Henry of the High Rock

by Juliet Dymoke

  She was smiling now at Henry. ‘Perhaps you will meet the Scottish princesses and then your fortunes will change. Do you remember I told you to marry one of them?’

  He laughed. ‘Will King Malcolm consent to give his daughter to a landless man? And Rufus give me back Coutances and Avranches and the rock of the Archangel? I have nothing to bargain with, cousin. Besides the girl may squint.’

  ‘I do not see that it matters,’ Simon said, taking the idea seriously, ‘if she may mend your fortunes.’

  Maud gave a peal of laughter. ‘It is an old joke, my lord, and my choice of a bride for cousin Henry, that is all.’

  ‘And you, Simon,’ Henry put in, ‘stole the prettiest girl in England, so what are the rest of us to do?’

  But long after their quiet breathing told him that they slept behind their curtains, he lay awake absorbed in thoughts that would not let him rest.

  Here in England he counted his friends – Henry de Beaumont brother to the Count de Meulan, Richard Bienfaite of Clare and his sons Gilbert and Roger, Roger de Marmion and his father, all came to him separately and assured him of their friendship; even Earl Hugh, explaining privily that he had not wanted to bar the gates at Avranches, told him that he still stood his friend. Robert Fitzhamon came, saying that though Rufus had given him Queen Matilda’s lands, he considered himself no more than a custodian of them for the rightful owner. Gilbert of Clare said even more plainly that he wished England saw more of Prince Henry.

  It gained him nothing but it was cheering and though at least half the baronage of Normandy weighed treachery by its chance of success, nevertheless he felt he knew how far he could trust them. And the next day when they left the Countess Maud at the doorway of her hall and rode north with the added numbers of Earl Simon’s company, he relaxed in the saddle, prepared to enjoy the sunshine and the English countryside. If he loved Normandy deeply, he also cared for this green land that had borne and nurtured him. The air was sweet with the last of the harvest, the fields shorn of corn, nuts and blackberries ripe on the bushes. If a man ruled England, he thought, he need envy no other.

  But as they went north the weather turned colder, blustery rain beat in their faces and turned the roads to quagmires and the food ran short. They took what they could from the countryside, but men seemed more hostile here than in the south; the barons who held these northern lands deemed themselves far enough from the seat of authority to extort all they could from the wretched people and with so large an army to feed there was insufficient forage left for men or beasts.

  At last they reached Durham where there were supplies and spirits were restored by the magnificent ceremony in the church when the Bishop was returned to his episcopal throne. In a generous mood, Rufus handed over gifts of gold and silver and fine vestments.

  ‘For all he scoffs at religion,’ Herluin said caustically, ‘he would buy his way into the next world.’

  Henry, with Roger de Marmion, Eudo Dapifer and Ralph de Toeni went out afterwards to wench and to drink in the town, and returning to the Bishop’s palace arm in arm at dawn scandalised the monks on their way to sing the office of prime. He felt the tedium and responsibilities of the last months slide away, relaxing in the company of three other equally young men.

  ‘It’s good to have you back,’ Ralph said frankly, ‘my father has tied our fortunes in with Red William, but I don’t wish to share his lighter moments.’

  ‘Just as well,’ de Marmion said. His face was pallid in the morning light, for he had drunk too much last night, ‘or I’d feel sorry for the Lady Alice. Where’s the well in this godforsaken place? I must stick my head in a bucket of water before it splits in two.’

  In the courtyard of the castle Ralph and Eudo boisterously hauled up a bucketful and dowsed not only his head but the rest of him so that his clothes were soaked and he was dripping from head to foot and yelling furiously at them to stop.

  Henry leaned against the wall, watching them, his hands on his hips. It was good to laugh, to act the boy again with other boys and forget he was a man fighting for the right to be what he was born to be.

