Henry of the High Rock

by Juliet Dymoke

  The Prince came back and sat down beside the old man. In the soft candlelight he saw how aged and tired he was. A faint smile crossed his face. ‘My lord, what was ever enough for the Conqueror’s brood? And for all I’m the youngest, my ambition matches that of my brothers. We’re a sore trial to you.’

  Lanfranc gave one of his rare laughs. ‘You have spoken truly, my son. But you must learn to be content with what you have.’

  Henry grimaced. ‘I’ll be content if I can keep it, but my father said,’ he hesitated and then certain that his sire had had no secrets from this man he went on, ‘he said more than once that I should one day have all that my brothers now hold.’

  Lanfranc compressed his thin lips. ‘Dangerous talk, my child. I beg you to say no such words to any but myself. Do you think to oust your brothers?’

  ‘No – only to be sure that they will not squander my inheritance.’

  ‘Be careful,’ Lanfranc warned. ‘I think your time will come but you may imperil everything if you act hastily. Wait for God’s will to be done.’

  Henry said nothing. It was easy, he thought, for a monk and a priest to wait upon the slow movements of Almighty God, but a fighting man and a King’s son at that, must needs push forward his own designs at greater speed. But Lanfranc was right at least in bidding him pick his moment wisely and this he was prepared to do.

  Rufus bade him go hawking the next morning and as they walked to the stables, their birds on their wrists, the King said suddenly, ‘I’ve a fine collection of horses. Choose one for yourself, brother.’

  Henry glanced at him in surprise. William the Red’s acts of generosity were always unexpected. He thanked him and walked round the stalls looking at the large percherons, the swift coursers, the gentle mares and smaller palfreys, but stopped by a destrier that caught his fancy. The animal was reddish chestnut in colour, with fine legs and a strong body. Henry fondled the soft nose, looked at the teeth and smoothed the muscled neck.

  ‘I like this one,’ he said at last, ‘and in honour of your gift and because of his colour, I shall call him Rougeroy.’

  Rufus laughed, appreciating the joke, and nodded to a groom to saddle the animal. ‘Very well, brother. He is yours.’

  They rode together into the new forest south of the city, followed by their falconers and numerous train of knights and attendants. Gulfer brought three birds for his master, and as they rode into the wild woodland Henry saw occasional traces of broken stones where once villages had stood. Now wild willowherb and ragwort grew among them and on one occasion his peregrine brought down a pigeon in what had once been a church.

  He called the peregrine back to him with his lure and fastened the bird to his wrist. ‘A good quarry,’ he said and gazed up into the blue sky. ‘Give me the long-wings every time.’

  Rufus grunted, stroking his hawk. It had evil yellow eyes and talons that dug into his wrist but he did not seem to heed. ‘Sparrowhawks and goshawks are well enough for a priest or a serving fellow,’ he said contemptuously. ‘I would hunt with naught but the true hawk, eh, my beauty?’ He spotted a bird high in the sky and sent off the hawk. She rose, seemed to hover interminably, and then swooped, bringing down her quarry in a distant patch of bushes.

  Today, however, Henry was more absorbed by his new mount than by the hunt, and he tested the animal, riding him hard, demanding much. To his intense satisfaction he found the destrier responsive and obedient to his touch, but strong and swift and when he caught up with the King, he said enthusiastically, ‘I’ve never ridden a better horse.’

  ‘You sit him well,’ Rufus said. ‘Ha! What’s that – there in the bushes.’ He signalled to two of his men and running forward they plunged into the undergrowth.

  There was a scuffle and a yell and a few moments later they emerged, red-faced, and dragging behind them a serf. He was a poor creature, dressed in a rough tunic with no more than strips of cloth binding his legs, and he was trembling with terror.

  ‘There’s a dead stag in there, sire,’ one of the men said. ‘This fellow slew it.’

