The Lion of Justice Page 15

  Matilda was exultant. How glad she was that she had resisted her aunt’s harsh persuasion! It had all been worth while, for now she could stand before the Archbishop and the council and before God with a clear conscience.

  The Archbishop from his chair on the dais asked her to come forward and stand before him.

  This she did.

  ‘I ask you,’ said Anselm, ‘before God, is there truth in the statement that you are a confirmed nun?’

  ‘There is no truth in this.’

  ‘Are you prepared to make this denial on oath?’

  ‘I am prepared,’ answered Matilda firmly.

  She took the oath, and Anselm continued to question her.

  ‘Was it the choice of either of your parents that you should take religious vows?’

  ‘I believe my mother hoped I would. My father was against it.’

  ‘Did you ever in your father’s court wear the black veil of a votaress?’

  ‘Yes.’

  The members of the council looked at her intently and she went on steadily, ‘My Aunt Christina was at my father’s court and she put the veil on my head and face. When my father saw it he was angry. He snatched it off and announced that the convent life was not for me, for he intended that I should marry.’

  ‘But you wore the veil in Rumsey and Wilton Abbeys?’ persisted Anselm.

  ‘I did.’

  ‘But it is the dress of a votaress.’

  ‘My aunt insisted that I wear it. I hated it. When my aunt found me without it she beat me severely. Often when I was alone I took it off and trampled on it.’

  ‘Yet you wore it constantly in Rumsey and Wilton?’

  ‘I did so only because my aunt forced me and because often the soldiers came that way and it was some protection against their rough usage. I tell you before God that I never wished to wear these robes, that whenever possible I discarded them.’

  The Archbishop consulted with his council and a box of sacred relics was brought out and placed on a board supported by trestles.

  ‘This coffer contains the bones and relics of saintly men. You are required to swear on them. You know that if you take a false oath you will be eternally damned and great misfortune will overtake you in this life.’

  ‘I understand.’

  ‘Now you are required to swear on this that you never took the veil, that you have made no vows to Almighty God, that you are free to marry the King.’

  ‘I gladly swear,’ she cried fervently.

  She was taken from the council chamber.

  Very shortly after that Anselm and the council declared that they unanimously accepted the word of the Princess Matilda.

  The King and she were free to marry.

  The summer was past and November had come. It was three months since the death of William Rufus, St Martin’s day, and a Sunday: the eleventh day of the eleventh month of the year 1100.

  Matilda’s coronation was to take place immediately after her wedding, and crowds had gathered in the streets and about Westminster Abbey. There was a certain amount of murmuring, for many people still believed that Matilda was a nun who had denied her vows for the sake of marriage with the King.

  Henry was uneasy. His position was not as strong as he wished it to be. What, he wondered, if this marriage was to rob him of the popularity he had gained? Was it a wrong step after all?

  Anselm was strong. He had said that before the ceremony took place he would make an announcement from the pulpit that the Princess had never taken religious vows and was entitled to dispose of herself in marriage as she thought fit.

  It had been a wise move to bring back Anselm. There was something about the man. He had an air of authority as well as sanctity. The people would believe that if he gave his support all must be well.

  All the nobility were gathered together, and Henry and Matilda stood before the Archbishop at the altar.

  Anselm said in a loud voice, ‘Is there any man here who objects to the decision of the council regarding this marriage?’

  Henry waited in trepidation, but immediately there came the reassuring shout which echoed through the Abbey, ‘That matter has been rightly settled.’

  The ceremony proceeded. The Princess Matilda was married to Henry and afterwards crowned Queen of England.

  Henry was the perfect lover. He had had practice enough. She was less afraid of him than he had feared she might be.

  He could not stop himself thinking of Nesta and Gerald of Windsor. He supposed he would think of Nesta often. But his bride was pleasant, young, undoubtedly a virgin, and he could be fond of her – if only because she so adored him.

  She whispered to him of the revelation which her aunt had made to her when there had been a question of her marriage to Alan of Bretagne.

  ‘It is so different,’ she cried. ‘That is because I am with you.’

  He responded as tenderly as she could wish.

  There was no point in spoiling her wedding night. She would learn soon enough that the lover she adored was not quite all she thought him to be. Well, she who was so innocent of the world would have to learn, and when she did, as she inevitably must, she would after the first shock settle down to be a loving wife; and when she produced the heirs of the kingdom she would be a good mother.

  That should satisfy her, so that when he strayed – as he surely would – she would come to accept this state of affairs as a natural course of events.

  For the time, though, he feigned to share her ecstatic happiness.

  Escape from the White Tower

  ROBERT, DUKE OF NORMANDY, had had enough of his Crusade. His friends often reminded him of the need to go back and redeem Normandy. Robert, feckless, extravagant but of undeniable charm, was restless by nature. His enthusiasms waned quickly and his greatest excitement was in making grandiose plans which he deluded himself into believing would come to glorious fruition. That they never had in the past he refused to see. His was an optimistic nature and he always believed in the future.

