laughter.
‘Brave man,’ he said.
; ‘To take up the cause of the Atheling, my lord, ’tis so.’
‘Nay!’ roared Rufus. ‘You are a brave man to disturb me from my rest. You know my temper. ’Tis not of its best at this hour, man.’
But his humour was good. He was pleased with the fellow.
He wanted to think about this Atheling and his family. A young boy deprived of his crown by a usurping bastard; and the family taking refuge in England. Edgar was brave to come here where many would say he had more right to the throne than William Rufus.
Edgar was not a coward; he had always known that; but he was not a fighter either.
There was one thing that was certain. Edgar had not come to England to claim the crown. How could he? He had no army. All the same it would not be a bad idea to keep him occupied.
He decided he would send for Edgar Atheling.
Edgar came in answer to his summons.
They took stock of each other. He has grown coarser, thought Edgar. But he had always been coarse with his red face, thick form, his rather stuttering speech and his manner which could change from bantering friendship to haughtiness in the space of minutes. Edgar had always been more in tune with Robert.
Very handsome, these Saxons, thought Rufus. Some of them are good fighters though. I remember Harold’s coming to my father’s court, when he was made to swear away his kingdom over the bones of dead saints. There was a handsome man, but a fighter too. Edgar was not that, but no coward. A dreamer, more like. Another such as Robert.
‘So, Edgar, you have brought your sister’s brood here.’
‘And grateful we are for your hospitality.’
‘Well, if I denied it where else would you have gone? To Normandy?’
‘I had wondered whether I should throw myself on Robert’s mercy.’
‘Robert is not my friend at this time, Edgar. You know he fancied he would like my crown . . . or rather his barons did. Robert is too indolent to fancy much but extravagant living.’
‘You wrong him, William.’
‘You were always his special friend. But they were good times we had together, eh, Edgar? The trouble with my brothers and myself is that we’re a fighting brood. Robert wants what I have. I confess I should not mind having what Robert has and Henry would like what we both have. What can you expect, with a father such as ours?’
‘He was one of the greatest men the world has known.’
‘Ay to that, but an uncomfortable one, Edgar. Though in the latter years he and I grew close. After Richard died he took me into his confidence. He was determined to make a king of me and as I was determined to be one – and to remain one – that worked well. But, Edgar, I have not brought you here to talk of the past but of the future. What of these nephews and nieces of yours?’
‘As you know, William, Donald Bane has snatched the crown of Scotland.’
‘And the poor little rightful king is too young to make an attempt to regain it.’
‘Too young and too poor.’
‘Well, he has an uncle who is not so young.’
‘But poor, William.’
Rufus burst into loud laughter.
‘Well, we shall see, we shall see. There are girls, I believe, of marriageable age?’
‘They are over-young as yet. Edith, the eldest, is not yet sixteen.’
‘What do you propose to do with them?’
‘I had hoped you would give your consent for them to be educated in an abbey with the nuns.’
‘You don’t propose they should take the veil?’
Edgar shrugged his shoulders helplessly. ‘Who would wish to marry dowerless princesses?’
‘Their coffers may be empty, Edgar, but their veins are furnished with good royal Saxon blood.’
‘’Tis true. Their parents dead, though, their brother dispossessed, themselves penniless . . .’
‘You tell a doleful tale. Is not their aunt the Abbess of Rumsey?’
‘That is so.’
‘Well then, Edgar, that takes care of the girls. Let them go to their aunt and when the time comes we shall see whether it will be the marriage bed or the nun’s veil for them.’
‘William, I was certain I could rely on your friendship.’
‘The younger ones may go to Rumsey, too, until plans are made for them. But it is your Edgar of whom we must think. There is a young King without a crown. This Donald Bane is a man who holds a high opinion of himself, I am told. He has displaced a young boy who had just become an orphan and who had no army behind him. He has installed himself in his castle and prates of marching below the border to harry my good subjects. You would have thought that which happened to his predecessor would have warned him, would you not, Edgar?’
‘As I warned Malcolm.’
‘Ay, you were always a cautious man, Edgar. I have a proposal. What if I provided troops and placed you and young Edgar at the head of them and you marched into Scotland and displaced this traitor?’
‘You would do that, William!’