  The King’s face darkened with anger. He sat still, looking down at the shaking peasant. ‘So you would kill the royal deer, eh?’ And as the man did not answer, he shouted, ‘You! Fellow! I’m speaking to you. Do you not know the law?’

  The man grovelled, scared out of what wits he had, so that though he opened and shut his mouth no sound came.

  Rufus regarded him with contempt. ‘B-by the face of Lucca, men shall learn whose forest this is.’ He beckoned to a man-at- arms. ‘You have a rope on your saddle. Hang him.’

  It was clear the fellow did not understand one word and Henry repeated his brother’s command in the English tongue – which Rufus had not bothered himself to learn.

  The man on the ground gave one agonised cry. ‘Lord – have mercy. I have a wife, children . . .’

  ‘That oak will d-do,’ the King said and watched as the soldier slung the rope over a branch.

  The little group about him was silent. After a moment Tirel said, ‘My lord, your father would have had the man’s hand lopped off and then sent him back to his family. Surely that would be enough?’

  ‘Ha! ’ Rufus swung round. ‘And thus the thieving goes on. I say this man shall be an example to others who have the same idea.’

  The Count of Bellême nodded, clearly relishing the business. ‘But I, my lord King, would hang him by his heels with his bowels slit open that he might die more slowly. Perhaps then these savages will know who is master.’

  Hugh of Avranches, Earl of Chester, who had joined them, gave a bellowing laugh, ‘By God, Bellême, I’m glad I’m not one of your vassals.’

  Henry had sat silent through these interchanges, but now he edged his horse nearer to his brother. ‘Hang him if you must,’ he said in a low voice, ‘But for God’s sake without Bellême’s devilish refinements.’ He looked down at the man whose head was lolling, his eyes half out of their sockets in an extremity of fear. ‘Make your peace with God, fool, for you must pay for your crime.’

  The fellow reached up and clung to Henry’s stirrup. ‘Lord, for the love of Jesus, save me – save me . . .’ He was weeping, tears running down his grimy face. ‘We have always hunted here – my father and grandfather before me, and my children need food.’

  ‘Pay no heed to the fellow, Henry,’ Hugh called with the familiarity of one who had been both instructor and friend. ‘Would you foster thieves and robbers at your brother’s expense?’ He heaved his great bulk round in the saddle, grinning cheerfully.

  ‘Take him,’ Rufus broke in, and at once two men dragged the serf away while his young brother sat stiffly, watching as they set the man on a horse and fastened the rope.

  Then one of them ran the horse off and he fell. There was a choking sound as he struggled and swung to and fro, clawing wildly at the rope about his throat. Presently his hands fell and after a while the twitching stopped. He hung limp, his face distorted, his tongue protruding. At the King’s command the men-at-arms decapitated the stag and tied the antlers to his legs.

  Rufus turned away. ‘Now others will see I will n-not brook robbery in my hunting grounds.’

  Bellême laughed. ‘These scum must have it beaten into them, my lord. Will you hunt some more?’

  They rode away together with the Earl of Chester and Henry, with one last glance at the swinging figure, moved off more slowly with Herluin, Walter Tirel, and Eudo Dapifer.

  Tirel said, ‘Your father was never a hanging man except in war.’ His tone was noncommittal.

  Herluin was pale, his expression more melancholy than usual. ‘What in God’s name is justice? Will it ever be something for poor folk as well as rich.’

  Henry was frowning, his whiplash between his teeth, a habit he had inherited from his sire. ‘The man was guilty.’

  ‘Aye, guilty,’ Herluin agreed, ‘but of no more than trying to feed his children as he had always done.’

  ‘Treason, my friend,’ Eudo answered lightly,
‘if men were allowed to plunder the King’s forests at will, it would be the court that would not only go hungry but lose its sport into the bargain.’

  ‘I love the hunt as much as any man,’ Herluin said with his usual candour, ‘but I think it is the baser part of my nature that enjoys it when it means a serf is hanged to preserve my sport.’

