Once he paused, leaning his outstretched hand against a tree, feeling the ridged oak bark beneath his fingers, and cried out of the silent forest, ‘Is there another hell than this?’ And then went on until he came to a knoll above a little glade. Unseen behind a hazel bush he saw below him a stag, antlers lifted, beautiful and alert. To his right between two trees stood Walter Tirel, watching the stag – and away below in the glade, bow in hand, almost at the point of loosing the arrow, was the sturdy figure of William, King of England.
Henry had better fortune now. He had brought down a stag, a fine creature with great antlers, and he was pleased with the afternoon’s sport. He was watching two huntsmen fasten the kill to a long pole when the sound of a horn broke through the forest. It was not the call for a prize, but a long urgent blowing, repeated again and again and again.
‘Holy Cross,’ he said sharply, ‘some accident must have happened.’ And a swift intuition seemed to tell him it was no small thing. He shouted for Raoul to bring the horses and rode with Ralph and Roger towards the sound which grew louder and more urgent as they neared it. A few minutes later they crashed through the undergrowth and down a slope to an open glade, almost at the same time as the Clares appeared from the opposite direction.
Two huntsmen were standing panic-stricken, one still blowing frantically on his horn while Tirel, who had run down the path, knelt by a fallen figure.
Henry flung himself from the saddle. ‘For God’s sake stop blowing that damned horn,’ he shouted, and pushing Tirel aside, threw himself down beside the body spread-eagled on the ground.
Tirel had turned the King over and Rufus lay still, the broken shaft of the arrow protruding from his chest, his strangely flecked eyes staring sightlessly at the sky.
For a suspended moment the glade was as still as the corpse, only the evening song of the birds breaking the stillness. Henry knelt by his brother’s dead body, so stunned he could neither think nor move, nor even cross himself. He stared at the familiar face still ruddy, the half open mouth, the expressionless eyes, the greying tow-coloured hair. It was Rufus – and Rufus was dead.
Hoarsely he asked, ‘What happened?’
The huntsmen both answered at once.
‘It was an accident, my lord . . .’
‘The King was there, by those bushes. We flushed out a stag . . .’
‘He shot once and missed and then another arrow was loosed . . .’
‘It came from that path – where my lord of Poix stood.’
‘No,’ Tirel cried out, ‘I was too far away. I shot but my arrow could not have . . .’
‘The King broke off the shaft,’ the man with the horn said. He was ashen-faced and trembling. ‘He lurched forward and fell . . .’
That fall must have driven the arrow further into his body finally extinguishing life, Henry thought dazedly, and he got to his feet, looking around him as other members of the hunting party came hurrying to the spot. William of Breteuil gave one outraged gasp and William of Mortain cried out to know if it was bloody murder. A dozen voices answered that it could not have been so and Robert Fitzhamon, kneeling by the King’s body, burst into tears. He took up the broken piece of arrow and choking down his sobs, turned it in his hand. ‘This is one of the new arrows.’
Mortain said accusingly, ‘There were only six. Who . . .’
‘It was an accident,’ Gilbert of Clare repeated harshly, ‘it must have been. A chance shot . . .’
Fitzhamon rose, flinging away the delicate killing thing. ‘Only the King and you, Walter, had these arrows.’ He stared at the lord of Poix. ‘It must be yours.’
‘An accident,’ Walter repeated frantically, ‘It must have been . . .’ He looked from one to the other, seeing some accusing him, some bewildered, and Gilbert of Clare, the lord of Tonbridge, grim yet with a blank look that could scarcely veil his satisfaction.
‘I did not . . .’ Tirel began. Panic seized him then and with a wild gesture he flung away his bow and ran for his horse. He mounted and was gone between the trees before any man could stop him. His panic seemed to spread through the hunting party. William of Breteuil leapt for his saddle, followed by the Count of Mortain and both made for the Winchester road; others followed, riding for their homes to secure what they had until a new king reigned, while Fitzhamon, scarcely knowing what he did, threw his new cloak over the body. Roger de Marmion muttered that he must inform his father what had happened and gradually the glade emptied until only Henry, the Clares and Ralph de Toeni were left beside the body.
Henry said, ‘We must find a cart, men to bear my brother . . .’
Gilbert caught his arm. ‘Later – later! Henry, this is your moment. For God’s sake, take it! ’
Outrage rose in him, horror at what had been done, revulsion from what must be done. He looked from one to the other of his friends. There seemed to be nothing in his head but the sight of Rufus at his feet, the protruding arrow, the last rays of the sunlight through the oaks, the bird songs.
‘We must ride for Winchester,’ Ralph said. ‘If you don’t seize the throne at once there will be a faction out for Duke Robert and we have waited for this day.’
‘All of us,’ Roger of Clare said, ‘and planned for it.’ He caught his brother’s eye and shut his mouth firmly, turning to bring up Henry’s horse.
Gilbert caught the reins and held them out. ‘You must be King by nightfall.’
‘King!’ Henry exclaimed. He looked down at his brother. ‘We cannot leave him like this.’
