by Jean Plaidy
‘I would be just . . . as our father was. It was the first law we learned from him. Normandy then belonged to our brother.’
‘And much good it did for you. For he returned not the silver you had lent him nor did he keep his bond to give you the Cotentin.’
‘Robert is weak. He makes promises which he believes he will fulfil and later he finds he cannot, or forgets them.’
‘Normandy is now mine. I shall keep it. Do you think he will ever have the money to repay his debt?’
‘Never! So he will try to win in battle what he cannot pay for. You will need help against him when the time comes. You will need a brother to help you.’
‘That time has not come, and it may well be that Robert will not return from the Crusade. And,’ went on Rufus, ‘when he would neither return the silver nor give you the land, you seized Mont St-Michel.’
‘And you both came against me and besieged me there. Brothers against brother. I wonder our father did not come back to haunt you! You would have left me to starve, William. It was Robert who helped me then. It was Robert who sent in wine for my table. If I went to Robert now, he would help me.’
‘So now we see where your legacy has gone. Most of it to Robert and the rest in attempting to defend Mont St-Michel against your brothers.’
‘Our father used to say that united we could hold everything against our enemies. It was when we divided that we put ourselves in danger.’
‘Our father is dead. He did not have our problems to deal with.’
‘He mastered all kinds of problems. He was the wisest man who ever lived.’
Henry was thinking: And he prophesied that one day I should have more than either you or Robert. That day must come . . . soon. How could England go on suffering under Rufus with his mincing courtiers and his crippling taxation, his lack of attention to state matters? It would not be a sin to remove him.
England needed wise rule, the sort of rule which only a clever king could give it. The Conqueror had shown what could be done. He, Henry, knew exactly how to follow in his father’s footsteps, with the necessary adjustments to the times. Oh, it would be a blessing to the country if this paederast could be removed and a wise man set up in his place.
Rufus’s face had grown suddenly more scarlet. The warning veins stood out at his temples.
‘Our father chose to leave England to me. Doubtless he thought a soldier would make a better king than a lawyer.’
‘A country’s laws are more important than its wars,’ retaliated Henry. ‘Laws bring order, wars inevitably chaos.’
‘Then I can give them both. Do you think I cannot make laws? I have brought Normandy and England together. There is not the conflict between Norman and Saxon as there was at one time. The people are beginning to live peacefully . . . under my laws.’
Harsh cruel laws, thought Henry. Eyes put out, noses and ears sliced off. Doubtless they were necessary. If one were fair one must admit that Rufus had not done badly. He had produced some fine buildings; he had defended the country and kept it strong; it was his private life that disgusted the people, for, as always, the manners of the court were reflected throughout the country.
Sensual in the extreme were all the brothers, but at least Robert and Henry were so in a natural manner.
‘How think you the people like to see your brother in such straits?’
‘I think the people are not over-anxious about the condition in which you live. They know that you are made very welcome in many houses, and I have heard it said that where-ever Prince Henry goes there is a warm bed waiting for him.’
‘’Tis good fortune for me, since if I relied on my own resources I’d be sleeping under a hedge.’
‘But even there you would find a woman to comfort you. Such is my brother’s charm, Ranulf, that he has but to lift a hand and the ladies flock to him.’
‘He is a lucky Prince, lord.’
‘So lucky that he should be content with his lot, eh?’
‘Content indeed,’ echoed Ranulf.
‘But I think he would like to share my counsels. He would like to have a hand in government. Is that so, Henry?’
‘You are the King, William, the true king of this realm. All I ask is for a little help that I may live in a manner worthy of your brother.’
‘You are clever, Henry. Did we not always hear it. Robert was our mother’s darling and Richard the favourite of them both, but Henry was the clever one. The scribe, the lawyer, the scholar. Poor Rufus, he was of no account.’
‘Until Richard died,’ said Henry, ‘and then our father bestowed on you, Rufus, that which would have gone to Richard.’
‘Ay, and I have given good service to this country. Have you seen my White Tower, Henry? It would rejoice our father’s heart to see his Tower of London so embellished. Have you seen our bridge? Yes, I can be pleased with myself, for I have given good service for my inheritance. Through my laws Normans and Saxons live in peace together. That is my policy – to marry Norman to Saxon so that in a generation they become English. Why, I have just given my consent to William Warren, our nephew and good Earl of Surrey, to take to wife the Saxon Princess Edith. The poor girl has been fretting her heart out in Wilton Abbey where her old aunt has been trying to make an Abbess of her. My good Norman, Warren, will take the Saxon girl. Their children will be English and that will please the people.’
Henry’s lips tightened. He thought of Edith, young, virginal, yet yielding. No, William Warren should not have Edith!
He was determined on that, too. And the girl herself. She would hold out against Warren. He knew she would. His powers of fascination, at which Rufus sneered, had never been so potent as they had in the hall of Wilton Abbey.
‘And so I can expect no help from you?’ asked Henry. ‘I must go on in my impecunious way of life.’
‘I will relent. You may follow the hunt. Tomorrow we shall be in the forest. Join us there, Henry.’
