Henry of the High Rock

by Juliet Dymoke

  Henry sat alone on a chest in the cloister and kicked savagely at the carved wooden base, scratching the surface with his spur. The sound of the monks’ eternal chanting seemed to go on and on, irritating him beyond measure, and there was nowhere in this abbey where one could go to get away from it. Here in the cloister he was conscious of little else, but every day there came a point when he could stand the sick-room no longer and must needs get away to fresh air. He had ridden out briefly into the forest this morning, but had soon returned for he dared not stay far from his father’s side for long. Rufus indeed had not left the King’s sick-bed, sleeping on a pallet in the corner of the room rather than be out of call and he too must not be other than on the spot when the dying Conqueror decided to settle his affairs – for dying he was, none doubted that.

  After the fight at Mantes they had borne him in a litter home to Rouen, but the noise of the city, the constant sound of hooves and wheels on the streets, the cries of the traders, the ringing of bells from a score of churches all caused the wounded man such sleepless tension that he ordered his attendants to carry him to the Abbey of St. Gervase in the quiet hills west of Rouen. This journey caused him excessive pain but never for one moment did he lose command of himself and now he rested more comfortably. His physical suffering was, however, intense, the internal injury to his bowels beyond the help of his physicians, Abbot Gontard of Jumeges and Gilbert Maminot, Bishop of Lisieux, but despite his agony he kept his mind alert and his senses clear, attending to whatever pressing business was brought to him.

  Henry watched by the bed with his brother, uneasy, uncertain of the future without the strong hand that had always guided them. There was no man in Europe to be compared to their father for sheer might, but there were many – Philip of France and Count Robert of Flanders among them – who would be only too eager to fall like jackals on Norman lands.

  Well, the King’s last act had been to take Mantes and a bloody business it had been, but thinking of the battle it seemed to Henry a wanton waste of lives and property. By God, if he ever had the chance to govern he would use war only as a last resort. He knew now that he could fight and he had seen what bloodlust could do, God knew most of the barons lived for little else, but he might have died in that fight. Without the aid of the unknown knight who had given him that sorry horse he might lie now in Vexen soil – and that, he reflected with youthful arrogance, would have been a waste too. There must be some use for the learning, the ideas that teemed in his head. Yet at the moment his own future looked wretchedly uncertain. Following the usual custom Robert, being the eldest son, would have the Norman inheritance as the King had promised and Rufus would have England – so he would have nothing at all.

  In a swift mood of rebellious discontent he precipitated himself from the chest and began to pace the cloister. It must be the most damnable thing in the world, he thought, to be the youngest son of a King. What would there be for him, what could there be? Robert and Rufus would take all and he, porphyrogenites, the only one born in the purple, the only one born on English soil and the son of a King, an English Atheling, would have nothing.

  He paused, leaning against one of the stone arches, looking across the cloister. The singing had ceased and it was quiet now, the rays of the sun slanting across the grey stones. He had no illusions about either of his brothers. Robert was gay and generous and spendthrift, but he had the slow Flemish tenacity inherited from their mother’s line and he meant to be Duke – indeed it had been his very determination to have his inheritance that had caused the bitter quarrel with the King and the rift between his parents. Robert wanted the dukedom eight years ago, claiming that his father had England and enough to do there, to which William retorted scathingly that he was not accustomed to undress until he went to bed.

  Henry smiled wrily – none of them could better their sire in an argument. So Robert left the court and his gaiety was sadly missed while his mother wept openly. With him went many sons of noble houses, infected with his discontent, to the annoyance of their fathers and finally it came to open warfare. Before the castle of Gerberoi, in a skirmish, Robert actually unseated the Conqueror and it was typical of him that he at once dismounted and helped his father back into the saddle. No one had won that fight. Henry had been a child of eleven at the time but he remembered the gloom that the King had brought back to court and despite a temporary reconciliation the quarrel had persisted. Robert had not been seen for the past five years, though he was not far away either in France or in Flanders with their uncle Count Robert the Frisian.

