by Jean Plaidy
‘They fear him, though.’
‘As subjects should fear their kings. My father taught them and us that.’
‘And so my Henry grows impatient, but impatience alone will not solve his problems.’
Henry spread his hands helplessly. ‘What can I do but wait?’
She laughed at him. ‘Waiting was never a trick of yours.’
‘In love, nay.’
‘They say waiting too long quenches desire.’
‘I have waited long for the crown, and my desire for it grows each day.’
‘And if it came to you what of me?’
‘You would come to Winchester or Westminster to be with me constantly.’
‘They would expect you to marry.’
He looked at her covertly. ‘Rufus has not.’
‘Nay, and look at him! His brother is ready to murder him for the crown. His son if he had one might have waited in a decorous manner.’
‘My ancestors favoured their children by their mistresses. My father himself was a bastard.’
‘But you and your brother were born in respectable wedlock, and I doubt not the Conqueror’s example will be followed in this matter as in everything else.’
‘If I were King I should follow my father’s rules only where it seemed wise to do so.’
‘What of our little Robert?’
‘How is the boy?’
‘Eager for a glimpse of his father.’
‘Then I must needs make much of him.’
‘There is time after you have made much of his mother.’
‘Why, Nesta,’ he said, ‘you grow more desirable every time I see you.’
‘My fascination is not the only thing that grows.’ She patted her body. ‘Soon your seed will be grown so big it will be apparent to all who behold me.’
‘Mine!’
‘Whose else? I reckon I am four months with child. Which means it happened during your last visit. That is a long time to stay away from me, Henry.’
‘It is far too long.’
‘Doubtless you have had other excitements in the meantime.’
‘Nothing to compare with these I share with you.’
‘And, if our child is another boy, he may well wear the crown after you . . . but Robert, of course, would come before him. I trust you would not put any other little bastard you have got on some light woman before our sons.’
‘Do you believe that?’
‘Not if I were there to make sure of their rights.’
‘You will be there . . . beside me. Have no fear.’
And he was thinking of the innocent young Princess whom he would marry if he had the crown. They would have children and the sons they would have would come before Nesta’s. He remembered the pure adoration the Princess had been too candid to hide and he wondered how he would explain to her his situation with Nesta and the life he had led. She would be horrified, poor innocent girl; but he had said he would teach her what life was, and he could no more suppress his desires than Rufus could his.
There would be complications when he became King: Nesta would be one of them, for although he talked glibly of keeping her with him and legitimizing her sons that they might inherit the throne after him, he knew this would not be. The Norman dukes who had done this in the past had not been head of a well-ordered country such as the Conqueror had made England. But he would deal with these matters when they came and Nesta would never fret too much over one lover, for there would always be others waiting to take his place.
And now she was pregnant with another child. He half-hoped it would be a daughter. Daughters were not so ambitious and it often assured the loyalty of some wavering vassal to give him a king’s daughter to wife. Daughters had their uses; but if they were legitimate the more useful they became.
He must get the crown.
Nesta moved close to him and put her arms about his neck.
‘You are pleased about the child?’
‘I am.’
‘And if he is a boy you will give him lands and titles?’
‘When I have them to give.’
‘And you will set him above the many children that exist in this country claiming to be yours?’
‘Yours would always come first with me,’ he said, abandoning all thoughts of his unsatisfactory position, in her seductive embrace.
He was too restless to stay long in Deheubarth, and he was soon riding to Winchester.
He did not go straight to the court; instead he called at the house of the Clare family, to whom he had always shown favour.
They welcomed him and there was feasting in their hall. The venison tasted good. Rufus had given Sir Walter Tyrrell leave to hunt in the new forest. They were great friends, Tyrrell being a first-class huntsman, and the King always enjoyed his company on a hunt.
Sir Walter had married one of the daughters of the Clare household, and his father-in-law had bestowed lands in Essex upon him. They had always been ready to welcome Henry to their home, no matter on what ill terms the Prince was with his brother.
They had feasted and drunk, the minstrels had played and sung and the company was drowsy.
Tyrrell said to Henry, ‘You are thoughtful this night, my Prince. Are you dreaming of the beautiful Nesta?’
‘Nay,’ said Henry, ‘of other matters.’ He laughed. ‘I grow old and I remain poor. I often think how unfortunate I was to be the youngest of my father’s sons.’
‘If you do not possess great wealth now, you have your hopes, my Prince.’
‘Hopes long deferred,’ mourned Henry.
Gilbert, Lord of Clare, Tyrrell’s brother-in-law, looked a little uneasy.
‘Serving men have long ears,’ he murmured.
Henry nodded. Gilbert was right to remind him. It was all very well to talk of his hopes with Nesta in her bedchamber: it was another matter to discuss them in a hall where many might hear.
He changed the subject, but the next day when he went hunting with Walter Tyrrell and his brothers-in-law Gilbert and Roger, he raised the subject again and there was no reason why they should not discuss it freely in the open air.
‘Rufus,’ said Gilbert, ‘grows more and more under the influence of Flambard. The people are angry with the continual taxation, and they like not the manner of the King’s way of life.’
