by Jean Plaidy
He looked at her intently. ‘’Twere a sin to hide it,’ he said. ‘I must set you a penance.’
‘If the Abbess could see . . .’
‘By God’s grace she lies on her sick bed. Long may He let her lie there.’ He put out a hand and touched her hair, caressing it lightly. ‘You are beautiful, Princess,’ he said. ‘Such beauty should not be kept from the world. I should like to see a crown set on that beautiful head. It would become it well.’
Eustace, seeing that Edith was without her hood, pressed Mary to remove hers. This she did with pleasure, and there were sounds of laughter in the old hall such as could never have been heard since the Abbess had ruled there.
It was the most enchanting hour Edith had ever spent. Henry was gay and witty. She discovered that, apart from the fact that he was a man who loved gaiety, he was also learned. How glad she was that she had attended to her teachers; she had been chosen by Christina to follow her because she was clever; now Henry was interested in her because of it.
She understood the allusions in his discourse. She could speak to him on his own scholastic level; this delighted him and the more they pleased each other the more disgruntled became the poor Earl of Surrey.
Finally they left, much to the relief of the nuns, who were almost in tears. They knew that if the Abbess ever discovered that the Princesses had been alone with the visitors they would be in dire trouble. But who would be likely to give such an account? Certainly not the Princesses, who had been more guilty than they had.
In Edith’s cell Mary talked ecstatically of the interview. Eustace had given his word that he would ask for her hand and he knew that no obstacle would be put in their way.
‘And the Earl,’ she said. ‘What of him? Have you made good progress with him? I feel so happy, Edith. We are free, both of us. For I confess that it would have grieved me greatly to leave you here. And what thought you of Prince Henry? The son of the King! Eustace says that he may well be King one day. But that will not be for a long time. Rufus is not so old that he can be expected to die, though he is older than Henry. What thought you of him?’
‘He was different from the others.’
‘It is to be expected. He is the son and brother of a King. Your William is only a nephew. Eustace of course is quite different. He is a vassal of the Duke of Normandy, true . . . but he serves no king.’
‘I am pleased that you are happy at the prospect, Mary.’
‘Happy. I find it hard to wait. Oh, to be free of these hideous robes. Was it not exciting when Henry removed your hood? Eustace was happy to see my hair. He thought it beautiful. I kept laughing inwardly to think what Aunt Christina would have said. How quiet you are, Edith. Are you thinking of William Warren? And how exciting it will be to become the Countess of Surrey.’
‘Nay,’ said Edith slowly, ‘I was not thinking of that.’
‘But was that not the most exciting time we ever had in our lives?’
‘Yes, there is no doubt of it,’ said Edith soberly.
He came again. This time with few attendants.
Eustace did not accompany him, nor did William Warren.
He waved aside the protest that he could not be alone with her so imperiously that the two poor nuns were terrified. But what could they do when the brother of the King ordered them away?
‘It is wrong. It is wrong!’ they cried. ‘No man should enter the Abbey.’
‘Of a certainty no ordinary man should be allowed in,’ said Henry. ‘But I am no ordinary man.’
He laughed aloud when they had gone; he sat close to Edith; he took off her hood and ran his fingers through her hair.
‘How beautiful it is,’ he said. ‘I have dreamed of it.’
‘Why have you come to see me?’ she asked.
‘Because my inclinations first prompted me, and then insisted. They would not be denied.’
‘The sisters are right. It is unseemly.’
‘That which is unseemly is often delightful, you will discover.’
‘You know that the Earl of Surrey has the King’s consent to become betrothed to me?’
‘I know it.’
‘And . . . yet you come.’
‘Yes, I come to say it must not be.’
‘Why not?’
‘You must know. I want you for myself.’
‘How . . . how could that be?’
Henry took her hands and drawing her to him kissed her on the lips.
She caught her breath; but she was not horrified, only delighted.
‘Would the King give his consent to our marriage?’
‘Nay. He has promised you to Surrey.’
‘Then how could we?’
‘I do not always ask the consent of the King.’
‘Should not all subjects do that?’
‘I am not his subject. I am his brother.’ He leaned towards her. ‘One day I shall be King of this realm. How would you like to be its Queen?’
She said, ‘I am the daughter of a King and I should be happy to return to the state in which I began my life. But I would not wish it if a man such as Alan of Bretagne were to be my husband.’
He laughed aloud. ‘He came to woo you and you liked him not?’
‘I liked him not.’
‘He was too old for you – my uncle by marriage. I am some ten years older than you. That is acceptable to you?’
She nodded.
‘And I am acceptable to you?’
‘I have never seen anyone like you.’
‘That tells me little. It may be that you have never seen anyone whom you found as repulsive.’
‘No, no . . .’
He was laughing at her. He took her hands suddenly and kissed her fingers.
‘Then,’ he said, ‘you like me well.’
‘Yes,’ she answered. ‘I like you well.’
‘And when I am King you will be my Queen.’
‘I could ask nothing more of life.’
‘Will you be a good wife to me?’
‘I will.’
‘And love me tenderly and bear my children?’
‘I will.’