  Had he heard in the mysterious way that news travelled of their father’s mortal sickness, Henry wondered, or had Rufus sent a messenger? He would have to ask him, but his brother seldom left the sick-bed and no one mentioned Robert in the King’s hearing. If Robert had been their mother’s favourite Rufus was their father’s, he thought bitterly. Yesterday when the dying man’s pain had been excessive, Rufus had wept, tears coursing down his red face making dark, ugly blotches. And at the thought of that pain and the disruption of life that must come, Henry felt his own eyes smart. But only for a moment. Then he straightened and walked on round the corner of the cloisters where, coming towards him, he saw his brother.

  ‘Your page told me I would find you here,’ Rufus said abruptly. ‘Our father wishes to speak with us.’

  Henry said, ‘Why did you not send Fulcher to find me?’ But he was thinking, it has come, the moment when I shall know what the future holds for me. He walked slowly, eager yet uncertain. He was nineteen and the youngest but he wanted – something! He glanced sideways at Rufus. His brother was dressed in a long green tunic girt with a jewelled belt and embroidered in the English manner, his square figure strong and well-made, lacking their father’s inches but with his air of authority and there was a confidence in his very walk that Henry envied.

  ‘I wanted to speak to you myself,’ Rufus said, ‘to tell you I have sent word to Curthose.’ He seemed to enjoy using the name the King had given to his eldest son whose legs were so painfully short.

  ‘I wondered if you would. Will the King see him?’

  ‘No, he has said he will not, but I thought our brother should know.’ Rufus gave his short harsh laugh. ‘I’ll wager ten marks he is already at the border waiting for news. He’ll not be slow to take what is his. Our father knows that and for all their quarrel he will keep his word to Robert because that is his way.’ Henry wanted to ask what more their lord had said but his brother’s lips were closed hard in a manner he had when he thought he had said enough. They walked in silence along the cloister and it was Henry who broke it first.

  ‘I think Lanfranc would say it would be wrong for him to go to God with the quarrel still unmended.’

  Rufus shrugged. ‘Maybe, but Lanfranc is in England – and anyway I doubt if God cares. He must be used to men fighting, we do little else.’

  ‘Unless we are monks.’ Henry glanced through the arches to where, on the far side, he could see black-robed figures passing silently.

  ‘They have a private arrangement with Him – and they’re welcome to it,’ his brother retorted. ‘Don’t tell me you want to join them?’

  ‘Not I,’ Henry answered goodhumouredly, ‘but the priests are right when they urge a man to make peace on his death bed. Who would go to God laden with more sins than he need?’

  A cynical smile lifted the corners of the younger William’s mouth. ‘Our holy Archbishop has taught you well, my little brother. But as far as I am concerned I am as I am and God, and everyone else too, must take me so. As for Curthose, he chose to defy our father and must stew in his own pot. But what sort of Duke do you think he will make?’

  Henry was surprised at the sudden question. ‘How should I know?’ He added as an afterthought, ‘But the barons need a strong hand and I doubt if he has that.’

  ‘Exactly, and if I see the need it is I who shall be that strong hand.’

  ‘You? You would fight Robert?’ For a moment an indefinable f
ear seized him, a moment of prescience when he seemed to see strife between the three of them, a warring that would bring no good. ‘You would turn against Robert?’ he repeated.

  Rufus laughed again. ‘Only if it is for the good of us all. Well, we shall see how things go.’

  Henry put his hand on the latch of the door that led into the church through which they must pass to reach the guest house. It occurred to him that Rufus’ laugh was incongruous at this moment, and further that there was no mirth in it. ‘Yet I could wish him here.’ he said. ‘Once we were close. Do you remember,’ a sudden recollection came to him and he paused, savouring it, ‘do you remember when we were at L’Aigle, years ago, and Robert had a new mantle and strutted like a peacock? He was playing at dice with Ivo and Alberic of Grandmesnil and some others – Ralph’s father was one, I think – and he called us children and sent us away, and we went up to the gallery and threw water from the chamber pots all over them.’ His smile widened. ‘What a scrap it was until our father heard the din and came to separate us. He was very angry and had me beaten because I laughed so much.’

