The Lion of Justice

by Jean Plaidy

  Breakfast was a lengthy meal because the party would not go into the forest until the early afternoon.

  Rufus was hearty and full of good humour.

  ‘So my brother Deersfoot is with us. Is it true, Henry, that you are as fleet as a deer?’

  ‘Hardly that, brother. But I’m as fleet as most men.’

  ‘I rejoice. We might have been tempted to hunt you. You might not have cared for that.’

  ‘’Twould be a new experience,’ replied Henry in high good humour.

  ‘Do not urge us to try it, brother. We might need but little persuasion.’

  The conversation was interrupted by the arrival of an armourer.

  ‘What have you there?’ asked the King.

  ‘Six new arrows, my lord. I believe you will find them stronger and sharper than all others.’

  ‘Bring them to me, man.’

  Rufus examined them. ‘’Tis true,’ he declared. ‘They have a rare quality. Look you here, Tyrrell; you are the best shot I know. Tell me what you think of these.’

  Sir Walter Tyrrell examined them.

  ‘It is indeed so, my lord. I rarely saw finer arrows.’

  ‘Reward the man who made them,’ said the King. ‘Here, Tyrrell, you shall have two of them. I never knew a man better able to bring down a deer. You are a fine shot and worthy of the best.’

  ‘My lord is gracious,’ said Tyrrell.

  ‘I shall be interested to know how you fare with them.’

  ‘I will tell you, my lord.’

  There was a commotion without, which meant that there were new arrivals at the lodge.

  ‘What means this?’ asked the King. ‘Go and see who comes.’

  The page came back with the news that the Abbot of Gloucester was without, and with him a man who had the appearance of a hermit.

  ‘What want these holy men with me?’ said Rufus with a grimace.

  ‘They are begging to be allowed to speak with you, lord.’

  They stood before him and Rufus looked with distaste at the Abbot’s robes and the tattered garments of the Holy Man.

  ‘I am soon leaving for the chase. I have little time to dally with men of your calling.’

  ‘Lord, we come to beg you not to go into the forest today.’

  ‘Where else should I find fine fat deer, pray tell me?’

  ‘I have a revelation,’ said the Abbot. ‘A dream came to me that I should find you here and that I should come to tell you not to go into the forest this day. This Holy Man arrived at my Abbey yester-eve. He said to me: “The King is near by. He must be warned. I have had a vision.”’

  ‘What warning is this?’

  ‘It is that you must not go into the forest this day.’

  Sir Walter Tyrrell was stroking the surface of the arrows which Rufus had given him. Rufus watched him. ‘Your fingers itch to use them, Tyrrell,’ he said. ‘And these fellows would stop our sport.’

  ‘’Twould seem so, my lord.’

  ‘With talk of omens! Tell me what you saw in this dream?’

  ‘Some danger threatens, lord, and it comes from the forest.’

  ‘Is that all?’

  ‘That is all.’

  ‘And you, Holy Man?’

  ‘Lord, I beg you do not go into the forest this day.’

  ‘I thank you for your coming,’ said the King. ‘You must be refreshed. Be seated.’

  The Abbot and the Holy Man sat at the table and partook of food.

  Rufus said, ‘You churchmen know well my pleasure in the chase and it is your belief that that which is pleasurable is sinful. You rejoice in making others as yourselves and you wish to deny me the chase because you know how I enjoy it.’

  ‘What does my lord wish?’ asked Ranulf. ‘Shall you not ride into the forest this day?’

  ‘Not ride into the forest, Ranulf! Are you mad? Did I not come here to hunt?’

  ‘These warnings following your dream . . .’

  ‘A surfeit of venison, remember, Ranulf?’

  ‘It may have been, but the dream and the men . . .’

  ‘What think you, Tyrrell?’

  ‘It is for my lord to decide. Perhaps for today you would forgo the chase. Tomorrow would be a new day.’

  ‘Think you I would take heed of the churchmen, Tyrrell?’

  ‘Nay, I would not think it, my lord; but if you did that is your will and would be mine.’

  ‘Come, to the devil with their omens. It’s time we set out.’

