Henry of the High Rock

by Juliet Dymoke

  Henry glanced across at his lean, pointed face. He is like an old fox, he thought, ferreting out what is most vital.

  ‘My lord Anselm is discreet in his letters,’ he answered guardedly, ‘but I’ve no reason to think him less my friend than he ever was.’

  The Abbot of St. Denis nodded, but he clearly thought this no answer at all. ‘And if you make war on your brother?’

  It was Henry’s turn to look bland. ‘I, my lord? How should such a thing be possible? Even if it were I would do no more to Robert than he has done to me.’

  The Canon of Notre Dame, a little wizened man from Blois, remarked that if Duke Robert listened more to the advice of his archbishop as well as the holy men of Bec he would do better, and then suggested that Prince Henry should seek his advancement elsewhere.

  Willian of Champeaux, having cleaned every morsel from his bowl, suddenly looked up at the Prince, his pale eyes remarkably keen. ‘They call you Beauclerc, do they not?’

  ‘They do, Master William.’

  ‘Then,’ the philosopher said, ‘use your head, young lord. A man who uses his head is twice armed against the man who has only a sword.’

  Henry smiled across at the old man. ‘You would not have me run away?’

  William shook his head. ‘St. Augustine tells us there is nothing higher than reason, and philosophy teaches a man to think. Apply yourself to Berengar if you would see what the study of thought can do. And then apply that study to men – it is a good thing to know what your enemies are thinking.’

  ‘I have had little else to do these past two years,’ he could not keep a note of cynicism from his voice, ‘and for the most part it is no pleasing revelation.’

  The Abbot sat turning his cup in his hand, it was silver and finely chased and he kept his eyes on it. ‘If it were we would not have fallen from Eden, nor would we have needed a second Adam.’

  ‘Men must be won by reason,’ William repeated, ‘and not by the sword.’

  ‘Your pardon, Messire,’ Herluin spoke quietly, ‘but it does not seem that one can exist without the other. Churchmen pray and fighting men fight and this is the way it has always been.’

  ‘Only is it the motive or the result that matters most?’ Roger the Priest queried.

  William said, quoting St. Isidore, ‘Philosophy is knowledge of things human and divine and that makes for right living. I commend philosophy to you, Messire Roger.’

  Canon Herbert was leaning back, satisfied now. The talk was going well and he beckoned to his housekeeper to serve more wine. She was a widow, many years younger than her master and her position, the wits of Paris sniggered, was less that of keeper of the kitchen than keeper of the bed. Certainly the Canon had the air of a man whose fleshly appetites were satisfied in all respects, and who, one student suggested, was not likely to be asked to preach on chastity. There was a tale going about that when William of Bonne-Ame, the Archbishop of Rouen, came to stay with his old friend, the Canon, caught by an unexpected visit to his bedroom, had to send the woman scuttling away, saying naively that she was but warming his bed, a remark that went the rounds of the Paris taverns.

  Tonight, however, she knew her place and brought the wine; the Canon put out a hand to pinch her rump, recalled that he had guests and hastily withdrew it.

  The discussion had turned on the conflict between the rival popes, both claiming the chair of Peter, and the Abbot of St. Denis was arguing hotly in favour of Urban rather than Clement; William had fallen into sudden sleep in the manner of old men, and Herluin had turned to the man from Cherbourg, asking him if he had passed through Avranches on his way south and if he had seen any men from La Barre. Arnulf answered, giving Herluin what news he could and at the same time noting the knight’s shabby clothes, Roger’s mended soutaine and the Prince’s far from royal garments. Presently when the great bell began to ring for Vespers, Canon Herbert went with his fellow canon and the Abbot down the stairs and Arnulf seized the opportunity before he himself left, to press a gold piece into Herluin’s hand, whispering to him to use it for the Prince’s comfort. When he too had gone, and the three Normans were momentarily alone but for the sleeping philosopher, Henry allowed himself one burst of bitterness.