‘They have taken to shaving the fore part of their heads as the thieves do, since you were at Court,’ said Tyrrell, ‘and they wear their hair long at the back, so that from behind they look like harlots.’
Gilbert added that men were wearing tails attached to their shoes, so that it looked as though scorpions grew out of their feet.
‘Nothing,’ added Roger, ‘is too ridiculous. And the aim of every courtier is to look like a woman. With long hair and rich clothes they mince about the Court. It is not easy to tell the difference between men and women. There are many who deplore the way things are going and the one they blame for it is the King. We all know how he extorts the utmost in taxation. Flambard’s methods are detested throughout the country.’
‘They call the King a tyrant,’ said Walter Tyrrell.
‘And so he is,’ cried Henry. ‘He is unfit to rule. If my father were here he would greatly regret having left England to him.’
‘And even more so to have left Normandy to Robert,’ said Gilbert. ‘If only he had lived long enough to see that there was one son who would have ruled in a manner like his own.’
‘He thought he had trained Rufus,’ replied Henry. ‘After the death of my brother Richard, Rufus was constantly in his company. I was too studious. I became more adept in book learning than my father and because of that he doubted I would make a soldier. Rufus became his favourite. Rufus was to have England. And see what Rufus has done to England. It would have been different had Richard lived. Richard was different from the rest of them. I think we are alike. Richard was calm of nature. Often he would step in and bring peace into our boyish quarrels. He would have been a good king.’
&nbs
p; ‘But he was killed when hunting in the New Forest.’
‘A terrible accident,’ said Henry. ‘It was said that it was a judgment on my father for taking people’s homes from them to make the New Forest. Some poacher who had his eyes put out for killing a deer had laid a curse on my father, so they said.’
‘Rufus is as keen a huntsman as the Conqueror. He has kept what the people call the harsh forest laws.’
‘Perhaps,’ said Henry lightly, ‘some poacher will lay a curse on him, so that the forest kills him as it did my brother Richard.’
Gilbert looked cautiously over his shoulder. It was treasonable to talk thus about the death of the King.
The forest seemed suddenly still, as though all the wild creatures were listening.
The men exchanged glances. Something very significant was happening.
William Warren, Earl of Surrey, called at Wilton Abbey. The Abbess was still confined to her bed and it was the duty of her deputies to supervise the meeting with Edith.
Edith’s disappointment was almost unbearable when she saw that he was not accompanied by Prince Henry. How insignificant he seemed! Yet he was handsome enough. It was merely that in comparison with the incomparable Henry he seemed of so little account.
They seated themselves on the window-seat; the nuns took their place resolutely at a safe distance.
William had said, ‘You may leave us.’ But how he lacked the authority of Henry!
‘We shall remain,’ replied the elder of them, and although he attempted to bluster they refused to go.
How different it would have been had Henry been there! thought Edith.
‘I came to see you,’ said William, ‘because I am going to the King shortly. I am going to tell him that we are betrothed. I see no reason why we should not be married within a few weeks.’
Edith said, ‘I have to tell you that I have been thinking on your request for my hand and I have been undecided for so long. I am no longer. I have made up my mind that I do not wish to accept your proposal.’
William stared at her. ‘Not wish to marry!’
‘I have grown accustomed to my life here and I have come to the conclusion that I cannot leave here to marry you.’
‘You would bury yourself for the rest of your life in this place! I cannot believe that you are serious.’
‘I am in earnest,’ she told him. ‘I know full well that I cannot marry you.’
He could not believe it. What was wrong with him? He was young and women found him attractive. He had thought he pleased her. So it had seemed on the first occasion. Henry had been with them on the second and had taken the centre of the scene, but she had given no indication that she was displeased by his attentions.
‘You cannot mean that you wish me to look elsewhere for a wife?’
‘I do mean that.’
‘I will not give up hope,’ he cried.
‘That is for you to say, but I must tell you that you waste your time.’
‘It is impossible.’
‘Nay ’tis so. I wish you godspeed and may you find a wife more to your taste than I could ever have been.’
‘I had made up my mind to marry you.’
‘My mind is made up also,’ she told him.
‘So you choose to spend your life here . . . to waste the years before you!’
She bowed her head.
The two figures rose from the seats.
They spoke gently to Edith.
‘You wish to return to your cell, to meditate?’ whispered one.
‘I do,’ she answered.
‘Then, my lord Earl, we will conduct you to the gate.’
‘Good-bye,’ said Edith. ‘May God go with you.’
The nuns could not resist going to the Abbess’s cell. She lay on her straw, weak but improving. Before her was a book of devotions and her eyes were closed as they entered. She opened them in outraged surprise and glared at the intruders.
‘Reverend Mother,’ they said, ‘the Earl of Surrey has been.’
She was alert. Her eyes stony, her mouth thin with suppressed anger.
‘And so?’ she demanded.
‘He has gone, Mother.’
‘And the Princess has seen him?’
‘She has sent him away. She says she does not wish to marry. She will take the veil.’
