He picked up an arrow, balancing it on one finger. ‘This is well set.’
The fletcher glanced up, pleased. ‘Aye, Messire, I am proud of that arrow. I made it to try a new way of setting the feathers, do you see? I am making six more on this style for the King.’
Herluin weighed it, looking at it with a puzzled frown on his face. Once before he had stood thus, holding an arrow, seeing – what? Something, some foreboding.
Then he remembered – it was when the King and the Duke had ordered their brother from England after the Scottish expedition and Henry had been near to despair. He had felt it then, that an arrow, somehow, was part of the evil thing that lay over him, part of that destiny that had joined him to Henry, that certain destiny that was now upon him – today, tomorrow, soon.
Abruptly he said, ‘I will buy this one,’ and set a coin more than the arrow was worth on the fletcher’s table. As he walked away he passed Gilbert of Clare and Walter Tirel standing together beneath a deserted archway. He heard Tirel say in a low anguished voice, ‘I cannot – I cannot do it. Gilbert, for God’s sake . . .’ and he wondered what it was that Walter could not do.
Towards dawn, deep in a sound healthy sleep, Henry was awakened by a loud cry. He sat up, shaking the hair from his forehead, wondering if he had been dreaming, but when it came again he got up and flung a mantle about his nakedness, certain that the sound came from the King’s chamber.
His page Walter started up from his pallet. ‘My lord! What is the matter?’
‘Nothing,’ Henry answered. ‘Go back to sleep.’
He opened his door and went along the narrow arched passage. At the door to Rufus’ apartment he met Richard de Rules and they went in together. The King was sitting up in bed, wild-eyed, staring in terror about the room which was barely lit by the small night lamp.
‘What is it?’ Henry asked. ‘Rufus, are you sick?’
‘A dream,’ his brother said hoarsely, ‘a dream – it was terrible . . .’
Henry laughed. ‘Is that all? I thought you were being murdered.’
Richard de Rules fetched wine and poured a cup for the King and at the same time Robert Fitzhamon came in, his mantle clutched about him for he too had heard the cry.
Rufus drank a little, trembling so much that he could barely hold the cup. ‘I dreamed,’ he muttered, ‘that I was being bled…’
‘Well, there’s no harm in that,’ Fitzhamon said prosaically, ‘I was bled myself last week.’
‘That was not all.’ Rufus handed the cup back to his chamberlain and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. ‘The blood would not stop flowing. It filled every space about me, hid the sky, darkened the day. I was drowning in it, red and thick, choking in it . . .’ There was such terror in his voice that Henry sat down beside him.
‘William, it was only a dream. It is not like you to be frightened like a child by a nightmare.’
His brother turned, focused his gaze on him and then seemed to come to himself. ‘What does it mean?’
‘Does it have to mean anything?’
Richard de Rules said gravely, ‘It may be a warning, my lord.’
‘Of what?’ Rufus stared from one to the other, almost pathetically eager for consolation, explanation, and none of them had seen him so before.
‘Who but crazy old women can interpret dreams?’ Henry countered. ‘Come, William, you are too much a man to want to attend to such nonsense. It is nothing and will be forgotten in the morning.’
Rufus gave a shiver and then forced a laugh. ‘You are right. I have wakened you for nothing. Go back to bed, all of you.’ But as they went to the door he added, ‘Robert, stay with me,’ and Fitzhamon obediently returned to the bedside.
Henry lay down on his own bed but he did not sleep again, pondering on his brother’s dream. It was rare for Rufus to be distressed by such things, but when an hour or so later he went back to the royal bedchamber he found the King up and restored to his normal self.
He glanced at Henry, a broad grin on his face. ‘I am sorry I disturbed your sleep, brother. I must have eaten too well at supper last night, or some damned churl served me with tainted meat. I have stomach pains this morning, we’ll not hunt until later.’ He waved a restless hand at the pile of parchments one of his clerks was carrying. ‘I’ve enough business to see to it seems.’
