The Lion of Justice Page 16

  ‘My lord Duke,’ replied the Count, ‘you could not stay too long under my roof.’

  ‘You have been a gracious host to me. I shall never forget you . . . or your delightful daughter.’

  ‘I wish you all luck in your return to Normandy, my lord.’

  ‘I need it, Geoffrey. I need it as I rarely needed it before. I have heard that my brother Rufus is dead. Killed in the New Forest as my brother Richard was. And Henry has taken the throne of England.’

  ‘Has he a right to do this, my lord?’

  ‘Nay. England should be mine. Rufus and I made a pact that if I died before him I would leave him Normandy and if he died before me he would leave me England. Of course I needed money to make my journey to the Holy Land and I borrowed from Rufus, giving him Normandy as security.’

  ‘You will redeem Normandy as soon as you return?’

  ‘I have not the means to do this: 10,000 marks is the sum I need; I cannot do this. But I shall succeed. I shall not allow my brother Henry to take the throne of England from me. I shall regain Normandy, never fear . . . and England too . . . but I need the money if I am honourably to take Normandy out of pawn.’

  ‘And where will you find this money, my lord?’

  ‘I have good friends in Normandy.’

  ‘Your charm and grace have given you good friends wherever you go.’

  ‘I trust that you are one of them, Count.’

  ‘My lord, you never had a better, and I could be closer than a friend. Let me explain. You need 10,000 marks, the sum for which you put Normandy in pawn to Rufus. I have a marriageable daughter. Her dowry would be 10,000 marks if the Duke of Normandy would be prepared to take her.’

  ‘My dear good friend! I can think of nothing better. I love your daughter, and I venture to think she does not regard me with distaste.’

  ‘Well then, ’tis settled.’

  ‘I will first ask the Lady Sibyl if she will take me.’

  ‘She will take you, my lord. Her father will insist on that.’

  ‘I would rather the lady chose me of her own free will.’

  He knew that she would do so most gladly. Nor was he disappointed.

  Before he left Conversana he and Sibyl were married, and together and by slow stages, being lavishly entertained on the way, they made the journey back to Normandy.

  The Chivalry of the Duke

  MALTIDA WAS HAPPY. The long years of incarceration in the Abbeys of Rumsey and Wilton under the strict rule of Aunt Christina were like an evil dream; yet she often told herself she could never have appreciated her happiness quite so whole-heartedly if she had not been able to contrast it with all that wretchedness.

  Henry was a wonderful husband. He was tender and loving – and not only this, he quickly realized that she was a woman of unusual education and as he was more learned than most men, this gave them a great deal in common.

  He talked to her as though she were one of his ministers, and more frankly, for while he must necessarily be on his guard with them he knew that he never need be with her. She would be loyal in every way.

  Henry himself was far from displeased with his marriage. His Matilda was no Nesta but it had not been expected she would be; all the same he very often thought longingly of his one-time mistress and envied Gerald of Windsor. But affairs of state occupied him to the full, so perhaps it was as well that he must dispense with the tempestuous, demanding passion he indulged in with Nesta and should be content with the pleasant marital relationship he enjoyed with his wife.

  He shared her delight when she became pregnant, and again and again she asked herself what joy there could possibly be in life to compare with bringing a family into the world. Sometimes she was afraid of her happiness. Was Aunt Christina right? Was it sinful to be so happy?

  She remembered the vow she had made that if she could but be saved from the veil she would follow the pious habits of her mother.

  As it was Lent, she went to Westminster Abbey dressed in a shirt of hair cloth – a reminder of the Benedictine robe – and gave alms. At the same time she insisted on washing and kissing the feet of the poor.

  On one occasion Henry, who had been unaware of this activity, came to the Abbey with one of his knights while she was engaged on this. He was astonished.

  He went to her and cried, ‘Matilda! What are you doing here?’

  ‘My duty,’ she answered. ‘Will you not join me?’

  He shook his head and walked away. She thought he was displeased, and this was the first cloud over her happiness.