  He was a brave fighter and had distinguished himself in the Holy Land, but that little adventure was over. It was time he embarked on a new one. And that new one must be the recovery of Normandy. Crusading hero that he might be, he was first of all Duke of Normandy, and he must win back his inheritance.

  During the long journey back he made elaborate plans. He needed money. He knew Rufus: Rufus always wanted money; but he was of course hoping that Robert would not be able to raise that 10,000 marks. Nor could Robert at the time see any means of doing so.

  He had ridden into southern Italy and had come to the castle of Count Geoffrey of Conversana. The Count greeted the hero of the Holy War with great warmth and begged him to give him the honour of entertaining him before he passed on.

  ‘My good friend,’ said Robert, ‘your kindness is appreciated, but my dukedom needs me.’

  The Count said then he would hope for merely a few days of the Duke’s company.

  Robert, conferring with his friends, decided that it would be churlish to refuse such a gracious honour so they would stay for a few days, during which they would plan for the recapture of Normandy.

  The Count’s castle was a pleasant place; the weather was delightful – it was warmer than in Normandy and less exhaustingly hot than the Holy Land. It was a golden country, said Robert, a country which invited one to dally.

  Robert had never needed a great deal of encouragement to do that, and in this case the Count had a beautiful daughter, Sibyl, whom Robert found enchanting. They rode together; they talked together, and he told her of Normandy and his childhood there, of his great father who had never understood him and who had refused to recognize that he was a man, so that he had perforce on more than one occasion taken up arms against him.

  Sibyl was sympathetic.

  And so the golden days passed. There was time to enjoy the Italian sun and the company of Sibyl before he recaptured Normandy.

  In his prison in the White Tower, Ranulf Flambard was getting re
stive. He was not ill-treated; he had wine with his food every day; the jailers were his friends; and it had become clear to him that the King was uncertain how to treat him.

  That Henry was shrewd he had always known, and he believed Henry had some notion that he might make use of him at some time. Therefore the King was holding him a prisoner, but a well-treated one.

  Ranulf had friends outside. He preserved the two shillings he received each day and determined to spend it wisely. The wine was a necessity, for he had plans for that, but he would spend on nothing else save bribes to those whom he believed he could trust.

  News was brought in to him. Robert of Normandy was on his way home. That was important. If he could get to Normandy he might offer his services to Robert. He would have offered them to Henry, but Henry had imprisoned him. He knew Henry’s reasons. It was to placate the people. Henry had disliked him when he had made jibes at him in Rufus’s company, but Henry was too wise to waste time on personal vengeance and was also shrewd enough to know a clever man when he saw one. But he, Ranulf, was unpopular in England. His work for Rufus had made him so. He would do better in Normandy, so to Robert he would go.

  Robert would be more amenable than Henry. Robert was easy-going; he needed a man like Ranulf. Henry was stronger. He would govern alone. Certainly Robert was his man.

  Therefore, his first task was to get to Normandy – but before he did that he had to escape from the White Tower.

  There was only one way out, as far as he could see. Through the window by means of a rope.

  How to get the rope?

  It was not impossible. How wise he had been to feign a greater love of wine than he really had!

  He asked that his brewer might come to see him, as he wished to order some wine.

  This was all right, said the guard, for orders had been that the prisoner was to have his two shillings a day to provide him with comforts.

  The brewer was respectful. Ranulf had met him before when he ordered wine. They discussed the quality of the brews he had sent and Flambard not only astonished the man with his knowledge but amused him by his wit – that very wit which had pleased King Rufus and been one of the reasons why he had held a high place in his affairs.

  It was a risk, but he took it.

  ‘I am confined here,’ he said. ‘A man of my abilities! And to tell you the truth, my good friend, I know not the reason why, for I have committed no crime.’

  The brewer was delighted to be called the good friend of such a cultured man. Ranulf watched the effect.

  ‘I see you are a man of intelligence. You will not be influenced by the views of the rabble. You are a man who will make up his own mind. Therefore, you are a man to whom I can talk.’ He lowered his voice. ‘I get precious little opportunity of doing so in this place, I assure you, my friend.’

  The brewer said that it was a sin that men should be imprisoned for breaking no laws; and for a cultivated man – and he was wise enough to know one when he saw one – it was doubly irksome.

  ‘I carried out the laws, but not on my own behalf, my friend. I did it for the King. I was his servant. I did for him what you would do for any of your customers.’

  The brewer nodded sagely.

  ‘I am no ordinary prisoner. Athough my property is in the hands of those who took it from me, I hope to regain it one day and when I do I shall remember my friends. But I am here, and while I am here I can do nothing.’

  ‘Where would your lordship go if you escaped from here?’

  Ranulf pretended to hesitate. Then he said earnestly.

  ‘I see that you are a man of wit and courage. Forgive me for hesitating. So much is at stake.’

  Flattered out of all good sense, the brewer said, ‘You may trust me, my lord sir.’

  ‘I know it. I would go to Normandy.’

  ‘How would you do that?’