His chancellor, Walter Giffard, smiled apologetically. ‘I’m afraid, sire, there is always more business than one could desire. There’s the matter of the abbacies, and my lord of Mowbray’s claim, and Abbot Serlo’s request for that piece of land, as well as…’
‘Oh yes, yes,’ Rufus jerked upright in his chair. ‘Would you make my stomach worse? And the Abbot writes to me,’ he gave a letter to Henry, ‘a deal of nonsense. It seems one of his silly monks also dreamed a dream – that I desecrated a crucifix and the holy image struck me down.’ He gave an uneasy laugh. ‘God’s death, what will they think of next?’
Fitzhamon said gravely, ‘Beau sire, I think my lord of Deeping was right. You should heed these warnings – it may be that some evil thing endangers you. You had best stay home today.’
Rufus burst out laughing. ‘By Lucca’s face, Robert, you are as much an old woman as the rest of them. What is a monk’s dream to me? Or what my brother rightly called my own childish nightmare? Anyway monks only dream for money so send the fellow a few shillings.’ He put his hand to his abdomen. ‘Jesu, but my bowels pain me.’
‘Then stay here,’ Henry added his voice to Fitzhamon’s. ‘You will be better tomorrow.’
But later Rufus ignored their advice and going down into the hall ate a hearty dinner and drank several cups of wine.
‘That was my need,’ he declared. ‘Well, my lords, we have been quiet long enough. It’s time we took our armies into France and by the Holy Rood I swear I’ll wear my crown in Poitiers this Christmas. Maybe,’ he began to laugh at his own joke, ‘maybe Robert will find I am his new overlord, eh, Beauclerc? Then he can lie in bed all day while I rule France and Normandy.’ He dug Henry in the ribs and laughed again. ‘Tomorrow I’ll ride for London. If we are to war in France I’ll need money to pay my soldiers, and there’s only one way to get that.’
His fletcher came down the hall, bearing six arrows and kneeling held them out to him. ‘These are as you wanted them, my lord King.’
Red William took them, weighed them carefully. ‘Excellent. You’ve done your work well, fellow, and shall be as well paid. We will go hunting after all, my lords. Walter . . .’ he beckoned to Tirel, ‘you are my best marksman. Take two of these and see if you can match me at the quarry.’
Walter thanked him. He looked pale and anxious and shot a quick glance at his brother-in-law. The Earl of Tonbridge returned his stare without a change of expression and with a helpless look Tirel followed the King as the latter strode down the hall.
Henry waited in a more leisurely manner while his hunting gear was collected. He looked for Herluin, but as he was nowhere to be seen, went out with Ralph and Roger de Marmion. The sun was hot and bright on this late afternoon, the beams slanting through the thick foliage of the trees and he was glad to be out of doors. He felt oppressed, enclosed by the Red King’s ambition, by his over-riding conceit, by the crude lust for power. He wanted to break free, to be independent of Rufus, but he could not see a way to do it and now with Robert returning he was going to be caught once more in the centre of the interminable struggle between his brothers.
He lifted his face into the sunshine. At least out here he could forget for an hour or two; he could earn his nickname of Hartsfoot and delight in the chase with a good horse beneath him and no anxiety other than the finding of a good quarry.
Herluin had lingered behind to speak to Roger the Priest. T am going hunting,’ he said rather unnecessarily.
‘So I see,’ Roger answered, smiling. ‘I wish you fair sport, my friend.’
Herluin gave him a melancholy glance. ‘Aye, you have always been a friend to me. I have been
glad of it.’
‘And we shall be friends for many years, I trust, and see our lord in his rightful place in the end.’
‘Perhaps,’ Herluin said. ‘Perhaps sooner than we know. God keep you, Roger.’
The chaplain was still smiling. ‘I imagine He will for the next hour or two until you return.’ The oddness of Herluin’s words struck him and his smile faded. ‘Is something amiss?’
