by Tracey Warr
‘Sire.’ I took my hand back. ‘I am glad to see you well.’
He stood too close, talking intimately to me as if we were not surrounded by a hundred people. ‘Thank you. I am so very glad to see you, Nest. How is my son? And how is your life in Pembroke?’
‘Henry is a fine boy, and Pembroke and my husband suit me very well.’
‘Shall we walk in the gardens, Nest, and talk of old times?’
‘I would rather not, Sire,’ I told him. ‘I fear I might catch cold.’ The harshness of the stare I gave him did not match the mildness of my words.
His mouth curved. ‘My stubborn Welsh beauty,’ he whispered. ‘How I have missed the coming and going of those dimples.’
I tried to keep my emotional confusion – and my dimples – from my face. It was all about the thrill of the chase with him. If I had thrown myself at him during my time at court he probably would have left me alone. I was irritated to find myself feeling again the intense draw of him.
The evening’s feast passed quickly in a flow of superficial conversation, an endless procession of delectable dishes, and beautiful music and poetry that nobody listened to. The men in the hall were growing raucous. I excused myself, kissing the top of Mabel’s head as I passed behind her and murmuring against her hair: ‘Do not drink too deeply, Mabel. You should retire soon.’ I knew she would take my advice. I felt the King’s eyes upon me but did not look in his direction.
In my room, I undressed and stood gazing into the fire in my shift, my fur-trimmed cloak slung loosely around my shoulders, my feet bare on the fur rug. I looked at the door latch. I could tie a ribbon around it to secure it shut. He would accept it if I rebuffed him, although he would try again certainly but it was best to face this, to deal with it. My initial excitement at the court had soon passed and already I longed to be at home in the calm certainty of Pembroke Castle with my husband, Amelina and my boys. There was a tap on the door. I had set a jug of wine and my two glass beakers on the table, ready for him. ‘Enter.’
Henry too was dressed for bed, his calves bare beneath the furtrim of his cloak and the edge of his nightshirt, his feet in glinting, embroidered slippers. He set his candle on the table.
‘Sire.’
‘Nest!’ He opened his arms wide. The sight of the black hair curling on his chest, exposed by his loosely tied nightshirt, brought a flood of memories. I remained where I was. He pulled a face at me. ‘You are cross with me.’
‘Not anymore.’
‘I treated you appallingly, my sweet Nest. And looking at you now, what an idiot I was.’
‘No, Sire. You acted as you always do,’ I said tartly.
He frowned, taking a step closer, opening his arms to me again.
I stepped around him to the wine jug, pouring a beakerful and holding it out to him. ‘Will you take wine with me, Sire, to celebrate the expansion of your realm, and the betrothal of your son and my foster-sister?’
He raised an eyebrow, took the beaker from my outstretched hand.
I poured a small amount of wine for myself and breathed deep and slow, trying to stay calm. I sat on one of the two stools at the table, thinking I was probably safer seated than standing, where I could be embraced. I did not ask his permission to sit before he did. Since he had come into my bedchamber I decided he had allowed me to behave towards him as a man, rather than a king.
Henry sat down on the other stool and contemplated me. I ran the pad of my thumb along the engraved pattern of my beaker, looking at him. We always used to talk politics together, and I fell back now onto old habits, knowing he would find it hard to resist discussing his concerns and strategies with me. ‘You have Normandy under your command now, Sire, after such a long struggle.’ Henry had recently returned to England as Duke of Normandy, as well as King of the English. Rule of Normandy was a prize he had hankered after for six years: to rule the same domain as his father, William the Conqueror.
‘Yes, and it is my endeavour now, Nest, to rule this new combined kingdom as well as I am able: England, Normandy and Wales.’
I tried not to visibly flinch at his inclusion of Wales in the list.
‘But you would not believe, Nest, how swiftly my enemies begin to gather against me.’
‘How?’ I asked. ‘They have no one to follow in your stead, with your brother imprisoned. He hasn’t escaped?’
‘No. Robert is secure in Salisbury. My opponents in Normandy gather around his infant son, William, claiming him to be the Clito, the rightful heir to Normandy.’
