by Tracey Warr
He looked at her for a long moment.
‘I envy you the simplicity and goodness of that,’ he said.
But Benedicta did not feel simple and good. Deciding that his honesty merited her own, she added, ‘And curiosity. I suspect that is mostly my reason for everything.’
Amaury laughed now with real delight. ‘Well that is a very good reason, I would say.’ His expression sobered. ‘All I ask is that King Henry gives me my rights, my county of Évreux.’
‘Forgive me, but that is disingenuous, surely. Your oath is sworn to the French king. Obviously, King Henry does not want a French ally in command of such a rich county, right in the middle of Normandy, his own territory. You are King Louis’ man.’
‘I am no one’s man, Benedicta,’ he brought his face closer to hers, ‘unless it is yours.’
She knew the untruth of his words very well and yet she thrilled to them. Suppressing a smile, she dropped her eyes reluctantly from his face, turned and moved swiftly along the parapet, meaning to make a circuit or at least wait until he had gone, to regain her own room, conscious of his gaze, warm on her retreating back.
29
Shuttle Diplomacy
Benedicta sat in a window seat in a pool of sunlight at the bishop’s palace in Lisieux, reading the latest letter from Haith. Her copy of Ovid was balanced open at ‘Love and War’ on her knee and she traced one finger on Haith’s coded letter and the other on the lines of the poem, deciphering it. Perhaps they should give up this ciphering, she thought, impatient to understand what he had written to her. The Truce of God between the kings had lasted barely longer than a blink of an eye. King Henry had returned to the attack and besieged de Montfort again in the Évreux citidel, which had already been weakened in the previous attacks and this time, Haith wrote, Amaury was forced to surrender. Benedicta quailed, fearing she would read of Amaury’s death in the face of the King’s malevolentia, but, Haith wrote that Amaury sued for peace through the mediation of Thibaut de Blois and King Henry had magnanimously pardoned the lord who had given him so much trouble. Benedicta took a deep breath, thinking it was probably an error on Henry’s part to be gentle to Amaury, but relieved for Amaury’s sake. No doubt, Henry thought he had much to atone for and sought any opportunity to do so.
Richard FitzRoy, Haith’s letter continued, had come to intervene with the King on behalf of his sister, Juliana, and Henry gave pardon to his daughter and her husband. With their leader, de Montfort, at peace with the King, the other rebel lords soon came to Henry to offer their fealty. Stephen de Aumale, Hugh de Gournay and Robert de Neubourg had laid down their arms and enmity. As part of the peace negotiations, the King’s illegitimate daughter, Alice, was wed to Matthew de Montmorency, the son of the constable of France who was King Louis’ most important administrator. Haith wrote that King Henry had met with his nephew, William Clito, and offered him three counties in England. William had asked for the release of his father who had been imprisoned for thirteen years, but Henry refused and William Clito left without agreement reached between them. Although Henry is in the ascendency again, Haith wrote, with William Clito still unreconciled, there remains the likelihood of further conflict, but, prepare yourself, Benedicta, Haith’s letter concluded, I am coming to get you, my indispensable sister. Juliana has decided to withdraw to Fontevraud with her daughters and King Henry asks that you and I escort them there.
Anything to be away from the scribe, Benedicta thought. He had not troubled her since Reims, and so perhaps Amaury had been true to his word and warned him off, yet she was glad to be away from the risk and to be returning to Fontevraud, to find, she hoped, her own peace.
Haith hammered on the great doors of Fontevraud and Benedicta remembered the time before when she had arrived here with Count Etienne, loaded down with the weight of the spying task she had to do. Now she returned with an even sadder freight: the Lady Juliana and her blinded little daughters. The vast doors creaked open wide to give entrance to the King’s daughter and granddaughters, who were named Emma and Agnes. Benedicta described what she saw before her to the two girls. Many old friends were lined up to welcome them, including Sister Genevieve and Petronilla, who had recently been confirmed as Abbess. Their faces were wreathed with smiles that came and went and came again as they struggled with the sight of the blinded children and their unhappy mother. ‘If anyone can help them it is Abbess Petronilla and this place,’ Benedicta whispered to Haith.