  Some two weeks later they reached the shores of Scots Water on the borders of Lothian, that country which King Malcolm claimed as his own. The cold had grown more intense, the country wilder, some men died of fever or sickness, including one of Henry’s faithful six, and not a few of Rufus’ army slipped away in the night to go back to their homes, but it was still a considerable force that encamped on the inhospitable shore.

  The Scots were gathered on the farther side and in the evening Rufus, Robert and Henry stood together on the bank looking across as the last rays of the October sunshine turned the water to pink and silver. The evening star had already risen in a translucent sky and over the slow moving water an occasional bird dived and rose again.

  Behind them men were busy making camp, preparing supper, setting up tents and lighting fires. Already they could see the fires in the enemy camp.

  ‘Do we fight?’ Henry asked, ‘or do we talk first?’

  ‘We talk,’ the King answered, ‘at least Robert does. That is why you are here, is it not, brother?’

  Robert, who stood between them, took each by the arm. ‘I will get the terms you want, William, never fear. United we cannot fail in anything.’ He squeezed Henry’s elbow. ‘This is better than exile, eh? You are one of us again, Beauclerc, and restored to your place.’

  Henry inclined his head, but he said nothing, his eyes on the blue distance. The cool effrontery of it astounded him. They could, it seemed, rob and cheat him and then calmly call him back and pretend they were bestowing a favour. Selfdeception, he thought, could be limitless.

  He sat with them at supper in William’s tent, talking effortlessly, but in effect saying nothing and afterwards in his own small tent flung himself down on his pallet in a mood of impatience. Fulcher was polishing his sword. Herluin sat on his own pallet inspecting the Prince’s mail tunic.

  ‘By God,’ Henry said, ‘I never knew until now how hard a virtue patience is to come by.’

  Herluin glanced across at him. ‘It will stand you in good stead one day, my lord.’

  Henry linked his hands behind his head. ‘I have lived too long for “one day”. That will do, boy, seek your bed now.’ And when Fulcher had gone, he went on, ‘So we are here at last and Robert negotiates, perhaps we’ll fight, perhaps not, but afterwards – what do they want of me? They have said nothing yet.’

  Herluin laid down the tunic, satisfied that it was in good order, and got up to adjust the smoking wick of the small lantern that hung from the tent pole. ‘They want you with them to show the world that they can bring you to heel.’

  Henry laughed, but without much mirth. ‘Why did I come, I wonder? Curiosity, I suppose. Perhaps I hoped, and still hope, they may restore part of my lands. It is inconvenient to say the least to have all one’s worldly possessions on a pair of pack mules.’

  The corners of Herluin’s grave mouth lifted. ‘And a considerable task the men have to get everything on to two mules. At least your brothers might give you another pair.’

  ‘I wonder where they get their parsimony from? My father, I imagine. My mother was always generous, in fact the only time I can recall her quarrelling with my father was when Robert was in exile and she sent him money. Well, there’s no one to send me a pouch or two, more’s the pity, and my cousin of Mortain loses no opportunity to harp on my poverty.’ He yawned. ‘What a sober fellow Walter Giffard is. He told me today he thought I had better enter the Church for I would find no profit elsewhere.’

  Herluin laughed outright. ‘Now that I cannot envisage.’

  ‘Nor I,’ Henry agreed cheerfully and settled himself to sleep, signing himself nonetheless, without which act he would not have thought to close his eyes for the night.

  In the morning Robert rode away and for three days they waited. The barons hunted in the nearby forests, some of the men foraged in the surrounding countryside, seeking food an
d drink and women, while others sat huddled by the camp fires. Henry played chess with Red William and had the satisfaction of beating him. At length Robert returned bringing with him Edgar Atheling, both in high good humour and apparently on the best of terms themselves having negotiated equally well on behalf of the two kings. Malcolm agreed to renew the homage he had paid to the late King and in return to continue to hold the earldom of Lothian and twelve manors in England where he might lodge on his way to and from the English court. Edgar was also to be restored to his lands. So there was after all to be no battle and the men grumbled, disappearing in small groups to plunder where they could that they might not return home empty-handed.