Herluin shook his head. ‘When the road turns you will go with it – you will be a great man.’ They had walked together to where the huntsmen were holding the horses and gathering his reins Herluin mounted, and rode out before Roger could answer, leaving the chaplain staring thoughtfully after him.
In the forest the party dismounted and split up. The King went in one direction, with Tirel and several huntsmen. William of Breteuil and William of Mortain went off together; Gilbert of Clare planned with his brother to circle round and meet Rufus near a hollow that was a clear landmark, while Henry, Ralph and Roger de Marmion, went in the opposite direction with Raoul the Deer, Hamo and Herluin who had now joined them.
The wood seemed to be alive with movement, a slight breeze stirring the leaves. Birds sang and small animals scuffled in the bushes. They had not brought hawks, so Gulfer held the lymehound and two others on leashes while Raoul and Hamo went to either side of a clearing to flush out the game. A hart broke cover and came into the open, head lifted, listening alertly.
Henry took careful aim but as he released the arrow the bowstring broke, the hart heard the sound and was gone into the trees. He cursed and glanced at Ralph. ‘My string has broken.’ De Marmion came up. ‘There was a peasant hut a little way back. Perhaps a fellow there will be able to mend it.’
Together they went back down the path. The hut was a poor place, a single room with a division at one end where a few chickens scuffed the earth floor, it smelt of unsavoury cooking and animal dung and Roger wrinkled his nose as they entered. ‘The place stinks.’
There was no one there but an old woman who was stirring a blackened pot over a smoky fire, her dress little more than a rough piece of cloth tied about the waist. She looked up in alarm as they entered, pushing back wisps of grey hair.
Ralph laughed at Roger’s disgust and turned to her. ‘Don’t be afraid,’ he said. ‘Is your man here?’ And when she shook her head not understanding their language Henry held up the bow, indicating the string. She pointed silently to a nondescript collection of bits and pieces which indicated only too plainly that her man, whoever he was, was not above making a snare for the King’s animals. Henry handed his bow to Ralph. ‘Leave her be. She looks half-witted.’
They had been speaking among themselves in Norman but now the woman spoke in English to Herluin who was standing near her beside Raoul the Deer.
‘Who is that man?’
Herluin answered, ‘That is Prince Henry, the King’s brother.’
She put a hand to her mouth, her fingers pulling at her lower lip, her face wearing a rapt expression, her eyes, half hidden under wrinkled lids, fixed on Henry. She shuffled forward and stretching out a grimy hand, took hold of his hand, turning it over to look at the palm. She frowned and muttered unintelligibly to herself. Then she went back to her cooking pot.
In a low voice she spoke again to Herluin. ‘Tell him it is he who will soon be King.’
‘Soon be . . .’ Herluin glanced at Henry who was holding the bow while Ralph repaired it and paying no attention to her. ‘Woman what are you saying?’
‘I read it,’ she whispered, ‘in the signs. The omens are there. He will be King.’ And she began to mutter again while Herluin stared at her, his eyes wide.
‘There,’ Henry said. ‘That is done. Come, we’ll go back to our sport. Herluin, give the woman a shilling – though I fancy her man takes payment enough in rabbits.’ He went out with Ralph and Roger.
‘Did you hear?’ Raoul asked. He had spent his youth in England and knew enough of the tongue to make out what she had said.
‘Aye,’ Herluin said. He seemed to have difficulty in taking his gaze from the woman’s face and she, now that the others had gone, looked more closely at him. Her eyes glittered and she made a hissing in-drawn sound.
‘What does it mean?’ Raoul’s astonishment was growing. He was a plain man, worrying himself little about anything other than his lord’s welfare and his horses, but he felt uneasy now, as if something were in the air here, something he did not understand.
Herluin was looking at the woman. ‘Blood must wipe out blood,’ he said in Norman, yet it seemed as if she understood his words for she nodded, and coming forward set her skinny fingers on his while with her other hand she touched his bow.