‘Jesu!’ Gilbert suppressed the desire to shake him. ‘He is dead. It is the crown that matters now and it must be yours.’
‘The crown,’ Henry repeated and then, suddenly, the stunned apathy, the shock left him. The blood seemed to run through his body, as if life flowed back into him. He saw Raoul, apparently struck dumb and aghast by what had happened, holding his stirrup for him, but without setting foot in it, he jumped for the saddle and seized the reins from Gilbert.
‘By God,’ he said, ‘the crown! ’ And without a backward look at the corpse lying in the forest hollow he rode for Winchester, his friends at his back, strung out along the rough track.
Jesu, it had come at last! On a bright August evening, when nothing had been further from his mind, his destiny was to be fulfilled, his father’s words realised. He, Henry, would be King of England and – his head began to spin – he would have Eadgyth. He would take her from that damned nunnery and set her on the throne with him. It was incredible and only the thudding hooves beneath him pounded home the truth of it, that Rufus was dead with an arrow in his chest – God alone knew how, he would think of that later – and he was riding for Winchester to seize, if he had the strength, this green land in which he had been born.
As they clattered through the streets of the town he could see the news had preceded him for men were gathering in groups, many hurrying towards the King’s palace. In the courtyard larger numbers of more important men were converging and as Henry dismounted and strode purposefully across to the great hall they began to run, cramming the doors in their haste.
In the hall one figure detached itself from a knot of vociferous men and Richard de Redvers came quickly to Henry. ‘Thank God I chanced to arrive today,’ he said, and his clothes were still dusty from the road. ‘I’ve just heard the news. My lord, don’t hesitate now – take the crown for there are murmurings already that your brother has the right.’
Henry took his arm. ‘You have come opportunely, Richard. I need every friend I have.’ He walked to the dais, where William of Breteuil stood with his cousin of Mortain and William of Warenne, Earl of Surrey.
‘My lord of Breteuil,’ he said in a loud voice and suddenly the wild talk, the commotion in the hall ceased. ‘You will have heard of the accident that has befallen my brother. The King is dead and England must have a King – and I demand therefore that you hand over to me the keys of the royal treasury.’
Breteuil glanced at his two companions. Then he said
, ‘That I cannot, do, my lord. Your brother the Duke is the rightful heir to the throne.’
‘He is not.’ Henry looked round the hall, filling every moment with more men, excited, curious, many ready to take one side or the other, and raising his voice cried out, ‘I am porphyrogenites. As the only son born to my father when he was King I have the primary right.’
‘Your brother is the eldest,’ William repeated stubbornly. ‘My lord Henry, both you and I have done him homage and we owe him fealty. He has been fighting for Our Lord in the Holy Land as we all know, let us at least wait until he returns.’
‘This has nothing to do with him. My father never intended as you must know, that Robert should have England. By the Rood, he knew that Robert would let it rot as he let the duchy rot.’
‘You speak harsh words,’ de Warenne interrupted, his dark face menacing, ‘but they cannot alter the fact that now that the heir your father chose has come to his death by some means, the succession must go to the elder of his remaining sons.’
‘Never!’ It was the Earl of Warwick who pushed forward now. ‘The Duke has no right at all to anything but the duchy, for as far as England is concerned the old King passed him over. And who should have England but the heir born in this land?’
‘Aye! Aye!’ A dozen voices joined in and more men began to shout out arguments for one or the other, until Warwick’s brother, the Count de Meulan, stepped up to the dais. Robert de Beaumont was the most senior and the most respected of all the Norman barons and the noise subsided a little to allow him to speak.
‘This is not Normandy,’ he said in his deep voice. ‘Let the Normans who have land here and the English who are present say whom they want for their King.’
A roar answered him. ‘Henry! Henry of Domfront,’ and there was a scrambling forward of lesser men at the back of the hall where Hamo and the others led a vociferous party for their master. But a number of others, Norman to a man, surged around the dais and ranged themselves by Breteuil.
It was strange that no one gave thought to the man whose passing had brought about this situation. Only the mercenaries who had received his bounty and a few close cronies who had shared his peculiar pleasures looked shaken and uneasy. For most there was only the impression that the air was fresher for his going and that a strong King must be set at once in his place.
William of Mortain spoke up now. ‘Are we to yield to a Norman who calls himself an Atheling?’ His voice rang with scorn. ‘No, I say. We took this country and Normandy and England are one and should be ruled by the Duke.’
A howl of anger from Henry’s faction answered him and Earl Simon, normally a quiet and retiring man, came to the fore. ‘I speak for Normans and English, for my wife is English and of noble birth and I say no one else has any right at all but our Atheling.’
Edward of Salisbury, one of the few English landowners left, shouted his agreement with Earl Simon, ‘Let all Englishmen speak. We will have Henry the Atheling. If the men of Domfront thought him so much the best lord that they brought him from exile, I say he will be as good a lord to us.’
The commotion grew, swords were loosened and a few blows struck, and for a moment the situation looked ugly. At the back of the hall Hamo said to Gulfer, ‘Can you see? How stand the numbers if it comes to a fight?’