Sister Genevieve led the way to the best chambers that had once belonged to Bertrade and Benedicta experienced her own tribulations. Naturally, this was where Petronilla would choose to house Juliana, but Benedicta was obliged to avert her eyes from the corner where Amaury’s saddlebags and their clothes had been slung, where she had pilfered the letter. She was obliged to hurry even faster past the hearth where she had lain with him. ‘I would be happy to return to the cell I stayed in before,’ she told the Abbess, an edge of insistence in her voice.
The following morning, Haith was ready to return with the haste King Henry had required, and he took his farewell from Lady Juliana and then from his sister. ‘You are sure you will stay here then, Benedicta?’
‘Yes. It is the closest place to home for me now.’ She might salve her sin with a lifetime of prayers.
‘I will write.’
‘Of course you will. Ovid, remember,’ she whispered in his ear and he laughed.
True to his word, Haith wrote to Benedicta soon after his departure to tell her about King Henry’s audience with Pope Callixtus at Gisors. Robert and Waleran de Beaumont, the twin sons of Elizabeth de Vermandois, had given a learned display of rhetoric and debated philosophy with the cardinals. The aetheling’s court, though, wrote Haith, meaning all those young men gathered around Henry’s heir, William Adelin, was in need of more educating, or perhaps less. The aetheling’s court has always been a problem for kings, Haith wrote. Think on the trouble William the Conqueror had with his eldest son, Robert. Young men are impatient and uninformed and they see that King Henry begins to grow old and weary. Men who cannot win or do not deserve favour from the King find place and favour instead with the aetheling. He wrote that William Adelin and Waleran, in particular, were arrogant and ill-mannered to those members of the court who were not of Norman or French blood. William claims he will yoke all the English to the plough like oxen when he is king and Waleran laughs at those members of Henry’s household who are not pure-blooded nobles (like me, Haith added), saying we are mere country bumpkins. The other young members of the prince’s vivacious court, he wrote, include his half-sister, Matilda FitzRoy, Countess of Perche; his half-brother, Richard FitzRoy; Richard, the young Earl of Chester and his new wife, Matilda de Blois, the sister of Thibaut and Etienne. Prince William is puffed up too far, too ill-advisedly, at being rex et dux designatus, Haith concluded. Benedicta was glad that they were using their cipher after all, and decided that, for Haith’s safety, she had best burn this letter as soon as she finished it.
It is a pity, Haith wrote, that the identical Beaumont twins, the sons of Elizabeth de Vermandois, are so different in characters, as well as in body. Where Waleran’s mouth is full of crass superiority against others, Robert is fair-spoken and fair-minded like his father. Henry has recently been greatly displeased to hear that Waleran arranged betrothals for his three younger sisters to men whose loyalty is suspect. Adeline de Beaumont is to marry Hugh, the Lord of Montfort-sur-Risle; Aubree de Beaumont is betrothed to Hugh of Châteauneuf-en-Thimerais; and the youngest sister, Maud, is betrothed to William Lovel. The challenge to Henry’s authority seems all the worse, since the older sister, Isabel de Beaumont, is Henry’s own mistress. But perhaps, thought Benedicta, that is what motivates Waleran de Beaumont to defy the King. Henry suspects this mischief is sown by Amaury de Montfort, wrote Haith. Benedicta blushed scarlet as her speeding glance recognised the Ovidian cipher for Amaury’s name. Swiftly she touched the letter’s edge to the candle, unsure if it were that flame or the heat of he
r shame that caused the parchment to ignite so swiftly and run blackening to ash.
As they entered the new year and celebrated Epiphany at the abbey, Benedicta was dismayed to receive a letter from Countess Adela requesting that she come to her at Chartres. ‘There is much to do and I can think of nobody better than you for the task,’ the Countess wrote. Benedicta had hoped to be left in peace.
She sat in the church for two days, seeking guidance from God, never moving and not taking food or water. Instead of growing easier with the passage of time, it grew harder and harder for her to reconcile everything she had done with the prospect of her future here, with her monastic life. Abbess Petronilla startled her, sitting down beside her. ‘You have been in prayer a long time, Sister.’