  ‘What am I come to,’ he demanded, ‘That I must needs accept bounty from a pilgrim, as if I were a leper or a madman?’

  ‘If there were no one to accept it,’ Herluin pointed out, ‘how could a man practice the virtue of charity?’

  A wry smile crossed the Prince’s face. ‘I swear if we were set in chains in a prison you would draw a moral from our situation. But I’d rather dispense charity than accept it. And I’m tired of living on other men’s bread.’ He turned up one foot to show the hole in his shoe. ‘I suppose fat Phillip would give me a new pair if I asked him, but by God I’ve had enough of him and his bawdy jokes at my expense.’

  ‘He is a fool,’ Herluin said shortly. He had no time for men who over-ate, over-drank and over-indulged their passions. ‘We would do better to go to Flanders or Maine.’

  ‘Again? My uncle Robert found us an embarrassment the last time we were in Brussels and as for Helias his position is difficult and I’ll not add to it. The truth is my brothers have seen to it that few places are open to me. They would see me go further from my own land. I thought when Rufus fell ill and summoned Anselm, he might call me back, but no – he got up from his sick bed the same man as before.’

  Roger the Priest looked up. ‘Patience, my lord. The tide must turn.’

  ‘The tide. It turned once and near drowned me. Does it not shake your faith, my friend, to see how the wicked flourish?’

  ‘No, my lord,’ Roger answered equably. ‘I would be surprised if it were any other way. Here we have no abiding city.’

  ‘Yet,’ Herluin said, ‘when our turn comes we will take what we can get – even you, Roger.’

  ‘If preferment came I’d not reject it,’ the priest agreed honestly. ‘I think a mitre and staff would sit as well with me,’ he cast a sidelong glance at Henry, ‘as a crown on another.’

  ‘A crown!’ Henry’s brows shot up. ‘You are ambitious for both of us, my friend.’

  Roger shrugged. ‘I’ll not pretend to be a saint. But ambition need not run contrary to God’s laws.’

  ‘I’ll put a mitre on your head if ever I am in a position to do it.’ Henry gave him a swift warm glance, ‘and be well served. But we dream. The truth is we cannot contemplate crowns and episcopal sees when we lodge in a cheap tavern because we will not be patronised by the gross lump of lard who sits on the French throne.’

  ‘And a pilgrim gives us a coin to buy tomorrow’s dinner.’ Herluin held it between thumb and finger. ‘Shall I throw it to the beggars below, my lord, that you may dispense charity?’

  Henry shook his head, a rueful smile on his face. ‘There are beggars enough in here and you are right to make me laugh at myself. No pretensions for a Prince of Normandy, eh?’

  He walked to the window and threw the shutters wide. Outside the narrow street was drenched with rain and he could see the Canon scurrying towards the church, past the houses crowding closely together, past the homeless and destitute huddled in doorways for shelter from the icy rain. It was a cold gloomy day but if the leaden sky were a Norman sky he would not have cared, if it had been raining on a London street he would have walked cheerfully through it and not minded the wet.

  Reduced to near penury, with only his faithful five left with him – even Fulcher he had sent home in tears, believing the boy would be better off – he wondered what had happened to all his other friends, to de Redvers and Hugh of Chester, to Walter Tirel and Grandmesnil. It was hard not to feel bitter even though he knew that the pressure had been such that they would have lost their lands and maybe their lives if they declared for him.

  Those who stayed with him, Herluin and Roger, Gulfer, Raoul the Deer and Hamo, were not of noble birth and had less to lose, but for their dogged loyalty he was grateful beyond words. Only the stra
in was beginning to tell; to be forced to seek hospitality where he might, to accept the charity of such men as Philip of France was galling to his pride and even when he sought the comfort of women, it had to be at the whim of the whores of Paris.