  She was apprehensive when they were alone together.

  He said, ‘I had no idea that you performed such deeds.’

  ‘My mother did, and I vowed that if I could escape from the Abbey I would do likewise.’

  ‘What if there were lepers among them?’

  ‘My mother washed the feet of lepers.’

  He frowned and she asked fearfully, ‘Have I displeased you?’

  He took her face in his hands. ‘Nay, nay, ’twas done from the goodness of your heart, and that heart I have learned most gratefully is kind and loving.’

  ‘I feared greatly that you were angry.’

  ‘Nay, never with you, my Queen.’

  He was thinking: The people were impressed by. it and we have great need to impress the people.

  ‘So you will not forbid this?’

  ‘Nay, my love. Rather do I applaud it. But remember the child. In no way must we imperil that.’

  ‘You are so good to me, so kind,’ she said and there were tears in her eyes.

  It was one of those occasions when he wondered what she would feel when she discovered the truth about him, which he supposed she would in due course. When he began bringing his illegitimate children to Court and bestowing favours on them, which indeed he must, he hoped she would not be too badly hurt. It might well be that by that time she would have more understanding of the world. But it was disconcerting when she showed so clearly that she looked upon him as a knight of shining purity. He supposed he was growing fond of her.

  He was more at ease talking of affairs of state.

  ‘Matilda,’ he said, ‘if ever I should have to go out of the country I should make you my Regent, and for this reason you must know how I govern and what is happening in the realm.’

  She looked apprehensive, and he knew it was not because she was afraid of the task but because he would have to go on some expedition which might be perilous.

  ‘Why should you have to go?’

  ‘Perhaps to Normandy,’ he said. ‘My brother Robert is claiming England.’

  ‘But he is the Duke of Normandy and Normandy is in pawn to England.’

  ‘The debt has been settled. He has married and the lady’s dowry has paid his debt. Moreover, she is with child. Men become ambitious for their children.’

  ‘He has laid claim to the throne, then?’

  ‘Ay and he has many supporters – not only in Normandy but here. Ranulf Flambard has escaped from the White Tower. He is in Normandy now. It is men such as he that I fear rather than my brother. Robert is too lazy to carry through any enterprise with success. But when he is backed by men like Ranulf we must take the threat very seriously indeed.’

  ‘You think they will attempt invasion?’

  ‘I do. Many Normans over here who support Robert’s claim have already crossed the sea. But I have set a fleet to guard the Channel ports so that they can be prevented from landing.’

  ‘That is important,’ said Matilda. ‘If Harold Godwin had guarded his ports your father would never have landed so comfortably in England, and it may well have been that the battle had gone a different way.’

  ‘In which case I should not be King of England; so let us rejoice in that lack of foresight.’

  ‘And profit by it,’ said Matilda.

  ‘You will see that is what I intend to do. But, Matilda, I am surrounded by traitors. Ranulf Flambard should never have been allowed to escape. I could have used that ma
n. I could have had him killed in prison. But I thought after a while to make use of his cleverness. I am disturbed that he thought there would be more advantages in serving my brother than myself.’

  ‘Could it have been that he knew you were a King who would rule your subjects, and Robert is a Duke who would be ruled by his?’

  He looked at her quizzically. ‘God has given me a clever wife. We’ll stand together against them. My Queen, I thank God for you.’

  This was the peak of her happiness. Not only did she love and was loved, not only was her body fruitful, but the years of study had given her an agile mind and she could bring to her husband many gifts which more than made up for her lack of dowry. He talked to her earnestly of his hopes.

  ‘I have made promises which I shall endeavour to carry out . . . if it is possible. It was necessary to make those promises. But I intend to bring law back to this country. I shall punish severely those who steal. We are plagued by those who clip coins and so debase the currency. I mean to bring back my father’s laws. In his day men could travel without the fear of robbery and violence. That changed under Rufus. I will bring that back. The feudal barons must be made to understand that I will not have them roaming the country taking what they will and submitting to indignities the wives and daughters of peaceful citizens. I shall curb their power.’