Benedicta said nothing. Her throat was parched and she was not sure she could speak, even if she knew what to say.
‘You are troubled, Sister?’
When there was still no response, the Abbess put both of her hands around one of Benedicta’s and stood. Benedicta remained seated, her arm held aloft now by the Abbess. ‘Come, Benedicta,’ Petronilla said gently. ‘Whatever it is, we can find balm for it through prayer. Come and speak with me about what troubles you.’
Benedicta rose reluctantly and went with the Abbess, who saw to it that she took some water and bread. ‘Can you speak to me, Sister? Or would you prefer that I ask a confessor to come?’
‘No!’ Benedicta exclaimed. She could not bear the thought of having to confess her actions to any man. She wept. ‘I have committed great sins, Abbess.’
When the force of her tears was spent, the Abbess spoke to her again. ‘I know you, Sister Benedicta. I know that your heart is good. Whatever you have done, you will have done it for the sake of someone else, for someone else’s good and not for your own.’
Benedicta shook her head. If only that were true. She told Petronilla about the spying on behalf of King Henry and the Countess, of how she had stolen de Bellême’s damning letter from de Montfort’s saddlebags, but she could not bring herself to voice the full extent of what had happened with de Montfort. ‘You were commanded to it,’ the Abbess said, hesitantly. ‘You sought to serve the King.’ Clearly she was shocked at Benedicta’s revelation of such perfidious behaviour.
‘You must do penance and confess. God will forgive you.’
Benedicta swallowed. It seemed unlikely that God would forgive her. Unlike Petronilla, He was aware of the full extent of her crimes. She explained that the Countess had required her attendance again and that she was reluctant to be drawn back into the intrigue.
‘If the Countess commands it, Sister, you must go. Perhaps you can explain your qualms to her and she will understand and relieve you of any further need for lies.’
Oh, Abbess Petronilla, thought Benedicta, I thought you a knowing woman in this world and not so naive.
At Chartres, Benedicta was soon occupied, drafting correspondence for the Countess. She was surprised to encounter Archbishop Thurstan of York in the passageway. She watched the Countess, the Archbishop, and Count Thibaut at dinner, their heads together in close conference.
‘I must take you into my confidence, Sister Benedicta,’ the Countess told her the following morning. ‘And I know that your integrity is beyond question.’ Benedicta took a deep breath and kept her own views on that topic to herself, waiting for what the Countess wanted to tell her.
‘You are perhaps wondering at the Archbishop’s presence here?’
‘It is an honour to be in his blessed company.’
‘You have heard that my brother, the King, is angry with the Archbishop, has banished him from the kingdom.’
Benedicta felt it was best to venture no opinions in any directions.
The Countess leant towards her to whisper. ‘My brother is well aware of Thurstan’s presence and activities.’
Benedicta blinked. Was the Countess ensnaring an archbishop now in the perversions of her spy network?
‘King Louis of France also believes, as does the world, that Archbishop Thurstan is in great disfavour with my brother, and so Louis gives Thurstan his favour, do you see? It allows King Louis to save face in making peace with us, if he thinks he is flouting Henry with his favour for Archbishop Thurstan.’ The Countess sat back sighing with satisfaction with herself.
For the next month, the Archbishop, Count Thibaut and Cardinal Cuno shuttled back and forth, as the bobbin does on a loom, between the courts of King Louis and the Countess with messages and counter-offers. The Countess conveyed the progress of the negotiations to King Henry. In an ingeniously literal stroke, the Countess had scores of new looms moved into her great chamber to demonstrate this new technology. For days, the racket of the looms covered the sound of the whispered conversations and the missives dictated in low voices.
