‘God’s blood, but you are confident.’ Rufus glared at him. ‘Be that as it may, Robert is the eldest and though maybe I will not give up what I have made of the duchy nevertheless his heirs come before yours.’
Henry slammed his fist down on the table. ‘William, you will be a damned bloody villain if you do that – and untrue to our father’s memory. I know you cared for him. Do his wishes mean nothing to you?’
This barb went home for Rufus’ love for their father had perhaps been the one genuine emotion of his life. Furiously he retorted, ‘He said nothing to me of the succession, only that I was to have England.’
‘That was all you heard him say because you were in too great a hurry to claim your kingdom.’ Realising that for once he had the whip hand Henry went on, pressing his advantage, ‘When you had gone our father told me, and there are witnesses to it, that I should have the kingdom after you – and the dukedom too.’
‘You? You insolent cub, I’ve a mind to send you back to Bayeux tower.’
‘Not this time.’ Henry threw the words defiantly at him. ‘I’ve too many friends.’
They faced each other, both at bay, glaring angrily, each assessing the consequences of this plain speaking.
Then Henry said, ‘I think we would be best apart for a while. Will you give me leave to visit Maud at Northampton?’
Angry as he was, Rufus could still mock. ‘I suppose I can bear you out of my sight. But you had best hatch no plots with our cousin for I am on my guard now, and,’ he added, determined to send out the last shaft, ‘put the lady Eadgyth from your mind. Even if she were not a nun, I’d not give that gentle girl to a lecher.’
‘Lecher!’ Henry was so angry he set both fists against the stone wall and laid his head against it, struggling for control. That rage was rising in him, the rage that had killed Conan and might turn on his brother if he did not master it. Somehow he held it from physical violence and let it from him in words as stinging as he could find. ‘At least I have only used my passions as a man and not misused my body as you have yours.’
This time Rufus struck him, hard across the face with the fiat of his hand. ‘Get out of my sight! Go! Go! ’
Henry went, clinging somehow to one clear thought – that if he laid hands on the anointed person of the King, which was perhaps what William wanted, then he could with reason be shackled, deprived of everything he had achieved. Shaking so much that he could barely walk straight along the passage, a passing servant thought he must have seen a sight never witnessed before – Prince Henry the worse for wine.
He went to London first and slept two nights at the house of Ansfrida, widow of Anskill the Saxon. She had come to him two years ago, begging him to intercede with the King whose agents had seized her husband’s property on his death and left her without means for herself and her son. Henry had done what he could, but although he had not been able to regain her property she had benefited none the less for he had succumbed to her undoubted beauty and maintained her himself. She had borne him a son, Richard, a sturdy boy who resembled his half-brother Robert, and she was of all his mistresses the one nearest to him by birth.
He was, however, too restless on this occasion to stay long and several days later the Countess Maud was on the steps of her hall, welcoming her cousin’s unexpected visit. She put her arm about the boy Robert and kissed him, telling him he would have a companion in her own son Simon, but at the same time her observant eye told her that something had happened.
In the first moment of privacy Henry told her the details and she wept a little for him and for Eadgyth.
Earl Simon said gravely, ‘My lord, we would do anything to assist you but what can mend the situation now?’
There was something he could do, Henry said. ‘Here in England I must count my friends,’ and he asked Simon to assemble a hunting party of his closest adherents that he might take counsel with them. Accordingly a week later Gilbert of Clare, Earl of Tonbridge, his brother Roger and brother-in-law Walter Tirel came riding into Northampton, also Roger de Marmion from Scrivelsby, Ralph de Toeni and his wife Alice, and Henry Earl of Warwick with his wife Margaret.
At the end of the first day’s hunting when the Countess had taken the ladies to her bower, he held council with these men whom he could trust. He recounted his interview with Rufus.
‘I do not know what I shall do,’ he said frankly. ‘Much will depend upon what happens when Duke Robert returns home and later on whether he has heirs of his body – but I must assess what support I might have in England if it came to a trial of strength.’
‘All of us here,’ Henry of Warwick said at once. ‘Fitzhamon, I expect; Earl Hugh of course and de Redvers, and Alan of Richmond who has never liked Rufus.’ He went on naming lesser barons and knights, and several bishops including Robert Bloet of Lincoln.
‘But there is a strong following for Duke Robert,’ Earl Simon pointed out. ‘The Earl of Shrewsbury and William of Breteuil head a number who make no secret of the fact that they favour Duke Robert for all they serve the King now – your cousin of Mortain especially since your uncle Robert died and William holds his father’s earldom of Cornwall as well as Mortain itself. His head grows larger every day.’
‘He will not stand by me,’ Henry said. ‘He has always been envious of my position and would do me injury if he could. As for me, I can’t abide the sight of his gloomy face so we needn’t look to him.’
Roger of Clare shook his head. ‘My lords, we speculate. King William is too strong to be unseated.’
‘I am not talking of unseating him,’ Henry retorted sharply, ‘he is my brother. But I am concerned with the succession. I must and will have his consent to naming me as his heir.’
Roger the Priest, who was attending him, spoke carefully. ‘In this country I believe it is the people, the Witan, who elect the King, is it not?’
