The Anarchy, page 16
He sat bone-tired on a stool for a moment, thinking of the grimness that had happened this evening along with the victory celebration. The king had ordered Geoffrey de Tourville, Odard du Pin, and Luc de La Barre to be blinded. Waleran was forced to stand in chains and listen to the sentence passed against his lieutenants, and Haith saw the young man blanch as the punishment was pronounced. The count of Flanders remonstrated with the king, arguing that it was not customary to mutilate knights captured in war, but Henry was adamant. They were his liegemen and had broken their allegiance and committed treason. Waleran and the two Hughs then stood quaking before Henry to hear their own fates. ‘You will order Morin du Pin at Vatteville to surrender,’ the king commanded Waleran, ‘or you will also suffer consequences to your person.’
Waleran was still young, barely twenty, and had never encountered such danger. Even in battle, he was surrounded by men who gave their lives to keep sharp blades far from him. ‘Yes, sire.’
The king told the three young men that they would be sent to England in chains and would never see the outside of a prison again. The hairs on the back of Haith’s neck stood in empathy at the thought of such a young man, a boy really, hearing that was to be his future, the rest of his life.
There was a knock on the door. ‘Come!’ Haith called.
A small, scrawny priest stood on the threshold, his pale feet in muddy sandals splayed at the hem of his habit in a wide V-shape. ‘The prisoner, Luc de La Barre, has asked that you have speech with him, Sir Haith.’
‘With me? I cannot intercede for him to the king. Once the king makes up his mind, it is not changeable.’ Haith glanced at his bed. He was weary and wanted to wipe the scenes of war and the sense of his own bloodguilt from his mind in sleep.
The priest shrugged his shoulders. ‘I don’t know why he wishes to speak with you, sir, only that he does and is most insistent that it occurs before his sentence is carried out tomorrow.’
Haith grimaced. Visiting a man about to have his eyes put out was not an appealing prospect for his evening. ‘Very well.’
The bruleurs would be at de La Barre’s cell at first light tomorrow with their hot irons. They had already carried out sentence on Odard du Pin and Geoffrey de Tourville and the whole court, Waleran, and de La Barre himself, had no choice but to listen to their screams.
Haith took a torch and made his way down to the castle dungeons. At the guard’s station, he divested himself of his dagger in case it was turned against him. He followed a guard down narrow, low passageways. More places not constructed to accommodate his height. More places where he must walk hunched and contorted. Haith began to think that he should buy a windmill to live in and take out some of the floors. He did his best to distract himself from the stench and misery around him as the guard led him deep down to the worst cells. ‘There’s them that was blinded this morning,’ said the guard, but Haith averted his eyes, conscious that he had some, and did not look in the direction the guard was indicating. ‘And here he is. Next up.’ The grimy face of Luc de La Barre gazed through the bars of the cell. Haith had known Luc at court before the days of rebellion. He was a gifted poet and had been an accomplished, flamboyant courtier. It was grievous to see him brought to this, but rebellion had its price and all knew that Henry was not a forgiving man when it came to disloyalty.
‘The priest told me you wished to speak with me, de La Barre.’
‘Thank you for coming, Haith,’ said the prisoner, his courteous voice and manner belied by his surroundings. ‘Won’t you enter my palace, here? I am no danger to you.’
Haith gestured impatiently to the guard to unlock the door. ‘I will call you when I’m done.’
There was nowhere in the grimy, stinking cell to sit apart from the floor and that squirmed with insects and the occasional glimpse of a bright-eyed rat, so they stood.
‘There is nothing I can do for you, de La Barre. The king has made up his mind. I’m sorry for it.’ It was hard to look into the man’s eyes, knowing they would be gone tomorrow. De La Barre’s scurrilous songs on the king’s failure of virility had not helped his case, but Henry had ruled harshly against him because he had already forgiven him for rebellion and let him free on two other occasions. De La Barre had exhausted the king’s patience.
‘I know that, Haith. I wished to speak to you on the matter of The White Ship. It weighs on my conscience, and I would relieve myself of it. The information I can give you will not help me with the king, but it will help me with my maker, who I will see before long, though I see nothing else.’