  Rufus did nothing to hinder them, even though it was their own countrymen they were robbing. He was satisfied with the outcome of the march north, for he could consider himself lord of England, Wales and Scotland.

  ‘I think he’d try and seize the Holy Roman Empire if he thought he had a chance,’ Henry said rather caustically to Herluin.

  Malcolm crossed the water with his elder sons and in the open before William’s tent did simple homage. Rufus sat on a stool with his brothers standing on either side of him, flanked by the chief of the barons headed by Earl Roger of Montgomery, Robert de Beaumont, the chancellor Robert Bloet and the treasurer Ranulf Flambard.

  Henry stood with the point of his sword resting upon the ground, his hands folded on the hilt. He was wearing chain mail and a long scarlet mantle which became him well, and his helm and shield were carried by Fulcher who stood behind him. He looked curiously at the Scottish King, a great solid man with thick legs, a head of flaming hair, a red beard, and eyes as fierce as a hawk’s. Slung over his shoulders was a huge bearskin that made him seem even broader, a man to strike terror into his enemies, but he was smiling and affable today as he paid homage, setting his hands between William’s as if it were a mere polite ceremony, which was perhaps all that he meant it to be.

  They dined together in the King’s tent and it occurred to Henry how well Robert and Edgar could manage when they were about other men’s affairs and how ill when they were about their own. Malcolm said that he and his Queen, Edgar’s sister Margaret, so gentle and holy that already people called her saint, wished their two daughters to be brought up in the convent where Margaret’s sister, Christina, was prioress. This was in Romsey near Winchester and he proposed to send the girls south under the King’s escort. Rufus agreed willingly and it seemed that after all Maud’s wish would be granted and her cousin Henry would meet the Scottish princesses.

  It was a week before they arrived from Edinburgh, two shy girls as like as two peas in a pod; a pair of young fauns they seemed to Henry with their fair plaits, their soft blue eyes and gentle movements. Eadgyth, the elder, was also the prettier for Mary had slightly protruding teeth which marred her otherwise attractive features. They were attended by a Scottish lady, several serving women and some men-at-arms, and as they ate and slept in their own tent, he saw little of them, but once or twice he rode near their litter, or spoke to Eadgyth during the pause for a meal at mid-day. She answered his overtures gravely and was obviously very much in awe of him; as often as not her guardian stepped in and spoke up for them all.

  Generally he watched her from a distance, thinking of Maud’s words. She was very young still, barely in her teens, and though she was not perhaps a great beauty, nor likely to be, nevertheless she had a certain charm of her own and a smile that, though it had not yet been directed at him, was indicative of a warm and gentle nature. He did not suspect at first that she was capable of temper and though he thought she might well make a suitable wife, he was not disposed to consider the matter seriously until a few days before they reached Winchester.

  They had taken a different road back and had not passed through Northampton to his regret, and it was a somewhat weary company that was anticipating the comparative comfort to be enjoyed at Winchester. The road was badly potholed, and the long line of march was strung out over more than a mile, the King and the Duke at the head, Henry towards the rear and a little behind the litter bearing the two princesses. He was riding at an easy pace, his eyes on the November woods, watching for game in the thick undergrowth, delighting in the sight of a startled hart leaping away into cover, when one of the horses plunged his hoof into a hole. He fell awkwardly, there was a snapping sound and the litter toppled forward, so that the girls, screaming with sudden fright, tumbled through the curtains in a jumble of rugs and cushions.

  Henry flung himself down from his horse and ran to them. He reached Eadgyth first and lifted her; she was crying, but more from shock, and a few quick touches assured him that she was no more than bruised. Edgar, who had also seen the accident, had extricated Mary; apart from a cut on her cheek from a stone and a grazed arm she too though sobbing was unhurt and by this time several men at arms were trying to raise the horse while the women who had been riding pillion surrounded the scene of the accident, all clucking anxiously.

