King of the Wood

by Valerie Anand

  On that first morning after Rufus had come to him, he observed Richard approaching, made believe not to have seen him, and went out of the hall. In the end, he supposed, if Rufus persisted with his attentions, it would become known and Richard would find out. But he wanted to conceal the truth from his friend as long as he could. Richard was too straightforward, too normal, surely, to understand this and Ralph had no words with which to explain. He was afraid of losing the friendship.

  But as the days and nights passed, he grew hardened to his curious new position and could conduct himself by day as if nothing had happened. Before Richard went home, they were on easy terms again. Gossip there certainly was; Ralph could tell that by the remarkable degree of politeness with which even men of rank now addressed him. But if Richard had heard it, he gave no sign, and behaved as though Ralph’s new post on the royal hunt staff were the only change in Ralph’s life.

  It was no honorary position. He worked by day with the king’s personal huntsman Croc, who was perfectly well aware of Ralph’s real function in the court; was, like everyone else, polite to the king’s new friend, but seemed to feel it his duty to keep this latest addition to his staff well occupied.

  Croc was not a knight huntsman, most of whom lived in the districts where they had land, lending hounds and harbourers to the king when he visited the area. Croc was a plain man, half-English, well on in life, small and wiry with veins and muscles knotted round his bones like ivy round a tree. He spoke Anglo-French patois most of the time, and crudely, scattering misplaced aspirates with abandon, although he was quite capable of speaking correct French and in the king’s hearing, did so. He had been using the rough accent for so long that he had forgotten why he took to it but Ralph suspected that it was simply a means of refusing to lick the arses, in Croc’s own inelegant phrase, of the numerous noblemen with whom he spent so much time. The only one of them he actually admired was Rufus himself.

  The king in turn seemed to like Croc and occasionally called him in to add his name when charters were being witnessed. Anyone who could write his name was eligible for that and Croc, surprisingly, was literate. He was in fact a failed monastic novice. ‘They chucked me out and I was thankful. Stuck inside they walls all day – bah!’ said Croc.

  His business was to organise hunting for Rufus wherever the king chanced to be. ‘If we’re in a royal forest where there’s a Keeper of the Walk, or anywhere where there’s a Knight Huntsman handy, it’s easy,’ he told Ralph. ‘We just hand the job to them and make sure they do it right, which they don’t. Not ever. Always miles to go to find a stag or else they’ve let the chases get overgrown. You’ll see.’

  But when Rufus’ vast and continually mobile court had made one of its landslide descents on a place outside forest jurisdiction and possessed of neither Knight Huntsman nor Keeper, Croc and his staff must themselves search for sign and question or bribe the locals to find the whereabouts of game. These occasions had their side benefits. Rufus’ court was bigger than his father’s and still growing. Feeding and housing it on its travels was a massive task usually achieved simply by commandeering what was needed along the way.

  Local populations, therefore, on getting wind of its approach, were apt to remove portable goods and all edibles, including those on the hoof, into the nearest cellar, wood or similar hiding place. Royal gratuities could be earned, said Croc, by discovering such missing items and sequestering them for the king.

  Ralph’s life became a strange, compartmented affair, divided between the forest glades where he and Croc searched for deer tracks, the descents on villages where as a king’s officer he searched out provisions, and the feverish hours with Rufus on Ralph’s pallet or, sometimes, in the king’s down bed.

  It was in the forest, he knew, that he was truly at home. Forests had a thousand moods. A wood on a summer morning, bright with dew and haunted by birdsong, was a different world from the same wood in early November where the leaves were dying in the colours of flame and an immense dignity like the funeral pyre of a pagan king. Different again, as night from day or Heaven from Valhalla, was the winter forest, with the bare branches outlined black against the snow, and a cold orange sun slanting through. He was aware, in the forest, that what he felt was love, or near to it.

  With Rufus, he did not know what he felt. Fear, excitement, admiration were all there, mingled with distaste, which was not only for the histrionics in Rufus’ bed. He made useful tips from, but found he loathed, the harrying of the villages. Too many of the houses reminded him of Aix. Yet when he was with Rufus, tenderness was also present. In some secret fashion which was not just physical, Rufus appeared to need comfort and Ralph found in himself an instinct to provide it.