  He thought often of Alide, of her warmth and common sense and wished he could see how young Robert was growing. He thought too of his Welsh girl, Nest, of the wench at Andeley, of others who had lain in his arms. There was Jehanne now, better than the rest in this dung-heap for though she was slow of wit she was kind and cared nothing for any reward, but she satisfied little beyond his body.

  But most of all he thought of Eadgyth whom he had not even held in his arms and who was, indirectly, the cause of his present wretched state. He wondered if she thought of him at all. Yet he was sure she did. Young as she was she had been as affected by their meeting as he had. He could conjure up her face before him now, her wide blue eyes so like her uncle Edgar’s turned trustfully towards him, her face lit by a smile that told him of the warmth of her nature. She was a child still and yet not a child, and he wanted her to wife. But Rufus had refused him, had laughed in his face, and Robert had patronised him – the two of them solidly against him. Well, that partnership had not lasted long for within a month of his departure they had quarrelled again, over what he did not know, and Robert had returned to Normandy in high dudgeon, bringing Edgar with him.

  And he, who would get nothing from either, must wander uselessly about Europe while Eadgyth was shut within the grim walls of a nunnery, at this moment probably walking with the nuns to their office.

  He swung away from the window. ‘I will go to Vespers,’ he said abruptly. It would give him some sense of union with her.

  Outside the rain had turned to sleet, driving in their faces as they crossed the open square and turned towards Notre Dame. This place was usually crowded with scholars hurrying to their lectures, with learned doctors talking earnestly together, but the inclement weather had driven most people indoors and only two young men ran past them laughing, one calling a jesting remark to the other. Their faces whipped into colour by the icy wind were eager, reflecting their zest for learning, for life, and for a moment Henry wished he were one of them, free of the burden his birth had laid on him. He wished he could go with them, sit in their class, listen to William of Champeaux lecturing on philosophy, be for once anonymous. But he could not, for he was Henry of Normandy, Henry the Atheling, for all he had a hole in his shoe and no silver in his pouch.

  Roger pulled his hood close. ‘“He casteth forth His ice like morsels; who can stand before His cold?” Why was I not born in a country where the sun shines more often?’

  ‘You can be a saint as easily in the cold as in the desert,’ Herluin pointed out with a faint smile. ‘They say blessed Olaf prayed bare-foot in the snow.’

  ‘Some men,’ Roger retorted amiably, ‘live by illusions, but that is not one of mine.’

  Listening to their talk Henry pondered on their seeming inconsistencies. Certainly he had no illusions about the character of Roger. Devout as the priest was at his office nevertheless he was quickwitted and far seeing, ambitious as he had admitted, and not above an occasional fleshly lapse. It seemed odd that Herluin, who had no need to be, was more chaste than Roger who ought to be. There were worse sins than those of the body, Henry thought, and wondered why Herluin kept himself from women as if he had taken a vow of celibacy, who lived within himself as if he had resources enough there. It seemed to be both his strength and his weakness – for there were times when he was as taut as a bowstring, when it seemed to his lord that he would be better for a night of pleasure.

  But he could not have chosen better companions for these long months of exile when they had lived from hand to mouth, day by day, so that he swore if ever he came to rule he would have compassion on the sufferings of the poor.

  Reaching the shelter of the church they stood in the high nave while the clergy, the monks and canons of the cathedral processed to their places and the thin voices of the boys began to chant the great words of Isaiah for the season of Advent. ‘Sion the city of our strength . . .a wall and a bulwark shall be set therein…open the gates for God is with us…’

  But there was no city for him, no walls or bulwarks to guard his own, nor gates to be opened for him. He folded his arms, his hands clenched hard above his elbows. It had become a strain, almost intolerable in its intensity, to keep cheerful and optimistic, never to let any man see how he loathed exile, how he hated to beg from such men as King Philip.