The Abbess raised herself on one arm. ‘She has said this! She has said it of her own free will!’
‘Yes, Reverend Mother, we heard and saw her rejection of him.’
The Abbess sank back on her bed. She was smiling grimly to herself.
She believed she had won the battle for Edith’s soul.
Mary was taking a farewell of her sister which was tinged with sadness.
‘Oh, Edith,’ she said, ‘how I wish that you too were leaving this place to marry!’
‘I could not take William Warren.’
‘I thought he was so handsome.’
‘He was not ill-favoured.’
‘So it is true, then, that you have made up your mind to take the veil and become like Aunt Christina?’
‘I do not think that will come to pass.’
‘Edith . . . it was Henry. You changed after he came.’
‘Yes, it is Henry.’
‘He is the King’s brother. Does he wish to marry you?’
‘He wishes it.’
‘Then what should stop him making an offer for your hand? I believe our brother and uncle would accept it, for, although Eustace says he has no lands and very little money, he is the son of the Conqueror.’
‘He will offer for me, Mary.’
‘Have you told Aunt Christina?’
‘No. How can I? There is nothing to tell as yet . . . except that I shall never take the veil.’
‘She will be furious.’
‘I know. She will hate me and be harsh with me. I am no longer a child to be beaten but I doubt not she will attempt to do so. I fear her, Mary. She is so powerful in this little world and she hates any who challenge her power. She will try to trick me, I know. Do not whisper a word of what I have told you. I shall lead her to believe that I have a taste for the sequestered life but that I cannot even yet make up my mind. I shall pray every day that Henry will come for me.’
‘But the King has promised you to William Warren.’
‘That is why I must feign to be preparing myself to take the veil.’
‘He could insist, Edith.’
‘I know. Oh, Mary, sometimes I am afraid. There is the King and Aunt Christina. One would force me to marry, the other to take the veil. But when Henry becomes the King he will claim me.’
‘Edith, how can he become the King while Rufus lives? Rufus is not an old man. He may live for ten more years or twenty. Are you going to defy the King and Aunt Christina all those years? In any case, at the end of them you will be too old.’
‘I don’t believe it will be long.’
‘Why does he not storm the Abbey and carry you off?’
‘Without the King’s consent? We should have to leave the country. And where should we go? To Normandy? That is in the King’s hands now. To Scotland! Nay, I know I must be patient. And I know, too, how well worthwhile the waiting will be. Do not grieve for me, dear Mary. I rejoice that you are free and that your future husband pleases you. That is a great comfort to me.’
The sisters embraced; and a few days later Mary left Wilton for her marriage to Eustace of Boulogne.
Flambard, who was constantly in the King’s company, came to him to announce that his brother Henry was at Court.
‘Ha!’ said Rufus. ‘Depend upon it, he wants something. If I were a soft man, Ranulf, I’d find it in my heart to be sorry for him. All that learning and hardly a mark or two to call his own. Nothing but the hope of what will one day come to him.’
‘He’ll have to wait a long time to see those hopes fulfilled. My hope is never.’
‘It would go ill with you, Ranulf my dear, if he ever took my place. He’d have little tim
e for my friends.’
‘That’s another reason why your friends will guard you with their lives.’
‘Let’s see the fellow and hear what he has to say.’
Henry came into the King’s chamber, and Rufus regarded him appraisingly. Seeming young in comparison with himself: lusty, sturdy with a wealth of good dark hair; a handsome fellow – but not of the kind he admired. Too virile, all man. Why did our father get two sons so different? wondered Rufus.
‘Well, brother, how fares it with you?’
‘Poorly,’ said Henry. He glanced significantly at Flambard, and the King, intercepting his gaze, said, ‘Ranulf has become my chief minister and my bodyguard. I keep him with me at all times.’
Henry glared distastefully at Ranulf, who returned the look insolently.
‘Do you think it fitting that your brother should roam the countryside so poor that he has but three or four attendants, no money to provide himself with a horse to ride, and no land?’ asked Henry.
‘Alas,’ said Rufus, ‘we all need so much more than we possess.’
‘You are rich, William. Our father left you England, and now Normandy is in pawn to you. I do not think you know the meaning of poverty.’
‘Do I not? Continually I must impose taxation to provide me with the money I need to rule this country.’
‘You are fortunate to have people to tax.’
‘There is a limit to what one can do in that direction. Oh, I sympathize with your poverty. It matches my own.’
Henry was aware of a snigger from Ranulf. He thought: When I am King that man shall pay for his insults to me.
‘I wonder what our father would say if he saw his son reduced to such poverty?’
‘He would doubtless say it was what you deserved. You know what a hard man he was. He left you five thousand pounds in silver. What has happened to it?’
‘You know that I lent Robert almost the whole of it.’
‘Ay, in exchange for the Cotentin. Of which he cheated you. And yet you gave your assistance to him. But for you Rouen would have fallen to me. You held the town for Robert, did you not? I remember what you did to Conan, the leader of those who would have put the town into my hands. You will remember, too. You had him flung from the castle turret. You would be a hard ruler, Henry.’