The Lion of Justice

by Jean Plaidy

  Anselm realized that he had made a mistake and that he could not expect more help from Urban, so he decided to leave Rome altogether. He had a great friend in Archbishop Hugh who resided in Lyons. He joined him and, receiving a warm welcome, decided to settle there until such a time as he could return to Canterbury. As it seemed that would never be while Rufus lived, it could be said that Rufus had won the battle.

  Love comes to Wilton Abbey

  THE THICK STONE walls of the Abbey of Wilton had become a formidable prison for Edith. On this spot had once stood a wooden building, and Queen Editha (the wife in name only of Edward the Confessor who was, it was said, too saintly to have ever consummated his marriage) had rebuilt it in stone at the same time as the Confessor was building Westminster Abbey.

  The order was, as at Rumsey, that of the Black Benedictines and, now that they were at Wilton, Christina was more determined than ever that her niece should follow in her footsteps. She was delighted by the transfer. Wilton, she said, was the Royal Abbey. Atheling Princesses had received their education there ever since it had been founded in its present form by Queen Editha, and of course an Atheling had always been the Abbess.

  The time would soon come for Edith to take her vows. It was a ceremony long overdue. This affair of Alan of Bretagne had postponed it, but now God had removed him there was no need to delay longer.

  Edith was thankful for the company of her sister. Mary had never suffered as she had. Although she was forced to wear the robes of the order they did not irritate her skin as they did Edith’s, and Mary was always sure that one day she would escape into the world.

  But now even she was getting anxious.

  Sometimes she would come into Edith’s cell to talk to her. It would have been forbidden had they been discovered, so they always had to talk in whispers and keep on the alert for prying nuns. Often Mary had hidden herself in the stone alcove while Edith stood before the cross, as though in meditation, until footsteps passed away.

  ‘How I long to escape,’ said Mary. ‘And we are getting old, Edith. You are twenty-one years of age. Soon we shall be too old. Oh, if only our father had not died. I wish our uncle would come. I would ask if I could go back to Scotland. Perhaps then a husband would be found for me.’

  ‘Who can say what sort of husband?’ replied Edith, remembering the leering eyes of Alan of Bretagne.

  ‘Is not any husband better than living here for ever, wearing these fusty robes? I want to have jewels and an embroidered gown. Aunt Christina doesn’t want us to marry . . . especially you. She feels that marriage is a sinful state and yet how would the world go on without it!’

  Edith was silent, thinking of the conflict which had beset her when she could not make up her mind between the dreary existence under Aunt Christina and marriage with Alan of Bretagne. They were two extremes: there must be something in between. She did know now that if she could find a husband of her own ago – or thereabouts – a gentle kindly man, she would be ready to go to him and rejoice that she had escaped Aunt Christina.

  ‘We are tucked away here,’ said Mary, ‘and who is aware of us?’

  ‘Alan of Bretagne was,’ Edith reminded her. And she added, to comfort her sister, ‘It may well be that some others are.’

  She was right.

  This time it was Mary’s turn to be summoned to the Abbess’s sanctum, to be told that the King had given his consent to Eustace the Count of Boulogne to come to Wilton to see her.

  Mary’s expression betrayed her excitement.

  The Abbess looked at her sternly. ‘I see that you, as your sister once was, are eager for the marriage bed.’

  Mary, emboldened by the possibilities of escape, replied, ‘It is the lot of most women, Aunt.’

  ‘I am filled with sorrow to think that after all my teaching, all the efforts I have made to instil some piety into you, you should harbour lustful thoughts.’

  Mary, in her exulting mood, could not help feeling sorry for poor Aunt Christina, who would never have a husband and who hated the thought of anyone else’s having one. So she did not reply but kept her eyes lowered, that Aunt Christina might not see the pleasurable anticipation which she could not suppress.

  ‘You must prepare yourself for this meeting. It disgusts me that he should come here to inspect you as though you were a dog or a horse. I would forbid it, but he has the King’s consent to come and none of us dare disobey that.’

