The Count put a hand to his eyes. ‘There is our coastline. I wonder how the Duke your brother fares? He has had three months of your uncle Odo which would be enough to sour any man.’
Recent messengers from Normandy had talked of Odo as Robert’s most influential counsellor now, but Henry, watching the sailors about their work, found the idea more amusing than alarming, especially when he recalled the last time he had seen his uncle.
The ship was drawing in towards the harbour in the deep water of high tide and he could see the usual number of people about, men to make the ship fast, merchants awaiting goods, others ready to embark, and at the end of the wharf a large group of men-at-arms, leaning on their spears, talking in the mild October sunshine.
He was the first ashore, followed by the Count, while their attendants prepared to land their animals and goods and they walked together, talking amiably. Immediately the captain of the men-at-arms called his troop to order and marched towards the new arrivals.
‘What’s this?’ Henry queried amusedly, ‘has Robert set a port-watch for my return?’
‘I do not think this is a friendly escort.’ Bellême’s eyes were narrowed as he saw the bristling spears, the unsmiling face of the captain. He clapped his hand to his sword hilt but before he or the startled Henry could do anything further they were surrounded and a dozen men stood by the ship’s side to prevent their attendants coming to their assistance.
‘What in God’s name are you about?’ Henry demanded. ‘I am Prince Henry – call off your men.’
The captain was a wooden-faced man in his forties. ‘Your pardon, my lord, I know you well, but I am acting at the command of your brother the Duke and of Bishop Odo. I am to take you and the Count of Bellême into custody.’
Robert of Bellême was struggling furiously with several soldiers who were endeavouring to hold him, and so strong was he that it took three of them to overpower him. ‘Blood of Christ, let me go!’ he exploded. ‘On what charge do you dare to seize us?’
‘On a charge of plotting treason, my lord Count.’
Henry stared at the captain, dumbfounded, too surprised and certainly too sensible to struggle against overwhelming numbers. ‘Treason? Good God, what treason? I have been in England, fool! ’
‘As to that I cannot say, my lord.’ The captain signalled to his men. Several came forward and before Henry realised what they were about they had manacled his wrists. A wave of angry colour flooded his face, and he swung out wildly with his hands, catching one man a blow in the face with the chain. Blood spurted from the cut cheek, there was a moment’s breathless struggle and then he found himself so firmly held that, sweating and furious, he was forced to be still. He saw Bellême in the same position, dark face mottled with rage, he saw the curious faces of the crowd and behind him Herluin, Raoul, and the rest of his men held at bay, their hands on their swords yet impotent, on the gang plank.
‘In God’s name,’ the Count was shouting furiously, ‘where are you taking us?’
‘You to the donjon at Neuilly,’ the captain said. ‘Prince Henry to Bayeux.’
For a moment the ground heaved under Henry’s feet. The joy of his landing, the anticipation of his meeting with Alide, his confidence in his newly acquired state, all these were as water seeping into the ground and leaving no trace. Suddenly he was a prisoner, soon to lose the freedom of the earth to walk on, the sky above his head, to be shut in a narrow prison. He stared down at his manacled wrists and then he understood.
It was Odo who had set these chains on him, Odo who had persuaded Robert to issue the orders, Odo who was seeking revenge for his laughter on that other beach across the channel. Christ, he thought, was he now to pay dearly for that mirth?
CHAPTER 5
Snow came before Christmas, the flakes falling thick and silent about the castle at Bayeux, settling in great drifts against the walls so that men had to dig out the stored logs in the courtyard and clear a path to the barbican.
From his prison high in one of the towers Henry watched them, seeing them about their normal work, the men riding out to hunt, the women drawing water from the well, breaking the icicles on the buckets, and hurrying back to the warmth of the kitchen; but mostly he sat huddled by his fire, a mantle about his shoulders against the draught that came in even when the shutters were closed.