  It seemed that God was not with him, not as He had been that night in Winchester so long ago, when he had been so confident of his own future. Yet he knew, knew from Lanfranc’s teaching, that trial there must be and when it came a man must turn to the only source of hope. But what if that source were closed to him? He wanted to know if God was still angry with him, if He had not yet pardoned him for what he had done to Conan, if he must atone still further. And because he had none of the mysticism he had often seen on Herluin’s face, he spoke now directly to God as he might have spoken to Lanfranc. He did not hear the singing, nor listen to the words, absorbed so deeply in his own need that he did not notice a stranger staring at him.

  When Vespers ended he left his companions and went to kneel before the shrine of the Virgin, promising to raise an Abbey in her name if she would beseech her Son for him, his eyes fixed on her wooden face with its painted eyes and rosebud mouth and he thought the simple artist had truly understood that she was the Mother of all.

  Presently, he walked back down the empty church towards where Roger and Herluin awaited him by the west door. It was then that the stranger emerged from behind one of the large round pillars and spoke to him.

  ‘My lord.’

  He turned and saw a heavily built man in middle age, a prosperous burgher from his dress.

  You know me, Messire?’

  ‘Aye, my lord, you are Prince Henry and the man I seek.’

  He thought humorously that at least his worn clothes had not wholly obliterated his dignity, nevertheless he was surprised for the man meant nothing to him. Should I know you?’

  ‘No, lord. I am Richard Harecher, a merchant of Domfront. You know our town and the castle?’

  ‘I know it,’ Henry said, ‘it is built high on solid rock.’

  ‘And unassailable. In my father’s time, your father besieged our city and visited a terrible vengeance on Alençon because the men in it insulted him most meanly. My father and the chief men in Domfront yielded to him, though the castle could not have been taken by force, because they saw in him a stark lord. They gave him their loyalty from that day.’

  ‘All this I know.’ What was he getting at, this burly fellow who stood twisting a corner of his mantle in his hands, his expression uncertain?

  ‘Aye, my lord, and since then we have remained true to your house – at least until now.’

  ‘And now?’

  Harecher drew a deep breath and expelled it again before he answered. ‘Now we can no longer stay loyal to the Duke your brother. His man, the Count of Bellême, whose soldiers garrison the castle, robs and burns and plunders. He steals from every merchant who travels across his lands, he tortures men to make them yield their silver and gold, he claims the right to arrange the marriages of our children to his own advantage, and rapes any woman who takes his fancy. My lord, I cannot tell you of the horrors we suffer and the Duke will do nothing to stop him.’

  Henry stood very still, the first faint inkling of why Harecher might be here beginning to gather in his mind, barely acknowledged, while at the same time he thought, Bellême! What demons drive the man to such ends?

  ‘Well?’ he asked and did not know that uncertainty made his voice sound harsh. ‘Why do you tell all this to me?’

  Harecher had ridden far and now he was weary and beginning to wonder if he had made a mistake, if his journey had been useless. He looked round the empty church, shadows gathering in the side chapels, only the priest
and the knight waiting by the door. Darkness was falling and perhaps that was why he could not read the Prince’s face. ‘Maybe I should not have come?’

  Henry could barely keep his voice from shaking. ‘If you do not tell me why I cannot judge of that.’ And as Harecher still did not speak he said with sudden flaring confidence, ‘My friend, you have nothing to fear from me. Do you think I would betray you to the Devil of Bellême? Or even to my brother?

  Harecher seemed to let the tension go from his body, dropping his mantle and straightening his shoulders. ‘Forgive me. I am tired – and we have borne so much. But now we are all resolved and ready to rise. All we need is a leader.’

  He looked straightly at the young man he had ridden so far to see. ‘My lord, will you come to Domfront? We will give the city into your hands and it shall be yours and we your people if you will be lord of the high rock.’

  For what seemed an endless moment Henry stood there, not moving, unable to say anything coherent. Was it only an hour since that he had wished for but one corner of Normandy from which to make a beginning?