  It was a restless life. Rufus was for ever on the move and Ralph and Croc went with him. When he crossed the Channel to make peace with Curthose and sign the Treaty of Rouen which was to seal it, they went too. They were with him when war broke out again.

  ‘So we’re off to battle,’ Croc said as they loaded their belongings on to their shared pack mule. ‘Curt’ose and Rufus are settin’ off together in a state of brotherly love – first time in years – to put young ’Enry out on the street, pore little sod.’ He used the same tone of gloomy commiseration he would have employed when preparing to put down a deformed pup. In Croc’s eyes, the luckless Henry had no prospects, now or ever. ‘It’s rotten, when you think about it. They’ve cut him right out of the succession and carved up the lands he thought he’d got a life lease on, and no one paid the pore little bleeder back for that lease, neither. Just, “oh, it’s only young ’Enry; if I want to give Rufus some land in Normandy to buy him off leading any more of my burghers astray like Conan, I’ll give him ’Enry’s and hang on to mine.” That’s how Curt’ose thinks.’

  Ralph had heard all the details already but not couched in Croc’s colourful language. Amused, he said: ‘Go on.’

  ‘They told him he can go to Brittany if he wants, or Italy, or the ’Oly Land or ’Ell. So he’s dug hisself into the toughest fortress on what he still reckons is his land. Mont St. Michel, it’s called. Ever ’eard of it, young Ralph?’

  ‘It’s where the Brittany coast and the Norman coast meet,’ said Ralph, ‘I think it’s a monastery. Funny place to conduct a war.’

  ‘Got a warlike abbot, though,’ said Croc thoughtfully. ‘I mind a bit about it now. You saying it’s a monastery brought it back. Been there once. It’s right in the middle of a ruddy great quicksand. Can’t blame him, ’Enry, I mean. He got Rouen back for the duke, bloody ungrateful it is if you arst me, treating him like that, even if he did shove old Curt’ose out of the way and grab all the glory. Reckon Curt’ose is jealous. Well, not for us to ’ave opinions, young Ralph.’ He tightened a girth and patted the mule. ‘We go where Rufus goes. That’s the way ’e is. Got to be fighting someone. If it’s not ’is uncle it’s ’is brother and if it’s not one brother then it’s t’other. Let’s ’ope it don’t take long. I’d sooner be after game than pushed into archers’ lines or sitting down round a castle. What do you do with it when you’ve taken it?’ asked Croc logically. ‘Can’t eat it.’

  It took a very long time indeed.

  Mont St. Michel was indeed surrounded by a ruddy great quicksand. It stood, a lonely semi-island, in the midst of a wide estuary into which not one but several rivers flowed. At high tide it was ringed by sea; at ebbtide the sands appeared, segmented by the rivers and passable only on paths invisible to the uninformed eye. Informed eyes were few and local and Henry had prudently herded most of them into the Mont with him. The place was certainly well designed by nature to hold off a siege and perhaps because of this, its abbot had for years had fantasies about doing just that and had kept the Mont well-victualled.

  Since it was impossible to camp close to it, Curthose and Rufus contented themselves by placing camps at strategic points round the perimeter of the bay, occupying the town of Avranches to the north, and putting a blockade fleet at sea. ‘I’d let him
stew in the Mont and not bother to besiege it,’ said Curthose, ‘only he’d be in Helias of Maine’s pocket before we could turn round. He’s tried to raise men from Maine already, only luckily we caught the messenger. We’ll just have to sit down outside St. Michel until he gives in.’

  ‘You can write this letter for me,’ said King Malcolm of Scotland to his wife. ‘You can be my secretary. That way it’ll come from both of us. You’d best write that it does. That sister o’ yourn will tak more notice, likely, of you than of me. Your sister,’ he added thoughtfully, ‘hates men.’

  ‘Oh, Malcolm. I’m sure that isn’t true. Christina was called to the life of religion and has taken a nun’s vows of celibacy but I am certain it wasn’t that she hated anyone. She loved Christ more, that’s all.’

  ‘I’m maybe sharper ower these matters than you are, lass. But never mind. As long as she doesna teach our Edith to hate men.’ He glanced down the hall, to where his ten-year-old daughter was trying to teach a young dog to jump through a hoop. Malcolm doted on Edith and did not care who knew it. He was not afraid of being laughed at because few people dared to laugh at Malcolm. To laugh at someone was to underestimate them, and of those who in the past had underestimated Malcolm, few remained alive.

