Daughter of the Last King, page 19
part #1 of Conquest I Series
I could not see them since they lay in bed in the inner chamber and I was on a pallet near the half-closed door. There was a silence, and I imagined FitzHamon shrugging in response.
‘Does the king still have an interest in marrying her himself?’ Sybil persisted. ‘It’s high time he was wed also.’
‘It is not your concern,’ FitzHamon told her coldly. ‘Roll over.’ I pulled the covers up over my ears to avoid hearing the subsequent gruntings and gasps of their congress.
I was relieved to see nothing more of either Count Henry or Arnulf before we left for the return journey to Cardiff. FitzHamon remained at court with the king and entrusted us to Gerald’s escort, who was a great deal more pleasant as a travelling companion than Sybil’s taciturn husband. He interested Sybil and me immensely with his animated talk of the stone buildings he had been studying. I had hoped to resume my conversation with Gerald concerning the murder of Goronwy, but no opportunity to speak with him alone presented itself. I felt some guilt that I had accepted Gerald’s gift and doubted Sybil’s interpretation of what he meant by it. It was a rash act on my part to take it, showing him a significant favour, but I loved the cross. It seemed like the only thing that was truly mine, that had been given to me in genuine, disinterested affection and I did not want to have to give it up.
I was confused about my feelings as I returned to Cardiff, still unwed: my feelings about Arnulf were ambiguous; a marriage to Prince Owain was appropriate, but it was unlikely the king would give permission; King William had been friendly but there was no further mention of any interest from him; Count Henry seemed to like me, and he was certainly intriguing. The king would have to make a decision soon or I would be an old maid, past childbearing, just winter forage. I returned to Cardiff full of stories to tell Mabel about all the new people I had met and the sights I had seen.
After the Pentecost court in Westminster, Sybil’s husband went to Normandy again with King William. He wrote that during a siege at Mayet a man standing next to the king was killed by a stone flung by the defenders and there was a hue and cry that the king had been almost killed. Sybil kindly wrote to her brother Bellême asking that he show leniency to my brother Idwal, imprisoned in Shrewsbury. She received no reply to this letter, but assured me he would take note of it.
* * *
from The Copybook of Sister Benedicta
* * *
Winchester, May 1100
To the most venerable and excellent Benedicta, superbus mistress of the scriptorium from Sir Haith, known as valiant or sleepyhead. Yet a joking beginning is not right for this letter that I send you sister, since I must tell you there has been a sad accident here. Richard, the bastard son of the duke of Normandy, who has been a member of his uncle King William’s entourage for some time, was alas killed today in a freakish accident in the New Forest – accidentally shot. There were witnesses and they are all sure it was an accident, nevertheless the man who loosed the fatal arrow fled to a monastery for fear of the blame. It is a great sadness to see such youth lost and the duke will be inconsolable at his loss.
We gather the duke is on his way home from crusade with a rich new bride, Sybille de Conversano, and is vaunted as a hero. Have you heard news of this, Benedicta? The duke’s expected reappearance is fuelling dissent again among King William’s barons, who are always torn between their lands and allegiances in England and those in Normandy. King William has decided to caretake Aquitaine while his friend, Duke Guillaume, takes the crusade route. Meulan is discontented by this and complains to Henry that there is no serious ruler in either Normandy or England.
We were joined at dinner yesterday by Walter Tirel who is kin to the Clare family and lord of Poix in Normandy. There was discussion of these problems regarding the rule of Normandy and England, and of the sorry death of the boy Richard in the forest. Tirel, who is a famed archer, discoursed at length on the question of whether or no the boy’s death was an accident, boring me rigid with his theories of stags running between trees and sun in the eyes of an archer. Fare thee well, little Benedicta, from your loving brother.
* * *
Almenêches Abbey, Normandy, Midsummer, June 1100
To my dearest brother from your sister, greetings. I am sorry to hear of Richard FitzDuke’s death. We also hear rumours of the duke’s imminent return with his new wife, but he has not arrived yet. Tell me, Haith, if I might risk my sister’s prerogative, have you any inclination to marry? It is your blood sister who asks, not your holy sister. You never write of women in your letters. Perhaps you are protecting the blushes of your sacrosanct sister? But I should like to know the affairs of your heart & I should like very much to be an aunt one day! Fare well, my dear little brother.
