‘Then why, in heaven’s name, does Curthose not yield? What does he think we have done?’
‘He knows you have done nothing,’ Herluin said.
And de Redvers added, ‘That is true, but last month a monk of St. Gervais dreamed he saw Normandy running with three rivers of blood and your uncle claimed that it meant you and your brothers would divide the land with your strife, so the Duke dare not free you.’
‘Odo! It is always Odo!’ Contempt rose in Henry, and he slammed one fist into the other. ‘What ails Robert? Is he afraid of dreams and portents as well as of Odo? Has he none of our father in him?’
‘He fears your uncle more than he fears God, I think,’ Richard said. ‘But there is more than that. The Bishop has been mighty busy since he returned. He urges the Duke to seize what he may, he exacts money for the impoverished treasury, and he builds churches, encouraging gold and silver smiths, masons and weavers to make fine goods, so that your brother thinks to be known as a great patron of the arts. Have you not seen the tapestry Odo commissioned showing your father’s taking of England?’
‘Once.’ Henry got up and began to pace restlessly. His uncle’s complex character at the moment interested him less than the prospects of freedom. ‘Is there no chance Montgomery and the others will prevail on the Duke to free us in spite of Odo?’
‘Every chance. Grandmesnil will be for you when he returns from England – his eldest son is dead and he comes to make a tomb for him at St. Evroul – and your cousin Stephen has spoken for you, as well as De Beaumont.’
‘And the lord of Conches?’
‘He and Ralph have gone to England to see Ralph contracted to the lady Alice, but they are sure to return soon. Helias de Beaugencie rode in from La Flèche to spend Christmas with the Duke and added his name to ours – he sent you his greeting, and so does Gilbert de L’Aigle and Walter Giffard. I’m sure the pressure will soon be such that the Duke must yield.’
‘Please God,’ Henry stopped his pacing. He turned to look at them. ‘As for you, my friends, I do not know how to express my thanks for your loyalty.’
Richard laughed and poured more wine. ‘As you call us, so we are – your friends. Come, let us have some more wine to warm us. And we have a piece of good news for you.’
‘Oh?’ He paused, the cup half way to his lips. Then he said suddenly, ‘Alide?’
Herluin smiled. ‘You have a fine son, my lord.’
‘A son? God be praised. Have you seen him?’
‘Aye,’ Richard put in, ‘and a lusty babe he is, very like you, my lord, with a head of dark hair.’
‘And Alide?’
‘Well, and proud of her child. She has named him Robert.’ Henry sat down on the bed, his pleasure like a tide that warmed him more than the Duke’s fur mantle about his shoulders. ‘That has always been a good name in our family. Let us drink to my son – Robert of Caen.’
When at last they had to leave he turned his back on Fulcher and went to stand by the window, immersed in the teeming thoughts their visit had engendered. Despite the initial disappointment hope was alive again, and he felt sure of deliverance. Soon he would go back into the world and when he did he would take with him the things that prison had taught him. He remembered that night when he had stood by another window in Winchester, looking out at the same stars, when he had been so confident of his destiny, aware of a power that he could command, certain too that God would be with him. At first, cast into this place and miserably chained, that certainty had been shaken, but now he saw that he had not been mistaken – only prison had taught him that his strength must lie in himself, so that he would never be at the mercy of shifting conditions, and that from now on he must be master of events, not mastered by them. Which would, he thought, be the difference between himself and Robert. Poor Robert, so swayed and cozened that he was master of nothing, least of all his dukedom!
Now, with so much clear in his mind, he wanted to be away out of this tower, to get on with the business of living, to go back to his lands and rule his people as he had sworn to do the day they hanged the bondman. He wanted to see his son, the child of his flesh, and looking out of the narrow slit at the snow-covered bailey, the moon-light casting great dark shadows across the whiteness, and listening to the sound of gaiety below, he found the longing for Alide almost unbearable.
Leaving the window he went to the door and banged on it, calling for the guard.
‘Lord?’ Fulcher queried hesitantly, ‘is something amiss?’
‘No, boy, but it’s a dull enough feast day for you here. Would you not like to see what merriment they make in the hall?’
‘I do not mind,’ Fulcher said stoutly, ‘and now Messire de Redvers has brought us wine and gifts it is more like Christmas.’
Henry set a hand on his shoulder. ‘I’ll not forget how you have shared my imprisonment with me.’
When the guard came he said, ‘Let the boy go below and share the feasting. There’s no one here to blame you for an act of kindness.’
The man hesitated for a moment but then sent Fulcher off and the latter, once he was sure his master meant him to go, ran down the stairs in eagerness to see the tumblers and minstrels and whatever other delights there might be.
‘And you, my lord Count?’ the guard asked warily, but moved by compassion on this Christmas night. ‘I can’t let you past this door but if there is aught I can do…’
‘Yes,’ Henry leaned against the wall, ‘find me a willing kitchen maid or serving wench. I’ve had enough of my solitary bed.’
A broad grin crossed the amiable features. ‘Well, I was told to look after your needs.’