  It was hot, that August afternoon, as the hunting party rode out from Linwood. The forest grew more beautiful every year. Rufus remembered it when the landscape had been scarred by the remains of cottages from which the owners had been turned out. Now these remains had become buried under gorse and bracken; only here and there was seen the pathetic remains of what had once been a humble and well-beloved home.

  Rufus had been a little uneasy – made so rather by his own disturbing dream than the prophecies. It was rather strange that one incident should have followed on the other but, as Ranulf said, these wise men were always prophesying, in the hope that something they said would turn out to be true, and they become renowned for it.

  But the excitement of the chase was overtaking him. Always it was thus. He remembered how he and his father had ridden out together. It was the only time his father was human – that and perhaps in his relationship with their mother.

  Tyrrell was beside him. He liked riding with Tyrrell. There was a man of whom his father would have approved – the best hunter of the party!

  ‘Eager to try out your new arrows, Wat?’ he asked.

  ‘Ay, my lord.’

  ‘We’ll expect good results, friend Wat.’

  ‘You shall have them, my lord.’

  ‘Come . . .’

  They galloped ahead.

  Walter Tyrrell and the King had ridden so fast and so far that they had left the rest of the party.

  ‘Where are those laggards?’ cried the King, laughing.

  ‘We’ve outridden them,’ cried Tyrrell.

  ‘Look you,’ cried the King. ‘What saw you then? A movement in the undergrowth?’

  ‘There’s something there, my lord.’

  ‘A deer. Come.’

  Rufus rode on ahead of Tyrrell.

  It was like the dream again. He lay on the grass . . . the grass of his beloved forest, that which had been called the New Forest because it had been made by his father. The grass was green. It should have been blood-red, some rebellious subjects had said. It was a beautiful forest; it had grown to its grandeur through the sufferings of people. Homes had been destroyed to make it; men had suffered torture and death for unlawfully trespassing in it. It had been the Conqueror’s Forest and now it was the Red King’s Forest.

  The trees were taking on strange shapes. Was he in the forest or on his bed? Was this another dream such as that which had disturbed his night?

  ‘A surfeit of venison . . .’ He could hear Ranulf’s mocking voice.

  His friend Robert seemed to be there, dancing round his chamber, throwing the long serpent’s tail he had attached to his doublet around in a most amusing way. The elongated tips of his shoes danced like snakes.

  He was very cold and there was a pain in his chest. There was something wet and warm on his chin.

  ‘Where am I?’ he wanted to shout; and it seemed to him that laughing voices answered, ‘In the forest, Rufus. The forest you and your father created from the blood of men.’

  There was something heavy on his chest. What had happened? He could not remember. He thought he was in his bedchamber.

  Yes, he had been riding with Tyrrell. They had those special fine arrows.

  The deer was fleet. They had followed it. Clearly it had thought to escape them and had run into the ruins of a building which had been destroyed to make way for the forest. And then . . . he could not remember.

  He was cold . . . very, very cold, and growing colder. He tried to call Ranulf . . . Wat Tyrrell. />
  No one came, and the darkness was overtaking him.

  Rufus, the King, no longer knew that he was cold and that there was an oppressive weight on his chest, that his own blood was choking him. He lay inert on the cold, damp earth.

  Henry, riding with Henry Beaumont, was surrounded by a group of hunters.

  In the distance the bracken moved.

  ‘A wild boar?’ cried Henry.

  ‘Nay, Prince,’ said Beaumont. ‘A fine plump deer, methinks.’

  ‘Then after him,’ replied Henry.

  There was the deer poised for flight and Henry was about to shoot his arrow when the strings of his cross bow snapped suddenly.

  ‘A thousand curses,’ he muttered.

  ‘’Twill need to be repaired,’ said Beaumont.

  ‘Alas, yes,’ answered Henry. ‘Ride on with the others and I’ll go to yon forester’s hut. The man will mend it for me. When he has done so I shall join the hunt. It should not take long.’

  The afternoon was hot and his disappointment was keen. He wondered whether his friends had succeeded with the deer. He rode over to the forester’s hut and, dismounting, tied his horse to a nearby tree.