  Tirel was shaking his head. ‘You go too deep for me. I am a plain fighting man who likes to hunt and be damned to that bondsman for his insolence.’

  Henry was silent, preoccupied with the thought of justice coupled with the preservation of the rights and prerogatives of princes. It seemed to him that the two should not be incompatible. He thought of the man they had left hanging in the forest, the antlers tied to his feet to tell all men of his crime. A woman would weep tonight and children go hungry because of what had been done. This was inevitable, for surely a man must pay for what he did against the law – as they must all pay for their sins one day before God’s judgement seat – but his compassion was aroused, not for this particular man above his fellows, but for the poor and the hungry and the downtrodden. God, he thought, would surely commend a man for what he could do for such as these. On an impulse he called Hamo aside and gave him a silver piece.

  ‘Find that man’s widow and give her this,’ he said abruptly, and turned away from the devotion in Hamo’s eyes, which he did not feel one small act of charity in any way merited.

  The next day saw Maud wedded to Simon of Senlis in Winchester church with pomp and ceremony and after a day of feasting Henry was among those who escorted the bridegroom to his bridal chamber. Simon was a quiet, sensible man, no longer in his first youth and with a limp from an old wound, but he was still young enough and prepossessing enough, Henry thought, to give Maud happiness. When the two were bedded and blessed by the Archbishop he leaned over to kiss Maud and whispered, 'God send you joy this night, and a son to show for it.’

  She laughed, blushing and shy, and drew up the white bearskin that covered her. ‘My father was conceived beneath this skin,’ she whispered, ‘and so was I. Perhaps it will bring the same good fortune to me.’

  Rufus took his brother by the arm. ‘Come, Henry Beauclerc, there’s not room for three in a bridal bed and Simon’s impatient to be about his business.’ He was in high good humour and led Henry out, followed by a laughing crowd of men and women.

  As the company dispersed for the night it seemed as good a moment as any to speak to the King without the usual hangers-on, and Henry followed him to his chamber. Two sleepy pages awaited the King but he sent them off with a flick of his fingers and poured wine into two silver cups. Then he sat down on the bed and stretched his legs. It was a large bed, spread with a rich coverlet and hung with embroidered curtains that slid smoothly along wooden poles, and it seemed strange to Henry that his brother had no desire to share that bed with either wife or mistress.

  ‘God’s body,’ Rufus said, ‘but I’m weary tonight. Nothing but tedious state business all morning, attending to my lord Lanfranc who has lost none of his preoccupation with work for all his hoary years. I shall sleep sound, and swifter than our little Maud, I dare say.’

  Henry drank his wine and set down the cup. ‘Well I don’t suppose Simon is wasting his time and I’ll not waste yours. Brother, will you give me my mother’s lands?’

  Red William sat up, alert again, his flecked eyes narrowing. ‘Oho, so that’s what you came for?’

  ‘Not entirely. I came to see how the crown sat on your head, but our mother’s English holdings were always due to me as the only one of us born here in this country.’

  The King rose and began to pace up and down the chamber. It was only part bedroom for his treasure was kept here, locked in large chests that occupied half the room. His finery seemed to irk him and he threw off mantle and tunic, gold chains and arm bracelets. Then he sat down again in shirt and braces. ‘I suppose it is your right. Do you intend to stay in England?’

  ‘Only for a month or two.’ An odd expression in the King’s eyes and some deeper instinct warned Henry to be careful what he said, but as he was not sure why he needed to be careful he could do no other than say what was uppermost in his mind. ‘I would know where I stand before I return to the Cotentin.’

  Rufus got up and put a friendly arm about his shoulder. ‘You stand close to me, as a brother should. Ride west tomorrow and take seizin of the land, with my goodwill.’ He spoke cheerfully, candidly, and Henry took himself to task for his suspicions.