  ‘The people will love you for it.’

  ‘They must, Matilda. I must make them see that I intend to prosper the country as my father did. They never loved him. He was a harsh man, but they came to respect him. And when Rufus reigned after him they appreciated him the more. I intend that they shall feel towards me as they did to my father.’

  ‘But you would wish them to love you?’

  ‘If that is possible. But I intend to make this country rich and, by God, I’ll do it. And I must make the people understand this. I have to bring the barons to order. You know that a band of them will set out together to plunder a market or a fair and will terrify the simple people who are enjoying these worthy pursuits. Some of them waylay merchants and kidnap them and hold them to ransom so that their family must squander their hard-earned money on their release. They are cruel. They torture their victims. They raid a man’s house and rape his women under his very eyes. This I will stop, and the people will see what my intentions are.’

  Matilda’s eyes were shining. ‘You will be a great King, Henry.’

  He smiled at her ruefully. ‘If the people will let me.’

  ‘The forestry laws are said to be the most harsh.’

  Henry’s lips hardened. He was not going to change those. His father had instituted them and the people had had to accept them. No, he would not give up his forests. The hunt was the breath of life to him, as it had been to all his family. He and his brothers had been brought up to it: it was the greatest of pleasures – though perhaps women enchanted him slightly more, but not much; to ride through the forests, dogs in pursuit, the sight of a deer alert suddenly, and to see the graceful creature bound off; the smell of the forests; the excitement of the chase. No, not one of the harsh forestry laws should be lifted. They had perforce to accept them in his father’s day and they should accept them now.

  But he did not tell Matilda this. Like that other overwhelming passion, it must remain one of those secrets which she would certainly discover in time – but not yet.

  For the time it pleased him that she should live in this dream of perfection – which showed how fond he was of her.

  A messenger had arrived and was brought to the King.

  His face darkened as he read the message.

  ‘Henry . . .’ began Matilda.

  He looked at her and a savage anger darkened his face. ‘The fleet which was protecting our shores has gone to Normandy. This can mean only one thing. They have deserted me and instead of stopping Robert’s landing they will help it.’

  These were trying weeks for Henry. Rumours were in circulation. He had been a member of the hunting party in which Rufus had died; he had already shown marked favour to the Clare family; their kinsman Walter Tyrrell had left the country. Could it have’ been that there had been a plot and that Henry, who had everything to gain, was at the heart of it?

  Henry ignored these suggestions. He knew that what the people of England wanted was a good steady king who would amend the state of anarchy which had arisen during the reign of Rufus. So he concentrated on letting the people know what reforms he intended to make, and he set about making them.

  Henry had not been nicknamed Beauclerc for nothing. He was possessed of an energy and efficiency which was similar to that which had made the Conqueror such a brilliant administrator. The Saxon part of the community were of the opinion that he would make a better ruler than his brother Robert, who had already proved himself to be feckless; but there were many Norman barons in the country who deplored the fact that Henry, having been born and bred in England, was removing the Norman influence, and these powerful Norman barons were giving their support to Robert.

  One of the chief of these was Robert of Bellême – a man whose reputation was perhaps more evil than that of any other throughout England and Normandy. Henry’s father had told him of the stories he had heard in his childhood of this wicked family who had terrorized the countryside. Nurses would warn him if he did not behave as they considered he should, ‘If you are not good the Bellêmes will get you.’ They tortured for sport and the entertainment they offered their guests at a banquet was the death-agony of some poor prisoner. They would waylay travellers and take them to their dungeons. Men would be submitted to the slow death, women to all manner of indignities before suffering the same fate. The Conqueror had, when a boy, met a member of this family, and had looked him straight in the face, and in such a manner that the brute had quailed before him and turned away muttering that the boy and his heirs would bring disaster to the Bellémes.

  That prophecy should be fulfilled, Henry promised himself.