  ‘Edith’s for a prince’s bed and board, one of these days,’ he said now to Margaret. ‘So write this. To Christina, Abbess of Romsey Abbey in the county of Hampshire in England, from Malcolm King of Scotland, Greeting. Then tell her that we’re pleased to know that she’s willing to tak charge of our Edith, and educate her in reading and writing and Latin and account-keeping and stitchery and all the things a royal lady should know, and that we’re sending Edith to her with the bearer of this letter.’ At the end of the hall, Edith broke off her game with the dog in order to sneeze. ‘Ye’re maybe right to want to send her south,’ Malcolm observed. ‘This climate’s ower sair on her. Be milder down there. But… now, mark ye put this in and put it clearly. There’s to be no misunderstandings. The girl is going to Romsey for her education only. She’s destined for marriage. She’s no’ to become a nun nor to wear a veil. She’s to keep that in mind and so’s your sister Christina. Make it very plain, my lass.’

  The siege was boring. The besiegers spent much time literally sitting down outside Mont St. Michel, on folding camp furniture, burnishing helmets for lack of livelier occupation. Patrols were organised from time to time, which played a game of tag with the foraging parties Henry regularly despatched across the safe paths, in an attempt to dodge away inland to raid farms for fresh provisions.

  As the boredom intensified, the antagonists developed a species of bond. Henry took to sending out little bands of knights who cantered up and down in front of the besiegers’ camps until someone rode out to fight them. The resultant trials of arms were half serious and half sporting, ‘and a nice distraction while that young bugger gets his foraging expeditions past us,’ said FitzHamon angrily. ‘There’s supposed to be a war on!’ In FitzHamon’s large, craggy face his mouth looked smaller than it really was, as though his facial muscles were not mobile enough to let it open wide. But now he managed it, and from the square dark aperture there issued a rumble of exasperated laughter. ‘All the king says is: “Charge the onlookers to watch, it’ll help with the siege expenses!” He’s ridden out to joust with the enemy himself, more than once!’ FitzHamon threw up his hands and made an indescribable noise. ‘Aaargh! The crosses I have to bear!’

  CHAPTER TWO

  Secret Terrors 1091

  The presence of a horde of more or less unoccupied men round the Mont had its natural effect on the locality’s inhabitants. Anyone with anything to sell, from dried fruit to destriers, arrived forthwith, ‘like bluebottles round a nice ’igh carcase,’ said Croc cynically.

  It broke the monotony. Too well, at times.

  Rufus had marshals in abundance whose business was to see to his horses but Ralph’s skill with them had been noted. The morning a vendor brought a spectacular piebald stallion for the king to inspect, it was Ralph who was called to look it over, because Ralph would do it well, and he was there.

  He approached the task nervously. He knew Rufus well enough by now to know that the king would expect sound judgement and clever bargaining. Before an audience, too. In this bored camp, the transaction was attracting notice and a small crowd had already gathered.

  It was a dull day. The ebbtide sands of the bay were dun-coloured and veiled in a grey haze. Droplets of water clung to the stallion’s parti-coloured mane. Ralph went over him bit by bit, teeth, feet, legs. It was a fine horse, no doubt about it. ‘What are you asking?’ he said to the vendor.

  Rufus had visibly taken a fancy to the animal. He had been about to lead a patrol in search of Henry’s foragers when the dealer arrived and his usual black horse had been saddled. He kept glancing from one to the other and the black was clearly coming off worst in the comparison. The dealer had noticed. ‘Twenty silver marks.’

  ‘Twenty? There’s never been a horse foaled that was worth that much,’ said Ralph with irritation. ‘He’s worth fourteen at the outside.’ He wished Rufus would move away. His eager gaze was only encouraging the dealer in exorbitant demands. He stepped back, examined the piebald with narrowed eyes and seized on a borderline imperfection. ‘His hocks are too high.’

  ‘Perhaps my lord king would like to try him out,’ suggested the dealer, shifting his full blue gaze to Rufus.

  Rufus came forward. ‘All right. Tighten that girth. I’m getting on him.’