  How wonderful, thought Mary, that Aunt Christina’s sway was restricted.

  ‘I will send for you when this man arrives. Be prepared.’

  Mary went to her cell in a state of great excitement. Edith came to her to hear what the Abbess had said.

  ‘He is coming. Eustace of Boulogne. I shall be Countess of Boulogne! Oh, Edith, how I wish I had a rich embroidered gown in which to see him. What will he think of me in these hideous black robes?’

  ‘He’ll make allowances for them,’

  ‘With what joy shall I cast them off. I’ll tear them off. I’ll stamp on them.’

  ‘I did that, but little good did I derive from it.’

  ‘Oh, poor poor Edith.’

  The sisters clung together and Edith said, ‘Have you forgotten, Mary, that when you go I shall be here alone?’

  ‘Oh, Edith, I do remember it. That will spoil my joy.’

  ‘You must not allow it to be spoilt. It is better for one of us to be happy than neither of us.’

  She did not want her sister to know how desperate she felt. Mary’s going away, herself alone and Aunt Christina increasing the pressure on her to take the veil!

  It was a dismal prospect.

  How like that other occasion when Alan of Bretagne had come to Rumsey.

  They were both summoned to the great hall, there to receive the suitor.

  I pray that he is not old and lascivious and that Mary will be happy with him, thought Edith.

  Aunt Christina brought the visitors into the hall. There were several of them and one was quite handsome.

  The Abbess was looking angry, but of course she would, for although she did not wish Mary to succeed her as Abbess she would have preferred her to take the veil rather than emerge on what she could only think of as a lustful life.

  The handsome young man smiled. He had a worldly look about him which was engaging. If Alan of Bretagne had looked like that she would not have hesitated to choose him.

  The Abbess said, ‘Here are the Princesses.’

  They curtsied, the men bowed. ‘The Princess Edith; the Princess Mary.’

  The handsome young man was looking at Edith and smiling. Fortunate Mary! He had a certain charm about him.

  ‘The Count of Boulogne,’ said the Abbess presenting, not as Edith thought, the handsome young man, but another, much older man. Edith had scarcely noticed him. He took Mary’s hand and said, ‘I would speak with you.’

  As before, the Abbess insisted that this could only be under her surveillance, and as Edith had once sat in a window-seat with Alan of Bretagne, so Mary would now sit with Eustace of Boulogne.

  ‘And the Earl of Surrey,’ said the Abbess, indicating the man who had roused Edith’s interest. He bowed and took Edith’s hand and led her to another window seat.

  What could this mean? Rarely had Edith seen her aunt so angry.

  ‘I do not understand,’ she said.

  ‘I have the King’s consent to visit you,’ he replied.

  ‘Why so?’

  ‘If Eustace of Boulogne can visit the Princess Mary why should not William of Surrey visit the Princess Edith?’

  ‘But . . .’

  ‘Remember, I come with the King’s blessing. Let me tell you who I am. My mother was Gundred, the youngest daughter of William the Conqueror. She married William Warren, Earl of Surrey. My parents are both dead, and my uncle the King has always been kind to me.’

  ‘I see, and he has sent you here to see me.’

  ‘You know for what purpose.’

  ‘The Abbess . . .’ />
  ‘Is a dragon. I see it. She was angry when she knew that I was here. She had been expecting only Eustace. My uncle had told me that she would not welcome me. The situation amused him. So he allowed me to come with Eustace.’

  Edith smiled and checked herself.

  ‘I am glad to see you smile,’ he said. ‘It transforms you.’

  ‘There is little cause for smiling here.’

  ‘That is a pity.’

  ‘The King is not sure whether you have taken the veil.’

  ‘I have not.’

  ‘Then I have come in time.’

  The Abbess, watching Edith and William Warren together, was seething with indignation. How like the evil King of England to play such a trick on her! When she had made up her mind that in a very short time Edith would take vows from which it would be impossible for her to retract, this man had come.

  She rose, her face white and tense with suppressed fury. ‘I can allow no more time,’ she said. ‘I must ask you to leave.’