  ‘If I could get out from this place, if a horse was waiting for me, if a boat was waiting to take me over the water . . . then I could get to Normandy.’

  ‘How could this be, my lord?’

  ‘I have friends. I shall regain everything one day and I shall never forget those who help me.’

  The brewer’s cupidity showed in his eyes. The oaf is considering what he will gain, thought Ranulf.

  He was right. The brewer was considering. He was easily prevailed upon to take messages to Ranulf’s friends outside.

  It was in this manner that he learned that the Duke of Normandy was dallying in Italy. He seemed to be so taken with the daughter of Count Geoffrey that he could not tear himself away from her. The months were passing, and instead of returning to Normandy he remained in Italy.

  Yes, Robert was the one for him. He could govern Robert as he had not been able to govern Rufus even.

  The brewer had played his part well, and it had come to the vital stages of Ranulf’s plan. It was surprising how so much depended on this poor tradesman.

  There were two casks of wine sent in to him. He looked into one. This contained rich red wine; he looked into the other. Good man! Inside it, curled round and round, was a thick rope.

  He said to his guards, ‘I have a new cask of wine. You must come and sample it.’

  They were nothing loath. In fact there was little they enjoyed as much as an hour or so in the company of this unusual prisoner.

  He could amuse them with his stories of the late King’s Court. What a place it had been, by his account! He would mince round the cell, describing the manners and customs of the King’s friends until he had them helpless with laughter. And he always had a supply of good wine, too. Very often they left his cell a little tipsy.

  ‘Welcome, welcome!’ he cried.

  He looked round. There were three men to be taken care of: his own special guard, whose duty it was never to leave him unobserved for more than a minute or two at a time; the keeper of the door of that part of the White Tower in which they were: and another whose duty it was to prowl round every hour for inspection.

  ‘Well, my friends, what think you of this brew?’

  ‘Excellent. Excellent.’

  ‘Better than the last?’

  ‘Well, my lord, I couldn’t rightly say as to that.’

  ‘Drink up, then, and put it to the test.’

  They could not agree on it, by good fortune, so he kept them testing and drinking so that they lost count of the amount they had taken.

  He then began to amuse them once more with stories of the Court, never forgetting to fill and refill their glasses.

  The keeper of the outer door was the first to succumb: he slumped from his stool and lay on the floor in a stupor.

  This unfortunately seemed to sober the others.

  ‘We should drink no more, sir. Look at him.’

  ‘He could never hold his wine. He is something of a low fellow who has never learned the gentlemanly trick. Now you two are different. I have always known that. You could hold your drink with the rest of us. I’ll warrant you can stand up to it as well as I can.’

  They had not been aware, the simple fools, that while they had been engaged in the testing, he had drunk nothing. Flattery was the weapon to use against these people. They could not resist it.

  He knew that it would not be long before he had reduced those two to the state of stupor which had overtaken their fellow guard.

  Nor was it.

  There they were muttering to themselves – three men, overcome by the intoxication of good strong wine!

  There was no time to lose; at any moment, one of these men might be aroused sufficiently from his stupor to know what was happening.

  He drew the rope from the cask. He attached one end to the staple near the window. It was a pity it was not nearer, for the drop to the ground was far.

  He looked out of the window and a feeling of apprehension overtook him. It was indeed a long drop and he had to rely on the security of the rope attached to the staple.

  It was strong and coarse and he had bruised hands merely in t
ying it.

  He let it out of the window, then cautiously clinging to it, lowered himself.

  The agony! He had forgotten to ask for gloves. The coarse rope was taking the skin off his hands and they were raw and bleeding. He was dangling at the end of the rope which was far too short, and there remained a long distance between the end of it and the ground.

  Fool, he thought. Why had not the brewer sent a longer rope? But the man had sent the longest that would go into the cask.

  What now? Was he to wait here dangling at the end of a rope until he was captured. He could not if he wished to. His poor bleeding hands would not endure it.

  He must take the risk.

  He let go and fell.

  Pain enveloped him; he was almost fainting, but he dared not do that. He could see the horse tied to a block a few yards away. His friends had done their part and he must get up. He must forget the pain. He stood.

  Yes, he could stand, so it seemed his legs had not been broken.

  He staggered to the horse, ready, saddled, waiting.

  They had not failed him.

  He mounted, and galloped off towards the coast.

  Geoffrey, Count of Conversana, had watched the growing friendship between his daughter and Robert of Normandy, and it occurred to him that a match between them would be a good one as far as his daughter was concerned. The Duke of Normandy, if he could regain his lands, was a man of great importance and as there was a possibility that he might be King of England also, the marriage would be a brilliant one for Sibyl.

  He found an opportunity of broaching the matter as they sat in his gardens overlooking his vineyards and Robert remarked that it was time he moved on. Not that he necessarily meant it. He had been talking of leaving ever since he came; but there would always be something to detain him – a ball, a banquet, which Sibyl would point out would be spoiled by his absence.

  ‘Yes, I must depart,’ mused Robert. ‘I have stayed over long.’