He had been allowed some books and he read Boethius again, some of the sermons of St. Jerome which he found tedious, and the writings of Augustine which he liked, but it was irksome and the lack of activity chafed him daily. He wanted to feel a horse between his knees, his hawk on his wrist, and for himself the freedom even his birds had. But here he was with chains on his ankles far stronger than the jesses that bound his hawks, and with only Fulcher for company.
The boy was growing tall, past thirteen now and at the gangling stage, all arms and legs. He had been distraught at his lord’s captivity but his grief had been somewhat assuaged when he found that he and only he was to be allowed to serve the Prince in prison. The fact that it meant a barred door and a loss of freedom to himself was as nothing beside the joy of being allowed to stay with his master. The Prince was teaching him to read, for he had an alert and enquiring mind, and the walls were gradually becoming covered with his scratchings as he endeavoured to trace his letters with the point of his eating knife. He was sitting now, curled up by the fire, a book on his lap, a book laboriously written by some unknown monk, the capitals elaborately coloured and decorated, and there was a frown of concentration on his face as he endeavoured to make out the words.
Henry sat silent, watching him, a faint smile on his face. These lessons gave them something to do, but he was growing desperately weary of prison. No word came from outside. He saw no one but his guards, and this morning as it was Christmas Day he had been allowed to leave this room for the first time in nearly three months, to be taken to the chapel for the Mass of the Nativity. Yesterday at his request a priest had come to shrive him and he had said plainly that he was not guilty of the crimes of which he had been accused; the chaplain had somewhat sententiously commended him to trust in God and await deliverance. Well, he did trust he supposed, but, by Heaven, he was tired of waiting.
He had seen Bishop Odo once, a month after he had been brought here. His uncle had sat in his great chair on the dais in his hall, dressed in all his episcopal splendour and surrounded by his household, and he had surveyed his nephew with a most unpriestly expression of triumph on his face – he might almost have been said to gloat over the reversal of their fortunes.
‘Well, nephew,’ he had remarked, ‘and who is laughing now?’
Herluin had been right, Henry thought, when he had warned him on the beach of the Bishop’s vengeance. It had been small use to protest his innocence, to swear he and Bellême had been nothing but companions, to declare that he knew nothing of any intention Rufus might have to try to wrest Normandy from Robert. The Bishop did not even attempt to listen. Instead he treated his nephew to a long lecture which boiled down to the fact that he, Odo, was virtual master of Normandy and his nephews had all better attend to him.
‘Robert may do so, but Rufus has your measure,’ Henry had retorted with spirit, ‘and so, by the Mass, have I. If you do not release me, the King will take steps on my behalf.’
‘Do you think so?’ Odo queried. ‘I doubt it.’
‘He and I are on the best of terms. I hold lands in England, lands he himself gave me.’
‘And which he has now given to Robert Fitzhamon.’
There had been a silence in the hall then, the men about his uncle staring at him, some amused, and their smiles flicked him on the raw. He did not believe it and said so.
‘It is true,’ the Bishop retorted smoothly. ‘Fitzhamon now holds all Queen Matilda’s land and sits in Cardiff castle which he invests for the King.’
He had to believe it .then, for he could not conceive that Odo would tell such a lie in front of his whole court.
‘If my brother knew
the truth,’ he began.
‘Oh, he knows,’ his uncle broke in, his thin fingers tapping an impatient rhythm on the arms of his chair. ‘He is aware that you lie in prison with but one page to attend you.’
Someone behind Odo’s chair sniggered. ‘Aye, and the King said, “That should serve him well enough.”’
There was a ripple of laughter through the hall, and an angry flood of colour suffused Henry’s face.
With what dignity he could muster he had said, ‘I call God to witness that I am guilty neither of plotting nor treachery, nor bloody heathen practices.’
But the laughter was there, and the indignity and the manacles, and Odo, he thought, was well revenged.