  Later, in the small turret chamber allotted to him he found Herluin already asleep on a pallet at the foot of his bed and Fulcher curled up on a chest near the door. He forbore to wake them and went to stand by the narrow window, looking out at the stars in the clear night sky. It was warm and he had no desire for sleep – he was in too exultant a mood. Now he was Count of the Cotentin, and lord of all the holdings that had once belonged to Brihtric the Saxon and others, lands in Gloucester and Cornwall and in south Wales – Cardiff castle was his and other strongholds, though he held them as a vassal of the King, and it was as if he had seized and grasped that destiny of which Abbot Anselm had spoken. He was no longer the landless cub, the Prince with nothing but a hawk and a horse, and he felt power seeping through him to his very fingertips, a sense of ability, of desire for the next step and the next, a reaching out for what must follow. Life seemed to throb in him tonight, and the consciousness of power grew, yet he sensed it was a power from without rather than within, a power that seemed to envelope him and the night together in pulsating harmony. He leaned against the stone embrasure, his eyes on the immensity of the night sky.

  ‘Lord,’ he said aloud, ‘if You have set Your hand on me for some great purpose it shall be done that men may see it is so.’

  Herluin stirred and opened his eyes. ‘Is that, you my lord?’

  Henry came back into the centre of the room. ‘Who else?’ he asked, lightly. ‘Go back to sleep, my friend.’

  Undressing, he lay down on his bed. He had forgotten the man, swinging from his tree, cold in the warm night, but the thoughts that had sprung indirectly from a bondsman’s death remained with him for a long while.

  Count Robert of Bellême was a man of many facets. Strong and self-possessed, with a cruel lift to his mouth, he had boarded the Lilias with a parchment in his hand and a concentrated frown on his face. Already he had left behind him in England an impression of evil, a reputation even among unscrupulous barons for lust and cruelty above the average, but when he wanted he could exert himself to be a witty and entertaining companion, and he had chosen to do this two months previously when he had accompanied Prince Henry to the West Saxon country while on his way to his father’s Welsh marches.

  Now they stood together aboard the Lilias bound for St. Valery. A breeze blew Henry’s dark hair about his face and the spray rose and fell, but he cared nothing for the heaving sea that had sent several of his men to lie where they might until they reached the solidity of land again. He held to a piece of rigging and pondered on the success of his visit to England.

  Rufus had treated him handsomely, giving him gifts of clothes, a set of silver cups and two kestrel-hawks as well as Rougeroy who was held amidships now with several other horses under the soothing hands of Raoul the Deer. In the west he had taken possession of his mother’s lands, fair rolling country near to Gloucester, with fine manors and many hides yielding well. He had stayed two weeks in Cardiff castle, a homely wooden structure that he had ordered to be rebuilt in stone, and a smile curved his mouth as he remembered Nest, the Welsh girl he had taken to his bed while he was there. He had grown tired of his solitary nights and she had attracted him, little and dark, so small that when he held her in his arms it was like embracing a child. But there was nothing childish about her loving. Her father farmed a few virgates of land and owed boon service to him, and he had first seen her driving geese up from the river when he was inspecting every tenant’s holding. He had left a purse with her father to see they did
not want, for they had little enough, and he had promised her he would return. She had given him pleasure with her pert, pretty face and dainty body, but now with his face set towards Normandy and a fair wind behind him he was thinking of Alide, Alide who was warmth and comfort and peace after joy, and who might by now have borne him a son. His impatience grew to see this child of his flesh – the first of which he was, at any rate, aware.

  He could have done without Bellême’s company today, but the Count was holding out the parchment for him to see.

  ‘There, my lord, that is how I would do it.’

  Henry looked down at the drawing. ‘It is a mangonel I see, but what is that shaft of wood there?’

  ‘That is to change the balance and give the arm extra throwing power. I will have my men build one and if my plan is right this will give it greater lift.’

  ‘It would be a useful siege weapon if it would pitch the stones higher. I would like to see it when it is done.’

  ‘Come to Bellême soon, my lord, and I will give you a practical demonstration.’