  William Warren took Edith’s hand and pressed it.

  ‘I will come again,’ he whispered.

  The Abbess conducted the visitors to the door.

  Edith and Mary went to Edith’s cell.

  ‘Edith,’ cried Mary, as soon as they were there. ‘Is this not a miracle? You as well.’ She added wistfully, ‘The Earl of Surrey is charming, is he not? Of course he is so much younger than Eustace. But just think of it. We are going to be free.’

  Edith was thinking of it.

  It was another miracle. She was not entirely sure of her feelings for the young man. All she did know was that a way of escape had been offered to her.

  She tossed on her straw, unable to sleep. Another opportunity. He was young and handsome; he was a grandson of the Conqueror. He was not repulsive to her and yet . . .

  What was wrong with her? Mary had been so determined to accept Eustace that she had made no complaint although he was not the handsome young man she had hoped for. She was in a happy state of euphoria. The world had taken on a new beauty. Mary had become quite beautiful and her black robes looked more incongruous than ever.

  And I, thought Edith, who had believed I was to be left here without her, that I would have to go on battling with Aunt Christina, with the certainty that if I stayed here I must in time obey, have another chance.

  She was not apprehensive but she felt no rapturous joy. Why should this be? What was wrong with her? William Warren was young, handsome, amiable. He had been courteous and she was being offered escape, and yet she felt a vague depression.

  She wanted to escape, and yet . . .

  What was it? Something she herself could not understand.

  The Abbess came to her cell.

  ‘So this man has come. Yet another of them.’

  Edith was silent.

  ‘The King may give his consent. If he does so it will not be easy to prevent a marriage. But if you declared your determination to take the veil . . .’

  ‘Nay,’ said Edith. ‘I will not take the veil.’

  ‘When I am dead you will be mistress of Wilton. Think of that. Here in this little world you would command all. You would be a ruler. Everyone here would obey you as they do me. If you marry this man, what will your life be? You will be submitted to indignities such as those I have warned you of. You will suffer painful childbearing, which is the lot of women who give way to the carnal desires of men. You still have a chance to escape it.’

  ‘I do not wish to take the veil.’

  ‘So you wish to marry this man. You have learned nothing. Have you forgotten your fears of Alan of Bretagne?’

  ‘The Earl of Surrey is not Alan of Bretagne.’

  ‘He is a man.’

  ‘I want time,’ said Edith, ‘time to think.’

  A gleam of hope touched the stern features of the Abbess. So she had not been altogether seduced by the Earl’s good looks.

  ‘Then think of it.’ said the Abbess. ‘Think of what it means. Remember what will be expected of you. Remember that God once gave you a sign. He is testing you. Do not fail Him.’

  When she had gone, Edith lay thinking of her, and she told herself then: ‘But of course I shall take him. It is just that because of what the Abbess has told me I am afraid. I could love him, I doubt not, in time. And marriage with him would mean escape from Wilton and Aunt Christina.’

  The Abbess fell sick and was obliged to keep to her bed. It so happened that at this time the two suitors called once more at the Abbey. Christina was unaware that they had come, and the two nuns who acted as her deputy, knowing that these men had the sanction of the King and that the object of Eustace of Boulogne was to decide whether he wished to ask for the hand of Mary, took them to the hall and the Princesses came down to see them.

  There was a man in the party who had not visited the Abbey before; and it was his presence which wrought a subtle change. He was older than the Earl of Surrey by some ten years and it was apparent from the first that both the suitors were in awe of him.

  There was an air of authority about him. His black hair, parted in the centre and worn long in the fashion of the day, fell about his shoulders in luxuriant curls, but there was nothing effeminate about him. His eyes flashed imperiously; his mouth was sensual but it could be suddenly hard and cruel. Christina’s trembling deputies knew that they were in the presence of an important personage, and as soon as Eustace demanded that the Princesses be sent for they were brought.

  When they came the stranger was the first to greet them, for both the Count of Boulogne and the Earl of Surrey stood aside for him.

  The Count said, ‘Prince Henry has accompanied us.’