Haith wanted to tell the man that he would likely survive the blinding. Most did. Homer had been a blind poet, but Haith could not bring words to his mouth that did not sound trite. In any case, it was not his job to bring comfort here.
‘What do you know of the ship?’
‘I heard from Morin du Pin that you had unravelled a lot of the tale, but not all of it.’
Haith said nothing. Morin du Pin had been Waleran de Meulan’s steward since the young count had been orphaned and the two were tight as father and son.
‘I heard you wanted to know who commissioned Berold and de Pirou to murder Gisulf on The White Ship, the act that led to the sinking and all those deaths.’
Again, Haith said nothing. His instinct was to let de La Barre do the talking.
‘It was Morin,’ Luc declared.
‘Morin, on behalf of Waleran?’
‘The count knew nothing of it beforehand. He did not know that Gisulf had intercepted a letter from him to William Clito and had him over a barrel, as it were. It amused Morin to commission de Pirou to ‘put Gisulf in a barrel’ instead.’
‘Why de Pirou? I thought he was working for Ranulf de Gernon?’
De La Barre looked perplexed at Haith’s mention of de Gernon. ‘De Pirou and du Pin are old fighting buddies. They do each other favours. I heard nothing in it of de Gernon.’
‘I see. So that’s the whole story.’
De La Barre nodded.
‘And how do you know it?’
‘I was there when du Pin commissioned de Pirou. The butcher was de Pirou’s own addition.’
‘You are certain that Waleran de Meulan knew nothing of it?’
‘I am certain that they did not know of it in advance, but when you came probing de Pirou, I know Count Waleran panicked. They talked with du Pin and found out then about the order he had given concerning Gisulf’s murder on the ship. It must weigh heavy with the count too. Three hundred deaths and the king’s son. But I swear that Count Waleran did not know of the murder plot beforehand. I was there when it was discussed,’ de La Barre said, ‘but I had no part in it. And yet the information has weighed heavy on me.’
‘Well, now you are relieved of it.’ Haith considered it was likely Morin du Pin who had done away with de Pirou to prevent Haith’s enquiries from coming any closer.
‘Thank you. Will you tell the king? I know it won’t help my case.’
‘I need to know more before I speak to the king. I need to speak to du Pin.’
‘Have a care, my friend. Du Pin is dangerous. Very dangerous.’
Haith nodded. ‘I know it.’
‘I thank you that I am unburdened,’ de La Barre said. ‘This is more than a priest could do for me.’
‘Go with God,’ Haith said and gave his farewells briskly to the condemned man, shouted for the guard and collected his dagger on his swift way out. It was a relief to emerge into the fresh night air of the courtyard. He made his way to the well, took a beaker of cold water from the suspended bucket and poured it over the top of his head and the back of his neck. After refilling the beaker, he drank it down. He sat on the well edge, thinking. So Stephen de Blois and Ranulf de Gernon appeared to be exonerated of any hand in The White Ship crime, if Luc’s testimony was to be trusted.
In the gloom, Haith was surrounded by mounds of building materials for the as yet unfinished wing of the palace. The sinking of the ship must have just been a chain of accidents, following on from the murder of Gisulf, which was intended to protect Waleran. Du Pin was holed up, under siege in Vatteville, and Haith would have to wait for his surrender before he could question him. Du Pin would not be in a happy mood, with his liege lord, Waleran, in chains and his brother, Odard, blinded. Haith could not see how the story Luc de La Barre had told to him could give King Henry any comfort, just as it gave little to him, now he had finally uncovered it. Something that de La Barre had said niggled at the edge of his mind. They. He had said ‘they did not know if… they talked with du Pin’ when Haith had asked about Count Waleran. Who else did Luc mean? Who else had known about the commissioned murder of Gisulf? Waleran’s twin, Robert, earl of Leicester, perhaps, but he seemed loyal to the king and was likely in England and not present. Amaury? Amaury de Montfort? He and Waleran were also close. Amaury was like a favoured uncle to Waleran and Amaury was the driver behind this rebellion and the ones before. Was it Ida’s lover, Amaury, who de La Barre referred to? And, if so, did Amaury have more of a hand in the sinking than appeared after all? Amaury had his own reason – Ida – for complicity in Gisulf’s murder.