  He put a hand on the pommel and mounted without using the stirrups. The bystanders, who included several of the prospective patrol members, holding their mounts’ bridles, murmured approvingly. Rufus thrust his feet into the stirrups and made the horse arch its thick neck and fret against the heavy bit. Then he gathered it as though he were winding a crossbow and let it go, departing across the thin sandy grass at a gallop. One of the bystanders led his horse over to Ralph. ‘Shouldn’t you have tried it out first?’ Ralph did not answer. He did not like Gilbert Clare, who was inclined to make double- edged remarks, and had been pointed out by Croc as an example of unwise generosity on Rufus’ part.

  ‘Tried for treachery after Odo’s rising, but Rufus forgave him. He’s still Earl of Tonbridge, even. / wouldn’t have forgiven him. Reminds me of a ’ound I had once. Offer ’im a titbit and ’e’d have your fingers off.’ Not prepared to be gibed at by Clare, Ralph edged away.

  In the distance, Rufus had pulled up. He put the horse into a gallop again from a standstill, stopped once more, backed and spun the stallion on its hocks. The dealer smiled. Ralph sat down on a folding stool. Clare’s remark had stung because it had substance. He should have tested the horse before Rufus spoke. He had been shown up as inexperienced. He dug the point of his dagger into the sandy soil in front of his feet and concentrated fiercely if distractedly on drawing a figure like an X joined across the top.

  Quietly, not speaking, the dealer sat down on a spare stool beside him, reached out with his riding whip and across Ralph’s design drew another V-shaped figure, converting the figure into a five-pointed star. He glanced up at Ralph and they exchanged a long stare. Ralph nodded.

  The dealer said: ‘Your king wants the horse but he wants you to get it for him cheap and he gives you no help. Sixteen marks?’

  ‘It’s still too much.’

  ‘It’s a good horse. Tell him you beat me down.’

  ‘Very well. If he consents.’

  ‘Oh, he will,’ said the dealer, glancing with satisfaction to where Rufus was still cavorting. ‘It’s barely April,’ he said, ‘but if May Eve finds you still here, come up the River See, on this bank, at sunset. A mile beyond Avranches there’s a dead tree standing alone. I’ll meet you there.’

  ‘Gladly, if we’re still here.’ He had not celebrated Beltane as Elise had taught him it should be celebrated, since he was fourteen. To think of honouring it properly again was like going home. The dealer said casually: ‘Look as if
we’re talking business. The king’s coming back. What’s wrong with him?’ Rufus had wheeled the piebald and spurred him towards them. He shouted, waving his right arm towards the north-east corner of the bay. At that point, a deep arm of the sands ran into the land, making a secondary estuary round the mouth of a river. There, just visible through the mist, something was moving. Rufus slid the stallion onto its hocks in front of them.

  ‘You cretins! Are you all blind? Gaping at me instead of keeping an eye on the enemy? Look, damn you, look!’ He pointed again. What could be seen of his face behind the nosepiece of his helm was crimson.

  They could see now. The fugitive movement was a party of horsemen, undoubtedly from the Mont, one of Henry’s foraging expeditions, for sure. ‘You oafs!’ Rufus bawled at his patrol members, as helms came out from under arms and were rammed on to heads, and feet reached up for stirrups. ‘Do you think they’ll wait for you?’ A ferocious gesture pushed them back out of the saddles into which they were scrambling. 7 saw them first! They’re my meat. Ralph, close the deal, I’m taking this horse. Don’t you dare follow me, any of you. I can manage without such fools at my side!’ He whirled the stallion again and with a war yell which set the held horses dancing, spurred away, sword out, straight towards the foe.

  ‘Christ almighty!’ gasped Gilbert Clare. ‘He usually rides the black with the blaze! He’s got a helmet on! They won’t know who he is on that patchwork thing!’ He stood as if paralysed. ‘He ordered us not to follow!’

  In the distance, Henry’s sortie had seen the oncoming rider and wheeled to meet him, galloping across a river ford. A groom was still holding Rufus’ saddled black destrier. They were only feet away from Ralph. He ran and leapt, snatching the reins, groping for the stirrups, hoping the girths were firm, trying to forget that he wore no helmet himself. It was six to one out there and that was a raiding party, not a bunch of sporting challengers and Ralph wasn’t leaving his king alone with them.