‘But he is a small child?’
‘No older than my daughter, around five years old.’
‘This is no serious threat to you surely, Sire.’
‘Not yet,’ he said grimly, ‘but de Bellême, de Montfort,’ he counted them off on his fingers, splaying the palm of his hand towards me, ‘Prince Louis of France, the Angevins, the Count of Flanders, they are all intent that my nephew, William Clito, will soon be a threat to me, given time.’ He closed his outstretched hand into a fist and then relaxed it again, replacing it on his knee.
‘Surely they crave peace now, and your good rule.’
Henry raised his eyebrows at me. ‘Come, Nest. I think you know something of de Bellême, having lived in his sister’s household here for so long. I think you know that peace cravings are not high among his longings.’
I nodded my agreement. ‘You did not take the boy captive?’
He stared into his wine, frowning. ‘You hit the nail on the head, as usual, Nest. It was foolish of me. I should have brought my nephew back to England, raised him here at the court. It was a mistake to leave him in Normandy.’
‘Then why, Sire?’ Henry did not often make such mistakes.
He shrugged. ‘I was elated to have finally won the duchy. I felt pity for my brother, despite all his failings, and for my small, bewildered nephew. I did not want to appear a monster.’ He sighed heavily. ‘I don’t know, Nest. I’m not sure what my motives really were. At that point, I was not averse to the possibility that I might rule Normandy as the boy’s regent, but it didn’t take me long to realise that would only bring anarchy to the duchy and make it impossible for me to control both England and Normandy. I left William Clito in the charge of Helias de Saint-Saëns as his tutor and guardian. I thought Helias was loyal to me, but it seems he may join de Bellême and de Montfort, use my kindness to my nephew against me.’
‘How do you know all this, whilst you are distant from it?’
‘My sister, Adela,’ he said, looking up from his wine glass. ‘She keeps me well informed. She has eyes and ears everywhere.’
Yes, so I could imagine. The redoubtable Countess of Blois, Henry’s younger sister, Adela, was devoted to him, to his interests in Normandy. Henry did not underestimate or undervalue women as many men did. He knew and trusted to women’s capabilities: his sister Adela, his queen Matilda. He knew women very well, but that did not prevent him from acting without compassion and compunction if he felt he had to.
‘You will manage it,’ I said. ‘You are smarter and stronger than all of those who are against you.’
‘I’m grateful for your confidence, my love. I have sorely missed that.’
I pulled myself up from the comfortable familiarity that had begun to seep into my limbs and mind. I sat up straight in the chair, put down my beaker, pulled my cloak tighter across my chest, feeling its dark fur stroke my jaw. Suddenly I regretted that I had challenged myself like this, left my hair uncovered, my feet bare. Perhaps I was no match for him after all.
‘How is the Queen, Sire?’ I asked. I had been in service to Queen Matilda and fond of her, before I became Henry’s mistress.
‘She is well but has decided she is done with heir-producing.’ He gave me a wry smile, which I ignored. I was surprised to hear him say this. The Queen had suffered badly with both her pregnancies and childbirths, yet one son and one daughter were scant security for the throne of England and the duchy of Normandy. Intrigued to know his
view, I was tempted to keep talking with him but knew I must be firm with myself.
‘I am glad to see you well, Sire, and wish you success in all your actions. I fear I am tired now after my long journey from Pembroke and my husband.’
He let out a short, exasperated breath. ‘It’s like this, is it? Cold. Empty small-talk. I have to win you all over again?’
‘No,’ I said staring at him, feeling my fury rising. ‘You do not have to win me all over again.’ I enunciated each word. ‘I am not available for winning all over again.’
‘Nest …’ he wheedled.
‘Henry, I’m serious.’ He made an irritated sound. I refilled my beaker and not his, putting the jug back down with more force than I had intended. I sat back and took a deep swig, my hand shaking on the beaker, my eyes holding his.
Henry lay his head to one side, as if to say: I see, I see this is your attitude. ‘Nest. My dear Nest. What is it you want? An apology? I apologise for abandoning you. There was a small matter of a war in Normandy and then three kingdoms to rule.’