Haith stared at the door down to the dungeons. He should return to the grim cell and question de La Barre further, but the thought of returning to that stagnant air so full of fear and misery was too much in one night. He would speak with de La Barre again tomorrow, after the blinding, when he was recovered enough.
Haith woke late to the sounds of turmoil in the rooms beneath him. ‘What is it?’ he asked the servant who brought him bread and ale.
‘That poet prisoner. He’s brained himself in his cell rather than have the blinding carried out.’
Haith stared. ‘He’s dead?’ The man nodded and moved on to his next chore.
Haith pulled on his clothes and hurried down to the cell. ‘Where is he?’ he demanded of a guard who was standing in the empty space with a mop and a bucket.
‘Dead one? Already taken out. Killed himself rather than lose his eyes.’
Haith looked at the man, but he had nothing more to tell him. He looked around the cell. It was hard to see anything in the gloom. There was a splash of drying blood against the wall where de La Barre’s head had hit. But did he do it himself, or did somebody do it for him? And was Haith in jeopardy from whoever had murdered de Pirou and now de La Barre? Knowing that de La Barre had talked with Haith, would whoever it was be coming for him next?
16
Sanctuary and Pardon
Haith waited for the right time to talk with Ida about The White Ship and Amaury de Montfort, but no time ever seemed like a good time for such a conversation. His investigation stuttered on. It appeared that the culprit he sought was Waleran’s steward Morin du Pin, but Haith was frustrated again there. After a long siege at Brionne, du Pin surrendered on orders from his imprisoned lord, and the king commanded that du Pin be sent into exile. Haith raced to Brionne when he heard the news, hoping to force a full confession from the man, but arrived only in time to see du Pin ride out of the castle, heading for the harbour. Haith kicked his horse into pursuit. Du Pin looked over his shoulder, recognised Haith, and knew the cause for the chase. Du Pin spurred his horse on to a church, jumped down and ran for the door.
Cursing, Haith saw, but was too late to prevent the other man from lifting the sanctuary knocker. Du Pin grinned smugly at Haith as he was admitted by a priest. The big, studded door closed resolutely behind him. Haith dismounted and stood before the door. There was a dip in the marble floor where he stood, worn away by the faithful filing into church each week. Haith slid his fingers and palm around the lion-head knocker on the closed door. Du Pin was beyond his reach for at least forty days. The lion’s mane on the doorknocker was arranged in two rows of coiled locks. It had prominent eyes, heavy brows, flaring nostrils, and gripped the ring of the knocker in its mouth. Haith curled his hand into the ring and rested his forehead on the closed church door. If only he had so tight a grip on du Pin.
Haith sat out the forty days, staying in a tavern, but inevitably du Pin chose to be escorted into exile rather than face Henry’s retribution for the rebellion or Haith’s questioning and had eluded an encounter.
* * *
In September, the king returned to Rouen and granted audience to the vanquished rebel lords Amaury de Montfort and William Louvel. It was a brave move by de Montfort to come here. Haith had to give him that. He could have continued to skulk in hiding, but he was risking the brutality of the king’s ire in hopes of receiving pardon and the return of his lands and title.
Haith accompanied Ida into the crowded hall and jostled his way through the packed gathering to a place at the front where he might look both at Amaury and at Ida. He saw how anxiously she stared at Amaury’s bowed, blond head as he knelt in supplication to the king, how she studied the king’s face in an effort to discern what doom he might pronounce.
‘Forgive me, my duke. I have been a fool,’ Amaury said. It was a short speech indeed, but Haith saw that the dialogue taking place between the king and the count was a silent one, expressed in their faces and their contemplation of one another. Amaury was related to Henry. They were cousins a few times removed. They both carried the ducal blood of Rollo, the first duke of Normandy, in their veins.
‘You reached outside your orbit, count,’ Henry said, choosing to be equally crisp and concise in his response.
‘I acknowledge my error and beg your pardon.’