In June, the comings and goings of the negotiators and their offers and counter-offers resulted in a peace agreement between the two kings. King Louis granted Normandy to William Adelin and gave up his support for William Clito. It was a dazzling diplomatic triumph for Henry. Countess Adela began to make preparations to enter the convent at Marcigny. ‘My son does need to marry sometime, I suppose,’ she sighed, reluctant, to Benedicta. ‘His wife would require the surrender of my titles and I would rather take my own time and initiative in that.’ Adela would have far fewer obstacles and no trouble at all, Benedicta thought, in imposing her will on a flutter of nuns. Benedicta also made preparations to travel. She was to go with Mahaut and with Adela’s daughter, Matilda de Blois, the Countess of Chester, to meet with King Henry and the young ladies’ triumphant husbands at Barfleur.
Benedicta rose early with the sun and watched the dawning of a fair November day at the port of Barfleur. The squally winds that had bent the tree tops to and fro for the last few days had died down. Small clouds progressed slowly across the pale blue sky. Perhaps they would sail today if the fine weather held. From the window, she could see the quay and the three large ships waiting – the King’s ship; a second ship that was still being loaded with his goods: barrels of wine, cheeses, fine textiles and ceramics; and a third ship – the new one – which would carry the Prince’s household to England. She heaved a sigh of relief that the only sounds on this fine morning were birdsong and the waves chopping at the jetties. She had fallen asleep very late, still hearing the loud carousing of the Prince’s court in the hall below. Even the King’s requests for less noise and more temperance had only briefly quietened down the cacophony.
Benedicta’s possessions were packed and waiting in a small canvas bag. She looked affectionately at the sleeping child on her cot. Mahaut was a beauty, and well might the Prince celebrate his marriage to her and his father’s peace with the French king and Mahaut’s father, the Count of Anjou. After all these years of war and strife there was tranquillity at last, a return to England and more time with Haith to look forward to. Benedicta had started to think that perhaps she would not return to one of the Norman or French abbeys after all, but would instead seek a place in an English convent when the King no longer needed her at court. Mahaut was thirteen years old and it would be some time yet before her marriage with the Prince would be consummated and she could manage her own household. It was possible, too, that Mahaut might wish to keep Benedicta with her. No point in thinking too far ahead. She had not seen the loathsome scribe, Gisulf, about the court for some weeks, as the King had sent him on much business, but she knew this was merely a temporary respite. She had almost resolved with herself to tell the whole sorry story to Haith when they arrived in England. It seemed the only solution for her anxiety.
She bent to kiss Mahaut’s soft cheek. ‘Wake up, sweetness. It looks as if we may sail today,’ she said in a whisper. Mahaut opened her light brown eyes and smiled lazily at Benedicta.
‘Today. Really?’
‘Yes, the weather is fair. I’m going down to the hall now to see if any decision has been made. Will you follow me down soon, Princess, and come to break your fast?’
Mahaut nodded her agreement and Benedicta turned to the stairs, speaking to Mahaut’s maid as she passed. ‘Dress the child in warm clothes,’ Benedicta told her, thinking that she would need them if they went onboard ship.
In the hall, she looked for Haith but did not see his fair head looming above all the other mostly dark heads. Still late abed as usual she guessed. The King was seated at the trestle with his Italian shipmaster and a number of other men that Benedicta did not recognise – other ship captains, merchants and harbour-masters, perhaps. Her guess that they would sail today garnered more evidence. Benedicta sat with bread and a small wooden beaker of ale before her. She watched the King dismiss the men clustered about him and they moved out of the hall, full of purpose. Benedicta swiftly dropped her eyes to the trestle when she saw Gisulf arrive and sit beside the King to take the orders for the day. The horrid man was back already.
Mahaut came tripping down the stairs, her glossy brown curls bouncing on her shoulders. The King’s expression brightened at the sight of her. Mahaut was a great favourite with him. He waved off Gisulf and beckoned to Benedicta to move her stool closer and sit together with him and the child. ‘Sister.’
He kissed the top of Mahaut’s head. ‘Are you ready to see England again?’
‘Yes, Papa,’ she told him eagerly.
‘You will be queen there one day, so pay heed to your lessons with Sister Benedicta. A queen must be learned. Is my Mahaut a good student?’
‘Indeed, she is, Sire,’ Benedicta answered. She looked up to the doorway at a dog’s loud bark and saw Haith entering, stretching his long arms in the air above a dishevelled head of blond hair.