  Robert of Bellême had until recently confined his atrocities to Normandy but, alas, a few years earlier, he had bought the English estates of the Montgomerys, and thus many castles and other property in England had fallen into his hands.

  By the payment of this sum – £3,000 – he had become one of the most powerful men in England as well as Normandy; and of course he would be in conflict with Henry, whose new laws were aimed against such as himself.

  ‘I shall be the one to destroy him,’ Henry promised himself, ‘and others of his kind. We do not want them here nor in Normandy.’

  He did not admit to Matilda that his hopes were not only to remain King of England but to take Normandy as well.

  They were uneasy weeks. The Norman invasion was coming. He must be ready for it.

  And in the midst of these preparations Matilda was brought to bed.

  Her happiness was great when she held her child in her arms . . . although perhaps not quite complete, for the son for which she and Henry had longed had been denied them and they had a daughter.

  Henry disguised his disappointment, thinking: She is young; she has quickly shown she is fruitful. We’ll get sons in time.

  She watched him anxiously from her bed.

  ‘Is she not perfect, Henry?’

  Henry agreed that she was.

  ‘I prophesy that she will be as great as any boy.’

  He kissed her and said, ‘We will have boys. Never fear.’

  ‘Yes, boys and girls. I never guessed how wonderful life could be until this child was born.’

  He smiled at her tenderly, thinking how strange that a woman who could be quite astute in matters of government could be quite simple in her knowledge of human nature.

  They were at Winchester, where it was fitting the royal child be born, and Matilda was to rest there for a week or more.

  It was necessary, said Henry. She must consider her health. He wanted her to be well, that she might give him more children.

  She talked a great deal about the child and never once did sh
e ask about what was happening outside her lying-in chamber. He did not tell her that he hourly expected invasion; that more and more Norman barons were deserting England, and that those who remained were of doubtful loyalty.

  It seemed very likely that as bloody a battle as that of Senlac might soon be fought.

  Henry left Matilda with stern injunctions that she was not to leave her bed until it was considered wise to do so, and he joined his troops at Pevensey. Here, some thirty-six years before, William the Conqueror had landed without opposition. Matilda had said how different it might have been if Harold had been there to prevent the easy landing. Well, he would be on the spot to prevent Robert and his Normans having that advantage.

  As he inspected his troops he thought of all the traitors who had turned against him, and his suppressed anger almost choked him. Both his father and Rufus would have given way to a furious outburst. Not so Henry. He could take vengeance, but in cold blood – which was so much more effective in the end.

  It was sad that brother should fight brother. He thought of his mother – another Matilda – who had had to make a terrible decision between her son Robert and her husband.

  His parents had been lovers all their married life. Theirs had been an ideal relationship, but it was never the same with them after Matilda helped her son Robert against his father. William never forgot it. It would have been one of the biggest blows of his life. But it had been a wonderful partnership. Could he hope for the same from his Matilda? Hardly. The Conqueror had never had time for any woman but his wife. He had been a faithful husband. Perhaps that was the secret of the great bond between them. If it were, he and Matilda could never be so close. He wondered what she would do when she knew of the hosts of mistresses with whom he had shared his life before he met her. He had not been faithful since the marriage. How could he be when he was away so much? It was against his nature. Women and the chase . . . they were necessary to him, and no matter what was at stake he could not give either of them up. That was his weakness. His calm judicial mind saw it clearly.

  And Robert . . . Robert was a fool. Robert had been a fool throughout his life. Their father had been aware of it; that was why he and Robert had been enemies, mortal enemies. Robert should never have had Normandy. His father had known that, too, but it was a long-standing promise which he had made to their mother and so he fulfilled it. Robert was doomed to failure. He was unfit to govern. He had made mistakes everywhere. It was only that charm of his which saved him from utter disaster. It always came to the surface in crucial moments. He had friends who loved him and helped him. He had found a rich woman to marry that he might redeem Normandy. It had always been thus with Robert but that did not mean it always would be.