‘I would like to see this young Edgar. If I had as high an opinion of him as I have of his uncle, I might well do that. I want this Donald Bane put down, Edgar. And when I have set young Edgar on the throne I shall expect him to be a good friend to me. He will swear fealty to me. He will be a good vassal; then there will be peace between me and the King of Scotland.’
Edgar’s eyes were gleaming. Rufus of course would want repayment for his help. That was natural. But it was far better for Edgar to be restored as King of Scotland, even though he was also vassal to the King of England, than to wander about the world stateless, as Edgar Atheling had done for so many years.
The pact was concluded.
Edgar should have the chance to regain his kingdom and when he did he would always be grateful to the King of England.
The Abbess received the children in her sanctum. The stone flags were cold to the feet and there was no furniture, only a board on trestles and a rough stool on which the Abbess sat.
The children stood before her while her cold stern gaze flickered over them.
The eldest, Edith, was the most handsome, she decided. Therefore she would need the most correction. Her hair was in two thick plaits, and as one of these hung over her shoulder the Abbess Christina assured herself that her niece had placed it there for adornment and must be cured of the cardinal sin of vanity.
‘Pray remove that object. It disgusts me,’ said Christina, staring at her niece.
Edith had no idea to what she referred and stammered, ‘I do not understand . . .’
‘That piece of hair which you have wantonly placed where you think it will be admired. Hide it, I say.’
Edith flushed and taking the plait threw it over her shoulder where it could no longer offend the Abbess.
‘You will learn how we deal with vanity here,’ she said. ‘We pray that it shall be taken from us and if it is not it is whipped out of us.’
‘I was not meaning to show my hair. I . . .’
‘Silence,’ said Christina. ‘We do not excuse our follies. We admit them and pray for the power to cast them out. They are devils that possess us and need to be exorcised.’
Edith silently prayed that Uncle Edgar would return and take them away from this cold unfriendly place and this hostile woman. But she knew that she prayed in vain. It had been her mother’s wish that their Aunt Christina should care for them. Could their kind and gentle mother have known how harsh a life of religion had made her sister?
The little ones were cowering close to her. Mary was dismayed, but Edith knew that Aunt Christina had decided that she should be her main victim.
‘You are here to learn to become worthy members of a great family,’ said the Abbess, ‘but first of all you must be children of God. Here we show no mercy to those who stray from virtue. Understand that, every one of you. You will now go to the apartments reserved for you and there you will find your garments ready. Those which you now wear will be taken from you. They are the vestments of the world.’
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nbsp; A nun had come into the chamber, and the Abbess said to her, ‘Take them away, Sister. You know your duty.’
Edith was about to protest and for a few moments she and her aunt looked into each other’s eyes. When her parents were alive she had resisted Aunt Christina’s efforts to put her into a nun’s habit. Once Aunt Christina had brought the rough serge garment to her and forced her to put it on. It had scratched her skin and was uncomfortable and ever after Aunt Christina had always terrified her. There was something satanic about her for all her piety or perhaps because of it. She was so sure of her virtue that she did not care how much she hurt others in her efforts to make them as good as herself.
How angry her father had been when he had seen her in the nun’s habit!
‘Take that thing off,’ he had roared. And how happily she had done so. ‘My daughter is not destined for the cloistered life,’ he had shouted. ‘A match will be made for her. She is to be a wife and a mother.’
Aunt Christina had been angry, but she could not stand out against the King of Scotland. Alas, her father’s eye had been cruelly pierced by a traitor’s lance and there was no one to protect her now, and she was at the mercy of stern Aunt Christina.
The chamber to which she was taken was small and cold. There was a crucifix on the wall and a bag of straw on the floor. On the straw lay a black robe – of the same starchy material which she remembered. She shuddered with horror as the nun bade her remove her clothes. ‘Everything,’ said the nun, her eyes glinting. Off came the soft shift and it was replaced by the rough one and over that went the black robe.
Never in her life had Edith felt so desolate. Her parents dead, herself a prisoner in this gloomy place presided over by harsh jailors.
The nun left her and when she was alone she ran her hands over the hateful cloth; then in a sudden rage she took off the robe and throwing it to the floor, stamped on it.
‘I will never, never take the veil,’ she cried. ‘Never!’
Then the realization of the futility of what she was doing swept over her.
What was the use of stamping on the cloth? What was the use of raging?
She knelt down by the straw and clasping her hands together prayed, ‘Oh God, help me. Save me from my aunt Christina.’