Gulfer grinned. ‘Our master has the people with him and as for the lords I think more than half will declare with him.’
‘I wish the Earl of Chester were here and not in Normandy – his word would count for a good deal.’
‘Everyone knows where Hugh Lupus stands,’ Gulfer said. ‘His nephew will bring out his men. What do you say, Raoul?’
The deer did not answer. His slow mind was grappling with the extraordinary realisation of the words he had heard only this afternoon in the churl’s hut. He saw now what Herluin had meant by ‘tell the King’, but how he had known which King it would be, Raoul could not make out. Ponderously he followed the matter to its logical conclusion and gasped at the result. He did not understand it, nor the knight from La Barre, but he was wise enough to keep what he had heard to himself until he could speak to his lord alone.
And at the present urgent moment there was no time to look back, but only to crane his neck to see what was happening among the great lords.
Henry had drawn his sword and now stepped on to a stool and then up on the high table that everyone in the hall might see him. Every instinct told him that his whole future depended on the outcome of this fierce quarrel – he must win at once to win forever, and he looked down on the faces turned towards him, seeing all sorts and conditions of men, the friend, the foe, some grave, some angry, some encouraging, some hardened and self-engrossed, and if there was one familiar face missing among all these, he did not realise it. It mattered now only to sway the majority, to take them with him. ‘I have been called the Atheling,’ he shouted, ‘and rightly, for so I am and who but an Atheling should wear the crown of England? Would you have me set aside?’
‘No! No!’ A roar answered him from all parts of the hall and he went on. ‘I will submit myself to the people’s choice.’
‘They will choose you,’ Gilbert of Clare called out, ‘we will have no King but Henry.’
More men began to shout, some for Henry, some for Robert and for a while it was impossible for any single voice to be heard, but at last with both hands flung up Henry commanded at least partial silence. He faced the Count of Breteuil.
‘William, our fathers were cousins and friends, and I’d not harm you, but I am the people’s choice. I will have the keys, and I will take them by force if necessary.’
For one moment longer the son of William FitzOsbern stood hesitant, something of his father’s old spirit in him, but he lacked wholly the latter’s ability to adapt himself gallantly to any situation. He saw a prince of the royal house facing him, sword in hand and backed by a strong following, and knew that he dare not attack him physically. Neither could he yield with a good grace but stood irresolute, fumbling with the keys at his belt.
William of Warenne said angrily, ‘Don’t give them up to Hartsfoot, for God’s sake.’
Roger the Priest, who had been standing silently by a pillar came forward now. ‘Do not invoke God,’ he said sternly, ‘I tell you, every holy man in England from the Bishops to the humblest parish priest will rejoice to see Prince Henry crowned. What did the late King ever do for Holy Church but mock her and her servants? We do not mourn one who derided God, who died unshriven and unrepentant. We turn with hope to a better man.’
The clergy present applauded his speech, solidly backed by Henry’s men but Mortain swore at him, and turned menacingly to his companion.
‘What can I do?’ Breteuil scowled. ‘I must yield.’
‘Fool! Coward!’ Mortain flung the words at him. ‘The Duke will have something to say about this.’
Reluctantly the treasurer ignored him and loosed his jewelled belt, sliding off the heavy ring bearing the keys of the royal chests. Henry held out his sword and the Count set the ring on the point of it. There was silence in the hall and every man heard the rattle as the ring slid down the steel. Henry lowered the sword and took the keys into his hand, and with them the wealth of all England.
He faced the crowded hall, the keys in one hand, his sword in the other. ‘Let the people choose,’ he cried and was answered by an acclamation that was heard as far away as Winton’s hill.
CHAPTER 7
The great abbey of Westminster was packed to the doors for the coronation. Great men jostled for their places while barons and knights jammed themselves in behind, the lords, the men-at-arms, merchants and burghers fought for even a foot of space so that they might see the brilliant spectacle. Among the lesser men and among the English to a man there was nothing but joy on this occasion. The old bad days were over, the rule of unlaw finished, they had now a King whose reputation for justice and fair dealing was widespread and because he had known what it was to be poor and in exile they were
sure of understanding from him.
Men who had been in his pay and who had served at Domfront boasted to the rest of their lord’s virtues while Hamo, Gulfer and Raoul basked in reflected glory as the three who had never deserted him. Hamo was to carry his lord’s standard in the coronation procession and was the envy of his companions – this office might well have been given to a man of high standing but it was typical of Henry, as men were to discover, that he would give positions regardless of rank to men who would serve him best.
The procession was headed by the clergy, all the bishops who could be assembled were there, among them William Giffard, a relative of Gilbert of Clare and now Bishop of Winchester, the first man to be appointed to office by the new King; Anselm’s friend, Gilbert Crispin, Abbot of Westminster walked in the procession with Samson of Gloucester, John of Bath and Abbot Serlo, and at the head of them was the aged Maurice, Bishop of London, who was to perform the office of crowning in the absence of the Archbishop of Canterbury. Today, Sunday the fifth of August, the old man walked mitred and bearing his staff, rejoicing that he had lived to set the crown of England on the head of a man worthy to wear it.
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