  He went into the hut where the forester’s wife was baking. She told him that her husband was in the woods close by.

  ‘Go and bring him to me at once,’ said Henry. ‘The string of my bow has broken.’

  The woman, flustered by the obvious nobility of the Prince, hurried out and as she was some time away, Henry left the cottage in search of her.

  As he stepped into the glade an old woman came towards him. At first he was not much taken aback by her appearance, yet he did wonder what such a one was doing in a spot which the strict forestry laws had made almost sacred.

  He was about to ask her when she, seeing him, hurried forward and as she did so, fell to her knees.

  ‘Hail, King of England,’ she said.

  He stared at her as she rose from her knees, and at that moment the forester arrived with his wife.

  As Henry turned to look at him, the old woman disappeared among the bracken and when he would have asked her for an explanation, she was no longer there.

  ‘My lord, your bow needs to be put to rights,’ said the man.

  Silently Henry handed it to him. While the man worked on the bow he wandered round the glade looking for the old woman, her words still ringing in his ears.

  Who was she? Why had she spoken thus? Had she mistaken him for Rufus? Surely not. He was not red-headed and red-faced and even those who had never seen Rufus knew him to be thus by his very nickname.

  ‘Hail, King of England.’

  He had lost his desire for the chase. He wanted to ride back with all speed to Linwood. He would wait there until the hunters returned. And if Rufus came with them, then he would think he had encountered a mad woman. And if he did not . . .

  The prospect made him almost dizzy with excitement.

  An old charcoal burner who had his cottage in the heart of the forest was returning to his home on the morning of the third of August, leading his thin little horse which was dragging a rough cart.

  Suddenly he pulled up to a sharp halt. What was that, lying there in the ruined walls of the old church which thirty years before had been demolished to make way for the forest? He paused. It was a man – his face blackened and distorted, his garments bloody, and protruding from his chest was the broken shaft of an arrow.

  He could not believe it! But he knew that face. What should he do? As a forest dweller he lived in terror of breaking a rule of which he had not known the existence. Yet he could not leave a human being to be a victim to the carrion crows. The man’s ghost might haunt him if he did not do all in his power to give him decent burial.

  He lifted the body and placed it in his cart.

  When he reached his home, he called to his wife and said, ‘I found a man dead in the forest. He has been killed by an arrow.’

  She came out to look. ‘Why, Purkiss,’ she said, ‘he is one of a hunting party. An arrow meant for a deer has killed him. He must be of noble birth for only one of such would hunt in the King’s forest.’

  ‘What shall I do?’ asked Purkiss, the charcoal burner.

  ‘Wait here,’ she said and went to fetch some of their neighbours. They came and looked at the body.

  ‘The King is hunting from Linwood,’ said one. ‘Mayhap you should take the body there. If it is a noble gentleman there could be some profit in it.’

  Purkiss decided that if some of his friends would accompany him he would take the body to Linwood Lodge.

  Henry was in no mood for the chase. He did not remember any other occasion when he had not been ready to hunt. His thoughts were in a turmoil. The weird old woman had set his pulses racing with a wilder excitement than any other woman ever had before.

  Impatiently he waited for the hunters to return to the lodge. How slowly the time passed. He wished that he had not come back yet: his mood was better suited to the wildness of the forest.

  The first of the party to return was William Breteuil, a great hunter who was in charge of the treasury. His father had been Fitz-Osbern, one of the Conqueror’s greatest friends and most trusted ministers. Henry had never greatly cared for him, because he had taken little notice of him. He was a great friend of Robert, and Henry often fancied that he would have supported his elder brother against Rufus. On this occasion, however, he was glad to see him.

  They sat down at table together, and gradually other members of the party began to return.

  Darkness came, and the King was still absent. Walter Tyrrell came in, but he said little to Henry.

  A strange tension hung over the company. It could well have been that the king had decided not to return to the lodge that night.

  Henry sought an opportunity of telling Henry Beaumont of his strange experience in the glade, because Beaumont was one of the few whom he could trust. Rufus had never liked Beaumont, and there was an unspoken agreement between Henry and this man that if Rufus died they would work together.