  Both the girls curtsied. They knew that this man was the King’s younger brother and, in the event of the King’s dying before him and leaving no heir – which he certainly would not do – Henry could be King.

  Edith lifted her eyes and looked into his face. Never, she thought, had she seen a man so perfect. He was neither tall nor young; he must be ten years older than she was; but there was a gleam in his eyes when they met hers which showed his appreciation of her.

  ‘I am pleased that I came,’ he said, his eyes studying her intently as though he were trying to probe what lay beneath the black robe. ‘Come, let us sit down and we will talk together.’

  William Warren was not looking very pleased. But he accompanied Henry and Edith to the window seat. Eustace and Mary followed them.

  The nuns sat some distance from them, their eyes watchful.

  Henry said, ‘You may leave us.’

  ‘My lord,’ stammered one, ‘it is the wish of the Abbess and the rule of the Abbey . . .’

  He waved his hand.

  ‘We will change that rule,’ said Henry. ‘Pray leave us.’

  ‘My lord, the Abbess . . .’

  ‘It is not the Abbess who commands now,’ he said.

  They hesitated and looked at each other and then, curtsying, retired.

  He laughed, and Edith realized how little laughter there had been in her life.

  ‘Now,’ he said, ‘the watchdogs have gone.’

  ‘I should like to see you deal with the old dragon herself,’ commented Eustace.

  ‘It may well be that I shall have that pleasure,’ replied Henry.

  He was smiling at Edith. ‘It grieves me,’ he went on, ‘that you should be imprisoned in this place. You are worthy of a better fate. And those black robes . . . but let me consider. They are so ugly that they draw attention to your fairness by the very contrast.’

  No one had ever paid Edith compliments before. She flushed with pleasure. She knew what was happening. She had had dreams. She knew now why she had so feared Alan; she knew now why handsome young William Warren had not appealed to her.

  There was only one man in the world to whom she could happily go. It was strange that she should only have had to look at him to realize this. It was love, she supposed. At least she knew that nothing so completely exciting and exhilar
ating had ever happened to her before.

  Eustace and Mary were deep in conversation. It was amazing what a difference the restraint imposed by watchful eyes could have.

  ‘Tell me what you do here,’ said Henry. ‘How do you pass the days?’

  ‘In prayer and work.’

  ‘A Princess should not work, nor should she spend over-much time on her knees. Devotions should be brief. Do you not agree with me, nephew?’

  William Warren mumbled that he supposed the Prince was right.

  ‘I hear the Abbess is a stern jailer,’ went on Henry, leaning towards Edith.

  ‘’Tis so.’

  ‘That such a lady should be so imprisoned! It angers me. Does it not anger you, William?’

  ‘It shall not always be so,’ said William almost defiantly.

  ‘Nay,’ replied Henry, smiling into Edith’s eyes, ‘we must be assured of that.’

  ‘It is for that purpose that I am here,’ replied William.

  ‘So I understood, and because of this, nephew, I accompanied you.’

  ‘The King approves my coming,’ William reminded the Prince.

  ‘Ay, and his consent will have to be given if you would succeed in your endeavours,’ said Henry.

  ‘’Tis so,’ replied William defiantly, ‘and that of no one else.’

  ‘Certainly not mine.’ He turned to Edith with a wry smile. ‘My brother does not love me greatly. Nor I him.’

  ‘I am sorry to hear it,’ replied Edith.

  ‘Do not let sorrow dim the brightness of those eyes. It grieves me not at all. As you know I am the youngest of the family. It is not good to be a younger brother. My father knew this well. He left Normandy to my brother Robert and England to William; and what of poor Henry? But he made a prophecy before he died. He said to me, “Grieve not. There will come the day when you shall have all that your brothers have and more.”’

  ‘You think this will come to pass?’

  He had laid his hand on her arm and she had no wish to draw away from him.

  ‘I know it,’ he answered. Then with a swift movement he did what Alan of Bretagne had done before him; deftly he threw back the hood of her robe and exposed her beautiful golden hair.