14
The King’s Wedding
Sybil received a letter from her husband telling her he was not likely to return home soon since King William was planning to give a loan to another crusader and caretake the state of Aquitaine, but in August, around the time of Lammas in 1100, everything changed, although it took some time for the news to reach us.
Hearing shouts in the bailey, we came outside into the sunshine to see a messenger riding through the castle gates. ‘The king is dead, my lady,’ he gasped to Sybil from the saddle.
‘What! Nest, fetch water and a towel.’
I went quickly, not wanting to miss the news. The man dismounted and took the water and towel from me, gladly swilling the dust from his throat and wiping it from his face. ‘Killed hunting in the New Forest,’ he told Sybil.
‘An accident?’ asked Sybil.
‘It has been declared likely an accident,’ the messenger said, ‘though Walter Tirel loosed the arrow and has fled.’
‘Walter Tirel!’ Sybil was quiet for a moment, thinking. ‘Has Duke Robert been crowned king? Is he here already?’
‘No, my lady. King William’s younger brother Henry has taken the throne. He has been crowned by the bishop of London, and your lord has sworn allegiance to him.’
‘Henry! And my husband is now in his service? So fast!’
‘Yes, my lady. Your husband, Robert de Meulan and Henry, earl of Warwick, were among those who supported Henry of Normandy in taking the crown, along with Hugh the earl of Chester, Richard de Redvers and Roger Bigod.’
‘Well! This is a turnaround.’ Sybil fumbled behind her and found the top of a bench. She sat down unceremoniously.
‘Yes, my lady. The new king seems to have a good grip.’
‘Does he indeed.’
News tumbled from the messenger’s mouth as if he feared he might forget it. ‘Your brother, Robert de Bellême, earl of Shrewsbury, has given his homage. The new king has imprisoned Ranulf Flambard in the White Tower. William Giffard has been removed as chancellor and Henry’s priest, Roger d’Avranches, takes charge of the new king’s business. William Giffard is to be bishop of Winchester.’ He paused for breath. ‘Your lord requests your presence at court, my lady, and the Lady Nest, too.’ He briefly looked in my direction. ‘For the king’s wedding and the crowning of a new queen.’
Sybil looked at me in panic. ‘And who will be the new queen?’
‘It is not known for certain yet, lady, but the king has made it known he will wed before Christmas.’
‘Well,’ said Sybil, staring into space for a few moments, still trying to take it in, weighing up the impacts this change might have on her brothers. Then she looked at me. We did not voice it, but we were both wondering if there was a change for me implied in the message. King Henry would certainly make me a more entertaining husband than William Rufus. ‘Well, Nest, we had best begin our packing and preparations.’
In the privacy of her chamber, when just me and Amelina were there, Sybil voiced her suspicions about King William’s death. ‘It is strange, is it not, that Duke Robert of Normandy’s natural son died in this same way in this same place just a few months ago?’
‘What are you thinking?’ asked Amelina.
‘That perhaps the death of Richard FitzDuke during the hunt in the New Forest was a mistake … or a rehearsal … or a way of ensuring that competition was out of the way.’
‘The boy was illegitimate though,’ said Amelina.
‘As was William the Conqueror, the father of Duke Robert and King … Henry. Walter Tirel is well known as one of the best marksmen at the court.’ She shook her head. ‘Anyway, speculation is pointless. Henry is our new anointed king in the eyes of God. Although now Duke Robert has returned from crusade, surely this cannot stand. I cannot believe the duke will rest content with it and surely will challenge Henry for the crown of England that was rightfully his.’
In the morning, Sybil’s chambers were in chaos, strewn with clothes and undergarments for our hurried packing. ‘Make sure to pack that blue gown for Nest,’ she pointed it out for Amelina. ‘And her best red one there, and … where is your jewellery casket, Nest? Let me look at it.’