  Rufus’ mouth had tightened. ‘This is not the time for thinking of old jests. He is to tell us of his will.’

  Sobered, Henry opened the door and went into the church where he genuflected and crossed himself. Rufus did not trouble himself to do either and Henry followed him out with only one prayer in his head – God, let me have something, something to make my life my own.

  In the largest room in the guest house King William lay in his own great bed that had been brought from Rouen. His face was drawn and grey above the red mantle wrapped about his shoulders, but his dark eyes were alert still and as the princes entered he was listening to an impassioned plea from his brother of Mortain.

  It seemed to Henry that the room was filled with barons and prelates. The Bishop of Lisieux was carefully watching his patient while on the other side of the bed the Abbot was superintending the mixing of a potion in an effort to ease his lord’s pain. Hugh of Grandmesnil was by the window, and Walter Giffard, the Duke’s old friend, William of Breteuil, Robert de Beaumont, the elder Ralph de Toeni and his son, were all gathered about the bed.

  As Henry entered his cousin Stephen of Aumale, son of William’s sister Adeliza, the Countess of Champagne, caught him by the arm, his thin dark face grave. ‘The King has said that all prisoners are to be released in a general amnesty except Bishop Odo, and to my mind he should be left to rot. I’m not enamoured of our uncle.’

  ‘Neither am I,’ Henry agreed in a low voice, ‘but our other uncle of Mortain may get his way.’

  ‘I implore you, sire,’ Robert of Mortain was saying urgently, ‘as you must make your peace with our Lord Christ let your forgiveness extend to our brother.’

  William stirred uneasily, his great bulk shifting under the fur coverlet, his square hands restless, fingers deep in the fur. ‘You are a fool, Robert. Do you think God will commend me for leaving my realm in danger? I tell you, Odo, if he is free, will make trouble for you all.’

  ‘But if he returns to Bayeux, to his diocese…’

  The corners of the King’s mouth lifted grimly. ‘If you think he can keep from meddling in state affairs, then you are an even bigger fool. It will be difficult enough for Robert to rule the duchy which is his by right – for all he’s been a traitor to me and no true son I’ll not deny him that – but if he has Odo to contend with and give him bad counsel, then by Christ’s wounds I fear for you all.’

  ‘Odo has learned his lesson,’ Mortain pleaded. He was some years younger than William and despite his grey head strong still and stubborn without a great deal of sense. ‘William, we three have done so much together. All the years when we strove to make Normandy a place fit to live in, when you brought justice here, when we fought for England and won it, are these to count for nothing? Odo and I were ever at your side.’ William’s glance rested for a moment on his half-brother’s stolid countenance and a faint smile crossed his face. ‘Of your loyalty I was never in doubt.’

  ‘Then for my sake, brother, forgive Odo. Let your last act of charity be to release him.’

  There was silence now in the room, no other man daring to put forward an opinion on this issue. Grandmesnil, nearing sixty himself, who had served William for forty years, shifted uneasily for he would rather Odo stayed where he was. His own sons had rebelled with Robert and been pardoned and consequently he had no desire to see the Bishop putting his wily counsel into Robert’s ears. De Beaumont also looked wary but his house was powerful enough to be less concerned. William of Breteuil did not care either way, having enough faith in his own right arm to snap his fingers even at Odo. Henry glanced at Rufus but his brother’s face reflected nothing of his feelings. Stephen leaned against the door and studied an old scar on the back of his hand.

  Mortain repeated, ‘William, I beg of you…’

  The King sighed. He seemed weary now and accepting the potion Abbot Gontard handed him swallowed it obediently, grimacing with distaste.

  ‘You are tired, sire,’ the Abbot said gently. His black robes, his quiet manner contrasted with the rich dress and the almost tangible tensions of the other men in the room. ‘Rest now and give your mind to this matter tomorrow.’