‘I do not need your apology. Now,’ I added quietly. Part of me wanted to berate him, to throw my past hurt and fury at him, but I knew that was a way in for him, and I had no intention of giving him a way in.
‘Nest ….’
‘Henry, I am happily married to Gerald. I am happy in Wales. Leave me be. If you cared for me, leave me be.’
‘I am most reluctant to do that, Nest. You know I cared, care for you.’
‘I am asking you to be kind to me, Henry. To behave with love to me. Because you did once love me.’
‘Do still,’ he said, leaning forwards, his nightgown taut across his parted knees, his eyes liquid, black.
He meant it. I knew that. He loved me. And Sybil Corbet, and his queen, and countless other women. I did not want that love and all the pain that came with it. I smiled thinly. ‘Good night, my lord.’ I stood, my stool screeching against the stone.
He stared up at me for a while. ‘Very well.’ He stood. ‘You did not bring our son with you to Cardiff?’
‘No.’
There was a long silence. ‘I am leaving reluctantly, Nest.’ He hesitated at the door, his expression mirroring his words.
I said nothing and he closed the door behind him. He would go in search of Sybil now. I subsided onto my stool, poured more wine with a shaking hand, trying to ignore the empty goblet that Henry had left behind.
3
A Conundrum
Sister Benedicta sat in the library of Almenêches Abbey in Normandy, reasoning with herself, trying to decide how serious a sin spying against Robert de Bellême might be. She wanted an end to war, she told herself. She wanted her brother out of harm’s way. The day when she had waited for news of Haith from the Tinchebray battlefield, when King Henry of England fought his own brother, the former Duke Robert – that had been the worst day of her life. It was worse, even, than the day when she had first been separated from Haith, when she was six years old, when she had been thrust into and contained in the cloister forever. Was it purely the personal need for her brother’s safety, she asked herself, or a more socially spirited yearning to end war that had got her into this bind?
It had been both reasons. She nodded quickly to herself, looking around to see if any of the other nuns were noticing this animated argument going on inside her head, but there were only two elderly sisters in the library this morning, and neither of them were paying her any attention. One had her nose almost touching the page of a book as she strained with old, rheumy eyes, to read. The other had given up such a struggle long ago and slept peacefully, her crucifix awry on her chest, her cheek resting on a curled, pale hand. Benedicta noticed how the thin skin of the sleeping nun’s hand slipped and bunched as if that gauntlet was too large now for the shrinking bones beneath, how it was splotched with large brown age spots, and wrinkled with ninety years of prayer.
Benedicta resumed her inner debate. That was how she had got herself into this: a combination of personal and selfless desires – for Haith’s safety and for universal peace. But … was it honest? Clearly not. It was not honest to spy on one’s fellow nuns, to listen at doors, to pass on information, to participate in underhand plotting. Yet, King Henry, Haith’s lord and longtime friend, was a better man than the man she was seeking to spy on, de Bellême, and besides, it was extreme fun. However, if what she was doing was so righteous, why had she not told Haith about it? He would object on the grounds of her safety of course, but perhaps, too, on the grounds of her honesty.
Exasperated with herself, Benedicta threw her hands up in the air, but brought them back together again smoothly in demure prayer when the short-sighted nun suddenly looked up. Reassured, the elderly nun returned to her pages. Benedicta, at thirty-six, was still young; the cropped hair beneath her wimple still pale gold. Yet, she reflected, she would be like these old, dozing nuns before too long: her sap dried up, worn out by days and days of doing nothing. Well, nothing except praying. Other people’s business does not concern me, she chanted silently in her head. To say this sentence at least ten times over, every day, was the penance the Father Confessor had given to her, when she had obliquely confessed to the sin of great curiosity. Was that six or seven times she had said it so far today?
Benedicta dipped her quill in the ink again, finishing her latest report to Countess Adela of Blois, King Henry’s sister. She had written down what she had been able to glean about the comings and goings of the King’s enemy, Robert de Bellême. There was plenty of well-informed gossip about him here at the abbey since his sister was Abbess and his niece was the Prioress.