I handed it to her. There was very little in it besides Gerald’s pearl and silver cross, my rings and my jewelled belt-tip. ‘Well, this won’t do,’ she said. ‘Amelina, fetch my casket and let’s see if I have anything for Nest to match with her clothes.’
Our packing was interrupted by the arrival of another messenger, this time from Sybil’s brother Bellême, the earl of Shrewsbury, telling her he had crossed the British Sea to greet Duke Robert on his return from crusade and to meet the new duchess.
‘He is playing both sides, then?’ I asked.
‘His allegiance is undoubtedly to Duke Robert, but he’s playing safe for now with Henry, to see how the wind blows, I suppose. It’s very difficult for the Norman lords with lands on both sides of the water, and different rulers in each land,’ Sybil said.
I wish you would all pack up and go home then, I thought, not for the first time, and knowing full well that wish would not be granted.
* * *
from The Copybook of Sister Benedicta
* * *
Salisbury, Michaelmas 1100
Dearest Benedicta, this letter follows hard on the heels of my last for a reason. How strange are the twists and turns of our fortunes like the bends of a river. I have stayed with Henry through thick and thin, through every vicissitude, and now I am the man of the king of the English! Probably you have already heard the news. I send you a gift together with this letter as sign of my newfound importance.
We were in that fateful hunting party in the New Forest when King William was killed at Lammas. We heard an anguished cry: ‘The king!’ It came from our left and we forced a path through the brambles to see what had happened. There was the terrible sight of William Rufus’ lifeless body pierced by an arrow. Try to picture the glade, Benedicta, with the sun striping the grass and birds twittering all around as if we were in paradise, and FitzHamon kneeling there weeping beside the bloodied king, trying to find life and failing. He stared up at us, his face white and anguished. ‘The houndsman says the arrow is Tirel’s. That Tirel has fled,’ he said, his voice filled with disbelief at what his eyes were looking upon.
Meulan looked at the king’s corpse one instant and turned to Count Henry the next. ‘The king is dead, long live the king.’ He knelt to my lord. His brother, the earl of Warwick, joined him and I fell to my knees alongside them. FitzHamon looked at us and Henry looked at him. FitzHamon stood up from William’s body, staggered over and joined us on his knees in homage to our new king.
‘Rise,’ Henry told us.
‘We should ride with all haste to Winchester,’ Meulan said, and that is what we did, leaving King William’s poor corpse to the ministrations of servants.
At Winchester there was a small gathering of lords in the hall. Meulan strode on ahead of us and declared in a loud voice that William was dead and Henry was acclaimed king by his barons. After the initial shock and disbelief at the news of Rufus’ death had died down, William de Breteuil, fingering the treasury key at his belt, argued. ‘By which barons? By what right? We are all oath-bound to the older brother, Duke Robert. He is surely our dead king’s successor?’
‘He is across the seas on crusade and may not return,’ Meulan asserted.
‘He is en route to Normandy now, returning, the hero of Jerusalem. We all know this,’ Breteuil said, looking around himself for support. What was unsaid was that every man in that room, including Breteuil, knew Henry to be the more competent contender for the throne.
‘Who here declares for Henry?’ Meulan called out. Again Meulan’s brother, FitzHamon and I cried aye and now we were joined by others, by de Redvers, d’Avranches, Urse d’Abitot, Roger Bigod, Eudo Dapifer and Haimo Dapifer. Seeing this was the majority opinion, Breteuil ceased his opposition and knelt in homage to Henry, holding the treasury key up to my lord. You can imagine this scene, Benedicta, and my excitement to be playing a role within it.
Henry, Meulan and I rode with all haste then to Westminster and Henry was consecrated as king a few days later. It has been a whirlwind, Benedicta. Now Henry sits in court in Salisbury and begins to be about those reforms of the realm that I know he has been brewing for a long time. He means to marry before Christmas, he tells me, but as yet has not announced who his bride will be. Had you ever thought to see your brother so exalted, little Benedicta? As to my marriage that you ask about, well yes, I mean to do it some day, and to make you an aunt, but you must be patient. I do not have a great deal of free time on my hands right now! There was a woman I saw and could easily love, but she is much above me and no doubt betrothed to another man. She is not for me, I’m sorry to say, but trust to your brother’s lust. I will make you an aunt, I promise! With love and haste, Haith.