He went back to his prison filled with loathing for his uncle, and as for Rufus, he would not easily forget his brother’s jibe – which he could not have believed for one moment – nor his twofaced behaviour in taking back what he had so recently given. And he remembered how some instinct had warned him not to trust the Red King.
Since that scene in the hall, he had been left to kick his heels in the tower, and he sat in his cell with no very amicable feelings towards either King or Duke, nor to his companion in distress – Bellême, he thought, sowed trouble wherever he went. As for his brothers it seemed that they, despite all they had inherited, were envious even of what little he had and would wrest it from him. As far as Robert was concerned it was all Odo’s doing and he thought with scorn of Curthose’s fatal weakness. But how long would he and Odo keep him in this dreary place of which he was so heartily sick?
Fulcher’s voice interrupted his thoughts. ‘My lord, I cannot understand this. What does lumbis mean?’
He looked up in surprise. ‘It means loins – what in heaven’s name are you reading, boy?’
‘It is this book of St. Jerome’s writings, but it is very difficult.’ Fulcher read out the Latin words slowly. ‘“Diabol virtus in lumbis est.” The virtue of the devil – that’s easy enough – is in the loins, I suppose, but I don’t understand. What did the blessed Father mean?’
Henry had collapsed into laughter, glad to have something to laugh at. ‘Sweet Mary, boy, why did you have to pick that piece? It means – it means the devil gets at us in our weakest place, as I should know, and yet…’ he saw the lad staring at him in some bewilderment which only made him laugh the more until Fulcher began to look offended.
‘If I am so stupid, my lord . . .’
‘No, no . . .’ he controlled himself. ‘You are not stupid, indeed you are doing better than I ever hoped. In short, St. Jerome is saying that our natural instincts are base and used by the devil to make us sin, whereas God calls to our higher selves.’
‘I understand now,’ Fulcher nodded profoundly, ‘but is holy marriage not blessed by God? Or,’ his colour deepened, ‘does it only mean other sorts of loving?’
Henry was laughing again. ‘The priests would have us think so, but I can’t believe God meant it to be thus or why did He choose that we should procreate our race in so pleasurable a manner?’ He saw Fulcher looking puzzled again and suggested hastily that they should read something else. But the laughter had done him good, for all the cause of it made him think longingly of Alide.
They were presently interrupted by the guard who brought their dinner and as he set it down on the table they saw that at least their fare was better than normal and in keeping with the day. Only Henry was not as hungry as if he had been out hunting all morning.
From somewhere far below came the sound of music and of merriment and he guessed that the Christmas feast must be in full swing. Odo was in Rouen attending the Duke, but his household here were obviously enjoying themselves.
After he had eaten he lay on his bed, dozing, while the short winter daylight died and Fulcher scratched ceaselessly on the wall. The sound had begun to irritate him when the boy said suddenly, ‘My lord! There are riders coming through the gate and – yes, it is! Lord, it is Richard of Redvers and Herluin Le Barre.’
He leapt off the bed and ran to the window. Through the narrow slit he could see the horses, the sound of their hooves muffled by the snow, and the grooms running to hold them as the riders dismounted. He saw Herluin’s unmistakeably lanky figure and de Redvers’ more stocky shape. Richard had thrown off his hood and was already running up the steps to the hall, while his attendants dismounted and began to lift packs from their horses’ backs. Then Herluin too was gone into the hall and he leaned against the wall.
Why had they come? For a few moments his natural stability deserted him and he was shaken with emotion. If only it was to bring him freedom, if only the guard would strike off his chains that he might ride away with them, out of this cold, lonely place. Sweet Jesu, he prayed, let it be freedom! But even if it were not, let them come! It was so long since he had talked with friends, since he had had any company other than a child’s.
The minutes passed with intolerable slowness. He thought half an hour, an hour, must have passed, but it was barely fifteen minutes before the bolts were drawn and then they were in the room.