  The horse’s leg, however, was broken and Raoul the Deer, who had been kneeling by him while the men pulled the shafts of the litter clear, said laconically that the animal would have to be slaughtered.

  Eadgyth raised a tear-stained face from Henry’s shoulder. ‘Oh, poor thing. Must he be killed?’

  ‘I’m afraid so. We cannot mend his leg.’ He nodded to Raoul and walked off a little way with the girl still in his arms that she might not see.

  ‘I liked that horse,’ she confided to him, and drew a sobbing breath. ‘He was so slow and gentle. I gave him some corn last night.’

  “You are fond of animals?’ He saw a fallen log and set her down there, sitting beside her and taking her hands in his to warm them.

  ‘Oh yes,’ the tears were drying now on her pale cheeks. ‘I had a coney at home that came everywhere with me. My uncle Edgar brought him from Normandy as we have none in Scotland and he followed me everywhere but they would not let me bring him with me. Perhaps my aunt would not have wanted him at the abbey.’

  ‘Perhaps not,’ he agreed smiling, ‘but I expect there will be ducks and chickens for your tending. There, the horse is out of his pain. They will put another in the shafts and you will ride safe.’

  But one of the long poles was snapped and as another was not forthcoming it was decided that the girls should ride; Henry spoke briefly to the Scottish attendants and then remounted with Eadgyth up before him, while Edgar carried Mary. Both girls were calmer now and after a while Eadgyth began to talk, to ask him questions about Normandy and his life there.

  ‘My uncle says Normandy is a beautiful country with fine towns and many castles. Is it very different from Scotland?’

  ‘I do not know,’ he said, ‘for I’ve never been further north than where we met, but perhaps you will see it one day. You have not seen England either, have you?’

  ‘Nothing but the road we have travelled these last weeks. Only . . .’ her face clouded, ‘if I am in a convent I am not likely to see any more, am I?’

  ‘Do you not want to go to your aunt?’

  ‘Not very much.’ A frown puckered her forehead and she twisted round so that she might look up at him. ‘Would you want to be shut in one place all the time with only women for company?’

  He threw back his head, laughing. ‘Well, it would be a different position for me! ’

  Then he glanced down at her serious face. ‘No, child, indeed if I were you I would not. You have no vocation to be a nun?’

  ‘No – never! She spoke so fiercely that he was surprised. ‘I’ll not have them set those horrid clothes on me, nor shut me up away from horses and the fields and woods and any company I choose. I would hate it.’

  ‘I have one sister a nun and another who lives most happily in a convent, but I doubt it is the life for you.’ He was still smiling. ‘And I have a feeling that if they try to force you to it they will not be successful.’

  The frown disappeared and she gave a giggle. ‘I would make my aunt regret she ever trie
d. But,’ she became grave again, ‘do not think that is because I do not respect Holy Church. Indeed, my lord, my mother has taught me to love God and Our Lady and all the Saints, but I do not think He wants everyone to be a nun, do you?’

  ‘Not I,’ he agreed amusedly, ‘or where would we men be with no wives to love us?’

  She laughed again and settled herself more comfortably against his chest. ‘I wish I were coming to court so that I could see you again. I hate people who are too solemn.’

  He was silent for a moment, looking over the top of her head to the long line of riders, the grey November sky above. ‘I will ask my cousin Maud, who is a Countess, to invite you to stay with her and then I will come to visit you if – if I am in England, and if your aunt will allow you to go.’

  ‘If’ seemed to be the paramount word for him just now and when she asked what he meant he found himself almost involuntarily telling her of his exact positon. For all her youth she grasped the situation at once, asking intelligent questions that surprised him as much as the giving of his own confidence.

  Presently she said, ‘It seems that when one is born of a royal house one has less freedom than a bound man.’