  ‘Tomorrow!’ Mortain exclaimed. ‘Tomorrow may be too…’ he stopped abruptly. ‘It is too urgent to wait. Brother…’

  William lifted his hand. ‘If you must have your way I will pardon him. But you will all rue it.’

  Mortain’s face was alight with relief. ‘I thank you, William. It is an act of mercy that will commend your soul to Our Lady and . . .’

  ‘See to it,’ William interrupted him as if he had had enough of the subject and Mortain went out.

  The King stared past Grandmesnil’s upright figure to the window. ‘Release the English Earl Morcar and give Harold’s brother, Wulnoth the Saxon, leave to return to England if he wishes.’ His eyes clouded for a moment and silence fell again, a silence no one liked to break.

  Wulnoth was the youngest brother of the dead King Harold, the last of the house of Godwine and his name carried those old enough to remember back to the day when they had won England for Normandy. The King’s eyes were fixed beyond them all on the window, the shutters open to the mild September air, the sun still warm. His thoughts too had returned to that evening more than twenty years before when he had stood in gathering darkness on the summit of Telham ridge, victor of the field of Senlac, and they had brought him the body of Harold. He had liked Harold and if the English Earl had kept faith with him they might have been friends. He had not wanted to see him, hacked and bloodied by Norman swords, lying thus at his feet. So long ago, and yet so clear in his head as if it were but a few days past. It was a small act of reparation to release Wulnoth now. He thought too of that other English Earl whom he had sent to his death, Waltheof Siwardson whom he had married to his niece Judith; he had liked Waltheof too but Waltheof had become implicated in deep treachery and though many thought him innocent Judith herself had spoken against him and at last William had permitted his execution. It was the only time in all his life when he had sent a man to death other than in war and now, remembering, he faced within himself the knowledge that he had almost certainly condemned an innocent man. For that there was no reparation.

  He said, ‘Is Abbot Anselm come from Bec?’

  Gilbert of Lisieux shook his head. ‘No, my lord. A messenger came an hour since to say that he started out as you bade him but he fell sick on the way and lies abed himself, waiting for his fever to subside. He will come as soon as he can travel.'

  Another deep sigh escaped the King. ‘I wished to confess myself to that good man but it seems it is not God’s will. I cannot wait.’ He surveyed the crowded room. ‘Leave me, all of you, but you, Bishop, my Chancellor and my sons – and I conjure you, remember your oaths to me and my house.’

  Gradually the room emptied. As he went to the door Stephen whispered to Henry, ‘God send he makes your fortu
ne too, cousin.’

  At last only the Bishop remained by the bed, Henry and Rufus stood together at the end of it, and Robert Bloet, his pleasant face grave, stood by the door. For a while no one spoke.

  The King’s eyes had closed but presently he opened them again. ‘Bloet, my friend, send gifts from my treasury to that city I have ruined. See that every church in Mantes is rebuilt, that the citizens are housed, and make reparation in my name. In my anger I destroyed too much.’

  ‘It will be done,’ Bloet said quietly and began to write the order on a parchment so that the King might make his mark and seal it.

  William went on, ‘And write to Lanfranc. Tell him the crown of England is not mine to bestow…’

  Henry felt Rufus stiffen beside him, saw his brother’s face darken and his fists clench.

  The King was struggling to rise in the bed and the Bishop lifted him a little to set another cushion behind his head. A spasm of pain crossed his face but after a moment he seemed more comfortable. ‘I took England,’ he said clearly, “when I had no right. All my life I had been forced to live by blood and the sword and I know my sin was great for that people had not offended me,’ he saw the surprise on the faces of his listeners but he went on without a pause, ‘therefore now I have no right in its bestowal. It is for the people to give the crown as has always been their custom – but write to the Archbishop that I believe my son, William, to be the best man to wear that crown, to be the only man who has claim, and that he is my choice. Pray God he is the people’s choice also.’