Richard came first, both hands extended. ‘My dear lord, are you well? Have you been ill-used? Do they care for your needs? By God, when we heard . . .’
Henry went to them, his chains rattling, to grasp the outstretched hands. ‘I am well and no one dares to beat me or starve me.’ He turned to greet Herluin and saw his eyes go to the chains. ‘Do not heed them, my friend. One soon gets used to them.’ He looked from one to the other and could not keep the painful anxiety from his face.
‘Jesu,’ Herluin said softly, his long face taut. ‘We should have sent a man to warn you, to say . . .’
‘A Christmas visit,’ De Redvers broke in swiftly, ‘to bring you gifts . . .’
The disappointment was worse than he could have imagined, but he recovered himself almost at once. ‘Then let us make the most of it. By Our Lady, I’m glad to see you both.’
Herluin let out a sigh. He should have known, he thought, that neither chains nor prison, nor Odo’s spite, could make any inroads on his lord’s inherent resilience.
De Redvers said in a distressed voice, ‘I wish we could have brought you better news, but we have had to work mightily on the Duke to gain permission to visit you at all, for Odo has been always at his elbow. However last week the Bishop went to Séez to see the Bishop there and we seized our opportunity. The Duke did not need too much persuading without your uncle to drop poison in his ear.’
Henry sat down on his pallet bed and indicated that they should take the stools. He did not look at Fulcher, who was busying himself laying out their packs, but he sensed that the boy was weeping tears of frustration. ‘Does my brother really believe the lies they tell about me?’
Richard shook his head. ‘No, I swear it. He has sent you a thick mantle of fur to warm you in this bitter weather as well as wine from his own cellar.’
He could see it so clearly – Robert, warm-hearted and weak, grieving for his imprisonment yet yielding to Odo’s commands.
‘By God,’ he said, ‘I swear if I were Duke no man should tell me what I must do.’ He glanced at his friends. He saw that they were watching him, assessing how imprisonment had affected him, how he was reacting to the bitter disappointment that neither of them had anticipated, and he saw that he must not fail them, must show himself a Prince of Normandy. ‘Well, let us forget Odo for the moment,’ he said cheerfully, ‘I have heard something about gifts, but as yet I’ve seen none and it is Christmas day.’
Richard rose, laughing, his relief obvious, and bade Fulcher help him undo the packs, which the boy did, scrubbing hastily at his eyes. Herluin shook out the Duke’s gift, the velvet mantle lined with fur, and set it about Henry’s shoulders, while Richard poured wine into cups; there were sweetmeats and raisins and a cold capon; some fine leather gloves for the Prince and a new tunic of bright scarlet wool for Fulcher which set him capering with delight.
‘It was good of you to remember the boy,’ Henry said and
drank the wine slowly, savouring it. ‘Now tell me – there is so much I want to know. What happened after Bellême and I were taken? What of my men?’
‘Messire de Redvers came to our rescue,’ Herluin said in his brief manner. ‘They are at Vernon.’
‘Yes, but it was Herluin here who kept them together when none knew what was best to do,’ Richard put in warmly. ‘We expected your release daily, but as the weeks went by I saw that they must have employment, so I sent them to Vernon with your hawks and horses and other gear.’
‘I am grateful.’ Henry laid his hand on his friend’s arm. ‘Perhaps one day I shall have a chance to repay you, but at the moment . . .’ he gave a wry smile. ‘Tell me how things are at court. I cannot believe Montgomery took his son’s arrest lightly.’
‘No, he did not. He came hell-bent back to Normandy as soon as a ship could bring him and put all his castles in a state of defence. He still defies the Duke and demands Bellême’s release.’ Richard laughed. ‘He has been rampaging about the duchy like a grey-bearded lion and has stirred up a deal of discontent against the Duke, but Ballon and St. Cerneri have yielded to the ducal troops. The Earl of Chester and other lords of the Cotentin are with him in demanding release for both of you.’
Henry of the High Rock Page 10