‘Why ’twould seem we are married already. Would there were a priest here who would marry us, and a bridal chamber where I could make you my wife in very truth.’
‘There is no priest and no bridal chamber.’
He looked at her, his eyes gleaming. ‘Would we could do without them.’
She was wide-eyed. ‘That is not possible, is it? How could we be married without a priest?’
‘They have taught you much from books and little from life. How could they . . . in an abbey?’
‘My aunt the Abbess told me what was expected of a wife.’ Her lips trembled suddenly. ‘I . . . I hated it.’
‘I would tell you a different story. Do you believe me?’
‘Yes, I believe you.’
‘And you would be willing to learn?’
‘With you I would be willing.’
‘And there is no bridal chamber where we can begin our lessons! Alas!’
His eyes were alight with merriment. He looked round the great hall, at the vaulted ceiling, and a glint was in his eyes as though he were wondering how he could carry her off to a cell and there begin the lesson.
‘What if the King will not give his consent?’ she asked.
‘The King will not give his consent.’
‘Then we are doomed.’
‘Never say that, my Princess. Happiness shall be ours. But we must needs wait for it.’
‘I will wait.’
‘You must refuse the Earl of Surrey.’
‘As soon as I saw you I made up my mind to.’
‘And, before, you had decided to take him?’
‘No. Much as I hate a nun’s life I knew there was something lacking. As soon as I saw you I knew what.’
‘You delight me. We shall be happy together. But we shall have to be careful.’
‘What must I do?’
‘First refuse Wi
lliam Warren.’
‘If I do, my aunt will try to force me to take the veil.’
‘My poor little captive Princess! You must refuse to take the veil.’ His hands caressed her body under the rough serge. ‘To think they could condemn you to such a life. You were meant to be loved and love in return. You will be a ready pupil. Oh, I have such delights in store for you, my dearest love.’
She felt she would swoon with delight already. Just to hear him address her in such a manner was enough.
‘I must refuse Surrey and the veil. It will not be easy.’
‘Nothing that is worth while is ever easy. Hold off the Abbess. Tell her you are undecided. Tell her you need time to think.’
‘I have been saying that for years.’
‘Then you must perforce continue to do so.’
‘And in time . . .’
He brought his face close to hers so that his warm breath was on her cheek.
‘I shall be King of this realm ’ere long and then none shall gainsay me. I shall say the Princess Edith is to be my Queen and I’ll put to hideous death any who attempts to say me nay.’
‘No one would ever dare.’
‘They never would. So, my love, you will tell them that you cannot take Surrey and feel it is possible that you will choose the religious life. And you will wait . . . but not long. Then I shall come and claim you.’
‘I will do it,’ she cried. ‘I will keep myself free for you.’
‘And the waiting must not be long or I shall disguise myself as a wicked baron and take the Abbey; I shall carry off my Princess and begin to teach her how exciting love can be.’
Then he drew her to him and kissed her once more. He wound her plaits about her wrists and pulled them so that he hurt in a manner which excited her. He thrust a hand inside her rough shirt and caressed her body.
‘Oh, to divest you of these abominable garments,’ he cried.
‘It shall come to pass. I have vowed it.’
He left her bewildered.
She could not speak to Mary or anyone.
Of only one thing was she certain. She would not marry the Earl of Surrey. She would not take the veil. She would wait for Prince Henry to become the King of England and claim her.
Brothers in Conflict
WHEN HENRY RODE back from Wilton to Winchester he was feeling more than ever dissatisfied with his fate.
The Princess Edith was not uncomely; her innocence was amusing and she could give him some diversion which he could not find with his many mistresses. Moreover it was time he was married. He was thirty years of age and he wanted sons.
Edith had interested him; he had seen more beautiful women. Nesta, who was his favourite and the Princess of Wales, was one of the most fascinating women of the day; she had a sensuality to match his own and never failed to excite him. She had already borne him a child, and not only with her had he proved himself able to beget strong and healthy boys and girls. It was said that he had more bastards than any man in England.
He had four passions in his life: women, the hunt, a love of learning – and more than any of these he longed for the crown.
Having seen the Princess and realized that he must achieve his destiny soon, he was more restless than usual.
What bad fortune to be born a third son. And he might have been a fourth son, if Richard had not died in the forest when hunting. What hopes would he have had then? He must needs rejoice in Richard’s death although he had been, as many had said, the best of the bunch. If only Rufus could have a similar accident in the hunting field!
Then he, Henry, would seize the crown without delay. Robert would no doubt claim it, but Robert had no hope. The English would not accept a Norman. He, Henry, had been born in England; he had been educated by Lanfranc at Canterbury; he was the natural heir. Moreover, Robert was a fool. All his life Robert had been a fool. First he had tried to pit his strength against that of the Conqueror. What hope had he had of succeeding there? Normandy had missed the strict rule of William I. And now, foolish Robert had put it in pawn to Rufus while he went on a Crusade. Men liked Robert; he was affable, generous – far too generous, for he squandered his fortune on those who flattered him – he was extravagant in the extreme; Robert as a man might be charming, but as a ruler he was no good.