  ‘Who was this woman?’

  ‘I know not. I could not discover.’

  ‘Could she have seen the King . . . dead?’

  ‘I cannot see how she could have done so.’

  ‘Doubtless she was a witch.’

  ‘She had the appearance of such.’

  ‘And she said “Hail” to you and called you “King”. Rufus does not return. There is one thing you must do if the King is indeed dead, and that is to take the Treasury. Once you have that in your possession you have only to win the people to you and the crown is yours.’

  ‘I know it well. We will not both sleep at the same time this night. I will keep watch for three hours, then so will you while I sleep. We must be fresh for the morning.’

  Morning came.

  William Breteuil was asking everyone, ‘Where is the King? Have any seen him?’

  But no one had.

  It was in the middle of the morning when Purkiss the charcoal burner, leading his horse and accompanied by a few of the local churls, brought the body in his cart to Linwood Lodge.

  Henry with the others went out to see what was in the cart.

  When he saw the body, and in spite of the mire and mud recognized it, a great exultation came to him. The woman’s words had been significant.

  William Breteuil was there too.

  He cried, ‘My God, this is the King.’

  ‘He is dead,’ said Henry.

  ‘Killed in his own forest,’ murmured Breteuil.

  Henry knew that there was no time to lose. If he did not claim the crown, someone might claim it on Robert’s behalf. He knew what was passing in Breteuil’s mind, and without a moment’s delay he ran to the stables. Henry Beaumont was already there saddling the horses and in a few moments they were galloping away on the road to Winchester.

  Breteuil understood. He leaped on to his horse and was speeding after Henry.

  Henry and Beaumont spurred on their
horses. They knew that Breteuil’s idea was to stop them and to claim the crown of England for Robert.

  That must not be. The crown belonged to Henry. This was his great moment. He kept hearing the words of the weird woman ringing in his ears: ‘Hail, King of England.’

  King of England he would be, and the next days were the most important in his life.

  He was ready to take the challenge.

  No one was going to stop him now.

  By God’s mercy, he thought, I must reach Winchester before Breteuil.

  He would never forget that ride. The constant fear that his horse would fail; the anxiety that Breteuil would outdistance him; the great relief when he reached the door of the Treasury and found that he and Beaumont had arrived first.

  ‘Open in the name of the King,’ cried Beaumont.

  The startled custodian stared at him and Henry.

  Beaumont had his sword at the man’s throat.

  ‘William II is dead – killed hunting in the forest. Henry I is King of England. On pain of death open the door.’

  The door was opened and Henry and Beaumont had command of the Treasury.

  It was not long afterward when Breuteuil arrived to find Henry and Beaumont at the door, their swords drawn.

  ‘I claim the crown and regalia on behalf of Robert, the eldest son of William I,’ said Breteuil.

  ‘I claim the crown and regalia as an English King born on English soil, educated in England, and the son of the Conqueror,’ retorted Henry.

  By this time many other nobles had arrived. The position was clear to them. Henry was on the spot. Robert was far away on a Crusade to the Holy Land. Normandy was in pawn. Henry had shown himself a good general; Robert was known to be feckless.

  Those who supported Henry were firmly behind him, while Robert’s adherents hesitated. Some of them, however, murmured together that this was a usurpation of the crown.

  Henry spoke to them then. Being more learned than his brothers he had always been able to express himself with a force and logic which they had lacked.

  ‘I am English,’ he said, ‘as none of my brothers ever could be. My father was aware of this. It was for this purpose that he sent me to England at an early age and put me in the care of that great scholar Archbishop Lanfranc. The people of this country want an English King. I will marry at once. I have chosen for my bride the Princess Edith who is a member of the Saxon Royal Atheling family. Our children will be entirely English. Those who stand beside me will not be forgotten. There were many harsh laws made by my brother. These I will change. I have been educated to govern. Accept me as your King and I promise you peace and prosperity. Reject me in favour of my brother – who has been singularly unsuccessful in his own domain, which is now in pawn to the English crown – and you will plunge this country into bitter war.’