This spying had begun as an innocent game between Benedicta and Haith. Their mother had given them identical copies of a psalter and, when they were separated – she to a nunnery, he to Henry’s service – they had written to each other in cipher using that psalter. Just for fun. Gradually the game had grown more serious. Henry became king and was set about with enemies to guard against. Benedicta, by chance, was well placed at Almenêches, a nest of Montgommerys, the enemies of the King. Benedicta never had anything of real significance to tell Haith and so she had thought nothing of their game, but since King Henry had taken over the Duchy of Normandy, things had grown more serious again.
The King himself had written to Benedicta in a flourishing hand, on very fine parchment, and accompanied by the impressive royal seal. ‘You would do me a great service,’ he wrote, ‘if you would keep my sister, Countess Adela de Blois, informed on all matters pertaining to Robert de Bellême. Your great learning and intelligence have come to my attention, Sister. I know that your aid will be invaluable to me.’ The King told her not to mention this task to Haith, not to worry him, and to destroy the letter. Reluctantly she had done so. She was flattered by the King’s attention and trust but assumed any information she had would always be of little import. But, gradually, she found herself embroiled in more and more lies. She did not tell Haith that she was corresponding with the Countess. Worst of all, she was deceiving the Abbess, her great friend.
She knew her motives for spying were complex. There was a pinch of vanity; she was good at it. There was a dollop of vengeance; she wanted to damage de Bellême. A few years ago, he had set the abbey ablaze, destroyed her life’s work in the library, almost killed her. Benedicta enjoyed the irony that he had wrongly accused her then of spying, and now she was actually enacting his accusation against him. She shook her head at herself. All profoundly irreligious. Still, she could not stop spying. It was an addiction. She would need to confess it again – circumspectly, vaguely, of course – and do further penance for it. ‘Thereby my latest report is concluded, honoured Countess.’ She ended her letter to Adela de Blois with her own elaborate signature. Her quill was pressed into the tiny bowl of the final full stop when she was startled by the Abbess’s voice close behind her.
‘Sister Benedicta.’
Swiftly, Benedicta covered her writing with the inky cloth that she used to blot
spills and blotches. She rose to greet the Abbess, blocking the older woman’s view of the desk.
‘Mother Superior, greetings.’ She bowed her head.
‘Will you come to my chamber, Sister. I have received a letter from a great lady, the Countess Adela de Blois, and I need to consult with you on this matter.’
Benedicta flushed a hot, uncomfortable red. Why on earth would the Countess write to Abbess Emma? Had she decided to expose Benedicta, decided her spying was despicable? She could read nothing in the Abbess’s serene face. ‘Of course … of course, Mother Superior. I will come right away.’ Swiftly, she bundled her guilty letter into her chest, turned the key in the lock, and followed the Abbess from the library.
In her chamber, the Abbess gestured at the comfortable chair next to the crackling fire, opposite her own seat. Despite the spring weather, it was still chilly in the dark interiors of the abbey. Benedicta pushed the abbey cat from a cushion and sat down, disregarding a swirl of cat hairs; there was no need to be particular about her rough black habit. The Abbess’s demeanour was friendly, as usual. Surely she would not be like this if Benedicta’s hypocrisy had been revealed? They tended to drop formalities when they were in private together. Benedicta was the Abbess’s confidante in fact, which was why, sadly, she was such an effective spy. She felt the frown at her hypocrisy might crack her forehead in two if she did not desist from it soon. She had made her bed. She must lie in it.
‘Are you too warm, Benedicta? Too close to the fire? You are quite beetroot-hued!’ The Abbess laughed kindly.
‘No, no! Your fire is a delight after the frigid library!’
‘Ah, yes. I am afraid that is true,’ the Abbess said ruefully. Her father had established the abbey and now her brother, de Bellême, should be responsible for ensuring the nuns continued well-endowed with funds, but there was no sign that he acknowledged any such responsibility, and so they had to make do. Benedicta and the Abbess had spent years writing begging letters to all and sundry, to raise the funds to rebuild the ancient abbey that de Bellême had so recklessly reduced to ashes during the war between King Henry and his brother Robert, the former Duke.