Henry narrowed his eyes and turned his gaze to the second man, William Louvel, who proffered a rather more lengthy and shaky speech of contrition than Amaury’s.
When Louvel had finished speaking, Henry let them sweat a while as he considered them, and then looked out over their heads to his assembled court. Louvel, certainly, was perspiring, Haith noticed, looking at the back of the man’s neck, but de Montfort showed no sign of anxiety whatsoever. Either he was a consummate actor or a man of enormous bravery. Perhaps both. It was not difficult to see why Waleran had followed him into contention against the king. Nor was it difficult to imagine what Ida saw in this bold man.
‘I give you my pardon, de Montfort, Louvel,’ Henry declared loudly, and Haith heard Ida draw in a breath beside him. ‘One time. And never again. You will suffer death, not imprisonment, if you ever betray your fealty to me again.’
Haith had hoped he might get the opportunity to question Amaury concerning Gisulf or du Pin but, again, he was thwarted. Pardon granted, the two men wisely did not remain at court where they were surrounded by lords whose brothers, sons, and fathers they had seen to their deaths. They left immediately. As Amaury passed from the hall, Haith saw the warmth of the smile exchanged between the rebel lord and his sister. The heat and brilliance of such a smile might have cajoled a new moon out from its black hiding place.
17
Crossing
Bracing for the next wave kept them all in a state of stress. Haith clung with one hand to the rim of the ship’s bulwark and kept his other arm wrapped tightly around Ida’s shoulders as the vessel was pummelled by the high seas and freezing water dashed intermittently over them. He fought to anchor them as far as he could in place on the bench, but the force of each wave knocked them sideways, slid them apart, momentarily loosed Haith’s hold on his sister and she cried out. Ida’s skin was translucent white with her fear and her teeth chattered. The bilge water swilled calf-high around their legs.
Haith had lost count of the number of times he had made this British Sea crossing. Perhaps it was once every year of his life since he had been ten years old. First, he and Henry crossed back and forth with King William, Henry’s father or with his mother, Queen Matilda, rarely staying put for long in either England or Normandy. Then he had followed Henry to and fro across the British Sea in the difficult years after his father’s death, when his brothers held ascendancy with Robert as duke of Normandy and William Rufus as king of England. Since Henry had taken the thrones of both realms, Haith’s British Sea crossings had become even more frequent. This time, he needed to return to his duties in Wales and was crossing alongside the prisoners: Waleran, Hugh de Chateauneuf, and Hugh de Montfort, who were being conveyed to prison in Bridgnorth. Ida had decided that time had passed, and with the protection of both Haith and Nest available to her, she could risk a return to Nest’s household.
There was no privacy on the ship for Haith to speak with Ida on the topic of the sinking and, besides, it seemed bad luck to speak of a shipwreck while they were making the same rough crossing themselves. Count Waleran was shackled and made a discomforting shipmate. He glared with bitter hostility at Haith, perhaps blaming his uninvited arrival at the weddings of his three sisters, which had heralded the rebellion and Waleran’s subsequent downfall.
At Southampton port, Haith watched the heavily armed escort take the road toward Gloucester and then Bridgnorth with the prisoners. It was a grievous thing for three men, all in their early twenties, to be committed to close confinement, probably for the rest of their lives, but Haith could summon no pity for them. They had arrogantly threatened King Henry.
He found a genteel inn where Ida could rest for a few hours while he went in search of horses for their onward journey. First, he needed a beaker of ale to recover himself after the choppy sea crossing before a long ride and a second water crossing to Wales, and he needed to collect Gisulf’s box, which was stashed with an innkeeper at another port-side tavern. His steward had sent it on for him from London. He made his way back to that tavern, wanting to mull on things and think how he would broach conversation with Ida about Amaury. The alewife placed a brimming beaker carefully in front of him, and her husband placed Gisulf’s chest on the bench, tipping his hat in acknowledgement of the coin Haith handed him. The inn was quiet, with just a few old regulars in one corner who were speaking together in hushed tones. A fire burned welcome in the hearth and Haith stretched his damp boots toward it.