‘But, brother, how can I do that when I am so poor that I have no steed suitable to hunt with you in your forest?’
‘Oh, I’ll be generous,’ said Rufus smirking at Ranulf. ‘I’ll give you permission to follow the hunt . . . on foot.’
Seething with rage, Henry bowed and left his brother.
The next day he was in the forest. How beautiful it was and how he longed to be mounted on a fiery charger to ride at the head of the party.
And here he was – the son of the Conqueror – too poor to buy a horse!
The hunt was the joy of his life as it was of all the family. They had been brought up to rejoice in the baying of the dogs and the glory of the chase. To see the bearers carrying in the deer or wild boar after the hunt was a goodly sight. Best of all was the chase itself.
He would shame his brother. People would look at him following the hunt on foot and say, ‘Poor Prince Henry has no means of living like a prince. His brother should have more respect for his brother.’
But nothing could shame Rufus. He cared not what his people said of him. If it came to his ears that they had slandered him they would lose an ear, or the right or left hand. Few dared raise a voice against him. He was absolute ruler.
The King’s nephew William Warren was at the hunt, mounted on a fine steed. When he saw Henry on foot he stared at him in astonishment. They looked at each other. Henry’s gaze was ironical. How had Warren fared when he went courting the Princess Edith?
Henry went to him and said, ‘We have not met, nephew, since Wilton.’
‘Nay,’ answered Warren sullenly.
‘A beautiful Princess . . . your betrothed.’
‘I am not betrothed.’
‘Not so? I found her agreeable. You are hard to please, nephew.’
‘The Princess has decided to take the veil.’
‘The veil in preference to you! I don’t believe it.’
Henry’s eyes mocked; the younger man was uneasy.
‘Perhaps she liked you not. That is hard to understand . . . a fine fellow lik
e you. Could it be that her fancy has strayed elsewhere?’
William Warren flushed slightly. He knew. It was Henry, then, Henry this lecher, this man whose reputation was well-known at Court. Henry, the penniless Prince – with great prospects – who could not resist women and rode about the country seeking a means to live like a prince, taking his mistress wherever he fancied.
But he could not have taken the Princess Edith. Even had she been willing, this would not have been possible in Wilton Abbey.
What then? Had he promised her marriage? How could he, the penniless Prince, offer marriage to a Princess? And had not the King promised him the Princess? Even Henry would not dare go against the wishes of the King.
Yet some instinct told William Warren that it was due to Henry that the Princess Edith had refused him.
Hatred flared, up in him. He would take his revenge for this. He was favoured by the King. He was, after all, his nephew just as he was Henry’s. What a fool he had been to take Henry to Wilton! Trust Henry to make trouble where a woman was concerned.
But how could Edith have preferred this older man who lacked his good looks? He had that magnificent hair which he wore long and his many amorous adventures had made him very skilful in playing on female emotions. William Warren had to face the fact that Prince Henry was a man of deadly fascination to women, although it was not easy for him to define what this quality was.
They were enemies, though. The successful lover against the one who had failed. And, thought William Warren grimly, of what use was Henry’s success in that quarter to him?
He changed the subject abruptly. ‘I see you follow the hunt on foot, Prince Henry,’ he said, patting the head of his own fine steed. ‘Why you are in truth a veritable Deersfoot.’
He rode off, leaving Henry gazing balefully after him, angry because he, the Conqueror’s son, had no suitable horse while his nephew should have such a fine one.
And when he heard people refer to him as Deersfoot he knew who had been responsible for the sneer.
Abbess Christina paced up and down Edith’s cell.
‘There is no reason for delay. You have made up your mind. You are no longer a child. You should take your final vows without delay.’
‘I am still uncertain.’
‘How can you be? Two men have offered for you and you wanted neither. Is this not proof enough?’
‘I do not know.’
‘Then we must perforce insist that you do know.’
But the Abbess knew that without Edith’s consent there was nothing she could do.
Her pleasure at the Princess’s rejection of William Warren had diminished, for Edith would not take the final step. All kinds of penances and punishments occurred to her, but she knew that none of these would avail.
There was a stubborness about the girl. It was as though some outside influence was at work.
‘God will punish you,’ she told her. ‘You have witnessed His mercy. He has made it clear what He wishes of you and you ignore Him.’
Edith did not answer. It was clear that she cared nothing for threats from her aunt or from God. There was about her a set purpose. She was not going to be worried into taking her vows.
‘We will pray together,’ said the Abbess.
‘My knees are sore with praying,’ replied Edith.
‘Mine are hard because of the hours I have spent on my knees.’
‘You are an abbess and a most pious woman. I beg of you be patient with me.’
‘All these years you have been under my care and still you hesitate.’
‘I must have time,’ insisted Edith.
In exasperation the Abbess left her. Edith did pray then.
‘Soon, oh Lord, let him come for me. He will come I know. I have been saved for this. I will be his wife and we shall live together in harmony all the days of our lives. And if, by Your Grace, he comes to the throne, I will be a good queen as well as a good wife to him.’