* * *
Almenêches Abbey, Normandy, All Saints, 1 November 1100
My dear brother, what events! What changes everywhere. I am thrilled & terrified at this shift in your lord’s fortunes. That you should be the right-hand man of a king! How could either of us ever have dreamt of that, when we sat in Bruges as little children? How could we guess at that as we watched our mother work her loom every hour of daylight excepting Sundays, trying to sustain us, her bastard children, unacknowledged & unsupported by their father?
Thank you a thousandfold for your gift of the exquisite book of hours. Abbess Emma, Sister Matilda & I have been poring over its illustrations with stupendous delight for many of our own hours.
The duke & his new wife, Duchess Sybilla, are lately returned to Normandy but wearing mourning for the death of their newborn son on their journey. All Normandy mourns for them & hopes the duke’s marriage will bring us peace & good governance. There is chatter on what the duke may think of his brother Henry seizing the English throne, but no sign as yet from the duke himself.
He has been occupied with taking the banner of the heathen vizier that he captured in the battle of Ascalon to the abbey of Mont-Saint-Michel & receiving benediction there for his role in the reclamation of the Holy City. The banner they say is a great silver pole topped with a golden apple & the duke was a soldier without fear when he took it, slashing his way right & left amidst the heathen horde. Tales of the duke’s valour are ringing everywhere – even here in the middle of the pots & pans & jams of Almenêches. My abbess & I are greatly proud of the duke. It is rumoured about that he has been changed by his experiences fighting against the infidels & seeing with his own eyes the Holy City & the place of Christ’s passion. Perhaps all things will change now in Normandy, as in England. I am so excited for you, Haith. Write & tell me everything that occurs! With love & blessings from Benedicta.
15
Nearness to the King
In early November in the year 1100, the ground was already frozen hard and the trees bare, but the great hall and abbey of Westminster were decked for the royal wedding with red and gold banners everywhere, wafting in the breeze created by hundreds of milling people. Count Henry … King Henry I mean, looked very fine in a purple silk tunic, the long cuffs all embroidered in gold and red silks. The thick gold band of his crown was studded with precious jewels: blue, red, yellow, orange gems flashed in the pale winter sunlight as he stood before us on the top step in front of the abbey doors, with Archbishop Anselm in a sumptuously embroidered cope, and the woman who would be the new queen. Despite the rules of etiquette that were supposed to govern where people stood, the courtiers jostled one another, straining to get the best view of the couple.
I held fast to Sybil’s hand as she elbowed her way to the front. With my other hand, I held up the hem of my red dress, trying to avoid some clumsy person stepping on it and ripping the fabric. At the front of the crowding people, I was surprised to see Henry’s Saxon mistress, Ansfride, her belly clearly rounded with a child.
Two Norman ladies behind us were not impressed with Henry’s betrothed wife. ‘Look at that dress! A fashion as old as the hills! We are to be ruled, it seems, by an Anglo-Saxon rustic – a very Godiva.’ I turned and recognised the speaker as Elizabeth de Vermandois, the young wife of King Henry’s main counsellor, Robert de Meulan. Sybil had introduced us the previous day and told me Elizabeth was a lady of the very highest rank.
It was true that Princess Matilda of Scotland’s gown, though made from beautiful pale red and green silk fabrics, was in the old-fashioned, shapeless style with tight sleeves. A mantle and cloak further draped her body. Sybil and I, like most of the other ladies pushing and shoving here, were wearing the new style bliauts, tightly fitted to our hips with side-lacings, full-skirted with low slung girdles and sleeves wide at the wrists. Nevertheless, I admired the gorgeous Anglo-Saxon gold thread decoration of Matilda’s dress that wound around her neck in heart-shaped leaves on a curving bough. She wore a gold and garnets cross on a long chain that was also fine Anglo-Saxon metalwork. Matilda appeared to be consciously proclaiming her Anglo-Saxon heritage, and King Henry must have concurred with this as an appropriate gesture to his new courtiers.