‘God save us, Herluin,’ Roger had come back into the hut and had heard his last words, ‘What is the matter with you? Has the scarecrow bewitched you?’
Herluin shook his head. ‘She is a seer, I think. She can read signs.’
‘She’s mad, and this place is unwholesome,’ De Marmion said flatly. ‘Come, our lord is waiting for you. Have you paid her?’
Herluin fumbled in his pouch and laid a coin in the woman’s palm. Then he ducked his head and followed Roger out of the low door.
In the open again de Marmion walked off, breathing deeply of the fresh air, but as Raoul started down the path in the wake of the others Herluin caught his arm. ‘Raoul – wait.’
‘What is it?’ the Deer asked impatiently. He loved the hunt and did not wish to miss the kill.
‘I am not coming,’ Herluin said. ‘Tell the King I have gone – to finish my life in a cloister, perhaps. I cannot say where.’
Raoul gaped at him. ‘Holy God, are you gone mad too, Messire Herluin? You – in the cloister? I think that woman must indeed have laid a spell on you.’
‘No spell,’ Herluin said half to himself. ‘She has only told me what I knew already, what I was born with.’
‘Born with?’ Raoul repeated. He was sure now that the knight from La Barre was indeed out of his wits. ‘What will our master say? Have you told him?’
Herluin went on as if he had not heard the question, speaking in a low monotone. ‘The land has groaned long enough – it will be clean again. I will make it so. Tell the King . . .’
Raoul scratched his head. ‘Tell the King? Why him, and what did she mean saying our master would soon be King? Red William looked in good enough health to me half an hour since. And if you must take the vows it is our lord Henry you should tell. Why ask me?’
With sudden fierce urgency Herluin caught him by the arm. ‘Do as I say. Tell the King some cloister far away will hide me only do not do it until after the hunt.’ He seemed to find difficulty in speaking. ‘Tell him – all these years – no, no.’ He controlled the words, ‘Tell him only what I have said. He will understand.’
‘Well, it’s more than I do,’ Raoul said. ‘You are crazed. Why should Rufus care where . . .’
‘Do as I say,’ Herluin reiterated. ‘Swear – swear for the love of Christ that you will do it.’
‘Very well,’ the Deer shrugged his wide shoulders. ‘If that is how you must have it. Though what Rufus will make of all that nonsense I don’t know. You cannot mean you are going to be a monk?’
He saw Herluin’s face taut with suppressed emotion and did not know what to make of it. If a man was going to be monk, he thought, he would not surely look so anguished.
‘A monk?’ Herluin repeated, returning to the monotone. ‘Only a man who is holy should be a monk. Go, Raoul, our master will be calling for you. Say nothing, nothing, until the hunt is over, until the quarry is brought down.’
‘Oh, rest you,’ Raoul said impatiently, ‘I’ll do what you ask though our lord will be mighty put out when he hears you are gone without his leave.’
‘He will have other things to think of,’ Herluin said and watched Raoul go, shaking his head in bewilderment.
Then he went into the woods, alone. He took one arrow from his quiver, the arrow the fletcher ha
d made yesterday, and held it in his hand. He walked uncertainly, his steps wandering, but he was listening intently, following sounds. He began to mutter to himself, a jumble of words, of names – Simon, Henry his lord, the Devil of Bellême, the Red King, holy St. Michael his patron. He was no longer aware of the sunshine, he was enveloped at last in the black and evil thing that had threatened him for so long. He was drowning in it, no longer his own master, without will or thought or reason of his own. Vaguely, through the madness that had him, he knew the awful moment had come, the moment towards which he had been moving all his life. The thing that he must do, he must do and could not escape. He wanted to remember, to think of the years that had been, the joy that had been in them, but he could not conjure up the past nor face the future – there was only the overwhelming hideous present.
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