She remembered how her mother had gone to church barefoot during Lent, how she had selected the poorest and dirtiest of the humble people that she might show her humility by washing and kissing their feet.
‘This I will do, oh Lord. I will serve You with all my heart and soul if You will but give me Henry.’
And so each day she prayed; and each day she held off the demands and harsh persuasion of Aunt Christina.
Her life had become a bitter battle, of which at some times it seemed the Abbess would be the victor. Her love for Henry grew as time passed; she endowed him with all the qualities of the saints and the beauty of a pagan god.
And so the days passed: waiting, waiting.
The Forest Tragedy
IT WAS AUGUST, a month when the forest was at its best, and the King, with a select party of his friends, those who shared his love of the chase, had come to Linwood Lodge in the heart of the New Forest.
Henry was a member of the party and with him was one of his most loyal friends, Henry Beaumont. The Prince’s friends, the Clares, who were members of the party with Walter Tyrrell, had presented him with a fine horse, so that on this occasion he would not have to follow the hunt on foot.
The King had expressed his pleasure that Walter Tyrrell was of the party because he was known to be one of the best shots in England. It was his arrows which always appeared to inflict the mortal wound. The Clares, too, were very welcome, and it was a gay party.
There were some who were uneasy, though. The servants had a way of looking over their shoulders as though they expected wild beasts to leap on to their backs. But it was nothing so tangible that they feared.
Henry heard them whispering together. ‘There are demons in the forest who come to life at night.’
‘The trees turn to monsters after dark; they dance wild dances and if any unwary soul should be wandering alone they would seize that one in their embrace and twist him this way and that in the dance of death; and in the morning there would be another warped and twisted tree in the forest.’
When riding through the forest it was no unusual sight to see the remains of a man hanging from a tree. He would be one of those ill-fated men who had thought to snatch something to feed himself and his family, as his forefathers had been wont to do before the Conqueror came. To steal the King’s beasts was one of the greatest crimes in the country. Men were hung from the trees without trial and left there to feed the carrion crows or to rot in the winds and weather. Better such a fate, though, than to have one’s eyes torn out or destroyed by glowing metal.
Men had suffered for the forest. The forest was a monster. Homes had been destroyed to create it for the sport of the Norman kings, and that was why it was generally believed that by night spirits walked abroad, and that the souls of men who had ‘lost their homes, their eyes or their lives would haunt the forest bent on vengeance.
It was in this forest that Richard, the fairest of the Conqueror’s sons, had met his death. There were many who believed that that was the revenge of the dead on the man who had torn up their homes and made harsh rules for those who took what the forest had to offer.
So on such occasions when the King planned several days of hunting and occupied his lodges in the forest, this uneasiness always prevailed.
Linwood Lodge at this time was filled with the odour of roasting meat; there was laughter and merriment, for the King was in a good mood. He felt well, and younger than his forty years. He always felt so during a hunting expedition.
The talk at table became ribald. The King always encouraged jokes against the churchmen; he had a special feud with them and, as he had often before declared, he had no fear of having to answer for his sins after death. He did not believe in such judgments, he said. No creator would like the weak men of the Church. He would favour a fighter and a good hunter. As for the churchmen, their sins were as plentiful as those of other men only they would not admit to them. They were puling hypocrites, all of them, and he never ceased to congratulate himself on getting rid of the arch-hypocrite Anselm.
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Such talk in the lodge was listened to and applauded rather half-heartedly. It was all very well in the palaces of Winchester and Westminster. Here in the forest there was an air of foreboding. When night came it really did seem that the trees took on weird shapes; and the soughing of the wind in the branches could well be the moans of the dead calling for vengeance.
It may have been that even Rufus was aware of this, for during one night he awoke screaming for his attendants.
Ranulf was the first to reach him.
‘What ails you, lord?’
Rufus sat up on his straw, sweating profusely.
‘I know not. It was some evil thing that hovered over me. It was death, I think. It had an evil face. I felt it was suffocating me. Send for lights. I do not wish to be in darkness.’
Ranulf obeyed and others of Rufus’s retinue came hurrying in.
‘Stay here,’ said the King. You may pass the night in this chamber. I do not like this darkness. Let them bring candles. But stay here. Only then can I doze.’
‘Is it some sort of omen, think you?’ asked one.
‘Bah,’ retorted Ranulf. ‘It is a surfeit of venison.’
‘Think you so, my friend?’ asked Rufus.
‘What else? Our presence will restore you, lord. You may sleep knowing we guard you and warn off evil spirits. Thus you will ensure a good day’s hunting tomorrow.’
But in spite of the people and the lights, Rufus could not sleep. He remembered the profanities he had uttered at the banqueting table; he remembered the blasphemies. He did not think they had been any worse than at other times but now he was in the forest . . . the enchanted forest, the cursed forest as some called it . . . the forest which had been made at the expense of great suffering and hardship to so many.
‘Nay, it was the venison,’ he comforted himself. ‘I ate too heartily and drank too much. There’s nothing wrong that a good day’s hunting will not kill.’
The dawn came to outshine the candles. Everyone was relieved; and Rufus, laughing at his nightly fears, was in the best of spirits.