He had inherited none of his father’s attributes except his quick temper. Henry smiled to remember how he and Rufus when they were boys had thrown dirty water down from a balcony on to Robert and his friends, and how Robert had been so incensed that he was ready to kill them and might well have done so if their father had not intervened. If he had harmed them he would never have forgiven himself. That was Robert’s nature. He acted without thinking and then had to suffer remorse. He was unlike either of his brothers – most of all Henry.
Henry was too clever not to know himself, and that he was the most fitted to rule of all his brothers. His father had sensed that, for on his deathbed he had shown a certain satisfaction in the belief that in the end both England and Normandy would come to Henry. He knew that Henry, cool and calculating, with a scholar’s understanding and a lawyer’s astuteness, would hold together the family’s possessions with greater skill than either of his elder brothers.
But the waiting was long. Rufus was in good health. It was true that when he was enraged his face grew scarlet and the veins knotted at his temples, and Henry had seen men drop dead when thus affected. But hot temper was no sure sign that death was imminent. Rufus merely had their father’s temper, and his avariciousness, his skill – or some of it – in battle, his courage and determination to hold on to what he had. But he lacked the Conqueror’s love of detail, his meticulous attention to the seemingly small matters which were in fact the foundations on which his rule was built; he lacked the passion for good rule and for justice.
All his sons, except perhaps one, thought Henry, lacked the essential qualities which had built William the Conqueror’s domain and made him the greatest man of the age.
And now was the time for Henry to take over – now while Robert was in the Holy Land and Normandy was in pawn; now while the English were dissatisfied with Rufus; now while Anselm had been dismissed and was fulminating about the manner in which the King of England lived; while the names Sodom and Gomorrah were mentioned and the court of the English King was likened to those cities.
Yes, now was the time for Henry to take over the realm, but between him and the throne stood Rufus.
He thought a little of the virginal Princess to whom he had talked of marriage. She was in love with him already. She would be submissive. He liked a little spirit in his women: on the other hand variety was always enticing, and marriage would be a new adventure.
He would ride now over the border to Wales and visit Nesta; he had need of her company; he would like to see their son too. He would talk to her of the country’s growing dissatisfaction with Rufus. They might be able to plan together. But Nesta was a wise woman; she would know that if he married it might be necessary to terminate their relationship. Although he could continue with his casual sexual encounters he could scarcely live as openly as he had been doing with Nesta. As yet, though, he need not consider that but could give himself up to the satisfaction of Nesta’s bed and counsel.
There was always a welcome for Henry at the castle of Rhys ap Tewdur. Rhys, who was King of Deheubarth, was glad to be on such good terms with the brother of the English King. He felt this gave him an added protection, for his little realm was in constant danger of attack.
Henry was the lover of his daughter, the voluptuous Nesta, and Henry was going to be King of England in due course. Rufus, by his very nature would, as certainly as Edward the Confessor, beget no children. So in due course it seemed likely that Henry would be King.
Henry rode into the courtyard, where he was received with deference by the grooms, and very soon the news of his arrival was spread throughout the castle. Rhys came down to welcome him, and it was not long before Nesta arrived.
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bsp; He stared at her with pleasure. She was a goodly sight. No matter what she wore she was beautiful in an entirely sexual manner. There was about Nesta an eternal air of promise. No matter how intimate a man became with her – and he could be very intimate indeed – there was always about Nesta a suggestion of as yet unexplored experiences, of sensations not yet probed. Moreover, each lover was made to feel that there had never been and never could be any like him. This was the secret of her great fascination. No man could look on Nesta and not feel flattered by her.
Rhys said, ‘This is a happy day.’ And Henry had seized Nesta in a hungry embrace which indicated that he wished an early retirement to the bedchamber.
Nesta smiled in her lazy manner, implying that she was not averse to such a suggestion, and under the admiring gaze of Rhys and Gwladys her mother, who was a pale shadow of her daughter, they retired at once to Nesta’s chamber.
Temporarily satisfied, Henry lay on the bed and watched Nesta indolently lolling beside him, her magnificent hair seductively arranged to half-conceal her body.
She smiled at him, taking in his attractions, and if the greatest of these was perhaps the crown which could one day adorn his luxuriant black locks he was comely enough; a good and practised lover, she had long decided, and one of her best.
‘What brings you to Deheubarth?’ she asked him idly.
‘What a question. Have I not told you with considerable eloquence?’
‘There are women in England.’
‘But Nesta is in Wales.’
She was satisfied with the reply for she knew that although he took women wherever he fancied them, and he fancied frequently, he could never have had such a mistress as she was.
‘I notice, though,’ she said, ‘that you are thoughtful. You brood. What schemes are in your head?’
‘The usual thoughts are there,’ he said. ‘My brother lives too long.’
‘He has strange habits.’
‘Ranulf Flambard is still his shadow. He dotes on the fellow. The people hate Flambard as much as they hate Rufus.’
‘You think that they would like Henry and his favourite Nesta better?’
‘You are a thousand times more beautiful than Flambard, and the people understand a mistress. They like not Rufus’s way of life.’