‘You’re a good fellow,’ Henry said and that night at least there was warmth in the darkness.
But it was three more weary months before release came. By then he was heartily sick of his own company and more than once indulged his irritation on his page mainly because there was no one else to vent it on. Fulcher bore it patiently knowing it would not be long before his lord regained his normal cheerfulness, and somehow the dreary hours passed. The spring came, the days grew longer and a little warmer, and Henry woke each morning thinking, will it be today? At last a few days after Easter he was awakened by the rays of the sun slanting across his pillow, and rose to watch the dawn as the new light touched the roofs and towers of the town, dispelling the pale mist on the distant trees. He was still gazing at the brilliant sky, his body tense with the longing for freedom, when the door opened.
Richard de Redvers stood there, his mantle powdered with dust, his broad face one large smile. ‘You are free,’ he said.
He had ridden from Rouen without pause. The Duke, overwhelmed at last by the opinion of practically every great lord in Normandy, had prevailed on Odo to yield and the command was given to free both captives. The Bishop had looked down his thin nose in a supercilious manner and did not condescend to come to Bayeux himself to release his royal prisoner, but Richard was glad of it and rode part of the way with Earl Roger of Montgomery who went to Neuilly to set his son loose.
‘You are free,’ he repeated as the prisoner still stood there, half in disbelief.
Henry strode across the room, hands extended. ‘Then for the love of heaven let us get these damned chains off,’ he said and began to laugh. Freedom! By God, did any man value it who had not once lost it?
‘I have sent Herluin to Vernon to bring the men to meet us in Caen,’ Richard went on. ‘I thought you would want to go there first.’
Henry stood, while the guard removed the chains and two castle servants brought his sword and other gear that had been taken from him on his capture. ‘To Caen,’ he said, as Fulcher, almost weeping with joy, knelt to fasten on his sword, ‘and then to my own lands. I suppose Robert has not shorn me of those?’
Richard sat on the table, swinging one leg. ‘No, my lord. You will not go to Rouen?’
‘Not I – I’ve no desire to see him at the moment, unless – did he ask that I should?’
&
nbsp; ‘He said nothing. By the way, Edgar Atheling is returned from Italy and with your brother; I think it was his pleading that finally persuaded the Duke.’
‘Edgar was always kind to me,’ Henry said. There had been a bond between himself and the Saxon Prince from the very first for they were both Athelings. Edgar had been nominated King once, when he was a mere lad, but that was more than twenty years ago when the Conqueror came to take England and Edgar, gentle and quiet, was no match for the lion of Normandy. Since then he had been at court either in England or Normandy, or travelled about Europe. Despite the fact that their father had taken his birthright, he treated the Norman princes as brothers and had had no hesitation in begging the Duke to release his prisoner.
At the door Henry paused, glancing around the tower room. Six months in this tiny space – how, he wondered, had he endured it?
By evening they were in Caen and riding down the narrow streets. He watched the bustle of the place, carts rumbling by empty after the day’s market, men walking home in the twilight, women gossiping at their doors, children playing, and it seemed to him to be inexpressibly good to be plunged again into the world of men. Dismounting at the merchant’s door and hardly hearing his greeting, Henry ran up the stair that led to the rooms above the place of business, and there, seated by a cradle, he found Alide.
She gave a low cry when she saw him and then she was in his arms, swept off her feet by his embrace.
It was a long while before he released her. Presently he said, ‘Now let me see this son of ours,’ and when she laid the babe in his arms found himself looking into his own dark eyes. The boy, sturdy and healthy, lay contentedly in his hold and reached out for the chain he wore about his neck.
He glanced at Alide, his pride undisguised. ‘He is a fine boy, and for all he’s a “mantle” child, he’ll not find me lacking in care for him.’
She leaned over the babe, her eyes alight, crooning softly. ‘There is no knowing what he may become. Your father was a bastard, yet he was Duke and then King, and if you should . . .’
‘No,’ he broke in sharply and with one arm about his son held her wrist in a hard grasp. ‘He is mine and I will acknowledge him before all men, but as a love child only.’
‘He is your true son,’ she said stiffly.
‘Aye, but not my heir nor will he ever be. We’ll not again have the taunt of bastardy flung at us – my father bore that long enough.’ He paused, hesitant to be cruel, yet so certain of what he felt that he must speak. ‘Alide, I would not hurt you, but this you must understand. Some day I must marry and beget legitimate heirs. Curthose has nought but bastards.’
‘I know,’ she said in a low voice, ‘and his woman suffered the ordeal by hot iron to prove them his.’
‘You would not need to do that to prove my paternity,’ he answered sternly, ‘that is not in question. The point is that clearly Rufus will have none, and our line must continue.’
The child, sensing that he no longer had his father’s attention, set up a wail and Alide took him, setting him in his cradle and rocking it with her foot. She was very pale.
‘You knew,’ he said, ‘you knew from the very beginning . . .’
‘Yes,’ she whispered, ‘I knew, but I thought . . .’