‘They will elect the obvious man, the one who is strongest and whom the previous King indicated.’ Henry gave a dry laugh. ‘That is how Rufus got the crown – with Lanfranc’s help.’
‘That is true, my lord, but if they did not like the King’s choice and there is another and a better man, what then? I am confident you would be the choice of all Englishmen as well as your Norman friends.’
‘All very well,’ Ralph broke in uneasily, ‘but if it becomes a question of might . . .’
As they talked on sitting at Maud’s table, Henry found himself for a while detached from them. They were loyal to him, he knew that, but he also faced within himself the plain fact which was that, short of rebellion, he could do nothing. And rebellion was out of the question for Rufus was indeed too strong. He remembered suddenly how long ago in the abbey of St. Gervais, when Rufus came to fetch him to their dying father’s bedside, he had cursed because his brothers would have everything and he nothing, how he had thought it the most damnable thing in the world to be the youngest son of a King, and had prayed that God would give him something of his own.
Well, he had lands in Normandy and men who were his friends, soldiers at his back and his impregnable high rock, but he had nothing in England. Here, where he was a King’s son he had not one hide of land. Rufus had taken everything and now wanted Robert’s heirs to succeed, so that it was as if he himself had achieved nothing. It was galling, unjust and against all reason! He was Henry the Atheling, born on English soil. Surely the people would want him rather than a Norman prince as yet unborn.
He stood up and faced his friends. ‘I am the Atheling,’ he said, ‘England should be mine.’ And not trusting himself further he beckoned to Herluin with a nod of his head and went out of the hall into the fresh air, out beyond the hall and its surrounding buildings into the meadows beyond to fling himself down on the grass under the wide shade of an oak tree. ‘This is my land,’ he said again. ‘Jesu, what am I to do?’
Herluin sat down among the buttercups, his face pale, the lines of melancholy deepened. His fingers itched to set a knife between Rufus’ shoulder blades. Si
nce the death of his brother nothing had been the same for him and there were times these days when he thought he was no longer quite sane. If he caught sight of his own face reflected in a ewer it was like looking at a stranger. From being a man grave and careful he had become a man possessed with the desire to kill. His hatred of Rufus burned in him, corroding him. Even after all these months since Simon’s death it had not abated – and oddly he seldom thought of the Count of Bellême who had actually perpetrated the deed. It was Rufus who had condoned it, Rufus who had known his favourite was lying in shackles and had refused to ransom him, Rufus who must have known what captivity at Bellême meant. His hatred was exacerbated now by the King’s treatment of his lord and he knew, had known for some time in snatches of clarity, that this was the black and evil shadow that had threatened him for so long. He was in it, enveloped in it, almost before he realised it, and there was no escape – except into madness.
He stared at a little green insect crawling up a stem of a buttercup and took it and crushed it between finger and thumb. A delicate green thing, yet he had crushed it and it was dead. So easy to kill a little green insect, but a man? A man dead went into the soil as dead animals and flowers and insects – even a King. God, what was he thinking? How far had he gone from the man who had prayed to be kept from the evil shadow? He remembered some words of Hildebert of Louvain . . .
Over all things, all things under,
Touching all, from all asunder,
Centre Thou but not intruded,
Compassing and yet included.
But it seemed that even God could not permeate this blackness – it was he who was asunder and somehow, deep within himself, he knew he had lost control of his thoughts and because of it would soon lose hold on what he might do.
In growing horror, he clutched at sanity and said, ‘My lord, whatever you do, God and His saints will aid you, even if I . . .’ He broke off, unable to finish the sentence, but the Prince, deep in his own anxiety, was staring into the wooded distance.
Not long after his arrival in Northampton Henry heard of the death of Duke Robert’s eldest bastard, Richard. The lad had been hunting in the new forest and had fallen from his horse, breaking his back. He had been a likeable youth and Henry was sorry while his son shed a few tears for the cousin he had grown fond of, but as Rufus did not order it he did not return for the burial. Only he reflected that it was the second death of a member of his family in that green forest, some twenty years after that of his own brother Richard.
In July the new abbey church at Gloucester, raised by the indefatigable labours of Abbot Serlo, was to be consecrated and this time Rufus sent word to his brother to attend him.
They met, publicly, in the courtyard of the castle for as Henry rode in the King was looking over some new stallions and greeted him as if there had been no quarrel between them.
‘Beauclerc, you come in a good hour. Give me your opinion on these fine creatures.’
Henry, who had not known what to expect, fell in with his brother’s lead. ‘Good day to you, William. Are these Arabs? I thought so. I like this one. He ran a hand along the horse’s flank and down one leg, turned up the hoof. ‘He has good bones.’ He glanced round the others. ‘And that one too, the pale one. He should sire good foals for you.’
Pleased, Rufus said, ‘Those are the two I liked. We are of one mind. Well, I’ll take them. Choose one for yourself at my expense, brother.’
Used to Rufus’ peculiarities as he was Henry was still taken aback. ‘You are generous,’ he said and looking at his brother was met with a bland stare. ‘I think I’ll take that one, the one with the white foreleg.’