The baby’s crying had ceased now and he slept. She straightened her back.
‘Perhaps it would be better for him if you left us and he grew up here in my father’s house. What else is there for him?’
He had never heard her speak so coldly and he was surprised for a moment, for he had thought her intelligent above the average, a woman of perception, and he could not understand why she could not see what was so clear to him. And then he saw her, not as Alide, but as any woman protecting, defending her young. He had seen a wild cat once, crouched before her litter, teeth bared, ready to die in their defence, and it was an instinct, he thought, as deep-rooted as any.
He bent down and took her hands, drawing her to her feet. ‘He will have everything it is in my power to give him when the time comes – knighthood, land, a suitable bride – but that is all. And that is how it must be.’
She stood reluctantly, her hands imprisoned. ‘I did not know you cared so much about your father’s bastardy.’
He looked at her, startled and then relieved. He had been right at first for she had perceived now the heart of the matter. He let her hands go and folded his arms about her. ‘Dear heart, what are we about, quarrelling the moment I am returned to you? Are you not glad to see me?’
She gave a little sigh and the rigidity left her body. ! I think I do not live when you are not with me. Forgive me, beloved.’
He held her close. ‘There is nothing to forgive. We are together again and we have our son. I am going to Avranches in a few days and I want to take you both with me. Will you come?’
‘Of course,’ she answered. How could she not do what he wished? Yet that night and the next day as they awaited the arrival of Herluin and the men from Vernon, she saw that he had changed, that six months of captivity had dismissed the boy in him, that now he was stronger, more decided, a little harder perhaps and – who could blame him – less likely to trust his fellows. And she knew beyond doubt that he would not alter his attitude towards their son.
Three days later they set out soon after sunrise, a company of some twenty men, herself, the babe and her serving woman. De Redvers had perforce to return to the court to inform the Duke that his orders had been carried out, though he left them promising to ride to Avranches in the summer. But Herluin rode beside his lord, and Raoul the Deer, Gulfer with his falcons, Hamo once again carrying the Prince’s gonfanon, and young Fulcher, proud that it was he who had been the Prince’s companion, was bright as a peacock in his scarlet tunic.
Raoul was grumbling at the lack of any provision made for his lord, considering the Duke might have sent provender for their journey.
‘Why, what we have is a feast compared to the fare in Bayeux tower,’ Fulcher said, ‘some days we had nothing but soup and bread, and I can tell you . . .’
‘Spare us,’ Hamo said, laughing. ‘We heard it all last night twice over.’
‘And will do so again, I suspect,’ Gulfer put in laconically. ‘Anyone would think none of us had served our master but you, young Fulcher. You grow too puffed up in your own conceit.’
‘Oh, did you not know?’ Hamo said wickedly, ‘master page here has learned to read in Latin and thinks to challenge Odo himself when he is grown. What is it to be, Fulcher, a bishopric for you, or perhaps a barony in England?’
The others laughed and Fulcher stuck his chin in the air. ‘I do not care for your teasing,’ he said with dignity.
‘Maybe not,’ Raoul retorted, ‘but you’d better remember you’re still a green lad and not above being put across my knee.’
The others laughed. Fulcher flushed but a rueful grin crossed his face. ‘Well, you can say what you like, but I wanted to be with him, and not for gain either.’
‘We know that,’ Hamo said consolingly, ‘and if you did but know it, we all envied you.’
It was a fine day, the sky a clear blue, the woods bearing the pale green leaves of spring, fresh growth everywhere and the ground strewn with anemones and violets. Once more astride Rougeroy Henry felt his own spirits in tune with the bright day; with his hawk on his wrist and his own company with him, the constriction of the last months slid away.
As they breasted a rise he heard a bell ringing and saw a small chapel below, a solitary place serving a village of scattered dwellings.
On an impulse he said, ‘Come, we’ll go to Mass,’ and led them all down the hillside.
The chapel was dim, little of the bright morning penetrating the one small splayed window. Candles burned on the altar but their yellow light seemed pale after the brilliance outside, and the place smelled of stale incense and candle grease.
There were a few worshippers there already, and they glanced round in surprise as Henry and his company filled th
e church. The priest, young and slight and thin, was also startled by the advent of this unexpected congregation. He could see they were travellers, knights of high degree and men-at-arms, and being a sensible man got on with his business with some speed.
Kneeling with Herluin Henry kept his eyes upon the altar and his thoughts upon God and the words of Isiah ran in his head. ‘I have given you a covenant . . .to bring out the prisoners from the dungeon, from the prison those who sat in darkness.’ And the fact that he had freedom again, freedom to go where he might, to enter this church on this particular morning was cause enough for gratitude. He glanced at Herluin and saw him kneeling, hands clasped, a look of intense devotion on his face – sometimes he thought Herluin should have been a priest or a monk for his mind turned in that direction, absorbed by the things of the spirit. Yet the knight from Barre le Heron was a fighting man too and good at his trade, and the tenacity of his loyalty was another thing for which Henry felt disposed to give thanks.
Henry of the High Rock Page 11