‘A good choice,’ Rufus nodded and called to his steward to see that the horse trader was paid. While the fellow bowed his thanks the King took his brother’s arm and walked him off towards his own apartments. Once there he said, ‘You have a sharp tongue, Beauclerc. You said some hard things to me at our last meeting.’
‘And you have a heavy hand,’ Henry retorted with a rueful smile. ‘We behaved like boys.’
‘Well, what is it to be?’ the King asked plainly. ‘Will you break with me?’
Henry did not answer at once. The weeks with Maud had helped him to think clearly, to get the whole matter into perspective. He wanted England and he wanted Eadgyth, and he would have them, but he saw that it would not be by trying to beat Rufus at his own brow-beating game. He would have to use guile, to wait on events, to be ready to seize the right moment.
‘No,’ he said at last. ‘I will not.’
An expression of sheer arrogance crossed the florid face. ‘I am glad to hear it. I could break you, Beauclerc, but I’d not wish it.’
‘And the succession?’
‘By Lucca’s face, you are persistent.’ Rufus stretched his arms and expanded his chest. ‘Do I look about to die? Before I’m in my grave I’ll be lord of Anjou and Aquitaine and maybe France too – then we’ll talk about the succession.’
Was there no end to his ambitions? Henry wondered. It must have got out of hand if he saw all France subject to him. But he merely commented, ‘You set your hopes high.’
‘No more than I can achieve,’ Rufus boasted. ‘Have you sufficiently rich garments for tomorrow’s affair or shall I send you my tailor?’
And at once Henry saw through the offer and the gift of the horse that had preceded it. ‘You have made your point,’ he said coolly, ‘and I have suitable clothes for the consecration or any other occasion. I am out of the nursery, brother.’
So the enmity was not far from the surface and he attended the consecration of the abbey dressed with as much expense and a great deal more care than Rufus. He was playing a dangerous game with his brother and he knew it, but if he was to win anything, if he was to gain a bride, he must hold his own without coming to open hostility.
All the great men of England had come to Gloucester on this hot July day and the ceremony was carried out by Samson, the new bishop of Worcester, attended by Gundulf of Rochester and Bishop John of Bath. Robert of Bellême, now Earl of Shrewsbury, was there and the treasurer, William of Breteuil, the Clare brothers, Earl Hugh and Earl Henry of Warwick, William of Warenne, Richard of Redvers, Ivo Taillebois attending the Countess Judith, Earl Simon and his wife Maud, and number of lesser barons and knights. After it was over the King took the whole assemblage back to Winchester to partake of his lavish hospitality and hunt with him in the new forest.
It was about two weeks later that one of his clerks stopped Roger the Priest in a narrow passage high above the hall and said, ‘Did you hear the news? Duke Robert is expected back in Normandy next month and the King plans to journey there to meet him.’
‘Oh?’ Roger queried. ‘No, I had not heard.’ He nodded briefly to his fellow chaplain and made his way to the Prince’s apartment. ‘Will you go back to Normandy with him, my lord?’
Henry, in one of his rare still moments, had been lounging on his bed reading an illuminated copy of the life of St. Wilfred, a gift from Abbot Serlo, but he laid it down when Roger brought his news.
‘I suppose so. I must watch them both. God knows how they will settle affairs in Normandy and I’ve my own lands to secure.’
To Roger he sounded dejected, an unusual mood for him, and he had been reading to try to close his mind for a while to the problems that pressed on him. He had been thinking of Eadgyth shut within the grey walls of Romsey, no more than seven miles away and his heart ached for her, but he could do nothing, and marriage with her seemed so remote and so hopeless a project that he was trying to thrust it from him.
‘My lord,’ Roger said quietly, ‘I know something of your mind after all these years. Do not give up hope.’
‘How can I keep it? Here in England I see nothing but oppression and greed. The great lords do what they will and Bellême is worse here than in Normandy. The court is a shambles. Rufus does not care what vice is there and Anselm, who might curb the worst of it, is still in exile. With men like Flambard in t
he bishoprics,’ he added bitterly, ‘God help England for no one else will. Rufus will give me nothing that I want, only a horse and new clothes! By the death of Our Lord, I’ve had my fill of him.’
‘So have half the barons of England.’
‘Maybe, but how should that benefit me?’ He glanced up at his chaplain. ‘I tell you, Roger, I had higher hopes when I was in Paris with holes in my shoes.’ He got up, laying his book with care on the table. ‘Well, I had best join the hunting party. Where is Herluin?’
Outside in the sunshine the knight from La Barre was wandering alone as he often did, trying to think, to ease a mind diseased, to find peace and reason for he had once known both.
He walked in the courtyard, looking at simple things – at the cooks cutting up meat for dinner, at women kneading bread, a scullion plucking chickens. On this first day of August the heat was intense and as he passed the smith’s forge, the added heat of the fire seemed to strike at him, a physical fuel added to the conflagration within. He went past, watching a man mending some harness, and then paused at a table where the fletcher was busy with delicate shafts and goose feathers and fine tips.
Henry of the High Rock Page 33